AT THE HIDDEN CORRAL
Charlie Bryant urged his horse at a dangerous pace along the narrow,
winding cattle tracks which threaded the upper reaches of the valley.
He gave no heed to anything--the lacerating thorns, the great, knotty
roots, with which the paths were studded, the overhanging boughs. His
sole object seemed to be a desperate desire to reach his destination.
His horse often floundered and tripped, the man's own clothes were
frequently ripped by the thorns, and the bleeding flesh beneath laid
bare, while it seemed a miracle that he successfully dodged the
threatening boughs overhead.
There was a hunted look in his dark eyes, too. It was a look of
concern, almost of terror. His gaze was alert and roving. Now, he was
looking ahead, straining with anxiety, now he was turning this way and
that in response to the mysterious woodland sounds which greeted his
ears. Again, with a nervous jerk, he would rein in his horse and sit
listening, with eyes staring back over the way he had come, as though
fearing pursuit.
Once he thrust a hand into an inside pocket as though to reassure
himself that something was there which he valued and feared to lose,
and with every movement, every look of his eyes, every turn of the
head, he displayed an unusual nervousness and apprehension.
At last his horse swept into the clearing of the hidden corral, and he
reined it up with a jerk, and leaped from the saddle. Then he stood
listening, and the apprehension in his eyes deepened. But presently it
lessened, and he moved forward, and flung his reins over one of the
corral fence posts. Every woodland sound, every discordant note from
the heart of the valley was accounted for in his mind, so he hurried
toward the flat-roofed hut, that mysterious relic of a bygone age.
He thrust the creaking door open and waited while the flight of birds
swarmed past him. Then he made his way within. Once inside he paused
again with that painful look of expectancy and fear in his eyes. Again
this passed, and he went on quickly to the far corner of the room,
and laid his hands upon the wooden lining of the wall. Then he
abruptly seemed to change his mind. He removed his hands, and withdrew
a largish, morocco pocketbook from an inner pocket.
It was a rather fine case, bound in embossed silver, and ornamented
with a silver monogram. For some moments he looked at it as though in
doubt. He seemed to be definitely making up his mind, and his whole
attitude suggested his desire for its safety.
While he was still gazing at it a startled look leaped into his eyes,
and his head turned as though at some suspicious sound. A moment later
he reached out and slid the wooden lining of the wall up, revealing
the cavity behind it, which still contained its odd assortment of
garments. Without hesitation he reached up to a dark jacket and thrust
the pocketbook into an inner pocket. Then, with a swift movement, he
replaced the paneling and turned about.
It was the work of a moment, and as he turned about his right hand was
gripping the butt of a revolver, ready and pointing at the door.
"Charlie!"
The revolver was slipped back into the man's pocket, and Charlie
Bryant's furious face was turned toward the window opening, which now
framed the features of his great blundering brother.
"You, Bill?" he cried angrily. "What in hell are you doing here?"
But Bill ignored the challenge, he ignored the tone of it. His big
eyes were full of excitement.
"Come out of there--quick!" he cried sharply.
Charlie's dark eyes had lost some of their anger in the inquiry now
replacing it.
"Why?" But he moved toward the doorway.
"Why? Because Fyles is behind me. I've seen him in the distance."
Charlie came around the corner of the building with the door firmly
closed behind him. Bill left the window and moved across to his horse,
which was standing beside that of his brother. Charlie followed him.
Neither spoke again until the horses were reached, and Bill had
unhitched his reins from the corral fence. Then he turned his great
blue eyes, so full of trouble, upon the small figure beside him, and
he answered the other's half-angry, half-curious challenge with a
question.
"What's this place?" he demanded. Then he added, "And what's that
cupboard in there?" He jerked his head in the direction of the hut, "I
saw you close it."
Charlie seemed to have recovered from the apprehension which had
caused him to obey his brother unquestioningly. There was an angry
sparkle in his eyes as he gazed steadily into Bill's face.
"That's none of your damn business," he said, in a low tone of surly
truculence. "I'm not here to answer any questions till you tell me the
reason why you've had the impertinence to hunt me down. How did you
know where to find me?"
Just for one moment a hot retort leaped to the other's lips. But he
checked his rising temper. His journey in pursuit of his brother had
been taken after deep reflection and consultation with Helen. But the
mystery of that hut, that cupboard, did more to keep him calm than
anything else. His curiosity was aroused. Not mere idle curiosity, but
these things, this place, were a big link in the chain of evidence
that had been forged about his brother, and he felt he was on the
verge of a discovery. Then there was Fyles somewhere nearby in the
neighborhood. This last thought, and all it portended, destroyed his
feelings of resentment.
"I s'pose you think I followed you for sheer curiosity. Guess I might
well enough do so, seeing we bear the same name, and that name's
liable to stink--through you. But I didn't, anyway. I came out here to
tell you something I heard this morning, and it's about--last night.
Fyles says that the result of last night is that the gang, their
leader, is now wanted for an armed attack on the police, and that the
penalty is--anything up to twenty years in the penitentiary."
Charlie's intense regard never wavered for one moment.
"Who told you I was here?" he demanded angrily.
"No one."
There was a sting in the sharpness of Bill's reply. The big blue eyes
were growing hot again.
"Then how did you know where to find me?" Charlie's deep voice was
full of suppressed fury.
"I didn't know just where to find you," Bill protested, with rising
heat. "The kid told me you'd gone up the valley, but didn't say where.
I set out blindly and stumbled on your horse's tracks. I chanced those
tracks, and they led me here. Will that satisfy you?"
Charlie's eyes were still glittering.
"Not quite. I'll ask you to get out of my ranch. And remember this,
you've seen me at this shack, and you've seen that cupboard. If you'd
been anybody but my brother I'd have shot you down in your tracks.
Fyles--anybody. That cupboard is my secret, and if anyone learns of it
through you--well, I'll forget you're my brother and treat you as
though you were--Fyles."
A sudden blaze of wrath flared up in the bigger man's eyes. But,
almost as it kindled, it died out and he laughed. However, when he
spoke there was no mirth in his voice.
"My God, Charlie," he cried, holding out his big hands, "I could
almost take you in these two hands and--and wring your foolish,
obstinate, wicked neck. You stand there talking blasted melodrama like
a born actor on the one-night stands. Your fool talk don't scare me a
little. What in the name of all that's sacred do you think I want to
send you to the penitentiary for? Haven't I come here to warn you?
Man, the rye whisky's turned you crazy. I'm here to help, help, do you
understand? Just four letters, 'help,' a verb which means 'support,'
not 'destroy.'"
Charlie's cold regard never wavered.
"When will you clear out of--my ranch?"
Bill started. The brothers' eyes met in a long and desperate exchange
of regard. Then the big man brought his fist down upon the high cantle
of his saddle with startling force.
"When I choose, not before," he cried fiercely. "Do you understand?
Here, you foolish man. I know what I'm up against. I know what you're
up against, and I tell you right here that if Fyles is going to hunt
you into the penitentiary he can hunt me, too. I'm not smart, like
you, on these crook games, but I'm determined that the man who lags
you will get it good and plenty. I sort of hate you, you foolish man.
I hate you and like you. You've got grit, and, by God, I like you for
it, and I don't stand to see you go down for any twenty years--alone.
If Fyles gets you that way, you're the last man he ever will get. Damn
you!"
Charlie drew a deep breath. It was a sigh of pent feeling. He averted
his gaze, and it wandered over the old corral inside which the wagon
with its hay-rack was still standing, though its position was changed
slightly. His eyes rested upon it, and passed on to the hut, about
which the birds were once more gathering. They paused for some silent
moments in this direction. Then they came back to the angry, waiting
brother.
"I wish you weren't such a blunderer, Bill," he said, and his manner
had become peevishly gentle. "Can't you see I've got to play my own
game in my own way? You don't know all that's back of my head. You
don't know a thing. All you know is that Fyles wants to send me down,
by way of cleaning up this valley. I want him to--if he can. But he
can't. Not as long as the grass grows. He's beaten--beaten before he
starts. I don't want help. I don't want help from anybody. Now, for
God's sake, can't you leave me alone?"
The tension between the two was relaxed. Bill gave an exclamation of
impatience.
"You want him to--send you down?"
The warp of this man was too much for his common sense.
"If he can."
Charlie smiled now. It was a smile of perfect confidence. Bill threw
up his hands.
"Well, you've got me beat to a rag. I----"
"The same as I have Fyles. But say----"
Charlie broke off, and his smile vanished.
"Maybe I'm a crook. Maybe I'm anything you, or anybody else likes to
call me. There's one thing I'm not. I'm no bluff. You know of that
cupboard in that shack. The thought's poison to me. If any other man
had found it, he wouldn't be alive now to listen to me. Do you
understand me? Forget it. Forget you ever saw it. If you dream of it,
fancy it's a nightmare and--turn over. Bill, I solemnly swear that
I'll shoot the man dead, on sight, who gives that away, or dares to
look inside it. Now, we'll get away from here."
He sprang into the saddle and waited while his brother mounted. Then
he held out his hand.
"Do you get me?" he asked.
Bill nodded, and took the outstretched hand in solemn compact.
"What you say goes," he said easily. "But your threat of shooting
doesn't worry me a little bit."
He gathered up his reins and the two men rode out of the clearing.
* * * * *
The last sound of speeding hoofs died away, and the clearing settled
once more to its mysterious quiet. Only the twittering of the swarming
birds on the thatched roof of the hut disturbed the silence, but,
somehow, even their chattering voices seemed really to intensify it.
Thus a few minutes passed.
Then a breaking of bush and rustling of leaves gave warning of a fresh
approach. A man's head and shoulders were thrust forward, out from
amid the boughs of a wild cherry bush.
His dark face peered cautiously around, and his keen eyes took in a
comprehensive survey of both corral and hut. A moment later he stood
clear of the bush altogether.
Stanley Fyles swiftly crossed the intervening space and entered the
corral. He strode up to the wagon and examined it closely, studying
its position and the wheel tracks, with a minuteness that left him in
possession of every available fact. Having satisfied himself in this
direction, he passed out of the corral and went over to the hut.
The screaming birds promptly protested, and flew once more from their
nesting quarters in panicky dudgeon. Fyles watched them go with
thoughtful eyes. Then he passed around to the door of the building and
thrust it open. Another rush of birds swept past him, and he passed
within. Again his searching eyes were brought into play. Not a detail
of that interior escaped him. But ten minutes later he left the
half-lit room for the broad light of day outside--disappointed.
For a long time he moved around the building, examining the walls,
their bases and foundations. His disappointment remained, however,
and, finally, with strong discontent in his expression, and an
unmistakable shrug of his shoulders, he moved away.
Finally, he paused and gave a long, low whistle. He repeated it at
intervals, three times, and, after awhile, for answer, the wise face
of Peter appeared from among the bushes. The creature solemnly
contemplated the scene. It was almost as if he were assuring himself
of the safety of revealing himself. Then, with measured gait, he made
his way slowly toward his master.