Stark Fear
When Beaudry climbed the canon wall to the Rothgerber pasture he
breathed a deep sigh of relief. For many hours he had been under a
heavy strain, nerves taut as fiddle-strings. Fifty times his heart had
jumped with terror. But he had done the thing he had set out to do.
He had stiffened his flaccid will and spurred his trembling body
forward. If he had been unable to control his fear, at least he had
not let it master him. He had found out for Ryan where Dingwell was
held prisoner. It had been his intention to leave the park as soon as
he knew this, report the facts to the friends of Dave, and let them
devise a way of escape. He had done his full share. But he could not
follow this course now.
The need of the cattleman was urgent. Somehow it must be met at once.
Yet what could he do against two armed men who would not hesitate to
shoot him down if necessary? There must be some way of saving Dingwell
if he could only find it.
In spite of his anxiety, a fine spiritual exaltation flooded him. So
far he had stood the acid test, had come through without dishonor. He
might be a coward; at least, he was not a quitter. Plenty of men would
have done his day's work without a tremor. What brought comfort to
Roy's soul was that he had been able to do it at all.
Mrs. Rothgerber greeted him with exclamations of delight. The message
of Rutherford had frightened her even though she did not entirely
understand it.
"Hermann iss out looking for you. Mr. Rutherford--the one that owns
the horse ranch--he wass here and left a message for you."
"A message for me! What was it?"
With many an "Ach!" she managed to tell him.
The face of her boarder went white. Since Rutherford was warning him
against Tighe, the danger must be imminent. Should he go down to the
horse ranch now? Or had he better wait until it was quite dark? While
he was still debating this with himself, the old German came into the
house.
"Home, eh? Gut, gut! They are already yet watching the road."
Roy's throat choked. "Who?"
This question Rothgerber could not answer. In the dusk he had not
recognized the men he had seen. Moreover, they had ridden into the
brush to escape observation. Both of them had been armed with rifles.
The old woman started to light a lamp, but Roy stopped her. "Let's eat
in the dark," he proposed. "Then I'll slip out to the bunkhouse and
you can have your light."
His voice shook. When he tried to eat, his fingers could scarcely hold
a knife and fork. Supper was for him a sham. A steel band seemed to
grip his throat and make the swallowing of food impossible. He was as
unnerved as a condemned criminal waiting for the noose.
After drinking a cup of coffee, he pushed back his chair and rose.
"Petter stay with us," urged the old German. He did not know why this
young man was in danger, but he read in the face the stark fear of a
soul in travail.
"No. I'll saddle and go down to see Rutherford. Good-night."
Roy went out of the back door and crept along the shadows of the hill.
Beneath his foot a dry twig snapped. It was enough. He fled
panic-stricken, pursued by all the demons of hell his fears could
evoke. A deadly, unnerving terror clutched at his throat. The
pounding blood seemed ready to burst the veins at his temples.
The bunkhouse loomed before him in the darkness. As he plunged at the
door a shot rang out. A bolt of fire burned into his shoulder. He
flung the door open, slammed it shut behind him, locked and bolted it
almost with one motion. For a moment he leaned half swooning against
the jamb, sick through and through at the peril he had just escaped.
But had he escaped it? Would they not break in on him and drag him out
to death? The acuteness of his fright drove away the faintness. He
dragged the bed from its place and pushed it against the door. Upon it
he piled the table, the washstand, the chairs. Feverishly he worked to
barricade the entrance against his enemies.
When he had finished, his heart was beating against his ribs like that
of a wild rabbit in the hands of a boy. He looked around for the
safest place to hide. From the floor he stripped a Navajo rug and
pulled up the trapdoor that led to a small cellar stairway. Down into
this cave he went, letting the door fall shut after him.
In that dark blackness he waited, a crumpled, trembling wretch, for
whatever fate might have in store for him.
How long he crouched there Beaudry never knew. At last reason asserted
itself and fought back the panic. To stay where he was would be to
invite destruction. His attackers would come to the window. The
barricaded door, the displaced rug, the trapdoor, would advertise his
terror. The outlaws would break in and make an end of him.
Roy could hardly drag his feet up the stairs, so near was he to
physical collapse. He listened. No sound reached him. Slowly he
pushed up the trapdoor. Nobody was in the room. He crept up, lowered
the door, and replaced the carpet. With his eyes on the window he put
back the furniture where it belonged. Then, revolver in hand, he sat
in one corner of the room and tried to decide what he must do.
Down in the cellar he had been vaguely aware of a dull pain in his
shoulder and a wet, soggy shirt above the place. But the tenseness of
his anxiety had pushed this into the background of his thoughts. Now
again the throbbing ache intruded itself. The fingers of his left hand
searched under his waistcoat, explored a spot that was tender and
soppy, and came forth moist.
He knew he had been shot, but this gave him very little concern. He
had no time to worry about his actual ills, since his whole mind was
given to the fear of those that were impending.
Upon the window there came a faint tapping. The hand with the revolver
jerked up automatically. Every muscle of Beaudry's body grew rigid.
His senses were keyed to a tense alertness. He moistened his lips with
his tongue as he crouched in readiness for the attack about to break.
Again the tapping, and this time with it a quick, low, imperious call.
"Mr. Street. Are you there? Let me in!"
He knew that voice--would have known it among a thousand. In another
moment he had raised the window softly and Beulah Rutherford was
climbing in.
She panted as if she had been running. "They're watching the entrance
to the arroyo. I came up through the canon and across the pasture,"
she explained.
"Did they see you?"
"No. Think not. We must get out of here."
"How?"
"The same way I came."
"But--if they see us and shoot?"
The girl brushed his objection aside. "We can't help that. They know
you're here, don't they?"
"Yes."
"Then they'll rush the house. Come."
Still he hesitated. At least they had the shelter of the house.
Outside, if they should be discovered, they would be at the mercy of
his foes.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked sharply, and she moved toward the
window.
But though he recoiled from going to meet the danger, he could not let
a girl lead the way. Beaudry dropped to the ground outside and stood
ready to lend her a hand. She did not need one. With a twist of her
supple body Beulah came through the opening and landed lightly beside
him.
They crept back to the shadows of the hill and skirted its edge.
Slowly they worked their way from the bunkhouse, making the most of
such cover as the chaparral afforded. Farther up they crossed the road
into the pasture and by way of it reached the orchard. Every inch of
the distance Roy sweated fear.
She was leading, ostensibly because she knew the lay of the land
better. Through the banked clouds the moon was struggling. Its light
fell upon her lithe, slender figure, the beautifully poised head, the
crown of soft black hair. She moved with the grace and the rhythm of a
racing filly stepping from the paddock to the track.
Beaudry had noticed, even in his anxiety, that not once since the
tapping on the window had her hand touched his or the sweep of her
skirt brushed against his clothes. She would save him if she could,
but with an open disdain that dared him to misunderstand.
They picked their course diagonally through the orchard toward the
canon. Suddenly Beulah stopped. Without turning, she swept her hand
back and caught his. Slowly she drew him to the shadow of an apple
tree. There, palm to palm, they crouched together.
Voices drifted to them.
"I'd swear I hit him," one said.
"Maybe you put him out of business. We got to find out," another
answered.
"I'll crawl up to the window and take a look," responded the first.
The voices and the sound of the man's movements died. Beulah's hand
dropped to her side.
"We're all right now," she said coldly.
They reached the gulch and slowly worked their way down its precipitous
sides to the bottom.
The girl turned angrily on Roy. "Why didn't you come after father
warned you?"
"I didn't get his warning till night. I was away."
"Then how did you get back up the arroyo when it was watched?"
"I--I wasn't out into the park," he told her.
"Oh!" Her scornful gypsy eyes passed over him and wiped him from the
map. She would not even comment on the obvious alternative.
"You think I've been up at Dan Meldrum's spying," he protested hotly.
"Haven't you?" she flung at him.
"Yes, if that's what you want to call it," came quickly his bitter
answer. "The man who has been my best friend is lying up there a
prisoner because he knows too much about the criminals of Huerfano
Park. I heard Meldrum threaten to kill him unless he promised what was
wanted of him. Why shouldn't I do my best to help the man who--"
Her voice, sharpened by apprehension, cut into his. "What man? Who
are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about David Dingwell."
"What do you mean that he knows too much? Too much about what?" she
demanded.
"About the express robbery."
"Do you mean to say that--that my people--?" She choked with anger,
but back of her indignation was fear.
"I mean to say that one of your brothers was guarding Dingwell and that
later your father went up to Meldrum's place. They are starving him to
get something out of him. I serve warning on you that if they hurt my
friend--"
"Starving him!" she broke out fiercely. "Do you dare say that my
people--my father--would torture anybody? Is that what you mean, you
lying spy?"
Her fury was a spur to him. "I don't care what words you use," he
flung back wildly. "They have given him no food for three days. I
didn't know such things were done nowadays. It's as bad as what the
old Apaches did. It's devilish--"
He pulled himself up. What right had he to talk that way to the girl
who had just saved his life? Her people might be law-breakers, but he
felt that she was clean of any wrongdoing.
Her pride was shaken. A more immediate issue had driven it into the
background.
"Why should they hurt him?" she asked. "If they had meant to do that--"
"Because he won't tell what he knows--where the gold is--won't promise
to keep quiet about it afterward. What else can they do? They can't
turn him loose as a witness against them."
"I don't believe it. I don't believe a word of it." Her voice broke.
"I'm going up to see right away."
"You mean--to-night?"
"I mean now."
She turned up the gulch instead of down. Reluctantly he followed her.