"No news of Steve yet," he told her.
"Oh, Lafe, do be careful. They tell such dreadful things about him. Mrs. Brown says he could hit a two-bit piece at a hundred yards."
"Don't. Let's be cheerful," said the sheriff, and laughed. "It'll only be a few days, hon. I'll get him all right."
"Well," said Hetty, with a sigh of content, clinging to his arm, "there's one comfort. If anything ever did happen to you, I'd know it, if you were in Jericho."
"How?" he asked, much diverted.
"Why, you booby, I could feel it. Isn't it strange, Lafe? I feel as if we'd known each other all our lives. We must have been made for each other."
"That's right queer," said the sheriff solemnly. "I often get that feeling myself."
As I have a suspicion that other loving young people have talked like this before, enough of it.
As Lafe was coming from dinner at the Fashion annex next noon, a Mexican handed him a letter. It was undated and without beginning.
Steve's sore. Look out for him.Annie.
Steve's sore. Look out for him.
Annie.
The sheriff had received so many warnings in his time that he had grown callous and seldom attached any significance to them, but he knew that Dutch Annie was not given to foolish alarm. So he tore her note into minute particles and saw to the oiling of his six-shooter. That was the only preparation against trouble that Johnson was wont to make.
The sheriff's two-roomed frame shack was somewhat removed from its neighbors. It was a full half mile from the Widow's house, where Hetty lodged. His housekeeping had a fine touch of simplicity. If all things were favorable, and he had nothing else to do, Lafe would make the bed once in a while. To do him justice, he had been known to sweep the place, also. That was not a particularly arduous task, because the furniture consisted of the bed aforesaid, one chair, one table with three legs, which stood propped against the wall, and a packing case for a washstand.
About seven o'clock that evening he led a spare horse to the Widow's house and took Hetty for a ride. They talked of the future—soberly, almost as a staid married couple. She never indulged in coquetry, and their courtship had not been of the kind to make jealousy of others expedient or a desirable weapon for her use. After she had dismounted at the gate:
"I wish you weren't going. I'm sort of nervous to-night."
The sheriff smiled down at her. "I reckon you'd best get a glass case to keep me in, hon."
"I know it's silly—but you'll be awful careful, won't you, Lafe?"
"Sure," he said. "There ain't a native in ten counties that likes getting hurt less'n I do."
He put the horses up and repaired to the Fashion, for he had it in mind to ascertain the latest gossip of Moffatt. It was not to be supposed that a man of the outlaw's temper would take the expulsion of Picnic Kate from Badger in a spirit of decorous humility.
The proprietor had it on excellent authority that Steve was far down on the Baccanochi range, endeavoring to cheat the natives out of a herd of stock cattle. The sheriff stood at the bar and conversed for a space.
"You got a new gun, Lafe?" asked the Fashion man, pointing to his belt.
"No-oo. Just been cleaning this up some."
The other held out a languid hand and Johnson passed him the gun. It was a workmanlike .45 Colt, single action, and the hammer rested on an empty chamber for safety. The Fashion proprietor turned it over with the ease and appreciation of an expert. He pulled back the hammer and twirled the chambers.
"She's a beaut," said he.
"Yes, that's a right good gun," Lafe agreed. He received it back carelessly, and slipped it into the holster. They chatted indifferently for a moment, and Lafe drank a nightcap and started home.
The night was thick and sticky. Back of the mountains thunder was muttering. The air clung about him like a soft blanket. Some bull-bats wheeled above his head. Lafe glanced at the dirty sky and wondered whether those hurrying wracks of clouds would shed rain. They had a pitiless habit of holding out hope, only to blow over, leaving the country gasping.
His door was shut. It struck him as odd, because he never locked his house, having nothing of value to safeguard. Inside, it was so black that the darkness seemed to rise up and buffet him in the face. He crossed the empty outer room and felt his way to the table against the far wall. On it stood always an empty bottle, a candle crammed into the neck. This was the sheriff's light system.
His hands groped over the rough surface, but he could not find the candle, nor the matches usually piled close beside. He fumbled in his pocket—nothing there but some keys and loose silver.
"Pshaw!" he muttered. "Well, it don't matter. I can undress in the dark."
He moved towards the bed. Then he halted and his stomach muscles contracted. Slowly his head turned to see what was behind. There was somebody in the room. He stared until his eyes smarted, but could see nothing. He listened, but could catch no sound. Yet, somewhere close to him, a living thing moved; he was positive of that. Nobody had ever questioned Johnson's courage, but now he experienced a peculiar gripping of the throat and a pringling over all his skin.
"Who's there?" he asked, and waited.
"Who's there, I say?"
Surely there was a faint stirring in the corner, the merest pinpoint of a sound. The sheriff whipped out his gun. He could descry nothing, but pointing his forefinger along the barrel to where he thought an object crouched, he thumbed the hammer. It fell with a click on an empty chamber. Before he could pull again, a body hurled itself through the dark on Johnson.
Instantly he grappled it. A knife thrust was the danger now, and he locked his arms about his assailant and heaved sideways, driving his hip against the opposing hip to give momentum to the throw. The other lost his feet and Lafe swung with all his weight, but they crashed against the wall, which brought them upstanding. While one could count ten, the two stood breast to breast, panting.
The sheriff suddenly brought his right knee upward with force, desirous of driving it into his opponent's stomach, but the blow was caught on the thigh, and again they went lurching about the room, gasping for breath, but voiceless. As he strove to pin the jerking arms, Johnson's mind ran automatically on the empty chamber. How had the hammer happened on that? Sure—the Fashion man had done it.
The discovery gave him new strength. In swift rage he tried for a lower hold, feeling his enemy weaken. The momentary release of his grip was enough. The other wrenched one arm free and swung it. Lafe was dimly conscious of a crash and the tinkle of broken glass. He felt no pain. It seemed to him that trains were rushing by at high speed, and he was beset with the idea that he had something to do that he was powerless to perform. He crumpled up and slid to the floor, his fingers scratching the boards for the handle of his six-shooter, but all the strength seemed gone from them. And now, mingling with the roar of the train and the harsh screaming of brakes, was the rattle of a horse's hoofs. The sheriff stretched out on his back and sighed.
The patter of rain on the roof was the first sound that aroused Johnson. Assuredly the house leaked, for there were warm drops falling on his face, too. Next, he heard somebody strike a match, and he began to speculate in a sort of languid wonder as to what a woman was doing there and what made her cry. Then a shooting pain above the right ear wrung an exclamation from him and he tried to sit up.
"Don't. Don't. You must lie still."
"Hetty," he said.
She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound.
"You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered.
"Steve Moffatt—"
"Yes, I know, dear. Lie still."
Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had got away. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty.
"How did you get here?"
"Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong."
"How—?"
"I heard you calling me," she said.
"Calling you?" the sheriff repeated. "Why, hon, I never said a word."
For more than a month, the sheriff lay sick. Armstrong feared concussion of the brain, but his diagnosis proved incorrect. And Hetty nursed him as never a man was nursed before, in that country of rough methods. Indeed, her devotion was so pronounced that the entire sentiment of Badger underwent a change. The married ladies came to the tardy conclusion that Miss Ferrier belonged to the sisterhood of good women; none of the males had ever doubted it; the whole town paid tribute to her conduct, and their indignation against the sheriff's assailant waxed correspondingly.
At the beginning of the first week of convalescence, the Floyds arrived in Badger from the Lazy L. Mrs. Floyd was hampered by no scruples on the score of false modesty; if her husband did not object—if her Tom understood—what mattered it about the rest of the world? So, straight to Lafe's bedside she went.
"Lafe! Dear old Lafe," she exclaimed, when she saw the unnatural pallor of his face.
Hetty was standing at the other side of the bed. She tried bravely not to stiffen towards their visitor when she saw her kneel and take Lafe's hand, but some subtle sense of divination—or perhaps it was that Mrs. Floyd was so pretty—made her reception frigid. Mrs. Floyd glanced quickly into her face, then seized her impetuously, crying: "Don't. Oh, please don't. Lafe and I were babies together."
Whereupon the amazed patient beheld Hetty clasp the smaller woman in her arms, and the two took to weeping.
This must have been excellent for his complaint, because the sheriff mended rapidly from that date. It was not long before he went about as usual, although a long strip of plaster adorned one ear. His first care was to talk with the proprietor of the Fashion, who said: "The hammer was on the wrong chamber? Why, Lafe, surely you don't think—"
That was exactly what the sheriff thought. It ended in the saloonkeeper leaving town in haste. Then the sheriff set quietly to work to ascertain whither Moffatt had flown for refuge. It would be so warm for him along the Border now, that a haven would be difficult.
"We'd best to wait a mite yet, Hetty," he told his fiancée again. "Supposing he was to get me? No, no. It's either me or him. So let's just keep the wedding off a while, hon, and then this'll all be straightened out."
"Oh—all right."
"You see, hon, I want to have a clean slate," he went on rather lamely. "Don't you understand? Before we get married, I aim to throw up this job of sheriff and take to running cattle with ol' Horne."
"Huh-huh."
"Don't look that way, hon. Steve, he's the last. I'll go get him and then I'll have done what they put me in for."
"Oh, of course, if you think more of the people who elected you than you do of me," said Hetty.
For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his face cleared and he swept Hetty into his arms.
He did not have long to wait for news of the outlaw. A telegram came from Floyd of the Lazy L.
Steve Moffatt in Lost Springs mountains. Heading for the Jug. Killed Pablo Jiminez to-day while running off bunch of horses. Horne and I offer five hundred reward for him.
Steve Moffatt in Lost Springs mountains. Heading for the Jug. Killed Pablo Jiminez to-day while running off bunch of horses. Horne and I offer five hundred reward for him.
It was because of this wire that the sheriff rode up a cañon in Lost Springs on a cool October afternoon. The wind played through the live-oaks and scrub-cedar and went whistling upward to be lost among the solemn peaks. Some cattle were watering at a shallow hole. A ground squirrel scurried across his front. From all about came the soft, mournful cooing of wild doves.
All morning he had been climbing. Sometimes he traveled three miles to gain a mile of distance; winding upward to high mesas, skirting them and descending into another cañon nearer the summits toward which Moffatt was heading.
Presently he was confronted by a wall of rock. It was a sheer thirty feet in height and water oozed down its face into a small pool. There seemed no way out and Lafe scanned the cliffs in search of the trail. While he lolled thus in the saddle, there came a shot from above his head and his horse winced. Without hesitation he fell to the ground and scrambled on hands and knees to the shelter of a tree.
"I near got you that time, Johnson," a clear voice called to him.
It came from behind the crags above the pool. Then he thought he heard the ring of a horse's shoe on stone, but he was too cautious to expose himself at once. For fully an hour he waited, listening for evidence of his enemy and occasionally sighting along the barrel of his 30-30. Then, persuaded Moffatt had seized the chance to increase his lead, he remounted and continued the pursuit. A wale along his mount's shoulder was the only injury.
"He's scared, or he could have got me then," said Lafe, examining this with much satisfaction.
In late afternoon he threaded a broad cañon and entered on a stretch of brakes, perhaps six miles in length and one in width. The top of its numberless bald hills overlooked the cañon's sides. The track he followed ran along a narrow plateau. At intervals, chalky cliffs dropped sheer away on his right hand to a depth of two hundred feet, and there were gaping cavities into which a mountain could have been dumped, resembling in their formation the craters of extinct volcanoes. Giant fissures showed in the mounds of salmon-colored clay, and, close beside him, a yawning void threatened, whence a hundred thousand tons of shale had slid. Of vegetation there was none here, save a tangle of prickly-pear at the mouth of a gulch.
"There he goes now," said the sheriff, pricking his horse.
Moffatt was nearly a mile ahead and moving leisurely, as though he had no fear. He topped a rise and waved his hand at Johnson before dipping out of sight.
This confidence was partially explained when the sheriff eased his horse down the declivity that had shut him from view and discovered a break in the trail. At this point it ended at a huge rock, and split. One part ran along the base of the rock and then turned back in the direction he had come. At least it so looked, but he could not see its ultimate destination because of the broken nature of the country. The other path made a slight detour and went on, past the rock.
"Huh-huh," said Johnson, pulling up. "Sure. He's back of me again, the rascal."
In spite of an effort by Moffatt to disguise his imprint at the junction, the trail lay plain to Lafe. It was too old a game for him to be deceived; had he not once, on a previous hunt, detected Moffatt's ruse in changing his horse's shoes so that the corks were in front? Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and got down in the dust on his hands and knees. There was a second trail, and it was following Moffatt's.
It came from beyond the rock, and then changed direction and now overlapped the outlaw's. Had the two met? It was probable that Moffatt had come upon a confederate, for this was the region of the Jug, the rendezvous for fugitives. But why, then, had the two not come to meet him?
"That ain't Steve's way," Johnson reflected. "It's like they're laying for me up the trail a piece."
Neither did this solution satisfy him. One thing alone about the look of the two tracks seemed to make the notion of two confederates riding peacefully in single file untenable. The last rider was going faster than the other. Then he must be in pursuit.
Debating these possibilities, the sheriff advanced with caution. Limestone cliffs soon hemmed him in. He came upon a steer as he crossed a tiny mountain stream. The animal dashed away, wild as an antelope. Just before he made the next turn, Johnson glanced back. The steer had stopped to gaze after him. It would not willingly leave the vicinity of the water it had come six miles to get.
The going became so rough that his horse faltered and the sheriff feared that he might maim himself any moment on the rocks. The way was nothing but a succession of narrow gorges, leading one into the other and cluttered with bowlders; ever ascending, the light became more subdued as the cañon's walls grew steeper and higher. He calculated that he must be nearing the summits of Lost Springs.
A shot reverberated among the cliffs in front of him; then another. The echoes rolled and multiplied. The abrupt detonations startled his mount, which sprang under the quick, nervous grasp of the knee. A stone gave under foot, and down came horse and rider with a jolt like a trunk being dumped from a baggage car.
The sheriff instantly cheeked his horse, holding his head down by main strength lest the beast rise and trample him. His foot hung in the stirrup and the spur was caught in the blanket. There was no need for this precaution. The poor brute lay where he fell, nostrils quivering and his breath coming in tearing gasps. Instantly realizing that he was seriously hurt, Lafe began to extricate himself. He slowly drew his leg from the boot; free, leaped upward and pinned the horse's head with his knee. One look at the right foreleg was sufficient. Johnson stuck his gun to the white star on its forehead and pulled the trigger.
He was now thoroughly angry.
"Doggone that scoundrel. I'll go get him if I have to walk barefoot from here to the Jug," he declared wrathfully.
A good horse gone, and Moffatt still ahead! Yet he had much to be thankful for. He was unhurt except for a severe shaking, and a bruise to his ankle. The sheriff wasted no time on his predicament, but removed saddle, bridle and blanket from the body and hid them in a hole high up among rocks.
The boot came with the saddle, and having tied his handkerchief about the injured ankle, he went forward again, carrying the rifle in one hand, the boot in the other.
He entered a wider gorge, well wooded with post-oak. The ground rose steeply and the cañon narrowed half a mile ahead to an oval opening between cliffs. Beyond this towered a solid peak. This was the Jug, the fastness to which the Border bandits retreated in times of stress. Lafe peered hard up the cañon and halted to spy out surroundings. From behind that opening, one determined man could hold off a regiment.
"I swan," he ejaculated.
A dead horse, saddled, lay near a fallen tree not twenty yards distant. It was still bleeding from a wound in the neck. The trappings were old and patched and repaired with rope, after the fashion of the natives. This, then, accounted for one of the shots. The sheriff gazed, and stepped hastily behind a post-oak.
Something had risen from the ground about a hundred yards beyond. Peeping round his shelter, he saw that it was another horse, whose forequarters flopped helplessly as it strove to rise. Instantly he recognized the markings of the "paint" on which Moffatt had fled.
"Somebody has beaten me to him," he muttered; then sprang from behind his tree with ready gun and yelled: "Hi!"
Close to the far horse two men were struggling on the ground. As he looked, one rolled uppermost and, wrenching a hand loose, struck with a knife. A stifled cry came from the man underneath, and the sheriff ran forward at top speed.
A Mexican was straddling Moffatt, one hand about his throat. The outlaw was vainly endeavoring to break the grip with his fingers. The knife was raised for a second blow, when the native heard the crunch of the sheriff's boot and turned his head. His expression of raging hate changed to a look of such absolute amazement that it was almost ludicrous. Next instant he released Moffatt and scurried away like a cottontail, zigzagging among the trees as he headed for the Jug. It would have been an easy matter to bring him down, and for the fraction of a second Johnson was so inclined. Then: "Pshaw, I ain't looking for him," he said, and hurried to Moffatt's side.
"Hello," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes.
"Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?"
"Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here."
He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up, which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnson unfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but the Mexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward the shoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or that there was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle, found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and bound the wound.
Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink."
Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk. The outlaw seemed grateful.
"You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired.
"I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?"
Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully.
"Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked.
Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave him there. The Jug was too formidable for assault, unless they had urgent need of him.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneaked out the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it's like he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the going was good, you can bet."
"Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?"
"His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen.
Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexican had cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt at the Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. They had been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he had guessed where Moffatt would seek refuge.
"Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval of silence, during which he gathered wood for a fire.
"Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he done fell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck."
"But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? It ought to have been easy."
"No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.
Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead into the Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty, they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and bacon and beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of which was the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressed from his wound, which had stopped bleeding.
Accordingly the sheriff approached the oval opening, exercising nice circumspection. It looked sufficiently peaceful. An acute, carefully developed instinct for danger told Johnson that none lurked there.
"Go on," Moffatt called after him. "He can't shoot, anyhow. No gun. We'll take a chance."
"Wewill? This is me. Not you," answered Johnson.
Then he cried in Mexican a friendly greeting, to be on the safe side in the event of Jiminez being in hiding, and strode into the Jug. The opening led into a high and deep cave. It was deserted. In front was a shallow open space, and here were the ashes of fires and some empty bottles and old cans. In a remote corner of the cave, under some dirty sacks, were flour and bacon.
"Come on," he said, returning. "Let's go. It'll be dark in a minute."
Propping Moffatt with his shoulder, and an arm about his waist, Lafe reëntered the Jug. There they spent the night.
Before the early coyotes had got into full swing in their morning songs, they were astir and made what breakfast they could. The sheriff was eager to be gone. Who could say at what moment a pair of desperadoes, with prior claims on the Jug, might not ride up the trail? In that event, he knew that Moffatt might be relied upon to act against him, and Johnson was feeling in no humor for further combat. His prisoner's shoulder was very stiff and caused him exquisite pain when he moved; also, he had a slight fever; but these things are borne as visitations of their profession by such men, and Moffatt never questioned the sheriff's demand that they start at once. He pursed his lips and whistled when the darting pains in his shoulder began, but went readily enough.
There was a slender ribbon of trail leading from the mouth of the Jug around the mountain peak and down the other side into a wide draw. By following it, said Moffatt, they could hit a road which ran south.
"It's eleven miles to it, though, and—wow—what a country. Say, Lafe, what're you going to do with me?"
"You're coming to Badger," replied the sheriff.
The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're set on it, all right."
When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of the back trail—during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entire weight—Moffatt spoke up again.
"Got any bread?" said he.
"You bet. Why?"
"Well, there's a big ol' mule we turned out here. I done found him last year down in Zacaton Bottom. He was like to of died, that mule. But I fixed him up good and packed some bedding and chuck on him way up here. He's sure been useful, too. You keep your eye skinned and if you see him, just give him bread. Ridin's cheaper'n walkin'."
"It sure is. Let's go—easy—that's it."
The two had covered another mile of the draw, when, behind a tangle of mesquite, sounded a snort of suspicion.
"Good boy. Good ol' boy," said Johnson soothingly, advancing with the bread extended.
The mule jumped sidewise, hampered by a hobble. He sniffed and the sheriff followed, with endearing words and blandishments. Would he never stand still? It was a gaunt animal, with an especially large head. Probably it smelled the delicacy so rarely enjoyed, because it came blowing at Lafe's hand. Whilst it munched on the crust, Johnson removed the hobble and tied the rope around its neck. Then, with a fervent prayer that the evil latent in every mule might be appeased, he hoisted Moffatt to his back and clambered up behind him. They headed out of the draw.
The sun was three hours high when they struck the road and paused at a wallow to give their mount a sip of water. Outside the draw he had obstinately refused to proceed faster than a walk and Lafe's sense of security was not sufficient to dispute the pace with him. As he lifted his massive head from drinking, a pair of mules shoved their noses above a rise and a wagon came into view. A white man was driving. Johnson waved his hat and shouted a frantic greeting.
The stage was already descending and the driver could not stop it, although he laid himself back on the reins in the attempt. The sheriff regarded him in amazement. Was he gone crazy? When almost opposite, he let out a whoop and, running out on the pole, cut at the team with his whip. They went by at a gallop in a cloud of sand. Lafe caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver's white face and wavering eyes. Then their mount was seized of the devil; down went his head and he pitched as only a mule can. Moffatt went off at the first jump; at the third, Lafe scattered the waters of the wallow.
The opposite ascent was of soft sand, and before they reached the top, fatigue compelled the stage team to drop to a walk. The driver looked back, apprehension showing even in the bend of his neck. The gray mule had disappeared. Seeing Johnson on foot, helping Moffatt from the ground, the man threw on the brake and the stage came to a halt. The sheriff toiled painfully up the hill, holding the suffering outlaw around the waist.
"Here," said the driver in a dry voice. "Get in. Get in."
Together they lifted Steve in. The driver released the brakes and whipped his mules to a gallop.
"I swan. I swan," he kept repeating.
"Why the hell didn't you stop? Hey? What do you mean by running by that way?" said the sheriff angrily.
"Runnin' by? Runnin'—why, man alive," croaked the driver, "that doggone ol' mule you rode used to pull this stage. And he's been daid over a year."
When in a discursive mood, Badger was wont to say, with the aggressive local pride common to new communities, that the world had produced three great men—Julius Caesar, Theodore Roosevelt and Lafe Johnson. They accorded this ranking to Julius rather reluctantly, he having been a "foreigner." Imagine, then, their feelings of helpless amazement when they learned that Lafe was about to leave them.
"You don't need no sheriff here now," said he. "Things have got so peaceful that what you want is a dog-catcher and a pound-man. I ain't a candidate for that job. Go ahead and elect a city marshal, and let him do the chores when he ain't busy on anything else."
He was obdurate in this resolution. To his intimates he confessed that the hazards and journeyings of the office made it unfit for occupancy by a married man. And, now that Moffatt was safely in jail and the country cleared of its worst element, he proposed to become a married man. It was Hetty who steeled him in this resolve, when the pleadings of his friends and fellow-townsmen appeared to have him wavering. She had her eyes fixed on Lafe's place beyond the Willows as on a haven of rest, and the Widow Brown gathered from her conversation that Hetty's notion of a respectable and happy citizen was a farmer with one hundred and sixty acres and a flock of children. She mentioned this to Hetty, who grew crimson and requested her to talk sense.
So Lafe resigned as sheriff of Badger, and they presented him with a large watch which ticked so loudly that he could not sleep with it under his pillow; and several staid, responsible property holders got very drunk indeed.
The wedding was fixed for the day following that on which he laid down the cares of office. He and Hetty were talking over final arrangements on the eve.
"I've got a surprise for you," said Lafe.
"What is it?"
"Ol' man Horne has bought the Anvil range. He's made me boss, too. A hundred a month."
Hetty exclaimed in delight as Johnson proudly exhibited a letter received quite three weeks before, which he had been holding back in order to cap his resignation. That made everything smooth and safe for them. They would have their home in Hope Cañon beyond the Willows, and good fresh beef and butter and milk. Assuredly Lafe would himself become a rich cowman some day. Hetty was sure of it.
Their wedding-morn broke, sullen and muttering like a man heavy with sleep. Badger kicked off the blankets, sat up to ascertain just what head it had contracted, and asked hoarsely for an eye-opener. An eye-opener is a drink of undiluted whisky, gulped down before breakfast. Then it stepped out into the road, cocked an eye aloft and opined that the weather looked bad for the sheriff's wedding. They will always call him "sheriff" in Badger.
Turner, the storekeeper, announced at a very early hour that it was mere folly trying to work, and nobody need expect him to attend to business that day or for several to come, perhaps. Thereupon he shut up shop and carried a graphophone on to the front porch. It played "In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" eleven times, while the express agent's dog squatted in the road, with its nose tilted back, and howled dismally.
About noon, nine of the Anvil boys rode into town to grace the occasion. They had on clean shirts, and their boots were greased and odorous. Following them came Mr. and Mrs. Horne in a buckboard. The couple had driven forty miles to do honor to the new range boss, and Mrs. Horne lost no time in repairing to the Widow Brown's to assist in attiring the bride. She found that young woman aggravatingly cool—almost placid. Next there arrived the Floyds, with their son Tommy, now grown to overalls and boastful talk.
All the male population of Badger was gathered in the Fashion and in the Cowboys' Rest across the street. Thither hastened Horne and Floyd to hearten the sheriff, but they discovered only their own men and a crowd of merry-makers. Escaping from them in good time, the two sought Turner, who, as justice of the peace, was to perform the ceremony. The storekeeper was found crouched behind some goods in the back portion of his place. He was perspiring profusely. Some fiend in human form had warned Bob not to mix the burial service with the marriage ceremony, as he had done on another occasion best forgotten, and the justice of the peace could not get the fearful idea out of his head. He was therefore trying to commit as much as possible of the service to memory.
"You're looking pretty slick, Bob. Where's Lafe?" asked Horne.
"He's upstairs. I hid him out in that empty room where we keep the stiffs," said Turner, hastily secreting the book. By "stiffs" he referred to the custom of holding the bodies of gentlemen who met violent deaths, until a coroner's jury pronounced on them.
"That's a good place for him," said Floyd.
They started upstairs. "Wait," cried Turner. "I'll take him his dinner."
The trio found Lafe sitting on a stool. He had on a new suit and his hair was plastered down over his forehead, but despite this brave show, he was wretched, gazing miserably out of the window into the street, where numbers of his friends were surging up and down and across. As they entered, a cowboy topped an outlaw mule and the frenzied shrieks of encouragement to the rider drew Horne and Floyd and Turner to look. Then his employer obtained a close view of the sheriff's face.
"You sick?" he demanded.
"No-oo. Why?"
"Then, man alive, brace up. You ain't going to be hung."
Lafe smiled in ghastly fashion and essayed to eat of the steak and vegetables which the justice had brought. It was a vain pretense. His throat was dry and he could not swallow without straining. After watching him a while, Horne suggested that they all take a drink.
"I find a touch of rye helps me a heap when I'm poorly," said he.
To this proposal nobody objected.
"Got the ring?" said Horne.
Again the sheriff gave a sickly grin and stuck his forefinger into a waistcoat pocket. Instantly his face turned a pea-green shade.
"Why," he exclaimed, "I done put it there not five—" He started going through every pocket with shaking hands.
"Jumpin' Jupiter!" said Turner. "You done give me that ring to keep for you an hour ago, Lafe. He kept taking it out so often to look at it, I was scared he'd wear it out, Horne."
In any report of a wedding, it is proper to itemize the plunder. We will therefore leave the bridegroom and his three tried friends to pass the remaining hours playing "cold hands" with cards, whilst we take a peep into the Widow Brown's abode. Hetty is dressing by the aid of Mrs. Horne and Mrs. Floyd, and no peeping is permissible there. Out upon the thought! Suffice that she wore that day certain fine linen and fluffy creations, the like of which the ladies of Badger had never seen and of whose existence in wardrobes the male residents had no suspicion. Mrs. Horne was vastly gratified.
The presents were laid out in the parlor—all but one. That one was given by the express agent, and was hidden deep in the barn, but rest assured that it will ultimately be taken to the house in Hope Cañon. Ever a facetious and far-sighted man, the express agent had sent a go-cart.
A piano lamp under a pink glass shade with green bead fringe centered the display. The fact that it was made for gas—and they would be lucky, indeed, always to have oil in the Cañon—did not diminish its value in Hetty's eyes at all. Moreover, there was not a piano in Badger. Somebody had sent Lafe a silver-plated six-shooter; another, a chromo lithograph of the prophet Elijah caught up in a chariot of fire. To Hetty had come shawls and cruetstands, coffee pots and tidies and chair scarfs; also, plated cake dishes, cutlery and rugs. An erstwhile admirer from the Lazy L, who had partaken of many meals at the Fashion on her account, sent a milch cow, and for Lafe came a black saddler from Floyd. This was the horse that had carried the Lazy L boss across a swollen river on a certain occasion in which Johnson had figured, and he had often admired the beast. A very serviceable gift was that from Horne—a check for fifty dollars.
"Wilt thou have this woman to—"
They were standing side by side in the parlor of the Widow Brown's, under a wedding-bell made of cedar boughs, which was suspended from the ceiling by a wire. All Lafe's nervousness was gone. His face was stern, but there was a peaceful light in the eyes that was good to see. Evidently Mrs. Horne thought so, for she and the Widow Brown cried softly and without ceasing. The bride was rather pale, but entirely composed. Only Turner and Horne fidgeted, the latter because his collar chafed him. Turner skimmed over the words and paused twice to whisper in an aside that he hoped to the Lord Lafe hadn't forgotten the ring.
"Wilt thou have this woman to—"
There was an inward surge, then a break in the ranks of the guests grouped behind the pair and at the door, and Turner paused with his hand raised.
"Hold on there! Hold on," cried a falsetto voice.
An enormously fat woman lurched through the company and confronted the groom. A felt hat with a red plume wagged rakishly on top of her head. She had on a blue calico skirt, and her feet were large and bulbous. They could not discern her features because of a veil.
"What's this?" said she in a high-pitched voice. "What's this, Lafe Johnson?"
"Ma'am?" said the sheriff.
"What does this mean? Who is this lady?"
"I don't take you, ma'am. This lady and me, we're just fixing to get married. What's the matter?"
"Matter? Matter?" shrieked the intruder. "You do fine to ask, don't you, Lafe Johnson? What about me that you left in Abilene, back in Texas? Hey? How about li'l' Charlie and James, that's the dead image of you? He's been a-cryin' for you, Lafe. Just after he got over the measles—oh, you wretch!"
"Abilene?" repeated the sheriff dully. "Abilene? Charlie and James? Why, I was never in Abilene longer than half an hour in my life, ma'am. You can see for yourself—"
Hetty, who had shrunk back with a startled air at the entrance of the fat woman, now moved suddenly and pulled up the veil, disclosing the round, shining visage of the Anvil cook.
"Why!" said Horne. "If it ain't old Dave!"
Instead of throwing him into the street or into jail, as he deserved, the company permitted Dave to retire with honor to the outer circle, where he divested himself of skirt, waist and plumed hat, and was heard to entreat one of the boys to help loosen the belt with which he had painfully compressed his figure for the event. They could hear him squeal, pretending to be tickled. All agreed that his portrayal of feminine behavior was a marvel of similitude.
Neither Lafe nor the bride took the interruption in ill part. The justice of the peace only appeared chagrined—Turner was in an agony of fear lest he lose his place—but even he managed to join in the laugh. The two faced him again. Three minutes later they were man and wife.
For reasons of economy there was to be no wedding trip, except the drive to their home in the Cañon. Later, perhaps, they would journey to some railroad town to shop, and—come a good year—Lafe would take her to a Middle West city—"to the East," they called it in Badger.
A buckboard was in waiting, a pair of spirited young bays straining against the men who held them. Sheltering Hetty with his body from a shower of rice and old shoes, the sheriff and his bride sped down the path from the Widow Brown's. He lifted her into the buckboard and picked up the reins. Then a cloud of dust swept down on them, and out of the cloud came a rattle of hoofs. A rope sped, and the sheriff was jerked off the seat.
"Help, Horne!" he cried. "They've got me."
The treacherous Horne gave succor by grinning while the cowboys bound the groom. Hetty had disappeared, whisked away in the turmoil. A man was driving the buckboard toward the company's corrals, but of the bride there was not a trace. Stealing her from her lord's arms is one of the merriest jests we have.
"Well," said Lafe good-naturedly, "I reckon it's one on me. Turn me loose. I buy."
An hour went by, and he endeavored to escape from his friends that he might rejoin his wife. They would not hear of it. When Lafe insisted and left despite them, he was unable to find Hetty. For another hour he kept patient, dawdling in Turner's place and giving as good as he got in the way of badinage. Everybody in town seized the opportunity to rally him while he waited. The sheriff sat on the counter, kicking his heels against the boards, and never once lost countenance.
About five o'clock Mrs. Horne ran in hot haste to her husband.
"Hetty," she panted, "where is she?"
"How should I know?" said Horne. "You had her last. Didn't you and Mrs. Brown hide her out?"
"We locked her in Mrs. Turner's house. She's gone. She isn't there. Oh, what shall I do? She's gone."
"Pshaw!" the cowman said. "She's all right. She's just given you the slip to go find Lafe."
Still wringing her hands, Mrs. Horne returned to her ally, the Widow, and they hunted the house and Mrs. Turner's house all over again. Hetty was not to be found.
"Boys, a joke's a joke and I can take mine with the rest," said Lafe—in proof whereof he gave vent to a hollow "ha, ha"—"but this has gone further. I want my wife. I want Hetty. Where is she?"
It was the supper hour and they were collected at the Fashion, and still no sign of the bride. Even Horne began to look anxious. His wife and the Widow melted into tears, bitterly bewailing their share in this unfortunate practical joking. Lafe indulged in no reproaches when the situation was explained to him, but started on a systematic raking of Badger. Search parties were instantly formed and not a corner of the town was overlooked.
One of the Lazy L outfit—he who had given the milch cow—became a trifle too acrimonious in his denunciation of the manner in which the Anvil men had behaved. They had stepped beyond the bounds of gentlemanly comportment, he contended. There were high words, but the men separated. Later they met again in the Cowboys' Rest and a shooting was imminent. A boy summoned the sheriff.
"Don't, boys," said Lafe, entering hastily. "Put up the gun, Dave. No shooting now. Be good boys. If anything happened—if anybody got hurt—Hetty, it'd break her all up."
The combatants reluctantly surrendered their weapons and as reluctantly shook hands. Each was hurriedly impressed into a search party and they were led in opposite directions.
Night found the citizens of Badger beating the bushes and peering into fence corners and yelling Hetty's name. Despairing of finding her in town, the sheriff and Horne made a circuit of the place. It had to be done slowly, as the ground was rough and one was apt to fall over mounds of tin cans and other débris.
They were about a quarter of a mile beyond Badger's limits, when Lafe halted suddenly.
"She's somewhere near," said he.
"Why, how do you figure it? I can't see my hand in front of my face."
"Figure it?" said the sheriff, who was trembling. "Man, I can feel it."
He cupped his hands and shouted—"Hetty! Oh—Hetty!"
"Here I am," said a drowsy voice. "Is that you, Lafe? Gracious, what's happened? It's dark."
There was the bride, sitting beside a mesquite bush and rubbing her eyes. They ran to her. She got up and limped a few steps.
"My foot's gone to sleep," she exclaimed.
With Lafe holding her on one side and Horne pacing austerely on the other, she walked into town. Why had she run away? She had run away from Mrs. Horne and the Widow because she perceived what they planned to do. For an hour or two she waited for Lafe outside the town and then grew very sleepy. So she lay down beside the bush.
"I knew you would find me," said she.
Horne began to whistle, not caring to hear the sheriff's assurance that he would find her at the ends of the world—wherever those be.
"What time is it? Lafe, dear, I'm so hungry. I feel like a steak," said Hetty.
While she was partaking of this with a very unbridelike appetite, and Lafe was doing his best opposite her, a messenger brought the sheriff an envelope. It was unaddressed, but there was a note inside—
Here's wishing you'll be happy. Adios. I won't bother you till after the honeymoon.Steve.
Here's wishing you'll be happy. Adios. I won't bother you till after the honeymoon.
Steve.
While he was puzzling over it, Hetty asked what was the matter. He passed her the paper.
"Wrote it in jail, I reckon," he said.
"Oh, Lafe," said Turner, sticking his head inside the door, "here's a telegram for you."
It was from the county seat.
Steve Moffatt broke jail here yesterday. Gone over the Border.
Steve Moffatt broke jail here yesterday. Gone over the Border.
This, also, Lafe handed to his wife.
"Doggone his fat head," he said. "Why couldn't he wait? Let somebody else catch him. My successor can do that."
"Of course," she answered, sighing happily. "You'll never be bothered with him again."
"Never no more," said the sheriff, not knowing what the years would bring.
Although it was ten o'clock when they finished their meal, both insisted on setting out for their new home in Hope Cañon.
"Don't go to-night. You can stay with me," said the Widow Brown. "There's lots of room. Or wait—I'll move out. You'll be more comfortable all alone."
"No, thank you, ma'am," answered the sheriff. "I know the trail like I do the path from your front gate. We'll be there in two hours."
So they set out through the languorous dark. Lafe drove easily with one hand.
The Johnsons went to live at Lafe's place beyond the Willows, in Hope Cañon. And there they occupied a frame house on the crest of a knoll. It was an ideal locality for a bridal couple, privacy being its most pronounced feature. For nobody else lived in the Cañon and their nearest neighbors were the citizens of Badger, fourteen miles distant, beyond a swelling valley and a fringe of hills.
Hetty was so busy making habitable the three bare rooms of the home, that the days were as minutes to her and the weeks took wings. It was absolutely amazing what she achieved with two tables, a packing case, six chairs, a bureau and some mats and window curtains—all these freighted from Badger in a wagon. No room of the three gave the appearance of having been slighted. In lieu of pictures, she contrived to bestow brightness to the walls by tacking up covers from magazines, and solid comfort was afforded by bunks built in corners of two of the rooms. They were draped with Navajo blankets and Hetty had constructed them herself of substantial oak, Lafe being an indifferent carpenter and immensely impatient of it. After the manner of his kind he hated any task that could not be done on horseback. That Hetty had a taste for show cannot be denied, because the bed in her room was hung with mosquito netting in the shape of a canopy, and there was a wondrous blue coverlet. Indeed, it was fit for a royal couch.
To a bachelor of long standing, adjustment to married life brings with it certain brain shocks and sudden vistas. It is constantly unfolding surprises that burst on his vision as wonders. So many shifts of their household arrangements struck Lafe as unique that he could not forbear mention of them to his friends in Badger—with the air of a discoverer, confident that nothing like this had ever been done or attempted before in history. Whereupon they would emit merry jeers and the older men would assure him that he would soon be harness-broken.
But the greatest change was in his outlook on life, in the new perspective and the new responsibilities that the married state opened to him. A year before, the sheriff would have chafed at any restraint which prohibited enjoyment with his friends after the fashion of the country. Now, he willingly abandoned all his former boon companions whom he chanced to meet, and did not do it with a sense of righteousness for having lived up to his duty, but cheerfully, gladly, because their companionship seemed now stale and flat and purposeless. And he was always anxious to get home.
"Don't you lose none of them parcels, sheriff," they would chaff, standing on the sidewalk to watch Johnson tie his purchases to the saddle.
"Has she done begun to cut your hair yet, Lafe?" another inquired.
Johnson would grin comfortably, and with an "Adios, you fellers," ride off towards Hope Cañon. Invariably he brought a present for Hetty. Everything pretty that he saw struck him as a possible gift for her, so that their home waxed in comfort.
In his blighted days of singleness, Lafe had often taken hearty amusement out of the simple fact that some among his married friends were obliged to rise at unearthly hours in order to light fires and do household chores which he considered to be within the feminine province. On the first mornings of their residence in the new home, he performed these tasks as a loving attention. Of course, ever after he had to do them as a duty. Once a man does a thing, he establishes a precedent which a conscientious individual finds it hard to break—but, bless you, Lafe would never have permitted Hetty to do jobs of this sort, that were within his own powers of performance. So he helped cheerily as dishwasher and assistant housemaid, this gunfighting sheriff of Badger.
Yet Lafe did not emerge wholly scatheless from the ill customs of a lifetime. On a day, old man Horne sent him to Badger in company of a cattle buyer, with whom Horne was making a deal that ran into hundreds of thousands of dollars. And his orders were that Johnson was to get the buyer drunk and keep him in that enviable condition as long as he could. This is considered legitimate in the cow country and "good business."
Lafe did so. And in the course of his enthusiastic labors, he took on a cargo which he found some difficulty in storing. The night of his return, Johnson, as he rode up Hope Cañon, sang a ditty which were best forgotten by a respectable married man.
The house was in darkness, and when he would have entered their bedroom, he found the door locked.
"This ain't no time to get mad," Lafe said warily, winking into the dark, and went to sleep on one of the bunks.
Next morning his appetite for breakfast was far below normal, but he kept Hetty busy boiling coffee.
"What was the trouble last night?" he had the brazenness to ask.
"I knew there was something the matter when I saw that note you sent from town by the boy," said Hetty, "and I didn't want to see you. What I don't know won't hurt me much, I reckon."
Lafe was feeling very shaky, and looked up at her from his plate with marked shamefacedness.
"It won't never happen again," he promised, and Hetty came around behind his chair and put her arms about his neck.
"You've been a pretty good boy," she whispered, "but, oh, Lafe, I just couldn't bear to see you. That's why I locked the door."
Johnson took to his cow work with much zest. The Anvil range was a huge domain, a kingdom in itself. The bawling of Horne's calves sounded from the 108th to the 111th meridian of longitude and the Anvil steers grazed a thousand hills. Much of this land was free range, the property of the American people; but Horne controlled it by owning all the water-holes, and defended his rights by the iron hand. In addition to the free grass, he had some hundreds of thousands of acres under fence, which was his by purchase of Spanish grants—a portion of it on the other side of the Border.
To be boss of the Anvil, then, meant something. Directly and indirectly, Lafe had two hundred men under him. Fifty of these were cowboys; the others were employed as windmill hands, as farmers to grow feed for the cattle in winter, and as laborers to put up new fences, corrals and division camps, for Horne was laying out the range on his own lines.
Johnson chose his outfit with considerable shrewdness. He was a keen judge of men and knew cattle from horn to hoof and beyond to the stock yards. Therefore the Anvil riders were famed in the land as expert cowmen. Ability to ride or dexterity with the rope did not win a cowboy a place with the Anvil. He took those who best understood the science of the range. Most of them were Texans, and men of mature years.
"The northern boys make better busters," he told Horne. "Take 'em all in all and they can beat our boys riding. But they don't know cattle like these longhorn Texans do. No, sir; it takes our southern boys to know how to handle cattle."
Thus did Lafe make a propitious start and win respect. And the months went by, and the two in Hope Cañon were ridiculously happy.
Unruffled happiness cannot endure for long. Perhaps it would pall if it did. A thing, to be deemed precious, must have contrasts to establish its value. So there entered into the wedded life of the Johnsons its first severe jar.
"You'll know her because she has yellow hair and gray, gray eyes and her clothes fit," said Mrs. Horne. "Besides, nobody else will get off."
"How'll we know they fit her?" Lafe asked. "Suppose they shouldn't happen to fit her right snug, ma'am, we'll leave her at The Tanks?"
"She'll be on the last car," said Mrs. Horn "Remember—yellow hair and gray eyes. Judith walks like this."
With these directions, Mrs. Horn sent Johnson to The Tanks to meet the Burro express. It was called that by the sparse population of the region in a spirit of levity: a burro will pause to graze on the least excuse and takes joy in lying down with his pack.
It was twenty-seven miles from the ranch to The Tanks, and Manuel would follow with a buckboard and mule team, since it was manifestly absurd to expect Mrs. Vining to make the journey horseback. Lafe was much elated to be chosen for this mission and invited me to accompany him.
"Miz Horne," said he, "wouldn't send a greenhorn. No, sir; she wants somebody who'll look like something in decent company. Say, if I get any stronger with ol' Horne, he'd ought to raise me. Don't you reckon?"
Cheered by the prospect, he began a monologue to his horse, a habit Mr. Johnson had acquired in lonely places. "Doggone your fat head, why can't you lift your feet? Hey? Hold still, can't you, till I light this cigarette? Oh, you needn't look back. You know I'm here all right."
In early afternoon we crossed a cañon on the far side of The Hatter and turned to the left along a mesa. Lafe puckered his eyes, squinted carefully and said: "Well, I swan. Do you see that?"
A man was sitting on the skull of a horse and he was counting the tops of the hills. It struck me as a profitless form of endeavor. As we neared him: "No," he remarked, "that's not right. I made it two thousand and three before."
"Off in your tally, pardner?" Lafe inquired civilly.
He proceeded, unheeding, with his simple addition. "One thousand and seventy-six, and those five little fellows make—what do they make, now?" He broke off to scratch his head in vexation. He looked at Johnson briefly and then stared at me.
"That fellow there," he said, with a nod at Lafe, "that fellow's crazy. Everybody's crazy out here—all but me."
He was not an old man, but his hair was grizzled and fell in dirty disorder to his shoulders. We could see portions of him through his clothes, and a sleeve of his shirt was not. Yet I began to marvel, for he spoke with the accent of culture.
"There used to be three thousand four hundred and eight scrub-cedars on that big mountain yonder," he confided to me. "I've lost count a bit lately, though. What do you make 'em?"
"You're short six. Four hundred and fourteen—not four hundred and eight."
He thanked me and considered this for some minutes. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "Sometimes when these old rocks take to hopping up and down, it keeps a man on the move not to lose track of 'em."
"It must be right hard doing that 'rithmetic all day long?" Johnson ventured.
"Oh, yes. I get hungry frequently. Have you boys got anything to eat? Well, if you haven't, you'd best be on your way."
Complying with the suggestion, Lafe turned his horse. "It's that ol' prospector who lives up on the shoulder of The Hatter," he told me.
It did not seem right to leave him thus. The man was deranged and unfit to be at large. But when I proposed that he accompany us to The Tanks, our acquaintance returned a vehement refusal. We could not fool him, he said. The last man who gave him a ride had tried to put him on board a train, and he had been compelled to knock the fellow on the head with a stick of wood. So we left him sitting on the skull, counting the tops of the hills. He mentioned carelessly that he would probably see us again.
There was no mistaking the lady we had come to escort.
"There she is. Wouldn't she knock you cold?" Lafe whispered.
Her hair was yellow, and she gave the impression of having been melted and poured into her pink muslin. Assuredly she was not of our world, and most certainly her clothes fitted. The conductor, a large individual of red hair and an aloof expression, closed his left eye slowly at Lafe and stepped aboard. The Burro express crawled away up the valley and we set out for the ranch, Johnson riding close to the buckboard, the better to converse with Mrs. Vining.
She began to question about the country and cow work. Everything was "astonishing" or "delightful, really," of course; and no matter what she said, there was injected into her speech an indefinable note that seemed to place the listener on a confidential footing, to the exclusion of all others. Some women have this faculty. The two ignored me utterly. I coughed once or twice as a faint reminder to Lafe that he was a newly married man and that I was prepared to do the civil thing myself, but he took no notice.
We had forgotten all about our friend of the mathematical propensities, when he appeared suddenly beside the trail.
"Hello," he cried, "back already?"
Mrs. Vining regarded the unkempt figure with composure.
"Why don't we drive on?" she said. "Drive on, please."
"Who's that? Who's that, I say?" The prospector advanced on the buckboard at a shambling trot.
"Please, please drive on," Mrs. Vining entreated faintly.
Instead of obeying, the Mexican waited. The prospector came to the wheel of the buckboard and peered hard at Mrs. Vining. She met his gaze in a sort of horrified fascination for a moment and then turned completely about in her seat, so that her shoulders were to him. Before we could intervene, he seized her by the arm and commenced to drag her out. He was mumbling as he did so.
"No, I won't go," she screamed. "It wasn't my fault. I won't go. Help! Help me!"
Lafe spurred almost on top of the fellow and cut at him with a quirt. He released his hold and dodged, and Mrs. Vining sank back into the buckboard.
"Hi, you—drive on," Johnson commanded.
He made no attempt to chastise the prospector. A demented man is not responsible and is protected of God. Such is the creed of primitive peoples and to it Lafe held strongly. Manuel whipped the mules and we went by the mountain prowler amid a shower of sand and pebbles. He remained in the trail, staring after us. He shouted something and whirled his arms at a great rate, but when Lafe cantered back, he scurried off among the mesquite like a scared rabbit.
"What an extraordinary person," said Mrs. Vining, when Johnson overtook us. Her lips were open in a fixed smile and her skin faded yellow under its powder.
"He's harmless, ma'am," Lafe assured her. "Don't you be scared. He's just a bit locoed. We'll go fetch him to-morrow or next day, if you say so."
"No, no," she begged. "Leave the poor creature alone."
I could see her hands tremble in her lap. She seemed distrait all the way home and as soon as Mrs. Horne had done embracing her, she retired. Next morning, however, she was sitting on the porch and called Lafe to her side. They talked there for an hour or two and we could hear Johnson's soft bass laugh. When he joined me in the corrals to catch the horses, he was looking very pleased with himself.
Mrs. Vining spent the next three days in minute probing of range life. At least, that is what Lafe told me she found to talk to him about. Apparently Mrs. Horne had little sympathy for this seeking after knowledge, for she laughed a trifle impatiently and remarked to me that men were idiots the world over and it was none of her business.
She made it her business on the third day.
"Why don't you leave Lafe alone?" she demanded.
"Why, my dear Martha, I'm not running after Mr. Johnson."
"Well, then, what do you find to talk about all the time? It's shameful, Judy."
"There you go again. One can't be civil to any sort of a man, but that Puritanical conscience of yours—"
"Oh, darn," said Mrs. Horne.
We were treated on succeeding days to the spectacle of Lafe hovering about Mrs. Vining like a fly above molasses paper—he knows he ought not to be there at all, but cannot keep away. I am persuaded that a third party could have heard all they said without embarrassment; but still, there was Hetty. And it interfered with his work, just when he was new to it and should have applied himself whole-heartedly. The entire superintendence of the Anvil range fell to him, but Lafe now gave up long trips. When he did go out, Mrs. Vining went with him on the pretext of familiarizing herself with the country. Lafe began to assume a hint of bravado in his bearing and was evidently flattered that he could attract a woman of Mrs. Vining's world.
"Judith," said Mrs. Horne, "if you don't let up on Lafe Johnson, I'll tell his wife, or get Bob to give him his time."
"His time? What's that?" she asked in amaze. She had just got out of bed and was brushing her yellow hair. They could hear Johnson whistling "Turkey in the Straw" as he went past the house.
"Fire him." Her friend faced Mrs. Vining squarely. She was intensely angry. "What do you mean by taking him out on the porch as you did last night?"
"Martha, how dare you say such a thing? You're horribly rude and—and unkind. Why, I never thought—"
"Of course you didn't," Mrs. Horne went on in a level voice. "You never do. And you're going to tell me all that nonsense? Remember, I'm a woman, Judy, and the woman was never born who wouldn't lie about some things."
"We're nothing but the most casual friends," said Mrs. Vining warmly.
Mrs. Horne stopped her with a gesture of passionate impatience. "Who said you were anything else? Will nothing sober you? I would have thought that Harry—"
"You're cruel, Martha. Yes, you are. Will you leave me alone to dress?"
"Oh, darn!" Mrs. Horne exclaimed.
From that interview she came straight to me. A party of friends was coming from the mining town for a few days, she said, and I was to meet them at The Tanks. Among them would be Mr. Mortimer Peck, a bachelor who managed a large copper mine. Also, on my way over, I could go around by Hope Cañon and leave a letter for Mrs. Johnson. Perhaps I grinned. At any rate, Mrs. Horne said: "Now, don't try to be clever, but keep your thoughts to yourself."
To my everlasting credit, be it said, I did not read that letter, although it was unsealed. Whatever was in it, Hetty seemed dumbfounded. For a moment I feared she would faint. She was not that sort, however. Before I left she was bristling with energy and told me that she would be at the ranch on my return. There was a red spot in each cheek and the light of battle in her eyes.