Blue Kingdom (19 page)

The rage of Tucker disappeared and left him so blank of eye that, first of all, he stared toward his chief, from whom he usually received the decisive tip in case of need. But Tankerton merely was lighting his pipe and seemed rather like a visitor than an active member of the gang. It was a role that he was fond of assuming, so that he really appeared to be looking on at affairs from the outside.

This was not a matter that could be dropped. It was something even more vital to all the members than the actual deliverance of Chelton, for that which had kept the Tankertons together successfully had been their mutual good faith, and, if there were a leak in the society, a single treacherous member of the gang, they were near the rocks.

So every man darted a sudden glance of suspicion at his neighbor; his own bunkie, for all he knew, might be the traitor.

Chelton went on: “Whoever it was that spilled the news, he knew all the inside plans. And I ask you how Dunmore must've felt when he sat there in that car and heard the yarn? What would anybody else've done? Why, he would've quit cold on the job. But not Dunmore. He changed his plans and tackled them right there.”

After this, there was a moment of thoughtful silence, and then a deep voice exclaimed: “Aye, he's a man!”

So they accepted Dunmore and stamped him with their approval.

The following morning Tankerton stopped at Beatrice's cabin, and tapped at the door.

“Halloo!” she called.

“Are you up, Beatrice?”

She opened the door. “Why should I stay late in bed when there's a real man come to camp?” she asked him.

Tankerton half frowned and half smiled. For, in part, he understood her, although in part she was Greek to him. “Are you going to throw your cap at that fellow?” he asked.

“If he'll notice me,” she said. “But he won't. He's too important.” She raised a hand to pat her hair into shape.

Tankerton nodded at her. “Every good fisherman likes practice,” he stated.

“You don't think I'm serious?”

“If you were, you wouldn't tell me. I want to talk to you about something that means more to me than anything that has to do with young Dunmore.”

“Oh, he's old enough,” she said.

“Is he?” Tankerton smiled. “I'm here to talk Furneaux to you.”

“What do you want me to do about him now?” she asked, scowling. “Haven't I done enough already with him? Haven't I kept him here tied hand and foot?”

“What have you done for him?”

“Let him hold my hand, once. And picked him out to smile at, now and then.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It's enough.”

“Don't you like him?”

“He's moody, not so bad.”

“You've got to do more with him, Beatrice. He's slipping away from us.”

“Look here, James,” she asked him, “tell me straight . . . what does this moony fellow mean to you?”

“He means a lot,” said Tankerton. “He's what we need in the crew. We have to have tone, my dear girl. That's a reason that you're priceless here. Another reason used to be Gentleman Charlie Bender. When they shot Charlie, they shot half of the respectability out of my boys. Weed out the boys of good family, breeding, the natural gentlemen, and you make us into a gang of ruffians, thugs, and jailbirds. But keep a few Benders, or Furneaux, and the mountains respect us and liken us to Robin Hood. I have to have Furneaux. Besides, he's everything that he should be . . . a straight shot, a good rider, brave as a lion, and perfectly true to his friends. He never could have treacherous thoughts. . . .”

“Like Legges?”

“I said nothing about Legges. Will you do it?”

She sulked. “I'm tired of doing the dishes for you,”
she said. “I'm tired of the dirty work. Rod is a good boy. I'd rather see him go home.”

“Will you do it, nevertheless, Beatrice?”

“What does it mean to me?” she snapped at him.

“All that it means to me, I hope,” he said. “We work together, my dear. Whatever I have is yours, and you know it. And if you'll let me, one day we'll. . . .” He stopped.

“You nearly slipped then,” she said, nodding.

“I've promised to keep off that subject,” he answered. “But I don't stop hoping.”

“Someday you'll marry me,” Beatrice Kirk observed thoughtfully. “In the meantime, I'm the fisherman's fly. I catch the fish and you handle the line. I'm a sort of recruiting agent for you, James.”

“You like the sport, yourself,” he said.

“Suppose I have to go off and get engaged to that boy to keep him with us . . . besides, you haven't said why he wants to leave?”

“Because he's learned that he has a chance to go back to respectable society and. . . .”

“In spite of all the killings that have been chalked up against him?” asked Beatrice incredulously.

“Newspaper killings, my dear, and apparently the governor knows the truth about them, at last.”

“Well . . . ,” she drawled.

“Will you do it?”

“No,” she flared at him. “I'm sick of this job, and sick of you and your ways!” She slammed the door.

Tankerton reached for the knob, but, changing his mind, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away, whistling softly.

She, from a chink near the window, watched him go. “He's sure of me,” she whispered. She gripped both hands and burst into a silent tantrum that left her, at last, sitting tense and bowed upon the couch. However, her passions rarely lasted long, and now through her mind drifted the words of Tankerton. It was quite true in a sense, that whatever he gained, she gained, also. For in the district over which he was a king, she was a queen, through all the valleys and its hamlets, its logging camps, and its solitary ranches. Her word was law. Guns would be drawn at her bidding as quickly as ever they might be at that of Tankerton.

Whatever made firm his hold, made hers firm, also. Moreover, she admired and respected Tankerton. On some days, she told herself that she almost loved him. For being a creature of action herself, nothing was so dear to her as the man of indomitable courage, of wits and strong hands. And in all the blue kingdom of the mountains, there was no one to compare with Tanker-ton for power. He, an unsceptered king, was absolute in his mastery. To serve such a man was no shame, and particularly since her logic and his told her that she would be serving herself as well. It seemed to her, to a degree, a crime to flirt with Furneaux, but flirtation never can be a serious crime to a young girl.

However, she went slowly to the window, still filled with her doubts, and Providence, at that moment, brought the tall and dignified form of Furneaux stalking across the clearing. She did not hesitate another instant. But with a gambler's love of a hunch, she was instantly out the door, and waving to him.

He turned and came to her at once.

“You look like thunder and lightning,” she told him. “Where are you going to strike?”

“Somewhere on a high stool behind a counter, keeping books, probably,” said Furneaux. “I'm leaving all of this and going back to twenty dollars a week.”

She dropped her head, as though the blow had bowed her, and she was unwilling that he should see her emotion, but she did let him see a tightly balled fist. “Well, it's better for you to go,” she said.

The shadow of Furneaux fell over her as he stepped closer. “Are you playing cat and mouse with me?” he asked her. “Do you care a whit, Beatrice?”

She dared not let him see her face. She merely put out a hand that fumbled blindly and finally came to rest upon his arm. That was her answer, while the corner of the eye trailed about the clearing and saw no one except little Jimmy Larren, who was busily grooming the mare of Dunmore. She was very glad that she was not observed.

“I can't talk to you here,” she told him. “I . . . I'm a little dizzy, Rodman.”

He was on fire with excitement at once. “We'll walk back into the trees,” he said. “Beatrice, if you're acting a part now . . . heaven forgive you.”

She merely pressed his arm closer with her hand, as they went on. Her heart was racing with a sort of gambler's pleasure; there was a great fear in her, as well, for she felt in this man a grim and relentless earnestness. The first dappled shadows of the trees brushed across them, and in another moment he had halted and, taking her face between both his hands, turned it up and stared down at her with a scrutiny half stern and
half anguished with hope. Her very soul quaked in her, then, and she wished with all her might that she had not stepped so far in this affair, but now she could not withdraw, and she softened her glance so that all he could see of her soul of souls was a film of mist.

“Beatrice,” he said, “do you really care about me? Do you love me?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “I care about you more than the others that I've ever seen. I don't know that it's love, but it made me dizzy to think that you were about to leave us. If you. . . .”

At this, a clear voice rang from the camp, calling: “Furneaux! Furneaux!”

It was Tankerton, and Beatrice could guess that he had watched her departure with Furneaux, and wished to give her a welcome interruption.

“It's the chief,” said Furneaux gloomily. “Will you try to see me again in a moment, unless Tankerton is sending me off on a trip?”

“I'll wait for you here,” she said.

He made a step away from her, then turned back.

“Furneaux! Furneaux!” called the chief.

“If you care a whit for me . . . if I am anything to you,” said the boy, “wear this for me until I come back.” He slipped a ring into her hand, and then remained for a moment hanging tensely over her. She saw that he was about to sweep her into his arms, but, bracing herself to endure that, she kept her eyes melancholy and wistful as they met his.

He left her as Tankerton called again, hurrying away through the spotted shadows, and turning once on the verge of the sunlight to look back at her. She was expecting
that, and, therefore, she was ready with a smile and a wave, then Furneaux disappeared.

A moment later, from the verge of the clearing, she saw him mount and gallop off. She had known it would be so, for Tankerton would send him on some small commission to get him out of the way for the day. She remained holding in her hand his ring. The gem was a little ruby, like a drop of blood.

Tankerton, as she came from the verge of the trees, met her with a smile. “Did I give you long enough?” he asked her.

For answer, she held out the ring, loosely fitted upon her finger.

“Hello!” he said. “Did you get yourself engaged to him? I never meant you to go that far.”

“I'm not engaged,” she said, “but I'm on the dizzy edge of it. You called just in time to save me from a tangle. I've more than let him guess that I'm in love with him . . . and I hate your politics, James! Let's not see each other again today.”

She left him, aware that he was smiling and nodding after her, and hating him for his coolness. But yonder she saw Jimmy Larren, who was now combing the mane of the dapple chestnut mare, and she went toward him, hoping to forget in talk the disagreeable scene through which she had just passed, for she felt as though she had been smudged and stained by the artifice which she had used.

“Hello, Jimmy,” she said. “Have you turned yourself into a stable boy?”

He shifted his keen twinkling eyes on her. “I ain't a stable boy,” he said. “I'm just getting acquainted with Excuse Me.”

“Riding her would be a better way, wouldn't it?” she asked.

“I tried it this mornin' early,” said Jimmy. “Mister Dunmore, he gave me leave. But Excuse Me is like gunpowder. She hoisted me so far in the air that I thought I'd never come down. I hung up there like a bubble for a while, and then I come down with a whang. I hit the ground so hard that sounded hollow.” He laughed. “So I've taken up conversation with Excuse Me, till she gets more used to me.”

“How did she get her name?” asked the girl.

“Why, she got it from excusin' herself when any gent tried to ride her. She slammed everybody on the ground, and then she used to try to eat 'em. She had the same kind of manners as a mountain lion, d'you see?”

“But Dunmore rides her.”

“Him? Aw, sure. He fixed her. He can fix anything, if you come down to that.”

“Is he a great friend of yours, Jimmy?”

“Him? I wouldn't go around saying that. But I'm working to make a friend out of him.”

“Well, I don't know that you'll get much out of him, if he gets you to do the grooming of his horses for him.”

“He's gotta get his rest,” said the boy seriously. “That's a mighty pretty ring that you got on.”

She doubled her hand, instinctively, to hide it. “Is he still asleep this beautiful morning?”

“He says that one hour's sleep is worth ten hours of anybody's scenery,” answered Larren.

“I don't see how he can sleep so long, though.”

“He puts on sleep the way that a camel puts on a hump. Then, when he's slept up, he can go a month without hardly closin' an eye.”

“You haven't really known him for a full month, Jimmy.”

“Why,” Jimmy said, “you don't have to read him for a month to tell what he's like. Nobody else could teach me nothin' like Dunmore.”

“About horses?”

“Hosses, and trails, and guns. But knives is his main holt.”

“I've heard he's very clever with them.”

“He could easily draw your picture, heavin' knives into that tree,” said the boy.

She looked around her at the waving of the trees in the wind, at the royal blue of the sky, and one cloud blowing west, like a ship across a sea. “Still in bed?” she asked.