The Arrow-Point Estate/Chapter 7

Lorrie looked again at the paper which her Uncle Howard had just given her. “And is this all?” she raised her eyes briefly to his. “I can’t understand it, Uncle Howard. Of course I didn’t know exactly how much there was of everything, because father never kept books, but I was sure the property was worth more than this. Father told me once that he had over seven thousand head of cattle; here it isn’t much more than three thousand! And he I always thought he had quite a lot of money in the bank, too. Are you sure, Uncle Howard, that you worked the whole range?”

Her Uncle Howard smiled grimly. “I’ve ridden this range almost as many years as you are old,” he said. “I ought to know it pretty well by this time. And range stock is always on a sliding scale, Lorena. I thought you understood how such things go. John may have had over seven thousand head, at one time. It’s certain he hasn’t now—or that you and David haven't. We have put as high a valuation on the ranches and other property as we consistently could, and I counted the Arrow-Point stock very carefully. You see how much it foots up—and there are debts to be settled out of that. Your father, I am sorry to say, left things in a bad condition, Lorena; I was astonished at the tangle I had to take hold of. But I shall do what I can, and though the outlook certainly doesn’t promise much, I shall save what I can for you and David.”

“Mr. Reid was saying something about an auction of horses. Will it be necessary to sell any of them, Uncle Howard? I didn’t know there were any surplus horses.”

Her uncle frowned a bit, as if he did not approve of her inquisitiveness. “I don’t know of any great surplus of anything,” he said coldly, “unless it’s a surplus of debts and wasted opportunities. If it wasn’t necessary to sell horses I should scarcely be advertising such a sale. There are heavy expenses to be met—all this work of appraising remains to be paid for, and very little ready money to meet it.”

He picked up his hat and left the room abruptly.

Fifteen minutes later, the crutches of Skookum, unmistakably heralding disaster, sounded sharply upon the porch; he flipped the screen door viciously open and stood looking grimly at Lorrie.

“Well, something gone wrong again? What is it this time?” The tone of Lorrie was maddeningly resigned.

“Oh, nothing,” drawled Skookum in a tone to match her own. “Only, if you want to see Bud and Mister again, you better look quick.”

“Uncle Howard wouldn’t dare sell Bud and Mister; he knows they belong to me. He has seen me ride them often enough.”

“All right—you'll see him drive them off in that bunch, in about ten minutes; you don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.” Skookum opened the door and turned to go back to the corral, where his uncle and two or three men were cutting out the horses destined for the sale that afternoon.

“Wait a minute; I'll go with you,” said Lorrie, and got her hat.

At the corral she went straight to where Howard Burkell was standing beside the gate talking to Reid, who had been left at the home ranch. Through the rails she could see the horses, her own saddle-horses—pets, both of them—standing with a dozen or so of others bearing the Arrow-Point brand.

“Uncle Howard,” she began, “if that bunch in there is for the sale, you have made a mistake and driven in two of mine; the bright chestnut with the star in his forehead—that’s Mister; and Bud, the little black with white stockings. Father gave them to me; you can see the brand is upside down.”

Her uncle glanced through the bars at the horses, and then down at her face. “Have you a bill of sale for them?” he wanted to know.

“Why, no. But they’re mine, just the same. No one ever rode them but me, after they were once broken; Burns broke them both for me.”

“So long as there are no papers to show otherwise, they belong to the estate. They are not cow-horses, and not needed here. A girl doesn’t need a string of horses like a cow-puncher. They will have to go, Lorena. Gentle horses are more marketable than any other.”

“But Uncle Howard, they are mine! If Burns or Rhody, or—any of the men were here, they could tell you the same. Father gave me Bud one Christmas, and Mister was a birthday present.”

“I’m sorry, Lorena, but they have been advertised, and they must go. Say no more about it. You are not a child.” He used the wintry tone, and his eyes met hers unflinchingly and coldly.

“And you’re no gentleman!” she flared. “You pretend to be a Christian, and you are going to do what no other man I know would do. It—it isn’t honest to sell my horses. It—it’s as bad as being a thief outright! You know they’re mine, and just because I can’t show you a bill of sale you take advantage. It’s mean and ungentlemanly!”

“That will do, Lorena. I’m surprised that you should make a scene like this—and you nineteen years old. The horses must be sold. If any one is to blame, it is your father; this is only another sample of his slipshod methods—or lack of method. Will you please stand back? We are late as it is.”

Lorrie, knowing defeat, stood back with tight-clenched hands and watched them go; her own horses, that she had petted and loved as only a lonely woman can love an animal.

Reid had mounted, and now he rode close and leaned from his saddle. “Ask him to have one of his men bid them in for you, and charge it to your share of the estate,” he said.

Lorrie caught her breath, gave him a grateful smile and hurried over to where her uncle was sitting on his horse; asked him, in her very nicest manner, and got a curt “no” for answer as he turned and rode off. She looked after him with tight-shut lips.

Reid halted as he passed her. “Any luck?” he asked, looking down at her drooping figure.

She shook her head, and he only got a glimpse of her eyes as she glanced briefly up at him; they were full of tears. Then she turned sharply away and went back to the house.

Reid, looking after her, swore under his breath—and it was not at her. He pulled aside and went to the bunk-house, dismounted and entered. In a minute he was back on his horse and galloping after the others.

It was dark when he returned. The lights shone dimly through half-drawn blinds in the sitting-room, and he did something he had never done before. He went, uninvited and unexpected, to the house and rapped lightly on the screen. He could see Lorrie inside, sitting beside the lamp with a book in her lap; evidently she had been reading aloud to Skookum, curled comfortably on a couch with his crutches leaning against the pillows.

“I expect to be out early in the morning,” he said, standing just inside the door, “so I came up to tell you that I bought those two horses myself; they went at a bargain I couldn’t afford to pass up. I'll have to keep them here at the ranch, and you’re welcome to use them whenever you like. I don’t suppose I shall want to ride them this summer.”

Lorrie looked at him sharply. He was a very good-looking young man, though he did not seem to be aware of the fact. “It was very kind of you,” she said, and there was a suspicious trembling in her voice.

“Kind?” Reid smiled incredulously and unconvincingly down at her. “I’m afraid you’ve got a wrong idea, Miss Burkell. I didn’t do it because—er—on your account at all. I wanted the horses.” He caught a frankly unbelieving glance from Skookum and reddened a bit over the falsehood chivalry demanded. “Anyway,” he finished lamely, “they’re down in the corral, and I'd be glad if you’d use them to pay for their feed.”

Putting it that way, Lorrie couldn’t well refuse, even though she might doubt his assertion that he did not buy them on her account. She could not, in politeness, even thank him for buying them.

“Aw, sit down,” put in Skookum commandingly. “I’m going to stay down with you to-night, and if you'll wait till Lorrie finishes this story I'll go back with you. It’s a pretty good story—if they hadn’t gone and put in a lot of love. Do you like love in stories, Man-from-nowhere?”

Reid, obeying Skookum’s command and the invitation of Lorrie’s eyes, sat down. “Oh, sometimes it goes all right,” he responded, keeping his face turned from her. “What all’s the name of the story?”

“I guess you’re a Southerner,” observed Skookum sagely. “This fellow in the story says ‘what all,’ and he’s one. Go ahead, Lorrie, and read that part about the fight with the road-agents; only, when you come to where he took the girl on his horse, skip that part. I don’t want to hear about her arms creeping around his neck again. I’ll bet he wanted to drop her when she done that. I would—I’d uh dropped her right in the creek.”

“Different here,” mused Reid banteringly. “Not if she were a real pretty girl Was she, Skookum?” He glanced sidelong at Lorrie and observed that she was leaning back in her chair and smiling, quite at her ease.

“Oh, it says she was beautiful, of course. That’s a—a feminine prerogative.” He paused to give the long words their proper effect, and caught an exchange of amused glances between the two. “What’s the matter? Is there anything to laugh at?”

“Only you’re sure cut out for a bachelor, old-timer,” soothed Reid diplomatically.

“Well, I hate girls that have to be rescued in every chapter,” said Skookum the critical. “Why can’t they have some sense in stories? Lorrie is nineteen years old, and she rides around lots, all by herself; and she never had to be rescued from anything yet, only once when Burns had to go and shoo the old turkey-gobbler”

“Skookum!” implored Lorrie, very pink-cheeked.

“Well, it’s so. You know very well, Lorena Mehitabel Burkell, that you climbed the fence and hollered like the dickens till Burns went and chased him away. A turkey-gobbler, huh! But that’s all the rescuing I know about. Maybe,” he added maliciously, “it’s because Lorrie ain’t beautiful.”

“That,” said Reid tentatively, not daring to look at Lorrie, “might be a matter of opinion. You might not be a good judge. What did the fellow do then?” It seemed to him unwise to pursue the discussion farther at that stage of his acquaintance with Lorrie.

“That’s the part we’re coming to,” replied Skookum. “I suppose he had to go and marry her, like they always do. He’s a nice fellow, too,” he went on regretfully. “He stood off four men that was trying to kill him, and then two more came. Say, he was putting up an elegant fight till the girl bought in and had to be rescued. He had to take her up on his horse—I told you that—and I don’t see how he could do it. There wouldn’t be room; and I'll bet she was awful heavy.” Skookum was nothing if not practical. “Do you believe, Man-of-nowhere, that you could take Lorrie up on your horse, and”

“I thought you wanted me to read,” suggested Lorrie quellingly.

There was something in the steady regard of Reid that impressed upon Skookum the advisability of letting the argument rest there. He hunched his shoulders in a way he had when dissatisfied with the mood of his companions, and permitted Lorrie to go on reading, which pleased Reid very much.

When the evening was spent, he professed himself intensely interested in the story, and was wily enough to discuss it at great length with Skookum in the bunk-house that night, and whenever the two were together the next day; so that it came about quite naturally that Skookum should command his presence at all future readings, and that Reid should obey without much reluctance.

Also, it came about naturally that Lorrie should receive him as a friend and without question. Friends, it would seem, were becoming too few for Lorrie to pass one lightly by, and Reid was extremely careful not to overstep the bounds of disinterested friendship. Indeed, he took pains to convince them both that his regard was chiefly for Skookum, and that Lorrie he thought of simply as Skookum’s sister; which mild subterfuge served to ward off any constraint that might otherwise have crept into their relations, and made their evenings to be remembered with regret when circumstances and the will of Uncle Howard sent Reid away from the ranch.