Sun and Sand Read online

  Barney listened attentively to this tale. But in the end, he seemed to feel no conviction about what he had heard.

  He merely said to the girl: “Well, Sue, should I go or stay?”

  She seemed to be more irritated than ever, by this question, and she exclaimed: “Barney, how can I tell? Do you think that you’re strong enough to handle several hundred wild people? I’ve heard about the rustlers and the squatters up there in the mountains. Everybody has. And what could you do with them, being only one man?”

  “I don’t know,” said Barney. “Maybe I could do nothing, and maybe, on the other hand, I could manage to help. It seems too bad, Sue, that honest people can’t make their way against thieves. Don’t you think that it’s too bad?”

  “Yes,” the girl said faintly, staring at him. “I suppose that it is too bad. Are you going to try to reform the whole world, Barney?”

  “Oh, no,” said Barney naïvely. “I wouldn’t try to do any such important thing. I only want to do what’s right, when I’m told to do it and when it seems clear. If Mister Parmelee is in trouble . . . why shouldn’t I go to work for him? And you know, Sue, that I have to be making a little money before we can be married.”

  Mrs. Swain ducked her head and frowned in order to cover her smile. But Sue Jones saw the smile, nevertheless.

  “It’s true,” she said. “And then . . . there’s another thing. You have to be your own manager, Barney. You have to be able to make your own decisions before you can take care of a family, I suppose?”

  “Do I?” said Barney, opened-eyed. “I didn’t know that. I thought that you would always make all the decisions. I thought that wives always did, in happy homes.”

  Mrs. Swain laughed outright at this, and Sue grew pinker than ever.

  “And what do the husbands do, Mister Dwyer?” asked the doctor’s wife. “What do you understand the husbands do?”

  “Why,” said Barney simply, “I suppose that the husbands work very hard and bring home their money every Saturday.”

  The two women looked at one another and both laughed this time.

  “But don’t go to the Parmelee place,” said Mrs. Swain.

  He looked at the girl. “Shall I not, Sue?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes. Go,” said Susan Jones. “Be your own master. Go your own way.”

  “But you’re not angry, Sue?” he asked her, terribly concerned.

  “No,” said the girl.

  “And if I go, you’ll follow me when you’re well, Sue, on the way that I take?”

  “Yes,” she said, blushing hotly once more.

  He leaned over her. “Will you kiss me good-bye, Sue?” he said.

  She pursed her lips, silently, and so he touched them, stood up, bade Mrs. Swain good-bye, and went out to the red mare that waited at the gate. He swung into the saddle, waved his hat in a happy farewell, and was gone.

  The sound of the hoofbeats still swung back to them when the doctor’s wife murmured: “Why are you ashamed, Sue? Tell me that.”

  The girl closed her eyes tightly and made a gesture with the arm that was not bandaged. “Because,” she exclaimed, “sometimes I think that the gossips are right, and that he has only half of his wits about him . . . and then at other times I feel that he’s just a great, simple-hearted hero, without malice or meanness or sharpness.”

  Mrs. Swain narrowed her eyes a little and stopped smiling. “I understand,” she said. “But I’ll tell you something. If he’s a fool, he must be a very great one, because he’s done some very great things.”

  The girl nodded and sighed. “And I’ve seen some of them,” she confessed. “I’ve seen him always fearless, always gentle, always true. And yet, Missus Swain . . . sometimes I wish . . . sometimes I wish that he were a little less good, and a little more clever.”

  “Good men are always a little simple,” said Mrs. Swain. “And especially good husbands.”

  She said this with a great deal of emphasis, and the two women found something between them that made them smile silently at one another.

  VI

  But if Barney Dwyer showed no appreciation of the shadow that had crossed the mind of the girl, he felt it all the more keenly. He did not know why she was unhappy, but was sure that it was his fault. He was sure that she had been more than a little ashamed of him. And as he rode the red mare up through the hills toward the Parmelee Ranch, he sighed more than once. He looked up with a frown of resolution, toward the sky, telling himself that he must gather his strength again, and more mightily than ever, if he were to make Sue Jones really his.

  He was used to pain. He was used to contempt. The sudden air of adulation that surrounded him made him less happy than uneasy. He was not accustomed to such an atmosphere. His very strength had made him more often cursed than blessed for the pitchforks and the spades that he broke, until, finally, he had matched that strength against McGregor and that band of cut-throats in the mountains. His reward had been fame and popularity. His greatest reward of all had been the promise of the girl to marry him. But as he called up her picture and dwelt again on the memory of that pretty, brown face, so brown that the eyes seemed doubly blue in it, he told himself over and over that she was much too good for him. He would have to labor with all his might to hold her, after she had been won.

  And, somehow, if he could put out his hands on the problem that troubled Parmelee, if he could make a safe and respected home for them even among the dangers of those mountains, would not Sue regain her respect and her affection for him?

  That was the reason Barney sighed as he journeyed along. And yet he was purely happy, in a sense. He was happy, because he was alone with the red bay mare, and though she had no words, yet she supplied him with a sort of conversation that he could understand. The lifting of her head, the pricking of her ears, and the very way she paused on a hilltop to look down into the hollow beneath, as though she were prepared for anything in the world, gave a thrill to the heart of Barney Dwyer.

  As they came to the steeper inclines, he dismounted as usual and went on foot, and he was still on foot when he came with the evening of the day to the pass, and in the darkness, he reached the ranch house. It was merely a long, low shed, with a barn behind it. He pushed open the door to inquire at the house: “Is this the Parmelee place?” And there he saw a big table with six men seated at it, and one of the six was Robert Parmelee.

  The rancher did not rise. He merely said: “Put your horse up, and come in for supper.”

  So Barney put up the horse. He found the feed box, gave the mare a feed of crushed barley, and came back to the house. The pump stood outside the building, with several washbasins of graniteware leaning against the base of it. He pumped one of those basins full, found a wedge of yellow laundry soap, and scrubbed himself thoroughly.

  When he had dried his face and hands, he stood for a moment to breathe more deeply of the purity of the thin mountain air, of which lungs can drink forever and ever and never reach satiety. Then he looked upward at the black outlines of the summits and, finally, went into the house.

  There was one lamp with a round burner to give light, and it showed him a rough, tattered set of ranch hands. They had finished eating. They sat about, smoking Bull Durham tobacco wrapped in filmy tissues of wheat-straw paper. Silently they sat, staring at the remnants of soggy, cold potatoes boiled in their wrappers that remained in the dish in the center of the table and the few scraps of beefsteak that remained on a platter in the midst of a sea of white, congealed grease.

  The potato dish and the platter of meat were shoved toward him. A Negro cook came in with a plate and knife and fork and spoon and tin cup, which were rattled down in front of him, and so Barney fell to work.

  He felt hard, keen eyes fastened upon him with indifference. Only Bob Parmelee seemed to be paying no attention, until after a moment, the men began to push back their chairs.

  Then Parmelee said: “Wait a minute, boys. This is your new straw boss. This is the new foreman.”

/>   “More new than foreman, he looks to me,” said one of the men insolently, and stalked out of the room. The others laughed. The braying noise of their laughter grated upon the ears of Barney, and he heard the door slam behind them as they issued from the dining room into the darkness.

  “Tough, eh?” said Parmelee.

  Barney nodded, frowning.

  “You’ll have to lick ’em into shape,” said Parmelee. “I told ’em that you were the new boss. I didn’t tell them the name of the boss. That might make an impression, but impressions don’t last long up here, the weather’s too changeable. A lot too changeable. A man has to make a new reputation up here, every day of his life. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Barney said miserably.

  “These fellows are a tough lot. Nobody but tough hombres would stay for even a day up here on my ranch. There are too many bullets in the air to suit most. These fellows have nerve, and they know their business. But they don’t see any reason for doing their work well when there’s nothing to show for it. The cows they take care of are off under their noses, and they can’t do anything about it.”

  Barney nodded. His heart was growing smaller and colder.

  “When the morning comes,” said Parmelee, “you’ve got to start in. You’ve got to show the crowd that you’re the boss. After you’ve shown them that, you’ve got to start to work to get back some of the stolen cattle. A good fifty two-year-old dogies were run off today. We happen to know that, because the fifty were all pooled in a bit of good pasture down in the flat by the creek, and Brick counted ’em this morning. This evening, they’re gone.”

  “Couldn’t they be tracked?” asked Barney.

  “They were tracked, all right. They were tracked right onto the Washburn place. Old Washburn and his boys have those dogies, now, as sure as I’m alive. I know it. The boys know it. But what can we do about it?”

  “Do?” Barney said, amazed. “Why, you could go and ask for them, I should think.”

  Parmelee’s chair screeched as he jumped to his feet. “Ask for them?” he shouted. “You think that asking would get them back?”

  And with that, without even saying good night, he stalked from the room.

  Barney knew, somehow, that his employer would not return to bid him good night or to point out the bunks. He sat gloomily over his coffee until it was cold. Then, leaving it half drunk, he got up from the table and went out to the barn. There he leaned on the manger and patted the shoulder of the red mare for a time. She could know, beyond doubt, if horses have memory, of far worse times than these, through which they nevertheless had lived together.

  He felt comforted and went back to the house. Half of it was evidently given up to the kitchen and the dining room, and the other half must be for the bunks, so he pushed open the door at the end of the house and was promptly covered with a deluge of cold water. The bucket in which it had been balanced on top of the half-closed door crashed right over his head and fitted down on his shoulders like a man’s hat on the head of a child.

  And six men sat up in their bunks to shout with laughter and joy at the spectacle he presented in the light of the single lantern. Someone turned up the light so that he could be seen the better.

  That bawling laughter, those brutal faces, those bestial, gleaming eyes, were all familiar to him. He had always been the butt of all the practical jokes.

  So he said nothing, uttered not a word of complaint, but, taking the bucket from his head and shoulders, he strove to smile—a very faint appreciation of whatever humor might be concealed in this jest.

  And this smiling brought an increase, only, in the noise. He saw Bob Parmelee laughing even more loudly than the rest, and this amazed him. In Parmelee, at least, he felt that he should have been able to find a friend.

  He put his bedroll aside, stripped off his clothes, wrung them out dry, and came back naked to find a bunk.

  “Look at Fatty,” said an obscure voice.

  For the body of Barney Dwyer was as sleek as the body of a seal, and how were these observers to know that it was not fat but fine muscle that was packed away under the pink of his skin?

  “That fat’ll burn up, like a lamp burns up oil,” said another.

  And again came the ominous chuckle. “Straw boss, straw hell,” said another.

  This brought noisier mirth, again.

  There were double-deck bunks around the length and width of the room. Half of these were occupied already. The other lower bunks were heaped with odds and ends of possessions of the various hands.

  Barney approached one bunk on which was heaped merely a number of old magazines and newspapers, and he started to remove this litter to make place for his roll. But promptly a red-headed fellow sat up, across the room, and bawled out: “Leave them things be! Some of them magazines is mine! Whatcha mean, mixin’ everything up? Who are you, anyway?”

  Barney said nothing. He replaced what he had disturbed.

  “Don’t be so doggone hard on the poor kid, Red,” advised someone.

  “Kid be damned. He’s the boss, ain’t he?” asked Red.

  “Boss my foot,” said another.

  And again they laughed loudly.

  They laughed still more, in an ecstasy of derision, as they saw Barney patiently making down his bedding roll on an upper bunk. But he was merely saying to himself that it was an old, old story. As for many years before, again he would become the butt and the laughingstock of the cowpunchers. Why had Parmelee dreamed that he, Barney Dwyer, could handle these fellows?

  His wretchedness of mind, his sinking of the heart, kept him awake for a long time. He seemed, as in the old days, once more to be walled away from his fellow men.

  At last he slept, and, wakening in the morning, he heard the cook already calling, through the half-light of the dawn: “Come and get it! Come and get it!”

  He tumbled out with the rest and went to wash, but as he began to pump a washbasin full, outside the kitchen door, the loud, ranting voice of Red shouted: “Leave that washbasin alone! That’s my washbasin!”

  Obediently Barney put it down.

  He had to wait until the others had finished their ablutions before he could wash in turn. And by the time he was ready for it, the long, roller towel of coarse cotton cloth was soggy with moisture and dark with grime.

  When he came into the dining room, someone sang out: “Stand up, boys. Here comes the boss!”

  And a roar of laughter greeted this bright sally.

  He sat down.

  “Ain’t that your chair, Red?” asked a voice.

  They roared again, and Red most of all. He was a powerful fellow in his early twenties, with a flaring shock of uncontrollable red hair, freckles across his nose, a great, blunt jaw, and pale, berserker eyes that continually craved trouble.

  That miserable meal ended, finally, and Barney stood up among the last. There was only Parmelee in the room, as he turned toward the door.

  “One minute,” said Parmelee. “I dunno what you have up your sleeve, Dwyer. I can’t imagine what. But I know that you’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Barney said sadly.

  “Break one of them in two. That’s the thing to do,” said Parmelee.

  “I don’t like fighting,” said Barney truthfully and gently.

  “You . . . don’t like . . . fighting?” echoed Parmelee, raging. “And what the devil did I bring you up here for? A Sunday school teacher? A hundred and fifty dollars a month for teaching the boys hymns, perhaps? You get on the job and whip this gang into shape before night, or you’re fired, Dwyer, and be damned to you!”

  VII

  Wretchedly Barney dragged himself out to the barn, for the body is heavy when the spirit is weak. He saddled and bridled the mare and took her out to the watering trough. He saw the keen eyes of the others fastened upon him.

  “Where’d you steal that horse, boy?” asked Red. “Or did your pa give her to you? That horse is meant for a man.”


  Barney swallowed the insult with a gulp. “I only wanted to ask you men,” said Barney, “if one of you would show me the way to the Washburn place. Will you?”

  “If one of us would show you the way to the Washburn place,” mimicked Red. “what would you do when you got there? Get a licking?”

  “I want to ask them to drive back the cattle they took away yesterday,” said Barney.

  They stood at the heads of their horses, staring, thunderstruck. Then, led by Red, they burst into whooping peals of mirth.

  “He’s gonna go and ask the Washburns for them dogies. He’s a half-wit!” shouted Red.

  The stern, quick voice of Parmelee said: “Phil, show him the way to the Washburns. And stay close enough to see whether he has the nerve to ride up to the house.”

  That was how Barney found himself on the way through the ragged hills of the pass, until before him, he saw a sprawling shack like that of Parmelee, only much smaller. It was a scant two miles from the ranch, tucked back in a little valley where a scrap of plowland stood black beside a creek and some sheep grazed behind a log fence.

  At a break in the trees, Phil said: “All right . . . boss. There’s the Washburn house. And them are the Washburns, settin’ around the table outside of the house. Lemme see you go up and brace ’em. If they don’t kick you off your horse and clean over the divide, I’ll eat my hat, Fatty.”

  Barney rode on. There were four men seated around what appeared to be a table with a rounded, irregular top at a distance, but coming nearer, he saw that it was simply a great boulder, with jags and knobs projecting from the side, and the top spreading out like the head of a mushroom. Around that table, eating their breakfast, appeared the Washburns. The father was gray-headed and gray-bearded. Otherwise, they were hard to tell one from the other, for all were bearded, all were mustached, all were huge fellows in dirt-blackened, patched, flannel shirts. A slatternly woman went back and forth through the doorway of the house, serving her menfolk.