THE KILLING OF MANSON ORR
All was still and drowsy about the ranch. Every available hand was out
at work upon some set task, part of the daily routine of the cattle
world. Mosquito Bend was a splendid example of discipline, for Jake
was never the man to let his men remain idle. Even Arizona had been
set to herd the milch cows and generally tend the horses remaining in
the barn; and Tresler, too, was further acquainting himself with the
cantankerous nature of barbed-wire fencing.
On this particular afternoon there was nothing about the ranch to
indicate the undercurrent of trouble Tresler had so quickly discovered
to be flowing beneath its calm surface. The sun was pouring down upon
the wiltering foliage with a fierceness which had set the insect world
droning its drowsy melody; the earth was already parching; the sloughs
were already dry, and the tall grass therein was rapidly ripening
against the season of haying. But in spite of the seeming peace; in
spite of the cloudless sky, the pastoral beauty of the scene, the
almost inaudible murmur of the distant river, the tide was flowing
swiftly and surely. It was leaping with the roar of a torrent.
A clatter of horse's hoofs broke up the quiet, and came rattling over
the river trail. The noise reached Jake's ears and set him alert. He
recognized the eager haste, the terrific speed, of the animal
approaching. He rose from his bunk and stood ready, and a look of deep
interest was in his bold black eyes. Suddenly a horseman came into
view. He was leaning well over his horse's neck, urging to a race with
whip and spur. Jake saw him sweep by and breast the rise to the
rancher's house.
At the verandah the man flung off his horse, and left the drooping
beast standing while he hammered at the door. There was some delay,
and he repeated his summons still more forcibly, adding his voice to
his demand.
"Hello there!" he called. "Any one in?"
"Archie Orr," Jake muttered to himself, as he stepped out of his hut.
The next moment the man at the verandah was caught up in the full
blast of the foreman's half-savage and wholly hectoring protest.
"What blazin' racket are you raisin' ther'?" he roared, charging up
the hill with heavy, hurried strides. "This ain't Skitter Reach, you
dog-gone coyote, nor that ain't your pap's shanty. What's itchin' you,
blast you?"
Archie swung round at the first shout. There was a wild expression on
his somewhat weak face. It was the face of a weak nature suddenly
worked up into the last pitch of frenzy. But even so the approach of
Jake was not without its effect. His very presence was full of threat
to the weaker man. Archie was no physical coward, but, in that first
moment of meeting, he felt as if he had been suddenly taken by the
collar, lifted up and shaken, and forcibly set down on his feet again.
And his reply came in a tone that voiced the mental process he had
passed through.
"I've come for help. I was in Forks last night, and only got home this
afternoon," he answered, with unnatural calmness. Then the check gave
way before his hysterical condition, and Jake's momentary influence
was lost upon him. "I tell you it's Red Mask! It's him and his gang!
They've shot my father down; they've burned us out, and driven off our
stock! God's curse on the man! But I'll have him. I'll hunt him down.
Ha! ha!" The young man's blue eyes flashed and his face worked as his
hysteria rose and threatened to overwhelm him. "You hear?" he shouted
on--"what does it say? Blood for blood. I'll have it! Give me some
help. Give me horses, and I'll have it! I'll----" His voice had risen
to a shriek.
"You'll shut off that damned noise, or"--Jake's ferocious face was
thrust forward, and his fierce eyes glared furiously into the
other's--"or git."
Archie shrank back silenced at once. The effect suited the foreman,
and he went on with a sardonic leer--
"An' you'll have 'blood for blood' o' Red Mask? You? You who was away
boozin' in Forks when you'd a right to ha' been around lookin' to see
that old skinflint of a father o' yours didn't git no hurt. You're
goin' to round up Red Mask; you who ain't got guts enough but to crawl
round here fer help to do it. You!"
A hot reply sprang to the youngster's lips in spite of his fear of
this man, but it died suddenly as a voice from within the doorway
broke in upon them.
"And a right purpose too, Archie."
Diane stepped out on to the verandah and ranged herself at his side,
while her scornful brown eyes sought the foreman's face. There was a
moment's pause, then she looked up into the boy's troubled face.
"You want to see my father?"
Archie was only eighteen, and though well grown and muscular, he was
still only a boy.
"Yes, Miss Diane; I do want to see him. I want to borrow a couple of
horses from him, and to ask his advice."
Archie's recent heat and hysteria had soothed under the influence of
the girl's presence. He now stood bowed and dejected; he appeared to
have suddenly grown old. Jake watched the scene with a sneer on his
brutal face, but remained silent now that Diane was present.
"I will rouse him myself," she said quietly, moving toward the door.
"Yes, you shall see him, Archie. I heard what you said just now, and
I'll tell him. But----" She broke off, hesitating. Then she came back
to him. "Is--is your father dead, or--only wounded?"
The boy's head dropped forward, and two great tears rolled slowly down
his cheeks. Diane turned away, and a far-off look came into her steady
brown eyes. There was a silence for a moment, then a deep,
heart-broken sob came from the lad at her side. She flashed one hard
glance in Jake's direction and turned to her companion, gently
gripping his arm in a manner that expressed a world of womanly
sympathy. Her touch, her quiet, strong helpfulness, did more for him
than any formal words of condolence could have done. He lifted his
head and dashed the tears from his face; and the girl smiled
encouragement upon him.
"Wait here," she said; "I will go and fetch father."
She slipped away, leaving the two men alone. And when she had gone,
the foreman's raucous voice sounded harshly on the still air.
"Say, you ain't smart, neither. We got one of your kidney around here
now. Kind o' reckons to fix the old man through the girl. Most
weak-kneed fellers gamble a pile on petticoats. Wal, I guess you're
right out. Marbolt ain't easy that way. You'll be sorry you fetched
him from his bed, or I don't know him."
Archie made no reply. Nor was any more talk possible, for at that
moment there came the steady tap, tap, of the blind man's stick down
the passage, and the two men faced the door expectantly. The rancher
shuffled out on to the verandah. Diane was at his side, and led him
straight over to young Orr. The old man's head was poised alertly for
a second; then he turned swiftly in the foreman's direction.
"Hah! that you, Jake?" He nodded as he spoke, and then turned back to
the other. The blind man's instinct seemed something more than human.
"Eh? Your father murdered, boy?" Marbolt questioned, without the least
softening of tone. "Murdered?"
Archie gulped down his rising emotion. But there was no life in his
answer--his words came in a tone of utter hopelessness.
"Yes, sir; shot down, I gather, in defense of our homestead."
The steady stare of the rancher's red eyes was hard to support. Archie
felt himself weaken before the personality of this man he had come to
see.
"Gather?"
The hardness of his greeting had now changed to the gentleness of tone
in which the blind man usually spoke. But the boy drew no confidence
from it while confronted by those unseeing eyes. It was Diane who
understood and replied for him.
"Yes; Archie was in Forks last night, on business, father. He only
learned what had happened on returning home this afternoon. He--he
wants some help."
"Yes, sir," Archie went on quickly; "only a little help. I came home
to find our homestead burned clean out. Not a roof left to shelter my
mother and sister, and not one living beast left upon the place,
except the dogs. Oh, my God, it is awful! Mother and Alice were
sitting beside the corral gate weeping fit to break their hearts over
the dead body of father when I found them. And the story, as I learned
it, sir, was simple--horribly, terribly simple. They were roused at
about two in the morning by the dogs barking. Father, thinking timber
wolves were around, went out with a gun. He saw nothing till he got to
the corrals. Then mother, watching from her window, saw the flash of
several guns, and heard the rattle of their reports. Father dropped.
Then the gang of murderers roused out the stock, and some drove it
off, while others wantonly fired the buildings. It was Red Mask, sir,
for he came up to the house and ordered mother out before the place
was fired. She is sure it was him because of his mask. She begged him
not to burn her home, but the devil had no remorse; he vouchsafed only
one reply. Maybe she forced him to an answer with her appeal; maybe he
only spoke to intimidate others who might hear of his words from her.
Anyway, he said, 'Your man and you open your mouths too wide around
this place. Manson Orr wrote in to the police, and asked for
protection. You won't need it now, neither will he.'" He paused, while
the horror of his story sank deeply into the heart of at least one of
his hearers. Then he went on with that eager, nervous fire he had at
first displayed: "Mr. Marbolt, I look to you to help me. I've got
nothing to keep me now from following this devil of a man. I want to
borrow horses, and I'll hunt him down. I'll hunt him down while I've a
breath left in my body, sir," he went on, with rising passion. "I'll
pay him if it takes me my lifetime! Only lend me the horses, sir. It
is as much to your interest as mine, for he has robbed you before now;
your property is no more safe than any other man's. Let us combine to
fight him, to bring him down, to measure him his full measure, to send
him to hell, where he belongs. I'll do this----"
"Yes, while your mother and sister starve," put in the blind man,
drily. Then, as the fire of Archie's passion suddenly sank at the
cold, incisive words, and he remained silent and abashed, he went on,
in quiet, even tones, while his red eyes were focussed upon his
visitor's face with disconcerting directness, "No, no; go you--I won't
say 'home,' but go you to your mother and sister: look after them,
care for them, work for them. You owe that to them before any act of
vengeance be made. When you have achieved their comfort, you are at
liberty to plunge into any rashness you choose. I am no youngster,
Archie Orr, I am a man of years, who has seen, all my life, only
through a brain rendered doubly acute by lack of sight, and my advice
is worthy of your consideration. You have nothing more to fear from
Red Mask at present, but if you continue your headlong course you will
have; and, as far as I can make out, his hand is heavy and swift in
falling. Go back to your women-folk, I say. You can get no horses from
me for such a foolhardy purpose as you meditate."
Diane had watched her father closely, and as he finished speaking, she
moved toward the bereaved man and laid a hand upon his arm in gentle
appeal.
"Father is right, Archie. Go back to them, those two lonely,
broken-hearted women. You can do all for them if you will. They need
all that your kind, honest heart can bestow. It is now that you must
show the stuff you are made of."
Archie had turned away; but he looked round and mechanically glanced
down at the brown hand still resting upon his arm. The sight of it
held him for some moments, and when he raised his head a new look was
in his eyes. The sympathy in her tones, the gentle encouragement of
the few words she had spoken, had completed that which the sound but
unsympathetic advice of her father had begun.
His purpose had been the wild impulse of unstable youth; there was no
strength to it, no real resolution. Besides, he was a gentle-hearted
lad, to whom Diane's appeal for his mother and sister was
irresistible.
"Thank you, Miss Diane," he said, with a profound sigh. "Your kind
heart has seen where my anger has been blind. Yes, I will return and
help my mother. And I thank you, sir," he went on, turning reluctantly
to face the stare of the rancher's eyes again. "You, too, have plainly
shown me my duty, and I shall follow it, but--if ever----"
"And you'll do well," broke in Jake, with a rough laugh that jarred
terribly. "Your father's paid his pound. If his son's wise, he'll hunt
his hole."
Archie's eyes flashed ominously. Diane saw the look, and, in an
instant, drew his attention to his horse, which was moving off toward
the barn.
"See, Archie," she said, with a gentle smile, "your horse is weary,
and is looking for rest."
The boy read her meaning. He held out his hand impulsively, and the
girl placed hers into it. In a moment his other had closed over it,
and he shook it tenderly. Then, without a word, he made off after his
horse.
The blind man's face was turned in his direction as he went, and when
the sound of his footsteps had died away, he turned abruptly and
tapped his way back to the door. At the threshold he turned upon the
foreman.
"Two days in succession I have been disturbed," he gritted out. "You
are getting past your work, Jake Harnach."
"Father----" Diane started forward in alarm, but he cut her short.
"And as for you, miss, remember your place in my house. Go, look to
your duties. Sweep, wash, cook, sew. Those are the things your sex is
made for. What interest have you, dare you have, in that brainless
boy? Let him fight his own battles. It may make a man of him; though I
doubt it. He is nothing to you."
Diane shrank before the scathing blast of that sightless fury. But she
rallied to protest.
"It is the women-folk, father."
"Women-folk? Bah!"
He threw up his hands in ineffable scorn, and shuffled away into the
house.
Jake, still smarting under the attack, stood leaning against the
verandah post. He was looking away down at the bunkhouse, where a
group of the men were gathered about Archie Orr, who, seated on his
horse, was evidently telling his tale afresh.
Diane approached him. He did not even turn to meet her.
"Jake, I want Bess at once. Hitch her to the buckboard, and have her
sent round to the kitchen door."
"What are you goin' to do, my girl?" he asked, without shifting his
gaze.
"Maybe I shall drive over to see those poor women."
"Maybe?"
"Yes."
"You can't have her."
Jake turned, and looked down at her from his great height. Archie Orr
had just ridden off.
Diane returned his look fearlessly, and there was something in the
directness of her gaze that made the giant look away.
"I think I can," she said quietly. "Go and see to it now."
The man started. It seemed as if he were about to bluster. His bold,
black eyes flashed ominously, and it was plain from his attitude that
a flat and harsh refusal was on his lips. But somehow he didn't say
it. The brutality of his expression slowly changed as he looked at
her. A gentle light stole slowly, and it seemed with difficulty, into
his eyes, where it looked as out of place as the love-light in the
eyes of a tiger. But there was no mistaking it. However incongruous it
was there, and the lips that had been framing a cruel retort merely
gave utterance to a quiet acquiescence.
"All right. I'll send her round in five minutes."
And Diane went into the house at once.
Meanwhile, a great discussion of young Orr's affairs was going on at
the bunkhouse. Arizona had vacated his favorite seat, and was now
holding the floor. His pale face was flushed with a hectic glow of
excitement. He was taxing his little stock of strength to the
uttermost, and, at least, some of those looking on listening to him
knew it.
"I tell you ther' ain't nothin' fer it but to roll up to old blind
hulks an' ast him to send us out. Ef this dog-gone skunk's let be,
ther' ain't no stock safe. Guess I've had my med'cine from 'em, and
I'm jest crazy fer more. I've had to do wi' fellers o' their kidney
'fore, I guess. We strung six of 'em up in a day on the same tree down
Arizona way, as that gray-headed possum, Joe Nelson, well remembers.
Say, we jest cleaned our part o' that country right quick. Guess ther'
wa'n't a 'bad man' wuth two plugs o' nickel chawin' around when we'd
finished gettin' 'em. Say, this feller's played it long enough, an'
I'm goin' right now to see the boss. He's around. Who's comin'?"
"Yes, an' Archie Orr's a pore sort o' crittur to git left wi' two
women-folk," said Raw Harris, rising from his upturned bucket and
putting forth his argument, regardless of its irrelevance. "Not a
stick to shelter him--which I mean 'them.' An' not a dog-gone cent
among 'em. By G----, Arizona's right."
"That's it," put in Joe Nelson; "you've hit it. Not a dog-gone cent
among 'em, an', what's more, owin' blind hulks a whole heap o' bills
on mortgage. Say, that was mostly a weak move him askin' the boss fer
help. Why, I guess old Marbolt hates hisself on'y one shade wuss'n he
hated Manson Orr. Say, boys, ef we're askin' to lynch Red Mask, we
ain't askin' in any fancy name like 'Orr.' Savee?"
There was silence for a moment while they digested the wisdom of the
suggestion. Then Jacob Smith nodded, and Lew Cawley murmured--
"Dead gut every time, is Joe."
This loosened their tongues again until Tresler spoke.
"See here, boys, you're talking of lynching, and haven't a notion of
how you're going to get your man. Don't even know where to lay hands
on him. Do you think Marbolt's going to turn us all loose on the
war-path? Not he. And how are two or three of us going to get a gang
of ten or twelve? Besides, I believe it'll be easier to get him
without a lynching party. Remember he's no ordinary cattle-rustler. I
say lie low, he'll come our way, and then----"
"That's it, lie low," broke in Joe Nelson, shaking his gray head over
a pannikin of tea, and softly blowing a clearing among the dead flies
floating on its surface. "Maybe y' ain't heard as the sheriff's come
around Forks. Guess he's fixed a station ther'."
"He's already done so?" asked Tresler.
"Yup."
"By Jove! The very thing, boys. Don't roll up. Don't do any lynching.
The sheriff's the boy for Red Mask."
But Arizona, backed by Raw Harris, would have none of it. They were of
the old-time stock who understood only old-time methods, and cordially
resented any peaceful solution to the difficulty. They wanted a
lynching, and no argument would dissuade them. And after much
discussion it was Arizona's final word that carried the day.
"Now, you see, Tresler," he said huskily, for his voice was tired with
sustained effort. "You're the remarkablest smart 'tenderfoot' that
ever I see. Say, you're a right smart daddy--an' I ain't given to
latherin' soap-suds neither. But ther's suthin's I calc'late that no
'tenderfoot,' smart as he may be, is goin' to locate right. Hoss
thieves is hoss thieves, an' needs stringin'. Ther' ain't nuthin' for
it but a rawhide rope fer them fellers. Guess I've seen more'n you've
heerd tell of. Say, boys, who's goin' to see the boss? Guess he's
right ther' on the verandah."
Though there was no verbal reply as the wild American turned to move
off, there was a general movement to follow him. Raw Harris started
it. Pannikins were set down upon the ground, and, to a man, the rest
followed in their leader's wake. Tresler went too, but he went only
because he knew it would be useless--even dangerous--to hold back. The
general inclination was to follow the lead of this volcanic man.
Besides, he had only voiced that which appealed to them all. The
gospel of restraint was not in their natures. Only Joe Nelson really
endorsed Tresler's opinion. But then Joe was a man who had lived his
youth out, and had acquired that level-headedness from experience
which Tresler possessed instinctively. Besides, he was in touch with
Diane. He had lived more than ten years on that ranch, during which
time he had stood by watching with keenly observant eyes the doings of
the cattle world about him. But he, too, in spite of his own good
reason, moved on to the verandah with the rest.
And Jake saw the movement and understood, and he reached the verandah
first and warned the blind man of their coming.
And Tresler's prophecy was more than fulfilled. As they came they saw
the rancher rise from his seat. He faced them, a tall, awesome figure
in his long, full dressing-gown. His large, clean-cut head, his gray,
clipped beard, the long aquiline nose, and, overshadowing all, his
staring, red eyes; even on Arizona he had a damping effect.
"Well?" he questioned, as the men halted before him. Then, as no
answer was forthcoming, he repeated his inquiry. "Well?"
And Arizona stepped to the front. "Wal, boss, it's this a-ways," he
began. "These rustlers, I guess----"
But the blind man cut him short. The frowning brows drew closer over
the sightless eyes, which were focussed upon the cowpuncher with a
concentration more overpowering than if their vision had been
unimpaired.
"Eh? So you've been listening to young Orr," he said, with a quietness
in marked contrast to the expression of his face. "And you want to get
after them?" Then he shook his head, and the curious depression of his
brows relaxed, and a smile hovered round his mouth. "No, no, boys;
it's useless coming to me. Worse than useless. You, Arizona, should
know better. There are not enough ranches round here to form a
lynching party, if one were advisable. And I can't spare men from
here. Why, to send enough men from here to deal with this gang would
leave my place at their mercy. Tut, tut, it is impossible. You must
see it yourselves."
"But you've been robbed before, sir," Arizona broke out in protest.
"Yes, yes." There was a grating of impatience in the blind man's
voice, and the smile had vanished. "And I prefer to be robbed of a few
beeves again rather than run the chance of being burned out by those
scoundrels. I'll have no argument about the matter. I can spare no
hand among you. I'll not police this district for anybody. You
understand--for anybody. I will not stop you--any of you"--his words
came with a subtle fierceness now, and were directed at Arizona--"but
of this I assure you, any man who leaves this ranch to set out on any
wild-goose chase after these rustlers leaves it for good. That's all I
have to say."
Arizona was about to retort hotly, but Tresler, who was standing close
up to him, plucked at his shirt-sleeve, and, strangely enough, his
interference had its effect. The man glared round, but when he saw who
it was that had interrupted him, he made no further effort to speak.
The wild man of the prairie was feeling the influence of a stronger,
or, at least, a steadier nature than his own. And Jake's lynx eyes
watching saw the movement, and he understood.
The men moved reluctantly away. Their moody looks and slouching gait
loudly voiced their feelings. No words passed between them until they
were well out of ear-shot. And Tresler realized now the wonderful
power of brain behind the sightless eyes of the rancher. Now, he
understood something of the strength which had fought the battle,
sightless though he was, of those early days; now he comprehended the
man who could employ a man of Jake's character, and have strength
enough to control him. That afternoon's exhibition made a profound
impression on him.
Their supper was finished before they set out for the house, and now
the men, murmuring, discontented, and filled with resentment against
the rancher, loafed idly around the bunkhouse. They smoked and chewed
and discussed the matter as angry men who are thwarted in their plans
will ever do. Tresler and Joe alone remained quiet. Tresler, for the
reason that a definite plan was gradually forming in his brain out of
the chaos of events, and Joe because he was watching the other for his
own obscure reasons.
The sun had set when Tresler separated himself from his companions.
Making his way down past the lower corrals he took himself to the
ford. Joe thoughtfully watched him go.
Seated on a fallen tree-trunk Tresler pondered long and deeply. He was
thinking of Joe's information that the sheriff had at last set up a
station at Forks. Why should he not carry his story to him? Why should
he not take this man into his confidence, and so work out the trapping
of the gang? And, if Jake were----
He had no time to proceed further. His thoughts were interrupted by
the sound of wheels, followed, a moment later, by the splash of a
horse crossing the ford. He turned in the direction whence the sound
came, and beheld Bessie hauling a buckboard up the bank of the river;
at the same instant he recognized the only occupant of the vehicle. It
was Diane returning from her errand of mercy.
Tresler sprang to his feet. He doffed his prairie hat as the
buckboard drew abreast of him. Nor was he unmindful of the sudden
flush that surged to the girl's cheeks as she recognized him. Without
any intention Diane checked the mare, and, a moment later, realizing
what she had done, she urged her on with unnecessary energy. But
Tresler had no desire that she should pass him in that casual fashion,
and, with a disarming smile, hailed her.
"Don't change a good mind, Miss Marbolt," he cried.
Whereat the blush returned to the girl's cheek intensified, for she
knew that he had seen her intention. This time, however, she pulled up
decidedly, and turned a smiling face to him.
"This is better than I bargained for," he went on. "I came here to
think the afternoon's events out, and--I meet you. I had no idea you
were out."
"I felt that Bess wanted exercise," the girl answered evasively.
Without asking herself why, Diane felt pleased at meeting this man.
Their first encounter had been no ordinary one. From the beginning he
seemed to link himself with her life. For her their hours of
acquaintance might have been years; years of mutual help and
confidence. However, she gathered her reins up as though to drive on.
Tresler promptly stayed her.
"No, don't go yet, Miss Marbolt, please. Pleasures that come
unexpectedly are pleasures indeed. I feel sure you will not cast me
back upon my gloomy thoughts."
Diane let the reins fall into her lap.
"So your thoughts were gloomy; well, I don't wonder at it. There are
gloomy things happening. I was out driving, and thought I would look
in at Mosquito Reach. It has been razed to the ground."
"You have been to see--and help--young Orr's mother and sister? I know
it. It was like you, Miss Marbolt," Tresler said, with a genuine look
of admiration at the dark little face so overshadowed by the sun-hat.
"Don't be so ready to credit me with virtues I do not possess. We
women are curious. Curiosity is one of our most pronounced features.
Poor souls--their home is gone. Utterly--utterly gone. Oh, Mr.
Tresler, what are we to do? We cannot remain silent, and yet--we don't
know. We can prove nothing."
"And what has become of them--I mean Mrs. Orr and her daughter?"
Tresler asked, for the moment ignoring the girl's question.
"They have gone into Forks."
"And food and money?"
"I have seen to that." Diane shrugged her shoulders to make light of
what she had done, but Tresler would not be put off.
"Bless you for that," he said, with simple earnestness. "I knew I was
right." Then he reverted abruptly to her question. "But we can do
something; the sheriff has come to Forks."
"Yes, I know." Diane's tone suddenly became eager, almost hopeful.
"And father knows, and he is going to send in a letter to
Fyles--Sheriff Fyles is the great prairie detective, and is in charge
of Forks--welcoming him, and inviting him out here. He is going to
tell him all he knows of these rustlers, and so endeavor to set him on
their track. Father laughs at the idea of the sheriff catching these
men. He says that they--the rustlers--are no ordinary gang, but clever
men, and well organized. But he thinks that if he gets Fyles around it
will save his property."
"And your father is wise. Yes, it will certainly have that effect; but
I, too, have a little idea that I have been working at, and--Miss
Marbolt, forgive the seeming impertinence, but I want to discuss Jake
again; this time from a personal point of view. You dislike Jake;
more, you have shown me that you fear him."
The girl hesitated before replying. This man's almost brusque manner
of driving straight to his point was somewhat alarming. He gave her no
loophole. If she discussed the matter with him at all it must be
fully, or she must refuse to answer him.
"I suppose I do fear him," she said at last with a sigh. Then her face
suddenly lit up with an angry glow. "I fear him as any girl would fear
the man who, in defiance of her expressed hatred, thrusts his
attentions upon her. I fear him because of father's blindness. I fear
him because he hopes in his secret heart some day to own this ranch,
these lands, all these splendid cattle, our fortune. Father will be
gone then. How? I don't know. And I--I shall be Jake's slave. These
are the reasons why I fear Jake, Mr. Tresler, since you insist on
knowing."
"I thank you, Miss Marbolt." The gentle tone at once dispelled the
girl's resentment. "You have suspicions which may prove to be right.
It was for this reason I asked you to discuss Jake. One thing more
and I'll have done. This Joe Nelson, he is very shrewd, he is in close
contact with you. How far is he to be trusted?"
"To any length; with your life, Mr. Tresler," the girl said with
enthusiasm. "Joe is nobody's enemy but his own, poor fellow. I am
ashamed to admit it, but I have long since realized that when things
bother me so that I cannot bear them all alone, it is Joe that I look
to for help. He is so kind. Oh, Mr. Tresler, you cannot understand the
gentleness, the sympathy of his honest old heart. I am very, very fond
of Joe."
The man abruptly moved from his stand at the side of the buckboard,
and looked along the trail in the direction of the ranch. His action
was partly to check an impulse which the girl's manner had roused in
him, and partly because his quick ears had caught the sound of some
one approaching. He was master of himself in a moment, however, and,
returning, smiled up into the serious eyes before him.
"Well, Joe shall help me," he said. "He shall help me as he has helped
you. If----" he broke off, listening. Then with great deliberation he
came close up to the buckboard. "Miss--Diane," he said, and the girl's
lids lowered before the earnestness of his gaze, "you shall
never--while I live--be the slave of Jake Harnach."
Nor had Tresler time to move away before a tall figure rounded the
bend of the trail. In the dusk he mistook the newcomer for Jake, then,
as he saw how slim he was, he realized his mistake.
The man came right up to the buckboard with swift, almost stealthy
strides. The dark olive of his complexion, the high cheek-bones, the
delicately chiseled, aquiline nose, the perfectly penciled eyebrows
surmounting the quick, keen, handsome black eyes; these things
combined with the lithe, sinuous grace of an admirably poised body
made him a figure of much attraction.
The man ignored Tresler, and addressed the girl in the buckboard in a
tone that made the former's blood boil.
"The boss, him raise hell. Him say, 'I mak' her wish she not been born
any more.' Him say, 'Go you, Anton, an' find her, an' you not leave
her but bring her back.' Ho, the boss, your father, he mad. Hah?" The
half-breed grinned, and displayed a flashing set of teeth. "So I go,"
he went on, still smiling in his impudent manner. "I look out. I see
the buckboard come down to the river. I know you come. I see from
there back"--he pointed away to the bush--"you talk with this man, an'
I wait. So!"
Diane was furious. Her gentle brown eyes flashed, and two bright
patches of color burned on her cheeks. The half-breed watched her
carelessly. Turning to Tresler she held out her hand abruptly.
"Good-night, Mr. Tresler," she said quietly. Then she chirruped to her
light-hearted mare and drove off.
Anton looked after her. "Sacre!" he cried, with a light shrug. "She is
so mad--so mad. Voila!" and he leisurely followed in the wake of the
buckboard.
And Tresler looked after him. Then it was that his thoughts reverted
to the scene in the saloon at Forks. So this was Anton--"Black"
Anton--the man who had slid into the country without any one knowing
it. He remembered Slum Ranks's words and description. This was the man
who had the great Jake's measure.