lit up the matted underlay of rotting cones and pine-needles which covered the earth.
The road bent sharply away from the river, revealing a scrub of low bush decorated with a collection of white garments, evidently set out to dry. His horse shied at the unusual sight, and furthermore took exception to the raucous sound of a man’s voice chanting a dismal melody, somewhere away down by the river on his right.
In this direction he observed a cattle-path. And the sight of it suggested ascertaining the identity of the doleful minstrel. No doubt this man could give him the information he needed. He turned off the road and plunged into scrub. And at the river bank he came upon a curious scene. There was a sandy break in the bush, and the bank sloped gradually to the water’s edge. Three or four wash-tubs, grouped together in a semicircle, stood on wooden trestles, and a quaint-looking little man was bending over one of them washing clothes, rubbing and beating a handful of garments on a board like any washerwoman. His back was turned to the path, and he faced the river. On his right stood an iron furnace and boiler, with steam escaping from under the lid. And all around him the bushes were hung with drying clothes.
“Hello!” cried Tresler, as he slipped to the ground.
“Holy smoke!”
The scrubbing and banging had ceased, and the most curiously twisted face Tresler had ever seen glanced back over the man’s bowed shoulder. A red, perspiring face, tufted at the point of the chin with a knot of gray whisker, a pair of keen gray eyes, and a mouth – yes, it was the mouth that held Tresler’s attention. It went up on one side, and had somehow got mixed up with his cheek, while a suggestion of it was continued by means of a dark red scar right up to the left eye.
For a second or two Tresler could not speak, he was so astonished, so inclined to laugh. And all the while the gray eyes took him in from head to foot; then another exclamation, even more awestruck, broke from the stranger.
“Gee-whizz!”
And Tresler sobered at once.
“Where’s Mosquito Bend Ranch?” he asked.
The little man dropped his washing and turned round, propping himself against the edge of the tub.
“Skitter Bend Ranch?” he echoed slowly, as though the meaning of the question had not penetrated to his intellect. Then a subdued whisper followed. “Gee, but I – ” And he looked down at his own clothes as though to reassure himself.
Tresler broke in; he understood the trend of the other’s thoughts.
“Yes, Mosquito Bend,” he said sharply.
“Nigh to a mile on. Keep to the trail, an’ you’ll strike Blind Hell in a few minutes. Say – ” He broke off, and looked up into Tresler’s face.
“Yes, I’m going there. You don’t happen to belong to – to Blind Hell?”
“Happen I do,” assured the washerman. “I do the chores around the ranch. Joe Nelson, once a stock raiser m’self. Kerrville, Texas. Now – ” He broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the drying clothes.
“Well, I’m John Tresler, and I’m on my way to Mosquito Bend.”
“So you’re the ‘tenderfoot,’” observed the choreman, musingly. “You’re the feller from Noo England as Jake’s goin’ to lick into shape.”
“Going to teach, you mean.”
“I s’pose I do,” murmured the other gently, but without conviction. The twisted side of his face wrinkled hideously, while the other side smiled.
“You mentioned Blind Hell just now?” questioned Tresler, as the other relapsed into a quiet survey of him.
“Blind Hell, did I?” said Nelson, repeating the name, a manner which seemed to be a habit of his.
“Yes. What is it? What did you mean?”
Tresler’s questions were a little peremptory. He felt that the riding-breeches that had caused such notice in Forks were likely to bring him further ridicule.
“Oh, it’s jest a name. ’Tain’t of no consequence. Say,” the choreman broke out suddenly, “you don’t figger to git boostin’ steers in that rig?” He stretched out an abnormally long arm, and pointed a rough but wonderfully clean finger at the flowing corduroys Tresler had now become so sensitive about.
“Great Scott, man!” he let out testily. “Have you never seen riding-breeches before? – you, a ranchman.”
The tufted beard shot sideways again as the face screwed up and half of it smiled.
“I do allow I’ve seen such things before. Oncet,” he drawled slowly, with a slight Southern accent, but in a manner that betokened a speech acquired by association rather than the natural tongue. “He was a feller that came out to shoot big game up in the hills. I ain’t seen him sence, sure. Guess nobody did.” He looked away sadly. “We heerd tell of him. Guess he got fossicking after b’ar. The wind was blowin’ ter’ble. He’d climbed a mount’n. It was pretty high. Ther’ wa’n’t no shelter. A gust o’ that wind come an’ – took him.”
Nelson had turned back to his tubs, and was again banging and rubbing.
“A mile down the trail, I think you said?” Tresler cried, springing hastily into the saddle.
“Sure.”
And for the first time Tresler’s horse felt the sharp prick of the spurs as he rode off.
Mosquito Bend Ranch stood in a wide clearing, with the house on a rising ground above it. It was lined at the back by a thick pinewood. For the rest the house faced out on to the prairie, and the verandahed front overlooked the barns, corrals, and outhouses. It stood apart, fully one hundred yards from the nearest outbuildings.
This was the first impression Tresler obtained on arrival. The second was that it was a magnificent ranch and the proprietor must be a wealthy man. The third was one of disappointment; everything was so quiet, so still. There was no rush or bustle. No horsemen riding around with cracking whips; no shouting, no atmosphere of wildness. And, worst of all, there were no droves of cattle tearing around. Just a few old milch cows near by, peacefully grazing their day away, and philosophically awaiting milking time. These, and a few dogs, a horse or two loose in the corrals, and a group of men idling outside a low, thatched building, comprised the life he first beheld as he rode into the clearing.
“And this is Blind Hell,” he said to himself as he came. “It belies its name. A more peaceful, beautiful picture, I’ve never clapped eyes on.”
And then his thoughts went back to Forks. That too had looked so innocent. After all, he remembered, it was the people who made or marred a place.
So he rode straight to a small, empty corral, and, off-saddling, turned his horse loose, and deposited his saddle and bridle in the shadow of the walls. Then he moved up toward the buildings where the men were grouped.
They eyed him steadily as he came, much as they might eye a strange animal, and he felt a little uncomfortable as he recollected his encounter first with Slum and more recently with Joe Nelson. He had grown sensitive about his appearance, and a spirit of defiance and retaliation awoke within him.
But for some reason the men paid little attention to him just then. One man was talking, and the rest were listening
