Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye;But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again,On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.
Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye;
But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again,On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.
Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song ceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse and rider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps, and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. "It's—'The Bishop of All Outdoors'," she smiled, as she returned to the stove. "He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazy about him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too."
A hearty "Good morning" brought her once more to the door.
"Just in time for breakfast," she smiled up into the eyes of the man on the pinto.
"Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured on breakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge."
"The Villain?"
"Vil Holland," laughed the man. "His name, I believe is, Villiers. I shortened it to Villain, and the natives hereabouts have bobbed it downto Vil. But he'll have to breakfast alone this morning, as usual. I've changed my mind. You see, I share the proverbial weakness of the clergy for a good meal. And against so charming a hostess, old Vil hasn't a chance in the world." Dismounting, the Reverend Len Christie removed his saddle and bridle and, with a resounding slap on the flank turned the pinto loose. "Get along, old Paint, and lay in some of this good grass!" he laughed as the pinto, cavorting like a colt, galloped across the creek to join Patty's hobbled cayuse.
"My, that bacon smells good," he said, a moment later, as he stood in the doorway and watched the girl turn the thin strips in the pan. "Do let me furnish part of the breakfast," he cried, eagerly and began swiftly to loosen from behind the cantle of his saddle a slender case, from which he produced and fitted together a two-ounce rod. "I'll take it right from your own dooryard in just about two jiffies." He affixed a reel, threaded a cobweb line, and selected a fly. "Just save that bacon fry for a few minutes and we'll have some speckled beauties in the pan before you know it."
Pushing the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied him to the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, one afteranother, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.
"That's enough," he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon the grass. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he had them cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them he busied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returning it to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments later the two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, and trout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.
"You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early," ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.
"No," laughed Christie, "I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had some drawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've a notion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing. Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch and shows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a piece of flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins to talk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasm as he points out the good points of some of hiscreations, and the defects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorial efforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I can see a flash of real genius."
"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!" exclaimed the girl. "And wouldn't you feel proud of having discovered him? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromising parentage."
"It wouldn't be so remarkable," smiled the man. "Watts, himself is a genius—for inventing excuses to rest."
"How is the sick man?" asked Patty. "The one you went to see, over on Big Porcupine, wasn't it?"
"Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow—Samuelson. I sure hope he'll pull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he's got a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that old fellow asks—even against pneumonia. He's a man!"
"I wonder if there is anything I could do?" asked the girl.
Christie's face brightened. "Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ride from here—thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them, they'revery well fixed—capital Chinese cook and all that. But I've an idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely. They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think. They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where they can't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people a world of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from——"
"Ma Watts?" interrupted Patty.
The man laughed, "Yes, from Ma Watts. Although she's a well meaning soul. She's going over and 'stay a spell' with the Samuelsons, just as soon as she can 'fix to go.' Mrs. Samuelson is a really superior old lady, refined and lovable in every way. You'll like her immensely. I'm sure. And I know she will enjoy you."
"Thank you," Patty bowed elaborately. "Poor thing, she must be frightfully lonely."
"Yes. Of course, the neighbors do all they can. But neighbors are few and far between. Vil Holland has been over a couple of times, and Jack Pierce stopped work right in the middle of his upland haying to go to town for some medicine. I tell you, Miss Sinclair, a person soon learns who's who in the mountains."
Christie pushed back his chair. "I must be going. I hate to hurry off, but I want to see Vil and caution him to have an eye on the old man's stock—you see, there are some shady characters in the hills, and old man Samuelson runs horses as well as cattle. It is very possible they may decide to get busy while he is laid up.
"By the way, Miss Sinclair, may I ask if you are making satisfactory headway in your own enterprise?"
Patty shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I'm making no headway at all. Sometimes, I think—I'm afraid—" she stumbled for words.
"Is there anything in the world I can do to help you?" asked the man, eagerly. "If there is, just mention it. I knew your father, and admired him very much. I'm satisfied he made a strike, and I do hope you can locate it."
The girl shook her head. "No, nothing, thank you," she answered and then suddenly looked up, "That is—wait, maybe there is something——"
"Name it." Christie waited eagerly for her to speak.
"It just occurred to me—maybe you could help me—find a school."
"A school!"
"Yes, a school to teach. You see, I have used nearly all my money. By the end of next month it will be gone, and I must get a job." The man noticed that the girl was doing her best to meet the situation bravely.
"Indeed I will help you!" he exclaimed. "In fact, I think I can right now promise that whenever you get ready to accept it, there will be a position waiting."
"Even if it is only a country school—just so I can make enough money this winter to come back next summer."
"I couldn't think of letting a country school get you. We need you right in town. You see, I happen to be president of the school board, and if I were to let a perfectly good teacher get away, I'd deserve to lose my job." Stepping to the door, he whistled shrilly, and a moment later the piebald cayuse trotted to his side. When the horse stood saddled and bridled, the man turned to Patty: "Oh, about the Samuelsons—do you know how to get to Big Porcupine?"
Patty shook her head. "No, but I guess I can find it."
"Give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and I'll show you in a minute." Leaning over the table,the man sketched rapidly upon the paper. "We'll say this is the Watts ranch, and mark it R. That's our starting point. Then you follow down the creek to the ford—here, at F. Then, instead of following the trail, you turn due east, and follow up a little creek about ten miles. This arrow pointing upward means up the creek. When you come to a sharp pinnacle that divides your valley—we'll mark that ⋀ so—you take the right hand branch, and follow it to the divide. That leads, let's see, southeast—we'll mark it S. E. 3 to D; it runs about three miles to the divide which you cross. Then you follow down another creek four or five miles until it empties into Big Porcupine, 4 E. to P., and from there it's easy. Just turn up Porcupine, pass Jack Pierce's ranch, and about five miles farther on you come to Samuelson's. Do you get it?"
Patty watched every move of the pencil, as she listened to the explanation. And when, a few moments later, the big "Bishop of All Outdoors" crossed the ford and rode out of sight up the coulee that led to the trampled notch in the hills, she threw herself down at the table and with eyes big with excitement, drew her father's map from its silk envelope and spread it out beside Christie'sroughly sketched one. "What a fool I am not to have guessed that those letters must stand for the points of the compass!" she cried. "It ought to be plain as day, now." Carefully, she read the cabalistic line at the bottom of the map. "SC 1 S 1 1/2 E 1 S ↑ to ∩ 2 W to a. to b. Stake L. C. ∑ center." Her brow drew into a puzzled frown "SC," she repeated. "S stands for south, but what does SC mean? SW or SE would be southwest, or southeast, but SC—?" She glanced at the other map. "Let's see, Mr. Christie's first letter is R—that stands for Watts' Ranch. SC must represent daddy's starting point, of course! But, SC? Let's see, South Corner—south corner ofwhat?I wish he'd put his letters right on the map like this one, instead of all in a row at the bottom, then I might figure out what he was driving at. SC, SC, SC, SC," she repeated over and over again, until the letters became a mere jumble of meaningless sounds. "S must stand for South," she insisted, "and C could stand for creek, or cave, only there are no caves around here that I've seen, or camp—South Camp—that don't do me any good, I don't know where any of his camps were. And he'd hardly say Creek, that would be too indefinite. Let's see, C—cottonwood—south cottonwood—short cottonwood, scarred cottonwood, well if I have to hunt these hills over for a short cottonwood or a scarred cottonwood, when there are millions of both, I might better keep on hunting for the crack in the rock wall."
For a long time she sat staring at the paper. "If I could only get the starting point figured out, the rest would be easy. It says one mile south, one and one half miles east, one mile south, then the arrowhead pointing up, must mean up a creek or a mountain to something that looks like an inverted horseshoe, then, two miles west to a. to b. whatever a. and b. are. There are no letters on the map, then it says to stake L. C.—L. C., is lode claim, at least, I know that much, and it can be 1500 feet long along the vein, and 300 feet each way from the center. But what does he mean by the wiggly looking mark before the word center? I guess it isn't going to be quite as easy as it looks," she concluded, "even when I know that the letters stand for the points of the compass. If I could only figure out where to start from I could find my way at least to the a. b. part—and that would be something.
"Anyway, I know how to make a map, now, and that is just exactly what I needed to know in order to set my trap for the prowler who is continuallysearching this cabin. It's all ready but the map, and I may as well finish up the job to-day as any time." From the pocket of her shirt she drew a photograph and examined it critically. "It looks a good deal like the close-up of one of daddy's," she said approvingly, "and it certainly looks as if it might have been carried for a year." Returning the picture to her pocket, she folded the preacher's map with her father's and replaced them in the envelope, then making her way to the coulee, extracted from the tin can two or three of her father's ore samples. These, together with a light miner's pick, she placed in an empty flour sack which she secured to her saddle and struck out northwestward into the hills.
At the top of the first divide she stopped, carefully studied the back trail, and producing paper and pencil made a rough sketch which she marked 1 NW. She rode on, mapping her trail and adding letters and figures to denote distance and direction.
Her continued scrutiny of the back trail satisfied her that she was not followed. Two hours brought her to her journey's end, a rock wall some seven miles from her cabin. Producing the photograph, she verified the exact location, and with her pick, proceeded to stir up the ground and loose rocks atthe base of the ledge. For an hour she worked steadily, then carefully replaced the dirt and small fragments, taking care to leave the samples from her sack where they would appear to have been tossed with the other fragments. Indicating the spot by a dot on the photograph she rode back to her cabin and spent the entire afternoon covering sheets of paper with trail maps, and letters, and figures, in an endeavor to produce a sketch that would pass as a prospector's hastily prepared field map. At last she produced several that compared favorably with her father's and taking a blank leaf from an old notebook she found in the pack sack, drew a very creditable rough sketch.
"Now, for putting in the letters and figures," she said, as she held the paper up for inspection. "Let's see, where would daddy have started from? Watts's ranch, maybe, or he could have started from here. This cabin was here then, and that would make it seem all the more reasonable that I should have chosen this for my home. C stands for cabin, or, let's see, what did they call this place. The sheep camp, here goes SC—Why! SC—SC! That's the starting point on daddy's map! And here I sat right in this chair and nearly went crazy trying to figure out what SC meant! And, if itweren't so late, I'd start right out now to find my mine! If it weren't for that a. b. part I could ride right to it, and snap my fingers at the prowler. But, it may take me a long time to blunder onto the meaning of these letters, and anyway, I want to know 'who's who,' as Mr. Christie says." She continued her work, and a half-hour later examined the result critically. "SC 1 NW 1 N ↑ to ∩ 2 E to a. Stake L. C. center at dot," she read, "and just to make it easier for him, I put the a. down on the map." With a sigh of satisfaction the girl carefully placed the new map and photograph in the silk envelope, and placing the others in the pocket of her shirt, fastened it with a pin. Whereupon, she gathered up all the practice sketches and burned them.
Glancing out of the window, she saw Microby Dandeline approaching the cabin, her dejected old Indian pony, ears a-flop, placing one foot before the other with the extreme deliberation that characterized his every movement. Patty smiled as her eyes took in the details of the grotesque figure; the old harness bridle with patched reins and one blinder dangling, the faded gingham sunbonnet hanging at the back of the girl's neck, held in place by the strings knotted tightly beneath her chin,the misshapen calico dress caught over the saddle-horn in a manner that exposed the girl's bare legs to the knees, and the thick bare feet pressed uncomfortably into the chafing rope stirrups—truly, a grotesque, and yet, Patty frowned—a pitiable figure, too. The pony halted before the door, and Patty greeted the girl who scrambled clumsily to the ground.
"Well, well, if it isn't Microby Dandeline! You haven't been to see me lately. The last time you were here I was not at home."
"Hit wasn't me."
"What!" exclaimed Patty, remembering the barefoot track at the spring.
"I wasn't yere las' time."
Patty curbed a desire to laugh. The girl was deliberately lying—but why? Was it because she feared displeasure at the invasion of the cabin. Patty thought not, for such was the established custom of the country. The girl did not look at her, but stood boring into the dirt with her bare toe.
"Well, you're here now, anyway," smiled Patty. "Come on in and help me get supper, and then we'll eat. You get the water, while I build the fire."
When the girl returned from the spring, Patty tried again: "While I was in town somebody came here and cooked a meal, and when they got through they washed all the dishes and put them away so nicely I thought sure it was you, and I was glad, because I like to have you come and see me."
"Hit wasn't me," repeated the girl, stubbornly.
"I wonder who it could have been?"
"Mebbe hit was Mr. Christie. He was to our house las' night. He brung Davy some pencils an' a lot o' papers fer to draw pitchers. Pa 'lowed how Davy'd git to foolin' away his time on 'em, an' Mr. Christie says how ef he learnt to drawer good, folks buys 'em, an' then Davy'll git rich. Pa says, whut's folks gonna pay money fer pitchers they kin git 'em fer nothin'? But ef folks gits pitchers they does git rich, don't they?"
"Why, yes——"
"You got pitchers, an' yo' rich."
Patty laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very rich," she said.
"Will yo' give me a pitcher?"
"Why, yes." She glanced at the few prints that adorned the log wall, trying to make up her mind which she would part with, and deciding upon amysterious moonlight-on-the-waves effect, lifted it from the wall and placed it in the girl's hands.
Microby Dandeline stared at it without enthusiasm: "I want a took one," she said, at length.
"A what?"
"A one tooken with that," she pointed at the camera that adorned the top of the little cupboard.
"Oh," smiled Patty, "you want me to take your picture! All right, I'd love to take your picture. You can get on Gee Dot, and I'll take you both. But we'll have to wait till there is more light. The sun has gone down and it's too dark this evening."
The girl shook her head, "Naw, I don't want none like that. That hain't no good. I want one like yo' pa tookened of his mine. Then I'll git rich too."
"So that's it," thought Patty, busying herself with the biscuit dough. And instantly there flashed into her mind the words of Ma Watts, "Mr. Bethune tellin' her how she'd git rich ef she could fin' a gol' mine, an' how she could buy her fine clos' like yourn an' go to the city an' live." And she remembered that the woman had said that all the time she and Lord Clendenning had been wrangling over the eggs, Bethune and Microby had "talked an' laughed, friendly as yo' please."
"How do you know my father took any pictures of his mine?" asked Patty, cautiously.
"'Cause he did."
"What would you do with the picture if I gave it to you?"
"I'd git rich."
"How?"
"'Cause I would."
Patty whirled suddenly upon the girl and grasping her shoulder with a doughy hand shook her smartly: "Who told you that? What do you mean? Who are you trying to get that picture for? Come! Out with it!"
"Le' me go," whimpered the girl, frightened by the unexpected attack.
"Not 'til you tell me who told you about that picture. Come on—speak!" The shaking continued.
"Hit—wu-wu-wus—V-V-Vil Hol-Holland!" she sniffled readily—all too readily to be convincing, thought Patty, as she released her grip on the girl's shoulder.
"Oh, it was Vil Holland, was it? And what does he want with it?"
"He—he—s-says h-how h-him an' m-me'd g-git r-r-rich!"
"Who told you to say it was Vil Holland?"
"Hit wus Vil Holland—an' that's whut I gotta say," she repeated, between sobs. "An' now yo' mad—an'—an' Mr. Bethune he'll—he'll kill me."
"Mr. Bethune? What has Mr. Bethune got to do with it?"
The girl leaped to her feet and faced Patty in a rage: "An' he'll kill yo', too—an' I'll be glad! An' he says he's gonna By God git that pitcher ef he's gotta kill yo', an' Vil Holland, an' everyone in these damn hills—an' I'm glad of hit! I don't like yo' no more—an' pitcher showshain'tas good as circusts—an' I don't like towns—an' I hain't a-gonna wear no shoes an' stockin's—an' I'm a-gonna tell ma yo' shuck me—an' she'll larrup yo' good—an' pa'll make yo' git out o' ar sheep camp—an' I'm glad of hit!" She rushed from the cabin, and mounting her pony, headed him down the creek, turning in the saddle every few steps to make hateful mouths at the girl who stood watching from the doorway.
Patty retired that night with her thoughts in a whirl. So, it was Monk Bethune who, all along, had been plotting to steal the secret of her father's strike? Monk Bethune, with his suave, oily manner, his professed regard for her father, and his burning words of love! Fool that she couldn't have penetrated his thin mask of deceit! It all seemed so ridiculously plain, now. She remembered the flash of distrust that her first meeting with him engendered. And, step, by step, she followed the course of his insidious campaign to instill himself into her good graces. She thought of the blunt warning of Vil Holland when he told her that her father always played a lone hand, and his almost scornful question as to whether her father had told her of his partnership with Bethune. And she remembered her defiance of Holland, and her defense of Bethune. And, with a shudder, sherecollected the moments when, in the hopelessness of her repeated failures, she had trembled upon the point of surrendering to his persuasive eloquence.
With the villainous scheming of Bethune exposed, her thoughts turned to the other, to her "guardian devil of the hills." What of Vil Holland? Had she misjudged this man, even as she had so nearly become the dupe of Bethune? She realized now, that nearly everyone with whom she had come into contact, distrusted Bethune, and that they trusted Vil Holland. She realized that her own distrust of him rested to a great extent upon the open accusations of Bethune, and the fact that he was blunt to rudeness in his conversations with her. If he were to be taken at his neighbors' valuation, why was it that he watched her comings and goings from his notch in the hills? Why did he follow her about upon her rides? And why did he carry that disgusting jug? She admitted that she had never seen him the worse for indulgence in the contents of the jug, but if he were not a confirmed drunkard, why should he carry it? She knew Bethune hated him—and that counted a point in his favor—now. But it did not prove that he was not as bad as Bethune. But why had Bethune told Microby that he would get that pictureif he had to kill her and Vil Holland? What had Vil Holland to do with his getting the picture! Surely, Bethune did not believe that Vil Holland shared her secret! Vil Hollandmustbe lawless—the running of the sheep herder out of the hills was a lawless act. Why, then, were such men as Thompson and the Reverend Len Christie his friends? This question had puzzled her much of late, and not finding the answer, she realized her own dislike of the man had waned perceptibly. Instinctively, she knew that Len Christie was genuine. She liked this "Bishop of All Outdoors," who could find time to ride a hundred miles to cheer a sick old man; who would think to bring pencils and drawing paper to a little boy who roamed over the hillsides with a piece of charcoal, searching for flat rocks upon which to draw his pictures; and who sang deep, full-throated ballads as he rode from one to the other of his scattered hill folk, upon his outlandish pinto. Surely, such men as he, and the jovial, whole-hearted Thompson—men who had known Vil Holland for years,—could not be deceived.
"Is it possible I've misjudged him?" she asked herself. And when at last she dropped to sleep it was to plunge into a confused jumble of dreamswhose dominant figure was her lone horseman of the hills.
Patty resolved to keep her promise to Christie and ride over to the Samuelson ranch, before she started to work out the directions of her father's map. "I may be weeks doing it if I continue to be as dumb as I have been," she laughed. "And when I get started I know I'll never want to stop 'til I've worked it out."
Immediately after breakfast she saddled her horse and returning to the cabin, picked up the little oiled silk packet that contained photograph and map. Where should she hide it? Her glance traveled from the locked trunks to the loose board in the floor. Each had been searched time and again. "Whoever he is, he'd think it was funny that I decided all at once to hide the map, when I've been carrying it with me so persistently," she muttered. Her eyes rested upon the little dressing table. "The very thing!" she cried. "I'll leave it right out in plain sight, and he'll think I forgot it." Her first impulse was to remove the thin gold chain but she shook her head: "No, it will look more as if I'd just slipped it off for the night if I leave the chain on. And besides," she smiled, "he ought to get some gold for his pains." Witha last glance of approval at the little packet lying as if forgotten upon the dressing table, she closed the door and headed down the creek.
It was evident to Patty, upon reaching the Watts ranch that Microby Dandeline had not carried out her threat to "tell ma" about the shaking. For the mountain woman was loquaciously cordial as usual: "Decla'r ef hit hain't yo', up an' a-ridin' fo' sun-up! Yo' shore favor yo' pa. He wus the gittin'est man—Yo'd a-thought he wus ridin' fer wages, 'stead o' jest prospectin'. Goin' down the crick, to-day, eh? Well, I don't reckon yo' pa's claim's down the crick, but yo' cain't never tell. He wus that clost-mouthed—I've heard him an' Watts set a hour, an' nary word between the two of 'em. 'Pears like they's jest satisfied to be a-lightin' matches an' a-puffin' they pipes. Wimmin folks hain't like thet. They jest nachelly got to let out a word now an' then, 'er bust—one."
"Microby Dandeline!" there was a sudden rush of bare feet upon the wooden floor, and Patty caught a flick of calico and a flash of bare legs as the girl disappeared around the corner of the barn.
"Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut a nice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' away like she's wild asa hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin' every day——"
"Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar," interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb.
"'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby," retorted the woman; "I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cuss her an' kick her aroun'."
"Might be better in the long run, an' he did," opined the man, gloomily.
"Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?" reminded his wife.
"I be'n a-fixin' to," he apologized, "yo' lookin' mighty peart this mawnin'." A cry from the baby brought a torrent of recrimination upon the apathetic husband: "Watts! Watts! Looks like yo' ort to could look after Chattenoogy Tennessee, that Microby Dandeline run off an' left alone. Like's not she's et a nail thet yo' left a han'ful of on the floor thet day yo' aimed fer to fix me a shelft."
"She never et no nail," confided the man, as he returned a moment later carrying the infant. "She done fell out the do' an' them hens wus apeckin' her. She's scairt wuss'n hurt."
"Well," smiled Patty. "I must go. Tell Microby to come up to my cabin right soon. I'd like to have a talk with her."
"Might an' yo' pa's claim 'ud be som'ers up the no'th branch," suggested the woman. "He rid that-a-way sometimes, didn't he, Watts?"
"I'm not prospecting to-day. I'm going over to see the Samuelsons. Mr. Samuelson is sick."
"Law, yes! I be'n a-aimin' fer to git to go, this long while. I heern it a spell back, an' Mr. Christie done tol' us over again. They do say he's bad off. But yo' cain't never tell, they's hopes of 'em gittin' onto they feet agin right up 'til yo' hear the death rattle. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I aim to git over soon's I kin. I'll bring along the baby an' a batch o' sourdough bread, an' fix to stay a hull week. Watts'll hev to make out with Microby an' the rest. Yo' tell Miz Samuelson I say not to git down in the mouth. They all got to die anyhow. An' 'taint so bad, onct it's over an' done. But lots of 'em gits well, too. So they hain't no call to do no diggin' right up to the death rattle—an' even then they don't allus die. Ol' man Rink, over on Tom's Hope, back in Tennessee, he rattled twict, an' come to both times, an' then, couple days later, he up an' died on 'em 'thout nary rattle.So yo' cain't never tell—men's thet ornery, even the best of 'em."
Christie's prediction that Patty would like Mrs. Samuelson proved to be conservative in the extreme. From the moment the slight gray-haired little woman greeted her, the girl felt as though she were talking to an old friend. There was something pathetic in the old lady's cheerful optimism, something profoundly pathetic in the endeavor to transform her bit of wilderness into some semblance to the far-away home she had known in the long ago. And she had succeeded admirably. To cross the Samuelson threshold was to step from the atmosphere of the cow-country and the mountains into a region of comfort and quiet that contrasted sharply with the rough and ready air of the neighboring ranches. The house itself was not large, but it was built of lumber, not logs. The long living room was provided with tastefully curtained casement windows, and rugs of excellent quality took the place of the inevitable carpet upon the floor. A baby grand piano projected into the room from its niche beside the huge log fireplace, and bookcases, guiltless of glass fronts, occupied convenient spaces along the wall, their shelves supporting row upon row of good editions. It was inthis room, looking as though she had stepped from an ivory miniature, that the mistress of the house greeted Patty.
"You are very welcome, my dear. Mr. Samuelson and I were deeply grieved to hear the sad news of your father. We used to enjoy his occasional brief visits."
"How is Mr. Samuelson?" asked Patty, as she pressed the little woman's thin, blue-veined hand.
"He seems better to-day."
The girl noted the hopeful tone of voice. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
"Not a thing, thank you. Mr. Samuelson sleeps a good part of the time, and Wong Yie is a wonderful nurse. But, come, you must have luncheon. I know you will want to refresh yourself after your long ride. The bathroom is at the head of the stairs. I'll take a peep at my invalid and when you are ready we'll see what Wong Yie has for us."
Patty looked hungrily at the porcelain tub—"A real bathroom!" she breathed, "out here in the mountains—and books, and a piano!"
Mrs. Samuelson awaited her at the foot of the stair and led the way to the dining room. When she was seated at the round mahoganytable she smiled across at the old lady in frank appreciation.
"It seems like stepping right into fairyland," she said. "Like the old stories when the heroes and heroines rubbed magic lamps, or stepped onto enchanted carpets and were immediately transported from their miserable hovels to castles of gold inhabited by beautiful princes and princesses."
The old lady's eyes beamed: "I'm glad you like it!"
"Like it! That doesn't express it at all. Why, if you'd lived in an abandoned sheep camp for months and prepared your own meals on a broken stove, and eaten them all alone on a bumpy table covered with a piece of oilcloth, and taken your bath in an icy cold creek and then only on the darkest nights for fear someone were watching, and read a few magazines over and over 'til you knew even the advertisements by heart—then suddenly found yourself seated in a room like this, with real china and silver, and comfortable chairs and aluncheon cloth—you'd think it was heaven."
Patty was aware that the old lady was smiling at her across the table. "If I had lived like that for months, did you say? My dear girl, we lived for years in that little shack—you can see it from whereyou sit—it's the tool house, now. Mr. Samuelson built it with his own hands when there weren't a half-dozen white men in the hills, and until it was completed we lived in a tepee!"
"You've lived here a long time."
"Yes, a long, long time. I was the first white woman to come into this part of the hill country to live. This was the first ranch to be established in the hills, but we have a good many neighbors now—and such nice neighbors! One never really appreciates friends and neighbors until a time—like this. Then one begins to know. A long time ago, before I knew, I used to hate this place. Sometimes I used to think I would go crazy, with the loneliness—the vastness of it all. I used to go home and make long visits every year, and then—the children came, and it was different." The woman paused and her eyes strayed to the open window and rested upon the bold headland of a mighty mountain that showed far down the valley.
"And—you love it, now?" Patty asked, softly, as she poured French dressing over crisp lettuce leaves.
"Yes—I love it, now. After the children came it was all different. I never want to leave thevalley, now. I never shall leave it. I am an old woman, and my world has narrowed down to my home, and my valley—my husband, and my friends and neighbors." She looked up guiltily, with a tiny little laugh. "Do you know, during those first years I must have been an awful fool. I used to loathe it all—loathe the country—the men, who ate in their shirt sleeves and blew into their saucers, and their women. It was the uprising that brought me to a realization of the true worth of these people—" The little woman's voice trailed off into silence, and Patty glanced up from her salad to see that the old eyes were once more upon the far blue headland, and the woman's thoughts were evidently very far away. She came back to the present with an apology: "Why bless you, child, forgive me! My old wits were back-trailing, as the cowboys would say. You have finished your salad, come, let's go out onto the porch, where we can get the afternoon breeze and be comfortable." She led the way through the living-room where she left the girl for a moment, to tiptoe upstairs for a peep at the sick man. "He's asleep," she reported, as they stepped out onto the porch and settled themselves in comfortable wicker rockers.
"What was the uprising?" asked Patty. "Was it the Indians? I'd love to hear about it."
"Yes, the Indians. That was before they were on reservations and they were scattered all through the hills."
A cowboy galloped to the porch, drew up sharply, and removed his hat. "We rode through them horses that runs over on the east slope an' they're all right—leastways all the markers is there, an' the bunches don't look like they'd be'n any cut out of 'em. But, about them white faces—Lodgepole's most dried up. Looks like we'd ort to throw 'em over onto Sage Crick."
The little woman looked thoughtful. "Let's see, there are about six hundred of the white faces, aren't there?"
"Yessum."
"And how long will the water last in Lodgepole?"
"Not more'n a week or ten days, if we don't git no rain."
"How long will it take to throw them onto Sage Creek?"
"Well, they hadn't ort to be crowded none this time o' year. The four of us had ort to do it in three or four days."
The old lady shook her head. "No, the cattlewill have to wait. I want you boys to stay right around close 'til you hear from Vil Holland. Keep your best saddle horses up and at least one of you stay right here at the ranch all the time. The rest of you might ride fences, and you better take a look at those mares and colts in the big pasture."
The cowboy's eyes twinkled: "I savvy, all right. Guess I'll take the bunk-house shift myself this afternoon. Got a couple extry guns to clean up an' oil a little."
"Whatever you do, you boys be careful," admonished the woman. "And in case anything happens and Vil Holland isn't here, send one of the boys after him at once."
The other laughed: "Guess they ain't much danger, if anything happens he won't be a-ridin' right on the head of it." The cowboy gathered up his reins, dropped them again, and his gloved fingers fumbled with his leather hat band. The smile had left his face.
"Anything else, Bill?" asked Mrs. Samuelson, noting his evident reluctance to depart.
"Well, ma'am, how's the Big Boss gittin' on?"
"He's doing as well as could be expected, the doctor says."
The cowboy cleared his throat nervously:"You know, us boys thinks a heap of him, an' we'd like fer him to git a square deal."
"A square deal!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, what in the world do you mean?"
"About that there doc—d'you s'pect he savvys his business?"
"Of course he does! He's considered one of the best doctors in the State. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's this way. When he was goin' back to town yesterday I laid for him. You see, the Old Man—er, I mean—you know, ma'am, the Big Boss, he's a pretty sick man—an' it looks to us boys like things had ort to break pretty quick, one way er another. So, I says, 'Doc, how's he gittin' on?' an' the doc he says, jest like you done, 'good as could be expected.' When you come right down to cases, that don't tell you nothin'. So I says, 'that's 'cordin' to who's doin' the expectin'. What we want to know,' I says, 'is he goin' to git well, er is he goin' to die?' 'I confidently hope we're going to pull him through,' he comes back. 'Meanin', he's goin' to git well?' I says. 'Yes,' he says. 'Fer how much?' I asks him. I didn't have but thirty-five dollars on me, but I shook that in under his nose. You see, I wanted to find out if the fellow would back his own self up with hismoney. 'What do you mean?' he says. 'I mean,' I informs him, 'that money talks. Here's the Missus payin' you good wages fer to cure up the Old Man. You goin' to do it, an' earn them wages, or ain't you? Here's thirty-five dollars that says you can't cure him.'"
The corners of the old lady's mouth were twitching behind the handkerchief she held to her lips: "What did the doctor say?" she asked.
"Tried to laugh it off," declared the cowboy in disgust. "But I reminds him that this here ain't no laughin' matter. 'D'you s'pose,' I says, 'if the Old Man told me: "Bill, there's a bad colt to bust," or "Bill, go over onto Monte's Crick, an' bring back them two-year-olds," do you s'pose I wouldn't bet I could do it? They's plenty of us here to do all the "confidently hopin'" that's needed. What you got to do is to git busy with them pills an' make him well,' I says, 'or quit an' let someone take holt that kin.'" The man paused and regarded the woman seriously. "What I'm gittin' at is this: If this here doc ain't got confidence enough in his own dope to back it with a bet, it's time we got holt of one that will. Now, ma'am, you better let me send one of Jack Pierce's kids to town to see Len Christie an' tell him to git the bestdoc out here they is. I'll write a note to Len on the side an' tell him to tell the doc he kin about double his wages, 'cause the rest of the boys feels just like I do, an' we'll all bet agin him so't it'll be worth his while to make a good job of it." He paused, awaiting permission to carry out his plan.
The little woman explained gravely: "Doctors never bet on their cases, Bill. It isn't that they won't back their judgment. But because it isn't considered proper. Doctor Mallory is doing all any mortal man can do. He's a wonderfully good doctor, and it was Len Christie, himself, that recommended him."
The cowboy's eyes lighted: "It was? Well, then, mebbe he's all right. I never had no time fer preachers 'til I know'd Len. But, what he says goes with me—he's square. I don't go much on no doctor, though. They're all right fer women, mebbe, an' kids. I believe all the Old Man needs right now to fix him up good as ever is a big stiff jolt of whisky an' bitters." The cowboy rode away, muttering and shaking his head, but not until he was well out of sight round the corner of the house did the little woman with the gray hair smile.
"I hope Doctor Mallory will understand," shesaid, a trifle anxiously, "I have some rather trying experiences with my boys, and if Bill has gone and insulted the doctor I'll have to get Jack Pierce to go to town and explain."
"This Bill seems to just adore Mr. Samuelson," ventured Patty. "Why his voice was almost—almost reverent when he said 'the Old Man.'"
The little lady nodded: "Yes, Bill thinks there's no one like him. You see, Bill shot a man, one day when—he was not quite himself. Over in the Blackfoot country, it was, and Vil Holland knew the facts in the case, and he rode over and told Mr. Samuelson all about it, and they both went and talked it over with the prosecuting attorney, and with old Judge Nevers, with the result that they agreed to give the boy a chance. So Mr. Samuelson brought him here. That was five years ago. Bill is foreman of this outfit now, and our other three riders are boys that were headed the same way Bill was. Vil Holland brought one of them over, and Bill and Mr. Samuelson picked up the other two—and, if I do say it myself," she declared, proudly, "there isn't an outfit in Montana that can boast a more capable or loyal, or a straighter quartet of riders than this one."
As Patty listened she understood something ofwhat was behind the words of Thompson and Len Christie, when they had spoken that day of "Old Man" Samuelson. But, there was something she did not understand. And that something was—Vil Holland. Everybody liked him, everybody spoke well of him, and apparently everybody but herself trusted him implicitly. And yet, to her own certain knowledge, he did carry a jug, he did follow her about the hills, and he did tell her to her face that when she found her father's claim she would have a race on her hands, and that if she were beaten she would have to be satisfied with what she would get.
But Vil Holland, his comings and his goings were soon forgotten in the absorbing interest with which Patty listened as her little gray-haired hostess recounted incidents and horrors of the Indian uprising, the first sporadic depredations, the coming of the troops, and finally the forcing of the belligerent tribes onto their reservations.
It had been Patty's intention to ride back to her cabin in the evening, but Mrs. Samuelson would not hear of it. And, indeed the girl did not insist, for despite the fact that she had become thoroughly accustomed to her surroundings, the anticipation of a dinner prepared and served by the highly efficientWong Yie, in the tastefully appointed dining room, with its real silver and china, proved sufficiently attractive to overcome even her impatience to begin the working out of her father's map. And the realization fully justified the anticipation. When the meal was finished the two women had talked the long evening away before the cheerful blaze of the wood fire, and when at last she was shown to her room, the girl retired to luxuriate in a real bed of linen sheets and a box mattress.
Patty did not know how long she had slept when she awoke, tense and listening, sitting bolt upright in bed. Moonlight flooded the room through the windows thrown wide to admit the chill night air. Beyond the valley floor, green with the luxuriant second crop of alfalfa, she could see the mountains looming dim and mysterious in the half-light.
The whole world seemed silent as the grave—and yet, something must have awakened her. She shuddered, partly at the chill that struck at her thinly clad shoulders, and partly at the recollection of some of the scenes those selfsame mountains had witnessed, during the uprisings, and which her hostess had so vividly recounted. The girl smiled, and gazing toward the mountains, pictured long lines of naked horsemen stealing silently into the valley. She started violently. Through the open window came sounds, the muffled thud of hoofsupon the soft ground, the low rattle of bit-chains and spur-rowels, and the creak of saddle leather. Therewerehorsemen in the valley, and the horsemen were passing almost beneath her windows—and they were moving stealthily.
For a moment her heart raced madly—the fancy of those conjured horsemen, and then the mysterious sounds from the night that were not fancy, combined in just the right proportion to overcome her with a momentary terror. She realized that the sounds were passing—growing fainter, and leaping from the bed, rushed to the window and peered out. Only silence—profound, unbroken silence, and the moonlight. In vain she strained her ears to catch a repetition of the faint sounds, and in vain she peered into the dark shadows cast by the bunk house and the pole horse-corral. Her windows commanded the eastern wall of the valley, and its upper reaches. Had there actually been horsemen, or were the sounds part of her vivid vision of the long ago? "No," she muttered, "those sounds were real," and she leaned far out of the window in a vain effort to catch a glimpse of the trail that led down the creek toward Pierce's.
For some time she remained at the window andthen, shivering, crept back to bed, where she lay speculating upon the identity of these horsemen who passed in the night. She knew that a horse raid had been expected. Could these raiders have had the audacity to pass through the very dooryard of the ranch, knowing as they must have known, that four armed and determined cowboys occupied the bunk house?
And who were these raiders? At Thompson's she had heard Monk Bethune's name mentioned in connection with possible horse-thieving. Bethune had spoken of hurried trips, "to the northward." She remembered that upon the occasion of their first meeting, she had heard him dickering with Watts for the rent of his horse pasture, and she recollected the incident of the changed name. Then, again, only a few days before, she had parted with him when he struck off the trail to the eastward with the excuse that he was going over onto the east slope on a matter having to do with some horses. Bill had mentioned, in talking to Mrs. Samuelson, that he had been riding through the horses on the east slope. Could it be possible that the suave Bethune was a horse-thief? On the other hand, Bethune had openly hinted that Vil Holland was a horse-thief—and yet, these otherpeople all believed that he was persistently on the trail of the horse-thieves.
For a long time she lay thinking, guessing, trying to recall little scraps of evidence that would bear upon the case. Again, a slight sound brought her to a sitting posture. This time it was the opening of a door across the hall from her room. The sound was followed by the soft padding of slippered feet in the hall, the low tapping, evidently at another door, a few low-voiced words, and a return of the padding steps. A few moments later other steps hurried along the hall past her door and rapidly descended the stairs. Patty heard the opening of an outside door, and once more stealing to the window she saw the Chinaman hurry across the moonlit yard to the bunk house and throw open the door. He entered to emerge a moment later and rush to the horse-corral, where he peered between the poles for a moment and then made his way swiftly back to the house.
Without lighting the lamp Patty dressed hurriedly. Was the Samuelson ranch a place of mystery? What was the meaning of the light sounds—the soft tramp of horses, and the padding of feet upon the stairs? The footsteps paused at the door across the hall. There followed a whispered colloquyand the steps retreated rapidly to the lower regions. Patty opened her door to see Mrs. Samuelson, her face expressing the deepest agitation, and one thin hand catching together the folds of a lavender kimono.
"What is the matter?" asked the girl. "What has happened?"
The old lady closed the door from beyond which came sounds of heavy breathing. "I am afraid he is worse," she whispered. "Wong Yie went to the bunk house to send the boys for the doctor and for Mrs. Pierce, and he says they are gone! Their horses are not in the corral. I don't understand it," she cried. "I told them not to go away. They know, that with my husband sick, we are in momentary danger from the horse-thieves, and they know that their place is right here."
"You told Bill to stay until he heard from Vil Holland," reminded Patty. "Maybe they heard from him, and left without disturbing you."
"That's it, of course!" cried the woman. "I ought to have known I could trust them. But, for a moment it seemed that—" She stopped abruptly and glanced anxiously into the girl's face, "But what in the world will we do? Wong Yie can't ride a step, and if he could, I need him here——"
"I'll ride to Pierce's!" exclaimed Patty. "And get Mr. Pierce to go for the doctor, and bring Mrs. Pierce back with me. My horse is in the corral, and I can get down there in no time."
"Oh, can you? Will you? And you are not afraid—alone at night in the hills? Under any other circumstances I wouldn't think of letting you do it, child—especially with the horse-thieves about. But, it seems the only way——"
"Of course it's the only way! And I'm not a bit afraid."
Hurrying to the corral, Patty saddled her horse, and a few moments later swung into the trail that led down the creek. She glanced at her watch; it was one o'clock. The moon floated high in the heavens and the valley was almost as light as day. Urging her horse into a run, she found a wild exhilaration in riding through the night, splashing across shallows and shooting across short level stretches to plunge through the water again.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Pierce himself appeared at the door in answer to her persistent pounding. Patty thought he eyed her curiously as he stood aside and motioned her into the kitchen. Very deliberately he lighted the lamp and listened in silence until she had finished.Then, coolly, he eyed her from top to toe: "'Pears to me I've saw you before," he announced. "Over on the trail, a while back. An' you was a-ridin' with—Monk Bethune."
"Well?" asked the girl, angered by the man's tone.
"Well," mocked Pierce. "So to-night's the night yer figgerin' on pullin' the raid, is it?"
"I'm figuring on pulling the raid! What do you mean?"
"I mean you, an' Bethune, an' yer gang. You be'n up a-spottin' the lay, so's to tip 'em off, an' now you come down here an' tell me the Old Man's worst so's I'll take out to town fer the doc—an' one less posse-man in the hills. Yer a pretty slick article, Miss, but it hain't a-goin' to work."
Patty listened, speechless with rage. When the man finished she found her tongue. "You—you accuse me of being a—a horse-thief?" she choked.
"Yup," answered the man. "That's it—an' not so fur off, neither. Don't you s'pose I know that if the Old Man was worst one of his own boys would of be'n a foggin' it fer town hisself? I'd ort to take an' lock you up in the root cellar an' turn you over to Vil Holland, but I guess if we get all the he onesout of yer gang we kin leave you loose. 'Tain't likely you could run off no horses single-handed."
A woman whose appearance showed an evident hasty toilet had stepped from an inner room, and stood listening to the man. Patty was about to appeal to her when, from the outside came a thunder of hoofs, and suddenly a man burst into the room. Patty recognized him as Bill, of the Samuelson ranch. "Come on, Jack, quick! Git yer gun, while I slam the kak on yer cayuse. The raid's on, they've cut out a bunch of them three an' four-year-olds offen the east slope an' they're a-foggin' 'em off."
"Bill! Oh, Bill!" cried the girl, in desperation. But the man had plunged toward the corral, followed by Pierce, buckling on his cartridge belt as he ran. A moment later both men were in the saddle, and the sound of pounding hoofs grew far away.
In tears, Patty turned to the woman. "Oh, why couldn't he have believed me?" she cried. "He thinks I'm one of that detestable gang of thieves! But, you—surely you don't think I'm a horse-thief?" In broken sentences she related the facts to the woman, and finished by begging her to go up to the Samuelson ranch. "I'll ride on totown for the doctor myself!" she exclaimed. "And surely you can do that much for your neighbor."
"Do that much fer 'em!" the woman exclaimed. "I reckon they ain't nothin' I wouldn't do ferthem. Mebbe Jack's right, an' mebbe he's wrong. I've saw him be both, 'fore now. Anyways, it ain't a-goin' to do Samuelsons no harm, nor the horse-thieves no good fer me to go up there. You hit the trail fer town, an' I'll ride up the crick." The woman cut short the girl's thanks. "You better take straight on down Porky 'til it crosses the trail," she advised. "It's a little longer but you won't git lost that way, an' chances is you would if I tried to tell you the short cut. Thompsons is great friends with Samuelsons," called the woman, as Patty mounted. "Better change horses there! Or, mebbe Thompson'll go on to town fer you."
Below the Pierce ranch the trail was not so good but, unheeding, the girl held her horse to his pace. In her heart now was no wild exhilaration of moonlight, nor was there any lurking fear of unknown horsemen, only a mighty rage—a rage engendered by Pierce's accusation, but which expanded with each leap of her horse until it included Vil Holland, Bethune, the Samuelson cowboys, and even LenChristie and the Samuelsons themselves—a senseless, consuming rage that caused the blood to throb hotly to her temples and found vicious expression in driving the rowels into her horse's sides until the animal tore down the rough, half-lit trail at a pace that sent the loose stones flying from beneath his hoofs in rattling volleys.
Possibly, it was the rattling of loose stones, possibly her anger dulled her sensibilities to the point where they were incapable of taking note of her surroundings, but the fact remains that as she approached the mouth of a wide coulee that gave into the valley from the eastward, she did not hear the rumble of hundreds of pounding hoofs that each second grew louder and more ominous, until as she reached the mouth of the coulee a rider swept into the valley, his horse straining every muscle to keep ahead of the herd that thundered in his wake.
Apparently the horseman did not notice her, and the next moment Patty was engulfed in the herd. The girl lived one wild moment of terror. In front, behind, upon each side were madly plunging horses, eyes staring, mouths agape exposing long white teeth that flashed wickedly in the moonlight, manes tossing wildly, and air whistling through wide-flaring nostrils. On and on they swept downthe valley. The roar of hoofs rose to a mighty crescendo of thunder, above which, now and then, the terrified girl caught fierce yells from the flank of the herd. So close were the terrorized horses running that it was impossible for the girl to see the ground before her. Sweating, plunging bodies surged against her legs threatening each moment to scrape her feet from the stirrups. Gripping the horn with both hands she rode in a sort of daze.
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught an occasional flash of white as the men on the flanks waved sheets above their heads, whose flapping, fluttering folds urged the maddened horses into a perfect frenzy of action.
In front, and a little to one side of Patty, a horse went down, a big roan colt, and she got one horrible glimpse of a grotesquely twisted neck, and a tangle of thrashing hoofs as another horse plunged onto his fallen comrade. A horrible scream split the air as he, too, went down, and the sudden side-surge of the herd all but unseated the clinging girl. In a second it was over and the herd thundered on. Patty closed her eyes, and with white, tight-pressed lips, wondered when her horse would go down. She pictured the bloody, batteredthingthat hadbeen herself, lying flattened and gruesome, in the moonlight when the pounding hoofs swept past.
Time and distance ceased to be. Patty was carried helplessly on, a part of that frenzied flood of flesh, muscles rigid, brain tense—waiting for the inevitable moment—the horrible moment that was to mark the climax of this ride of horrors. She wondered if it would hurt, or would merciful unconsciousness come with the first impact of the fall.
Suddenly she opened her eyes. She sensed a change in the rumble of hoofs. Horses surged together and the pace slackened from a wild rush to a wilder thrashing of uncertainty. In the forefront a thin red spurt of flame leaped forth and above the pounding hoofs rang the report of a shot. The leaders seemed to have stopped and the main body of the herd pressed and struggled against the unyielding front. Other spurts of flame pierced the night, and shots rang viciously from all sides. The horses were milling, churning, about in a huge maelstrom, in which Patty found herself being slowly forced to the outside as the unencumbered free horses crowded to the center away from the terrifying stabs of flame and the crack of guns. She could see a mounted form before her. Evidently it was the man who had ridden in the forefrontof the herd. The rider was very close, now, his horse keeping pace with her own which had nearly reached the outer rim of the churning mass of animals. The brim of his hat shadowed his face but Patty could see that the gauntleted hand held a six-gun. A shift of position brought the moonlight full upon the man's front—upon a scarf of robin's-egg blue caught together at the throat with the polished tip of buffalo horn. No other horsemen were in sight, but an occasional sharp report sounded from the opposite side of the herd. "Vil!" she screamed. "Vil Holland!" The form stiffened in the saddle and the girl caught the flash of his eyes beneath the hat brim. The next instant the gun had given place to a heavy quirt in his hand, his tall, rangy horse plunged straight toward her, the wild horses, crowding frenziedly to escape the blows as the rider lashed furiously to the right and to the left as he forced his mount to her side.
"Good God! Girl, what are you doing here? I thought you were one of them—and I nearly—" The man leaned suddenly forward and grasped the bit-chain of her bridle. As if knowing exactly what was expected of them, side by side the two horses fought their way free of the herd, the bigbuckskin with ears laid back, snapping viciously at the crowding horses. A six-gun roared twice. Patty felt a sudden brush of air against her cheek and the next instant the two horses plunged down the steep side of a narrow ravine. In the bottom the man released her bridle. "You stay here!" he commanded gruffly.
"But, the Samuelsons! Mr. Samuelson is—" The words were drowned in a shower of gravel as the rangy buckskin scrambled up the bank and disappeared over the top. The rapid transition from anger to terror, and from terror to relief, proved too much for the girl's nerves and she burst into a violent fit of sobbing. The tears enraged her and she shouted at the top of her voice. "I won't stay here!" but the words sounded puny and weak, and she knew that they had not penetrated beyond the rim of the ravine. "I won't do it! I won't stay here!" she kept repeating, the sentences broken by the hysterical sobbing. Nevertheless, stay there she did, until with a mighty rumble of hoofs and a scattering volley of shots, the horse herd swept northward, and when finally she succeeded in gaining the upper level, the sounds came to her ears faint and far away.
Hurriedly she glanced about her. What wasthat stretching to the southward, a long ribbon of white in the moonlight? "The trail!" she cried. "The trail to town—and to Thompson's!" Just beyond the trail, upon the brown-yellow buffalo grass a dark object lay motionless. Patty stared at it in horror. It was the body of a man. Her first impulse was to put spurs to her horse and fly down that long white ribbon of trail—to place distance between herself and the thing that lay sprawled upon the grass. Then a thought flashed into her brain. Suppose it were he? Vil Holland, the man whom everybody trusted—the man who had calmly braved the shots of the horse-thieves to rescue her from that churning maelstrom of horror.
Unconsciously, but surely, under the influence of those upon whose judgment she knew she could rely, her suspicion and distrust of him had weakened. She had half-realized the fact days ago, when at thought of him she found herself forced to enumerate his apparent offenses over and over again to keep the distrust alive. She thought of him now as he had fought his way to her, lashing the infuriated horses from his path. He had appeared, somehow—different. She closed her eyes and clean cut as though chiseled upon her brainwas the picture of him as he forced his way to her side. Like a flash the detail of difference broke upon her—The jug was missing! And close upon the heels of the discovery came the memory of the strange thrill that had shot through her as his leg pressed hers when their horses had been forced together by the milling herd, and the sense of security and well being that replaced the terror in her heart from the moment she had called his name. A sudden indescribable pain gripped her breast, as though icy fingers reached up and slowly clutched her heart. With staring eyes and breath coming heavily between parted lips, she rode toward the thing on the ground. As she drew near, her horse stopped, sniffing nervously. She attempted to urge him forward, but he quivered, shied sidewise, and, snorting his fear, circled the sprawling object with nostrils a-quiver.
Fighting a terrible dread, the girl forced her eyes to focus upon the gruesome form, and the next instant she uttered a quick little cry of relief. The man's hat had fallen off and lay at some distance from the body. She could see a shock of thick black hair, and noticed that he wore a cheap cotton shirt that had once been white. There were no chaps. One leg of his blue overalls had rolled upand exposed six inches of bare skin which gleamed whitely in the moonlight above the top of his shoe. The sight sickened, disgusted her, and whirling her horse she dashed southward along the trail forgetting for the moment the Samuelsons, the doctor, and everything else in a wild desire to put distance between herself and that awful thing on the ground.
Not until her horse's hoofs rang upon the hard rock of the canyon floor, did Patty slacken her pace. Thompson's was only a few miles farther on. It was dark in the high walled canyon and she slowed her horse to a walk. He stopped to drink in the shallow creek and the girl glanced over the back trail. Where was he now! Thundering along with the recaptured horse herd, or following the thieves in a mad flight through the devious fastnesses of the mountains. Was it possible that even at this moment he was lying upon the yellow-brown grass, or among the broken rock fragments of some coulee, twisted, and shapeless, and still—like that other who lay repulsive and ugly, with his bare leg shining white in the moonlight? She shuddered. "No, no, no!" she cried aloud, "they can't kill him. They're cowards—and he is brave!" Her voice rang hollow and thin in the rocky chasm,and she started at the sound of it. Her horse moved on, tongueing the bit contentedly. "They were right, and I was wrong," she muttered. "And—and, I'mglad."
The canyon was left behind and before her the trail wound among the foothills that rolled away to the open bench. She noticed that the moon had sunk behind the mountains, yet it was not dark. Glancing toward the east, she realized that it was morning. She urged her horse into a lope, and reached Thompson's just as the ranchman and his two hands were starting for the barn.
"Well, dog my cats, if it ain't Miss Sinclair!" exclaimed the man, and stood silent for a second as if trying to remember something. He rushed toward her excitedly. "You want that horse?" he cried, and without waiting for an answer, turned to the astonished ranch hands: "You, Mike, throw the shell onto Lightnin', an' git him out here, an' don't lose no time about it, neither!
"Pete, git that rifle an' lay along the trail! An' if anyone comes a-foggin' along towards town shoot his horse out from in under him! Never mind chawin'—you git! Shoot his horse, an' I'll pay the bill. Any skunk that would try fer to beat a lady out of her claim ain't a-goin' to expectnothin' but what he gits around this outfit. An' say, Pete—if it should be Monk Bethune—an' you happen to shoot a leetle high fer to hit the horse—don't worry none—git, now!
"You come right along of me, an' git a snack from Miz T. while Mike's a-saddlin' up. It's a long drag to town, even on Lightnin', an' you ain't et yet. If the coffee ain't hot, you can wait a couple o' minutes—that there Pete—he won't let nothin' git by—he kin cut a sage hen's head off twenty rod with that rifle!" Patty had made several unsuccessful attempts to speak—attempts to which Thompson paid no attention whatever. At last, she managed to make him understand. "No, no! It isn't the claim, Mr. Thompson—but, let him saddle the horse just the same. Mr. Samuelson is worse and I'm riding for the doctor."
"You!" exclaimed the astonished Thompson. "What's the matter with Bill or some of Samuelson's riders?"
"They're after the horse-thieves. They ran off a lot of Mr. Samuelson's horses last night, and they're after them. And they caught them, and had a battle, and I was in it, and there is a dead man lying back there beside the trail." Pattytalked rapidly, and Thompson stared open-mouthed.
"Run off Samuelson's horses—battle—dead man—you was in it!" he repeated, in bewilderment. "Who run 'em off? Where's Vil Holland? Who's dead?"
"I don't know who's dead. A horse-thief, I guess. And Vil Holland's with them—with the Samuelson cowboys and that horrid Pierce, and that's why I had to ride for the doctor—because the cowboys were with Vil Holland, and Pierce thought I was one of the horse-thieves."
"If you know what you're talkin' about it's more'n what I do," sighed Thompson, resignedly, as the girl concluded the somewhat muddled explanation. "If the raid's come off, why wasn't I in on it—an' me keepin' Lightnin' up an' ready fer it's goin' on three months? They's a thing or two I do know, though. For one, you've rode fer enough." He called to Pete, who, rifle in hand, was making for the trail. "Hey, Pete, come back here with that gun, an' quick as Mike gits the hull cinched onto Lightnin', you fork him an' hightail fer town an' fetch Doc Mallory out to Samuelson's. Tell him the Old Man's worse. Better fetch Len Christie along, too. If there's a dead man, evenif he's a horse-thief, it's better he was buried accordin' to the book. Take Miss Sinclair's horse to the stable an' tell Mike to onsaddle him an' give him a feed." He turned to Patty: "You come along in an' rest up 'til Miz T. gits breakfast ready. Then when you've et, you kin begin at the beginnin' an' tell what's be'n a-goin' on in the hills."