News of the Killing at Alder, as they call that night's slaughter to this day in the mountain-desert, traveled swiftly, and lost nothing of bulk and burden on the way; so that two days later, when Lee Haines went down for mail to the wretched little village in the valley, he heard the store-keeper retailing the story to an awe-stricken group. How the tale had crossed all the wild mountains which lay between in so brief a space no man could say, but first there ran a whisper and then a stir, and then half a dozen men came in at once, each with an elaboration of the theme more horrible than the last. The store-keeper culled the choicest fragments from every version, strung them together with a narrative of his own fertile invention, polished off the tale by a few rehearsals in his home, and then placed his product on the open market. The very first day he kept the store-room well filled from dawn until dark.
And this was the creation to which Lee Haines had to listen, impatient, sifting the chaff from the grains of truth. Down upon Alder, exactly at midnight, had ridden a cavalcade headed by that notorious, half-legendary man-slayer, Dan Barry—Whistling Dan. While his crew of two-score hardened ruffians held the doors and the windows with leveled rifles, Barry had entered with a gun and a wolf—a wild wolf, and had butchered ten men, wantonly. To add to the mystery, there was no motive of robbery for the crime. One sweeping visitation of death, and then the night-riders had rushed away. Nor was this all, for Sheriff Pete Glass, hearing of the tragedy, had ridden to Rickett, the county seat, and from this strategic point of vantage he was sending out a call for the most practised fighters on the mountain-desert. He wanted twenty men proved beyond the shadow of question for courage, endurance, speed, and surety in action.
“And,” concluded the store-keeper, fixing his eye upon Lee Haines, “if you want a long ride free of charge, and ten bucks a day with chow thrown in—some of you gents ought to go to Rickett and chin with Pete.”
Haines waited to hear no more. He even forgot to ask for the Barry mail, swung into his saddle, and rode with red spurs back to the cabin in the mountains. There he drew Buck Daniels aside, and they walked among the rocks while Haines told his story. When it was ended they sat on adjoining boulders and chucked pebbles aimlessly into the emptiness beyond the cliff.
“Maybe,” said Buck suddenly, “it wasn't Dan at all. He sure wouldn't be ridin' with no crowd of gents like that.”
“A fool like that store-keeper could make a crowd of Indians out of one papoose,” answered Haines. “It was Dan. Who else would be traipsing around with a dog that looks like a wolf—and hunts men?”
“I remember when Dan cornered Jim Silent in that cabin, and all Jim's gang was with him. Black Bart—”
“Buck,” cut in Haines, “you've remembered plenty.”
After a moment: “When are you going in to break the news to Kate?”
Buck Daniels regarded him with angry astonishment.
“Me?” he cried. “I'd sooner cut my tongue out!” He drew a great breath. “I feel like—like Dan was dead!”
“The best thing for Kate if he were.”
“That's a queer thing to say, Lee. The meat would be rotted off your bones six years ago in Elkhead if it hadn't been for Whistlin' Dan.”
“I know it, Buck. But I'll tell you straight that I could never feel towards Dan as if he were a human being, but a wolf in the hide of a man. He turned my blood cold; he always has.”
Buck Daniels groaned aloud as thoughts poured back on him.
“Of all the pals that ever a man had,” he said sadly, “there never was a partner like Whistlin' Dan. There was never another gent that would go through hell for you jest because you'd eaten meat with him. The first time I met him I tried to double-cross him, because I had my orders from Silent. And Dan played clean with me—by God, he shook hands with me when he left.”
He straightened a little.
“So help me God, Lee, I've never done a crooked thing more since I shook hands with Dan that day.” He sat silent, but breathing hard. “Well, this is the end of Whistlin' Dan. The law will never let up on him now; but I tell you, Haines, I'm sick inside and I'd give my right hand plumb to the wrist to set him straight and bring him back to Kate. Go in and tell her, Lee. I—I'll wait for you here.”
“You'll be damned,” cried Haines. “I've done my share by bringing the word this far. You can relay it.”
Buck Daniels produced a silver dollar.
“Heads or tails?”
“Heads!” said Haines.
The dollar spun upwards, winking, and clanked on the rocks, tails up. Haines stared at it with a grisly face.
“Good God,” he muttered, “what'll I do, Buck, if she faints?”
“Faints?” echoed Daniels, “there's no fear of that! The first thing you'll have to do is to saddle her horse.”
“Now, what in hell are you driving at?”
“She'll be thinkin' of Joan. God knows she worried enough because Dan hasn't brought the kid back before this, but when she hears what he's done now, she'll know that he's wild for keeps and she'll be on the trail to bring the young'un home.”
He turned his back cleanly on the house and set his shoulders tense.
“Go on, Lee. Be a man.”
He heard the steps of Haines start briskly enough for the house, but they trailed away, slowly and more slowly, and finally there was a long pause.
“He's standing at the door,” muttered Buck. “Thank God I ain't in his boots.”
He jerked out his papers and tobacco, but in the very act of twisting the cigarette tight the door slammed and he ripped the flimsy thing in two. He started to take another paper, but his fingers were so unsteady that he could not pull away the single sheet of tissue which he wanted. Then his hands froze in place.
A faint tapping came out to him.
“He—he's rapping on her door,” whispered Buck, and remained fixed in place, his eyes staring straight before him.
The seconds slipped away.
“He's turned yaller,” murmured Buck. “He couldn't do it. It'll be up to me!”
But he had hardly spoken the words when a low cry came out to him from the house. Then the silence again, but Buck Daniels began to mop his forehead.
After that, once, twice, and again he made the effort to turn towards the house, but when he finally succeeded it was whole minutes later, and Lee Haines was leading a saddled horse from the coral. Kate stood beside the cabin, waiting.
When he reached her, she was already mounted. He halted beside her, panting, his hand on her bridle.
“Don't do it, Kate!” he pleaded. “Lemme go with you. Lemme go and try to help.”
The brisk wind up the gulch set her clothes fluttering, stirred the hair about the rim of her hat, and she seemed to Buck more gracefully, more beautifully young than he had ever seen her; but her face was like stone.
“You'd be no help,” she answered. “When I get to the place I may have to meet him! Would you face him, Buck?”
His hand fell away from the bridle. It was not so much what she said as the cold, steady voice with which she spoke that unnerved him. Then, without a farewell, she turned the brown horse around and struck across the meadow at a swift gallop. Buck turned to meet the sick face of Haines.
“Well?” he said.
“Let me have that flask.”
Buck produced a metal “life-saver,” and Haines with nervous hands unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips. He lowered it after a long moment and stood bracing himself against the wall.
“It was hell, Buck. God help me if I ever have to go through a thing like that again.”
“I see what you done,” said Buck angrily. “You walked right in and took your story in both hands and knocked her down with it. Haines, of all the ornery, thick-headed cayuses I ever see, you're the most out-beatin'est!”
“I couldn't help it.”
“Why not?”
“When I went in she took one look at me and then jumped up and stood as straight as a pine tree.
“'Lee,' she said, 'what have you heard?'”
“'About what?' I asked her, and I looked sort of indifferent.”
“Dan!” snorted Buck. “She could see death an' hell written all over your face, most like.”
“I suppose,” muttered Haines, “I—I was sick!
“'Tell me!' she said, coming close up.
“'He's gone wild again,' was all I could put my tongue to.
“Then I blurted it out. I had to get rid of the damned story some way, and the quickest way seemed the best—how Dan rode into Alder and did the killing.
“When I got to that she gave one cry.”
“I know,” said Buck, shuddering. “Like something dying.”
“Then she asked me to saddle her horse. I begged her to let me go with her, and she said to me what she just now said to you. And so I stayed. What good could we do against that devil?”
To the last ravine Kate's horse carried her easily enough, but that mountain pass was impenetrable through all its length to anything except the uncanny agility of Satan, and so she left the cow-pony in the bottom of the gorge and climbed the last rise on foot.
On the mountainside above her, it was not easy to locate the cave, for the slope was clawed into ravines and confused with meaningless criss-cross gulches. Whatever scrub evergreens grew there stood under the shade of boulders which threatened each instant to topple over and go thundering to the base. She had come upon the cave by chance in her ride with Dan, and now she hunted vainly through the great stones for the entrance. A fresh wind, chill with the snows of the upper peaks, pulled and tugged at her and cut her face and hands with flying bits of sand. It kept up a whistling so insistent that it was some time before she recognized in the hum of the gale a different note, not of pleasant music, but a thin, shrill sound that blended with the voice of the wind.
The instant she heard it she stopped short on the lee side of a tall rock and looked about her in terror. The mountains walked away on every side, and those resolute masses gave her courage. She listened, for the big rock cut away the breath of the wind about her ears and she could make out the whistling more clearly. It was a strain as delicate as a pin point ray of light in a dark room, but it made Kate tremble.
Until the sound ended she stayed there by the rock, hearkening, but the moment it ceased she gathered her resolution with a great effort and went straight toward the source of the whistling. It was only a moment away, although the wind had made it seem much farther, and she came on the tall, narrow opening with Joan sitting on a rock just within. Instead of the blue cloak, she was wrapped in a tawny hide, and the yellow hair blew this way and that, unsheltered from the wind. The loneliness of the little figure made Kate's heart ache, made her pause on her way, and while she hesitated, Joan's head rested back against the rock, her eyes half closed, her lips pursed, she began to whistle that same keen, eerie music.
It brought Kate to her in a rush.
“Oh Joan!” she cried. “My baby!”
And she would have swept the child into her arms, but Joan slipped out from under her very fingers and stood a little distance off with her hands pressed against the wall on either side of her, ready to dart one way or the other. It was not sudden terror, but rather a resolute determination to struggle against capture to the end, and her blue eyes were blazing with excitement. Kate was on her knees with her arms held out.
“Joan, dear, have you forgotten munner?”
The wildness flickered away from the eyes of the child little by little.
“Munner?” she repeated dubiously.
No shout of welcome, no sudden rush, no arms to fling about her mother. But if her throat was dry and closed Kate allowed no sign of it to creep into her voice.
“Where's Daddy Dan?”
“He's gone away.”
“Where?”
“Oh—over there!”
The mother rose slowly to her feet, and looked out across the mountains as if in search of aid. For her mind had harked back to that story her father used to tell of the coming of Dan Barry; how he had ridden across the hills one evening and saw, walking against the sunset, a tattered boy who whistled strangely as he went, and when old Joe Cumberland asked where he was going he had only waved a vague hand toward the north and answered, “Oh—over there. It was sufficient destination for him, it was sufficient explanation now for the child. She remembered how she, herself a child then, had sat at her father's table and watched the brown face of the strange boy with fascination, and the wild, quick eyes which went everywhere and rested in no one place. They were the eyes which looked up to her now from Joan's face, and she felt suddenly divorced from her baby, as if all the blood in Joan were the blood of her father.
“He left you here alone?” she murmured.
The child looked at her with a sort of curious amazement.
“Joan isn't alone.”
She whistled softly, and around the corner of the rock peered two tiny, beady-bright eyes, and the sharp nose of a coyote puppy. It disappeared at once at the sight of the stranger, and now all the strength went from Kate. She slipped helplessly down, and sat on a boulder trying to think, trying to master the panic which chilled her; for she thought of the day when Whistling Dan brought home to the Cumberland Ranch the wounded wolf-dog, Black Bart. But the call of Joan had traveled far, and now a squirrel came in at a gallop with his vast tail bobbing behind him, and ran right up the rock until he was on the shoulder of the child. From this point of vantage, however, he saw Kate, and was instantly on the floor of the cave and scurrying for the entrance, chattering with rage.
The wild things came to Joan as they came to her father, and the eyes of the child were the eyes of Dan Barry. It came home to Kate and she saw the truth for the first time in her life. She had struggled to win him away from his former life, but now she knew that it was not habit which controlled him, for he was wild by instinct, by nature. Just as the tang of his untamed blood had turned the child to this; and a few days more of life with him would leave her wild forever.
“He left you alone here!” she repeated fiercely. “Where a thousand things might happen. Thank God I've found you.”
Even if her words conveyed little meaning to Joan, the intonation carried a message which was perfectly clear.
“Don't you like Daddy Dan?”
“Joan, Joan, I love him! Of course.”
But Joan sat with a dubious eye which quickly darkened into fear.
“Oh, Munner, don't take us back!”
Such horror and terror and sadness mixed! The tears rushed into the eyes of Kate.
“Do you want to stay here, sweetheart?”
“Yes, munner.”
“Without me?”
At first Joan shook her head decidedly, but thereafter she quickly became thoughtful.
“No, except when we eat.”
“You don't want me here at dinner-time? Poor munner will get so hungry.”
A great concession was about to burst from the remorseful lips of Joan, but again second thought sobered her. She remained in a quandary, unable to speak.
“Don't you want me even when you wake up at night?”
“Why?”
“Because you're so afraid of the dark.”
“Joan's not afraid. Oh, no! Joan loves the dark.”
If Kate maintained a smile, it was a frozen grimace. It had only been a few days—hardly yesterday—that Joan left, and already she was a little stranger. Suppose Dan should refuse to come back himself; refuse even to give up Joan! She started up, clutching the hand of the child.
“Quick, Joan, we must go!”
“Joan doesn't want to go!”
“We'll go—for a little walk. We—we'll surprise Daddy Dan.”
“But Daddy Dan won't come back for long, long time. Not till the sun is away down behind that hill.”
That should mean two hours, at least, thought Kate. She could wait a little.
“Joan, what taught you not to be afraid of the dark?”
This problem made Joan look about for an answer, but at length she called softly: “Jackie!”
She waited, and then whistled; at once the bright eyes of the little coyote appeared around the edge of the rock.
“Come here!” she commanded.
He slunk out with his head turned towards Kate and cowered at the feet of the child. And the mother cringed inwardly at the sight; all wild things which hated man instinctively with tooth and claw were the friends, the allies of Whistling Dan, and now Joan was stepping in her father's path. A little while longer and the last vestige of gentleness would pass from her. She would be like Dan Barry, following calls which no other human could even hear. It meant one thing: at whatever cost, Joan must be taken from Dan and kept Away.
“Jackie sleeps near me,” Joan was saying. “We can see in the dark, can't we, Jackie?”
She lifted her head, and the moment her compelling eyes left him, Jackie scooted for shelter. The first strangeness had worn away from Joan and she began to chatter away about life in the cave, and how Satan played there by the firelight with Black Bart, and how, sometimes—wonderful sight!—Daddy Dan played with them. The recital was quite endless, as they pushed farther and farther into the shadows, and it was the uneasiness which the dim light raised in her that made Kate determine that the time had come to go home.
“Now,” she said, “we're going for that walk.”
“Not away down there!” cried Joan.
Kate winced.
“It's lots nicer here, munner. You'd ought to just see what we have to eat! And my, Daddy Dan knows how to fix things.”
“Of course he does. Now put on your hat and your cloak, Joan.”
“This is lots warmer, munner.”
“Don't you like it?” she added in alarm, stroking the delicate fur.
“Take it off!”
Kate ripped away the fastenings and tossed the skin far away.
“Oh!” breathed Joan.
“It isn't clean! It isn't clean,” cried Kate. “Oh, my poor, darling baby! Get your bonnet and your cloak, Joan, quickly.”
“We're coming back?”
“Of course.”
Joan trudged obediently to the side of the cave and produced both articles, sadly rumpled, and Kate buttoned her into them with trembling fingers. Something akin to cold made her shake now. It was very much like a child's fear of the dark.
But as she turned towards the entrance to the cave and caught the hand of Joan, the child wrenched herself free.
“We'll never come back,” she wailed. “Munner, I won't go!”
“Joan, come to me this instant.”
Grief and fear and defiance had set the child trembling, but what the mother saw was the glint of the eyes, uneasy, hunting escape with animal cunning. It turned her heart cold, and she knew, with a sad, full knowledge that Dan was lost forever and that only one power could save Joan. That power was herself.
“I won't go!”
“Joan!”
A resolute silence answered her, and when she went threateningly forward, Joan shrank into the shadows near the rock. It was the play of light striking slantwise from the entrance, no doubt, but it seemed to Kate that a flicker of yellow light danced across the eyes of the child. And it stopped Kate took her breath with a new terror. Dan Barry, in the old days, had lived a life as quiet as a summer's day until the time Jim Silent struck him down in the saloon; and she remembered how Black Bart had come for her and led her to the saloon, and how she found Dan lying on the floor, streaked with blood, very pale; and how she had kneeled by him in a panic, and how his eyes had opened and stared at her without answer and the yellow, inhuman light swirled in them until she rose and backed out the door and fled in a hysteria of fear up the road. That had been the beginning of the end for Dan Barry, that instant when his eyes changed; and now Joan—she ran at her swiftly and gathered her into her arms. One instant of wild struggling, and then the child lay still, her head straightened a little, a shrill whistle pealed through the cave.
Kate stopped that piercing call with her hand, but when she turned, she saw in the entrance the dark body of Bart and his narrow, snake-like head.
“Maybe Daddy Dan sent Bart back alone, munner.”
“Does he do that often? Come quickly, Joan. Run!”
She ran towards the entrance, stumbling over the uneven ground and dragging Joan behind her, but when they came close the wolf-dog bristled and sent down the cavern a low growl that stopped them like an invisible barrier. The softest sounds in his register were ominous warnings to those who did not know Black Bart, but Kate and Joan understood that this muttering, harsh thunder was an ultimatum. If she had worn her revolver, a light, beautifully mounted thirty-two which Dan had given her, Kate would have shot the wolf and gone on across his body; for she had learned from Whistling Dan to shoot quickly as one points a finger and straight by instinct. Even as she stood there barehanded she looked about her desperately for a weapon, seeing the daylight and the promise of escape beyond and only this dumb beast between her and freedom.
Once before, many a year before, she had gone like this, with empty hands, and subdued Black Bart simply through the power of quiet courage and the human eye. She determined to try again.
“Stand there quietly, Joan. Don't move until I tell you.”
She made a firm step towards Bart.
“Munner, he'll bite!”
“Hush, Joan. Don't speak!”
At her forward movement the wolf-dog flattened his belly to the rock, and she saw his forepaws, large, almost, as the hands of a man, dig and work for a purchase from which he could throw himself at her throat.
“Steady, Bart!”
His silence was more terrible than a snarl; yet she stretched out her hand and made another step. It brought a sharp tensing of the body of Bart—the fur stood up about his throat like the mane of a lion, and his eyes were a devilish green. Another instant she kept her place, and then she remembered the story of Haines—how Bart had gone with his master to that killing at Alder. If he had killed once, he would kill again; wild as he had been on that other time when she quelled him, he had never before been like this. The courage melted out of her; she forgot the pleasant day outside; she saw only those blazing eyes and shrank back towards the center of the cave. The muscles of the wolf relaxed visibly, and not till that moment did she realize how close she had been to the crisis.
“Bad Bart!” cried Joan, running in between. “Bad, bad dog!”
“Stop, Joan! Don't go near him!”
But Joan was already almost to Bart. When Kate would have run to snatch the child away that deep, rattling growl stopped her again, and now she saw that Joan ran not the slightest danger. She stood beside the huge beast with her tiny fist raised.
“I'll tell Daddy Dan on you,” she shrilled.
Black Bart made a furtive, cringing movement towards the child, but instantly stiffened again and sent his warning down the cave to Kate. Then a shadow fell across the entrance and Dan stood there with Satan walking behind. His glance ran from the bristling body of Bart to Kate, shrinking among the shadows, and lingered without a spark of recognition.
“Satan,” he ordered, “go on in to your place.”
The black stallion glided past the master and came on until he saw Kate. He stopped, snorting, and then circled her with his head suspiciously high, and ears back until he reached the place where his saddle was usually hung. There he waited, and Kate felt the eyes of the horse, the wolf, the man, and even Joan, curiously upon her. “Evenin',” nodded Dan, “might you have come up for supper?” That was all. Not a step towards her, not a smile, not a greeting, and between them stood Joan, her hands clasped idly before her while she looked from face to face, trying to understand. All the pangs of heart which come to woman between girlhood and old age went burningly through Kate in that breathing space, and afterwards she was cold, and saw herself and all the others clearly.
“I haven't come for supper. I've come to bring you back, Dan.”
Not that she had the slightest hope that he would come, but she watched him curiously, almost as if he were a stranger, to see how he would answer.
“Come back?” he echoed. “To the cabin?”
“Where else?”
“It ain't happy there.” He started. “You come up here with us, Kate.”
“And raise Joan like a young animal in a cave?”
He looked at her with wonder, and then at the child.
“Ain't you happy, Joan, up here?”
“Oh, Daddy Dan, Joan's so happy!”
“You see,” he said to Kate, “she's terribly happy.”
It was his utter simplicity which convinced her that arguments and pleas would be perfectly useless. Just behind the cool command which she kept over herself now was hysteria. She knew that if she relaxed her purposefulness for an instant the love for him would rush over her, weaken her. She kept her mind clear and steady with a great effort which was like divorcing herself from herself. When she spoke, there was another being which stood aside listening in wonder to the words.
“You've chosen this life, Dan, I won't blame you for leaving me this time any more than I blamed you the other times. I suppose it isn't you. It's the same impulse, after all, that took you south after—after the wild geese.” She stopped, almost broken down by the memory, and then recalled herself sternly. “It's the same thing that led you away after MacStrann through the storm. But whether it's a weakness in you, or the force of something outside your control, I see this thing clearly; we can't go on. This is the end.”
He seemed troubled, vaguely, as a dog is anxious when it sees a child weep and cannot make out the reason.
“Oh, Dan,” she burst out, “I love you more than ever! If it were I alone, I'd follow you to the end of the world, and live as you live, and do as you do. But it's Joan. She has to be raised as a child should be raised. She isn't going to live with—with wild horses and wolves all her life. And if she stays on here, don't you see that the same thing which is a curse in you will grow strong and be a curse in her? Don't you see it growing? It's in her eyes! Her step is too light. She's lost her fear of the dark. She's drifting back into wildness. Dan, she has to go with me back to the cabin!”
At that she saw him start again, and his hand went out with a swift, subtle gesture towards Joan.
“Let me have her! I have to have her! She's mine!” Then more gently: “You can come to see her whenever you will. And, finally pray God you will come and stay with us always.”
He had stepped to Joan while she spoke, and his hands made a quick movement of cherishing about her golden head, without touching it. For the first and the last time in her life, she saw something akin to fear in his eyes.
“Kate, I can't come back. I got things to do—out here!”
“Then let me take her.”
She watched the wavering in him.
“Things would be kind of empty if she was gone, Kate.”
“Why?” she asked bitterly. “You say you have your work to do—out here?”
He considered this gravely.
“I dunno. Except that I sort of need her.”
She knew from of old that such questions only puzzled him, and soon he would cast away the attempt to decide, and act. Action was his sphere. There was only one matter in which he was unfailingly, relentlessly the same, and that was justice. To that sense in him she would make her last appeal.
“Dan, I can't take her. I only ask you to see that I'm right. She belongs to me, I bought her with pain.”
It was a staggering blow to Whistling Dan. He took off his sombrero and passed his hand slowly across his forehead, then looked at her with a dumb appeal.
“I only want you to do the thing you think is square, Dan.”
Once more he winced.
Then, slowly: “I'm tryin' to be square. Tryin' hard. I know you got a claim in her. But it seems like I have, too. She's like a part of me, mostly. When she's happy, I feel like smilin' sort of. When she cries it hurts me so's I can't hardly stand it.”
He paused, looking wistfully from the staring child to Kate.
He said with sudden illumination: “Let her do the judgin'! You ask her to go to you, and I'll ask her to come to me. Ain't that square?”
For a moment Kate hesitated, but as she looked at Joan it seemed to her that when she stretched out her arms to her baby nothing in the world could keep them apart.
“It's fair,” she answered. Dan dropped to one knee.
“Joan, you got to make up your mind. If you want to stay with, with Satan—speak up, Satan!”
The stallion whinnied softly, and Joan smiled.
“With Satan and Black Bart”—the wolf-dog had glided near, and now stood watching—“and with Daddy Dan, you just come to me. But if you want to go to—to Munner, you just go.” On his face the struggle showed—the struggle to be perfectly just. “If you stay here, maybe it'll be cold, sometimes when the wind blows, and maybe it'll be hard other ways. And if you go to munner, she always be takin' care of you, and no harm'll ever come to you and you'll sleep soft between sheets, and if you wake up in the night she'll be there to talk to you. And you'll have pretty little dresses with all kinds of colors on 'em, most like. Joan, do you want to go to munner, or stay here with me?”
Perhaps the speech was rather long for Joan to follow, but the conclusion was plain enough; and there was Kate, she also upon one knee and her arms stretched out.
“Joan, my baby, my darling!”
“Munner!” whispered the child and ran towards her.
A growl came up in the throat of Black Bart and then sank away into a whine; Joan stopped short, and turned her head.
“Joan!” cried Kate.
Anguish made her voice loud, and from the loudness Joan shrank, for there was never a harsh sound in the cave except the growl of Bart warning away danger. She turned quite around and there stood Daddy Dan, perfectly erect, quite indifferent, to all seeming, as to her choice. She went to him with a rush and caught at his hands.
“Oh, Daddy Dan, I don't want to go. Don't you want Joan?”
He laid a hand upon her head, and she felt the tremor of his fingers; the wolf-dog lay down at her feet and looked up in her face; Satan, from the shadows beyond, whinnied again.
After that there was not a word spoken, for Kate looked at the picture of the three, saw the pity in the eyes of Whistling Dan, saw the wonder in the eyes of Joan, saw the truth of all she had lost. She turned towards the entrance and went out, her head bowed, stumbling over the pebbles.
The most that could be said of Rickett was that it had a courthouse and plenty of quiet so perfect that the minds of the office holders could turn and turn and hear no sound saving their own turning. There were, of course, more buildings than the courthouse, but not so many that they could not be grouped conveniently along one street. The hush which rested over Rickett was never broken except in the periods immediately after the spring and fall round-ups when the saloons and gaming tables were suddenly flooded with business. Otherwise it was a rare event indeed which injected excitement into the village.
Such an event was the gathering of Sheriff Pete Glass' posse.
There had been other occasions when Pete and officers before his time had combed the county to get the cream of the fighting men, but the gathering of the new posse became different in many ways. In the first place the call for members was not confined to the county, for though it stretched as large as many a minor European kingdom, it had not the population of a respectable manufacturing town, and Pete Glass went far beyond its bounds to get his trailers. Everywhere he had the posters set up and on the posters appeared the bait. The state began the game with a reward of three thousand dollars; the county plastered two thousand dollars on top of that to make it an even five: then the town of Alder dug into its deep pockets and produced twenty-five hundred, while disinterested parties added contributions which swelled the total to a round ten thousand. Ten thousand dollars reward for the man described below, dead or alive. Ten thousand dollars which might be earned by the investment of a single bullet and the pressure on trigger; and above this the fame which such a deed would bring—no wonder that the mountain-desert hummed through all its peaks and plains, and stirred to life. Moreover, the news had gone abroad, the tale of the Killing of Alder and everything that went before. It went West; it appeared in newspapers; it cropped up at firesides; it gave a spark of terror to a myriad conversations; and every one in Rickett felt that the eye of the nation was upon it; every one in Rickett dreamed nightly of the man described: “Daniel Barry, called Whistling Dan, about five feet nine or ten, slender, black hair, brown eyes, age about thirty years.”
Secretly, Rickett felt perfectly convinced that Sheriff Pete Glass alone could handle this fellow and trim his claws for they knew how many a “bad man” had built a reputation high as Babel and baffled posses and murdered right and left, until the little dusty man on the little dusty roan went out alone and came back alone, and another fierce name went from history into legend. However, there were doubters, since this affair had new earmarks. It had been buzzed abroad that Whistling Dan was not only the hunted, but also the hunter, and that he had pledged himself to strike down all the seven who first took his trail. Five of these were already gone; two remained, and of these two one was Vic Gregg, no despicable fighter himself, and the other was no less than the invincible little sheriff himself. To imagine the sheriff beaten in the speed of his draw or the accuracy of his shot was to imagine the First Cause, Infinity, or whatever else is inconceivable; nevertheless, there were such possibilities as bullets fired at night through the window, and attacks from the rear. So Rickett waited, and held its breath and kept his eyes rather more behind than in front.
In the meantime, there was no lack of amusement, for from the four corners, blown by the four winds, men rode out of the mountain-desert and drifted into Rickett to seek for a place on that posse. Twenty men, that was the goal the sheriff had set. Twenty men trained to a hair. Beside the courthouse was a shooting gallery not overmuch used except during the two annual seasons of prosperity and reckless spending, and Pete Glass secured this place to test out applicants. After, they passed this trial they were mustered into his presence, and he gave them an examination for himself. Just what he asked them or what he could never be known, but some men came from his presence very red, and others extremely pale, and some men blustered, and some men swore, and some men rode hastily out of town and spoke not a word, but few, very few, were those who came out wearing a little badge on their vest with the pride of a Knight of the Garter. At first the hordes rode in, young and old, youths keen for a taste of adventure, rusty fellows who had once been noted warriors; but these early levies soon discovered that courage and willingness was not so much valued as accuracy, and the old-timers learned, also, that accuracy must be accompanied by speed; and even when a man possessed both these qualities of hand and eye the gentle, inscrutable little man in his office might still reject them for reasons they could not guess.
This one thing was certain: the next time Pete Glass ran for office he would be beaten even by a greaser. He made enemies at the rate of a hundred a day during that period of selection.
Still the twenty was not recruited to the full. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen were gathered into the fold, but still five men were lacking to complete the toll. Most men would have started their man-hunt with that formidable force, but Pete Glass was methodical. In his own heart of hearts he would have given his hope of heaven to meet Barry face to face and hand to hand, and see which was the better man, but Pete Glass owed a duty to his state before he owed a duty to himself. He stuck by his first plan. And every day the inhabitants of Rickett gathered at the shooting gallery to watch the tests and wonder at the successes and smile at the failures.
It was a very hard test which the sheriff had imposed. A man stood to one side of the iron-plate back wall which served as the target. He stood entirely out of sight and through an aperture in the side wall, at a signal, he tossed a round ball of clay, painted white. The marksman stood a good ten paces off, and he must strike that clay ball as it passed across the target. The balls were so small that even to strike them when they were stationary was a difficult task, and to hit them in motion was enough to task the quickest eye and the cunningest hand.
It was old Pop Giersberg who stood with his ancient forty-five behind the counter, with his feet braced, on this bright morning, and behind him half of Rickett was gathered.
“D'you give me warnin', son?” he inquired of the man at the counter.
“Nary a warnin',” grinned the other, who was one of the chosen fifteen.
He wished Pop well. So did they all, but they had seen every man fail for two days at that target and one and all they had their doubts. Pop had been a formidable man in his day, but now his hand was stiff and his hair gray. He was at least twenty years older than he felt.
He had hardly finished asking his question when a white ball was tossed across the target. Up came the gun of Pop Giersberg, exploded, and the bullet clanged on the iron; the white ball floated idly on across the wall and disappeared on the other side.
“Gimme another chance!” pleaded Pop, with a quaver in his voice. “That was just a try to get my eye in shape.”
“Sure,” chuckled the deputy. “Everybody gets three tries. It ain't hardly nacheral to hit that ball the first crack. Leastways, nobody ain't done it yet. You jest keep your eye peeled, Pop, and that ball will come out ag'in.”
And Pop literally kept his eye peeled.
He had double reason to pray for success, for his “old woman” had smiled and shook her head when he allowed that he would try out for a place on that posse. All his nerves grew taut and keen. He waited.
Once more the white streak appeared and surely he who threw the ball had every wish to see Pop succeed, for he tossed it high and easily. Again the gun barked from Giersberg's hand, and again the ball dropped almost slowly out of sight.
“It's a trick!” gasped Pop. “It's something damned queer.”
“They's a considerable pile of gents, that think the same way you do,” admitted the deputy sheriff, dryly.
Pop glared at him and gritted his teeth.
“Lead the damn thing on ag'in,” he said, and muttered the rest of his sentence to himself. He jerked his hat lower over his eyes, spread his feet a little more, and got ready for the last desperate chance.
But fate was against Pop. Twenty years before he might have struck that mark if he had been in top condition, but today, though he put his very soul into the effort, and though the ball for the third time was lobbed with the utmost gentleness through the air, his bullet banged vainly against the sheet of iron and the white, inoffensive ball continued on its way.
Words came in the throat of Pop, reached his opened mouth, and died there. He thrust the gun back into its holster, and turned slowly toward the crowd. There was no smile to meet his challenging eye, for Pop was a known man, and though he might have failed to strike this elusive mark that was no sign that he would fail to hit something six feet in height by a couple in breadth. When he found that no mockery awaited him, a sheepish smile began at his eyes and wandered dimly to his lips.
“Well, gents,” he muttered, “I guess I ain't as young as I was once. S'long!”
He shouldered his way to the door and was gone.
“That's about all, friends,” said the deputy crisply. “I guess there ain't any more clamorin's for a place today?”
He swept the crowd with a complacent eye.
“If you got no objection,” murmured a newcomer, who had just slipped into the room, “I'd sort of like to take a shot at that.”