THE ORPHAN OBEYS AN IMPULSE
When Sneed promised to try to restrain his men he spoke in good faith,
and when he discovered that half of them were missing his anger began to
rise. But he was helpless now because they were beyond his reach, so he
could only hope that they would not meet the sheriff, not only because
of the displeasure of the peace officer, but also because good cowboys
were hard to obtain, and he knew what such a meeting might easily develop
into.
The foreman knew that Ford's Station bore him and his ranch no love and
that if the sheriff should meet with armed resistance and, possibly,
mishap at the hands of any members of the Cross Bar-8, that trouble would
be the tune for him and his men to dance to. Angrily striding to and
fro in front of the bunk house he gave a profane and pointed lecture
to several of his men who stood near, abashed at their foreman's anger. He
suddenly stopped and looked toward the rocky stretch of land and hurled
epithets at what he feared might be taking place in its defiles and among
its rocks and bowlders.
"Fools!" he shouted, shaking his fist at the Backbone. "Fools, to hunt
a man like that on his own ground, and in the way you'll do it! You can't
keep together for long, and as sure as you separate, some of you will be
missing to-night!"
Had he been able, he would have seen six cowboys, who were keeping close
together as they worked their way southward, exploring every arroyo and
examining every thicket and bowlder. Their Colts were in their hands and
their nerves were tensed to the snapping point.
They finally came to the stage road and, after a brief consultation,
plunged into it and scrambled up the opposite bank, where they left one of
their number on guard while they continued on their search. The guard
found concealment behind a huge bowlder which stood on the edge of the
canyon above the entrance. He lighted a cigarette, and the thin wisps of
pale blue smoke slowly made their way above him, twisting and turning,
halting for an instant, and then speeding upward as straight as a rod.
It was strong tobacco and very aromatic, and when the wind caught it up in
filmy clouds and carried it away it could be detected for many feet.
Five minutes had passed since the searchers had become lost to sight
to the south when something moved on the other side of the canyon and
then became instantly quiet as the smoke streamed up. The guard was
cleverly hidden from sight, but he felt that he must smoke, for time
passed slowly for him. Again something moved, this time behind a thin
clump of mesquite. Gradually it took on the outlines of a man, and he was
intently watching the tell-tale vapor, the odor of which had warned him
in time.
Retreating, he was soon lost to sight, and a few minutes later he peered
through a thin thicket which stood on the edge of the canyon wall. As
he did so the guard stuck his head out from the shelter of his bowlder
and glanced along the trail. Again seeking his cover he finished his
cigarette and lighted another.
"He won't look again for a few minutes, the fool," muttered the other
as he dropped into the road and darted across it. After a bit of cautious
climbing he gained the top of the canyon wall and again became lost to
sight.
Still the smoke ascended fitfully from behind the bowlder, and the
prowler gradually drew near it, at last gaining the side opposite the
smoker. He crouched and slowly crawled around it, his left hand holding
a Colt; his right, a lariat. As the guard again turned to examine the
lower end of the canyon his eyes looked into a steady gun, and while
his wits were rallying to his aid the rope leaped at him and neatly
dropped over his shoulders, pinning his arms to his side. It twitched and
a loop formed in it, running swiftly and almost horizontally. It whipped
over his head and tightened about his throat, while another loop sped
after it and assisted in throttling the puncher. Then the lariat twitched
and whirled and loops ran along it and fastened over the guard's wrists,
rapidly getting shorter; and when it ceased, its wielder was brought to
the side of his trussed victim. The bound man was turning purple in
the face and neck and his captor, hastily crowding the guard's own
neck-kerchief into the open, gasping mouth, released the throat clutch
of the rawhide and then securely fixed the gag into place.
Roughly dragging his captive to a mass of debris he tore it apart and
dragged and pushed the man into it, after which he pushed the rubbish
back into place and then ran to the bowlder, where he covered all tracks.
Picking up the puncher's revolver he took the cylinder from it and hurled
it far out on the plain, throwing the frame across the defile into a
tangled mass of mesquite. Looking carefully about him, to be sure he had
not overlooked anything, he disappeared in the direction from which he had
come.
He again appeared in the canyon, and ran swiftly along it until he came to
the tracks made by the guard's horse, which he followed into an arroyo
and where he found the animal hobbled. Loosening the hobbles he threw
them over the horse's neck and sprang into the saddle. He picked his
way carefully until he had reached the level plain, when he cantered
northward, keeping close to the rock wall of the Backbone to avoid
being seen by the searchers. When he had put a dozen miles behind him he
turned abruptly to the east, soon becoming lost to sight behind the
scattered chaparrals.
The Orphan, surmounting a rise, looked to the southwest and saw something
which almost caused his hair to rise, and raising hair was not the
rule with him, which latter is mentioned to give proper emphasis to the
seriousness of what he looked upon. He leaped to the ground and saw that
the cinches were securely fastened, after which he vaulted back into the
saddle, and, instead of offering prayer for success, sent up profanity
at the possibility of failure.
Two miles to the southwest of him he saw six horses flattened almost to
earth in keeping the speed they had attained and were holding. Back of
them lurched and rocked and heaved the sun-bleached coach, dull gray
and dusty, its tall driver standing up to his work, hatless and with
his arm rapidly rising and falling as he sent the cruel whip cruelly
home. Behind the stage whipped the baggage flap, a huge leathern apron
for the protection of luggage, standing out horizontally because of the
rush of wind caused by the speed of the coach. It flapped defiantly at
what so tenaciously pursued it. A thousand yards to the rear, riding
in crescent formation, the horns now far apart and well ahead of the
center, were five arm- and weapon-waving bronzed enthusiasts whose war
paint could just be discerned by The Orphan's good eyes and field glasses.
As yet, the reason for the lifting hair has not been disclosed, because
The Orphan was proud in his belief that he had few nerves and a dormant
sympathy, and this scene alone would not have aroused much sympathy
in his heart for the driver, and neither would it have changed the
malevolent expression which disfigured his face, an expression caused
by the remembrance of six cowboys who had searched for him as if he was a
cowardly, cattle-killing coyote. But the exuberant baggage-flap revealed
two trunks, three valises and a pile of white cardboard boxes; and as if
this was not enough for a man adept at sign reading, the door of the
coach suddenly became unfastened and alternately swung open and shut as
the lurching of the coach affected it. And through the intermittent
opening he could see a mass of gray and brown and blue.
The Orphan had spent ten years of his life battling against the hardest
kinds of odds, and his brain had foresworn long methods of thinking
and had adopted short cuts to conclusions. His mental processes were
sharp, quick and acted instantly on his nerves, often completing an action
before he became clearly conscious of its need. He forgot the pleasant
sheriff and the unpleasant, blundering cowboys who, very probably, were
now engaged in wondering where their companion had gone; and he forgot
his determination to return and free that puncher. He asked himself no
questions as to why or how, but simply sunk his spurs half an inch into a
horse that had peculiar and fixed ideas about their use, and that now
bucked, pitched and galloped forward because its rider had suddenly
decided to save those gray and brown and blue dresses.
The Apaches had passed the point immediately south of him and were now
more to the west, going at right angles to the course he took. They
were so intent upon gaining yard upon yard that they did not look to
the side--their thoughts were centered on the tall, lanky man who stood
up against the sky and cursed them, and whose hat they had passed miles
back. As he turned and stole the look at them which had so pleased him,
they only waved guns and wasted cartridges more recklessly, yelling
savagely.
Down from the north charged a brown, a dirty brown horse, and it was
comparatively fresh. It gained steadily, silently, and its gains were
measured in yards to each minute it ran, since it was coming at a sharp
angle. Astride of it and lying along its neck was a man whose spurs and
quirt urged it to its uttermost effort. Soon the man straightened up in
his saddle, the horse braced its legs and slid to a stand as a rifle
arose to the rider's shoulder, and at the shot the animal leaped forward
at its top speed. A puff of smoke flashed past the marksman's head to
mingle with the dust cloud in his wake, and the nearest brave, who was
the last in the crescent, dropped sprawlingly to the ground and rolled
rapidly several times. His horse, freed of its burden, ran off at an
angle and was soon left behind. The excitement of the chase and the noise
of the hoofbeats of their own horses and of the reports of their own
rifles effectually lost the report of the shot and soon another, and
nearest, Apache also plunged to the plain. This time the freed horse shot
ahead and ranged alongside the wearer of the head-dress, who turned in
his saddle and looked back. His eyesight was good, but not good enough
to see the .50 caliber slug which passed through his abdomen and tore the
ear of another warrior's horse.
The rider of the horse owning the mutilated ear looked quickly backward,
screamed a warning and war-cry all in one and began to shoot rapidly.
His surprised companion followed suit as the coach came to a stand, and
another rifle, long silent, took a hand in the dispute with a vim as if
to make up for lost time. The first warrior fell, shot through by both
rifles, and the other, emptying his magazine at the new factor, who was
very busily engaged in extracting a jammed cartridge, wheeled his pony
about and fled toward the south, panic-stricken by the accuracy of the
newcomer and terrorized by the awful execution. But the Apache's last
shot nearly cleaned the sheriff's slate, grazing The Orphan's temple and
stunning him: a fraction of an inch more to the right would have cheated
the Cross Bar-8 of any chance of revenge.
Bill, still holding the rifle, leaped to the sand and ran to where his
rescuer lay huddled in the dust of the plain.
"I've got yore smoking," he exclaimed breathlessly, at last getting rid
of his mental burden. Then he stopped short, swore, and bent over the
figure, and grasping the body firmly by neck and thigh, slung it over
his shoulders and staggered toward the coach, his progress slow and
laborious because of the deep sand and dust. As he neared his objective
he glanced up and saw that his passengers had left the stage and were
grouped together on the plain like lambs lost in a lion country.
They were hysterical, and all talked at once, sobbing and wringing their
hands. But when they noticed the driver stumbling toward them with the
body across his shoulders their tongues became suddenly mute with a new
fear. Up to then they had thought only of their own woes and bruises, but
here, perhaps, was Death; here was the man who had risked his life that
they might live, and he might have lost as they gained.
They besieged Bill with tearful questions and gave him no chance to
reply. He staggered past them and placed his burden in the scant shadow
of the coach, while they cried aloud at sight of the blood-stained
face, frozen in their tracks with fear and horror. Bill, ignoring them,
hastily climbed with a wonderful celerity for him, to the high seat
and dropped to the ground with a canteen which he had torn from its
fastenings. Pouring its contents over the upturned face he half emptied a
pocket flask of whisky into The Orphan's mouth and then fell to chafing
and rubbing with his calloused, dust-covered hands, well knowing the
nature of the wound and that it had only stunned.
Soon the eyelids quivered, fluttered and then flew back and the cruel eyes
stared unblinkingly into those of the man above him, who swore in sudden
joy. Then, weak as he was and only by the aid of an indomitable will, the
wounded man bounded to his feet and stood swaying slightly as one hand
reached out to the stage for support, the other instinctively leaping to
his Colt. He swayed still more as he slowly turned his head and searched
the plain for foes, the Colt half drawn from its holster.
As soon as he had gained his feet and while he was looking about him in
a dazed way the women began to talk again, excitedly, hysterically. They
gathered around this unshaven, blood-stained man and tried to thank him
for their lives, their voices broken with sobs. He listened, vaguely
conscious of what they were trying to say, until his brain cleared and
made him capable of thought. Then he ceased to sway and spread his feet
far apart to stand erect. His hand went to his head for the sombrero
which was not there, and he smiled as he recalled how he had lost it.
"Oh, how can we ever thank you!" cried the sheriff's eldest sister,
choking back a nervous sob. "How can we ever thank you for what you have
done! You saved our lives!" she cried, shuddering at the danger now
past. "You saved our lives! You saved our lives!" she repeated excitedly,
clasping and unclasping her hands in her agitation.
"How can we ever thank you, how can we!" cried the girl who had fainted
when the chase had begun. "It was splendid, splendid!" she cried, swaying
in her weakness. She was so white and bruised and frail that The Orphan
felt pity for her and started to say something, but had no chance. The
three women monopolized the conversation even to the exclusion of Bill,
who suddenly felt that his talking ability was only commonplace after all.
Blood trickled slowly down the outlaw's face as he smiled at them and
tried to calm them, and the younger sister, suddenly realizing the meaning
of what she had vaguely seen, turned to Bill with an imperative gesture.
"Bring me some water, driver, immediately," she commanded impatiently,
and Bill hurried around to the rear axle from which swung a small keg of
three gallons' capacity. Quickly unsnapping the chain from it he returned
and pried out the wooden plug, slowly turning the keg until water began
to flow through the hole and trickle down to the sand. Miss Shields took a
small handkerchief from her waist and unfolded it, to be stopped by Bill.
"Don't spoil that, miss!" he hastily exclaimed. "Take one of mine. They
ain't worth much, and besides, they're a whole lot bigger."
"Thank you, but this is better," she replied, smiling as she regarded
the dusty neck-kerchief which he eagerly held out to her. She wet the
bit of clean linen and Bill followed her as she stepped to the side of
the outlaw, holding the keg for her and thinking that the sheriff was
not the only thoroughbred to bear the name of Shields. He turned the
keg for her as she needed water, and she bathed the wound carefully,
pushing back the long hair which persisted in getting in her way, all
the time vehemently declining the eager offers of assistance from her
companions. The Orphan had involuntarily raised his hand to stop her,
feeling foolish at so much attention given to so trivial a wound and not
at all accustomed to such things, especially from women with wonderful
deep, black eyes.
"Please do not bother me," she commanded, pushing his hand aside. "You
can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or
I shall think you selfish."
He stood as a bad boy stands when unexpectedly rewarded for some good
deed, uncomfortable because of the ridiculous seriousness given to his
gash, and ashamed because he was glad of the attention. He tried not to
look at her, but somehow his eyes would not stray from her face, her heavy
mass of black hair and her wonderful eyes.
"You make me think that I'm really hurt," he feebly expostulated as he
capitulated to her deft hands. "Now, if it was a real wound, why it might
be all right. But, pshaw, all this fuss and feathers about a scratch!"
"Indeed!" she cried, dropping the stained handkerchief to the ground
as she took another from her dress, plastering his hair back with her
free hand. "I suppose you would rather have what you call a real wound!
You should be thankful that it is no worse! Why, just the tiniest bit
more, and you would have--" she shuddered as she thought of it and turned
quickly away and tore a strip of linen from her skirt. Straightening up
and facing him again she ripped off the trimming and carefully plucked
the loose threads from it. Folding it into a neat bandage she placed the
handkerchief over the wound after pushing back the rebellious hair and
bound it into place with the strip, deftly patting it here and pushing it
there until it suited her. Then, drawing it tight, she unfastened the
gold breast-pin which she wore at her throat and pinned the bandage into
place, stepping back to regard her work with satisfaction.
"There!" she cried laughing delightedly. "You look real well in a bandage!
But I am sorry there is need for one," she said, sobering instantly.
"But, then, it could have been much worse, very much worse, couldn't
it?" she asked, smiling brightly.
Before The Orphan could reply, Bill saw a break in the conversation, or
thought he did, and hastened to say something, for he felt unnatural.
"I got yore smokin', Orphant!" he cried, clambering up to his seat.
"Leastawise, I had before them war-whoops--yep! Here she is, right side
up and fine and dandy!"
Could he have seen the look which the outlaw flashed at him he would have
quailed with sudden fear. Three gasps arose in chorus, and the women
drew back from the outlaw, fearful and shocked and severe. But with
the sheriff's younger sister it was only momentarily, for she quickly
recovered herself and the look of fear left her eyes. So this, then,
was the dreaded Orphan, the outlaw of whom her brother had written! This
young, sinewy, good-looking man, who had swayed so unsteadily on his
feet, was the man the stories of whose outrages had filled the pages of
Eastern newspapers and magazines! Could he possibly be guilty of the
murders ascribed to him? Was he capable of the inhumanity which had
made his name a synonym of terror? As she wondered, torn by conflicting
thoughts, he looked at her unflinchingly, and his thin lips wore a
peculiar smile, cynical and yet humorous.
Bill leaped to the ground with the smoking tobacco and, blissfully
unconscious of what he had done, continued unruffled.
"That was d----n fine--begging the ladies' pardon," he cried. "Yes sir,
it was plumb sumptious, it shore was! And when I tell the sheriff how
you saved his sisters, he'll be some tickled! You just bet he will! And
I'll tell it right, too! Just leave the telling of it to me. Lord, when
I looked back to see how far them war-whoops were from my back hair, and
saw you tearing along like you was a shore enough express train, I just
had to yell, I was so tickled. It was just like I held a pair of deuces
in a big jack-pot and drew two more! My, but didn't I feel good! And,
say--whenever you run out of smoking again, you just flag Bill Howland's
chariot: you can have all he's got. That's straight, you bet! Bill Howland
don't forget a turn like that, never."
The enthusiasm he looked for did not materialize and he glanced from one
to another as he realized that something was up.
"Come, dears, let us go," said Mary Shields, lifting her skirts and
abruptly turning her back on the outlaw. "We evidently have far to go,
and we have wasted _so_ much time. Come, Grace," she said to her friend,
stepping toward the coach.
Bill stared and wondered how much time had been wasted, since never before
had he reached that point in so short a time. He had made two miles to
every one at his regular speed.
"Come, Helen!" came the command from the elder, and with a trace of
surprise and impatience.
"Sister! Why, Mary, how can you be so mean!" retorted the girl with the
black eyes, angry and indignant at the unkindness of the cut, her face
flushing at its injustice. Her spirit was up in arms immediately and she
deliberately walked to The Orphan and impulsively held out her hand, her
sister's words deciding the doubts in her mind in the outlaw's favor.
"Forgive her!" she cried. "She doesn't mean to be rude! She is so very
nervous, and this afternoon has been too much for her. It was a man's
act, a brave man's act! And one which I will always cherish, for I will
never forget this day, never, never!" she reiterated earnestly. "I don't
care what they say about you, not a bit! I don't believe it, for you
could not have done what you have if you are as they paint you. I will
not wait for our driver to tell my brother about your splendid act--he,
at least, shall know you as you are, and some day he will return it, too."
Then she looked from him to her hand: "Will you not shake hands with
me? Show me that you are not angry. Are you fair to me to class me as an
enemy, just because my brother is the sheriff?"
He looked at her in wonderment and his face softened as he took the hand.
"Thank you," he said simply. "You are kind, and fair. I do not think of
you as an enemy."
"Helen! Are you coming?" came from the coach.
He smiled at the words and then laughed bitterly, recklessly, his
shoulders unconsciously squaring. There was no malice in his face,
only a quizzical, baffling cynicism.
"Oh, it's a shame!" she cried, her eyes growing moist. She made a gesture
of helplessness and looked him full in the eyes. "Whatever you have
done in the past, you will give them no cause to say such things in the
future, will you? You will leave it all behind you and get work, and not
be an outlaw any more, won't you? You will prove my faith in you, for I
_have_ faith in you, won't you? It will all be forgotten," she added,
as if her words made it so. Then she leaned forward to readjust the
bandage. "There, now it's all right--you must not touch it again like
that."
"You are alone in your faith," he replied bitterly, not daring to look at
her.
"Oh, I reckon not," muttered Bill, scowling at the stage as if he would
like to unhitch and leave it there. Then seeing The Orphan glance at the
horse which was grazing contentedly, he went out to capture the animal.
"D----d old hen, that's what she is!" he muttered fiercely. "I don't care
if she is the sheriff's sister, that's just what she is! Just a regular
ingrowing disposition!"
"You are kind, as kind as you are beautiful," The Orphan responded simply.
"But you don't know."
She flushed at his words and then decided that he spoke in simple
sincerity.
"I know that you are going to do differently," she replied as she extended
her hand again. "Good-by."
He bowed his head as he took it and flushed: "Good-by."
She slowly turned and walked toward the coach, where she was received by
a chilling silence.
Bill brought the horse to where The Orphan stood lost in thought,
unbuckled his cartridge belt and wrapped it around the pommel of the
saddle, the heavy Colt still in the holster. Then he clambered up for his
rifle and tied it to the saddle skirt by the thongs of leather which
dangled therefrom. Looking about him he espied the keg on the sand and,
driving home the plug, slung it behind the cantle of the saddle where
he fastend it by the straps which held the outlaw's "slicker." Jamming
the package of tobacco into the pocket of the garment he stepped back
and grinned sheepishly at his generous gifts. He turned abruptly and
strode to the outlaw and shoved out his hand.
"There, pardner, shake!" he cried heartily. "Yore the best man in the
whole d----d cow country, and I'll tell 'em so, too, by God!"
The outlaw came out of his reverie and looked him searchingly in the face
as he gripped the outstretched hand with a grip which made the driver
wince.
"Don't be a fool, Bill," he replied. "You'll get yourself disliked if
you enthuse about me." Then he noticed the additions to his equipment
and frowned: "You better take those things, I can't. The spirit is enough."
"Oh, you borrow them 'til you see me again," replied Bill. "You may need
'em," he added as he wheeled and walked to the coach. He climbed to his
seat and wrapped the lines about his hands, cracking the whip as soon as
he could, and the coach lurched on its way to Ford's Station, the driver
grunting about fool old maids who didn't know enough to be glad they were
alive.
The Orphan hesitated about the gifts and then decided to take them for
the time. He mounted and rode past the coach door, keeping near to the
flank of the last horse, where he listened to Bill's endless talk.
"How is it that you've got a Cross Bar-8 cayuse?" Bill asked at length,
too idiotically happy to realize the significance of his question.
The Orphan's hand leaped suddenly and then stopped and dropped to the
pommel, and he looked up at the driver.
"Oh, one of their punchers and I sort of swapped," he laughingly replied,
thinking of the man under the debris. "Say, if I don't get as far as
the canyon with you, just climb up above on the left hand side near the
entrance and release a fool puncher that is covered up under a pile of
rubbish, will you? I came near forgetting him, and I don't want him to die
in that way."
As he spoke he saw a group of horsemen swing over a rise and he knew them
instinctively.
"There's the gang now--tell them, I'm off for a ride," he said, dropping
back to the coach door, where he raised his hand to his head and bowed.