[Illustration: 9337]
NE morning, three days later, Pole Baker slouched down the street from
the wagon-yard and went into Garner & Dwight's office, finding Garner at
his desk. The mountaineer looked cautiously about the room and asked, in
a guarded tone: “Is Carson anywhars about?”
“Not down yet,” Garner said. “His mother was not so well last night, and
it may be that he had to sit up with her and has overslept himself.”
“Well, I'm glad he ain't here,” Baker said, “for I want to speak to you
about him sorter in private.”
“Anything gone wrong?” Garner asked, looking up curiously.
“Well, not yet, Bill, but I believe in takin' the bull by the horns
before he takes you in the stomach. I've been powerful afeared for some
time that Carson and Dan Willis would run together, and I dread it now
more than ever. In the first place, I don't like the look in Carson's
eye. He knows that devil has been on his track, and it has worked him up
powerful; besides, Willis is more rampant than ever.”
“What's gone wrong with him?” Garner inquired, uneasily.
“Well, for a while, you know, he was full of hope that Wiggin was goin'
to beat Carson, and that sorter satisfied him, but now that Wiggin is
losin' ground, Dan don't see revenge that way. Besides, since old Sister
Parsons made that rip-roarin' speech respectable folks are turnin' the'r
backs on Wiggin and all his backers. The gal Willis was to marry has
throwed 'im clean over, an' the preacher at Hill Crest just as good as
called his name out in meetin' in talkin' of the open lawlessness that
is spreadin' over the land. Oh, Willis is mad--he's got all hell in 'im,
an' he's makin' more threats agin Dwight. Now, to-morrow is Friday, an'
the next day is Saturday, an' on Saturday Dan Willis is comin' in town.
I got that straight. Wiggin is a snake in the grass, and he's constantly
naggin' Dan about his row with Carson, and it will take slick work on
our part to prevent serious trouble. Wiggin wouldn't care. If the two
met he'd profit either way, for if Carson was killed he'd have the field
to himself, an' if Carson killed Willis the boy'd have to stand trial
for his life, an' a man wouldn't run much of a political race with a
charge of bloody murder hangin' over 'im.”
“True--true as Gospel!” Garner frowned; “but what plan had you in mind,
Pole--I mean what plan to obviate trouble?”
“Why, you see,” the mountaineer replied, “I 'lowed you might be able
to trump up some business excuse for gittin' Carson out o' town next
Saturday.”
“Well, I think I can,” Garner cried, his eyes brightening. “The truth
is, I was to go myself over to see old man Purdy, the other side of
Springtown> to take his deposition in an important matter, but I can
pretend to be tied here and foist it onto Carson.”
“Good; that's the stuff!” Pole said, with a smile of satisfaction. “But
for the love of mercy don't let Dwight dream what's in the wind or he'd
die rather than budge an inch.”
So it was that Carson the following Friday afternoon made his
preparations for a ride on horseback through the country, his plan being
to spend the night at the little hotel at Springtown and ride on to
Purdy's farm the next morning after breakfast, and return to
Darley Saturday evening shortly after dark. His horse stood at the
hitching-rack in front of the office, and, ready for his journey, he was
going out when Garner called him back.
“Are you armed, my boy?” Garner questioned.
“Not now, old man,” Dwight said. “I've carried that two pounds of cold
metal on my hip till I got tired of it and left it in my room. If I
can't live in a community without being a walking arsenal I'll leave the
country.”
“You'd better make an exception of to-day, anyhow,” Garner said,
reaching down into the drawer of his desk. “Here, take my gun.”
“Well, I might accidentally need it,” Dwight said, thoughtfully, as he
took the weapon and put it into his pocket.
As he was unfastening his horse, Dr. Stone crossed the street from the
opposite sidewalk and approached him.
“Where are you off to this time?” the old man asked.
Carson explained as he tightened the girth of his saddle and pulled the
blanket into place.
“Well, I'd get back as soon as I could well manage it,” the physician
said, his eyes on the ground. Carson started and looked grave.
“Why, doctor, you are not afraid--”
“Oh, she's doing very well, my boy, but--well, there is no use keeping
back anything from anybody as much concerned as you are. The truth is,
she's very low. I think we can pull her through all right, with care and
attention, but I feel that I ought to warn you and lecture you a little,
too. You see, as I've often said, she is a woman who suffers mightily
from worry and excitement of any kind, and your adventures of late have
not had the best effect on her health. I hope it's all over and that you
will settle down to something more steady. Her life really is in your
hands more than mine, for if you should have any more trouble of a
serious nature it would simply kill her. I only mention this,”
the doctor continued, laying his hand on the young man's arm half
apologetically, “because there is some little talk going round that you
and Dan Willis haven't quite settled your differences yet. If I were in
your place, Carson, I'd take a good deal from that man before I'd have
trouble with him right now, considering the critical condition your
mother is in. A shooting-scrape on top of all the rest, even if you
got-the best of it, would simply send that good woman to her grave.”
“Then we won't have any shooting-scrape!” Carson said, his voice
quivering. “You can depend on that, doctor.”
The road Dwight took as the most direct way to his destination
really passed within two miles of the home of Dan Willis, and yet the
likelihood of his meeting the desperado never once crossed Carson's
mind. In this, however, he was to meet with surprise. He had got well
into the mountains, and, full of hope as to his campaign, was heartily
enjoying a slow ride on his ambling horse through a narrow, shaded road,
after leaving the heat of the open thoroughfare, when far ahead of him
he saw a horseman at the side of the way pinning with his pocket-knife
to the smooth bark of a sycamore-tree a white envelope. The distance was
at first too great for Dwight to recognize the rider, though his object
and occupation were soon evident, for suddenly wheeling on his rather
skittish mount the man drew back about twenty paces from the tree, drew
a revolver and began to fire at the target, sending one shot after the
other, as rapidly as he could rein and spur his frightened animal to
an approved distance and steadiness, until his weapon was empty. The
marksman, evidently a mountaineer, as indicated by his wide-brimmed soft
hat and easy gray shirt, thrust his hand into his trousers-pocket and
took out sufficient cartridges for another round, and was thumbing them
dexterously into their places when Carson drew near enough to recognize
him.
A thrill, a sort of shock, certainly not due even to subconscious fear,
passed over Dwight, and he almost drew upon his rein. Then a hot flush
of shame rose in him and tingled through every nerve in his body, as
he wondered if for one instant he could have feared the presence of any
living man, armed or unarmed, and running his hand behind him to be sure
that his own revolver was in place, and with his head well up he rode
even more briskly forward. He had no thought of caution. The sharp
warning Dr. Stone had given him so recently never entered his brain.
That was the man who, on several occasions, had threatened to kill him,
and who, Carson firmly believed, had once tried it. That there was to be
grim trouble he did not doubt. Averting it after the manner of a coward
was not thought of.
When the two riders were about a hundred yards apart, Dan Willis,
hearing the fall of horses' hoofs, looked up suddenly. There was
no mistaking the evolution of his facial expression from startled
bewilderment to that of angry, bestial satisfaction. Uttering an
unctuous grunt of delight, and with his revolver swinging easily against
his brawny thigh, by the aid of his tense left hand the mountaineer drew
his horse squarely into the very middle of the narrow road and there
essayed to check him. The animal, quivering with excitement from
the shots just fired over his head, was still restive and swerved
tremblingly from side to side, but with prodding spur and fierce
command Willis managed to keep him in the attitude of open opposition to
Carson's passage, which was, as things go in the mountains, a threat not
to be misunderstood.
Carson Dwight read the action well, and his blood boiled.
“Halt thar!” Dan Willis suddenly called out, in a sharp, fierce tone,
and as he spoke he raised his revolver till the hand holding it rested
on the high pommel of his saddle.
“Why should I halt?” almost to his surprise rang clearly from Dwight's
lips. “This is a public road!”
[Illustration: 0343]
“Not for _yore_ sort,” was hurled back. “It's entirely too narrow for
a gentleman an' a dog to pass on. _I'm_ goin' to pass, but I'll walk my
hoss over yore body. I've been praying for this chance, an' God or Hell,
one or t'other, sent it to me. Some folks say you've got grit. I've my
doubts about it, for you are the hardest man to meet I ever wanted to
settle with, but if you've got any sand in yore gizzard you've got a
chance to spill some of it now.”
“I don't want to have trouble with you,” Dwight controlled himself
enough to say. “Bloodshed is not in my line.”
“But you've _got_ to fight!” Willis roared. “If you don't I'll ride up
to you an' spit in yore damned, sneakin' face.”
“Well, I hardly think you'll do that,” said Carson, his rage
overwhelming him. “But before we go into this thing tell me, for my
own satisfaction if you are the one who tried to kill me the night Pete
Warren was jailed.”
“You bet I was, and damned sorry I missed.” Willis's revolver was
raised. The sharp click of the hammer sounded like the snapping of a
metallic twig. Then alive but to one thought, and that of alert and
instantaneous self-preservation, Dwight quickly drew his weapon. With
his teeth ground together, his breath coming fast, he took as careful
aim as was possible at the shifting horseman, conscious of the advantage
his antagonist had over him in the calmness of his own mount. He saw
a puff of smoke before Willis's eyes, heard the sharp report of the
mountaineer's revolver, and wondered if the ball had lodged in his body.
“I am fully justified,” something within him seemed to say as he pressed
the trigger of his revolver. His hand had never been more steady, his
aim never better, and yet the smile and taunting laugh of Willis proved
to him that he had missed. The eyes of his assailant gleamed like those
of an infuriated beast as he tried to steady his rearing and plunging
horse to shoot again. Once more he fired, but the shot went wild, and
with a snort of fear his horse broke from the road and plunged madly
into the bushes bordering the way. Carson could just see Willis's head
and shoulders above a thick growth of wild vines and at these he aimed
steadily and fired. Had he won? he asked himself. There was a smothered
report from Willis's revolver, as if it were fired by an inert finger.
The mountaineer's head sank out of sight. What did it mean? Carson
wondered, and with his weapon still cocked and poised he grimly waited.
It was only for an instant, for the frightened horse plunged out into
the open again. Willis was still in the saddle, but what was it about
him that seemed so queer? He was evidently making an effort to guide
his horse, but the hand holding his revolver hung helplessly against his
thigh; his left shoulder was sinking. Then Carson caught sight of his
face, a frightful, blood-packed mask distorted past recognition, that of
a dying man--a horrible, never-to-be-forgotten grimace. The horses
bore the antagonists closer together; their eyes met in a direct stare.
Willis's body was rocking like a mechanical thing on a pivot.
“You forced me to do it!” Carson Dwight said, his great soul rising to
heights of pity and dismay never reached before. “God knows I did not
want to shoot you. Dan, I never have had anything against you. I would
have avoided this if I could.”
The stare of the wounded man flickered. With a moan of pain he bent to
the neck of his horse and remained there a moment, and then, dropping
his revolver and resting both quivering hands on the pommel of his
saddle, he drew himself partially erect. His eyes were rolling upward,
his purple lips moved as if to speak, but his vocal organs seemed to
have lost their power. Holding to his pommel with his left hand, he
raised his right and partially extended it towards Dwight, but he
had not the strength to sustain its weight, and with another moan, a
frothing at the mouth, Dan Willis toppled from his horse and went to the
ground, the animal breaking away in alarm and running down the road.
Quickly dismounting, Carson bent over the dying man. “Dan, were you
offering me your hand?” he asked, tenderly. But there was no response.
The mountaineer was dead. There he lay, a pint whiskey flask nearly
empty of its contents protruding from his shirt.
Carson looked up and about him. The sky had never seemed clearer, the
forest never so beautifully lush and green, so full of sylvan recesses
and the gladsome songs of birds. Higher and more majestic never had the
mountains seemed to tower into God's infinite blue. And yet here at his
feet lay the remains of one who had been created in the image of his
Maker, as lifeless as the clod from which he had sprung. All _this_--and
Carson's horse nibbling with bitted mouth the short grass which grew
about. There were no fires of satisfied revenge at which the spiritually
chilled young man could warm himself. Regret steeped in the vat of
remorse filled his young soul. Seating himself at the side of the
road, he remained there a long time calmly laying his plans. Of course,
knowing the law as he knew it, he would give himself up to the sheriff.
Then with a start and a shock of horror he thought of his mother. Dr.
Stone's warning now loomed up before him as if written in letters
of fire. Yes, this--this, of all things, would kill her! Knowing her
nature, nothing that could happen to him would be more fatal. Not even
his own death by violence would hold such terrors for her sensitive,
imaginative temperament, which exaggerated every ill or evil that beset
his path. After all, he grimly asked himself, which way did his real
duty lie? Obedience to the law he reverenced demanded that he throw
himself upon its slow and creaking routine, and yet was there not a
higher tribunal? By what right should the legal machinery of his or any
other country require the life of a stricken woman that the majesty of
its forms might be upheld and the justice or injustice to an outlaw who
had persistently hounded him be formally passed upon?
No, he told himself, the right to protect his mother was _his_--it was
even more, as he saw it, it was his first duty. And yet if he kept his
own counsel, he asked himself, his legal mind now active, what were the
chances of escape from accusation? Noticing the target still pinned
to the trunk of the tree with the dead man's pocket-knife, the shots
showing on the bark and paper, and the sprawling attitude of the corpse
with the wound over the region of the heart, he asked himself, with
faintly rising hope, what more natural than to assume that death had
resulted from accident? What more reasonable than the theory that on his
frightened horse Dan Willis had accidentally directed his shot upon
his own body? What better evidence that he was not at himself than the
almost empty flask in his shirt? Yes, Carson Dwight decided, it was his
duty to wait at least to see further before taking a step which
would result in even deeper tragedy. Besides, he knew he was morally
guiltless. His conscience was clear; there was consolation in that at
all events. But now what must he do? To go on to Springtown by that road
was out of the question, for only a mile or so farther on was a store
and a few farm-houses, and it would be known there that he had passed
the fatal spot. So, remounting, he rode slowly back towards Darley, now
earnestly, and even craftily, hoping that he would meet no one. He was
successful, for he reached the main road, which was longer, not so well
graded, and a more sparsely settled thoroughfare to his destination.
He had lost time, and he now put his horse into a brisk canter and sped
onward with a queer blending of emotions. The thought of possibly
saving his mother from a terrible shock buoyed him up while the grewsome
happening put a weight upon him he had never borne before.