He charged round the building in half a dozen strides. One glance at the scene was sufficient. Poor old Joe Nelson was lying on the ground, his arms thrown out to protect his head, while Jake, his face ablaze, stood over him, kicking him with his cruel field boots, with a force and brutishness that promised to break every bone in the old man’s body.
It all came to him in a flash.
Then he leapt with a rush at the author of the unnatural scene. The butt of his quirt was uplifted. It swung above his head a full half-circle, then it descendedwith that whistling split of the air that told of the rage and force that impelled it. It took the giant square across the face, laying the flesh open and sending the blood spurting with its vicious impact. It sent him reeling backward with a howl of pain, like a child at the slash of an admonishing cane. And Jake’s hands went up to his wounds at once; but, even so, his movements were not swift enough to protect him from a second slash of the vengeful thong. And Tresler’s aim was so swift and sure that the bully fell to the ground like a pole-axed steer.
And with Jake’s fall the tension of Tresler’s rage relaxed. He could have carried the chastisement further with a certain wild delight, but he was no savage, only a real, human man, outraged and infuriated by the savagery of another. His one thought was for his poor old friend, and he dropped on his knees, and bent over the still, shrunken form in a painful anxiety. He called to him, and put one hand under the gray old head and raised it up. And as he did so the poor fellow’s eyes opened. Joe murmured something unintelligible, and Tresler was about to speak again, when a movement behind him changed his purpose and brought him to his feet with a leap.
Nor was he any too soon. And his rage lit anew as he saw Jake struggling to rise. In an instant he was standing over him threateningly.
“Move, and I’ll paralyze you!” he cried hoarsely.
And Jake made no further effort. He lay back with a growl of impotent rage, while his hands moved uneasily, mopping his blood-stained features.
Now it was, for the first time, Tresler became aware that the men from the bunkhouse had come upon the scene.
The sight of all those faces gazing in wide-eyed astonishment at the fallen Jake brought home to him something of the enormity of his offense, and it behooved him to get Joe out of further harm’s way. He stooped, and gathering the little choreman tenderly into his powerful arms, lifted him on to his shoulders and strode away to the bunkhouse, followed by his silent, wondering comrades.
He deposited Joe upon his own bed, and the men crowded round. And questions and answers came in a wild volley about him.
It was Arizona who spoke least and rendered most assistance. Together he and Tresler undressed the patient and treated him to a rough surgical examination. They soon found that no limbs were broken, but of his ribs they were less certain. He was severely bruised about the head, and this latter no doubt accounted for his unconsciousness. Cold water, harshly applied, though with kind intent, was the necessary restorative, and after a while the twisted face took on a hue of life and the eyes opened. Then Tresler turned to the men about him.
“Boys,” he said gravely, “I want you all to remember that this is purely my affair. Joe’s and mine—and Jake’s. I shall settle it in my own way. For the present we have our work to do.”
There was a low murmur, and Arizona raised a pair of fierce eyes to his face. He was going to speak—tovoice a common thought; but Tresler understood and cut him short.
“Go easy, Arizona. We’re good friends all. You wouldn’t like me to interfere in a quarrel of yours.”
“That’s so—but——”
“Never mind the ‘buts.’” And Tresler’s keen, honest eyes looked squarely into the seared face of the wild cowpuncher.
For a moment the men stood around looking on with lowering faces, eyeing the prostrate man furtively. But Tresler’s attitude gave them no encouragement, and even Arizona felt the influence of his strong personality. Suddenly, as though with a struggle, the cowboy swung round on his fellows and his high-pitched tones filled the silent room.
“Come right on, boys. Guess he’s right. We’ll git.” And he moved toward the door.
And the men, after the slightest possible hesitation, passed out in his wake. Tresler waited until the door had closed behind the last of them, then he turned to the injured man.
“Feeling better, Joe?”
“Feelin’ better? Why, yes, I guess.”
Joe’s answer came readily, but in a weak voice.
“No bones broken?”
“Bones? Don’t seem.”
Tresler seated himself on the bunk and looked into the gray face. At last he rose and prepared to go, but Joe detained him with a look.
“Say—they’re gone?” he murmured.
The other sat down again. “Yes.”
“Good.” Joe sighed and reclosed his eyes; but it was only for a second. He opened them again and went on. “Say, you won’t tell her—Miss Dianny. Don’t you tell her. Pore little soul, she’ll wep them pretty eyes o’ hers out, sure. Y’ see, I know her. Y’ see, I did git drunk yesterday. I knew I’d git it. So it don’t signify. Don’t tell her.”
“She’ll be sure to hear of it.”
“Say, Tresler,” Joe went on, ignoring the other’s objection. “Go easy; jest say nothin’. Kind o’ fergit this thing fer the time. Ther’s other work fer you. I’d a heap sooner I’d bin killed than you git roped into this racket. It’s Miss Dianny you’re to look to, not me; an’ now, mebbe, they’ll run you off’n the ranch.”
Tresler shook his head decidedly. “Don’t be afraid; they can’t get rid of me, Joe,” he said.
“Ah! Wal, I guess meanwhile you’d best git off to work. I’ll pull round after a while. You see, you must go dead easy wi’ Jake, ’cos o’ her. Mind it’s her—on’y her. You sed it last night. Mebbe this thing’s goin’ to make trouble. Trouble fer you; an’ trouble fer you means trouble fer her.”
“I’m going.”
Tresler saw the force of the other’s argument. He must give them no further hold to turn on him. Yes, he saw how bad his position would be in the future. He wondered what would come of that morning’s work; and, in spite of his confident assurance to Joe, he dreaded now lest there should be any means for them to get rid of him. He moved toward the door.
“All right, Joe. I’ll keep a check on myself in thefuture,” he said. “But don’t you go and get drunk again or——”
He broke off. Flinging the door open to pass out, he found himself face to face with the object of their solicitude. Diane had been about to knock, and now started back in confusion. She had not expected this. She thought Tresler was with the “breaking” party. The man saw her distress, and the anxiety in her sweet brown eyes. He knew that at that moment all her thought was for Joe. It was the basket on her arm, full of comforts, that told him. And he knew, too, that she must have been a witness to the disgraceful scene by the barn, for how else could she have learned so quickly what had happened? He put his finger on his lip to silence her, while he closed the bunkhouse door behind him. Then he responded to the inquiry he saw in her eager, troubled face.
“He is better, Miss Diane. He will soon be all right,” he added, keeping his voice low lest it should reach the man inside. “Can I give him anything for you? Any message?” He glanced significantly from her face to the basket on her arm.
The girl did not answer at once. Her eyes looked seriously up into his face.
“Thank you,” she said at last, a little vaguely. Then she broke out eagerly, and Tresler understood the feeling that prompted her. “I saw the finish of it all,” she went on; “oh, the dreadful finish. Thank God I did not see the rest. When you bore him off on your shoulders I thought he was dead. Then I felt I could not stay away. While I was wondering how toget down here without attracting attention, Sheriff Fyles arrived, and father and he went at once into the office. I knew Jake would be out of the way. I waited until Anton had disappeared with the sheriff’s horse, then I hurried down here. Can I see him now? I have a few little luxuries here which I scrambled together for him.”
The girl’s appeal was irresistible. Nor was Tresler the man to attempt the impossible. Besides, she knew all, so there was nothing to hide from her. He glanced over at the barn. The men had already saddled. He saw Arizona leading two horses, and recognized Lady Jezebel as one of them. The wild cowpuncher had saddled his mare for him, and the friendliness of the act pleased him.
“Yes, go in and see him,” he said. “The place hasn’t been cleaned up yet, but perhaps you won’t mind that. You will come like an angel of comfort to poor Joe. Poor old fellow! He thinks only of you. You are his one care in life. It will be like a ray of sunshine in his clouded life to be waited on by you. I need hardly give you the caution, but—don’t stay long.”
Diane nodded, and Tresler stepped aside. The girl’s hand was on the door-latch; she hesitated a moment and finally faced about.
“Fyles is here now,” she said significantly. “The raiders; do you think you ought——”
“I am going to see him.”
“Yes.” The girl nodded. She would have said more, but her companion cut her short.
“I must go,” he said. Then he pointed over at themare. “You see?” he added. “She is in view of Jake’s window.”
The next moment they had parted.
The Lady Jezebel was very fretful when Tresler mounted her. She treated him to a mild display of bad temper, and then danced boisterously off down the trail, and her progress was as much made on her hind legs as on all fours. Once round the bend her rider tried to bring her to a halt, but no persuasion could reduce her to the necessary docility. She fretted on until, exasperated, the man jabbed her sharply with the spurs. Then the mischief started. Her head went down and her back humped, and she settled to a battle royal.
It was in the midst of this that another horseman rounded the bend and rode leisurely on to the field of battle. He drew up and watched the conflict with interest, his own great raw-boned bay taking quite as enthusiastic an interest in what was going forward as its rider.
The mare fought like a demon; but Tresler had learned too much for her, and sat on his saddle as though glued to it; and the newcomer’s interest became blended with admiration for the exhibition of horsemanship he was witnessing. As suddenly as she had begun the lady desisted. It was in a pause for breath that she raised her infuriated head and espied the intruder. Doubtless, realizing the futility of her efforts, and at the same time not wishing one of the opposite sex to witness her defeat, she preferred to disguise her anger and gave the impression of a quiet,frivolous gambol, for she whinnied softly and stared, with ears pricked and head erect, in a haughty look of inquiry at the more cumbersome figure of the bay.
And her rider, too, had time to look around. His glance at once fell upon the stranger, and he knew that it was the man he wanted to talk to.
The two men met with little formality.
“Sheriff Fyles?” Tresler said as he came up.
There was something wonderfully picturesque yet businesslike about this prairie sleuth. This man was the first of his kind he had seen, and he studied him with interest. The thought of Sheriff Fyles had come so suddenly into his mind, and so recently, that he had no time to form any imaginative picture of him. Had he done so he must inevitably have been disappointed with the reality, for Fyles was neither becoming nor even imposing. He was rather short and decidedly burly, and his face had an innocent caste about it, a farmer-like mould of russet-tanned features that was extremely healthy-looking, but in no way remarkable for any appearance of great intelligence.
But this was a case of the fallibility of appearances. Fyles was remarkable both for great intelligence and extreme shrewdness. Not only that, he was a man of cat-like activity. His bulk was the result of a superabundance of muscle, and not of superfluous tissue. His bucolic spread of features was useful to him in that it detracted from the cold, keen, compelling eyes which looked out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows; and, too, the full cheeks and fat neck, helping to hide the determined jaws, which had a knack of closing hisrather full lips into a thin, straight line. Nature never intended a man of his mould to occupy the position that Fyles held in his country’s peace regime. He was one of her happy mistakes.
And in that first survey Tresler realized something of the personality which form and features were so ludicrously struggling to conceal.
“Yes.” The officer let his eyes move slowly over this stranger. Then, without the least expression of cordiality he spoke the thought in his mind. “That’s a good nag—remarkably good. You handle her tolerably. Didn’t get your name?”
“Tresler—John Tresler.”
“Yes. New hereabouts?”
The broad-shouldered man had an aggravatingly official manner. Tresler replied with a nod.
“Ah! Remittance man?”
At this the other laughed outright. He saw it was useless to display any anger.
“Wrong,” he said. “Learning the business of ranching. Going to start on my own account later on.”
“Ah! Younger son?”
“Not even a younger son!” The two horses were now moving leisurely on toward the ford. “Suppose we quit questions and answers that serve no particular purpose, sheriff. I have been waiting to see you.”
“So I figured,” observed the other, imperturbably, “or you wouldn’t have answered my questions so amiably. Well?”
The sheriff permitted himself a sort of wintry smile,while his watchful eyes wandered interestedly over the surrounding bush.
“There are things doing about this country,” Tresler began a little lamely. “You’ve possibly heard?”
“Things are generally doing in a cattle country where brands are easily changed and there is no official to inquire who has changed them.”
Fyles glanced admiringly down at Lady Jezebel’s beautiful clean legs.
“This Red Mask?” Tresler asked.
“Exactly.”
“You’ve heard the story of his latest escapade? The murder of Manson Orr?”
“From Mr. Marbolt—and others. In telling me, the blind man offered five thousand dollars’ reward for the capture of the man.”
“That’s better than I hoped for,” replied Tresler, musingly. “You see,” he went on, “the blind man’s something cantankerous. He’s lost cattle himself, but when some of the boys offered to hunt Red Mask down, he treated them with scant courtesy—in fact, threatened to discharge any man who left the ranch on that quest.”
“I found him amiable.”
“You would.” Tresler paused. This man was difficult to talk to, and he wanted to say so much. Suddenly he turned and faced him, and, to his chagrin, discovered that the other was still intent on the mare he was riding. His eyes were fixed on the lady’s shoulder, where the indistinct marks of the brand were still visible. “You see, sergeant,” he went on, ignoring the other’sabstraction, “I have a story to tell you, which, in your official capacity, you may find interesting. In the light of recent events, I, at any rate, find it interesting. It has set me thinking a heap.”
“Go ahead,” said the officer, without even so much as raising his eyes. Tresler followed the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing more interesting in his mare’s fore-quarters than their perfect shape. However, there was no alternative but to proceed with his narrative. And he told the sheriff of the visit of the night-riders which he had witnessed on the night of his arrival at the ranch. In spite of the other’s apparent abstraction, he told the story carefully and faithfully, and his closing remarks were well pointed and displayed a close analysis. He told him of the previous visits of these night-riders, and the results following upon the circulation of the story by each individual who chanced to witness them. He told of Joe Nelson’s warning to him, and how his earnestness had, at length, persuaded him to keep quiet. He felt no scruples in thus changing the responsibility of Diane’s warning. Nothing would have induced him to drag her name into the matter.
“You see, sheriff,” he said in conclusion, “I think I did right to keep this matter to myself until such time as I could tell it to you. It has all happened several times before, and, therefore, will no doubt happen again. What do you think?”
“She’s the finest thing I’ve ever set two eyes on. There’s only one like her—eh?” Tresler had given audible expression to his impatience, and the otherabruptly withdrew his gaze from the mare. “It’s interesting—decidedly.”
“Did Marbolt tell you of the previous visits of these raiders? He knows of them.”
“He told me more than I had time to listen to.”
“How?”
“He told me of the revolutionary spirit pervading the ranch.”
“Ah!”
Tresler saw the trap the wily police officer had laid for him and refused the bait. Evidently the blind man had told his version of that morning’s doings, and the sheriff wished to learn the men’s side of it. Probably his, Tresler’s. This calm, cold man seemed to depend in no way upon verbal answers for the information he desired, for he went on without any appearance of expecting a reply.
“There’s one thing you’ve made plain to me. You suspect collusion between these raiders and some one on the ranch.”
“Yes. I meant you to understand that.”
“Whom do you suspect? And your reasons?”
The two questions rapped out one after the other like lightning.
“My suspicions rest nowhere, because I can find no reason.”
They had drawn rein at the ford. Fyles now looked keenly into Tresler’s face, and his glance was full of meaning.
“I’m glad I’ve had this talk with you, Tresler. You have a keen faculty for observation, and a wise caution.When you have reason to suspect any one, and wish to tell me of it, you can communicate with me at any hour of the day or night. I know this ranch well by repute. So well, in fact, that I came out here to find you. You see, you also were known to me—through mutual acquaintances in Forks. Now your excellent caution will tell you that it would be bad policy for you to communicate openly with me. Good. Your equally excellent observation will have called your attention to this river. I have a posse stationed further down stream, for certain reasons which I will keep to myself. It is a hidden posse, but it will always be there. Now, to a man of your natural cleverness, I do not think you will have any difficulty in finding a means of floating a message down to me. But do not send an urgent message unless the urgency is positive. Any message I receive in that way I shall act upon at once. I have learned a great deal to-day, Tresler, so much indeed that I even think you may need to use this river before long. All I ask of you is to be circumspect—that’s the word, circumspect.”
The sheriff edged his horse away so that he could obtain a good view of Lady Jezebel. And he gazed at her with so much intentness that Tresler felt he must call attention to it.
“She is a beauty,” he suggested.
And Fyles answered with a sharp question. “Is she yours?”
“No. Only to use.”
“Belongs to the ranch?”
“Jake told me she is a mare the blind man boughtfrom a half-breed outfit passing through the country. He sets great store by her, but they couldn’t tame her into reliability. That’s three years ago. By her mouth I should say she was rising seven.”
“That’s so. She’d be rising seven. She’s a dandy.”
“You seem to know her.”
But Fyles made no answer. He swung his horse round, and, raising his hand in a half-military salute in token of “good-bye,” called over his shoulder as his bay took to the water—
“Don’t forget the river.”
Tresler looked after him for some moments, then his mare suddenly reared and plunged into the water to follow. He understood at once that fresh trouble was brewing in her ill-balanced equine mind, and took her sharply to task. She couldn’t buck in the water; and, finally, after another prolonged battle, she dashed out of it and on to the bank again. But in the scrimmage she had managed to get the side-bar of the bit between her teeth, and, as she landed, she stretched out her lean neck, and with a snort of ill-temper, set off headlong down the trail.
The intractability of the Lady Jezebel was beyond all bounds. Her vagaries were legion. After his experiences with her, Tresler might have been forgiven the vanity of believing, in spite of her sex, that he had fathomed her every mood. But she was forever springing unpleasant surprises, and her present one was of a more alarming nature than anything that had gone before. One of her tricks, bolting, was not so very serious, but now she proved herself a “blind bolter.” And among horsemen there is only one thing to do with a blind bolter—shoot it. A horse of this description seems to be imbued with but one idea—a furious desire to go, to run anywhere, to run into anything lying in its course, to run on until its strength is spent, or its career is suddenly terminated by a forcible full stop.
At the bend of the trail the mare took blindly to the bush. Chance guided her on to a cattle-path which cut through to the pinewoods beyond. It was but a matter of moments before her rider saw the dark shadow of the woodlands come at him with a rush, and he plunged headlong into the gray twilight of their virgin depths. He had just time to crouch down in the saddle, with his face buried in the tangle of the creature’s flying mane, when the drooping boughs, laden withtheir sad foliage, swept his back. He knew there were only two courses open to him. Either he must sit tight and chance his luck till the mad frolic was spent, or throw himself headlong from the saddle at the first likely spot. A more experienced horseman would, no doubt, have chosen the latter course without a second thought. But he preferred to stay with the mare. He was loth to admit defeat. She had never bested him yet, and a sort of petty vanity refused to allow him to acknowledge her triumph now. They might come to an opening, he told himself, a stretch of open country. The mare might tire of the forest gloom and turn prairieward. These things suggested themselves merely as an excuse for his foolhardiness in remaining in the saddle, not that he had any hope of their fulfilment.
And so it was. Nothing moved the animal out of her course, and it seemed almost as though a miracle were in operation. For, in all that labyrinth of tree-trunks, a sheer road constantly opened out before them. Once, and once only, disaster was within an ace of him. She brushed a mighty black-barked giant with her shoulders. Tresler’s knee struck it with such painful force that his foot was wrenched from the stirrup and dragged back so that the rowel of his spur was plunged, with terrific force, into the creature’s flank. She responded to the blow with a sideways leap, and it was only by sheer physical strength her rider retained his seat. Time and again the reaching boughs swept him and tore at his clothes, frequently lacerating the flesh beneath with the force of their impact.
These things, however, were only minor troubles as he raced down the grim forest aisles. His thoughts centred themselves on the main chance—the chance that embraced life and death. An ill-fate might, at any moment, plunge horse and rider headlong into one of those silent sentries. It would mean anything. Broken limbs at the best. But Providence ever watches over the reckless horseman, and, in spite of a certain native caution in most things, Tresler certainly was that. He knew no fear of this jade of a mare, and deep down in his heart there was a wild feeling of joy, a whole-hearted delight in the very madness of the race.
And the animal herself, untamed, unchecked, frothing at her bit, her sides a-lather with foam, her barrel tuckered like that of a finely trained race-horse, rushed blindly on. The forest echoed and reëchoed with the dull thud of her hoofs as they pounded the thick underlay of rotting cones. And her rider breathed hard as he lay with his head beside the reeking neck, and watched for the coming of the end.
Suddenly, in the midst of the gray, he saw a flash of sunlight. It was like a beacon light to a storm-driven mariner. It was only a gleam of sunshine and was gone almost at once, but it told him that he was fast coming on the river. The final shoals, maybe, where wreck alone awaited him. Just for an instant his purpose wavered. There was still time to drop to the ground. He would have to chance the mare’s flying heels. And it might save him.
But the idea was driven from his head almost before he realized it; the mare swerved like a skidding vehicle.He clung desperately to her mane, one arm was even round her neck in a forcible embrace. The struggle lasted only a few seconds. Then, as he recovered his equilibrium, he saw that she had turned into what was undoubtedly a well-defined, but long-disused, forest trail. The way was clear of obstruction. The trees had parted, opening up a wide avenue, and above him shone the perfect azure of the summer sky.
He was amazed. Where could such a trail lead? His answer came immediately. Away ahead of him, towering above the abundant foliage, he saw the distant shimmer of snowy peaks, and nearer—so near as to make him marvel aloud—the forest-clad, broken lands of the foot-hills. Immediate danger was past and he had time to think. At all cost he must endeavor to stop the racing beast under him. So he began a vicious sawing at her mouth. His efforts only drove her faster, and caused her to throw her head higher and higher, until her crown was within six inches of his face.
The futility of his purpose was almost ludicrous. He desisted. And the Lady Jezebel lowered her head with an angry snort and rushed on harder than ever. And now the race continued without relaxing. Once or twice Tresler thought he detected other hoof-marks on the trail, but his impression of them was very uncertain. One thing surely struck him, however: since entering this relic of the old Indian days, a decided change had come over the mare. She was no longer running blind; more, it seemed to him that she displayed that inexpressible familiarity with her surroundings which a true horseman can always detect, yet never describe.This knowledge led him to the hope of the passing of her temper.
But his hope was an optimistic mistake. The sweat pouring from neck, shoulders, and flanks, she still lifted her mud-brown barrel to her mighty stride, with all the vim and lightness of the start. He felt that, jade that she was, she ran because she loved it; ran with a delight that acted as a safety-valve for her villainous temper. She would run herself into amiability and then stop, but not before. And he knew her temper so well that he saw many miles lying ahead of him.
The rift was gradually widening, and the forest on either side thinned. The trees were wider and more scattered, and the broken hilltops, which but now had been well ahead, were frowning right over him, and he knew, by the steady, gradual rise of the country, that he would soon be well within the maze of forest, crag, and ravine, which composed the mountain foot-hills.
At last the forest broke and the ragged land leapt into full view with magical abruptness. It was as though Nature had grown her forest within the confines of a field embraced by an imaginary hedge. There were no outskirts, no dwindling away. It ended in one clean-cut line. And beyond lay the rampart hills, fringed and patched with disheveled bluff, split by rifts and yawning chasms. And ever they rose higher and higher as the distance gained, and, though summer was not yet at its height, it was gaunt-looking, torn, chaotic, a land of desolation.
The mare held straight on. The change of scene had no effect on her; the trail still lay before her, and sheseemed satisfied with it. Tresler looked for the river. He knew it was somewhere near by. He gazed away to the right, and his conjecture was proved at once. There it lay, the Mosquito River, narrowed and foaming, a torrent with high, clean-cut banks. He followed its course ahead and saw that the banks lost themselves in the shadow between towering, almost barren hills, which promised the narrow mouth of a valley beyond.
And as he watched these things, a feeling of uneasiness came over him. The split between the hills looked so narrow. He looked for the trail. It seemed to make straight for the opening. As the ground flew under him, he turned once more to the river and followed its course with his eyes, and suddenly he was thrilled with his first real feeling of apprehension. The river on the right, and the hill on the left of him were converging. Nor could he avoid that meeting-point.
He was borne on by the bolting mare. There was not the smallest hope of restraining her. Whatever lay before him, he must face it, and face it with every faculty alert and ready. His mouth parched, and he licked his lips. He was facing a danger now that was uncertain, and the uncertainty of it strung him with a nervous apprehension.
Bluff succeeded bluff in rapid succession. The hill on the left had become a sheer cliff, and the general aspect of the country, that of a tremendous gorge. The trail rose slightly and wound its tortuous way in such an aggravating manner that it was impossible for him to see what lay before him.
At one point he came to a fork where another trail,less defined, branched away to the right. For a moment he dreaded lest the mare should adopt the new way. He knew what lay out there—the river. However, his fears were quickly allayed. The Lady Jezebel had no intention of leaving the road she was on.
They passed the fork, and he sighed his relief. But his relief was short-lived. Without a sign or warning the trail he was on died out, and his course lay over a narrow level flat sparsely dotted with small, stubbly bush. Now he knew that the mare had been true to herself. She had passed the real trail by, and was running headlong to——
He dared think no more. He knew the crisis was at hand. He had reached the narrowest point of the opening between the two hills, and there stretched the river right across his path less than fifty yards ahead. It took no central course—as might have been expected—through the gorge. It met the left-hand cliff diagonally, and, further on, adopted its sheer side for its left bank. He saw the clearly defined cutting, sharp, precise, before it reached the cliff, and he was riding straight for it!
In that first moment of realization he passed through every sensation of fear; but no time was given him for thought. Fifty yards! What was that to the raking stride of his untamed mare? It would be gone in a few seconds. Action was the only thing to serve him, and such action as instinct prompted him to was utterly unavailing. With a mighty heave of his body, and with all the strength of his sinewy arms, he tried to pull the creature on to her haunches. As well try to stemthe tide ahead of him. She threw up her head until it nearly struck him in the face; she pawed the air with her great front legs; then, as he released her, she rushed forward again with a vicious snort.
His case seemed utterly hopeless. He sat down tight in the saddle, leaning slightly forward. He held his reins low, keeping a steady strain upon them. There was a vague, wild thought in his mind. He knew the river had narrowed. Was it a possible jump? He feared the very worst, but clung desperately to the hope. He would lift the creature to it when it came, anyhow. Would she see it? Would she, freakish brute that she was, realize her own danger, and, for once in her desperate life, do one sensible act? He did not expect it. He dared not hope for that. He only wondered.
He could see the full extent of the chasm now. And he thrilled as he realized that it was broader than he had supposed. Worse, the far bank was lower, and a fringe of bush hung at its very edge. His jaws tightened as he came up. He could hear the roar of the torrent below, and, to his strained fancy, it seemed to come up from the very bowels of the earth.
A few more strides. He timed his effort with a judgment inspired by the knowledge that his life depended on it—it, and the mare.
The chasm now came at him with a rush. Suddenly he leaned over and let out a wild “halloo!” in the creature’s ears. At the same time he lifted her and plunged his spurs hard into her flanks. The effect was instantaneous, electrical. Just for an instant it seemedto him that some unseen power had suddenly shot her from under him. He had a sensation of being left behind, while yet he was rushing through the air with the saddle flying from under him. Then all seemed still, and he was gliding, the lower part of his body struggling to outstrip the rest of him. He had an impression of some great depth below him, though he knew he saw nothing, heard nothing. There came a great jolt. He lurched on to the animal’s neck, recovered himself, and, the next instant, the old desperate gallop was going on as before.
He looked back and shivered as he saw the gaping rift behind him. The jump had been terrific, and, as he realized the marvel of the feat, he leaned over and patted the mare’s reeking shoulder. She had performed an act after her own wild heart.
And Tresler laughed aloud at the thought. He could afford to laugh now, for he saw the end of his journey coming. He had landed on the trail he had lost, in all probability the continuation across the river of the branch road he had missed on the other side, and this was heading directly for the hill before him. More, he could see it winding its way up the hill. Even the Lady Jezebel, he thought, would find that ascent more than to her liking.
And he was right. She faced it and breasted it like the lion-hearted animal she was, but the loose sandy surface, and the abruptness of the incline, first brought her to a series of plunges, and finally to her knees and a dead halt.
And Tresler was out of the saddle in an instant, anddrew the reins over her head, while she, now quite subdued, struggled to her feet. She was utterly blown, and her master was little better. They stood together on that hillside and rested.
Now the man had a full view of the river below, and he realized the jump that the mare had made. And, further down, he beheld an astonishing sight. At a point where the course of the river narrowed, a rough bridge of pine-logs had been thrown across it. He stood for some minutes contemplating the scene and busy with his thoughts, which at last culminated in a question uttered aloud—
“Where on earth does it lead to?”
And he turned and surveyed the point, where, higher up, the trail vanished round the hillside above him. The question voiced a natural curiosity which he promptly proceeded to satisfy. Linking his arm through the reins, he led the mare up the hill.
It was a laborious climb. Even free of her burden the horse had difficulty in keeping her feet. The sandy surface was deep, and poured away at every step like the dry sand on the seashore. And as they labored up, Tresler’s wonder increased at every step. Why had such a trail been made, and where—where could it lead to?
At length the vanishing-point was reached, and horse and rider rounded the bend. And immediately the reason was made plain. But even the reason sank into insignificance before the splendor of the scene which presented itself.
He was standing on a sort of shelf cut out of thehillside. It was not more than fifty yards long, and some twenty wide, but it stood high over a wide, far-reaching valley, scooped out amongst the great foot-hills which reared their crests about him on every side. Far as the eye could see was spread out the bright, early summer green of the grass-land hollow. For the most part the surrounding hills were precipitate, and rose sheer from the bed of the valley, but here and there a friendly landslide had made the place accessible. Just where he stood, and all along the shelf, the face of the hill formed a precipice, both above and below, and the only approach to it was the way he had come round from the other side of the hill.
And the object, the reason, of that hidden road. A small hut crushed into the side of the sheer cliff. A dugout of logs, and thatch, and mud plaster. A hut with one fronting door, and a parchment window; a hut such as might have belonged to some old-time trapper, who had found it necessary to set his home somewhere secure from the attacks of marauding Indians.
And what a strategic position it was! One approach to be barred and barricaded; one laborious road which the besieged could sweep with his rifle-fire, and beat back almost any horde of Indians in the country. He led his horse on toward the hut. The door was closed, and the parchment of the window hid the interior.
The outside appearance showed good repair. He examined it critically. He walked round its three sides, and, as he came to the far side of it, and thoughtfullytook in the method of its construction, he suddenly became aware of another example of the old trapper’s cunning. The cliff that rose sheer up for another two or three hundred feet slightly sloped backward at the extremity of the shelf, and here had been cut a rude sort of staircase in the gray limestone of which it was composed. There were the steps, dangerous enough, and dizzying to look at, rising up, up, to the summit above. He ventured to the brink where they began, but instantly drew back. Below was a sheer drop of perhaps five hundred feet.
Turning his eyes upward, his fancy conjured up a picture of the poor wretch, hunted and besieged by the howling Indians, starving perhaps, creeping at dead of night from the little fort he had held so long and so valiantly against such overwhelming odds, and, in desperation, availing himself of his one and only possible escape. Step by step, he followed him, in imagination, up the awful cliff, clinging for dear life with fingers worn and lacerated by the grinding stone. Weary and exhausted, he seemed to see him draw near the top. Then a slip, one slip of his tired feet, and no hold upon the limestone with his hands would have power to save him. Down, down——
He turned back to the hut with a sick feeling in his stomach. Securing his mare to an iron ring, which he found driven firmly into one of the logs, he proceeded to investigate further. The door was held by a common latch, and yielded at once when he raised it. It opened inward, and he waited after throwing it open. He had a strange feeling of trespass in thus intrudingupon what might prove to be the home of some fur-hunter.
No sound followed the opening of the door. He waited listening; then at last he stepped forward and announced himself with a sharp “Hello!”
His only answer was the echo of his greeting. Without more ado he stepped in. For a moment the sharpness of the contrast of light made it impossible for him to see anything; but presently he became used to the twilight of the interior, and looked about him curiously. It was his first acquaintance with a dugout, nor was he impressed with the comfort it displayed. The place was dirty, unkempt, and his dream of the picturesque, old-time trapper died out entirely. He beheld walls bare of all decoration, simply a rough plastering of mud over the lateral logs; a frowsy cupboard, made out of a huge packing-case, containing odd articles for housekeeping purposes. There were the fragments of two chairs lying in a heap beside a dismembered table, which stood only by the aid of two legs and the centre post which supported the pitch of the roof. A rough trestle-bed occupied the far end of the hut, and in shape and make it reminded him of his own bed in the bunkhouse. But there the resemblance ended, for the palliasse was of brown sacking, and a pair of dull-red blankets were tumbled in a heap upon its foot. One more blanket of similar hue was lying upon the floor; but this was only a torn fragment that had possibly served as a carpet, or, to judge by other fragments lying about, had been used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes.
It was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was dug. Beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and Tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who could have endured such meanness. It did not occur to him that probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those things which were worthless.
A few minutes satisfied his curiosity. Probably his ride, and a natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. Certain it is that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation about it that he missed. He took it for a deserted shack merely, and gave it no second thought.
He passed out into the daylight with an air of relief; he had seen quite enough. The Lady Jezebel welcomed him with an agitated snort; she too seemed anxious to get away. He led her down the shelving trail again. The descent was as laborious as the ascent had been, and much more dangerous. But it was accomplished at last, and at the foot of the hill he mounted the now docile animal, who cantered off as amiably as though she had never done anything wrong in her life.
And as he rode away his thoughts reverted to the incidents of that morning; he went again over the scenes in which he had taken part, the scenes he had witnessed. He thought of his brief battle with Jake, of Diane and Joe, of his interview with Fyles. All thesethings were of such vital import to him that he had no thought for anything else; even the log bridge spanning the river could not draw from him any kind of interest. Had his mind been less occupied, he might have paused to ask himself a question about the things he had just seen. He might even have wondered how the logs of that dugout had been hauled to the shelf on which it stood. Certain it was that they must have been carried there, for there was not a single tree upon the hillside, only a low bush. And the bridge; surely it was the work of many hands. And why was it there on a disused trail?
But he had no thought for such questions just then. He bustled the mare and hurried on.
A week passed before Tresler was again brought into contact with Jake. When he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the “broncho-busting” carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to have no share in it. Jacob Smith was waiting for him with a message from Julian Marbolt; his orders were peremptory. He was to leave at once for Whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the young horses now being broken for the troops. The rancher made his meaning quite plain. And Tresler was quick to understand that this was simply to get him out of the way until such time as Jake’s temper had cooled and the danger of a further rupture was averted.
He received his instructions without comment. It was rough on his mare, but as the Lady Jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she must not mind if she received a similar treatment in return. And so he went, much to the disquiet of Joe Nelson, and with a characteristic admonition from Arizona. That individual had just finished thrashing a bull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn’t move from the spot where he had been saddled, when Tresler came up. The lean man was breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily.
“Kep y’r gun good an’ handy,” he said. “Et’s mighty good company, if et don’t git gassin’ wi’out you ast it a question.”
In this case, however, there was no need for the advice. The journey was a peaceful relief after the storms of Mosquito Bend. Tresler transacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to the authorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing with their remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience and moderation. Then he set out for the ranch again, in company with Raw Harris and Lew Cawley—the two men who had brought the band into the town.
His return to Mosquito Bend was very different from his first coming. It seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had been ridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. So much had happened since then. Now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man, with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpunchers with him, in moleskin and buckskin, Mexican spurs, and slouch hat; his gun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as he rode. He was no longer “the guy with the pants” he had been when he first entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at the metamorphosis. It brought him nearer to the land, which, with all its roughness, he felt to be the true life for him.
It was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping low over the western hills, casting long shadows from behind the gorgeous-colored heat clouds. Its dying lustre shone like a fire of molten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills, until thedensest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork of Nature’s own cutting. And in the shadow cast by the hilly background there nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pastures of succulent grass.
Yes, Tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the future might hold for him. He had missed his companions; he had missed Arizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed Joe, with his quaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to get back to Diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him as only a lover can. But there was something more in his longing than that. Every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at the thought of what might be happening to her. Joe was there to send him word, but even this was insufficient. There had been times when he felt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there had been times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervous tension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare and offer her a race against time back to the girl he loved.
His feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trail from the ford. He had no words for either of his companions, nor did they seem inclined for speech. They passed the corrals in silence and reached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted them with a nod or a casual “Hello!” They might have just returned from a day’s work on the range for all the interest displayed at their coming. But, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy’s manner.There is rarely a “good-bye” on the prairie, unless it is when a comrade “hits the one-way trail.” Even then it is more often a quiet “s’long,” without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far more than a flood of tears.
Jake was at his door when Tresler rode over to report. He was still bearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of them beheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. However, there was none of this in his manner as he made his report. And, much to his astonishment, Jake displayed a cold civility. He surpassed himself. Not a sneer or sarcasm passed his lips. The report done, he went on to the barn and stabled his mare for the night. Then he passed on toward his quarters.
Before he reached his destination, however, he was joined by Nelson. The little man had evidently been waiting for him.
“Well?”
There was no greeting. Tresler put his monosyllabic question at once. And the choreman responded without hesitation.
“She’s bin astin’ fer you three times. When wus you gittin’ around agin? I guessed I didn’t know fer sure. She wus kind o’ worrited, I reckon.” He paused, and his twisted face turned in the direction of the foreman’s hut. “She wus weepin’ last night,” he went on. Then he paused again, and his shrewd eyes came back to Tresler’s face. “She’s bin weepin’ to-day,” he said, with a peculiar look of expectation in his manner.
“What’s the trouble?” The question came short and sharp.
“Mebbe she’s lonesome.”
“That’s not it; you’ve got other reasons.”
Joe looked away again. “Jake’s bin around some. But I guess she’s lonesome too. She’s ast fer you.” The little man’s tone was full of obstinacy.
Tresler understood his drift. If Joe had his way he’d march Diane and him off to the nearest parson with no more delay than was required to saddle two horses.
“I’m going to see her to-night,” Tresler replied quietly. Then, as he saw Jake appear again in the doorway, he said, “You’d better pass on now. Maybe I’ll see you afterward.”
And Joe moved off without another word. Jake had seen them together, but he was unsuspicious. He was thinking of the scars on his face, and of something else that had nothing to do with their meeting. And his thoughts made him smile unpleasantly.
If Tresler’s first greeting had been indifferent, his reception, as he came over to the bunkhouse now, was far from being so. Talk flowed freely, inquiries hailed him on every side; jests passed, sometimes coarse, sometimes subtle, but always cordial. All the men on the ranch had a fair good-will for him. “Tenderfoot” he might be, but they approved his grit, and with frontiersmen grit is all that matters.
After supper he separated himself from his companions under pretext of cleaning his saddlery. He hauled a bucket of water, and went down to the lower corralsand disposed his accoutrements for the operation, but he did no work until he saw Arizona approaching. That unkempt personage loafed up in a sort of manner that plainly said he didn’t care if he came or not. But Tresler knew this was only his manner. The cleaning of the saddle now proceeded with assiduity, and Arizona sat himself down on a fallen log and spat tobacco-juice around him. At last he settled himself, nursing one knee in his clasped hands, and spoke with that air of absolute conviction which always characterized him.
“Say, Jake’s grittin’ his teeth tight,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, “But he ain’t showin’ ’em.”
Tresler looked up and studied the cadaverous face before him.
“You mean—about——”
“Wal, I wus jest figgerin’ on how you wus standin’. Seems likely you’re standin’ lookin’ east wi’ a feller due west who’s got the drop on yer; which, to my reckonin’, ain’t as safe as handin’ trac’s to a lodge o’ Cheyenne neches on the war-path.”
“You think that Jake’s quietly getting the drop on me?”
“Wal, I allow ef I wus Jake I’d be gettin’ a’mighty busy that way. An’ I kind o’ calc’late that’s wot he’s doin’.”
Tresler smiled and returned to his work. “And what form do you think his ‘drop’ will take?” he asked, without looking up.
“I ain’t gifted wi’ imagination. Y’ ain’t never sure which way a blind mule’s likely ter kick. Jake’s in thenatur’ of a blind mule. What I sez is, watch him. Don’t look east when he’s west. Say,” he went on, in a tone of disgust, “you Noo Yorkers make me sick. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ ter hittin’ a feller an’ makin’ him sore. It on’y gives him time to git mad. A gun’s handy an’ sudden. On’y you need a goodish bore ef you’re goin’ ter perf’rate the hide of a guy like Jake. Pshaw!” he finished up witheringly, “you fellers ain’t got shut o’ last century.”
“Maybe we haven’t,” Tresler retorted, with a good-humored laugh; “but your enterprise has carried you so far ahead of time that you’ve overlapped. I tell you, man, you’re back in the savage times. You’re groping in the prehistoric periods—Jurassic, Eocene, or some such.”
“Guess I ain’t familiar wi’ Jurassics an’ Eocenes,” Arizona replied gravely. “Mebbe that was before my time; but ef you’re speakin’ o’ them fellers as clumped each other over the head wi’ stone clubs, I ’lows they had more savee than a Noo Yorker, ef they wus kind o’ primitive in the’r habits.”
Tresler accepted the argument in the spirit in which it was put forward. It was no use getting angry. Arizona was peculiar, but he had reason to consider him, in his own parlance, “a decent citizen.” He went on with his work steadily while the cowpuncher grunted out his impatience. Then at last, as though it were forced from him, the latter jerked out a more modified opinion of the civilized American. It seemed as though Tresler’s very silence had drawn it from him.
“Wal,” he said grumblingly, “mebbe you NooYorkers has points—mebbe, I sez.” Then he dismissed the subject with an impatient shrug of his drooping shoulders, and went off at a fresh angle. “Say, I wus kind o’ wonderin’ some ’bout that flea-bitten shadder, Joe Nelson. He’s amazin’ queer stayin’ ’round here. He’s foxin’ some, too. Y’ ain’t never sure when you’re like to strike them chewed-up features o’ his after nightfall. Y’ see he’s kind o’ quit drinkin’—leastways, he’s frekent sober. Mebbe he can’t sleep easy. Ther’s suthin’ worritin’ his head, sure. He ’pears ter me desp’rate restless—kind o’ like an old hoss wi’ the bush-ticks. Et don’t fit noways wi’ the Joe Nelson I oncet knew. Mebbe it’s religion. Ther’ ain’t nuthin’ like religion fer makin’ things oneasy in your head. Joe allus had a strain o’ religion in him.”
The Southerner gazed gloomily at the saddle on the fence, while he munched his tobacco in thoughtful silence.
“I don’t think Joe’s got religion,” said Tresler, with a smile. “He’s certainly worried, and with reason. Jake’s got his knife into him. No, I think Joe’s got a definite object in staying around here, and I shouldn’t wonder if he’s clever enough to attain it, whatever it is.”
“That sounds more like Joe,” assented the other, cheering up at the suggestion. “Still, Joe allus had a strain o’ religion in him,” he persisted. “I see him drop a man in his tracks oncet, an’ cry like a noo-born babby ’cos ther’ wa’n’t a chu’ch book in Lone Brake Settlement, an’ he’d forgot his prayers, an’ had ter let the feller lie around fer the coyotes, instead o’ buryin’ him decent. That’s a whiles ago. Guess Lone Brake’schanged some. They do say ther’s a Bible ther’ now. Kind o’ roped safe to the desk in the meetin’-house, so the boys can’t git foolin’ wi’ it. Yup,” he went on, with an abstracted look in his expressive eyes, “religion’s a mighty powerful thing when it gits around. Most like the fever. I kind o’ got touched wi’ it down Texas way on the Mexican border. Guess et wer’ t’ do wi’ a lady I favored at the time; but that ain’t here nor there. Guess most o’ the religion comes along o’ the wimmin folk. ’Longside o’ wimmin men is muck.”
Tresler nodded his appreciation of the sentiment.
“Gettin’ religion’s most like goin’ on the bust. Hits yer sudden, an’ yer don’t git off’n it easy. The signs is allus the same. You kind o’ worry when folks gits blasphemin’, an’ you don’t feel like takin’ a hand to help ’em out. You hate winnin’ at ‘draw,’ an’ talks easy when a feller holds ‘fours’ too frekent. An’ your liquor turns on your stummick. They’re all signs,” he added expansively. “When a feller gits like that he’d best git right off to the meetin’-house. That’s how I tho’t.”
“And you went?”
“That’s so. Say, an’ it ain’t easy. I ’lows my nerve’s pretty right fer most things, but when you git monkeyin’ wi’ religion it’s kind o’ different. ’Sides, ther’s allus fellers ter choke you off. Nassy Wilkes, the s’loon-keeper, he’d had religion bad oncet, tho’ I ’lows he’d fergot most o’t sence he’d been in the s’loon biz; he kind o’ skeered me some. Sed they used a deal o’ water, an’ mostly got ducking greenhorns in it. Wal, I put ha’f a dozen slugs o’ whisky down my neck—whichhe sed would prevent me gittin’ cold, seein’ water wa’n’t in my line—an’ hit the trail fer the meetin’.”
“What denomination?” asked Tresler, curiously. “What religion?” he added, for the man’s better understanding.
“Wal, I don’t rightly knows,” Arizona went on gravely. “I kind o’ fancy the boys called ’em ‘dippers’; but I guess this yarn don’t call fer no argyment,” he added, with a suspicion of his volcanic temper rising at the frequent interruptions. Then, as the other kept silence, he continued in his earnest way, “Guess that meetin’-house wus mostly empty. Ther’ wus one feller ther’ a’ready when I come. He wus playin’ toons on a kind o’ ’cordian he worked wi’ his feet——”
“Harmonium,” suggested Tresler, diffidently.
“That’s it. I could ’a’ wep’ as I looked at that feller, he wus that noble. He’d long ha’r greased reg’lar, an’ wore swaller-tails. Guess he wus workin’ that concertina-thing like mad; an’ he jest looked right up at the ceilin’ as if he wer’ crazy fer some feller to come ’long an’ stop him ’fore he bust up the whole shootin’ match.”
“Looked inspired,” Tresler suggested.
“Mebbe that’s wot. Still, I wus glad I come. Then the folks come along, an’ the deac’n; an’ the feller quit. Guess he wus plumb scart o’ that deac’n, tho’ I ’lows he wus a harmless-lookin’ feller ’nough. I see him clear sheer out o’ range on sight, which made me think he wus a mean-sperrited cuss anyway.
“Yes, I guess I wus glad I’d come; I felt that easyan’ wholesome. Say, the meetin’s dead gut stuff. Yes, sir—dead gut. I felt I’d never handle a gun again; I couldn’t ’a’ blasphemed ’longside a babby ef you’d give me ten dollars to try. An’ I guess ther’ wa’n’t no dirty Greaser as I couldn’t ha’ loved like a brother, I wus that soothed, an’ peaceful, an’ saft feelin’. I jest took a chaw o’ plug, an’ sat back an’ watched them folks lookin’ so noble as they come along in the’r funeral kids an’ white chokers. Then the deac’n got good an’ goin’, an’ I got right on to the ‘A-mens,’ fetchin’ ’em that easy I wished I’d never done nothin’ else all my life. I set ther’ feelin’ real happy.”
Arizona paused, and his wild eyes softened as his thoughts went back to those few happy moments of his chequered career. Then he heaved a deep sigh of regret and went on—
“But it wa’n’t to last. No, sir, religion ain’t fer the likes o’ me. Ye can’t play the devil an’ mix wi’ angels. They’re bound to out you. Et’s on’y natteral. Guess I’d bin chawin’ some, an’ ther’ wa’n’t no spit boxes. That’s wher’ the trouble come. Ther’ wus a raw-boned cuss wi’ his missis settin’ on the bench front o’ me, an’ I guess her silk fixin’s got mussed up wi’ t’bacca juice someways. I see her look down on the floor, then she kind o’ gathered her skirts aroun’ her an’ got wipin’ wi’ her han’k’chief. Then she looks aroun’ at me, an’, me feelin’ friendly, I kind o’ smiled at her, not knowin’ she wus riled. Then she got whisperin’ to her wall-eyed galoot of a man, an’ he turns aroun’ smart, an’ he sez, wi’ a scowl, sez he, ‘The meetin’-house ain’t no place fer chawin’ hunks o’plug, mister; wher’ wus you dragged from?’ Ther’ wus a nasty glint to his eye. But ef he wus goin’ to fergit we wus in the meetin’-house I meant showin’ him I wa’n’t. So I answers him perlite. Sez I, wi’ a smile, ‘Sir,’ sez I, ‘I take it we ain’t from the same hog trough.’ I see he took it mean, but as a feller got up from behind an’ shouts ‘Silence,’ I guessed things would pass over. But that buzzard-headed mule wus cantankerous. He beckons the other feller over an’ tells him I wus chawin’, an’ the other feller sez to me: ‘You can’t chaw here, mussin’ up the lady’s fixin’s.’
“Wal, bein’ on’y human, I got riled, but, not wishin’ to raise a racket, I spat my chew out. I don’t know how it come, but, I guess, bein’ riled, I jest didn’t take notice wher’ I dumped it, till, kind o’ sudden-like, I found I wus inspectin’ the vitals o’ that side-show-freak’s gun. Sez he, in a nasty tone, which kind o’ interrupted the deac’n’s best langwidge, an’ made folks fergit to fetch the ‘A-men’ right, ‘You dog-gone son of a hog——’ But I didn’t wait fer no more. I sees then what’s amiss. My chaw had located itself on the lady’s ankle—which I ’lows wus shapely—which she’d left showin’ in gatherin’ her fixin’s aroun’ her. I see that, an’ I see his stovepipe hat under the seat. I jest grabbed that hat sudden, an’ ’fore he’d had time to drop his hammer I’d mushed it down on his head so he couldn’t see. Then I ups, wi’ the drop on him, an’ I sez: ‘Come right along an’ we’ll settle like honest cit’zens.’ An’ wi’ that I backed out o’ the meetin’. Wal, I guess he wus clear grit. We settled. I ’lows he wus a dandy at the bizness end o’ a gun, an’ I walked lame fer amonth after. But ther’ was a onattached widdy in that town when we’d done.”
“You killed him?” Tresler asked.
“Wal, I didn’t wait to ast no details. Guess I got busy fergittin’ religion right off. Mebbe ther’s a proper time fer ev’rything, an’ I don’t figger it’s reas’nable argyfyin’ even wi’ a deac’n when his swaller-tail pocket’s bustin’ wi’ shootin’ materials. No, sir, guess religion ain’t no use fer me.”
Arizona heaved a deep sigh of regret. Tresler gathered up his saddle and bridle. Once or twice he had been ready to explode with laughter during his companion’s story, but the man’s evident sincerity and earnestness had held him quiet; had made him realize that the story was in the nature of a confidence, and was told in no spirit of levity. And, somehow, now, at the end of it, he felt sorry for this wandering outcast, with no future and only a disreputable past. He knew there was far more real good in him than bad, and yet there seemed no possible chance for him. He would go on as he was; he would “punch” cattle so long as he could find employment. And when chance, or some other matter, should plunge him on his beam ends, he would take to what most cowboys in those days took to when they fell upon evil days—cattle-stealing. And, probably, end his days dancing at the end of a lariat, suspended from the bough of some stout old tree.
As he moved to go, Arizona rose abruptly from his seat, and stayed him with a gesture.
“Guess I got side-tracked yarnin’. I wanted to tell you a few things that’s bin doin’ sence you’ve bin away.”
Tresler stood.
“Say,” the other went on at once, “ther’s suthin’ doin’ thick ’tween Jake an’ blind hulks. Savee? I heerd Jake an’ Miss Dianny gassin’ at the barn one day. She wus ther’ gittin’ her bit of a shoe fixed by Jacob—him allus fixin’ her shoes for her when they needs it—an’ Jake come along and made her go right in an’ look at the new driver he wus breakin’ fer her. Guess they didn’t see me, I wus up in the loft puttin’ hay down. When they come in I wus standin’ takin’ a chaw, an’ Jake’s voice hit me squar’ in the lug, an’ I didn’t try not to hear what he said. An’ I soon felt good that I’d held still. Sez he, ‘You best come out wi’ me an’ learn to drive her. She’s dead easy.’ An’ Miss Dianny sez, sez she, ‘I’ll driv’ her when she’s thoroughly broken!’ An’ he sez, ‘You mean you ain’t goin’ out wi’ me?’ An’ she answers short-like, ‘No.’ Then sez he, mighty riled, ‘You shan’t go out with that mare by yourself to meet no Treslers,’ sez he. ‘I’ll promise you that. See? Your father’s on to your racket, I’ve seen to that. He knows you an’ him’s bin sparkin’, an’ he’s real mad. That’s by the way,’ he sez. ‘What I want to tell you’s this. You’re goin’ to marry me, sure. See? An’ your father’s goin’ to make you.’ An’ Miss Dianny jest laffed right out at him. But her laff wa’n’t easy. An’ sez she, wi’ mock ’nuff to make a man feel as mean as rank sow-belly, ‘Father will never let me marry, and you know it.’ An’ Jake stands quiet a minnit. Then I guess his voice jest rasped right up to me through that hay-hole. ‘I’m goin’ to make him,’ sezhe, vicious-like. ‘A tidy ranch, this, eh? Wal, I tell you his money an’ his stock an’ his land won’t help him a cent’s worth ef he don’t give you to me. I ken make him lick my boots if I so choose. See?’ Ther’ wa’n’t another word spoke. An’ I heerd ’em move clear. Then I dropped, an’ pushin’ my head down through the hay-hole, I see that Jake’s goin’ out by hisself. Miss Dianny had gone out clear ahead, an’ wus talkin’ to Jacob.”
“What do you think it means?” asked Tresler, quietly.
And in a moment the other shot off into one of his volcanic surprises.
“I ain’t calc’latin’ the’r meanin’. Say, Tresler.” The man paused, and his great rolling eyes glanced furtively from right to left. Then he came close up and spoke in a harsh whisper. “It’s got to be. He ain’t fit to live. This is wot I wus thinkin’. I’ll git right up to his shack, an’ I’ll call him every son-of-a—— I ken think of. See? He’ll git riled, an’—wal, I owe her a debt o’ gratitood, an’ I can’t never pay it no other ways, so I’ll jest see my slug finds his carkis right, ’fore he does me in.”