Ernest Haycox - Ernest Haycox - Ultimate Collection - Western Classics & Historical Novels

Chaffee rolled a cigarette before replying. "She's always been good to me. Here I am bringin' back a story like this. All right, Tobe." He turned to Mack. "You've got to stay here and pick up those tar models when they get hard. And be blamed sure nobody else gets 'em."

"I'd ruther do that than face Miz Satterlee," said Mack. "But what do you figger a bunch of frozen boot prints is a-goin' to do you? We got the jasper. That's enough."

Chaffee shook his head, subduing his words. "Mack, I'm layin' all my money the gambler didn't kill Dad. Where was Theodorik Perrine all this time? Where is he now? And wouldn't it sort of mean something to you if you happened to see a man walkin' down the street with mud on his heels?"

"Plenty of mud around town besides here," objected Mack.

"Maybe so, but a careful man wouldn't be walkin' in it unless he was powerfully excited. The name of the gentleman who had said mud on his heels right after the shot was fired is—"

The rig moved out of the stable, and one of the Stirrup S crew called back: "Come on, Jim." The sheriff, Luis Locklear, walked rapidly toward the pair.

"I'll hunt through this stable," said he, "just as a matter of formality. No doubt but what Clyde killed Satterlee. Mr. Woolfridge did a fine job."

Jim Chaffee turned and got his horse, following the rig sadly back to Stirrup S. This tragedy had been so sudden, and his own search for the murderer's identification had been so engrossing, that not until now did the full sorrow of the thing fall upon him. Nowhere in the length and breadth of this country had there been a more sturdy and uprightly honest man than Dad Satterlee. His life was woven into Roaring Horse. At a dance or at a round- up—at any of those occasions where the folks of the section met—Dad Satterlee's presence had always been a certain and cheering fact. And for every dollar that Dad had in the bank, another dollar had gone into some kind of charitable help. What was he, Jim Chaffee, to tell Miz Satterlee?

When at last the solemn and silent party drew into the yard Jim Chaffee sat in the saddle and struggled with himself. A light shimmered through the house window, and while he debated the door was thrown open, Miz Satterlee standing on the threshold and peering across the shadowed porch. "All back, boys?" she asked. "Didn't Mr. Satterlee come with you?" In a moment she seemed to sense the troubled spirit of the party and her eyes made out the dim bulk of the rig. "What is it, boys?" The calm, self-contained tones shamed Jim Chaffee. He got down and came to the steps. He had figured to break the news easily, to start from afar. Now he knew there was only one thing to say.

"Ma'am—Dad is—dead."

He was to remember that choked sentence the rest of his life, and feel at each remembrance the same pinching at his heart. That night he was sending a woman down into the black pit of despair. Nor did he ever forget the manner in which she received the news. He couldn't see her resolute, motherly face in the black vault of the porch, and for that he was thankful. But he heard the rising and the settling of her breath; and then breathing seemed to cease. She seemed to grow away from them; the outline of her body became blurred in the shadows, and the long moments went by with never another sound. Every man in the party was as if cut from so much stone, and in this strange, profound lull Jim Chaffee heard the faint drip-drip of water in a remote part of the house, like a fatal pendulum accenting the swift passage of all things living. It grew unbearable; he stepped toward her to speak again.

"Bring Mr. Satterlee in the house," said she, very quietly.

The crew obeyed and passed out. The door closed; the light of the room after a short interval was snuffed. The rest of the Stirrup S men went to the bunkhouse, but Chaffee, somehow feeling his place to be on the porch, sat in the shadows and waited.

He didn't know how long it was before that door opened. It seemed to him a matter of hours, in which, he heard her rocking- chair slowly traveling back and forth, never varying the tempo, never slacking until at the end of the long vigil she called to him.

"Jim. You are a good boy. Tell me about it."

He stood on the threshold, facing the darkness of the room, and told all that he knew of the story, even to the boot prints he had filled with tar.

"You don't think Clyde—had anything to do with it, then?"

"No ma'am."

"Poor soul . I am sorry for him. Do you think you will find the right man, Jim?"

"I will."

"What will you do with him?"

"He'll go down," muttered Jim Chaffee.

"No," said Miz Satterlee. "We don't live according to tablets of stone, Jim. When you find the man put him in jail. Let others decide. And Jim—"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Send the boys out to-night to notify Mr. Satterlee's friends. I want them to see him go to sleep up there where the rest of my family sleeps. Don't you go. I want you on the ranch. That's all. Don't stay up. This is—my affair."

So, in the middle of the following afternoon, surrounded by his friends, Dad Satterlee was laid beside his three children; and presently the Stirrup S was alone to itself again, save for one man who tarried. That man was William Wells Woolfridge. Jim Chaffee watched him go to the house porch and bow to Miz Satterlee. A few minutes later the mistress of Stirrup S beckoned and Jim crossed the yard, receiving an abrupt nod from Woolfridge.

Miz Satterlee was in her black silk dress; she carried herself erect, her dark eyes lifted proudly toward his visitor. "I am making it a policy, Mr. Woolfridge, to discuss all my business affairs in front of Jim Chaffee from now on. He will be interested. Go ahead."

"I mention this to-day only because I wish to bring before you without delay a matter that has long been discussed by myself and your husband," said Woolfridge, paying no attention to Jim. "Frankly, as I told him, I wanted the Stirrup S. Vanity, perhaps, but I should like to be able to say that my brand runs from the bench to the alkali wastes. I am quite able to pay for my foibles."

"What was Mr. Satterlee's reply to that?"

Woolfridge gave Chaffee a rather long and close survey. "He said it was entirely a matter of price."

"What price?" asked Miz Satterlee, never letting her attention stray from Woolfridge's smooth cheeks.

"As a matter of fact, I had not yet gotten a price from him," admitted the man.

"I didn't think so. I have heard him speak about it."

"There is no reason why you should wish to run the place now, Mrs. Satterlee."

"There is every reason why I should. And I do not care to ever hear of an offer from you again. As long as I live this ranch is mine. When I die I shall will it to friendly hands. I want it to go on. That is absolutely final."

"You are quite sure?" asked Woolfridge, urbane and mild.

"I am. Never think you can change me."

"In that case I'll not bother you again to-day. I think, perhaps, it is unnecessary to remind you, Mrs. Satterlee, that I regarded your husband as my best friend. If there is ever anything you want of me please ask. And if at any time you change your mind I wish you'd let me know."

"Thanks, but I won't."

Woolfridge got on his horse and rode down the trail. Jim Chaffee turned a puzzled face to Miz Satterlee. "What did you want me for, ma'am?"

"Like I said. To keep your fingers on the business. I am making you manager of Stirrup S to-day, Jim. I'm too old to fight. And, if I know anything about affairs, there is going to be trouble here. Act from now on as if the place belonged to you. I give you absolute charge."

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Midmorning of the day after Dad Satterlee's funeral Chaffee went to town. His purpose was to see Doc Fancher and ask a few questions concerning the dead gambler; also to find Mack Moran who had never returned to the ranch. Once in Roaring Horse he went directly to the Red Mill. Mack wasn't there, nor did Chaffee find him at any of the other saloons; however, the red-headed puncher had left a broad trail of ruin behind him. According to several citizens, Mack had gone moody—not an unusual thing for him when he started to think about the injustices of the world—-and had indulged in several free and sanguinary battles. With this much information Chaffee wasted no more time hunting. He went to the jail; there was Mack down in the basement cell, smoking glumly.