The Arrow-Point Estate/Chapter 8

Came the chill rains sandwiched between the dry, sweeping winds of mid-September. At the Arrow-Point Ranch life had moved along monotonously enough for occasional, unpleasant clashes with Aunt Margaret. Howard himself was absent much of the time, presumably bearing cheerfully the burden imposed by the ill-advised death of his brother. Now he was in the middle of the shipping season, and had turned in to the judge and Lorrie his quarterly report.

Lorrie had studied the report with brows drawn together; after, she had gone searching among old papers and ragged-eared brand-books of her father—with a result, one would think from the look on her face, far from illuminating. Two or three of the little books she had laid aside to puzzle over at her leisure.

“I wish,” she said impulsively to Skookum one day when Reid had ridden over to the ranch for something, “you would tell your ‘Man-from-nowhere’ that I’d like to see him a minute before he goes back.” Reid had been away on round-up for the past six weeks.

Reid came, only too glad of the excuse to talk with her again, though he had no idea what it was she wanted to see him about. She met him a bit diffidently, it seemed to him, as though she had already repented sending for him. She was sitting in the hammock on the porch, with her lap full of little old books and papers, and she was looking adorable, it seemed to him. He sat down on the top step, pushed back his hat and let the lazy wind lift the hair off his forehead, and wished that he could stay there. always, with her so near.

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired. “Nothing serious?”

Lorrie looked ruefully down at the little books. “It’s just my ignorance,” she told him. “I came across these, and got to looking them over, and the more I looked the queerer things seem. I’ve just got the report Uncle Howard has made of the three months he’s been administrator and—it’s odd; I can understand one, all right, but when I put the two together, they don’t match. I thought maybe you would know about such things. You know about handling stock, don’t you?” Her eyes were anxious.

“I ought to,” he said modestly. “I grew up on the range, you might say. What is it you don’t understand?”

“Well, for one thing, I can’t see what has become of all our cattle. It isn’t that I’m mercenary, but father left Skookum in my care really—I’m sure he never meant that Uncle Howard should take charge like this. Half of everything is Skookum’s, and I want him to get all that’s due him. And what I would like to know is why it should cost so much more to run the ranch and stock than it used to—when there isn’t half as much stock, either.”

Reid looked at her, puzzled. “Just what do you mean?” he asked.

Lorrie laughed mirthlessly. “That’s the trouble, Mr. Reid. I don’t know myself what I mean. From these books—they’re dreadfully mixed up—it would seem that we should have a lot more cattle than we’ve got. And there are expense-accounts here and there—wages and supplies and things—and everything seems to have been so much cheaper a year or two ago!”

Reid made a cigarette, pushed his hat a bit farther back, and studied her face. “If you’d let me take a look” he ventured, and she held out books and papers to him with a deep sigh of relief.

“If you would—I was afraid you wouldn’t want to bother.”

Reid turned the leaves of a book casually, glancing over the pages with the eye of one to whom the mysterious entries were plain as daylight. Lorrie, watching him anxiously, saw him grow more attentive; saw the attention merge into absorption so deep that the cigarette went cold in his fingers.

He finished the little books, took up the administrator’s report, and went carefully over it twice—compared the two, and got out a pencil and jotted down rows of items from both, in a book of his own. Then he put away the book, felt for a match, and relighted his cigarette painstakingly and mechanically.

“Well?” prompted Lorrie impatiently.

Reid took two or three mouthfuls of smoke before he answered her. “Did you show these books to Uncle Howard?” he asked then, in a voice that told her nothing beyond the bare words.

“I haven’t seen him since I found them and got to looking them over,” she said. “Do you think I’d better?”

“I suppose your father made these tallies himself?” he asked, not answering the question.

“Why, yes. Do you think”

“I think, Miss Burkell,” Reid said slowly, “that brand books and—er—administrator’s reports are kind of out of your line. There’s a lot of things in the cow business you couldn’t understand; and, if I were you, I wouldn’t try any more. And I don’t think I’d bother Uncle Howard about it. Your Uncle Howard,” he added with a peculiar lowering of eyelids, “is a mighty busy man these days.”

“It’s all right, then?” She seemed not quite satisfied with his answer.

Reid studied the sky-line, a bare brown ridge with a barbed-wire fence which bounded many acres of Arrow-Point land, running up over the top. The posts stood out sharply black against the hazy blue of the sky.

“Perfectly plain, to me,” he said, rousing himself from meditation. “And as to its being right, your Uncle Howard knows how to keep books like a charm. I don’t think I ever cast my eye over a more lucid piece of paper than that. Everything is down proper as—a government report. Sworn to before the judge and approved by the court, and everything. It’s fine and dandy, Miss Burkell, and legal as a church wedding. Keep it put safe away somewhere. All those things will be needed when your final settlement with Uncle Howard comes up.”

“I told you I didn’t know much about such things.” Lorrie smiled dubiously. “And the little books?”

“Put them away, too; safer even than the report. They’re mostly brand tallies—but I wouldn’t show them to Uncle Howard; he’d probably make fun of your father’s bookkeeping—him being such an expert, himself. And don’t you worry about it. Let Uncle Howard do the worrying—he’s getting paid for it.”

Lorrie went to put the books and paper away, and Reid smoked and meditated deeply until she returned—his brow puckered and drawn down. When she came back, he pinched out his cigarette-stub, and got up.

“I’ll have to drift pretty soon,” he remarked, “but if you'll stake me to paper and envelope I’d like to write a letter before I go. May I use your post-office box number? And if a letter comes before I get back from the round-up, you can keep it for me.”

“Certainly,” Lorrie declared politely, and if she wondered at the unusual request she made no sign; unusual because Reid had not been given to correspondence, so far as any one knew, during his stay at the Arrow-Point,

He wrote rapidly for perhaps. ten minutes, sealed and addressed the envelope, and gave it to her. “I'd take it to town myself,” he said, getting up from her desk, “but I’m due at the camp to-night. If you'll see that this gets mailed right away, you'll be doing me a great favor, Miss Burkell. And if there’s an answer will you keep it till I call for it?”

Lorrie told him that she would.

He stood looking down at her for a moment wistfully. “I hope you won’t worry about the property,” he said, going back in his mind to the subject. “But if anything comes up that you don’t understand again, will you let me know? Because if I can help you out anyway I’ll be glad to do it.” He checked himself suddenly, fearing that he was going too far. She might not take kindly to his interference, considering the fact that he was under somewhat of a cloud himself. “Do you know, Miss Burkell, where Burns is now?”

She looked up at him, flushing a little. “No, I do not; why?”

“Oh, I—I just wondered. Good-by.” He went off hurriedly, cursing himself for a tactless lout who was always doing and saying the wrong thing. Of course she wouldn’t know Burns’ address—or if she did she wouldn’t thank him for being so blamed curious. He hoped she wasn’t very angry, but he felt dejectedly that she was.

As a matter of fact, Lorrie was, woman-like, studying his handwriting on the envelope; it showed some education—that firm, easy formation of the letters, and the total lack of flourishes was like the man himself. Incidentally, she observed that the letter was addressed to one Jackson P. Morony, in Chicago.