Jean of the Lazy A [87]
Carl, yes. Why?"
"Oh, I just wondered." Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling, all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going to contradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid she would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?
"Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about it?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was ever over there."
"Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I think of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you deny--"
"What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his face was hard and hostile, and so were his eyes.
"Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodge penitentiary--"
"Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch her by the throat, he would not have looked much different.
"My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you--" She did not attempt to finish the charge.
Art sat looking at her with a queer intensity. "Your father!" he repeated. "Aleck! I never knew that, Jean. Take my word, I never knew that!" He seemed to be thinking pretty fast. "Where's Carl at?" he asked irrelevantly.
"Uncle Carl? He's home, running both ranches. I --I never could make Uncle Carl see that you must have been the one."
"Been the one that shot Crofty, you mean?" Art gave a short laugh. He got up and stood in front of her. "Thanks, awfully. Good reason why he couldn't see it! He knows well enough I didn't do it. He knows--who did." He bit his lips then, as if he feared that he had said too much.
"Uncle Carl knows? Then why doesn't he tell? It wasn't dad!" Jean took a defiant step toward him. "Art Osgood, if you dare say it was dad, I--I'll kill you!"
Art smiled at her with a brief lightening of his eyes. "I believe you would, at that," he said soberly. "But it wasn't your dad, Jean."
"Who was it?"
"I--don't--know."
"You do! You do know, Art Osgood! And you ran off; and they gave dad eight years--"
Art spoke one word under his breath, and that word was profane. "I don't see how that could be," he said after a minute.
Jean did not answer. She was biting her lips to keep back the tears. She felt that somehow she had failed; that Art Osgood was slipping through her fingers, in spite of the fact that he did not seem to fear her or to oppose her except in the final accusation. It was the lack of opposition, that lack of fear, that baffled her so. Art, she felt dimly, must be very sure of his own position; was it because he was so close to the Mexican line? Jean glanced desperately that way. It was very close. She could see the features of the Mexican soldiers lounging before the cantina over there; through the lighted window of the customhouse she could see a dark- faced officer bending over a littered desk. The guard over there spoke to a friend, and she could hear the words he said.
Jean thought swiftly. She must not let Art Osgood go back across that street. She could cover him with her gun--Art knew how well she could use it!--and she would call for an American officer and have him arrested. Or, Lite was somewhere below; she would call for Lite, and he could go and get an officer and a warrant.
"How soon you going back?" Art asked abruptly, as though he had been pondering a problem and had reached the solution. "I'll have to get a leave of absence, or go down on the books as a deserter; and I wouldn't want that. I can get it, all right. I'll go back with you and straighten this thing out, if it's the way you say it is. I sure didn't know they'd pulled your dad for it, Jean."
This, coming so close upon the heels of her own decision, set Jean all at sea again. She looked at him doubtfully.
"I thought you said you didn't know, and you wouldn't go back."
Art grinned sardonically. "I'll
"Oh, I just wondered." Jean was wondering why he had stopped smiling, all at once, and why he hesitated. Was he afraid he was going to contradict himself about the day or the errand? Or was he afraid she would ask her Uncle Carl, and find that there was no letter?
"Why don't you ask your dad, if you are so anxious to know all about it?" Art demanded abruptly. "Anyway, that's the last time I was ever over there."
"Ask dad!" Jean's anger flamed out suddenly. "Art Osgood, when I think of dad, I wonder why I don't shoot you! I wonder how you dare sit there and look me in the face. Ask dad! Dad, who is paying with his life and all that's worth while in life, for that murder that you deny--"
"What's that? Paying how?" Art leaned toward her; and now his face was hard and hostile, and so were his eyes.
"Paying! You know how he is paying! Paying in Deer Lodge penitentiary--"
"Who? YOUR FATHER?" Had Art been ready to spring at her and catch her by the throat, he would not have looked much different.
"My father!" Jean's voice broke upon the word. "And you--" She did not attempt to finish the charge.
Art sat looking at her with a queer intensity. "Your father!" he repeated. "Aleck! I never knew that, Jean. Take my word, I never knew that!" He seemed to be thinking pretty fast. "Where's Carl at?" he asked irrelevantly.
"Uncle Carl? He's home, running both ranches. I --I never could make Uncle Carl see that you must have been the one."
"Been the one that shot Crofty, you mean?" Art gave a short laugh. He got up and stood in front of her. "Thanks, awfully. Good reason why he couldn't see it! He knows well enough I didn't do it. He knows--who did." He bit his lips then, as if he feared that he had said too much.
"Uncle Carl knows? Then why doesn't he tell? It wasn't dad!" Jean took a defiant step toward him. "Art Osgood, if you dare say it was dad, I--I'll kill you!"
Art smiled at her with a brief lightening of his eyes. "I believe you would, at that," he said soberly. "But it wasn't your dad, Jean."
"Who was it?"
"I--don't--know."
"You do! You do know, Art Osgood! And you ran off; and they gave dad eight years--"
Art spoke one word under his breath, and that word was profane. "I don't see how that could be," he said after a minute.
Jean did not answer. She was biting her lips to keep back the tears. She felt that somehow she had failed; that Art Osgood was slipping through her fingers, in spite of the fact that he did not seem to fear her or to oppose her except in the final accusation. It was the lack of opposition, that lack of fear, that baffled her so. Art, she felt dimly, must be very sure of his own position; was it because he was so close to the Mexican line? Jean glanced desperately that way. It was very close. She could see the features of the Mexican soldiers lounging before the cantina over there; through the lighted window of the customhouse she could see a dark- faced officer bending over a littered desk. The guard over there spoke to a friend, and she could hear the words he said.
Jean thought swiftly. She must not let Art Osgood go back across that street. She could cover him with her gun--Art knew how well she could use it!--and she would call for an American officer and have him arrested. Or, Lite was somewhere below; she would call for Lite, and he could go and get an officer and a warrant.
"How soon you going back?" Art asked abruptly, as though he had been pondering a problem and had reached the solution. "I'll have to get a leave of absence, or go down on the books as a deserter; and I wouldn't want that. I can get it, all right. I'll go back with you and straighten this thing out, if it's the way you say it is. I sure didn't know they'd pulled your dad for it, Jean."
This, coming so close upon the heels of her own decision, set Jean all at sea again. She looked at him doubtfully.
"I thought you said you didn't know, and you wouldn't go back."
Art grinned sardonically. "I'll