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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ironheart
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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Title: Ironheart

Author: William MacLeod Raine

Release date: November 6, 2023 [eBook #72057]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1923

Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IRONHEART

***
IRONHEART
 IRONHEART
BY
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

AUTHOR OF
MAN-SIZE, TANGLED TRAILS,
THE FIGHTING EDGE, Etc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

 TO
ARTHUR CHAPMAN
“But somehow when he’s gone, you think a heap
About his virtues—how he’s square and true;
If more come stringin’ in they’d make it cheap—
This friendship thing—and spoil it all for you.”
 CONTENTS
I. Turfing it 3
II. “De King o’ Prooshia on de Job” 8
III. One of the Lost Legion 15
IV. Betty rides 19
V. Tug is “collected” 31
VI. “Nothing but a Gay-Cat anyhow” 35
VII. Tug says, “No, Thank You” 43
VIII. A Rift in the Lute 48
IX. Under Fire 55
X. “One Square Guy” 65
XI. Mr. Ne’er-do-Well 72
XII. “Is this Bird a Prisoner, or ain’t he?” 80
XIII. A Job 85
XIV. One Bad Hombre meets Another 89
XV. The Homesteader serves Notice 98
XVI. The Stampede 105
XVII. His Picture in the Paper 111
XVIII. A Hot Trail 116
XIX. Captain Thurston K. Hollister 122
XX. A Clash 130
XXI. Irrefutable Logic 142
XXII. A Stern Chase 147
XXIII. Out of the Blizzard 157
XXIV. “Come on, you Damn Bushwhacker” 166
XXV. A Difference of Opinion 174
XXVI. Black is Surprised 182
XXVII. The Man with the Bleached Blue Eyes 189
 XXVIII. Betty has her Own Way 196
XXIX. A Child of Impulse 202
XXX. Fathoms Deep 209
XXXI. Betty makes a Discovery 214
XXXII. Without Rhyme or Reason 224
XXXIII. The Bluebird alights and then takes Wing 230
XXXIV. Born that Way 237
XXXV. Birds of a Feather 246
XXXVI. A Stormy Sea 252
XXXVII. Hold the Fort 262
XXXVIII. Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt 269
XXXIX. The Turn of a Crooked Trail 277
XL. Betty discovers why she is Young 284
IRONHEART
IRONHEART
 CHAPTER I
TURFING IT

A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the camp at the edge of the
wash. It rose languidly, as though affected by the fact that the day
was going to be a scorcher. Already, though the morning was young,
a fiery sun beat down on the sand so that heat waves shimmered in
the air. Occasionally a spark from the crackling cottonwood limbs
was caught by a dust whirl and carried toward the field of ripe wheat
bordering the creek.
Of the campers there were three, all of the genus tramp, but each a
variant. They represented different types, these desert trekkers.
The gross man lying lazily under the shade of a clump of willows
might have stepped straight out of a vaudeville sketch. He was dirty
and unkempt, his face bloated and dissipated. From his lax mouth
projected an English brier pipe, uncleansably soiled. His clothes
hung on him like sacks, wrinkled and dusty, but not ragged. He was
too good a hobo to wear anything torn or patched. It was his boast
that he could get another suit for the asking any time he needed one.
“I’m a blowed-in-the-glass stiff,” he bragged now. “Drilled from
Denver to ’Frisco fifteen times, an’ never was a stake man or a
shovel bum. Not for a day, ’boes. Ask any o’ the push about old York.
They’ll give it to youse straight that he knows the best flops from
Cincie to Phillie, an’ that no horstile crew can ditch him when he’s
goin’ good.”
York was a hobo pure and simple. It was his business in life. For
“stew-bums” and “gay-cats,” to use his own phraseology, he had a
supreme contempt. His companions were amateurs, from his point of
view non-professionals. Neither of them had any pride in turfing it,
which is the blanket stiff’s expression for taking to the road. They did
not understand York’s vocabulary nor the ethics that were current in
his craft.
Yet the thin, weasel-faced man with the cigarette drooping from his
mouth was no amateur in his own line. He had a prison face, the
peculiar distortion of one side of the mouth often seen in confirmed
criminals. His light-blue eyes were cold and dead. A film veiled them
and snuffed out all expression.
“Cig” he called himself, and the name sufficed. On the road
surnames were neither asked for nor volunteered. York had sized
him up three days before when they had met at Colorado Springs,
and he had passed on his verdict to the third member of the party.
“A river rat on a vac—hittin’ the grit for a getaway,” he had
whispered.
His guess had been a good one. Cig had been brought up on the
East River. He had served time in the penitentiaries of three States
and expected to test the hospitality of others. Just now he was
moving westward because the East was too hot for him. He and a
pal had done a job at Jersey City during which they had been forced
to croak a guy. Hence his unwilling expedition to the Rockies. Never
before had he been farther from the Atlantic than Buffalo, and the
vast uninhabited stretches of the West bored and appalled him. He
was homesick for the fetid dumps of New York.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. “Wot’ell would any one
want to cross this Gawd-forsaken country fifteen times for unless he
was bughouse?”
“If you read the papes you’d know that travel is a lib’ral ejucation.
Difference between a man an’ a tree is that one’s got legs to move
around with. You ginks on the East Side act like you’re anchored to
the Batt’ry an’ the Bowery. Me, I was born there, but I been batterin’
on the road ever since I was knee-high to a duck. A fellow’s got to
throw his feet if he wants to learn,” York announced dogmatically.
There was obvious insult in Cig’s half-closed eyes. “’S at what
learned you all youse know?” he asked.
“Don’t get heavy, young feller,” advised the blanket stiff. “I’ve knew
guys to stay healthy by layin’ off me.”
The young man cooking breakfast barked a summons. “Come an’
get it.”
The tramps moved forward to eat, forgetting for the moment their
incipient quarrel. Into tin cups and plates the cook poured coffee and
stew. In his light clean build, slender but well-packed, was the
promise of the athlete. His movements disappointed this expectation.
He slouched, dragging the worn shoes through the cracks of which
the flesh was visible. Of the three, he was the only one that was
ragged. The coat he wore, which did not match the trousers, was at
the last extremity.
One might have guessed his age at twenty-three or four. If it had not
been for the sullen expression in the eyes and the smoldering
discontent of the face, he might have been good-looking. The
reddish hair was short, crisp, and curly, the eyes blue as the
Colorado summer sky above, the small head well-shaped and
beautifully poised on the sloping column of the neck.
Yet the impression he made on observers was not a pleasant one.
His good points were marred by the spirit that found outlet in a sullen
manner that habitually grudged the world a smile. He had the skin
pigment of the blond, and in the untempered sun of the Rockies
should have been tanned to a rich red-brown. Instead, the skin was
clammily unhealthy. The eyes were dulled and expressionless.
York ate wolfishly, occasionally using the sleeve of his coat for a
napkin. He talked, blatantly and continuously. Cig spoke only at rare
intervals, the cook not at all. Within the silent man there simmered a
nausea of disgust that included himself and all the universe in which
he moved.
In the underworld caste rules more rigidly than in upper strata of
society. The sense of superiority is everywhere an admission of
weakness. It is the defense of one who lives in a glass house. Since
all of these men were failures, each despised the others and
cherished his feeling that they were inferior.
“You ’boes turf it with York an’ you’ll always have plenty o’ punk and
plaster,” the old tramp swaggered. “Comes to batterin’ I’m there with
bells on.”
Translated into English, he meant that if they traveled with him they
would have bread and butter enough because he was a first-class
beggar.
“To hear youse chew the rag you’re a wiz, ain’t you?” Cig jeered. “I
ain’t noticed you diggin’ up any Ritz-Carlton lunches a guy can write
home about. How about it, Tug?”
The cook grunted.
“Me, I can tell a mark far as I can see him—know whether he’s good
for a flop or a feed,” York continued. “Onct I was ridin’ the rods into
Omaha—been punchin’ the wind till I was froze stiff, me ’n’ a pal
called Seattle. Shacks an’ the con tried to ditch us. Nothin’ doing. We
was right there again when the wheels began to move. In the yards
at Omaha we bumps into a gay-cat—like Tug here. He spills the
dope that the bulls are layin’ for us. Some mission stiff had beefed
on me. No guy with or without brass buttons can throw a scare into
old York. No can do. So I says to Seattle, says I—”
York’s story died in his throat. He stood staring, mouth open and chin
fallen.
Two men were standing on the edge of the bluff above the bed of the
creek. He did not need a second look to tell him that they had come
to make trouble.
 CHAPTER II
“DE KING O’ PROOSHIA ON DE JOB”

To Reed came his foreman Lon Forbes with a story of three tramps
camping down by Willow Creek close to the lower meadow
wheatfield.
The ranchman made no comment, unless it was one to say, “Get out
the car.” He was a tight-lipped man of few words, sometimes grim.
His manner gave an effect of quiet strength.
Presently the two were following the winding road through the
pasture. A field of golden wheat lay below them undulating with the
roll of the land. Through it swept the faintest ripple of quivering grain.
The crop was a heavy one, ripe for the reaper. Dry as tinder, a spark
might set a blaze running across the meadow like wildfire.
Forbes pointed the finger of a gnarled hand toward a veil of smoke
drifting lazily from the wash. “Down there, looks like.”
His employer nodded. They descended from the car and walked
along the edge of the bank above the creek bed. Three men sat near
a camp-fire. One glance was enough to show that they were hoboes.
Coffee in an old tomato can was bubbling over some live coals set
between two flat stones.
The big man with the bloated face was talking. The others were
sulkily silent, not so much listening as offering an annoyed refusal to
be impressed. The boaster looked up, and the vaporings died within
him.
“What you doing here?” demanded Reed. His voice was curt and
hostile.
York, true to type, became at once obsequious. “No offense, boss. If
these here are private grounds—”
“They are,” the owner cut in sharply.
“Well, we’ll hit the grit right away. No harm done, mister.” The voice
of the blanket stiff had become a whine, sullen and yet fawning.
His manner irritated both of his companions. Cig spoke first, out of
the corner of his mouth, slanting an insolent look up at the
ranchman.
“Youse de traffic cop on dis block, mister?”
Lon Forbes answered. “We know your sort an’ don’t want ’em here.
Shack! Hit the trail pronto! No back talk about it either.”
Cig looked at the big foreman. “Gawd!” he jeered. “Wotcha know
about that? De king o’ Prooshia on de job again.”
The bluff tanned Westerner took a step or two toward the ferret-
faced man from the slums. Hurriedly York spoke up. He did not want
anything “started.” There were stories current on the road of what
ranchmen had done to hoboes who had made trouble. He knew of
one who had insulted a woman and had been roped and dragged at
a horse’s heels till half dead.
“We ain’t doin’ no harm, boss. But we’ll beat it ’f you say so. Gotta
roll up our war bags.”
Reed did not discuss the question of the harm they were doing. He
knew that a spark might ignite the wheat, but he did not care to plant
the suggestion in their minds. “Put out the fire and move on,” he said
harshly.
“De king o’ Prooshia an’ de clown prince,” Cig retorted with a lift of
his lip.
But he shuffled forward and began to kick dirt over the fire with the
toe of his shoe.
Reed turned to the youngest tramp. “Get water in that can,” he
ordered.
“I don’ know about that.” Up till now the tramp called Tug had not
said a word. “I’m not your slave. Get water yourself if you want to.
Able-bodied, ain’t you?”
The rancher looked steadily at him, and the longer he looked, the
less he liked what he saw. A stiff beard bristled on the sullen face of
the tramp. He was ragged and disreputable from head to heel. In the
dogged eyes, in straddling legs, in the half-clenched fist resting on
one hip, Reed read defiance. The gorge of the Westerner rose. The
country was calling for men to get in its harvests. His own crops
were ripe and he was short of hands. Yet this husky young fellow
was a loafer. He probably would not do a day’s work if it were offered
him. He was a parasite, the kind of ne’er-do-well who declines to
saw wood for a breakfast, metaphorically speaking.
“Don’t talk back to me. Do as I say. Then get out of here.”
Reed did not lift his voice. It was not necessary. As he stood on the
bank above the sand bed he conveyed an impression of strength in
every line of his solid body. Even the corduroy trousers he wore
folded into the short laced boots seemed to have fallen into wrinkles
that expressed power. Close to fifty, the sap of virile energy still
flowed in his veins.
The fist on Tug’s hip clenched. He flushed angrily. “Kind of a local
God Almighty on tin wheels,” he said with a sneer.
York was rolling up his pack. Cig, grumbling, had begun to gather his
belongings. But the youngest tramp gave no evidence of an intention
to leave. Nor did he make a move to get water to put out the still
smoldering fire.
The rancher came down from the bank. Forbes was at his elbow.
The foreman knew the signs of old. Reed was angry. Naturally
imperious, he did not allow any discussion when clearly within his
rights. He would not waste his force on such a spineless creature as
York, but the youngest tramp was of a different sort. He needed a
lesson, and Lon judged he was about to get one.
“Hear me? Get water and douse that fire,” the ranchman said.
His steel-gray eyes were fastened to those of Tug. The tramp faced
him steadily. Forbes had a momentary surprise. This young fellow
with the pallid dead skin looked as though he would not ask for
anything better than a fight.