Yelling wildly through the night, the other Palo Verde riders came
pounding over the sand. Sandy Larch, who, with Mrs. Hallard, had been
investigating the extent of Broome’s injuries, straightened up.
“Where’s Westcott?” he shouted. “Any of you seen the black hound? Wing
Chang said he had something to do with this business.”
Broome gave a sort of howl, whether of pain or of protest, no one
heeded, no one cared. The new-comers crowded around the foreman.
“Where is he?” They demanded, excitedly, “Which way’d ’e go?”
“Search me,” was Sandy’s reply. “He must a’ drifted before I come up.
All I know is Wing Chang said he was one o’ the devils after Gard.”
Hickey, who had been taken with the others, roused from his drunken
slumber at the sound of Westcott’s name.
“He ain’t here,” he muttered, “Weshcott’s in Sylvania, takin’ care of ’s
health. Thash where he ish.”
The cowboys were off before he had finished, and as no one noticed him,
he slumbered again.
“What will they do with him?” whispered Helen. She had drawn away from
Gard when the others appeared, but he still held her hand.
“Nothing, dear,” he replied. “They won’t find him. He’s safe at
Sylvania. I only wish you were as far away from here as he is.”
“She will be in a shake,” Sandy Larch called, overhearing him. “An’
so’ll you be, too.”
Sandy had assured himself that bad whiskey and rage were more
responsible for Broome’s groans than the bullet which had shattered his
collar-bone, and ploughed his shoulder. The fellow’s howls and oaths had
been silenced by a kick, and no longer made night hideous.
“Sago,” Sandy said, turning to one of his cowboys, “I reckon you ’n’
Manuel’s equal to the care o’ these citizens. They kin all sit their
horses, I guess, an’ you two kin ride herd on ’em, into Sylvania. I’d
gather in their guns, if ’t was me doin’ it, on’ leave ’em with fatty
Harkins till mornin’. I dare say they’ll be some peacabler by then.”
The foreman had already eased Broome’s shoulder, crudely enough, by
means of an arm-sling, improvised from the riata that the fellow had
meant to use for Gard.
“He’ll do till he gits to Sylvania,” he said, with an indifference that
was not feigned, “Mebby there’ll be somebody there to tend to ’im.” And
he left the would-be lynchers to the tender mercies of their captors.
Ashley Westcott was mounting his hired horse in front of the hotel, when
a stranger, on a hard-ridden, pacing buckskin, stopped beside the rail.
“Say, friend,” he drawled, catching sight of the lawyer, “Your name
happen to be Westcott?”
“Is that any of your business?” snapped the owner of the name.
“Not a bit,” was the calm reply, “an’ I don’t care a damn. It only
happened I was rounded-up, awhile back, by a parcel of fellers ’t said
they was from the Palo Verde. They’d mistook me fer you, an’ you sure
have some enthusiastic friends. They’re a whoopin’ it up yet, I guess,
’lowin’ they’re seekin’ your society.”
“Who were they?” Westcott asked.
“I didn’t exchange no cards with the gents,” the stranger replied,
grinning. “’Twas enough fer me to know they was friends o’ yourn’. An’
seein’ you now, to realize your lovely disposition, I don’t know ’s I
wonder at the warmth o’ the feelin’ they showed fer you. They may be yer
dearest friends,” he went on, more seriously, “an’ you may be goin’ to
meet ’em this minute, but what I sot out to say was, that if a party o’
_my_ dearest friends was lookin’ fer me in the tone o’ voice them
fellers was exhibitin’ I’d either stay where I was, if I thought it was
a good place, er I’d git on my nag an’ I’d drift, mighty lively.”
“Bah!” was Westcott’s reply, as he got into the saddle. “I don’t know
why anyone should be hunting for me, and I’m not afraid of them if they
are. People generally know where to find me if they have business with
me.... Thank you, though,” he muttered, recollecting himself.
“You’re sure welcome,” the stranger said, turning away, as the lawyer
rode down the street.
“You’re sure good an’ welcome,” he added, to himself, “to all ’ts likely
comin’ to you.”
“There are a lot of things I’ve got to straighten out.”
It was Gard, who spoke, from his place beside Sandy Larch in the
buckboard.
“I think, too,” he added, addressing Sandy, a note of sadness in his
tone, “that I must tell you good friends about them, right away.”
No one spoke, but before he had time to wonder at their silence Helen
leaned forward and thrust into his hands a big, official-looking
envelop, which Mrs. Hallard had given her, with a few whispered words of
explanation.
“What’s this?” Gard asked, peering at it in the uncertain light.
Helen laughed, happily and Sandy Larch gave a low chuckle.
“It’s something that’ll interest you a lot,” said he, “an’ I reckon
it’ll keep; but good Lord, Gard! Why ’n’t you ever let on?” Sandy’s
voice was full of loving reproach.
“If you’d only put me hip,” he continued, “a word’d a’ fixed it. But I
get the shivers yet, thinkin’ o’ all might ’a’ happened.”
“Don’t, Sandy,” pleaded Helen. She was still trembling, with excitement
and horror.
“Tell him; quick!” she urged.
“Tell me what?” Gard was dizzy with weariness and bewilderment. He held
his big envelop up, trying to make out what it was.
“To think—” Sandy was still unable, for very eagerness, to come to the
point. “Who’d a dreamt you never knew Jim Texas confessed, after all!”
“Confessed?” Gard’s voice thrilled with sudden joy.
“God! But it’s good to be a free man again!” he said softly, and the low
spoken words sent a thrill through his hearers. Years of suffering
seemed expressed in them.
Then the others’ tongues were loosened, and by the time the Palo Verde
was reached, the story had been pieced together, bit by bit.
“Friends,” Gard said, as they walked together from the corrals to the
casa, “I don’t know what to say; but I—I sure thank you.”
He bared his head, and looked up at the stars. They were still there,
swinging their ancient round as they had done, night after night, above
the glade.
“Yes,” he said, speaking to them as often and often he had done before,
when he watched their solemn progress across the sky. “You knew. You
told me ’t would come out all right, and it has.”
Then, as Jacinta appeared in the doorway, full of anxiety about Helen,
they went into the house.
“I’ll see you to-morrow morning,” Gard said an hour later, to Helen, as
they stood together near the cottonwoods. Sandy had gone to the corral
for the horses; he meant to ride back to Sylvania with his friend. Helen
had persuaded Mrs. Hallard to remain at the hacienda for the night.
“I must see you just a little while,” Gard said, “before I go away.”
“Go away?”
Helen’s voice was full of surprise as she repeated his words. “Where are
you going?” she asked; for he was smiling down at her as though the
thought of separation gave him pleasure.
“Mexico,” was the reply. “Sandy says your father is down in Sonora.”
“Why, yes: but he will be home within a week. He wouldn’t be away over
Christmas.”
“I know; but I can’t wait. I’ve got to see him. I’ve got to ask him—”
Gard’s voice sank to a whisper, “I’ve got to ask him what he’s going to
give me for Christmas.”
“Oh!” the girl’s shyness held them both silent for a moment, ere she
found speech again.
“I know what _I_ want,” she presently said, edging away from the other
matter.
“What?”
The word sounded like a guarantee that what she wanted would be
forthcoming.
“Jinny.”
They both laughed, like children, at the idea.
“Jinny’s yours,” Gard said, promptly: “but she ’nd I go together. We
can’t be parted. I couldn’t bear the separation.”
“Perhaps—” He had to bend his head to catch the low-spoken
words—“Perhaps—Father’s Christmas present will—will reconcile you.”
What his answer was is not of record. There was but a moment to give to
it; for a whistle from Sandy presently warned Gard that his horse was
ready, and the two whispered their good-night, in the friendly darkness.