Chapter V: The Casuist

The Rock House of the Scarboroughs was windowless and almost doorless, a long port-holed fort built of square-edged stone retrieved from an Indian ruin. In prehistoric days each stone had been quarried and carried on men's backs from the hills, but now their ancient city was a mound of tumbled rocks and its walls did new duty for the white man. The fort was built in frontier style, with narrow loop-holes in place of windows and doorways just wide enough to pass--two rooms opening south and two opening north, with solid stone partitions between. Beneath the floor of the kitchen a well had been dug, to supply water in case of a siege; and the huge square chimney was loopholed near the top, making a watchtower to command the level plain.

In Indian days the old Rock House had served to protect the settlers from Apaches; but now the Scarboroughs, like robber barons of old, had turned it into a castle. Behind its thick walls they had grown prosperous and arrogant, and a big bunk-house by the stable and corrals was swarming with feudal retainers. These were Texans to a man, and as Hall rode up they strolled over and eyed him coldly. That fatal single-cinch on his California-rigged saddle had already aroused their antagonism, but their first fleering remarks were cut short by Miz Zoolah, who came bustling out of the kitchen. She was a dark, lanky woman with pale blue eyes which seemed to dart forth venom; and after a single glance at Hall she turned to Meshackatee who greeted her with deceptive meekness.

"Did you pass an Injun with a message for Isham?" she demanded in a threatening voice.

"No, ma'am," returned Meshackatee, "we didn't pass nobody. What's the news--have the sheep come in?"

"Yes, the sheep have come in!" she burst out angrily, "and Elmo and these trifling cowboys have let 'em. They just watched the main trail and Grimes made another one and came in across the Reservation. He's halfway down Canyon Crick, now!"

"Well?" inquired Meshackatee, rolling his eyes at the Texans, and Miz Zoolah flew into a tantrum.

"They're _afraid_!" she cried, "Elmo and all the rest of 'em! They're afraid to go out and move him. But just wait till Isham comes back and I'll bet there'll be a scattering of sheep."

"Very likely," observed Meshackatee. "This is Mr. Hall, Mrs. Scarborough. He's a new man we picked up down below."

"Well, if he don't turn out any better than some that we've got, you might as well tell him to go. I declare, when this Grimes and his Mexicans began shooting, Elmo and all of them gave him the trail."

"Shooting?" repeated Meshackatee, arching his eyebrows inquiringly, and Mrs. Scarborough nodded her head.

"Yes--shooting!" she said, "the minute he saw them he dropped down and emptied his Winchester. And him a dirty sheepman, with nothing but Mexicans, and these boys all claim they're from _Texas_. I'd just like to know what we've been paying them for if it isn't to stand up and fight; but they turned tail and ran and I'm going to tell Isham that he ought to fire them--all!"

"Oh, I don't know," murmured Meshackatee, glancing at the shamefaced cowboys, "you'd jest have to hire some more. What's the chances for something to eat?"

"You can eat with the rest of them," she answered impatiently, "and not a minute before. Now you worthless cowboys go away from that kitchen and quit making eyes at the cook. And if you want to hurry supper somebody take the ax and chop up a little wood."

There was a rush for the ax and the cowboys slouched away, laughing hectoringly at the man who had won.

"Well, git down," said Mrs. Scarborough with a grudging sigh, "that makes fourteen men we're cooking for."

They dismounted stiffly and she drew Meshackatee aside, talking rapidly as he inclined his curly head; and then, as Hall stood awkwardly by, a girl hurried out the kitchen door. In one hand was a huge bucket and she had started for the well when she met the newcomer's startled eyes. For a moment she stood still, then the bucket fell clattering and was clutched up with a trembling hand.

"Let me help you!" said Hall, raising his hat and advancing swiftly; and while Meshackatee looked on he filled the bucket with practiced hand and carried it back to the kitchen. There was a murmur of disapproval from the gunmen by the bunkhouse as he did not emerge immediately, and Mrs. Scarborough glanced around suspiciously; but he returned to his horse without meeting her eyes and Meshackatee grinned to himself.

The kitchen was forbidden ground at the ranch, hence the rush to chop and bring in the wood; but this stranger had shown himself adept indeed at invading the _sanctum sanctorum_. He had met Mrs. Scarborough's niece, and filled her bucket and whisked it back into the house, in about the time it would take a Texan to spit out his chew of tobacco. But that dropping of the bucket--was Miss Allifair so flustered, or had it been done with a purpose? He listened gravely to Miz Zoolah as she asked him questions and then guessed at the answers herself, but all the while his keen eyes were on Hall and his mind was seeking out the cause. For there is a reason for everything, if one can piece facts together or even jump at the facts, and Meshackatee was by nature a casuist. But something of the furor that was going on in his mind seemed to be communicated to the vigilant Miz Zoolah, for she stopped in the middle of a spiteful tirade and turned her pale eyes on the stranger.

"Who is that man?" she demanded suddenly, and then she advanced and faced him.

"Haven't I seen you before somewhere?" she questioned sharply, and Hall seemed to rouse from some dream.

"No, ma'am," he replied in soft, reassuring tones, "or at least, ma'am, not to my knowledge. I am a stranger in these parts and----"

"Where'd you come from?" she put in, and he hesitated a moment before he made an answer.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I can't answer that question. I am just passing through and----"

"Who is this man?" she demanded of Meshackatee; and as she repeated the question a swift look passed between them and the two men joined forces against her.

"I don't know," returned Meshackatee, "but he's a stranger in this country--the boys picked him up at Cold Spring. Isham told me to bring him up here, but there's nothing against him. It was jest to protect him from the Bassetts."

"Yes, the Bassetts!" she snapped. "He must be a weakling if he needs any protection from _them_."

"Well, he's my prisoner, then," spoke up Meshackatee bluffly. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

"Yes, I'd just like to know why you allowed him in that kitchen if Isham sent him over for a prisoner. He might have stepped out that farther door and been halfway over to the Bassetts."

"He gave me his word of honor," answered Meshackatee defiantly. "I guess there's such a thing as a gentleman!"

"A _gentleman_!" she shrilled. "He gave you his word of _honor_! Since when have you got these idees into your head? I'm going to report this to Isham."

"Well, report and be blowed!" burst out Meshackatee rudely, and led his prisoner away.

But, even in a world where honor is not dead and the word "gentleman" is more than a name, there is such a thing as a reasonable precaution and Meshackatee slept by his man that night. They threw down their saddle-blankets beneath the towering cottonwood that stood just north of the house, and he slept with his dog at his back. It was the way they always slept, back to back on the scant blanket, and if anything moved 'Pache would raise his head and give voice to a rumbling growl.

The night was well along when there was a stir at his back and the vibrations of a noiseless growl. Meshackatee opened his eyes and moved gently in answer and a strange sight met his eyes. His prisoner had risen up without a sound and tiptoed back towards the house, and as he stood in the starlight a white form glided out and she met him in passionate embrace. Meshackatee moved again and his dog sank down obediently--there was a silence, and the prisoner came back--but far into the night the man who had turned casuist lay and speculated on the Ultimate Cause.