The Land of Strong Men Part 2

"And lucky for you she wasn't hurt," Blake told him. He was a big, powerfully built man, with a heavy, florid face which was already beginning to show signs of the life he led. "If she'd been smashed up you'd have got yours."

Larry, a rangy, hawk-faced youngster, eyed his brother insolently. "I would, hey! Well, not from you, and you can make a note of that."

"Shut up!" said the sister. "Quit your sc.r.a.pping. We may as well be drifting. Climb up on this pony, Faith."

Faith Winton held out her hand. "Good-by, Angus Mackay. And thank you so much for finding me, and for the ride, and for the doughnuts."

Young Mackay shook hands limply. "That is all right," he said, embarra.s.sed. But Kathleen French was reminded of an omission.

"We're a nice lot!" she exclaimed. "Not one of us has thanked him for looking after Faith. Well _I_ do, anyway. It was good of you, Angus Mackay."

"Oh, sure," Gerald French concurred carelessly. Not so heavily built as his brother Blake, he was as tall and finer drawn. His face was oval, his eyes dark and lazy, and his voice a drawl. "Thanks, Mackay."

"Ditto," said young Larry.

Blake French, reaching into his pocket pulled out a roll of currency and stripped off a bill. "No, no, Cousin Blake!" Faith Winton exclaimed, but he held it out to the boy.

"Here you are, Mackay. That's better than thanks. I guess you can use it."

But the boy made no movement to take the money. "I was not bringing her home for money, nor for thanks either," he said uncompromisingly.

Blake laughed loudly. "I never heard of a Mackay refusing money."

The boy scowled at him. "There will be other things you have not heard of," he said coldly.

Blake French stared at him, and laughed again.

"Well, give him a kiss, Faith. Maybe that's what he'd like. Or has he had it?"

"Cousin Blake, you're horrid!" the girl cried indignantly.

"The kid isn't used to talk like that, Blake," Kathleen told him. "Have some sense."

"Where would he get it?" young Larry asked insolently. For answer his brother cursed him.

"Cut that out, Blake," Gerald drawled, but his tone was edged.

"Then let that young pup keep a civil tongue in his head," Blake growled.

"Pup, hey?" said young Larry. "Well, I'll never make a yellow dog, anyway." The insinuation was obvious. Blake's face blackened with fury, but wheeling his horse he rode off after the girls. Gerald and Larry with brief nods to young Mackay, followed.

The latter stood looking after them, his heavy brows drawn in a frown.

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he lengthened his stirrups and swung up on his pony.

CHAPTER II

A DEATH BED

Deciding that it was too late to go back after the deer, Angus headed for home. The sun was down when he struck into a wagon trail a couple of miles from the ranch, and he had followed it but a few hundred yards when he heard the sound of hoofs behind him. Turning in his saddle he recognized horse and rider which were overhauling him rapidly.

"What's the rush, Dave?" he asked as they drew level.

Whatever the rush had been it seemed to be over. The rider slowed to a walk. He was a small man, apparently in the forties, wiry and sun-dried.

His name was Rennie, and he was nominally a homesteader, though he did little more than comply with the statutory requirements. In winter he trapped and in summer he turned his hand to almost anything. He was a wizard with horses, he knew the habits of most wild animals thoroughly and he had seen a great deal of the old West. He and young Mackay were friends, and he had taught the boy many things from his own store of experience. As he pulled up, the boy noted that Blaze's bright coat was dark with sweat and that his head hung wearily.

"You've been combing some speed out of that cayuse," he commented.

"He's been on gra.s.s and lathers easy," Rennie returned. "But I was--I was sorter lookin' for you, kid."

"Why?"

"Well, you see--your daddy he wants you."

"He knew I was hunting. I got a two-year old buck, but it was too late to pack him in. What does he want me for?"

The question seemed to embarra.s.s Rennie exceedingly. He gulped and went into a fit of coughing which left him red in the face.

"He wants to talk to you," he replied at last. "He--he wants to tell you something, I guess. He--he ain't right well, your daddy ain't."

"Not well!" the boy cried in amazement. "Why, what's the matter with him, Dave?"

"A little accident--just a little accident, kid. He--he--now you don't want to go worryin' about it; not yet, anyway."

But Rennie's effort to break bad news gently was too obvious. The boy's voice took on a sharp note of alarm.

"What sort of an accident?" he demanded. "Is he hurt? Talk up, can't you?"

"Well, now, durn it, kid, I'd ruther break a leg than tell you--but your daddy, he's been shot up some."

"Do you mean he's dead?" the boy cried in wide-eyed horror.

"No, he ain't dead--or he wasn't when I started out to find you.

But--but he's plugged plumb center, and--and--Oh, h.e.l.l, I guess you know what I'm tryin' to say!"

The boy stared at him dumbly while the slow thudding pad of the horses'

feet on the soft trail smote on his ears like the sound of m.u.f.fled drums. He failed at first, as the young must ever fail, to comprehend the full meaning of the message. His father dead or dying! His father, Adam Mackay, that living tower of muscle and sinew who could lift with his hands logs with which other men struggled with cant-hook and peavie, who could throw a steel-beamed breaking plow aboard a wagon as another man would handle a wheel-hoe? It was unbelievable.

But slowly the realization was forced upon him. His father had been shot, and with the knowledge came the flame of bitter anger and desire for revenge that was his in right of the blood in his veins. And the desire momentarily overwhelmed sorrow.

"Who did it?" he asked, his young voice a fierce, croaking whisper.

"I dunno. He won't tell anybody. Maybe he'll tell you."

"Come on!" Angus Mackay cried, and dug heels into his pony.