“Rustle some breakfast—quick! And hoe out that spare bedroom. Jump!”
Taylor understood perfectly what had happened, for he remembered what he had overheard between Carrington and Parsons on the train. To be sure, Miss Harlan knew nothing about the conversation, and so she mentally commended Taylor’s quickness of perception, and felt gratefulto him because he had spared her the horror of explaining further.
She sat down again, aware of the startling unconventionality of this visit and of the conversation that had resulted from it, but oppressed with no sense of shame. For it seemed entirely natural that she should have come to Taylor, though she supposed that was because he had been her father’s friend, and that she had no other person to go to—not even if she went East, to Westwood. But she would not have mentioned what had happened at the big house if Martha had not taken the initiative.
She was startled over the change that had come in Taylor. Watching him covertly as he stood near her, and following his movements as he walked around in the room, helping Bud, generously leaving her to herself and her thoughts, she looked in vain for that gentleness and subtle thoughtfulness that hitherto had seemed to distinguish him. She had admired him for his easy-going manner, the slow deliberateness of his glances, the quizzical gleam of his eyes.
But she saw him now as many of the men in this section of the country had seen him when he faced the necessity for rapid, determined action. It was the other side of his character; before she had heard his voice, and before she had seen him smile—the stern, unyielding side of him which she had discovered always was ready for the blows of adversity and enmity—his fighting side.
And when she went into the house to breakfast, feeling the strangeness of it all—of the odd fate which had led her to the Arrow; the queer reluctance that affected her over the action in accepting the hospitality of a man who—except for his association with her father—was almost a stranger to her—she found that he did not intend to insinuate his presence upon her.
He called her, and stood near the table when she and Martha went in. Then he told her gravely that the house was “hers,” and that he and Bud would live in the bunkhouse.
“And when you get settled,” he told her, as he stood in the doorway, ready to go, “we’ll write those articles of partnership. And,” he added, “don’t you go to worrying about Carrington. If he comes here, and Bud or me ain’t here, you’ll find a loaded rifle hanging behind the front door. Don’t be afraid to use it—there’s no law against killing snakes out here!”
Carrington was conscious of the error his unrestrained passion had driven him to committing. Yet he had not been sincere when he had declared to Martha that he wouldn’t bother the girl again. For after leading the two horses to Dawes and arranging for their care, he hunted up Danforth. It was nearly midnight when Danforth reached Carrington’s rooms in the Castle, and Carrington was in a sullen mood.
“I want two or three men who will do what they are told and keep their mouths shut,” he told Danforth. “Get them—quick—and send them to the Huggins house—mine, now—and have them stay there. Nobody is to leave the house—not even to come to town. Understand? Not even Parsons. Hustle! There is no train out of here tonight? No? Well, that’s all right. Get going!”
Danforth had noticed Carrington’s sullenness, and the strained excitement of his manner, and there was in Danforth’s mind an inclination to warn Carrington about including the woman in the scheme to subjugate Dawes—for he knew Carrington of old; but a certain light in thebig man’s eyes warned Danforth and he shut his half-opened lips and departed on his errand.
In an hour he returned, telling Carrington that his orders had been obeyed.
Danforth seated himself in a chair near one of the front windows and waited, for he knew Carrington still had something to say to him—the man’s eyes told him, for they were alight with a cold, speculative gleam as they rested on Danforth.
At last, after a silence that lasted long, Carrington said, shortly:
“What do you know about Taylor?”
“What I told you before—the first day. And that isn’t much.”
“I had a talk with Parsons the other day—about Larry Harlan,” said Carrington. “It seems that Larry Harlan worked for Taylor—for two or three years. I didn’t question Parsons closely about the connection between Taylor and Harlan, but it seems to me that Parsons mentioned a mine. What about it? Do you know anything about it?”
Danforth related what he knew regarding the incident of the mine—the story told by Taylor when he returned after Larry Harlan’s death—and Carrington’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“Do you think he told a straight story?” he asked.
He watched Danforth intently.
“Hell, yes!” declared the other. “He’s too square to lie!”
Five minutes later Carrington said good-night to Danforth. But Carrington did not immediately go to bed; he sat for a long time in a chair near the window looking out at the buildings of Dawes.
In the courtroom early the next morning he leaned over Judge Littlefield’s desk, smiling.
“Did you ever hear of Quinton Taylor being connected with a mining venture?”
“Well, rather.”
“Where?”
“At Nogel—in the Sangre de Christo Mountains.”
“How far is that?”
“About ten miles—due west.”
“What do you know about the mine?”
“Very little. Taylor and a man named Lawrence Harlan registered the claim here. I heard that Harlan died—was killed in an accident. Soon afterward, Taylor sold the mine—to a man named Thornton—for a consideration, not mentioned.” The judge looked sharply at Carrington. “Why this inquiry?” he asked; “do you think there is anything wrong about the transaction?”
“There is no determining that until an investigation is made.” Carrington laughed as he left the judge.
Later he got on his horse and rode to the big house. On the front porch, seated in a chair, smoking, he sawone of the men Danforth had sent in obedience to his order; at the rear of the house was another; and, lounging carelessly on the grass near the edge of the butte fringing the big valley, he saw still another—men who seemed to find their work agreeable, for they grinned at Carrington when he rode up.
Carrington dismounted and entered the house—by one of the rear doors—which he had wrecked the night before. He went in boldly, grinning, for he anticipated that by this time Marion Harlan would have reached that stage of intimidation where she would no longer resist him.
At first he was only mildly disturbed at the appearance of the interior; for nothing had been done to bring order out of the chaos he had created the night before, and the condition of the furniture, and the atmosphere of gloomy emptiness that greeted him indicated nothing. The terror under which the girl had labored during the night might still be gripping her.
He had no suspicion that the girl had left the house until after he had looked into all the rooms but the one occupied by Parsons. Then a conviction that shehadfled seized him; he scowled and leaped to the door of Parsons’ room, pounding heavily upon it.
Parsons did not answer his knock, and an instant later, when Carrington forced the door and stepped into the room, he saw Parsons standing near a window, pallid and shaking.
With a bound Carrington reached Parsons’ side and gripped the man by the collar of his coat.
“Where’s Miss Harlan?” he demanded. He noted that Parsons swayed in his grasp, and he peered at the other with a malignant joy. He had always hated Parsons, tolerating him because of Parsons’ money.
“She’s gone,” whispered Parsons tremulously. “I—I tried to stop her, knowing you wouldn’t want it, but—she went away—anyway.”
“Where?” Carrington’s fingers were gripping Parsons’ shoulder near the throat with a bitter, viselike strength that made the man cringe and groan from the pain of it.
“Don’t, Jim; for God’s sake, don’t! You’re hurting me! I—I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t stop her!”
The abject, terrified appeal in his eyes; the fawning, doglike subjection of his manner, enraged Carrington. He shook the little man with a force that racked the other from head to heel.
“Where did she go—damn you!”
“To the Arrow.”
Aroused to desperation by the flaming fury that blazed in Carrington’s eyes, Parsons tried to wrench himself free, tugging desperately, and whining: “Don’t, Jim!” For he knew that he was to be punished for his dereliction.
He shrieked when Carrington struck him; a soundwhich died in his throat as the blow landed. Carrington left him lie where he fell, and went out to the men, interrogating the one he had seen on the front porch.
From that person he learned that no one had left the house since the men had come; so that Carrington knew Marion must have departed soon after he had left the night before—or some time during the time of his departure and the arrival of the men.
Ten minutes after emerging from the house he went in again. Parsons was sitting on the floor of his room, swaying weakly back and forth, whining tonelessly, his lips loose and drooling blood.
For an instant Carrington stood over him, looking down at him with a merciless, tigerlike grin. Then he stooped, gripped Parsons by the shoulders, and, lifting him bodily, threw him across the bed. Parsons did not resist, but lay, his arms flung wide, watching the big man fearfully.
“Don’t hit me again, Jim!” he pleaded. “Jim, I’ve never done anything to you!”
“Bah!” Carrington leaned over the other, grinning malevolently.
“You’ve double-crossed me, Elam,” he said silkily. “You’re through. Get out of here before I kill you! I want to; and if you are here in five minutes, I shall kill you! Go to the Arrow—with your niece. Tell her what you know about me—if you haven’t done so already.And tell her that I am coming for her—and for Taylor, too! Now, get out!”
In less than five minutes, while Carrington was at the front of the house talking with the three men, Parsons tottered from a rear door, staggered weakly into some dense shrubbery that skirted the far side of the house, and made his slow way toward the big slope down which Marion and Martha had gone some hours before.
Retribution had descended swiftly upon Parsons; it seemed to him he was out of it, crushed and beaten. But no thread of philosophy weaved its way through the fabric of the man’s complete misery and humiliation, and no reflection that he had merely reaped what he had sown glimmered in his consciousness. He was merely conscious that he had been beaten and robbed by the man who had always been his confederate, and as he reeled down the big slope on his way to the Arrow he whined and moaned in a toneless voice of vengeance—and more vengeance.
The incident of the fight between Carrington, Danforth, Judge Littlefield, and Taylor in front of the courthouse had eloquently revealed a trait of Taylor’s character which was quite generally known to the people of Dawes, and which, in a great measure, accounted for Taylor’s popularity.
Few of Dawes’s citizens had ever seen Taylor angry. Neil Norton had seen him in a rage once, and the memory of the man’s face was still vivid. A few of the town’s citizens had watched him once—when he had thrashed a gunman who had insulted him—and the story of that fight still taxed the vocabularies of those who had witnessed it. One enthusiastic watcher, at the conclusion of the fight, had picturesquely termed Taylor a “regular he-wolf in a scrap;” and thus there was written into the traditions of the town a page of his history which carried the lesson, repeated by many tongues:
“Don’t rile Taylor!”
Riding into Dawes about two hours after he had heard from Marion Harlan the story of the attack on her by Carrington, Taylor’s face was set and grim. His ancienthatred of Carrington was intensified by another passion that had burned its way into his heart, filling it with a primitive lust to destroy—jealousy.
He dismounted in front of the Castle Hotel, and, entering, he asked the clerk where he could find Carrington. The clerk could give him no information, and Taylor went out, the clerk’s puzzled gaze following him.
“Evidently he doesn’t want to congratulate Carrington about anything,” the clerk confided to a bystander.
Mounting his horse, Taylor rode down the street to the building which Danforth had selected as a place from which to administer the government of Dawes. A gilt sign over the front bore upon it the words:
CITY HALL.
CITY HALL.
Taylor went inside, and found Danforth seated at a desk. The latter looked sourly at his visitor until he caught a glimpse of his eyes, then his face paled, and he sat silent until Taylor spoke:
“Where’s Carrington?”
“I haven’t seen Carrington this morning,” lied Danforth, for hehadseen Carrington some time before, riding out of town toward the Huggins house. He suspected Carrington’s errand was in some way concerned with the three men who had been sent there. But he divined from the expression in Taylor’s eyes that trouble between Taylor and Carrington was imminent, and hewould not set Taylor on the other’s trail without first warning Carrington.
He met Taylor’s straight, cold look of disbelief with a vindictive smirk, which grew venomous as Taylor wheeled and walked out. Taylor had not gone far when Danforth called a man to his side, whispered rapidly to him, telling him to hurry. Later the man slipped out of the rear door of the building, mounted a horse, and rode hurriedly down the river trail toward the Huggins house.
Taylor rode to theEagleoffice, but Norton was not there, and so, pursuing his quest, Taylor looked into saloons and stores, and various other places. Men who knew him noted his taciturnity—for he spoke little except to greet a friend here and there shortly—and commented upon his abrupt manner.
“What’s up with Taylor?” asked a man who knew him. “Looks sort of riled.”
Taylor found Carrington in none of the places in which he looked. He returned to theEagleoffice, and found Norton there. He greeted Norton with a short:
“Seen Carrington?”
“Why, yes.” Norton peered closely at his friend. “What in blazes is wrong?” His thoughts went to another time, when he had seen Taylor as he appeared now, and he drew a deep breath.
Briefly Taylor told him, and when the tale was ended, Norton’s eyes were blazing with indignation.
“So, that’s the kind of a whelp he is!” he said. “Well,” he added, “I saw him go out on the river trail a while ago; it’s likely he’s gone to the Huggins house.”
“His—now,” said Taylor; “that’s what makes it worse. Well,” he added as he stepped toward the door, “I’ll be going.”
“Be careful, Squint,” warned Norton, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you can lick him—and I hope you give him all that’s coming to him. But watch him—he’s tricky!” He paused. “If you need any help—someone to go with you, to keep an eye——”
“It’s a one-man job,” grinned Taylor mirthlessly.
“You’ll promise you won’t be thinking of that ankle—this time?” said Norton seriously.
Taylor permitted himself a faint smile. “That’s all explained now,” he said. “She’s been a lot generous—and forgiving. No,” he added, “I won’t be thinking of that ankle—now!”
And then, his lips setting again, he crossed the sidewalk, mounted Spotted Tail, and rode through town to the river trail. Watching him, Norton saw him disappear in some timber that fringed the river.
Carrington had finished his talk with the three men he had set to guard the Huggins house. The men were told to stay until they received orders from Carringtonto leave. And they were to report to him immediately if anyone came.
Carrington had watched Parsons go down the big slope; and for a long time after he had finished his talk with the three men he stood on the front porch of the house watching the progress made by Parsons through the basin.
“Following Marion,” Carrington assured himself, with a crooked smile. “Well, I’ll know where to get both of them when I want them.”
Carrington felt not the slightest tremor of pity for Parsons. He laughed deep in his throat with a venomous joy as he saw Parsons slowly making his way through the big basin; for he knew Parsons—he knew that the craven nature of the man would prevent him from attempting any reprisal of a vigorous character.
Yet the exultation in the big man’s heart was dulled with a slight regret for his ruthless attack on Marion Harlan. He should not have been so eager, he told himself; he should have waited; he should have insinuated himself into her good graces, and then——
Scowling, he got on his horse and rode up the Dawes trail, shouting a last word of caution to the three men—one seated on the front porch, the other two lounging in the shade of a tree near by.
Half a mile from the house, riding through a timber grove, he met the man Danforth had sent to him. Thelatter gave Carrington the message he carried, which was merely: “Taylor is looking for you.”
“Coming here?” he asked the man sharply.
“I reckon he will be—if he can’t find you in town,” said the man. “Danforth said Taylor was a heap fussed up, an’ killin’ mad!”
A grayish pallor stole over Carrington’s face, and he drew a quick breath, sending a rapid, dreading glance up the Dawes trail. Then, coincident with a crafty backward look—toward the Huggins house—the grayish pallor receded and a rush of color suffused his face. He spoke shortly to the man:
“Sneak back—by a roundabout trail. Don’t let Taylor see you!”
He watched while the man urged his horse deep into the fringing timber. Carrington could see him for a time as he rode, and then, when horse and rider had vanished, Carrington wheeled his horse and sent it clattering back along the trail to the big house.
Arriving there, he called the three men to him and talked fast to them. The talk ended, the men ran for their horses, and a few minutes later they raced up the river trail toward Dawes, their faces grim, their eyes alert.
About a mile up the trail, where a wood of spruce and fir-balsam spread dark shadows over the ground, and an almost impenetrable growth of brush fringed the narrow,winding path over which any rider going to the big house must pass, they separated, two plunging deep into the brush on one side, and one man secreting himself on the other side.
They urged their horses far back, where they could not be seen. And then, concealing themselves behind convenient bushes, they waited, their eyes trained on the Dawes trail, their ears attuned to catch the slightest sound that might come from that direction.
Back at the big house—having arranged the ambuscade—Carrington drew a deep breath of relief and smiled evilly. He thought he knew why Taylor was looking for him. Marion had gone to the Arrow, to tell Taylor what had happened at the big house, and Taylor, in a jealous rage, intended to punish him. Well, Taylor could come now.
And Taylor was “coming.” The big black horse he was riding—which he had named “Spotted Tail” because of the white blotches that startlingly relieved his somber sable coat—was never in better condition. He stepped lightly, running in long, smooth leaps down the narrow trail, champing at the bit, keen of eye, alert, eager, snorting his impatience over the tight rein his rider kept on him.
But Spotted Tail was not more eager than his rider. Taylor, however, knowing that at any instant he might run plump into Carrington, returning from the big house, was forced to restrain his impatience. Therefore, except on the straight reaches of the trail, he was forced to pull the black down.
But they were traveling fast when they reached the timber grove in which Carrington’s men were concealed; and yet on the damp earth of the trail, where the sunlight could not penetrate, and where the leaves of past summers had fallen, to rot and weave a pulpy carpet, the rush of Spotted Tail’s passing created little sound.
Within a hundred feet of the spot where Carrington’smen were concealed, Spotted Tail shot his ears forward stiffly and raised his muzzle inquiringly. Taylor, noting the action, and suspecting that instinct had warned Spotted Tail of the approach of another horse, drew the animal down and rode forward at a walk, for he felt that it must be Carrington’s horse which was approaching.
Rounding a sharp turn in the trail, Taylor could look ahead for perhaps a hundred feet. He saw no rider advancing toward him, and he leaned forward, slapping the black’s neck in playful reproach.
As he moved he heard the heavy crash of a pistol shot and felt the bullet sing past his head. Another pistol barked venomously from some brush on his right, and still another from his left.
But none of the bullets struck Taylor. For the black horse, startled by Taylor’s playful movement when all his senses were strained to detect the location of his kind on the trail, had made an involuntary forward leap, thus whisking his rider out of the line of fire. And before either of the three men could shoot again, Spotted Tail had flashed down the trail—a streak of somber black against the green background of the trees.
He fled over the hundred feet of straight trail and had vanished around a bend before the Carrington men could move their weapons around impeding branches of the brush that covered them. There was no stopping Spotted Tail now, for he was in a frenzy of terror—andhe made a mere rushing black blot as he emerged from the timber and fled across an open space toward another wood—the wood that surrounded the big house.
Standing on the front porch of the big house, nervously smoking a cigar, his face set in sullen lines, his eyes fixed on the Dawes trail, Carrington heard the shots. He sighed, grinned maliciously, and relaxed his vigilance.
“He’s settled by now,” he said.
He looked at one of the chairs standing on the porch, thought of sitting in one of them to await the coming of the three men, decided he was too impatient to sit, and began walking back and forth on the porch.
He had thrown a half-smoked cigar away and was lighting another when he saw a black blot burst from the edge of a timber-clump beyond an open space. The match flared and went out as Carrington held it to the end of the cigar, for there was something strangely familiar in the shape of the black blot—even with it heading directly toward him. An instant later, the blot looming larger in his vision, Carrington dropped cigar and match and stood staring with wild, fear-haunted eyes at the rushing black horse.
Carrington stood motionless a little longer—until the black horse, its rider sitting straight in the saddle, in cowboy fashion, reached the edge of the wood surrounding the house. Then Carrington, cursing, his lips in a hideous pout, drew a pistol from a hip-pocket. And when theblack horse was within fifty feet of him, and still coming at a speed which there was no gauging, Carrington leveled the pistol.
Once—twice—three, four, five, six times he pulled the trigger of the weapon. Carrington saw a grim, mocking smile on the rider’s face, and knew none of his bullets had taken effect.
Unarmed now, he was suddenly stricken with a panic of fear; and while the rider of the black horse was dismounting at the edge of the porch, Carrington dove for the front door of the house and vanished inside, slamming the door behind him, directly in the rider’s face.
When Taylor threw the door open he saw Carrington, far back in the room, swinging a chair over his head. At Taylor’s appearance he threw the chair with all the force his frenzy of fear could put into the effort. Taylor ducked, and the chair flew past him, sailing uninterruptedly outside and over the porch railing.
Carrington ran through the big front room, through the next room—the sitting-room—knocking chairs over in his flight, throwing a big center table at his silent, implacable pursuer. He slammed the sitting-room door and tried to lock it, but he could not turn the key quickly enough, and Taylor burst the door open, almost plunging against Carrington as he came through it.
Carrington ran into the dining-room, shoved the dining-room table in Taylor’s way as Taylor tried to reachhim; but Taylor leaped over the obstruction, and when Carrington dodged into Marion Harlan’s room, Taylor was so close that he might have grasped the big man.
Taylor had said no word. The big man saw two guns swinging at Taylor’s hips, and he wondered vaguely why the man did not use them. It occurred to Carrington as he plunged through Marion Harlan’s room into Martha’s, and from there to the kitchen, and back again to the dining-room, that Taylor was not going to shoot him, and his panic partially left him.
And yet there was a gleam in Taylor’s eyes that made his soul cringe in terror—the cold, bitter fury of a peaceloving man thoroughly aroused.
Twice, as Taylor pursued Carrington through the sitting-room again and into another big room that adjoined it, Carrington’s courage revived long enough to permit him to consider making a stand against Taylor, but each time as he stiffened with the determination, the terrible rage in Taylor’s eyes dissuaded him, and he continued to evade the clash.
But he knew that the clash must come, and when, in their rapid, headlong movements, Carrington came close to the front door and tried to slip out of it, Taylor lunged against him and struck at him, the fist just grazing Carrington’s jaw, the big man understood that Taylor was intent on beating him with his fists.
Had it not been for his previous encounter with Taylor,Carrington would not have hesitated, for he knew how to protect himself in a fight; but there was something in Taylor’s eyes now to add to the memory of that other fight, and Carrington wanted no more of it.
But at last he was forced to stand. Ducking to evade the blow aimed at his jaw when he tried to dart out of the front door, he slipped. Reeling, in an effort to regain his equilibrium, he plunged into another big room. It was a room that was little used—an old-fashioned parlor, kept trim and neat against the coming of visitors, but a room whose gloominess the occupants of the house usually avoided.
The shades were down, partly concealing heavy wooden blinds—which were closed. And the only light in the room was that which came from a little square window high up in the side wall.
Before Carrington could regain his balance Taylor had entered the room. He closed the door behind him, placed his back against it, locked it, and grinned felinely at the big man.
“Your men are coming, Carrington,” he said—“hear them?” In the silence that followed his words both stood, listening to the beat of hoofs near the house. “They’ll be trying to get in here in a minute,” went on Taylor. “But before they get in I’m going to knock your head off!” And without further warning he was upon Carrington, striking bitterly.
It seemed to Carrington that the man was endowed with a savage strength entirely out of proportion to his stature, and that he was able to start terrific, deadening blows from any angle. For though Carrington was a strong man and had had some fighting experience, he could neither evade Taylor’s blows nor stand against the impact of them.
He went reeling around the room under the impetus of Taylor’s terrible rushes, struggling to defend himself, to dodge, to clinch, to evade somehow the fists that were flying at him from all directions. He could not get an instant’s respite in which to set himself. Three times in succession he was knocked down so heavily that the house shook with the crash of his body striking the floor, and each time when he got to his feet he tried to fight Taylor off in an endeavor to set himself for a blow. But he could not. He was knocked against the walls of the room, and hammered away from them with stiff, jolty, venomous blows that jarred him from head to heels. He tried vainly to cover up—with his arms locked about his head he crouched and tried to rush Taylor off his feet, knowing he was stronger than the other, and that his only hope was in clinching. But Taylor held him off with savage uppercuts and terrific short-arm swings that smashed his lips.
He began to mutter in a whining, vicious monotone; twice he kicked at Taylor, and twice he was knocked downas a punishment for his foul methods. Finding his methods ineffectual, and discovering that covering his face with his arms did not materially lessen the punishment he was receiving, he began to stand up straight, taking blows in an effort to land one.
But Taylor eluded him; Carrington’s blows did not land. Raging and muttering, roaring with impotent passion, he whipped the air with his arms, almost jerking them out of their sockets.
Stiff and taut, his muscles accommodating themselves to every demand he made on them, and in perfect coordination with his brain—and the purpose of his brain to inflict upon Carrington the maximum of punishment for his dastardly attack on Marion Harlan—Taylor worked fast and furiously. For he heard Carrington’s three men in the next room; he heard them try the door; heard them call to Carrington.
And then, convinced that the fight must be ended quickly, before the men should break down the door and have him at a disadvantage, Taylor finished it. He smothered Carrington with a succession of stiff-arm, straight punches that glazed the other’s eyes and sent him reeling around the room. And, at last, over in a corner near the little window, Carrington went down flat on his back, his eyes closed, his arms flung wide.
Panting from his exertions, Taylor drew his guns and ran to one of the front windows. They opened upon theporch, and, peering through the blinds, Taylor saw one of the men standing at one of the windows, trying to peer into the room. The other two, Taylor knew, were at the door—he could hear them talking in the silence that had followed the final falling of Carrington.
With a gun in each hand, Taylor approached the door. He was compelled to sheath one of the guns, finding that it interfered with the turning of the key in the lock; and he had sheathed it and was slowly turning the key, intending to throw the door open suddenly and take his chance with the two men on the other side of it, when he saw a shadow darken the little window above where Carrington lay.
He wheeled quickly, saw a man’s face at the window, caught the glint of a pistol. He snapped a shot at the man, swinging his gun over his head to keep it from striking the door as he turned. But at the movement the man’s pistol roared, glass tinkling on the floor with the report. The air in the room rocked with the explosion of Taylor’s pistol, but a heavy blow on Taylor’s left shoulder, accompanied by a twinge of pain, as though a white-hot iron had suddenly been plunged through it, spoiled Taylor’s aim, and his bullet went into the ceiling. As he staggered back from the door he saw the man’s face at the window, set in a triumphant grin. Then, as Taylor flattened against the wall to steady himself for another shot, the face disappeared.
For an instant Taylor rested against the wall, his arms outstretched along it to keep himself from falling, for the bullet which had struck him had hurt him badly. The wound was in the left shoulder, though, and high, and therefore not dangerous, yet he knew it had robbed his left arm of most of its strength—there was no feeling in the fingers that groped along the wall.
He stepped again to the door and softly turned the key in the lock. He heard no sound in the room beyond the door, and, thinking that the men, curious over the shooting, had gone outside, he jerked the door open.
The movement was greeted with deafening report and a smoke-streak that blinded Taylor momentarily. In just the instant before the smoke-streak Taylor had caught a glimpse of a man standing near the center of the room beyond the door, and though he was rather disconcerted by the powder-flash and the searing of his left cheek by a bullet, he let his own gun off twice in as many seconds, and had the grim satisfaction of seeing the man stagger and tumble headlong to the floor.
Taylor peered once at the man, to see if he needed further attention, decided he did not, and ran toward the front door, which opened upon the porch.
He was just in time to see one of Carrington’s men sticking his head around a corner of the house. It was the man who had shot him from the little window. Taylor’s gun and the man’s roared simultaneously. Taylorhad missed, for the man dodged back, and Taylor staggered, for the man’s bullet had struck him in the left thigh. He leaped, though limping, toward the corner, and when almost there a pistol crashed behind him, the bullet hitting his left shoulder, near where the other had gone in, the force of it spinning him clear around, so that he reeled and brought up against a porch column where it joined the rail.
Grimly setting himself, grinning bitterly with the realization that the men had him between them, Taylor stood momentarily, fighting to overcome the terrible weakness that had stolen over him. His knees were trembling, the house, trees, and sky were agitated in sickening convolutions, and yet when he saw the head of a man appear from around a corner of the house at his right, he snapped a shot at it, and instantly as it was withdrawn he staggered to the corner, lurching heavily as he went, and turning just as he reached it to reply to a shot sent at him from the other corner of the house.
A smoke-spurt met him as he reeled around the corner nearest him, and his knees sagged as he aimed his gun at a blurring figure in front of him. He saw the man go down, but his own strength was spent, and he knew the last bullet had struck him in a vital spot.
Staggering drunkenly, he started for the side of the house and brought up against it with a crash. Again, as he had done inside the house, he stretched his armsout, flattening himself against the wall, but this time the arms were hanging more limply.
He was seeing things through a crimson haze, and raising a hand, he wiped his eyes—and could see better, though there was a queer dimness in his vision and the world was still traveling in eccentric circles.
He saw a blur in front of him—two men, he thought, though he knew he had accounted for two of the three gunmen who had followed him to the house. Then he heard a laugh—coarse and brutal—in a voice that he knew—Carrington’s.
With heartbreaking effort he brought up his right hand, bearing the pistol. He was trying to swing it around to bring it to bear upon one of the two dancing figures in front of him, when a crushing blow landed on his head, and he knew one of the men had struck him with a fist. He felt his own weapon go off at last—it seemed he had been an age pressing on the trigger—and he heard a voice again—Carrington’s—saying: “Damn him; he’s shot me!” He laughed aloud as a gun roared close to him; he felt another twinge of pain somewhere around where the other twinges had come—or on the other side—he did not know; and he sank slowly, still pressing the trigger of his pistol, though not knowing whether or not he was doing any damage. And then the eccentrically whirling world became a black blur, soundless and void.
Taylor’s last shot, when he had been automatically pressing the trigger after Carrington had struck him viciously with his fist, had brought down the last of the three men who had ambushed him. And one of his last bullets had struck Carrington, who had recovered consciousness and staggered out of the house in time to see the end of the fight. And the big man, in a black, malignant fury of hatred, was staggering toward Taylor, lifting a foot to kick him, when from the direction of the clearing in front of the house came a voice, hoarse and vibrant with a cold, deadly rage:
“One kick an’ I blow the top of your head off!” Carrington stopped short and wheeled, to face Ben Mullarky.
The Irishman’s eyes were blazing with wrath, and as he came forward, peering at the figures lying on the ground near the house, Carrington retreated, holding up his hands.
“Three of ye pilin’ on one, eh?” said Mullarky as he looked down at Taylor, huddled against the side of the house. “An’ ye got him, too, didn’t ye? I’ve adomn big notion to blow the top of your head off, anny way. Ye slope, ye big limb of the divvle, or I’ll do it!”
Mullarky watched while Carrington mounted his horse and rode up the river trail toward Dawes, and the instant Carrington was out of sight, Mullarky was down on his knees beside Taylor, taking a lightning inventory of his wounds.
“Four of them, looks like!” he muttered thickly, his voice shaking with pity for the slack, limp, smoke-blackened figure that lay silent, the trace of a smile on its face. “An’ two of them through the shoulder!” He paused, awed. “Lord, what a shindy!”
Then, swiftly gulping down his sympathy and his rage, Mullarky ran to his horse, which he had left at the edge of the wood when he had heard the shooting. He led the animal back to where Taylor lay, tenderly lifted Taylor in his arms, walked to the horse, and after much labor got Taylor up in front of him on the horse, Taylor’s weight resting on his legs, the man’s head and shoulders resting against him, to ease the jars of the journey.
Then he started, traveling as swiftly as possible down the big slope toward his own house, not so very far away.
Spotted Tail, jealously watching his master, saw him lifted to the back of the other horse. Shrewdly suspecting that all was not going well, and that his master would need him presently, Spotted Tail trotted after Mullarky.
In this manner, with Spotted Tail a few paces in his rear, Mullarky, still tenderly carrying his burden, reached his cabin.
He stilled Mrs. Mullarky’s hysterical questions with a short command:
“Hitch up the buckboard while I’m gettin’ him in shape!”
And then, while Mrs. Mullarky did as she was bidden, Mullarky carried Taylor inside the cabin, bathed his wounds, stanching the flow of blood as best he could—and came out again, carrying Taylor, and placed him in the bed of the light spring-wagon, upon some quilts—and upon a pillow that Mrs. Mullarky ran into the house to get, emerging with the reproach:
“You’d be lettin’ him ride on them hard boards!”
Following Mullarky’s instructions, Mrs. Mullarky climbed to the driver’s seat and sent the buckboard toward the Arrow, driving as fast as she thought she dared. And Ben Mullarky, on Spotted Tail, turned his face toward Dawes, riding as he had never ridden before.
Parsons had reached the Arrow shortly after Taylor had departed for Dawes. The man had stopped at the Mullarky cabin to inquire the way from the lady, and she had frankly commented upon Parsons’ battered appearance.
“So it was Carrington that mauled you, eh?” she said.“Well, he’s a mighty evil man—the divvle take his sowl!”
Parsons concurred in this view of Carrington, though he did not tell Mrs. Mullarky so. He went on his way, refusing the good woman’s proffer of a horse, for he wanted to go afoot to the Arrow. He felt sure of Marion’s sympathy, but he wanted to make himself as pitiable an object as possible. And as he walked toward the Arrow he mentally dramatized the moment of his appearance at the ranchhouse—a bruised and battered figure dragging itself wearily forward, dusty, thirst-tortured, and despairing. He knew that spectacle would win the girl’s swift sympathy. The fact that the girl herself had been through almost the same experience did not affect him at all—he did not even think of it.
And when Parsons reached the Arrow the scene was even as he had dreamed it—Marion Harlan had seen him from afar, and came running to him, placing an arm about him, helping him forward, whispering words of sympathy in his ears, so that Parsons really began to look upon himself as a badly abused martyr.
Marion cared for him tenderly, once she got him into the ranchhouse. She bathed his bruised face, prepared breakfast for him, and later, learning from him that he had not slept during the night, she sent him off to bed, asking him as he went into the room if he had seen Ben Mullarky.
“For,” she added, “he came here early this morning, after Mr. Taylor left, and I sent him to the big house to get some things for me.”
But Parsons had not seen Mullarky.
And at last, when the morning was nearly gone, and Marion saw a horse-drawn vehicle approaching the Arrow from the direction of Dawes, she ran out, thinking Ben Mullarky had brought her “things” in his buckboard. But it was not Ben who was coming, but Mrs. Mullarky. The lady’s face was very white and serious, and when the girl came close and she saw the look on the good woman’s face, she halted in her tracks and stood rigid, her own face paling.
“Why, Mrs. Mullarky, what has happened?”
“Enough, deary.” Mrs. Mullarky waved an eloquent hand toward the rear of the buckboard, and slowly approaching, the girl saw the huddled figure lying there, swathed in quilts.
She drew her breath sharply, and with pallid face, swaying a little, she walked to the rear of the buckboard and stood, holding hard to the rim of a wheel, looking down at Taylor’s face with its closed eyes and its ghastly color.
She must have screamed, then, for she felt Mrs. Mullarky’s arms around her, and she heard the lady’s voice, saying: “Don’t, deary; he ain’t dead, yet—an’ he won’t die—we won’t let him die.”
She stood there by the buckboard for a time—until Mrs. Mullarky, running to one of the outbuildings, returned with Bud Hemmingway. Then, nerved to the ordeal by Bud’s businesslike methods, and the awful profanity that gushed from his clenched teeth, she helped them carry Taylor into the house.
They took Taylor into his own room and laid him on the bed; a long, limp figure, pitifully shattered, lying very white and still.
The girl stayed in the room while Mrs. Mullarky and Bud ran hither and thither getting water, cloths, stimulants, and other indispensable articles. And during one of their absences the girl knelt beside the bed, and resting her head close to Taylor’s—with her hands stroking his blackened face—she whispered:
“O Lord, save him—save him for—for me!”
Before night the Arrow outfit, led by Bothwell, the range boss, came into the ranchhouse. For the news had reached them—after the manner in which all news travels in the cow-country—by word of mouth—and they had come in—all those who could be spared—to determine the truth of the rumor.
There were fifteen of them, rugged, capable-looking fellows; and despite the doctor’s objections, they filed singly, though noiselessly, into Taylor’s room and silently looked down upon their “boss.” Marion, watching them from a corner of the room, noted their quick gulps of pity, their grim faces, the savage gleams that came into their eyes, and she knew they were thinking of vengeance upon the men who had wrought the injury to their employer.
Bothwell—big, grim, and deliberate of manner—said nothing as he looked down into his chief’s face. But later, outside the house, listening to Bud Hemmingway’s recital of how Taylor had been brought to the ranchhouse, Bothwell said shortly:
“I’m takin’ a look!”
Shortly afterward, followed by every man of the outfit who had ridden in with him, Bothwell crossed the big basin and sent his horse up the long slope to the big house.
Outside they came upon the bodies of the two men with whom Taylor had fought. And inside the house they saw the other huddled on the floor near a door in the big front room. Silently the men filed through the house, looking into all the rooms, and noting the wreck and ruin that had been wrought. They saw the broken glass of the little window through which one of Carrington’s men had fired the first shot; they noted the hole in the ceiling—caused by a bullet from Taylor’s pistol; and they saw another hole in the wall near the door beside which Taylor had been standing just before he had swung the door open.
“Three of them—an’ Carrington—accordin’ to what Bud says,” said Bothwell. “That’s four.” He smiled bitterly. “They got him all right—almost, I reckon. But from the looks of things they must have had a roarin’ picnic doin’ it!”
Not disturbing anything, the entire outfit mounted and rode swiftly down the Dawes trail, their hearts swelling with sympathy for Taylor and passionate hatred for Carrington, “itching for a clean-up,” as one sullen-looking member of the outfit described his feelings.
But there was no “clean-up.” When they reached Dawes they found the town quiet—and men who saw them gave them plenty of room and forebore to argue withthem. For it was known that they were reckless, hardy spirits when the mood came upon them, and that they worshiped Taylor.
And so they entered Dawes, and Dawes treated them with respect. Passing the city hall, they noticed some men grouped in front of the building, and they halted, Bothwell dismounting and entering.
“What’s the gang collectin’ for?” he asked a man—whom he knew for Danforth. There was a belligerent thrust to Bothwell’s chin, and a glare in his eyes that, Danforth felt, must be met with diplomacy.
“There’s been trouble at the Huggins house, and I’m sending these men to investigate.”
“Give them diggin’ tools,” said Bothwell grimly. “An’ remember this—if there’s any more herd-ridin’ of our boss the Arrow outfit is startin’ a private graveyard!” He pinned the mayor with a cold glare: “Where’s Carrington?”
“In his rooms—under a doctor’s care. He’s hit—bad. A bullet in his side.”
“Ought to be in his gizzard!” growled Bothwell. He went out, mounted, and led his men away. They were reluctant to leave town, but Bothwell was insistent. “They ain’t no fight in that bunch of plug-uglies!” he scoffed. “We’ll go back an’ ’tend to business, an’ pull for the boss to get well!”
And so they returned to the Arrow, to find that theDawes doctor was still with Taylor. The doctor sent out word to them that there was a slight chance for his patient, and satisfied that they had done all they could, they rode away, to attend to “business.”
For the first time in her life Marion Harlan was witnessing the fight of a strong man to live despite grievous wounds that, she was certain, would have instantly killed most men. But Taylor fought his fight unconsciously, for he was still in that deep coma that had descended upon him when he had gently slipped to the ground beside the house, still fighting, still scorning the efforts of his enemies to finish him.
And during the first night’s fever he still fought; the powerful sedatives administered by the doctor had little effect. In his delirium he muttered such terms and phrases as these: “Run, damn you—run! I ain’t in any hurry, and I’ll get you!” And—“I’ll certainly smash you some!” And—“A ‘thing,’ eh—I’ll show you! She’s mine, you miserable whelp!”
Whether these were thoughts, or whether they were memories of past utterances, made vivid and brought into the present by the fever, the girl did not know. She sat beside his bed all night, with the doctor near her, waiting and watching and listening.
And she heard more: “That’s Larry’s girl, and it’s up to me to protect her.” And—“I knew she’d look likethat.” Also—“They’re both tryin’ to send her to hell! But I’ll fool them!” At these times there was ineffable tenderness in his voice. But at times he broke out in terrible wrath. “Ambush me, eh? Ha, ha! That was right clever of you, Spotted Tail—we didn’t make a good target, did we? Only for your sense we’d have—” He ceased, to begin anew: “I’ve gotyou—damn you!” And then he would try to sit erect, swinging his arms as though he were trying to hit someone.
But toward morning he fell into a fitful sleep—the sleep of exhaustion; and when the dawn came, Mrs. Mullarky ordered the girl, pale and wan from her night’s vigilance and service, to “go to bed.”
For three days it was the same. And for three days the doctor stayed at the side of the patient, only sleeping when Miss Harlan watched over Taylor.
And during the three days’ vigil, Taylor’s delirium lasted. The girl learned more of his character during those three days of constant watchfulness than she would have learned in as many years otherwise. That he was honorable and courageous, she knew; but that he was so sincerely apprehensive over her welfare she had never suspected. For she learned through his ravings that he had fought Carrington and the three men for her; that he had deliberately sought Carrington to punish him for the attack on her, and that he had not considered his own danger at all.
And at the beginning of the fourth day, when he opened his eyes and stared wonderingly about the room, his gaze at first resting upon the doctor, and then traveling to the girl’s face, and remaining there for a long time, while a faint smile wreathed his lips, the girl’s heart beat high with delight.
“Well, I’m still a going it,” he said weakly.
“I remember,” he went on, musingly. “When they was handing it to me, I was thinking that I was in pretty bad shape. And then they must have handed it to me some more, for I quit thinking at all. I’m going to pull through—ain’t I?”
“You are!” declared the doctor. “That is,” he amended, “if you keep your trap shut and do a lot of sleeping.”
“For which I’m going to have a lot of time,” smiled Taylor. “I’m going to sleep, for I feel mighty like sleeping. But before I do any sleeping, there’s a thing I want to know. Did Carrington’s men—the last two—get away, or did I——”
“You did,” grinned the doctor. “Bothwell rode over there to find out—and Mullarky saw them. Mullarky brought you back—and got me.”
“Carrington?” inquired the patient.
“Mullarky saw him. He says he never saw a man so beat up in his life. Besides, you shot him, too—in the side. Not dangerous, but a heap painful.”
Taylor smiled and looked at Miss Harlan. “I knew you were here,” he said; “I’ve felt you near me. It was mighty comforting, and I want to thank you for it. There were times when I must have shot off my mouth a heap. If I said anything I shouldn’t have said, I’m a whole lot sorry. And I’m asking your pardon.”
“You didn’t,” she said, her eyes eloquent with joy over the improvement in him.
“Well, then, I’m going to sleep.” He raised his right hand—his good one—and waved it gayly at them—and closed his eyes.
Looking back upon the long period of Taylor’s convalescence, Marion Harlan could easily understand why she had surrendered to the patient.
In the first place, she had liked Taylor from the very beginning—even when she had affected to ridicule him on the train coming toward Dawes. She had known all along that she had liked him, and on that morning when she had visited the Arrow to ask about her father Taylor had woven a magnetic spell about her.
That meeting and the succeeding ones had merely strengthened her liking for him. But the inevitable intimacy between nurse and patient during several long weeks of convalescence had wrought havoc with her heart.
Taylor’s unfailing patience and good humor had been another factor in bringing about her surrender. It was hard for her to believe that he had fought a desperate battle which had resulted in the death of three men and the wounding of Carrington and himself; for there were no savage impulses or passions gleaming in the eyes that followed her every movement while she had been busy in the sickroom for some weeks. Nor could she see anylingering threat in them, promising more violence upon his recovery. He seemed to have forgotten that there had been a fight, and during the weeks that she had been close to him he had not even mentioned it. He had been content, it seemed, to lounge in a chair and listen to her while she read, to watch her; and there had been times when she had seen a glow in his eyes that told her things that she longed to hear him say.
The girl’s surrender had not been conveyed to Taylor in words, though she was certain he knew of it; for the signs of it must have been visible, since she could feel the blushes in her cheeks at times when a word or a look passing between them was eloquent with the proof of her aroused emotions.
It was on a morning about six weeks following the incident of the shooting that she and Taylor had walked to the river. Upon a huge flat rock near the edge of a slight promontory they seated themselves, Taylor turned slightly, so that she had only a profile view of him.
Taylor’s thoughts were grave. For from where he and the girl sat—far beyond the vast expanse of green-brown grass that carpeted the big level—he could see a huge cleft in some mountains. And the sight of that cleft sent Taylor’s thoughts leaping back to the days he and Larry Harlan had spent in these mountains, searching for—and finding—that gold for which they had come. And inevitably as the contemplation of the mountains broughthim recollections of Larry Harlan he was reminded of his obligation to his old-time partner. And the difficulties of discharging that obligation were increasing, it seemed.
At least, Taylor’s duty was not quite clear to him. For while Parsons still retained a place in the girl’s affections he could not turn over to her Larry’s share of the money he had received from the sale of the mine.
And Parsons did retain the girl’s affections—likewise her confidence and trust. A man must be blind who could not see that. For the girl looked after him as any dutiful girl might care for a father she loved. Her attitude toward the man puzzled Taylor, for, he assured himself, if she would but merely study the man’s face perfunctorily she could not have failed to see the signs of deceit and hypocrisy in it. All of which convinced Taylor of the truth of the old adage: “Love is blind.”
One other influence which dissuaded Taylor from an impulse to turn over Larry’s money to the girl was his determination to win her on his own merits. That might have seemed selfishness on his part, but now that the girl was at the Arrow he could see that she was well supplied with everything she needed. Her legacy would not buy her more than he would give her gratuitously. And he did not want her to think for a single moment he was trying to buy her love. That, to his mind was gross commercialism.
Marion was not looking at the mountains; she waswatching Taylor’s profile—and blushing over thoughts that came to her.
For she wished that she might have met him under different conditions—upon a basis of equality. And that was not the basis upon which they stood now. She had come to the Arrow because she had no other place to go, vindicating her action upon Taylor’s declaration that he had been her father’s friend.
That had been a tangible premise, and was sufficient to satisfy, or to dull, any surface scruples he might have had regarding the propriety of the action. But her own moral sense struck deeper than that. She felt she had no right to be here; that Taylor had made the offer of a partnership out of charity. And so long as she stayed here, dependent upon him for food and shelter, she could not permit him to speak a word of love to her—much as she wanted him to speak it. Such was the puritanical principle driven deep into the moral fabric of her character by a mother who had set her a bad example.
This man had fought for her; he had risked his life to punish a man who had wronged her in thought, only; and she knew he loved her. And yet, seated so near him, she could not put out the hand that longed to touch him.
However, her thoughts were not tragic—far from it! Youth is hopeful because it has so long to wait. And there was in her heart at this moment a presentiment thattime would sever the bonds of propriety that held her. And the instincts of her sex—though never having been tested in the arts of coquetry—told her how to keep his heart warm toward her until that day, having achieved her independence, she could meet him on a basis of equality.
“Mr. Squint,” she suddenly demanded; “what are you thinking about?”
He turned and looked full at her, his eyes glowing with a grave humor.
“I’d tell you if I thought you’d listen to me,” he returned, significantly. “But it seems that every time I get on that subject you poke fun at me. Is thereanythingI can do to show you that I love you—that I want you more than any man ever wanted a woman?”
“Yes—there is.” Her smile was tantalizing.
“Name it!” he demanded, eagerly.
“Stop being tragic. I don’t like you when you are tragic—or when you are talking nonsense about love. I have heard so much of it!”
“From me, I suppose?” he said, gloomily.
He had turned his head and she shot a quick, eloquent glance at him. “From you—and several others,” she said, deliberately.
There was a resentful, hurt look in his eyes when he turned and looked at her. “Just how many?” he demanded, somewhat gruffly.
“Jealous!” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Do you want a bill of particulars? Because if you do,” she added, looking demurely downward, “I should have to take several days to think it over. You see, a woman can’t catalogue everything men say to her—for they say so many silly things!”
“Love isn’t silly,” he declared. He looked rather fiercely at her. “What kind of a man do you like best?” he demanded.
She blushed. “I like a big man—about as big as you,” she said. “A man with fierce eyes that glower at a woman when she talks to him of love—she insisting that she hasn’t quite fallen in love—withhim. I like a man who is jealous of the reputation of the woman heprofessesto love; a man who is jealous of other men; a man who isn’t so very good-looking, but who is a handsome man for all that—because he is so very manly; a man who will fight and risk his life for me.”
“Could you name such a man?” he said. There was a scornful gleam in his eyes.
“I am looking at him this minute!” she said.
Grinning, for he knew all along that she had been talking of him, he wheeled quickly and tried to catch her in his arms. But she slipped off the rock and was around on the other side of it, keeping it between them while he tried to catch her. Instinctively he realized that the chase was hopeless, but he persisted.
“I’ll never speak to you again if you catch me!” she warned, her eyes flashing.
“But you told me——”
“That I liked you,” she interrupted. “And liking a man isn’t——”
And then she paused and looked down, blushing, while Taylor, in the act of vaulting over the rock, collapsed and sat on it instead, red of face and embarrassed.
For within a dozen paces of them, and looking rather embarrassed and self-conscious, himself, though with a twinkle in his eyes that made Taylor’s cheeks turn redder—was Bud Hemmingway.
“I’m beggin’ your pardon,” said the puncher; “but I’ve come to tell you that Neil Norton is here—again. He’s been settin’ on the porch for an hour or two—he says. But I think he’s stretching it. Anyway, he’s tired of waitin’ for you—he says—an’ he’s been wonderin’ if you was goin’ to set on that boulder all day!”
Taylor slipped off the rock and started toward Bud, feigning resentment.
Bud, his face agitated by a broad grin, deliberately winked at Miss Harlan—though he spoke to Taylor.
“I’d be a little careful about how I went to jumpin’ off boulders—you might bust your ankle again!”
And then Taylor grinned at Miss Harlan—who pretended a severity she did not feel; while Bud, cackling mirthfully, went toward the ranchhouse.