Jean was just returning wet-lashed from burying the little brown bird under a wild-rose bush near the creek.She had known all along that it would die;everything that she took any interest in turned out badly,it seemed to her.The wonder was that the bird had lived so long after she had taken it under her protection.
All that day her Aunt Ella had worn a wet towel turban-wise upon her head,and the look of a martyr about to enter a den of lions.Add that to the habitual atmosphere of injury which she wore,and Aunt Ella was not what one might call a cheerful companion.
Besides,the appearance of the wet towel was a danger signal to Jean's conscience,and forbade any thought of saddling Pard and riding away from the Bar Nothing into her own dream world and the great outdoors.
Jean's conscience commanded her instead to hang her riding-clothes in the closet and wear striped percale and a gingham apron,which she hated;and to sweep and dust and remember not to whistle,and to look sympathetic,--which she was not,particularly;and to ask her Aunt Ella frequently if she felt any better,and if there was anything Jean could do for her.There never was anything she could do,but conscience and custom required her to observe the ceremony of asking.Aunt Ella found some languid satisfaction in replying dolorously that there was nothing that anybody could do,and that her part in life seemed to be to suffer.
You may judge what Jean's mood was that day,when you are told that she came to the point,not an hour before the bird died,of looking at her aunt with that little smile at the corners of her eyes and just easing her lips."Well,you certainly play your part in life with a heap of enthusiasm,"she had replied,and had gone out into the kitchen and whistled when she did not feel in the least like whistling.Her conscience knew Jean pretty well,and did not attempt to reprove her for what she had done.
Then she found the bird dead in the little nest she had made for it,and things went all wrong.
She was returning from the burial of the bird,and was trying to force herself back to her normal attitude of philosophic calm,when she saw her Uncle Carl sitting on the edge of the front porch,with his elbows resting loosely upon his knees,his head bowed,and his boot-heel digging a rude trench in the hard-packed earth.
The sight of him incensed her suddenly.Once more she wished that she might get at his brain and squeeze out his thoughts;and it never occurred to her that she would probably have found them extremely commonplace thoughts that strayed no farther than his own little personal business of life,and that they would easily be translated to the dollar sign.His attitude was one of gloomy meditation,and her own mood supplied the subject.She watched him for a minute or two,and his abstraction was so deep that he did not feel her presence.
"Uncle Carl,just how much did the Lazy A cost you?"she asked so abruptly that she herself was surprised at the question."Or putting it another way,just how many dollars and cents did you spend in defending dad?"Carl started,which was perfectly natural,and glared at her,which was natural also,when one considers that Jean had without warning opened a subject tacitly forbidden upon that ranch.His eyes hardened a little while he looked at her,for between these two there was scant affection.
"What do you want to know for?"he countered,when she persisted in looking at him as though she was waiting for an answer.
"Because I've a right to know.Some time,--within four years,--I mean to buy back the Lazy A.
I want to know how much it will take."Until that moment Jean had merely dreamed of some day buying it back.Until she spoke she would have named the idea a beautiful,impossible desire.
"Where you going to get the money?"Carl looked at her curiously,as if he almost doubted her sanity.
"Rob a bank,perhaps.How much will it take to square things with you?Of course,being a relative,I expect to be cheated a little.So I am going to adopt sly,sleuth-like methods and find out just how much dad owed you before--it happened,and just how much the lawyers charged,and what was the real market value of the outfit,and all that.Dad told me--dad told me that there was something left over for me.
He didn't explain--there wasn't time,and I--couldn't listen to dollar-talk then.I've gone along all this time,just drifting and getting used to facts,and taking it for granted that everything is all right--""Well,what's wrong?Everything is all right,far as I know.I can see what you're driving at--""And I'm a pretty fair driver,too,"Jean cut in calmly."I'll reach my destination,I think,--give me time enough.""Whatever fool notion you've got in your head,you'd better drop it,"Carl told her harshly."There ain't anything you can do to better matters.I came out with the worst of it,when you come right down to facts,and all the nagging-"Jean went toward him as if she would strike him with her uplifted hand."Don't dare say that!How can you say that,--and think of dad?He got the worst of it.He's the one that suffers most--and--he's as innocent as you or I.You know it."
Carl rose from the porch and faced her like an enemy."What do you mean by that?I know it?
If I knew anything like that,do you think I'd leave a stone unturned to prove it?Do you think--""I think we both know dad.And some things were not proved,--to my satisfaction,at least.And you know how long the jury was out,and what a time they had agreeing.Some points were weak.It was simply that they couldn't point to any one else.You know that was it.If I could find Art Osgood--""What's he got to do with it?"Her uncle leaned a little and peered into her face,which the dusk was veiling.
"That is what I want to find out."Jean's voice was quiet,but it had a quality which he had never before noticed.
