Sell nothing whatever until you hear from me. Instruct Bradley & Gauss.Jim.
Sell nothing whatever until you hear from me. Instruct Bradley & Gauss.
Jim.
Wade's lips puckered in a noiseless whistle. He did not need to be told that "Jim" was Clyde's uncle, wily old Jim Hess, of the Hess System. It was he who was out gunning for York and Western Air, and he had the reputation of getting what he went after. What his tactics had been Wade could only surmise. But the antics of the stock were proof that he was in earnest.
"Well," he queried, "what do you know about this, young lady? Have you been holding out on me?"
"I haven't much information," she replied. "Bradley & Gauss are my brokers. They have been buying Western Air for me as it was offered. There's their statement. Uncle Jim told me to buy it—said that it ought to be worth as much as Hess System some day."
"Heavens! What a tip!" Wade exclaimed. "This will be good news for Casey."
"I don't want him to know."
"Why not?"
"Well, he—he—that is, he might be disappointed. Uncle Jim may not get control. If he does he'll treat everybody fairly, of course. I don't want to raise false hopes."
"Considerate of you," said Wade, "not to say ingenious."
She flushed angrily for a moment, and then laughed.
"It's all the reason you'll get. Be a good friend, do. Promise! Also you are to say nothing to Kitty."
"Afraid of being jollied?"
"Mr. Wade, you are impertinent!" But her eyes laughed at him.
"I'll keep your dark secret," said Wade. "It will be a joke on Kitty!"
And so Casey Dunne was left in ignorance.
CHAPTER XXII
Tom McHale ambled into Coldstream one afternoon, and dropped his pony's reins behind the station. Thence he clanked his spurs into Mr. Quilty's sanctum. That gentleman, nodding somnolently above a blackened clay pipe, rolled an appraising eye at him.
"Fwhere in Hiven's name is the maskyrade at?" he queried sourly. "An' do yez riprisint Wild Bill Hickox—rest his sowl—or th' 'Pache Kid—th' divil burn him!"
Tom glanced down at his ancient regalia of worn leather chaps, spurs, and the old forty-one that sagged from his right hip, and grinned.
"Guns is coming into style again out our way," he replied. "All the best families wears 'em. There's so many of these here durn hobos and railway men and Irish and other low characters——"
"Th' nerve of yez!" snorted Mr. Quilty. "And the name iv yez 'McHale!'—as Irish, be hivins, as Con iv th' Hundred Battles!"
McHale chuckled to himself, having succeeded in his purpose of getting Mr. Quilty going.
"Irish? Not on your life!" he denied gravely. "What put that notion in your head? The McHales is high-grade Scotch. Always was. They come from Loch Lomond or Commarashindhu or them parts. Annie Laurie married a McHale. Of course we're Scotch. You can tell by the Mac. The only McHale that ever was in Ireland went there to civilize it."
"To civ'lize Ireland!" Mr. Quilty cried in derision. "Hear till him! And Ireland the owldest civ'lization in the wurruld, barrin' none, and the best! Faix, we was givin' lessons in it to all mankind whin th' dom raggety-britched tattherdemalions iv Scotchmen hadn't th' dacincy to wear kilts, even, but wint about bare to th' four winds iv hivin, a barbarious race lower nor a Digger Injun, a scandal to God, man, and faymales black and white."
"Well, maybe you're right about them old times, Corney," admitted McHale, with an innocent face. "I meant a little later than that. This here McHale was with William the Conqueror at the Battle of the Boyne——"
Mr. Quilty spat at the mention of this historic event.
"Bad scran till him, then!" he exclaimed. "Yez do be a high-grade liar, and ign'rant as well. Willyum th' Conq'ror was Irish on his mother's side, an' he bate th' heads off iv th' bloody Sassenach, an' soaked their king wan in th' eye wid a bow 'n' arry at a fight I disremimber th' name of, back a thousand years before Willyum th' Dutchman—may his sowl get its needin's!—come out iv his swamps. I tell yez th' McHales come from Galway. In th' good owld days they hanged thim be th' dozen to th' glor iv God an' th' greater safety iv all live stock. An th' pity is they didn't make a cleaner job iv ut."
McHale, who was enjoying himself hugely, sifted tobacco into paper.
"I won't say you ain't right, Corney," he observed mildly. "I always understood we was Scotch, but I ain't noways bigoted about it. That hangin' business seems to point to us bein' Irish. Did you ever notice how many Irishmen is hanged? Of course, there's lots ain't that ought to be, but the general average is sure high."
"I hope to glory ye boost it wan higher yerself," Quilty retorted. "Small loss 'tw'u'd be to anny wan. A divil iv a desp'rado yez are, wid yer gun an' all! I'm a good mind to swipe yez over th' nut wid me lanthern an' take ut away from yez!"
McHale drew the weapon gently, and spun it on his finger, checking the revolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched him sourly.
"Play thricks!" he commented. "Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a job wid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan iv thim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an' such—a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel iv his finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' he gets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger's coat pocket."
"Sure," McHale agreed. "It was comin' to him. He should have stuck to tomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe."
"They's no safe play wid a gun," Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. "I'm an owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railway construction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen—the wans they tell stories of. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most iv thim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes at ut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him till it—wanst. And wanst is enough.
"Plenty," McHale agreed. "Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. I don't figure he lives in these parts."
Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. "See, now, b'y," said he, "I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Nobody's been hurted hereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut to be you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad."
"I'm easy as a fox-trot," said McHale. "So's Casey. We ain't crowdin' nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides. We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod, but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as it lies."
He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquired for freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had not arrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and stated his opinion of the railway.
"Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince," said Mr. Quilty. "G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez."
"Come up and have a drink," McHale invited.
"Agin' the rules whin on duty," Quilty refused. "An' I do be on duty whiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less."
McHale rode up the straggling street to Shiller's hotel, and dismounted. Bob Shiller in shirt sleeves sat on the veranda.
"They's a right smart o' dust to-day, Bob," said McHale. "S'pose we sorter sprinkle it some."
"We'll go into one of the back rooms, where it's cooler," proposed Shiller.
"Oh, I'd just as soon go to the bar," said McHale. "Might be some of the boys there. I like to lean up against the wood."
"Well——" Shiller began, and stopped uncertainly.
"Well—what?" McHale demanded.
"Just as well you don't go into the bar right now," Shiller explained. "You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you—you or Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends—hard-lookin' nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billy bring us what we want where it's cooler."
McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.
"There's mighty little style about me, Bob," he said. "I'm democratic a lot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap like throwin' on dog."
"I asked you," said Shiller. "It's my house. The drinks are on me."
"I spoke of the dust," McHale reminded him. "That makes it my drinks. And then I done asked a man to meet me in the bar. I wouldn't like to keep him waitin'."
"I don't want trouble here," said Shiller positively. "I ask you in a friendly way not to make it."
"Well, I ain't makin' it, am I?" said McHale. "That's all right about not wantin' trouble, but I got other things to think of. This here Cross and Dade and that bunch don't run the country. Mighty funny if I have to drink in a back room for them gents. Next thing you'll want me to climb a tree. I'm allowin' to stop my thirst facin' a mirror with one foot on a rail. I'll do it that way, or you and me won't be friends no more."
"Go to it, then," said Shiller. "You always was a bullhead."
McHale grinned, hitched his holster forward a trifle, and walked toward the bar. As he entered he took a swift survey of its half dozen occupants.
Three of them were regulars, citizens of Coldstream. The others were strangers, and each of them wore a gun down his thigh. They were of the type known as "hard-faced." Cross, a glass in his right hand, was standing facing the door. As it pushed open he turned his head and stared at McHale, whom he did not immediately recognize.
"Come on, friend," said he; "get in on this."
"Sure," said McHale promptly. "A little number nine, Billy. Here's a ho!" He set his glass down, and faced Cross. "Come again, boys. What'll you take with me?"
But Cross swore suddenly. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Look at what blowed in off of one of them dry-ranch layouts!"
McHale smiled blandly, pushing a bottle in his direction.
"Beats all how some things drift about all over the country," he observed. "Tumbleweeds and such. They go rollin' along mighty gay till they bump into a wire fence somewheres."
"It's sure a wonder to me your boss lets you stray this far off," said Cross, with sarcasm. "He needs a man to look after him the worst way. He don't seem to have no sand. I met up with him along our ditch a while back, and I told him to hike. You bet he did. Only that he'd a girl with him I'd have run him clean back to his reservation."
"You want to get a movin'-picture layout," McHale suggested. "That'd make a right good show—yourunnin' Casey. You used to work for one of them outfits, didn't you?"
"No. What makes you think I did?"
"Your face looked sorter familiar to me," McHale replied. "Studyin' on it, it seems like I'd seen it in one of them picture shows down in Cheyenne. Right good show, too. It showed a bunch of boys after a hoss thief. He got away."
"Haw-haw!" laughed one of the regulars, and suddenly froze to silence. Billy, behind the bar, stood as if petrified, towel in hand. Cross's face, flushed with liquor, blackened in a ferocious scowl.
"You —— —— ——!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"
"Mean?" asked McHale innocently. "Why, I was tellin' you about a show I seen. What's wrong with that?"
"You called me a horse thief!" cried Cross.
"Who? Me?" said McHale. "Why, no, Mr. Cross, you ain't no hoss thief. I know different. If anybody says you are, you just send him right along to me. No, sir; I know you ain't. There's two good reasons against it."
Cross glared at him, his fingers beginning to twitch.
"Let's hear them," he said. "If they ain't good you go out of that door feet first."
"They're plumb good—best you ever heard," McHale affirmed. "Now, listen. Here's how I know you ain't no hoss thief: For one thing, you got too much mouth; and for another you ain't got the nerve!"
Out of the dead silence came Shiller's voice from the door:
"I'll fill the first man that makes a move plumb full of buckshot. If there's any shootin' in here, I'm doin' it myself." He held a pump gun at his shoulder, the muzzle dominating the group. "You, Tom," he continued, "you said you wouldn't make trouble."
"Am I makin' it?" asked McHale.
"Are you makin' it?" Shiller repeated. "Oh, no, you ain't. You're a gentle, meek-and-mild pilgrim, you are. I ain't goin' to hold this gun all day, neither. You better hit the high spots. I'll give you time to get on your cayuse and drift. At the end of two minutes this man goes out of that door, and I ain't responsible for what happens. I'm sure sorry, Tom, to treat you like this, but I got my house to consider."
"That's all right, Bob," said McHale. "Looks like you hold the ace. I'll step. Far's I'm concerned you needn't keep them gents two minutes nor one." He turned to the door.
"I'm lookin' for you, McHale," said Cross.
"Come a-runnin'," said McHale. "Bring your friends."
He walked into the middle of the road, turned, and waited. His action attracted little attention. Coldstream was indoors, somnolent with the afternoon heat. Across the street the proprietor of the general store commented lazily to a friend:
"What's Tom McHale doin'?"
"Some fool joke. He's full of them. I reckon he wants us to ask him."
McHale called to them: "Boys, if I was you I'd move out of line of me and Bob's door."
"What did I tell you?" the wise one commented. "You bet I don't bite. I——"
Out of the door of Shiller's surged Cross, gun in hand. Uncertain where to find McHale, he glared about. Then, as he saw him standing in the middle of the road, the weapon seemed to leap to a level. Simultaneously McHale shot from the hip.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Pale-pink flashes stabbed the afternoon light. Coldstream echoed to the fusillade. Its inhabitants ran to doors and windows, streaming into the streets. One of the store windows suddenly starred. Long lines, like cracks in thin ice, appeared in it, radiating from a common centre. The proprietor and his friend, electrified, ducked and sprang for shelter. A woman screamed in fright.
Suddenly Cross staggered, turning halfway around. The deadly rage in his face changed to blank wonder. His pistol arm sagged. Then he collapsed gently, not as a tree falls, but as an overweighted sapling bends, swaying backward until, overbalanced, he thudded limply on the ground.
McHale, half crouched like a fighting animal awaiting an attack, peered with burning eyes over the hot muzzle of his gun at the prostrate figure. Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected the empty shells, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. Shiller's door opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was Shiller himself.
"So you done it, did you?" he said.
"Sure," said McHale. "He comes a-shootin', and I gets him. Likewise I gets them twotillikumsof his if they want it that way."
"Billy's keepin' them quiet with the pump gun," Shiller informed him. "You better get out o' town. I'll clean up your mess, darn you! Git quick. Them fellers expects some more in."
McHale nodded. "I ain't organized to stand off a whole posse with one gun. So long, Bob. I'm plumb sorry I mixed you into this. They won't like you much now."
"They don't need to," said Shiller. "Want any money? Want another gun? I got a handy little three-ought-three carbine."
"No. I'll get my own outfit. I may have to lie out for a spell. Well, I'll be movin'."
He mounted swiftly. Men crowding up to the scene of the affray stopped suddenly. Few of them had seen the like before. They shrank back, awed, from the killer. He rode down the street, gun in hand, casting swift glances right and left, ready for any attempt to stop him. There was none. He vanished in the swells of brown grasses, riding at an easy lope, as unhurried as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
CHAPTER XXIII
Tom McHale reached Chakchak, stabled his horse, made a hasty toilet, and attacked a belated supper. While he was eating with hearty appetite Casey and Wade strolled in.
"Did that freight come?" asked Casey.
"Nope," said McHale. "I got a tracer started after her."
"Anything doing in town?"
"Why, I reckon there was aleetleexcitement there for a few minutes," said McHale. "Sort of an argument in front of Bob Shiller's."
Casey, from his knowledge of McHale, came to attention at once. "Well?" he asked abruptly.
"Well, it was me and this here Cross," McHale explained. "I downed him."
"In the argument?" laughed Wade, who did not comprehend. But Casey asked quickly: "Gun?"
McHale nodded.
"You did! How'd it happen? Is he dead?"
"I miss once, but three times I'm pretty near centre," McHale replied. "Course, I didn't wait to hold no inquest, but if he ain't forded Jordan's tide by now he's plumb lucky; also tough. Only thing makes me doubt it is the way he goes down. He don't come ahead on his face the way a man does when he's plugged for keeps; but he sorter sags backward, so he may have a chance. Still, I reckon she's a slim one."
Casey got the full story with half a dozen brief questions.
"Clear case of self-defence, isn't it, Wade?"
"Looks that way, if the evidence corroborates what he says," the lawyer replied. "Are you sure he shot first, Tom?"
"Better put it he meant to shoot first," McHale responded. "Naturally, I ain't standin' round waitin' for no sightin' shots. It comes close to an even break."
"That's good enough," Wade declared. "If his actions left no doubt of his hostile purpose in your mind you were justified in protecting yourself."
"They sure didn't," said McHale. "He's out to down me, and I know it. There ain't no Alphonse and Gaston stuff when he comes boilin' out, pullin' his gun. I just sail in to get action while I got the chance."
"Exactly," said Wade. "Well, Tom, you'll be arrested, of course. If Cross isn't dead, likely you can get bail. If he is, I'm afraid you'll have to remain in custody till the trial. I'll defend you myself, if you'll let me. Or maybe it would be better to get a man whose practice is more on the criminal side. I'll get the best there is for you."
"I'm obliged," said McHale. "I'll stand a trial all right, but I ain't figurin' on bein' arrested for a while."
"Nonsense!" said Wade. "You don't mean to resist arrest? That's foolish."
"Oh, I dunno," said McHale. "Depends on how you look at it. I ain't goin' to resist to speak of; I'm just lyin' low for a spell. I reckon I'll pack old Baldy with a little outfit, Casey. 'Bout two days from now you'll find him out by Sunk Springs if you ride that way."
"I don't get the idea."
"It's this way," McHale explained. "This Cross is one of a bad bunch. They'll be out for my scalp. They don't want no law in this. I been hearin' 'bout Cross and this old-timer, Dade. They're great tillikums, and Dade is the old he-coon of the bunch. I ain't takin' a chance on some little tin-starred deputy standin' them off. Furthermore, I figure it ain't unlikely they'll come after me some time to-night. If it was just you and me, Casey, we could stand the hand, and whatever hangin' there was would come off in the smoke. But with women on the place it wouldn't be right. So I'll just point out for a little campin' spot somewheres, and save everybody trouble. If any of these here sheriffs or deputies gets nosin' around, you tell 'em how it is. I'll come in when the signs is right, and not before. Tell them not to go huntin' me, neither, but to go ahead and get everything set for a proper trial. I'll send word when I'll be in."
Wade chuckled. "They can't arrange a trial without somebody to try, Tom."
"They'll have to make a stagger at it, or wait," McHale responded seriously.
It was dusk when he headed westward, old Baldy, lightly packed, trotting meekly at the tail of his saddle horse.
Casey, coming back from a final word with him, met Clyde strolling toward the young orchard. He fell into step.
"Nice evening."
She regarded him quizzically. "I won't ask a single question. You needn't be afraid."
"Did you think I meant to head off your natural curiosity? Not a bit of it. You want to know where Tom is going at this time of night, and why?"
"Of course I do. But I won't ask."
"You may just as well know now as later." He told her what had happened, omitting to mention McHale's real reason for leaving the ranch. Even in the darkness he could see the trouble in her eyes.
"You really mean it?" she questioned. "You mean that he has killed a man?"
"Either that or shot him up pretty badly."
"I can scarcely believe it. I like McHale; he's droll, humorous, so cheerful, so easy-going. I can't think of him as a murderer."
"Nonsense!" said Casey. "No murder about it. It was a fair gun fight—an even break. This fellow came at Tom, shooting. He had to protect himself."
"He could have avoided it. He had time to get on his horse and ride away. But he waited."
"He did right," said Casey. "This man would have shot him on sight. It was best to settle it then and there."
"That may be so," she admitted, "but life is a sacred thing to me."
"No doubt Tom considered his own life tolerably sacred," he responded. "As an abstract proposition life may be sacred. Practically it's about the cheapest thing on earth. It persists and repeats and increases in spite of war, pestilence, and famine. The principal value of the individual life is its service to other life. Cross wasn't much good. That old Holstein over there in the corral, with her long and honourable record of milk production and thoroughbred calves, is of more real benefit to the world. You see, it was Tom or Cross. One had to go. I'm mighty glad it was Cross."
"Oh, if you put it that way——"
"That's the way to put it. Of course, we aren't sure that he's more than shot up a little. Still, knowing what Tom can do with a gun, I'm inclined to think that Cross is all same good Indian."
For some moments they walked in silence. It was rapidly becoming dark. A heavy bank of cloud, blue-black in the waning light, was slowly climbing into the northwestern sky, partially obscuring the last tints of the sunset. The wind had ceased. The air was hot, oppressive, laden with the scents of dry earth. Sounds carried far in the stillness. The stamp of a horse in a stall, the low, throaty notes of a cow nuzzling her calf, the far-off evening wail of a coyote—all seemed strangely near at hand, borne by some telephonic quality in the atmosphere.
"How still it is!" said Clyde. "One can almost feel the darkness descending."
"Electrical storm coming, I fancy. No such luck as rain."
"I don't suppose it affects you," she remarked, "but out here when night comes I feel lonely. And yet that's scarcely the right word. It's more a sense of apprehension, a realization of my own unimportance. The country is so vast—so empty—that I feel dwarfed by it. I believe I'm afraid of the big, lonely land when the darkness lies on it. Of course, you'll laugh at me."
"No," he assured her. "I know the feeling very well. I've had it myself, not here, but up where the rivers run into the Polar Sea. The vastness oppressed. I wanted the company of men and to see the things man had made. I was awed by the world lying just as it came from the hand of God. The wilderness seemed to press in on me. That's what drives men mad sometimes. It isn't the solitude or the loneliness exactly. It's the constant pressure of forces that can be felt but not described."
"I think I understand."
"The ordinary person wouldn't. There are no words to express some things."
"I'm glad of it; I don't want the things I feel the most cheapened by words."
"Something in that," he agreed. "Words are poor things when one reallyfeels. Providence seems to have arranged that we should be more or less tongue-tied when we feel the most."
"Is that the case?"
"I think so—with men, at any rate. It's especially so with most of us in affairs of love and death."
"But some men make love very well, you know," she smiled.
"I defer to your experience," he laughed back.
"Oh, my experience!" She made a wry face. "And what do you know of my experience?"
"Less than nothing. But from some slight observation of my fellow men I am aware that a very pretty and wealthy girl is in a position to collect experience of that kind faster than she can catalogue it."
"Perhaps she doesn't want to do either."
"Referring further to my fellow man, I beg to say that her wishes cut very little ice. She will get the experience whether she wants it or not."
"Accurate observer! Are you trying to flatter me?"
"As how?"
"Do you think me pretty?"
"Even in the darkness——"
"Be serious. Do you?"
"Why, of course I do. I never saw a prettier girl in my life."
"Cross your heart?"
"Honest Injun—wish I may die!"
"Oh, well," said Clyde, "that's something. That's satisfactory. I'm glad to extract something of a complimentary nature at last. You were far better when I met you at the Wades'. You did pay me a compliment, and you asked me for a rose. Please, sir,doyou remember asking a poor girl for a rose?"
"I have it still."
"Truly?" A little throb of pleasure shot through her and crept into her voice. "And you never told me!"
"I was to keep it as security. That was the bargain."
"But how much nicer it would be to say that you kept it because I gave it to you. Are you aware that I made an exception in your favour by doing so?"
"I thought so at the time," said Casey. "I expected a refusal. However, I took a chance."
"And won. Are you sure that you have the rose still? And where among your treasures do you keep it?"
He hesitated.
"You don't know where it is! That's just like a man. For shame!"
"You're wrong," Casey said quietly. "I keep it with some little things that belonged to my mother."
She put out her hand impulsively. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I—I beg your pardon!"
His strong fingers closed on hers. She did not withdraw her hand. He leaned forward to look into her upraised eyes in the growing darkness.
"That seemed the proper place to keep it. I value your friendship very much—too much to presume on it. We are at opposite ends of the world—I'm quite aware of that. When this little holiday of yours is over you'll go back to your everyday life and surroundings, and I don't want you to take with you one regret or unpleasant memory."
"I don't know what I shall take," she replied gravely. "But I'm not at all sure that I shall go back."
"I don't understand."
"Suppose," she said, "suppose that you were a moderately rich man, in good health, young, without business or profession, without any special talent; and that your friends—your social circle—were very much like yourself. Suppose that your life was spent in clubs, country houses, travel—that you had nothing on earth to do but amuse yourself, nothing to look forward to but repetitions of the same amusement. What would become of you?"
"To be perfectly truthful," he replied, "I should probably go to the devil."
"The correct answer," said Clyde gravely. "Iam going to the devil. Oh, I'm strictly conventional. I mean that I'm stagnating utterly—mentally, morally, and physically. I'm degenerating. My life is a feminine replica of the one I suggested to you. I'm wearied to death of it—of killing time aimlessly, of playing at literature, at charity, at uplifting people who don't want to be uplifted. And there's nothing different ahead. Must I play at living until I die?"
"But you will marry," he predicted. "You will meet the right man. That will make a difference."
"Perhaps I have met him."
"Then I wish you great happiness."
"And perhaps he doesn't care for me—in that way."
"The right man would. You're not hard to fall in love with, Clyde."
"Am I not—Casey?" She smiled up at him through the dark, a little tremor in her voice. She felt his fingers tighten on hers like bands of steel, crushing them together, and she was conscious of a strange joy in the pain of it.
"You know you are not!" he said tensely. "I could——" He broke off abruptly.
"Then why don't you?" she murmured softly.
"Why not?" he exclaimed. "I'd look pretty, wouldn't I, a busted land speculator, falling in love with you! I've some sense of the fitness of things. But when you look at me like that——"
He stooped swiftly and kissed her, drawing her to him almost fiercely. "Oh, girl!" he said, "why did you tempt me? I've forgotten what was due you as my guest. I've forgotten all that I've been remembering so carefully for weeks. Now it's over. Some day the right man will tell you how he loves you."
"I am waiting," she whispered, "for the 'right man' to tell me now!"
"Why," he exclaimed incredulously, "you don't mean——"
"But I do mean," she replied. "Oh, Casey, boy, didn't you know? Couldn't you guess? Must I do all the love-making myself?"
The answer to this question was in the nature of an unqualified negative, and extended over half an hour. But Casey retained many of his scruples. He could not, he insisted, live on her money. If he went broke, as seemed likely, he must have time to get a fresh stake. Clyde waived this point, having some faith in Jim Hess. Of this, however, she said nothing to him.
"We had better go," she said at last. "It is quite dark. Kitty will wonder where we are."
"Shall you tell her? Better."
"Not to-night, anyway. She—you see——"
"She'd jolly you, you mean. Of course. But We may as well have it over."
"Not to-night," Clyde repeated. She was uncomfortably conscious of her confidences to Kitty Wade, made without much thought.
They approached the house from the rear, passing by the kitchen, whence issued the sound of voices.
"Let's take a peep at Feng's company?" Casey suggested.
The kitchen was built apart from the house, but attached to it by a covered way. Standing in the outer darkness, they could look in through the open window without risk of being seen, and were close enough to overhear every word.
Feng was resting from the labours of the day, sitting smoking on the kitchen table. Facing him, a pipe between his wrinkled lips, sat old Simon. His face was expressionless, but his eyes, black, watchful, were curiously alert.
"What foh you come, Injun?" Feng demanded. "Wantee glub? Injun all timehiyueat, all same hobo tlamp. S'pose you hungly me catch somemuckamuck. Catch piecee blead, catch col' loast beef—loastmoosmoos!"
"You catchum," Simon agreed. "Casey—where him stop?"
"Casey!" Feng's features expanded in a grin. "Him stop along gal—tenas klootchman, you savvy. Go walkee along gal. P'laps, bimeby, two, tlee hou', him come back."
Simon grunted gutturally. "Ya-as," he drawled.
"Hiyulich gal," Feng proceeded. "Havehiyudolla'. You bet. She onehiyudam' plitty gal, savvy?"
"Hush!" Clyde whispered, as Casey would have put an end to this risky eavesdropping. "I didn't think that Feng had such good taste. I'm getting compliments from everybody to-night. I'm really flattered. I want to hear some more."
"Better not," he advised apprehensively.
"But I want to."
"Ya-as," Simon drawled again. "Hyas kloshe tenas klootchman—ah-ha. What name you callum?"
"Missee Clyde Bullaby," Feng replied, making a manful attempt at Clyde's surname, which was quite beyond his lingual attainments.
"Clyde!" Simon repeated, in accents of incredulity. "Me savvy 'Clyde.' Him big man-horsehyas skookumman-horse. Himmammookplow,mammookhaul wagon!"
"Youhyasdamfool Injun!" said his host politely. "Missee Clyde Chlistian gal's name, catchum in Chlistian Bible; all same Swede Annie, all same Spokane Sue, all same Po'tland Lily."
Simon digested this information with preternatural gravity. "Ya-as," said he. "Casey like Clyde?"
"Clyde likee Casey," Feng responded knowingly. "Casey call um woman fliend. Lats! All same big Melican bluff, makee me sick. Bimeby some time she makee mally him. Bimeby baby stop. Then me quit. Me go back to China."
The prophet's last words blurred in Clyde's ringing ears. The friendly darkness hid her flaming cheeks. Why, oh why, had she listened? She was not even shocked by Casey's muttered curse. She felt his hand on her arm, drawing her gently back into the deeper shadows. In silence she followed.
"I'll fire that infernal yellow scoundrel to-morrow," he growled.
"No, no, it was my own fault," she declared. "Absolutely and entirely my own. I—I——Oh, don'tlookat me, please!"
"I won't," he promised, but his voice shook slightly.
"You're laughing!" she accused him tragically.
"Indeed I'm not," he denied; but with the words came an involuntary sound strongly resembling a chuckle.
"Shame!" she cried.
"Yes, yes!" he gasped. "I know it. It's too bad. Ha-ha! I really beg your pardon. I——Oh, good Lord!"
But Clyde gathered up her skirts and fled, whirling up the veranda steps and into the house like a small cyclone, never pausing until a locked door lay between her and a ribald, unfeeling world.
CHAPTER XXIV
It was after midnight when Clyde awoke. She passed from slumber to wakefulness instantly, without the usual intervening stages of drowsiness.
Outside a gale was blowing, and volleys of rain pattered like spent shot on windows and roof. Thunder rumbled ceaselessly. A vivid flash rent the outer darkness, illuminating the room, and the succeeding crack shook the house. It was a storm, rare in the dry belt, of which there were not more than one or two in the year. For Casey's sake she hoped that there would be no hail with it. Better continued drought than a ruinous bombardment of frozen pellets from the heavens which would beat the crops to the ground, utterly destroying them.
As she lay listening she seemed to hear sounds not of the storm, as of some one moving on the veranda. Then came a loud, insistent knocking. She heard the door of Wade's room open, and a long crack of light beneath her own showed that he had lit a lamp.
"Hello! Who's there?" he asked.
The reply was indistinguishable. A violent blow on the door followed it. She sprang out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, thrust her feet into slippers, opened her door, and peered out.
A single hand lamp on the table showed Wade, clad in pajamas and slippers, standing before the door. His attitude expressed uncertainty. He glanced back and saw Clyde.
"What is it?" she asked. "Who is there?"
"I don't know," he replied. "There are men out there. They want me to open the door. Do you know where there's a gun in the house? I haven't——"
The impact of a heavy body cut him short. The lock gave way, and the door swung inward. Wade sprang back and caught up a chair. Framed in the door, silhouetted against the outer blackness, appeared a man. His hat was pulled low over his eyes. A handkerchief cut with eyeholes concealed his face. His right hand held a six-shooter, with which he covered Wade. Back of him, pressing forward, were other armed men.
"Put that chair down!" he ordered. "Nobody's goin' to hurt you."
"Glad to hear it!" snapped Wade, who was the fortunate owner of unlimited sand. "What do you mean by breaking into a house in the middle of the night and frightening women? If you want money I've got about fifty dollars, and that's all. You're welcome to it if you'll clear out."
"Keep it," the intruder returned contemptuously. He stepped into the room, followed by four others. "I guess your name is Wade. We don't want you. We want McHale."
"Well, I haven't got him," said Wade.
"Where is he?"
"What do you want with him?"
"That's none of your business."
"All right. If that's so it's none of my business where he is."
"You'd better make it your business," said the other suggestively.
"Well, I won't," Wade retorted. "He isn't here, and that'll have to do you."
"On general principles it don't do to believe a lawyer. Where's Dunne?"
"He isn't here, either."
"I reckon we'll make sure of that." He took a step in the direction of Clyde's room. Wade stepped in front of him.
"No, you don't, my friend," said he. "That room belongs to a lady. You keep out of it."
The leader stopped. "Well," he said, "I don't want to scare no women; but all the same I'm goin' to see the inside of every room in this house. S'pose you knock and tell that lady to fix herself up so's she won't mind my takin' a look in. I'm goin' to make mighty sure her name ain't McHale."
Clyde opened the door, and walked into the room. She was surprised to find that she was not in the least frightened. Said she:
"Good evening, gentlemen. Do you think I resemble Mr. McHale?"
"No, ma'am," said the leader; "I don't reckon you favour him much."
Admiration was apparent in his voice. Clyde smiled at him.
"Then perhaps you'll take a look at my room now, and allow me to retire again."
"I don't need to look there, ma'am," the man replied. "I'm awful sorry we troubled you."
"That's the way to talk," said a quiet voice from the door.
The leader whirled instantly to look into the ominous muzzle of a heavy automatic held by Casey Dunne.
"Put that gun down, and your hands up!" snapped Casey. "Quick! No nonsense! I'll kill the first man that tries anything."
The quiet had gone from his voice; it bit like acid. Strange, hard lights danced in his eyes. The hand that held the gun had not a tremor. Clyde, looking at him, saw and recognized in his face the cold deadliness which she had once seen in McHale's.
Without an instant's hesitation the leader put his weapon on the table. "You win once," he observed.
"That's sensible," Casey commented. "Now, perhaps you'll tell me what this means?"
"No objection in the world," the other replied coolly. "We wanted to interview McHale."
"Is that so? Well, Tom isn't here to-night Mr. Dade. By the way, unless you really like it you needn't wear that transformation scheme across your face. Same remark applies to the other gentlemen. I like to know my visitors."
Dade laughed, removing the handkerchief. "Take a good look. You may see me again."
"Any time you like, Mr. Dade. And what did you want with McHale?"
"Well," Dade answered calmly, "we figured that he'd help us take the stretch out of a new rope."
"Nobody else would do?" queried Casey.
"We wanted him."
"I see. And had our mutual friend, Mr. Cross, anything to do with your desire? By the way, howisMr. Cross? Or should I say the late Mr. Cross?"
"Not yet," Dade replied. "He's got a chance."
"Then aren't you too previous?"
"McHale laid for him, and plugged him as he came out of Shiller's," Dade declared.
"Cross came out of Shiller's with his gun in his hand to get McHale," said Casey. "McHale was entitled to shoot. It was an even break."
"That's not how I heard it."
"That's what McHale says, and it goes with me."
"It don't go with me," Dade declared. "Me and Cross is partners—has been for years. I'm out to get McHale, and you can send him word. I reckon he ain't here, or he'd be obvious."
"He'd be mighty obvious," Casey agreed. "I may as well tell you, Mr. Dade, that this feud business makes me tired. It's sinful, and, worse than that, it's out of date. You take notice, now, that we won't stand for it. You've pretty well played out your string here, anyway."
Dade stared at him. "I reckon you'll have to talk a little plainer, Dunne."
"Isn't that plain enough? This shooting was square. You let it go as it lies. Otherwise we'll clean up your whole bunch."
Dade laughed. "That's sure plain," he admitted. "I like nerve, and you've got it a-plenty, but you ain't got me buffaloed at all. You heard what I said. It goes."
"Suit yourself," said Casey. "I'll send McHale word. Anything else I can do for you to-night?"
"Not a thing," Dade replied. "We'll be going—unless you want us to stay. I'm sorry we disturbed the lady, but I sure thought McHale was in here."
"She'll forgive you," said Casey. "That part of it's all right. Better think over what I said. I mean it."
"So do I," said Dade grimly. "You can send McHale word."
As Casey closed the door and set a chair against it in place of the damaged fastenings, Kitty Wade peeped from her room.
"Are the outlaws g-gone?" she asked.
"They have went," her husband replied. "You are saved, m'dear. Your little heart may now palpitate in normal palps."
His wife, looking altogether charming and girlish, emerged.
"Well, Iwasfrightened," she admitted. "I'd give worlds to be as brave as Clyde."
Clyde, feeling Casey's eyes upon her, flushed and gathered her dressing gown closer, conscious for the first time of her attire. "Oh, nonsense, Kitty!" she responded. "I was really shaking in my shoes."
"You didn't show it," Casey commented. "There isn't one girl in a thousand who would have been as cool."
"I agree with you," said Wade. He put his arm around his wife. "Better go back to roost, little girl."
"Not until I hear all about it," said Kitty. "Go and get a bath robe or something, like a good boy. Pajamas are very becoming, and all the best people wear 'em, but——"
"I beg everybody's pardon!" Wade exclaimed in confusion. "I thought I had on my—er—that is, it never struck me that I wasn't clad in orthodox garments." He was back in a moment, swathed in a bath robe. "Now, Casey, tell us how you happened to make that stage entrance?"
"Not much to tell about it," Casey replied. "I had an old Indian bedded down in the hay in the stable, and he saw or heard this outfit riding in and woke me up. As a matter of fact, the old boy was just outside with a shotgun all the time. We had that much moral support. He came to tell me that this outfit meant to get Tom."
"This McHale business is serious," said Wade.
"Very serious. I don't mean so far as Tom is concerned; he can take care of himself. But you can see that we can't allow these men to bulldoze us. It's McHale now. To-morrow it may be some one else."
"Yes, I see. But what can you do about it? The law——"
"It's outside the law," said Casey. "The law is too slow. We'll make our own law. Hello! What's that?"
He jumped to his feet, gun in hand, as the chair set against the door scraped back from it. Out of the darkness staggered Sheila McCrae.
Water dripped from her old pony hat and ran in little rivulets from a long, yellow slicker. From head to foot she was spattered with mud. Her face was pale, drawn, and dirt-smeared, and blood oozed slowly from a jagged cut above her left eye. She swayed from side to side as she walked.
Kitty Wade cried out; Clyde rose swiftly in quick sympathy. But Casey was before her.
"Sheila—girl—what's the matter?" he exclaimed.
She stretched out her arms to him gropingly.
"Where's Tom, Casey? They're after him. Maybe they're after you. Father's hurt. Sandy——I can't talk, Casey. I guess—I'm—all in."
He caught her as she fell forward, lifting her in his arms as easily as if she had been a child, and laid her on a couch.
"No, no," he said, as Clyde would have put cushions beneath her head. "Let her lie flat." He unbuttoned the slicker, and opened her dress halfway from throat to waist, stripping it away with ruthless hand. A bare shoulder and arm showed bruised and discoloured. "She's been in some mix-up—had a fall or something. Wade, get me some whiskey and water!" His long fingers closed on her wrist. "She'll be all right in five minutes, unless something's broken. Mrs. Wade, get in here and loosen her corsets. Give her a chance."
Kitty stooped obediently, and straightened up in amazement. "Why—she——"
"Well, how did I know?" snapped Casey. He ran his hand down her side. "No ribs broken; arms all right. Good!"
Sheila's long lashes fluttered against her cheeks, she sighed and opened her eyes.
"Casey," she said, "never mind me. Look out for yourself. Where's Tom? There are men coming to-night. I was afraid——"
"All right, Sheila," he interrupted. "Tom is safe. The men have gone. No trouble at all. Just lie quiet till things steady a little. Have a drink of this."
Clyde brought water, sponge, and towels. She cleansed Sheila's face and hands, and deftly dressed the cut in her forehead.
"You make me feel like a baby," said Sheila. "I never fainted before in my life. I didn't think I could faint. I'm all right now. May I sit up, please?"
"You may lie up, if you like," Casey replied. "Let me put some pillows under you. You've had a bad shake-up, old girl."
"Beaver Boy fell," she explained, "and threw me. I must have struck my head. I don't know how I caught him again. I don't remember very clearly. I had to hang on to the horn sometimes—dizzy, you know. I never had to pull leather before. He was afraid of the lightning, and I wasn't strong enough to handle him afterward. The fall took it out of me. I just had to let him go. He knew it, and acted mean. I'll show him whose horse he is next time."
"You rode on your nerve," said Casey. "Tell us all about it. Tell us about your father and Sandy. You were going to say something when you keeled over."
The girl's keen face clouded. "Oh, heavens! Casey, my head can't be right yet. I'd clean forgotten my own people. There's been nothing but trouble in bunches all day. The drivers ran away this morning, smashed the rig, threw father out, and broke his leg. This afternoon this man Glass, whom we all took for a harmless nuisance, arrested Sandy."
"What?" Casey exclaimed.
"Yes, he did. Glass is a railway detective. He worked quietly, nosing around the ranches talking to everybody, while the other detective attracted all the attention. Nobody suspected Glass. Who would? Anyway, he and another man arrested Sandy for blowing up the dam."
Casey whistled softly, casting a side glance at Wade.
"Where's Sandy now? Where did they take him?"
Sheila laughed, but there was little mirth in it.
"They didn't take him anywhere, but I don't know where he is. I saw him with the two men down by the stable. I thought they were talking about land. Half an hour afterward he came to the house with his parfleches, and asked me to put him up a couple of weeks' grubstake. He had the men locked up in the harness room, but he didn't tell me how he had done it. He took his pack horse and his blankets and hunting outfit, and pulled out. I didn't know what to do. I didn't tell the folks. The ranch hands know, but they won't let the men out. And then it must have been after ten o'clock when one of our men told me of the shooting. He had heard it from somebody on the road. He said that Cross' friends were talking of lynching McHale, and perhaps you. I didn't believe it at first, but after a while I got nervous. Everybody was asleep, and anyway there was nobody I could ask to go; so I came myself."
"And Tom and I will never forget it, Sheila," said Casey. "I don't know another girl who could have made it after a fall like that in this storm."
"It was perfectly splendid of you!" cried Kitty Wade, with hearty admiration.
Clyde, obeying a sudden impulse, leaned forward and kissed the bruised forehead. Sheila was unused to such endearments. She had no intimates of her own sex; with the women she was courteously distant, repelling and rather despising them. She had felt Clyde's instinctive hostility, and had returned it. Surprised and touched by her action, the tears started to her eyes. Clyde put her arms around the slender, pliant waist.
"Come with me, dear, and get some sleep. You're badly shaken up. We'll sleep in, in the morning."
"But I have to go back," Sheila objected. "Nobody knows I've gone. I have to be back by morning. And then there's Beaver Boy! My heavens! I left him standing outside. Oh, I've got to——"
Casey gently pressed her back as she would have risen.
"I'll stable the horse, old girl; and I'll be at Talapus by daylight to tell them where you are. Don't you worry, now, about anything—not even Sandy. If he's gone back to the hills I'll bet he finds Tom. They'll be all right."
"Do you think so, Casey? And will you do that much for me? I'm awfully sore and tired. Every bone and muscle of me aches."
"You poor little girl." He raised her in his arms. "Come on, girls, and put her to bed. I'll carry her in."
CHAPTER XXV
With the first streaks of dawn Casey and Simon mounted and rode for Talapus. But before they had ridden five hundred yards Casey discovered an extraordinary thing. In his ears sounded a sustained, musical murmur, nothing less than the happy laugh of running water.
"By the Lord Harry!" he ejaculated. "There's water in the ditches."
Simon nodded. "Ya-as.Hiyu chuckstop, all sameskookum chuck," he observed, signifying that there was a full head of it, like a rapid.
The ditches were running to the brim. After the soaking rain of the night the water was not immediately needed, but it showed that the irrigation company's works no longer controlled the supply. When they reached the river they found a swirling, yellow torrent running yeasty-topped, speckled with débris.
"S'pose cloudkokshut!" Simon observed.
"Cloudburst, eh!" said Casey. "Looks like it. Then either the company's dam has gone, or it can't take care of the head."
The former supposition seemed the more likely. Somewhere up in the heart of the hills the black storm cloud had broken, and its contents, collected by nameless creeks and gulches, had swooped down on the Coldstream, raising it bank high, booming down to the lower reaches, practically a wall of water, against which only the strongest structures might stand. Temporary ones would go out before it, washed away like a child's sand castle in a Fundy tide.
Ignoring trails, they struck straight across country. The land had been washed clean. Beneath the brown grasses the earth lay dark and moist. A hundred fresh, elusive odours struck the nostrils, called forth from the soil by the rare moisture, a silent token of its latent fertility. On the way there were no houses, no fences, no cleared fields. The land lay in the dawn as empty as when the keels of restless white men first split the Western ocean; and more lifeless, for the great buffalo herds that of old gave the men of the plains and foothills food and raiment were gone forever.
The sun was up when they reached Talapus. Mrs. McCrae had just discovered her daughter's absence; and her husband was cursing the leg that held him helpless. Casey told them the events of the night, and Donald McCrae was proud of his daughter, and but little worried about his son.
"Show me another girl would have ridden in that storm!" he exclaimed. "She's the old stock—the old frontier stock! And Sandy, locking the detective in the harness room!" He chuckled. "Go down and let them out, Casey, and give them breakfast. A fine pair of children we've got, mother."
"Sandy can take care of himself," said Mrs. McCrae practically. "He always did, since he could walk, and he took his own ways, asking nobody. And Sheila, for a girl, is the same. They take after you, Donald, not me. But now, Casey, Mrs. Wade is at Chakchak, isn't she?"
"Mrs. Wade and Miss Burnaby," Casey replied. "It's all right, Mrs. McCrae."
"Sheila needs no chaperon," said her father.
"Not with Casey," said her mother. "But there's the gossip, Donald, and the dirty tongues. It's not like the old days."
"True enough, maybe," McCrae admitted. And he added, when his wife had left the room: "What have they got hold of to arrest the boy, Casey?"
"I don't know," Casey replied. "But we'll face the music, Donald."
When Casey entered the harness room Glass and another man, a stranger, lay in one corner on a heap of sacks. Sandy had done a most workmanlike job, and he had put a neat finish to it by strapping each man to a stanchion with a pair of driving reins.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Casey.
"Is it?" said Glass, sourly. His old hesitating manner had quite vanished.
"Beautiful," Casey replied. "Sun shining, birds singing, crops growing. 'God's in His heaven; all's well with the world.' Like to take a look at it? Or are you too much attached to your present surroundings?"
"You can cut out the funny stuff," said Glass. "I don't ever laugh before breakfast."
"Quite right, too," Casey replied. "Just roll over a little till I get at those knots. There you are, Mr. Glass. Now your friend here. Don't think I know him."
"Jack Pugh, sheriff's officer," said Glass, rising stiffly, with considerable difficulty.
"I'll have him in shape to shake hands in a minute," said Casey, as he worried at the knots. "And so, Mr. Glass, instead of an innocent landlooker you are a real live, mysterious detective. You don't look the part. Or perhaps you are still disguised."
"I can stand a josh better now," said Glass. "Maybe I'm not such a live proposition as I might be. When two grown men let a kid hogtie them it sort of starts them thinking."
"It sure does," Pugh agreed. He was a saturnine gentleman, with a humorous eye. "I been wantin' to scratch my nose for eight solid hours," he affirmed irrelevantly, rubbing that organ violently with his free hand.
"He's some kid," said Glass. "Where is he?"
"I haven't seen him. He left word where to find you."
"Beat it somewhere, I suppose," Glass commented. "He fooled us up in great style, I'll say that much. At first he acted about the way you'd expect a country kid to act—scared to death. He wanted to change his overalls for pants before we took him anywhere. Said they were hanging up in here. We fell for it. We came in, and there was a pair of pants hanging on a nail. He walked over to them, and the next thing we knew he had a gun on us. I hope I know when a man means business—and he did. He had half a notion to shoot anyway."
"That's right," Pugh confirmed. "He's one of them kids that makes gunmen. No bluff. I know the kind."
"So when he told me to tie Pugh I did it," Glass continued. "Then he dropped a loop over me, and that's all there is to tell. The joke's on us just now."
"So it is," said Casey. "Whatever made you think that kid had anything to do with blowing up the dam?"
"Hadn't he?"
Casey smiled genially. "Why, how should I know, Mr. Glass? I was just asking what you were going on."
"I'm not showing my hand. I don't say the kid did it alone."
"And so you thought you'd round him up and sweat some information out of him. That was it, wasn't it?"
"You're quite a guesser and you show a whole lot of interest in the answer," retorted Glass. "Keep on guessing."
"I don't need to. Come up to the house and have breakfast. And for Heaven's sake don't say anything to frighten the kid's mother."
"What do you take us for?" said Glass. "We'll treat the whole thing as a joke—to her."
Casey breakfasted with them, and after they had gone sought Simon. The old Indian, full to repletion, was squatting on the kitchen steps, smoking and blinking sleepily.
"No see um Sandy," he observed. "Where him stop?"
"No more Sandy stop thisillahee," Casey replied. "Sandyklatawa kopastoneillahee, all same Tom." Meaning that Sandy had gone in the direction of the hills, as had McHale.
"Why himklatawa?" Simon asked.
Casey explained, and Simon listened gravely. His receptiveness was enormous. Information dropped into him as into a bottomless pit, vanishing without splash.
"Sandyhyasyoung fool," he commented. "Me tell himmamook huyhuymoccasin. S'pose moccasin stop,iktman findum, then heltopay. Polismanmamookcatchum, put um inskookumhouse, maybeso hang umkopaneck."
"What are you talking about, anyway?" Casey demanded. And Simon told him of the track of the patched moccasin and of his warning to Sandy.
Casey immediately fitted things together. He knew that Sandy's right moccasin was almost invariably worn through at the toe. Before they left he had seen him patching them, and because they wore through at the same place the patches were of nearly the same shape. So that if Glass had found a patched moccasin it was not necessarily the one which had made the track. But that would make little difference. Either Farwell or his assistant must have told Glass about this track. If he had found a pair of Sandy's moccasins to correspond with the footprint he had come very near getting Sandy with the goods. But Farwell or somebody must have directed Glass's suspicions to Sandy.
However that was, Sandy had made a clean get-away into a region where he would be hard to catch. He was familiar with the trails, the passes, the little basins and pockets nestling in the hills. He was well provisioned and well armed. And the last caused Casey some uneasiness, for having once resisted arrest Sandy would be very apt to do so again.
"Simon," he said, "I want you to take papah letter to Tom."
"Where Tom stop?" Simon asked naturally enough.
"Maybe at Sunk Springs," Casey replied. "Maybe not. You try Sunk Springs. S'pose no Tom stop there, younanitcharound till you find him."
"All right," said Simon. "Menanitch, me find Tom." He considered a moment. "Halogrub stop me?"
"I'll tell them to grubstake you here," Casey reassured him. "I'll pay you, too, of course."
"You mytillikum," said Simon, with great dignity. "Tom mytillikum. Good! Me like you. How much you pay?"
"Two dollars a day," said Casey promptly.
Simon looked grieved and pained. "You my tillikum," he repeated. "S'pose mytillikumwork for me, me pay him five dolla'."
But Casey was unmoved by this touching appeal to friendship. "I'll remember that if I ever work for you," he replied. "Two dollars and grub is plenty. You Siwashes are spoiled by people who don't know any better than to pay what you ask. That's all you'll get from me. Your time's worth nothing, and your cayuses rustle for themselves."
And Simon accepted this ultimatum with resignation.
"All right," said he. "You mytillikum; Tom mytillikum. S'pose you catchhiyugrubstake."
Having arranged for a message to McHale, it occurred to Casey that he should see whether the sudden rise of the river had swept the company's temporary dam. Accordingly he rode thither.
The storm had entirely passed, and the sun shone brightly. Great, white, billowy, fair-weather clouds rolled up in open order before the fresh west wind, and the shadows of them trailed across the face of the earth, moving swiftly, sharply defined, sweeping patches of shade against the green and gold of a clean-washed, sunny summer world. Off to the westward, where the ranges thrust gaunt, gray peaks against the sky line, the light shimmered against patches of white, the remnants of the last winter's snows. Far away, just to be discerned through a notch in the first range, was a vivid point of emerald or jade, the living green of a glacier.
It was a day when it was good to be alive, and Casey Dunne, hard, clean, in the full power of his manhood, the fresh west wind in his face, and a strong, willing horse beneath him, rejoiced in it.
As he rode his thoughts reverted to Clyde Burnaby. Indeed, she had never, since the preceding night, been entirely absent from them; but because his training had been to do one thing at a time, and think of what he was doing to the exclusion of all else, he had unconsciously pigeonholed her in the back of his mind. Now she emerged.
"Shiner, m'son," he apostrophized his horse, "if things break right you're going to have a missus. What d'ye think of that, hey, you yellow-hided old scoundrel? And, by the Great Tyee! you'll eat apples and sugar out of her hand, and if you so much as lay back your ears at her I'll frale your sinful heart out with a neck yoke. D'ye get that, you buzzard-head?"
Shiner in full stride made a swift grab for his rider's left leg, and his rider with equal swiftness kicked him joyously in the nose.
"You would, hey? Nice congratulations, you old man-eater. I'll make a lady's horse of you if you don't behave; I sure will. And we'll build a decent house and break two thousand acres, and keep every foot of it as fine and clean as a seed bed, and have it all under ditch, the show place of the whole dry belt. You bet we will. We won't sell an acre. Fancy prices won't tempt us. We'll keep the whole shootin' match till we cash in." His mood changed.
"Cash in! It's funny to think of that, old horse, isn't it? And yet ten years from now you'll be no good, and thirty years from now I'll be near the end of the deal. And Clyde! Why, Shiner, we can't think of her as an old lady, can we? With her smooth cheeks a little withered and the suppleness gone from her body, and her eyes dim and her glorious hair white. Lord, horse, we mustn't think of it! She'll always be the same dear Clyde to us, won't she? 'Sufficient unto the day,' my equine trial and friend. Others will come after us, and there will be evil-tempered buckskins loping this foothill country and maybe a Casey Dunne cursing them when you and I are ranging the happy hunting grounds!"
Out of the sunlit distances a horse and rider appeared, rapidly approaching. It was Farwell, and, recognizing Dunne, he pulled up.
"In case you don't know it," he said, without preliminary or greeting, "I'll tell you that our dam went out with the flood. You didn't need to use dynamite this time."
"Providence!" Casey suggested.
Farwell's comment consisted of but one word, which, unless by contrast, is not usually associated with providential happenings.
"Call it that if you like," he growled. "We'll get the men responsible for it one of these days."
"You made a beginning with young McCrae," Casey reminded him.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you know that Glass tried to arrest him?"
"What?" cried Farwell.
His surprise was too genuine to be feigned. Thereupon Casey told him what had occurred in the last few hours both at Talapus and Chakchak.
Farwell listened, biting his lips and frowning. And his first words were an inquiry as to Sheila.
"Miss McCrae rode through that storm last night!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord! Is she badly hurt?"
"Only shaken up, I think."
"Thank God for that," said Farwell, with evident sincerity. He hesitated for a moment. "See here, Dunne, do you mind if I ask you an impertinent question?"
"Fire away."
"Are you going to marry her?"
"Certainly not. What put that notion in your head?"