Tresler was in no way blind to the quality of the armistice that had been arranged between himself and Jake. He knew full well that that peaceful interim would be used by Jake to raise earthworks of the earthiest kind, and to train his guns with deadly accuracy upon his enemy. Well, so he wanted. His purpose was to draw his adversary’s fire directly upon himself. As he had said, to do anything to help the girl he loved, he must himself be in the fighting line. And from the moment of his doubtful compact with Jake he felt that he was not only in the fighting line, but that, if all he had heard on the subject of Red Mask was true, he would become the centre of attack. There was a pleasant feeling of excitement and uncertainty in his position, and he followed Jake all the more eagerly to the presence of the rancher, only wondering in what manner the forthcoming interview was to affect matters.
Julian Marbolt had not left his bedroom when they arrived at the house. Diane, looking a little anxious when she saw these two together, showed them into her father’s office. She was half disposed to refuse Jake’s request that she should summon the blind man, but a smiling nod from Tresler decided her.
“Very well, Jake,” she replied coldly. “You won’t best please father unless the matter is important.” This was said merely to conceal her real knowledge of the object of the visit.
If Jake understood he gave no sign. But he had seen and resented the silent assurance Tresler had given her. His angry eyes watched her as she went off; and as she disappeared he turned to his companion, who had seated himself by the window.
“Guess you ain’t figgered on the ‘old man’ ’bout her?” he said.
“That, I think, is strictly my affair,” Tresler replied coldly.
Jake laughed, and sat down near the door. The answer had no effect on him.
“Say, I guess you ain’t never had a cyclone hit you?” he asked maliciously. “It’ll be interestin’ to see when you tell him. Maybe——”
Whatever he was about to say was cut short by the approach of the rancher. And it was wonderful the change that came over the man as he sat listening to the tap-tap of the blind man’s stick in the passage. He watched the door uneasily, and there was a short breathless attention about him. Tresler, watching, could not help thinking of the approach of some Eastern potentate, with his waiting courtiers and subjects rubbing their faces in the dust lest his wrath should be visited upon them. He admitted that Jake’s attitude just now was his true one.
At the door Julian Marbolt stood for a moment, doing by means of his wonderful hearing what his eyesfailed to do for him. And the marvel of it was that he faced accurately, first toward Tresler, then toward Jake. He stood like some tall, ascetic, gray-headed priest, garbed in a dressing-gown that needed but little imagination to convert into a cassock. And the picture of benevolence he made was only marred by the staring of his dreadful eyes.
“Well, Jake?” he said, in subdued, gentle tones. “What trouble has brought you round here at this hour?”
“Trouble enough,” Jake responded, with a slight laugh. “Tresler here brings it, though.”
The blind man turned toward the window and instinctively focussed the younger man, and somehow Tresler shivered as with a cold draught when the sightless eyes fixed themselves upon him.
“Ah, you Tresler. Well, we’ll hear all about it.” Marbolt moved slowly, though without the aid of his stick now, over to the table, and seated himself.
“It’s the old trouble,” said Jake, when his master had settled himself. “The cattle ‘duffers.’ They’re gettin’ busy—busy around this ranch again.”
“Well?” Marbolt turned to Tresler; his action was a decided snub to Jake.
Tresler took his cue and began his story. He told it almost exactly as he had told it to Jake, but with one slight difference: he gave no undue emphasis to his presence in the vicinity of the house. And Marbolt listened closely, the frowning brows bespeaking his concentration, and his unmoving eyes his fixed attention. He listened apparently unmoved to every detail,and displayed a wonderful patience while Tresler went point for point over his arguments in favor of his suspicions of Anton. Once only he permitted his sightless glance to pass in Jake’s direction, and that was at the linking of the foreman’s name with Tresler’s suspicions. As his story came to an end the blind man rested one elbow on the table, and propped his chin upon his hand. The other hand coming into contact with a ruler lying adjacent, he picked it up and thoughtfully tapped the table, while the two men waited for him to speak.
At last he turned toward his foreman, and, with an impressive gesture, indicated Tresler.
“This story is nothing new to us, Jake,” he said. Then for a moment his voice dropped, and took on a pained tone. “I only wish it were; then we could afford to laugh at it. No, there can be no laughing here. Past experience has taught us that. It is a matter of the greatest seriousness—danger. So much for the main features. But there are side issues, suspicions you have formed,” turning back to Tresler, “which I cannot altogether accept. Mind, I do not say flatly that you are wrong, but I cannot accept them without question.
“Jake here has had suspicions of Anton. I know that, though he has never asserted them to me in so direct a fashion as apparently he has to you.” He paused: then he went on in an introspective manner. “I am getting on in years. I have already had a good innings right here on this ranch. I have watched the country develop. I have seen the settlers come, sowthe seeds of their homesteads and small ranches, and watched the crop grow. I have rented them grazing. I have sold them stock. I have made money, and they have made money, and the country has prospered. It is good to see these things; good for me, especially, for I was the first here. I have been lord of the land, and Jake my lieutenant. The old Indian days have gone, and I have looked for nothing but peace and prosperity. I wanted prosperity, for I admit I love it. I am a business man, and I do everything in connection with this ranch on a sound business basis. Not like many of those about me. In short, I am here to make money. And why not? I own the land.”
The last was said as though in argument. Tresler could not help being struck by the manner in which he alluded to the making of money. There was an air of the miser about him when he spoke of it, a hardness about the mouth which the close-trimmed beard made no pretense of concealing. And there was a world of arrogance in the way he said, “I own the land.” However, he was given no time for further observation, for Marbolt seemed to realize his own digression and came back abruptly to the object of his discourse.
“Then this spectre, Red Mask, comes along. He moves with the mystery of the Wandering Jew, and, like that imaginary person, scourges the country wherever he goes, only in a different manner. Anton had been with me three years when this raider appeared. Since then there have been no less than twenty-eight robberies, accompanied more or less by manslaughter.” He became more animated and leaned forward in hischair, pointing the ruler he still held in his hand at Tresler as he named the figures. His red eyes seemed to stare harder and his heavy brows to knit more closely across his forehead. “Yes,” he reiterated, “twenty-eight robberies. And I, with others, have estimated the number and value of stock that has been lost to this scoundrel. In round figures five thousand head of cattle, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, whisked away, spirited out of this district alone in the course of a few years. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars; one hundred and fifty thousand,” he mouthed the words as though he delighted in the sound of so large a sum of money. Then his whole manner changed. A fiend could not have looked more vicious. “And in all I have lost five hundred beeves to him. Five hundred,” he cried, his voice high-pitched in his anger, “fifteen thousand dollars, besides horses, and—and some of my men wounded, even killed.”
Again he ceased speaking, and relapsed into a brooding attitude. And the two men watched him. His personality fascinated Tresler. He even began to understand something of the general fear he inspired. He thought of Jake who had been so many years with him, and he thought he understood something of the condition he must inspire in any one of no great moral strength who remained with him long. Then he thought of Diane, and moved uneasily. He remembered Jake’s allusion to a cyclone.
At Tresler’s movement the blind man roused at once and proceeded with his story.
“And he roams this country at large, unchecked, unopposed. Working his will whithersoever he fancies, unseen, unknown but for his sobriquet. And you claim he and Anton are one. This great man—for in his way he is great, head and shoulders above all other criminals, by reason of the extent of his exploits. Pshaw!”—his tone was scoffing—“let me tell you, on three different nights when this monster was abroad, carrying destruction in his path, Anton was driving me. Or, at least, was with me, having driven me into Forks on one occasion, and twice in the neighborhood of Whitewater. No, I am aware that Anton is a black-leg, or has been one, but he has served me well and truly since he has been my servant. As for the saddle-marks,” he leaned back in his chair and his gentle smile returned slowly to his face. “No, no, Tresler, that is insufficient. Remember, Anton is a Breed, a young man, and, as Breeds go, good-looking. There is a Breed camp in the neighborhood where they indulge in all the puskies and orgies native to them. We must question him. I expect he has taken French leave with my horses.”
“But you forget the Breed camp has gone,” put in Jake quickly. “Since the comin’ of the sheriff and his men to Forks they’ve cleared out, and, as yet, we ain’t located ’em. I expect it’s the hills.”
“Just so, Jake,” replied Marbolt, turning to the foreman coldly. “I forgot that you told me of it before. But that makes little difference. I have no doubt Anton knows where they are. Now,” he went on, turning again to Tresler, “I hold no brief for Anton inparticular. If I thought for a moment it were so,” a sudden storm of vindictiveness leapt into his tone, “I would hound him down, and be near while they hung him slowly to death on one of our own trees. I would willingly stand by while he was put to the worst possible tortures, and revel in his cries of agony. Don’t mistake me. If you could prove Anton to be the rascal, he should die, whatever the consequences. We would wait for no law. But you are all on the wrong trail, I feel sure.”
He had dropped back into his old soft-spoken manner, and Tresler felt like hating him for the vileness of the nature he displayed.
“You plead well for Anton, Mr. Marbolt,” he could not help saying, “but after what I heard last night, I cannot believe he is not in league with these people.”
It was an unfortunate remark, and brought the biting answer that might have been expected.
“I plead for no man, Tresler. Most certainly not for a Breed. I show you where you are wrong. Your inexperience is lamentable, but you cannot help it.” He paused, but went on again almost at once. “Since I cannot persuade you, go with your story to the sheriff. Let him judge of your evidence, and if a man of Fyles’s undoubted skill and shrewdness acts upon it, I’ll pay you one hundred dollars.”
Tresler saw the force of the other’s reply, but resented the tone, while he still remained utterly unconvinced of Anton’s innocence. Perhaps the blind man realized his unnecessary harshness, for he quickly veered round again to his low-voiced benignity. AndJake, interested but silent, sat watching his master with an inscrutable look in his bold eyes and a half smile on his hard face.
“No, Tresler,” he said, “we can set all that part of it on one side. You did quite right to come to me, though,” he added hastily; “I thank you heartily. From past experience we have learned that your apparition means mischief. It means that a raiding expedition is afoot. Maybe it was committed last night. I suppose,” turning to Jake, “you have not heard?”
“No.” Jake shook his head.
“Well, we are forewarned, thanks to you, Tresler,” the other went on gravely. “And it shan’t be my fault if we are not forearmed. We must send a warning round to the nearest homesteads. I really don’t know what will happen if this goes on much longer.”
“Why not take concerted action? Why not resort to what was recently suggested—a vigilance party?” Tresler put in quickly.
The other shook his head and turned to Jake for support. But none was forthcoming. Jake was watching that strong sightless face, gazing into it with a look of bitter hatred and sinister intentness. This change so astonished Tresler that he paid no attention to the rancher’s reply.
And at once Marbolt’s peculiar instinct asserted itself. He faced from one to the other with a perplexed frown, and as his red eyes fell finally upon the foreman, that individual’s whole expression was instantly transformed toone of confusion. And Tresler could not help calling to mind the schoolboy detected in some misdemeanor. At first the confusion, then the attempt at bland innocence, followed by dogged sullenness. It was evident that Jake’s conscience blinded him to the fact of the other’s sightless gaze.
“What say you, Jake? We can only leave it to the sheriff and be on our guard.”
The foreman fumbled out his reply almost too eagerly.
“Yes,” he said, “sure; we must be on our guard. Guess we’d better send out night guards to the different stations.” He stretched himself with an assumption of ease. Then suddenly he sat bolt upright and a peculiar expression came into his eyes. Tresler detected the half smile and the side glance in his own direction. “Yes,” he went on, composedly enough now, “partic’larly Willow Bluff.”
“Why Willow Bluff?” asked the rancher, with some perplexity.
“Why? Why? Because we’re waitin’ to ship them two hundred beeves to the coast. They’re sold, you remember, an’ ther’s only them two Breeds, Jim an’ Lag Henderson, in charge of ’em. Why, it ’ud be pie, a dead soft snap fer Red Mask’s gang. An’ the station’s that lonesome. All o’ twenty mile from here.”
Julian Marbolt sat thinking for a moment. “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed at last. “We’ll send out extra night guards. And you’d best detail two good, reliable men for a few days at Willow Bluff. Only thoroughly reliable men, mind. You see to it.”
Jake turned to Tresler at once, his face beaming with a malicious grin. And the latter understood. But he was not prepared for the skilful trap which his archenemy was baiting for him, and into which he was to promptly fall.
“How’d it suit you, Tresler?” he asked. Then without waiting for a reply he went on, “But ther’, I guess it wouldn’t do sendin’ you. You ain’t the sort to get scrappin’ hoss thieves. It wants grit. It’s tough work an’ needs tough men. Pshaw!”
Tresler’s blood was up in a moment. He forgot discretion and everything else under the taunt.
“I don’t know that it wouldn’t do, Jake,” he retorted promptly. “It seems to me your remarks come badly from a man who has reason to know—to remember—that I am capable of holding my own with most men, even those big enough to eat me.”
He saw his blunder even while he was speaking. But he was red-hot with indignation and didn’t care a jot for the consequences. And Jake came at him. If the foreman’s taunt had roused him, it was nothing to the effect of his reply. Jake crossed the room in a couple of strides and his furious face was thrust close into Tresler’s, and, in a voice hoarse with passion, he fairly gasped at him—
“I ain’t fergot. An’ by G——”
But he got no further. A movement on the part of the rancher interrupted him. Before he realized what was happening the blind man was at his side with a grip on his arm that made him wince.
“Stop it!” he cried fiercely. “Stop it, you fool!Another word and, blind as I am, I’ll——” Jake struggled to release himself, but Marbolt held him with almost superhuman strength and slowly backed him from his intended victim. “Back! Do you hear? I’ll have no murder done in here—unless I do it myself. Get back—back, blast you!” And Jake was slowly, in spite of his continued struggles, thrust against the wall. And then, as he still resisted, Marbolt pushed the muzzle of a revolver against his face. “I’ll drop you like a hog, if you don’t——”
But the compelling weapon had instant effect, and the foreman’s resistance died out weakly.
The whole scene had occurred so swiftly that Tresler simply stood aghast. The agility, the wonderful sureness and rapidity of movement on Marbolt’s part were staggering. The whole thing seemed impossible, and yet he had seen it; and the meaning of the stories of this man he had listened to came home to him. He was, indeed, something to fear. The great bullying Jake was a child in his hands. Now like a whipped child, he stood with his back to the wall, a picture of hate and fury.
With Jake silenced Marbolt turned on him. His words were few but sufficient.
“And as for you, Tresler,” he said coldly, “keep that tongue of yours easy. I am master here.”
There was a brief silence, then the rancher returned to the subject that had caused the struggle.
“Well, what about the men for Willow Bluff, Jake?”
It was Tresler who answered the question, and without a moment’s hesitation.
“I should like to go out there, Mr. Marbolt. Especially if there’s likely to be trouble.”
It was the only position possible for him after what had gone before, and he knew it. He glanced at Jake and saw that, for the moment at least, his hatred for his employer had been set aside. He was smiling a sort of tigerish smile.
“Very well, Tresler,” responded the rancher. “And you can choose your own companion. You can go and get ready. Jake,” turning to the other, “I want to talk to you.”
Tresler went out, feeling that he had made a mess of things. He gave Jake credit for his cleverness, quite appreciating the undying hate that prompted it. But the thing that was most prominent in his thoughts was the display the blind man had given him. He smiled when he thought of Jake’s boasted threats to Diane; how impotent they seemed now. But the smile died out when he remembered he, himself, had yet to face the rancher on the delicate subject of his daughter. He remembered only too well Jake’s reference to a cyclone, and he made his way to the bunkhouse with no very enlivening thoughts.
In the meantime the two men he had just left remained silent until the sound of his footsteps had quite died out. Then Marbolt spoke.
“Jake, you are a damned idiot!” he said abruptly.
The foreman made no answer and the other went on.
“Why can’t you leave the boy alone? He’s harmless; besides he’s useful to me—to us.”
“Harmless—useful?” Jake laughed bitterly. “Pshaw, I guess your blindness is gettin’ round your brains!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it ’ud have been better if you’d let me—wipe him out. Better for us—for you.”
“I don’t see; you forget his money.” The blind man’s tone was very low. “You forget he intends to buy a ranch and stock. You forget that he has twenty-five thousand dollars to expend. Bah! I’ll never make a business man of you.”
“And what about your girl?” Jake asked, quite unmoved by the other’s explanation.
“My girl?” Marbolt laughed softly. “You are always harping on that. He will leave my girl alone. She knows my wishes, and will—shall obey me. I don’t care a curse about him or his affairs. But I want his money, and if you will only see to your diabolical temper, I’ll—we’ll have it. Your share stands good in this as in all other deals.”
It was the foreman’s turn to laugh. But there was no mirth in it. It stopped as suddenly as it began, cut off short.
“He will leave your girl alone, will he?” he said, with a sneer. “Say, d’you know what he was doin’ around this house last night when he saw those hoss-thief guys, or shall I tell you?”
“You’d better tell me,” replied the rancher, coldly.
“He was after your girl. Say, an’ what’s more, he saw her. An’ what’s still more, she’s promised to be his wife. He told me.”
“What’s that? Say it again.” There was an ominous calmness in the blind man’s manner.
“I said he was after your girl, saw her, and she’s—promised—to—be—his—wife.”
“Ah!”
Then there was a silence for some minutes. The red eyes were frowning in the direction of the window. At last the man drew a deep breath, and Jake, watching him, wondered what was coming.
“I’ll see her,” he said slowly, “and I’ll see him—after he comes back from Willow Bluff.”
That was all, but Jake, accustomed to Julian Marbolt’s every mood, read a deal more than the words expressed. He waited for what else might be coming, but only received a curt dismissal in tones so sharp that he hurried out of the room precipitately.
Once clear of the verandah he walked more slowly, and his eyes turned in the direction of the bunkhouse. All the old hatred was stirred within him as he saw Tresler turn the angle of the building and disappear within its doorway.
“Guess no one’s goin’ to see you—after Willow Bluff,” he muttered. “No one.”
Tresler would have liked to see Diane before going out to Willow Bluff, but reflection showed him how impossible that would be; at least, how much unnecessary risk it would involve for her. After what he had just witnessed of her father, it behooved him to do nothing rashly as far as she was concerned, so he turned his whole attention to his preparations for departure.
He had made up his mind as to his comrade without a second thought. Arizona was his man, and he sent the diplomatic Joe out to bring him in from Pine Creek sloughs, where he was cutting late hay for winter stores.
In about half an hour the American came in, all curiosity and eagerness; nor would he be satisfied until he had been told the whole details of the matter that had led up to the appointment. Tresler kept back nothing but his private affairs relating to Diane. At the conclusion of the recital, Arizona’s rising temper culminated in an explosion.
“Say, that feller Jake’s a meaner pirate an’ cus as ’ud thieve the supper from a blind dawg an’ then lick hell out o’ him ’cos he can’t see.” Which outburst of feeling having satisfied the necessity of the moment,he became practical. “An’ you’re goin’, you an’ me?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s the idea, Arizona; but of course you’re quite free to please yourself. I chose you; Marbolt gave me the privilege of selection.”
“Wal, guess we’d best git goin’. Willow Bluff station’s fair to decent, so we’ll only need our blankets an’ grub—an’ a tidy bunch of ammunition. Guess I’ll go an’ see Teddy fer the rations.”
He went off in a hurry. Tresler looked after him. It was good to be dealing with such a man after those others, Jake and the rancher. Arizona’s manner of accepting his selection pleased him. There was no “yes” or “no” about it: no argument. A silent acceptance and ready thought for their needs. A thorough old campaigner. A man to be relied on in emergency—a man to be appreciated.
In two hours everything was in readiness, Tresler contenting himself with a reassuring message to Diane through the medium of Joe.
They rode off. Jezebel was on her good behavior, and Arizona’s mount kept up with her fast walk by means of his cowhorse amble. As they came to the ford, Tresler drew up and dismounted, and the other watched him while he produced a wicker-covered glass flask from his pocket.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Rye?”
Tresler shook his head, and tried the metal screw cap.
“No,” he replied shortly.
Then he leant over the water and carefully set the bottlefloating, pushing it out as far as possible with his foot while he supported himself by the overhanging bough of a tree. Then he stood watching it carried slowly amid-stream. Presently the improvised craft darted out with a rush into the current, and swept onward with the main flow of the water. Then he returned and remounted his impatient mare.
“That,” he said, as they rode on, “is a message. Fyles’s men are down the river spying out the land, and, incidentally, waiting to hear from me. The message I’ve sent them is a request for assistance at Willow Bluff. I have given them sound reason, which Fyles will understand.”
Arizona displayed considerable astonishment, which found expression in a deprecating avowal.
“Say, I guess I’m too much o’ the old hand. I didn’t jest think o’ that.”
It was all he vouchsafed, but it said a great deal. And the thin face and wild eyes said more.
Now they rode on in silence, while they followed the wood-lined trail along the river. The shade was delightful, and the trail sufficiently sandy to muffle the sound of the horses’ hoofs and so leave the silence unbroken. There was a faint hum from the insects that haunted the river, but it was drowsy, soft, and only emphasized the perfect sylvan solitude. After a while the trail left the river and gently inclined up to the prairie level. Then the bush broke and became scattered into small bluffs, and a sniff of the bracing air of the plains brushed away the last odor of the redolent glades they were leaving.
It was here that Arizona roused himself. He was of the prairie, belonging to the prairie. The woodlands depressed him, but the prairie made him expansive.
“Seems to me, Tresler, you’re kind o’ takin’ a heap o’ chances—mostly onnes’ary. Meanin’ ther’ ain’t no more reason to it than whistlin’ Methody hymns to a deaf mule. Can’t see why you’re mussin’ y’self up wi’ these all-fired hoss thieves. You’re askin’ fer a sight more’n you ken eat.”
“And, like all men of such condition, I shall probably eat to repletion, I suppose you mean.”
Arizona turned a doubtful eye on the speaker, and quietly spat over his horse’s shoulder.
“Guess your langwidge ain’t mine,” he said thoughtfully; “but if you’re meanin’ you’re goin’ to git your belly full, I calc’late you’re li’ble to git like a crop-bound rooster wi’ the moult ’fore you’re through. An’ I sez, why?”
Tresler shrugged. “Why does a man do anything?” he asked indifferently.
“Gener’ly fer one of two reasons. Guess it’s drink or wimmin.” Again he shot a speculating glance at his friend, and, as Tresler displayed more interest in the distant view than in his remarks, he went on. “I ain’t heerd tell as you wus death on the bottle.”
The object of his solicitude smiled round on him.
“Perhaps you think me a fool. But I just can’t stand by seeing things going wrong in a way that threatens to swamp one poor, lonely girl, whose only protection is her blind father.”
“Then it is wimmin?”
“If you like.”
“But I don’t jest see wher’ them hoss thieves figger.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but believe me they do—indirectly.” Tresler paused. Then he went on briskly. “There’s no need to go into details about it, but—but I want to run into this gang. Do you know why? Because I want to find out who this Red Mask is. It is on his personality depends the possibility of my helping the one soul on this ranch who deserves nothing but tender kindness at the hands of those about her.”
“A-men,” Arizona added in the manner he had acquired in his “religion” days.
“I must set her free of Jake—somehow.”
Arizona’s eyes flashed round on him quickly. “Jest so,” he observed complainingly. “That’s how I wanted to do last night.”
“And you’d have upset everything.”
“Wrong—plumb wrong.”
“Perhaps so,” Tresler smiled confidently. “We are all liable to mistakes.”
Arizona’s dissatisfied grunt was unmistakable. “Thet’s jest how that sassafras-colored, bull-beef Joe Nelson got argyfyin’ when Jake come around an’ located him sleepin’ off the night before in the hog-pen. But it don’t go no more’n his did, I guess. Howsum, it’s wimmin. Say, Tresler,” the lean figure leant over toward him, and the wild eyes looked earnestly into his—“it’s right, then—dead right?”
“When I’ve settled with her father—and Jake.”
Arizona held out his horny, claw-like hand. “Shake,” he said. “I’m glad, real glad.”
They gripped for a moment, then the cowpuncher turned away, and sat staring out over the prairie. Tresler, watching him, wondered at that long abstraction. The man’s face had a softened look.
“We all fall victims to it sooner or later, Arizona,” he ventured presently. “It comes once in a man’s lifetime, and it comes for good or ill.”
“Twice—me.”
The hard fact nipped Tresler’s sentimental mood in the bud.
“Ah!”
The other continued his study of the sky-line. “Yup,” he said at last. “One died, an’ t’other didn’t hatch out.”
“I see.”
It was no use attempting sympathy. When Arizona spoke of himself, when he chose to confide his life’s troubles to any one, he had a way of stating simple facts merely as facts; he spoke of them because it suited his pessimistic mood.
“Yup. The first was kind o’ fady, anyways—sort o’ limp in the backbone. Guess I’d got fixed wi’ her ’fore I knew a heap. Must ’a’ bin. Yup, she wus fancy in her notions. Hated sharin’ a pannikin o’ tea wi’ a friend; guess I see her scrape out a fry-pan oncet. I ’lows she had cranks. Guess she hadn’t a pile o’ brain, neither. She never could locate a hog from a sow, an’ as fer stridin’ a hoss, hell itself couldn’t ’a’ per-suaded her. She’d a notion fer settin’ sideways, an’ allus got muleish when you guessed she wus wrong. Yup, she wus red-hot on the mission sociables an’ eatin’ off’nchiny, an’ wa’n’t satisfied wi’ noospaper on the table; an’ took the notion she’d got pimples, an’ worried hell out o’ her old man till he bo’t a razor an’ turned his features into a patch o’ fall ploughin’, an’ kind o’ bulldozed her mother into lashin’ her stummick wi’ some noofangled fixin’ as wouldn’t meet round her nowheres noways. An’ she wus kind o’ finnicky wi’ her own feedin’, too. Guess some wall-eyed cuss had took her into Sacramento an’ give her a feed at one of them Dago joints, wher’ they disguise most everythin’ wi’ langwidge, an’ ile, an’ garlic, till you hate yourself. Wal, she died. Mebbe she’s got all them things handy now. But I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ mean about her; she jest had her notions. Guess it come from her mother. I ’lows she wus kind o’ struck on fool things an’ fixin’s. Can’t blame her noways. Guess I wus mostly sudden them days. Luv ut fust sight is a real good thing when it comes to savin’ labor, but like all labor-savin’ fixin’s, it’s liable to git rattled some, an’ then ther’ ain’t no calc’latin’ what’s goin’ to bust.”
Arizona’s manner was very hopeless, but presently he cheered up visibly and renewed his wad of chewing.
“T’other wus kind o’ slower in comin’ along,” he went on, in his reflective drawl. “But when it got around it wus good an’ strong, sure. Y’ see, ther’ wus a deal ’tween us like to make us friendly. She made hash fer the round-up, which I ’lows, when the lady’s young, she’s most gener’ly an objec’ of ’fection fer the boys. Guess she wus most every kind of a gal, wi’ her ha’r the color of a field of wheat ready fer the binder, an’ her figger as del’cate as one o’ them crazy egg-bilers, an’her pretty face all sparklin’ wi’ smiles an’ hoss-soap, an’ her eye! Gee! but she had an eye. Guess she would ’a’ made a prairie-rose hate itself. But that wus ’fore we hooked up in a team. I ’lows marryin’s a mighty bad finish to courtin’.”
“You were married?”
“Am.”
A silence fell. The horses ambled on in the fresh noonday air. Arizona’s look was forbidding. Suddenly he turned and gazed fiercely into his friend’s face.
“Yes, sirree. An’ it’s my ’pinion, in spite of wot some folks sez, gettin’ married’s most like makin’ butter. Courtin’s the cream, good an’ thick an’ juicy, an’ you ken lay it on thick, an’ you kind o’ wonder how them buzzocky old cows got the savee to perduce sech a daisy liquid. But after the turnin’-point, which is marryin’, it’s diff’rent some. ’Tain’t cream no longer. It’s butter, an’ you need to use it sort o’ mean. That’s how I found, I guess.”
“I suppose you settled down, and things went all right, though?” suggested Tresler.
“Wal, maybe that’s so. Guess if anythin’ wus wrong it wus me. Yer see, ther’ ain’t a heap o’ fellers rightly understands females. I’m most gener’ly patient. Knowin’ their weakness, I sez, ‘Arizona, you’re mud when wimmin gits around. You bein’ married, it’s your dooty to boost the gal along.’ So I jest let her set around an’ shovel orders as though I wus the hired man. Say, guess you never had a gal shovelin’ orders. It’s real sweet to hear ’em, an’ I figger they knows their bizness mostly. It makes you feel as thoughyou’d ha’f a dozen hands an’ they wus all gropin’ to git to work. That’s how I felt, anyways. Every mornin’ she’d per-suade me gentle out o’ bed ’fore daylight, an’ I’d feel like a hog fer sleepin’ late. Then she’d shovel the orders hansum, in a voice that ’ud shame molasses. It wus allus ‘dear’ or ‘darlin’.’ Fust haul water, then buck wood, light the stove, feed the hogs an’ chick’ns, dung out the ol’ cow, fill the lamp, rub down the mare, pick up the kitchen, set the clothes bilin’, cook the vittles, an’ do a bit o’ washin’ while she turned over fer five minits. Then she’d git around, mostly ’bout noon, wi’ her shower o’ ha’r trailin’ like a rain o’ gold-dust, an’ a natty sort o’ silk fixin’ which she called a ‘dressin’-gown,’ an’ she’d sot right down an’ eat the vittles, tellin’ me o’ things she wanted done as she’d fergot. Ther’ wus the hen-roost wanted limin’, she was sure the chick’ns had the bugs, an’ the ol’ mare’s harness wanted fixin’, so she could drive into town; an’ the buckboard wanted washin’, an’ the wheels greasin’. An’ the seat wus kind o’ hard an’ wanted packin’ wi’ a pillar. Then ther’ wus the p’tater patch wanted hoein’, an’ the cabb’ges. An’ the hay-mower wus to be got ready fer hayin’. She mostly drove that herself, an’ I ’lows I wus glad.”
Arizona paused and took a fresh chew. Then he went on.
“Guess you ain’t never got hitched?”
Tresler denied the impeachment. “Not yet,” he said.
“Hah! Guess it makes a heap o’ diff’rence.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Sobers a fellow. Makes him feel like settling down.”
“Wal, maybe.”
“And where’s your wife living now?” Tresler asked, after another pause.
“Can’t rightly say.” There was a nasty sharpness in the manner Arizona jerked his answer out. “Y’ see, it’s this a-ways. I guess I didn’t amount to a deal as a married man. Leastways, that’s how she got figgerin’ after a whiles. Guess I’d sp’iled her life some. I ’lows I wus allus a mean cuss. An’ she wus real happy bakin’ hash. Guess I druv her to drinkin’ at the s’loon, too, which made me hate myself wuss. Wal, I jest did wot I could to smooth things an’ kep goin’. I got punchin’ cows agin, an’ give her every cent o’ my wages; but it wa’n’t to be.” The man’s voice was husky, and he paused to recover himself. And then hurried on as though to get the story over as soon as possible. “Guess I wus out on the ‘round-up’ some weeks, an’ then I come back to find her gone—plumb gone. Mebbe she’d got lonesome; I can’t say. Yup, the shack wus empty, an’ the buckboard gone, an’ the blankets, an’ most o’ the cookin’ fixin’s. It wus the neighbors put me wise. Neighbors mostly puts you wise. They acted friendly. Ther’d bin a feller come ’long from Alberta, a pretty tough Breed feller. He went by the name o’ ‘Tough’ McCulloch.”
Tresler started. But Arizona was still staring out at the distant prairie, and the movement escaped him.
“Guess he’d bin around the shack a heap,” he went on, “an’ the day ’fore I got back the two of ’em had drove out wi’ the buckboard loaded, takin’ the trail fer the hills. I put after ’em, but never found a trace. I’lows the feller had guts. He left a message on the table. It wus one o’ his guns—loaded. Likely you won’t understan’, but I kep’ that message. I ain’t see her sence. I did hear tell she wus bakin’ hash agin. I ’lows she could bake hash. Say, Tresler, I’ve lost hogs, an’ I’ve lost cows, but I’m guessin’ ther’ ain’t nothin’ in the world meaner than losin’ yer wife.”
Tresler made no reply. What could he say? “Tough” McCulloch! the name rang in his ears. It was the name Anton had been known by in Canada. He tried to think what he ought to do. Should he tell Arizona? No. He dared not. Murder would promptly be done, if he knew anything of the American. No doubt the Breed deserved anything, but there was enough savagery at Mosquito Bend without adding to it. Suddenly another thought occurred to him.
“Did you know the man?” he asked.
“Never set eyes on him. But I guess I shall some day.” And Tresler’s decision was irrevocably confirmed.
“And the ‘gun’ message?”
“Wal, it’s a way they have in Texas,” replied Arizona. “A loaded gun is a mean sort o’ challenge. It’s a challenge which ain’t fer the present zacly. Guess it holds good fer life. Et means ‘on sight.’”
“I understand.”
And the rest of the journey to Willow Bluff was made almost in silence.
The wonderful extent of the blind man’s domain now became apparent. They had traveled twenty miles almost as the crow flies, and yet they had not reachedits confines. As Arizona said, in response to a remark from his companion, “The sky-line ain’t no limit fer the blind hulk’s land.”
Willow Bluff was, as its name described, just a big bluff of woodland standing at the confluence of two rivers. To the south and west it was open prairie. The place consisted of a small shack, and a group of large pine-log corrals capable of housing a thousand head of stock. And as the men came up they saw, scattered over the adjacent prairie, the peacefully grazing beeves which were to be their charge.
“A pretty bunch,” observed Arizona.
“Yes, and a pretty place for a raid.”
At that moment the doings of the raiders were uppermost in Tresler’s mind.
Then they proceeded to take possession. They found Jim Henderson, a mean looking Breed boy, in the shack, and promptly set him to work to clean it out. It was not a bad place, but the boys had let it get into a filthy condition, in the customary manner of all half-breeds. However, this they quickly remedied, and Tresler saw quite a decent prospect of comfort for their stay there.
Arizona said very little while there was work to be done. And his companion was astonished, even though he knew him so well, at his capacity and forethought. Evening was the most important time, and here the cattleman stood out a master of his craft. The beeves had to be corralled every night. There must be no chance of straying, since they were sold, and liable for transport at any moment. This work, and the task ofcounting, demanded all the cattleman’s skill. Bands of fifty were rounded up, cut out from the rest, and quietly brought in. When each corral was filled, and the whole herd accommodated for the night, a supply of fresh young hay was thrown to them to keep them occupied during their few remaining hours of waking. Arizona was a giant at the work; and to see his lithe, lean body swaying this way and that, as he swung his well-trained pony around the ambling herd, his arms and “rope” and voice at work, was to understand something of the wild life that claimed him, and the wild, untrained nature which was his.
The last corral was fastened up, and then, but not until then, the two friends took leisure.
“Wal,” said Arizona, as they stood leaning against the bars of the biggest corral, “guess ther’s goin’ to be a night-guard?”
“Yes. These boys are smart enough lads, it seems. We’ll let them take two hours about up to midnight You and I will do the rest.”
“An’ the hull lot of us’ll sleep round the corrals?”
“That’s it.”
“An’ the hosses?”
“We’ll keep them saddled.”
“An’ the sheriff’s fellers?”
“That I can’t say. We’re not likely to see them, anyway.”
And so the plans were arranged, simple, even hopeless in construction. Two men, for they could not depend on the half-breeds, to face possibly any odds should the raider choose this spot for attack. But howeverinadequate the guard, there was something morally strong in the calm, natural manner of its arranging. These two knew that in case of trouble they had only themselves to depend on. Yet neither hesitated, or balked at the undertaking. Possibilities never entered into their calculations.
The first and second night produced no alarm. Nor did they receive any news of a disturbing nature. On the third day Jacob Smith rode into their camp. He was a patrol guard, on a visiting tour of the outlying stations. His news was peaceful enough.
“I don’t care a cuss how long the old man keeps the funks,” he said, with a cheery laugh. “I give it you right here, this job’s a snap. I ride around like a gen’l spyin’ fer enemies. Guess Red Mask has his uses.”
“So’s most folk,” responded Arizona, “but ’tain’t allus easy to locate.”
“Wal, I guess I ken locate his jest about now. I’m sort o’ lyin’ fallow, which ain’t usual on Skitter Bend.”
“Guess not. He’s servin’ us diff’rent.”
“Ah! Doin’ night-guard? Say, I’d see blind hulk roastin’ ’fore I’d hang on to them beasties. But it’s like you, Arizona. You hate him wuss’n hell, an’ Jake too, yet you’d—pshaw! So long. Guess I’d best get on. I’ve got nigh forty miles to do ’fore I git back.”
And he rode away, careless, thoughtless, in the midst of a very real danger. And it was the life they all led. They asked for a wage, a bunk, and grub; nothing else mattered.
Tresler had developed a feeling that the whole thingwas a matter of form rather than dead earnest, that he had been precipitate in sending his message to the sheriff. He wanted to get back to the ranch. He understood only too well how he had furthered Jake’s projects, and cursed himself bitterly for having been so easily duped. He was comfortably out of the way, and the foreman would take particularly good care that he should remain so as long as possible. Arizona, too, had become anything but enlivening. He went about morosely and snapped villainously at the boys. There was no word in answer to the message to the sheriff. They daily searched the bluff for some sign, but without result, and Tresler was rather glad than disappointed, while Arizona seemed utterly without opinion on the matter.
The third night produced a slight shock for Tresler. It was midnight, and one of the boys roused him for his watch. He sat up, and, to his astonishment, found Arizona sitting on a log beside him. He waited until the boy had gone to turn in, then he looked at his friend inquiringly.
“What’s up?”
And Arizona’s reply fairly staggered him. “Say, Tresler,” he said, in a tired voice, utterly unlike his usual forceful manner, “I jest wanted to ast you to change ‘watches’ wi’ me. I’ve kind o’ lost my grip on sleep. Mebbe I’m weak’nin’ some. I ’lows I’m li’ble to git sleepy later on, an’ I tho’t, mebbe, ef I wus to do the fust watch—wal, y’ see, I guess that plug in my chest ain’t done me a heap o’ good.”
Tresler was on his feet in an instant. It had suddenlydawned on him that this queer son of the prairie was ill.
“Rot, man!” he exclaimed. His tone in no way hid his alarm. They were at the gate of the big corral, hidden in the shadow cast by the high wall of lateral logs. “You go and turn in. I’m going to watch till daylight.”
“Say, that’s real friendly,” observed the other, imperturbably. “But it ain’t no use. Guess I couldn’t sleep yet.”
“Well, please yourself. I’m going to watch till daylight.” Tresler’s manner was quietly decided, and Arizona seemed to accept it.
“Wal, ef it hits you that a-ways I’ll jest set around till I git sleepy.”
Tresler’s alarm was very real, but he shrugged with a great assumption of indifference and moved off to make a round of the corrals, carefully hugging the shadow of the walls as he went. After a while he returned to his post. Arizona was still sitting where he had left him.
There was a silence for a few minutes. Then the American quietly drew his revolver and spun the chambers round. Tresler watched him, and the other, looking up, caught his eye.
“Guess these things is kind o’ tricksy,” he observed, in explanation, “I got it jammed oncet. It’s a decent weapon but noo, an’ I ain’t fer noo fixin’s. This hyar,” he went on, drawing a second one from its holster, “is a ‘six’ an’ ’ud drop an ox at fifty. Ha’r trigger too. It’s a dandy. Guess it wus ‘Tough’McCulloch’s. Guess you ain’t got yours on your hip?”
Tresler shook his head. “No, I use the belt for my breeches, and keep the guns loose in my pockets when I’m not riding.”
“Wrong. Say, fix ’em right. You take a sight too many chances.”
Tresler laughingly complied “I’m not likely to need them, but still——”
“Nope.” Arizona returned his guns to their resting-place. Then he looked up. “Say, guess I kind o’ fixed the hosses diff’rent. Our hosses. Bro’t ’em up an’ stood ’em in the angle wher’ this corral joins the next one. Seems better; more handy-like. It’s sheltered, an’ ther’s a bit of a sharp breeze. One o’ them early frosts.” He looked up at the sky. “Guess ther’ didn’t ought. Ther’ ain’t no moon till nigh on daylight. Howsum, ther’ ain’t no argyfyin’ the weather.”
Tresler was watching his comrade closely. There was something peculiar in his manner. He seemed almost fanciful, yet there was a wonderful alertness in the rapidity of his talk. He remained silent, and, presently, the other went on again, but he had switched off to a fresh topic.
“Say, I never ast you how you figgered to settle wi’ Jake,” he said. “I guess it’ll be all”—he broke off, and glanced out prairieward, but went on almost immediately,—“a settlin’. I’ve seen you kind o’ riled. And I’ve seen Jake.” He stood up and peered into the darkness while he talked in his even monotone.“Yup,” he went on, “ther’s ways o’ dealin’ wi’ men—an’ ways. Guess, now, ef you wus dealin’ wi’ an honest citizen you’d jest talk him fair. Mind, I figger to know you a heap.” His eyes suddenly turned on the man he was addressing, but returned almost at once to their earnest contemplation of the black vista of grass-land. “You’d argyfy the point reas’nable, an’ leave the gal to settle for you. But wi’ Jake it’s diff’rent.” His hand slowly went round to his right hip, and suddenly he turned on his friend with a look of desperate meaning. “D’you know what it’ll be ’tween you two? This is what it means;” and he whipped out the heavy six that had once been “Tough” McCulloch’s, and leveled it at arm’s length out prairieward. Tresler thought it was coming at him, and sprang back, while Arizona laughed. “This is what it’ll be. You’ll take a careful aim, an’ if you’ve friends around they’ll see fair play, sure. I guess they’ll count ‘three’ for you, so. Jest one, two, an’ you’ll both fire on the last, so. Three!”
There was a flash, and a sharp report, and then a cry split the still night air. Tresler sprang at the man whom he now believed was mad, but the cry stayed him, and the next moment he felt the grip of Arizona’s sinewy hand on his arm, and was being dragged round the corral as the sound of horses’ hoofs came thundering toward him.
“It’s them!”
It was the only explanation Arizona vouchsafed. They reached the horses and both sprang into the saddle, and the American’s voice whispered hoarsely—
“Bend low. Guess these walls’ll save us, an’ we’ve got a sheer sight o’ all the corral gates. Savee? Shoot careful, an’ aim true. An’ watch out on the bluff. The sheriff’s around.”
And now the inexperienced Tresler saw the whole scheme. The masterly generalship of his comrade filled him with admiration. And he had thought him ill, his brain turned! For some reason he believed the raiders were approaching, but not being absolutely sure, he had found an excuse for not turning in as usual, and cloaked all his suspicions for fear of giving a false alarm. And their present position was one of carefully considered strategy; the only possible one from which they could hope to achieve any advantage, for, sheltered, they yet had every gate of the corrals within gunshot.
But there was little time for reflection or speculation. If the sheriff’s men came, well and good. In the meantime a crowd of a dozen men had charged down upon the corrals, a silent, ghostly band; the only noise they made was the clatter of their horses’ hoofs.
Both men, watching, were lying over their horses’ necks. Arizona was the first to shoot. Again his gun belched a death-dealing shot. Tresler saw one figure reel and fall with a groan. Then his own gun was heard. His aim was less effective, and only brought a volley in reply from the raiders. That volley was the signal for the real battle to begin. The ambush of the two defenders was located, and the rustlers divided, and came sweeping round to the attack.
But Arizona was ready. Both horses wheeled roundand raced out of their improvised fort, and Tresler, following the keen-witted man, appreciated his resource as he darted into another angle between two other corrals. The darkness favored them, and the rustlers swept by. Arizona only waited long enough for them to get well clear, then his gun rang out again, and Tresler’s too. But the game was played out. A straggler sighted them and gave the alarm, and instantly the rest took up the chase.
“Round the corrals!”
As he spoke Arizona turned in his saddle and fired into the mob. A perfect hail of shots replied, and the bullets came singing all round them. He was as cool and deliberate as though he were hunting jack-rabbits. Tresler joined him in a fresh fusillade, and two more saddles were emptied, but the next moment a gasp told Arizona that his comrade was hit, and he turned only just in time to prevent him reeling out of the saddle.
“Hold up, boy!” he cried. “Kep your saddle if hell’s let loose. I’ll kep ’em busy.”
And the wounded man, actuated by a similar spirit, sat bolt upright, while the two horses sped on. They were round at the front again. But though Arizona was as good as his word, and his gun was emptied and reloaded and emptied again, it was a hopeless contest—hopeless from the beginning. Tresler was bleeding seriously from a wound in his neck, and his aim was becoming more and more uncertain. But his will was fighting hard for mastery over his bodily weakness. Just as they headed again toward the bluff,Arizona gave a great yank at his reins and his pony was thrown upon its haunches. The Lady Jezebel, too, as though working in concert with her mate, suddenly stopped dead.
The cause of the cowpuncher’s action was a solitary horseman standing right ahead of them gazing out at the bluff. The plainsman’s gun was up in an instant, in spite of the pursuers behind. Death was in his eye as he took aim, but at that instant there was a shout from the bluff, and the cry was taken up behind him—“Sheriff’s posse!” That cry lost him his chance of fetching Red Mask down. Before he could let the hammer of his gun fall, the horseman had wheeled about and vanished in the darkness.
Simultaneously the pursuers swung out, turned, and the next moment were in full retreat under a perfect hail of carbine-fire from the sheriff’s men.
And as the latter followed in hot pursuit, Arizona hailed them—
“You’ve missed him; he’s taken the river-bank for it. It’s Red Mask! I see him.”
But now Tresler needed all his friend’s attention. Arizona saw him fall forward and lie clinging to his saddle-horn. He sprang to his aid, and, dismounting, lifted him gently to the ground. Then he turned his own horse loose, leading the Lady Jezebel while he supported the sick man up to the shack.
Here his patient fainted dead away, but he was equal to the emergency. He examined the wound, and found an ugly rent in the neck, whence the blood was pumping slowly. He saw at once that a small arteryhad been severed, and its adjacency to the jugular made it a matter of extreme danger. His medical skill was small, but he contrived to wash and bind the wound roughly. Then he quietly reloaded his guns, and, with the aid of a stiff horn of whisky, roused some life in his patient. He knew it would only be a feeble flicker, but while it lasted he wanted to get him on to the Lady Jezebel’s back.
This he contrived after considerable difficulty. The mare resented the double burden, as was only to be expected. But the cowpuncher was desperate and knew how to handle her.
None but Arizona would have attempted such a feat with a horse of her description; but he must have speed if he was going to save his friend’s life, and he knew she could give it.
Daylight was breaking when the jaded Lady Jezebel and her double freight raced into the ranch. The mare had done the journey in precisely two hours and a quarter. Arizona galloped her up to the house and rounded the lean-to in which Joe slept. Then he pulled up and shouted. Just then he had no thought for the rancher or Jake. He had thought for no one but Tresler.
His third shout brought Joe tumbling out of his bed.
“Say, I’ve got a mighty sick man here,” he cried, directly he heard the choreman moving. “Git around an’ lend a hand; gentle, too.”
“That you, Arizona?” Joe, half awake, questioned, blinking up at the horseman in the faint light.
“I guess; an’ say, ’fore I git answerin’ no fool questions, git a holt on this notion. Red Mask’s bin around Willow Bluff, an’ Tresler’s done up. Savee?”
“Tresler, did you say?” asked a girl’s voice from the kitchen doorway. “Wounded?”
There was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely above a whisper.
Arizona was lifting Tresler down into Joe’s arms. “I ’lows I didn’t know you wus ther’, missie,” he replied, without turning from his task. “Careful, Joe; easy—easy now. He’s dreadful sick, I guess. Yes, missie, it’s him. They’ve kind o’ scratched him some. ’Tain’t nothin’ to gas about; jest barked his neck. Kind o’ needs a bit o’ band’ge. Gorl durn you, Joe! Git your arm under his shoulders an’ kep his head steady; he’ll git bleedin’ to death ef y’ ain’t careful. Quiet, you jade!” he cried fiercely, to the mare whom Diane had frightened with her white robe as she came to help. “No, missie, not you,” Arizona exclaimed. “He’s all blood an’ mussed up.” Then he discovered that she had little on but a night-dress. “Gee! but you ain’t wropped up, missie. Jest git right in. Wal,” as she deliberately proceeded to help the struggling Joe, “ef you will; but Joe ken do it, I guess. Ther’, that’s it. I ken git off’n this crazy slut of a mare now.”
Directly Arizona had quit the saddle he relieved Diane, and, with the utmost gentleness, started to take the sick man into the lean-to. But the girl protested at once.
“Not in there,” she said sharply. “Take him into the house. I’ll go and fix a bed up-stairs. Bring him through the kitchen.”
She spoke quite calmly. Too calmly, Joe thought.
“To that house?” Arizona protested.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Then the passion of grief let itself loose, and Diane cried, “And why not? Where else should he go? He belongs to me. Why do you stand there like an imbecile? Take him at once. Oh, Jack, Jack, why don’t you speak? Oh, take him quickly! You said he would bleed to death. He isn’t dead? No, tell me he isn’t dead?”
“Dead? Dead? Ha, ha!” Arizona threw all the scorn he was capable of into the words, and laughed with funereal gravity. “Say, that’s real good—real good. Him dead? Wal, I guess not. Pshaw! Say, missie, you ain’t ast after my health, an’ I’m guessin’ I oughter be sicker’n him, wi’ that mare o’ his. Say, jest git right ahead an’ fix that bunk fer him, like the daisy gal you are. What about bl—your father, missie?”
“Never mind father. Come along.”
The man’s horse-like attempt at lightness had its effect. The girl pulled herself together. She realized the emergency. She knew that Tresler needed her help. Arizona’s manner had only emphasized the gravity of his case.
She ran on ahead, and the other, bearing the unconscious man, followed.
“Never mind father,” Arizona muttered doubtfully. “Wal, here goes.” Then he called back to Joe: “Git around that mare an’ sling the saddle on a fresh plug; guess I’ll need it.”
He passed through the kitchen, and stepping into the hall he was startled by the apparition of the blind man standing in the doorway of his bedroom. He was clad in his customary dressing-gown, and his eyes glowed ruddily in the light of the kitchen lamp.
“What’s this?” he asked sharply.
“Tresler’s bin done up,” Arizona replied at once. “Guess the gang got around Willow Bluff—God’s curse light on ’em!”
“Hah! And where are you taking him?”
“Up-sta’rs,” was the brief reply. Then the cowpuncher bethought him of his duty to his employer. “Guess the cattle are safe, fer which you ken thank the sheriff’s gang. Miss Dianny’s hustlin’ a bunk fer him,” he added.
In spite of his usual assurance, Arizona never felt easy with this man. Now the rancher’s manner decidedly thawed.
“Yes, yes,” he said gently. “Take the poor boy up-stairs. You’d better go for the doctor. You can give me the details afterward.”
He turned back into his room, and the other passed up the stairs.
He laid the sick man on the bed, and pointed out to the girl the bandage on his neck, advising, in his practical fashion, its readjustment. Then he went swiftly from the house and rode into Forks for Doc. Osler, the veterinary surgeon, the only available medical man in that part of the country.
When Diane found herself alone with the man she loved stretched out before her, inert, like one dead, her first inclination was to sit down and weep for him. She could face her own troubles with a certain fortitude, but to see this strong man laid low, perhaps dying, was a different thing, and her womanly weakness was near to overcoming her. But though the unshed tears filled her eyes, her love brought its courage to her aid, and she approached the task Arizona had pointed out.
With deft fingers she removed the sodden bandage, through which the blood was slowly oozing. Theflow, which at once began again, alarmed her, and set her swiftly to work. Now she understood as well as Arizona did what was amiss. She hurried out to her own room, and returned quickly with materials for rebandaging, and her arms full of clothes. Then, with the greatest care, she proceeded to bind up the neck, placing a cork on the artery below the severance. This she strapped down so tightly that, for the time at least, the bleeding was staunched. Her object accomplished, she proceeded to dress herself ready for the doctor’s coming.
She had taken her place at the bedside, and was meditating on what further could be done for her patient, when an event happened on which she had in nowise reckoned. Somebody was ascending the stair with the shuffling gait of one feeling his way. It was her father. The first time within her memory that he had visited the upper part of the house.
A look of alarm leapt into her eyes as she gazed at the door, watching for his coming, and she realized only too well the possibilities of the situation. What would he say? What would he do?
A moment later she was facing him with calm courage. Her fears had been stifled by the knowledge of her lover’s helplessness. One look at his dear, unconscious form had done for her what nothing else could have done. Her filial duty went out like a candle snuffed with wet fingers. There was not even a spark left.
Julian Marbolt stepped across the threshold, and his head slowly moved round as though to ascertain inwhat direction his daughter was sitting. The oil-lamp seemed to attract his blind attention, and his eyes fixed themselves upon it; but for a moment only. Then they passed on until they settled on the girl.
“Where is he?” he asked coldly. “I can hear you breathing. Is he dead?”
Diane sprang up and bent over her patient. “No,” she said, half fearing that her father’s inquiry was prophetic. “He is unconscious from loss of blood. Arizona——”
“Tchah! Arizona!—I want to talk to you. Here, give me your hand and lead me to the bedside. I will sit here. This place is unfamiliar.”
Diane did as she was bid. She was pale. A strained look was in her soft brown eyes, but there was determination in the set of her lips.
“What is the matter with you, girl?” her father asked. The softness of his speech in no way disguised the iciness of his manner. “You’re shaking.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied pointedly.
“Ah, thinking of him.” His hand reached out until it rested on one of Tresler’s legs. His remark seemed to require no answer, and a silence fell while Diane watched the eyes so steadily directed upon the sick man. Presently he went on. “These men have done well. They have saved the cattle. Arizona mentioned the sheriff. I don’t know much about it yet, but it seems to me this boy must have contrived their assistance. Smart work, if he did so.”
“Yes, father, and brave,” added the girl in a low tone.
His words had raised hope within her. But with his next he dashed it.
“Brave? It was his duty,” he snapped, resentful immediately. The red eyes were turned upon his daughter, and she fancied she saw something utterly cruel in their painful depths. “You are uncommonly interested,” he went on slowly. “I was warned before that he and you were too thick. I told you of it—cautioned you. Isn’t that sufficient, or have I to——” He left his threat unfinished.
A color flushed slowly into Diane’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled.