Jerry Courtlandt lingered on the porch to watch her sister and Benson as
they raced down the drive. Her eyebrows met in a thoughtful frown. What
would her father say if Peg fell in love with Benson, with his
poor-but-honest background? There was no "if" about Tommy. Cupid had set
signal fires to burning in his eyes already. Benson pere had begun his
business career as an errand boy; now he twinkled a large and somewhat
dazzling planet in the select heaven of the multies. Well, Glamorgan the
oil-king couldn't expect both his daughters to marry the man of his
choice. She had done it and what had been her reward? Because she had
views as to right and wrong and justice he refused to write to her.
Evidently Peg didn't know the terms of Nicholas Fairfax's will or she
wouldn't have been surprised at her lack of enthusiasm about the
Alexandrite. Two thousand dollars! It seemed a more stupendous sum than
twenty thousand would have seemed to her a year ago. Values were curious
things. What had Steve thought? She was beginning to dread his
eyes--they were so searching, so compelling.
If she wanted and needed money, she would earn it; other women had been
doing it for years; she wouldn't accept it from Steve any other way. In
spite of his prohibition she would work on the books for a while. She
paused before she entered the house to draw a long breath and take a
look at the glorious world about her. The sky spread like a cerulean
canopy flecked with motionless white clouds. It seemed near. She felt
more as though she were looking up at a vast, decorated dome than at the
heavens. Almost she expected to see Dawn or any one of the symbolic
head-liners in the mural world, come trailing her scanty draperies
across the blue. The far-off mountains reared a patchwork of purple and
blue and gold. The noisy stream was fringed with color. The fields
rustled their content in the sunshine. On the road to the X Y Z rose a
cloud of dust.
"Somebody coming!" she thought with a thrill of excitement. Then she
laughed and looked down at the dog who stood in stately, aloof dignity
beside her. "Goober, I'm getting to be like a prairie-dog who parks
outside his hole to see the pass," she confided. She still watched the
approaching riders. When she recognized in them Felice Denbigh and Bruce
Greyson she regretted that she had lingered. It was too late to
disappear now. The owner of the X Y Z had seen her and waved his hand.
With a feeling of repugnance, which shocked her even as it swept her,
Jerry went to the steps to greet the riders. Felice in her smart silvery
linen looked as though she had been removed recently from tissue
wrappings. Greyson's eyes met Jerry's. Was she mistaken that they were
full of a wordless apology, she wondered, even as she greeted the two
cordially.
"Doesn't this morning look as though it had just been returned from the
dry-cleanser's?" she asked gayly. "Did you ever feel anything more spick
and span than the air? Won't you come in?"
"Thanks, no." Felice Denbigh's answer was hurried. "Where is Steve? He
invited me to inspect the Double O with him this morning. He was to come
for me but I tired of the role of patient Griselda and made Mr. Greyson
bring me over. Not that I had to work hard to persuade him." Her light
tone was tinged with malice as she administered one of those subtle
female digs commonly imperceptible to the male intelligence. Jerry
caught the obvious reply between her teeth and substituted:
"Steve was called to Lower Field. I--I doubt if he can ride with you
this morning, Mrs. Denbigh."
If a glance could have accomplished it, Jerry would have been neatly and
expeditiously skinned, then and there. Felice's voice had the edge of a
hari-kari sword as she answered:
"Steve is the person to decide that. Which way to Lower Field, Mr.
Greyson?" Her host's eyes flamed.
"If Mrs. Courtlandt thinks----"
"Oh, but Mrs. Courtlandt doesn't think," protested Jerry laughingly. "Do
show Mrs. Denbigh the way to Lower Field, Bruce. I should be delighted
to go myself but for a letter which must be ready for Sandy this
morning. You will find----"
Felice Denbigh was off before she had finished her sentence. Greyson
followed without a word. Jerry looked after the two with troubled eyes.
Her thoughts were in a turmoil.
"What has happened to Bruce Greyson?" she thought anxiously. "His
conversational output has shrunk till what he says seems a waste of
breath, it amounts to so little. One would think he was under a spell. I
wonder--I wonder if Steve did make a date with her?" she mused aloud as
she crossed the court on her way to the office. Jose, busy among his
flowers, swept off his hat with his single-tooth smile.
"_Buenos dias, Senora._ My roses bloom brighter as you pass, yes?"
Benito, balancing on one claw on the rim of the fountain, shivered,
blinked his yellow eyes and croaked hoarsely:
"Piffle!"
With a shocked exclamation Jose flung a chunk of loam at the parrot. It
hit him squarely and knocked him backward into the shallow basin. With
frightened squawks and much ruffling of feathers the bird regained his
place on the basin's rim. For an instant he indulged in a what-hit-me
blink, then with his gaudy plumage looking as though it had been
electrified croaked angrily:
"I'll be d----!"
Jose swooped and muffled the final word beneath his coat. "You weel
pardon, Senora? It is Senor Tommee that teaches Benito seence he come to
the rancho. I teach heem when he ees so leetle to speak only good. Not
till one year ago does he begin to talk like wild devil. Senora weel
pardon? He ees all I have, he ees like my child."
Jerry accepted the brown man's apology as seriously as it was offered.
"Children are a great responsibility. You never can tell what they will
do, can you, Jose?"
The office seemed a dull, uninteresting drab in contrast to the light
and color of the world outside. Even the silent witnesses to the drama
and lawlessness of the country, now guarded jealously by glass doors,
failed to spur the girl's imagination. She streamed the curtain up at
the window. A light haze of dust lingered above the road Greyson and
Felice had taken. The music of the stream stole into the quiet room;
down in the corral a horse whinnied intriguingly; the whole gleaming
out-of-doors lured, the mountains beckoned.
Jerry resolutely barred heart and mind against temptation and attacked
her letters. She worked with single-track intentness until Ming Soy
announced luncheon. She looked up in surprise. Her work had burned up
the hours. She interned the typewriter and closed her desk with a bang.
She flexed her muscles in luxurious enjoyment of the sensation. What a
relief to move, but it wasn't even a sliver of the relief she felt when
she looked down at the sheaf of letters awaiting Steve's signature. How
it would have pleased her father to know that she had resisted the
temptation to be up and away on Patches, she thought wistfully. She
could see him now, hear his gruff voice saying:
"Jerry, the more you dread the thing you have to do, the more you should
hustle to get it behind you. Make that a rule of your life and you'll
find you will have all the time you want and some left with which to
speculate." He was a resplendent example of the working out of his own
precept, his daughter thought. He was the busiest man she knew yet he
always had an abundance of time for pleasure.
What should she do with her afternoon, she wondered, as she enjoyed the
dainty luncheon Ming Soy served in a shady corner of the court. The air
had lost the keenness of the morning. Birds flew to the rim of the
basin, observed the girl at the table critically for an instant, then
proceeded with the day's ablutions. They chattered, they splashed, they
scolded, they preened and dressed their feathers in the sun. Butterflies
darted in and out among the blossoms. There were none of the usual ranch
sounds to break the stillness. Where were the men? Had Steve taken them
all with him, she wondered. What were Peg and Tommy doing? Peg might see
some real riding if she caught up with the outfit before they started
off in pursuit of the missing cattle, but alas for buckskin fringes
and----
Suddenly a plan sprang full panoplied, complete, from her brain. It was
born of her what-shall-I-do-now mood. If necessity is the mother of
invention, idleness is the father of adventure. She would array herself
in one of the cowboy suits behind the glass doors, mount Patches and
ride to the field behind the ranch-house, practise with a six-shooter
until Peg came, then she'd dash toward her with her gun "spittin' death
and damnation" into the air.
Her idea developed with magic-beanstalk rapidity, as all ideas will if
they are dropped in fertile and well-cultivated soil. She laughed until
she was breathless as she confronted herself in the mirror in her own
room an hour later. Over her linen riding breeches she had drawn a pair
of flapping black and white Angora chaps. Great Mexican rowels adorned
her riding boots. A hectic yellow bandana, with red spots which gave the
cheery effect of a geometrical nosebleed, almost covered her delicate
blouse. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, at her hip swung a
six-shooter of sinister portent. A heavy belt filled with cartridges
sagged from her waist. She had slipped a silver filigree band above the
black and gold cord of Steve's campaign hat.
In a little whirlwind of laughter she blew a kiss to the gleaming eyes
of her vis-a-vis and lifted the saddle which she had purloined from the
glass case. It was gay with silver. The tapideros were choice examples
of Mexican craftsmanship. The head-stall of the bridle was fantastically
trimmed with the metal. As Jerry passed through the living-room the huge
rowels on her boots caught in the rug. She dropped the saddle with a
crash and caught at the table to save herself from falling. Her eyes
were bright, her cheeks pink when she had Patches saddled. She had
brought him up from the corral herself before she dressed. He rolled
his great eyes at her as she came out of the house. He pranced
skittishly until she spoke. Then he quieted but he kept an appraising,
suspicious eye on her. As the crowning touch of realism Jerry fastened a
coil of rawhide rope beside the saddle fork.
It was with difficulty, punctuated by _sotto voce_ exclamations, that
the girl mounted. The chaps were heavy and perversely unadaptable. As
she gathered up the reins Ming Soy appeared at the door. The little
Oriental's eyes were globules of wonder. Jerry anticipated her.
"I am off to practise shooting in the field behind the house, Ming Soy.
Don't be frightened if you hear shots. Watch the road for Miss Glamorgan
and Mr. Benson. They ought to be here within an hour. The moment they
appear in sight sound the gong at the back of the ranch-house. Do you
understand?"
"All light. Ming Soy understan'. Slandy tlell Hopi Soy he see Clarey
range-rider ketch Double O steers, other day. Said first he thought he
doin' it for Hopi Soy's chief, so he doan't say nodin'. Now he wonder."
"Ming Soy! Are you sure?"
"Slandy tlell Hopi Soy he see um ketch um. Clarey range-rider drove
steers over hill black of Blear Cleek ranch, Slandy tlell Hopi Soy."
"Ming Soy, don't let anyone know you told me that."
"All light, Ming Soy no tlell."
Jerry didn't know why she put that embargo on the Chinese woman's
tongue. Perhaps a vague fear that a warning would get to the thief
prompted it. The girl's mind was in a tumult as she raced Patches along
the road. She didn't stop to unfasten the gate, she jumped it. As she
entered the field which led to the stream she had quite forgotten the
exhibition she had staged for Peg. She had suspected that range-rider of
crookedness. Absorbed in thought she allowed Patches to race across the
rustic bridge. The thud of his hoofs on the wood brought her back to the
present. She pulled the horse down to a walk. Where was she going? To
see what was on the other side of that ridge beyond which the
range-rider had disappeared!
She followed the pack-trail cautiously. Bear Creek ranch-house in the
glare of sunshine was outlined distinctly against the dark cliff behind
it. Was it only this morning that she had come out of that door to find
Steve waiting for her? She had the curious feeling of being in another
decade. How were things going with the little mother, she wondered
and--and where was the Man of Mystery?
She touched Patches lightly with the great spurs and raced along the
trail toward the hill. It didn't seem possible that the man who had
seemed so concerned when he came for her last night could be a
rustler--but Sandy had seen him and the calves were missing. Her
thoughts urged her on. She was the one person of authority within reach.
She didn't know just what she intended to do, but she must do something.
She only knew that a frenzied voice somewhere inside her head kept
reiterating:
"He shan't get away with it! He shan't get away with it!"
Once as she climbed the hill she thought she saw a horse's head behind a
tree. Her heart choked her with its pounding. The object proved to be
nothing more intimidating than a black stump. When she reached the top
of the slope she came upon a clump of dead trees standing spectral and
white. She rode through them till she emerged in a clearing from which
she could look down into the valley.
Below lay a trough of the hills. Heat waves pulsed above it. Over its
surface, pockmarked with gopher holes, tumbleweed rolled and billowed
and stacked against rocks and fallen timber in uncanny, shifting masses.
Purple-gray and green sage-brush dotted it. Alkali whitened it in
streaks. Beyond the hollow stretched a belt of upheaved ridges of
brick-red sandstone. Between each ridge lay emerald green valleys with
little streams cutting through at nearly right angles. Higher and higher
rose the hills beyond till they loomed to mountains whose sides were
clothed with forests that had never paid toll to the lumber-jack, whose
snowy peaks, gold now in the sunshine, bared their jagged fangs to the
soft blue of the sky. They lured and beckoned with their mysterious
silences.
At the base of the slope on which Jerry stood was a circular hole
perhaps three hundred feet in diameter and ten feet deep. At one side of
it, near a pool, were the unmistakable traces of a camp. There were the
ashes of a fire and beside them the mutilated body of a calf. The place
gave an intangible sense of tragedy and terror.
Stepping as though the ground under her feet were a network of mines,
any one of which might be jarred into disastrous activity by an
inadvertent pressure of her foot, Jerry led Patches among the trees and
fastened him. She stole back over the carpet of pine needles, her chaps
flapping awkwardly at every step. She threw herself flat on the ground
from which she could see the hollow and waited. From somewhere came the
howl of a coyote; there seemed a million of them when the hills sent
back the echo. High and motionless in the sky a great bird poised to
reconnoiter then sailed and wheeled and dove. A gopher in front of his
hole beat Jack-in-the-box at his disappearing trick.
Jerry shivered. Now she knew where she was, "Buzzard's Hollow." She
hated the wailing coyote and she cared less, even less, for that
horrible winged thing by the pool. Had the Bear Creek range-rider joined
the campers? If she could only see the brand on that calf. But she
couldn't; it would be madness to go down into the hollow. She must hurry
back to the Double O and report. Slowman, the corral boss, would be
there if no one else was. Someone should see that calf before the
buzzards had obliterated all trace of the owner.
The girl sprang to her feet and ran to unloose Patches. Now that she had
decided to go her courage was disappearing as rapidly as vapor in the
sunshine. How terrifyingly empty of anything human the great spaces
seemed. She saw a menace behind every bush, a lurking danger behind
every tree. Apparently Patches' imagination was working overtime too. It
was a nervous horse she mounted but, as she turned toward the trail
which led to the Double O and safety, something drew her round. Perhaps
it was a sound, perhaps the lazy blue sweep of the mountains hypnotized
her. She guided Patches to the clearing from which she looked down into
the hollow. She couldn't have explained why she did it; it might have
been a morbid curiosity to see if the great bird was feasting on the
carrion. Her horse showed increased nervousness with every step. He
began to shake. Jerry slipped to the ground and laid her face against
his soft nose.
"What is it, boy? We're going back----"
A howl, a hair-raising mixture of banshee-wail and wildcat scream,
callioped behind them. Patches stood not upon the order of his going but
went at once. Snorting with terror he jerked the bridle from the girl's
hand and racketed down the hillside toward the hollow. For a moment
Jerry was rigid with terror, then she gripped her stampeding senses.
She must think. She was alone with that yelling demon--she couldn't get
home without her horse--her next move was to follow Patches--he would
get over his fright and answer her call. The dangling six-shooter at her
side gave her courage. If her silly masquerading as a cowboy had done
nothing else, it had given her that.
She slipped and slid down the slope. She caught at shrubs and stumps to
retard her too impetuous progress; they sampled the fringes of her black
and white chaps as she went by. She stubbed her toe upon a piece of
rock. The next instant it seemed to her excited fancy as though the
hillside gave way and took her with it.
"Detour!" she chuckled hysterically as down, down, down she went with a
mass of dirt and gravel. She shielded her face with one hand as with the
other she made futile grabs at the ground. It seemed as though eons of
time passed as she rolled down the hill. Steve's hat went bounding down
ahead of her. "I wonder how many miles I've gone now?" she thought with
a frightened laugh. Then, as suddenly as she had started she stopped
against something big and weather-stained and unyielding.
She lay passive for a moment looking up in dazed surprise. She was lying
beside a wooden shack. Strange that she had not seen it when she looked
down into the hollow. It must have been directly under the bank from
which she made her reconnaisance. She shut her eyes and stilled a cry as
she felt a hot breath on her cheek. Had the wildcat--she set her teeth
and looked up between cautiously parted lids--looked up into the brown
eyes of Patches. The horse was reeking wet, but he had stopped
trembling. His lips twitched against her cheek with a clumsy, quivering
caress. With a sob of thanksgiving Jerry threw her arms about his neck
and tried to rise. She fell back with a frightened laugh. From her waist
down she was buried in earth.
She controlled a frantic desire to attack the gravel furiously and
scooped it away with slow and telling precision. Patches waited
patiently. Possibly he realized that having landed his mistress in the
dilemma it was only a square deal that he stand by. Jerry's heart
pounded as she scooped. What was on the other side of that wooden wall?
The headquarters of Ranlett and his gang? Was the calf lying in the
hollow one of those the range-rider had appropriated from the Double O?
The gravel half removed the girl flung her arms about the horse's neck
and drew herself free. The black and white chaps remained partially
covered in earth and sand. Jerry took account of the damages. There was
a stinging, smarting scratch along one cheek, the sleeve of her blouse
was torn from the shoulder, her hair was a mass on her shoulders.
Nothing serious, she congratulated herself, as she tidied her hair,
removed a jeweled bar-pin from under the flamboyant bandana, and
fastened her sleeve in place with it. The scratch was the only real
casualty. Now that she was here she wondered if she couldn't find the
brand on that calf herself.
Cautiously she tied Patches to a stump. The click of his hoof against a
rock sent her heart fluttering to her throat. She shrank against the
house and held her breath. No sound came from within or from the hollow.
She must have frightened off everything alive when she came crashing
down the hill.
Reassured she picked up her hat which had landed near her and put it on.
It was curious what courage the touch of it gave her. It was as though
Steve had spoken. She could almost hear his "Steady, little girl,
steady!" She tiptoed round to the front of the shack. The slanting sun
shone on two dirty windows in sagging frames from which some of the
panes had been broken. In one of the survivors a round hole radiating
tiny cracks told a story without words. Desertion had laid its spell on
the place. The cabin was roofed with dirt and hay. Its board sides were
warped and weather-stained. The door in the middle sagged and swung
uncannily in the light breeze. What lay behind it? Evidence that would
convict Ranlett?
Her heart pounding out the measure of her racing blood Jerry laid her
hand on the rusty iron handle of the door. Its hinges creaked dolorously
as she swung it wide. The sound echoed curiously within the empty
shack--but--was it an echo? The doubt sent a million little icy shivers
pricking through Jerry's veins. Her heart winged to her throat. She
swallowed it valiantly and put a hesitating foot across the threshold.
It took an instant for her eyes to adjust themselves to the dimness
after the glare outside. Then the furnishings begun to take shape. A
cracked stove, red with rust, stood against the wall opposite; there was
a table with shreds of oilcloth hanging from it; a chair which had been
fashioned from a packing-box leaned against the table in three-legged
dejection; the door of a cupboard hung on one hinge displaying an array
of crockery and tin, in all stages of dilapidation and rust. Across one
end of the room was a built-in bunk. A ragged saddle-blanket trailed
from the side of it.
What--what--was that! Had her imagination tricked her or had that dirty
blanket stirred? Jerry clutched the door. Even as she stood there, too
frightened to move, there came the muffled sound which she had thought
was an echo. Her vague sense of tragedy merged into something tangible
and threatening. Someone was under that blanket! Was it an injured
man--or--or--was it a decoy?