Old Bat, with Endicott following closely, led the way through the darkness back along Timber City's main street. At the corner of the livery stable he paused: "W'ere you hoss?"
"Why, I—wait, I'll step across to the hotel and borrow one of Colston's." The half-breed nodded, and hurrying across the street Endicott entered the office of the hostelry. His appearance was the signal for a sudden awkward silence among the half-dozen men that sprawled in the chairs or leaned against the cigar case. Endicott's glance swept the faces of the men: "Where's Mr. Colston?" he asked.
The man with the long moustache, the one who had informed him that the ferry-boat still floated, opened a door that gave into the rambling interior: "Hey!" he called, loudly, "'s Y Bar went up?"
From the region beyond came an answer and the moustached one turned to Endicott: "Yup, he's went up. Don't know what room's his'n, but jest holler when you git to the top of the stairs, he ain't got to sleep yet."
At the head of the stairs Endicott paused, a lightshowed through the crack at the bottom of a door, and he knocked. The door opened and Colston, in undershirt and trousers, bade him enter.
Endicott shook his head, "No I want to borrow a horse."
"Goin' after 'em?" asked Colston. "Well, help yourself. The Y Bar horses are yours, now. But if I was you I'd wait right here in Timber City. A man that ain't used to the range will get lost at night before he's gone three miles. The chances are you'll never reach the river—and what are you going to do when you get there?"
"I'm going to cross—somehow. I'm going to find my wife. As for getting lost, Old Bat is going with me—or rather I'm going with him."
"Bat! What's he doing here?"
"Found out that the Texan had pulled out and came to get him. He knows Tex better than anyone knows him. He had guessed pretty accurately what was coming off here today, and he rode over to take the Texan back home."
Colston nodded: "Go ahead. If Old Bat starts on the trail you'll find your wife." He laid a hand on Endicott's shoulder, "and just bear in mind that when you do find her, you'll find her all right! I, too, know the Texan. He's been more like—like a son to me than an employee. The boy's got his faults—but he's a man! Barring the possibility of an accident on the river, you'll find 'em safe an' sound—an', when you do find 'em,mind you bring 'em both back. You're goin' to need Tex."
Endicott nodded: "I'll remember," he said, "and when we return, you have the papers ready, and we'll close the deal."
While the barn dogs saddled Endicott's horse, Old Bat led the way to the alley between the livery barn and the saloon, and throwing himself upon his belly, lighted matches and studied certain marks on the ground. Satisfied at length he regained his feet.
"What are you hunting for?" Endicott asked.
"Hoss tracks. Tex, she ain' got hee's own hoss. Me, A'm wan' know w'at kin' track A'm foller w'en we git 'cross de riv'."
"How are we going to cross?" asked Endicott as they swung along the trail at a brisk trot.
"We ain' 'cross yet. Firs', we swing down de riv'. We comin' to de ranch. Plent' ranch on dis side along de riv'. We git de boat."
"But, the horses? We can't take the horses in the boat."
"We com' w'ere we need de hoss we hont de ranch an' git mor' hoss."
At the river they halted for a few moments before heading down stream, and Endicott shuddered as he gazed out over the drift-choked surface of the flood. Old Bat devined what was passing in his mind.
"De riv', she look lak hell w'en you stan' an' see her go pas'. But she ain' so bad she look.W'en de boat git een de wattaire she ron so fas' lak de res', an' she 'bout de sam' lak she stan' still."
"Yes—but the boat—the heavy ferry—they couldn't handle her in the water."
"Dey ain' got for han'l. De riv' she han'l. W'en de boat com' on de plac', w'at you call, de ben'—w'ere de riv' she mak' de turn, de boat she gon git shov' on de bank. Mebbe-so dey don' gon on de bank, w'en de daylight com' some wan see um an' com' in de boat an' tak' um off."
Bat struck off down the river with Endicott following. After an hour's ride through the darkness they came to a ranch. Bat opened and closed the wire gate and led the way along the winding wagon road to the house, a log affair, nestled in a deep coulee. A dog rushed from the darkness and set up a furious barking, dodging in and out among the legs of the horses in a frenzy of excitement. A light appeared in the window and as the two riders drew up before the door it opened, a man thrust his head out and swore at the dog. When the animal subsided he peered at the horsemen: "Whut's up?" he growled surlily.
"Have you a boat?" Endicott asked.
"A boat! What the hell am I runnin', a cow outfit or a summer resort? A boat! Er mebbe you think I fish fer a livin'? Mebbe I'm runnin' a ferry? Mebbe I want the hull damn country raisin' hell around here all night! No, I hain't got no boat! An' I never had none, an' don'twant none!" The man's senseless anger seemed to increase as though the imputation that he might have owned a boat were in some way an insult. "What the hell would I want of a boat?" his voice rose almost to a scream, and he shook his fist almost in Bat's face.
The old half-breed leaned slightly forward in the saddle: "W'at de hell! W'at de hell! W'at de hell you wan' wit de ponch on de nose—but you git wan jes' de sam'!" As he spoke, his fist shot out and landed squarely in the man's face, and as he staggered back into the cabin, the half-breed put spurs to his horse and the two rode swiftly into the dark. "Dat do um good—mebbe-so nex' tam som' wan com' 'long he ain' stan' an' holler 'W'at de hell! W'at de hell!' so mooch."
A boat was procured at the fourth ranch, and turning the horses into the corral, the two pushed out into the river. Daylight was beginning to break and, keeping close in, they scanned the shore eagerly for sign of Long Bill's ferry. Hour after hour they drifted, Endicott overruling Bat's suggestion that they stop for food. It was sometime after noon that the half-breed stood up and pointed toward the other side. "A'm t'ink mebbe-so de boat on de odder side. 'Long tam A'm watch de drift. De heavy stuff—de tree an' de beeg log, dey mos' all on odder side. A'm t'ink dat better we cross. A'm t'ink dat boat lan' befor' dis—we com' pas' it."
"But how are we ever going to buck this current?If we've past it we'll have to go up stream to find it."
"We hont de ranch an' git de hoss an' ride 'long de edge."
"But, suppose they haven't landed? Suppose they've drifted on down?"
The half-breed shrugged: "S'pose dey gon' on down—we can't ketch um. Dey got de beeg start. De riv' she car' de ferry joost so fas' lak she car' de leetle boat. S'pose dey gon' too far for ride back, dey com' back on train. But, me—A'm t'ink dey lan' befor' dis. We com' bout feefty mile. You fol' Ol' Bat—we fin' um."
The half-breed, who more than once that day had proven himself more willing than proficient with the oars, surrendered them to Endicott and for more than an hour the Easterner battled with the yellow, turgid flood before he finally succeeded in driving the boat ashore in the mouth of a coulee. Abandoning the boat, they struck out on foot up river where, a mile or more above they had passed fences. When they finally located the ranch house Endicott was near to exhaustion.
It was mid-afternoon and he had eaten nothing since the night before, every muscle in his body ached from his labor at the oars, and the skin of his feet was rubbed raw by the grind of the high-heeled boots. The people at the ranch knew nothing of the wrecked ferry, the men holding with Bat, that the chances were it had grounded far above. Declining their invitation to remain overtill morning, Endicott procured horses and an ample supply of food and, with the hearty approval of Old Bat, the two struck out up the river.
"He said it was nearly seventy miles to Long Bill Kearney's ferry crossing and only three ranches between," said Endicott as the horses laboured out of a deep coulee, "and if anything's happened to their horses and they haven't struck one of those ranches, they're going to be in a bad way."
"Dem all right. Dat Tex, she got de gun, she shoot de jack-rabbit, de leetle owl, mebbe-so de deer—dey ain' gon' hungry w'ile he got de gun."
It was slow work exploring the margin of the flood. The late darkness overtook them with scarcely twenty miles of the distance covered, and they camped on the top of a high bluff where they built up a huge fire visible for many miles up and down the river. Daylight found them once more in the saddle, exploring the mouths of coulees and scouring every foot of the scrub-bordered bank. It was nearly noon when, from the edge of a high cliff that overlooked the river, they caught sight of the abandoned ferry-boat. The crest of the rise of water had passed in the night and the boat lay with one corner fast aground. Putting spurs to the horses they raced back from the river until they reached a point that gave access to the coulee. The keen eyes of the half-breed picked up the tracks at the bottom of the ravine even before the horses had completed the decent, and it was withdifficulty that he restrained the impatient Endicott from plunging down the ravine at the imminent risk of destroying the sign. Picketing the horses beside the trail the two proceeded on foot, Old Bat in the lead, bent slightly forward with his eyes darting this way and that, studying each minutest detail of the disturbed ground. Following closely, Endicott hung on each word and grunt and fragmentary observation of the old Indian. In vain he plied Bat with eager questions but he might as well have sought information from the sphinx. The old man paid him not the slightest attention but proceeded on down the coulee pausing and staring at the sign for a full minute at a time, again almost running with his eyes fixed on the ground until brought up again, frowning and muttering by some new baffling combination of tracks. After what seemed an interminable length of time they reached the mouth of the coulee where Endicott sank wearily onto the end of the water-logged boat and watched the half-breed work back and forth, back and forth, over the little strip of beach. Endicott had long ceased to ask questions and when at last, Bat straightened up, removed his hat, and wiped the sweat from his forehead upon the sleeve of his faded shirt, the information he conveyed was voluntary: "I ain' quite mak' it out. Firs' t'ing dey lan' here Tex, she ain' got on de boots. De 'oman she sleep—mebbe-so w'at you call, knock out. Tex car' her an' lay her on de grass w'ere she leetle bit flat," he paused andpointed to a spot that looked no whit different from any other spot of grass to Endicott's untrained eyes. "Only wan hoss lan'—dat Powder Face, an' ron lak hell up de coulee. Tex, she gon' up de coulee an' by'm'by he put on de boots an' climb oop on de bench. After w'ile com's a man on a hoss off de bench. He ketch oop Powder Face an' com' down here an' git de 'oman an' ride off—he lif her oop an' tie her on de saddle an' ride off leadin' Powder Face. By'm'by Tex com' long on beeg hoss an' nodder man on leetle hoss. Tex git off an' look roun' an' fin' de 'oman gon'—he joomp on de hoss an ride lak hell after de man an' de 'oman."
Endicott was staring, white-lipped into the half-breed's face. He leaped up and seized the man's arm roughly. "Did he catch them?" he cried.
Bat shook his head: "Non—not yet. We fol' 'long on de trail—we fin' dat out. Com' we git de hoss."
"But, maybe it was Tex who got here first and rode away with her," cried Endicott as they hastened toward the picketed horses. "Surely you can't tell from those tracks——"
The other interrupted him: "Oui!De track don't lie. Ol' Bat, she know 'bout dat. Me—A'm know Tex track an' when she tromp 'roun' she shov' de mud on de odder man track—eef de odder track ain' dere firs' how in hell Tex kin shov' de mud on it?"
"And this happened yesterday! Oh, Alice!Alice!" The man's voice broke on the name, and glancing into his face, Bat saw that it glistened wet with the sweat of torture.
As they mounted he offered a word of advice and encouragement: "Dat better you ain' los' de, w'at you call, de guts. Mebbe-so you 'oman all right. We fin' um safe on som' ranch house."
The trail of the four horses was so plain that even Endicott found no difficulty in following it across the bench. Bat struck into a steady trot which was maintained till he pulled up sharply at a point where the trail dimmed to nothing upon the hard lava rock of the bad lands. The half-breed studied the ground: "De leetle hoss turn back," he announced, "Tex, she gon' on in. He los' de trail, now—he ain' kin pick it oop in here—he ain' Injun. He', w'at you call, goin' it blin'."
Unhesitatingly the old half-breed followed along a ridge and dropped off into a coulee. He rode slowly, now, with his eyes on the hard rocky ground. Several times he dismounted and Endicott's heart sank as he watched him search, sometimes upon hands and knees. But always the old man straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction and mounting proceeded confidently upon his course, although try as he would, Endicott could discern no slightest mark or scratch that would indicate that anyone had passed that way. "Are you really following a trail?" he asked, at length, as the Indian headed up a coulee whose wind-swept floor was almost solid rock.
The old man smiled: "Oui, A'm fol' de trail, allright. Two hoss, shod, mak' good trail for Injun. Eef dey swim een de wattaire lak de feesh, eef dey fly een de air lak de bird, Ol' Bat he no kin pick oop de trail—but, by Goss! Eef dey walk, or ron, or stan' still dey got to mak' de sign on de groun' an' me—A'm fin' dat out—" The words died in his throat as he jerked his horse to a stand. From behind a projecting shoulder of rock a man stepped directly into their path.
"Stick 'em up!" The command rang with a metallic hardness in the rock-walled coulee, and Bat's hands flew upward. From the rear Endicott saw that the man who barred the way was squat, bow-legged, and bearded, and that he held a gun in either hand. For one sickening instant he thought of Alice in the power of this man, and reckless of consequences, he forced his horse to the fore. "Damn you!" he cried leaning forward in the saddle, "where's my wife?"
Old Bat cried out a warning, and then stared in surprise at the man on the ground who was returning his guns to their holsters, and grinning as he did it.
"Damn me, where's your wife?" repeated the man, "ain't that a kind of a rough way, pardner, to ask a question of a stranger? Or mebbe you're jest na'chelly rough, an' can't help it." The metallic hardness was gone from the voice. Endicott noticed that a tuft of hair stuck through a hole in the crown of the man's hat, and that upon closeinspection the bearded face had lost its look of villainy.
"But—my wife!" he persisted, "you brought her here! She——"
"Not me," interrupted the man, "I didn't bring her nowheres. An' besides she ain't here."
"Where is she? And who did bring her! Speak up, man!"
"She's safe enough. You don't need to worry about her. She's over to Cinnabar Joe's ranch on Red Sand. Purdy took her there yesterday."
"Purdy!" shouted Endicott, "do you mean the Purdy that——"
"Yup," interrupted the other, "the Purdy that you took a shot at a year ago an' creased. Why in hell couldn't you of shot a half an inch lower that night?"
"How do you know she's safe?" cried Endicott. "How do you know he ever took her there? I wouldn't trust Purdy out of my sight!"
"You an' me both," grinned the man, "an', I didn't. I trailed along from the time they hit the bad lands till he delivered her at the ranch. He's after the reward an' he had to keep her safe."
"But the people at the ranch—this Cinnabar Joe?"
"Ace high all around—the breed, there, he knows 'em."
"How did Purdy know about the reward?"
"Long Bill Kearney, he brung the bills along."
"Long Bill! He's another fine specimen! She'snot safe as long as those two scoundrels are at large. Where are they now? And where's Tex?"
"Well, Long Bill, he's quite a piece away from the bad lands by now. I 'spect he wishes he was back—but he won't come back. An' Purdy, he's prob'ly wishin', by now, that he'd listened to me. God knows, I tried to make a horse-thief out of him, but it wasn't no use—he's crooked. An' Tex, he's busy an' don't want to be disturbed."
"Busy?"
"Yup. Busy killin' some folks—Purdy an' some others. I wanted he should let me an' Bill Harlow go 'long an' help—but he wouldn't. Said he wanted to settle with Purdy hisself."
"Who are you?"
"Me? I'm Cass Grimshaw."
"Ha!" cried Bat, climbing from the saddle, "A'm lak A'm shake you han'. A'm know 'bout you. You de bes' hoss-t'ief in Montana,sacre! Me—A'm Batiste Xavier Jean Jacques de Beaumont Lajune——"
"Is that one word—or several?" grinned Grimshaw. "An' as long as we started in passin' poseys back an' forth, I've heard tell of both of you birds. You're Tex's side kick an' your regular name's Bat, ain't it? An' this here's the pilgrim that nicked Purdy over in Wolf River an' then cussed out the lynchin' party to their face, thereby displayin' a set of red guts that was entirely onlooked for in a pilgrim. So, bein' as we're all friends together, let's hit it out an' see howTex is makin' it." He turned to Endicott, "Onless you'd ruther hit fer Cinnabar Joe's?"
Endicott shook his head: "No! If my wife is safe, my place is right here beside Tex. This is my fight as much as it is his—more so, for it's on her account he's after Purdy."
"That's what I call a man!" exclaimed Grimshaw extending a hand which Endicott shook heartily. "Here's a gun—but let me slip you the word to lay off Purdy. Nick away at the others, there's three more of 'em—or was—but Tex he wants Purdy. Of course if anything should happen to Tex—that lets us in. We'll pick up Bill Harlow on the way. Come on, let's ride!"
And as they rode, Endicott smiled grimly to himself. A horse-thief, a half-breed, and he, Winthrop Adams Endicott, "all friends together." And in this friendship he suddenly realized he felt nothing but pride. The feel of his galloping horse was good. He raised his eyes to the purpled peaks of the distant Bear Paws, and as he filled his lungs to their depths with the keen, clean air his knees tightened upon his saddle, his fingers involuntarily closed about the butt of the gun that protruded from the waistband of his corduroy trousers. "All friends together," he muttered, and again he smiled—grimly.
Janet McWhorter rose early upon the morning following her talk with the Texan. Dressing hurriedly, she blew out her candle and hastened to the door. Toward the east the coulee rim showed dimly against the first faint blush of dawn. She wondered if the Texan still slept and whether she ought not to waken him and ask him to breakfast. As she stood in the doorway, man and horse emerged from the stable. She withdrew into the blackness of the room and in the dim light of the unborn day watched him mount. She saw the big roan try to sink his head. Noted the ease with which the man foiled the attempt. Heard the sound of his voice as he spoke to the unruly horse as one would speak to a mischievous child. Then, horse and rider disappeared in the darkness of the valley. The girl stood there in the darkness until the sound of hoof-beats died away. There was a certain rugged grimness in the scene. It was like the moving finger of fate—this silent horseman riding away into the dawn. Her lips moved: "I wish you—luck!" she breathed, "even if—even if—" She stepped from the cabin and glanced upat the paling stars. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed, bitterly, "I saw it in his eye when I mentioned the reward. It isn't the reward he wants—it'sher!" Hastening to the woodpile, she gathered kindlings and returned to the house and prepared her father's breakfast.
Neither by word or look did McWhorter refer to the conversation of the evening before. The meal concluded he betook himself to the lambing-camp. Left alone, Janet washed and put away the dishes, tidied up the cabin, fed her orphan lambs, and looked after the little "hospital band" of sheep. Then she pitched a forkful of hay into the corral for the bay mare and returned to the cabin. Picking up a magazine, she threw herself into a chair and vainly endeavoured to interest herself in its contents. Ten minutes later she flung the magazine onto the table and, hastening into her own room, dressed for a ride. Stepping to the wall she removed a six-gun and a belt of cartridges from a peg and buckled the belt about her waist. Drawing the gun from its holster, she examined it critically. Her thoughts were of Purdy, now, and she shuddered: "I must never be without this—after yesterday." She stepped to the door of the cabin and glanced about her. "He said the next time it will be his turn—well, we'll see." An empty tomato can lay on its side, its red label flapping in the breeze. Levelling the gun the girl fired and the tomato can went spinning over the short-cropped buffalo grass. And withoutstopping it kept on spinning as she continued to shoot, until with the last shot it came to rest, a ripped and battered thing a hundred feet away. "Maybe it will be his turn—and maybe not," she muttered grimly. "He's the one person in the world I could kill." She cleaned the gun, reloaded it, and walking to the corral, saddled the bay mare.
Cinnabar Joe sat in the doorway of his unfinished stable and squinted down the barrel of a high-power rifle. A six-shooter lay beside him on the sill, cleaned and oiled and loaded. "Shines like a lookin' glass," he observed, and throwing the gun to his shoulder, sighted at a rounded rock that protruded from a cutbank a quarter of a mile away. "If that had of be'n Purdy's head, an' I'd of pulled the trigger—there wouldn't of be'n no more Purdy," he grinned. "He better not stick his nose in this here valley," he muttered, "but, at that, I'd ruther be out there huntin' him."
From beyond the stable came the sound of galloping hoofs. Dropping the rifle, Cinnabar reached for his six-gun and whirled to meet the laughing gaze of Janet McWhorter. "Why, what's the matter? You look as though you wanted to kill me!"
The man summoned a grin: "Nerves, I guess. Don't mind me. Be'n smokin' too much, maybe."
"What's all the artillery for? You look as though you were going to start a war."
"Maybe I am. But speakin' of artillery, you'repretty well heeled yourself. Coyotes be'n killin' lambs?"
"Yes, the worst coyote on the range killed one of them yesterday and then offered to pay for it. I mean your friend Purdy."
"Myfriend Purdy!"
"Yes—your friend, and Dad's friend, too. If you men wouldn't tolerate such characters around—if you'd try to clean them out of the country instead of doing everything in your power to make it easy for them, they would soon be wiped out."
"But, we'd git wiped out first—an' besides they ain't all like Purdy."
"They're all criminals. They all ought to be in prison."
Cinnabar shook his head: "No, there's plenty of criminals that hadn't ought to be in prison: an' there's plenty of folks that ain't criminals that had ought to be in prison. Trouble is—the gauge ain't right that they measure 'em with."
"All men talk alike," sniffed Janet, "where's Jennie?"
"In the house, feedin' a woman the first square meal she's et in the Lord knows when."
"Woman! What woman?"
"I never seen her before. Jennie says she's the pilgrim's wife—fellow name of Henderson, or Kottmeyer, or some such a name. About a year back, in Wolf River he took a shot at Purdy, an' come near gittin' him, 'cause Purdy had toled herout fer a ride an' then drug her off her horse—they wasn't married then."
"Is she—all right?"
"All right? Yes, I guess she's all right, now. She slep' most of yesterday afternoon, an' all night."
"What are you going to do with her?"
Cinnabar's lips tightened: "When she's able to travel, we're goin' to git her back to her folks."
"And claim the reward?"
"Reward?"
"Yes, didn't you know that there is a reward of a thousand dollars for information concerning her?"
Cinnabar shook his head: "No. I didn't know that. No. We won't be claimin' no reward. So, that's his game, is it?"
Janet swung from the saddle: "That isn't his game," she said, "I thought it was, at first. But, do you know, I believe he really loves her."
Cinnabar stared open mouthed: "Loves her!" he roared, when he could find his voice. "That damn snake couldn't love no one!"
The girl's face went a shade paler: "You know him?" she asked.
"Know him! You bet I know him! I know he's the orneriest livin' white man! They ain't nothin' he wouldn't do—onless it was somethin' decent!"
"And yet—I can hardly believe it. There's something about him so—wholesome—so clean—and he has really fine eyes."
Cinnabar Joe placed his hands on his hips andstared at the girl in astonishment. "You ain't be'n into old Mac's bottle, have you?" he asked, at length. "Wholesome! Clean! Fine eyes! Why, he's the slimiest, dirtiest, evil-eyedest lookin' scoundrel that ever draw'd breath!"
Janet winced at the words: "When did he bring her here?" she asked after a moment of silence.
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Yesterday afternoon! Why, he—told me last night that he hadn't found her!"
"You ain't none surprised that he'd lie, be you?"
Janet nodded thoughtfully: "Yes, I am," she answered. "He didn't look like he was lying. Oh, there must be some mistake! Did you know him before he worked on the Y Bar?"
"Y Bar!" Cinnabar laughed, "that bird never seen the Y Bar onless he's be'n tryin' to run off some Y Bar horses."
"Run off horses! Is he a horse-thief, too?"
Cinnabar waved his arms in despair: "Oh, no," he asserted, emphasizing the ponderous sarcasm of his words with a dolorous shaking of the head, "he ain't no horse-thief. He's—judge of the supreme court. An' the reason he lives in the bad lands is because all the judges of the supreme court lives in the bad lands."
The girl interrupted him: "Don't try to be facetious. You do it badly. But the fact is, he don't live in the bad lands, he don't look like ahorse-thief, he don't act like a horse-thief—and I don't believe he is a horse-thief—so there! When he struck out this morning on Purdy's trail——"
"On Purdy's trail!" Cinnabar fairly shouted the words. "Who's on who's trail? What's all this mixup about? Purdy ain't no horse-thief! He's a wet nurse in a orphan asylum! He's clean lookin' an' wholesome. He wouldn't lie!"
"Purdy!" exclaimed Janet, "have you been talking about Purdy all this time?"
A sudden gleam of comprehension shot from Cinnabar's eyes: "Who did you think I was talkin' about," he grinned, "the Gazookus of Timbucktoo?"
The girl broke into a peal of silvery laughter. A weight seemed suddenly to have been lifted from her heart—a weight that had borne heavier and heavier with the words of Cinnabar Joe. There was a chance that her Texan would prove to be the man she wanted him to be—the man she had pictured him during the long hours of the previous afternoon when alone in the cabin her thoughts had reverted again and again to the parting at the edge of the bad lands—the touch of his hand on her arm, the strong, firm grip of his fingers, and the strange rapturous something that had leaped from his eyes straight into her heart. But, all that was before she had known of—the other woman. The laughter died from her lips, and her eyes narrowed slightly. Cinnabar Joe was speaking:
"An' I suppose you've be'n talkin' about TexBenton. She told Jennie he was on Purdy's trail."
"How did she know?"
"Search me. Jest naturally know'd that if he wasn't dead, that's what he'd be doin', I guess. How'd Purdy git holt of her, anyway?"
"This woman and Tex were washed ashore when the ferry broke its cable, and while Tex was trying to get some horses, Purdy came along and found her."
"Where's the pilgrim?"
Janet shrugged: "Oh, he don't count. He's merely the wronged husband."
Cinnabar looked straight into her eyes: "Know Tex?" he asked, drily.
"I've seen him. He borrowed Blue, and he spent last night at the ranch."
"Well, then, believe me, you've seen some man! An' don't you go makin' no more mistakes like you jest made. If them two was together they had a right to be. An' they'll come clean with a good reason. They's some things amanwon't do—an' runnin' off with another man's wife is one of 'em."
"Do you know him?" There was more than a trace of eagerness in the girl's voice.
"I'll say I know him! An' I'm tellin' it to you, sister, if he's on Purdy's trail, I'd rather be in hell with my back broke than be in Purdy's shoes right now."
The girl turned abruptly and walked toward the house, and as Cinnabar followed her with his eyes,he smiled: "If them two could only hit it out—she'd make a fine woman fer him. By Gosh! With a woman like that to kind of steady him down, Tex could be a big man in these parts—he's got the guts, an' he's got the aggucation, an' so's she. I misdoubt he'd marry into no sheep outfit though, at that."
At the door of the cabin Jennie greeted her caller effusively. Alice Endicott, who had insisted upon dressing, had finished her breakfast and was sitting propped up among the pillows on the bed.
"This is Janet McWhorter, our neighbour," introduced Jennie, taking the girl by the hand and leading her to the side of the bed, "an' this is Mrs.—Mrs.—why, do you know I can't call your married name to save me. I never seen yer husban'—an' he's always spoke of in these parts as 'the pilgrim.'"
"Endicott," smiled Alice, as her glance noted with swift approval the girl's riding boots, her corduroy skirt, her grey flannel shirt, the scarf of burnt orange, and the roll-brim Stetson—noted, too, the six-gun and the belt of yellow cartridges. Each well-appointed detail bespoke the girl of the open range. But the Eastern woman perceived instantly that the gliding grace of her walk was never acquired in the saddle, nor were the well modulated tones of the full, throaty voice with which she acknowledged the introduction, a product of the cattle range.
"I am very glad to meet you—Mrs. Endicott."Their hands met, and as Alice looked into the girl's eyes, she wondered at the peculiar glance that flashed from their blue-black depths. It was not exactly a glance of hate, but rather of veiled antagonism, of distrust—almost of contempt. Alice's own eyes had been frankly friendly, but as they encountered the look, they fell before the blue-black eyes, and she turned appealingly toward Jennie. But the woman did not notice. She chattered on:
"Ontil yesterday, I ain't seen Mrs. Endicott sence that night, it's a year back, when Tex Benton brung you to the hotel in Wolf River an' wanted the room—" Janet McWhorter sat down abruptly in a chair beside the table and became suddenly interested in fingering the rims of the cartridges in her belt. Jennie continued: "An' I jest give him a good blessin', 'cause I don't trust no cowpuncher—or didn't then—ontil he explained how it was. An' then he went away, an' Old Bat come an' tuck you off, an' we heard afterwards how you an' Bat, an' the pilgrim an' Tex hit down through the bad lands an' crossed the river, an' you an' the pilgrim was married in Timber City——"
Alice gave a little cry: "Oh, and he's there now! Worrying his heart out! He don't know where I am nor what's become of me! Oh, I've got to go to him! I've got to get word to him, somehow!"
Janet McWhorter looked up quickly, the blue-blackeyes resting in frank surprise on the woman's face. Her husband! Why should she be so concerned about her husband? Must get back to him! Was she tired of the Texan already? Had her experience with Purdy taken the romance out of the adventure? Or, was the concern assumed for the benefit of her hearers? No. The girl decided the concern was not assumed—it was a very real concern—and there were real tears in the woman's eyes.
Jennie sought to soothe her: "There you go again, deary. We'll git you back to him as soon as ever we can. But there ain't no way with the river where it's at. But, tell us how come Purdy to have you tied up, an' what's Tex Benton got to do with it—an' your man in Timber City? I be'n most bustin' to hear about it."
"Oh, it all happened so suddenly—I hardly know myself. It seems like some horrid dream—some fantastic nightmare. We came to Timber City, Win and I, to be there on our anniversary. Win is going to buy a ranch, and while he was talking business I rode out on the trail a little way, and when I returned it was dark, and there was a crowd of men in front of the saloon and they were shooting. And one of them told me there was a man inside—a Texan. Somehow, I just knew it was Tex—our Tex—the one we came to know so well and to love a year ago. So I told them to stop shooting and I would go in and try to straighten things out. Tex had been drinking a little and hewas obstinate. He had defied the marshal to arrest him and he absolutely refused to submit to arrest. I don't blame him much. The marshal is a fool and he thought, or pretended to think, that Tex was some terrible desperado, and he intended to hold him in jail indefinitely until he could look up his record.
"Tex managed to get out of the building and he jumped onto a horse and dashed right through the crowd, sending them sprawling in all directions. As he started down the trail they began to shoot at him, and men began to mount horses to ride after him. I knew they would kill him—and what had he done? Nothing! Except shoot a few bottles and things and break some windows—and they would have killed him for that!
"I knew they wouldn't dare shoot me, so before they could get onto their horses, I swung into the trail behind him so they would have to stop shooting. On and on I dashed through the darkness. At first I could hear the sounds of pursuit, yells and curses and shots, but my horse was faster than theirs and the sounds died away. He had almost reached the river when I overtook him. His horse had gone lame and we barely made the ferry-boat ahead of the mob. He tried to send me back as he led his horse onto the ferry—but I knew that the moment he shoved off from shore those fiends would kill him—he wouldn't have had a chance. So before he could prevent me, I followed him onto the boat and cut the rope that held it and wedrifted out into the river—but the men on the bank didn't dare to shoot. He would have put back then if he could, but the current was too strong and it carried us farther and farther from shore.
"Then a great tree drifted down against us, and to save the boat from being swamped, Tex seized the ax and hacked the cable in two. The tree hit his head and knocked him senseless for a time. I bandaged it the best I could by the light of the lightning flashes, and we drifted on, fighting the flood and the trees. The boat sprang a leak and we bailed and bailed, and the next thing I knew he was shaking me, and day was just breaking, and we were close to shore. And he tied the rope to the saddle of my horse and made him jump overboard and we followed. That's the last I remember—jumping into the water—until I awoke, it must have been hours later, to find myself tied—and I got loose, and saw Long Bill Kearney beside the river, and I flew back to the horses, and just as I was about to escape, there stood that unspeakable Purdy, grinning at me." Alice paused and pressed her hands to her eyes as if to keep out the sight, "And, oh, the things he told me—the awful things—the threats—the promises—that were worse than the threats. I must have lost consciousness again—for the next thing I remember—I was here in this room, and you were bending over me."
The two listeners had sat spellbound by the narrative and at its conclusion, Janet McWhorterleaned forward and took one of Alice's hands in both of hers. And when Alice looked again into the girl's eyes lifted to her own, she read something akin to adoration in their depths.
The girl's lips moved: "And you did that—risked your life—everything—to save his life—to keep him from being shot!"
"It wasn't anything," protested Alice. "It was the least I could do. He risked his life for ours—Win's and mine—last year—and—why, I love that boy—like a sister. I never had a brother and—I need one."
"And maybe he needs—a sister," murmured Janet softly. And at the words Alice Endicott glanced swiftly into the girl's face, and her eyes glowed suddenly with the light of great understanding. Her own troubles were forgotten, and into her heart welled a mighty gladness. She pressed the hands that held her own.
"Do you know him?" she whispered.
The girl nodded: "Yes—a little. He borrowed one of our horses—and I rode with him when he went back to get you and bring you to the ranch. And I rode to the edge of the bad lands with him when he took Purdy's trail. And then he sent me back."
"Then, heissafe! Oh, I'm glad—glad! Purdy told me he had drowned, but I didn't believe him. I knew he would come to my rescue." She paused and her face clouded, "but, now, I am safe and he is in danger. Purdy may kill him——"
"Don't you go frettin' about that, deary,"broke in Jennie. "If they's any killin' to be done between them two, Tex'll do it. Purdy's a gunman all right, but he'll never git Tex. Tex is the best man—an' Purdy knows it—an' his kind ain't never no good when they're buffaloed."
"But, he might shoot him from ambush!"
"He better do it all to one shot, then. 'Cause, believe me, Tex, he'll hit the ground a-shootin'! An' now you two make yerselves to home while I run out an' tell Joe—I'm just a-bustin' to tell him an' he'll want to know."
As the woman hurried toward the stable, Alice patted the girl's hands. "He's splendid," she whispered, "splendid!" Janet's eyes did not meet hers, and she continued, softly: "He's just a boy—impulsive, lovable. And yet, at times he's so very much a man. And there doesn't seem to be anything he can't do. Always, no matter what the emergency, he does the right thing at the right time. And he has another side—once when I ventured to say that Corot would have loved to paint a certain sunset we were watching, he quietly informed me that Corot could not have painted it—could not have got into the feel of it—and I knew that he was right."
"He gets drunk," said the girl, without raising her eyes, "I could hate a man that gets drunk."
"I didn't say he is a saint. But I happen to know that when he makes up his mind not to drink,no power on earth can make him take even a single drink."
"He wouldn't drink at the ranch—I offered him a drink because I thought he needed one—and he did—but he refused it."
"Do you know why?"
The girl shook her head.
"Because he promised me he wouldn't take a drink until after he had talked with my husband. Win wants to see him on business. Wants to persuade him to keep the place he's held for a year, as foreman of the Y Bar. Win is going to buy the Y Bar."
"The Y Bar!"
"Yes, do you know the Y Bar?"
The girl nodded slowly: "I was born there, and lived there the most of my life. Dad moved over here onto Red Sand while I was away at school. The Y Bar is—is like home to me."
"Mr. Colston says he's the best foreman he ever had. You should hear him speak of him—of his taming a great wild stallion they call the Red King——"
"The Red King!" cried Janet, her eyes wide with excitement, "I know the Red King—I've seen him often on the range. He's the most wonderful horse in the world. They said nobody could ride him. Once or twice men tried it—and the Red King killed them. And, did Tex ride him?"
Alice nodded: "Yes, he rode him—tamed him sothe great wild horse would come when he whistled. But he wouldn't brand him. And then, one night, he leaped onto his back without saddle or bridle and rode him straight out onto the open range—and turned him loose!"
The girl's eyes were shining: "Oh, I'm glad—glad! Wait till you see the Red King, and you will be glad, too. He's the embodiment of everything that's wild, and free, and strong. I should hate to think of him—branded—labouring under the saddle like a common cow-horse."
"That's just what the Texan thought—so he turned him out onto the range again. It was a great big thing to do—and it was done in a great big way—by a man with a great big poetic soul." There was a long silence during which the little clock ticked incessantly, Alice spoke again, more to herself than to the girl: "What Tex needs is some strong incentive, something worth while, something to work for, to direct his marvellous energy toward—he needs someone to love, and who will love him. What he needs is not a sister—it's a wife."
"Why didn't you marry him, then?" flashed the girl.
Alice smiled: "He never asked me," she answered, "and I couldn't have married him, if he had. Because, really, I've always loved Win—for years and years."
"Maybe he won't ask—anyone else, either. If he asks me, I won't marry him. I won't marryanybody!" She concluded with a defiant toss of the head.
"I certainly shouldn't either, if I felt that way. And if he should ask you, you stick to it, or you will spoil my plans——"
"Your—plans?" questioned the girl.
"Yes, I've got the grandest scheme. I haven't told a soul. When we get settled on the Y Bar I'm going to send for a friend of mine—she's a perfectly beautiful girl, and she's just as adorable as she is beautiful. And I'm going to make her come and pay us a long visit. I'm a great believer in propinquity, and especially out here——"
Janet sniffed audibly: "She'd probably get lost the first thing——"
"That's it, exactly!" cried Alice enthusiastically. "That's just what I'm counting on—and who would find her? Why Tex, of course! There you have it—all the ingredients of a first-class romance. Beautiful maiden lost on the range—forlorn, homesick, wretched, scared. Enter hero—rescues maiden—if I could only work in a villain of some kind—but maybe one will turn up. Anyway, even without a villain it's almost sure to work—don't you think?"
Alice repressed a desire to smile as she noted the girl's flushed face, "I—I think it's perfectly horrid! It's a—what do they call it? A regular frame-up! Suppose he don't love the girl? Suppose he don't want to marry her?"
Alice laughed: "Well, then you may rest assuredhe won't marry her! He won't marry anyone he don't want to, and as the Irish say, 'by the same token,' when he finds the girl he wants to marry, he'll marry her. If I were a girl and he wanted to marry me, and I didn't want to marry him, I'd jump onto a horse and I'd ride and ride and ride till I got clear out of the cattle country."
Janet stood up and drew on her gloves. "Well, I must be going. It's nearly noon. Good-bye. Glad to have met you, I'm sure."
"Good-bye," called Alice, as the girl stepped from the door, "and when we get settled at the Y Bar, do come over and see us—make us a nice long visit. Please!"
"Thank you, so much! I certainly shall—come to see you at the Y Bar."
Alice Endicott smiled as she watched the girl stamp away toward the corral.
Declining the pressing invitation of both Jennie and Cinnabar Joe to stay for dinner, Janet mounted and rode across the creek.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Jennie, as she watched her out of sight, "she acted like she's mad! An' here I thought them two would hit it off fine. Ain't that jest like women? I'm one myself, but—Gee, they're funny!"
Out on the bench Janet spurred the bay mare into a run and headed straight for the bad lands. A jack-rabbit jumped from his bed almost under her horse's hoofs, and a half-dozen antelope raised their heads and gazed at her for a moment beforescampering off, their white tails looking for all the world like great bunches of down bobbing over the prairie—but Janet saw none of these. In her mind's eye was the picture of a slenderly built cowboy who sat his horse close beside hers, whose gloved hand slipped from her sleeve and gripped her fingers in a strong firm clasp. His hat rested upon the edge of a bandage that was bound tightly about his head—a bandage bordered with tatting. His lips moved and he was speaking to her, "For God's sake, don't hinder—help!" His fine eyes, drawn with worry and pain, looked straight into hers—and in their depths she read—"Oh, I'm coming—Tex!" she cried aloud, "I must find him—I must! If he knows she's safe—maybe he will—will stop hunting for Purdy! Oh, if anything should—happen to him—now!"
"Little fool of an Eastern girl!" she exploded, a few miles farther on. "If she did come out here and get lost and if he did find her, and if—she'd never make him happy, even if he did marry her! But that Mrs. Endicott—I like her." She pulled up abruptly upon the very edge of the bad lands and gazed out over the pink and black and purple waste. Her brow drew into a puzzled frown. "I wonder," she whispered, "I wonder if shedidknow I was just crazy about her Texan?" And, with the question unanswered, she touched the bay mare with her spurs and headed her down a long black ridge that extended far into the bad lands.
When the Texan left Cass Grimshaw he headed due north. He rode leisurely—light-heartedly. The knowledge that Alice was safe at Cinnabar Joe's left his mind free to follow its own bent, and its bent carried it back to the little cabin on Red Sand, and the girl with the blue-black eyes. Most men would have concentrated upon the grim work in hand—but not so the Texan. He was going to kill Purdy because Purdy needed killing. By his repeated acts Purdy had forfeited his right to live among men. He was a menace—a power for harm whose liberty endangered the lives and happiness of others. His course in hunting down and killing this enemy of society needed no elaboration nor justification. It was a thing to be done in the course of the day's work. The fact that Purdy knew the ground, and he did not, and that the numerical odds were four to one against him, bothered him not at all. If others of the same ilk had seen fit to throw in with Purdy they must abide the consequences.
So his thoughts were of the girl, and his lips broke into a smile—not the twisted smile that hadbecome almost habitual with him, but a boyish smile that caused a fanlike arrangement of little wrinkles to radiate from the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves to twinkle with mirth. As men of the open are prone to do, he voiced his thoughts as they came: "She sure give me to onderstand last night that runnin' off with other men's wives is an amusement that wouldn't never meet her popular approval. It's, what do the French call it—afaux pasthat's not only frowned on, but actually scowled at, an' made the excuse for numerous an' sundry barbed shafts of sarcasm an' caustic observations of a more or less personal application, all of which is supposed to make a man feel like he'd not only et the canary, but a whole damn buzzard—an' wish he hadn't lived to survive doin' it." The man glanced up at the sun. "Time I was gettin' outside of this lunch she packed up for me—chances are I won't want to stop an' eat it after awhile." Dismounting, he seated himself with his back against a rock and unrolled the sandwiches. "She made 'em," he observed to Blue, "regular light bread, an' good thick ham between." He devoured the sandwich slowly, and reached for another. "Cass said tomakeher have me," he smiled; "hell of a lot he knows about women, but—the dope's right, at that. Boy, those eyes! An' that hair, an'—an', oh, the wholewomanof her! If a man had a girl like that to go home to—an' she loved him—an' he knew she was thinkin' about him—an' pullin' forhim to—to make good! There wouldn't be nothin' to it—he'd just naturally have to make good. Janet McWhorter—Janet Benton—Mrs. Tex Benton—Mrs. Horatio Benton—hell! I hope she don't go in for the Horatio part. It's almost as bad as Winthrop Adams Endicott! Tex is better—if she ever thinks to inquire about my other name I'll tell her it's Mike, or else I'll go plumb to the other extreme an' call it Percy or Reginald. I ain't got her yet—but believe me! She's goin' to have a war on her hands till I do get her!
"I'll just admit that she'll marry me—what then? It's time I was kind of takin' inventory. Here's what she gets: One cow-hand an' outfit—includin' one extra saddle horse, a bed-roll, an' a war-bag full of odds an' ends of raiment; some dirty, an' some clean; some tore, an' some in a fair state of preservation. Eight hundred an' forty dollars in cash—minus what it'll take to square me in Timber City. An'—an'—that's all! She ain't goin' to derive no hell of a material advantage from the union, that's sure. But, if I've still got my job it ain't so bad to start off with. Other assets, what we used to call incorporeal hereditaments back in law school—fair workin' knowledge of the cattle an' horse business. Health—good. Disposition—um-m-m, kind, to murderous. Habits—bad, to worse. Let's see: smokin'—that's all right: chewin'—prob'ly be allowable if indulged in out doors only. Swearin'—prob'ly won't be anissue till the kids get old enough to listen. Gamblin'—prob'ly be limited to poker—friendly games an' pifflin' limit. Drinkin'—let's see, the only year since I can remember I don't drink nothin' I quit better than eight hundred dollars to the good—first time I ever had eight hundred dollars all at once in my life. What happens? Get to drinkin' for a half a day, an' Bing! Off comes a hundred, maybe two hundred to pay up for the hell I raised! Does it pay? Not for a married man! Not for me! An' besides, what was it she said when I turned down the drink she offered me? She said, 'I'm glad—I hate the stuff.'" He paused, smiling reminiscently, "drinkin's lots of fun—but, a man's got to pay for his fun—more ways than one, he's got to pay. If it'll make her happy to not drink, an' onhappy to drink—the way I look at it, it's a damned mean man that would pay for his own belly-wash with his wife's happiness! That about concludes the takin' stock, then: Drinkin'—once! Drinkin'—twice! Drinkin'—three times—an'out! I'm a non-drinker, a teetotaller, a pop-lapper, an' a grape-juice swizzler! At that, if I'd known that last drink I had back there in Timber City was goin' to be the very last doggone drink I was ever goin' to get, I'd kind of strung it along a little—sort of sipped it slow an' solemn as become an obsequy. Instead of which, I tossed it off light-hearted, casual, even what you might call flippant—an' it's the last drink I was ever goin' to have!"
He rose, brushed a stray crumb or two from hisshirt, and mounted: "Come on, Blue, let's get this stuff over with, an' wash our hands, an' hit for Red Sand. Cass says Cinnabar Joe's place ain't only about four miles above McWhorter's."
Thirty minutes later the Texan slowed his horse to a walk. Rock-fragments appeared, dotting the surface of ridges and coulees. Small at first, these fragments increased in size and number as the man pushed northward. He knew from Cass Grimshaw's description that he was approaching the rendezvous of Purdy and his gang. Far ahead he could see the upstanding walls of rock that marked the entrance to the gorge or crater which marked the spot where some titanic explosion of nature had shattered a mountain—shattered it, and scattered its fragments over the surrounding plain. But the Texan was not thinking of the shattered mountain, nor of the girl on Red Sand. He hitched his belt, glanced at the revolver in its holster, and slipping his hand beneath his shirt, made sure that Long Bill's six-gun lay ready to his hand. He proceeded slowly, pausing at frequent intervals to scan the rock-dotted plain. The mouth of the gorge showed distinctly, now. He pulled up his horse and studied the ground. He decided to dismount and proceed on foot—to work his way from rock-fragment to rock-fragment. A slight sound caused him to glance swiftly to the left. Not fifty feet away the malevolent face of Purdy staredat him above the barrels of two six-guns. Directly before him he saw another man, and to the right two more. And every man had him covered. His eyes returned to Purdy, and his lips twisted into their cynical grin. "Well—why in hell don't you shoot?"
"Want to git it over with in a hurry, do you?" sneered the outlaw. "Well I don't! I'm goin' to git you all right, but I'm goin' to take my time to it. When you skipped out a year back fer fear of what I'd do to you, you'd ought to stayed away."
The Texan laughed: "Just as big a damned fool as ever, Purdy. Just as big a four-flusher, too. You better shoot while you've got the chance. 'Cause if you don't I'll kill you, sure as hell."
Purdy sneered: "Gittin' in yer bluff right up to the last, eh? Thought you could sneak up an' git me when I wasn't lookin', eh? Thought—" The sentence was never finished. The Texan's expression suddenly changed. His eyes fixed wildly upon a point directly behind Purdy and he cried out in sudden alarm:
"Don't kill him, Cass! He's mine!"
Like a flash, Purdy whirled, and like a flash the Texan was out of his saddle and behind a rock. And as Jennie had predicted, he hit the ground a-shootin'. His own horse had shielded him from the others whose attention had been momentarily diverted to their leader. Instantly Purdy discovered the ruse—but too late. As he whirledagain to face the Texan, the latter's gun roared, and one of Purdy's guns crashed against a rock-fragment, as its owner, his wrist shattered, dived behind his rock with a scream of mingled rage and pain. Three times more the Texan shot, beneath the belly of his horse, and the two outlaws to the right pitched forward in crumpled heaps and lay motionless. Frenzied by the noise, the big blue roan plunged blindly forward. The man in front made a frantic effort to get out of his way, failed, and the next moment, crashed backward against a rock-fragment from which he ricocheted from sight while the great blue roan galloped on, reins flying, and stirrups wildly lashing his sides.
"That leaves just the two of us, Purdy," drawled the Texan from the shelter of his rock, as he reloaded his gun.
A vicious snarl from the hiding place of the outlaw was the only answer.
"I told you you was a fool not to shoot while you had the chance. I'm goin' to get you, now. But, seein' that you wasn't in no hurry about it, I won't be neither. There's quite a few things I want you to hear—things you ought to know for the good of your soul."
"You don't dast to git me!" came exultingly, from behind Purdy's rock, "if you do, what'll become ofher—the pilgrim's woman? She's right now layin' tied an' gagged in a mud crack where you nor no one else won't never find her. What'll become of her, if you git me?"
The Texan grinned to himself, and after amoment of silence, called hesitatingly: "Say, Purdy, you wouldn't do that! Wouldn't let a woman die like that without tellin' where she is."
"The hell I won't!"
"Come on, Purdy, tell me where she is? You might as well. If I get you, what's the use of leavin' her there to die? An', if you get me, why you'll have her anyway."
A sneering laugh answered him: "You don't dast to git me—an' leave her where she's at!"
The Texan's voice hardened: "Oh, yes I do, Purdy. 'Cause I know, an' you know, that she's safe an' sound at Cinnabar Joe's—an' she'll stay there till Cinnabar can get word to her husband."
A volley of oaths greeted the statement: "Cinnabar don't dast to open his yap! He'll go up fer the rest of his life if he does. I'll fix him!"
"You won't fix no one, Purdy. You're goin' to hell from here. An' whatever you've got on Cinnabar you'll take with you. When I told you to tell me where the girl was I was just givin' you a chance to do one decent thing before you cashed in—but you couldn't do it, Purdy. There ain't a decent thing in you to do. Why, even Long Bill Kearney was a man fer about a second before he died."
"What do you mean—Long Bill—died?"
"Ask him," answered the Texan grimly, "you an' him will be close neighbours—wherever you're goin'." Inadvertently the Texan leaned a littleto one side, as he shifted his position. There was a quick report, and a bullet tore through a loose fold of his shirt sleeve. "Pretty fair shootin', Purdy," he drawled, "little bit wide—you'd have nicked me if you'd held in against the rock."
So intently did each man watch the other that neither noted the four men who approached stealthily from rock to rock and finally crouched behind an irregular buttress of rock only a short pistol shot away. Their vantage point did not permit any view of the man who had been knocked down by the galloping horse nor of the contestants themselves, but the exchange of shots could be followed with ease and accuracy.
Cass Grimshaw nudged Endicott and pointed to the bodies of the outlaws: "He got two," he whispered, with grim approval. "An' he got 'em right out in the open. They must have seen him comin' an' laid for him before he got to their hang-out."
"Hey, Tex," called Purdy after a long interval, "we ain't goin' to git one another peckin' away like this behind these rocks."
"No—weain't goin' to gitone another—butI'mgoin' to getyou—like that!" He fired as he spoke and his bullet chipped the rock and tore through Purdy's hat brim. "Missed, By Grab! But, that pays up for puttin' a hole in my shirt. You was a fool for fallin' for that old gag I put over on you!"
"An' I wouldn't of fell fer it neither, if it hadn'tof be'n fer luck—you outlucked me—if you'd of said anyone else except Cass, I wouldn't of fell fer it."
"That wasn't luck, Purdy—that was brains. If I figured on murderin' a man tonight—an' he knew it—do you suppose I wouldn't jump quick if I thought he was sneakin' up behind me with a gun? You bet I would!"
"Murderin'!" Purdy's voice sounded shrill with a quavering note of fear. "What—what do you mean—murderin'?"
"Why, I run across Cass awhile back. I told him I was huntin' you an' he said I'd find you an' three more over here. Said you an' them had planned to bump him an' Bill Harlow off tonight, an' you was busy arrangin' the details. He wanted to come along—him an' Bill—but I told him they wasn't no use—if they was only you an' three more like you, I could handle you myself. Him an' Bill are goin' to ride over after awhile an' see if I need any help—but I don't do I, Purdy?"
The Texan's words were drowned in a perfect tirade of curses. Purdy's voice was shrill with fear. "I've be'n double-crossed! It's a lie! Everyone's agin me! I ain't never had no show!" The voice trailed off in a whine. A few moments of silence followed, and then above the edge of Purdy's rock appeared a white handkerchief tied to the end of a gun-barrel. Taking careful aim, the Texan fired. The white flag disappeared and the gun struck the rocks with a ring of steel.
"You shot at a white flag!" screamed Purdy.
"You're damn right I did! An' I'll shoot at the low-lived pup that tried to hide behind it too. My God, Purdy! No head—no guts! The only things about you that's a man is your pants, an' shirt, an' hat—an' I spoilt the hat!"
"Listen, Tex, listen!" the man's voice was frantic with appeal. "Let's make medicine. You c'n have the pilgrim's woman—I don't want her—I only wanted the reward. I was only kiddin' about bumpin' you off! Honest I was! Listen! Let me go, Tex! Let me git away! Cass has got me framed-up! I aimed to quit him an' turn straight! Listen—they's a girl, Tex. Over on Red Sand—I give her my word I'd quit the horse game an' start an outfit. Listen—I——"
"Who is she?" the voice of the Texan cut in like chilled steel.
"McWhorter's girl——"
"You're a damned liar!"
"D'you know her?" the words came haltingly.
"Some," answered the Texan, drily, "she an' I are goin' to be married tomorrow." The words had been uttered with the deliberate intent of taunting Purdy, but even the Texan was not prepared for the manifestation of insane rage that followed.
"You lie! Damn you! Damn you! You've always beat me! Yer beatin' me now! You son of a—, take that!" With the words he leaped from behind his rock and emptied his gun, thebullets thudding harmlessly against the Texan's barrier, and instantly he was behind his rock again.
Cass Grimshaw grinned at the others. "He's baitin' him—prob'ly be'n baitin' him fer an hour till Purdy's gone plumb mad."
"De Injun she would stake um out an' build de leetle fire on hees belly. But A'm t'ink dat hurt worse lak Tex do it."
Endicott gazed in white-lipped fascination upon the scene. "Let's make him surrender and turn him over to the authorities," he whispered.
Grimshaw shook his head: "No—not him. If you knew him like I do, you wouldn't say that. By God, I turned one man over to the authorities—an' they give him a year! An' when he got out I give him what he had comin'. Think, man what he'd of done to your wife——"
The sentence was cut short by the sound of galloping hoofs. All four craned their necks for sight of the rider. Grimshaw and Bill Harlow drew their guns, expecting to see the fourth man of Purdy's gang come rushing to the aid of his leader. But not until the rider was within a hundred feet of the two combatants did they catch sight of her. At the same instant they saw the Texan, hat in hand, frantically wave her back. Janet McWhorter saw him, too, and pulled the bay mare to her haunches at the same instant a shot rang out and Purdy's bullet ripped the Texan's hat from his hand. Almost before her horse came to astop, the girl's gun was in her hand and she sat—tense—expectant.
With glittering eyes fixed upon the girl, Purdy laughed a wild shrill laugh, that echoed among the rocks like a sound from hell. The words of the Texan burned like words of living fire. "Goin' to be married tomorrow!" Deliberately he raised his gun and fired—just at the instant the bay mare threw up her head with a nervous jerk to rid her mouth of the feel of the cruel spade bit. The next second she reared high and crashed to the ground carrying her rider with her. With a loud cry the Texan sprang to his feet and started for the girl, and at the same moment the horse-thief that the big blue roan had knocked senseless among the rocks rose to his feet and levelling his gun at the running man, fired. At the sound of the report the Texan staggered, turned half-way round and fell sprawling among the rocks. Purdy leaped to his feet and, gun in hand, started for the prostrate Texan. The rock-ribbed valley became a roar of noise. Janet, one leg pinned in the stirrup, fired across the body of her horse. Fired swiftly and accurately. The running Purdy staggered this way and that, drew himself stiffly erect, threw his hands high above his head and spun around like a top, and as the sound of the girl's last shot died, pitched forward and lay very still.
From the rock buttress to the left, Janet saw men running toward her. She could not tellwhether they were friends or foes—it mattered not—her gun was empty. At thought of her gun, she gave vent to a pitiful little cry and covered her face with her hands. Then the men were at her side pulling at the body of her horse. Her leg was freed and someone stood her upon her feet. She lowered her hands and stared into the bearded face of Cass Grimshaw!
"Good shootin', sis!" he patted her shoulder gently, "why, what's the matter? D'ye think you missed him—look!" he pointed to the body of Purdy.
"Oh—oh!" moaned the girl and covered her eyes again. "I've—I'vekilleda man!"
Grimshaw looked puzzled: "No, sis—you ain't killed noman! Not by no stretch of imagination he ain't no man!"
"But—he's a human being—and—I killed him!"
As the horse-thief stood looking down upon her heaving shoulders the puzzled look in his eyes gave place to a decided twinkle, which an instant later changed to a look of mild reproach: "Say, sis, who do you think you be? Claimin'youkilled Purdy! Why, there ain't no more chance you killed him, than there is that I didn't." He extended his hand in which an automatic pistol of large calibre lay flat in the palm. "This here gun shoots jest twict as swift as yours. Agin your eight hundred feet of muzzle v'losity, I've got almost two thousan'—an' I'd got in two shots before you begun! Then, too, if you'll take a look around, you'll see that someother folks has got pretty fair claim on him. Take Bill here, his 30-40 rifle shoots half-agin as swift as my automatic—an' he begun shootin' when I did. An' look at the breed, yonder, stickin' fresh shells in his gun. I bet that bird never missed—an' he shot jest a hair before I did. An' the pilgrim he shot, too—but I wouldn't bet on him—he might of missed—but the rest of us didn't. An' I ain't sayin' youmissed, mind you. 'Cause I think you got him every crack out of the box. But he was dead 'fore you started shootin'. Yup—what you done was to pump about a quart of lead into a dead man, 'fore he could hit the ground—an', believe me—that'sshootin'! But the killin' part—that goes to the fastest guns."