Toward the end of the afternoon Linda saddled the horse and rode down
the trail toward Martin's store. She had considerable business to attend
to. Among other things, she was going to buy thirty-thirty
cartridges,--all that Martin had in stock. She had some hope of securing
an extra gun or two with shells to match. The additional space in her
pack was to be filled with provisions.
For she was faced with the unpleasant fact that her larder was nearly
empty. The jerked venison was almost gone; only a little flour and a few
canned things remained. She had space for only small supplies on the
horse's back, and there would be no luxuries among them.--Their fare had
been plain up to this time; but from now on it was to consist of only
such things as were absolutely necessary to sustain life.
She rode unarmed. Without informing him of the fact, the rifle had been
left for Bruce. She did not expect for herself a rifle shot from
ambush--for the simple reason that Simon had bidden otherwise--and Bruce
might be attacked at any moment.
She was dreaming dreams, that day. The talk with Bruce had given her
fresh heart, and as she rode down the sunlit trail the future opened up
entrancing vistas to her. Perhaps they yet could conquer, and that would
mean reestablishment on the far-flung lands of her father. Matthew
Folger had possessed a fertile farm also, and its green pastures might
still be utilized. It suddenly occurred to her that it would be of
interest to turn off the main trail, take a little dim path up the ridge
that she had discovered years before, and look over these lands. The
hour was early; besides, Bruce would find her report of the greatest
interest.
She jogged slowly along in the Western fashion,--which means something
quite different from army fashion or sportsman fashion. Western riders
do not post. Riding is not exercise to them; it is rest. They hang limp
in the saddle, and all jar is taken up, as if by a spring, somewhere in
the region of the floating ribs that only a physician can correctly
designate. They never sit firm, these Western riders, and as a rule
their riding is not a particularly graceful thing to watch. But they do
not care greatly about grace as long as they may encompass their fifty
miles a day and still be fresh enough for a country dance at night.
There are many other differences in Western and Eastern riding, one of
them being the way in which the horse is mounted. Another difference is
the riding habit. Linda had no trim riding trousers, with tall glossy
boots, red coat, and stock. It was rather doubtful whether she knew such
things existed. She did, however, wear a trim riding skirt of khaki and
a middie blouse washed spotlessly clean by her own hands; and no one
would have missed the other things. It is an indisputable fact that she
made a rather alluring picture--eyes bright and hair dark and strong
arms bare to the elbow--as she came riding down the pine-needle trail.
She came to the opening of the dimmer trail and turned down it. She did
not jog so easily now. The descent was more steep. She entered a still
glen, and the color in her cheeks and the soft brown of her arms blended
well with the new tints of the autumn leaves. Then she turned up a long
ridge.
The 'trail led through an old burn--a bleak, eerie place where the fire
had swept down the forest, leaving only strange, black palings here and
there--and she stopped in the middle of it to look down. The mountain
world was laid out below her as clearly as in a relief map. Her eyes
lighted as its beauty and its fearsomeness went home to her, and her
keen eyes slowly swept over the surrounding hill tops. Then for a long
moment she sat very still in the saddle.
A thousand feet distant, on the same ridge on which she rode, she caught
sight of another horse. It held her gaze, and in an instant she
discerned the rather startling fact that it was saddled, bridled, and
apparently tied to a tree. Momentarily she thought that its rider was
probably one of the Turners who was at present at work on the old Folger
farm; yet she knew at once the tilled lands were still too far distant
for that. She studied closely the maze of light and shadow of the
underbrush and in a moment more distinguished the figure of the
horseman.
It was one of the Turners,--but he was not working in the fields. He was
standing near the animal's head, back to her, and his rifle lay in his
arms. And then Linda understood.
He was simply guarding the trail down to Martin's store. Except for the
fact that she had turned off the main trail by no possibility could she
have seen him and escaped whatever fate he had for her.
She held hard on her faculties and tried to puzzle it out. She
understood now why the Turners had not as yet made an attack upon them
at their home. It wasn't the Turner way to wage open warfare. They were
the wolves that struck from ambush, the rattlesnakes that lunged with
poisoned fangs from beneath the rocks. There was some security for her
in the Folger home, but none whatever here. There she had a strong man
to fight for her, a loaded rifle, and under ordinary conditions the
Turners could not hope to batter down the oaken door and overwhelm them
without at least some loss of life. For all they knew, Bruce had a large
stock of rifles and ammunition,--and the Turners did not look forward
with pleasure to casualties in their ranks. The much simpler way was to
watch the trail.
They had known that sooner or later one of them would attempt to ride
down after either supplies or aid. Linda was a mountain girl and she
knew the mountain methods of procedure; and she knew quite well what she
would have had to expect if she had not discovered the ambush in time.
She didn't think that the sentry would actually fire on her; he would
merely shoot the horse from beneath her. It would be a simple feat by
the least of the Turners,--for these gaunt men were marksmen if nothing
else. It wouldn't be in accord with Simon's plan or desire to leave her
body lying still on the trail. But the horse killed, flight would be
impossible, and what would transpire thereafter she did not dare to
think. She had not forgotten Simon's threat in regard to any attempt to
go down into the settlements. She knew that it still held good.
Of course, if Bruce made the excursion, the sentry's target would be
somewhat different. He would shoot him down as remorselessly as he would
shatter a lynx from a tree top.
The truth was that Linda had guessed just right. "It's the easiest way,"
Simon had said. "They'll be trying to get out in a very few days. If the
man--shoot straight and to kill! If Linda, plug the horse and bring her
here behind the saddle."
Linda turned softly, then started back. She did not even give a second's
thought to the folly of trying to break through. She watched the
sentinel over her shoulder and saw him turn about. Far distant though he
was, she could tell by the movement he made that he had discovered her.
She was almost four hundred yards away by then, and she lashed her horse
into a gallop. The man cried to her to halt, a sound that came dim and
strange through the burn, and then a bullet sent up a cloud of ashes a
few feet to one side. But the range was too far even for the Turners,
and she only urged her horse to a faster pace.
She flew down the narrow trail, turned into the main trail, and galloped
wildly toward home. But the sentry did not follow her. He valued his
precious life too much for that. He had no intention of offering himself
as a target to Bruce's rifle as he neared the house. He headed back to
report to Simon.
Young Bill--for such had been the identity of the sentry--found his
chief in the large field not far distant from where Bruce had been
confined. The man was supervising the harvest of the fall growth of
alfalfa. The two men walked slowly away from the workers, toward the
fringe of woods.
"It looks as if we'll have to adopt rough measures, after all," Young
Bill began.
Simon turned with flushing face. "Do you mean you let him get past
you--and missed him? Young Bill, if you've done that--"
"Won't you wait till I've told you how it happened? It wasn't Bruce; it
was Linda. For some reason I can't dope out, she went up in the big burn
back of me and saw me--when I was too far off to shoot her horse. Then
she rode back like a witch. They'll not take that trail again."
"It means one of two things," Simon said after a pause. "One of them is
to starve 'em out. It won't take long. Their supplies won't last
forever. The other is to call the clan and attack--to-night."
"And that means loss of life."
"Not necessarily. I don't know how many guns they've got. If any of you
were worth your salt, you'd find out those things. I wish Dave was
here."
And Simon spoke the truth for once in his life: he did miss Dave. And it
was not that there had been any love lost between them. But the truth
was--although Simon never would have admitted it--the weaker man's
cunning had been of the greatest aid to his chief. Simon needed it
sorely now.
"And we can't wait till to-morrow night--because we've got the moon
then," Young Bill added. "Just a new moon, but it will prevent a
surprise attack. I suppose you still have hopes of Dave coming back?"
"I don't see why not. I'll venture to say now he's off on some good
piece of business--doing something none of the rest of you have thought
of. He'll come riding back one of these days with something actually
accomplished. I see no reason for thinking that he's dead. Bruce hasn't
had any chance at him that I know of. But if I thought he was--there'd
be no more waiting. We'd tear down that nest to-night."
Simon spoke in his usual voice--with the same emphasis, the same
undertones of passion. But the last words ended with a queer inflection.
The truth was that he had slowly become aware that Young Bill was not
giving him his full attention, but rather was gazing off--unfamiliar
speculation in his eyes--toward the forests beyond.
Simon's impulse was to follow the gaze; yet he would not yield to it.
"Well?" he demanded. "I'm not talking to amuse myself."
The younger man seemed to start. His eyes were half-closed; and there
was a strange look of intentness about his facial lines when he turned
back to Simon. "You haven't missed any stock?" he asked abruptly.