Mintie

Mintie stood on the porch of the old adobe house, shading her brown eyes from the sun that was now sinking into the brush-hills west of the ranch. Her hand trembled; her lips were pressed together; faint lines on her forehead and around her mouth showed anxiety, and perhaps fear. A trapper would have recognized in her expression the watchful intensity common to animals that know they are prey.

Suddenly a shot rang out, echoing from the canyon behind the house. Mintie turned pale, then laughed scornfully.

"Gee!" she exclaimed. "How easy I scare!"

She sank into a chair, gasping, and fanned herself with her skirt. Then, as if angry at her weakness, she stood up and smiled defiantly, showing small white teeth. She was still trembling; noticing this, she stamped her foot on the porch floor and forced herself to be still.

Her face was charming because of its irregularity. Her skin was clear brown, matching her eyes and hair. She had the grace and vigor of an unbroken filly on the range. Indeed, she had been born in the wilderness and rarely left it. Her father's ranch lay forty miles from San Lorenzo, high in the foothills—a sterile tract of scrub oak, cedar, manzanita, and chaparral, with some good grazing ground here and there, and lower down, where the creek ran, a hundred acres of arable land. Behind the house bubbled a big spring that irrigated the orchard and garden.

Teamsters hauling grain from the Carisa Plains to the San Lorenzo landing, nearly a hundred miles away, would beguile the journey by thinking of the apples old man Ransom would offer and the first cold drink from the spring.

Mintie was about to enter the house when she saw a tiny cloud of white dust down the road. "Gee!" she exclaimed for the second time. "Who's this?"

Since it was summer, the hauling had not yet begun. Mintie, with eyes like a turkey-buzzard, stared at the dust. "Smoky Jack, I reckon," she said disdainfully. Nevertheless, she went inside and reappeared a minute later with her hair slightly more ordered and wearing a clean apron.

She expressed surprise rather than pleasure when a young man rode up, shifted in his saddle, and said, "How are you folks making it?"

"Pretty fair. Going to town?"

"Thought maybe I'd go to town next week. I came over just to pass the time of day with the old man."

"Rode ten miles to pass the time of day with Pap?"

"Yes."

"Curiously fond men are of each other!"

"That's so," said Smoky admiringly. "And living alone puts notions of love and tenderness into my head that never came there when Maw was alive and kicking. I tell you, it's awful lonesome on my place."

He sat up in his saddle, a handsome young fellow—more vaquero than cowboy, a distinction well understood in California. John Short had been nicknamed Smoky Jack because of his tireless efforts to clear his brush-hills by fire. Across his saddle was a long-barreled, old-fashioned rifle. Mintie glanced at it.

"Was that you who fired just now?"

"Nope," said Smoky. "I heard a shot," he added. "It was the old man. I'd know the crack of his Sharp anywhere. It's the dead spit of mine. There'll be buck's liver for supper, sure."

"Why are you carrying a gun?"

"I thought I might run across a deer."

"No other reason?"

Under her steady gaze his blue eyes fell. He replied with restraint: "I wouldn't trust some of these squatters any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. Has your Pap had any more trouble with them?"

Mintie answered savagely: "They're hunting trouble. Likely as not they'll find it too."

Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences, and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the old man's back pasture.

Smoky stared at Mintie. Then he said abruptly, "You look kind of peaked. Anything wrong?"

"Nothing," replied Mintie.

"You ain't worrying about your Pap, are you? I reckon he can take care of himself."

"I reckon he can; so can his daughter."

"Shall I put my plug into the barn?"

"We're mighty short of hay," said Mintie inhospitably.

Smoky Jack stared at her and laughed. Then he slipped from the saddle, pulled the reins over the horse's head, and threw the ends on the ground. With a deprecating smile he said softly, "Are you very extra busy, Mints?"

"Not very extra. Why?"

"I've a notion to read you something. It came to me last Sunday week in the middle of the night. And now it's slicked up to the Queen's taste."

"Poetry?"

"I don't know if it's that—after the remarks you passed about that little piece I sent to the Tribune."

"You sent it? Of all the nerve! Did they print it?"

Smoky Jack shook his head. "Never expected they would," he admitted mournfully. "I won't deny that it was kind of—"

"Slushy?" hazarded Mintie.

"Well—yes. You'd made all sorts of a dodgasted fool out of me."

"Your father and mother did that."

"I've said as much to Maw many a time. 'Maw,' I'd say, 'I ain't a masterpiece—and I know it.' But last Sunday night I was inspired."

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Mintie frowned. With a shy glance and heightened color, the man who had been inspired whispered softly: "It's entitled, 'To My Own Brown Bird.'"

"And who's your brown bird?" demanded Mintie sharply.

"As if you didn't know."

"Meaning me?"

"Couldn't naturally be nobody else."

"I'm not yours; and as for being brown, why, my skin is white as milk."

"I'll bet my life it is."

"As for being a bird, that ain't no compliment. Birds are first cousins to snakes. Never knew that, did you?"

"Never—so help me! Is that really so?"

Covered with mortification, he put the paper back into his pocket.

"Read it," commanded the young lady. "Let's get it over and done with. Then, maybe, I'll help you to rechristen the darned thing."

Emboldened by this gracious speech, Smoky began in a nasal, drawling voice:

"I've wandered far—I've wandered wide—"

"Ananias!" said Mintie. "You were born in these foothills and raised in them, and you've never known enough to get out of them."

"Get out of them?"

"Get out of them," she repeated scornfully. "Do you think if I was a man I'd stop in such a God-forsaken place as yours, with nothing but rattlesnakes and coyotes to keep me company? Go on!"

"I've wandered far—I've wandered wide— I've dwelt in many a stately tower; And now I turn me back to ride To my own brown bird in her humble bower."

"That'll do," said Mintie. "You haven't improved much. Bill Shakespeare can rest easy in his tomb. I've got my chores to do. About time you were doing yours."

Smoky Jack, refusing to budge, said jocosely, "Things are fixed up at home. Twouldn't worry me any if I never got back till tomorrow."

Mintie frowned and went into the house. Smoky led his horse to the barn with perplexity and distress written large on his face. "Notice to quit," he muttered. Then he grinned pleasantly. "Reckon a perfect gentleman would take the hint and clear out. But I ain't a perfect gentleman. What in thunder ails the girl?"

It was nearly seven when Pap Ransom reached his corral. Smoky had milked the cow and fed the pigs. In the kitchen Mintie was frying potatoes and stirring the big pot of beans and bacon. From time to time Smoky caught a glimpse of her white apron as she whisked in and out of the kitchen. Although a singularly modest youth, he conceived the idea that Mintie was interested in his doings, whereas we must admit she was more concerned about her father. However, when she saw Pap ascend the hill with his rifle over his shoulder, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and from then on she gave the supper preparations her undivided attention.

"Where's the liver?" said Smoky, as the old man nodded to him.

"Liver?"

"Heard a shot, just one, and made certain a good buck was on his back."

"I never fired no shot," said Ransom slowly.

"Well, I'm hanged! Is there another Sharp besides mine in these hills?"

"I daresay. I heard one shot myself, about two hours ago."

"Guess it was one of them darned squatters."

"Curse 'em!" said Ransom. He spat on the ground and walked into the house. Smoky nodded reflectively.

Supper was not a particularly cheerful meal. Mintie, usually a nimble talker, held her tongue. Ransom aired his pet grievance—the advent of Easterners who presumed to take up land that was supposed to belong to, or at least go with, the old Spanish grants. Smoky and Mintie knew well enough that the land was Uncle Sam's, but they also knew that Ransom had run his cattle over it for five and twenty years. If that didn't constitute a better title than a United States patent, there was no justice anywhere. Smoky, filled with beans and bacon, exclaimed vehemently: "Shoot 'em on sight, that's what I say."

Mintie stared at his bright eyes and flushed cheeks. "Do you always mean just what you say?" she inquired sarcastically.

"Well," replied Smoky, more cautiously, "they haven't been monkeying with me, but if they did—"

"If they did—?" drawled Mintie, with her elbows on the table and her face between her hands.

"If they cut my fence as they've cut yours, and after due warnings kept on trespassing and making trouble, why then, by Gosh! I'd shoot. Might give the other feller a show, but there's trouble as only can be settled with shooting irons."

"That's so," said Mintie savagely.

After supper Mintie retired to the kitchen to wash up. Ransom put a jar of tobacco on the table, two glasses, and some whisky.

"Any call for you to ride home tonight?"

"None," said Smoky.

"Reckon you'd better camp here, then."

Smoky nodded and muttered, "Don't care if I do," a polite form of acceptance in the California foothills.

Presently Ransom went out. Smoky was left alone. He filled his corncob pipe, stretched out his legs, and smiled, thinking of his own brown bird. Suddenly a glint came into his bright blue eyes. In the corner of the room, against the wall, leaned the two Sharp rifles. Smoky glanced about him, rose, walked to the corner, bent down, and smelled the muzzle of Ransom's rifle.

Then he slipped his forefinger into the barrel and smelled that.

"Suffering Moses!" he exclaimed.

His mouth was slightly twisted as he picked up the rifle and opened the breech. He drew out a used cartridge, which he examined with another exclamation: "Holy Mackinaw!"

He put the cartridge into his pocket and glanced round for the second time. He could hear Mintie washing up in the kitchen. Ransom was feeding his horses. Smoky took a cleaning rod, ran it through the rifle, and examined the bit of cloth, which was wet and greasy. Then he replaced the rifle and went back to the table, where Ransom found him when he returned a few minutes later. The two men smoked in silence. Presently Ransom said abruptly: "Dead struck on Mints, ain't you?"

"I am," said Smoky laconically.

"Told her so—hey?"

"About a million times."

"What does she say?"

Smoky blew some rings of smoke before he answered. "She says—'Shucks!'"

"That don't sound encouraging."

"It ain't. Fact is, she thinks me a clam."

"A clam?"

"That's right. She'd think a heap more of me if I was to pull out of these hills and try to strike it somewhere else."

"Well, squatters have made this no kind of country for a white man. You're white, John."

"I aim to be."

"You are, sonny. Say, if anything happened to me, would you watch out for Mints?"

"I wonder!"

"Suppose, for the sake of argument, that one of these sons of guns did for me—hey?"

"'Tain't likely," said Smoky scornfully. "I'd bet my boots on you every time."

"They may do for me," said Ransom slowly, "and if so—"

"I'll watch out for Mints," said Smoky fervently.

Presently Mintie joined them and, sitting down, began to darn some stockings. Apparently she was engrossed in her work, but Smoky stared at her, noticing that her fingers trembled. Ransom smoked and said nothing. Smoky talked, trying to catch Mintie's interest and attention, but he was sensible of failure. Moreover, he had nothing to talk about except bad times and bad luck. Father and daughter listened grimly, well aware that their friend and neighbor was fighting against lack of water, sterile soil, and a "plastered" ranch.

"Why don't you quit?" Ransom asked testily.

"I ain't a quitter."

"He don't know enough to let go," said Mintie.

"I could earn good money with my uncle in Los Angeles County. He wants me."

Mintie tossed her head. "If he wants you, the sooner you skin out of this the better."

"Uncle's well fixed," said Smoky, "and an old bachelor. He wants a live young man to take hold of his ranch, and a live young woman to run the shebang. If I was married—!"

"Pity you ain't," said Mintie, without looking up.

Ransom, who had conducted his courting on Western principles, rose up slowly and disappeared. Left alone with his beloved, the young man blushed and held his tongue.

"You think a heap of the old man?" he hazarded after an interminable pause.

"I do. He's a man, is Pap."

"Meaning?"

"Anything you please."

"You mean that I ain't a man?"

Mintie laughed softly; and at that moment the old dog, lying by the hearth, got up and growled. Rebuked by Mintie, he continued growling while the hair on his aged back began to bristle with rage.

"Hark!" exclaimed Mintie.

They could hear voices outside. The dog barked furiously as somebody hammered hard upon the door.

"Who can it be?" said Mintie nervously.

Smoky Jack opened the door; four or five men came in. At the opposite door appeared Ransom.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

The leader of the party, a tall 'Piker,' answered as curtly: "Business."

"What business?"

"I don't talk business before womenfolk."

Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips quivered.

"Come here, child," said her father. He looked at her steadily. "You go to bed and stay there. Not a word! And don't worry."

Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked quietly out of the room.

"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.

"Murder."

"Murder? Whose murder?"

"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on your land, not a quarter of a mile from this house. His widow found him and came to me."

"Well?"

"She says the shot that killed him must have been fired about six. She heard it and happened to look at the clock."

"Well?"

"She swears that you fired it."

Smoky burst in impetuously: "At six I can swear that Pap was talking to me in his own corral."

The squatters glanced at each other. The 'Piker' laughed derisively. "In love with his daughter, ain't you?"

"I am—and proud of it!"

"Those your guns?" The spokesman addressed Ransom, indicating the two rifles.

"One of them is mine; the other belongs to Smoky."

The 'Piker' crossed the room, examined the rifles, opened each, and peered down the barrels. He glanced at the other squatters and said laconically: "Quite clean—as might be expected."

Ransom betrayed his surprise very slightly. He had just remembered that he had left an empty cartridge in his rifle and that it was not clean.

The 'Piker' turned to him again. "You claim that you know nothing of this job?"

"Not a thing."

"And you?"

The big 'Piker' stared superciliously at Smoky.

"Same here," said Smoky.

The visitors glanced at each other, slightly nonplussed. The big 'Piker' swore in his beard. "We'll arrest the whole outfit," he said decidedly, "and carry them into San Lorenzy."

"You're not the sheriff nor his deputy," said Ransom. "What do you mean," he continued savagely, "by coming here with this ridiculous song and dance? There's the door. Get!"

"You threatened to shoot Farge," said the 'Piker.' "And it's my solid belief you done it in cold blood. We're five here, all heeled, and there's more outside. If you're innocent, the sheriff'll let you off tomorrow; but innocent or guilty, by Gosh, you're coming with us tonight. Hold up your hands! Quick!"

Ransom and Smoky held up their hands.

"Search 'em," commanded the 'Piker.'

This was done effectively. A Derringer doesn't take up much room in a man's pocket, but it has been known to turn the tables on larger weapons. Ransom and Smoky, however, were unarmed; but the squatter who ran his hand over Smoky's pockets encountered a small cylinder, which he held up to the public gaze.

It was an empty cartridge.

To understand fully what this meant one must possess a certain knowledge of Western ways and sentiment. Pistols and rifles belonging to the pioneers, for example, often exhibit notches, each bearing silent witness to the shedding of blood. The writer knew intimately a very mild, kindly old man who had a strop fashioned out of several thicknesses of Apache skins. The Apaches had inflicted unmentionable torments upon him and his, and the strop was his dearest possession. The men and women of the wilderness are primal in their loves and hates.

The big 'Piker' examined the long brass cylinder, small of bore and old-fashioned in shape. He slipped it into the Sharp rifle and laughed grimly as he said: "A relic!"

Ransom's face was impassive; Smoky Jack exhibited a derisive defiance. Inwardly he was cursing himself for a fool for keeping the cartridge. He had intended to throw it away as soon as he found himself outside. But from the first he had wanted Mintie's father to know that he knew! Primal again. Pap would not forget to clean his rifle at the first opportunity; and then, without a word on either side, he would realize that the man who wanted his daughter was a true friend.

We may add that the breaking of the sixth commandment in no wise affected Smoky. Jake Farge had been warned that he would be shot on sight if he made "trouble." Everybody in San Lorenzo County was well aware that it was no kind of use "fooling" with Pap Ransom. Jake—in a word—deserved what he got. Smoky would have drawn as true a bead upon a squatter disputing title to his land. We don't defend Mr. Short's ethics; we simply state them.

The 'Piker' said quietly: "Anything to say, young feller?"

Smoky Jack made a gallant attempt to bluff a man who had played his first game of poker before Smoky was born.

"You're dead right. It is a relic of a big buck I killed with that gun last week. Flopped into a mare's nest, you have!"

"That shell was fired today," said the 'Piker' authoritatively. "The powder ain't dry in it. Boys," he glanced round at the circle of grim faces, "let's take the San Lorenzy road."

The squatters, reinforced by half a dozen men who had not entered the adobe, escorted their prisoners down the hill until they came to a large live oak, a conspicuous feature of the meadow beyond the creek. The moon shone at full as she rose majestically above the pines that fringed the eastern horizon. In the air was a smell of tarweed, deliciously aromatic; and the only sounds audible were the whispers of the tremulous cottonwood leaves and the tinkle of the creek on its way to the Pacific.

Smoky inhaled the fragrance of the tarweed and turned his blue eyes to the left, where, in the far distance, a tall pine indicated the northwest corner of his ranch. Neither he nor Ransom expected to reach San Lorenzo that night. They were setting out on a much longer journey.

Under the live oak, Judge Lynch opened his court. No time was wasted. The squatters were impressed with the necessity of doing quickly what had to be done. The big 'Piker' spoke first.

"Boys, ain't it true that in this county there ain't been a single man executed by the law for murder in the first degree?"

"That's right. Not a one!"

"And if a man has a bit of dough behind him, isn't it a fact that he don't linger overly long in San Quentin?"

"Dead sure snap."

"Boys, this is our affair. We're poor; we've neither money nor time to waste in law courts, but we've got to show some of these fellers as is holding land that don't belong to 'em that we mean business first, last, and all the time."

There was a hoarse murmur of assent.

"The cold facts are these," continued the speaker. "We all know that Ransom and Jake Farge have had trouble over the claim that Farge staked out inside Ransom's fence; and we know that Ransom has no more right to the land he fenced than the coyotes that run on it. For twenty years he's enjoyed the use of what isn't his'n, and I say he'd oughter be thankful. Anyways, we come down to the events of yesterday and today. Yesterday he told Jake that he'd shoot him on sight if he, Jake, came onto the land which Uncle Sam says is his. Do you deny that?"

"That's about what I told him," drawled Ransom.

"Today Jake was shot dead like a dog by somebody who was waiting for him, hidden in the brush. The widow, poor soul, suspecting trouble, followed Jake and found him with a bullet plumb through his heart. She heard the shot, and she swore that it came from Ransom's side of the fence. And she knows and we know that there isn't a man between Maine and Californy with a grudge against Jake, always excepting this Ransom."

"That's so," growled the court.

"Boys, Jake was murdered with a bullet of small bore—not with a bullet out of a Winchester, such as most of us carry. Where did that bullet come from, boys?"

"Out of a Sharp rifle."

"Just so. Who fired it? Maybe we'll never know that. But we know this: 'Twas fired by one of these men. One was and is accessory to the other. The boy admits he's sweet on Ransom's gal, and maybe he did this dirt to win her. And he swears that Pap was in his corral at six. That's a lie or it ain't, as may be. If he was in the corral, the other wasn't. Boys—I won't detain you any longer. Those in favor of hanging Thomas Ransom and John Short here and now, hold up your hands!"

The men present held up their hands. One or two of the more bloodthirsty held up both hands.

"That'll do. Those in favor of taking the prisoners to San Lorenzy, hold up your hands. Nary a hand! Prisoners, you've been tried by your fellow men and found guilty of murder in the first degree. Have you anything to say?"

Smoky answered huskily: "Nothing, except that I'm not guilty."

"And you, Mr. Ransom?" said the 'Piker' with odd politeness.

"I've a lot to say," drawled the old man. "Seemingly murder has been done, but Smoky here never did it; nor did I. I fired at a buck and missed it. There ain't overly much of the fool in me, but there's enough to make me hate owning up to a clean miss. When I got to the corral this evening, Smoky had been there an hour or so at least. He asked me if I'd killed a buck and said he'd heard a shot. Well, I lied, but I saw that he suspected me. Afterwards, I reckon he had a look at the old gun and found the shell in it. He must have got it into his fool head that he was God's appointed instrument to save me. He's as innocent as Mary's little lamb, and so am I."

The squatters gazed at each other in stupefaction. Not a man present but could lie fearlessly on occasion, but not with such consummate art as this.

"Anything more to say?" inquired the 'Piker.'

"Well, there's this: I told Jake Farge that I'd shoot him on sight, and I'm mighty glad that someone else has saved me the trouble. You mean to do me up; I see that plain. I hated your coming into a country that won't support a crowd, and I've made things hot for more than one of you. But I wasn't thinking of land when I warned Jake Farge not to set foot on my ranch."

"What were you thinking of?"

"Of my Mintie. That feller—a married man—has been after her, and some of you know it. She can take care of herself, can my Mints, but some things is a man's business. I meant to shoot him, but I didn't. I'm glad the low-down cuss is dead, but the bullet that stopped his crawling to my gal never came out of my rifle. Now string me up and be darned to you, but let this young feller go back to look after my daughter. That's all."

He faced them with a derisive smile on his weather-beaten face.

Obviously the court was impressed, but the fact remained that Jake Farge was dead, and someone must have killed him.

"What do you say, boys?"

"I say he's lying," observed a squatter whom Thomas Ransom had discovered ear-marking an unbranded calf.

"Smoky knows that Pap done it," remarked another.

This bolt went home. Smoky's face during the preceding five minutes had been worth studying.

He was quite sure that the old man was lying, and upon his ingenuous countenance such knowledge, illuminated by admiration and amazement, was duly inscribed.

"Pap's yarn is too thin," said a gaunt Missourian.

"It's as thin as you are," said Ransom contemptuously. "Do you boys think that I'd spring so thin a tale on you if it wasn't true?"

At this they wriggled uneasily. The 'Piker,' with some experience of fickle crowds, said peremptorily: "The old man done it, and the young'un knows he done it. They're just two of a kind. Those in favor of hanging 'em both, hold up your hands. One hand apiece will do."

Slowly, inexorably, the hands went up. The judge pronounced sentence: "You've five minutes. Say your prayers, if you feel like it."

The simple preparations were made swiftly. Two rawhide lariats were properly adjusted. The prisoners looked on with the stoical indifference of Red Indians. It might have been said of the pair that neither had known how to live, but each knew how to die.

"Ready?" said the 'Piker.'

"Hold on!" replied a high-pitched voice.

The crowd turned to behold Mintie. She had crawled up silently and stealthily. But now she stood upright, her small head thrown back, her eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"Got a rope for me?" she asked. "I've heard everything."

Nobody answered. The girl laughed; then she said slowly: "I shot Jake Farge—with this."

She threw a small revolver at the 'Piker,' who picked it up.

"I killed him at five this afternoon. I knew that if I didn't do it Pap would, and that you'd hang him. Jake came after me again and again, and each time I warned him. Today he came for the last time. He was half-crazy, and I had to kill the beast to save myself. I did it, and"—she looked steadfastly at Smoky Jack—"I ain't ashamed of it, neither. There's only one man in all the world can make love to me. I never knew that I cared for him till tonight."

She pointed at Smoky, who remarked deprecatingly: "I always allowed you was a daughter of the Golden West."

"If you ain't going to hang me," said Mintie, "don't you think you'd better skip?"

She laughed scornfully, and the men, without a word, skipped. Smoky, his hands loosed, seized Mintie in his arms, as the moon slipped discreetly behind a cloud.