When Fraser reached the dining-room for breakfast his immediate family had finished and departed. He had been up till four o'clock and his mother had let him sleep as long as he would. Now, at nine, he was up again and fresh as a daisy after a morning bath.
He found at the next table two other late breakfasters.
“Mo'ning, Miss Kinney. How are you, Tennessee?” he said amiably.
Both Larry and the young woman admitted good health, the latter so blushingly that Steve's keen eyes suggested to him that he might not be the only one with news to tell this morning.
“What's that I hear about Struve and Dunke?” asked Neill at once.
“Oh, you've heard it. Well, it's true. I judge Dunke was arranging to get him out of the country. Anyhow, Johnson says he took the fellow out to his surrey from the shaft-house of the Mal Pais under his gun. A moment later the engineer heard a shot and ran out. Dunke lay in the road dead, with a knife through his heart. We found the surrey down in the canyon. It had gone over the edge of the road. Both the hawsses were dead, and Struve had disappeared. How the thing happened I reckon never will be known unless the convict tells it. My guess would be that Dunke attacked him and the convict was just a little bit more than ready for him.”
“Have you any idea where Struve is?”
“The obvious guess would be that he is heading for Mexico. But I've got another notion. He knows that's where we will be looking for him. His record shows that he used to trail with a bunch of outlaws up in Wyoming. That was most twenty years ago. His old pals have disappeared long since. But he knows that country up there. He'll figure that down here he's sure to be caught and hanged sooner or later. Up there he'll have a chance to hide under another name.”
Neill nodded. “That's a big country up there and the mountains are full of pockets. If he can reach there he will be safe.”
“Maybe,” the ranger amended quietly.
“Would you follow him?”
The officer's opaque gaze met the eyes of his friend. “We don't aim to let a prisoner make his getaway once we get our hands on him. Wyoming ain't so blamed far to travel after him—if I learn he is there.”
For a moment all of them were silent. Each of them was thinking of the fellow and the horrible trail of blood he had left behind him in one short week. Margaret looked at her lover and shuddered. She had not the least doubt that this man sitting opposite them would bring the criminal back to his punishment, but the sinister grotesque shadow of the convict seemed to fall between her and her happiness.
Larry caught her hand under the table and gave it a little pressure of reassurance. He spoke in a low voice. “This hasn't a thing to do with us, Peggy—not a thing. They were already both out of your life.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“There aren't any buts.” He smiled warmly, and his smile took the other man into their confidence. “You've been having a nightmare. That's past. See the sunshine on those hills. It's bright mo'ning, girl. A new day for you and for me.”
Steve grinned. “This is awful sudden, Tennessee. You must a-been sawing wood right industrious on the hawssback ride and down in the tunnel. I expect there wasn't any sunshine down there, was there?”
“You go to grass, Steve.”
“No, Tennessee is ce'tainly no two-bit man. Lemme see. One—two—three—four days. That's surely going some,” the ranger soliloquized.
“Mr. Fraser,” the young woman reproved with a blush.
“Don't mind him, Peggy. He's merely jealous,” came back Larry.
“Course I'm jealous. Whyfor not? What license have these Panhandle guys to come in and tote off our girls? But don't mind me. I'll pay strict attention to my ham and eggs and not see a thing that's going on.”
“Lieutenant!” Miss Margaret was both embarrassed and shocked.
“Want me to shut my eyes, Tennessee?”
“Next time we get engaged you'll not be let in on the ground floor,” Neill predicted.
“Four days! My, my! If that ain't rapid transit for fair!”
“You're a man of one idea, Steve. Cayn't you see that the fact's the main thing, not the time it took to make it one?”
“And counting out Sunday and Monday, it only leaves two days.”
“Don't let that interfere with your breakfast. You haven't been elected timekeeper for this outfit, you know!”
Fraser recovered from his daze and duly offered congratulations to the one and hopes for unalloyed joy to the other party to the engagement.
“But four days!” he added in his pleasant drawl. “That's sure some precipitous. Just to look at him, ma'am”—this innocently to Peggy—“a man wouldn't think he had it in him to locate, stake out, and do the necessary assessment work on such a rich claim as the Margaret Kinney all in four days. Mostly a fellow don't strike such high-grade ore without a lot of—”
“That will do for you, lieutenant,” interrupted Miss Kinney, with merry, sparkling eyes. “You needn't think we're going to let you trail this off into a compliment now. I'm going to leave you and see what Mrs. Collins says. She won't sit there and parrot 'Four days' for the rest of her life.”
With which Mistress Peggy sailed from the room in mock hauteur.
When Larry came back from closing the door after her, his friend fell upon him with vigorous hands to the amazement of Wun Hop, the waiter.
“You blamed lucky son of a gun,” he cried exuberantly between punches. “You've ce'tainly struck pure gold, Tennessee. Looks like Old Man Good Luck has come home to roost with you, son.”
The other, smiling, shook hands with him. “I'm of that opinion myself, Steve,” he said.
“Say, you Teddy hawss, I'm plumb fed up with sagebrush and scenery. I kinder yearn for co'n bread and ham. I sure would give six bits for a drink of real wet water. Yore sentiments are similar, I reckon, Teddy.”
The Texan patted the neck of his cow pony, which reached round playfully and pretended to nip his leg. They understood each other, and were now making the best of a very unpleasant situation. Since morning they had been lost on the desert. The heat of midday had found them plowing over sandy wastes. The declining sun had left them among the foothills, wandering from one to another, in the vain hope that each summit might show the silvery gleam of a windmill, or even that outpost of civilization, the barb-wire fence. And now the stars looked down indifferently, myriads of them, upon the travelers still plodding wearily through a land magically transformed by moonlight to a silvery loveliness that blotted out all the garish details of day.
The Texan drew rein. “We all been discovering that Wyoming is a powerful big state. Going to feed me a cigarette, Teddy. Too bad a hawss cayn't smoke his troubles away,” he drawled, and proceeded to roll a cigarette, lighting it with one sweeping motion of his arm, that passed down the leg of his chaps and ended in the upward curve at his lips.
The flame had not yet died, when faintly through the illimitable velvet night there drifted to him a sound.
“Did you hear that, pardner?” the man demanded softly, listening intently for a repetition of it.
It came presently, from away over to the left, and, after it, what might have been taken for the popping of a distant bunch of firecrackers.
“Celebrating the Fourth some premature, looks like. What? Think not, Teddy! Some one getting shot up? Sho! You are romancin', old hawss.”
Nevertheless he swung the pony round and started rapidly in the direction of the shots. From time to time there came a renewal of them, though the intervals grew longer and the explosions were now individual ones. He took the precaution to draw his revolver from the holster and to examine it carefully.
“Nothing like being sure. It's a heap better than being sorry afterward,” he explained to the cow pony.
For the first time in twelve hours, he struck a road. Following this as it wound up to the summit of a hill, he discovered that the area of disturbance was in the valley below. For, as he began his descent, there was a flash from a clump of cotton-woods almost at his feet.
“Did yo' git him?” a voice demanded anxiously.
“Don't know, dad,” the answer came, young, warm, and tremulous.
“Hello! There's a kid there,” the Texan decided. Aloud, he asked quietly: “What's the row, gentlemen?”
One of the figures whirled—it was the boyish one, crouched behind a dead horse—and fired at him.
“Hold on, sonny! I'm a stranger. Don't make any more mistakes like that.”
“Who are you?”
“Steve Fraser they call me. I just arrived from Texas. Wait a jiff, and I'll come down and explain.”
He stayed for no permission, but swung from the saddle, trailed the reins, and started down the slope. He could hear a low-voiced colloquy between the two dark figures, and one of them called roughly:
“Hands up, friend! We'll take no chances on yo'.”
The Texan's hands went up promptly, just as a bullet flattened itself against a rock behind him. It had been fired from the bank of the dry wash, some hundred and fifty yards away.
“That's no fair! Both sides oughtn't to plug at me,” he protested, grinning.
The darkness which blurred detail melted as Fraser approached, and the moonlight showed him a tall, lank, unshaven old mountaineer, standing behind a horse, his shotgun thrown across the saddle.
“That's near enough, Mr. Fraser from Texas,” said the old man, in a slow voice that carried the Southern intonation. “This old gun is loaded with buckshot, and she scatters like hell. Speak yore little piece. How came yo' here, right now?”
“I got lost in the Wind River bad lands this mo'ning, and I been playing hide and go seek with myself ever since.”
“Where yo' haided for?”
“Gimlet Butte.”
“Huh! That's right funny, too.”
“Why?”
“Because all yo' got to do to reach the butte is to follow this road and yore nose for about three miles.”
A bullet flung up a spurt of sand beside the horse.
The young fellow behind the dead horse broke in, with impatient alarm: “He's all right, dad. Can't you tell by his way of talking that he's from the South? Make him lie down.”
Something sweet and vibrant in the voice lingered afterward in the Texan's mind almost like a caress, but at the time he was too busy to think of this. He dropped behind a cottonwood, and drew his revolver.
“How many of them are there?” he asked of the lad, in a whisper.
“About six, I think. I'm sorry I shot at you.”
“What's the row?”
“They followed us out of Gimlet Butte. They've been drinking. Isn't that some one climbing up the side of the ridge?”
“I believe it is. Let me have your rifle, kid.”
“What for?” The youngster took careful aim, and fired.
A scream from the sagebrush—just one, and then no more.
“Bully for you', Arlie,” the old man said.
None of them spoke for some minutes, then Fraser heard a sob—a stifled one, but unmistakable none the less.
“Don't be afraid, kid. We'll stand 'em off,” the Texan encouraged.
“I ain't afraid, but I—I——Oh, God, I've killed a man.”
The Texan stared at him, where he lay in the heavy shadows, shaken with his remorse. “Holy smoke! Wasn't he aiming to kill you? He likely isn't dead, anyhow. You got real troubles to worry about, without making up any.”
He could see the youngster shaking with the horror of it, and could hear the staccato sobs forcing themselves through the closed teeth. Something about it, some touch of pathos he could not account for, moved his not very accessible heart. After all, he was a slim little kid to be engaged in such a desperate encounter Fraser remembered his own boyhood and the first time he had ever seen bloodshed, and, recalling it, he slipped across in the darkness and laid an arm across the slight shoulder.
“Don't you worry, kid. It's all right. You didn't mean—”
He broke off in swift, unspeakable amazement. His eye traveled up the slender figure from the telltale skirt. This was no boy at all, but a girl. As he took in the mass of blue-black hair and the soft but clean-cut modeling from ear to chin, his hand fell from her shoulder. What an idiot he had been not to know from the first that such a voice could have come only from a woman! He had been deceived by the darkness and by the slouch hat she wore. He wanted to laugh in sardonic scorn of his perception.
But on the heel of that came a realization of her danger. He must get her out of there at once, for he knew that the enemy must be circling round, to take them on the flank too. It was not a question of whether they could hold off the attackers. They might do that, and yet she might be killed while they were doing it. A man used to coping with emergencies, his brain now swiftly worked out a way of escape.
“Yore father and I will take care of these coyotes. You slip along those shadows up the hill to where my Teddy hawss is, and burn the wind out of here,” he told her.
“I'll not leave dad,” she said quickly.
The old mountaineer behind the horse laughed apologetically. “I been trying to git her to go, but she won't stir. With the pinto daid, o' course we couldn't both make it.”
“That's plumb foolishness,” the Texan commented irritably.
“Mebbe,” admitted the girl; “but I reckon I'll stay long as dad does.”
“No use being pigheaded about it.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “Is this your say-so, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is?” she asked sharply, less because she resented what he said than because she was strung to a wire edge.
His troubled gaze took in again her slim girlishness. The frequency of danger had made him proof against fear for himself, but just now he was very much afraid for her. Hard man as he was, he had the Southerner's instinctive chivalry toward woman.
“You better go, Arlie,” her father counseled weakly.
“Well, I won't,” she retorted emphatically.
The old man looked whimsically at the Texan. “Yo' see yo'self how it is, stranger.”
Fraser saw, and the girl's stanchness stirred his admiration even while it irritated him. He made his decision immediately.
“All right. Both of you go.”
“But we have only one horse,” the girl objected. “They would catch us.”
“Take my Teddy.”
“And leave you here?” The dark eyes were full on him again, this time in a wide-open surprise.
“Oh, I'll get out once you're gone. No trouble about that.”
“How?”
“We couldn't light out, and leave yo' here,” the father interrupted.
“Of course we couldn't,” the girl added quickly. “It isn't your quarrel, anyhow.”
“What good can you do staying here?” argued Fraser. “They want you, not me. With you gone, I'll slip away or come to terms with them. They haven't a thing against me.”
“That's right,” agreed the older man, rubbing his stubbly beard with his hand. “That's sho'ly right.”
“But they might get you before they understood,” Arlie urged.
“Oh, I'll keep under cover, and when it's time, I'll sing out and let them know. Better leave me that rifle, though.” He went right on, taking it for granted that she had consented to go: “Slip through those shadows up that draw. You'll have no trouble with Teddy. Whistle when you're ready, and your father will make a break up the hill on his hawss. So-long. See you later some time, mebbe.”
She went reluctantly, not convinced, but overborne by the quality of cheerful compulsion that lay in him. He was not a large man, though the pack and symmetry of his muscles promised unusual strength. But the close-gripped jaw, the cool serenity of the gray eyes that looked without excitement upon whatever they saw, the perfect poise of his carriage—all contributed to a personality plainly that of a leader of men.
It was scarce a minute later that the whistle came from the hilltop. The mountaineer instantly swung to the saddle and set his pony to a canter up the draw. Fraser could see him join his daughter in the dim light, for the moon had momentarily gone behind a cloud, but almost at once the darkness swallowed them.
Some one in the sagebrush called to a companion, and the Texan knew that the attackers had heard the sound of the galloping horses. Without waiting an instant, he fired twice in rapid succession.
“That'll hold them for a minute or two,” he told himself. “They won't understand it, and they'll get together and have a powwow.”
He crouched behind the dead horse, his gaze sweeping the wash, the sagebrush, and the distant group of cottonwoods from which he had seen a shot fired. Though he lay absolutely still, without the least visible excitement, he was alert and tense to the finger tips. Not the slightest sound, not the smallest motion of the moonlit underbrush, escaped his unwavering scrutiny.
The problem before him was to hold the attackers long enough for Arlie and her father to make their escape, without killing any of them or getting killed himself. He knew that, once out of the immediate vicinity, the fugitives would leave the road and take to some of the canyons that ran from the foothills into the mountains. If he could secure them a start of fifteen minutes that ought to be enough.
A voice from the wash presently hailed him:
“See here! We're going to take you back with us, old man. That's a cinch. We want you for that Squaw Creek raid, and we're going to have you. You done enough damage. Better surrender peaceable, and we'll promise to take you back to jail. What say?”
“Gimme five minutes to think it over,” demanded the Texan.
“All right, five minutes. But you want to remember that it's all off with you if you don't give up. Billy Faulkner's dead, and we'll sure come a-shooting.”
Fraser waited till his five minutes was nearly up, then plunged across the road into the sagebrush growing thick there. A shot or two rang out, without stopping him. Suddenly a man rose out of the sage in front of him, a revolver in his hand.
For a fraction of a second, the two men faced each other before either spoke.
“Who are you?”
Fraser's answer was to dive for the man's knees, just as a football tackle does. They went down together, but it was the Texan got up first. A second man was running toward him.
“Hands up, there!” the newcomer ordered.
Fraser's hand went up, but with his forty-five in it. The man pitched forward into the sage. The Southerner twisted forward again, slid down into the dry creek, and ran along its winding bed for a hundred yards. Then he left it, cutting back toward the spot where he had lain behind the dead horse. Hiding in the sage, he heard the pursuit pouring down the creek, waited till it was past, and quickly recrossed the road. Here, among the cow-backed hills, he knew he was as safe as a needle in a haystack.
“I had to get that anxious guy, but it might have been a whole lot worse. I only plugged his laig for him,” he reflected comfortably. “Wonder why they wanted to collect the old man's scalp, anyhow? The little girl sure was game. Just like a woman, though, the way she broke down because she hit that fellow.”
Within five minutes he was lost again among the thousand hills that rose like waves of the sea, one after another. It was not till nearly morning that he again struck a road.
He was halted abruptly by a crisp command from behind a bowlder:
“Up with your hands—quick!”
“Who are you, my friend?” the Texan asked mildly.
“Deputy sheriff,” was the prompt response. “Now, reach for the sky, and prompt, too.”
“Just as you say. You've ce'tainly got the crawl on me.”
The deputy disarmed his captive, and drove him into town before him. When morning dawned, Fraser found himself behind the bars. He was arrested for the murder of Faulkner.
After the jailer had brought his breakfast, Fraser was honored by a visit from the sheriff, a big, rawboned Westerner, with the creases of fifty outdoor years stamped on his brown, leathery face.
He greeted his prisoner pleasantly enough, and sat down on the bed.
“Treating you right, are they?” he asked, glancing around. “Breakfast up to the mark?”
“I've got no kick coming, thank you,” said Fraser.
“Good!”
The sheriff relapsed into sombre silence. There was a troubled look in the keen eyes that the Texan did not understand. Fraser waited for the officer to develop the object of his visit, and it was set down to his credit. A weaker man would have rushed at once into excuses and explanations. But in the prisoner's quiet, steely eyes, in the close-shut mouth and salient jaw, in the set of his well-knit figure, Sheriff Brandt found small room for weakness. Whoever he was, this man was one who could hold his own in the strenuous game of life.
“My friend,” said the sheriff abruptly, “you and I are up against it. There is going to be trouble in town to-night.”
The level, gray eyes looked questioningly at the sheriff.
“You butted into grief a-plenty when you lined up with the cattlemen in this sheep war. Who do you ride for?”
“I'm not riding for anybody,” responded Fraser. “I just arrived from Texas. Didn't even know there was a feud on.”
Brandt laughed incredulously. “That will sound good to a jury, if your case ever comes to that stage. How do you expect to explain Billy Faulkner's death?”
“Is there any proof I killed him?”
“Some. You were recognized by two men last night while you were trying to escape. You carried a rifle that uses the same weight bullet as the one we dug out of Billy. When you attacked Tom Peake you dropped that rifle, and in your getaway hadn't time to pick it up again. That is evidence enough for a Wyoming jury, in the present state of public opinion.”
“What do you mean by 'in the present state of public opinion'?”
“I mean that this whole country is pretty nearly solid against the Cedar Mountain cattlemen, since they killed Campeau and Jennings in that raid on their camp. You know what I mean as well as I do.”
Fraser did not argue the point. He remembered now having seen an account of the Squaw Creek raid on a sheep camp, ending in a battle that had resulted in the death of two men and the wounding of three others. He had been sitting in a hotel at San Antonio, Texas, when he had read the story over his after-dinner cigar. The item had not seemed even remotely connected with himself. Now he was in prison at Gimlet Butte, charged with murder, and unless he was very much mistaken the sheriff was hinting at a lynching. The Squaw Creek raid had come very near to him, for he knew the fight he had interrupted last night had grown out of it.
“What do you mean by trouble to-night?” he asked, in an even, conversational tone.
The sheriff looked directly at him. “You're a man, I reckon. That calls for the truth. Men are riding up and down this country to-day, stirring up sentiment against your outfit. To-night the people will gather in town, and the jail will be attacked.”
“And you?”
“I'll uphold the law as long as I can.”
Fraser nodded. He knew Brandt spoke the simple truth. What he had sworn to do he would do to the best of his ability. But the Texan knew, too, that the ramshackle jail would be torn to pieces and the sheriff overpowered.
From his coat pocket he drew a letter, and presented it to the other. “I didn't expect to give this to you under these circumstances, Mr. Brandt, but I'd like you to know that I'm on the level when I say I don't know any of the Squaw Creek cattlemen and have never ridden for any outfit in this State.”
Brandt tore open the letter, and glanced hurriedly through it. “Why, it's from old Sam Slauson! We used to ride herd together when we were boys.” And he real aloud:
“Introducing Steve Fraser, lieutenant in the Texas Rangers.”
He glanced up quickly. “You're not the Fraser that ran down Chacon and his gang of murderers?”
“Yes, I was on that job.”
Brandt shook hands heartily. “They say it was a dandy piece of work. I read that story in a magazine. You delivered the goods proper.”
The ranger was embarrassed. “Oh, it wasn't much of a job. The man that wrote it put in the fancy touches, to make his story sell, I expect.”
“Yes, he did! I know all about that!” the sheriff derided. “I've got to get you out of this hole somehow. Do you mind if I send for Hilliard, the prosecuting attorney? He's a bright young fellow, loaded to the guards with ideas. What I want is to get at a legal way of fixing this thing up, you understand. I'll call him up on the phone, and have him run over.”
Hilliard was shortly on the spot—a short, fat little fellow with eyeglasses. He did not at first show any enthusiasm in the prisoner's behalf.
“I don't doubt for a moment that you are the man this letter says you are, Mr. Fraser,” he said suavely. “But facts are stubborn things. You were seen carrying the gun that killed Faulkner. We can't get away from that just because you happen to have a letter of introduction to Mr. Brandt.”
“I don't want to get away from it,” retorted. Fraser. “I have explained how I got into the fight. A man doesn't stand back and see two people, and one of them a girl, slaughtered by seven or eight.”
The lawyer's fat forefinger sawed the air. “That's how you put it. Mind, I don't for a moment say it isn't the right way. But what the public wants is proof. Can you give evidence to show that Faulkner and his friends attacked Dillon and his daughter? Have you even got them on hand here to support your statement? Have you got a grain of evidence, apart from your bare word?”
“That letter shows—”
“It shows nothing. You might have written it yourself last night. Anyhow, a letter of introduction isn't quite an excuse for murder.”
“It wasn't murder.”
“That's what you say. I'll be glad to have you prove it.”
“They followed Dillon—if that is his name—out of town.”
“They put it that they were on their way home, when they were attacked.”
“By an old man and his daughter,” the Texan added significantly.
“There again we have only your statement for it. Half a dozen men had been in town during the day from the Cedar Mountain district. These men were witnesses in the suit that rose over a sheep raid. They may all have been on the spot, to ambush Faulkner's crowd.”
Brandt broke in: “Are you personally convinced that this gentleman is Lieutenant Fraser of the Rangers?”
“Personally, I am of opinion that he is, but—”
“Hold your horses, Dave. Believing that, do you think that we ought to leave him here to be lynched to-night by Peake's outfit?”
“That isn't my responsibility, but speaking merely as a private citizen, I should say, No.”
“What would you do with him then?”
“Why not take him up to your house?”
“Wouldn't be safe a minute, or in any other house in town.”
“Then get out of town with him.”
“It can't be done. I'm watched.”
Hilliard shrugged.
The ranger's keen eyes went from one to another. He saw that what the lawyer needed was some personal interest to convert him into a partisan. From his pocket he drew another letter and some papers.
“If you doubt that I am Lieutenant Fraser you can wire my captain at Dallas. This is a letter of congratulation to me from the Governor of Texas for my work in the Chacon case. Here's my railroad ticket, and my lodge receipt. You gentlemen are the officers in charge. I hold you personally responsible for my safety—for the safety of a man whose name, by chance, is now known all over this country.”
This was a new phase of the situation, and it went home to the lawyer's mind at once. He had been brought into the case willy nilly, and he would be blamed for anything that happened to this young Texan, whose deeds had recently been exploited broadcast in the papers. He stood for an instant in frowning thought, and as he did so a clause in the letter from the Governor of Texas caught and held his eye.
which I regard as the ablest, most daring, and, at the same time,the most difficult and most successful piece of secret service thathas come to my knowledge....
Suddenly, Hilliard saw the way out—a way that appealed to him none the less because it would also serve his own ambitions.
“Neither you nor I have any right to help this gentleman to escape, sheriff. The law is plain. He is charged with murder. We haven't any right to let our private sympathies run away with us. But there is one thing we can do.”
“What is that?” the sheriff asked.
“Let him earn his freedom.”
“Earn it! How?”
“By serving the State in this very matter of the Squaw Creek raid. As prosecuting attorney, it is in my discretion to accept the service of an accomplice to a crime in fixing the guilt upon the principals. Before the law, Lieutenant Fraser stands accused of complicity. We believe him not guilty, but that does not affect the situation. Let him go up into the Cedar Mountain country and find out the guilty parties in the Squaw Creek raid.”
“And admit my guilt by compromising with you?” the Texan scoffed.
“Not at all. You need not go publicly. In point of fact, you couldn't get out of town alive if it were known. No, we'll arrange to let you break jail on condition that you go up into the Lost Canyon district, and run down the murderers of Campeau and Jennings, That gives us an excuse for letting you go. You see the point—don't you?”
The Texan grinned. “That isn't quite the point, is it?” he drawled. “If I should be successful, you will achieve a reputation, without any cost to yourself. That's worth mentioning.”
Hilliard showed a momentary embarrassment.
“That's incidental. Besides, it will help your reputation more than mine.”
Brandt got busy at once with the details of the escape. “We'll loosen up the mortar round the bars in the south room. They are so rickety anyhow I haven't kept any prisoners there for years. After you have squeezed through you will find a horse saddled in the draw, back here. You'll want a gun of course.”
“Always providing Lieutenant Fraser consents to the arrangement,” the lawyer added smoothly.
“Oh, I'll consent,” laughed Fraser wryly. “I have no option. Of course, if I win I get the reward—whatever it is.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Then I'm at your service, gentlemen, to escape whenever you say the word.”
“The best time would be right after lunch. That would give you five hours before Nichols was in here again,” the sheriff suggested.
“Suppose you draw a map, showing the route I'm to follow to reach Cedar Mountain. I reckon I had better not trouble folks to ask them the way.” And the Texan grinned.
“That's right. I'll fix you up, and tell you later just where you'll find the horse,” Brandt answered.
“You're an officer yourself, lieutenant,” said the lawyer. “You know just how much evidence it takes to convict. Well, that's just how much we want. If you have to communicate with us, address 'T. L. Meredith, Box 117.' Better send your letter in cipher. Here's a little code I worked out that we sometimes use. Well, so-long. Good hunting, lieutenant.”
Fraser nodded farewell, but did not offer to shake hands.
Brandt lingered for an instant. “Don't make any mistake, Fraser, about this job you've bit off. It's a big one, and don't you forget it. People are sore on me because I have fallen down on it. I can't help it. I just can't get the evidence. If you tackle it, you'll be in danger from start to finish. There are some bad men in this country, and the worst of them are lying low in Lost Valley.”
The ranger smiled amiably. “Where is this Lost Valley?”
“Somewhere up in the Cedar Mountain district. I've never been there. Few men have, for it is not easy to find; and even if it were strangers are not invited.”
“Well, I'll have to invite myself.”
“That's all right. But remember this. There are men up there who would drill holes in a dying man. I guess Lost Valley is the country God forgot.”
“Sounds right interesting.”
“You'll find it all that, and don't forget that if they find out what you are doing there, it will be God help Steve Fraser!”
The ranger's eyes gleamed. “I'll try to remember it.”
It was one-twenty when Fraser slipped the iron bar from the masonry into which it had been fixed and began to lower himself from the window. The back of the jail faced on the bank of a creek; and into the aspens, which ran along it at this point in a little grove, the fugitive pushed his way. He descended to the creek edge and crossed the mountain stream on bowlders which filled its bed. From here he followed the trail for a hundred yards that led up the little river. On the way he passed a boy fishing and nodded a greeting to him.
“What time is it, mister?” the youngster asked.
A glance at his watch showed the Texan that it was one-twenty-five.
“The fish have quit biting. Blame it all, I'm going home. Say, mister, Jimmie Spence says they're going to lynch that fellow who killed Billy Faulkner—going to hang him to-night, Jimmie says. Do you reckon they will?”
“No, I reckon not.”
“Tha's what I told him, but Jimmie says he heard Tom Peake say so. Jimmie says this town will be full o' folks by night.”
Without waiting to hear any more of Jimmie's prophecies, Fraser followed the trail till it reached a waterfall Brandt bad mentioned, then struck sharply to the right. In a little bunch of scrub oaks he found a saddled horse tied to a sapling. His instructions were to cross the road, which ran parallel with the stream, and follow the gulch that led to the river. Half an hour's travel brought him to another road. Into this he turned, and followed it.
In a desperate hurry though he was, Steve dared not show it. He held his piebald broncho to the ambling trot a cowpony naturally drops into. From his coat pocket he flashed a mouthharp for use in emergency.
Presently he met three men riding into town. They nodded at him, in the friendly, casual way of the outdoors West. The gait of the pony was a leisurely walk, and its rider was industriously executing, “I Met My Love In the Alamo.”
“Going the wrong way, aren't you?” one of the three suggested.
“Don't you worry, I'll be there when y'u hang that guy they caught last night,” he told them with a grin.
From time to time he met others. All travel seemed to be headed townward. There was excitement in the air. In the clear atmosphere voices carried a long way, and all the conversation that came to him was on the subjects of the war for the range, the battle of the previous evening, and the lynching scheduled to take place in a few hours. He realized that he had escaped none too soon, for it was certain that as the crowd in town multiplied, they would set a watch on the jail to prevent Brandt from slipping out with his prisoner.
About four miles from town he cut the telephone wires, for he knew that as soon as his escape became known to the jailer, the sheriff would be notified, and he would telephone in every direction the escape of his prisoner, just the same as if there had been no arrangement between them. It was certain, too, that all the roads leading from Gimlet Butte would be followed and patrolled immediately. For which reason he left the road after cutting the wires, and took to the hill trail marked out for him in the map furnished by Brandt.
By night, he was far up in the foothills. Close to a running stream, he camped in a little, grassy park, where his pony could find forage. Brandt had stuffed his saddlebags with food, and had tied behind a sack, with a feed or two of oats for his horse. Fraser had ridden the range too many years to risk lighting a fire, even though he had put thirty-five miles between him and Gimlet Butte. The night was chill, as it always is in that altitude, but he rolled up in his blanket, got what sleep he could, and was off again by daybreak.
Before noon he was high in the mountain passes, from which he could sometimes look down into the green parks where nested the little ranches of small cattlemen. He knew now that he was beyond the danger of the first hurried pursuit, and that it was more than likely that any of these mountaineers would hide him rather than give him up. Nevertheless, he had no immediate intention of putting them to the test.
The second night came down on him far up on Dutchman Creek, in the Cedar Mountain district. He made a bed, where his horse found a meal, in a haystack of a small ranch, the buildings of which were strung along the creek. He was weary, and he slept deep. When he awakened next morning, it was to hear the sound of men's voices. They drifted to him from the road in front of the house.
Carefully he looked down from the top of his stack upon three horsemen talking to the bare-headed ranchman whom they had called out from his breakfast.
“No, I ain't seen a thing of him. Shot Billy Faulkner, you say? What in time for?” the rancher was innocently asking.
“You know what for, Hank Speed,” the leader of the posse made sullen answer. “Well, boys, we better be pushing on, I expect.”
Fraser breathed freer when they rode out of sight. He had overslept, and had had a narrow shave; for his pony was grazing in the alfalfa field within a hundred yards of them at that moment. No sooner had the posse gone than Hank Speed stepped across the field without an instant's hesitation and looked the animal over, after which he returned to the house and came out again with a rifle in his hands.
The ranger slid down the farther side of the stack and slipped his revolver from its holster. He watched the ranchman make a tour of the out-buildings very carefully and cautiously, then make a circuit of the haystack at a safe distance. Soon the rancher caught sight of the man crouching against it.
“Oh, you're there, are you? Put up that gun. I ain't going to do you any harm.”
“What's the matter with you putting yours up first?” asked the Texan amiably.
“I tell you I ain't going to hurt you. Soon as I stepped out of the house I seen your horse. All I had to do was to say so, and they would have had you slick.”
“What did you get your gun for, then?”
“I ain't taking any chances till folks' intentions has been declared. You might have let drive at me before I got a show to talk to you.”
“All right. I'll trust you.” Fraser dropped his revolver, and the other came across to him.
“Up in this country we ain't in mourning for Billy Faulkner. Old man Dillon told me what you done for him. I reckon we can find cover for you till things quiet down. My name is Speed.”
“Call me Fraser.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Fraser. I reckon we better move you back into the timber a bit. Deputy sheriffs are some thick around here right now. If you have to lie hid up in this country for a spell, we'll make an arrangement to have you taken care of.”
“I'll have to lie hid. There's no doubt about that. I made my jail break just in time to keep from being invited as chief guest to a necktie party.”
“Well, we'll put you where the whole United States Army couldn't find you.”
They had been walking across the field and now crawled between the strands of fence wire.
“I left my saddle on top of the stack,” the ranger explained.
“I'll take care of it. You better take cover on top of this ridge till I get word to Dillon you're here. My wife will fix you up some breakfast, and I'll bring it out.”
“I've ce'tainly struck the good Samaritan,” the Texan smiled.
“Sho! There ain't a man in the hills wouldn't do that much for a friend.”
“I'm glad I have so many friends I never saw.”
“Friends? The hills are full of them. You took a hand when old man Dillon and his girl were sure up against it. Cedar Mountain stands together these days. What you did for them was done for us all,” Speed explained simply.
Fraser waited on the ridge till his host brought breakfast of bacon, biscuits, hard-boiled eggs, and coffee. While he ate, Speed sat down on a bowlder beside him and talked.
“I sent my boy with a note to Dillon. It's a good thirty miles from here, and the old man won't make it back till some time to-morrow. Course, you're welcome at the house, but I judge it wouldn't be best for you to be seen there. No knowing when some of Brandt's deputies might butt in with a warrant. You can slip down again after dark and burrow in the haystack. Eh? What think?”
“I'm in your hands, but I don't want to put you and your friends to so much trouble. Isn't there some mountain trail off the beaten road that I could take to Dillon's ranch, and so save him from the trip after me?”
Speed grinned. “Not in a thousand years, my friend. Dillon's ranch ain't to be found, except by them that know every pocket of these hills like their own back yard. I'll guarantee you couldn't find it in a month, unless you had a map locating it.”
“Must be in that Lost Valley, which some folks say is a fairy tale,” the ranger said carelessly, but with his eyes on the other.
The cattleman made no comment. It occurred to Fraser that his remark had stirred some suspicion of him. At least, it suggested caution.
“If you're through with your breakfast, I'll take back the dishes,” Speed said dryly.
The day wore to sunset. After dark had fallen the Texan slipped through the alfalfa field again and bedded in the stack. Before the morning was more than gray he returned to the underbrush of the ridge. His breakfast finished, and Speed gone, he lay down on a great flat, sun-dappled rock, and looked into the unflecked blue sky. The season was spring, and the earth seemed fairly palpitating with young life. The low, tireless hum of insects went on all about him. The air was vocal with the notes of nesting birds. Away across the valley he could see a mountain slope, with snow gulches glowing pink in the dawn. Little checkerboard squares along the river showed irrigated patches. In the pleasant warmth he grew drowsy. His eyes closed, opened, closed again.
He was conscious of no sound that awakened him, yet he was aware of a presence that drew him from drowsiness to an alert attention. Instinctively, his hand crept to his scabbarded weapon.
“Don't shoot me,” a voice implored with laughter—a warm, vivid voice, that struck pleasantly on his memory.
The Texan turned lazily, and leaned on his elbow. She came smiling out of the brush, light as a roe, and with much of its slim, supple grace. Before, he had seen her veiled by night; the day disclosed her a dark, spirited young creature. The mass of blue-black hair coiled at the nape of the brown neck, the flash of dark eyes beneath straight, dark eyebrows, together with a certain deliberation of movement that was not languor, made it impossible to doubt that she was a Southerner by inheritance, if not by birth.
“I don't reckon I will,” he greeted, smiling. “Down in Texas it ain't counted right good manners to shoot up young ladies.”
“And in Wyoming you think it is.”
“I judge by appearances, ma'am.”
“Then you judge wrong. Those men did not know I was with dad that night. They thought I was another man. You see, they had just lost their suit for damages against dad and some more for the loss of six hundred sheep in a raid last year. They couldn't prove who did it.” She flamed into a sudden passion of resentment. “I don't defend them any. They are a lot of coyotes, or they wouldn't have attacked two men, riding alone.”
He ventured a rapier thrust. “How about the Squaw Creek raid? Don't your friends sometimes forget to fight fair, too?”
He had stamped the fire out of her in an instant. She drooped visibly. “Yes—yes, they do,” she faltered. “I don't defend them, either. Dad had nothing to do with that. He doesn't shoot in the back.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” he retorted cheerfully. “And I'm glad to hear that your friends the enemy didn't know it was a girl they were attacking. Fact is, I thought you were a boy myself when first I happened in and you fanned me with your welcome.”
“I didn't know. I hadn't time to think. So I let fly. But I was so excited I likely missed you a mile.”
He took off his felt hat and examined with interest a bullet hole through the rim. “If it was a mile, I'd hate to have you miss me a hundred yards,” he commented, with a little ripple of laughter.
“I didn't! Did I? As near as that?” She caught her hands together in a sudden anguish for what might have been.
“Don't you care, ma'am. A miss is as good as a mile. It ain't the first time I've had my hat ventilated. I mentioned it, so you wouldn't get discouraged at your shooting. It's plenty good. Good enough to suit me. I wouldn't want it any better.”
“What about the man I wounded.” she asked apprehensively. “Is he—is it all right?”
“Haven't you heard?”
“Heard what?” He could see the terror in her eyes.
“How it all came out?”
He could not tell why he did it, any more than he could tell why he had attempted no denial to the sheriff of responsibility for the death of Faulkner, but as he looked at this girl he shifted the burden from her shoulders to his. “You got your man in the ankle. I had worse luck after you left. They buried mine.”
“Oh!” From her lips a little cry of pain forced itself. “It wasn't your fault. It was for us you did it. Oh, why did they attack us?”
“I did what I had to do. There is no blame due either you or me for it,” he said, with quiet conviction.
“I know. But it seems so dreadful. And then they put you in jail—and you broke out! Wasn't that it?”
“That was the way of it, Miss Arlie. How did you know?”
“Henry Speed's note to father said you had broken jail. Dad wasn't at home. You know, the round-up is on now and he has to be there. So I saddled, and came right away.”
“That was right good of you.”
“Wasn't it?” There was a softened, almost tender, jeer in her voice. “Since you only saved our lives!”
“I ain't claiming all that, Miss Arlie.”
“Then I'll claim it for you. I suppose you gave yourself up to them and explained how it was after we left.”
“Not exactly that. I managed to slip away, through the sage. It was mo'ning before I found the road again. Soon as I did, a deputy tagged me, and said, 'You're mine.' He spoke for me so prompt and seemed so sure about what he was saying, I didn't argue the matter with him.” He laughed gayly.
“And then?”
“Then he herded me to town, and I was invited to be the county's guest. Not liking the accommodations, I took the first chance and flew the coop. They missed a knife in my pocket when they searched me, and I chipped the cement away from the window bars, let myself down by the bed linen, and borrowed a cow-pony I found saddled at the edge of town. So, you see, I'm a hawss thief too, ma'am.”
She could not take it so lightly as he did, even though she did not know that he had barely escaped with his life. Something about his debonair, smiling hardihood touched her imagination, as did also the virile competence of the man. If the cool eyes in his weatherbeaten face could be hard as agates, they could also light up with sparkling imps of mischief. Certainly he was no boy, but the close-cut waves of crisp, reddish hair and the ready smile contributed to an impression of youth that came and went.
“Willie Speed is saddling you a horse. The one you came on has been turned loose to go back when it wants to. I'm going to take you home with me,” she told him.
“Well, I'm willing to be kidnapped.”
“I brought your horse Teddy. If you like, you may ride that, and I'll take the other.”
“Yore a gentleman, ma'am. I sure would.”
When Arlie saw with what pleasure the friends met, how Teddy nickered and rubbed his nose up and down his master's coat and how the Texan put him through his little repertoire of tricks and fed him a lump of sugar from his coat pocket, she was glad she had ridden Teddy instead of her own pony to the meeting.
They took the road without loss of time. Arlie Dillon knew exactly how to cross this difficult region. She knew the Cedar Mountain district as a grade teacher knows her arithmetic. In daylight or in darkness, with or without a trail, she could have traveled almost a bee line to the point she wanted. Her life had been spent largely in the saddle—at least that part of it which had been lived outdoors. Wherefore she was able to lead her guest by secret trails that wound in and out among the passes and through unsuspected gorges to hazardous descents possible only to goats and cow ponies. No stranger finding his way in would have stood a chance of getting out again unaided.
Among these peaks lay hidden pockets and caches by hundreds, rock fissures which made the country a very maze to the uninitiated. The ranger, himself one of the best trailers in Texas, doubted whether he could retrace his steps to the Speed place.
After several hours of travel, they emerged from a gulch to a little valley known as Beaver Dam Park. The girl pointed out to her companion a narrow brown ribbon that wound through the park.
“There's the road again. That's the last we shall see of it—or it will be when we have crossed it. Once we reach the Twin Buttes that are the gateway to French Cañon you are perfectly safe. You can see the buttes from here. No, farther to the right.”
“I thought I'd ridden some tough trails in my time, but this country ce'tainly takes the cake,” Fraser said admiringly, as his gaze swept the horizon. “It puts it over anything I ever met up with. Ain't that right, Teddy hawss?”
The girl flushed with pleasure at his praise. She was mountain bred, and she loved the country of the great peaks.
They descended the valley, crossed the road, and in an open grassy spot just beyond, came plump upon four men who had unsaddled to eat lunch.
The meeting came too abruptly for Arlie to avoid it. One glance told her that they were deputies from Gimlet Butte. Without the least hesitation she rode forward and gave them the casual greeting of cattleland. Fraser, riding beside her, nodded coolly, drew to a halt, and lit a cigarette.
“Found him yet, gentlemen?” he asked.
“No, nor we ain't likely to, if he's reached this far,” one of the men answered.
“It would be some difficult to collect him here,” the Texan admitted impartially.
“Among his friends,” one of the deputies put in, with a snarl.
Fraser laughed easily. “Oh, well, we ain't his enemies, though he ain't very well known in the Cedar Mountain country. What might he be like, pardner?”
“Hasn't he lived up here long?” asked one of the men, busy with some bacon over a fire.
“They say not.”
“He's a heavy-set fellow, with reddish hair; not so tall as you, I reckon, and some heavier. Was wearing chaps and gauntlets when he made his getaway. From the description, he looks something like you, I shouldn't wonder.”
Fraser congratulated himself that he had had the foresight to discard as many as possible of these helps to identification before he was three miles from Gimlet Butte. Now he laughed pleasantly.
“Sure he's heavier than me, and not so tall.”
“It would be a good joke, Bud, if they took you back to town for this man,” cut in Arlie, troubled at the direction the conversation was taking, but not obviously so.
“I ain't objecting any, sis. About three days of the joys of town would sure agree with my run-down system,” the Texan answered joyously.
“When you cowpunchers do get in, you surely make Rome howl,” one of the deputies agreed, with a grin. “Been in to the Butte lately?”
The Texan met his grin. “It ain't been so long.”
“Well, you ain't liable to get in again for a while,” Arlie said emphatically. “Come on, Bud, we've got to be moving.”
“Which way is Dead Cow Creek?” one of the men called after them.
Fraser pointed in the direction from which he had just come.
After they had ridden a hundred yards, the girl laughed aloud her relief at their escape. “If they go the way you pointed for Dead Cow Creek, they will have to go clear round the world to get to it. We're headed for the creek now.”
“A fellow can't always guess right,” pleaded the Texan. “If he could, what a fiend he would be at playing the wheel! Shall I go back and tell him I misremembered for a moment where the creek is?”
“No, sir. You had me scared badly enough when you drew their attention to yourself. Why did you do it?”
“It was the surest way to disarm any suspicion they might have had. One of them had just said the man they wanted was like me. Presently, one would have been guessing that it was me.” He looked at her drolly, and added: “You played up to me fine, sis.”
A touch of deeper color beat into her dusky cheeks. “We'll drop the relationship right now, if you please. I said only what you made me say,” she told him, a little stiffly.
But presently she relaxed to the note of friendliness, even of comradeship, habitual to her. She was a singularly frank creature, having been brought up in a country where women were few and far, and where conventions were of the simplest. Otherwise, she would not have confessed to him with unconscious näiveté, as she now did, how greatly she had been troubled for him before she received the note from Speed.
“It worried me all the time, and it troubled dad, too. I could see that. We had hardly left you before I knew we had done wrong. Dad did it for me, of course; but he felt mighty bad about it. Somehow, I couldn't think of anything but you there, with all those men shooting at you. Suppose you had waited too long before surrendering! Suppose you had been killed for us!” She looked at him, and felt a shiver run over her in the warm sunlight. “Night before last I was worn out. I slept some, but I kept dreaming they were killing you. Oh, you don't know how glad I was to get word from Speed that you were alive.” Her soft voice had the gift of expressing feeling, and it was resonant with it now.
“I'm glad you were glad,” he said quietly.
Across Dead Cow Creek they rode, following the stream up French Cañon to what was known as the Narrows. Here the great rock walls, nearly two thousand feet high, came so close together as to leave barely room for a footpath beside the creek which boiled down over great bowlders. Unexpectedly, there opened in the wall a rock fissure, and through this Arlie guided her horse.
The Texan wondered where she could be taking him, for the fissure terminated in a great rock slide some two hundred yards ahead of them. Before reaching this she turned sharply to the left, and began winding in and out among the big bowlders which had fallen from the summit far above.
Presently Fraser observed with astonishment that they were following a path that crept up the very face of the bluff. Up—up—up they went until they reached a rift in the wall, and into this the trail went precipitously. Stones clattered down from the hoofs of the horses as they clambered up like mountain goats. Once the Texan had to throw himself to the ground to keep Teddy from falling backward.
Arlie, working her pony forward with voice and body and knees, so that from her seat in the saddle she seemed literally to lift him up, reached the summit and looked back.
“All right back there?” she asked quietly.
“All right,” came the cheerful answer. “Teddy isn't used to climbing up a wall, but he'll make it or know why.”
A minute later, man and horse were beside her.
“Good for Teddy,” she said, fondling his nose.
“Look out! He doesn't like strangers to handle him.”
“We're not strangers. We're tillicums. Aren't we, Teddy?”
Teddy said “Yes” after the manner of a horse, as plain as words could say it.
From their feet the trail dropped again to another gorge, beyond which the ranger could make out a stretch of valley through which ran the gleam of a silvery thread.
“We're going down now into Mantrap Gulch. The patch of green you see beyond is Lost Valley,” she told him.
“Lost Valley,” he repeated, in amazement. “Are we going to Lost Valley?”
“You've named our destination.”
“But—you don't live in Lost Valley.”
“Don't I?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she answered, amused at his consternation, if it were that.
“I wish I had known,” he said, as if to himself.
“You know now. Isn't that soon enough? Are you afraid of the place, because people make a mystery of it?” she demanded impatiently.
“No. It isn't that.” He looked across at the valley again, and asked abruptly: “Is this the only way in?”
“No. There is another, but this is the quickest.”
“Is the other as difficult as this?”