Raymond Evelyn
Jessica Trent: Her Life on a Ranch

Mrs. Trent was paying but slight attention to his words. Her mind was already disturbed by many inexplicable things and would revert to Antonio’s insinuations which, without Jessica’s knowledge, she had also overheard. After a moment, recalled by high voices in the kitchen, she rallied, and apologizing for so doing, hastily left the dining-porch.

There were several gleaming pots and pans upon the oil cooking-stove and behind these stood Wun Lung, tenaciously grasping a meat dish and glaring unutterable things out of his beady eyes upon the excited woman who faced him, demanding:

“Give me that platter, monkey-face! Suppose I’ll put your dirty victuals into my clean mouth or anybody else’s? I’ve tasted your stuff before. A burnt bairn dreads the fire. Hand it over. I’ll see if it’s fit. There! That rice is boiling over.”

The dish of savory lamb stew had been most daintily and carefully prepared after his mistress’ own minute directions, but Wun Lung now slammed it upon the table with much violence and seized the pipkin of rice from the stove. With undue emphasis he placed this beside the stew and, advancing toward Mrs. Trent, made several profound salaams.

“Lat m’loman come–me glo. Good-by.”

And for many a day thereafter Wun Lung served no more in that, his own beloved kitchen.

Not a whit disturbed was Aunt Sally. Revolution had become as the breath in her nostrils. Wherever she went old orders were reversed and all things became new. At a little town, with an unpronounceable Spanish name, which it suited her to call “Boston,” she had her home-room in the house of a long-suffering woman cousin, whose ill-health afforded her infinite employment, therefore enjoyment. The invalid endured these ministrations because Aunt Sally also supported her, as well as ruled her; but she appreciated the rest which followed whenever the itching of Mrs. Benton’s feet called their owner elsewhere. Between “Boston” and Sobrante the patriotic wagon vibrated, like a long-distance pendulum, and departing from either point carried everything belonging to its proprietor within it. “Boston” having become wearisome it was now Sobrante’s turn.

“I haven’t been so happy since I first trod shoe leather. Now, honey, you’ll have good, clean fixings, with no opium nor rat tails in ’em,” she gleefully announced, returning to the table.

“Aunt Sally, hush! What an opinion you’ll give our guest of my housekeeping!” laughed Mrs. Trent.

“Pooh, child! Anybody that looks at you’ll know you hate dirt. Now, eat, all. Only–you, Mr. Hale, I must insist you take a dose of this saffron tea. I steeped it while I was having that set-to with the Chinaman, for I thank my stars I can always do two things at once. And if I know the signs–Gabriella Trent, if that man hasn’t got the janders or shingles, or malary fever, don’t you tell me a thing!”

“I certainly shall not tell you any such thing as that, dear soul. The trouble is, Mr. Hale, Aunt Sally is never so happy as when she has a sick person to nurse. If nobody is ill she does her utmost to make somebody so, with her uncalled for doses and stews. But–once be ill! Ah! dear Aunt Sally, I know how tender is your touch and how faithful your watch. God bless you!”

Not often was the gentle mistress moved to such emotion, and Mrs. Benton now put on her spectacles and regarded her hostess over them with a critical air.

“Land, honey! You must be coming down with something yourself! I never heard that janders was catching, but, heart of grace, it might be! Yes, in-deedy, it might be!”

The delight of her tone was equaled only by the sparkle of her eye. To have come to Sobrante, guided merely by the itching of a foot and to find two patients ready to hand, what mortal could ask more?

Possibly, with the intention of helping on their timely disorders, she heaped her neighbors’ plates with the savory dinner, which was wholly due to Wun Lung’s skill, and not, as she fancied, to her brief supervision.

When the meal was over, Aunt Sally retreated to the kitchen, after forcing Mrs. Trent to lie down and rest, “whether or no;” and to aid the lady’s slumbers, there presently arose from without the lusty cries of two small lads who had returned from some prank, late as usual, and as usual, desperately hungry.

“I will have my dinner, so there, you old Aunt Sally! I will go tell my mother–I won’t be spanked–I won’t I–I–I–”

“Wonbepanked!” screamed another childish treble.

“Yes, you will, the brace of you. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That’s what Gabriella does, all the time, soft-hearted dear that she is. A good, sound spanking once in six months is all that keeps you in a state of salvation. If it wasn’t for me I don’t know what in reason you little tackers would grow up to be. One thing I do know, though, and so do you, and that is–that while your old Aunt Sally is at Sobrante ranch you’ll never be late to your victuals again.”

In this events proved that the speaker was right, as, indeed, she had often been before on similar occasions.

Knowing that this little family jar would result in no serious harm to her idolized son, Mrs. Trent lay still and thought, but did not sleep. How could she? What a subtle thing is suggestion!

Poor, overburdened Gabriella Trent had known and trusted old Epbraim Marsh for many years; yet the words of Antonio, and now of this stranger within her gates, lingered in her memory and would not then leave.

Up in his pleasant guest chamber Mr. Hale felt within himself the increasing vigor of returning health, tempered for the moment, it may be, by a little indiscretion of diet; yet the assertion of that noisy old woman below stairs, that he was, despite all, on the verge of some serious illness, so worked upon his still weakened nerves that he could neither sleep nor forget them.

The result in both cases was unfortunate.

That evening Mrs. Trent forbade her daughter the rifle practice for which, promply on his return, Ephraim had made special preparation. Her refusal hurt the old fellow, already sensitive from a previous injury, and he reflected, bitterly, as he once more sought his monkish chamber:

“After all, whoever dismissed me was right. I’m too old for use. I’d better never have come back.”

As for Mr. Hale, brooding and an unwise exposure to the night air on the previous evening, did bring on a slight fever. Worriment increased this and, like many men, he was impatient under suffering; so that when his bell rang sharply, demanding attention, he was in a fair way to require all that Aunt Sally or any other had to give.

Meanwhile, down at the adobe quarters, other suspicions were rife.

“What is that man doing here, any way? He don’t tell his business, and he’s asked a power of questions. He’s wormed out of one and another of us all there is to learn about this ranch, and he hasn’t let on a single thing about himself, except that he’s a lawyer from New York. New York’s a big village and all lawyers can lie. I’m bound to sound that chap before I’m many hours older,” said Joe Dean, bringing his hands down heavily upon the table.

“I know a trick worth two of that. Set mother on him!” cried John Benton, gayly. “She’ll ask more questions to the square inch than any other human being I ever met, and she’ll have all his business, family history, and present undertakings out of him before he can say Jack Robinson. Lucky for us she got that itching foot just when she did.”

So it was agreed; and thus, primed to the fullest investigation, Aunt Sally and her curiosity established themselves within their victim’s sickroom. When they emerged from it, at daybreak, the one had been fully satisfied–with horror; and the ruddy face of the other had grown white and heartbroken as no single night of watching should have left it.

CHAPTER XI
THE GUEST DEPARTS

“Well, mother! What are you doing, waking me out of my beauty sleep, this way?”

“Don’t speak to me, John Benton. This is no time for fooling. Not till I’ve got my breath, knocked out of me by the plumb wickedness of this world. That I should have lived to hear such things and not died in my tracks!”

Upon leaving Mr. Hale’s sickroom, Aunt Sally had traveled as fast as her nimble feet could carry her to her son’s quarters, in the old mission, and had burst in upon his slumbers, with a mighty groan.

“What’s up?”

“You ought to be, for one thing. There, lie still. I can talk and you can listen–and you’ll need support ’fore I’m through. That man! Oh! that man!”

“Yes’m. Which one?”

“Shut up. You need spankin’ as bad as ever you did. But–John, John! The vilest wretch that ever trod shoe leather! The best, the generousest, the noblest–and not here to say a word for his poor self.”

“Mother, your remarks seem a little mixed. If you’ll face the other way I’ll have on my clothes in a jiffy. Can’t ’pear to sense things so well, lying a-bed after daylight.”

Mrs. Benton stepped outside the house and paced the beaten path with a tread powerful enough to crush all her enemies, had they been in her way. Swiftly, heavily, back and forth, with clinched hands and grim lips, the woman was rather working her indignation to a higher point than allaying it, and as the carpenter limped from his quarters he saw this, and thought:

“She meant it. No time for fooling when she’s stirred up that way. What in the name of reason can ail her?”

After a plunge of his head in the water of the general washing-trough, through which a fresh stream was continually piped, and a drying on the roller towel suspended near it, his wits were clearer. Finishing his toilet by means of his pocket-comb, he considered himself ready for her story and for anything that it might entail.

“Well, mother?”

Aunt Sally paused and glared at him in such a vicious manner that he felt as if he were again that little boy of hers who needed the usual corporal punishment.

“Yes, but mother–what have I done?”

“Done? Nothing! Not a man jack of you! Let that viper warm himself at her very fireside, least to say, south porch, and not show him up for what he was. Land! The men! I never saw one yet was worth shucks, savin’ hers and mine. If you was half the fellow your father was, John Benton, or that noble Cass’us was–oh! if ever I wanted to be a man in my life I want to be this minute!”

The carpenter darted into his chamber and reappeared with a vial and spoon.

“To please me, mother, ’fore you say any more, just take a spoonful of this dandelion relish. Made it myself, you know, and warrant no alcohol in it!”

The jester was rewarded by a boxed ear, but he had effectually arrested his parent’s wandering thoughts, and she burst forth with her news:

“That viper-lawyer-man has come to this Sobrante to accuse Cass’us Trent of stealing! lyin! cheating! Cass’us, your best friend and mine. Says there’s a power of money missing, that was all consigned to him, to purchase that Paraiso d’Oro for a community and never reported on!”

“What? W-h-a-t!”

John had laid his hand upon her shoulder like a vise, and she began to whimper.

“Needn’t pinch me, child. ’Twasn’t I said it. You told me to find out what he wanted here and I have. He pretends he lost his way, got off the road he was showed to take and met Lady Jess in the canyon. Says his own horse is up to Pedro’s sheep pasture. Says–”

“And you let him? Had him right there in your power and didn’t knock his old teeth down his lying throat?”

As John’s wrath increased his mother’s ebbed. She had passed her indignation on to another, as it were, and felt the relief of this confidence.

“No, I didn’t. I left that for you to do. They was false ones any way and wouldn’t have hurt none. Hold on! Where you going, son?”

For the carpenter had started forward, as if intent upon instant and terrible vengeance. Neither of them noticed that Jessica had followed Aunt Sally hither till a girl’s voice implored:

“Don’t! That would let my mother know and it would kill her!”

“Captain! You here? You understand?”

“Yes–yes. They waked me, talking, and I crept to the upper hall to stop them, so they should not disturb my poor, tired dear. Oh! I heard! I heard–every–single–dreadful word!”

“Well, I’m going to fix him for it.”

“John, wait–wait. I must think. My precious mother–”

Jessica rarely wept. Now she flung herself into Aunt Sally’s arms and sobbed in a way that set the carpenter raging afresh. One after another the “boys” came out from the closed or open doors along the row. Some because it was their usual hour for rising, others to learn the cause of these early voices. But one glimpse of Lady Jess in trouble grouped every ranchman about her and set each to hurling a torrent of questions upon that good woman, who held her, without pause for any answer.

But John held up his hand and told the story. It belonged to them all, as Jessica did, and the honor of Sobrante.

They heard it with little comment, save groans and occasional mutterings, punctuated by fresh inquiries of Mrs. Benton. Considerable mystery had been thrown about her cross-examination of her temporary patient, and after all it had proved the simplest matter in the world. Concerning his own personal affairs he was provokingly silent, but he was as ready to talk about his business in that region as she was to have him when, after a roundabout preparation, she brought him to it.

“I am in honor pledged to do my best for my employers in the East, and unwilling to remain here under false colors, so to speak, any longer. Who is the most responsible person here, excepting Mrs. Trent?” had been his words.

“I am,” promptly replied Aunt Sally.

“Then you shall hear my story,” and he told it.

The effect of it was to loose her tongue to its utmost. One may guess the listener heard himself portrayed in colors he failed to recognize and that he realized he had made a mistake in the selection of a confidante. However, his purpose had been to do away with all doubt concerning himself, and to do this with as little distress to his hostess as possible. For that reason he had believed a woman would be his best aid, but it proved that almost any ranchman on the place would have been safer than she.

“Well, I ought to have known that a female who talks so much must say something amiss, and I can’t blame her for her indignation. In her stead I might have behaved worse; and the thing now is to get over this little weakness and go away about the miserable business, at once,” he reflected. Then he watched her hurry out of his room and surmised whither she would turn her steps. Therefore, he was not surprised when, somewhat later, he also left the cottage to find himself confronted by great Samson, quietly, but significantly, awaiting the stranger’s appearance. For the great fellow had naturally been appointed by his mates to “settle that critter’s hash and settle it sudden.”

“Good-morning, Samson.”

Silence.

“It seems so wonderful to me to wake and find this changeless sunshine, day after day, as if no such things as storms could ever exist,” said the lawyer, pleasantly.

Samson’s grimness relaxed to a slight degree. “Some kind of storms blow in fair weather. Likely you’ll meet up with one sooner’n you expect. Step this way, will you?”

The sailor’s expression was so formidable that, for a moment, all the wild tales the lawyer had ever read of western desperadoes returned to test his already weakened nerves. But he was no coward, and knew that though in a most uncomfortable position, it was by no means a guilty one.

“Certainly.”

Samson led the way, if walking closely beside the guest, as a constable walks beside his prisoner, may be termed leading. Nor once did he turn his angry gaze from the gentleman’s face, and the riding-crop in his hand swung to and fro, as if longing to test itself against some enemy’s body. The walk ended in the ranchmen’s messroom, where Wun Lung, released from the cottage kitchen, had already been impressed into service, and was deftly preparing breakfast. Aunt Sally had disappeared, but Jessica was there, perched on a corner of the dresser, by which stood “Forty-niner,” with his arm about her. All the other workmen whom Mr. Hale had seen were also present and an air of silent fury pervaded the whole assemblage.

The stranger’s glance passed swiftly from one face to another and saw no kindness on any. Even the little captain’s eyes were bent downward and her lovely face wore a sorrow it made his own heart ache to see.

Joe Dean lounged forward.

“Stranger, have you broke your fast?”

“No.”

Another silence, during which the blacksmith poured a cup of inky coffee from the great pot, hacked off a piece of bread from a dusky loaf, and shoved them toward their unwelcome guest across the table by which he had sat down.

“Eat, and be quick about it.”

The color rose in the Easterner’s cheek, but he made no motion to obey, and after a brief waiting, seeing this, Joe threw the coffee out of the window and tossed the bread to the dogs.

“There’s a horse outside. It’s for you. The poorest we’ve got, because once you’ve bestrode him no decent man’ll ever mount him again. He’ll answer, though, to carry you beyond this valley, and Samson’ll go with you to see you leave it for good. Then he’ll turn the beast loose and may the Lord have mercy on your dirty soul. Get!”

Mr. Hale did not stir. His own eye gathered fire and the pink in his face grew scarlet, but his voice was calm as he inquired:

“Am I still at Sobrante, the home of gentlefolks? By whose orders, please, this present dramatic scene?”

“Yes; this is Sobrante. The home of gentlefolks–you spoke the truth for once. The home of Cassius Trent, the truest man, the noblest heart, the whitest gentleman the good Lord ever made. The home of a man! and not a free hotel for whelps! Ugh! If I had promised the captain–Lady Jess, let me off that word! I must at him, I must–I will!”

Joe’s attitude was full of menace, but Mr. Hale neither moved nor took his own cool gaze from his enemy’s face. Though Jessica had taken swift alarm and leaped down to place herself beside the smith and clasp his hand with her own.

“No, no. You promised, and I’m your captain. Soldiers obey their captains and you chose me yourself. You are not to hurt him nor abuse him, though, I, too”–here she wheeled about and faced her guest, crying: “hate you, hate you! Oh! that’s wicked. That’s rude. But, sir, how dared you say my father–the best man ever lived–kept–took–it isn’t true, it isn’t!”

The lawyer rose, somewhat unsteadily. The sight of the daughter’s grief disturbed his calmness more than the affronts offered him by her bearded henchmen. It was to her that he addressed the question:

“Am I permitted to say a word in my own behalf, Captain Jessica?”

A growl ran around the room, but she held up her small hand, protestingly.

“Yes. That’s fair. My father always taught me to be fair. I’m sorry I was–I wasn’t polite–”

“No, you aren’t,” shouted Samson. “Don’t you dare be sorry for anything but the kindness you’ve showed that skunk!”

“Samson, it was you made me captain!”

“All right. I give in. Be as fair as you like, I can’t help it.”

“Tell us all there is to tell. As you told Aunt Sally.”

“Thank you, captain. I’ll be brief. I came to California, representing a company, a syndicate, which had advanced large sums of money to purchase, improve, and stock a vast tract of land called Paraiso d’Oro. Though for a time due receipts and reports had been returned to the syndicate for several months these had entirely ceased. Unfortunately, the company had implicit faith in their consignee, and Paraiso d’Oro was but one of their many enterprises. I had been their legal adviser in other matters, and when my health failed from overwork, they suggested that I should come here and investigate their affairs, while I could recuperate at the same time.

“I set out on horseback from Los Angeles, my temporary headquarters, without a guide and with many erroneous notions concerning both the State and its people. You see, though I’d lived at the center of our national civilization–”

“You’re forgettin’ Californy!” cried somebody.

“I’d led the narrow life of a man absorbed in one sort of business. I traveled out of my way, and lost it. Then I met your captain in the canyon and she courteously offered me the hospitality of Sobrante. Until I reached this spot I had no idea that it was part and parcel, so to speak, of that Paraiso I’d come to reclaim. Gradually this fact became clear to me and from that moment I have been anxious to get away from a hospitality I have no moral right to enjoy.”

“Spoke the truth for once, liar!” grumbled Cromarty.

“You cannot feel it more than I, sir, nor more profoundly regret that it is my misfortune to have undertaken a business which has now become obnoxious to me. But a lawyer must look at facts. One Cassius Trent–”

“Take care!”

“Be quiet, Marty! Go on, Mr. Hale,” ordered the little captain.

“Cassius Trent was the man whose hitherto probity and enthusiasm had enlisted the interest of his New York friends. He represented that his projected community would not only be an excellent investment for their money, but a benefaction to humanity. They believed him and–well, their money is gone, their community has not even a beginning, and the man is dead. He seems to have been a person–”

“A white gentleman, sir!”

“Who could obtain a strong hold upon the affections and confidence of all who knew him. I admire the qualities which gained your devotion and I admire your loyalty to him. I am charmed with the home he created in this wilderness–for himself– and I have the profoundest respect for his afflicted family. I wish I had not undertaken this trust. But I have so undertaken, I am sworn to my clients’ interests, and I must further them to my utmost ability. If the missing money can be recovered I shall recover it, painful as my duty may be. And–that is all. Good-by, little captain. It is my sincere wish that I may find some explanation of this mystery, other than circumstantial evidence seems to point. If I so find I shall return and tell you. If not–good-by. Make my respectful regards to your mother, and thank you for my entertainment.”

He turned and walked to the doorway, nobody interfering; but there he paused and asked:

“That horse you mentioned? Can I purchase him of you? If so I need not trouble Samson for his escort, but will bid you, gentlemen, good-morning.”

A significant look ran around the circle of intent and lowering faces. The lawyer’s succinct explanation of affairs had impressed them, but it had not altered one fact which most mattered to those hardy countrymen.

A dead man, their idolized master and friend, had been accused of black dishonesty, and they had passed their own promise to their girlish captain not to injure the accuser.

But they had not promised he should go scot-free. To some men shame was worse than a bullet wound. It would have been so to them, and they did the stranger thus much honor that they ascribed him equal manliness.

As he stepped across the threshold Mr. Hale found both Samson and John Benton close beside him, at right hand and left; and when he was about to mount the superannuated beast, which a grinning stable lad held for him, he was pinioned and quietly hoisted into the saddle. Instantly, a brace of straps secured him and Samson’s crop cut viciously at the animal’s neck. Then the sailor sprang into his own saddle and, amid the insulting shouts and jeers of the assembled ranchmen, the unfortunate Easterner rode out of the mission courtyard–face backward.