A wave of exhilaration swept over Lane as they raced their horses over
the hard, even floor of the desert in the hour before dawn. There was
just a suggestion of a breeze from the Wizard Mountains far to
southward—mountains that towered eight thousand feet, with long, velvety
slopes of pine, cold streams, and fragrant meadows. There were mines
there, as Lane knew. And this faint breeze brought a cool breath to the
desert which stimulated man and beast alike.
Will French was in an excellent mood. He whistled and sang snatches of
range songs. At times he looked at Lane and chuckled.
“Why all the hilarity?” asked Lane when they finally slowed their pace.
“I’m thinking of the way you pegged Brule,” Will replied. “It tickled
him, too. But I don’t mind telling you that if you hadn’t been wise,
he’d have kept that thousand. He would have _had_ to. Brule isn’t such a
bad sort, as long as he isn’t crossed. You have to watch him. His gun
hand an’ his temper are both greased lightning.”
“Worse than that Mesquite chap, I figure,” Lane observed.
Will French laughed. “An’ _then_ some,” he avowed. “You’ll get better
acquainted with him if you come along with us, an’ we can use a man like
you—if you’ve got the nerve.” The last was uttered in a matter-of-fact
voice, but Lane knew it was the first step toward a disclosure of Will’s
plans.
“I’ve been known to have it,” Lane said, laconically.
“Well, if you hook up with us, you’ll sure need it,” said Will, favoring
Lane with a keen glance.
The moon was dipping in the west and the stars were dimming, but the
desert was a cold gray and practically shadowless. They could see each
other plainly. Will had checked their pace to an easy walk, although the
horses wanted to run. By this sign he showed Lane he was inclined to
talk.
“Where y’all planning on going?” Lane asked, striving not to appear too
eager.
“Well, that’s goin’ ahead pretty fast,” Will replied, leaning on the
horn of his saddle and eying Lane. “I take it you haven’t gone in for
anything stronger than gambling; am I right?”
“That’s been strong enough at times,” Lane evaded, frowning.
“Well, you didn’t edge down this way lookin’ for a job as cowhand, or
mine mucker, or store clerk, did you?” Will asked sharply.
“Not so as you could notice it,” Lane answered. “I came first because I
had to slope up North, an’ second because I wanted excitement.
Excitement an’ I have been pals ever since I can remember. What you got
on your mind, French?”
“Dangerous business,” came the quick reply, as Will French’s eyes
narrowed. “Business that takes a rider like yourself, a brain—which you
seem to have—an’ a gun hand like you’ve exhibited. It won’t be no
pink-tea party. I suppose you know there isn’t any money in the cattle
game around _here_.”
“I’d figured as much,” said Lane, “although _you’ve_ got a pretty nice
place.”
“Not big enough,” said Will, shaking his head. “Never was. I don’t mind
tellin’ you the gang was looking you over in town.”
“I thought as much,” said Lane. “I’m not dead in the head an’ I’m not
blind. What was the verdict?”
“We’re willing to take a chance. You can’t double-cross us an’ get out
of it with a whole skin, anyway. We don’t ask _every_body in on our
game, but you’ve got the goods, an’ if you’re not afraid of hot lead an’
posses an’ twelve- or fifteen-hour shifts in the saddle you could trail
along with us to the big money.”
Will French was deadly serious, and Lane hesitated. He knew the men he
had met and played with in town were outlaws, and so were the French
boys, and the old man, too, probably. To join up with them would be
automatically to put himself in the same category. Then he thought of
Joan French and of what she had told Frank about going along. His mind
fairly leaped to a decision.
He looked steadily at Will French. “I’m not afraid of the little things
you mention,” he said soberly. “I’m ready to join up an’ go through with
whatever you’ve got on, an’ you’re not taking a chance. Is that good
enough?”
“That’s good enough—_if you mean it!_”
“It looks to me,” drawled Lane, “as if you’d have to take my word for
it.”
Will French held out his hand and Lane grasped it. Then Will smiled.
“You’ve hooked up with the toughest outfit between the Gila and the
border!” he said cheerfully. “Brule usually does the leading. All the
men you played with in town are with us. Frank trails along, but we have
to keep an eye on him, for he’s wild. You’ll stand high because of your
gun work. We’ll start for the Wizards tonight. But just now we’re goin’
to the ranch. Come on.”
They spurred their horses and sped westward, with the rosy dawn at their
backs. In an hour they were riding in among the pepper trees of the
oasis. They turned their horses over to Pedro at the barn and repaired
immediately to the house, where the Mexican housekeeper already was up
and preparing for breakfast. Lane’s hopes of seeing Joan were high,
since she could not know of their coming or arrival.
“We’ll eat right here in the kitchen an’ then get some sleep,” said Will
French. “Better hug our bunks all day, for it may be some time before we
get another chance.”
Lane’s hopes crashed as they washed and sat down to breakfast. No one
appeared during the meal and afterward Will took Lane to the room he had
occupied before and announced that he would bunk next door. As Lane had
no sleep during the night, and very little the night before, he dropped
off into a deep slumber as soon as he was in bed.
He awoke when the sun was dying in the west. A look into the next room
showed that Will French already was up. He crossed the patio and went
out to the mineral bath, where he spent half an hour. As he returned to
the patio he stopped suddenly and listened with an appreciative grin on
his face. From the front of the house came the strains of a violin. Joan
was playing—which signified that she was not aware of his presence. He
might see her yet!
In the doorway of his room he sat down to roll a cigarette and pondered
this matter of his interest in Joan French. He was not a woman’s man; he
had never really had a girl—a sweetheart—in his life. Then why was he so
worked up over Joan? “She’s different from the others,” he told himself,
and smoked contentedly as he listened to the music.
Will French came striding from the rear of the house. “Get inside out of
sight an’ _stay_ there,” he said as he passed Lane. And, as Lane obeyed,
he heard the soft hoofbeats of a horse under the trees. Then came Will
French’s voice:
“Hello, sheriff! Pretty hot riding, isn’t it, in daytime? Thought you
knew better.”
“’Lo, Will,” answered a drawling voice. “I just crossed from Smoky
Ridge. Wasn’t so bad. I’ll put up my hoss an’ stay to supper, if you’re
agreeable.”
“You’re always welcome here, sheriff,” said Will heartily. “You ought to
know that. Ride right across to the barn. I think supper’s brewin’ in
the kitchen.”
Lane risked a stealthy look as the pair started for the barn and saw a
tall, spare man, with sandy mustaches and a thin, narrow face, riding a
chestnut gelding. A sheriff!
“‘Always welcome’ is right,” the official was saying. “I’m wondering if
the time’ll come when I won’t be so welcome. Been doin’ much ridin’,
Will?”
“In an’ out of town quite regular,” replied Will French easily. “Nothing
much else to do till you chase out those gamblers down there, sheriff.”
“No long trips, Will?”
Lane caught the last question, but as the two men left the patio he
could not hear Will French’s answer. Still, what he had heard started
him thinking. The sheriff evidently was aware of the operations of the
French boys, or at least had definite suspicions; but it was plain he
had no proof and, as things stood, was a friend of the family. Will had
been wise to warn him—Lane—for, so far as he knew, no sheriff in this
district knew him by sight. In a short time, Will French and the sheriff
came from the barn and proceeded to the house. Lane sat down on the bed
and rolled a cigarette. He became aware that the music had stopped.
Well, there would be no seeing Joan unless she should happen to come out
into the patio. It was certain he would not get into the house for
supper while the sheriff was there. Lane swore softly. But soon
afterward the Mexican woman came to his room, bringing a bounteous
supper with a pot of strong coffee. It was after sunset and he ate in
the fast-gathering twilight, fearing to light the lamp.
As night fell, Will French came out of the house with the sheriff. The
old man called good-by from the rear porch. The two walked rapidly
toward the passage to the barn.
“So you’re not figurin’ on any long trips, Will?” Lane heard the sheriff
ask.
Will French’s laugh rang cheerfully in the patio. “If I _was_, sheriff,
you’d be the last man I’d tell,” he said, chuckling.
“It’s bad business, Will,” said the sheriff in a tone which was almost
mournful.
With that they passed out of hearing. It was not long, however, before
they reappeared. The sheriff was riding his chestnut. They passed along
the road that ran through the lower end of the patio.
“So long, Will.” With that the sheriff was off like a shot, making a
getaway that astonished Lane in view of the fact that the official had
appeared to be such a mild-mannered man.
“That was Sheriff McClure from the county seat,” Will explained, as Lane
came out of his room to meet him. “Been over west somewheres, an’ now
he’s on his way to Sunrise. He won’t get up to bother us where we’re
goin’, until it’s too late.”
“An’ we’re going——”
“Into the Wizards,” said Will gruffly. “Go see the horses are ready.
I’ll get our grub pack. We’re starting pronto.”
Lane saw to the horses and Will came with two packs to be wrapped in
their slickers and tied on the rear of their saddles. Old Zeb French
came out and peered closely at Lane in the yellow rays of the lantern.
He said nothing, but Lane sensed that he knew everything. As they rode
out of the oasis and turned southeast toward the distant Wizard
Mountains, Frank French came racing in from town. He waved to them, and
that was all. Lane wondered if he had come for Joan.