LONE ADVISES SILENCE
Twice in the next week Lone found an excuse for riding over to the
Sawtooth. During his first visit, the foreman's wife told him that the
young lady was still too sick to talk much. The second time he went,
Pop Bridgers spied him first and cackled over his coming to see the
girl. Lone grinned and dissembled as best he could, knowing that Pop
Bridgers fed his imagination upon denials and argument and remonstrance
and was likely to build gossip that might spread beyond the Sawtooth.
Wherefore he did not go near the foreman's house that day, but
contented himself with gathering from Pop's talk that the girl was
still there.
After that he rode here and there, wherever he would be likely to meet
a Sawtooth rider, and so at last he came upon Al Woodruff loping along
the crest of Juniper Ridge. Al at first displayed no intention of
stopping, but pulled up when he saw John Doe slowing down
significantly. Lone would have preferred a chat with some one else,
for this was a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued man; but Al Woodruff stayed at
the ranch and would know all the news, and even though he might give it
an ill-natured twist, Lone would at least know what was going on. Al
hailed him with a laughing epithet.
"Say, you sure enough played hell all around, bringin' Brit Hunter's
girl to the Sawtooth!" he began, chuckling as if he had some secret
joke. "Where'd you pick her up, Lone? She claims you found her at
Rock City. That right?"
"No, it ain't right," Lone denied promptly, his dark eyes meeting Al's
glance steadily. "I found her in that gulch away this side. She was
in amongst the rocks where she was trying to keep outa the rain. Brit
Hunter's girl, is she? She told me she was going to the Sawtooth.
She'd have made it, too, if it hadn't been for the storm. She got as
far as the gulch, and the lightning scared her from going any farther."
He offered Al his tobacco sack and fumbled for a match. "I never knew
Brit Hunter had a girl."
"Nor me," Al said and sifted tobacco into a cigarette paper. "Bob, he
drove her over there yesterday. Took him close to all day to make the
trip--and Bob, he claims to hate women!"
"So would I, if I'd got stung for fifty thousand. She ain't that kind.
She's a nice girl, far as I could tell. She got well, all right, did
she?"
"Yeah--only she was still coughing some when she left the ranch. She
like to of had pneumonia, I guess. Queer how she claimed she spent the
night in Rock City, ain't it?"
"No," Lone answered judicially, "I don't know as it's so queer. She
never realised how far she'd walked, I reckon. She was plumb crazy
when I found her. You couldn't take any stock in what she said. Say,
you didn't see that bay I was halter-breaking, did yuh, Al? He jumped
the fence and got away on me, day before yesterday. I'd like to catch
him up again. He'll make a good horse."
Al had not seen the bay, and the talk tapered off desultorily to a
final "So-long, see yuh later." Lone rode on, careful not to look
back. So she was Brit Hunter's girl! Lone whistled softly to himself
while he studied this new angle of the problem,--for a problem he was
beginning to consider it. She was Brit Hunter's girl, and she had told
them at the Sawtooth that she had spent the night at Rock City. He
wondered how much else she had told; how much she remembered of what
she had told him.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a round leather purse
with a chain handle. It was soiled and shrunken with its wetting, and
the clasp had flecks of rust upon it. What it contained Lone did not
know. Virginia had taught him that a man must not be curious about the
personal belongings of a woman. Now he turned the purse over, tried to
rub out the stiffness of the leather, and smiled a little as he dropped
it back into his pocket.
"I've got my calling card," he said softly to John Doe. "I reckon I
had the right hunch when I didn't turn it over to Mrs Hawkins. I'll
ask her again about that grip she said she hid under a bush. I never
heard about any of the boys finding it."
His thoughts returned to Al Woodruff and stopped there. Determined
still to attend strictly to his own affairs, his thoughts persisted in
playing truant and in straying to a subject he much preferred not to
think of at all. Why should Al Woodruff be interested in the exact
spot where Brit Hunter's daughter had spent the night of the storm?
Why should Lone instinctively discount her statement and lie
whole-heartedly about it?
"Now if Al catches me up in that, he'll think I know a lot I don't
know, or else----" He halted his thoughts there, for that, too, was a
forbidden subject.
Forbidden subjects are like other forbidden things: they have a way of
making themselves very conspicuous. Lone was heading for the Quirt
ranch by the most direct route, fearing, perhaps, that if he waited he
would lose his nerve and would not go at all. Yet it was important
that he should go; he must return the girl's purse!
The most direct route to the Quirt took him down Juniper Ridge and
across Granite Creek near the Thurman ranch. Indeed, if he followed
the trail up Granite Creek and across the hilly country to Quirt Creek,
he must pass within fifty yards of the Thurman cabin. Lone's time was
limited, yet he took the direct route rather reluctantly. He did not
want to be reminded too sharply of Fred Thurman as a man who had lived
his life in his own way and had died so horribly.
"Well, he didn't have it coming to him--but it's done and over with
now, so it's no use thinking about it," he reflected, when the roofs of
the Thurman ranch buildings began to show now and then through the thin
ranks of the cottonwoods along the creek.
But his face sobered as he rode along. It seemed to him that the
sleepy little meadows, the quiet murmuring of the creek, even the soft
rustling of the cottonwood leaves breathed a new loneliness, an
emptiness where the man who had called this place home, who had clung
to it in the face of opposition that was growing into open warfare, had
lived and left life suddenly--unwarrantably, Lone knew in his heart.
It might be of no use to think about it, but the vivid memory of Fred
Thurman was with him when he rode up the trail to the stable and the
small corrals. He had to think, whether he would or no.
At the corral he came unexpectedly in sight of the Swede, who grinned a
guileless welcome and came toward him, so that Lone could not ride on
unless he would advertise his dislike of the place. John Doe, plainly
glad to find an excuse to stop, slowed and came to where Swan waited by
the gate.
"By golly, this is lonesome here," Swan complained, heaving a great
sigh. "That judge don't get busy pretty quick, I'm maybe jumping my
job. Lone, what you think? You believe in ghosts?"
"Naw. What's on your chest, Swan?" Lone slipped sidewise in the
saddle, resting his muscles. "You been seeing things?"
"No--I don't be seeing things, Lone. But sometimes I been--like I
_feel_ something." He stared at Lone questioningly. "What you think,
Lone, if you be sitting down eating your supper, maybe, and you feel
something say words in your brain? Like you know something talks to
you and then quits."
Lone gave Swan a long, measuring look, and Swan laughed uneasily.
"That sounds crazy. But it's true, what something tells me in my
brain. I go and look, and by golly, it's there just like the words
tell me."
Lone straightened in the saddle. "You better come clean, Swan, and
tell the whole thing. What was it? Don't talk in circles. What words
did you feel--in your brain?" In spite of himself, Lone felt as he had
when the girl had talked to him and called him Charlie.
Swan closed the gate behind him with steady hands. His lips were
pressed firmly together, as if he had definitely made up his mind to
something. Lone was impressed somehow with Swan's perfect control of
his speech, his thoughts, his actions. But he was puzzled rather than
anything else, and when Swan turned, facing him, Lone's bewilderment
did not lessen.
"I'll tell you. It's when I'm sitting down to eat my supper. I'm just
reaching out my hand like this, to get my coffee. And something says
in my head, 'It's a lie. I don't ride backwards. Go look at my
saddle. There's blood----' And that's all. It's like the words go
far away so I can't hear any more. So I eat my supper, and then I get
the lantern and I go look. You come with me, Lone. I'll show you."
Without a word Lone dismounted and followed Swan into a small shed
beside the stable, where a worn stock saddle hung suspended from a
cross-piece, a rawhide string looped over the horn. Lone did not ask
whose saddle it was, nor did Swan name the owner. There was no need.
Swan took the saddle and swung it around so that the right side was
toward them. It was what is called a full-stamped saddle, with the
popular wild-rose design on skirts and cantle. Much hard use and
occasional oilings had darkened the leather to a rich, red brown,
marred with old scars and scratches and the stains of many storms.
"Blood is hard to find when it's raining all night," Swan observed,
speaking low as one does in the presence of death. "But if somebody is
bleeding and falls off a horse slow, and catches hold of things and
tries like hell to hang on----" He lifted the small flap that covered
the cinch ring and revealed a reddish, flaked stain. Phlegmatically he
wetted his finger tip on his tongue, rubbed the stain and held up his
finger for Lone to see. "That's a damn funny place for blood, when a
man is dragging on the ground," he commented dryly. "And something
else is damn funny, Lone."
He lifted the wooden stirrup and touched with his finger the rowel
marks. "That is on the front part," he said. "I could swear in court
that Fred's left foot was twisted--that's damn funny, Lone. I don't
see men ride backwards, much."
Lone turned on him and struck the stirrup from his hand. "I think you
better forget it," he said fiercely. "He's dead--it can't help him any
to----" He stopped and pulled himself together. "Swan, you take a
fool's advice and don't tell anybody else about feeling words talk in
your head. They'll have you in the bug-house at Black-foot, sure as
you live." He looked at the saddle, hesitated, looked again at Swan,
who was watching him. "That blood most likely got there when Fred was
packing a deer in from the hills. And marks on them old oxbow stirrups
don't mean a damn thing but the need of a new pair, maybe." He forced
a laugh and stepped outside the shed. "Just shows you, Swan, that
imagination and being alone all the time can raise Cain with a fellow.
You want to watch yourself."
Swan followed him out, closing the door carefully behind him. "By
golly, I'm watching out now," he assented thoughtfully. "You don't
tell anybody, Lone."
"No, I won't tell anybody--and I'd advise you not to," Lone repeated
grimly. "Just keep those thoughts outa your head, Swan. They're bad
medicine."
He mounted John Doe and rode away, his eyes downcast, his quirt
slapping absently the weeds along the trail. It was not his business,
and yet---- Lone shook himself together and put John Doe into a lope.
He had warned Swan, and he could do no more.
Halfway to the Quirt he met Lorraine riding along the trail. She would
have passed him with no sign of recognition, but Lone lifted his hat
and stopped. Lorraine looked at him, rode on a few steps and turned.
"Did you wish to speak about something?" she asked impersonally.
Lone felt the flush in his cheeks, which angered him to the point of
speaking curtly. "Yes. I found your purse where you dropped it that
night you were lost. I was bringing it over to you. My name's Morgan.
I'm the man that found you and took you in to the ranch."
"Oh." Lorraine looked at him steadily. "You're the one they call
Loney?"
"When they're feeling good toward me. I'm Lone Morgan. I went back to
find your grip--you said you left it under a bush, but the world's
plumb full of bushes. I found your purse, though."
"Thank you so much. I must have been an awful nuisance, but I was so
scared--and things were terribly mixed in my mind. I didn't even have
sense enough to tell you what ranch I was trying to find, did I? So
you took me to the wrong one, and I was a week there before I found it
out. And then they were perfectly lovely about it and brought
me--home." She turned the purse over and over in her hands, looking at
it without much interest. She seemed in no hurry to ride on, which
gave Lone courage.
"There's something I'd like to say," he began, groping for words that
would make his meaning plain without telling too much. "I hope you
won't mind my telling you. You were kinda out of your head when I
found you, and you said something about seeing a man shot and----"
"Oh!" Lorraine looked up at him, looked through him, he thought, with
those brilliant eyes of hers. "Then I did tell----"
"I just wanted to say," Lone interrupted her, "that I knew all the time
it was just a nightmare. I never mentioned it to anybody, and you'll
forget all about it, I hope. You didn't tell any one else, did you?"
He looked up at her again and found her studying him curiously.
"You're not the man I saw," she said, as if sue were satisfying herself
on that point. "I've wondered since--but I was sure, too, that I had
seen it. Why mustn't I tell any one?"
Lone did not reply at once. The girl's eyes were disconcertingly
direct, her voice and her manner disturbed him with their judicial
calmness, so at variance with the wildness he remembered.
"Well, it's hard to explain," he said at last. "You're strange to this
country, and you don't know all the ins and outs of--things. It
wouldn't do any good to you or anybody else, and it might do a lot of
harm." His eyes flicked her face with a wistful glance. "You don't
know me--I really haven't got any right to ask or expect you to trust
me. But I wish you would, to the extent of forgetting that you saw--or
thought you saw--anything that night in Rock City."
Lorraine shivered and covered her eyes swiftly with one hand. His
words had brought back too sharply that scene. But she shook off the
emotion and faced him again.
"I saw a man murdered," she cried. "I wasn't sure afterwards;
sometimes I thought I had dreamed it. But I was sure I saw it. I saw
the horse go by, running--and you want me to keep still about that?
What harm could it do to tell? Perhaps it's true--perhaps I did see it
all. I might think you were trying to cover up something--only, you're
not the man I saw--or thought I saw."
"No, of course I'm not. You dreamed the whole thing, and the way you
talked to me was so wild, folks would say you're crazy if they heard
you tell it. You're a stranger here, Miss Hunter, and--your father is
not as popular in this country as he might be. He's got enemies that
would be glad of the chance to stir up trouble for him. You--just
dreamed all that. I'm asking you to forget a bad dream, that's all,
and not go telling it to other folks."
For some time Lorraine did not answer. The horses conversed with
sundry nose-rubbings, nibbled idly at convenient brush tips, and
wondered no doubt why their riders were so silent. Lone tried to think
of some stronger argument, some appeal that would reach the girl
without frightening her or causing her to distrust him. But he did not
know what more he could say without telling her what must not be told.
"Just how would it make trouble for my father?" Lorraine asked at last.
"I can't believe you'd ask me to help cover up a crime, but it seems
hard to believe that a nightmare would cause any great commotion. And
why is my father unpopular?"
"Well, you don't know this country," Lone parried inexpertly. "It's
all right in some ways, and in some ways it could be a lot improved.
Folks haven't got much to talk about. They go around gabbling their
heads off about every little thing, and adding onto it until you can't
recognise your own remarks after they've peddled for a week. You've
maybe seen places like that."
"Oh, yes." Lorraine's eyes lighted with a smile. "Take a movie
studio, for instance."
"Yes. Well, you being a stranger, you would get all the worst of it.
I just thought I'd tell you; I'd hate to see you misunderstood by folks
around here. I--I feel kinda responsible for you; I'm the one that
found you."
Lorraine's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm glad to know one person in the
country who doesn't gabble his head off. You haven't answered any of
my questions, and you've made me feel as if you'd found a dangerous,
wild woman that morning. It isn't very flattering, but I think you're
honest, anyway."
Lone smiled for the first time, and she found his smile pleasant. "I'm
no angel," he disclaimed modestly, "and most folks think I could be
improved on a whole lot. But I'm honest in one way. I'm thinking
about what's best for you, this time."
"I'm terribly grateful," Lorraine laughed. "I shall take great care
not to go all around the country telling people my dreams. I can see
that it wouldn't make me awfully popular." Then she sobered. "Mr
Morgan, that was a _horrible_ kind of--nightmare. Why, even last night
I woke up shivering, just imagining it all over again."
"It was sure horrible the way you talked about it," Lone assured her.
"It's because you were sick, I reckon. I wish you'd tell me as close
as you can where you left that grip of yours. You said it was under a
bush where a rabbit was sitting. I'd like to find the grip--but I'm
afraid that rabbit has done moved!"
"Oh, Mr Warfield and I found it, thank you. The rabbit had moved, but
I sort of remembered how the road had looked along there, and we hunted
until we discovered the place. Dad has driven in after my other
luggage to-day--and I believe I must be getting home. I was only out
for a little ride."
She thanked him again for the trouble he had taken and rode away. Lone
turned off the trail and, picking his way around rough outcroppings of
rock, and across unexpected little gullies, headed straight for the
ford across Granite Creek and home. Brit Hunter's girl, he was
thinking, was even nicer than he had pictured her. And that she could
believe in the nightmare was a vast relief.