The most welcome thing that had happened to the men on the ranch for many a long day was Tresler’s return to the bunkhouse. He was hailed with acclamation. Though he had found it hard to part with Diane under the doubtful circumstances, there was some compensation, certainly gratification, in the whole-hearted welcome of his rough comrades. It was not the effusion they displayed, but the deliberateness of their reception of him, that indexed their true feelings. Teddy Jinks refused to serve out the supper hash until Tresler had all he required. Lew Cawley washed out a plate for him, as a special favor; and Raw Harris, pessimist as he was, and who had a way of displaying the fact in all the little every-day matters of life, cleaned and sharpened a knife for him by prodding it up to the hilt in the hard-beaten earth, and cleaned the prongs of a fork with the edge of his buckskin shirt. But he could not thus outrage his principles without excusing himself, which he did, to the effect that he guessed “invalid fellers need onusual feedin’.” Jacob Smith, whose habit it was to take his evening meals seated at the foot of the upright log which served as part of the door casing, and which contact with his broad, buckskin-covered shoulders had polished till it shone resplendently, renounced hiscoveted position in the invalid’s favor. Tresler was a guest of honor, for whom, on this one occasion at least, nothing was too good. And in this position Arizona supported him, cursing the flies that fell into his friend’s pannikin of tea, and hooking them out with the point of his hash-besmeared knife as he sat on his log beside him. Joe, too, had come down specially to share the meal, but he, being a member of the household, was very small fry at the bunkhouse.
And Tresler delighted in the kindness thus showered on him. The freedom from the sick-room did him good; the air was good to breathe, the plain, wholesome food was good; but most of all those bronzed, tough faces around him seemed to put new life and vigor into his enfeebled frame. He realized that it was high time that he was at work again.
And there was lots for him to hear. Every man among them had something to add to the general hash of events, and in their usual way proceeded to ladle it out without regard for audience, contradicting, interrupting, cursing, until the unfortunate man who was the butt of their remarks found himself almost overpowered by the babel.
At length Arizona drew them up with one of his sudden “yanks.”
“Say,” he cried, his eyes glaring fiercely and embracing the whole party with a great, comprehensive roll, “you fellers is like a crowd o’ coyotes around a bone. I ’lows Tresler ain’t an a’mighty deal better’n a bone about now, but his lugs ain’t deef. Y’re jest a gorl-darned lot o’ oneddicated hoboes.”
Which attack had the effect of reducing the pandemonium, but in no way suppressing the ardent spirits of the party. It acted as a challenge, which Jacob Smith promptly took up.
“Say, boys,” he cried, “we’re goin’ to git eddication from Arizona!”
His remark was followed by a derisive roar of laughter at Arizona’s expense. But the moment it had subsided the derided one shot out his retort.
“Guess ther’s things and critturs down our country we don’t never figger to eddicate—them’s hogs.”
“Fer the reason which they knows more’n you,” returned Jacob, in no way worried by the personality.
The boys considered the point achieved by Jacob, and another laugh at Arizona’s expense went up. He had stumped the cowpuncher, who now entered the fight with wonderfully good-natured zest.
“Say,” he observed, “I ain’t had a heap to do wi’ your folks, Jacob, but I’m guessin’ ef you’re talkin’ Gospel, things don’t run in your fam’ly.”
“Call him a hog right out, Arizona,” put in Raw, lazily.
“I ain’t callin’ Jacob no hog; et ’ud be a nasty trick—on the hog,” observed the ready-tongued man.
“Hallo, Jacob!” cried Lew, as the laugh turned on the other man this time.
But Arizona resented the interference, and rounded on him promptly.
“Say, you passon feller, I ain’t heerd tell as it’s the ways o’ your country to butt in an’ boost folk on to ascrap. It’s gener’ly sed you’re mostly ready to do the scrappin’.”
“Which means?” Lew grinned in his large way.
“Wal, it mostly means—let’s hear from you fust hand.”
“It’s not much use hearing from me on the subject of hogs. They aren’t great on ’em in my country. Besides, you seem quite at home with ’em.”
Arizona sprang to his feet, and, walking over to the hulking form of the parson’s son, held his hand out.
“Shake,” he said, with a grin that drew his parchment-like skin into fierce wrinkles; “we live in the same shack.”
Lew laughed with the rest, and when it died down observed—
“Look here, Arizona, when you get talking ‘hog’ you stand alone. The whole Northwest bows to you on that subject. Now go and sit down like a peaceable citizen, and remember that a man who is such a master in the craft of hog-raising, who has lived with ’em, bred ’em, fed on ’em, and whose mental vision is bounded by ’em, has no right to down inoffensive, untutored souls like ourselves. It isn’t generous.”
Arizona stood. He looked at the man; then he glanced at each face around him and noted the smiles. One hand went up to his long, black hair and he scratched his head, while his wild eyes settled themselves on Tresler’s broadly grinning features. Suddenly he walked back to his seat, took up his dish of hash and continued his supper, making a final remark as he ate.
“Langwidge? Gee! I pass.”
And during the rest of the meal “hog” found no place. They discussed the topic of the day threadbare. The night-riders filled their thoughts to the exclusion of all else, and Tresler learned the details of their recent exploits, and the opinion of each man on the outrages. Even Teddy Jinks, youthful and only “slushy” as he was, was listened to, so absorbed were these men in their cattle world.
“It’s my belief,” that reedy youth said, with profound finality, “they’re working fer a bust up. I’d gamble one o’ Arizona’s hogs to a junk o’ sow-belly ther’ ain’t no more of them rustlers around come the fall. Things is hot, an’ they’re goin’ to hit the trail, takin’ all they ken get right now.”
It was good to be listening to the rough talk of these fellows again. So good that Tresler prolonged this, his first meal with them after such a long absence, to the last possible minute. Then he reluctantly filled his pipe, put away his plate and pannikin, and strolled over to the barn in company with Arizona. He went to inspect his mare; he was fond and justly proud of her. With all her vagaries of temper she was a wonderful beast. Arizona had told him how she had brought both of them into the ranch from Willow Bluff on that memorable night.
“Guess it’s a real pity that sheriff feller hadn’t got her when he hit Red Mask’s trail,” observed Arizona, while he watched Tresler gently pass his hands over each leg in turn. “Clean, eh?” he asked presently.
“Yes. The limbs of a race-horse. Has she been ridden while I’ve been sick?”
“Nope; she’s jest stood guzzlin’ oats.”
“I shall have a time when I get into the saddle again.”
They moved out and stood at the door in full view of the house. The evening was drawing in. The sun was on the horizon, and the purple night shades were rising out over the eastern sky.
“Arizona,” Tresler said a little later, “I’ve got an unpleasant task before me. I’ve just seen Marbolt pass the window of his den. I want a few words with him. I think I’ll go now.”
“’Bout the leddy?” inquired the cowpuncher.
“You’ve struck it.”
“Wal, git right along. I’d sooner it wus you than me, I guess. Howsum, I’ll set right hyar. Mebbe I’ll be handy ef you’re wantin’ me.”
Tresler laughed. “Oh, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m not dealing with Jake.”
“Nope,” replied the other, settling himself on a saddle-tree. Then, after a thoughtful pause, “which is regret’ble.”
Tresler walked away in the direction of the house. He was weak, and did the journey slowly. Nor did he feel comfortable. However, he was doing what he knew to be right, and, as he ruefully reminded himself, it was seldom pleasant to do one’s duty. His object was simply a matter of form, but one which omitted would give Marbolt reason for saying things. Besides, in justice to Danny and himself he must ask her father’sconsent to their engagement. And as he thought of the uselessness of it he laughed bitterly to himself. Did not the rancher know? And had he not fully explained his views on the matter?
Arizona watched Tresler wabbling unsteadily toward the house and applied many mental epithets of an uncomplimentary nature on his “foolheadedness.” Then he was joined by Joe, who had also observed Tresler’s visit.
The little man waved a hand in the direction of the retreating figure.
“Wher’s he goin’?” he asked.
“Guess it’s ’bout the leddy,” replied Arizona, shortly.
“An’ he wus boosted out ’cause of her,” the other said significantly. “Kind o’ minds you of one o’ them terriers.”
“Yup. Or a cow wi’ a ca’f.”
“On’y he don’t make no fuss. Guess it’s a terrier.”
And Joe accompanied his final decision with an emphatic nod.
Meanwhile the object of their remarks had made his way to the house and stood before the blind arbiter of his fate in the latter’s little office. The rancher was sitting at his table with his face directed toward the window, and his red eyes staring at the glowing sunset. And so he remained, in spite of Tresler’s blunt announcement of himself.
“It is necessary for me to see you, Mr. Marbolt,” he said.
And he stood waiting for his answer. It came, aftersome moments, in a tone that offered no encouragement, but was more civil than he expected.
“Since you say so, I suppose it is.”
Quite indifferent and certainly undaunted, Tresler proceeded—
“You have already been informed how matters stand between your daughter and myself.”
“Yes.”
“I am here, then, to formally ask your consent to our engagement.”
The red eyes moved from their contemplation of the sunset, and their dead, leech-like stare fixed itself upon the undisturbed face of the would-be son-in-law.
“Tresler,” the man said, in a manner that left little to the imagination, “I have only one answer for you. You have become offensive to me on this ranch, and I shall be glad if you will remove yourself as quickly as possible. I shall refund you the money you have paid, and your agreement can be torn up.”
“Then you will not consider my proposal?”
“I have already answered you.”
Tresler looked hard at the face before him. Mask-like as it was, it yet conveyed something of the fierce temper behind it. He was glad he saw something of it, for he felt more justified in the heat of his own feelings. The man’s words were a studied insult, and he was not one to submit to insults from anybody.
“I emphatically refuse, then, to remove my offensive person,” he replied, with a great assumption of calmness. “Furthermore, I will not entertain the return ofmy premium. I am here for three years’ instruction, already paid for. That instruction I demand. You will understand it is not in your power to have my offensive person removed either legally or forcibly. The latter especially, since it would cost you far more than you would find it pleasant to pay.”
He expected to witness one of those outbursts of fury such as the blind man had recently displayed toward Jake in his presence. But nothing of the kind happened. His manner remained the same.
“I am sorry,” he said, with something almost like a smile. “You drive me to an alternative, which, if less convenient, is perhaps, on the whole, more satisfactory. My daughter will have to go. I was prepared for this, and have already made arrangements for her to visit certain friends this day fortnight, for an indefinite period. You quite understand, Tresler, you will not see her again. She will remain away until you leave here. Of course, in the meantime, should you take it into your head to follow her, you are clear-headed enough to see that your agreement with me would be broken. Then she would return at once, and the question of force to keep you apart would be entirely in my hands. Further, I must tell you that while she is away she will be living in an obscure settlement many miles from here, where all letters addressed to her will be opened before she receives them.”
The blind man turned away, indicating that the interview was ended, but Tresler stood his ground, though he fully realized how thoroughly this man had outwitted him.
“At least she will be happier away from here,” he said significantly.
“I don’t know,” retorted the other, with diabolical meaning.
Tresler’s exasperation could no longer be restrained. “Your conduct is inhuman to thus persecute a helpless girl, your daughter.”
“Ah, my daughter. Yes?”
But the other gave no heed to the sneer. “You have no right to stand between us,” he went on angrily. “You have no reasonable grounds. I tell you straight I will not submit. When your daughter is of age I will take her from this home, which is no home to her, from you who have never been a father to her.”
“True,” assented the other, with an aggravating calmness.
“You will have no power to interfere then. The law——”
“Enough of this nonsense,” the rancher interrupted, with his first sign of impatience. “You’ll never marry Diane while I live. Take it from me. Now—get out!”
And somehow, in spite of himself, Tresler found himself outside the house and moving in the direction of the bunkhouse at the most rapid pace his weakness permitted. But before he reached his destination Jake intercepted him, and he had little doubt in his mind that the man had seen him go to the house and had waited for his return.
“Wal?” he said, drawling out his inquiry, as though the contemplation of the answer he would receive gave him more than ordinary satisfaction.“Guess blind hulks is a pretty hard man to deal with, eh? You’re goin’ to quit us?”
Tresler was in no mood for this man’s sneers. “No,” he said. “On the contrary, I stay till my time’s out.”
Jake could not conceal his surprise and chagrin. “You ain’t quittin’?”
“No.” Tresler really enjoyed his discomfiture.
“An’ you’re goin’——”
“No.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. He could hand something on to this man. “Miss Marbolt is going to be sent away until such time as I leave this ranch. Nearly three years, Jake,” he finished up maliciously.
Jake stood thoughtfully contemplating the other’s shrunken figure. He displayed no feeling, but Tresler knew he had hit him hard.
“An’ she’s goin’, when?” he asked at last.
“This day fortnight.”
“Ah. This day fortnight.”
After that Jake eyed his rival as though weighing him up in his mind along with other things; then he said quietly—
“Guess he’d best have sent her right now.” And, with this enigmatical remark, he abruptly went back to his shack.
A week saw Tresler in the saddle again. His recuperative powers were wonderful. And his strength returned in a manner which filled his comrades with astonishment. Fresh air and healthy work served as far better tonics than anything the horse-doctor had given him.
And the week, at least to Tresler, was full of portent. True, the rustlers had been quiet, but the effect of their recent doings was very apparent. The sheriff was now in constant communication with the ranch. Fyles visited Julian Marbolt frequently, holding long consultations with him; and a significant fact was that his men made the place a calling station. He realized that the long arm of the law was seriously at work, and he wondered in what direction the real object lay, for he quite understood that these open movements, in all probability, cloaked the real suspicions. Both he and Joe were of opinion that the sheriff was acting on some secret information, and they puzzled their heads to fathom the depths of the wily officer’s motives.
Then happened something that Tresler had been expecting for some time. He had not seen Fyles to speak to since the Willow Bluff incident, and this had caused him some wonder. Therefore, one day while out on a distant pasture, rounding up a small bunch of yearlings, he was in no way surprised to see the farmer-like figure of the sheriff appear over the brow of a rising ground, and canter his raw-boned horse down toward him.
And that meeting was in the nature of an eye-opener to Tresler. He learned something of the machinery that was at work; of the system of espionage that was going on over the whole district, and the subtle means of its employment. He learned, amongst other things, something of what Jake was doing. How he was in constant touch with a number of half-breeds of the most disreputable type, and that his doings were of themost underground nature. He also learned that his own personal efforts in conveying warning before Willow Bluff were more than appreciated, and, finally, that Fyles wanted him to further act in concert with him.
Acceding to the officer’s request he was then informed of certain other things for his future guidance. And when the man had gone, disappearing again over the rising ground, in the same ghostly fashion that he had appeared, he looked after him, and, in reviewing all he had heard, marveled how little he had been told, but what a lot had been suggested, and how devilish smart that farmer-like man, in spite of his recent failures, really was.
And during those days Tresler heard very little from Diane; which little came from Joe Nelson. Now and again she sent him a grief-stricken note alluding to her departure. She told him, although Joe had done so already, that her father had brought Anton into the house for the express purpose of preventing any communication with him, Tresler, and to generally keep sentry over her. She told him much that made his heart bleed for her, and made him spend hours at night writing pages of cheering messages to her. There was no help for it. He was powerless to do more than try to console her, and he frequently found himself doubting if the course he had selected was the right one; if he were not aggravating her position by remaining on the ranch. His reason told him that it was surely best. If she had to go away, she would, at least, be free of Jake, and, no matter what condition the people to whom she was to be sent, no worse associationsthan the combination of the blind man and his mate could possibly be found for her anywhere.
It was a poor sort of consolation with which he bolstered himself, and he spent many miserable hours during those last few days. Once he had said to Joe, “If I could only see her for a few minutes it might be some measure of comfort to us both.” But Joe had shaken his gray head. “It ain’t no use,” he said. “You can’t take no chances foolin’ wi’ Anton around. ’Sides, things might be wuss,” he finished up, with a considerable emphasis.
And so Tresler had to be content; ill at ease, chafing, but quite powerless. In truth the rancher had outwitted him with a vengeance; moreover, what he had said he soon showed that he meant, for Joe brought him the news, two days before the date fixed for departure, that Diane was making her preparations, and had even begun to pack up.
And all this time Jake was very cheerful. The men on the ranch never remembered an easier time than the foreman was giving them now. He interfered very little with the work, and, except at the morning muster, they hardly saw anything of him. Tresler he never came near. He seemed to have forgotten that he had ever discussed Anton with him. It may have been that that discussion had only been inspired on the impulse of the moment, or it may have been—and Tresler thought this far more likely—he had deeper plans. However, the man, in face of Diane’s departure, was unusually cheerful, and the wise old Joe quickly observed the fact.
For Joe to observe anything of interest was the cue for him to inquire further, and thus he set himself to watch Jake. And his watching quickly resulted in Tresler’s attention being called to Jake’s movements at night. Joe found that night after night Jake left the ranch, always on foot, but he left it for hours at a time. Twice during the last week he did not return until daylight. All this was more than interesting, but nothing developed to satisfy their curiosity until the last day of Diane’s stay on the ranch. Then Jake visited her, and, taking her out of the kitchen, had a long confabulation with her in the open. Joe watched them, but, much to his disgust, had no means of learning the man’s object. However, there was only one thing for him to do, and he did it without delay: he hurried down to convey his news to Tresler, who was having supper at the bunkhouse.
Taking him on one side he imparted his tidings hurriedly. And in conclusion spoke with evident alarm.
“Ther’s suthin’ doin’,” he said, in, for him, quite a condition of excitement. “I can’t locate it nohow. But Jake, he’s that queer. See, he’s jest gone right into his shack. Ther’s suthin’ doin’, sure.”
“And didn’t you ask her what it was all about?” asked Tresler, catching something of the other’s manner.
“Wal, no. That is, I guess I mentioned it like, but Miss Dianny wus that flustrated an’ kind o’ angry she jest went right up to her room, an’ I thought best to git around hyar.”
Tresler was thinking hard; and while he thought he stood watching the door where they had both seen Jake disappear. It occurred to him to go and seek Diane for himself. Poor girl, she would surely tell him if there were anything wrong. After all, he had the right to know. Then he thought of Anton.
“Was Anton——?”
He had turned to Joe, but his remark was cut short. Jake’s door suddenly opened and the foreman came hurriedly out. Joe caught his companion by the arm, and they both looked after the giant as he strode away toward the barn. And they simultaneously became aware of something unsteady in his gait. Joe was the first to draw attention to it.
“Say, he’s bin drinkin’,” he whispered, in an awed manner.
Tresler nodded. This was something quite new. Jake, with all his faults, was not usually given to drink. On the contrary, he was a particularly sober man.
Tresler swiftly made up his mind. “I’m going to see what’s up, Joe,” he said. “Do you see? He’s making for Marbolt’s stable.”
It was almost dusk. The men had settled down to their evening’s occupations. Tresler and Joe were standing alone in the shadow of the bunkhouse wall. The lamp was lit within the building, and the glow from the window, which was quite near them, darkened the prospect still further. However, Tresler still could see the foreman, an indistinct shadow in the growing darkness.
Leaving his companion without further remark hehurried after the disappearing man and took up his position near the barn, whence he could both see and hear what might be going forward.
Jake reached the door of the stable and knocked on it in a forceful and peremptory manner.
Impelled by curiosity and nervous anticipation Tresler did not long remain in the shelter of the barn. It was too dark to see distinctly all that way off, so he closed up on the object of his watch. He intended to miss nothing of what was happening, so he crept out into the open, quite careless of the chances of being discovered at his undignified occupation.
And all the time he was a prey to unpleasant foreboding; that unaccountable foreboding so truly prophetic, which refuses to be shaken off. He knew that disaster was in the air as surely as if it had all happened, and there was nothing left for him but to gaze impotently upon the ruin. He had a certain amount of reason for his fears, of course, but that reason was largely speculative, and, had he been asked to state definitely what he anticipated, on whom disaster was to fall, he could not have answered with any real conviction. Something prompted him that Jake was to be the central figure, the prime mover. But beyond that his ideas were vague. The man’s very summons at the door was a positive aggravation, and suggested possibilities.
An answer came with the abrupt opening of the stable door, which revealed the lithe figure of the duskyhalf-breed, framed in a setting of dingy yellow light from the lantern within. He could see the insolent, upward stare of the man’s eyes as he looked up into the great man’s face; nor at that moment could he help thinking of all he had heard of “Tough” McCulloch. And the recollection brought him a further feeling of uneasiness for the man who had thus come to beard him in his own den.
But even while these thoughts passed swiftly through his brain the bullying, hectoring tones of Jake’s voice came to him. They were unnecessarily loud, and there was a thickness in them which corroborated the evidence of his uneven gait. Jake had certainly been priming himself with spirit.
“Where was you last night, Anton?” he heard him ask.
“An’ wher’ should I be, Mr. Jake?” came the half-breed’s sullen retort.
“That ain’t no answer,” the other cried, in a vicious tone.
The half-breed shrugged with apparent indifference, only there was no indifference in the resentful flash of his eyes.
“I not answer to you,” he said, in his broken way, throwing as much insolence as he could into his words.
Jake’s fury needed no urging; the spirit had wound him up to the proper pitch.
“You black son-of-a——,” he cried, “you shall answer to me. For two pins I’d wring your blasted neck, only I’m savin’ that fer the rope. I’ll tell you wher’you was last night. You wer’ out. Out with the horses. D’you hear? And you weren’t at the Breed camp neither. I know wher’ you was.”
“Guess you shoot your mouth off,” Anton said, with dangerous calmness. “Bah! I tell you I stay right hyar. I not out. You mad! Voilà!”
Suddenly Jake’s hand went up as though to strike the man, but the blow did not fall. His arm dropped to his side again; for once caution saved him. Tresler felt that had the blow fallen there might perhaps have been a sudden and desperate end to the scene. As it was he listened to Jake’s final words, with every nerve throbbing.
“You lie, you black son-of-a——; you lie!”
And then he saw him swing round on his heel and stride away to the rancher’s house, as if he could no longer control himself and sought safety in flight.
For the moment the watcher was so interested in the half-breed that he lost the significance of the foreman’s going. Anton was still standing in the doorway, and the expression of his face was plainly visible in the lamplight. There was a saturnine grin about the lower part of the features, but the black eyes were blazing with a deep fire of hatred. He looked after the departing man until he reached the verandah, then suddenly, as though an inspiration had moved him, he vanished at a run within the stable.
Now Tresler became aware of Jake’s object. He had mounted the verandah and was making for the door of the house. And this sight moved him to immediate action. Without a second thought he set off at a runto warn Diane of the visit. Why he wished to warn her he did not know. Perhaps it was the result of premonition, for he knew quite well that it was Jake’s custom to wait on his chief at about this time in the evening.
He skirted the house well out of range of the light of its windows, and came to the kitchen just in time to hear the blind man calling to his daughter for a light. And when Diane returned from obeying the order she found him waiting for her. Her first feeling was one of apprehension, then love overcame her fears and she ran to him.
“Jack!” she whispered softly. “You here?”
He folded her in a bear-like embrace, and as she raised her face to him to speak he stopped her with a rain of kisses. The joy of the moment had driven the object of his coming from his head, and they stood heart to heart, lost in their mutual happiness, until Jake’s voice, raised in bitter imprecation, reached them from the office. Then Tresler abruptly put her from him.
“I had forgotten, dear,” he said, in a whisper. “No, don’t close that door.” Diane had moved over to the door leading into the dining-room. “Leave it open. It is on that account I am here.”
“On what account?” the girl asked, in some perplexity.
“Jake. There’s something up, and—hark!”
They stood listening. The foreman’s voice was raised again. But now Marbolt’s broke in, sharp, incisive. And the words were plainly audible.
“Keep your voice down,” he said. “D’you want the girl to hear everything? You were always a blunderer, Jake.”
“Blunderer be ——” But he nevertheless lowered his tone, for the listeners could distinguish nothing more.
“He’s up to some devil’s work,” Tresler whispered, after making sure they could hear no more. “Danny,” he went on eagerly, “I must slip into the hall and try and hear what’s going on. I must be ready to——Listen! He’s cursing again. Wait here. Not a sound; not a word! There’s going to be trouble.”
And his assertion seemed to have reason enough, for the rancher’s sharp tones were now mingling with the harsher note of the other, and both had raised their voices again. Tresler waited for nothing now. He tiptoed to the door and stood listening. Then he crept silently out into the hall and stole along toward the blind man’s office. He paused as he drew near the open door, and glanced round for some hiding-place whence he could see within. The hall was unlit, and only the faintest light reached it from the office. There was a long, heavy overcoat hanging on the opposite wall, almost directly in front of the door, and he made for it, crossing the hall in the darkest part, and sidling along in the shadow until he reached it. Here he drew it in front of him, so that he only elongated its outline and yet obtained a full view of the room.
Jake was not visible. And Tresler concluded that he was sitting in the chair which he knew to be behind the door. But the blind man was almost directly infront of him. He was seated beside the small window table on which the lamp stood, a safety lamp, especially reserved for his use on account of his blindness. His ruddy eyes were staring in the direction in which Tresler believed Jake to be sitting, and such was the effect of that intent stare that the watching man drew well within his cover, as though he feared the sightless sockets would penetrate his hiding-place.
But even from this vantage ground he found his purpose thwarted. Jake was talking, but his voice was so low that it only reached him in a thick growl which blurred his words into a hazy murmur. Therefore he fixed his attention on the man facing him, watching, and seeking information from his expression and general attitude.
And what he beheld riveted his attention. Whatever control the blind man had over himself—and Tresler had reason to know what wonderful control he had—his expression was quite unguarded now. There was a devilish cruelty in every line in his hard, unyielding features. His sanguinary eyes were burning with a curiously real live light—probably the reflection of the lamp on the table—and his habitually knit brows were scowling to an extent that the eyes beneath them looked like sparks of living fire. And though he was lounging comfortably back in his chair, without energy, without alertness, and one arm was resting on the table at his side, and his outstretched fingers were indolently drumming out a tattoo on the bare wood, his breath was coming short and fast, in a manner that belied his attitude.
Had Tresler only seen behind the door he would have been startled, even alarmed. The inflamed Jake was oblivious to everything but his own purpose. His mind was set on the object of his talk, to the exclusion of all else. Just then he had not the slightest fear of the blind man. There was nothing of the submission about him now that he had displayed once before in Tresler’s presence. It was the spirit he had imbibed that had fortified him for the time. It is probable that Jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil.
And, though Tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its composition. But even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too.
“Ther’ ain’t no option fer you, Marbolt,” Jake was saying. “You’ve never given me an option, and I’m not goin’ to be such a blazing fool as to give you one. God A’mighty, Marbolt, ther’ never was a man treated as I’ve been by you. We’ve been together fer donkey’s years, I guess. ’Way back in them old days, when we was mates, before you was blind, before you was cranked against ’most everybody, when we scrapped agin them black-backs in the Indies side by side, when we quarreled an’ made friends again, I liked you, Marbolt, an’ I worked honest by you. There wa’n’t nothin’ mean to you, then, ’cep’ in handin’ out dollars. I hadn’t no kick comin’ those days. I worked fer so much, an’ I see I got it. I didn’t ask no more, an’ I guess I didn’t want. That’s all right. Then you got blind an’ you changed round. That’s where the rub come. I was nobetter than the rest to you. You fergot everything that had gone. You fergot I was a square dealin’ man by you, an’ since that time I’ve been dirt under your feet. Pshaw! it ain’t no use in talkin’; you know these things just as well as I do. But you might have given me a show. You might have treated me ‘white.’ It was to your interest. I’d have stayed by you. I’d have done good by you. An’ I’d have been real sorry when you died. But I ain’t no use fer that sort o’ thing now. What I want I’m goin’ to have, an’ you’ve got to give—see? It ain’t a question of ‘by-your-leave’ now. I say right here I want your gal.”
The man paused. But Marbolt remained undisturbed. He still beat an idle tattoo on the table, only his hand had drawn nearer to the lamp and the steady rapping of his fingers was a shade louder, as though more nervous force were unconsciously finding outlet in the movement.
“So you want my girl,” he said, his lips scarcely parting to let the tone of his voice pass.
“Ay,” Jake said emphatically, “I want that gal as I took out o’ the water once. You remember. You said she’d fell overboard, after I’d hauled her back on to the ship out o’ reach o’ the sharks. That’s what you said—after.”
He paused significantly. If he had expected any display from his hearer he must have been disappointed. The other remained quite still except for those moving fingers tapping their way nearer and nearer the lamp.
“Go on.”
“Wal, I’ve told you how I stand, an’ I’ve told you how you stand,” Jake proceeded, with his voice ever so little raised. He felt that the other was too easy. And, in his unimaginative way, he thought he had spoken too gently. “An’ I say again I want that gal fer my wife. Time was when you would have been glad to be quit of her, ’bout the time she fell overboard. Being ready to part then, why not now? I’m goin’ to get her,—an’ what do I pay in return? You know. You’ll go on ranchin’ in peace. I’ll even stay your foreman if you so want. I’ll shut right down on the business we both know of, an’ you won’t have nothin’ to fear. It’s a fair an’ square deal.”
“A fair and square deal; most generous.”
Even Jake detected the sarcasm, and his anger rose at once. But he gave no heed to those fingers which had now transferred their attention to the brass body of the lamp.
“I’m waitin’ fer your answer,” he said sharply.
Tresler now heard his words for the first time.
“Go slow, Jake, go slow,” retorted the rancher. “I like to digest the position thoroughly. You put it so well.”
The sarcasm had grown more fierce by reason of the restraint the rancher was putting on himself. And this restraint was further evident in the movement of the hand which had now settled itself upon the body of the lamp, and clutched it nervously.
Jake no longer kept check on himself. And his answer came in a roar.
“You shall take my price, or——”
“Keep calm, you blundering jackass!” the blind man rasped between his clenched teeth.
“No, you don’t, Mr. blasted Marbolt!” cried Jake, springing to his feet and moving out to the middle of the room threateningly. “No, you don’t!” he cried again; “I’ve had enough of that. God’s curse on you for a low swine! I’ll talk no more; it’s ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Remember”—he bent over toward the sitting man and pointed in his face with fierce delight—“I am your master now, an’ ef you don’t do as I say, by G——! but I’ll make you whine for mercy.”
And Marbolt’s answer came with a crash of brass and smashing of glass, a leap of flame, then darkness, as he hurled the lamp to the floor and extinguished it. It came in silence, but a silence ruffled by the sound of sudden movement. It came, as was only to be expected from a man like him, without warning, like the silent attack of a puma, and with as deadly intent.
Tresler could see nothing, but he knew that death was hovering over that room for some one. Suddenly he heard the table dragged or pushed across the floor, and Jake’s voice, harsh with the effort of struggle, reached him.
“You would, would you? Right; it’s you or me!”
At that moment the onlooker was about to rush forward, for what purpose he had but the vaguest idea. But even as he took the first step he felt himself seized forcibly by the arm from behind. And Diane’s voice whispered in his ear.
“Not you, Jack!” she said eagerly. “Leave it to me; I—I can save him—Jake.”
“Jake?”
“Yes.”
She was gone, and in an instant returned with the lighted kitchen lamp, which she held aloft as she rushed into the room.
Tresler was taken utterly by surprise. The girl’s movements were so sudden, so unexpected, and her words so strange.
There she stood in the middle of the room with the light held above her head like some statue. And all the signs of a deadly struggle were about her. Jake was sheltered behind the window table, and stood blinking in the sudden light, staring at her in blank astonishment. But the chief figure of interest was the blind man. He was groping about the opposite edge of the table, pitifully helpless, but snarling in impotent and thwarted fury. His right hand was still grasping the hilt of a vicious-looking, two-edged hunting-knife, whose point Tresler saw was dripping blood.
Suddenly he turned fiercely on the girl. For the moment he had been held silent, confounded, but now his voice rang out in an access of fury.
“You jade!” he cried, and moved as though to attack her.
Tresler was about to leap to her assistance, but at that instant the man’s attention was suddenly diverted. Jake saw his chance and made for the door. With a bitter imprecation the blind man lunged at him as he went, fell against the table, and stumbled almost to the ground. Instantly the girl took advantage of his positionand followed Jake out, slamming the door behind her and swiftly turning the key as she went.
Diane had shown herself in a new light. Her presence of mind was startling, and the whole thing was enacted so swiftly that Tresler failed to grasp the full meaning of it all. Jake had not seen him. In a blind rush he had made for the hall door and passed out. The only thing that seemed real to Tresler was Diane’s safety, and he caught her by the arm to take her to the kitchen. But the girl’s readiness would permit of no such waste of time.
“No,” she whispered quickly. “Leave me and follow Jake. Joe is in the kitchen and will protect me if need be. Quick!” she went on, stamping her foot in her excitement. “Go! Look to him. There must be no murder done here.”
And Tresler was forced, much against his will, to leave her. For the moment Diane had soared to a height of alertness and ready action which was irresistible. Without a word he went, passing out of the front door.
Jake had left the verandah, and, in the moonlight, Tresler could see him moving down the hill in the direction of his shack. He followed him swiftly. But he was too late. The whole thing happened before his very eyes, while he was yet too far off to stay the ruthless act, before his warning shout could serve.
He saw a figure dart out from the rancher’s stable. He saw it halt and stand. He saw one arm stretched out, and he realized and shouted to Jake.
The foreman stood, turned, a pistol-shot rang out,and he fell on his face. Tresler ran forward, but before he could reach him two more shots rang out, and a third sent its bullet whistling past his own head.
He ran for the man who had fired them. He knew him now; it was Anton. But, fleet of foot, the half-breed had reached the stable, where a horse stood ready saddled. He saw him vault into the saddle, and he saw him vanish into the adjacent woods. Then, at last, he gave up the chase and ran back to the fallen man.
Kneeling at his side he raised the great leonine head. The man was alive, and he shouted to the men at the bunkhouse for aid. But even as he called Jake spoke.
“It ain’t no good,” he said, in a hoarse tone. “I’m done. Done up by that lyin’ son-of-a——, ‘Tough’ McCulloch. I might ’a’ known. Guess I flicked him sore.” He paused as the sound of running feet came from the bunkhouse and Arizona’s voice was calling to know Tresler’s whereabouts. Then the foreman’s great frame gave a shiver. “Quick, Tresler,” he said, in a voice that had suddenly grown faint; “ther’ ain’t much time. Listen! get around Widow Dangley’s place—to-night—two—mornin’ all——”
There came a rattle of flowing blood in his throat which blurred anything else he had to say. But he had said sufficient. Tresler understood.
When Arizona came up Jake, so long the bully of Mosquito Bend, had passed over the One-Way Trail. He died shot in three places, twice in the chest and once in the stomach. Anton, or rather “Tough” McCulloch, had done his work with all the consummateskill for which he had once been so notorious. And, as something of this flashed through Tresler’s brain, another thought came with it, prompted by the presence of Arizona, who was now on his knees beside him.
“It’s Anton, Arizona,” he said. “Jake riled him. He shot him, and has bolted through the wood, back there, mounted on one of Marbolt’s horses. He’s making for the hills. Quick, here, listen! the others are coming. You know ‘Tough’ McCulloch?”
“Wal?” There was an ominous ring in Arizona’s voice.
“You’d like to find him?”
“Better’n heaven.”
“Anton is ‘Tough’ McCulloch.”
“Who told you?”
“Jake, here. I didn’t mention it before, because—because——”
“Did you say the hills?”
Arizona had risen to his feet. There was no emotion in his manner. They might have been discussing the most ordinary topic. Now the rest of the men crowded round. And Tresler heard the rancher’s voice calling from the verandah to inquire into the meaning of the shots. However, heedless of the others, he replied to the cowpuncher’s question.
“Yes,” he said.
“Shake. S’long.”
The two men gripped and Arizona faded away in the uncertain light, in the direction of the barn.
And the dead Jake was borne by rough but gentle hands into his own shack. And there was not oneamongst those “boys” but would have been ready and eager to help him, if help had been possible. Even on the prairie death atones for much that in life is voted intolerable.
Inside the hut, where Jake had so long been master, the boys were grouped round the bunk on which their old oppressor was laid out; the strong, rough fellows were awed with the magnitude of the outrage. Jake, Jake Harnach, the terror of the ranch, “done up.” The thought was amazing. Tresler was quietly stripping clothes from the dead man’s upper body to free the wounds for the doctor’s inspection, and Raw Harris was close beside him. It was while in the midst of this operation that the former came upon another wound. Raw Harris also saw it, and at once drew his attention.
“Guess I heerd four shots,” he said. “Say, that feller Anton was a daddy. Four of ’em, an’ all found their mark. I ’lows this one’s on’y a graze. Might ’a’ bin done wi’ a knife, et’s so clean. Yes, sirree, he was a daddy, sure.”
As no one seemed inclined to contradict the statement that Anton was a “daddy,” and as the question of four shots or three was of no vital interest to the onlookers, the matter passed unheeded. Only Tresler found food for reflection. That fourth wound he knew had not been inflicted by the half-breed. He rememberedthe rancher’s knife and its dripping point, and he remembered Jake’s cry, “You would, would you!” He needed no other explanation.
While the two men were still bending over their task there was a slight stir at the open door. The silent onlookers parted, leaving a sort of aisle to the bedside, and Julian Marbolt came shuffling his way through them, heralded by the regular tap, tap, of his guiding stick.
It was with many conflicting emotions that Tresler looked round when he heard the familiar sound. He stared at the man as he might stare at some horrid beast of prey, fascinated even against himself. It would have been hard to say what feeling was uppermost with him at the moment. Astonishment, loathing, expectation, and even some dread, all struggled for place, and the combination held him silent, waiting for what that hateful presence was to bring forth. He could have found it in his heart to denounce him then and there, only it would have served no purpose, and would probably have done much harm. Therefore he contented himself with gazing into the inflamed depths of the man’s mysterious eyes with an intentness he had never yet bestowed upon them, and while he looked all the horror of the scene in the office stole over him again and made him shudder.
“Where is he—where is Jake?” the blind man asked, halting accurately at the bedside.
The question was directed at no one in particular, but Tresler took it upon himself to answer.
“Lying on the bed before you,” he said coldly.
The man turned on him swiftly. “Ah—Tresler,” he said.
Then he bent over the bed, and his hands groped over the dead man’s body till they came into contact with the congealing blood round the wound in his stomach.
With a movement of repulsion he drew back sharply. “He’s not dead?” he questioned, with a queer eagerness, turning round to those about him.
“Yes, he is dead,” replied Tresler, with unintentional solemnity.
“Who—who did it?”
The question came in a tense voice, sharper and more eagerly than the preceding one.
“Anton,” chorused the men, as though finding relief from their long silence in the announcement. The crime was even secondary to the personality of the culprit with them. Anton’s name was uppermost in their minds, and so they spoke it readily.
“Anton? And where is he? Have you got him?”
The rancher had turned about, and addressed himself generally.
“Anton has made off with one of your horses,” said Tresler. “I tried to get him, but he had too much start for me. I was on foot.”
“Well, why are you all here? Have none of you sense enough to get after him?”
“Arizona is after him, and, until the sheriff comes, he is sufficient. He will never leave his trail.”
There was no mistaking the significance Tresler conveyed in his last remark. The rancher took him up sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“Arizona has no love for Anton.”
“Ah! And Jake. Who found him? Who was there when he died?”
Marbolt’s eyes had fixed themselves on Tresler’s face. And the latter had no hesitation in suiting his reply to his own purpose.
“I found him—dead; quite dead. His death must have been instantaneous.”
“So.”
Marbolt turned back to the bed.
The rancher stood over the dead man in silence for some minutes. Then, to Tresler’s horror, he broke out into a low-voiced lamentation, the hypocrisy of which made him want to seize him by the throat and choke the words ere they were uttered.
“My poor old Jake!” he said, with infinite pity. “Poor old Jake!” he repeated, addressing the dead man sorrowfully. “I wish now I’d taken your advice about that rascal and got rid of him. And to think that you should be the man on whom he was to wreak his treachery. I wonder how it came about. It must have been that rough temper of yours. Tresler,” he cried, pointing to the still form on the bed, “there lies the truest, the only friend I ever had. That man has stood by me when all others left me. Yes, we’ve fought side by side in the Indian days; ay, and further back still. I remember when he would have defended me with his life; poor Jake! I suppose he had his faults, the same as most of us have. Yes, and I wager his temper took him foul of Anton. Poor old Jake!I suppose we shall never know the truth of this.” He paused. Then he cried fiercely, “Damn it! Men, every one of you, I’ll give a thousand dollars to the one who brings Anton back, dead or alive. Dead from preference, then he won’t escape us. A thousand dollars. Now, who?”
But Tresler could stand it no longer. “Don’t trouble, Mr. Marbolt,” he said icily. “It is no use your offering rewards. The man who has gone after Anton will find him. And you can rest satisfied he’ll take nothing from you on that score. You may not know Arizona; I do.”
“You are confident,” the other retorted, resentful at once.
“I have reason to be,” came the decided answer.
Marbolt shook his close-cropped head. His resentment had gone from his manner again. He had few moods which he was unable to control at will. That was how it seemed to Tresler.
“I hope truly it may be as you say. But I must still doubt. However,” he went on, in a lighter tone, “in the meantime there is work to be done. The doctor must be summoned. Send some one for doctor and sheriff first thing to-morrow morning, Tresler. It is no use worrying them to-night. The sheriff has his night work to do, and wouldn’t thank us for routing him out now. Besides, nothing can be done until daylight! And the doctor is only needed to certify. Poor old Jake!”
He turned away with something very like a sigh. Half-way to the door he paused.
“Tresler, you take charge of things to-night. Have this door locked. And,” he added, with redoubled earnestness, “are you sure Arizona will hunt that man down?”
“Perfectly.”
Tresler smiled grimly. He fancied he understood the persistence.
There was a moment’s silence. Then the stick tapped, and the rancher passed out under the curious gaze of his men. Tresler, too, looked after him. Nor was there any doubt of his feelings now. He knew that his presence in the house during Marbolt’s murderous assault on Jake was unsuspected. And Marbolt, villainous hypocrite that he was, was covering his tracks. He loathed the blind villain as he never thought to have loathed anybody. And all through his thoughts there was a cold, hard vein of triumph which was utterly foreign to his nature, but which was quite in keeping with his feelings toward the man with whom he was dealing.
As Julian Marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the distant tapping of his stick had died away. Tresler looked round him at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his eyes. Joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. The faithful little fellow was at his post to care for Diane. Now he turned to Harris.
“Raw,” he said, “will you ride in for the doctor?”
“He said t’-morrer,” the man objected.
“I know. But if you’d care to do me a favor you’ll ride in and warn the doctor to-night, and then—rideout to Widow Dangley’s and meet us all there,cachédin the neighborhood.”
The man stared; every man in that room was instantly agog with interest. Something in Tresler’s tone had brought a light to their eyes which he was glad to see.
“What is ’t?” asked Jacob, eagerly.
“Ay,” protested Raw; “no bluffin’.”
“There’s no bluffing about me,” Tresler said quickly. “I’m dead in earnest. Here, listen, boys. I want you all to go out quietly, one by one. It’s eight miles to Widow Dangley’s. Arrange to get there by half-past one in the morning—and don’t forget your guns. There’s a big bluff adjoining the house,” he suggested significantly. “I shall be along, and so will the sheriff and all his men. I think there’ll be a racket, and we may—there, I can tell you no more. I refrained from asking Marbolt’s permission; you remember what he said once before. We’ll not risk saying anything to him.”
“I’m in to the limit,” said Raw, with decision.
“Guess we don’t want no limit to this racket. We’ll jest get right along,” said Jacob, quietly.
And after that the men filed out one by one. And when the last had gone, Tresler put the lamp out and locked the door. Then he quietly stole up to the kitchen and peered in at the window. Diane was there, so was Joe, with two guns hanging to his belt. He had little difficulty in drawing their attention. There was no dalliance about his visit this time. He waived aside the eager questions with which the girl assailed him, and merely gave her a quiet warning.
“Stay up all night, dear,” he said, “but do not let your father know it.”
To Joe he said: “Joe, if you sleep a wink this night I’ll never forgive you.”
Then he hurried away, satisfied that neither would fail him, and went to the barn. Without a word, almost without a sound, he saddled the Lady Jezebel.
His mare ready, he went and gazed long and earnestly up at the rancher’s house. He was speculating in his mind as to the risk he was running. Not the general risk, but the risk of success or failure in his enterprise.
He waited until the last of the lights had gone out, and the house stood out a mere black outline in the moonlight, then he disappeared within the barn again, and presently reappeared leading his fractious mare. A few moments later he rode quietly off. And the manner of his going brought a grim smile to his lips, for he thought of the ghostly movements of the night-riders as he had witnessed them. His way lay in a different direction from that of his comrades. Instead of taking the trail, as they had done, he skirted the upper corral and pastures, and plunged into the black pinewoods behind the house.
The Widow Dangley’s homestead looked much more extensive in the moonlight than it really was. Everything was shown up, endowed with a curious silvery burnish which dazzled the eyes till shadows became magnified into buildings, and the buildings themselvesdistorted out of all proportion. Hers was simply a comfortable place and quite unpretentious.
The ranch stood in a narrow valley, in the midst of which a small brook gurgled its way on to the Mosquito River, about four miles distant. The valley was one of those sharp cuttings in which the prairie abounds, quite hidden and unmarked from the land above, lying unsuspected until one chances directly upon it. It was much like a furrow of Nature’s ploughing, cut out to serve as a drainage for the surrounding plains. It wound its irregular course away east and west, a maze of undergrowth, larger bluff, low red-sand cut-banks and crumbling gravel cliffs, all scattered by a prodigal hand, with a profusion that seemed wanton amidst the surrounding wastes of grass-land.
The house stood on the northern slope, surrounded on three sides by a protecting bluff of pinewoods. Then to the right of it came the outbuildings, and last, at least one hundred and fifty yards from the rest, came the corrals, well hidden in the bluff, instead, as is usual, of being overlooked by the house. Certainly Widow Dangley was a confiding person.
And so Tresler, comparatively inexperienced as he was, thought, as he surveyed the prospect in the moonlight from the back of his mare. He was accompanied by Sheriff Fyles, and the two men were estimating the chances they were likely to have against possible invaders.
“How goes the time?” asked the sheriff, after a few moments’ silent contemplation of the scene.
“You’ve half an hour in which to dispose your forces.Ah! there’s one of your fellows riding down the opposite bank.” Tresler pointed across the valley.
“Yes, and there’s another lower down,” Fyles observed quietly. “And here’s one dropping down to your right. All on time. What of your men?”
“They should be in yonder bluff, backing the corrals.”
“How many?”
“Four, including the cook.”
“Four, and sixteen of mine—twenty. Our two selves—twenty-two. Good; come on.”
The man led the way to the bluff. The cowboys were all there. They received instructions to hold the position at the corrals; to defend them, or to act as reinforcements if the struggle should take place elsewhere. Then the two leaders passed on down into the valley. It was an awkward descent, steep, and of a loose surface that shelved under their horses’ feet. For the moment a cloud had obscured the moon, and Fyles looked up. A southwesterly breeze had sprung up, and there was a watery look about the sky.
“Good,” he said again, in his abrupt manner. “There won’t be too much moon. Moonlight is not altogether an advantage in a matter of this sort. We must depend chiefly on a surprise. We don’t want too many empty saddles.”
At the bottom of the valley they found the rest of the men gathered together in the shelter of the scattered undergrowth. It was Fyles’s whole command. He proceeded at once to divide them up into two parties. One he stationed east of the ranch, split into a sort ofskirmishing order, to act under Tresler’s charge. The other party he took for his own command, selecting an advantageous position to the west. He had also established a code of signals to be used on the approach of the enemy; these took the form of the cry of the screech-owl. Thus, within a quarter of an hour after their arrival, all was in readiness for the raiders, and the valley once more returned to its native quiet.
And how quiet and still it all was! The time crept on toward the appointed hour. The moon was still high in the heavens, but its light had grown more and more uncertain. The clouds had become dense to a stormy extent. Now and then the rippling waters of the brook caught and reflected for a moment a passing shaft of light, like a silvery rift in the midst of the valley, but otherwise all was shadow. And in the occasional moonlight every tree and bush and boulder was magnified into some weird, spectral shape, distorting it from plain truth into some grotesque fiction, turning the humblest growth into anything from a grazing steer to a moving vehicle; from a prowling coyote to a log hut. The music of the waking night-world droned on the scented air, emphasizing the calm, the delicious peace. It was like some fairy kingdom swept by strains of undefined music which haunted the ear without monotony, and peopled with shadows which the imagination could mould at its pleasure.
But in the eagerness of the moment all this was lost to the waiting men. To them it was a possible battleground; with a view to cover, it was a strategic position, and they were satisfied with it. The cattle, turned loosefrom the corrals, must pass up or down the valley; similarly, any number of men must approach from one of these two directions, which meant that the ambush could not be avoided.
At last the warning signal came. An owl hooted from somewhere up the valley, the cry rising in weird cadence and dying away lingeringly. And, at the same time, there came the sound of a distant rumble, like the steady drone of machinery at some far-off point. Tresler at once gave up his watch on the east and centred all attention upon the west. One of his own men had answered the owl’s cry, and a third screech came from the guard at the corrals.
The rumble grew louder. There were no moving objects visible yet, but the growing sound was less of a murmur; it was more detached, and the straining ears distinctly made out the clatter of hoofs evidently traveling fast down the valley trail. On they came, steadily hammering out their measure with crisp precision. It was a moment of tense excitement for those awaiting the approach. But only a moment, although the sensation lasted longer. The moon suddenly brought the whole thing into reality. Suspense was banished with its revealing light, and each man, steady at his post, gripped his carbine or revolver, ready to pour in a deadly fire the moment the word should be given. A troop of about eighteen horsemen dashed round a bend of the valley and plunged into the ambush.
Instantly Fyles’s voice rang out. “Halt, or we fire!” he cried.
The horsemen drew rein at once, but the reply wasa pistol-shot in the direction whence his voice had sounded. The defiance was Tresler’s signal. He passed the word to his men, and a volley of carbine-fire rang out at once, and confusion in the ranks of the horsemen followed immediately.
Then the battle began in deadly earnest. The sheriff’s men leapt into their saddles, and advanced both in front and in rear of the trapped raiders. And the cowpunchers came racing down from the corrals to hurl themselves into themêléewhooping and yelling, as only men of their craft can.
The fight waxed furious, but the odds were in favor of the ambush. The clouded sky lent neither side much assistance. Now and again the peeping moon looked down upon the scene as though half afraid to show itself, and it was by those fleeting rays that the sheriff’s men leveled their carbines and poured in their deadly fire. But the raiders were no mean foe. They fought desperately, and were masters in the use of their weapons. Their confusion of the first moment passed instantly, and they rode straight at Tresler’s line of defense with a determination that threatened to overwhelm it and force a passage. But the coming of the cowpunchers stemmed the tide and hurled them back on Fyles’s force in their rear. Several riderless horses escaped in themêlée; nor were they only belonging to the raiders. One of the “deputies” had dropped from his saddle right beside Tresler, and there was no telling, in the darkness, how many others had met with a similar fate. Red Mask’s gang had been fairly trapped, and both sides meant to fight to a finish.