They started out at an easy trot as Will had explained that they had an
all-night ride, most of which would be over a treacherous mountain
trail. Will’s spirits seemed to soar as they sped over the hard floor of
the desert, cold white under the moon and stars. He called to Lane
frequently.
“His nibs, the sheriff, won’t see any of _our_ crowd in Sunrise,” he
said jubilantly. “Brule an’ the others started out, one at a time, long
ago.”
“Sounded to me, the way he talked, that he’s sort of suspicious,” Lane
vouchsafed.
Will laughed and shook out his reins. “Sure he is, old-timer. That’s
part of his job—to be suspicious. But what he doesn’t know would fill a
lot of books. I thought it was just as well he didn’t see you, for he’s
a stickler for asking questions in that mouse voice of his. McClure
isn’t any fool, though.”
This ended the comment on the sheriff, for Will French dismissed him and
his activities with a wave of the hand. They pushed on at an easy lope,
a pace both horses could maintain for hours if need be, and the great,
shadowy bulks of the Wizards marched toward them, beckoning with their
cool slopes of pine, and, after a time, sending a light breeze,
harbinger of comforting relief day and night from the searing heat of
the inferno.
As yet, Lane had no inkling of the enterprise upon which he was engaged,
or their actual destination. Under ordinary circumstances, even if he
had consented to engage in an act of outlawry, he would have demanded
full details well in advance. But in this case he was “going blind”
because of his interest in Joan French. And now that he was actually on
the way to take part in whatever the band proposed to do, he had his
first misgivings. Why should he outlaw himself merely because he had
taken a fancy to Joan? It was very doubtful that she had any interest in
_him_; at least, she had shown none. So Lane began to look upon himself
as a fool. It angered him, and gave rise to a feeling of animosity
toward Will French, although he liked him. But it was too late to back
out; he had to go through with it. There was just one thing, he told
himself: Brule would have to watch his step so far as he, Lane, was
concerned.
They now were climbing the first long slope toward the foothills of the
Wizards. This slope was a great “forest” of giant cactus, with smaller
varieties scattered about. Far off to eastward, Lane thought he could
catch the faint glow of the lights in Sunrise. It lacked an hour of
midnight.
The cacti gradually gave way to juniper. The slope became steeper and
they started zigzagging. Then Lane realized they were on a trail. Will
French went on ahead. Soon they were on a ridge and the first pines
appeared. In an hour they were winding about ridges, crossing them,
passing through ravines, splashing in small streams, and then they
entered a forest. The trail was hard, with gentle grades in the main,
but they were climbing continuously.
The size and height of the pines increased. They rested their horses
frequently. Will French was strangely silent. Lane was busy with
conflicting thoughts. Only one thing was certain: if Joan came he would
confront her, and, if necessary, tear the mask from her face. Under the
spell of the cool forest his resentment toward Will French died. For
Lane was more of a mountain man than he was of the desert.
In another hour they halted, after a hard climb to the top of a high
ridge which ranged southward to the shoulder of a towering peak. Below
was a long, narrow valley, deep in shadow, and Will French pointed up
this valley. Lane looked and made out a faint glow against the side of
the mountain.
“What is it?” he demanded abruptly.
“That’s Running Wolf Canyon up there, an’ where you see the light is the
mining town of Raysville,” Will replied. “It’s one of the livest camps
in the Wizards.”
“I suppose that’s the place we’re goin’ to hit,” Lane conjectured.
“You said it,” Will confirmed. “That’s where we make the big cleanup.
We’ll have to scatter to the ends of the earth afterward,” he finished
grimly.
Lane was struck by his tone. “Must be high-powered stuff,” he ventured.
“The bank an’ the Ace of Clubs gambling hell,” said French slowly. “The
plunder ought to figure two hundred thousand, an’ the beauty of it is,
they can afford it. Gold proposition—everybody rolling in money. That’s
why I said something about nerve, remember?”
Lane remembered. He had caught his breath when French had mentioned jobs
and the amount. He had not stepped into any mild raid. He had thought
they might try him out on something small. Now he saw the reason for his
admission to the band. In this desperate undertaking they needed his
gun! There would be no carrying out such an enterprise without shooting.
Never! But would Will allow Joan to come on such an occasion? Lane
surmised from what he had heard pass between the girl and her brother
Frank in Sunrise that she had been in the habit of accompanying them on
various raids; but _this_ venture——
Will started on, with Lane following. They rode along the crest of the
ridge toward the mountain for two miles or more. The valley had narrowed
and deepened into a canyon. Finally they began to descend, but instead
of going down into the canyon they came upon a plateau or shelf above
the chasm that was thickly timbered. They followed a trail through the
timber and at last came out into a large meadow through which flowed a
small stream.
There were some dilapidated cabins here. Lane saw horses grazing and men
moving about. Light streamed from the windows of two of the cabins, and
Lane realized that they had reached the rendezvous of the outlaws. They
stopped before a large cabin which was dark. Many saddles hung on pegs
driven into the chinking between the logs. They unsaddled, hung up
saddles and bridles, and hobbled their horses.
Then Will led the way to one of the lighted cabins. Here they found
Brule, sprawled in a big chair at one end of a long table. There were a
dozen men sitting or lying on benches along the walls. Lane had heard
laughter and loud voices from the other lighted cabin, where more men of
the outfit were making merry. From the number of horses he had seen
grazing in the meadow, he estimated there were at least twenty-four men
in the band. And he confessed to himself that they were a hard-looking
lot.
Brule sat up at his coming and looked at him keenly out of his cold,
hard, gray eyes. “Took us up, did he?” he said, evidently addressing
Will French, although he continued to look at Lane.
“Called the turn,” said Will laconically. “I reckon he’ll do.”
“He’d better do,” said Brule in a threatening voice. “Suppose you know
what you’re up against?”—this last to Lane.
“I haven’t been told all the particulars,” said Lane curtly.
“Well, there’s mighty few of ’em,” said Brule, with a heavy frown.
“We’re goin’ to take a bank an’ a gamblin’ joint—the bank first, then
the joint; or both together, ’cording to how things come up. You, an’
Neff, there”—he pointed to a tall, stoop-shouldered, dark man on the
bench—“an’ myself are goin’ to be the lads who’ll guard operations. If
anybody near you gets frisky, it’s your job to start shooting, an’
there’s only one thing to remember—_don’t miss!_ I don’t look for
trouble, but if trouble comes, Raysville will mark time from tomorrow
night.”
“Sounds exciting,” was Lane’s cool comment.
Brule’s frown darkened. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” he observed.
“What am I supposed to do?” Lane asked in the same cool, even voice.
“Jump up an’ down an’ cheer?”
Brule leaped to his feet. “Don’t talk back to _me_, do you _hear_?” he
shouted, while the others in the place sat up and took notice and Will
French stepped to the table.
But Lane’s clear, ringing tones cut through the room. “You’ve given your
orders, Brule. I’m not deaf, an’ I’ve brains enough to understand. Let
it go at that!”
He turned abruptly, showing his back to Brule as he stepped to the door.
Brule clenched his fists and fumed but remained silent. Finally,
regaining control of himself, he said: “I suppose a little spirit is a
good sign in a new man. Well, don’t forget your orders.” He sat down and
Lane went out, with Will French following.
“I told you not to cross him,” Will complained.
Lane whirled. “Don’t talk to _me_ about crossing him,” he said hotly.
“I’m in this thing an’ now that I’m in, I stay; but if that big bully
tries to ride me, I’ll make him draw!”
Will French did not comment on this. Very possibly he realized that Lane
meant exactly what he said. He asked him if he wanted to join in the
game in the other cabin, and when Lane refused, saying he would snatch
some sleep, he directed him to still another cabin and joined the game
himself.
But Lane did not want any sleep, having slept most of the day. He walked
around behind the cabins and strode up and down in the shadows of clumps
of pines, thinking. He knew he had made an enemy of Brule, although the
outlaw leader had striven to smooth things over. Lane had a sneaking
idea that Brule would attempt to cheat him out of his share of the loot.
With this thought, Lane stopped dead in his tracks. Did he _want_ any of
the loot? He realized, with a grim smile, that he not only did not want
any of the loot, but that he had no intention of shooting anybody in
this affair. He made a desperate decision. If Joan did not show up, he
would not take part in the bank robbery and gambling holdup. Thus began
the complications with which he wrestled as the sky grew gray in the
east.
Fate is a trickster. Lane had no sooner made up his mind than there came
to him on the soft breeze the message he had been half expecting—the
throbbing notes of the wild, weird melody Joan had played high on the
shoulder of Smoky Butte.
It came from somewhere up the slope, he thought; no, from the timber off
to the left below the cabins. He started in that direction. He could
barely hear the subdued strains of the violin; sometimes they were lost
altogether—drowned in the plaintive wail of the vagrant wind blowing
through the pines.
As he entered the timber, he stopped dead still again, startled. Frank
French came out of the trees some little distance away and hurried
toward the cabin. Lane edged down to the spot where Frank had emerged,
and discovered a faint trail. The dawn was breaking and Lane had no
difficulty in following the trail. Thus he came to a clearing so small
that there was room for only one tiny cabin—the abandoned temporary home
of some wandering prospector—and a small corral in which were two
horses.
Lane noted these things instinctively. What interested him was the
figure of Joan French, clad in the worn riding habit, her gun on her
right side, the big hat pulled over her hair, sitting on a bench by the
cabin door, her violin tucked under her chin.
For some little time he watched her and listened to the peculiar melody
which flowed from the strings of her instrument; then he stepped boldly
into the meadow and walked slowly toward her.
The violin went down on the bench instantly and the girl’s gun was out
in a flash. In her eyes was a look of commingled consternation and
astonishment.
“You needn’t draw on me, Miss Joan,” said Lane gravely; “I’m one of the
crowd.” He stopped near her, noting that she did not raise the gun.
“How—how did you get here?” she stammered.
“Rode up with Will,” Lane replied. “Are _you_ in on this business, too?”
“And if I am—what of it?” she asked defiantly.
“Hardly seems the thing for a nice girl like yourself,” he said soberly.
“I wouldn’t expect——”
“Don’t preach!” she broke in impatiently, stamping her foot. “Look at
yourself—I might have known. I was beginning to think you were halfway
honest, or——” She broke off her speech abruptly, biting her lip.
There were several answers Lane could have made to this and he saw she
realized it. “It’s my first try at the game,” he said lamely. Then,
frowning: “But I’m in it an’ I’m going through with it. I suppose you’ll
be going back before—before things begin to happen.”
“You haven’t any right to suppose anything about me,” she said
haughtily. “An’ you had no business coming down here.”
“There are no restrictions on my movements that I know of,” he returned;
“an’ the traffic in these hills is wide open. If I were you, Joan, I’d
go back.”
Her brows arched. “You’re giving me advice?” She burst into scornful
laughter. “When I really _do_ want advice, I know where to go for it an’
I can depend upon it. I haven’t asked any yet. An’ drop the first name.
I’m Miss French to you.”
Lane bowed. “You may not have asked for any advice, Miss French, but you
sure need it,” he said soberly.
The girl’s face flushed an angry red, which made her look more beautiful
than ever. She groped for words with which to frame the proper scathing
remark.
“I’m not trying to be smart, Miss French,” said Lane earnestly. “An’ I’m
not tryin’ to annoy you or bust into your business. What I’ve said, I’ve
said simply because I like you an’—well, you’re in more or less danger
here.”
“I’ve been in danger before,” she returned.
“I don’t know where you’ve been before, although I have reason to think
you’ve been out on raids in the past, but _this_ is big turkey. From
what I know of the gang’s plans, this job will be no grand-stand
exhibition.”
Instead of angering her further, Joan appeared to be interested. “How’d
you happen to be taken in on this?” she asked curiously.
“Because I can handle a gun,” he replied truthfully.
“They lost a good man a while back,” she said, sheathing her weapon. “I
guess that’s why they picked on you.”
“Oh, I joined the outfit willingly enough,” he said lightly. “But I had
a reason.”
“What was it?” She was eager.
“I can’t tell you. Anyway, I won’t. Some time, perhaps. In a way, it
concerns yourself.”
Her eyes widened and she flushed slightly. “In that case, I don’t
suppose I should ask.” Her hauteur returned to some extent. Then a
frightened look came into her eyes as she looked over Lane’s shoulder.
He turned quickly and saw Will and Frank French striding toward them.