SWAN CALLS FOR HELP
Past the field where the horses were grazing and up the canyon on the
side toward Skyline Meadow, that lay on a shoulder of Bear Top, the dog
nosed unfalteringly along the trail. Now and then he was balked when
the hoofprints led him to the bank of Granite Creek, but not for long.
Jack appeared to understand why his trailing was interrupted and
sniffed the bank until he picked up the scent again.
"Wonder if she changed off and rode that loose horse," Hawkins said
once, when the tracks were plain in the soft soil of the creek bank.
"She might, and lead that horse she was on."
"She wouldn't know enough. She's a city girl," Lone replied, his heart
heavy with fear for Lorraine.
"Well, she ain't far off then," Hawkins comforted himself. "Her horse
acted about played out when she hit the ranch. She had him wet from
his ears to his tail, and he was breathin' like that Ford at the ranch.
If that's a sample of her riding, she ain't far off."
"Crazy--to ride up here. Keep your eyes open, boys. We must find her,
whatever we do." Warfield gazed apprehensively at the rugged steeps on
either hand and at the timber line above them. "From here on she
couldn't turn back without meeting us--if I remember this country
correctly. Could she, Hawkins?"
"Not unless she turned off, up here a mile or two, into that gulch that
heads into Skyline," said Hawkins. "There's a stock trail part way
down from the top where it swings off from the divide to Wilder Creek."
Swan, walking just behind Hawkins, moved up a pace.
"I could go on Skyline with Yack, and I could come down by those
trail," he suggested diffidently, Swedishly, yet with a certain
compelling confidence. "What you think?"
"I think that's a damned good idea for a square head," Hawkins told
him, and repeated it to Warfield, who was riding ahead.
"Why, yes. We don't need the dog, or the man either. Go up to the
head of the gulch and keep your eyes open, Swan. We'll meet you up
here. You know the girl, don't you?"
"Yas, Ay know her pretty good," grinned Swan.
"Well, don't frighten her. Don't let her see that you think anything
is wrong--and don't say anything about us. We made the mistake of
discussing her condition within her hearing, and it is possible that
she understood enough of what we were saying to take alarm. You
understand? Don't tell girl she's crazy." He tapped his head to make
his meaning plainer. "Don't tell girl we're looking for her. You
understand?"
"Yas, Ay know English pretty good. Ay don't tell too moch." His
cheerful smile brought a faint response from Senator Warfield. At Lone
he did not look at all. "I go quick. I'm good climber like a sheep,"
he boasted, and whistling to Jack, he began working his way up a rough,
brush-scattered ledge to the slope above.
Lone watched him miserably, wishing that Swan was not quite so matter
of fact in his man-chasing. If Al Woodruff, for some reason which Lone
could not fathom, had taken Lorraine and forced her to go with him into
the wilderness, Warfield and Hawkins would be his allies the moment
they came up with him. Lone was no coward, but neither was he a fool.
Hawkins had never distinguished himself as a fighter, but Lone had
gleaned here and there a great deal of information about Senator
Warfield in the old days when he had been plain Bill. When Lorraine
and Al were overtaken, then Lone would need to show the stuff that was
in him. He only hoped he would have time, and that luck would be with
him.
"If they get me, it'll be all off with her," he worried, as he followed
the two up the canyon. "Swan would have been a help. But he thinks
more of catching Al than he does of helping Raine."
He looked up and saw that already Swan was halfway up the canyon's
steep side, making his way through the brush with more speed than Lone
could have shown on foot in the open, unless he ran. The sight
heartened Lone a little. Swan might have some plan of his own,--an
ambush, possibly. If he would only keep along within rifle shot and
remain hidden, he would show real brains, Lone thought. But Swan, when
Lone looked up again, was climbing straight away from the little
searching party; and even though he seemed tireless on foot, he could
not perform miracles.
Swan, however, was not troubling himself over what Lone would think, or
even what Warfield was thinking. Contrary to Lone's idea of him, Swan
was tired, and he was thinking a great deal about Lorraine, and very
little about Al Woodruff, except as Al was concerned with Lorraine's
welfare. Swan had made a mistake, and he was humiliated over his
blunder. Al had kept himself so successfully in the background while
Lone's peculiar actions had held his attention, that Swan had never
considered Al Woodruff as the killer. Now he blamed himself for
Frank's death. He had been watching Lone, had been baffled by Lone's
consistent kindness toward the Quirt, by the force of his personality
which held none of the elements of cold-blooded murder. He had
believed that he had the Sawtooth killer under observation, and he had
been watching and waiting for evidence that would impress a grand jury.
And all the while he had let Al Woodruff ride free and unsuspected.
The one stupid thing, in Swan's opinion, which he had not done was to
let Lone go on holding his tongue. He had forced the issue that
morning. He had wanted to make Lone talk, had hoped for a weakening
and a confession. Instead he had learned a good deal which he should
have known before.
As he forged up the slope across the ridged lip of the canyon, his one
immediate object was speed. Up the canyon and over the divide on the
west shoulder of Bear Top was a trail to the open country beyond. It
was perfectly passable, as Swan knew; he had packed in by that trail
when he located his homestead on Bear Top. That is why he had his
cabin up and was living in it before the Sawtooth discovered his
presence.
Al, he believed, was making for Bear Top Pass. Once down the other
side he would find friends to lend him fresh horses. Swan had learned
something of these friends of the Sawtooth, and he could guess pretty
accurately how far some of them would go in their service. Fresh
horses for Al, food--perhaps even a cabin where he could hide Lorraine
away--were to be expected from any one of them, once Al was over the
divide.
Swan glanced up at the sun, saw that it was dropping to late afternoon
and started in at a long, loose-jointed trot across the mountain meadow
called Skyline. A few pines, with scattered clumps of juniper and fir,
dotted the long, irregular stretch of grassland which formed the
meadow. Range cattle were feeding here and there, so wild they lifted
heads to stare at the man and dog, then came trotting forward, their
curiosity unabated by the fact that they had seen these two before.
Jack looked up at his master, looked at the cattle and took his place
at Swan's heels. Swan shouted and flung his arms, and the cattle
ducked, turned and galloped awkwardly away. Swan's trot did not
slacken. His rifle swung rhythmically in his right hand, the muzzle
tilted downward. Beads of perspiration on his forehead had merged into
tiny rivulets on his cheeks and dripped off his clean-lined, square
jaw. Still he ran, his breath unlaboured yet coming in whispery
aspirations from his great lungs.
The full length of Skyline Meadow he ran, jumping the small beginning
of Wilder Creek with one great leap that scarcely interrupted the
beautiful rhythm of his stride. At the far end of the clearing,
snuggled between two great pines that reached high into the blue, his
squatty cabin showed red-brown against the precipitous shoulder of Bear
Top peak, covered thick with brush and scraggy timber whipped
incessantly by the wind that blew over the mountain's crest.
At the door Swan stopped and examined the crude fastening of the door;
made himself certain, by private marks of his own, that none had
entered in his absence, and went in with a great sigh of satisfaction.
It was still broad daylight, though the sun's rays slanted in through
the window; but Swan lighted a lantern that hung on a nail behind the
door, carried it across the neat little room, and set it down on the
floor beside the usual pioneer cupboard made simply of clean boxes
nailed bottom against the wall. Swan had furnished a few extra frills
to his cupboard, for the ends of the boxes were fastened to hewn slabs
standing upright and just clearing the floor. Near the upper shelf a
row of nails held Swan's coffee cups,--four of them, thick and white,
such as cheap restaurants use.
Swan hooked a finger over the nail that held a cracked cup and glanced
over his shoulder at Jack, sitting in the doorway with his keen nose to
the world.
"You watch out now, Yack. I shall talk to my mother with my thoughts,"
he said, drawing a hand across his forehead and speaking in breathless
gasps. "You watch."
For answer Jack thumped his tail on the dirt floor and sniffed the
breeze, taking in his overlapping tongue while he did so. He licked
his lips, looked over his shoulder at Swan, and draped his pink tongue
down over his lower jaw again.
"All right, now I talk," said Swan and pulled upon the nail in his
fingers.
The cupboard swung toward him bodily, end slabs and all. He picked up
the lantern, stepped over the log sill and pulled the cupboard door
into place again.
Inside the dugout Swan set the lantern on a table, dropped wearily upon
a rough bench before it and looked at the jars beside him, lifted his
hand and opened a compact, but thoroughly efficient field wireless
"set." His right fingers dropped to the key, and the whining drone of
the wireless rose higher and higher as he tuned up. He reached for his
receivers, ducked his head and adjusted them with one hand, and sent a
call spitting tiny blue sparks from the key under his fingers.
He waited, repeating the call. His blue eyes clouded with anxiety and
he fumbled the adjustments, coaxing the current into perfect action
before he called again. Answer came, and Swan bent over the table,
listening, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the opposite wall of the
dugout. Then, his fingers flexing delicately, swiftly, he sent the
message that told how completely his big heart matched the big body:
"Send doctor and trained nurse to Quirt ranch at once. Send men to
Bear Top Pass, intercept man with young woman, or come to rescue if he
don't cross. Have three men here with evidence to convict if we can
save the girl who is valuable witness. Girl being abducted in fear of
what she can tell. They plan to charge her with insanity. Urgent.
Hurry. Come ready to fight.
"S. V."
Swan had a code, but codes require a little time in the composition of
a message, and time was the one thing he could not waste. He heard the
gist of the message repeated to him, told the man at the other station
that lives were at stake, and threw off the current.