Brand Blotters. William MacLeod Raine

desert—no man knew or asked. Melissy had guessed, but she did not breathe to a soul her knowledge. It was a first article of Arizona’s creed that a man’s past belonged to him alone, was a blotted book if he chose to have it so. No doubt many had private reasons for their untrumpeted migration to that kindly Southwest which buries identity, but no wise citizen busied himself with questions about antecedents. The present served to sift one, and by the way a man met it his neighbors judged him.

      And T. L. Morse met it competently. In every emergency with which he had to cope the man “stood the acid.” Arizona approved him a man, without according him any popularity. He was too 64 dogmatic to win liking, but he had a genius for success. Everything he touched turned to gold.

      The Bar Double G lies half way between Mammoth and Mesa. Its position makes it a central point for ranchers within a radius of fifteen miles. Out of the logical need for it was born the store which Beauchamp Lee ran to supply his neighbors with canned goods, coffee, tobacco, and other indispensables; also the eating house for stage passengers passing to and from the towns. Young as she was, Melissy was the competent manager of both of these.

      It was one afternoon during the hour the stage stopped to let the passengers dine that Melissy’s wandering eye fell upon Morse seated at one of the tables. Anger mounted within her at the cool impudence of the man. She had half a mind to order him out, but saw he was nearly through dinner and did not want to make a scene. Unfortunately Beauchamp Lee happened to come into the store just as his enemy strolled out from the dining-room.

      The ranchman stiffened. “What you been doing in there, seh?” he demanded sharply.

      “I’ve been eating a very good dinner in a public café. Any objections?”

      “Plenty of ’em, seh. I don’t aim to keep open house for Mr. Morse.”

      “I understand this is a business proposition. I expect to pay seventy-five cents for my meal.” 65

      The eyes of the older man gleamed wrathfully. “As for yo’ six bits, if you offer it to me I’ll take it as an insult. At the Bar Double G we’re not doing friendly business with claim jumpers. Don’t you evah set yo’ legs under my table again, seh.”

      Morse shrugged, turned away to the public desk, and addressed an envelope, the while Lee glared at him from under his heavy beetling brows. Melissy saw that her father was still of half a mind to throw out the intruder and she called him to her.

      “Dad, José wants you to look at the hoof of one of his wheelers. He asked if you would come as soon as you could.”

      Beauchamp still frowned at Morse, rasping his unshaven chin with his hand. “Ce’tainly, honey. Glad to look at it.”

      “Dad! Please.”

      The ranchman went out, grumbling. Five minutes later Morse took his seat on the stage beside the driver, having first left seventy-five cents on the counter.

      The stage had scarce gone when the girl looked up from her bookkeeping to see the man with the Chihuahua hat.

      “Buenos tardes, señorita,” he gave her with a flash of white teeth.

      “Buenos,” she nodded coolly.

      But the dancing eyes of her could not deny their pleasure at sight of him. They had rested upon 66 men as handsome, but upon none who stirred her blood so much.

      He was in the leather chaps of a cowpuncher, gray-shirted, and a polka dot kerchief circled the brown throat. Life rippled gloriously from every motion of him. Hermes himself might have envied the perfect grace of the man.

      She supplied his wants while they chatted.

      “Jogged off your range quite a bit, haven’t you?” she suggested.

      “Some. I’ll take two bits’ worth of that smokin’, nina.”

      She shook her head. “I’m no little girl. Don’t you know I’m now half past eighteen?”

      “My—my. That ad didn’t do a mite of good, did it?”

      “Not a bit.”

      “And you growing older every day.”

      “Does my age show?” she wanted to know anxiously.

      The scarce veiled admiration of his smoldering eyes drew the blood to her dusky cheeks. Something vigilant lay crouched panther-like behind the laughter of his surface badinage.

      “You’re standing it well, honey.”

      The color beat into her face, less at the word than at the purring caress in his voice. A year ago she had been a child. But in the Southland flowers ripen fast. Adolescence steals hard upon the heels of infancy, and, though the girl had never wakened 67 to love, Nature was pushing her relentlessly toward a womanhood for which her unschooled impulses but scantily safeguarded her.

      She turned toward the shelves. “How many air-tights did you say?”

      “I didn’t say.” He leaned forward across the counter. “What’s the hurry, little girl?”

      “My name is Melissy Lee,” she told him over her shoulder.

      “Mine is Phil Norris. Glad to give it to you, Melissy Lee,” the man retorted glibly.

      “Can’t use it, thank you,” came her swift saucy answer.

      “Or to lend it to you—say, for a week or two.”

      She flashed a look at him and passed quickly from behind the counter. Her father was just coming into the store.

      “Will you wait on Mr. Norris, dad? Hop wants to see me in the kitchen.”

      Norris swore softly under his breath. The last thing he had wanted was to drive her away. It had been nearly a year since he had seen her last, but the picture of her had been in the coals of many a night camp fire.

      The cattle detective stayed to dinner and to supper. He and her father had their heads together for hours, their voices pitched to a murmur. Melissy wondered what business could have brought him, whether it could have anything to do with the renewed rustling that had of late annoyed the 68 neighborhood. This brought her thoughts to Jack Flatray. He, too, had almost dropped from her world, though she heard of him now and again. Not once had he been to see her since the night she had sprained her ankle.

      Later, when Melissy was watering the roses beside the porch, she heard the name of Morse mentioned by the stock detective. He seemed to be urging upon her father some course of action at which the latter demurred. The girl knew a vague unrest. Lee did not need his anger against Morse incensed. For months she had been trying to allay rather than increase this. If Philip Norris had come to stir up smoldering fires, she would give him a piece of her mind.

      The men were still together when Melissy told her father good-night. If she had known that a whisky bottle passed back and forth a good many times in the course of the evening, the fears of the girl would not have been lightened. She knew that in the somber moods following a drinking bout the lawlessness of Beauchamp Lee was most likely to crop out.

      As for the girl, now night had fallen—that wondrous velvet night of Arizona, which blots out garish day with a cloak of violet, purple-edged where the hills rise vaguely in the distance, and softens magically all harsh details beneath the starry vault—she slipped out to the summit of the ridge in the big pasture, climbing lightly, with the springy ease 69 born of the vigor her nineteen outdoor years had stored in the strong young body. She wanted to be alone, to puzzle out what the coming of this man meant to her. Had he intended anything by that last drawling remark of his in the store? Why was it that his careless, half insulting familiarity set the blood leaping through her like wine? He lured her to the sex duel, then trampled down her reserves roughshod. His bold assurance stung her to anger, but there was a something deeper than anger that left her flushed and tingling.

      Both men slept late, but Norris was down first. He found Melissy