Kitabı oku: «The Delafield Affair», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XIV
THREE LETTERS
“Hello, Curt! When are you going back to the ranch?”
Pendleton, the invalid from the East, accosted Conrad as he emerged from the physician’s office, where he had gone for a last dressing of his wounds before returning to the round-up.
“Right now, Mr. Pendleton. Anything I can do for you?”
“Say, Curt, I’ve been wondering if I couldn’t flirt gravel along with your bunch for a while. I want to take in everything that’s going while I’m here. I’ve never been on a ranch, or seen a round-up, or a steer on the prod; and I’d like to see how things are done. Would a tenderfoot be in your way?”
“Not a bit of it! Come right along, Pendy, if you think you can stand it. You’ll have to rough it, you know; sleep on the ground with your saddle for a pillow, ride hard, and eat what comes.”
“Oh, I can stand whatever the rest of you do. I don’t fork a horse as well as a cowboy or a circus rider, but I can stick on, and I can get there ’most as soon as anybody – I mighty near got there too soon when we went after Melgares, didn’t I?”
“All right, Pendleton! If you think you can stand it, come right along with me this morning. I’m going to ride the rest of the day and most of the night; but if that’s too much for you you can stop over at the ranch to-night, and catch up with us to-morrow.”
“I reckon I’ll take it all in along with you, and I’ll meet you in half an hour in front of the court-house,” and Pendleton bustled off. Conrad went after his mare, dropping into Bancroft’s office for a last word.
The president of the First National Bank was reading his morning’s mail. He frowned over a note from Rutherford Jenkins reminding him that the first of the month was approaching, and warning him not to forget the remittance due on that day. He looked at the calendar. No; he could not take time before the first to go to Las Vegas and crack the whip he was preparing over Jenkins’s head; he would have to make this payment. Next he opened a letter from Dellmey Baxter:
“My dear Bancroft: – I think you’d better correct young Conrad’s curious notion that I had anything to do with José Gonzalez’s attack upon him, or with José’s going down there. If you don’t he might turn his suspicions in some other direction. Of course, there’s nothing in it but that greaser’s bad temper. But he thinks there is, and he’s just hot-headed enough to make it uncomfortable for anybody he happens to suspect. I didn’t send José to him and so, naturally, I can’t do anything about it, even if the fellow does get angry and act like the devil.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you in your desire to retire from our Rio Grande valley land business. I’m tied up so that I’ve got no ready money with which to buy you out. Of course, if you are determined to get out, you might find a purchaser elsewhere. But as a friend I advise you not to sell. There’s going to be big money in it, and we can probably launch the enterprise within the next six months. You’ll make a great mistake if you quit. If you decide to stay in I’m willing for you to keep on as a silent partner, just as we have done so far.”
The banker scowled, swearing softly to himself as he read the first paragraph. “Didn’t send him, didn’t he,” he grumbled. “Then who did? I didn’t, that’s sure. He recommended the fellow as a good cowboy, and Conrad engaged him. I had nothing to do with it.” He was silent again as he studied the second part of the letter. A suspicion rose in his mind that Baxter was purposely making it difficult, almost impossible, for him to get out of the land scheme. What was his purpose in so doing? Did the Congressman wish to keep a hold on him to hamper, perhaps even to control, his movements? “I wonder,” Bancroft thought, “if Dell is afraid I’ll try to cut him out politically before he’s ready to step down. I’d like his place well enough if – but that’s something out of my reckoning for a long time yet, even if everything goes right.” The surmise that Baxter wished to have such a bridle upon him left him uneasy. Well, he would have to let this thing go on as it was. If he tried to sell to any one else knowledge of his connection with it might leak out and reach Lucy’s ears. He winced as he thought of her feeling toward Baxter because of this business. And the investment promised well; rich returns might be expected from it soon. Nobody knew of his part in it except Dell, and if he stayed in and kept quiet it was unlikely that anybody else would find it out. That might be the safer plan, after all.
Conrad came to the door, and after a few minutes’ talk Bancroft said to him, remembering Baxter’s injunction, “Well, Curt, I hope you won’t find that your crazy Mexican has been trying to kill off all your men.”
Curtis laughed. “Oh, José will be all right; and he’s the best cow-punch I’ve got on the ranch. Dell Baxter will attend to him.”
“That’s an absurd notion of yours that Baxter had anything to do with it,” replied Bancroft, the Congressman’s letter still in his mind. “You’re not reasonable about Dell. Why should he want you assassinated?”
“The only reason I can see is that I’ve been talking pretty plain about him. But if he doesn’t like the kind of things I say he’ll have to get used to it, or else reform.”
“Nonsense, Curt. And even if he does think you’re handling the Castleton money against – ”
Curtis made a gesture of impatience. “I hope you don’t take any stock in that talk, Aleck. The Castletons don’t care a hang about this campaign, and Dell knows it. They’re not putting up a cent, or, if Ned is doing anything for his wife’s sake, he’s dealing with Johnny Martinez direct.”
Bancroft looked at him narrowly. “Is that right, Curt? Are you sure of it?”
“As sure as I am of anything,” the cattleman responded with emphasis. “They’ve never mentioned the subject to me.”
After Conrad had gone the banker walked the floor in anxious thought. What, then, did that five-hundred-dollar check mean that Curtis had given to Jenkins? Perhaps he was holding the young man off, saying he was not yet sure of Delafield’s identity and needed money to carry on his investigation, intending to give up his secret if he should find that he could bleed Bancroft no longer. That would be like Jenkins, he decided. As soon as he could get away he would go to Las Vegas and see if the fellow could be cowed by the knowledge that had come to him so opportunely. As for Conrad, it would be better to wait until he could learn whether those checks would produce the effect desired.
In front of the court-house the ranchman met Tillinghurst and Little Jack Wilder. The Sheriff had a subpœna commanding him to appear as a witness for the State in the Melgares trial, set for June. Curtis remarked, as they talked of the case: “I reckon you’ll have Pendleton as a witness; he’ll want to take in the whole thing. Have you seen anything of him? He promised to meet me here. He’s going back with me; says he wants to take in a round-up and see a steer on the prod. I sure reckon I’ll have my hands full if I keep the boys from taking him in.”
“Let ’em run him, Curt, let ’em run him,” said the Sheriff. “He’s good-natured, and he’ll soon strike their gait. He was never outside of New England before, and he’s tryin’ mighty hard to be tougher than anybody else on the border. He’s been in town three weeks, and he calls everybody by their first names, from Judge Banks down to my Mexican stable-boy. He writes down all the slang he hears every day, sits up nights to study it, and the next day slings it around as free and easy as an old-timer. Is that him comin’ yonder? Say, Curt, he’ll stampede every cow-brute you’ve got on the range!”
Pendleton, short, stout, and large of girth, had dressed himself for roughing it according to his own idea of custom and comfort. He wore a Mexican straw sombrero tied down over his ears with a red bandanna, a red flannel shirt, a long linen coat, huge spurs, and sheepskin chaparejos.
“Oh, where did you get that coat?” the three men sang out as he came within hearing distance. Pendleton caught the tails in his finger tips and danced some sidewise steps.
“Ain’t she a beaut?” he shouted. “I found it in a store down in Dobytown.”
“Say, Pendy,” called the Sheriff, “if you go pervadin’ and pesterin’ around among Curt’s steers in those duds I’ll have to send Jack down there to arrest you for breach of the peace.”
“All right, Tilly! I’m here for my health, but I’m takin’ in on the side everything that comes my way!”
Conrad found a letter at the ranch addressed to José Gonzalez, in his care, and grinned with satisfaction as he recognized Baxter’s handwriting. “He’s buffaloed all right and is calling off his man,” he thought as he opened with eager curiosity a missive from Baxter for himself:
“My dear young friend: – I assure you that you are barking up the wrong tree when you try to connect me with any attack the Mexican, José Gonzalez, may have made upon you. In fact, it is so much up the wrong tree that I feel pretty sure there isn’t any tree there at all! His assault was probably the result of sudden anger. The man has worked for me a good deal, and I know that such is his character. I have some influence with him, and I shall write him at once and give him a lecture on the necessity of controlling his temper. I have had occasion to do this several times in the past, not without effect. I shall tell him that you are a man of your word, and a crack shot, and that if he doesn’t keep cool he’s likely to die with his boots on. Nobody could blame you, my dear Mr. Conrad, if you should shoot him under such a necessity of self-defence. I take it ill, however, that you should connect me with this greaser’s outrageous temper and crazy actions. I assure you again that you are entirely mistaken in your assumption, which, permit me to say, is what might very well be called gratuitous.
“I congratulate Johnny Martinez upon having the support of a gentleman so energetic, influential, and enthusiastic as yourself, and I remain,
“Yours very cordially,“Dellmey Baxter.”
Conrad laughed aloud over the letter, exclaiming as he finished it, “He’s a slick one, he is!”
Another letter bore the imprint of Tremper & Townsend, and contained a check for five hundred dollars and a brief note saying that their client, Sumner L. Delafield, wished them to send him this money as a second instalment of the amount due his father’s estate, and to add that like sums would follow in rapid succession. Conrad scowled and gnawed his moustache as he read the letter the second time. He was considering whether he had any right to accept the money and continue his quest of vengeance. Delafield evidently meant to buy him off with it and, if he accepted, did he not tacitly accept that condition?
“I’ll send it back to him,” was his first thought, as he reached for a pen. But another idea stayed his hand. The former check he had divided between his brother and sisters, and, as they knew nothing of his scheme of revenge, this also ought to go to them. But Delafield must know upon what terms he accepted the money. With a grim look on his face he wrote to the Boston attorneys:
“I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of a second check for five hundred dollars from your client, Sumner L. Delafield. I am reasonably grateful that an unexpected sense of remorse has led him to loose his purse-strings, even at this late day, and on behalf of my brother and sisters will ask you to send him their thanks. As for myself, you may tell him that I hope the sending of the money has eased his conscience, for it will procure him no other benefit. Every cent of money he sees fit to send me I shall turn over to my father’s other children, while I shall find entire satisfaction in following out my revenge. What that is he doubtless knows, for the sending of these checks convinces me that he is moved, not by the honest wish to do what he can toward righting a dastardly wrong, but by the desire to save his own skin. Please tell him, from me, that he cannot buy immunity from my purpose, even though he should send me the whole of the debt three times over.”
CHAPTER XV
VILLAINY UNMASKED
Pendleton, bouncing in his saddle as they galloped southward, bent admiring glances upon the erect figure of his companion, whose seat was as steady as if horse and rider had been welded together. “Say, Curt,” he finally called out, “how do you do it? I’d give my bad lung if I could ride like you.”
Conrad gave him some instruction, and Pendleton turned all his attention toward learning how to bring his body into rhythmic accord with the movements of his horse. The cattleman, pounding along in silence, thought with satisfaction of the progress his search for Delafield was making and planned how he should carry it on after the round-up, when he would have more leisure. He would make a list of the men in New Mexico rich and prominent enough to come under suspicion, investigate their records, one by one, and so by elimination discover the person he wanted. Then would come the meeting!
His thoughts full of the climax of his search, he rode on in a sort of exaltation, unconsciously humming a song he and Lucy Bancroft had been practising. Presently, through the silence, the sound entered his conscious hearing, and took his thoughts back to the pleasant hour he and she had spent over it. But a vague uneasiness stirred his feelings as the image of Lucy floated past the background of that grisly, dominating purpose. The thought of her persisted; as it clung there, along the edge of his absorption, it brought a sharp and curious suggestion of the maimed bird he had carried in his bosom. He was suddenly conscious of discomfort, as if he had hurt some helpless thing, when his reverie was broken by a series of wild yells from his companion. Pendleton had been lagging behind, but he now came dashing forward, giving vent to his delight because he had so far mastered the art of riding that he no longer bounced all over the horse’s back nor fell forward and seized its mane at each change of gait.
A spring welled alluringly from a dimple in the hillside. Pendleton dismounted, saying he was thirsty. “Don’t drink from that spring, Pendy,” Conrad admonished him. “It’s alkali, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“It looks all right, and it’s cool,” said the tenderfoot, dipping his hand in the water. “My throat’s as hot and dry as that road. What harm will it do?”
“Well, pretty soon you’ll think you’re chewing cotton; and it may make you sick, though this spring isn’t strong enough of alkali to do you much harm.”
“I’ll risk it,” Pendleton declared, scooping up some water in his hat-brim. “It’s wet when it goes down, anyway. And I reckon I might as well take in an alkali spring, too, while I’ve got the chance. Everything goes!” An hour later he galloped alongside of Conrad, working his jaws and licking his lips. “Say, Curt,” he mumbled, “I know a fellow back home who’d give a thousand dollars for such a thirst as I’ve got!”
It was midnight when they passed Rock Springs, where the superintendent had left his outfit. Two hours later, when Brown Betty put out her nose and neighed, an answering whinny came back from beyond the next hill. “That’s only Five Cottonwoods,” thought Curtis. “It can’t be they’ve got no farther than that!” They gained the top of the hill and below them, in the light of the waning moon, they saw the white top of the chuck-wagon, the dark patch of sleeping cattle patrolled by a single horseman, and the figures of the men sprawled on the ground around the dying coals of their evening fire.
“Here we are, Pendy!” said Curtis. “I thought they would have got farther than this, and that we’d have at least two hours more of travel. Now we’ll have time for a little sleep before you begin busting those broncs.”
They stretched themselves on the ground and almost instantly fell asleep. But it was not long before Conrad, rousing suddenly, sprang to his feet, realizing even before he was fairly awake that the cattle were stampeding. From down the hill came a thundering, rushing sound, the noise of hundreds of hoofs pounding the ground. He called his foreman, seized his saddle, and rushed to the bunch of tethered cow-ponies, Peters, Texas Bill, Red Jack, and José Gonzalez close behind. As they dashed after the flying herd Curtis could see in the dim light the figure of the cowboy who had been patrolling the sleeping cattle. He was following the stampede at what his employer thought a leisurely pace.
“Who was riding herd?” he yelled to Peters, who replied, “Andy Miller.”
“Is he trying to drive them farther away?” Conrad muttered angrily, pressing home his spur.
The cattle tore wildly down the hill, but at its foot their leaders turned up the course of the dry shallow valley instead of pressing up the other side. The men saw the movement, and by cutting across the hillside gained rapidly upon the fleeing animals. As they passed Andy Miller, Curtis shouted to him that he might return to the camp, as they should not need him. The draw soon began to grow deeper and narrower, and the dense mass of cattle was forced to lessen its pace. Conrad remembered that farther on the valley came to an abrupt end against a steep rise. If the brutes stayed in it a little longer they would not be able to get out, and when they came to the end of this blind alley of the hills they would have to stop. So he and his companions galloped easily along beside the shadowy stream of moving backs with its spray of tossing horns that filled the draw, and presently found the leaders, their heads to the bluff, chewing their cuds as quietly as if they had never been frightened in all their lives.
As they rode back to camp behind the staidly moving herd, Conrad asked Peters if he knew what caused the stampede. The foreman did not know, he had been sound asleep when it began. But he went on to tell an excited tale of mysterious accidents that had followed close upon one another ever since the morning of the superintendent’s departure. Only the edge of the sand-storm through which he had ridden touched them, though it had kept them in camp all day. Nevertheless, there had been two stampedes, and they had had much trouble getting the brutes together again. Every day since there had been at least one stampede of the herd. He and the others had been kept busy gathering in the flying cattle. This was why they had got no farther than Five Cottonwoods. It seemed as if the devil himself had taken possession of every cow-brute on the range; never in all his years as a cow-puncher had he had such a time.
“Don’t you know what starts them?”
“That’s the mischief of it. Nobody ever knows. The darned critters just get up and hike. Some of the boys are gettin’ skeery about it, and they’re likely to pull their freight if it keeps up. They’re tellin’ ghost stories now after supper, and Andy Miller has been reelin’ off the whoppin’est yarns ever you heard. Between the ghost stories and the way the cow-brutes act the boys are gettin’ plumb fidgety, and I’m mighty glad you’ve got back.”
“How does Andy get on with the work? Does he sabe?”
“Yes; he’s first rate; the best we’ve got, except José. But Andy does have main bad luck with the cow-brutes. This makes four times they’ve stampeded under him.”
Promise of day was flushing the eastern sky and faintly warming the gray semi-darkness when Pendleton’s eyes flew open, to instant conviction of illness. From head to foot he ached with weariness, and he felt wretchedly sick. For a moment he kept quiet, feeling that it would be more comfortable to lie still and die than to try to move. But presently he thought, “I’ll never live to die of consumption if I don’t get up quick and find my whiskey!”
He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Not nearly so many men were stretched on the ground as he had expected to see, and his friend was not in sight. He looked for his saddle-bags, where he kept his flask. Conrad had taken them from the horse when they unsaddled, and Pendleton had not noticed what he did with them. He could not find the bags, everybody left in camp was sound asleep, and Curtis had disappeared. Wrapped in his blanket he was wandering around forlornly, squirming with pain, when he saw some one moving in the group of horses farther down the hill. He started in that direction and saw the man stoop beside Conrad’s mare, Brown Betty.
“Hello, pard! Where’s Curt?” Pendleton called loudly. The man straightened up quickly, and put away a knife. He looked at the curious figure coming toward him, and burst into a loud guffaw. “Gee whillikens, stranger! where’d you drop from?” he shouted back.
Pendleton explained, and asked the other to help him find his saddle-bags. They were discovered in the chuck-wagon, and the invalid offered his flask, with a cordial admonition to “drink hearty, pard.” The cowboy responded literally, and made several other visits to the saddle-bags before breakfast. By that time he was good-naturedly obstreperous, and had the camp in an uproar with his horse-play and noisy pranks. Conrad asked Peters where Andy got his whiskey. The foreman did not know, and said that this was the first time he had shown any signs of drink. The superintendent went to Pendleton.
“Has Andy Miller been taking a pull at your flask?”
“The cow-punch that’s feeling so happy? Sure, Curt. He helped me find my saddle-bags, and I thought I’d be sociable with him. I told him to drink hearty; and by thunder, Curt! you ought to have seen him. He sure had a worse thirst on him than I had yesterday.”
“I’ll have to ask you not to do it again with any of them. And you’d better let me put your flask in a locked box I have in the chuck-wagon, if you don’t carry it in your pocket, or you may not have any left by night.”
Gonzalez came up with a question, and Conrad remembered the letter he had for him. The Mexican took it with an unconcerned face, and went off behind the chuck-wagon. “I don’t need to see the inside of it,” thought Curtis; “but I’d like to all the same. Well, he’ll be all right now, and I’m glad of it, for I’d hate to have to kill as good a roper as he is.”
A few minutes later José strolled toward the cook’s fire, twisting the letter in his fingers. He was about to thrust it into the coals when Andy Miller jumped at him with a yell, and caught his hand. “Here, boys; José’s got a love letter! Let’s read it!” he shouted. Gonzalez resisted; Miller bore him down; and they rolled, struggling, over the ground. José’s dark face was pale with anger and his teeth were set as he gripped the bit of paper in one fist and pummelled Andy’s face with the other. Miller tried to shield himself from the blows with his arms, while he bent his energies to getting possession of the letter.
“You’re fightin’, Andy; don’t fergit to punch!” yelled Nosey Ike from the group of cowboys looking on. Miller was the stronger of the two, and almost had the Mexican in his power when Conrad came beside them, saying, “If you want the letter burned, José, give it to me.”
Gonzalez cast at him one doubtful, desperate look, and threw the twisted paper toward him. The superintendent thrust it in the fire, and he and Peters separated the two men. Gonzalez flashed at him a look of gratitude and walked away without a word.
“Andy,” said Conrad, “you’re making too much trouble this morning. If you want to work with this outfit you’ve got to keep straight. If you don’t want to do that you can pull your freight right now.”
The man turned away sullenly. “I’m not ready to pull my freight yet,” he muttered. The other cowboys were saddling their ponies and making ready to begin the day’s work. The bunched cattle, with the red rays of the morning sun warm upon their backs, were quietly grazing a little way down the hillside. Andy Miller started toward his horse, but turned and ran rapidly at the cattle. No one noticed what he was doing until, in a moment more, he was jumping, yelling, and swinging his hat at the edge of the herd. Snorting with sudden surprise and fright, the beasts were away again as though fiends were at their tails. Conrad rushed for his horse, but Peters, already mounted, yelled that they would not need him; and the foreman, with half a dozen others, dashed after the stampede.
Andy Miller was coming slowly back, now and then stopping to smite his thigh and laugh. Curtis walked out to meet him. “Andy,” he said, “I reckon I don’t need you any longer. You can take your time this morning. Here’s your money.”
The cowboy looked up, grinning, and thrust the bills in his pocket. Then, as quickly and lightly as a cat, he sprang upon the superintendent and pulled him down. Conrad, taken completely by surprise, with his left arm in a sling and at something less than his best of strength, for a moment could do nothing but struggle in the other’s grasp. Miller was holding him, face downward, across one advanced leg, when Pendleton, still wrapped in his blanket, bustled up to see what was happening. With upraised hand, Miller yelled:
“Now, then, you’ll get it back, every darn’ spank, an’ more too! Jenkins ain’t big enough to spank you himself, but I can do it for him!” His hand descended, but into an enveloping blanket suddenly thrown over him from behind, muffling head, body, and arms.
“I’ve got him, Curt! Get up, quick, and we’ll do him up!” shouted the tenderfoot as he twisted the blanket around Andy’s struggling figure.
Conrad wrenched himself free and sprang up, his face white. “Let him up, Pendy,” he said, drawing his revolver. The other unwound the blanket, and Miller scrambled out, blinking and cursing. “You make tracks out of this camp as fast as you can go,” said Curtis, “and don’t let me catch you within gunshot of this outfit again! Clear out, this minute, damn you!”
Miller walked away in silence toward his staked horse, the two men following him part way down the hill.
“He’d better clear out before the boys get back, if he wants to keep a sound neck,” said Conrad, his revolver in hand and his eyes on the retreating cowboy. “I understand it all now. And it was a lucky thing, Pendy, that you gave him that whiskey this morning; it got him just drunk enough to show his hand. If it hadn’t been for that I might not have caught on till he’d done the Lord knows how much mischief. It’s just like that damned skunk, Jenkins, to go at it in this sneaking, underhand way. He’s not through with me yet!”
They watched while Miller saddled his horse, hung his rope at the saddle-horn, and mounted. Then they turned back toward the camp, but presently, at a whinny from Brown Betty, Curtis faced about. Miller had ridden to where she was standing, a little apart from the other horses, had leaped to the ground, and was making toward her hind-quarters. His body was in profile, and as he stretched out his arm Conrad saw the flash of sunlight upon a knife blade. Instantly his arm swung upward, and there was an answering flash from the muzzle of his revolver. The report boomed across the valley, and Andy’s right arm dropped. He rushed toward them, yelling foul names, but halted when he saw the pistol levelled at his breast.
“No more tricks, Andy,” called the superintendent, “or it’ll be through your heart next time. Git, right now!”
From up the valley came the shouts of the men. They had turned the cattle and were hurrying them back to camp. Miller cast one quick glance in their direction, and leaped to his saddle. He made a wide detour, the tail of his eye on Conrad’s gun, and galloped away on the road over which the outfit had come. The others trooped up where Curtis and Pendleton, at the top of the hill, were watching his lessening figure.
“Boys,” said the ranchman, “that’s the chap that’s been stampeding the cattle!” Peters swore a mouth-filling oath and smote his thigh. “He was just on the point of ham-stringing Brown Betty,” Curtis went on, his eyes blazing, “and I put a bullet through his arm barely in time to prevent it.”
A light broke upon Pendleton. “Darn my skin, if that wasn’t the trick the critter was up to this morning, when he saw me and stopped!”
“Let’s go after him, boys!” shouted Peters. The group of riders shot forward, like racers starting at the word, and thundered down the road after the culprit. Conrad looked after them grimly, his eyes flashing blue fire, and Pendleton, wrapped in his blanket again, danced about and yelled, “Go it, boys, go it! I wish I was with you!”
For an hour they chased him. He, knowing what his fate would be if he fell into their hands, put spurs to his horse until he brought out its utmost speed. Having so much the start he kept well in the lead, and finally they gave it up and returned to camp.
With his left arm still in a sling and his shoulder bandaged, Conrad kept at the head of the round-up, which went on without further accident. He was too busy to think of the pain, except at night, when it often kept him awake. At such times his mind was sure to busy itself, sooner or later, with the trailing of Delafield, reaching out in every direction for some clew to guide his next step. By some trick of subconscious mental action, thoughts of Lucy Bancroft began to intrude upon his mind when it was thus engaged. It pleased him well enough to think of Lucy at other times, of her bright, piquant face, of the positive opinions she was in the habit of pronouncing with that independent little toss of her curly head, and of her dimpling smiles. But it annoyed him that the thought of her should come into conflict with his one absorbing idea. And, just because he had been consciously disturbed by it twice or thrice, association of ideas brought back the image more and more frequently. Once, when he had been vainly wooing sleep for an hour, he caught himself wondering what Lucy would say about the Delafield affair. He muttered an angry oath at himself, and with a mighty effort put both subjects out of his mind. It was not until they reached Pelham, the railway station whence the cattle were to be shipped, that his shoulder became free enough from pain for him to sink into sleep as soon as he lay down; and thereafter his mind forbore its irritating trick.
