THE TRAIL OF THE NIGHT-RIDERS
A week passed before Tresler was again brought into contact with
Jake. When he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the
"broncho-busting" carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to have
no share in it. Jacob Smith was waiting for him with a message from
Julian Marbolt; his orders were peremptory. He was to leave at once
for Whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the young
horses now being broken for the troops. The rancher made his meaning
quite plain. And Tresler was quick to understand that this was simply
to get him out of the way until such time as Jake's temper had cooled
and the danger of a further rupture was averted.
He received his instructions without comment. It was rough on his
mare, but as the Lady Jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she must
not mind if she received a similar treatment in return. And so he
went, much to the disquiet of Joe Nelson, and with a characteristic
admonition from Arizona. That individual had just finished thrashing a
bull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn't move from
the spot where he had been saddled, when Tresler came up. The lean man
was breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily.
"Kep y'r gun good an' handy," he said. "Et's mighty good company, if
et don't git gassin' wi'out you ast it a question."
In this case, however, there was no need for the advice. The journey
was a peaceful relief after the storms of Mosquito Bend. Tresler
transacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to the
authorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing with
their remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience and
moderation. Then he set out for the ranch again, in company with Raw
Harris and Lew Cawley--the two men who had brought the band into the
town.
His return to Mosquito Bend was very different from his first coming.
It seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had been
ridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. So much had
happened since then. Now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man,
with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpunchers
with him, in moleskin and buckskin, Mexican spurs, and slouch hat; his
gun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as he
rode. He was no longer "the guy with the pants" he had been when he
first entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at the
metamorphosis. It brought him nearer to the land, which, with all its
roughness, he felt to be the true life for him.
It was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping low
over the western hills, casting long shadows from behind the
gorgeous-colored heat clouds. Its dying lustre shone like a fire of
molten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills,
until the densest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork of
Nature's own cutting. And in the shadow cast by the hilly background
there nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pastures
of succulent grass.
Yes, Tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the future
might hold for him. He had missed his companions; he had missed
Arizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed Joe, with his
quaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to get
back to Diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him as
only a lover can. But there was something more in his longing than
that. Every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at the
thought of what might be happening to her. Joe was there to send him
word, but even this was insufficient. There had been times when he
felt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there had
been times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervous
tension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare and
offer her a race against time back to the girl he loved.
His feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trail
from the ford. He had no words for either of his companions, nor did
they seem inclined for speech. They passed the corrals in silence and
reached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted them
with a nod or a casual "Hello!" They might have just returned from a
day's work on the range for all the interest displayed at their
coming. But, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy's manner.
There is rarely a "good-bye" on the prairie, unless it is when a
comrade "hits the one-way trail." Even then it is more often a quiet
"s'long," without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far more
than a flood of tears.
Jake was at his door when Tresler rode over to report. He was still
bearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of them
beheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. However, there was
none of this in his manner as he made his report. And, much to his
astonishment, Jake displayed a cold civility. He surpassed himself.
Not a sneer or sarcasm passed his lips. The report done, he went on to
the barn and stabled his mare for the night. Then he passed on toward
his quarters.
Before he reached his destination, however, he was joined by Nelson.
The little man had evidently been waiting for him.
"Well?"
There was no greeting. Tresler put his monosyllabic question at once.
And the choreman responded without hesitation.
"She's bin astin' fer you three times. When wus you gittin' around
agin? I guessed I didn't know fer sure. She wus kind o' worrited, I
reckon." He paused, and his twisted face turned in the direction of
the foreman's hut. "She wus weepin' last night," he went on. Then he
paused again, and his shrewd eyes came back to Tresler's face. "She's
bin weepin' to-day," he said, with a peculiar look of expectation in
his manner.
"What's the trouble?" The question came short and sharp.
"Mebbe she's lonesome."
"That's not it; you've got other reasons."
Joe looked away again. "Jake's bin around some. But I guess she's
lonesome too. She's ast fer you." The little man's tone was full of
obstinacy.
Tresler understood his drift. If Joe had his way he'd march Diane and
him off to the nearest parson with no more delay than was required to
saddle two horses.
"I'm going to see her to-night," Tresler replied quietly. Then, as he
saw Jake appear again in the doorway, he said, "You'd better pass on
now. Maybe I'll see you afterward."
And Joe moved off without another word. Jake had seen them together,
but he was unsuspicious. He was thinking of the scars on his face, and
of something else that had nothing to do with their meeting. And his
thoughts made him smile unpleasantly.
If Tresler's first greeting had been indifferent, his reception, as he
came over to the bunkhouse now, was far from being so. Talk flowed
freely, inquiries hailed him on every side; jests passed, sometimes
coarse, sometimes subtle, but always cordial. All the men on the ranch
had a fair good-will for him. "Tenderfoot" he might be, but they
approved his grit, and with frontiersmen grit is all that matters.
After supper he separated himself from his companions under pretext of
cleaning his saddlery. He hauled a bucket of water, and went down to
the lower corrals and disposed his accoutrements for the operation,
but he did no work until he saw Arizona approaching. That unkempt
personage loafed up in a sort of manner that plainly said he didn't
care if he came or not. But Tresler knew this was only his manner. The
cleaning of the saddle now proceeded with assiduity, and Arizona sat
himself down on a fallen log and spat tobacco-juice around him. At
last he settled himself, nursing one knee in his clasped hands, and
spoke with that air of absolute conviction which always characterized
him.
"Say, Jake's grittin' his teeth tight," he said. Then, as an
afterthought, "But he ain't showin' 'em."
Tresler looked up and studied the cadaverous face before him.
"You mean--about----"
"Wal, I wus jest figgerin' on how you wus standin'. Seems likely
you're standin' lookin' east wi' a feller due west who's got the drop
on yer; which, to my reckonin', ain't as safe as handin' trac's to a
lodge o' Cheyenne neches on the war-path."
"You think that Jake's quietly getting the drop on me?"
"Wal, I allow ef I wus Jake I'd be gettin' a'mighty busy that way. An'
I kind o' calc'late that's wot he's doin'."
Tresler smiled and returned to his work. "And what form do you think
his 'drop' will take?" he asked, without looking up.
"I ain't gifted wi' imagination. Y' ain't never sure which way a blind
mule's likely ter kick. Jake's in the natur' of a blind mule. What I
sez is, watch him. Don't look east when he's west. Say," he went on,
in a tone of disgust, "you Noo Yorkers make me sick. Ther' ain't
nothin' ter hittin' a feller an' makin' him sore. It on'y gives him
time to git mad. A gun's handy an' sudden. On'y you need a goodish
bore ef you're goin' ter perf'rate the hide of a guy like Jake.
Pshaw!" he finished up witheringly, "you fellers ain't got shut o'
last century."
"Maybe we haven't," Tresler retorted, with a good-humored laugh; "but
your enterprise has carried you so far ahead of time that you've
overlapped. I tell you, man, you're back in the savage times. You're
groping in the prehistoric periods--Jurassic, Eocene, or some such."
"Guess I ain't familiar wi' Jurassics an' Eocenes," Arizona replied
gravely. "Mebbe that was before my time; but ef you're speakin' o'
them fellers as clumped each other over the head wi' stone clubs, I
'lows they had more savee than a Noo Yorker, ef they wus kind o'
primitive in the'r habits."
Tresler accepted the argument in the spirit in which it was put
forward. It was no use getting angry. Arizona was peculiar, but he had
reason to consider him, in his own parlance, "a decent citizen." He
went on with his work steadily while the cowpuncher grunted out his
impatience. Then at last, as though it were forced from him, the
latter jerked out a more modified opinion of the civilized American.
It seemed as though Tresler's very silence had drawn it from him.
"Wal," he said grumblingly, "mebbe you Noo Yorkers has points--mebbe,
I sez." Then he dismissed the subject with an impatient shrug of his
drooping shoulders, and went off at a fresh angle. "Say, I wus kind o'
wonderin' some 'bout that flea-bitten shadder, Joe Nelson. He's
amazin' queer stayin' 'round here. He's foxin' some, too. Y' ain't
never sure when you're like to strike them chewed-up features o' his
after nightfall. Y' see he's kind o' quit drinkin'--leastways, he's
frekent sober. Mebbe he can't sleep easy. Ther's suthin' worritin' his
head, sure. He 'pears ter me desp'rate restless--kind o' like an old
hoss wi' the bush-ticks. Et don't fit noways wi' the Joe Nelson I
oncet knew. Mebbe it's religion. Ther' ain't nuthin' like religion fer
makin' things oneasy in your head. Joe allus had a strain o' religion
in him."
The Southerner gazed gloomily at the saddle on the fence, while he
munched his tobacco in thoughtful silence.
"I don't think Joe's got religion," said Tresler, with a smile. "He's
certainly worried, and with reason. Jake's got his knife into him. No,
I think Joe's got a definite object in staying around here, and I
shouldn't wonder if he's clever enough to attain it, whatever it is."
"That sounds more like Joe," assented the other, cheering up at the
suggestion. "Still, Joe allus had a strain o' religion in him," he
persisted. "I see him drop a man in his tracks oncet, an' cry like a
noo-born babby 'cos ther' wa'n't a chu'ch book in Lone Brake
Settlement, an' he'd forgot his prayers, an' had ter let the feller
lie around fer the coyotes, instead o' buryin' him decent. That's a
whiles ago. Guess Lone Brake's changed some. They do say ther's a
Bible ther' now. Kind o' roped safe to the desk in the meetin'-house,
so the boys can't git foolin' wi' it. Yup," he went on, with an
abstracted look in his expressive eyes, "religion's a mighty powerful
thing when it gits around. Most like the fever. I kind o' got touched
wi' it down Texas way on the Mexican border. Guess et wer' t' do wi' a
lady I favored at the time; but that ain't here nor there. Guess most
o' the religion comes along o' the wimmin folk. 'Longside o' wimmin
men is muck."
Tresler nodded his appreciation of the sentiment.
"Gettin' religion's most like goin' on the bust. Hits yer sudden, an'
yer don't git off'n it easy. The signs is allus the same. You kind o'
worry when folks gits blasphemin', an' you don't feel like takin' a
hand to help 'em out. You hate winnin' at 'draw,' an' talks easy when
a feller holds 'fours' too frekent. An' your liquor turns on your
stummick. They're all signs," he added expansively. "When a feller
gits like that he'd best git right off to the meetin'-house. That's
how I tho't."
"And you went?"
"That's so. Say, an' it ain't easy. I 'lows my nerve's pretty right
fer most things, but when you git monkeyin' wi' religion it's kind o'
different. 'Sides, ther's allus fellers ter choke you off. Nassy
Wilkes, the s'loon-keeper, he'd had religion bad oncet, tho' I 'lows
he'd fergot most o't sence he'd been in the s'loon biz; he kind o'
skeered me some. Sed they used a deal o' water, an' mostly got ducking
greenhorns in it. Wal, I put ha'f a dozen slugs o' whisky down my
neck--which he sed would prevent me gittin' cold, seein' water wa'n't
in my line--an' hit the trail fer the meetin'."
"What denomination?" asked Tresler, curiously. "What religion?" he
added, for the man's better understanding.
"Wal, I don't rightly knows," Arizona went on gravely. "I kind o'
fancy the boys called 'em 'dippers'; but I guess this yarn don't call
fer no argyment," he added, with a suspicion of his volcanic temper
rising at the frequent interruptions. Then, as the other kept silence,
he continued in his earnest way, "Guess that meetin'-house wus mostly
empty. Ther' wus one feller ther' a'ready when I come. He wus playin'
toons on a kind o' 'cordian he worked wi' his feet----"
"Harmonium," suggested Tresler, diffidently.
"That's it. I could 'a' wep' as I looked at that feller, he wus that
noble. He'd long ha'r greased reg'lar, an' wore swaller-tails. Guess
he wus workin' that concertina-thing like mad; an' he jest looked
right up at the ceilin' as if he wer' crazy fer some feller to come
'long an' stop him 'fore he bust up the whole shootin' match."
"Looked inspired," Tresler suggested.
"Mebbe that's wot. Still, I wus glad I come. Then the folks come
along, an' the deac'n; an' the feller quit. Guess he wus plumb scart
o' that deac'n, tho' I 'lows he wus a harmless-lookin' feller 'nough.
I see him clear sheer out o' range on sight, which made me think he
wus a mean-sperrited cuss anyway.
"Yes, I guess I wus glad I'd come; I felt that easy an' wholesome.
Say, the meetin's dead gut stuff. Yes, sir--dead gut. I felt I'd never
handle a gun again; I couldn't 'a' blasphemed 'longside a babby ef
you'd give me ten dollars to try. An' I guess ther' wa'n't no dirty
Greaser as I couldn't ha' loved like a brother, I wus that soothed,
an' peaceful, an' saft feelin'. I jest took a chaw o' plug, an' sat
back an' watched them folks lookin' so noble as they come along in
the'r funeral kids an' white chokers. Then the deac'n got good an'
goin', an' I got right on to the 'A-mens,' fetchin' 'em that easy I
wished I'd never done nothin' else all my life. I set ther' feelin'
real happy."
Arizona paused, and his wild eyes softened as his thoughts went back
to those few happy moments of his chequered career. Then he heaved a
deep sigh of regret and went on--
"But it wa'n't to last. No, sir, religion ain't fer the likes o' me.
Ye can't play the devil an' mix wi' angels. They're bound to out you.
Et's on'y natteral. Guess I'd bin chawin' some, an' ther' wa'n't no
spit boxes. That's wher' the trouble come. Ther' wus a raw-boned cuss
wi' his missis settin' on the bench front o' me, an' I guess her silk
fixin's got mussed up wi' t'bacca juice someways. I see her look down
on the floor, then she kind o' gathered her skirts aroun' her an' got
wipin' wi' her han'k'chief. Then she looks aroun' at me, an', me
feelin' friendly, I kind o' smiled at her, not knowin' she wus riled.
Then she got whisperin' to her wall-eyed galoot of a man, an' he turns
aroun' smart, an' he sez, wi' a scowl, sez he, 'The meetin'-house
ain't no place fer chawin' hunks o' plug, mister; wher' wus you
dragged from?' Ther' wus a nasty glint to his eye. But ef he wus goin'
to fergit we wus in the meetin'-house I meant showin' him I wa'n't. So
I answers him perlite. Sez I, wi' a smile, 'Sir,' sez I, 'I take it we
ain't from the same hog trough.' I see he took it mean, but as a
feller got up from behind an' shouts 'Silence,' I guessed things would
pass over. But that buzzard-headed mule wus cantankerous. He beckons
the other feller over an' tells him I wus chawin', an' the other
feller sez to me: 'You can't chaw here, mussin' up the lady's
fixin's.'
"Wal, bein' on'y human, I got riled, but, not wishin' to raise a
racket, I spat my chew out. I don't know how it come, but, I guess,
bein' riled, I jest didn't take notice wher' I dumped it, till, kind
o' sudden-like, I found I wus inspectin' the vitals o' that
side-show-freak's gun. Sez he, in a nasty tone, which kind o'
interrupted the deac'n's best langwidge, an' made folks fergit to
fetch the 'A-men' right, 'You dog-gone son of a hog----' But I didn't
wait fer no more. I sees then what's amiss. My chaw had located itself
on the lady's ankle--which I 'lows wus shapely--which she'd left
showin' in gatherin' her fixin's aroun' her. I see that, an' I see his
stovepipe hat under the seat. I jest grabbed that hat sudden, an'
'fore he'd had time to drop his hammer I'd mushed it down on his head
so he couldn't see. Then I ups, wi' the drop on him, an' I sez: 'Come
right along an' we'll settle like honest cit'zens.' An' wi' that I
backed out o' the meetin'. Wal, I guess he wus clear grit. We settled.
I 'lows he wus a dandy at the bizness end o' a gun, an' I walked lame
fer a month after. But ther' was a onattached widdy in that town when
we'd done."
"You killed him?" Tresler asked.
"Wal, I didn't wait to ast no details. Guess I got busy fergittin'
religion right off. Mebbe ther's a proper time fer ev'rything, an' I
don't figger it's reas'nable argyfyin' even wi' a deac'n when his
swaller-tail pocket's bustin' wi' shootin' materials. No, sir, guess
religion ain't no use fer me."
Arizona heaved a deep sigh of regret. Tresler gathered up his saddle
and bridle. Once or twice he had been ready to explode with laughter
during his companion's story, but the man's evident sincerity and
earnestness had held him quiet; had made him realize that the story
was in the nature of a confidence, and was told in no spirit of
levity. And, somehow, now, at the end of it, he felt sorry for this
wandering outcast, with no future and only a disreputable past. He
knew there was far more real good in him than bad, and yet there
seemed no possible chance for him. He would go on as he was; he would
"punch" cattle so long as he could find employment. And when chance,
or some other matter, should plunge him on his beam ends, he would
take to what most cowboys in those days took to when they fell upon
evil days--cattle-stealing. And, probably, end his days dancing at the
end of a lariat, suspended from the bough of some stout old tree.
As he moved to go, Arizona rose abruptly from his seat, and stayed him
with a gesture.
"Guess I got side-tracked yarnin'. I wanted to tell you a few things
that's bin doin' sence you've bin away."
Tresler stood.
"Say," the other went on at once, "ther's suthin' doin' thick 'tween
Jake an' blind hulks. Savee? I heerd Jake an' Miss Dianny gassin' at
the barn one day. She wus ther' gittin' her bit of a shoe fixed by
Jacob--him allus fixin' her shoes for her when they needs it--an' Jake
come along and made her go right in an' look at the new driver he wus
breakin' fer her. Guess they didn't see me, I wus up in the loft
puttin' hay down. When they come in I wus standin' takin' a chaw, an'
Jake's voice hit me squar' in the lug, an' I didn't try not to hear
what he said. An' I soon felt good that I'd held still. Sez he, 'You
best come out wi' me an' learn to drive her. She's dead easy.' An'
Miss Dianny sez, sez she, 'I'll drive her when she's thoroughly
broken!' An' he sez, 'You mean you ain't goin' out wi' me?' An' she
answers short-like, 'No.' Then sez he, mighty riled, 'You shan't go
out with that mare by yourself to meet no Treslers,' sez he. 'I'll
promise you that. See? Your father's on to your racket, I've seen to
that. He knows you an' him's bin sparkin', an' he's real mad. That's
by the way,' he sez. 'What I want to tell you's this. You're goin' to
marry me, sure. See? An' your father's goin' to make you.' An' Miss
Dianny jest laffed right out at him. But her laff wa'n't easy. An' sez
she, wi' mock 'nuff to make a man feel as mean as rank sow-belly,
'Father will never let me marry, and you know it.' An' Jake stands
quiet a minnit. Then I guess his voice jest rasped right up to me
through that hay-hole. 'I'm goin' to make him,' sez he, vicious-like.
'A tidy ranch, this, eh? Wal, I tell you his money an' his stock an'
his land won't help him a cent's worth ef he don't give you to me. I
ken make him lick my boots if I so choose. See?' Ther' wa'n't another
word spoke. An' I heerd 'em move clear. Then I dropped, an' pushin' my
head down through the hay-hole, I see that Jake's goin' out by
hisself. Miss Dianny had gone out clear ahead, an' wus talkin' to
Jacob."
"What do you think it means?" asked Tresler, quietly.
And in a moment the other shot off into one of his volcanic surprises.
"I ain't calc'latin' the'r meanin'. Say, Tresler." The man paused, and
his great rolling eyes glanced furtively from right to left. Then he
came close up and spoke in a harsh whisper. "It's got to be. He ain't
fit to live. This is wot I wus thinkin'. I'll git right up to his
shack, an' I'll call him every son-of-a---- I ken think of. See? He'll
git riled, an'--wal, I owe her a debt o' gratitood, an' I can't never
pay it no other ways, so I'll jest see my slug finds his carkis right,
'fore he does me in."
Arizona stepped back with an air of triumph. He could see no flaw in
his plan. It was splendid, subtle.
It was the one and only way to settle all the problems centering round
the foreman. Thus he would pay off a whole shoal of debts, and rid
Diane of Jake forever. And he felt positively injured when Tresler
shook his head.
"You would pay her ill if you did that," he said gravely. "Jake was
probably only trying to frighten her. Besides, he is her father's
foreman. The man he trusts and relies on."
"You ain't got no savee," Arizona broke out in disgust. "Say, he won't
need no foreman when Jake's out of the way. You'll marry the gal,
an'----"
But he got no further. Tresler interrupted him coldly.
"That's enough, Arizona. We aren't going to discuss it further. In the
meantime, believe me that I am wide awake to my position, and to Miss
Marbolt's, and ready to do the best for her in emergency. I must get
on now, for I have several things to do before I turn in."
Arizona had no more to say. He relapsed into moody silence, and, as
they moved away together, Tresler was thankful for the freakish chance
that had made this man come to him with his plan before putting it
into execution. It was dark now, and as they reached the bunkhouse
they parted. Tresler deposited his saddle at the barn, but he did not
return to the bunkhouse. He meant to see Diane before he turned in, by
hook or by crook.
He knew that the time had come when he must actively seek to help her.
When Jake openly threatened her, and she was found weeping, there was
certainly need of that help. He was alarmed, seriously alarmed, and
yet he hardly knew what it was he feared most. He quite realized the
difficulties that confronted him. She had given him no right to
interfere in her affairs. More, she would have every reason to resent
such interference. But, in spite of this, he held to his resolve. It
was his love that urged him on, his love that overbore his scruples,
his gravest apprehensions. He told himself that he had the right which
every man has. The right to woo and win for himself the love he
covets. It was for Diane to say "yea" or "nay," not her father. There
was no comfort she had been accustomed to, or even luxury, that he
could not give her. There was no earthly reason why he should not try
to win her. He vividly called to mind what Joe had suggested, and
Arizona's unfinished sentence rang in his ears, but both suggestions
as a basis of hope he set aside with a lover's egotism. What could
these men know or understand of such a matter?
He had left the barn, and his way took him well out from the ranch
yards in the direction of the pinewoods. He remembered his walk on his
first night on the ranch, and meant to approach the back of the blind
man's house by the same route.
The calm of the prairie night had settled upon the ranch. The lowing
of the cattle was hushed, the dogs were silent; and the voices of men
and the tramp of horses' hoofs were gone. There was only the harsh
croaking of the frogs in the Mosquito River and the cry of the
prowling coyote to disturb the peace of the summer night.
And as he walked, he felt for the first time something of the grip
which sooner or later the prairie fixes upon those who seriously seek
life upon its bosom. Its real fascination begins only when the first
stages of apprenticeship to its methods and habits are passing. The
vastness of its world, its silence, its profound suggestion of
solitude, which ever remains even where townships and settlements
exist, holds for man a fascination which appeals to the primitive
senses and drags him back from the claims of civilization to the old,
old life. And when that call comes, and the latent savage is roused
from the depths of subjection, is it wonder that men yield to what,
after all, is only the true human instinct--the right of the
individual to defend itself from all attacks of foes? No; and so
Tresler argued as he thought of the men who were his comrades.
Under the influence of his new feelings it seemed to him that life was
so small a thing, on which folks of civilization set much too high a
value. The ready appeal to the gun, which seemed to be one of the
first principles of the frontiersman's life, was already beginning to
lose its repugnance for him. After all, where no arbitration could be
enforced, men still had a right to defend self and property.
His thoughts wandered on through a maze of argument which convinced
him notwithstanding he told himself that it was all wrong. He told
himself weakly that his thoughts were the result of the demoralizing
influence of lawless associates, but, in spite of this, he felt that
there was, in reality, something in them of a deeper, more abiding
nature.
He had made the woodland fringe, and was working his way back toward
the house. The darkness was profound here. The dense, sad-foliaged
pines dropped their ponderous boughs low about him as he passed,
shielding him from all possible view from the ranch. And, even over
the underlay of brittle cones, his moccasined feet bore him along in
a silent, ghostly manner. It was the first time in his life he had
been forced to steal upon anybody's house like a thief in the night;
but he felt that his object was more than sufficient justification.
Now he looked keenly for any sign of lights among the ranch buildings.
The bunkhouse was in darkness, but Jake's house was still lit up.
However, this did not bother him much. He knew that the foreman was in
the habit of keeping his lamp burning, even after retiring. Perhaps he
read at night. The idea amused him, and he wondered what style of
literature might appeal to a man of Jake's condition of mind. But even
as he watched, the light went out, and he felt more satisfied.
He reached a point on the edge of the forest opposite the barn. Then
something brought him up with a start. Some unusual sound had caught
his ear. It was the murmur of voices in the distance. Immediately his
mind went back to his first night on the ranch, and he remembered Red
Mask and his attendant horseman. Now he listened, peering hard into
the darkness in the direction of the house, at the point whence the
sound was proceeding. Whoever were talking they seemed to be standing
still. The sound grew no louder, nor did it die away. His curiosity
drew him on; and with cautious steps, he crept forward.
He tried to estimate how far the speakers were from the house. It
seemed to him that they were somewhere in the neighborhood of the
rancher's private stable. But he could not be altogether sure.
Now, as he drew nearer, the voices became louder. He could distinctly
hear the rise and fall of their tones, but still they were
unrecognizable. Again he paused, this time for caution's sake only. He
estimated that he was within twenty-five yards of the stable. It would
not be safe to go further. The steady murmur that reached him was
tantalizing. Under ordinary circumstances he would have risked
discovery and gone on, but he could not jeopardize his present object.
He stretched himself under the shelter of a low bush, and, strangely
enough, recognized it as the one he had lain under on that memorable
first night. This realization brought him a grim foreboding; he knew
what he expected, he knew what was coming. And his foreboding was
fulfilled within a few seconds of taking up his position.
Suddenly he heard a door close, and the voices ceased speaking. He
waited almost breathlessly for the next move. It came. The crackling
of pine cones under shod hoofs sounded sharply to his straining ears.
It was a repetition of what had happened before. Two horsemen were
approaching from the direction of the house. It was inevitable that
his hand should go to his gun, and, as he realized his own action, he
understood how surely the prairie instincts had claimed him. But he
withdrew it quickly and waited, for he had no intention of taking
action. It might be Red Mask. It probably was. But he had no intention
of upsetting his present plans by any blind, precipitate attack upon
the desperado. Besides, if Red Mask and Jake were one, then the
shooting of him, in cold blood, in the vicinity of the ranch, would,
in the eyes of the police, be murder. No story of his would convince a
jury that the foreman of Mosquito Bend was a cattle-rustler.
A moment later the horses dimly outlined themselves. There were two of
them, as before. But he could not see well, the woods seemed darker
than before; and, besides, they did not pass so near to him. They went
on like ghostly, silent shadows, only the scrunch of the cones
underfoot told of their solidity.
He waited until the sound died out, then he rose quietly and pursued
his way. But what he had just witnessed plunged his thoughts into a
moody channel. The night-riders were abroad again, riding unchecked
upon their desperate way, over the trail of murder and robbery they
cut for themselves wherever they went. He wondered with dread who was
to be victim to-night. He remembered Manson Orr and shuddered. He had
a bitter feeling that he had acted wrongly in letting them pass
unchallenged in spite of what reason and a cool judgment told him. His
duty had been to investigate, but he also thought of a sad-faced girl,
friendless and alone, weeping her heart out in the midst of her own
home. And somehow his duty faded out before the second picture. And,
as though to further encourage him, the memory of Joe Nelson's words
came to him suddenly, and continued to haunt him persistently.
"You'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your own
brand on her quick, eh?"