The Arrow-Point Estate

Front matter

BY B. M. SINCLAIR

ILLUSTRATED BY CH. GRUNWALD

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

THEY lifted Burkell up a little so that he could breathe easier, and told him to buck up and that the wagon would be along pretty quick now. And Burkell smiled grimly in a way that went to the heart of them, it was so characteristic of the man; smiled in a way that said he was not to be fooled, that he knew the wagon would not come in time. In fact, after a minute of lips shut straight against a groan, he spoke what he knew they were thinking.

“It'll come—but the old boy with the long scythe’ll beat ’em to it. I’m all in, and yuh don’t need to lie about it just to keep up my nerve, boys; Daddy Death has put in his bill, and I ain’t going to whine about paying up.” He moved his head restlessly, and Burns, against whom he was leaning, shifted his shoulders solicitously and shut his teeth tight together; he knew it was the truth Burkell spoke, and it maddened him to think that death is an enemy one cannot fight with a six-shooter, but must stand by and helplessly watch its merciless approach.

In a minute Burkell began again, and they noticed that he paused longer between sentences; which made “Rhody”—so-called because he claimed Rhode Island for his birth- place—turn his eyes frowningly to the place on the horizon where the wagon they were waiting for would first appear.

“Dig up my brand-book out uh my inside—pocket, Burns. Never made a will—but I guess it’s time I did. Can't frame up one—like a lawyer—but I guess it'll pass.”

The eyes of Burns and Rhody met, seeking the solace that comes of mutual sympathy. On his pay-roll they were, and had been for long; they took it hardly that John Burkell should die like this, afar on the prairie, before help came. Though they had known, even when they dragged him from beneath his horse and saw how his gaunt form was crushed and battered, that there was no help for him, it seemed incredible that big John Burkell, the hardest worker and the kindest employer in all that country, was going out by the long trail, and in such fashion as this.

“Hurry up,” commanded Burkell, in something like his old, masterful tone. “Think Daddy Death is going to stand around all day, waitin’ on you bone-heads? I ain’t got—forever.” It was sheer nerve and the power of an unyielding will that was holding him to life; that they could see in the gray face of him.

Rhody stooped and got him the little, red book with its long record of brands and stock—the gleanings of many a round-up, and Greek to any but a stockman. Burkell, gathering the strength that was fast going, took the book in his unsteady fingers and turned the leaves lingeringly. Perhaps he hated to let go the life he knew and loved—the life of the range-land. Perhaps the fact of his going seemed incredible to him, also; for he muttered as he turned the leaves: “She’s about filled up—and I always hate to start in on a new book, somehow.”

Then he seemed to remember that he would not need a new book, and glanced furtively up at his companions to see if they had heard the remark. But they, with the fine tact which comes only as a birthright to a favored minority of men, appeared to have heard nothing, so he breathed relief and pulled himself together again.

When he came at last to two blank pages, he stopped, gripped the pencil Burns placed in his fingers, and showed that he was mentally his old self, a man who never overlooked small things. For first of all he wrote his name firmly on the second page, that what went before, be it much or little, should not lack his signature and so be legally of no worth.

“You'll both sign as witnesses,” he observed. “And I want yuh to see that it goes.”

Then, rapidly, as if he knew the minutes were short and few, he wrote:

My last will: I give everything I own to my daughter Lorena and my son David, equal shares. I ask Lorrie to look after the kid, and don’t sell the old place, but she can have full control. My brother Howard can help her look after things, and I give him2

The last word was a scrawl. He dropped the pencil—his fingers had mutinied against him and obeyed the new master, whose coming was close—and looked up pitifully into the face of Burns.

“Howard—tell Lorrie—Howard2” He gasped dumbly, seemed to realize that his message was perforce finished, made a last struggle and got out one word: “Sign.” He looked at them both intently, almost fiercely, as if he would stamp his thought into their brains without aid of speech. He was a strong man, was John Burkell, and death did not conquer him without a struggle.

They eased him gently down upon the crisp, brown grass of the prairie he loved, and looked at him in silence, their heads bared. Then they signed their names to the will he could not finish before he went.

Burns, looking up after he had put the book back into the dead man’s pocket, saw the wagon coming rapidly toward them. With the keen sight of a range-dweller he knew at once just who were in the rig.

“Lorrie’s coming along,” he announced uneasily. “They no business to uh let her come. Can’t we get some uh the blood off his face? I don’t reckon we can keep her away from him2”

“Sure not, if she takes a notion. Lord! it’s going to be fierce, having her see him like this. She thought a lot uh him.”

Burns made no reply, other than to straighten the limbs and the garments of the dead and wipe the dust and blood from the face with his handkerchief. Then Rhody, twitching the white silk neckerchief from his throat, shook out the wrinkles and spread it carefully over the features of John Burkell.

“We won’t have to tell her he’s dead,” was his muttered explanation. “She’ll know, when she sees that.”

The wagon, rattling over the rough sod, stopped and a girl—Lorena Burkell—jumped down almost before the horses came to a stand and ran to the long, quiet figure in the grass with the two men standing bareheaded beside it. If they looked for weeping they were mistaken; the girl said nothing at all, and only knelt and took the silken covering from the face of her father and laid her cheek tenderly against his. And there was that in the movement more pitiful than loud lamentation, so that Burns turned his face away and blinked rapidly, and Rhody swallowed and bit his lip painfully.

Those in the wagon came hurrying up and stood around helplessly watching the girl. Then Burns, meeting the eyes of one, straightened.

“Seeing you’re his brother,” he said stiffly, “I guess you take charge uh things.”

At this the girl looked up at them. “He’s my—father,” she said quietly. “He would want me to do—to take 2” Her head went down again till her cheek rested against the face of her dead.

Howard Burkell went over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Come away, Lorrie. You can’t do any good, and you must lean on me now. He has gone, and it’s the Lord’s will. Don’t grieve so, little girl—you know I loved him, too.”

Lorrie shook her shoulder free of his touch. “Maybe you did—but you needn’t preach now. Go away.” There was no mistaking her tone; if she wanted sympathy it was clearly not the sympathy of her Uncle Howard. And though it was evident that her grief was great, it was also evident that she was one of those self-controlled persons who resent the platitudes common to such occasions, and would much prefer to be left alone.

Her uncle turned to Burns and Rhody. “Did John leave any message—or anything to show his wishes? If not, I shall of course take charge of things.”

Rhody and Burns glanced briefly at each other. “He didn’t live but a little while,’ Burns answered briefly. “And he didn’t make no funeral arrangements.” This last in a tone not intended to reach the ears of the girl.

“Well, take him up, boys—we must get him home. Come away, Lorrie.” He touched her again gently. “Poor girl, you shouldn’t have come at all. Come, Lorrie!”

“Oh, do go away!” Lorrie moved impatiently without taking her arms from her father; her attitude seemed to imply that she was trying to shield him from something. Her voice was unemotional and hard—the hardness of first grief that must realize its loss before weeping.

Burns it was who leaned over her and spoke persuasively. “We've got to get him home, yuh see. You'd better take my horse and ride on ahead and—and tell the kid, yuh know. And here2” he slipped his hand inside the dead man’s coat and drew out what was in the pocket—“yuh better take these yourself. They’re—ah—liable to get lost, or something.”

“I don’t think anything ought to be touched,” said Howard. “The coroner2”

“The coroner won’t need his brand-book and them letters to find the cause uh the—accident,” Burns retorted, and put them into the hands of Lorrie, who took them mechanically. “Now, yuh better just let us put him in the wagon,” he persuaded her, “and take him home; you can ride my horse or go with him, just as yuh please. But I reckon,” he added diplomatically, “it’d be better to ride the horse—on account uh the kid; yuh don’t want to scare him. yuh tell him first, yourself, see2”

Lorrie kissed her father lingeringly and stood up, with Burns to steady her. “Yes, I must tell Skookum myself.” She shut her hands into white-knuckled fists and gazed, wide-eyed, down at her father. “He’s dead,” she said dully, as if it were a lesson she could not comprehend, but one she must learn. “He’s dead—father is; and now there’s only just Skookum and me.”

“And me, Lorrie; and your Aunt Margaret,” Howard reminded her gently. “You must look to us2”

“Oh, hush!” Lorrie never turned her eyes toward him.

Howard looked at her reproachfully, and would have remonstrated but for the coming of a stranger who caught the attention at once of all save Lorrie.

He rode quietly up on a tall, rangy gray that was sweat-roughened and stiff from hard galloping. The man himself looked still more hardly used; for his face was dust-blackened and streaked with blood from a place on his forehead where the hair was matted stickily. His hat showed two suggestive, round holes, and one arm swung in his neckerchief which he had fashioned into a sling. All in all, he struck one as. being a proper candidate for a hospital, though he sat straight-backed in the saddle and gazed calmly down at the staring group.

When he glimpsed the quiet figure stretched in their midst, he eyed it sharply and impersonally; but when he spoke his voice was lowered in deference to its presence.

“Looks like things have been going wrong here,” he remarked slowly. “Sorry to see yuh in trouble, boys. I’m looking for John Burkell. Can you tell me where his outfit is working.”

Burns stooped and lifted the white square he had dropped over the face of the dead when Lorrie rose. The stranger looked, made a quick, half-conscious movement that twisted the reins around his saddle-horn, and then lifted his free hand, and raised his hat. And Lorrie, glancing at him for the first time, saw the act and liked him for it.

“A good man has gone out,” was the stranger’s simple tribute. “I was coming to work for him. As it is—can you tell me how to get to the nearest town?”

Howard it was who directed him to Fallen Rock, eighteen miles to the north of them.

“Thanks.” The man smiled dryly. “I reckon I'll blow in there some time to-morrow—my horse is so fresh, and such a drifter! You’re a hospitable bunch—I don’t think. John Burkell must ’a’ had fine neighbors.” He unwound his reins and turned to ride away imperturbably; only that he looked again at the quiet figure, as one looks at a dead friend, and lifted his hat again as he started.

Lorrie, stirred out of her apathy, called to him sharply, so that he looked back, then stopped and waited, half-turned in his saddle.

“If you were father’s friend,” she said, “he wouldn’t let you go away like that. He’d make you come to the ranch and stay. He—he can’t ask you—but I can. You'll be quite welcome.”

“Thanks.” But this time he spoke in a tone quite different. And since he waited further, they took it that he meant to accept.

They lifted John Burkell up and placed him gently in the wagon upon the round-up bed they had sent for, not believing him fatally hurt. As Burns held his horse for Lorrie to mount, he said cautiously:

“Take care uh that brand-book, Lorrie. He wrote his will in it just before he—he went out; and Rhody and I signed as witnesses.”

But Lorrie had returned to her stony, apathetic manner and made no sign that she heard, and Burns, looking up at her wistfully a moment, released the bridle-rein and let her go.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

It was two days after the funeral. Lorrie was sitting dispiritedly on the porch with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palms, trying to adjust herself to the new order of life and gather courage to go on and face the responsibilities which death had thrust upon her. She was not one to shirk; still, the load loomed large before her—so large she could not see over it and wondered dully if she could possibly carry it, even for the sake of Skookum, and because it was the last wish of her father and must, somehow, be obeyed.

The hastily scribbled will that was left pitifully unfinished she had read over and over until she could repeat every word of it. Just now her brain was going wearily over the sentence: “I ask Lorrie to look after the kid, and don’t sell the old place, but she can have full control.” Of course she would look after Skookum—poor Skookum, worse than motherless, and handicapped at the very start for the life of action he would otherwise have lived. And of course she would never sell the ranch which her father had built from raw, untouched prairie land. It was the burden: of having full control of all those acres and of the herds roaming at will over the range, and of the men and the finances, that rather frightened her.

The last sentence of the will—about her Uncle Howard helping her look after things—was small comfort and cheered her not at all. She had never been able to get on very well: with Uncle Howard, who was rather intolerantly religious, as was her Aunt Margaret. Her Uncle Howard believed that all misfortune is sent by the Lord to teach one how vain are earthly things, or else as a punishment for things done and things left undone. Uncle Howard had not approved of her father, and had not taken much pains to hide the fact. Her father, on his part, had not approved overmuch of Howard, and had taken even less pains to hide it. So that, while there had never been an open break between the two, friendly relations had been more or less perfunctory. Both were stockmen, however, and Howard, despite his unpopular religious views, had ever been counted a shrewd man of business; so perhaps it was natural that, at the last, John Burkell should turn to his brother for help for his children. It had been purely an accident that Howard was at the ranch when Chub Simmons came hurrying with the news of John’s hurt.

Lorrie sighed and hoped that she would not need much of Uncle Howard’s help; she wondered what it was that her father had meant to give him. Then, recognizing the futility of wondering about something that could never be known, her thoughts came back to Skookum.

Skookum—Burns it was who first called him that, which is Siwash for “good”—was a dear, and Lorrie loved him as half-brothers are not always loved. Still, Skookum, having the idea in his old little head that he himself was going to look after Lorrie and the ranch and the men, was already giving himself the airs of proprietorship. Lorrie foresaw complications; for Skookum, petted and humored because of his infirmity, and wise with the wisdom of an observing mind and an odd, unchildish reasoning power, held himself and his judgment far above Lorrie, who was only a girl. And Skookum held a deep aversion to his Uncle Howard, and2

“Somebody’s coming, Lorrie,” announced that young person, hobbling around the corner on his crutches. “It’s a double rig, but I couldn’t recognize the horses so far off. Do you reckon it’s Uncle Howard, Lorrie? Because if it is, and he goes talking like he done yesterday, I’m going to tell him to chase himself.”

“No, Skookum. You mustn’t be rude to Uncle Howard. Little boys must2”

“Aw, quit saying ‘little boys’ at me every five minutes; I’ve had about enough. I’m half-grown-up, and more. Burns says I'll be a man when I’m eighteen; he was. And anyway, Uncle Howard was saying things about dad that I won’t stand for. He said dad died unrepentant, so he didn’t know as dad could get into heaven. He said it was the will of the Lord. And I just told him that dad didn’t want to go to his old heaven, anyhow—he wouldn’t if he could. I told him dad would rather go to2

“I’ll get the field-glasses, so you can tell who it is,” put in Lorrie hastily, and retreated, feeling more than ever, that taking care of Skookum was to be no light task.

Skookum took the glasses and studied the coming visitors, and Lorrie, with her responsibilities weighing heavy, studied Skookum, Till then she had not realized what a very odd child he was. A handsome child, of a truth, with his big, soft, brown eyes and tawny curls and the mouth of a cherub—a mouth, however, from which proceeded words quite astonishing at all times, and often disconcerting. When he was not indulging in the most vigorous and slangy remarks, he rolled out polysyllables with a fluency nothing short of amazing. But his vocabulary was not what worried her most; it was his absolute indifference to the opinions of others—with the exception of Burns—and the utter confidence in himself and his own judgment. Skookum was not a child whom one could either intimidate, coax or hoodwink; he was influenced solely through his affections and his convictions. Lorrie sighed, and the sigh caught the quick ear of the boy.

“Oh, you needn’t anticipate trouble,” he remarked, without taking his eyes from the glass. “It ain’t Uncle Howard, thank the Lord. It’s a rig from Fallen Rock, I guess—the horses don’t belong to any of the ranchers in this vicinity—and there’s a man and a woman; a big, fat woman with a blue veil. And they’ve got a trunk in behind. Now, who the dickens would be coming here with a trunk, Lorrie?”

Lorrie did not know. She thought perhaps they had missed their way, meaning to go to some other ranch. Then Skookum condescendingly offered her the glasses—not that he wanted her opinion, but-as a matter of politeness. He leaned upon his crutches and gazed abstractedly across the prairie, thinking of dad, and how lonesome it was going to be without him, and how hard it was to “take his medicine,” as he put it. He did not really care anything about the strangers, or about anything else, if one might judge by the look of his face.

Lorrie sat suddenly down again on the porch, and her face was white; also, her mouth was pinched together in a way that, to the observing Skookum, meant that there was to be “something doing” shortly.

“Well, do you know ’em?” he demanded, with growing interest.

“Yes, I—Skookum, I don’t know what to do. It—it’s your mother.”

“That fat old party?” The tone of Skookum spoke incredulity. He had but the haziest impression of his mother, who had left home and him four years ago, and from whom dad had got a divorce. Skookum knew that, because Burns had told him. Burns had also told him to stick to his dad, because his dad had been given the double-cross in that deal. Burns had also remarked once, apropos the same subject, that the deck had been stacked on dad; and Skookum knew what that meant.

“She wouldn’t come here,” he averred, wide-eyed. “She wouldn't have the nerve.”

Lorrie looked at him curiously; she had not thought that he knew, for they never mentioned his mother to him, and Skookum had never asked about her.

“Oh, as to nerve2” She watched the approaching rig with eyes full of trouble and incipient defiance. “Skookum, please be good and don’t say naughty things while she’s here. She—after all, she’s your mother.” She tried to speak gently.

“She gave dad the double-cross. Burns said so. What’s she coming here for?”

Lorrie, herself, was puzzling over that same query, and so did not answer. The team was almost at the gate, now. From a sudden impulse to put off, as long as possible, the meeting of her stepmother—or more exactly, the woman who had once been her stepmother—Lorrie turned and went into the house. She was frightened and indignant at the intrusion which she could not understand.

Skookum, however, stood his ground and waited. While the woman was alighting at the gate and coming—one might say sailing—up the path, his big eyes watched her unblinkingly. He was standing directly in front of the door, and he hopped back until his small person barred the entrance. The woman came up the steps, and held out both hands to him in a way that angered Skookum, though he could not have explained why.

“David—my little David!” She hovered, like a silk-clad mountain of flesh, over him. “Darling, I’m your mother. I've come to take care of my poor little Davy.”

Skookum never stirred, but something in his blazing eyes withheld her ample embrace. “I don’t need taking care of; I can take care of myself all right. And I don’t permit people to call me Davy. I'm Skookum.” He regarded her haughtily.

“You poor little dear! Haven’t you got a kiss for mother? Mother has come a long, long ways to see her little boy2”

The smile on the red lips of Skookum was the sneering smile of a man for the woman he scorns. “You can go a long, long ways back again, then,” he said. “I ain't a baby; I don’t kiss.”

“I ain't a baby; I don’t kiss.”

His mother drew back and studied him, from the coppery rings of his hair to the twisted foot that he had utterly refused to have straightened since it would mean weeks in the hospital and braces for months after, with a doubt of recovery, even at that. “You sure do need a mother’s care, Davy. They’ve let you run wild.” Her voice no longer oozed honey, as it were. “Where’s Lorrie? Don’t she know I’m here?” She started to pass, whereat Skookum raised a disrespectful crutch and barred the way.

“You can’t come in,” he cried angrily. “I don’t like you, and Lorrie don’t like you. We ain’t any of us got any time for you. You cold-decked dad; Burns said so.”

She looked down at him a minute, and said something under her breath; something that Skookum wondered at vaguely. He had never before heard a woman use that particular word, which belonged in the vocabulary of men. Then she laughed unpleasantly, picked him up bodily and sat him down in a chair. “You’ve got to learn different manners than them, my lad,” she remarked calmly, and went into the house, carrying his crutches with her.

But if she thought by that expedient to hold him prisoner, it was because she did not know Skookum. With face whitely rigid from the rage he was in, he let himself down upon hands and knees and crept down the path to the bunk-house to find Burns.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

Skookum pulled himself up against the wall of the bunk-house and fumbled the latch of the door; opened it, and looked in. There was a step to go down inside, and he hesitated to attempt it. While he stood, a man raised to an elbow on the nearest bed, seemed to take in the situation at a glance, and came forward, limping. One arm was in a sling, but he held out the other hand and steadied Skookum so that he could get in. When Skookun, still with that fixed look of murderous rage, sat down on a box, the man regarded him keenly

“Could a fellow help you out of a hole, old-timer?” The tone invited confidences. “If I was in the habit of wearing crutches, seems like I’d want to stick to them—something like old friends, I should think they’d be. I don’t believe I’d try perambulating around much on my hands and knees.” Plainly, the man had gaged the general character of Skookum, and was wise; hence the term “old-timer,” which the boy liked, because it was mannish and made him feel very old.

“She took ’em,” flared Skookum, his eyes dark and shining. “I wouldn’t let her in, and she2” He choked over the humiliation of it. “She’s a great big, fat woman. I’ll bet she could lick Rhody or Chub, or—anybody, except Burns and—and you, when you're well. And she—shoved me asidebar|2}”} Skookum’s cheeks went red at the misleading term.

The man’s eyes were on him gravely. “And you lost the crutches?” he prompted politely; but Skookum caught the note of unbelief.

“What I meant to say,” he corrected honestly, “was she picked me up and set me in a chair—she’s awful strong for a woman—and she went in the house with ’em under her arm. I hate her! I want Burns. Burns’ll fix her a-plenty for that. She’s got to go away. Burns has got to make her go. She sha’n’t take care of me and call me Davy, and her boy. I ain’t her boy. She played a brace game with dad—Burns said so—and she wouldn’t have the nerve to come here if dad—if dad—wasn’t2” Skookum swallowed, and blinked his long lashes fast for a minute. “She needs killing!”

“Go easy, pardner. Men can’t fight women, you know, nor shoot them up—no matter if they do insult a man. That’s the advantage of being a woman. If it was a man that had insulted you, why, I could go and take it out of him proper; and I would. As it is” —he smiled engagingly into the wrathful, brown eyes—“I expect we’ll have to overlook it. What do yuh think? Can’t yuh set it down to bad manners on her part?”

“She called me Davy; and she wanted me to—to kiss her. I wisht I was big as you or Burns. I’d fix her.”

“Among real men, Skookum,” said the other slowly that the boy might feel the force of it, “any fellow that fights a woman is considered lower than a snake in a forty-foot well. You don’t look to me like a rounder; the way it looks to me, all you can do is pass her up like a States-Settlement dime.” Then, as an afterthought, he put the question: “Who is she? Not your sister?”

Skookum, repeating to himself the phrase: “Lower than a snake in a forty-foot well,” that he might make use of it on some future occasion—Skookum was, unconsciously, something of a plagiarist—answered with less venom.

“Naw, uh course it wasn’t Lorrie. Lorrie is more of a diplomat than that; she’d know darn well that I’d retaliate at the first opportunity.”

The man raised his hand suddenly and concealingly to his mouth; it would never do to laugh openly at Skookum. When he could trust his voice:

“Who, then?”

Skookum opened his lips to reply; closed them, and turned his face away. A dull, red glow came into his cheeks.

“Of course, you needn’t tell—I’d no business to ask. Let it go; and I beg your pardon for being a chump.”

“Oh, I was going to tell. It’s just because you’re supposed to—to like your mothers better than anybody. In books it’s that way, always. Mothers and fathers are supposed to be liked, ain’t they? Is it”—he looked appealingly at the other—“is it lower than a snake in a forty-foot well to hate your mother, when your mother gave your dad the double-cross, and you don’t remember her, and then she comes and takes your crutches away?”

The man meditated a moment, looking at Skookum’s wistful face. “Well, that depends,” he said guardedly. “Mothers aren’t always like those you read about in books; if they were a fellow couldn’t help thinking a lot of them, could he? Not knowing the details, in your case I can’t say. But I know your dad was a mighty nice man, Skookum, and would do the square thing; anybody that dealt crooked with him did so without provocation. So it was your mother, eh? Don’t you think your language was pretty strong, under the circumstances?”

“She hasn’t got any right to come here and take care of me. Burns says she pulled out when I was six, and never came back. Burns says she didn’t like me because my foot’s twisted all around so I can’t use it. I ain’t to blame for that, am I? Mothers in books like their kids better if anything's the matter with ’em; it makes ’em sorry. But she didn’t, though. She pulled out. And she can’t come and take care of me now, and call me darling and Davy. I don’t need any more taking care of than a cat. If I’m her darling, and all that, what made her take my crutches? I wonder,” tentatively, “if it would be much trouble for you to go and get them for me? Creeping hurts my hands.”