"It got there. You were pretty thick. And if she rode there in that storm—unless she thought a lot of you——"
"I'm mighty proud of it. We're good friends—like brother and sister. No more. She has the best brand of clean-strain pluck of any girl I know."
"So she has," Farwell agreed. "She's a girl in a million. She's——" He stopped, reddening.
"By George, Farwell," said Casey, "is it that way with you?"
"She doesn't care a tinker's dam for me," said Farwell bluntly. "That's not saying what I think of her. I'm no ladies' man—don't pretend to be. Let that go. I suppose I'll be blamed for young McCrae's arrest. Well, I didn't know a thing about it. I've tried to give the family a good deal—better than the rest of you, anyway. I don't like the boy, and he doesn't like me. Pulled a gun on me once—well, never mind that. Here, you've been straight with me, and I'll tell you: When the dam was blown up we found the track of a patched moccasin in soft earth. Keeler took an impression of it, or made a cast or something—I don't know just what, but I do know that he photographed it. Since then I've noticed young McCrae's foot, and I believe he made the track, though it didn't strike me at the time. That was about the only clew we found. Mind you, Dunne, I believe you were in it yourself, but I haven't a thing to go on. If Glass has found a patched moccasin of McCrae's he's pretty near got him to rights. I don't know what he's got, though. About Cross and McHale, I don't care a curse which shot the other. These men—Cross, Dade, Lewis, and some more—were protecting our property. And that's all."
"Not quite all. They blew up our dams."
"Just as man to man," said Farwell, "let me ask you if you expected to run a dynamite monopoly?"
"I'm not kicking," said Casey. "I'm merely stating facts. I can take my medicine."
"You're a good deal of a man," Farwell acknowledged grudgingly. "I hate a squealer. Anyway, it was no part of their job to break into your house. See here, Dunne, the last five minutes has got us better acquainted than the last two months. I'll fire these fellows to-morrow if you'll promise me that our ditches won't be interfered with again."
"As long as we have water there will be no trouble," said Casey. "I'll promise nothing more."
"That's good for some weeks, anyway," Farwell predicted. "I guess we'll have to fight it out in the end. Still, I'm glad to have had this talk. I like you better than I did. And I can tell you there was lots of room for it—is yet, for that matter. Good-bye."
Without waiting for a reply, he dug a heel into his horse and swept on. Casey watched him go, with a thoughtful smile.
"Odd devil!" he muttered. "Queer combination. I don't like him, but—well, he's a fighter, and I believe he's straight. To think of him being fond of Sheila! I wonder if he has a chance there? She never mentions him now. H'm!" Finding no answer to the question, he wheeled Shiner and headed for home.
CHAPTER XXVI
Just before utter blackness shut down on the land, Sandy McCrae dismounted and stripped saddle and pack from his horses. He looked up at the sky, shook his head, and, taking a light axe, cut two picket pins; after which he staked the horses out in the abundant pasture at the bottom of the draw, driving the pins in solidly beyond the possibility of pulling. Then he set about making a hasty camp.
Beside him a little spring bubbled out of the bottom of the draw and seeped away under tangled roots and fallen brush. A thirst-parched stranger might have ridden past twenty times on the bench above without suspecting its presence. The faint cattle trail leading to it entered the draw a quarter of a mile away, and led along under low but almost perpendicular banks.
Sandy's camp preparations were simple, but much more elaborate than if the night had been clear. Then he would have made his fire, boiled coffee, spread his bed, and gone to sleep beneath the stars; but because of the ominous storm cloud he constructed a lean-to by driving two forked stakes and joining them with a crosspiece. From these he slanted two poles to the ground, and on the poles laid a tarp, lashing it in place. The mouth of the lean-to faced away from the cloud bank. In addition it had the partial shelter of cottonwoods in full leaf. In this lean-to he collected his outfit. Next he made a fire and cooked supper. Afterward he smoked, squatting in the mouth of his shelter, staring silently at the dying embers, listening to the rising wind sighing above him sweeping across the bare grasslands, but scarcely fanning the coals in his protected camp.
He felt no loneliness whatever. Solitary camps and the love of them were his by right of inheritance. He neither required nor desired companionship. Fire, food, tobacco, and solitude satisfied his inmost soul. This was the life he loved. The fact that he was a fugitive from the law did not trouble him at all; it merely gave an added zest to the situation. Just once he chuckled grimly as he recalled the faces of Glass and Pugh when he had whirled on them, gun in hand. Glass had interpreted his intentions very correctly; he would have shot either or both on the slightest provocation. He was of the breed of the wolf, accustomed from childhood to deadly weapons, brought up in tradition of their use, and, like many outlaws who have bulked large in the history of the West, young enough to act on impulse without counting the ultimate cost.
As his little fire burned down he stepped out and regarded the darkened heavens. A heavy drop of rain struck his face and a flash of lightning ripped the black curtain, outlining bare banks, trees, and grazing horses for a brief instant. Sandy shrugged his shoulders philosophically. His shelter was good enough. He unrolled his bed, and, by the simple process of removing moccasins and gun belt, was ready to retire. He got into his blankets, taking his gun with him, and rolled them around him, leaving his face exposed until the last.
"Now, darn you rain!" he muttered. With which "now-I-lay-me" he drew the blanket completely over his head as a protection against mosquitoes, and, heedless of the smothering effect of it, which would have been unsupportable to a city youth, was asleep in ten seconds.
He slept for, perhaps, an hour. At the end of that time he suddenly became wide awake. He could not have told what had aroused him, but he was sure something had. He threw back the smothering blanket from his head and lay listening.
Overhead the wind threshed the tops of the trees, and roared hollowly as it rebounded from the farther side of the gulch. Rain, driven by the wind, slashed through the foliage and pattered against his primitive shelter. Thunder rolled in an endless fusillade, punctuated by flashes of lightning. But Sandy, without considering the matter, was quite sure that none of these things had awakened him. In a momentary lull of the storm, as he lay with his ear close to the ground, he thought he could hear the sound of hoofs coming up the draw, along the hard-beaten cattle trail.
It was barely possible that some wandering stock, drifting with the storm, were seeking the shelter of it; but it was more likely that range stock would have found cover to suit them before dark, and would stay in it till morning. Now, there is a difference between the tread of ridden and riderless animals, and Sandy thought that he had heard the former. Also, they were coming as he had come.
His route led from the settlements back to the hills where there was nobody and nothing. There was no road, no trail. Few people went there, not even Indians, and they not until the fall hunt, after the first snow. Therefore, it was suspicious that, on such a night, a rider or riders should be in his vicinity. His mind leaped to the conclusion that Glass had been released, had secured the services of somebody who knew the country, and had somehow made a good guess at the location of his first night's camp, for which they were now searching in the darkness, hoping that the remains of his fire would betray him.
As he reached this conclusion, Sandy rolled out of his blankets, buckled his belt around his lean waist, slipped on his moccasins, and stepped out into the darkness.
Not a red spark showed where his fire had been, and Sandy smiled grimly. He would do all the surprising himself. He did not intend to be taken. Once more he heard the sound of hoofs, nearer. They seemed to approach a few yards, then to stop. He heard the sound of a breath blown from a horse's nostrils.
The storm, which had lulled momentarily, began again. The wind hit the draw viciously, with spatters of rain. Other sounds were indistinguishable. Sandy, crouching low to get any advancing object against what sky line there was, made out the shape of a mounted man. Horse and man stood like an equestrian statue, barely distinguishable, though but a few yards away.
The rider disappeared from the saddle. Sandy heard his feet crashing in the low bushes, heard him stumble and swear.
"Ought to be about here," words came faintly to Sandy's ears. "If ever I try to find ... on a night like this...."
"Looking for me, sure," thought Sandy. "Maybe it's Glass; maybe it isn't. Wonder how many there are. Anyway, I'll fix this one."
Soft-footed as a great cat, he crept toward the voice. The man loomed in front of him; his back was turned. Sandy rose soundlessly behind him. With a sudden vicious sweep his left arm shot across the stranger's left shoulder and around his throat. His right hand shoved the muzzle of his gun beneath the man's right ear.
"Don't move or let one yip out of you!" he hissed tensely.
After one convulsive start the stranger stood motionless. "Nary move nor yip," he whispered confidentially into the night. "And if that gun's a light pull, be mighty careful of the trigger!"
"Talk and talk quiet," said Sandy. "How many are there of you?"
"Be mighty careful of that gun if you're seein' double that way!" the stranger admonished again nervously. "Was you expectin' twins or somethin'?"
"You alone?"
"Yep."
"What's your name?"
"Smith."
"What you doing here?"
"Lookin' for the spring to camp by."
"Where you heading for?"
"Into the hills, prospectin'."
"Where's Glass?" Sandy asked suddenly.
"Search me. I got nothin' to do with that durn fool."
The tone and the words gave Sandy the surprise of his life. His arm dropped away from the stranger's throat, and his gun ceased to threaten the base of his skull.
"Tom McHale!" he cried.
"You sound some like acultusyoung devil named McCrae," said McHale, peering at him in the dark. "Say, what in the flarin' blazes you doin' here?"
"Take some yourself," Sandy responded. "Are they after you, too?"
McHale shook his head sadly. "Sonny," said he, "you're too young to be havin' them cute little visions of things bein' after you. I reckon maybe we're pullin' two ways on one rope. Also, we ain't gettin' no drier standin' here chewin' about it. Maybe you got a camp somewheres. S'pose you find the latchstring. Then we'll have a talk."
Thus admonished, Sandy led the way to his lean-to, rekindled the fire, helped picket McHale's horses, and set the coffee-pot to boil. They drank coffee and smoked, going into details of their experiences of the preceding day. McHale was amazed to hear of Sandy's arrest by Glass, whom he had held in contempt. Sandy was jubilant over the shooting of Cross, regretful that he had not had a hand in it.
"You won't be so durn stuck on a gun fight after you've been in one or two," said McHale grimly. "Now let's see how she stacks up. I'm goin' to hide out for a spell, but if I was you I'd go back and stand the racket."
"I guessnot," said Sandy positively. "I don't want to do time if they've got me with the goods. And then some darn lawyer might make me give somebody else away by accident. You can't tell. I'll stay out with you. Where are you heading for?"
"I was aimin' to hit Bull's Pass, drop over the summit into the valley of the Klimminchuck, and camp somewheres. There was two trappers in there winter before last, and they told me they built them a right good cabin."
"That suits me."
"This will fix us up with water for the next two weeks," said McHale as he listened to the rain. "I'll bet Casey's got a grin on him a yard wide." He yawned. "Well, kid, we've got all that's comin' to us out of this one day. Let's hit them blankets. We better make an early start."
They were up in the early dawn, breakfasted, saddled, and packed, and headed for the hills. At noon they reached the foot of the pass. A narrow trail, often choked by fallen timber and small landslides, led them upward, winding in and out, sometimes near the bottom of an always ascending gorge, sometimes forsaking it for broad, flat benches parklike with stately trees, sometimes clinging precariously to shoulders of bare rock where a slip would have been fatal.
They camped that night near the summit, and next day dropped down into a valley, narrow, wooded, picturesque, where the Klimminchuck raced southward; and, following its course, camped at the edge of a beaver meadow, feasting on trout fresh caught from a deep pool beneath a short fall. And in the morning, still following the stream, they came to the trappers' cabin, set in a grove of young spruce.
It was built of small logs chinked with moss and clay, and most of the chinking had fallen out. Its roof was of poles covered with earth. A two-man bunk occupied much of the interior. The remainder was taken up by a rough table, a bench, and a rusty wreck of a little sheet-iron stove. There was room to get in and stay in, and that was all. And yet two men had lived in that pen all winter, and emerged healthy and fairly good-tempered in the spring.
The companions peered through the door at the uninviting interior. The floor was a litter of rubbish, old clothes in a state of decomposition, leaves, bones, and rusty cans and pans. Young McCrae wrinkled an outraged nose.
"Pfaugh!" he snorted. "The shack's filthy. We can't use it."
"The smellissome obvious," McHale agreed. "Which bein' so, I reckon we build us a wickiup several nose lengths off."
They found a suitable spot, and there they built an elaborate lean-to. Having established themselves, they rested, smoked, and slept. In the evening they caught trout for supper and breakfast. There was absolutely nothing to do unless they created employment for themselves.
At the end of another day Sandy became restless; his capacity for loafing was exhausted.
"Let's go get a bear," he proposed.
"Deer's better meat," said McHale; "also easier to get. I won't climb after no bear."
Nevertheless, he accompanied Sandy down the valley. They saw no bear; but they shot a young buck, and returned to camp with the carcass lashed behind Sandy's saddle. Although it was closed season, they needed the meat, and game wardens were not likely to intrude.
But when they came in sight of their camp they saw old Simon reclining in grandeur on their blankets, smoking.
"The nerve of that buck!" snorted McHale. "Get off of that bed, you old copperskin. Think I want to wash them blankets?"
Simon obeyed, but he drew a letter from his pocket.
"Papah," said he. "Casey."
McHale read Casey's warning as to Dade, and whistled softly, passing the letter to Sandy.
"So this here Dade makes it a feud, does he?" he said meditatively. "All right, he can have it that way. Same time, I'm goin' to keep out of trouble long as I can. I'll stay cached mighty close, and I'll run like blazes before I'll fight. Simon, how'd you find this camp?"
"Find um easy," said Simon scornfully. He pointed to the carcass of the deer. "S'pose youmamookcook um."
CHAPTER XXVII
In the morning Sheila awoke stiff and sore, but rested. Her strong young body, hard and well conditioned by a life in the open and much healthy exercise, refused to indulge in the luxury of after effects of shock. Looking around, she found that her clothes were gone. But spread ready for her was a dainty morning costume, which she knew for Clyde Burnaby's. Dressing quickly, she entered the breakfast room.
Clyde, sitting by the window, rose, smiling, as she entered.
"I hope they fit," she said. "How do you feel, Miss McCrae?"
"They fit very well, and I feel first rate," said Sheila. "I'm sore in spots, but I'll limber up when I get moving. Where is Mrs. Wade? I suppose Casey has gone to Talapus."
"Kitty's busy cleaning your riding clothes," Clyde replied. "Casey has gone; I haven't seen him."
It was the first time she had used his given name to a third person. It slipped out naturally, and she coloured a trifle, but Sheila did not appear to notice. They breakfasted together, and later sat on the veranda enjoying the perfect morning after the storm. Naturally, they spoke of the events of the preceding day and night. Sheila took a practical view.
"It was lucky Tom McHale wasn't here," she said. "Somebody would have been hurt. That's what I was afraid of."
"It was very brave of you," said Clyde. "I admire you more than I can say. I want you to know it, Miss McCrae."
"Oh, that"—Sheila dismissed the warm praise with a wave of her brown hand—"why, it wasn't anything; only a wet ride in the dark. If my horse had kept his feet it would have been all right. I simply had to come. Don't try to make me think myself a heroine. You'd do the same thing yourself for a friend."
"I'm afraid I couldn't. I'm not much of a rider, and I couldn't have found my way in the dark."
"Well, that's no credit to me. I've been riding all my life, and I know every foot of this country. Of course, I'd do anything for Casey or Tom."
"Yes," said Clyde, "they both think a great deal of you, I know."
"No more than I think of them—especially Casey. Some day I suppose he'll get married, and then I'll have to call him 'Mr. Dunne.'"
"That won't be necessary."
"Oh, yes, it will. His wife wouldn't stand for 'Casey.'"
"Yes, she will," said Clyde. Sheila turned and looked at her keenly. "We are going to be married," Clyde added.
"You don't mean it!" Sheila exclaimed. "Well, you are a lucky girl, if you don't mind my saying so. Casey'swhite. I congratulate you with all my heart. And he's lucky, too; yes, he is."
"You—you don't mind?" Clyde ventured. She thought it quite possible that Sheila might care for Casey, although convinced that he did not love her.
"Mind? Why should I mind?"
"You know I thought once"—Clyde hesitated—"you see you were such great friends——"
"You thought I might be fond of him? Why, so I am. Not in that way, though. I might have been if he had tried to make love to me, but he never did. You see, Miss Burnaby——"
"I wish you'd call me Clyde."
"If you'll call me Sheila. You see, Clyde, Casey and I are too much two of a kind. We'd never get on. You'll idealize him; I'd call him down. He'll talk out of his heart to you; he'd talk irrigation, and crops, and horses to me. You'll accept his judgment in most things as final; I'd want him to take my opinion instead of his own. Oh, we'd make an awful mess of it! And so, my dear, don't you think that I'd want his love, even if I could get it. But at that he's the whitest man I know, and the best friend I ever had. You're lucky. I don't wonder that he fell in love with you, either. I wish to goodnessIwere as pretty."
"I'm glad," said Clyde, "that you haven't said anything about money. Thank you."
"It's not because I didn't think of it," Sheila admitted frankly. "But I know it makes no difference to Casey. Fact is, I wonder, knowing him as I do, that he hadn't some absurd scruples on that point."
"He had. He says we can't be married if he loses this ranch and the other lands."
"Nonsense," said Sheila practically. "He won't stay with that if you coax him; he couldn't."
Clyde laughed happily. "That's the nicest compliment I ever had. You're absolutely the first person I've told."
"Well, I'm much flattered," said Sheila. "When did it happen?"
"Last night."
"Everything happened last night. Was he—er—convincing in the part?"
But Clyde, laughing and blushing, refused details. Sheila wished to go home at once, but Clyde prevailed on her to wait for Casey. It was his wish.
"And that settles it from your point of view, of course," said Sheila. "Well, I'll wait."
Casey returned at noon. Clyde met him halfway between the stable and the house, bareheaded, the fresh wind fluttering her skirts and spinning little tendrils of coppery gold across her forehead. He would have taken both her hands, but she put them behind her, laughing.
"Not here, sir!"
"It's my ranch and my girl."
"In order of merit?"
"My girl and my ranch, then. But tell me: How is Sheila?"
"Quite well, except for her bruises. What a plucky girl she is, Casey!"
"I should say she is," he agreed heartily. "You must be friends. Somehow you never seemed to like her."
"I understand her better now. I've told her about—us."
"Fine! And Kitty Wade?"
"Yes. Come in and face the music yourself."
But Casey got off lightly. They lunched without Wade, who had gone to town for mail; but as they were finishing the meal he entered.
"Casey," he cried, "I hope to Heaven I haven't foundered your horse, but I have all kinds of news for you!"
Casey's mouth tightened a little. "Let it go, Wade. Maybe it's all for the best."
"Part of this is, anyway. Don't look so glum; it's all right, I tell you. Now, this was the way of it: When I got my papers at the post office I saw that Western Air stock, which had been playing antics before, had gone clean crazy. It's been boosted sky high. All sorts of rumours, the chief being that the Hess System people were responsible. So I wired for the latest. Got a reply that it was impossible to confirm rumours. Then, just as I was leaving, in comes a wire for Clyde which I herewith produce and put in as Exhibit A, and which, I strongly suspect, throws light on the situation. Open it, Clyde, for Heaven's sake, and put us out of our misery!"
Clyde tore the envelope with fingers which trembled slightly. She read the message and handed it to Casey.
"Aloud?" he asked, and she nodded. He read:
Sending you power of attorney and proxy to vote shares recently purchased by your brokers. We now control corporation. Advise friends to drop lawsuit. They will get a square deal.Jim.
Sending you power of attorney and proxy to vote shares recently purchased by your brokers. We now control corporation. Advise friends to drop lawsuit. They will get a square deal.
Jim.
Casey looked up. He did not understand. Wade struck him a violent blow on the back.
"Hooray!" he shouted. "It's blamed unprofessional, but I was never so glad to discontinue an action in my life. Clyde, you're a darling!" He caught her in his arms and whirled her around the room.
"Harrison!" Kitty cried, "have you gone crazy?"
Wade released Clyde, breathless, and sank into a chair.
"Bring me an expensive drink!" he commanded. "This needs celebrating."
"Will somebody tell me what's the matter with him?" Casey asked.
"What!" exclaimed the lawyer. "Don't you see it?"
"Not yet," Casey admitted.
"Why, you old dub," cried Wade, "the wire is from Jim Hess, Clyde's uncle. His interests control Western Air. He promises you a square deal."
"Eh!" Casey ejaculated, staring at him.
"You blamed idiot!" snapped the lawyer, "why don't you thank Clyde? She started the old chief on the warpath after York's scalp."
Casey turned to her. "Tell me he isn't raving mad! Is it so?"
"It's so," she said, "but I——" He interrupted by catching her in his arms.
"Here, hold on, old man!" Wade protested. "Gratitude's a fine thing, but you're too——"
His wife took him by the arm. "Come on, Harrison, you stupid! You're worse than he is. Can't you understand anything?" Sheila's skirts were already fluttering through the door.
"Great Scott!" Wade exclaimed, "you don't mean——"
"You—youbonehead!" she cried, exasperated, and hustled him outside.
Careless of them, Casey held Clyde, looking down into her eyes. "Sweetheart," he said, "you never told me!"
"I was afraid."
"Of raising false hopes?"
"Not that, so much. But you wouldn't let me help you with money. And I was afraid that if you knew, you'd consider yourself under an obligation and wouldn't—wouldn't——"
"Wouldn't what?"
"Wouldn't be sensible and tell me you loved me," she said softly. "You're so funny about such things, Casey. You aren't angry now, are you?"
"Angry?" he said. "Dear, I'd put the savings of years into this land—years when I'd worked like a very slave to get enough cash together to swing some good deal when I should see it. That was my stake. And the others! Why, girl, you've saved Talapus to the McCraes, and their ranches for the men who made them. We can't repay you; we won't try."
CHAPTER XXVIII
"Excuseme," said Wade, who had anticipated his entrance by many preliminary noises, "excuse me, my dear young friends, and, incidentally, accept my sincerest congratulations, felicitations, and—er—jubilations. Kindly listen to the following observations. Ahem! Far be it from me to horn in where I am as welcome as a wet dog. Nothing is farther from my desire than to short circuit two hearts——"
"Come right in, old man," said Casey. "What's the trouble?"
"I want my dinner," said Wade plaintively. "I Paul Revered on a shoestring. I Sheridaned without a commissariat. I brought the good news to Ghent on an empty tummy. Is thy servant a dog, that he should eat with a Chinaman? And I'd do that willingly; but, Casey, you know as well as I do that the only thing fit to drink Clyde's health in is in this room, and I warn you that if there is much more delay in doing so nothing which may occur hereafter will be either lucky or legal. While it is possibly true that a dinner of herbs where love is has a porterhouse, rare, and hashed brown spuds backed clean off the board, I submit, not being in love myself——"
"What's that?" cried Kitty Wade from the door.
"Why, it's a shame!" said Clyde. "He must be starving. It's all Casey's fault, too."
"Wouldn't he break away?" asked Wade. "I remember——?"
"Harrison!" cried Kitty, warningly.
"Well, then, do I eat?" he demanded.
"Yes. Anything to keep you quiet. I'll get your dinner myself."
Half an hour later Wade pushed back his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, lit a cigar, and joined the others.
"I feel better," he announced. "A child could play with me in comparative safety. Now let me tell you what else I discovered. In the first place, Cross is dead. I was talking to Shiller. He says that Tom wasn't to blame—corroborates his story, in fact, in every material particular. So Tom's all right on that score. My advice to him would be to come in and have his trial over."
"That isn't what's bothering him so much. It's these friends of Cross's. I don't blame him. Some sheriffs are mighty weak-kneed about such things."
"Well, I'm told that officers will be after him. Now as to your brother, Miss McCrae: Glass and Pugh are starting out to find him as soon as they get an outfit. Likely they've got started now."
"But they don't know where he is. That Glass—I should think he'd get lost if he left a trail."
"Pugh is different. They may get another man or two."
"I hope they don't find him," said Sheila gravely.
"So do I," Wade concurred. "I don't suppose a prosecution would be pushed now; but he resisted an officer, and anyway I wouldn't like to see him under arrest."
"You don't understand. Sandy wouldn't submit quietly."
"You think he'd try to bluff them again?"
"He isn't a bluff," said Casey. "The kid is serious-minded. That's the trouble. However, I've sent Tom word about Dade. Sandy may be with him; and Tom is cool. When Simon comes in we'll know more, and send him out again if he knows where the boy is."
Sheila declared that she must be going home. She refused Casey's offer to drive her over. She wanted to take the edge off Beaver Boy. His actions rankled in her mind. He needed a lesson, and she was going to give him one. And she refused absolutely to allow Casey to ride with her.
He had her horse saddled, and was giving a final pull at the latigos when she came out in her riding clothes.
"Cinch him up tight," she commanded. "Take a good pull at it; he's getting too foxy."
Beaver Boy grunted as Casey put his strength on the strap and the broad cinch bit into his glossy skin.
"And that's loose a-plenty," said his mistress. "He blows himself up like a turkey gobbler. I need a block and tackle to cinch him right." She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Somebody coming. I'll wait and see who it is."
Much to their surprise, it was none other than Farwell. He rode briskly, head up, shoulders back, with the air of a man whose mind is made up. But he refused to get off his horse, asking Sheila's permission to ride with her.
"I wanted to tell you," he said, "that you'll have water for the summer anyway. I've just had a wire from headquarters to shut down, and to turn the normal flow of the river back into its old channel." He smiled grimly. "They didn't know that the elements had attended to that. Thought you'd like to know. Might save you worry. Don't know the company's reason, and it's none of my business. I'm paying off the whole outfit to-night, including the men we were speaking of. To-morrow I'll pull out myself. Glad to do it."
"Sorry to have you go," said Casey.
"You say it all right, but I know better," said Farwell bluntly. "I don't want to keep Miss McCrae waiting. Will you shake hands?"
Casey put out his hand. It was caught, thumb crotch to thumb crotch, in a grip of steel. He laughed as he threw every ounce of strength into his own fingers.
"Good man," said Farwell. "I like a man with a handgrip, and you've got it. Any time you're ready, Miss McCrae?"
Sheila went up as lightly as a boy. Beaver Boy was off as she touched the saddle. Farwell followed. They melted into the distance, galloping side by side, the dust, in spite of the night's rain, puffing up from the flying hoofs.
At the end of a mile Beaver Boy's exuberance had not subsided. He thrashed out with his heels, and gave a tentative pitch. Farwell, who had been riding slightly behind, ranged up alongside.
"I should think you'd get a quiet horse," he said.
"I'll make this one quiet!" snapped Sheila, for she was still sore, and the hard pace had told on her temper through her bruises. "He's actually beginning to think he can do as he likes withme." Beaver Boy shied to show his independence, and she slashed him mercilessly with the quirt, setting her teeth as he plunged. "You would, would you, you brute? I'll show you!"
Farwell, riding in, grabbed for the headstall.
"Get away!" she flamed. "I'll fight this out with him now."
The question of supremacy took five minutes to settle. At the end of that time Beaver Boy relapsed ignominiously into servitude, smarting from the quirt and dripping sweat. Sheila put all her strength into a final cut. The big bay took it meekly with what was almost a sigh and a trembling quiver.
Farwell had watched the struggle with anxiety. "You won't have any more trouble with him for a while. He's afraid of you now."
"He'd better be. He's been obstinate for months, getting worse all the time. He had some notion in his head that he was merelyallowingme to ride him. He did what he liked for a while last night when I was shaken up, and he had to have his lesson. No use letting any one else give it to him. He had to be shown thatIwas able to do it."
"That's so," said Farwell, "that's sense. The idea of you going out in the storm last night on that brute. No other girl would have done it. It was fine, but it was foolish."
"Nonsense! I'm not afraid of rain or a horse. Could I do anything else? It was up to me."
"Maybe. Well, you heard what I told Dunne about the water. That ought to be satisfactory to all you people."
"Naturally I'm glad."
"I'm going away," he continued. "Also, I'm chucking up my job. I'm sorry I ever took it. It was sheer waste of time. I'm going to work for myself now. I hoped I would catch you at Dunne's place. I wanted to say good-bye."
"I am sorry you are going."
"That's what Dunne said—and he didn't mean it. Do you?"
"I usually mean what I say."
"Well, I didn't know. I wouldn't blame you if you were glad. I behaved like a—well, like a blackguard once."
"We needn't talk about that," said Sheila quietly. "That's over; I don't think of it."
"But I do. I'm rough, but I'm not that kind—usually. You let me down easy. If I could undo it I would; but I can't."
"No, it can't be undone. Why talk about it?"
"Because I keep thinking about it. I've kept away, as you wanted me to—and because I was ashamed of myself. Honestly, I've tried to do the best I could for your people—for your father. I tried my best to be a friend. And the end of it was that I started gossip, and you told me to keep away. That was pretty hard lines. It made me angry. And then I was jealous of Dunne."
"He is going to marry Miss Burnaby."
"Lucky devil!" growled Farwell dejectedly. "Things run smooth forhim. I'll bet he doesn't think half as much of her as I do of you."
Sheila smiled for the first time. "You wouldn't tell her that."
"I'd tell it to anybody. It's a fact. Why, look here: I'm a practical man; I've no more imagination than a stump. And yet I've lain awake nights pretending to myself that you had let me kiss you willingly. How's that?"
Sheila laughed softly. "That's certainly going some, Mr. Farwell!"
"Well, it's what I do, anyway. It's about all the consolation I've got."
"Is it? Couldn't you get something better than that?"
"I could if you'd give me half a chance," he declared. "You turned me down hard and cold. There's a fine show for consolation, isn't there?"
"Perhaps some other girl——?" she suggested demurely.
"No!" Farwell rapped out bluntly. "I don't want any other girl. I don't like other girls. They make me tired. I'd rather work than fuss with them. It's easier. If I can't have you I don't want anybody."
Sheila laughed again. The colour was high in her cheeks, and a strange light was shining in her clear eyes. She shot a glance at him, half amused, half serious.
"And if you had me you'd be tired of me in no time. I'm just plain girl."
"Plain girl nothing! You're the prettiest——"
"I'm not; I'm not even average."
"And the best and the most sensible and the pluckiest one I ever saw," he pursued, unheeding. "Don't tell me; I know. I've seen whole rafts of women. Dolls! Flirts! Gigglers! Fainters! Talking slush and thinking slop! Soft, too, like dough. Eating filthy coloured and flavoured glucose by the pound. Yah! Not a sane idea, or a sound digestion, or a healthy body in the bunch. And as for dress, the average woman piles a lot of truck on her like aklootchat a potlatch, and cinches herself up in a——"
"Hush!" said Sheila.
"Huh!" said Farwell. "Why shouldn't I call things by their names? I never could see——"
"You aren't supposed to see. That's plenty. I won't be lectured on the follies of my sex."
"You're different from the others," said Farwell. "That's just it. You've got ideas apart from dress and gossip, the same as a man has. You're in good hard condition physically. You don't giggle, and titter, and make eyes, and expect a man to talk like a da—er—ah—that is, you don't expect a lot of silly compliments. I've never seen anybody like you. Talk of another girl! Bah! I couldn't stand one in the same house. It's you or no one."
"I don't think I'd wear well, Mr. Farwell. You'd get tired of me."
"No, I wouldn't; no, I wouldn't. I know what I'm talking about. I tell you, I love you, Sheila. Do you think it's easy to say good-bye and leave you? It's the hardest job I ever had. It's—it's—oh, it's hell, that's what it is. I used to love work just for the work's sake. But now, to think of grubbing away year after year, to get money that I can't use, that I don't want—that can't get me what I want! Oh, Lord! the hopeless years ahead! What's the good of them? What's the use? I wish I'd never seen this place—or you."
His deep voice rose, and fell, and rumbled uncertainly, shaken by feeling. He slouched dejectedly in his saddle, looking straight ahead as if his eyes beheld the emptiness of the years to come.
"Then why do you say good-bye?" said Sheila.
Farwell started, half turning in the saddle. "Why? Because it's best. What's the use of hanging around? I have to take my medicine, don't I? I can take it easier away from here."
"I'm not so sure," she said hesitatingly, "that there will be any medicine to take."
Farwell's eyes opened wide as he stared at her.
"What do you mean by that? Don't fool with me, Sheila, for Heaven's sake. It's too serious a matter."
"Yes, it's serious," she agreed. She faced him frankly, the rich blood mounting beneath the tan of her cheeks. "What's the use of beating around the bush? When you kissed me I hated you. I struck you. But when Sandy came—and afterward—you seemed a good deal of a man. And so—I don't know—but it need not be good-bye for good."
CHAPTER XXIX
In the evening a stranger drove up to Chakchak. He was long and lean, and his hair was flecked with gray. His eyes were blue and clear, set rather wide apart, holding a calm, disconcerting stare. His clothes were much worn, frayed, and dusty. His movements were quiet and deliberate, and so was his speech.
"I am lookin'," he said, "for Mr. Dunne."
"That's my name," said Casey.
"Then I'd like a little private talk with you. My name is Dove; I'm actin' sheriff of this county while Fuller's sick." Evidently Acting Sheriff Dove was a man of direct speech.
"Glad to meet you, sheriff," said Casey. "Come right into my quarters. I've guests at the house, and I'm bunking here. Have a cigar, and tell me what I can do for you."
The sheriff lit a cigar very deliberately, and carefully pinched out the flame of the match with his fingers, surest of signs of one accustomed to the plains and woods. He removed the cigar, eyed it with approval, replaced it, and turned to his host.
"That's a right good smoke. I come to see you about this killin'. This here McHale worked for you, I'm told."
"He's my foreman."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"He come back here after the killin', collected up his outfit, got a pack horse, and made his get-away?"
"Yes."
"Told you about it, maybe?"
"Yes."
"But not where he was goin'?"
"No."
"Still, you can make a tol'able guess."
"I'm not guessing," Casey replied. "That killing was square, sheriff."
"I don't say it wasn't," Dove admitted. "I got nothing to do with that. My rule is, when there's a killin', to bring in the man who done it, and let the law 'tend to his case."
"Good rule, theoretically."
"And so," Sheriff Dove continued, with calm finality, "I'm out to bring in this here McHale."
Casey thereupon gave Tom's reasons for leaving, and expressed his opinion that he would come in and give himself up within a short time. The sheriff listened, smoking impassively.
"I dunno but what McHale acted pretty sensible," he commented. "He needn't worry about my not protectin' him. I've give a prisoner a gun and let him help stand off a mob before now. Likewise, I've got lead in my system doin' it. However, that ain't the point. I can't wait 'round for him to come in. I got to get him. There's been quite a bunch of things happenin' down in this country, far as I can hear, that ain't none too law-abidin'."
Casey merely smiled genially.
"Mind you, I ain't no busybody," said the sheriff. "I get trouble enough in a regular way without huntin' for it. I've been hearin' things, but there bein' no complaint I've sat tight. Up to this Cross killin' nobody's been hurt. But that's serious and brings me in to take a hand. One of my deputies, Jack Pugh, is after a young feller named McCrae. There's lots of things don't speak well for respect for the law down here. I represent the law, and what hits it hits me."
"I understand. You've been straight with me, sheriff, and I appreciate it. I don't know exactly where McHale is, but I think if you found him and gave him a straight, decent talk he'd come in without any trouble. He doesn't want any. And I think you'll find him somewhere in the hills. That's all I can tell you now."
"Him and this young McCrae is tillikums, they tell me," the sheriff suggested. "You think maybe they've met up?"
"They may. There's a chance of it."
The sheriff considered. "This McCrae is a leetle mite headstrong, I'm told. Sorter apt to act rash."
"I'm afraid so."
The sheriff shook his head regretfully. "I'd ruther deal with a sure 'nough bad man than with a young feller like that," he observed, "They lack judgment, as a rule. I'm told he savvies a gun right well?"
"He's a centre shot and quick," said Casey. "And, remember this, sheriff, if you run across him: he doesn't bluff. When he goes after a gun he goes after it to shoot with. I tell you this because I don't want to see anybody hurt. There's no harm in him, handled right, but he's a kid, and you want to make allowances."
"I'm obliged to you, and I'll do it. Jack Pugh and Glass have started out after him already. They allow to prospect 'round in the hills till they find him. That's what I'll do with McHale."
Casey considered, and suddenly came to a decision.
"Anybody going with you?"
"No."
"Don't you want a deputy?"
"Any time I got to pack a deputy 'round with me to bring in one man there'll be a job open," the sheriff returned grimly. "I don't keep no corral full of deputies. I got Pugh and another, and they're both busy. I allow not to get lost. I've been out by myself before now."
"The reason I ask," said Casey, "is that I'd like to go with you myself. The boys might listen to me, and not to you. Mind, I'm not offering to guide you to them. You find your own trail. But I'll make all the peace talk I can if you do find them. Besides, there's this Dade. If he goes after Tom, there will be trouble. It's a feud. I declare myself in on it."
"I hate trouble and I love peace," said the sheriff. "No feuds is goin' to flourish around where I am. But you come along. You're actin' right. I'm glad to have you. Can you start in the mornin'?"
"Make it afternoon; I've things to see to first. How are you fixed for a horse?"
"I've got my own hoss back yander in town. I hated to use him till I had to. That's why I hired a team."
"I have a pack horse. That's all we'll need. Bring your own outfit. I've plenty of grub here."
"That's mighty kind," said the sheriff. "The county will pay for your hoss and the grub."
"I don't want pay. This is my shout. I'm doing it for my friends."
"Well, your friends ought to be right obliged. I'll remember it. You won't find me makin' things harder. And now I'll pike along back to town."
They shook hands and the sheriff climbed back into the sagging buckboard and departed. Casey returned to his quarters and began to gather an outfit by the only practical method; that is to say, by piling everything he wanted in a heap. He was engaged in this occupation when Clyde knocked and entered.
"Why, Casey, whatever are you doing?"
He told her, and she approved his plan. She began to examine the heap he had thrown together on the table—knife, cartridges, fishhooks and line, compass, matches, sweater, poncho—with a girl's interest in such masculine possessions. But she exclaimed at the lack of toilet articles. Where were his razors, his hairbrushes?
"I'll get along without them."
"My goodness, boy, you'll be scrubby. Aren't you going to take even a—a toothbrush?"
"Yes, I'll do that," he laughed. "There, that's enough for to-night. Feng will put up grub in the morning. What have you done with Kitty Wade and her husband? Hadn't we better look them up? They may be making love on the sly."
"Do you need a chaperon so badly?" She slipped her arm in his. "Come on, then. They've gone for a walk up the ditch. We'll meet them and come back together. Only I want to impress upon you, Casey, that they must walk ahead of us—unless it gets very dark, indeed."
"I think I get you," he laughed. "We'll arrange that detail. Kitty Wade is a most sympathetic young matron."
They found the Wades, and their evening stroll became an inspection of the ranch. The effects of the rain were already visible in the colour of the grain. It was darker, more vigorous, sending forth new shoots. The grass lands, where the network of roots had retained the earlier moisture, were lush and knee deep. Soon it would be ready to cut.
The beauty of the evening held them out of doors. It was good to idle in the twilight with the scent of clover in the nostrils, to walk among the growing things. It was sweet to exchange confidences, to plan for the future as man and woman have from the beginning, painting it brightly, draping it in rose and gold, a perfect picture wherein all the colours harmonized.
It was the time of dreams. They gazed into the future as children might look across an unknown sea, seeing in fancy its stately galleons, its tall treasure ships, its white-winged pleasure craft, its wondrous, palm-fringed islands, where summer abode always; but they had no eyes for leaden skies and sullen shouldering swells spouting on hidden reefs, the great, gray bergs fog-hidden in the ship track, the drifting derelicts whose hopes were once as fair as their own. For God has mercifully arranged that these things shall be hidden from our eyes until the proper time.
Even when they reached the house they were not inclined to go indoors. They sat in the darkness, in pairs, apart, conversing in low tones, and so another hour slipped away. Back of them the house was dark; not a lamp was lighted. Only from Feng's kitchen a path of light streamed from the door. But as they were about to leave the veranda they heard the sound of hoofs approaching.
"Who on earth is coming at this time of night?" Wade asked.
"Sit quiet and we'll see," said Casey. His hand closed on the butt of a gun in his pocket, which he now carried constantly.
The hoofs slowed to a walk, and a shadowy horse and rider halted a few yards away. In the darkness of the veranda, with the deeper background of the building, they were invisible.
"Be th' mortal! but they've all gone to bed," muttered a disgusted voice. "An' what do yez know about that? 'Airly to bed an' airly to rise,' as the kids' dope books has it. Maybe ut makes a man healthy, but all the wealthy wise guys iver I knowed wint on th' well-known principle that home was the last place to close up. Faix, a man'll go home whin he's in no state f'r anny other place. Whoa! Howld still, there's a good harrse, till I see what's best to do. Don't be so onaisy. Whoa, darlin'! Bad cess to ye, ye roachbacked Prodestan' baste, kape off iv thim flower beds! Have yez no manners at all, at all? Be all th' saints in glory I'll larrup th' head off iv yez—or I w'u'd if I wasn't afraid ye'd buck me onto the roof. Yez have me crippled intirely as ut is."
"Not a word, for your life!" Wade whispered. "That's a star monologue!"
Feng, attracted by the voice, came to the door.
"Hallo! What wanchee?" he demanded.
"The country's overrun wid them yelly divils!" Mr. Quilty muttered. "What wanchee? Th' nerve iv him! Ye weathered-ivory monkey face, I've business wid yer betters!"
"You keepee hossee off flowah bed," commanded Feng. "What foh you lidee him all oveh?"
"Ask th' harrse!" Quilty retorted. "The sight iv yez onsettles him, lowgrade baste as he is. Dom a Chinaman dead or alive, annyway!"
"You no good!" retorted Feng. "Me savvy you. You Ilishman, all same mick, all same flannel mout', all same bogtlotteh! You bum lailway man! You get dlunk, fo'get switch, thlain lun off tlack; you swingee lante'n, yellee 'All aboa'd!' you say, 'Jim Kli! what keepee Numbeh Eight?' You sellee ticket, knockee down change. No good, lailway man! Me savvy you, all light."
"Ye cross iv a limon peel and a case iv jandhers!" cried Mr. Quilty in wrath at these aspersions on an honourable calling, "I'm a notion to get down an' slug the head off iv yez! Faix, ut's no murder to kill a Chinaman, but a bright jewel in me starry crown, ye long-nailed, rat-eatin', harrse-haired, pipe-hittin' slave iv th' black pill! I'll make yez think I'm a Hip Sing Tong or a runaway freight on th' big hill. I'll slaughter yez, mind, if I get off. Do yez know where yez will go whin yez die at my hands?"
"Me go to heaven," said Feng, with comfortable conviction.
"Th' —— ye say!" ejaculated Mr. Quilty, in shocked amazement. "I think I see ye there!"
"You no see me," said Feng. "No Ilish lailway man stop in heaven. Me catchee heaven all light. Missionally say so."
"Is ut mish-naries they send to waste time on the loikes iv yez?" snorted Mr. Quilty. "Hivin! Fine comp'ny ye'd be f'r the holy men and blessid saints an' martyrs an' pure, snow-white angels! Why, ye idolatrous, stick-burnin', kow-towin', joss-worshippin' pagan son iv a mat-sailed junk and a chopstick, they'd slam the pearly gates forninst yer face and stick their holy fingers to their blessid noses at yez. Hivin! Ye'll never smell ut, nor scuffle yer filthy shoes on th' goolden streets. Purgathry! Faix, yer ticket reads straight through, wid no stop-off priv'leges whatever. Th' cindher pit f'r yours! Be th' Rock iv Cashel, I'll l'arn yez to insult th' heav'nly throng!"
So saying, he dropped ungracefully from his horse and made a rush for Feng, who retreated, slammed the screen door, and, from inside, threatened the storming party with a formidable butcher knife.
"Whurroo!" shouted Mr. Quilty, dancing on the steps. "Come out, ye yelly plague, knife and all, an' l'ave me knock the stuffin' out iv yez! Annyways, I'll tell ye what ye are. Ye're a——"
But Casey, fearful of Mr. Quilty's descriptive powers, saw fit to interrupt.
"Hello! What's all the row? That you, Corney?"
"Yer owner has saved yer life," Mr. Quilty informed Feng. "Sure ut's me, Casey. I'm after l'arnin' this Oriental curse iv the wurruld how to talk to his betters." He mounted the steps, peering suspiciously at the occupants of the veranda. "Who's these?" he demanded. "I can't see in the dark. Miss Burnaby, is ut, an' Misther Wade an' his leddy? I believe yez were here all the time!"
"We just came in from the other side," Casey lied manfully.
"Yes, ye did! I can see yez laughin', and I don't blame yez. 'Twas funny how scared the Chink was. Well, ut does thim lower races good to be bawled out wanst in a while by their superiors."
Casey led the way indoors, and lighted the lamps. He established Mr. Quilty in a comfortable chair, with a cigar and a cold drink.
"Th' health and inclinations iv all here," said Mr. Quilty, waving his glass gracefully. "I'm glad to see yez all lookin' so well, more partic'larly the leddies."
"Thank you, Mr. Quilty," said Clyde.
"It's very nice of you, Mr. Quilty," said Kitty Wade.
"It's not often I have the good forchune to be in leddies' society," Mr. Quilty continued. "Me tongue has lost th' right twist for compliments; but, sure, if ut hadn't ut wouldn't begin to do th' pair iv yez justice. Oh, divil th' bit iv soodher am I givin' yez. It's two pretty women yez are. Well, well, I'm an old felly who's had his day. Ye won't mind me. Annyways, wan iv yez has a man, an' th' other is spoken for, belike. Now whatever makes Casey, there, blush? I didn't think he knowed how. An' Miss Burnaby, too! What'll yez do whin they's rice lodged in yer clothes and yer hats, an' white ribbons on yer trunks, an' th' waiters grin whin ye go into the diner? Let me tell ye, now——"
"Please, please, Mr. Quilty!" Clyde pleaded.
"Have I rung th' bell?" he demanded.
"Bull's-eye," said Wade. "Own up to it, you two. It's obvious."
"Oh, is it?" said Clyde. "Well, if we're half as bad as you and Kitty were——"
"Don't mind him; he was in love with me once," said Kitty.
"He is yet," said Clyde.
"Faix, I don't wonder at ut," said Mr. Quilty gallantly.
"Very skilful shift of topic," said Wade. "I admit everything. I guess we were bad enough; but you and Casey are the limit."
"But look at th' fine excuse both iv thim has," said Mr. Quilty, beaming. "Here's long life an' happiness, an' may yer only troubles be—well, well, niver mind th' troubles. There's time enough to think iv them whin they come. Which puts me in mind that I do be forgettin' whatIcome for. Ut's about Tom. D'ye know where he's at?"
"Not exactly. Why?"
"Mebbe ye heard that th' water comp'ny is payin' off its men an' shuttin' down. Well, then, there's all iv thim hard-facedtillikumsiv Cross, deceased, paid off; an' instid iv gittin' dhrunk like dacint Christians, what do they do but outfit thimselves an' start back fer th' hills, six iv thim—an' a divil iv a harrd-bunch, savin' th' leddies' presence. Wan iv thim made a brag that they'd get Tom. So I come out to tell yez, in case ye had word from him. An' they's officers out afther that young divil iv a brother iv Miss Sheila's. Somebody ought to tell the boys to skin their eyes, if so be they're hangin' around."
CHAPTER XXX
Casey and Sheriff Dove did not start the next afternoon. A telegram had detained the sheriff, and he did not reach Chakchak till night. He spent the evening with them, taking a great fancy to Clyde. He even blossomed out as a story teller, spinning yarns without embellishment and with great clearness. He told of cattle wars, of outlaws, of Indian fighters, of strange occurrences, of strange men, primitive of mind and of action, who had played their parts in the history of the West. It was information at first-hand, rare nowadays, and the listeners found the evening too short.
"Blanket time," said the sheriff, looking at his watch. "I ain't a young nighthawk no more. If we're to git a good start——"
"We'd like to hear more, sheriff," said Clyde.
"Sho!" said Sheriff Dove, well pleased. "I could keep yarnin' half the night to a pretty girl. I ain't too old for that. Maybe when we get back we'll have another session."
Outside on the veranda she slipped her arm in his. "Take good care of Casey for me, sheriff, please."
"I sure will, little girl," he replied. "Don't you go to worryin', now. There's no call to. If it was easier travellin' you might come along, for all the trouble there'll be." He smiled down at her in fatherly fashion, his great, sinewy arm pressing hers, and the pressure reassured her.
"Thank you, sheriff. You—you're adear!"
"Do I git a bid to the weddin'?"
"Of course you do." Clyde blushed and laughed. "Only I don't know just when it will be."
"Make it soon," he advised. "Life's short, little girl. Take all the happiness you can git. Good night."
They rode westward in the morning before the sun had risen, and camped that night in the foothills, having seen nobody. They entered the pass, and immediately came upon the trail of horses.
"Looks like there's been some travel," said the sheriff. "This here pass used much?"
"Not at this time of year. The Indians use it in the fall. They hunt across the range."
"These horses is shod," the sheriff remarked. "I sh'd say there's been half a dozen of 'em. Not less. Maybe more. I've knowed men that could tell exact."
"Not many of them left now."
"That's so. There ain't much need for trailin' these days. Too many telegraph wires."
They held to the pass, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the fire, smoking.
"This bunch of hosses," the sheriff observed, "seems to have split up here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the valley. What's down there?"
"Just valley. It's partly open and part heavy timber. There was a pack trail cut through once, but it's mostly grown up."
"Nobody lives down there?"
"Not a soul. Now and then somebody traps in winter."
"Um." The sheriff was thoughtful for some moments. "Does McHale know the country hereabouts?"
"Fairly well. Better than I do. And McCrae knows it better than he does."
"Um." The sheriff became silent again. "When a man goes to hidin' out," he observed after a long pause, "he 'most always hits for the country he knows. Seems like it's human nature. I'd do it myself, and so'd you. Seems like a man that's wanted is suspicious of strange ground. He don't know what's in it, and he's afraid of gettin' cornered. He don't know what he's goin' to run up against any mile. It's a mean feelin', that. It keeps a man on edge every minute. So he naturally makes for the district he's at home in. It's a mistake, but they all make it. They figure they can dodge around where they know the trails and cut-offs. Consequently it's just a matter of time till they're caught. It's like an old buck that won't leave his range. Any man can git him that wants to spend a week at it."
"That's so," Casey agreed.
"So when I want a man and don't know where he's gone, I find out what place he thinks he knows best," the sheriff continued. "The system wins nine times out of ten. Now you say McHale's only out temporary. He's got a clear self-defence case, or thinks he has, and he's merely side-steppin' trouble. In that case he won't go as far as another man might. Mytumtumis that he's somewheres down along this valley."
"Good reasoning," Casey admitted.
"The way to see a man down in a hole is to look over the edge," said the sheriff; "and the way to find a man in a valley is to get up on a hill. They ain't no such thing as a smokeless campfire invented yet, though, if a man rustles dry sticks and does his cookin' at noon of a bright day, he don't make much smoke. A feller fooled me once that way. He didn't take a chance on noon, but done his cookin' at night, down in a hole. Only way I got him, the fire burned in under a rock into some old roots, and sorter smudged along one mornin' when he was asleep."
Casey glanced up at the bulk of the ranges outlined in blackness against the sky. "If you say so, sheriff, we'll climb."
"I hate to," the sheriff admitted. "Couldn't you make a good guess?"
"No. I don't know any more than you do."
"Well," said the sheriff thoughtfully, "we'll try the valley first. We may come on some sign. It's bound to take time, anyway. There's a whole heap of country here if it was smoothed out and stretched level."
He knocked out his pipe and pulled his blanket around him, for down in that deep, watered valley the nights were cold. Casey followed his example. In two minutes both men were asleep, with the rush of the water and the crunch-crunch of the horses' teeth cropping the grasses in their ears.
They breakfasted in the dawn, saddled, and took a course downstream, The trail petered out; the hoof marks vanished. They rode with care through thick brush, and more easily in open, parklike glades. Grouse rose almost under their horses' hoofs, to sit bright-eyed on adjacent limbs, watching the travellers. Occasionally deer by twos and threes bounded springily away, white flags waving. Once the horses snorted and showed a disinclination to proceed, sniffing the air nervously.
"Bear," said Casey.
"Down among them berry bushes, I reckon," said the sheriff.
As he spoke, a black, furry head, short ears, and sharp muzzle rose above the tangled bushes. A narrow, red tongue licked out. Cunning little eyes regarded them with indignant suspicion.
"Woof!" said the bear. The sound was something between the snort of a hog and the first interrogative note of a watchdog, which hears a noise that requires explanation.
"Well, sport," said the sheriff, "berryin' good this mornin'?"
But at the sound of the human voice the black head disappeared beneath the surface of foliage. There was a momentary swaying of bushes in one spot, like the swirl of disturbed water after a fish; but there was nothing to mark the line of the beast's flight. For all his bulk he melted through the tangle as soundlessly as a spirit.
"Bears is learnin' manners nowadays," the sheriff commented. "Course, these here black ones never was much different from pigs. But take grizzlies. When I come West with my old people, a little shaver just able to set a pony, they was plumb sassy. I never did see such biggotty-actin' critters. Britch-loaders hadn't been in so durn long, and men didn't go huntin' grizzlies with the little old pea rifle just for fun. They was range bosses, and they knowed it. Now it's only once in a while you'll find one that wants all the trail."
In the afternoon they came to an abandoned cabin, and dismounted to investigate. Casey shook his head at the filthy litter. "Nobody's been here," said he.
The sheriff peered narrowly about. "No?" he said. "Well, how about that?" He pointed to the ground. "Moccasin track, or part of one. Who wears moccasins?"
"McCrae does, most of the time."
"Then he's been here. He couldn't pass without lookin' in."
"Why not?"
"Because four men out of five can't go by an old shack without takin' a peep inside. I can't, myself. I judge you can't, either. Do you remember ever doin' it?"
"Why, no," Casey admitted, "now you speak of it, I don't. And I do remember rubbering into dozens of old wikiups one place and another."
"Sure," said the sheriff. "Human nature again. Anything that's made by a man and left behind will draw another man like molasses will a fly. I never knew a man yet that wouldn't nose around an old camping spot. Not that he expects to find anything, or wants to. He just can't help it. McCrae didn't stop here. Where did he go? We might as well look around a little."
In the process of looking around, they came on an abandoned camp. By the quantity of ashes a number of fires had been burned. There were the poles of a lean-to and a bough bed beneath it, and at a little distance were other beds of boughs. The ground was trampled, and the grass beaten down in the vicinity.
The sheriff nosed among the signs, lifting the boughs of the beds, trying the ashes with his finger for heat, making an examination of the ground, and wandering off in a circle around the camp, where horses had been picketed. Finally he came back to the fireplace, filled his pipe, and lay down. Casey, meanwhile, had been forming his own conclusions.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well," said the sheriff, "I reckon you been usin' your eyes, too. Let's hear about it."
"It's your hunt."
"So it is. McCrae's met up with McHale. This here is their camp."
"How do you know?"
"You askin' because you don't know yourself, or because you want me to tell you?"
"I think you're right, but I'd like to know how you get at it."
"Well, I ain't no Old Sleuth nor Sherlock Holmes," said the sheriff, "but I've lived some years out of doors. I ain't workin' out no chain of reasonin'; I'm just usin' my eyes and a bit of savvy. This is how she works out:
"McHale and McCrae is both foot-loose, and both know this part of the country. They leave about the same time, and chances is they make for it. Then they meet. That's easy. Then we find the moccasin track. That fits McCrae. Next we find a lean-to with a two-man bough bed. There's the hollows where two men lay. That helps prove our first guess. It shows that some one was with McCrae, and the only other man hidin' out is McHale."
"But there are other bough beds. How do you know they weren't all made by one outfit?"
"There's only one lean-to."
"Two men may have been more particular than the others."
"The boughs of them other beds were cut later than this lean-to one."