Lane sat down on the bench, which was littered with old newspapers and
magazines. There was no bunk in the place, for it was not intended as a
regular cell. He was thinking of the sheriff’s statement to the effect
that he, Lane, was the only important prisoner taken. That meant that
the French brothers had got away; for, had they been taken, the sheriff
certainly would have considered them important prisoners.
It was also news to learn that, to some extent at least, the bank
robbery had been successful. The outlaws who had got away would meet in
the town near the border and divide the spoils. But what about those who
had been captured? Would Brule find a way to get them out on bail? Would
he even try? And if they _did_ get out on bail, would they dare to show
up for trial? Lane smiled grimly. He suspected what would happen.
But Joan was safe and Lane was satisfied. When he got out, she could not
refuse to see him and to talk to him. She had, of course, done a
foolhardy thing, and she was responsible for his present predicament;
but she would never get a word of reproof from him. And he had nearly
lost his life in protecting her from pursuit by rolling down that huge
boulder. He wondered vaguely if she had seen. Something told him she had
paused up the trail to see what he was going to do. If that was the
case, she had seen plenty. It gave Lane a thrill of intense satisfaction
to suspect that Joan had seen him risk his life for her. For the first
time he confessed to himself that he had more than a mere ordinary
liking for the girl. And this thrilled him, too.
He rose and began pacing back and forth, busy with his thoughts. It was
some time before he showed any particular interest in his surroundings.
Then he began to look about him. The light was dim, as there were only
two lamps in the cell room and these were on the front wall near the
corridor. In the gloom he could vaguely discern the forms of mops,
brooms, and a variety of other things. It was not until he looked up
that he became interested.
About three feet below the high ceiling was a window. This window was
about four feet wide and two feet deep. That there should be a window
was not surprising, yet Lane looked at it from every possible angle from
below. Then he sat down on the bench and stared straight ahead. He had
good reason for his interest, for the window was not barred! Evidently,
the room he was in had never been intended to hold prisoners; possibly,
for the building was practically new, the bars were yet to be installed.
But the fact remained that the window was free of bars and offered a
means of egress if he could reach it.
Lane immediately began to consider means of getting up to the window.
The wall which separated him from the other cells and the rear wall were
smoothly plastered and offered no foothold of any description. The mops
and broom offered no solution. He paced about restlessly, puzzling his
brain. Then came an idea.
He placed the bench upright against the wall under the window. But the
next problem was to get up on the end of the bench. He tried standing on
a pail and pulling himself up, but his weight brought the bench out from
the wall. He tried with the bench slanting, but saw that even if he got
up on its end he would be unable to reach the window. He put the bench
back in its place and sat down in disgust.
The jail was quiet, the other inmates apparently having gone to sleep.
Lane nodded himself as he sat on the bench, and then he was suddenly
wide awake and alert, staring at the wall under the window. There,
writhing like a brown snake against the white plaster, a rope dangled.
Lane could hardly believe his eyes. He looked at the rope stupidly for
several seconds. Then he sprang forward and grasped it, tested it with
his weight. It held firm. In a flash, he understood. Some one had thrown
the rope through the window and it was secured outside. Moreover, it was
a cow rope and had seen service. Lane grasped it and went up hand over
hand. He reached the window and slipped through, clinging to the sill
with his hands. Then he dropped.
To his surprise the drop was not so far as he had anticipated, for he
landed on a high pile of dirt left during the construction of the
building. He clambered down from this heap, pulling down the rope. A
soft whistle came from the trees some little distance behind the jail,
and when he hurried over Joan French stepped out to meet him. Lane could
only stare in dumb astonishment.
“I didn’t know it would be you,” the girl said hurriedly in a guarded
voice. “I saw the open window up there an’ took a chance. I figured
_some_body would come out. I’m glad it was you. Is Will or Frank in
there?”
Lane shook his head. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “But how did you get
here, an’ why did you come back?”
“I had to find out _some_ way about my brothers. I didn’t know how I was
going to find out till I saw that window. Then I took a chance on the
rope. It was too risky to call. I went up that awful trail an’ raced
around to where I could get down into the canyon again. I saw what
happened up there on the trail.” She paused, then added: “You’d better
come with me, for I know where there are some horses.”
She touched his hand and started down the canyon in the shelter of the
trees along the creek. Raysville had quieted down. They crossed the
deserted street at the lower end of town and plunged into the timber on
a steep slope. Soon they reached the horses which had wandered there
after breaking away from behind The Nugget. Lane gave a peculiar whistle
and repeated it several times as he moved about the horses. Finally, he
got an answering whinny, and in a few moments he had found his own
mount.
“Pure luck,” he murmured; “an’, Joan, I don’t know whether to call you a
brick, or an angel, or just a foolish little girl.” He took one of her
hands and they walked up the slope a short distance to where Joan’s
horse was tethered. There they mounted.
“I’m going to take you to a place where you can hang out for a spell,”
said Joan. “They’ll take it for granted, I reckon, that you went the
easiest way—by the road.”
They followed the slope by a zigzagging game trail, with Joan in the
lead, and Lane noticed for the first time the small case on the rear of
the girl’s saddle which contained her violin. When they reached the top
of the ridge above the canyon, Joan waited for Lane to bring up
alongside and then handed him her gun.
“You’d better take this,” she said, “an’ you needn’t be in any big hurry
about returning it.”
Lane understood and took the weapon. “I told the sheriff that _I_ shot
that deputy,” he said, “so don’t forget if it should come up any time.
He saw you an’ he thinks you’re a boy.”
“Is he—dead?” asked the girl, her tone sharp with anxiety.
Lane shook his head. “No,” he answered cheerfully. “If he had been dead,
or even seriously wounded, the sheriff would have mentioned it.”
“We’ll go on,” said Joan, and they started, pushing their way higher and
higher into the mountains.
With the first gray light of dawn streaking the eastern horizon, they
came to a cup in the shoulder of a high peak. It was a natural bowl in
the mountain, with a waterfall at its upper rim and an entrance by means
of a narrow creek on its lower side. The bottom of the bowl was a
flower-splashed meadow, with a clump of firs in the center.
“We can stay here today,” said Joan. “Tonight I will show you a trail
that leads over the Wizards and down to the border desert. They may come
up this way, but I don’t think any one except my brothers an’ I know of
this place.”
“I will try an’ find Will an’ Frank,” said Lane as they dismounted.
“They’ll have to be warned. Joan, some of those fellows McClure captured
are sure to talk to get out of it easier. They know they haven’t a
chance in jail, an’ I know Brule well enough to say that he won’t help
them. Will an’ Frank should not turn up at that rendezvous in the
south.”
Joan looked at him soberly. “It was bad business when my brothers got
mixed up with that Brule,” she said slowly. “They would have been better
off to have kept on their own.”
Lane unsaddled the horses and opened his slicker pack. In it was the
package of emergency rations brought from the ranch. They ate beside the
stream in the cool shade of the firs with the sun swinging up in the
east casting its glory on the towering peaks.
“Joan,” said Lane when they had finished and he had built a cigarette,
“I’m going over the range to hunt for Will an’ Frank. I’ll find them
somewhere an’ talk cold turkey to them. I reckon Will has sense enough
to listen to reason. Then I’m coming back to the ranch to see you. After
that, the sheriff can do what he pleases.”
The girl was silent, but she was looking at him surreptitiously. If Lane
had caught the glow in her eyes at that moment he would have learned
much.
“You saved the sheriff’s life last night,” she said in a low voice. “He
won’t be forgetting that. It happened just as I came in.”
“Maybe I saved Brule’s instead,” said Lane with a wry smile.
“Lane, why did you hook up with that outfit?” Joan asked, after a short
silence.
“Why did you double back an’ show up at The Golden Nugget?” he asked.
She looked at him out of troubled eyes. “Because I like the excitement,”
she replied, and he saw that she spoke the truth. “My brothers have been
my only companions almost since I can remember. They taught me to draw
an’ shoot, an’ thought it was fun. But I never turned my gun on any one
until last night. I was excited an’ when I saw that deputy’s star I
became frightened. I didn’t think the raid was going to be such—such hot
stuff. I’ve trailed along with Will an’ Frank for the fun of the thing.
I’ve been sort of a boy at heart. But I can’t explain it so you would
understand. I’m two persons, I guess.”
“I believe I understand,” said Lane. “Joan, I know it makes you happy to
play your violin an’ I like to hear the music you make in the hills.
Will you play for me?”
The girl flushed and her eyes sparkled. If Lane had but known it, it was
the very thing she wanted to do; the thing that would give her an outlet
for her pent-up feelings and soothe her nerves. She took the instrument
from its case, made sure of its tuning, tucked it under her chin, and
played.
Lane lay upon the grass, looking up at her, fascinated by her soft
beauty, the sheen of her hair in the sunlight; charmed and stirred by
the enchanting music that flowed from the strings. She played on and on.
In her eyes was a dark, mysterious glow, with an occasional spark of
fire. There was everything in the notes that swelled and sang and
wavered on the faint mountain breeze—hot love, and swift death, the
blistering heat of the inferno, and the cool shadows of silent forests,
the wind in the pines, rippling brooks, and moonlight. For Joan played
of the great desolate wastes of desert, of the black lava hills, of the
mountains—of the wide outdoors which she loved. And then a softer note
of wistful yearning seemed to come into her music. Lane thrilled at the
change of mood. It was almost as if she were conveying a message with
her bow.
She stopped suddenly. The violin was lowered and she stood looking up at
the towering mountain. Lane could not stifle the impulse that seized
him. He rose, stepped to her side, trembling. Then he took her in his
arms and kissed her.
With the kiss, she broke free. Her eyes flashed. “You had no right!” she
cried. The bow fell and her hand dropped to her empty holster.
Lane quickly drew the weapon from his own holster and held it out to her
on the palm of his hand.
She looked at him steadily and slowly the angry look in her eyes died.
“You must never do that again,” she said slowly.
“Only with your consent, Joan,” he said softly; “and some day you will
give it.”
Any answer she might have made to this was checked by an exclamation
from Lane, who leaped forward, flipping the gun into place in his right
hand as a rider came splashing up the creek at the entrance to the bowl.
But Lane did not fire, nor did he cover the rider who drew up before
them, looking keenly at Joan in her boyish clothes. It was Sheriff
McClure.
The official dismounted leisurely. He looked at Lane with a quizzical
light in his eyes. “I _thought_ you had a reason for joining up with
Brule besides the prospect for loot,” he said in his drawling voice of
complaint. “You needn’t scowl,” he went on in sharper tones. “I’ve known
for some time that the young lady, here, had a fancy for these jaunts
with Will an’ Frank. I knew her last night the moment I saw her. Lane,
you threw in with Brule because you expected the girl to be present when
things happened, an’ you can’t deny it!”
Lane was frowning. “Isn’t there some way we can leave Joan out of it?”
he said curtly. “She was merely out for the—for the excitement of the
thing.” Joan was looking at him with wide eyes.
“Exactly,” nodded the sheriff. “An’ one of my deputies has a smashed
collar bone, thanks to a bullet from her gun. That’s sure exciting.”
“You know how it could happen,” said Lane. “I don’t have to explain to
you.”
“Nope,” said the sheriff, almost cheerfully. “We all know how bullets
are sent about their business.” He looked sternly at Joan, who was pale
but defiant. Then he turned back to Lane. “Did you kill Neff?”
“Yes,” Lane replied laconically.
“Not a bad job,” drawled McClure. “I suppose he got frisky. Do you know
where the gang was to meet for the split?”
“I do,” nodded Lane. “But I’m not telling.”
“No reason why you should,” said the sheriff. “You’ve got plenty of
money to bail yourself out, I take it. One of my official friends up
North mentioned you in a letter some time ago. Said you were dangerous
but square, an’ a wizard with the cards. Name’s Lane?”
“That’s it,” was the answer, accompanied by a scowl.
“The men I captured seem to think you’re a double-crosser,” the sheriff
went on, “but I told them they were probably mistaken. Some of them
talked an’ I expect to have the whole outfit rounded up an’ cooling
their heels in jail in less than a week. I had a sneaking hunch that it
would be something like this that would wreck Brule. An’ when I asked
Will at the ranch if he was considering any long rides, he as much as
told me so in the look he gave me. I figured it might be Raysville.”
“It’s kind of you to tell me all this, sheriff,” said Lane, “but there’s
no need of worrying Joan. You want me, an’ I’m ready to go. But I’ll
tell you that I was merely goin’ south to warn the gang an’ then I was
coming back. Don’t think I’m asking any clemency. I don’t give a
dog-gone for you an’ your court. But maybe you’ll be fair enough to
leave Joan out of it.”
“I don’t care _what_ he does!” Joan exclaimed.
Sheriff McClure nodded approvingly. “Good spirit,” he said. “There was
some of it in that music you were playin’ which steered us over here.
You don’t have to promise you won’t go on any more of these expeditions,
because there won’t _be_ any more. I’m going to send you home.”
“Good!” exclaimed Lane, smiling at Joan. “I’ll saddle up, sheriff, an’
we’ll be on our way!”
When they rode out of the bowl, they were met by several men, and Lane
surmised that the sheriff, suspecting that he, Lane, and possibly some
of the others had made for the trail over the range, had come up that
way. Then, too, the tracks left by their horses could be picked up on
the lower slopes.
They rode back down the shoulder of the mountain, down to the lower
ridges, down past the point where the trail turned off for Running Wolf
Canyon and Raysville. “He’s going to take me to the county seat,
wherever that is,” thought Lane. They rode on to where the trail turned
westward and led down the long slopes to the burning floor of the desert
and the French rancho. Here the sheriff called a halt. He motioned to
the members of the posse to draw back out of earshot. He pointed down
the trail, looked Lane steadily in the eye as he spoke:
“You go home with her and stay there until I tell you your next move.
There’s still a job for you to do.”
Lane looked at him in surprise. But the sheriff forestalled a question.
He turned to the girl.
“Joan, I hold you responsible for this man. See that he does as I have
ordered. He is not to leave the ranch.”
A minute later, Lane and Joan were riding down the winding trail toward
the desert, where the heat waves shimmered and a dark spot showed the
location of the rancho.