The loom of lies

It was an August evening in the valley of the Bunch Grass, and in a year so dry that the poplars and cottonwoods along the Lost Horse River had already turned yellow, and the leaves of the willows were a crackling carpet to the tread of thirsty stock.

No rain had come to the valley since the last Chinook winds had swept the winter snows, and the river was merely a shallow watercourse of evil-smelling fluid. The rolling hills, which extended back to the encircling mountains, were as brown as burlap, and the range cattle were dusty of hide, thin of flank and red-eyed from the heat.

At the north end of this valley, its boundaries extending to the encircling cliffs, through which came the road out of Blackfeet Pass, was the JHF ranch, owned by John H. Fann, known throughout the valley as “John the Baptist.” This was not because of any religious proclivities, but because of his enormous size, his great white beard, which swept almost to his waist, and his massive head of white hair, hanging to his shoulders.

Just now John Fann sat on the broad steps of the JHF ranch house, a rambling, unpainted structure, his elbows on his knees and his hands concealed under his great beard. He might well have posed for Rodin’s “The Thinker,” although there was a trifle more of sorrow than of thought in his half-closed eyes.

Behind him, leaning against one of the porch posts, stood “Ma” Fann, a thin, sad-faced little woman, with large, brown eyes, and a wisp of colorless hair, drawn tightly back and knotted in what was commonly known as a “pug.” She was looking off across the seemingly endless hills, which had lost their drab hues of day and were painted in ivory and lavender in the glow of the setting sun.

But Ma Fann’s eyes and expression did not register that she was viewing the beauties of the painted hills. She had seen them many times in the last fifteen years. Perhaps she had marveled at the Master Artist’s handiwork at some remote time, but that time was long forgotten.

Just out in front of the steps was Bob Kern, squatted on the heels of his boots, as he drew meaningless patterns in the dust with a piece of willow-branch. He was a thin-waisted cowboy, with a face as thin and bony as the face of a half-starved Indian. His nose had been broken and grew at a peculiar angle, and one eye was not exactly set in a straight focus, but his thin-lipped mouth was full of good teeth.

Bob Kern lifted his thin face and squinted narrowly at John Fann. He looked down at the dust-patterns and cleared his throat softly.

“’T’s all right, John--’f yuh look at it thataway. It ain’t noways my point of view. Rustlin’ ’s rustlin’, and it don’t make no difference whether it’s me ’r you or the King of Siam--it’s still rustlin’.”

“Yes, it’s still rustlin’,” said John Fann softly. “Men will always steal, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder why, Bob.”

“Why?” Bob Kern squinted closely, and then looked up at Ma Fann, “Will yuh go inside the house, Ma? I’ve gotta swear a few notes.”

Ma Fann smiled wistfully.

“Swearing doesn’t help, Bob.”

“Mebbe not you, Ma--but it does me. It makes me so ---- mad, I tell yuh. Here they’ve been stealin’ JHF cattle for a year, until--” Bob Kern spread his hands wearily--“Honest, Ma, we ain’t got enough left t’ wad a shot-gun.”

“Is it as bad as that, Bob?”

“Wel-l-ll,” drawled Bob, “mebbe it ain’t quite that bad, Ma, but it sure is gittin’ serious. Another year at this rate and there won’t be a JHF cow on the Bunch Grass range.”