Something told Lane, as he looked at Will French, that it would not be
policy to ask about the girl. He recognized the resemblance between this
tall, dark, young man and the girl and knew at once that she was his
sister. He saw his breakfast on the table. For a few moments he resented
his not having been invited into the house; then as quickly came the
realization that he was a stranger about whom they knew nothing. He
smiled at French.
“That bath was worth a yellow chip in _any_ sized game,” he said, as he
sat down to eat. “You can have it any time you say.”
“Your money belt is under the pillow,” Will remarked dryly and left the
room.
Lane knew men. No word had been spoken, no look had been flashed. Still,
Lane was convinced that Will French was very angry. The reason was
plain: Lane’s meeting with the girl had not been intended nor expected.
There would be talk in the house.
“Anyway, I saw her,” Lane muttered and attacked the excellent breakfast
before him with gusto.
When he had finished, he leisurely rolled a cigarette and smoked
contentedly. A Mexican woman came to take away the dishes. He reached
into a pocket and brought forth a silver dollar which he gave her. She
smiled and nodded brightly. When she had gone, Lane secured his money
belt and counted the contents of the pockets. The sum it had contained
when Will French took it was intact. He buckled it about his waist next
to his skin and felt better. He had seen the barn when he had gone for
his bath and now he crossed the patio and made his way there. Joan
French had foreseen this move on his part. She knew any experienced
rider would keep an eye on his mount. Which was why she had had the
stallion taken from its stall in the barn.
Lane found his horse all right and gave the Mexican who had looked after
the animal a five-dollar gold piece. He got the same grin and nod of
thanks that he had received from the housekeeper. He considered his next
move. It was getting fearfully hot and he dreaded the ride to Sunrise
under that blazing, relentless sun. At this thought the events of the
day before passed in bold review before him in swift mental pictures.
The girl in the mask! He wondered if it would be policy to ask Will
French if he knew of her. Then a startling thought occurred to him.
Could there be any connection between the girl he had seen that morning
and the gun girl? The idea was no sooner born in his mind than he
dismissed it as being absurd. Will French’s sister was not only
beautiful; she was demure. She had a soft, sweet voice, whereas the gun
girl had tones that were knife-edged. She was the kind one could not
hire to wear a simple, white frock and gather flowers. “Not _that_
girl,” Lane told himself as he entered the patio. He saw Will beckoning
to him from the rear of the house and his heart gave a bound. He was to
see the dainty desert flower again, then; perhaps meet her. He hurried
toward Will French.
“Was over to look at my horse,” he explained. “He seems none the worse
for the way I’ve mistreated him lately.”
“Come in an’ have a smoke,” Will invited in a casual tone.
Lane followed him into the house, through the kitchen and dining room to
the long living room. Zeb French was there, sitting in his big chair,
but as Lane’s eyes swept the room even to the shadows in the corners, he
saw no sign of the girl. They were not going to permit him to meet her
after all. Well, why in the world should he care? What did it matter? He
never would see her again anyway.
“Have a cigar,” Zeb French invited, pointing to an open box of Havanas
on the table. “Reckon you don’t pack many cheroots with you on the
trail.”
“It isn’t hard to take you up on that proposition,” said Lane, helping
himself from the box. “No, I travel light.”
He caught a significant look that passed between father and son. He knew
he had been invited into the house to be questioned. He took a
comfortable chair which Will indicated and lighted his weed.
“Traveling far?” old Zeb asked casually.
“Sunrise is my next stop, an’ I hope it’s not far,” Lane replied easily.
“Just how far _is_ it?”
“’Bout thirty-five miles or so east,” the old man answered. “Three-four
hours’ ride in the cool, but it’s all day in the heat. You’d never made
it yesterday.”
“An’ well I know it,” said Lane energetically. “Mighty good thing I
struck _this_ place, Mr. French, an’ I want to thank you so much for
treating me so white.”
“We ain’t in the habit of lettin’ folks die in the desert,” said the old
man dryly. “I’ve had too many years of it myself.”
Silence followed this retort. Lane looked from the old man to Will
French. The latter regarded him languidly. And, somehow, Lane felt or
sensed that other eyes were looking at him; hidden eyes—the girl was
watching and listening from somewhere. The silence grew heavier. Lane
decided to take the initiative.
“Gentlemen,” he said behind a cloud of cigar smoke, “I know the signs. I
see you want to know more about me. Of course, I’m ready to leave any
minute. As I said, my name’s Lane. I’m not a line rider, nor a long
rider, but I don’t follow the trail just to be exercising my horse. I’m
a gambler. I’m a good gambler, an’ a square gambler—so long as the other
gents in the game are square. I’ve worked the North clean. I had to
correct a little fault of the dealer in the last game I played in”—he
smiled and waved his cigar in an aimless gesture—“an’ I lit out in a
hurry. I had to discourage some of the gentleman’s friends from
following me, as I wasn’t wanting company. So I’m on my way to this town
of Sunrise, which I hear is up an’ going at all hours of the day an’
night. I’m not so particular about the days. Now you have it.”
He resumed his cigar, relishing the attention his audience had given to
his simple statement.
“Waal, it ain’t no crime to gamble,” Zeb French observed. “Least it
wasn’t no crime in such places as I’ve been in, an’ Sunrise is one of
’em. An’ I didn’t suppose you packed that smoke wagon of yours to shoot
squirrels with.” He paused, but Lane made no comment. “Any place in view
after Sunrise, son?”
“None as I know of yet,” said Lane. “I take one place at a time an’ let
it go at that.”
“You are figurin’ on goin’ in to Sunrise tonight, wasn’t you, Will?”
“Thinking about it,” Will answered.
Lane thought Will appeared more cheerful. The old man seemed in better
humor, too. Lane assumed that his statement had clarified the atmosphere
regarding himself. People living in isolated places always want to know
something about the strangers who happen their way. It also seemed to
him that these two were more pleased with the nature of his profession,
or occupation, than if he had been in a more legitimate business—if it
could be called such. There were other things he could have told had he
so wished, but he had no intention of doing so.
“Reckon you wouldn’t mind, Will, if Lane, here, rode along with you,”
Zeb French suggested.
“Not a bit,” said Will cheerfully, turning to Lane. “We’ll start a
little after sunset, when it’s cooler. I’ll be able to show you around a
bit. Ain’t much to Sunrise, but what there _is_ of it is hot stuff.”
“Sounds promising,” was Lane’s comment. For some inexplicable reason
which he did not try to fathom, Lane felt a vague suspicion of this
pair. With the announcement of his calling, his status in the household
had automatically changed. He thought swiftly. While the oasis which
constituted the rancho was large, it was hardly large enough for cattle
raising, and the desert surrounding it offered no range. To assume that
French was farming was preposterous. Yet the very room in which Lane sat
was richly furnished, and there were actual indications of wealth on
every hand. This was no ordinary _hacienda_. Could it be, then, that the
French boys also were gamesters? On the face of it, it looked that way.
And the old man’s suggestion that Will French take him in to Sunrise—it
amounted to nothing more than that—and Will’s ready and cheerful
acquiescence—did they propose to fleece him in Sunrise? This did not
appear plausible in view of the fact that they had taken good care of
his money—not a small amount, by any means. All this passed through
Lane’s mind in the space of split seconds. He gave it up. But he could
not shake off the feeling that some scheme was afoot.
“All right,” said Will French, “that’s settled.” He rose. “An’, by the
way, Lane, we’ll meet up with my kid brother in town. His name is Frank.
Treat him easy; he’s just feeling his oats.”
Lane rose, as it was plain the interview was ended. He followed Will out
through the dining room and kitchen to the patio. No sign of the girl.
Yet he could actually _feel_ her presence! In all his thirty years or
so, Lane could not remember when he had toiled with so many conflicting
emotions. But one conviction was uppermost in his mind.
Adventure—perhaps _dangerous_ adventure—strode beside him.
The boiling heat of the desert was now pouring down upon them. He yawned
as they entered the patio. He wanted a chance to think; he wanted to be
alone.
“You know,” he said to Will French, “I think, after the time I’ve spent
in the North country, this heat has got me. I feel sleepy.”
Will French laughed. “Take an early siesta,” he advised. “Sleep won’t
hurt you none. An’ I can tell you without giving away any secret that
you may not get so much in Sunrise—so much sleep, I mean.”
They paused before the door of Lane’s room and Will French faced him.
“You know, Lane, I like you,” said Will impulsively. “We’re about the
same age an’ build; an’ we’ve got a lot of ideas, I take it, that hook
up. I reckon we’ll get on. Take your snooze. I’m going over to look at
the horses an’ then I’m goin’ to do the same thing. So long.”
“So long,” said Lane. He entered his room more puzzled than ever. “Going
to get on,” he muttered to himself. Now just what did Will French mean
by that?
He lay down on the bed. He had not been joking when he told Will that
the heat was affecting him. He fell asleep almost immediately.
The sun was slanting in the west when he was awakened by a commotion in
the direction of the barn. There were shouts, and the heavy pound of
hoofs.
“It’s Nero!” he heard Will French cry. “I knew he wouldn’t stay down
there! Let him in the barn, Pedro!”
Lane leaped from the bed and hurried across the patio and through the
doorway. There he stopped suddenly as a great iron-gray stallion dashed
past. Lane went cold, then hot—and then he found his senses and darted
back to his room, where he lay upon the bed, his heart throbbing. What
did it mean? What _could_ it mean? What—how—but one thing was certain.
The great stallion was the same magnificent animal he had seen with the
gun girl—the girl who had played the violin, and who faced him masked!