Wild Youth

Chapter 4

TWO SIDES TO A BARGAIN

As the Young Doctor had said, Orlando Guise did not look like a real,

simon-pure "cowpuncher." He had the appearance of being dressed for the

part, like an actor who has never mounted a cayuse, in a Wild West play.

Yet on this particular day,--when the whole prairie country was alive

with light, thrilling with elixir from the bottle of old Eden's vintage,

and as comfortable as a garden where upon a red wall the peach-vines

cling--he seemed far more than usual the close-fitting, soil-touched son

of the prairie. His wide felt hat, turned up on one side like a

trooper's, was well back on his head; his pinkish brown face was freely

taking the sun, and his clear, light-blue eyes gazed ahead unblinking in

the strong light. His forehead was unwrinkled--a rare thing in that

prairie country where the dry air corrugates the skin; his light-brown

hair curled loosely on the brow, graduating back to closer, crisper curls

which in their thickness made a kind of furry cap. It was like the coat

of a French poodle, so glossy and so companionable was it to the head. A

bright handkerchief of scarlet was tied loosely around his throat, which

was even a little more bare than was the average ranchman's; and his

thick, much-pocketed flannel shirt, worn in place of a waistcoat and

coat, was of a shade of red which contrasted and yet harmonized with the

scarlet of the neckerchief. He did not wear the sheepskin leggings so

common among the ranchmen of the West, but a pair of yellowish corduory

riding-breeches, with boots that laced from the ankle to the knee. These

boots had that touch of the theatrical which made him more fantastic than

original in the eyes of his fellow-citizens.

Also he wore a ring with a star-sapphire, which made him incongruous,

showy and foppish, and that was a thing not easy of forgiveness in the

West. Certainly the West would not have tolerated him as far as it did,

had it not been for three things: the extraordinary good nature which

made him giggle; the fact that on more than one occasion he had given

conclusive evidence that he was brave; and the knowledge that he was at

least well-to-do. In a kind of vague way people had come to realize that

his giggles belonged to a nature without guile and recklessly frank.

"He beats the band," Jonas Billings, the livery-stable keeper, had said

of him; while Burlingame, the pernicious lawyer of shady character, had

remarked that he had the name of an impostor and the frame of a fop; but

he wasn't sure, as a lawyer, that he'd seen all the papers in the

case--which was tantamount to saying that the Orlando nut needed some

cracking.

It was generally agreed that his name was ridiculous, romantic and

unreasonable. It seemed to challenge public opinion. Most names in the

West were without any picturesqueness or colour; they were commonplace

and almost geometric in their form, more like numbers to represent people

than things of character in themselves. There were names semi-scriptural

and semi-foreign in Askatoon, but no name like Orlando Guise had ever

come that way before, and nothing like the man himself had ever ridden

the Askatoon trails. One thing had to be said, however; he rode the trail

like a broncho-buster, and he sat his horse as though he had been born in

the saddle.--On this particular day, in spite of his garish "get-up," he

seemed to belong to the life in which he was lightheartedly whistling a

solo from one of Meyerbeer's operas. Meyerbeer was certainly incongruous

to the prairie, but it and the whistling were in keeping with the man

himself.

Over on Slow Down Ranch there lived a curious old lady who wore a bonnet

of Sweet Sixteen of the time of the Crimea, and with a sense of colour

which would wreck the reputation of a kaleidoscope. She it was who had

taught her son Orlando the tunefulness of Meyerbeer and Balfe and

Offenbach, and the operatic jingles of that type of composer. Orlando

Guise had come by his outward showiness naturally. Yet he was not like

his mother, save in this particular. His mother was flighty and had no

sense, while he, behind the gaiety of his wardrobe and his giggles, had

very much sense of a quite original kind. Even as he whistled Meyerbeer,

riding towards Tralee, his eyes had a look of one who was trying to see

into things; and his lips, when the whistling ceased, had a cheerful

pucker which seemed to show that he had seen what he wanted.

"Wonder if I'll get a glimpse of the so-called Mrs. Mazarine," he said

aloud. "Bad enough to marry a back-timer, but to marry Mazarine--they

don't say she's blind, either! Money--what won't we do for money, Mary?

But if she's as young as they say, she could have waited a bit for the

oof-bird to fly her way. Lots of men have money as well as looks. Anyhow,

I'm ready to take his cattle off his hands on a fair, square deal, and if

his girl-missis is what they say, I wouldn't mind--"

Having said this, he giggled and giggled again at his unspoken

impertinence. He knew he had almost said something fatuous, but the

suppressed idea appealed to him, nevertheless; for whatever he did, he

always had a vision of doing something else; and wherever he was, he was

always fancying himself to be somewhere else. That was the strain of

romance in him which came from his mixed ancestry. It was the froth and

bubble of a dreamer's legacy, which had made his mother, always

unconsciously theatrical, have a vision of a life on the prairies, with

the white mountains in the distance, where her beloved son would be

master of a vast domain, over which he should ride like one of Cortez'

conquistadores. Having "money to burn," she had, at a fortunate moment,

bought the ranch which, by accident, had done well from the start, and

bade fair, through the giggling astuteness of her spectacular son, to do

far better still by design.

On the first day of their arrival at Slow Down Ranch, the mother had

presented Orlando with a most magnificent Mexican bridle and head-stall

covered with silver conchs, and a saddle with stirrups inlaid with

silver. Wherefore, it was no wonder that most people stared and wondered,

while some sneered and some even hated. On the whole, however, Orlando

Guise was in the way of making a place for himself in the West in spite

of natural drawbacks.

Old Mazarine did not merely sneer as he saw the gay cavalier approach, he

snorted; and he would have blasphemed, if he had not been a professing

Christian.

"Circus rider!" he said to himself. "Wants taking down some, and he's

come to the right place to get it."

On his part, Orlando Guise showed his dislike of the repellent figure by

a brusque giggle, and further expressed what was in his mind by the one

word "Turk!"

His repugnance, however, was balanced by something possessing the old man

still more disagreeable. Like a malignant liquid, there crept up through

Joel Mazarine's body to the roots of his hair the ancient virus of Cain.

It was jealous, ravenous, grim: old age hating the rich, robust, panting

youth of the man be fore him. Was it that being half man, half beast, he

had some animal instinct concerning this young rough-rider before him?

Did he in some vague, prescient way associate this gaudy newcomer with

his girl-wife? He could not himself have said. Primitive passions are

corporate of many feelings but of little sight.

As Orlando Guise slid from his horse, Joel Mazarine steadied himself and

said: "Come about the cattle? Ready to buy and pay cash down?"

Orlando Guise giggled.

"What are you sniggering at?" snorted the old man.

"I thought it was understood that if I liked the bunch I was to pay

cash," Orlando replied. "I've got a good report of the beasts, but I want

to look them over. My head cattleman told you what I'd do. That's why I

smiled. Funny, too: you don't look like a man who'd talk more than was

wanted." He giggled again.

"Fool--I'll make you laugh on the other side of your mouth!" the Master

of Tralee said to himself; and then he motioned to where a bunch of a

hundred or so cattle were grazing in a little dip of the country between

them and Askatoon. "I'll get my buckboard. It's all hitched up and ready,

and we can get down and see them right now," he said aloud. "Won't you

find it rough going on the buckboard? Better ride," remarked Orlando

Guise.

"I don't ever notice rough going," grunted the old man. "Some people ride

horses to show themselves off; I ride a buckboard 'cause it suits me."

Orlando Guise chirruped. "Say, we mustn't get scrapping," he said gaily.

"We've got to make a bargain."

In a few moments they were sweeping across the prairie, and sure enough

the buckboard bumped, tumbled and plunged into the holes of the gophers

and coyotes, but the old man sat the seat with the tenacity of a gorilla

clinging to the branch of a tree.

In about three-quarters of an hour the two returned to Tralee, and in

front of the house the final bargaining took place. There was a

difference of five hundred dollars between them, and the old man fought

stubbornly for it; and though Orlando giggled, it was clear he was no

fool at a bargain, and that he had many resources. At last he threw doubt

upon the pedigree of a bull. With a snarl Mazarine strode into the house.

He had that pedigree, and it was indisputable. He would show the young

swaggerer that he could not be caught anywhere in this game.

As Joel Mazarine entered the doorway of the house Orlando giggled again,

because he had two or three other useful traps ready, and this was really

like baiting a bull. Every thrust made this bull more angry; and Orlando

knew that if he became angry enough he could bring things to a head with

a device by which the old man would be forced to yield; for he did not

want to buy, as much as Mazarine wished to sell.

The device, however, was never used, and Orlando ceased giggling

suddenly, for chancing to glance up he saw a face at a window, pale,

exquisite, delicate, with eyes that stared and stared at him as though he

were a creature from some other world.

Such a look he had never seen in anybody's eyes; such a look Louise

Mazarine had never given in her life before. Something had drawn her out

of her bed in spite of herself--a voice which was not that of old Joel

Mazarine, but a new, fresh, vibrant voice which broke into little spells

of inconsequent laughter. She loved inconsequent laughter, and never

heard it at Tralee. She had crept from her bed and to the window, and

before he saw her, she had watched him with a look which slowly became an

awakening: as though curtains had been drawn aside revealing a new,

strange, ecstatic world.

Louise Mazarine had seen something she had never seen before, because a

feeling had been born in her which she had never felt. She had never

fully known what s*x was, or in any real sense what man meant. This

romantic, picturesque, buoyant figure of youth struck her as the rock was

struck by Moses; and for the first time in all her days she was wholly

alive. Also, for the first time in his life, Orlando Guise felt a wonder

which in spite of the hereditary romance in him had never touched him

before. Like Ferdinand and Miranda in The Tempest, "they changed eyes."

A heavy step was heard coming through the hallway, and at once the

exquisite, staring face at the window vanished-while Orlando Guise turned

his back upon the open doorway and walked a few steps towards the gate in

an effort to recover himself. When he turned again to meet Mazarine, who

had a paper in his hand, there was a flush on his cheek and a new light

in his eye. The old man did not notice that, however, for his avaricious

soul was fixed upon the paper in his hand. He thrust it before Orlando's

eyes. "What you got to say to that, Mister?" he demanded.

Orlando appeared to examine the paper carefully, and presently he handed

it back and said slowly: "That gives you the extra five hundred. It's a

bargain." How suddenly he had capitulated--

"Cash?" asked the old man triumphantly. How should he know by what means

Orlando had been conquered!

"I've got a cheque in my pocket. I'll fill it in."

"A cheque ain't cash," growled the grizzly one.

"You can cash it in an hour. Come in to Askatoon, and I'll get you the

cash with it now," said Orlando. "I can't. A man's coming for a stallion

I want to sell. Give me a hundred dollars cash now to clinch the bargain,

and I'll meet you at Askatoon to-morrow and get the whole of it in cash.

I don't deal with banks. I pay hard money, and I get hard money. That's

my rule."

"Well, you're in luck, for I've got a hundred dollars," answered Orlando.

"I've just got that, and a dollar besides, in my pocket. To-morrow you go

to my lawyer, Burlingame, at Askatoon, and you'll get the rest of the

money. It will be there waiting for you."

"Cash?" pressed the old man.

"Certainly: Government hundred-dollar bills. Give me a receipt for this

hundred dollars."

"Come inside," said the old man almost cheerfully. He loved having his

own way. He was almost insanely self-willed. It did his dark soul good to

triumph over this "circus rider."

As Joel Mazarine preceded him, Orlando looked up at the window again. For

one instant the beautiful, pale face of the girl-wife appeared, and then

vanished.

At the doorway of the house Orlando Guise stumbled. That was an unusual

thing to happen to him. He was too athletic to step carelessly, and yet

he stumbled and giggled. It was not a fatuous giggle, however. In it were

all kinds of strange things.