Tài liệu The Remittance Manby A Tale Of A Prodigal, And The Scoring Of The Raja By W. A. Fraser ppt

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The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
3
despoil him through any sense of meanness; they simply felt that
remittance money had been predestined for the good of the greatest
number. Socialistic faith condoned all their acts of piracy.
Encouraged by his first literary effort, George drew such Utopian
pen-pictures of his ranch life that the Dean began to long for a sight
of the paradise which contained his son.
As the ten thousand pounds dwindled into as many pence the Padre
waxed more eloquent; and in the end something akin to a falling of
the heavens occurred.
That night the Padre strode into the “Ranchers‘ Club“ with the
hoarfrost of an approaching domestic storm thick upon him.
“What do you suppose is up, you fellows?“ he gasped.
“Not Whirlwind! Not gone wrong, has she?“ queried one excitedly.
“Bah!“ ejaculated the Padre; “do you think I‘d make a fuss about
that?“
“Let a man guess,“ commanded Major Lance. “Sunflower has gone
back on the Padre.“ Sunflower was a girl—also in the story.
“Don‘t chaff,“ pleaded the Padre, petulantly. “This is serious
business. The Guv‘nor is coming out—by Jove!“
A silence, an unhealthy quiet, settled over the Council.
“He‘ll be here on the twenty-first,“ continued George, despondently.
“Thunder! the race meet is on the twenty-ninth.“
“That‘s just it,“ lamented the Padre.
Whirlwind must start; if she didn‘t, the Winnipeg horse would clean
them out.
The Padre thought ruefully of his glamourous account of the cattle
ranch and the large herd of many cattle. Besides, the Dean was
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
4
deuced inquisitive; that was his business, to investigate and lay bare
the truth.
“I say, you fellows,“ cried the Padre, “I haven‘t got a hoof—not a
split hoof, out at ‘The Deanery.‘ What am I to do?“
The others had been thinking only of Whirlwind; this was a new
problem.
“You surprise me,“ said the Major. “Will the Dean expect to see
cattle on your ranch?“ he queried, with solicitous sarcasm.
“Don‘t be inquisitive!“ interrupted one. “Of course he will. What do
you suppose he is coming here for—to play whist?“
The Padre stroked his mustache and looked grateful.
“Who‘s got any cattle?“ queried the Major. “Here, Lancaster, you
have.“
“Oh, they‘re all mixed up with everybody else‘s on the range.“
“All the better,“ retorted the Major. “Some of you fellows must
round up a tidy bunch of a couple of hundred, and run them out to
‘The Deanery‘ for Ruthven. His Guv‘nor is coming out here to see
something, and we can‘t give the country a black eye.“
“Gad! I should say not,“ chipped in the owner of Pot Luck Ranch.
“He‘d go back and stop all emigration; then what would become of
you chaps with no remittance Johnnies to batten off?“
“By Jove! You fellows are a good lot,“ declared the Padre; “that‘s a
weight off my mind. I‘ve been in no end of a blue funk ever since I
got the pater‘s letter. About Whirlwind——“
“Yes, what about the mare?“ they all cried in simultaneous anxiety.
“Well, the Guv‘nor‘s death on gee-gees.“
“Strange,“ muttered the Major, sarcastically.
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
5
“Don‘t be a flippant goat,“ snapped Ruthven. “He hates race-horses
worse than—than——“
“Than the man in opposition,“ volunteered Pot Luck.
“Exactly—if possible,“ concurred George.
“Cable him you‘re dead, Padre,“ suggested a big giant from whose
broad shoulders hung a silk-worked buckskin coat.
“That wouldn‘t stop him,“ said the Padre; “nothing will stop him—
you don‘t know the Guv‘nor, you fellows. When he gets an idea in
his head you‘ve simply got to sit tight and dodge the idea—that‘s all;
I know him.“
“Coming on the twenty-first,“ mused the Major; “and the races are
on the twenty-ninth—a whole week; doubt if he‘ll stay that long.“
“Hope not,“ ejaculated the son. “It wouldn‘t be so bad if I didn‘t
have to ride the measly beast myself; she doesn‘t gallop well for
anyone else. How the deuce am I to work her, with the Guv‘nor
about?“
“By George!“ exclaimed Pot Luck; “if the Dean stays we must get
Sunflower to help us out; she‘s clever—there‘s no doubt about that—
just confide the whole business to her, and she‘ll keep him out of the
way.“
Then for days the Council in their spare moments prepared for the
advent of Dean Ruthven. The Padre‘s ranch was stocked with cattle;
the shack knocked into some sort of shape; empty bottles thrown
into a little coulee; a permanent staff of two servants put on; three or
four cow-punchers hired to patrol the range; and an evanescent air
of prosperity sprayed over the place.
All these details were arranged by the Council; the Padre was told
off to the training of Whirlwind and the other equine marvels in his
racing string.
The Sunflower, so named because she was just like one of the
slender, bright, happy, delicate-leaved sunflowers of the prairie,
would most certainly have done a great deal more than this for the
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
6
Padre, because—because—well, never mind. Love is a compelling
master. She was of good family, and lived with her brother, Colonel
Sloan, who was Indian Agent on the Blood Reserve. The Colonel was
not of the Council, and had an idea that his sister might do much
better than marry George Ruthven.
As arranged in the calendar, the twenty-first came around in its
proper place, and, according to a telegram received, the Dean would
arrive by train that night, or, really, next morning, at two o‘clock.
The Council passed a resolution, unanimously, that they would act
as a bodyguard to the Padre upon the arrival of his father. The late
hour was no bar to this, for, as a rule, Cargelly went to bed very
early—in the morning.
Divers games of more or less scientific interest helped while away
the time, and the Club steward had received orders to pass the word
in time for them to reach the station before the arrival of Dean
Ruthven‘s train.
George was arrayed in orthodox, more than orthodox, ranch
costume. Beginning at the bottom, his feet were tight cramped in
narrow, high-heeled, Mexican-spurred riding boots; brown leather
chapps, long-fringed up the sides, spread their wide expanse from
boot to hip; a belt, wide as a surcingle, acted as a conjunction
between these and a flannel shirt, wide open on his sun-browned
throat; buckskin coat, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and a general air
of serious business completed the disguise.
All the fellows approved of the get-up. It was the usual antithesis to
Regent Street regalia; all the remittance men went in for it when they
were young in their Western novitiate.
“It will be worth a thousand pounds to you, at least,“ the Major said.
“It will gladden your parent‘s heart,“ declared Pot Luck; “damned if
you don‘t look as funny as Buffalo Bill.“
Ruthven stalked across the hardwood floor of the billiard room
proudly; his narrow-heeled boots jingled their old spurs until they
clanked a victorious pوan. Everybody looked pleased.
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
7
“Touch him for two thousand guineas,“ hazarded Drake, who was in
from his ranch at Stand Off; “hanged if I ever saw a better set-up
cowpuncher than you are, Padre.“
“Wish the Sunflower could see him now,“ muttered Pot Luck; “she‘d
giv him his congè.“
“Train‘s on time, gentlemen,“ said the steward, at the billiard-room
door; “she‘ll be here in five minutes.“
As the Council trooped out the steward told the second steward that
he “reckoned as ‘ow the Goov‘nor of the Territories was coming up
from Regina. There‘ll be Gimmy-‘ell to pay, too, if it‘s ‘im, for ‘e‘s a
corker—an all-night bird.“ He didn‘t know it was a dean coming all
the way from London to see his reformed son.
Ruthven walked up and down the station platform with less
assurance than he had in the club billiard room. “I‘ll be in a bally
hat,“ he confided to the Major, “if the Guv‘nor finds out anything;
and he‘s got eyes like a fluorescent lamp. At home he spoiled one of
the best coups any man ever had, and said he was glad of it, too,
though it broke me.“
The blare eye of the express swayed drunkenly around a curve; giant
wheels crunched from steel rails an unofficial announcement of
Dean Ruthven‘s arrival. It startled the Padre—it was like a
premonition of evil. A heavy-eyed porter struggled from the sleeper,
dark, bulging objects clinging to him at every angle; behind came a
slim, stoop-shouldered man in a heavy ulster.
“That‘s the Guv‘nor,“ murmured Ruthven and, striding forward,
took cheery possession of the Dean. It was an eye-opener to the
ecclesiastical traveller, this reception of much multitude: also what a
whole-souled grip these Westerners of stalwart frame were so
prodigal of. They were introduced en masse—for the Western night
wind was bleak—as George‘s fellow-ranchers.
Of course most of them really were ranchers of sorts; and almost
every one had a brand—also of sorts. However, Dean Ruthven and
his son marched at the head of a goodly company to the hotel. There,
in the warm light, the Council were introduced individually, and
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
8
pressed upon the pleased Dean a whole-souled invitation to spend a
week or more at every ranch.
My! but the Dean was proud of his son. He attributed the inspiration
that had induced him to send George to Cargelly to the very highest
authority. He told the Padre this in a moist voice he was so sure of it
that Ruthven said not a word about Whirlwind or any other
dispensation of his own arranging.
After his father had retired Ruthven joined the Council at their club,
and the plan of campaign was more definitely traced on the map.
“We‘ve omitted something,“ said the Major. “You‘ve got three cow-
punchers, Padre, but you‘ll need an overseer; it quite slipped my
memory. They‘re great on the overseer business in the old land; I
know them. One of you fellows will have to volunteer—it adds
dignity to the profession.“
Drake said he‘d go, for he wasn‘t returning to Stand Off till after the
Meet, anyway.
Next day the Dean, young Ruthven, and the newly evolved overseer
drove out to “The Deanery,“ ten miles south. The Western air, made
tonic by ozone which it had picked up in the Rockies, plain to view
not fifty miles away, tingled the nerves of the London churchman
and sweet-breathed his heart until the short-grassed prairie, flower-
studded and bright sky-topped, full of its great measure of
boundless rest and untortured calm, almost blotted out all other
desirable places from the face of the earth. No wonder his son had
reformed; in such surroundings a man must become a child of
Nature, a simple doer of good deeds—become filled with a desire to
benefit his fellow-men. He would take care that friends of his at
home, two friends in particular, who also had sons of unblest
restlessness, should know of this safe haven for the wayward craft.
Sitting beside his stalwart boy, he of the divers race-horses, the Dean
thought these beautiful thoughts, and made a mental calculation
that, speaking of sordid things, he would spare another five
thousand pounds if his son‘s ranching business seemed to require it.
By a remarkable telepathic coincidence, George the Padre was at that
very moment wondering how much he might induce his father to
advance. He was actually in somewhat of a financial hole; unless he
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
9
managed to win the Ranchers‘ Cup at the forthcoming Meet, the hole
would grow so deep that he would probably come out in China or
some other place.
The prairie road, builded by nothing but the wheels that had
fashioned its course, was as smooth as a boulevard, so they were at
the ranch in less than two hours. The shack was not like anything the
Dean had ever seen in England. Once he had seen a couple of goods
carriages that had suffered in a run-off, and, somehow or other, this
memory came back to him at sight of his son‘s residence. He had
brought a bag of clothes, meaning to stay several days—but he
didn‘t.
Ruthven and the overseer would ride their horses to where the herd
was out on the range, and the Dean would drive the buckboard in
which they had come. And there were cattle right enough—cattle all
over the range, for the Council had done its work with great
executive ability and indiscriminate selection. Probably no rancher
had ever owned such a variety of brands; if the cattle could have
been stood on end, one on top of the other, they would have
constituted a fair obelisk, with a charming diversity of hieroglyphics.
The Council had either forgotten all about this matter of brands, or
trusted to the churchman‘s ignorance of mundane affairs.
The Dean was delighted; it was like handling the gold from a mine
in which he had shares.
George and the overseer rode out to drive up the steers so that the
Dean might sit in his buckboard and review them, much as a general
has soldiers file past.
“There goes the Toreador‘s Delight,“ cried the man from Stand Off
to George, as they galloped, pointing to a big short-horn bull.
“Where in the name of the Chinook did he come from?“
“He belongs to the Gridiron Ranch,“ answered the Padre; “though
personally he thinks he owns the whole prairie himself, for he‘s got a
beastly temper. I hope he doesn‘t take umbrage at the Guv‘nor‘s
presence, and raid the buckboard.“
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
10
“He won‘t bother him so long as he‘s in the buckboard; I shouldn‘t
like to meet him afoot though. Any of them are bad enough when a
man‘s set afoot; but this brute is worse than a Sioux Indian.“
“Gad!“ laughed George; “the fellows have rounded up every hoof
within a hundred miles, I believe. I‘m afraid they‘ve overdone it.
Instead of parting, the Guv‘nor will want a dividend.“
As George and his cowboys hustled up the laggard animals,
Toreador‘s Delight sauntered nonchalantly up to where the Dean sat
in his trap. As Drake had said, if Dean Ruthven had stuck to his ship
the al fresco bull fight that presently matured would not have
materialized; but the Dean was as inquisitive as an old hen, and, like
the bait of an evil fate, on the bull‘s side was a diabolical-looking
brand. It was the huge Gridiron of the Gridiron Ranch. More than
that it was semi-raw, for they had lately acquired Toreador and
thrown their brand on him. “A frightfully cruel thing,“ mused the
Dean; “poor brute!“
Through his humane mind, also meddlesome, flashed divers
schemes for marking cattle, quite superior to this barbarous method.
“Poor old chap!“ he murmured. The bull was eying him with a
plaintive, hurt expression, that fairly went to the old man‘s heart.
Swarms of fiendish flies, tormenting the cattle in a general way,
assailed this tender brand-mark on the bull with fierce rivalry.
“It‘s a shame—poor old chap!“ ejaculated the Dean, putting the reins
down, picking up his umbrella, and descending from his chariot.
Toreador‘s Delight eyed this departure with eager wistfulness; at
least the old man thought so.
“Soh, bossy,“ called the Dean, in a soothing voice, as he walked over
to old Toreador. The bull backed up a little; a man on foot was
something new to him—a man on foot in a long, black coat and a
high white collar was something utterly new. A horseman was part
of the range—he could understand that; but this new something
coming straight for him brought a light in his eye that Dean Ruthven
should have been more familiar with than he was.
“Soh, bossy! don‘t be frightened—I won‘t hurt you,“ he assured the
bull, edging around to drive the flies from his tender side.
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
11
Toreador answered nothing; he was simply waiting for the attack to
begin—he was ready.
There! with a deft side-step and a brush of the umbrella the Dean
had put the wicked torturing flies to flight.
As the brass-ringed end of the umbrella touched the seared bars on
Toreador‘s side he gave a bellow of outraged surprise. That was
where the attack was to be made, eh? With lowered head, in which
fairly blazed two lurid, red-streaked eyes, he whisked about, and
steadied himself for a charge.
Even as the flies had fled, so fled the Dean; he departed with extreme
velocity. Light of frame and nimble of foot, he saved himself from
the first rush, and made for the buckboard. Also did Toreador. It
seemed something substantial to get at, this part of the thing that
had stung him in the side.
As Dean Ruthven skipped behind the wheels the bull crashed into it;
the horse, surmising that there was trouble in the air, diligently
pattered over the plain, leaving one of the hind wheels strung on
Toreador‘s horns. The Dean had thrown all his ecclesiastical dignity
to the winds—even his coat, and was busily heading for the much-
despised shack.
Toreador gathered up the coat with a frantic jab, and it nestled down
over the spokes of the wheel he was carrying.
Fortunately for the humane parson his son had seen from a distance
his attempt on the friendship of the bull. “My God—Drake!“ he
exclaimed, “the Guv‘nor‘s afoot! Old Toreador will pin him sure as a
gun!“
“Of all the stupid tricks—gallop, man!“
With quirt and spur the two lashed their broncos into a frenzy of
speed. The prairie swirled dizzily under the reaching hoofs of their
straining steeds. Would they be in time? The crash of the buckboard
startled a muffled cry from George as he drove cruel, cutting rowels
up his bronco‘s flank. Would he be in time?
The Remittance Man: A Tale of a Prodigal
12
On they galloped, neck and neck, throwing loose their lariats as they
leaned far forward and coaxed their broncos to give the last ounce of
speed that was in their strong limbs. Even the horses knew! How
they galloped! The racing seat of young Ruthven helped his mount,
and he drew away from the man from Stand Off.
When Toreador checked for an instant at the black coat, the
horsemen were not a hundred yards away. The Dean was fleeing for
his life. Now behind him thundered the maddened bull; fifty yards!
thirty! twenty! What an interminable age it took to cut down the
brute‘s lead.
Now Ruthven‘s bronco had his nose on Toreador‘s quarter,
galloping as though he knew a life was at stake. His rider raised his
right arm and swung the lasso. Would it go true? Would it hold? The
bull‘s horns were low as he galloped—would the rope miss? If it did,
by a hair‘s breadth, the Dean, who was almost under the huge nose,
would surely be killed.
“Good boy!“ shrieked Drake, as the lariat sang in its tense strength
and the noose slipped tight and strong over Toreador‘s horns.
“Swish!“ went the other rope; and the two broncos, thrown on their
haunches, fairly skidded over the smooth grass plain, carried by the
impetuous rush of the huge bull.
But Toreador was stopped; and the Dean, with blanched face,
tumbled in a heap, twenty feet off.
“You‘re not hurt, Guv‘nor?“ called the son, as he and Drake, sitting
well back in their saddles, held the snorting Toreador tight-lashed in
subjection.
“No, thank Providence!—and you also, boy; just shaken up a bit—
that‘s all.“
“Well, you‘d better walk on to the shack, if you can manage it, and
we‘ll give this brute a run that‘ll cure him for a day or two.“
It was most decidedly a close shave; it also most effectually cured the
Dean of any lurking desire to spend a few days in the seclusion of a
quiet ranch.