Читать книгу Justin Wingate, Ranchman - Whitson John Harvey - Страница 9

William Sanders did not forget nor forgive.

He ceased to annoy Lucy Davison, and even in time affected to overlook the humiliation to which he felt Justin had subjected him; but deep in his heart he nursed both for Philip Davison and Justin an ineradicable hate, which revealed itself at times in disputes fomented with the farmers.

Sanders’ half-veiled enmity troubled Justin less than the discovery which came to him one day of the innate dishonesty of Ben Davison’s character.

Philip Davison was in one of the bunk rooms, paying off his “hands,” when Justin and Ben arrived from the high mesa where for a month they had been line-riding together. Bronchos stood outside on the trampled grass. Within, where the walls above the rude wooden bunks were hung with bridles and quirts, saddles and ponchos, ropes and spurs, sat Davison, at a small unpainted table, counting out money to his employes and keeping a record of the amounts paid by writing names and sums with a stub pencil in a soiled account book. Davison was fifty years of age now, red-faced, blue-eyed, and bearded. Justin had learned to admire and like him, for there were admirable traits in his character. Though he swore horrible oaths at times, which he complained a man had to do if he handled cattle and cowboys, he had generally been kind to Justin, and he had conceived a fondness for Clayton, whom he respected for his learning and skill as a physician.

Having received his wages from the hands of Philip Davison, Justin went out behind the bunk house, and was counting his bills in the drizzle that was falling, when Ben appeared, his manner nervous and his eyes shining.

“I’m ahead this time!” he said.

Then, to Justin’s astonishment, he lifted one of his boots, and there, sticking to the muddy sole, was a five-dollar bill. He pulled it away with a chuckle, wiped off the mud as well as he could, and added it to the pile in his hands.

Justin stared at him, with a look which Ben resented.

“Some money was on the table and the wind flirted that bill to the floor. I set my boot on it, and when I walked out it walked out with me.”

“You didn’t do that!”

“What’s the difference? Father will never know! And he’s got plenty more where that came from. He only pays me beastly cowboy’s wages, when I’m his own son. So I helped myself, when I saw my chance.”

Justin’s look showed reproof, and Ben flushed in angry irritation.

“You’d tell, would you?”

“That’s stealing!”

A flush of red waved into Ben’s face. Stung by the inner knowledge of his wrong, this blunt condemnation roused the latent devil in him. He leaped at Justin blindly, and struck him in the face.

Justin had never fought any one in his life, nor could he remember that he had ever before been struck in anger. But when that blow fell on his face with stinging force, his head became unaccountably hot, he trembled violently, and with a hoarse cry gurgling from his lips he sprang upon Ben and struck him to the earth with one blow of his fist.

Having done that, he drew back, shaken and dismayed. He had knocked Ben Davison down, when but a moment before they had been friends! He stared at Ben, who had dropped heavily to the ground. Already he was remorseful and almost frightened. Ben scrambled up, cursing.

“I’ll make you pay for that!” he said, wiping a speck of blood from his trembling lips with his hand.

“It—it was your fault! I—”

Philip Davison came round the corner of the building upon this scene, having heard the blows and the fall. He saw Ben’s cut and quivering lip, his clothing wet and muddy, and Justin standing before him with hot, flushed face.

“You struck Ben?” he cried.

Ben was his pride.

Justin looked at him, after an appealing glance at Ben.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, with humility and a feeling of repentant uneasiness. He had gained Ben’s enmity, and he feared he had lost Philip Davison’s regard, which he valued highly.

Ben was crumpling together the wad of bills, and thrust them into his pocket.

“Yes, he struck me, but I hit him first,” he confessed. “We had a little quarrel, a few words, that’s all.”

Though no larger than Justin, he was older, and it humiliated him to confess even this much.

Davison was annoyed and angry.

“Go into the house, Ben,” he commanded; “I’ll see you later.”

When Ben was gone he turned to Justin.

“I’ve tried to do right by you, Justin, and I’ve liked your work; but you must remember that Ben is my son. I can’t think that you had any good reason to strike him.”

“I didn’t intend to strike him,” Justin urged, “and I shouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t struck me first.”

“Well, I won’t have you two quarreling and fighting. Just remember that, will you?”

“He struck me first!” said Justin, sturdily, though deeply troubled by the knowledge that he had offended Philip Davison.

Davison followed Ben into the house, leaving Justin weak and bewildered. He had smothered his sudden explosive rage, yet he still felt its influence. That he could have struck Ben in that way seemed incredible; yet he tried to justify the deed to himself. He was about to walk away, when Ben reappeared and came up to him.

“Justin, you’re a brick, to stand by a fellow that way! You knocked me down, but I don’t hold it against you, for you can keep your mouth shut.”

“You still have that money?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t changed my opinion about that!”

Ben’s face reddened again.

“What if I did keep it? You’re fussy, and you’re a fool! What is my father’s is mine, or it will be mine some day; I just took a little of it ahead of time, that’s all. It will all be mine, when he goes over the divide.”

Justin was horrified. Ben had expressed reckless and defiant views on many subjects, but nothing like this flippant speculation concerning his father’s death.

“I won’t listen to you when you talk that way,” he declared; and he moved away.