Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: AS EL REY ROSE ON HIS HIND FEET WHIRLING, THAT UNWAVERING
MUZZLE WHIRLED ALSO TO KEEP IN LINE]
THARON OF LOST VALLEY
BY VINGIE E. ROE
Author of "The Maid of the Whispering Hills,"
"The Heart of Night Wind," etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1919
Copyright, 1919
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Gun Man's Heritage 1
II. The Horses of the Finger Marks 29
III. The Man in Uniform 52
IV. Unbroken Bread 76
V. The Working of the Law 102
VI. El Rey and Bolt 128
VII. The Shot in the Canons 157
VIII. White Ellen 187
IX. Signal Fires in the Valley 214
X. The Untrue Firing Pin 247
XI. Finger Mark and Ironwood at Last 277
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
As El Rey rose on his hind feet whirling, that
unwavering muzzle whirled also to keep in line _Frontispiece_
Near them sat a rider on a buckskin horse 38
She talked with Conford who rode beside her and
now and then she smiled 104
In fact Courtrey, burning with the new desire
that was beginning to obsess him, was working
out a new design 131
THARON OF LOST VALLEY
CHAPTER I
THE GUN MAN'S HERITAGE
Lost Valley lay like a sparkling jewel, fashioned in perfection, cast
in the breast of the illimitable mountain country--and forever after
forgotten of God.
A tiny world, arrogantly unconscious of any other, it lived its own
life, went its own ways, had its own conceptions of law--and they were
based upon primeval instincts.
Cattle by the thousand head ran on its level ranges, riders jogged
along its trail-less expanses, their broad hats pulled over their
eyes, their six-guns at their hips. Corvan, its one town, ran its
nightly games, lined its familiar streets with swinging-doored
saloons.
Toward the west the Canon Country loomed behind its sharp-faced
cliffs, on the east the rolling ranges, dotted with oak and
digger-pine, went gradually up to the feet of the stupendous peaks
that cut the sapphire skies.
Lost indeed, it was a paradise, a perfect place of peace but for its
humans. Through it ran the Broken Bend, coming in from the high and
jumbled rocklands at the north, going out along the sheer cliffs at
the south.
Out of its ideal loneliness there were but two known ways, and both
were worth a man's best effort. Down the river one might drive a band
of cattle, bring in a loaded pack train, single file against the wall.
That was a twelve days' trip. Up through the defiles at the west a man
on foot might make it out, provided he knew each inch of the Secret
Way that scaled False Ridge.
It was spring, the time of greening ranges and the coming of new
calves. Soft winds dipped and wantoned with Lost Valley, in the Canon
Country shy flowers, waxen, heavy-headed on thin stems, clung to the
rugged walls.
All day the sun had shone, mild as a lover, coaxing, promising. The
very wine of life was a-pulse in the air.
All day Tharon Last had sung about her work scouring the boards of the
kitchen floor until they were soft and white as flax, helping old
Anita with the dinner for the men, seeing about the number of new
palings for the garden. She had swept every inch of the deep adobe
house, had fixed over the arrangement of Indian baskets on the mantel,
had filled all the lamps with coal-oil. She was very careful with the
lamps, trimming the wicks to smokeless perfection, for oil was scarce
and precious in Lost Valley, as were all outside products, since they
must come in at long intervals and in small quantities. And as she
worked she sang, wild, wordless melodies in a natural voice as rich as
a harp. That voice of Tharon's was one of the wonders of Lost Valley.
Many a rider went by that way on the chance that he might catch its
golden music adrift on the breeze, her father's men came up at night
to hear its martial stir, its tenderness, for the voice was the girl,
and Tharon was an unknown quantity, sometimes all melting sweetness,
sometimes fire that flashed and was still.
So on this day she sang, since she was happy. Why, she did not know.
Perhaps it was because of the six new puppies in the milk-house,
rolling in awkward fatness against their shepherd mother, whose soft
eyes beamed up at the girl in beautiful pride. Perhaps it was because
of the springtime in the air.
At any rate she worked with all the will and pleasure of youth in a
congenial task, and the roses of health bloomed in her cheeks. The
sun itself shone in her tawny hair where the curls made waves and
ripples, the blue skies of Lost Valley were faithfully reflected in
her eyes.
Her skin was soft-golden, the enchanting skin of some half-blonds
which can never be duplicated by all the arts of earth, and her full
mouth was scarlet as pomegranates.
Sometimes old Anita who had raised her, would stop and look at her in
wonder, so beautiful was she to old and faithful eyes.
And not alone to Anita was she entirely lovely.
There was not a full grown man in Lost Valley who would not go many a
mile to look upon her--with varying desires. Few voiced their
longings, however, for Jim Last was notorious with his guns and could
protect his daughter. He had protected her for twenty years, come full
summer, and he asked no odds of any. His eyes were like Tharon's--blue
and changing, with odd little lines that crinkled about them at the
corners, elongating them in appearance. He was a big man, vital and
quiet. The girl took her stature from him. Her flashes of fire came
from her mother, of whom she knew little and of whom Jim Last said
nothing. Once as a child she had asked him, after the manner of
children, about this mother of dim memories, and his eyes had hazed
with a look of suffering that scared her, he had struck his palm upon
a table, and said only:
"She was an angel straight out of Heaven. Don't ask me again."
So Tharon had not asked again, though she had wondered much.
Sometimes old Anita, become garrulous with age, mumbled in the
twilight when the rose and the lavendar lights swept down the eastern
ramparts and across the rolling range lands, and the girl gleaned
scattered pictures of a gentle and lovely creature who had come with
her father out of a mystic country somewhere "below."
"Below" meant down the river and beyond, an unnamable region.
In the big living room there was one relic of this mysterious mother,
a tiny melodeon, its rosewood case a trifle marred by unknown
hardships, its ivory keys yellow with age. It had two small pedals and
two slender sticks which fitted therein and pushed the bellows up and
down when one trampled upon them. And to Tharon this little old
instrument was wealth of the Indies. The low piping of its reedy notes
made an accompaniment of surpassing sweetness when she sat before it
and sang her wordless melodies. And just as she found music in her
throat without conscious effort, so she found it in her fingers, deep,
resonant chords for her running minors, thin, trickling streams of
lightness for her own slow notes.
The sun had turned to the west in its majestic course and Tharon, the
noon work over, drew up the spindle-legged stool and sat down to play
to herself and Anita. The old woman, half Mexic, half Indian, drowsed
in a low chair by the eastern window, her toil-hard hands clasped in
her lap, a black _reboso_ over her head, though the day was warm as
summer. A kitten frisked in the sunlight at the open door, wild ducks,
long domesticated, squalled raucously down the yards, some cattle
slept in the huge corrals and the little world of Last's Holding was
at peace. It seemed that only the girl idling over the yellowed keys,
was awake.
For a long and happy hour Tharon sat so, sometimes opening her pretty
throat in ambitious flights of sound, again humming lowly--and that
was enchanting, as if one sang lullabies to flaxen heads on
shoulders.
And it did enchant one--a man who stood for the better part of that
hour at the edge of the deep window in the adobe wall and watched the
singer.
He was a splendid figure of a man, tall, broad, muscular, built for
strength and endurance. His face was unduly lined, even for his age,
which was near fifty, but the eyes under the arched black brows were
vital as a hawk's. He wore the customary garments of the Lost Valley
men, broad sombrero, flannel shirt, corduroys and cowboy boots,
stitched and decorated above their high heels. At his hips hung two
guns, spurs clinked when he stepped unguardedly. He rarely stepped
that way, however.
When presently the girl at the melodeon ceased and drew the lid over
the keys with reverent fingers, he moved silently back a pace or two
along the wall. Then he waited. As he had anticipated, she came to the
door to look upon the budding world, and for another moment he watched
her with a strange expression. Then he swung forward and let the spurs
rattle. Tharon flashed to face him like a startled animal.
"Hello, Tharon," he said and smiled. The girl stared at him with quick
insolence.
"Howdy," she said coldly.
He came close to the doorway, put one hand on the facing, the other on
his hip and leaned near. She drew back. He reached out suddenly and
gripped her wrist in fingers that bit like steel.
"Pretty," he said, while his dark eyes narrowed.
Tharon flung her whole young strength against his grip with a
twisting wrench and came free. The quick, tremendous effort left her
calm. And she did not retreat a step.
"Hell," said the man admiringly, "little wildcat!"
"What you want?" she asked sharply.
"You," he answered swiftly.
"Buck Courtrey," she said, "you might own an' run Lost Valley--all but
one outfit. You ain't never run Last nor put your dirty hand on th'
Holdin'. An' that ain't all. You never will. If you ever touch me
again, I'll tell Dad Jim an' he'll kill you. I'd a-told him before
when you met me that day on the range, only I didn't want his honest
hands smutted up with such as you. He's had his killin's before--but
they was always in fair-an'-open. You he'd give no quarter--if he knew
what you ben askin' me."
The man's eyes narrowed evilly. They became calculating.
"Tell him," he said.
"Eh?"
"Tell him."
"You want to feed th' buzzards?" the girl asked with an insulting peal
of laughter.
"Not yet--but I'll remember that speech some day."
"Remember an' be damned," said Tharon. "Now kindly take your dirty
carcass off Last's Holding--back to your wife."
The fire was flashing a little in her blue eyes as she spoke, and she
half turned to enter the house.
As she did so, Courtrey flung out an arm and caught her about the
shoulders. He drew her against him with the motion and kissed her
square on the lips. For a second his narrowed eyes were drunken.
As he loosed her Tharon gasped like a swimmer sinking.
She put up a hand and drew it across her mouth, which was pale as
ashes with sudden rage.
"Now," she said, "I'll tell him."
"Do," said Courtrey, and swung away around the wall of the house.
There were no more artless songs that day at Last's Holding. Anita was
awake and peering with dim eyes when Tharon came in from the door
sill.
"_Mi querida_," she asked, "what happened?"
"Nothing," said the girl, "it's time to begin supper. Th' boys'll soon
be comin' in."
"_Si, si_," said Anita, "I'll ask Jose to cut the fresh beef--it has
hung long enough in the cooling house."
Supper at Last's was a lively affair. At the long tables in the
eating room the riders gathered, lean, tanned men, young mostly, all
alert, quick-eyed, swift in judgment. Their days were full and earnest
enough, running Last's cattle on the Lost Valley ranges. The evenings
were their own, and they made the most of them. The big house was free
to them, and they made it home, smoking, playing cards on the living
room table under the hanging lamp, mulling over the work of the day,
and begging Tharon to sing to them, sometimes with the instrument,
sometimes sitting in the deep east window, when the moon shone, and
then they turned out the light and listened in adoring rapture.
For Last's girl was the rose of the Valley, the one absolutely
unattainable woman, and they worshipped her accordingly.
Not that she was aloof. Far from it. In her deep heart the whole bunch
of boys had a place; singly and collectively. They were her private
property, and she would have been inordinately jealous of any one of
them had he slipped allegiance.
As the purple and crimson veils began to drape the eastern ramparts
where the forests thickened and swept up the slopes, these riders
began to come in across the range, driving the herds before them.
Running cattle in Lost Valley was no child's play. Any small bunch of
cows left out at night was not there by dawn. Eternal vigilance was
the price of safety, and then they were not always safe. Witness poor
Harkness, a year ago shot in the back and left to die alone--his band
run off in daylight.
They had found him too late, pitifully propped against a stone, the
cigarette, he had tried to light to comfort him, dead in his nerveless
hand. Tharon had wept and wept for Harkness, for he had been a good
comrade, open-hearted and merry. And deep in her soul she harboured
dim longings for justice on his murderer--revenge, if you will.
Tonight she thought of him, somehow, as she went about the supper work
along with Anita and Jose and pretty dark Paula. She stood a moment on
the broad stone at the kitchen door, a dish of butter from the
springhouse under the poplars in her hand, and watched Billy Brent and
Curly bring in a bunch from up Long Meadow way. She thought how bright
the spotted cattle looked, how lithe and graceful the men, and then
her eyes lighted as they always did when she beheld the horses of
Last's Holding--the horses of the Finger Marks.
Billy rode Redbuck, Curly Drumfire, and they were princes of a royal
blood, albeit Nature's strain alone. Slim, spirited, wiry, eager
heads up, manes flying, bright hoofs flashing in the late sunlight,
they came home to Last's after a long day's work, fresh as when they
went out at dawn.
"Nothin' ever floors them," Tharon said aloud to herself. "Wonderful
creatures."
She set the butter down on the rock at her feet, cupped her hands
about her lips and sent out a keen, clear call, two notes, one rising,
one falling. It had a livening, compelling quality.
Instantly Drumfire flung up his head and answered it with a ringing
whistle, though he did not lose a stride in the flying curve he was
performing to head a stubborn yearling that refused in stiff-tailed
arrogance to go into the corrals.
The girl smiled and, stooping, picked up her dish and entered.
It was late before the last straggler was in from the range. The boys
washed at the big sink on the porch, and were ready for the hearty
fare that steamed in the lamp-lighted room. For the last hour Tharon
had been watching the eastern slopes for her father.
"He's ridin' late, Anita," she said anxiously as the men trooped in
with the usual jest and laughter.
"He went far, no doubt, _Corazon,"_ said old Anita comfortably. "He
goes so fast on El Rey that time as well as distance flies beneath the
shining hoofs."
Anita was like her people, mystic and soft-spoken.
"True," said the girl gently, "I forget, El Rey is mighty. He went
very far I make no doubt. We'll hear him comin' soon."
Then she poured steaming coffee in the cups about the table, smiling
down in the eyes upturned to hers. Billy, Curly, Bent Smith, Jack
Masters and Conford, the foreman, they all had a love-look for her,
and the girl felt it like a circling guerdon. She was grateful for the
sense of security that seemed to emanate from her father's riders, a
bit wistful withal, as if, for the first time in her life, she needed
something more than she had always had.
"Which way did Dad go, Billy?" she asked, "north or south?"
"North," said Billy, "he rode th' Cup Rim range today."
When the meal, a trifle silent in deference to Tharon's silence, was
done, the men rose awkwardly. They stood a moment, looking about,
undecided.
Conford picked them up with his eyes and nodded out. He felt that just
maybe the girl would rather be alone. But Tharon stopped the
reluctant egress.
"Don't go, boys," she said, "come on in th' room. There's no moon
tonight." But she did not play on the melodeon. Instead she sat in the
deep window that looked over the rolling uplands and was quiet,
listening.
"Turn out th' light, Bent," she said, "somehow I feel like shadows
tonight."
So they sat about in the great room, black with the darkness of the
soft spring night, and like the true worshippers they were, they did
not speak. Only the red butts of their cigarettes glowed and faded, to
glow again and again fade out. Tharon sat curled in the window, her
graceful limbs drawn up to her chin, her eyes half closed, her keen
ears open like a forest creature's. She was listening for the marked
rhythm of the great El Rey, the clap-clap, clap-clap of the king of
Last's Holding as he singlefooted down the hollow slopes of the
lifting eastern range.
And as she waited she thought of many things. Odd little happenings of
her childhood came back to her--the time she had caught her father
killing the winter's beef, had wept in hysterical pity and forbidden
him to finish.
They had had no meat those long months following--and she had so tired
of beans, that she had never been able to eat them since. She smiled
in the dusk as she recalled Jim Last's life-long indulgence of her.
And the time she had wanted to make her own knee-short dresses as long
as Anita's, to sweep the floors, with fringe upon them and stripes of
bright print.
She had worn them so--at twelve--until she found that they hindered
the free use of her young limbs in mounting a horse, free-foot and
bareback. Then, once again the memory of her father's face when she
questioned him concerning her mother.
"Boys," she said suddenly, smiling to herself, "did you ever know a
man like my dad?"
There was a movement among the lounging riders, a shifting of
position, a striking of cigarette ash.
"No, sir," said Billy promptly, "there hain't another man's good with
a gun as him, not anywhere's in Lost Valley. Not even Buck Courtrey
himself. I'd back Jim Last against him, even, in fair-draw. Why?"
"Oh, nothin'," said the girl, "only--listen--Glory!" she added slipping
down from the window to stand quietly in the gloom, "that's him now! I
was wishin' hard he'd come. Say--listen----Why,--there's somethin'
gone wrong with El Rey's feet! 1--2----3, 4, 5, 6----1--2--Boys--he's
breakin'! Th' king ain't singlefootin' right, for th' first time
since Jim Last put a halter on him! Come--come quick!"
Ordinarily Tharon was a bit slow in her movements, as the very
graceful often are. Now she was across the room to the western door
before a man had moved. They joined her there and she stood at
attention, one hand at her breast, the breath held still in her
throat. The light, shining through from the eating room beyond, made a
halo of her tawny hair. Silently the riders grouped about her and
listened.
Sure enough. Down along the range that rang as some open stretches do,
there came the clip-clap of a hurrying horse, only now the hoof beats
were regular for a little space, to break, halt, start on, and again
ring true in the beautiful syncopation of the born singlefooter. The
king was coming home, but, alas! not as he had ever come before, in
full flight, proud and powerful. He held his speed and sacrificed his
certainty to the man who clung desperately to the saddle horn and
swayed in wide arcs, so that he must shift continually to keep under
him.
Into the dim glow of light at the open door came El Rey at last, great
blue-silver stallion, his big eyes shining like phosphorus, his
nostrils wide with horror of the pungent crimson wash that painted his
right shoulder.
He stopped at the door-stone, his duty done.
"Dad!" screamed Tharon, shrill as a bugle, for Jim Last, white and
dull as a moon in fog, let go his desperate hold on the pommel and
slid, deadweight, into the reaching arms that circled him.
They carried him into the living room. Before they had him safely on
the wide couch where the Indian blankets glowed, Tharon, trembling but
efficient, had lighted the hanging lamp above the table.
Then she pushed the men aside and knelt beside him.
"Dad," she said clearly, "Jim! Jim Last!"
But the gaining of his goal had been too much. For a moment the
flickering light in him died down to ashes. Tharon, her face as white
as his own, waited in a man-like quiet. She held his stiffened hands
and her eyes burned upon his features. With a deadly knowledge she was
printing them indelibly upon her heart.
Presently Jim Last sighed and opened his eyes. They sought hers and he
smiled, a tender lighting from within. He fumbled for the buckle of
his gun-belt. The girl unclasped it and pulled it free. She noticed
that both guns were in their holsters.
"Put it on," whispered the master of Last's Holding.
Without a question Tharon stood up and buckled the belt about her
slender waist.
Her father raising himself with difficulty on an elbow, wet his lips.
"Tharon, my girl," he said, "show your dad th' backhand flip."
Strange play, this, when every second counted, but Last's daughter
obeyed him to the letter.
She stepped clear by the table, stood at attention a second, and, with
a peculiar outward whirl, lightning-quick, of her two wrists, had him
covered with the big blue guns.
He nodded.
"Good as I learned ye," he whispered, "make it better."
"I will," promised Tharon swiftly.
The man closed his eyes, swayed, recovered as Conford caught him, and
brightened again.
"Now th' under-sling."
Again she obeyed, replacing the weapons, standing that second
at attention, and flipping them from the holsters so quickly
that the eye could scarcely catch the motion. Both draws were
peculiar--and peculiarly Last's own. "Good girl," he said with
a husk grown suddenly in his voice, "take--three hours--a day.
I want t' leave you th' best gun-handler in Lost Valley--because,
my girl--you'll--have--to--to--pro----"
He ceased, wilting forward in Conford's arms.
Then he opened his eyes again for one last smile at the daughter he
had loved above all things on earth, save and except the memory of the
woman who had given her to him.
For once in her life Tharon did not wait his finished speech. She saw
the Hand reach out of the shadows and flung herself upon his breast
where the blood still seeped and fairly forced the last flutter of
life to brighten in him. She kissed his rugged cheek.
"Who, Dad," she called into his dulling senses, "tell me who? I'll get
him, so help me God!" and she loosed one hand to cross herself, as old
Anita had taught her.
But the promise was late. None knew whether or not Jim Last heard it,
for before the last word was done the breath had ceased in his
throat.
Another twilight came down upon Lost Valley. The wide ranges lay dim
and mysterious, grey and pink and lavendar, as if the hand of a
Master Painter had coloured them, as indeed it had. The Rockface at
the west was black with shadow for all its rugged miles, the eastern
uplands were bathed and aglow with purplish crimson light.
In Corvan lights twinkled all up and down the one main street. Horses
were tied at the hitch-racks and among them were the Ironwoods
from Courtrey's Stronghold, beautiful big creatures, blood-bay,
black-pointed, noticeable in any bunch. There were no Finger Marks,
however, the blue roans, red roans and buckskins with the four
black stripes on the outside of the knee, as if one had slapped them
with a tarred hand, which hailed from Last's. There were horses
from all up and down the Valley. Cow ponies and half-breeds of the
Ironwood stock which Courtrey would not keep at the Stronghold but was
too close to kill, shouldered pintos from the Indian settlements,
big, half-wild horses from over the mountains at the North. Inside
the brightly lighted saloons men passed back and forth, drank neat
liquor at the worn bars, played at the green felt and canvas
covered tables. At one, The Golden Cloud, more pretentious than the
rest, there foregathered the leading spirits of the Valley. Here
Courtrey came and played and drank, his henchmen with him. He was in
high mettle this night. Always a contained man, slow to laughter
and to speech, he seemed to have unbent more than usual, to respond
to the human nature about him. He was not playing steadily as was
his wont. He took a turn at poker with three men from the south of
the Valley where the river ran out of the Bottle Neck, won a hand
or two, threw down the cards and swung away to talk a moment with
this one, listen a moment where those two spoke of hushed matters.
Always when he came near he was accorded deference. There was
nothing sacred from Courtrey of the Stronghold, seated like a feudal
place at the north head of Lost Valley, no conversation so private
that he could not come in on it if he chose.
For Courtrey was the king of the country, undisputed sovereign, the
best gun man north of the Rio Grand and south of the Line, if one
excepted Jim Last. With him tonight were Black Bart, tall, swarthy,
gimlet-eyed, a helf-breed Mexican, and Wylackie Bob his right-hand
man. Without these two he seldom moved. They were both able
lieutenants, experts with firearms. A formidable trio, the three went
where and when they listed, and few disputed their right-of-way.
Courtrey, a smile in his dark eyes, the wide black hat at an angle on
his iron-grey hair, leaned against the high bar and scanned the
crowded room where the riders played and laughed and swore with
abandon.
"Heard anything more about Canon Jim?" he asked Bullard, the
proprietor of The Golden Cloud, "ain't come in yet?"
Bullard shook his head.
"No--nor he won't, according to my notion. Think he mistook th' False
Ridge drop. Ain't no man could make it up again without th' hammer
spike an' rope."
"H'm--don't know. Don't know," mused Courtrey. "I've always thought it
could be done. There ought to be a way on th' other side, seems
like."
"Well, _ought_ an' _is_ is two diff'rent things, Buck," grinned
Bullard.
"Sure," nodded the king, "sure. An' yet--"
"Hello, Buck."
A soft hand touched Courtrey's shoulder with a subtle caress. He
wheeled on the instant, ready, alert. Then he smiled and reaching up,
took the hand and held it openly.
"Hello, Lola," he said, "how goes it?"
The newcomer was a woman, full, rounded, dark, and she was past-master
of men--as witness the slow glance that she turned interestedly out
over the teeming room, even while the pulse in the wrist in Courtrey's
clasp leaped like a racer. She was a perfect specimen of a certain
type, beautiful after a resplendent fashion, full of eye and lip,
confident, calm. She was brilliantly clad in crimson and black, and
rings of value shone on her ivory-like hands.
Lola of the Golden Cloud was known all over Lost Valley. Men who had
no women worshipped her--and some who had, also. At the Stronghold at
the Valley's head there was a woman who hated her, though she had
never set eyes on her--Courtrey's wife.
If Lola knew this she had never mentioned it, wise creature that she
was. Proud of her beauty and her power she had reigned at The Golden
Cloud in supreme indifference, even to her men themselves, it seemed,
though hidden undercurrents ran strong in her. Which way they tended
many a reckless buck of Lost Valley would have given much to know,
among them Courtrey himself.
Now she pulled her hand away from him and sauntered over to a table
where five men sat playing, laid it upon the shoulder of one of them,
leaned down and looked at the cards in his hand.
The man, a tall stripling in a silver-studded belt, looked up,
flattered.
Courtrey by the bar watched her, still smiling. Then he turned back
to Bullard and went on with his conversation.
Over by the wall a man on a raised dais began to tune an ancient
fiddle.
Two more women came in from somewhere at the back, a big blooming girl
by the name of Sadie, and a small red-head, tragically faded, with
soft brown eyes that should never have looked upon Bullard's. Two men
rose and took them as the tune, an old-fashioned waltz, began to
ripple under the fingers of the fiddler, who was a born musician, and
the four swung down between the tables and the bar. The Golden Cloud
was in full swing, running free for the night, though the soft
twilight was scarcely faded from the beautiful country without.
Slip--step, slip--step--went the dancing feet to the accompaniment of
rattling spurs. These men were lithe and active, able to dance with
amazing grace in chaps and the full accoutrement of the rider. They
even wore their broad brimmed hats.
Why should they not, since none objected?
Bullard, solid, stocky, red-faced, leaned on his bar and watched the
busy room with pleased eyes.
He did not hear a voice which called his name, once or twice, among
the jumble of sounds. Presently an odd figure came round the end of
the bar from a door that opened there into the mysterious back
regions of the place and elbowed in to face him.
This was a little old man, weazened and bent, his unkempt head thrust
forward from hunched shoulders. He dragged two grain sacks behind him,
and he was so grotesquely bow-legged that the first sight of him
always provoked laughter. This was old Pete the snow-packer, bound on
his nightly trip to the hills. Outside his burros waited, their
pack-saddles empty.
By dawn they would come down from the world's rim, the grain sacks
bulging with hard-packed snow for the cooling of Bullard's liquor.
"Dick," he said when he faced his employer, "here 'tis time t' start
an' there ain't a damned bit o' grub put up fer me! Ef ye don't make
that pig-tailed Chink pay 'tention t' my wants, I quit! I quit, I tell
ye!"
And he emphasized his vehement protest by whirling the bags over his
head and flailing them upon the floor.
A roar of laughter greeted him, which brought dim tears of indignation
to his old eyes.
"Ye don't care a damn!" he whimpered in impotent rage. "Jes' 'cause
it's me. Ef 'twas yer ol' Chink, now--if 'twas him, th' ol'
he-pigtail, ye'd----"
"Hold on, Pete," said Bullard, slapping an indulgent hand on the
grotesque shoulder, "You go tell Wan Lee that if he don't put up th'
best lunch in camp for you, an' _muy pronto_ at that, I'll come in an'
skin him alive. Tell him----"
But Bullard was never to finish that sentence.
There was a sound of running horses stopping square at the rack
without, the rattle of chains, the creak of saddles.
Booted feet struck the boards of the porch, and almost upon the
instant the great iron door of The Golden Cloud swung inward.
The dancers stopped in their stride, the players laid down their
cards, the noise of the room ceased with the suddenness that
characterized the time and place, for Lost Valley was quick upon the
trigger, tragedy often swept in upon hilarity.
In the opening stood Tharon Last, her blue eyes black and sparkling,
her tawny skin cream white, her lips tight-set and pale. She wore a
plain dark dress that buttoned up the front, and at her hips there
hung her father's famous guns. Her two hands rested on their butts.
Behind her head against the starlight there was the dim suggestion of
massed sombreros.
For a moment she stood so in breathless silence, scanning the room.
Then her glance came to rest on the face of Buck Courtrey.
"Men," she said clearly, "we buried Jim Last today. El Rey brought him
home last night--finished. You all know he was a gun man--th' best in
these parts. It was no gun man that killed him, in fair-an'-open, for
he was shot in th' back. It was a skunk, a coyote, a son-of-th'-devil,
an' I'm goin' to kill him."
At the last word there was a lightning movement at the bar as
Courtrey's hand flashed at his hip, a flash of fire, a shot that went
high and lodged in the deep beam above the door, for the weazened form
of the snow-packer had leaped up against him in the same instant.
The girl had not moved. Her hands still rested on the guns in their
holsters. Now a grim smile curled her mouth, but her eyes did not
laugh.
"I'm a-goin' t' kill him," she said quietly, still in that clear
voice, "but I'll do it accordin' to th' law Jim Last laid down to me
all my life--in certainty. I know--but I'll prove. We hain't no
assassins, Jim Last an' me. Some day I'll draw--an' my father's killer
must beat me to it."
Without another word Tharon backed out on the porch, the door swung to
at the pull of an unseen hand on the iron strap by the hinge.
There was again the rattle and creak, the whirl of hoofs, and in the
breathless stillness that lasted for a few seconds, there came to the
strained ears in the Golden Cloud the clip-clap of a singlefooter as
the great El Rey led out of town.
Then Buck Courtrey, flushed and unsmiling, sent his coldly narrowed
eyes over the crowded room, man by man. Laughter came, a trifle
cracked and forced, cards slapped on the tables, chairs creaked as the
players drew up again, the dancers swung into step as the fiddle took
up its interrupted strain.
Only Lola, over by the door, looked for a pregnant moment at
Courtrey's face, and shut her lips in a hard, straight line.
Then, lastly, the cold eyes of the king came down to rest upon the
weazened figure of the snow-packer busily engaged in rolling up his
sacks for departure. If the strange old creature knew and felt their
promise, he gave no sign as he trundled himself outdoors on his bandy
legs.
"Skunks," said Old Pete, as he fumbled with his straps about the
patient burros, "are plumb pizen t' pure flesh."