In from the blistering, blinding, burning heat of the inferno, Lane and
Joan drank long and deep of the cool waters of the rancho spring, while
Pedro took the horses in charge. As they walked up the lower patio, old
Zeb French came out on the rear porch. He merely glanced at Joan, and
then looked searchingly into Lane’s eyes. What he saw there caused him
to pass a faltering hand over his brow.
Joan went to her room and Lane followed the old man into the big, cool
living room. There French sat in his great chair, his gnarled hands
lying palm downward on the arms, and listened while Lane smoked and told
the story of the affair in Raysville and the aftermath. When he had
finished, Lane rose and stood as if he expected the old man to ask some
questions. But none came. Zeb French waved a hand in a gesture of
dismissal. He seemed suddenly to have grown very old, and his chin
dropped upon his breast.
Lane went to his room, where he took some clean garments from his
slicker pack. Then he had a bath and a long siesta, waking with the
setting of the sun. Joan was at the supper table. It was a silent meal
and at almost every sound from the kitchen Zeb French would start and
cock his left ear. His attitude was one of expectation.
After supper Lane walked in the lower patio, smoking. He half expected
Joan to come out and join him, but she did not come. She had changed
with the return to the rancho. Now she seemed as remote as ever. If the
sheriff had not found them in the mountain retreat when he did——
Lane wondered.
Then, from the front of the house, came the strains of Joan’s violin.
Lane walked around to the front porch, seated himself in a chair there,
listened to Joan’s playing, while the twilight shadows gathered and
deepened into night. For an hour she played—sweet, wonderful music of a
different quality than that she had played in the fastnesses of the
mountains. Then all was still. Lane looked into the living room after a
time. It was dark and empty. He went back to his room.
Soon he was pacing the patio in the moonlight. “Another job,” he
muttered to himself. What did the sheriff mean by that? What kind of a
job did he have for him? Lane puzzled over this, and over Joan’s
attitude. Was he still the stranger—the long rider she had hinted that
day on the shoulder of Smoky Butte? Had he made no progress after
rescuing her in The Nugget and risking his life for her on the
treacherous trail above Running Wolf Canyon? She had seen what had
happened up there, for she had said so.
His ruminations were terminated by the pound of hoofs. Will and Frank
French swept in from the desert. In a few minutes, Will and Lane were
sitting in the latter’s room and Lane was explaining what happened. Will
gave an occasional grunt. He plainly was nervous.
“I’ve got the bank money,” he said when Lane had finished. “I thought
I’d be as well off here as anywhere till it came time for the split.
McClure hasn’t got anything on me. He didn’t see me or Frank. Those rats
in jail can talk their heads off an’ McClure can’t prove a thing. I’m
goin’ to bed.”
Lane followed Will French’s example. Next day he saw Joan only twice. He
and Will and Frank talked. Will would not listen to Lane’s suggestion
that they go into the county seat and see Sheriff McClure.
“You fool!” cried Will angrily. “That would mean my giving up my gun,
and _that_ would mean——” He broke off, sputtering, and went into the
house.
Lane was in the living room after supper, deliberately holding forth in
a chair in hopes that Joan would come in. He intended to talk to her
this night. His face was rather pale with the firmness of his resolve.
Shouts came from the lower patio.
Lane hurried to the dining room as Zeb French came running into the
kitchen. The old man took down a Winchester that had rested on pegs
above a window. Through the open door in the rear, Lane could see the
cause of the trouble. Brule was walking slowly up the patio!
In a trice, Lane had wrested the rifle from Zeb French’s clutch and
tossed it out the window. Then he strode out upon the back porch and
down the steps. Brule’s face went black as he saw him. Frank and Will
French stood on either side of the steps, watching breathlessly. The old
man came out on the porch, croaking hoarsely in an effort to speak.
There was a little cry, and Lane knew Joan was with her father.
“C’me on, you double-crossing rat!” cried Brule hoarsely. “Sent ’em
after us, eh? Wanted to save your own skin. Well, you haven’t done any
damage yet. C’me on, you begged for it, _now take it!_”
The soft silence of the twilight hour was split by the roar of guns.
Lane was down, his left hand and right knee on the ground. Smoke curled
from his right hip. Brule staggered toward him, arms outflung, his gun
hand empty. Then he plunged forward on his face and lay still.
Lane stood motionless, while a sigh came from the spectators. Then
Sheriff McClure rode into the patio, dismounted, and walked swiftly to
Lane. He looked at the still form of the outlaw leader on the ground at
his feet. “That was the job I spoke of yesterday,” he said in a grave
voice, addressing Lane. “I knew he’d come here.” He beckoned to Will
French. “Will,” he said in his mournful voice, “I’ll take the bank money
back with me. What Brule got is in his saddle bag. Don’t keep me
waiting, Will; I have a long ride tonight.”
Will French, white-faced, looked the sheriff in the eye. He wet his
lips. “And then, sheriff?” he said quietly.
“Are you goin’ to take any more long rides, Will?” asked the official.
Will French shook his head impatiently. “This is kid stuff,” he said
crossly. “Well, if you must have it—_no!_”
“That’s right, Will. Get the bank money. You’ll have to come into town
later, on a few matters. Maybe we can smooth ’em out. I’m not forgettin’
your dad did me a good turn once by dragging me back from the edge of
kingdom come. Get the bank money, Will.”
Will went into the house for his saddle bag, which contained the plunder
taken from the Raysville bank.
Lane looked about and was surprised to find Joan standing behind him.
Now the sheriff was speaking to her. “You got him out of jail, little
lady—now you take care of him.” Joan’s cheeks bloomed with roses.
Will French came out of the house and handed over the saddle bag.
Joan had finished playing. She came out on the porch where Lane was
sitting in the gathering twilight. He rose and led her down into the
cool patio, fragrant with the breath of countless flowers. They walked
hand in hand, walked to the far end of the patio. There they stopped.
Lane took her hands in his.
“I used to think of you as my gun girl,” he said softly, “but Joan, I
want to think of you as my sweetheart. I’m not worthy, but there are
ways of making a living besides at the green tables. I’d change for you,
Joan.”
There was a period of tense silence. Then Joan’s arms went suddenly
about his neck. “Just so your heart doesn’t change,” she whispered.
The sunset flamed in a last crimson glow; then the twilight cast its
purple veil over the golden desert, and over the man and the girl, fast
in each other’s arms.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note
This etext was produced from Western Story Magazine, November 17, 1928.
Obvious typographical and printing errors have been corrected without
note. Period spellings, inconsistent hyphenation, and the author’s
punctuation and dialect have otherwise been left as printed.
Italic text is shown _like this_.