All this time both Tresler and Fyles were looking out for the leader, the man of all whom they desired to capture. But the darkness, which had favored the ambuscade, now defeated their object. In the mob of struggling humanity it was difficult enough to distinguish friend from foe, let alone to discover any one person. The ranks of the “deputies” had closed right in and a desperate hand-to-hand struggle was going on.
Tresler was caught in the midst of the tide, his crazy mare had carried him there whether he would or no; but if she had carried him thus into deadly peril, she was also ready to fight for him. She laid about her royally, swept on, and reared plunging at every obstruction to her progress, her master thus escaping many a shot, if it left him able to do little better than fire at random himself. In this frantic fashion the maddened creature tore her way through the thick of the fight, and her rider was borne clear to the further outskirts. Then she tried to get away with him, but in the nick of time, before her strong teeth had fixed themselves on the bit, he managed to head her once again for the struggling mass.
With furious recklessness she charged forward, and, as bad luck would have it, her wild career brought about the worst thing possible. She cannoned violently into the sheriff’s charger, while its rider was in the act of leveling his revolver at the head of a man wearing a red mask. The impact was within an ace of bringing both horses and riders to the ground. The mare was flung on her haunches, while Fyles, cursing bitterly, clung desperately to his saddle to retain hisseat. But his aim was lost, and his shot narrowly missed his horse’s head; and, before either he or Tresler had recovered himself, the red masked man had vanished into the darkness, heading for the perilous ascent of the valley side.
Terrified out of her life the Lady Jezebel turned swinging round on her haunches, and charged down the valley; and as she went Tresler had the questionable satisfaction of seeing the sheriff detach himself from the mob and gallop in pursuit of the raider.
His own blood was up now, and though the mare had got the bit in her teeth he fought her with a fury equal to her own. He knew she was mistress of the situation, but he simply would not give in. He would kill her rather than she should get away with him this time. And so, as nothing else had any effect on her, he snatched a pistol from its holster and leant over and pounded the side of her head with the butt of it in a wild attempt to turn her. At first she gave not the smallest heed to his blows; such was her madness. But presently she flinched under them and turned her head away, and her body responded to the movement. In another moment he had her round, and as she faced the side of the valley where the raider had disappeared, he slashed her cruelly with his spurs. In a moment the noise of the battle was left behind him, and the mare, with cat-like leaps, was breasting the ascent.
And Tresler only thought of the man he was in pursuit of. His own neck or the neck of his mare mattered nothing to him then. Through him, or through the mare, they had lost Red Mask. He mustrectify the fault. He had no idea how. His brain was capable of only one thought—pursuit; and he thanked his stars for the sure-footed beast under him. Nothing stopped her; she lifted to every obstruction. A cut-bank had no terrors for her, she simply charged it with her great, strong hoofs till the gravel and sand poured away under them and left her a foothold. Bushes were trampled down or plunged through. Blindly she raced for the top, at an angle that made her rider cling to the horn of his saddle to keep himself from sliding off over the cantle.
They passed Fyles struggling laboriously to reach the top. The Lady Jezebel seemed to shoot past him and leave him standing. And as he went Tresler called out—
“How much start has he?”
“He’s topping it now,” the sheriff replied.
And the answer fired Tresler’s excitement so that he again rammed both spurs into the mare’s flanks. The top of the hill loomed up against the sky. A thick fringe of bush confronted them. Head down, nose almost touching the ground, the mad animal plunged into it. Her rider barely had time to lie down in his saddle and cling to her neck. His thoughts were in a sort of mental whirlpool and he hardly realized what had happened, when, the next moment, the frenzied demon under him plunged out on to the open prairie.
She made no pause or hesitation, but like a shot from a gun swept on straight as the crow flies, her nose alone guiding her. She still held the bit in her jaws; her frolic had only just begun. Tresler looked aheadand scanned the sky-line, but the darkness obscured all signs of his quarry.
He had just made up his mind to trust to chance and the captious mood of his mare when the moon, crossing a rift in the clouds, gave him a sort of flashlight view of the horizon. It only lasted a few seconds, but it lasted long enough for him to detect a horseman heading for the Mosquito River, away to the right, with a start that looked like something over a mile. His heart sank at the prospect. But the next instant hope bounded within him, for the mare swung round of her own accord and stretched herself for the race.
He understood. She had recognized the possibility of company; and few horses, whatever their temper, can resist that.
He leaned over and patted her shoulder, easing her of his weight like a jockey.
“Now, you she-devil,” he murmured affectionately, “behave yourself for once, and go—go like the fiend you are!”
A mile start; it would seem an impossible advantage. Even with a far better horse in pursuit, how many miles must be covered before that distance could be made up? Could the lost ground be regained in eight miles? It looked to be out of the question even to Tresler, hopeful of his mare as he was, and knowing her remarkable turn of speed. Yet such proved to be the case. Eight miles saw him so close on the heels of the raider that there was nothing left for the fugitive but to keep on.
He felt no surprise that they were traversing the river trail. He even thought he knew how he could head his man off by a short cut. But this would not serve his purpose. He wanted to get him red-handed, and to leave him now would be to give him a chance that he was confident would be taken advantage of at once. The river trail led to the ranch. And the only branches anywhere along its route were those running north and south at the ford.
Steadily he closed up, foot by foot, yard by yard. Sometimes he saw his quarry, sometimes he was only guided by the beat of the speeding hoofs. Now that he was urging her, the Lady Jezebel had relinquished the bit, not only willing, but bursting to do better thanher best. No rider could resist such an appeal. And as they went Tresler found himself talking to her with an affection that would have sounded ridiculous to any but a horseman. It made him smile to see her ears laid back, not in the manner of a horse putting forth its last efforts, but with that vicious air she always had, as though she were running open-mouthed at Jacob Smith, as he had seen her do in the corral on his introduction to her.
When they came to the river ford he was a bare hundred yards in the wake of his man. Here the road turned off for the ranch, and the trees met overhead and shut out the light of the moon. It was pitch black, and he was only guided by the sound of the other horse in front. Abreast of the ford he became aware that this sound had abruptly died out, and at the bend of the trail he pulled up and listened acutely. They stood thus, the mare’s great body heaving under him, until her rider caught the faint sound of breaking bush somewhere directly ahead of them.
Instantly recollection came to his help, and he laughed as he turned the mare off the trail and plunged into the scrub. It was the spot where, once before, he had taken, unwillingly, to the bush. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. They raced through the tangle, and threaded their way on to the disused trail they had both traveled before.
The fugitive had gained considerably now, and Tresler, for the first time since the race had begun, asked his mare for more pace. She simply shook her head, snorted, and swished her tail, as though protestingthat the blow was unnecessary. She could not do the impossible, and that he was asking of her. But his forcible request was the nervous result of his knowledge that the last lap of the race had been entered upon and the home stretch was not far off. It must be now or never.
He soon realized that the remaining distance was all too short. As he came to the place where the forest abruptly terminated, he saw that day had broken. The gray light showed him to be still thirty yards or so behind.
They had reached the broken lands he remembered so well. Before him stretched the plateau leading to the convergence of the river and the cliff. It was the sight of this which gave him an inspiration. He remembered the branching trail to the bridge, also the wide sweep it took, as compared with the way he had first come. To leap the river would gain him fifty yards. But in that light it was a risk—a grave risk. He hesitated. Annoyed at his own indecision, he determined to risk everything on one throw. The other horse was distinctly lagging. He reached down and patted his mare’s neck. And that simple action restored his confidence; he felt that she was still on top of her work. The river would have no terrors for her.
He saw the masked man turn off for the bridge, but he held straight on. He gave another anxious look at the sky. The dull gray was still unbroken by any flush of sunrise, but it was lighter, certainly. The mask of clouds was breaking, though it still contrived to keep daylight in abeyance. He had no option but to settlehimself in the saddle for the great effort. Light or no light, he could not turn back now.
And for the while he forgot the fugitive. His mind centred on the river ahead, and the moment when his hand must lend the mare that aid, without which he could not hope, after her great journey, to win the far bank. His nerve was steady, and his eyes never more alert. Everything was distinct enough about him. The bushes flying by were clearly outlined now, and he fancied he could already see the river’s line of demarkation. On they raced, he leaning well forward, she with her ears pricked, attentive to the murmurs of the water already so near. Unconsciously his knees gripped the leggaderos of his saddle with all the power he could put into the pressure, and his body was bent crouching, as though he were about to make the spring himself.
And the moment came. He spurred and lifted; and the game beast shot forward like a rocket. A moment, and she landed. But the half lights must have deceived her. She had jumped further than before, and, crashing into a boulder with her two fore feet, she turned a complete somersault, and fell headlong to the ground, hurling her rider yards out of the saddle into the soft loose sand of the trail beyond.
Quite unhurt, Tresler was on his feet in an instant. But the mare lay still where she had fallen. A hopeless feeling of regret swept over the man as he turned and beheld her. He saw the masked rider dash at the hillside on his weary horse, not twenty yards from him, but he gave him no heed.
It needed no look into the mare’s glazing eyes to tell him what he had done. He had killed her. The first really honest act of her life had led to the unfortunate creature’s own undoing. Her lean ewe neck was broken, as were both her forelegs.
The moment he had ascertained the truth he left her, and, looking up at the hill, saw that it was high time. The rider had vanished, but his jaded horse was standing half-way up the hillside in the mire of loose sand. It was either too frightened or too weary to move, and stood there knee-deep, a picture of dejection.
The task of mounting to the ledge was no light one, but Tresler faced it without a second thought. The other had only something less than a minute’s start of him, and as there was only one other exit to the place—and that, he remembered, of a very unpromising nature—he had few fears of the man’s ultimate escape. No, there was no escape for him; and besides—a smile lit up the hard set of his features at the thought—daylight had really come. The clouds had at last given way before the rosy herald of sunrise.
The last of the ascent was accomplished, and, breathing hard, Tresler stepped on to the gravel-strewn plateau, gun in hand. He felt glad of his five-chambered companion. Those rough friends of his on the ranch were right. There was nothing so compelling, nothing so arbitrary, nor so reassuring to the possessor and confounding to his enemies, as a gun well handled.
The ledge was empty. He looked at the towering cliff, but there was no sign of his man in that direction. He moved toward the hut, but at the first step the doorof the dugout was flung wide, and Julian Marbolt, gun in hand, dashed out.
He came with a rush, without hesitation, confidently; but as the door was thrown open, and the flood of daylight shone down upon him, he fell back with a bitter cry of despair, and Tresler knew that he had not reckoned on the change from comparative darkness to daylight. He needed no further proof of what he had come to suspect. The rancher was only blind in the presence of strong light!
For a second only he stood cowering back, then, feeling his way, he darted with miraculous rapidity round the side of the building, and scrambled toward the dizzy staircase in the rock.
Tresler challenged him at once, but he paid no heed. He had reached the foot of the stairway, and was climbing for life and liberty. The other knew that he ought to have opened fire on him, but the old desire to trust to his hands and bodily strength overcame his better judgment, and he ran at him. His impulse was humane but futile, for the man was ascending with marvelous rapidity, and by the time he had reached the foot of the ladder, was beyond his reach.
There was nothing left now but to use his gun or to follow. One look at the terrific ascent, however, left him no choice.
“Go on, and I’ll drop you, Julian Marbolt!” he shouted. “I’ve five chambers loaded in each gun.”
For response, the blind man increased his exertions. On he went, up, up, till it made the man below dizzy to watch him. Tresler raised his gun and fired wide,letting the bullet strike the rock close to the man’s right hand to convince him of his intentions. He saw the limestone splinter as the bullet hit it, while the clutching, groping hand slid higher for a fresh hold; but it had no other effect.
He was at a loss. If the man reached the top, he knew that somewhere over the brink lay a road to safety. And he was nearing it; nearing it foot by foot with his crawling, clinging clutch upon the face of rock. He shuddered as he watched, fascinated even against himself. Deprived of sight, the man’s whole body seemed alert with an instinct that served him in its stead. His movements were like those of some cuttlefish, reaching out blindly with its long feelers and drawing itself up by the power of its tentacles.
He shouted a last warning. “Your last chance!” he cried; and now his aim was true, and his purpose inflexible.
The only answer was a hurried movement on the part of the climbing man.
Tresler’s finger was on the trigger, while his eyes were fixed on his mark. But the hammer did not fall; the final compression of the hand was stayed, while horror leapt into the eyes so keenly looking over the sight. Something had happened up there on the face of the cliff. The man had slipped! One foot shot out helplessly, as the frantic climber struggled for those last few steps before the shot came. He wildly sought to recover himself, but the fatal jolt carried the weight of his body with it, and wrenched the other foot from its hold. For the fraction of a second the man belowbecame aware of the clinging hands, as they desperately held to the rock, and then he dropped his gun and clapped his hands over his ears as a piercing shriek rang out. He could not witness any more. He only heard, in spite of his stopped ears, the lumping of a soft body falling; he saw, though his eyes were closed almost on the instant, a huddled figure pitch dully upon the edge of the plateau and disappear below. It all passed in a flash.
Then silence reigned. And when he opened his eyes there was no horrible sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. It had gone; no trace was left, not a tatter of cloth, not a spot of blood, nothing.
He knew. His imaginary vision of the old-time trapper had been enacted before his very eyes. All that remained of Julian Marbolt was lying—down there.
Fyles and Tresler were standing in the valley below. They were gazing on the mangled remains of the rancher. Fyles had removed the piece of red blanket from the dead man’s face, and held it up for inspection.
“Um!” he grunted. “The game’s played out.”
“There’s more of that up there in the hut,” said Tresler.
“Breed blanket,” commented Fyles, folding it up and carefully bestowing it in his pocket. Then he turned and gazed down the yawning valley. It was a wonderful place, a mighty rift extending for miles into the heart of the mountains. “A nice game, too,” he went on presently. “Ever seen this place before?”
“Once,” Tresler replied. Then he told the officer of his runaway ride.
Fyles listened with interest. At the conclusion he said, “Pity you didn’t tell me of this before. However, you missed the chief interest. Look away down there in the shelter of the cliff. See—about a mile down. Corrals enough to shepherd ten thousand head. And they are cunningly disposed.”
Tresler now became aware of a scattered array of corrals, stretching away out into the distance, but so arranged at the foot of the towering walls of the valley that they needed looking for closely.
Then he looked up at the ledge which had been the scene of the disaster, and the ladder of hewn steps above, and he pointed at them.
“I wonder what’s on the other side?”
“That’s an easy one,” replied his companion promptly. “Half-breeds.”
“A settlement?”
“That’s about it. You remember the Breeds cleared away from their old settlement lately. We’ve never found them. Once they take to the hills, it’s like a needle in a haystack. Maybe friend Anton is in hiding there.”
“I doubt it. ‘Tough’ McCulloch didn’t belong to them, as I told you. He comes from over the border. No; he’s getting away as fast as his horse can carry him. And Arizona isn’t far off his trail, if I’m any judge.”
Fyles’s great round face was turned contemplatively on his companion.
“Well, that’s for the future, anyhow,” he observed, and moved to a bush some yards away. “Let’s take it easy. Money, one of my deputies, has gone in for a wagon. I don’t expect him for a couple of hours or so. We must keep it company,” he added, nodding his head in the direction of the dead man.
They sat down and silently lit their pipes. Fyles was the first to speak.
“Guess I’ve got to thank you,” he said, as though that sort of thing was quite out of his province.
Tresler shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Thank my poor mare.” Then he added, with a bitter laugh, “Why, but for the accident of his fall, I’m not sure he wouldn’t have escaped. I’m pretty weak-kneed when it comes to dropping a man in cold blood.”
The other shook his head.
“No; he wouldn’t have escaped. You underestimate yourself. But even if you had missed I had him covered with my carbine. I was watching the whole thing down here. You see, Money and I came on behind. I don’t suppose we were more than a few minutes after you. That mare you were riding was a dandy. I see she’s done.”
“Yes,” Tresler said sorrowfully. “And I’m not ashamed to say it’s hit me hard. She did us a good turn.”
“And she owed it to us.”
“You mean when she upset everything during the fight?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s more than made amends. In spite ofher temper, that mare of mine was the finest thing on the ranch.”
“Yours?” Fyles raised his eyebrows.
“Well—Marbolt’s.”
But the officer shook his head. “Nor Marbolt’s. She belonged to me. Three years ago I turned her out to graze at Whitewater with a bunch of others, as an incorrigible rogue and vagabond. The whole lot were stolen and one of the guard shot. Her name was ‘Strike ’em.’”
“Strike ’em?”
“Yes. Ever have her come at you with both front feet, and her mouth open?”
Tresler nodded.
“That’s it. ‘Strike ’em.’ Fine mare—half blood.”
“But Marbolt told Jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit.”
“Dare say he did.”
Fyles relit his pipe for about the twentieth time, which caused Tresler to hand him his pouch.
“Try tobacco,” he said, with a smile.
The sheriff accepted the invitation with unruffled composure. The gentle sarcasm passed quite unheeded. Probably the man was too intent on the business of the moment, for he went on as though no interruption had occurred.
“After seeing you on that mare I found the ranch interesting. But the man’s blindness fooled me right along. I had no trouble in ascertaining that Jake had nothing to do with things. Also I was assured that none of the ‘hands’ were playing the game. Antonwas the man for me. But soon I discovered that he was not the actual leader. So far, good. There was only Marbolt left; but he was blind. Last night, when you came for me, and told me what had happened at the ranch, and about the lighted lamp, I tumbled. But even so I still failed to understand all. The man was blind in daylight, and could see in darkness or half-light. Now, what the deuce sort of blind disease is that? And he seems to have kept the secret, acting the blind man at all times. It was clever—devilish clever.”
Tresler nodded. “Yes; he fooled us all, even his daughter.”
The other shot a quick glance from out of the corners of his eyes.
“I suppose so,” he observed, and waited.
They smoked in silence.
“What are you going to do next?” asked Tresler, as the other showed no disposition to speak.
The man shrugged. “Take possession of the ranch. Just keep the hands to run it. The lady had better go into Forks if she has any friends there. You might see to that. I understand that you are—gossip, you know.”
“Yes.”
“There’ll be inquiries and formalities. The property I don’t know about. That will be settled by the government.”
Tresler became thoughtful. Suddenly he turned to his companion.
“Sheriff,” he said earnestly, “I hope you’ll spareMiss Marbolt all you can. She has lived a terribly unhappy life with him. I can assure you she has known nothing of this—nothing of the strange blindness. I would swear it with my last breath.”
“I don’t doubt you, my boy,” the other said heartily. “We owe you too much to doubt you. She shall not be bothered more than can be helped. But she had some knowledge of that blindness, or she would not have acted as she did with that lamp. I tell you candidly she will have to make a statement.”
“Have no doubt; she will explain.”
“Sure—ah! I think I hear the wheels of the wagon.” Fyles looked round. Then he settled himself down again. “Jake,” he went on, “was smartest of us all. I can’t believe he was ever told of his patron’s curious blindness. He must have discovered it. He was playing a big game. And all for a woman! Well, well.”
“No doubt he thought she was worth it,” said Tresler, with some asperity.
The officer smiled at the tone. “No doubt, no doubt. Still, he wasn’t young. He fooled you when he concurred with your suspicions of Anton—that is, he knew you were off the true scent, and meant keeping you off it. I can understand, too, why you were sent to Willow Bluff. You knew too much, you were too inquiring. Besides, from your own showing to Jake—which he carried on to the blind man for his own ends—you wanted too much. You had to be got rid of, as others have been got rid of before. Yes, it was all very clever. And he never spared his ownstock. Robbed himself by transferring a bunch of steers to these corrals, and, later on, I suppose, letting them drift back to his own pastures. I only wonder why, with a ranch like his, he ran the risk.”
“Perhaps it was old-time associations. He was a slave-trader once, and no doubt he stocked his ranch originally by raiding the Indians’ cattle. Then, when white people came around, and the Indians disappeared, he continued his depredations on less open lines.”
“Ah! slave-trader, was he? Who said?”
“Miss Marbolt innocently told me he once traded in the Indies in ‘black ivory.’ She did not understand.”
“Just so—ah, here is the wagon.”
Fyles rose leisurely to his feet. And Money drove up.
“The best of news, sheriff,” the latter cried at once. “Captured the lot. Some of the boys are badly damaged, but we’ve got ’em all.”
“Well, we’ll get back with this,” the officer replied quietly.
The dead man was lifted into the wagon, and, in a few minutes, the little party was on its way back to the ranch.
The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything was temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he proved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemed suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his proper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then the authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman, and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley’s.
Diane, acting on Tresler’s advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs. Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As a matter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and conditions of her father’s death, and the discovery that he was so terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the death of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her old home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on, when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go intoWhitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness, she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influence and consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the trial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at the preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence at the higher court.
And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return to Forks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with the ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement to the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than might have been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost second nature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind and watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and with motherly solicitude—she had no children of her own—insisted on the only remedy she understood—physic. And the girl submitted to the kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help her complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages and assurances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in her life than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried out his threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on any man. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a girl with such a past, such parentage.
And so she waited for her lover’s return to tell him. Once she thought of writing it, but she knew Jack toowell. He would only come down to Forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no desire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decision when he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for the government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country forever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her young face.
It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that rough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men, who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her troubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and, instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly on the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate, hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for existence.
And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very different man now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about him as he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler’s little house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him there. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney’s saloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help or guide. He straightway hooked his horse’s reins over the tie-post and walked into the bar.
The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the rascal’s appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the same men there—one or two more besides—the same reeking atmosphere, the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.
Slum’s greeting was characteristic. “Wal, blind-hulks has passed—eh? I figgered you was comin’ out on top. Guess the government’ll treat you han’some.”
The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing “solitaire” with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard Slum’s greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be.
Tresler felt that something was due to those whocould display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. Then he turned to Slum.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to take up my abode here for a week or two.”
“I’m real glad,” said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before. “The missis’ll be glad, too,” he added. “I ’lows she’s a far-seein’ wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran’ noo iron bed, wi’ green an’ red stripes, an’ a washbowl goin’ with it. Say, it’s a real dandy layout, an’ on’y three dollars a week wi’out board. Guess I’ll git right over an’ tell her to fix—eh?”
Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Don’t bother. Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren’t you, Carney?”
“That’s how,” replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible Slum.
“Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o’ your goin’ over from a pal like that,” said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar.
“Guess he’s had some,” observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. “I ’lows that bed has bugs, an’ the wash-bowl’s mostly used dippin’ out swill,” he finished up scornfully.
Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. “Guess I never knew you but what you was insultin’, Shaky,” he observed, in a tone of pity. “Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin’ themcards too close. You never was bustin’ wi’ brains. Say, Carney,” turning back to the bar complainingly, “wher’s them durned brandy ‘cocks’ Mr. Tresler ordered a whiles back? You’re gettin’ most like a fun’ral on an up-hill trail. Slow—eh? Guess if we’re to be pizened I sez do it quick.”
“Comin’ along, Slum,” replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler understand that the man’s impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at Shaky’s hands. “I’ve done my best to pizen you this ten year. Guess Shaky’s still pinin’ fer the job o’ nailin’ a few planks around you. Here you are. More comin’.”
“Who’s needin’ me?” asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. “Slum Ranks?” he questioned, pausing. “Guess I’ve got a plank or two fit fer him. Red pine. Burns better.”
He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.
“Say, go easy wi’ that lucifer. Don’t breathe on it, or ther’ won’t be no need fer red pine fer you.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Carney, jocosely, “the present—kep to the present. Because Slum, here, runs a—well, a boardin’ establishment, ther’ ain’t no need to discuss his future so coarsely.”
“Not so much slack, Carney,” said Slum, a little angrily. “Guess my boardin’ emporium’s rilin’ you some. You’re feelin’ a hur’cane; that’s wot you’re feelin’, I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin’ value fer their dollars, don’t it?”
“Good fer you, good fer you,” cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw.
The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.
“Sail in, Slum,” said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as “Sawny” Martin. “I allus sez as you’ve got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev’ry time. But go easy, or the boss’ll bar you on the slate.”
“Don’t owe him nuthin’,” growled Slum.
“Which ain’t or’nary in this company,” observed the smiling Carney; he loved to get Slum angry. “Say, Shaky,” he went on, “how do Slum fix you in his—hotel? You don’t seem bustin’ wi’ vittals.”
“Might do wuss,” responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. “But, y’ see, I stan’ in wi’ Doc. Osler, an’ he physics me reg’lar.”
Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.
“Say, you gorl-durned ‘fun’ral boards,’ you’re gittin’ kind o’ fresh, but I’d bet a greenback to a last year’s corn-shuck you don’t quit ther’ an’ come grazin’ around Carney’s pastures, long as my missis does the cookin’.”
“I ’lows your missis ken cook,” said Shaky, with enthusiasm. “The feller as sez she can’t lies. But wi’ her, my respec’ fer your hog-pen ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who’s fer ‘draw’?”
Slum turned back to the bar. “Here, Carney,” he said, planking out a ten-dollar bill, “hand over chips to that. We’re losin’ blessed hours gassin’. I’m goin’ fer a hand at ‘draw.’ An’ say, give us a new deck o’ cards. Guess them o’ Shaky’s needs curry-combin’some. Mr. Tresler,” he went on, turning to his old boarder, “mebbe I owe you some. Have you a notion?”
“No thanks, Slum,” replied Tresler, decidedly. “I’m getting an old hand now.”
“Ah!”
And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features.
Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for “draw.” And what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker—an artist. The baser instincts of the game appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there to best each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood that his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only would he resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would be real trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had been doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for years more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had no opinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them, and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in Life’s great battle.
But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had been waiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler asked him the reason.
“Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler,” the burly man said, with something like a smile. “He wouldn’t come in. Shall we go out to him?”
The other assented, and they passed out. Joe was sitting on his buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his old eyes.
“Why are you sitting there?” Tresler asked at once. Then he regretted his question.
“Wal,” Joe drawled, without the least hesitation, “I’m figgerin’ you oughter know by this time. Ther’s things born to live on liquid, an’ they’ve mostly growed tails. Guess I ain’t growed that—yet. Mebbe I’ll git down at Doc. Osler’s. An’ I’ll git on agin right ther’,” he added, as an afterthought.
Joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but Tresler was annoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him.
“Well, I’m sorry I suggested it, Joe,” he said quickly; “as you say, I ought to have known better. Never mind, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Name it, an’ I’ll do it if I bust.”
The little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor of him.
Tresler didn’t respond at once. He didn’t want to put the matter too bluntly. He didn’t want to let Joe feel that he regarded him as a subordinate.
“Well, you see, I’m looking for some one of good experience to give me some friendly help. You see, I’ve bought a nice place, and—well, in fact, I’m setting up ranching on my own, and I want you to come and help me with it. That’s all.”
Joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distant hills, his eyes turned on Doc. Osler’s house; he cleared his throat and screwed hisface into the most weird shape. His eyes sought the door of the saloon and finally came back to Tresler. He swallowed two or three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he were going to strike his benefactor.
“Shake,” he muttered hoarsely.
And Tresler gripped the proffered hand. “And perhaps you’ll have that flower-garden, Joe,” he said, “without the weeds.”
“Mr. Tresler, sir, shake agin.”
“Never mind the ‘mister’ or the ‘sir,’” said Tresler. “We are old friends. Now, Fyles,” he went on, turning to the officer, who had been looking on as an interested spectator, “have you any news for Miss Marbolt?”
“Yes, the decision’s made. I’ve got the document here in my pocket.”
“Good. But don’t tell it me. Give me an hour’s start of you. I’m going to see the lady myself. And, Joe,” Tresler looked up into the old man’s beaming face. “Will you come with the sheriff when he interviews—er—our client?”
“All right, Mis——”
“No.”
“Tresler, si——”
“No.”
“All right, Tresler,” said the old man, in a strangely husky voice.
Diane was confronting her lover for the last interview. Mrs. Osler had discreetly left them, and nowthey were sitting in the diminutive parlor, the man, at the girl’s expressed wish, sitting as far from her as the size of the room would permit. All his cheeriness had deserted him and a decided frown marred the open frankness of his face.
Diane, herself, looked a little older than when we saw her last at the ranch. The dark shadows round her pretty eyes were darker, and her face looked thinner and paler, while her eyes shone with a feverish brightness.
“You overruled my decision once, Jack,” she was saying in a low tone that she had difficulty in keeping steady, “but this time it must not be.”
“Well, look here, Danny, I can give you just an hour in which to ease your mind, but I tell you candidly, after that you’ll have to say ‘yes,’ in spite of all your objections. So fire away. Here’s the watch. I’m going to time you.”
Tresler spoke lightly and finished up with a laugh. But he didn’t feel like laughter. This objection came as a shock to him. He had pictured such a different meeting.
Diane shook her head. “I can say all I have to say in less time than that, Jack. Promise me that you will not misunderstand me. You know my heart, dear. It is all yours, but, but—Jack, I did not tell all I knew at the inquest.”
She paused, but Tresler made no offer to help her out. “I knew father could see at night. He was what Mr. Osler calls a—Nyc—Nyctalops. That’s it. It’s some strange disease and not real blindness at all, asfar as I can make out. He simply couldn’t see in daylight because there was something about his eyes which let in so much light, that all sense of vision was paralyzed, and at such time he suffered intense pain. But when evening came, in the moonlight, or late twilight; in fact at any time when there was no glare of light, just a soft radiance, he could not only see but was possessed of peculiarly acute vision. How he kept his secret for so many years I don’t know. I understand why he did, but, even now, I cannot understand what drove him to commit the dreadful deeds he did, so wealthy and all as he was.”
Tresler thought he could guess pretty closely. But he waited for her to go on.
“Jack, I discovered that he could see at night when you were ill, just before you recovered consciousness,” she went on, in a solemn, awestruck tone.
“Ah!”
“Yes, while you were lying there insensible you narrowly escaped being murdered.”
Again she paused, and shuddered visibly.
“I was afraid of something. His conduct when you were brought in warned me. He seemed to resent your existence; he certainly resented your being in the house, but most of all my attendance on you. I was very watchful, but the strain was too much, and, one night, feeling that the danger of sleep for me was very real, I barricaded the stairs. I did my utmost to keep awake, but foolishly sat down on my own bed and fell asleep. Then I awoke with a start; I can’t say what woke me. Anyway, realizing I had slept, I becamealarmed for you. I picked up the light and went out into the hall, where I found my barricade removed——”
“Yes, and your father at my bedside, with his hands at my throat.”
“Loosening the bandage.”
“To?”
“To open the wound and let you bleed to death.”
“I see. Yes, I remember. I dreamt the whole scene, except the bandage business. But you——”
“I had the lighted lamp, and the moment its light flashed on him he was as—as blind as a bat. His hands moved about your bandage fumbling and uncertain. Yes, he was blind enough then. I believe he would have attacked me, only I threatened him with the lamp, and with calling for help.”
“Brave little woman—yes, I remember your words. They were in my dream. And that’s how you knew what to do later on when Jake and he——”
The girl nodded.
“So Fyles was right,” Tresler went on musingly. “You did know.”
“Was I wrong, Jack, in not telling them at the inquest? You see he is dead, and——”
“On the contrary, you were right. It would have done no manner of good. You might have told me, though.”
“Well, I didn’t know what to do,” the girl said, a little helplessly. “You see I never thought of cattle-stealing. It never entered my head that he was, or could be, Red Mask. I only looked upon it as a villainous attempt on your life, which would not be likelyto occur again, and which it would serve no purpose to tell you of. Besides, the horror——”
“Yes, I see. Perhaps you were right. It would have put us on the right track though, as, later on, the fight with Jake and your action with regard to it did. Never mind; that’s over. Julian Marbolt was an utter villain from the start. You may as well know that his trading in ‘black ivory’ was another name for slave-trading. His blindness had nothing to do with driving him to crime, nor had your mother’s doings. He was a rogue before. His blindness only enabled him to play a deeper game, which was a matter likely to appeal to his nature. However, nothing can be altered by discussing him. I have bought a ranch adjoining Mosquito Bend, and secured Joe’s assistance as foreman. I have given out contracts for rebuilding the house; also, I’ve sent orders east for furnishings. I am going to buy my stock at the fall round-up. All I want now is for you to say when you will marry me, sweetheart.”
“But, Jack, you don’t seem to understand. I can’t marry you. Father was a—a murderer.”
“I don’t care what he was, Danny. It doesn’t make the least difference to me. I’m not marrying your father.”
Diane was distressed. The lightness of his treatment of the subject bothered her. But she was in deadly earnest.
“But, Jack, think of the disgrace! Your people! All the folk about here!”
“Now don’t let us be silly, Danny,” Tresler said,coming over to the girl’s side and taking possession of her forcibly. In spite of protest his arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. “My people are not marrying you. Nor are the folk—who, by the way, can’t, and have no desire to throw stones—doing so either. Now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, once through your bravery. And I tell you no one has the right to save life and then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burden to the miserable wretch on whom they’ve lavished such care. That would be a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentle heart. Sweetheart,” he went on, kissing her again, “you must complete the good work. I am anything but well yet. In fact I am so weak that any shock might cause a relapse. In short, there is only one thing, as far as I can see, to save me from a horrid death—consumption or colic, or some fell disease—and that’s marriage. I know you must be bored to death by——No,” as the girl tried to stop him, “don’t interrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth—a sort of chronic invalid, but if you don’t marry me, well, I’ll get Joe to bury me somewhere at the crossroads. Look at all the money I’ve spent in getting our home together. Think of it, Danny; our home! And old Joe to help us. And——”
“Oh, stop, stop, or you’ll make me——”
“Marry me. Just exactly what I intend, darling. Now, seriously, let’s forget the old past; Jake, your father, Anton, all of them—except Arizona.”
Diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests.There was something so strong, reliant, masterful about her Jack that made him irresistible to her. She knew she was wrong in allowing herself to think like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak, loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right. If she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcame her sense of duty, was there much blame? Tresler felt the gentle clinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once.
“Time’s nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe are coming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regions fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don’t care which it is—I mean—no. Yes, quick! They’re on the verandah.”
The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said, so low that his face came in contact with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly sheriff knocked at the door.
He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side by side. He was still holding her hand.
“Fyles,” Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, “let me present you to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe,” he added, turning on the little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, “are the corrals prepared, and have you got my branding-irons ready? You see I’ve rounded her up.”
The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Diane listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely remarking in true wifely fashion—
“Don’t be absurd, Jack!”
At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring them to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic pocket.
“I’ve just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt,” he said deliberately. “Shall I read it to you, or would you——?”
“Never mind the reading,” said Diane impulsively. “Tell me the contents.”
“Well, I confess it’s better so. The legal terms are confusing,” said the officer emphatically. “You can read them later. I don’t guess the government could have acted better by you than they’ve done. The property,”—he was careful to avoid the rancher’s name—“the property is to remain yours, with this proviso. An inquiry has been arranged for, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years in the district. And all approved claims will have to be settled out of the estate. Five years is the time allowed for all such claims to be put forward. After that everything reverts to you.”
Diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finished speaking.
“And, Jack, when that time comes we’ll sell it all and give the money to charity, and just live on in our own little home.”
“Done!” exclaimed Tresler. And seizing her in his arms he picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss. The action caused the sheriff to cough loudly, while Joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in a voice of wildest excitement, shouted—
“Gee, but I want to holler!”
When winter comes in Canada it shuts down with no uncertainty. The snow settles and remains. The sun shines, but without warmth. The still air bites through any clothing but furs, moccasins, or felt-lined overshoes. The farmers hug the shelter of their houses, and only that work which is known as “doing the chores” receives attention when once winter sets its seal upon the land. Little traffic passes over the drifted trails now; a horseman upon a social visit bent, a bobsleigh loaded with cord-wood for the wood-stoves at home, a cutter, drawn by a rattling team of young bronchos, as rancher and wife seek the alluring stores of some distant city to make their household purchases, even an occasional “jumper,” one of those low-built, red-painted, one-horsed sleighs, which resemble nothing so much as a packing-case with a pair of shafts attached. But these are all; for work has practically ceased in the agricultural regions, and a period of hibernation has begun, when, like the dormouse, rancher and farmer alike pass their slack time in repose from the arduous labors of the open season.
Even the most brilliant sunlight cannot cheer the mournful outlook to any great extent. Out on the Edmontontrail, hundreds of miles to the north of Forks, at the crossroads where the Battule trail branches to the east, the cheerless prospect is intensified by the skeleton arms of a snow-crowned bluff. The shelter of trees is no longer a shelter against the wind, which now comes shrieking through the leafless branches and drives out any benighted creature foolish enough to seek its protection against the winter storm. But in winter the crossroads are usually deserted.
Contrary to custom, however, it is evident that a horseman has recently visited the bluff. For there are hoof-prints on one of the crossing trails; on the trail which comes from somewhere in the south. The marks are sharp indentations and look fresh, but they terminate as the crossing is reached. Here they have turned off into the bush and are lost to view. The matter is somewhat incomprehensible.
But there is something still more incomprehensible about the desolate place. Just beyond where the hoof-prints turn off a lightning-stricken pine tree stands alone, bare and blackened by the fiery ordeal through which it has passed, and, resting in the fork of one of its shriveled branches, about the height of a horseman’s head, is a board—a black board, black as is the tree-trunk which supports it.
As we draw nearer to ascertain the object of so strange a phenomenon on a prairie trail we learn that some one has inscribed a message to those who may arrive at the crossing. A message of strange meaning and obscure. The characters are laboriously executed in chalk, and have been emphasized with repeated markings and anattempt at block capitals. Also there is a hand sketched roughly upon the board, with an outstretched finger pointing vaguely somewhere in the direction of the trail which leads to Battule.
“This is the One-Way Trail”
We read this and glance at the pointing finger which is so shaky of outline, and our first inclination is to laugh. But somehow before the laugh has well matured it dies away, leaving behind it a look of wonder not unmixed with awe. For there is something sinister in the message, which, though we do not understand it, still has power to move us. If we are prairie folk we shall have no inclination to laugh at all. Rather shall we frown and edge away from the ominous black board; and it is more than probable we shall avoid the trail indicated, and prefer to make a detour if our destination should chance to be Battule.
Why is that board there? Who has set it up? And “the one-way trail” is the trail over which there is no returning. The message is no jest.
The coldly gleaming sun has set, and at last a horse and rider enter the bluff. They turn off into the bush and are seen no more. The long night passes. Dawn comes again, and, as the daylight broadens, the horseman reappears and rides off down the trail. At evening he returns again; disappears into the bush again; and, with daylight, rides off again. Day after day this curious coming and going continues without any apparent object, unless it be that the man has no place but the skeleton bush in which to rest. And with eachcoming and going the man rides slower, he lounges wearily in his saddle, and before the end of a week looks a mere spectre of the man who first rode into the bluff. Starvation is in the emaciated features, the brilliant feverish eyes. His horse, too, appears little better.
At length one evening he enters the bush, and the following dawn fails to witness his departure. All that day there is the faint sound of a horse moving about amongst the trees with that limping gait which denotes the application of a knee-halter. But the man makes no sound.
As night comes on a solitary figure may be seen seated on a horse at a point which is sheltered from the trail by a screen of bushes. The man sits still, silent, but drooping. His tall gaunt frame is bent almost double over the horn of his saddle in his weakness. The horse’s head is hanging heavy with sleep, but the man’s great, wild eyes are wide open and alight with burning eagerness. The horse sleeps and frequently has to be awakened by its rider as it stumbles beneath its burden; but the man is as wakeful as the night-owl seeking its prey, and the grim set of his wasted face implies a purpose no less ruthless.
At dawn the position is unchanged. The man still droops over his saddle-horn, a little lower perhaps, but his general attitude is the same. As the daylight shoots athwart the horizon and lightens the darkness of the bush to a gray twilight the horse raises his head and pricks up his ears. The man’s eyes glance swiftly toward the south and his alertness is intensified.
Now the soft rustle of flurrying snow becomes audible, and the muffled pounding of a horse’s hoofs can be heard upon the trail. The look that leaps into the waiting man’s eyes tells plainly that this is what he has so patiently awaited, that here, at last, is the key to his lonely vigil. He draws his horse back further into the bushes and his hand moves swiftly to one of the holsters upon his hips. His thin, drawn features are sternly set, and the sunken eyes are lit with a deep, hard light.
Daylight broadens and reveals the barren surroundings; the sound draws nearer. The silent horseman grips his gun and lays it across his lap with his forefinger ready upon the trigger. His quick ears tell him that the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking his horse. The time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but his patience is not exhausted by any means. For more than a week, subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven him to beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting.
Now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles down the trail toward him. It is a slight fur-clad figure much like his own, but, to judge by the grim smile that passes across his gaunt features, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. He notes the stranger’s alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes, the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over the edge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close to the saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. Nor does he fail to observe the uneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that,in spite of the solitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings.
The stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. His sidelong glances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. His horse comes to a dead stand opposite them, and the rider’s eyes become fixed upon the strange message. He reads; and while he reads his lips move like one who spells out the words he sees.
“This is the One-Way Trail,” he reads. And then his eyes turn in the direction of the pointing finger.
He looks down the trail which leads to Battule, whither the finger is pointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his dusky features. Instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant for him. And, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhere out there. And yet he does not turn and flee. He simply sits looking and thinking.
Again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon the board and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. And all the time he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. For his mind goes back over many scenes that do him little credit. Even to his callous nature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and its effect he cannot shake off. And while he stares his dark features change their hue, and he passes one mitted hand across his forehead.
There is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yards of him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty he retains his seat in the saddle; then he flashes a look in the direction whence the noise proceeds, only to reel back as though to wardoff a blow. He is looking into the muzzle of a heavy “six” with Arizona’s blazing eyes running over the sight.
The silence of the bush remained unbroken as the two men looked into each other’s faces. The gun did not belch forth its death-dealing pellet. It was simply there, leveled, to enforce its owner’s will. Its compelling presence was a power not easily to be defied in a country where, in those days, the surest law was carried in the holster on the hip. The man recovered and submitted. His hands, encased in mitts, had placed him at a woeful disadvantage.
Arizona saw this and lowered his gun, but his eyes never lost sight of the fur-clad hands before him. He straightened himself up in the saddle, refusing to display any of his weakness to this man.
“Guess I’ve waited fer you, ‘Tough’ McCulloch, fer nigh on a week,” he said slowly, in a thin, strident voice. “I’ve coaxed you some too, I guess. You wus hidden mighty tight, but not jest tight ’nuff. I ’lows I located you, an’ I wa’n’t goin’ to lose sight o’ you. When you quit Skitter Bend, like the whipped cur you wus, I wus right hot on your trail. An’ I ain’t never left it. See? Say, in all the hundreds o’ miles you’ve traveled sence you quit the creek ther’ ain’t bin a move as you’ve took I ain’t looked on at. I’ve trailed you, headed you, bin alongside you, an’ located wher’ you wus makin’, an’ come along an’ waited on you. Ther’s a score ’tween you an’ me as wants squarin’. I’m right here fer to squar’ that score.”
Arizona’s sombre face was unrelieved by any changeof expression while he was speaking. There was no anger in his tone; just cold, calm purpose, and some contempt. And whatever feelings the half-breed may have had he seemed incapable of showing them, except in the sickly hue of his face.
The fascination of the message on the board still seemed to attract him, for, without heeding the other’s words, he glanced over at the seared tree-trunk and nodded at it.
“See. Dat ting. It your work. Hah?”
“Yes; an’ I take it the meanin’s clear to you. You’ve struck the trail we all stan’ on some time, pardner, an’ that trail is mostly called the ‘One-Way Trail.’ It’s a slick, broad trail, an’ one as is that smooth to the foot as you’re like to find anywheres. It’s so dead easy you can’t help goin’ on, an’ you on’y larn its cussedness when you kind o’ notion gittin’ back. I ’lows as one o’ them glacier things on top o’ yonder mountains is li’ble to be easier climbin’ nor turnin’ back on that trail. The bed o’ that trail is blood, blood that’s mostly shed in crime, an’ its surface is dusted wi’ all manner o’ wrong doin’s sech as you an’ me’s bin up to. Say, it ain’t a long trail, I’m guessin’, neither. It’s dead short, in fac’ the end comes sudden-like, an’ vi’lent. But I ’lows the end ain’t allus jest the same. Sometimes y’ll find a rope hangin’ in the air. Sometimes ther’s a knife jabbin’ around; sometimes ther’s a gun wi’ a light pull waitin’ handy, same as mine. But I figger all them things mean jest ’bout the same. It’s death, pardner; an’ it ain’t easy neither. Say, you an’ me’s pretty nigh that end. You ’special. Guess you’re goin’ topass over fust. Mebbe I’ll pass over when I’m ready. It ain’t jest ne’sary fer the likes o’ us to yarn Gospel wi’ one another, but I’m goin’ to tell you somethin’ as mebbe you’re worritin’ over jest ’bout now. It’s ’bout a feller’s gal—his wife—which the same that feller never did you no harm. But fust y’ll put up them mitts o’ yours, I sees as they’re gettin’ oneasy, worritin’ around as though they’d a notion to git a grip on suthin’.”
The half-breed made no attempt to obey, but stared coldly into the lean face before him.
“Hands up!” roared Arizona, with such a dreadful change of tone that the man’s hands were thrust above his head as though a shot had struck him.
Arizona moved over to him and removed a heavy pistol from the man’s coat pocket, and then, having satisfied himself that he had no other weapons concealed about him, dropped back to his original position.
“Ah, I wus jest sayin’, ’bout that feller’s wife,” he went on quietly. “Say, you acted the skunk t’ward that feller. An’ that feller wus me. I don’t say I wus jest a daisy husband fer that gal, but that wa’n’t your consarn. Wot’s troublin’ wus your monkeyin’ around, waitin’ so he’s out o’ the way an’ then vamoosin’ wi’ the wench an’ all. Guess I’m goin’ to kill you fer that sure. But ther’ ain’t none o’ the skunk to me. I’m goin’ to treat you as you wouldn’t treat me ef I wus settin’ wher’ you are, which I ain’t. You’re goin’ to hit the One-Way Trail. But you ken hit it like what you ain’t, an’ that’s a man.”