TEX WILLIARD'S MISTAKE
During the month which followed the picnic things ran smoothly on the
A-Y, and the rejuvenated ranch was the pride of the whole contingent,
from the sheriff down to the cook. The Orphan had taken charge with a
determination which grew firmer with each passing day and the new
owner was delighted at the outcome of his plans. The foreman, elated
and happy at his sudden shift in fortune, radiated cheerfulness and
consideration. His men knew that he would not ask them to do anything
which he himself feared to do, which would not have been much consolation
to a timid man, since he feared nothing; but to them it meant that
they had a foreman who would stick by them through fire and water,
and a foreman who commands respect from his outfit is a man whose life
is made easy for him. He had known too much of unkindness, harshness,
to become angry at mistakes; instead, he set diligently at work to undo
them, and mistakes were rare. The very men who had once wished for his
life would now fight instantly to save it. They were proud of him, of
the owner, the ranch and themeselves; and proudest of all was Bill, once
driver of the stage, but now a cowboy working hard and loyally under the
man who had once held him up for a smoke.
Visitors were numerous, and every man who called became enthusiastic
about the ranch, and after he had departed marveled at the complete
change in the man who was its foreman, and felt confidence in the good
judgment of the sheriff. Ford's Station was openly jubilant, for the town
exulted in the discomfiture of the Cross Bar-8 and in the proof that
their sheriff was right. And Ford's Station chuckled at the news it
heard, for the foreman of the Cross Bar-8 had called twice at the A-Y and
was fast losing his prejudice against The Orphan. Sneed had found a
quiet, optimistic foreman in the place of his former enemy, and the
laughter which lurked in The Orphan's eyes closed the breach. He had
seen the man in a new light, and when he had said his farewell at the
close of his second visit the grip of his hand was strong. As for the
Star C, a trail had been worn between the two ranches and hardly a day
passed but one or more of its punchers dropped in to say a few words to
their former bunkmate, and to stir up Bill. The Star C, no less than his
own men, swore by The Orphan.
One bright morning the sheriff left for a trip to Chicago and other
packing cities to arrange for future cattle shipments, and announced
that he would be away for a week or two. On the night following his
departure trouble began. The ranch and bunk houses of the Cross Bar-8
were fired into, and when Sneed and his men had returned after a fruitless
search in the dark the foreman stared at the wall and swore. Was it The
Orphan again? In the absence of the sheriff had he renewed the war?
First thought cried that he had, but gradually the idea became untenable.
Why should The Orphan risk his splendid berth on the A-Y, his prospects
now rich in promise, to work off any lingering hatred? When Sneed had
shaken hands with him he found apparent sincerity in the warm clasp. He
would ride over at daylight and have the matter settled once and for
all. And if satisfied that The Orphan was guiltless of the outrage he
would turn his whole attention to the imitator of the former outlaw.
The Orphan was mending his saddle girth when he saw Sneed cantering past
the farthest corral. The latter's horse bore all the signs of hard riding
and he looked up inquiringly at the visitor.
"Good morning, Sneed," he said pleasantly, arising and laying aside the
saddle. "What's up, anything?"
"Yes, and I came over to find out about it," Sneed answered. "I hardly
know how to begin--but here, I'll tell it from the beginning," and he
related what had occurred, much to the wonder of The Orphan.
"Now," finished the visitor, "I want to ask you a question, although I
may be a d----n fool for doing it. But I want to get this thing thrashed
out. Do you know who did it?"
The foreman of the A-Y straightened up, his eyes flashing, and then he
realized that Sneed had some right to question him after what had occurred
in the past.
"No, Sneed, I do not," he answered, "but in two guesses I can name the
man!"
"Good!" cried Sneed. "Go ahead!"
"Bucknell?"
"No, he was with me in the bunk-house," replied the foreman of the Cross
Bar-8. "It wasn't him--go on."
"Tex Williard," said The Orphan with decision.
"Tex?" cried Sneed. "Why?"
"It's plain as day, Sneed," The Orphan answered. "He's sore at me, but
lacks nerve."
"But, thunderation, how would he hurt you by shooting at us?" Sneed
demanded, impatiently.
"Oh, he would scare up a war during the sheriff's absence by throwing your
suspicions on me. He reckoned you would think that I did it, get good
and mad, fly off the handle and raise h--l generally. He figured that
I, according to the past, would meet you half way and that you or some
of your men might kill me. If you didn't, he reckoned that the sheriff
would kick me out of this berth, and that one or both of us might get
killed in the argument. He could sit back and laugh to himself at how easy
it was to square up old scores from a distance. It's Tex as sure as I am
here, and unless Tex changes his plans and gets out of this country d----n
soon he won't be long in getting what he seems to ache for."
Sneed pushed back his sombrero and smiled grimly: "I reckon that you're
right," he replied. "But you ain't sore at the way I asked, are you? I
had to begin somewhere, you know."
"Sore?" rejoined his companion, angrily. "Sore? I'm so sore that I'm going
out after Tex right now. And I'll get him or know the reason why, too.
You go back and post your men about this--and tell them on no account
to ride over my range for a few days, for they might get hurt before they
are known. Put a couple of them to bed as soon as you get back--you need
them to keep watch nights."
He turned toward the corral and called to a man who was busy near it:
"Charley, you take anybody that you want and get in a good sleep before
nightfall. I will want both of you to work to-night."
"All right, after dinner will be time enough," Charley replied. "I'll take
Lefty Lukins."
The Orphan went into the ranch house and returned at once with his rifle,
a canteen of water and a package of food. As he threw a saddle on his
horse Bill galloped up, waving his arms and very much excited.
"Hey, Orphant!" he shouted. "Somebody's shore enough plugged some of our
cows near the creek! I lost his trail at the Cottonwoods!"
"All right, Bill," replied the foreman, "I'll go out and look them over.
You take another horse and ride to the Star C. Tell Blake to keep watch
for Tex Williard, and tell him to hold Tex for me if he sees him. Lively,
Bill!"
Bill stared, leaped from his horse, took the saddle from its back and was
soon lost to sight in the corral. In a few minutes he galloped past his
foreman and Sneed swearing heartily. His quirt arose and fell and soon
he was lost to sight over a rise near the ranch-house.
The foreman of the A-Y rode over to Charley: "Charley, in case I don't get
back to-night, you and Lefty keep guard somewhere out here, and shoot
any man who don't halt at your hail. If I return in the dark I'll whistle
Dixie as soon as I see the lights in the bunk house, and I'll keep it
up so you won't mistake me. So long."
Sneed and he cantered away together and soon they parted, the former to
ride toward his ranch, the latter toward the Cottonwoods near the Limping
Water and along the trail left by Bill.
When near the grove The Orphan saw five dead cows and he quickly
dismounted to examine them.
"Not dead for long," he muttered as he examined the blood on them. He
leaped into his saddle and galloped through the grove. "Now, by God,
somebody pays for them!" he muttered.
Here was a sudden change in things, positions had been reversed, and
now he could appreciate the feelings which he had, more than once, aroused
in the hearts of numerous foremen. He emerged from the grove and rode
rapidly along the trail left by the perpetrator, alert, grim and angry.
Soon the trail dipped beneath the waters of the creek and he stopped
and thought for a few seconds. If it was Tex, he would not have ridden
toward the Cross Bar-8 and the town, and neither would he have ridden
south toward the Star C, nor north in the direction of the A-Y. He would
seek cover for the day if he was still determined to carry on his game,
and would not emerge until night covered his movements. That left him
only the west along the creek, and more than that, the creek turned to the
south again about five miles farther on and flowed far too close to the
ranch-houses of the Star C for safety. He must have left the water at the
turn, and toward the turn rode The Orphan, watching intently for the trail
to emerge on either bank. His deductions were sound, for when he had
rounded the bend of the stream he picked up the trail where it left
the water and followed it westward.
The country around the bend was very wild and rough, for ravines between
the hills cut seams and gashes in the plain. The underbrush was shoulder
high, and he did not know how soon he might become a target. The trail
was very fresh in the soft loam of the ravines and the broken branches
and trampled leaves were still wet with sap. Soon he hobbled his horse
and proceeded on foot, but to one side of and parallel with the trail.
He had spent an hour in his advance and had begun to regret having left
his horse so early, when he heard the report of a gun near at hand and
a bullet hissed viciously over his head as he stooped to go under a low
branch.
He threw up his arms, the rifle falling from his hands, pitched forward
and rolled down the side of the hill and behind a fallen tree trunk
which lay against a thicket. As soon as he had gained this position he
glanced in the direction from whence the shot had come and, finding
himself screened from sight on that side, quickly jerked off his boots and
planted them among the bushes, where they looked as if he had crawled in
almost out of sight. That done, he crawled along the ground under the
protection of the tree trunk and then squirmed under it, when he pushed
himself, feet first, deep into a tangled thicket and waited, Colt in
hand, for a sign of his enemy's approach.
A quarter of an hour had passed in silence when a shot, followed by
another, sounded from the hillside. After the lapse of a like interval
another shot was fired, this time from the opposite direction. He saw a
twig fall by the boots and heard the spat! of the bullet as it hit a
stone. Two more shots sounded in rapid succession, and then another long
interval of silence. Half an hour passed, but he was not impatient. He
most firmly believed that his man would, sooner or later, come out to
examine the boots, and time was of no consequence: he wanted the man.
Whoever he was, he was certainly cautious, he did not believe in taking
any chances. It was almost certain that he would not leave until he had
been assured that he had accomplished his purpose, for it would be most
disconcerting at some future time to unexpectedly meet the man he thought
he had murdered. Another shot whizzed into the place where the body
should have been, according to the silent testimony of the boots. It
sounded much closer to the thicket, but in the same direction of the
last few shots. Then, after ten minutes of silence, a twig snapped,
and directly behind the thicket in which The Orphan was hidden! The
foreman's nerves were tense now, his every sense was alert, for his
was a most dangerous position. He quickly glanced over his shoulder into
the thicket and found that he could not penetrate the mass of leaves and
branches, which reassured him. He was very glad that he had forced himself
well into the cover, for soon the leaves rustled and a pebble rolled not
more than four feet off, and in front of him, slightly at his right.
More rustling and then a head and shoulder slowly pushed past him into
view. The man moved very slowly and cautiously and was crouched, his
head far in advance of his waist. The Orphan could see only one side
of the face, the angle of the man's jaw and an ear, but that was enough,
for he knew the owner. Slowly and without a sound the foreman's right
hand turned at the wrist until the Colt gleamed on a line with the
other's heart. The searcher leaned forward and to one side, that he
might better see the boots, when a sound met his ears.
"Don't move," whispered the foreman.
The prowler stiffened in his tracks, frozen to rigidity by the command.
Then he slowly turned his head and looked squarely into the gun of the
man he thought he had killed.
"Christ!" he cried hoarsely, starting back.
"I don't reckon you'll ever know Him," said The Orphan, his voice very
low and monotonous. "Stand just as you are--don't move--I want to talk
with you."
Tex simply stared at him in pitiful helplessness and could not speak,
beads of perspiration standing out on his face, testifying to the agony
of fear he was in.
"You're on the wrong side of the game again, Tex," The Orphan said slowly,
watching the puncher narrowly, his gun steady as a rock. "You still
want to kill me, it seems. I've given you your life twice, once to your
knowledge, and I told you with the sheriff that I would shoot you if you
ever returned; and still you have come back to have me do it. You were
not satisfied to let things rest as they were."
Tex did not reply, and The Orphan continued, a flicker of contempt about
his lips.
"You were never cast for an outlaw, Tex. If I do say it myself, it
takes a clever man to live at that game, and I know, for I've been all
through it. As you see, Sneed and I didn't shoot each other, for the
play was too plain, too transparent. You should have ambushed one of
his men, burned his corrals and slaughtered his cattle, for then he
might have shot and talked later. And he might have gotten me, too,
for I was unsuspecting. I don't say that I would kill an innocent man to
arouse his anger if I had been in your place, I'm only showing you
where you made the mistake, where you blundered. Had you killed one of
his men it is very probable that his rage would have known no bounds,
but as it was the provocation was not great enough."
Tex remained silent and unconsciously toyed at his ear. The Orphan looked
keenly at the movement and wondered where he had seen it before, for it
was familiar. His face darkened as memory urged something forward to
him out of the dark catacombs of the past, and he stilled his breathing
to catch a clue to it. He saw the little ranch his father had worked so
hard over to improve, and had fought hard to save, and then the picture of
his dying mother came vividly before him; but still something avoided
his searching thoughts, something barely eluded him, trembling on the
edge of the Then and Now. He saw his father's body slowly swinging and
turning in the light breeze of a perfect day, and he quivered at the
nearness of what he was seeking, its proximity was tantalizing. The
rope!--the rope about his father's neck had been of manila fiber; he
could never forget the soiled, bleached-yellow streak which had led
upward to Eternity. And manila ropes were, at that time, a rarity in
that part of the country, for rawhide and braided-hair lariats had been
the rule. And on the day when he had given Tex his life in the defile he
had noticed the faded yellow rope which had swung at the puncher's saddle
horn. As he strained with renewed hope to catch the elusive impression
another scene came before him. It was of three men bent over a cow,
engaged in blotting out his father's brand, and instantly the face of
one of them sprang into sharp definition on his mental canvas.
"D----n you!" he cried, his finger tightening on the trigger of the
Colt which for so many years had been his best friend. "I know you now,
changed as you are! Now I know why you have been so determined for my
death. On the day that I cut my father down I swore that I would kill
the man who had lynched him if kind fate let me find him, and I have
found him. You have just five minutes to live, so make the most of it, you
cowardly murderer!"
Tex's face went suddenly white again and his nerve deserted him. His Colt
was in his hand, but oh, so useless! Should he fight to the end? A shudder
ran through him at the thought, for life was so good, so precious; far
too precious to waste a minute of it by dying before his time was up.
Perhaps the foreman would relent, perhaps he would become so wrapped
up in the memories of the years gone by as to forget, just for half a
second, where he was. The watch in The Orphan's hand gave him hope,
for he would wait until the other glanced at it--that would be his only
hope of life.
The foreman's watch ticked loudly in the palm of his left hand and the
Colt in his right never quivered. The first minute passed in terrifying
silence, then the second, then the third, but all the time The Orphan's
eyes stared steadily at the man before him, gray, cruel, unblinking.
"They told me to do it! They told me to do it!" shrieked the pitiful,
unnerved wreck of a man as he convulsively opened and shut his hand.
"I didn't want to do it! I swear I didn't want to do it! As God is above,
I didn't want to! They made me, they made me!" he cried, his words swiftly
becoming an unintelligible jumble of meaningless sounds. He stared at the
black muzzle of the Colt, frozen by terror, fascinated by horror and
deadened by despair. The watch ticked on in maddening noise, for his every
sense was now most acute, beating in upon his brain like the strokes of a
hammer. Then the foreman glanced quickly at it. The gun in Tex's hand
leaped up, but not quickly enough, and a spurt of smoke enveloped his face
as he fell. The Orphan stepped back, dropping the Colt into its holster.
[Illustration: "The Orphan stepped back a pace and dropped the Colt into
its holster." (_See page_ 390.)]
"The courage of despair!" he whispered. "But I'm glad he died game," he
slowly added. Then he suddenly buried his face in his hands: "Helen!" he
cried. "Helen--forgive me!"