"SHE'S A GOOD GIRL WHEN SHE AIN'T CRAZY"
When the sun has been up just long enough to take the before-dawn chill
from the air without having swallowed all the diamonds that spangle
bush and twig and grass-blade after a night's soaking rain, it is good
to ride over the hills of Idaho and feel oneself a king,--and never
mind the crown and the sceptre. Lone Morgan, riding early to the
Sawtooth to see the foreman about getting a man for a few days to help
replace a bridge carried fifty yards downstream by a local cloudburst,
would not have changed places with a millionaire. The horse he rode
was the horse he loved, the horse he talked to like a pal when they
were by themselves. The ridge gave him a wide outlook to the four
corners of the earth. Far to the north the Sawtooth range showed blue,
the nearer mountains pansy purple where the pine trees stood, the
foothills shaded delicately where canyons swept down to the gray plain.
To the south was the sagebrush, a soft, gray-green carpet under the
sun. The sky was blue, the clouds were handfuls of clean cotton
floating lazily. Of the night's storm remained no trace save slippery
mud when his horse struck a patch of clay, which was not often, and the
packed sand still wet and soggy from the beating rain.
Rock City showed black and inhospitable even in the sunlight. The rock
walls rose sheer, the roofs slanted rakishly, the signs scratched on
the rock by facetious riders were pointless and inane. Lone picked his
way through the crooked defile that was marked MAIN STREET on the
corner of the first huge boulder and came abruptly into the road. Here
he turned north and shook his horse into a trot.
A hundred yards or so down the slope beyond Rock City he pulled up
short with a "What the hell!" that did not sound profane, but merely
amazed. In the sodden road were the unmistakable footprints of a
woman. Lone did not hesitate in naming the sex, for the wet sand held
the imprint cleanly, daintily. Too shapely for a boy, too small for
any one but a child or a woman with little feet, and with the point at
the toes proclaiming the fashion of the towns, Lone guessed at once
that she was a town girl, a stranger, probably,--and that she had
passed since the rain; which meant since daylight.
He swung his horse and rode back, wondering where she could have spent
the night. Halfway through Rock City the footprints ended abruptly,
and Lone turned back, riding down the trail at a lope. She couldn't
have gone far, he reasoned, and if she had been out all night in the
rain, with no better shelter than Rock City afforded, she would need
help,--"and lots of it, and pretty darn quick," he added to John Doe,
which was the ambiguous name of his horse.
Half a mile farther on he overtook her. Rather, he sighted her in the
trail, saw her duck in amongst the rocks and scattered brush of a small
ravine, and spurred after her. It was precarious footing for his horse
when he left the road, but John Doe was accustomed to that. He jumped
boulders, shied around buckthorn, crashed through sagebrush and so
brought the girl to bay against a wet bank, where she stood shivering.
The terror in her face and her wide eyes would have made her famous in
the movies. It made Lone afraid she was crazy.
Lone swung off and went up to her guardedly, not knowing just what an
insane woman might do when cornered. "There, now, I'm not going to
hurt yuh at all," he soothed. "I guess maybe you're lost. What made
you run away from me when you saw me coming?"
Lorraine continued to stare at him.
"I'm going to the ranch, and if you'd like a ride, I'll lend you my
horse. He'll be gentle if I lead him. It's a right smart walk from
here." Lone smiled, meaning to reassure her.
"Are you the man I saw shoot that man and then fasten him to the
stirrup of the saddle so the horse dragged him down the road? If you
are, I--I----"
"No--oh, no, I'm not the man," Lone said gently. "I just now came from
home. Better let me take you in to the ranch."
"I was going to the ranch--did you see him shoot that man and make the
horse drag him--_make_ the horse--he _slashed_ that horse with the
quirt--and he went tearing down the road dragging--it--it
was--_horrible_!"
"Yes--yes, don't worry about it. We'll fix him. You come and get on
John Doe and let me take you to the ranch. Come on--you're wet as a
ducked pup."
"That man was just riding along--I saw him when it lightened. And he
shot him--oh, can't you _do_ something?"
"Yes, yes, they're after him right now. Here. Just put your foot in
the stirrup--I'll help you up. Why, you're soaked!" Perseveringly
Lone urged her to the horse. "You're soaking wet!" he exclaimed again.
"It rained," she muttered confusedly. "I thought it was the ranch--but
they were rocks. Just rocks. Did you _see_ him shoot that man?
Why--why it shouldn't be allowed! He ought to be arrested right
away--I'd have called a policeman but--isn't thunder and lightning just
perfectly _awful_? And that horse--going down the road dragging----"
"You'd better get some one to double for me in this scene," she said
irrelevantly. "I--I don't know this horse, and if he starts running
the boys might not catch him in time. It isn't safe, is it?"
"It's safe," said Lone pityingly. "You won't be dragged. You just get
on and ride. I'll lead him. John Doe's gentle as a dog."
"Just straight riding?" Lorraine considered the matter gravely.
"Wel-ll--but I saw a man dragged, once. He'd been shot first. It--it
was awful!"
"I'll bet it was. How'd you come to be walking so far?"
Lorraine looked at him suspiciously. Lone thought her eyes were the
most wonderful eyes--and the most terrible--that he had ever seen.
Almond-shaped they were, the irises a clear, dark gray, the eyeballs
blue-white like a healthy baby's. That was the wonder of them. But
their glassy shine made them terrible. Her lids lifted in a sudden
stare.
"You're not the man, are you? I--I think he was taller than you. And
his hat was brown. He's a brute--a _beast_! To shoot a man just
riding along---- It rained," she added plaintively. "My bag is back
there somewhere under a bush. I think I could find the bush--it was
where a rabbit was sitting--but he's probably gone by this time. A
rabbit," she told him impressively, "wouldn't sit out in the rain all
night, would he? He'd get wet. And a rabbit would feel horrid when he
was wet--such thick fur he never _would_ get dried out. Where do they
go when it rains? They have holes in the ground, don't they?"
"Yes. Sure, they do. I'll show you one, down the road here a little
piece. Come on--it ain't far."
To see a rabbit hole in the ground, Lorraine consented to mount and
ride while Lone walked beside her, agreeing with everything she said
that needed agreement. When she had gone a few rods, however, she
began to call him Charlie and to criticise the direction of the
picture. They should not, she declared, mix murders and thunderstorms
in the same scene. While the storm effect was perfectly _wonderful_,
she thought it rather detracted from the killing. She did not believe
in lumping big stuff together like that. Why not have the killing done
by moonlight, and use the storm when the murderer was getting away, or
something like that? And as for taking them out on location and making
all those storm scenes without telling them in advance so that they
could have dry clothes afterwards, she thought it a perfect outrage!
If it were not for spoiling the picture, she would quit, she asserted
indignantly. She thought the director had better go back to driving a
laundry wagon, which was probably where he came from.
Lone agreed with her, even though he did not know what she was talking
about. He walked as fast as he could, but even so he could not travel
the six miles to the ranch very quickly. He could see that the girl
was burning up with fever, and he could hear her voice growing
husky,--could hear, too, the painful labouring of her breath. When she
was not mumbling incoherent nonsense she was laughing hoarsely at the
plight she was in, and after that she would hold both hands to her
chest and moan in a way that made Lone grind his teeth.
When he lifted her off his horse at the foreman's cottage she was
whispering things no one could understand. Three cowpunchers came
running and hindered him a good deal in carrying her into the house,
and the foreman's wife ran excitedly from one room to the other, asking
questions and demanding that some one do something "for pity's sake,
she may be dying for all you know, while you stand there gawping like
fool-hens."
"She was out all night in the rain--got lost, somehow. She said she
was coming here, so I brought her on. She's down with a cold, Mrs
Hawkins. Better take off them wet clothes and put hot blankets around
her. And a poultice or something on her chest, I reckon." Lone turned
to the door, stopped to roll a cigarette, and watched Mrs Hawkins
hurrying to Lorraine with a whisky toddy the cook had mixed for her.
"A sweat's awful good for a cold like she's got," he volunteered
practically. "She's out of her head--or she was when I found her. But
I reckon that's mostly scare, from being lost all night. Give her a
good sweat, why don't you?" He reached the doorstep and then turned
back to add, "She left a grip back somewhere along the road. I'll go
hunt it up, I reckon."
He mounted John Doe and rode down to the corral, where two or three
riders were killing time on various pretexts while they waited for
details of Lone's adventure. Delirious young women of the silk
stocking class did not arrive at the Sawtooth every morning, and it was
rumoured already amongst the men that she was some looker, which
naturally whetted their interest in her.
"I'll bet it's one of Bob's girls, come trailin' him up. Mebby another
of them heart-ballum cases of Bob's," hazarded Pop Bridgers, who read
nothing unless it was printed on pink paper, and who refused to believe
that any good could come out of a city. "Ain't that right, Loney?
Hain't she a heart-ballum girl of Bob's?"
From the saddle Lone stared down impassively at Pop and Pop's
companions. "I don't know a thing about her," he stated emphatically.
"She said she was coming to the ranch, and she was scared of the
thunder and lightning. That's every word of sense I could get outa
her. She ain't altogether ignorant--she knows how to climb on a horse,
anyway, and she kicked about having to ride sideways on account of her
skirts. She was plumb out of her head, and talked wild, but she
handled her reins like a rider. And she never mentioned Bob, nor
anybody else excepting some fellow she called Charlie. She thought I
was him, but she only talked to me friendly. She didn't pull any love
talk at all."
"Charlie?" Pop ruminated over a fresh quid of tobacco. "Charlie!
Mebby Bob, he stakes himself to a different name now and then. There
ain't any Charlie, except Charlie Werner; she wouldn't mean him, do yuh
s'pose?"
"Charlie Werner? Hunh! Say, Pop, she ain't no squaw--is she, Loney?"
Sid Sterling remonstrated.
"If I can read brands," Lone testified, "she's no girl of Bob's. She's
a good, honest girl when she ain't crazy."
"And no good, honest girl who is not crazy could possibly be a girl of
mine! Is that the idea, Lone?"
Lone turned unhurriedly and looked at young Bob Warfield standing in
the stable door with his hands in his trousers pockets and his pipe in
his mouth.
"That ain't the argument. Pop, here, was wondering if she was another
heart-ballum girl of yours," Lone grinned unabashed. "I don't know
such a hell of a lot about heart-balm ladies, Bob. I ain't a
millionaire. I'm just making a guess at their brand--and it ain't the
brand this little lady carries."
Bob removed one hand from his pocket and cuddled the bowl of his pipe.
"If she's a woman, she's a heart-balmer if she gets the chance. They
all are, down deep in their tricky hearts. There isn't a woman on
earth that won't sell a man's soul out of his body if she happens to
think it's worth her while--and she can get away with it. But don't
for any sake call her _my_ heart-balmer."
"That was Pop," drawled Lone. "It don't strike me as being any subject
for you fellows to make remarks about, anyway," he advised Pop firmly.
"She's a right nice little girl, and she's pretty darn sick." He
touched John Doe with the spurs and rode away, stopping at the
foreman's gate to finish his business with Hawkins. He was a
conscientious young man, and since he had charge of Elk Spring camp, he
set its interests above his own, which was more than some of the
Sawtooth men would have done in his place.
Having reported the damage to the bridge and made his suggestions about
the repairs, he touched up John Doe again and loped away on a purely
personal matter, which had to do with finding the bag which the girl
had told him was under a bush where a rabbit had been sitting.
If she had not been so very sick, Lone would have laughed at her naïve
method of identifying the spot. But he was too sorry for her to be
amused at the vagaries of her sick brain. He did not believe anything
she had said, except that she had been coming to the ranch and had left
her bag under a bush beside the road. It should not be difficult to
find it, if he followed the road and watched closely the bushes on
either side.
Until he reached the place where he had first sighted her, Lone rode
swiftly, anxious to be through with the business and go his way. But
when he came upon her footprints again, he pulled up and held John Doe
to a walk, scanning each bush and boulder as he passed.
It seemed probable that she had left the grip at Rock City where she
must have spent the night. She had spoken of being deceived into
thinking the place was the Sawtooth ranch until she had come into it
and found it "just rocks." Then, he reasoned, the storm had broken,
and her fright had held her there. When daylight came she had either
forgotten the bag or had left it deliberately.
At Rock City, then, Lone stopped to examine the base of every rock,
even riding around those nearest the road. The girl, he guessed
shrewdly, had not wandered off the main highway, else she would not
have been able to find it again. Rock City was confusing unless one
was perfectly familiar with its curious, winding lanes.
It was when he was riding slowly around the boulder marked "Palace
Hotel, Rates Reasnible," that he came upon the place where a horse had
stood, on the side best sheltered from the storm. Deep hoof marks
closely overlapping, an overturned stone here and there gave proof
enough, and the rain-beaten soil that blurred the hoofprints farthest
from the rock told him more. Lone backed away, dismounted, and,
stepping carefully, went close. He could see no reason why a horse
should have stood there with his head toward the road ten feet away,
unless his rider was waiting for something--or some one. There were
other boulders near which offered more shelter from rain.
Next the rock he discovered a boot track, evidently made when the rider
dismounted. He thought of the wild statement of the girl about seeing
some one shoot a man and wondered briefly if there could be a basis of
truth in what she said. But the road showed no sign of a struggle,
though there were, here and there, hoofprints half washed out with the
rain.
Lone went back to his horse and rode on, still looking for the bag.
His search was thorough and, being a keen-eyed young man, he discovered
the place where Lorraine had crouched down by a rock. She must have
stayed there all night, for the scuffed soil was dry where her body had
rested, and her purse, caught in the juniper bush close by, was sodden
with rain.
"The poor little kid!" he muttered, and with a sudden impulse he turned
and looked toward the rock behind which the horse had stood. Help had
been that close, and she had not known it, unless----
"If anything happened there last night, she could have seen it from
here," he decided, and immediately put the thought away from him.
"But nothing happened," he added, "unless maybe she saw him ride out
and go on down the road. She was out of her head and just imagined
things."
He slipped the soaked purse into his coat pocket, remounted and rode on
slowly, looking for the grip and half-believing she had not been
carrying one, but had dreamed it just as she had dreamed that a man had
been shot.
He rode past the bag without seeing it, for Lorraine had thrust it far
back under a stocky bush whose scraggly branches nearly touched the
ground. So he came at last to the creek, swollen with the night's
storm so that it was swift and dangerous. Lone was turning back when
John Doe threw up his head, stared up the creek for a moment and
whinnied shrilly. Lone stood in the stirrups and looked.
A blaze-faced horse was standing a short rifle-shot away, bridled and
with an empty saddle. Whether he was tied or not Lone, could not tell
at that distance, but he knew the horse by its banged forelock and its
white face and sorrel ears, and he knew the owner of the horse. He
rode toward it slowly.
"Whoa, you rattle-headed fool," he admonished, when the horse snorted
and backed a step or two as he approached. He saw the bridle-reins
dangling, broken, where the horse had stepped on them in running.
"Broke loose and run off again," he said, as he took down his rope and
widened the loop. "I'll bet Thurman would sell you for a bent nickel,
this morning."
The horse squatted and jumped when he cast the loop, and then stood
quivering and snorting while Lone dismounted and started toward him.
Ten steps from the horse Lone stopped short, staring. For down in the
bushes on the farther side half lay, half hung the limp form of a man.