 Prologue to Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Rhoads. 1. The long fall round-up was over. The wagon, homeward bound, made camp for the last night out of the sinks of Lost River. Most of the men, worn with three-score night-guards, were buried under their tarps in the deep sleep of the weary, sound as that of the just and much more common. By the low campfire a few, yet lingered, old timers, iron men, whose wiry and seasoned strength was toil-proof, and Leo Ballinger, for whom youth, excitement, and unsated novelty served in lieu of fitness. The fire-lighters, working the wide range again, from Ancho to Waco, from the Malpais to Glenco, fell silent now to mark an unstailed miracle. The clustered lights of Rainbow's end shone redly, near and low. Beyond, above, dominant, the black, unbroken bulk of Rainbow Range shut out the east. The clear-cut crest mellowed to luminous curves, feathery with far-off pines. The long skyline, thrilled with frosty fire, glowed, sparkled. The cricket's chirp was stilled. The slow, late moon rose to a hushed and waiting world. On the sharp crest she paused, irresolute, tiptoe, quivering, rosely aflush. Above floated a web of gossamer. She leaped up, spurning the black rim, glowed, palpitant, through that filmy lace, and all the desert throbbed with vibrant light. Cool and sweet and fresh, from maiden leagues of clean brown earth, the desert winds made whisper in grass and fragrant shrub. Yucca, mesquite, and grease-wood swayed. So softly you had not known, not save as the long shadows, courtesy'd and danced. Leo flung up his hand. The air was wine to him. A year had left the desert still new and strange. Gee, he said eloquently. Headlight nodded. You're dead right on that point, son. If Christopher K. Columbus had only thought to reach his shallots on the sundown side of this here continent, he might have made a name for himself. Just think how much different hysterically these United States, this United States, corrected to wringle dispassionately, their fathers had disagreed on the same grammatical point. Headlight scowled, by jings, that this United Colonies are and of right ought to be free in independent states. He quoted, I was going to give you something new to exercise your talents on. You sit here every night, ride in broncs and forefoot in steers, and never grab a horn or waste a loop, not once. Sure, things ain't amusement. Some variety and doubtful accuracy now would develop our guessing gifts. A foresaid smith brandished the end gate rod. Them speculations of yours sort of opens up of themselves. If California had been settled first, the salmon would now be our national bird instead of the potato. Think of Arizona, mother of presidents, seed of the government at Milpitas, center of population about butte, New Jersey, howlin' about Nevada Trust. He impaled a few beef ribs and held them over the glowing embers. Georgia and South Carolina would be infested by cowpersons in Dekolite Leather Panties, said Jeff Bransford. New York and Pennsylvania would be fondly turning a credulous ear to the 24th consecutive solemn promise of statehood, with the senator from Walla Walla urging admission of both as one mighty state, with Maryland and Virginia thrown in for luck. Headlight forgot his peak. Wouldn't the railroad sound funny, though? Needles and Eastern, Northern Atlantic, Southern Atlantic, Union, Western, Kansas and Central Atlantic, earnest and continuous demand for a president from east of the Mississippi, all the price fights pulled off at Boston. Columbus done just right, said Pingle decisively. You fellows ain't got no imagination at all. If this western country'd been settled first, the maps would read Northeast Territory, uninhabitable wilderness, reach in a storm and snow, roaming savages and fierce wild beasts. When the intrepid explorer hit the big white weather, he'd say, little ol' San Diego's good enough for me, yes, sir. Oh well, climate alone done the count for the charm of this country, nor scenery, said Leo. You feel it, but you don't know why it is. It sure agrees with your bylaws, observed Pingle. You're a sight changed from the furtive behemoth he was. You'll make a hand yet, but even now your dimensions from east to west is plum fascinating. I'd sure admire to have your picture to put in my cornfield. Very well, Mr. Pingle. I'll exchange photographs with you, said Leo artlessly. A smothered laugh followed this remark. Uncertainty as to what horrible and unnamed use Leo would make of Pingle's pictured face appealed to these speculative minds. I've studied out this charm business, said Jeff. See if I'm not right. It's because there's no habitually old men here to pattern after, to steady us, to make us ashamed of just staying boys. Now and then you hear an octagonal cuss like Wes here, that on a mere count of years and heirs might be sized up as old by the superficial observer. But if I've ever met that man more addicted with vivid nonchalance, as to further continuance of educational facilities than this same also ran, his number has now escaped me. Really aged people stay where they was. I think myself that what makes life so easy and congenial in these latigos and longitudes is the birth of law and the ladies. Thus Pingle, the cynic. A fourfold outcry ensued, indignant repudiation of the latter heresy. Their protests rose above the customary subdued and quiet drawl of the out-of-doors men. But has the law no defenders, demanded Leo? We've got to have laws to make us behave. Sure thing, likewise, tis the waves that make the tide come in, said Jeff. A good law is as handy as a good pocketbook. But law, as simply such, independent of its merits, rouses no enthusiasm in my manly bosom, no more than a signboard the day after Halloween. If it occurs to me, in a moment of emotional sanity, that the environments of the special case in hand call for a compound fracture of the statutes made and provided for some totally different cases that happen to be called by the same name, I fall upon it with my glittering heel-gag without no special wonder. For, he declaimed, I am endowed by nature with certain inalienable rights among which are the high justice, the middle, and the low. And who's to be the judge of whether it's a good law or not? You? Me. Me every time. Someone must. If I let some other man to make up my mind, I've got to use my judgment, picking the man I follow. By organizing myself into a permanent committee of one to do my own thinking, I take my one chance of mistakes instead of two. So you believe in doing evil that's good to make come, do you? Well, said Jeff judicially, it seems to be at least as good a proposition as doing good that evil may come of it. Why, Capricorn, there isn't one thing we call wrong when other men do it that hasn't been lawful some time or other. When to break a law is to do a wrong, it's evil. When it's doing right to break a law, it's not evil. Got that? It's not wrong to keep a just law, and if it's wrong to break an unjust law, I want a new dictionary with pictures of it in the back. But lawless is useful and exciting diversions to break up the monogamy, said aforesaid, and it's a dead easy way to build up a rep. Look at the edge I've got on you fellas. You're just supposed to be honest, but I've improved on us frequent. Hark! said Pringle. A weird sound reached them. The night wrangler beguiling his lonely vigil with song. Oh, the cuckoo is a pretty bird, she comes in the spring. What do you suppose that night-hawk thinks about the majesty of the law? He said there was a ringing note in his voice. Smith and Headlight nodded gravely. Their lean brown faces hardened. You haven't heard of it? Oh, John Taylor, daddy to yonder warbler, drifted here from the east. Wife and little girl both puny. Taylor takes up a homestead on the Phillies. It wasn't affluent none. I let him have my old paint-bonie freckles. Him being knee-sprung and not out to coward. And to make an unparalleled team he got Ed Poe's Billy Bowleg's knee gambler. Him having won a new name by a misunderstanding with the prairie dog old. Taylor paid Poe for him and work. He was a willing old rooster, Taylor, but futile and left-handed all over. John, junior, he was only thirteen. Him and the old man moseyed around like two drunk ants, fixing up a little log-house with rock jimbleys, a horse-pin and shelter, rail-fencin' of the little Vegas to put to crops, and so on. Done ya good to drop in and hear him plan and figure. There was one happy family, how sis Emily bragged about their hands layin'. In the spring we all held a bee and made their cacillas for them. Baker, he loaned him a plow. They dragged big branches over the ground for a harrow. They could milk anybody's cows. There was a mine to tame, and the boys took to carryin' over motherless calves from Miss Taylor to raise. Taylor, he done odd jobs, and they got along real well with their crops. They went into the second winter, perched as squirrels. But come spring, sis wasn't doin' well. They had the agency, doctor. Too high up and too damp, he said. So the Mrs and Emily, they went to Cruces, where Emily could go to school. That meant rot smart of expense, rentin' a house and all. So the Johns, they hires out. John, junior, made his day boo as Wrangler for the steam pitch for a choir and the obvious name of Felix. Oh, man, he got a job makin' in organ mines. Kept his asses and jet on her sixth pasture. And Saturday nights he'd to get one and slip down them 18 miles to Cruces for a Sunday with the folks. Well, you know, a homesteader can't be off his claim more than six months at a time. I reckon if there was ever a homestead takin' up and good faith, it was the butter bowl. They knew the land laws from Ada Izard, even named their hound pup Bonifido. But the old man waited at organ till the last bell rang so to draw down his wages payday. Then he bundles the folks into his little old wagon and lights out. Caponat Casimoro's well, halfway cross, that ornery freckles horse as a fit of malignant nostalgia and projects off for a super bowl of foot in his sobbles. Next day Taylor don't overtake him till the middle of the evening and what was going back and what with freckles bein' hobble sore, he's two days late and reachin' home. For Lake of Aguashikita that prosperous person had been keepin' cases, he entered contest on the butter bowl of legend abandonment. Now, if it was me, but then if it was me, I could stay away six years and two months without no remonstrances from lake or as likes. I'm somewhat abandoned myself. But poor old Taylor, he's been drug up where they hold by bed life unaccountable high. He sits him down resignedly beneath the sky as the poet says, meek and legal. Well, don't abnormally like to precipitate in another man's business, but we make sit up to sort of saunter in on lake, spontaneous, and events our disfavor with a rope. But Taylor says no. He allows the land office won't hold him morally responsible for the sinful idiocy of a home sick-spotted host that's otherwise reliable. He's got one more gas cotton, there ain't no sympathies to machinery. Your intentions may be strictly honorable, but if you get your hand caught in the cogs off it goes, regardless of how handy it is for flanking calves, holding nails, and such things. Absent over six months, entry canceled, contestant has allowed 30 days prior rights to file. Next, that's the way that decision will read. It ain't come yet, but it's due soon. This here Felix looks at it just like the old man, only different, though he ain't making no statements for publication. He comes here young and having acquired the fixed habit of risking his neck regular for one dollar per each and every diem, showing in the reluctant steer, or a full haws, pirrotting across the pinnacles with a nosebag on, or maybe just for fun, while naturally, don't see why life is so sweet or peace so dear, has to put up with any damn foolishness, as Pat Henry used to say when the boys called on him for a few remarks. He's a some serious-minded boy, that night-hawk, and if science is any indication, he's fixin' to take an appeal under the Winchester Act. I ain't no seventh son of a son of a gun, but my prognostications are that he presently removes Lake to another, and we trust better world. Good thing too, grunted headlight, this Lake person is surely a muddy pool. Chat, your fool head, said Pringle, amably. You may be on the jury. I'm going to seek my virtuous couch. Glad we don't have to bed, no cattle viva voce this night. He, the Latin scholar, said headlight admiringly. They blow about that wire. Julius Caesar sent the Associated Press, but old man Pringle done him up for levity and precision when he wrote us the account of his visit to the Denver Carnival. Ever hear about a Sagittarius? No, said Leo. What did he say? Hick, hawk, hike. Two. As Candido, halfway of the desert, is designed on simple lines, the railroad hauls water in tank cars from Dog Canyon. There is one depot, one section house, and one combination post office, hotel, store, saloon, stage station, kept by ma sanders and pappy sanders, in about the order mentioned. Also one glorious green cottonwood, one pampered rose bush, jointly the pride and delight of Escondido, ownerless but cherished by loving care, and a toted tribute of wastewater. Hither came Jeff and Leo, white with the dust of twenty starlet leagues, for accumulated mail of rainbow south. Horse feeding, breakfast, gossip, with jolly motherly ma sanders, reading and answering of mail, then their beauty nap, so missing the day's event, the passing of the flyer. When they woke, Escondido vast drowsily in the low western sun. The far sunset ranges had put off their workaday homespun brown and gray, for chameleon hues of purple and amethyst. Their deep, cool shadows, edged with trembling rose, reached out across the desert. The velvet air stirred faintly to the promise of the night. The agent was putting up his switch lights. From the kitchen came a cheerful clatter of tinware. Now we buy some dry goods and wet, said Leo. They went into the store. That decision's come, shrilled pappy and premulus excitement. It's too darn bad. Registered letters from land office for Taylor and Lake, besides another for Lake, not registered. That one from the land office too, said Jeff. Didn't I just tell ya? Say, it's a shame. Why don't some of you fellers? Gosh, if I was only young. It's a travesty on justice, exclaimed Leo indignantly. There's really no doubt, but that they decided for Lake, I suppose. Not a bit. He's got the law with him. And him and the register is old cronies. Guess this other letter is from him unofficial, likely. Jeff seated himself on a box. How long has this lake got to do his filing in, pappy? Thirty days from the time he signs the receipts for this letter. Durn him. Someone ought to kidnap him, said Leo. Why, that's illegal. Jeff nursed his knee, turned his head to one side and chanted thoughtfully. Said the little Leo, but I'm going to be a horse and on my middle fingernails to run my earthly course. He broke off and smiled at Leo indulgently. Leo glanced at him sharply. This was Jeff's war song a four-time, but it was to pappy that Jeff spoke. Dad, you're a veteran, any surgeon. Wish you'd go out and look at Leo's horse. His ankles all swelled up. I'll be mixing me up a toddy if Ma's got any hot water. I'm feeling kind or squeamish. Hot toddy, this weather. Some folks has queer taste, grumble pappy. Excuse me. Me and Leo go look at the Charlie horse. That bottle under the shelf is the best. He bustled out, but Jeff caught Ballinger by the sleeve. Will you hold my garments while I stone Stephen? He hissed. I will, said Leo, meeting Jeff's eye. Hit him once for me. Move the lever to the right, you old retrograde, and get pappy to gyrate and on his axis some fifteen or twenty minutes. You listen and reverently? Meanwhile, I'll make the necessary indentations. Git, dull looks, a blamed intelligent, or pappy'll be suspicious. Bransford hastened to the kitchen. Ma sanders. A bronc fell on me yesterday, and my poor body is one big stone bruise. Can I borrow some boiling water to mix a small prescription, or maybe seven? One, when you first feel like it, and repeat at intervals, the doctor says. Don't you get full on my house, Jeff Bramford, or I'll feed you to the hogs. You take three doses, and that'll be a plenty for you. Jeff put the steaming kettle on the rusty store stove, used as a waste paper basket through the long summer. Touching off the papers with a match, he smashed an empty box and put it in. Then he went into the post office corner and laid impious hands on the United States mail. First he steamed open Lake's unregistered letter from the land office. It was merely a few typewritten lines, having no reference to the butter bowl. In closing the plat of TP-14E of First Guide Meridian, East Range, south of Third Standard Parallel, south as per request. He paused to consider. His roving eye lit on the wall where the annual report of the Governor of New Mexico hung from a nail. The very thing he said, pasted in the report, was a folded map of the territory. This he cut out, refolded it until it slipped in the violated envelope, dabbed the flap neatly with Papi's mucilage, and returned the letter to its proper pigeon hole. He replenished the fire with another box, subjected Lake's registered letter to the steaming process, and opened it with a delicate caution. It was the decision, it was in Lake's favor, and it went into the fire. Substituting for it the plat of TP-14 and the accompanying letter, he resealed it with workman-like neatness, and then restored it with a final inspection. The editor sits on the madhouse floor and plays with the straws of his air, he murmured, beaming with complacent pride, and reaching for the bottle. Papi and Leo found him with his hands to the blaze, shivering, feel like I was going to have a chill, he complained, but with a few remedial measures he recuperated sufficiently to set off for rainbow after supper. Charlie's ankle, things better, said Leo heartlessly. Don't you lay no stress on Charlie's ankle, said Jeff in a burst of confidence, where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be otherwise, just let Charlie's ankle slip your memory. The following day, Bransford drew rain at West Pringle's shack and summoned him forth. Mr. John Wesley also ran Pringle, he said impressively, I have taken a horse right over here, to put you through your cataclysm. Will you truthfully answer the ribbuses, I shall now propound, do the best of your ability, and govern yourself accordingly, till the surface of Hades congeals to glistening birds, and that with no unseemly curiosity. Is it serious? asked Pringle anxiously. This is straight talk. Pringle took a long look and held up his hand. I will, he said so brilliantly. John Wesley, do you or do you not believe Stephen W. Lake of Agua Chiquiti to be a low-down coniferous skunk by birth, inclination, and training? I do. John Wesley, do you or do you not possess the full competence and affection of Felix the Night-Ock, otherwise known and designated as John Taylor, Jr. of a butter-bowl, Esquire? I do. Do you, John Wesley Pringle, esteem me, Jeff Bransford, irrespective of color, sex, or previous condition of turpitude, to be such a one as may be safely tied to, when all the hitching posts done pulled up, and will you now promise to love, honor, and obey me till the cows come home, or till further orders? I do. I will, and may God have mercy on my soul. Here are your powders, then. Do you go and locate the above-mentioned and described Felix, and apart to him under the strict seal of secrecy, these tidings, to it, namely, that you have a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that the butter-bowl contest is decided in Lake's favor, but that your further presentiment is, that said Lake will not use his prior right. If Taylor should get such a decision from the land office, don't let him, or Felix, say a word to no one. If Mr. B. Bodie should ask, tell him, to us a map, or land-laws, or something. Moreover, said Felix, he is not to stab, cut, pierce, or otherwise mutilate said Lake, nor to wickedly, maliciously, feloniously, and unlawfully fire at, or upon the person of said Lake, with any rifle, pistol, musket, or gun, the same being then and there, loaded with powder and with balls, shot, bullets, or slugs of lead, or other metal. You see to that, personal, I'd go to him myself, but he don't know me well enough to have confidence in my divinations. You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and construction. Sabay, then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for his decision, and you will take steps to inform yourself of that, you sidle casually down to Roswell, with Old Man Taylor, and see that he puts pre-emption papers on the butter-bowl. C'est là? Three. The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the steam-pitch fork-punchers informally extended to him the right hand of fellowship hithers to withheld, under the impression that he had generously abstained from pushing home his vantage. When, in the mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact. Taylor had already filed his pre-emption, so Lake reaped volunteer harvest of goodwill, bearing his honors in graceful silence. On Lake's next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked official utter. Lake stayed several days, praised the Rosebush and Mossander's Cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy. Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the register of the Roswell land office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix and on Jeff as accessory during the fact. So it was that when Jeff and Leo took in Roswell Fair, where Jeff won a near prize at the roping match, Hobart, the United States Marshal, came to their room. After introducing himself, he said, Mr. Stratton would like to see you, Mr. Bransford. Why, that's all right, said Jeff Genily. Some of my very great grand folks was Dakota's, and I've got my name and who's Sue, but I'm not proud, brought him around, exact who is Stratton anyhow. He's the register of the land office, and he wants to see you there on a very particular business, and go if I was you, said the Marshal significantly. Oh, that way, said Jeff, is this an arrest, or do you just give me this invite semi-officiously? You accuse yourself, sir, will you expect an arrest? That sounds like a bad conscience. Don't you worry about my conscience, if I've ever done anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it. Now, this Stratton party, is he some aged and venerable? Cause if he is, I wave ceremony and seek him in his lair at the witching hour of two this Saturday, and if not, not. He's old enough, even if there were no other reasons. Never mind any other reasons, it shall never be said that I've failed to reverence gray hairs, I'll be there. I guess I'll just wait and see that you go, said the Marshal. Have you got any papers for me? asked Jeff politely. No. This is my room, said Jeff. This is my fist. This is me. This is my door. Open it, Leo. Mr. Hobart, you will now make rapid forward motions with your feet, alternately, like a man removing his company from where it is not desired, or I'll go through you like a domesticated cyclone. See you at two sharp. Hobart obeyed. He was a good judge of men. Jeff closed the door. We went upon the battlefield, he said plaintively, before us and behind us, and every which way we looked, we seen a Rosorinus. We went into another field, behind us and before us, and every which way we looked, we seen a Rosorinus. Mr. Lake has been evidently browsing and perusing around, and poor old Pappy, not being posted, has likely been narrating about Charlie's ankle and how I got a chill. Warm him. It looks that way, confessed Leo. Did you have a chill, Jeff? Jeff's eyes crinkled, not senile as I am now, but shucks, I've been in worse emergencies and always emerged. Thanks be, I can always do my best when I have to. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when that we don't keep in practice. If I'd just come out straightforward and declared myself to Pappy, he had tightened up his drawstrings and forgot all about my chill. But no well as I know from long experience, that good old human nature only too willing to do the right thing and the fair thing if somebody'd only tip it off to him, I must play a lone hand and not even call from my partner's best. Well, I'm going to ramify round and scrutinize this here Stratton's numbers, equipments, and disposition. Meet me in the office at the fatal hour. The marshal wore a mocking smile. Stratton, large, florid, well-fed, and eminently respectable, turned in his revolving chair with a severe and majestic motion, adjusted his glasses in a prolonged and offensive examination, and frowned portentously. Fine, large day, isn't it, observed Jeff Affably, beautiful little city you have here? He sank into a chair. Smile and attitude were of pleased and sprightly anticipation. A faint flush showed beneath Stratton's neatly trimmed mutton chops. Such jaunty bearing was exasperating to offended virtue. Who is this other person, Mr. Hobart? Oh, pardon my rudeness, Jeff sprang up and bowed brisk apology. Mr. Stratton, allow me to present Mr. Ballinger, a worthy representative of the yellow press. Mr. Stratton, Mr. Ballinger. I have a communication to make to you, said the displeased Mr. Stratton, in icy tones, which, in your own interest, should be extremely private. The marshal whispered to him. Stratton gave Leo a fiercely intimidating glare. Communicate away, said Jeff Airely. Excommunicate if you want to. Mr. Ballinger, as a citizen, is part owner of this office. If you want to bar him, you'll have to change the venue to your private residence. And then I won't come. Very well, sir. Mr. Stratton rose, inflated his chest, and threw back his head. His voice took on a steady roll. Mr. Bransford, you stand under grave displeasure of the law. You are grievously suspected of being cognizant of, if not actually accessory, to the robbery of the United States mail by John Taylor Jr. at Escondito on the 18th day of last October. You may not be aware of it, but you have an excellent chance of serving a term in the beneficiary. Jeff pressed his hands between his knees and leaned forward. I'm sure I'd never be satisfied there, he said with conviction. His white teeth flashed in an ingratiatory smile. But why suspect young John? Why not old John? He paused, looking at the register attentively. Hmm, dear from Indiana, I believe, Mr. Stratton, he said. The elder Taylor, on the day in question, is fully accounted for, said Hobart. Young Taylor claims to have passed the night at Willow Springs alone, but no one saw him from breakfast time the 17th till noon on the 19th. He rarely ever has anyone with him when he's alone. That may account for them not seeing him at Willow, suggested Jeff. He did not look at Hobart, but regarded Stratton with an air of deep meditation. The register paced the floor slowly, ponderously, with an impressive pause at each turn, tapping his left hand with his eyeglass to score his points. He had ample time to go to Escondito in return. The envelope in which Mr. Lake's copy of this office's decision in the Lake Taylor Contest was enclosed, has been examined. It bears unmistakable signs of having been tampered with. Turning to mark the effect of these tactics, he became aware of his victim's contemplative gaze. It disconcerted him. He resumed his pacing. Jeff followed him with a steady eye. And the same mail I sent Mr. Lake another letter. The envelope was unfortunately destroyed. Mr. Lake suspecting nothing. A map had been substituted for its contents, and they, in turn, were substituted for the decision in the registered letter with the evident intention of depriving Mr. Lake of his prior right to file. But, George, it sounds probable. Jeff laughed derisively. So that's it. And here we all fought Lake, let it go out of giddy generosity. My stars, but won't he get the horse smile when the boys find out? Stratton controlled himself with an effort. We have decided not to push the case against you, if you will tell what you know, he began. Jeff lifted his brows. We? And who's we? You two? I should have thought this was a post office lay. We are investigating the affair, exclaimed Hobart. I see, as private individuals. Yes, yes, as Lake pay you by the day or by the job. Stratton, blazing with anger, smoked his palm heavily with his fist. Young man, young man, your insolence is unbearable. We are trying to spare you, as you had no direct interest in the matter, and doubtless concealed your guilty knowledge through a mistaken and distorted sense of honor. But you tempt us, you tempt us. You don't seem to realize the precarious situation at which you stand. What I don't see, said Jeff, in puzzle tones, is why you bother to spare me at all. If you can prove this, why don't you cinch me and Felix both? Why do you want me to tell you what you already know? But if you can't prove it, who the hell cares what you suspect? We will arrest you, said Stratton, thickly, just as soon as we can make out the papers. Turn your old wolf loose, you four fleshers. You may make me trouble, but you can't prove anything. Speaking of trouble, how about you, Mr. Stratton? As a spring leaps, released from highest tension, face and body and voice, flashed from passive indolence to sudden startling attack. His arm lashed swiftly out as if to deliver the swordsman's stabbing thrust. The poised body followed up to push the stroke home. You think you're secret safe, don't you? It's been some time ago. Words only, yet it might have been, a very sword's point past Stratton's guard. For the register flinched, staggered. His arrogant face grew mottled. His arm went up. He fell back a step, silent, quivering, leaning heavily on a chair. The marshal gave him a questioning glance. Jeff kept on. You are prominent in politics, business, society, the church. You have a family to think of? It's up to you, Mr. Stratton. Is it worthwhile? Had we better drop it with a dull, sickening thud? Stratton collapsed into the chair, a shapeless bundle, turning a shriveled, feeble face to the marshal in voiceless imploring. Unhesitating, Hobart put a hand on his shoulder. That's all right, old man. We won't give you away. Brace up! He nodded Jeff to the door. You win, he said. Leo followed on tiptoe. Why, the poor old duck, said Jeff remorsefully in the passage, which I hadn't come down on him so hard, I overdid it that time. Still, if I hadn't, at the Hondo Bridge, Jeff looked back and waved a hand. Goodbye, old town. Now we go. Gallopy trot, gallopy, gallopy trot, he sang, and the ringing hoofs kept time and tune. Florence, my head of old Geneva, Jane. She came home in the wind and the rain. She came home in the rain and the snow. And I've ought to leave my home any more. Jeff, said the miscified valinger, spurring up beside him. What has the gray-haired register done? Has the murderer stained his hands with gore? Jeff raised his bridal hand. Gee, Leo, I don't know. I've just taken a chance. End of Prologue Chapter 1 Of Bransford of Rainbow Range By Eugene Manlove-Roads This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 1 The Pitcher That Went to the Well When I bend my head low and listen at the ground, I can hear big voices that I used to know, stirring in dim places, faint and restless sound. I remember how it was when the grass began to grow. Song of the Wandering Dust Anna Amstead Branch The pines thinned as she neared Rainbow Rim. The turfy glades grew wider. She had glimpses of open country beyond. Until, at last, crossing a little spit of high ground, she came to the farthest spot in all her voyage of exploration and discovery. She sank down on a fallen log with a little sigh of delight. The steep bank of a little canyon broke away at her feet, a canyon which here marked the frontier of the pines, its farther side overgrown with mahogany bush and chaperol, a canyon that fell in long sinuous curves from the silent mystery of forest on Rainbow Crest behind her, to widen just below into a rolling land, parked with green-black powder puffs of juniper and cedar, and so passed on to mystery again, twisting away through the foals of the low and bare gray hills to the westward, ere the last dupendous plunge over the rim to the low desert, a mile toward the level of the waiting sea. Facing the explorer across the little canyon, a clear spring bubbled from the hillside and fell with pleasant murmur and tinkle to a pool below, fringed with lush emerald, a spring mast about with wild great vine shining reeds of arrow-weed, a tangle of grateful greenery jostling eagerly for the life-giving water. Draped in clinging vines, slim acacias struggled up through the jungle, the exquisite fragrance of their purple bells gave a final charm to the fairy chasm. But the larger vision, the nearer elfin beauty dwindled, was lost, forgotten. A far through a narrow cleft in the gray westward hills, the explorer's eye leaped out over a bottomless gulf to a glimpse of shining leagues midway of the desert greatness, an ever-widening triangle that rose against the peaceful west to long foothill reaches, to a misty mountain parapet, far beckoning, whispering of secrets, things dreamed of, unseen, beyond the framed and slender arc of vision. A land of enchantment and mystery, decked with strong barbaric colors, blue and red and yellow, brown and green and gray, whose changing ebb and flow by some potent sorcery of atmosphere, distance and angle altered daily, powerly, deepening, fading, combining into new and fantastic lines and shapes, to melt again as swiftly to others yet more bewildering. The explorer, it may be mentioned in passing that any other would have found that fairest prospect even more wonderful than did the explorer, Miss Eleanor Hoffman. We will attempt no clear description of Miss Eleanor Hoffman, dusky beautiful she was, crisp, fresh and sparkling, tall, vigorous, active, strong, yet she was more than merely beautiful, warm and frank and young, brave and kind and true. Perhaps even more than soft curves, lips, glory of hair, or bewildering eyes, or altogether, her chiefest charm was her manner, her frank friendliness. Earth was sweet to her, sweeter for her. This, by way of a side and all to no manner of good, you have no picture of her in your mind, remember only that she was young. The stars to drink from and the sky to dance on, young and happy and therefore beautiful, that the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, the south wind as sweet and fresh buds in the willow. The peace was rent and shivered by strange sounds as of a giant falling downstairs. There was a crash of breaking boughs beyond the canyon, a glint of color, a swift black body hurled madly through the shrubbery. The girl shrank back. There was no time for thought, hardly for alarm. On the farther verge the bushes parted, an apparition hurled arching through the sunshine down the sheer hill, a glorious and acrobatic horse, his black head low between his flashing feet, red nostrils wide with rage and fear, foam flecks white on the black shoulders, a tossing mane, a rider straight and tall, superb, to all seeming an integral part of the horse pitch he never so wildly. The girl held her breath through the splintered seconds. She thrilled at the shock and storm of them, straining muscles and white hoofs, lurching, stumbling, sliding, lunging, careening in perilous arcs. She saw stones that rolled with them, or bounded after, a sombrero whirled above the dust and tumult like a dilatory parachute. A six shooter jolted up into the air. Through the dust clouds there were glimpses of a watchful face, hair blown back above it, a broken rain snapped beside it, saddle strings streamed out behind, a supple body that swung from curve to easy curve against shock and plunge that swayed and poised and clung and held its desperate dominion still. The saddle slipped forward, with a motion incredibly swift as a hat is whipped off in a gust of wind. It whisked over withers and neck and was under the furious feet. Swifter the rider, cat-quick he swerved, lit on his feet, leaped aside. Alas, oh rider beyond compare, undefeated champion, pride of rainbow! Alas, that such thing should be recorded! He leaped aside to shun the black, frantic death at his shoulder. His feet were in the treacherous binds. He toppled, grasped vainly at an acacia, catapulted out and down, head-first, so lit, crumpled, and fell with a prodigious splash into the waters of the pool. I to me alumma! The blankets lay strewn along the hill, but observe that the long-lead rope of the hackamore, a hackamore of properly is, for your better understanding, merely a rope halter, was coiled at the saddle horn, held there by a stout horn-string. As the black reached the level, the saddle was at his heels. To kick was obvious to go away, not less so. But this new terror clung to the maddened creature in his frenzied flight, between his legs, in the air, at his heels, his hip, his neck. A low tree leaned from the hillside, the aerial saddle caught in the forks of it, the brago's head was dirt-round, he was pulled to his haunches, overthrown. But the tough horn-string broke. The freed coil snapped out at him. He scrambled up and bunched his glorious muscles in a vain and furious effort to outrun the rope that dragged at his heels, and so passed from sight beyond the next curve. Waste-deep in the pool sat the hapless horseman, or perhaps horseless horseman, were the juster-term, steeped in a profound calm. That last phrase has a familiar sound. Mark Twain stoutless, but all things considered, steeped, is decidedly the word. One gloved hand was in the water, the other in the muddy margin of the pool. He watched the final evolution of his late mount with meditative interest. The saddle was freed at last, but its ex-occupant still sat there, lost in thought. Blood trickled, unnoted, down his forehead. The last stone followed him into the pool. The echoes died on the hills. The spring resumed its pleasant murmur, but the tinkle of its fall was broken by the mimic waves of the pool. Save for this troubled sloshing against the banks, the slow settling dust and the contemplative bust of the one-time centaur, no trace was left to mark the late disastrous invasion. The invader's dreamy and speculative gaze followed the dust of the trailing rope. He opened his lips twice or thrice and spoke, after several futile attempts, in a voice mild but clearly earnest. Oh, you little hippos! The spellbound girl rose. Her hand was at her throat, her eyes were big and round, and her astonished lips were drawn to a round red o. Sharp ears heard the rustle of her skirts, her soft gasp of amazement. The merman turned his head briskly, his eyes met hers. One gloved hand brushed his brow. A broad streak of mud appeared there, over which the blood meandered uncertainly. He looked up at the maid in silence. In silence the maid looked down at him. He nodded with a pleasant smile. Good morning! he said casually. At this cheerful greeting the astounded maid was near to tumbling after, like Jill of the song. Good morning! she gasped. Silence! The merman reclined gently against the bank with a comfortable air of satisfaction. The color came flooding back to her startled face. Oh, are you hurt? she cried. A puzzled frown struggled through the mud. Hurt? he echoed. Who, me? Why, no, at least wise I guess not. He wiggled his fingers, raised his arms, wagged his head doubtfully and slowly, first sidewise and then up and down. Shook himself guardedly and finally raised tentative boot-debs to the surface. After this painstaking inspection he settled contentedly back again. Oh, no, I'm all right, he reported. Only I lost a big black fine young nice horse somehow. You ain't seen nothing of him, have you? Then why don't you get out? she demanded. I believe you're hurt. Get out? Why, yes, ma'am, certainly. Why not? But the girl was already beginning to clamber down, grasping the shrubbery to aid in the descent. Now the bank was steep and sheer, so the merman rose, tactfully clutching the grapevines behind him, as a plausible excuse for turning his back. It followed as a corollary of this generous act that he must needs be lame, which he accordingly became. As this mishap became acute, his quick eyes roved down the canyon, where he saw what gave him pause, and he groaned sincerely under his breath. For the black horse had taken to the parked uplands, the dragging rope had tangled in a snaggy tree-roop, and he was tracing weary circles and bootless effort to be free. Tactful still, the dripping merman hobbled to the nearest shade, wherefrom the luckless black horse should be invisible, eclipsed by the intervening ridge, and there sank down in a state of exhaustion, his back to a friendly tree-trunk. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Roads This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 First Aid Oh woman, in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please, but seen too oft, familiar with thy face, we first endure, then pity, then embrace. A moment later the girl was beside him, pity in her eyes. Let me see that cut on your head, she said. She dropped on her knee and parted the hair with a gentle touch. Why, your real breathed the injured near Centaur, beaming with wonder and gratification. She sat down limply and gave way to wild laughter. So are you, she retorted. Why, that is exactly what I was thinking. I thought maybe I was asleep and having an extraordinary dream. That wound on your head is not serious, if that's all. She brushed back a wisp of hair that blew across her eyes. I heard this head just the other day, observed the bedraggled victim, as one who has an assortment of heads from which to choose. He pulled off his soaked gloves and regarded them ruefully, them that go down to deep waters. That was a regular triumph of matter over mind, wasn't it? It's a wonder you're alive. My, how frightened I was. Aren't you hurt? Truly? Ribs or anything? The patient's elbows made a convulsive movement to guard the threatened ribs. Oh, no, ma'am, I ain't hurt a bit. Indeed, I ain't, he said, truthfully. But his eyes had the language droop of one who says the thing that is not. Don't you worry none about me. Not one bit. Sorry, I frightened you. That black horse now. He stopped to consider fully the case of the black horse. Well, you see, ma'am, that black horse, he had exactly right plum gentle. His eyelids drooped again. The girl considered. She believed him, both that he was not badly hurt, and that the black horse was not exactly gentle. And her suspicions were aroused. His slow drawl was getting slower. His cowboy ease broader, a mode of speech quite inconsistent with that first sprightly remark about the little office. What manner of cowboy was this, from whose tongue I learned a scientific term tripped spontaneously in so stressful a moment, who quoted scraps of the litany unaware. Also, her own eyes were none of the slowest. She had noted that the limping did not begin until he was clear of the pool. Still, that might happen if one were excited, but this one had been singularly calm. More than usual calm, she mentally noted. Of course, if he really were badly hurt, which she didn't believe one bit, a little bruised and jarred, maybe, the only thing for her to do would be to go back to camp and get help. That meant the renewal of Lake's hateful attentions and, for the other girls, the sharing of her find. She stole another look at her find, and, thrilled with all the pride of the discoverer, no doubt he was shaken and bruised after all, he must be suffering, what a splendid writer he was. What made you so absurd? Why didn't you get out of the water, then, if you were not hurt, she snapped suddenly. The drooped lids raised. Brown eyes looked steadily into brown eyes. I didn't want to wake up, he said. The candor of this explanation threw her for the moment into a vivid and becoming confusion. The dusky roses leaped to her cheeks. The long dark lashes quivered and fell. Then she rose to the occasion. And how about the little the opus she demanded? That doesn't seem to go well with some of your other talk. Oh! he regarded her with pain, but unflinching innocence. The Latin, you mean. Why, ma'am, that's most all the Latin I know. That, and some more big words in that song. I learned that song off of Frank John, just like a bull-bearant. Sing it! And the opus ain't Latin, it's Greek. Why, ma'am, I can't just now, I'm so muddy, but I'll tell it to you. Maybe I'll sing it to you some other time. A side-long glance accompanied this little suggestion. The girl's face was blank and noncommittal, so he resumed. It goes like this. Said the little the opus, I'm going to be a horse, and on my middle fingernails to run my earthly course. No, that wasn't the first. It begins, there was once a little animal no bigger than a fox, and on five toes he scampered. Of course you know, ma'am. Frank John, he told me about it. That horses were little, like that, way back. And this one, he said his silly head that he was going to be a really, truly horse, like the song says. And folks told him he couldn't possibly be done, no how. And sure enough, he did. It's a foolish song, really. I only sing parts of it when I feel like that, like it couldn't be done, and I was going to do it, you know. The boys call it my song. Look here, ma'am. He fished in his vest pocket and produced tobacco and papers and matches. Last of all, a tiny turquoise horse an inch long. I had a jeweler man put five toes on his feet once to make him be a little the opus. Going to make a watch charm of him some time. He's a lucky little the opus, I think. Peso gave him to me when, never mind when, Peso's a mescalero indian, you know, chief of police at the agency. He gently dropped the little horse into her eager palm. It was a singularly grotesque and angular little beast, high-stepping, high-headed, with a level stare, at once complacent and haughty. Despite the first unprepossessing rigidity of outline, there was somehow a sprightly air, something endearing in the stiff, purposed stride, the alert, inquiring ears, the stern and watchful eye. Each tiny hoof was faintly graven to semblance of five tinier toes. There the work showed fresh. The cunning little monster, prison grime, was on him. She groomed and polished at his dingy size, until the wonderful color shone out triumphant. What is it that makes him such a dear? Oh, I know. It's something, well, childlike, you know. Think of the grown-up child that toiled with pride and joy at the making of him. Dear me, how many lifetime sense! And fondly put him by as a complete horse. She held him up in the sun. The ingrate met her caress with the same abduret and indomitable glare. She laughed her rapturous delight. There, how much better you look! Oh, you darling, aren't you absurd! Straight back, stiff-legged, thick-necked, square-headed, and that ridiculously baleful eye. It's too high up and too far forward, you know, and your ears are too big, and you have such a malignant look. Oh, never mind. Now that you're all nice and clean, I'm going to reward you. Her lips just brushed him, the lucky little Leopas. The honor of the lucky little horse was not able to repress one swift dismal glance at his own vast dishevelment, nor as his shrinking hands entirely of their own volition crept stealthily to hiding the slightest upward rolling of a hopeful eye toward the leaping waters of the spring. But if one might judge from her sedate and matter-of-fact tones that eloquent glance was wasted on the girl, you ought to take better care of him, you know, she said, as she restored the little monster to his owner. Then she laughed, hasn't he a fierce and warlike appearance, though? Sure, that's resolution. Look at those legs, said the owner fondly. He spurns the ground, he's going somewheres, he's going to be a horse, and them ears, one cocked forward and the other back, strictly unacquitado. He'll make it, he'll certainly do to take along. Yes, ma'am, I'll take right good care of him. He regarded the homely beast with awe. He swathed him in cigarette papers with tenderest care. I'll leave him at home after this. He might get hurt. I might some time want to give him to somebody. The girl sprang up. Now I must get some water and wash that head, she announced briskly. Oh, no! I can't let you do that. I can walk. I heard a bit. I keep telling you. In proof of which he walked to the pool with a palpably clever assumption of steadiness. The girl fluttered solicitous at his elbow. Then she ran ahead, climbed up to the spring, and extended a firm, cool hand, which he took shamelessly, and so came to the fairy waterfall. Here he made himself presentable as to face and hands. It is just possible there was a certain expectancy in his eye, as he neared the clothes of these labours, but if there were, it passed unnoted. The girl bathed the injured head with her handkerchief, and brushed back his hair with a dainty caressing motion that thrilled him, until the colour rose beneath the tan. There was a glint of grey in the waving black hair, she noted. She stepped back to regard her handiwork. Now you look better, she said approvingly, then slightly flurried, not without a memory of a previous and not dissimilar remark of hers, she was off up the hill. Whence, despite his shocked protest, she brought back the lost gun and hat. Her eyes were sparkling when she returned, her face glowing. Ignoring his reproachful gaze, she wrung out her handkerchief, led the patient firmly down the hill into a saddle, made him trim off a saddle string, and bound the handkerchief to the wound. She fitted this umbrero gently. There, don't this head feel better now, she queried gaily, with fine disregard for grammar. And now what, won't you come back to camp with me? Mr. Lake will be glad to put you up, or to let you have a horse. Do you live far away? I do hope you are not one of those rosebud men. Mr.—she bit her speech off mid-word. No men there except this Mr. Lake, asked the cowboy idly. Oh yes, there's Mr. Herbert, he's gone riding with Letty, and Mr. White, but it was Mr. Lake who got up the camping party. Mother and Aunt Lat, and a crowd of us girls, La Luz girls, you know, mother and I visiting Mr. Lake's sister. He's going to give us a masquerade ball when we get back next week. The cowboy looked down his nose for consultation, and his nose gave a meditative little tweak. What lake is it? There's some several lakes around here. Is it Lake of Agua Chiquita? Where's his hair decollete? Talks like he had a washboard in his throat. Taylor made face. Walks like a duck on stilts. General sort of powder pigeon effect. Add to this envenomed description Ms. Eleanor Hoffman promptly choked. I don't know anything about your Agua Chiquita. Never heard of the place before. He is a banker in Arcadia. He keeps a general store there. You must know him surely. So far her voice was rather stern and purposefully resentful, as became Mr. Lake's guest. But there were complications, rankling memories of Mr. Lake, of unwelcome attentions persistently forced upon her. She spoiled the rebuke by adding tartly, but I think he is the man you mean, and felt her wrongs avenged. The cowboy's face cleared. Well, don't use Arcadia much, you see. I mostly range down Rainbow River. Arcadia folks, why they're mostly newcomers, health seekers, and people just living on their incomes. Not working folks much, except the railroaders and lumbermen. Now about getting home. You see, ma'am, some of the boys are riding down that way. He jerked his thumb to indicate the last flight of the imperfectly gentle horse. And they're right apt to see my runaway Eopus, and sure to see the rope drag. So they'll likely amble along the back drag to see how much. Who's hurt? So I guess I'd better stay here. They may be along most any time. Thank you kindly, just the same. Of course, if they don't come at all, is your camp far? Not, not very, said Eleanor. The mere fact was that Miss Eleanor had set out ostensibly for a sketching expedition with another girl, had turned aside to explore, and exploring, had fetched a circuit that had left her much closer to her starting place than to her goal. He misinterpreted the slight hesitation. Well, ma'am, I thank you again, but I mustn't be keeping you longer. I really ought to see you safe back to your camp, but you'll understand, under the circumstances, you'll excuse me. He did not want to implicate Mr. Lake, so he took a limping step forward to justify his rudeness. And you hardly able to walk? Ridiculous. What I ought to do is to go back to camp and get someone. Get Mr. White to help you. Thus, at once, accepting his unspoken explanation, and offering her own apology in turn, she threw aside the air of guarded hostility that had marked the last minutes, and threw herself anew into this joyous adventure. When, or if, your friends find you, won't it hurt you to ride, she asked, and smiled deliberate encouragement. I can be as modest as anybody when there's anything to be modest about, but in this case, I guess I'll now declare that I can ride anything that a saddle will stay on. I reckon, he added reflectively, the boys will have rot smart to say about me being throwed. But you weren't thrown, you rode magnificently, her eyes flashed admiration. Yes, that's what I hoped you'd say, said the admired one complacently. Go on, ma'am, say it again. It was splendid. The saddle turned, that's all. He slowly surveyed the scene of his late exploit. Yes, that was some riding, for a while, he admitted, but you see that saddle now, scarred up there that way? Why, they'll think the opus wasted me, and then dragged the saddle off under a tree. These ways they'll say they think so frequent. Best not to let on, and to make no excuses. It'll be easier that way. We're a great on-going here. That's most all the fun we have. Wish her got this joshing game down fine. Just wondering what all the boys'll say. That was why I didn't get out of the water at first, before I thought I was asleep, you know. So you'll actually tell a lie to keep from being thought a liar? I'm disappointed in you. Why, ma'am, I won't say anything. They'll do the talking. It'll be deceitful just the same. She began, and checked herself suddenly. A small twinge struck her at the thought of poor Maude, really sketching on thumb-beaut, and now disconsolently wondering what had become of lunch and fellow artist. But she quelled this pang with a sage thought of the greatest good to the greatest number, and clapped her hands in delight. Oh, what a silly I am, to be sure. I've got a lunch basket up there, but I forgot all about it in the excitement. I'm sure there's plenty for two. Shall I bring it down to you, or can you climb up if I help you? There's water in the canteen, and it's beautiful up there. I can make it, I guess, said the invited guest, the consummate and unblushing hypocrite. Make it, he did, with her strong hand to aid, and the glen rang to the laughter of them. While behind them, all unnoted, Johnny Deena's reigned up on the hillside, took one sweeping glass at that joyous progress, the scarred hillside, the saddle, and the dejected eopus in the background, grinned comprehension, and discreetly withdrew. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Bransford of Rainbow Range, by Eugene Manlove-Roads This Libberbox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3 Max Welton Brays Oh, the song, the song in the blood! Magic walks the forest, there's bewitchment on the air, spring is on the flood. The gypsy heart. Well, sir, this earfeller he lit a cigarette, and throwed away the match, and it fell in a powder-gig, and, do you know, more than half that powder burned up before they could put it out? Yes, sir. Wildcat Thompson Eleanor opened her basket, and spread his tempting wares with pretty hostly care. Or is there such a word as hostessly? There, already, Mr. Blank, I declare this is too absurd. We don't even know each other's names. Her conscious eye fell upon the ampulness of the feast, amazing, since it purported, to have been put up for one alone, and her face lit up with mischievous delight. She curtsied, If you please, I'm the ultimate consumer. He rose, bowing gravely. I am the personal devil. Glad to meet you. Oh, I've heard of you, remarked the ultimate consumer, sweetly. She sat down, and extended her hand across the spotless linen. Mr. Lake says the personal devil flushed. It was not because of the proffered hand, which he took unhesitatingly, and held rather firmly. The blush was unmistakably caused by anger. There is no connection, whatever, he stated grimly enough, between the truth and Mr. Lake's organs of speech. Oh, cried the ultimate consumer triumphantly. So you're Mr. Beebe. Bransford. Jeff Bransford. Corrected the personal devil crustily. He woefully relapsed to his former slip-shot speech. Beebe, he's gone to the Pecos work, him and Ballinger. Mr. John Wesley also ran Pringles gone to old Mexico to bring back another bunch of black, long-horned Chihuahuas. You now behold before you the last remaining rose of Rosebud. But why, Beebe, why does Mr. Lake hate all of you so, Mr. Bransford? Because we are infamous scoundrels. Why, Beebe? I can't eat with one hand, Mr. Bransford, she said demurely. He looked at the prisoned hand with a start and released it grudgingly. Help yourself, said his hostess cheerfully. There's sandwiches and roast beef and olives for a mild beginning. Why, Beebe, he said doggedly, help yourself to the salad and then please pass it over this way, thank you. Why, Beebe? Oh, very well then, because of the little opus, you know, and other things, you said. I see, said the aggrieved Bransford, because I'm not from Ohio like Beebe. I'm not supposed, oh, if you're going to be fussy, I'm from California myself, Mr. Bransford, out in the country at that. Don't bless quarrel, please. We were having such a lovely time, and I'll tell you a secret. It's ungrateful of me, and I ought not to, but I don't care. I don't like Mr. Lake much since we came on this trip, and I don't believe, she paused, pinkly conscious of the unconventional statement involved in this sudden unbelief. What Lake says about us? A much-molified Bransford finished the sentence for her. She nodded. Then, to change the subject, you do speak cowboy talk one minute, and all boogie, polite, and proper the next, you know. Why? Bad associations, said Bransford ambiguously. Also, Fort is my nature too, as little dogs they do to light, to bark, and bite. That Beebe sure tastes like more. And now you may smoke while I pack up. Announced the girl when dessert was over at long last. And please, there's something I want to ask you about. Will you tell me truly? You sing? Yes, a little. If you will sing for me afterward. Certainly, with pleasure. All right, then. What's the story about? Eleanor gave him her eyes. Did you rob the post office at Escondito? Really? Now, it might well be embarrassing to be asked if you had committed a felony, but there was that behind the words of this naive inquiry, in look, in tone, and in mental attitude, an unflinching and implicit faith that, since he had seen fit to do this thing, it must needs have been the right and wise thing to do, which stirred the felons' pulses to a pleasant flutter, and caused a certain tough and powerful muscle to thump foolishly at his ribs. The delicious intimacy, the baseless faith, was sweet to him. Sure I did, he answered likely, like as one talkative little man, isn't he, by far, but shucks. What can you expect? The beast will do after his kind. And you'll tell me about it? After a smoke, got to study up some plausible excuses, you know. She studied him as she packed. It was a good face, lined, strong, expressive, vivid, gay, resolute, confident, alert, reckless, perhaps. There were lines of it, disused, fallen to abeyance. What was well with a man had prospered. What was ill with him had faded and dimmed. He was not a young man, thirty-seven, thirty-eight. She was twenty-four. But there was an unquenchable boyishness about him, despite the few frosty hairs at his temple. He bore his hard years jauntily. Youth danced in his eyes. The explorer nodded to herself, well pleased. He was interesting, different. The tale suffered from Bransford's telling, as any tale will suffer, when marred by the inevitable barbarous modesty of its hero. It was a long story, causally confidential. And there were interruptions. The sun was low ere it was done. Now the song said Jeff, and then, he did not complete the sentence, his face clouded. What shall I sing? Well, how can I tell? What you will. What can I know about good songs, or anything else? Responded Bransford in sudden moodiness and dejection. For after the song, the end of everything. He flinched at the premonition of irrevocable loss. The girl made no answer. This is what she sang. No, you shall not be told of her voice. Perhaps there is a voice that you remember that echoes to you through the dusty years. How would you like to describe that? Oh, Sandy has money, and Sandy has land, and Sandy has housing. Save fine and sick land. But I'd rather had Jamie would knock in his hand than Sandy with all of his housing and land. My father looks soky, my mother looks sore. They gloom upon Jamie because he is poor. I love them bathed dearly, as a doctor should. But I love them not half so sweet, dear Jamie, as you. I sit up my cribby, I spin up my wheel. I think of the laddie that loves me so wheel. Oh, he had better sax pants, he'd break it in twa, and he gave me the half that he gave to her. He said, allow me laying lassie, though I gang away. He said, allow me laying lassie, though I gang away. Bland summer is coming, a cold winter's away, and I'll wed with Jamie in spite of the may. Jeff's back was to a tree, his head over his eyes. He pushed it up. Thank you, he said, and then quite directly. Are you rich? Not very, said Eleanor, a little breathless at the blunt query. I'm going to be rich, said Jeff steadily. I'm going to be a horse, quote the little Leopas. The girl retorted salsally, though secretly alarmed at the import of this examination. Eh, exactly. So that settled. What is your name? Hoffman. Where do you live, Hoffman? Eleanor supplemented the girl. Eleanor, then, where do you live, Eleanor? In New York, just now, not in town, upstate, on a farm. You see, grandfather's grown old, and he wanted father to come back. New York's not far, said Jeff. A sudden panic seized the girl. What next? In swift, instinctive self-defense, she rose and tripped to the tree, where later neglected sketchbook bent over, and started back with a little cry of alarm. With a spring and a rush, Jeff was at her side, caught her up, and glared watchfully at bush and shrub and tufted grass. Mr. Bransford put me down. What was it, a rattlesnake? A snake? What an idea! I just noticed how late it was. I must go. Crestfallen, sheepishly, Mr. Bransford put her down, thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his chin, and whistled an aggravating little drill from the right two-step. Mr. Bransford, said Eleanor hotly, Mr. Bransford's face expressed patient attention. Are you lame? Mr. Bransford's eye estimated the distance covered during the recent snake episode, and then gave to Miss Hoffman a look of profound respect. His shoulders humped up slightly. His head bowed to the stroke. He stood upon one foot and traced the rainbow brand in the dust with the other. I told you all along I wasn't hurt. He said aggrieved. Didn't I now? Are you lame? She repeated severely, ignoring his truthful saying. Not very. The quotation marks were clearly audible. Are you lame at all? Oh, no, ma'am, not what you might call really lame. No, ma'am, and you deceived me like that, indignation, checker. Oh, I'm so disappointed in you. That was a fine manly thing for you to do. It was such a lovely time, observed the culprit doggedly, and such a chance might never happen again. And it isn't my fault I wasn't hurt, you know. I'm sure I wish I was. She gave him an icy glare. Now see what you've done. Your men haven't come, and you won't stay with Mr. Lake. How are you going to get home? Oh, I forgot, you can walk, as you should have done at first. The guilty wretch wilted yet further. He shuffled his feet. He writhed. He positively squirmed. He ventured a timid upward glance. It seemed to give him courage. Prompted doubtless by the same feeling which drives one to dive headlong into dreaded cold water, he said in a burst of candor, Well, you see, ma'am, that little horse now, he really ain't got far. He got tangled up over the airways. The girl wheeled and shot a swift startled glance at the little eopus on the hillside, who had long since given over his futile struggles, and was now nibbling grass with becoming resignation. She turned back to Bransford. Slowly, scathingly, she looked him over from head to foot and slowly back again. Her expression ran the gamut, wonder, anger, scorn, withering contempt. I think I hate you, she flamed at him. Amazement triumphed over the other emotions then. A real amazement. The detected imposter had resumed his former debonair bearing and met her scornful eye with a slow and provoking smile. Oh, no, you don't, he said reassuringly. On the contrary, you don't hate me at all. I'm going home anyhow, she retorted bitterly. You may draw your own conclusions. Still she did not go, which possibly had a confusing effect upon his inferences. Just one minute, ma'am, if you please. How did you know so, Pat, where the little black horse was? I didn't tell you. Little waves of scarlet followed each other to her burning face. I'm not going to stay another moment. You're detestable, and it's nearly sundown. Oh, you needn't hurry, it's not far. She followed his gesture. To her intense mortification she saw the blue smoke of her home campfire flaunting up from a gully not half a mile away. It was her turn to droop now. She drooped. There was a painful silence. Then in a far-off hard judicial tone. How long, ma'am, if I may ask, have you known that the little black horse was tangled up? Miss Eleanor's eyes shifted wildly. She broke a twig from a mahogany bush, and examined the swelling buds with minutest care. Well, said her ruthless inquisitors sternly. Since I went for your hat, she confessed in a half whisper. To deceive me so. Pain, grief, surprise, reproach were in his words. Have you anything to say, he added sadly? A slender shoe peeped out beneath her denim skirt and tapped on a buried boulder. Eleanor regarded the toe tip with interest and curiosity. Then, half audibly, we were having such a good time, and it might never happen again. He captured both her hands. She drew back a little, ever so little. She trembled slightly, but her eyes met his, frankly, and bravely. No, no, not now. Go now, Mr. Bransford. Go at once. We will have a pleasant day to remember. Until the next pleasant day, said Resolute Bransford, openly exultant. But see here now. I can't go to Lake's camp or to Lake's ball. Here, Miss Eleanor pouted distinctly. Or anything that is Lake's, after your mask ball, and then what? New York, but it's only so far on the map. She held her hands apart, very slightly, to indicate the distance. On a little map, that is. I'll drop in Saturdays, said Jeff. Do I want to hear you sing the rest about the Little Eopus? If you'll sing about Sandy, suggested Jeff. Why not? Goodbye now. I must go. And you won't sing about Sandy to anyone else? The girl, considered doubtfully. Why, I don't know. I've known you for a very little while, if you please. She gathered up her belongings. But were friends? No, no, said Jeff vehemently. You won't sing it to anyone else, Eleanor. She drew a line in the dust. If you won't cross that line, she said, I'll tell you. Mr. Ransford grasped the sapling with a fern clutch, and shook it to try its strength. A bird in the bush is the noblest work of God, he announced. I'll take a chance. Her eyes were shining. You've promised, she said. She paused when she spoke again. Her voice was low and a trifle unsteady. I won't sing about Sandy to anyone else, Jeff. Then she fled. Like Lot's wife, she looked back from the hillside. Jeff clung desperately to the sapling with one hand. From the other, a handkerchief, hers, fluttered a goodbye message. She threw him a farewell with an ambiguous gesture. It was late when Jeff reached Rosebud Camp, the unsettled nigger baby, the little and not entirely gentle black oars, rather unobtrusively. But Johnny Dinez sauntered out during the process, announcing supper. Ah, sniffed Jeff, I suppose. I thought you'd wait until I come to get it. Nothing more alarming than tallies was broached during supper, however. Afterward Johnny tilted his chair back, and through cigarette smoke contemplated the ceiling with innocent eyes. Nigger babe looks draught, he suggested. Uh-huh, had one of them poor spells, he is. Puff, puff. Here saddles a skinned-up ape. Johnny's look of innocence grew more pronounced. How'd you get your clothes so wet? Rain, said Jeff. Puff, puff. You look rot muddy, too. Dust in the air, said Jeff. Ah, yes. Silence during the rolling of another cigarette. Then how'd you get that cut on your head? Jeff's hand went to his head and felt the bump there. He regarded his fingers in some perplexity. That, oh, that's where I bit myself. He stalked off to bed in gloomy dignity. Half an hour later, Johnny called softly. Jeff, Jeff grunted sulkily. Camping-party down their mail. Lot of girls, I saw one of them. Young person with eyes and hair. Jeff grunted again. There was a long silence. Nice bear, there was no answer. Good old bear, said Johnny tearfully. No answer. Mr. Bear, if I give you one nice good juicy bite. Said Jeff. Then, said Johnny decidedly, I'll sleep in the yard. End of chapter three. Chapter four of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove Rhodes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four, The Road to Rome. Behold, one journeyed in the night. He sang amid the wind and rain. My wet sands gave his feet delight when will that traveller come again? The heart of the road and a Hempstead branch. A hypotenuse, as has been well said, is the longest side of a right-angled triangle. There is no need for details. That we are all familiar with the use of this handy little article is shown by the existence of shortcuts at every available opportunity and by keep-off of the grass signs in parks. Now, had Jeff Bransford desired to go to Arcadia to that masquerade, for instance, his direct route from Jackson's ranch would have been a cater cornered across the desert as has been amply demonstrated by Pythagoras and others. That Jeff did not want to go to Arcadia to the masked ball, for instance, is made apparent by the fact that the afternoon preceding said ball saw him jogging southward toward Bairds along the lonely base of that inveterate triangle whereof Jackson's Bairds and Arcadia are the respective corners, leaving the 55-mile hypotenuse far to his left. It was also obvious from the tenor of his occasional self-communings, I don't want to make a ballet fool of myself. Do I, old grasshopper? Anyhow, you'll be too tired when we get to jeans. Grasshopper made no response other than a plucky tossing of his bit and a quickening cadence in his rhythmical stride by way of a pardonable bravado. I never forced myself in where my company wasn't wanted yet, and I ain't going to begin now, asserted Jeff Stoutly, adding as a fervent afterthought, damn lake. His way lay along the plain, paralleling the long westward range just far enough out to dodge the jutting foothills. Through bare white levels where grasshopper's hoofs left but a faint trace on the hard-glazed earth, at intervals tempting crossroads branched away to mountain springs, the cottonwood at independent springs came into view round the granite shoulder of Strawberry, six miles to the right of him. He roused himself from prolonged pondering of the marvelous silhouette where San Andres unflung in broken masses against the sky to remark in a hushed whisper, I wonder if she'd be glad to see me. Several miles later he quoted musingly, for Eleanor, her Christian name was Eleanor, had twenty-seven different kinds of hell in her. After all there are problems which Pythagoras never solved. The longest road must have an end, Rich's ranch was passed far to the right, lying low in the long shadow of Halor. Then the mouth of Gimbrio, Tanyan, far ahead a shifting flicker of bear's windmill, topped the brush. It grew taller, the upper tower took shape. He dipped into the low mirage haunted Debeson, where the age-old Texas trail crosses the narrow western corner of the white sands. When he emerged the windmill was tall and silver shining, the low iron roofs of the house gloomed sullen in the sun. Dust rose from the corral. Now Jeff's ostensible errand to the west side had been the search for strays. Three days before he had prudently been three days' ride farther to the north. The reluctance with which he had turned back southward was justified by the fact that this critical afternoon found him within striking distance of Arcadia, striking distance, that is, should he care for a bit of hard riding. This was exactly what Jeff had fought against all along, so when he saw the dust he loped up. It was as he had feared. A band of horses was in the water-pin. Among them a red-rown head he knew, copperhead of Pringle's Mount. Confirmed, run away, Jeff shut the gate. For the first time that day he permitted himself a discreet glance eastward to Arcadia. Three days, he said bitterly, while Grasshopper thrust his eager muzzle into the water-trop, three days I braced back my feet and slid, like a yearling on a brandon bee. And look at me now, oh copperhead, you darned old fool, see what you've done now. In this morose mood he went to the house. There was no one at home. I know it was tacked on the door. Gone Diplomo, back in two, three days, beef hangs under platform on windmill tower. When you get it, oil the mill, books and deck of cards, and box under bed. Don't leave fire and stove when you go, Jean Baird. Enby, feed the cat. Jeff built a fire in the stove and unsettled the weary Grasshopper. He found some corn, which he put into a woven grass morale, and hung on Grasshopper's nose. He went to the water-pen, roped out copperhead, and shot him in a side corral. Then he let the bunch go. They strained through the gate in a mad run, despite shrill and frantic remonstrance from copperhead. Jeff, said Jeff soberly, are you going to be a damned fool all your life? That girl doesn't care anything about you. She hasn't thought of you since. You stay right here and read the pretty books. That's the place for you. This advice was sound and wise beyond cavill. So Jeff took it valiantly. After supper he hobbled Grasshopper and took off the nose-bag. Then he went to the back room in pursuit of literature. Have I leave for a slight digression to commit a long-delayed act of justice to correct a grievous wrong? Oh, thank you. We hear much of Mr. Andrew Carnegie and his libraries, The Hall of Fame, The Little Red Schoolhouse, The Five-Foot Shelf, and The World's Best Books. A singular thing is that the most effective bit of philanthropy along these lines has gone unrecorded of a thankless world. This shall no longer be. Know then that once upon a time a certain soulless corporation, rather in the tobacco trade, placed in each package of tobacco a coupon. Each coupon redeemable by one paper-bound book. Whether they were moved by remorse to this action or by sorted hidden purpose of their own, or again by pure disinterested and far-seeing love of their kind, is not yet known, but the results remain. There were three hundred and three volumes on that list, mostly, but not altogether, fiction, and each one was a classic. Classics are cheap. They are not copyrighted. Could I but know the anonymous benefactor who enrolled that glorious company, how gladly would I drop a leaf on his beer, or a cherry in his bitters? Thus it was that in one brief decade the cowboys with others became comparatively literate. Cowboys all smoked. Doubtless that was a chief cause contributory to making them the wrecks they were. It destroyed their physique. It corroded and ate away their willpower, leaving them seldom able to work over 19 hours a day, except in emergencies, prone to abandon duty in the face of difficulty or danger, when human effort raised to the nth power could do no more. All things considered the most efficient men of their hands on record. Cowboys all smoked, and the most deep-seated instinct of the human race is to get something for nothing. They got those books. In due course of time they read those books. Some were slow to take to it, but when you stay at lonely ranches, when you are left to foot until the waterholes dry up, so you may catch a horse in the water pen, while you must do something, the books were read. Then having acquired the habit, they bought more books. Since the 303 were all real books, and since the Cowboys had been previously uncorrupted of predigested or sterilized fiction, or by gift, uplift, and helpful books, their composite tastes had become surprisingly good, and they bought with discriminating care. Name more. A book case follows books. A book case demands a house. A house demands a keeper. A housekeeper needs everything. Hence, alfalfa, houseplants, slotless tables, bank books. The chain, which began with yellow coupons, ends with Christmas trees. In some proudest niche in the Hall of Fame, a grateful nation will yet honor that hitherto unrecognized educator, Frant de Beuf. Jeff pawed over the tattered yellow-backed volumes in profane discontent. He had read them all. Another box was under the bed, behind the first. Opening it, he saw a tangled mass of clothing, tumbled, in the bachelor manner, with the rest a much-used football outfit, canvas jacket, sweater, padded trousers, woolen stockings, rubber nose-guard, shin guards, ribbed shoes, all complete, for Jean Baird was full-back of the El Paso Eleven. Jeff segregated the gridiron wardrobe with hasty hands, his eye brightened. He spoke in an odd and almost reverent voice. I am mostly superstitious, but this looks like a leading. First, I'm here. Second, copperheads here. Third, no one else is here. And for the final miracle, here's a costume made to my hand. Thirty-five miles, ten o'clock, if I hurry. When first I put this uniform on, how did that go? I'm forgetting all my songs, getting old, I guess. Rejecting the heavy shoes as unmeat for waxed floors and the shin guards, he rolled the rest of the uniform in his slicker and tied it behind his saddle. Then he rubbed his chin. That's a true saying, too. I am getting old. Youth turns to youth. Buck up, Jeff, you old fool. Have some pride about you and just a little old horse sense. Yet he unharbled grasshopper, who might then be trusted to find his way to rainbow in about three days. He went to the corral and tossed a rope on snorting copperhead. No, I won't go, he said, as he slipped on the bridle. Just to uncock old copperhead, I'll make a little horse ride to hospital springs and look through the stock. He threw on the saddle with some difficulty. Copperhead was fat and frisky. Do you want to see it, Jeff? An old husband like you? No, no, I'd better not go. I won't. There, if I didn't leave that football stuff on the saddle, I'll take it off. Am I get lost? Whoa, copperhead! Copperhead, however, declined to woe on any turns. His eyes bulged out. He reared. He pawed. He snorted. He bucked. He squealed. He did anything but woe. Exasperated, Jeff caught the bridle by the cheekpiece and swung into the saddle. After a few preliminaries in the pitching line, Jeff started bravely for hospital springs. It was destined that this act of renunciation should be thwarted. Copperhead stopped and dug his feet in the ground as if about to take root. Jeff dug the spurs home. With an agonized ball, copperhead made a creditable ascension, shook himself and swapped ends before he hit the ground again. He said. His nose was headed now for Arcadia. He followed his nose, his ron flanks fanned vigorously, with a doubled rope. Headstrong, stubborn, unmanageable, brute. Oh well, have it your own way, then, you old foe. You'll be sorry. Copperhead leaped out to the loosened rain. This is just plain kidnapping, said Jeff. Kidnapped and kidnapper were far out on the plain as night came on. Arcadia rode, stretched dimly to the east. The far lights of La Luz flashed through the leftward dusk. Straight before them was a glint and sparkle in the sky. Faint, diffused, wavering. Beyond a warm and mellow glow broke the blackness of the mountain wall, where the lights of low hidden Arcadia beat up against rainbow rim. Jeff was past his first vexation. He sang as he rode. There was ink on her thumb when I kissed her hand, and she whispered, if you should die, I'll write you an epitaph gloomy and grand. Time enough for that, says I. Keep a movin', here, Copperhead. Time fuges right along. You will play hooky, will ya? I'm gonna be a horse. End of Chapter 4