The Bad Man | Page 2

of no consequence. He never connected himself with so remote
an event. Yet a few years later he, with many others, was fighting in
France--a lieutenant in the United States Army--just because a shot had
been fired at a man he had never heard of!
A strange world, he pondered, as he looked out over the blue hills,
heavy with heat, and meandering away to God knows where.
Then, surely it was no fault of his if the Government under which he
lived made no strenuous effort to stop the Mexican massacres of
American citizens all along the border. One firm word, one splendid
gesture, and daring raids would have ceased; and there would have
been no menace of bandits hereabouts. It would have been a country fit
to live in. There would have developed a feeling of permanence and
peace, and a young chap could have made his plans for the future with
some sense of security and high optimism. Surely they were entitled to
protection--these brave boys and stalwart sons of America who
fearlessly took up claims, staked all, and strove to make homes in this
thrilling section along the borderland. They were not mere adventurers;
they were pioneers. They were of the best stuff that America
contained--clean-cut, clear-eyed, with level heads and high hearts. Yet
their own Government did not think enough of them to offer them the
sure protection they were entitled to.
Gilbert looked back on that distant day when he had gone up to Bisbee
and purchased four head of cattle, and brought them himself to this
ranch he had purchased, happy as only a fool is happy. Within a week
they had mysteriously disappeared.

Rumors of Mexican thieves and assassins had come to him, as they had
come to all the young land-owners along the line. He recalled how,
after one raid, in which a good citizen had been foully murdered in his
bed, he had called a meeting of the ranchers in their section, and with
one voice they agreed to send a protest to Washington.
They did so. Nothing happened. An aching silence followed. They
wrote again; and then one day a pale acknowledgment of their
communication came in one of those long and important-looking
unstamped envelopes. It seemed very official, very impressive. But
mere looks never helped any cause. They were not naïve enough to
expect the Secretary of State to come down in person and see to the
mending of things. But a platoon of soldiers--a handful of
troops--would have worked wonders. Jones always contended that not a
shot would have to be fired; no more deaths on either side would be
necessary. The mere presence of a few men in uniform would have the
desired effect. The bandits, now prowling about, would slink over the
invisible border to their own territory, and never be heard of again. Of
that he felt confident.
But no! Watchful waiting was the watchword--or the catchword. And
the eternal and infernal raids went on.
It was while they were having their community meeting that he had
come to know Jasper Hardy and his young daughter Angela, who
occupied the next ranch, about a mile and a half south of his. Before
that he had been too busy to bother about neighbors. "Red" Giddings,
his foreman, had spoken once or twice about "some nice folks down the
line," but he hadn't heard much of what he said. There were always a
hundred and one odd jobs to be done around the place--something was
forever needing attention; and when Uncle Henry wasn't grumbling
about something, he was forcing his nephew to play checkers or
cribbage or cards with him. And, working so hard all day, he was glad
to turn in early at night. Social life, therefore--unless you could call
high words with a crabbed invalid a form of social life--didn't come
within Gilbert's ken. It was work, work, work, and the desire to make
good every moment for him.

But Hardy proved to be an aggressive fighter when the meeting took
place, and spoke in sharp tones of the Government's dilatoriness. He
had come to Arizona right after his wife's death in the East, and brought
his only daughter and a few servants with him. He seemed to have
plenty of money, and he was anxious lest the invading Mexicans should
get any of it away from him. His holdings, in the eight years since he
had come to the border, amounted to several thousand well-cultivated
acres; and he looked like a man who, when he set out to get anything,
would get it. He had an inordinate desire to grab up some more territory.
Tall and thin, and sharp-featured, as well as sharp-tongued, he
resembled a hawk. It was difficult to realize the fact that