PARLEY
She stood beside the rock from which the ledge was reached from below,
and as if she had just stepped up into sight. Her rifle was so held in
both hands that it could be fired from her hip, and at such close
quarters with deadly accuracy. As she stood with startled eyes fixed
on his haggard face, her slender neck and poised head were very
familiar to de Spain.
And her expression, while it reflected her horrified alarm, did
not conceal her anger and aversion at the sight of him. Unaware of
the forbidding spectacle he presented, de Spain, swept by a
brainstorm at the appearance of this Morgan--the only one of all the
Morgans he had not fancied covering him and waiting to deliver his
death-warrant--felt a fury sweep over him at the thought of being
shot by a woman. The wild idea that she meant to kill him, which in a
rational moment would never have entered his mind, now in his
delirium completely obsessed him. Working, as it were, mechanically,
even the instinct of self-defense asserted itself against her. But
enough of reason remained in his disordered senses to tell him that
self-defense was out of the question. Whatever she meant to do, he
could no more fire at this girl, even had he a chance--and he
realized he was at her mercy--than he could at his sister; and he
lay with his eyes bent on hers, trying to read her purpose.
She stood guarded, but motionless with surprise. De Spain turned
himself slowly and, sitting up, waited for her to speak. There was
little to hope for, he thought, in her expression. And all of his
duplicity seemed to desert him before her cold resolution. The tricks
he would have tried, at bay before a man, he felt no inclination to
attempt. He read in her set face only abhorrence and condemnation, and
felt in no way moved to argue her verdict. "I suppose," he said, at
length, not trying to disguise his bitter resentment of her presence,
"you've come to finish me."
His shirt stained and tattered for bandages, his hair matted in blood
on his forehead, his eyes inflamed and sunken, his lips crusted and
swollen, the birthmark fastened vividly on his cheek made him a
desperate sight. Regarding him steadily, Nan, as bewildered as if she
had suddenly come on a great wounded beast of prey still dangerous,
made no response to his words. The two stared at each other defiantly
and for another moment in silence. "If you are going to kill me," he
continued, looking into her eyes without any thought of appeal, "do it
quick."
Something in his long, unyielding gaze impelled her to break the spell
of it. "What are you doing here?" she demanded with anger, curbing her
voice to control her excitement as best she could.
De Spain, still looking at her, answered only after a pause. "Hiding,"
he said harshly.
"Hiding to kill other men!" Nan's accusation as she clutched her rifle
was almost explosive.
He regarded her coolly, and with the interval he had had for thinking,
his wits were clearing. "Do I look like a man hunting for a fight?
Or," he added, since she made no answer, "like a man hunting for a
quiet spot to die in? How," he went on slowly, delirium giving place
to indignation, "can you say I'm hiding here to kill other men? That's
what your people tell you, is it?"
"I know you are a murderer."
In spite of his weakness he flushed. "No," he exclaimed sharply, "I'm
not a murderer. If you think it"--he pointed contemptuously to her
side--"you have your rifle--use it!"
"My rifle is to defend myself with. I am not a public executioner,"
she answered scornfully.
"You need no rifle to defend yourself from me--though I am a
murderer. And if you're not a public executioner, leave me--I'm dying
fast enough."
"You came here to hide to kill somebody!" she exclaimed, as if the
thought were a sudden explanation.
"What do you mean by 'here'? I might better ask why you came here," he
retorted. "I don't know where I am. Do I look as if I came here by
choice?" He paused. "Listen," he said, quite master of himself, "I'll
tell you why I came. I shall never get away alive, anyway--you can
have the truth if you want it. I got off my horse in the night to get
a drink. He bolted. I couldn't walk. I climbed up here to hide till my
wounds heal. Now, I've told you the truth. Where am I?"
The grip of her hands on the rifle might have relaxed somewhat, but
she saw his deadly revolver in its accustomed place and did not mean
to surrender her command of him. Nor would she tell him where he was.
She parried his questions. He could get no information of any sort out
of her. Yet he saw that something more than his mere presence detained
and perplexed her. Her prompt condemnation of him rankled in his mind,
and the strain of facing her suspicion wore on him. "I won't ask you
anything more," he said at length. "You do right to give me no
information. It might help me save my life. I can't talk any longer.
You know you think I've no right to live--that's what you think, isn't
it? Why don't you shoot?" She only stared at him. "Why don't you
answer?" he demanded recklessly.
Nan summoned her resolution. "I know you tried to kill my cousin," she
said hotly, after he had taunted her once more. "And I don't know you
won't try it again as soon as you are able. And I am going to think
what to do before I tell you anything or do anything."
"You know I tried to kill your cousin! You know nothing of the kind.
Your cousin tried to kill me. He's a bully and a coward, a man that
doesn't know what fair fighting means. Tell him that for me."
"You are safe in abusing him when he's not here."
"Send him to me! This is no place for a woman that calls me what you
call me--send your cousin and all his friends!" His voice shook with
anger. "Tell him I'm wounded; tell him I've had nothing to eat since I
fought him before. And if he's still afraid"--de Spain drew and broke
his revolver almost like a flash. In that incredibly quick instant she
realized he might have threatened her life before she could move a
muscle--"tell your fine cousin I've got one cartridge left--just one!"
So saying, he held in one hand the loaded cartridge and in the other
the empty revolver.
"You think little of bloodshed, I know," she returned unpleasantly.
"I think a whole lot," he drawled in painful retort, "of fair
fighting."
"And I'm a woman--you do well to taunt me with that."
"I did not taunt you with it. You are hatefully unjust," he protested
sullenly.
"You've asked me to go--I'm going. How much of what you tell me is
true, I don't know. But I can believe my own eyes, and I believe you
are not in condition to do much injury, even if you came here with
that intention. You will certainly lose your life if you move from
your hiding-place."
She started away. He leaned toward her. "Stop," he said peremptorily,
raising himself with a wrenching effort. Something in the stern eye
held her. His extended hand pointed toward her as arbitrarily as if,
instead of lying helpless at her feet, he could command her to his
bidding. "I want to ask you a question. I've told you the truth. I
have just one cartridge. If you are going to send your cousin and his
men here, it's only fair I should know it now--isn't it?"
Her face was hard in spite of the weakness he struggled to conceal. It
annoyed her to think he had surmised she was revolving in her mind
what to do. He was demanding an answer she had not yet given to
herself.
"My cousin is wounded," she said, pausing. And then with indecision:
"If you stay here quietly you are not likely to be molested."
She stepped down from the ledge as noiselessly as she had come. Shaken
by the discovery she had so unexpectedly made, Nan retreated almost
precipitately from the spot. And the question of what to do worried
her as much as it worried de Spain. The whole range had been shaken by
the Calabasas fight. Even in a country where appeal to arms was
common, where men were ready to snuff out a life for a word, or kill
for a mess of pottage--to settle for the least grave offense a dispute
with a shot--the story of the surprising, unequal, and fatal encounter
of the Calabasas men with de Spain, and of his complete disappearance
after withstanding almost unheard-of odds, was more than a three days'
wonder; nothing else was talked of for weeks. Even the men in Morgan's
Gap, supposed to be past masters of the game played in the closed room
at Calabasas, had been stunned by the issue of the few minutes with
Jeffries's new man.
Nan, who had heard but one side of the story, pictured the aggressor
from the tale of the two who lived to tell of the horribly sharp
action with him. Morning, noon, and night she had heard nothing but
the fight at Calabasas discussed by the men that rode in and out of
the Gap--and in connection with it, de Spain's unexplained flight
and disappearance. Those that knew the real story of the conspiracy
to kill him did not talk much, after the disastrous outcome, of
that part of the affair. But Nan's common sense whispered to her,
whatever might be said about de Spain's starting the fight, that
one man locked in a room with four enemies, all dangerous in an
affray, was not likely to begin a fight unless forced to--none, at
least, but a madman would do so. She had heard stories, too, of de
Spain's drinking and quarrelling, but none that told them had ever
seen him under the influence of drink or had had a quarrel with him
except Gale and Sassoon--and these two were extremely quarrelsome.
Unhappy and irresolute, Nan, when she got home, was glad of an excuse
to ride to Calabasas for a packet of dressings coming by stage from
Sleepy Cat for Gale, who lay wounded at Satt Morgan's; and, eating a
hasty luncheon, she ordered her horse and set out.
Should she tell her Uncle Duke of finding de Spain? Whenever she decided
that she must, something in the recollection of de Spain's condition
unsettled her resolution. Tales enough of his bloodthirstiness, his
merciless efficiency, his ever-ready craft and consummate duplicity
were familiar to her--most of them made so within the last three
days--for no one in her circle any longer professed to underrate the
demonstrated resourcefulness of the man.
Yet only a few of these stories appealed to Nan's innate convictions
of truth and justice. She lived among men who were, for the most part,
not truthful or dependable even in small things--how could they be
relied on to tell the truth about de Spain's motives and conduct? As
to his deadly skill with arms, no stories were needed to confirm this,
even though she herself had once overcome him in a contest. The
evidence of this mastery had now a fatal pre-eminence among the
tragedies of the Spanish Sinks. Where he lay he could, if he meditated
revenge on her people, murder any of them, almost at will. To spare
his life imperilled to this extent theirs--but surely he lay not far
from death by exhaustion. Weighed against all she had ever listened
to concerning his deceit was the evidence of her own sight. She had
seen men desperately ill, and men desperately stricken. This man was
either both or she could never again believe her senses. And if he was
not helped soon he would die.
But who was to help him? Certainly none of his friends could know
where he was hidden or of his plight--no help could come from them
unless she told them. If she told them they would try to reach him.
That would mean an appalling--an unthinkable--fight. If she told her
uncle, could she keep him from killing de Spain? She believed not. He
might promise to let him go. But she knew her uncle's ferocious
resentment, and how easy it would be for him to give her fine words
and, in spite of them, for de Spain to be found dead some morning
where he lay--there were plenty of men available for jobs such as
that.
All came back to one terrifying alternative: Should she help this
wretched man herself? And if he lived, would he repay her by shooting
some one of her own kin?
The long ride to Calabasas went fast as the debate swept on, and the
vivid shock of her strange experience recurred to her imagination.
She drew up before the big barn. Jim McAlpin was coming out to go to
supper. Nan asked for her package and wanted to start directly back
again. McAlpin refused absolutely to hear of it. He looked at her
horse and professed to be shocked. He told her she had ridden hard,
urged her to dismount, and sent her pony in to be rubbed, assuring Nan
heartily there was not a man, outside the hostlers, within ten miles.
While her horse was cared for, McAlpin asked, in his harmless Scotch
way, about Gale.
Concerning Gale, Nan was non-committal. But she listened with
interest, more or less veiled, to whatever running comment McAlpin had
to offer concerning the Calabasas fight. "And I was sorry to see Gale
mixed up in it," he concluded, in his effort to draw Nan out, "sorry.
And sorrier to think of Henry de Spain getting killed that way. Why, I
knowed Henry de Spain when he was a baby in arms." He put out his hand
cannily. "I worked for his father before he was born." His listener
remained obdurate. There was nothing for it except further probing, to
which, however, Jim felt abundantly equal. "Some say," he suggested,
looking significantly toward the door of the barn, and significantly
away again, "that Henry went down there to pick a fight with the boys.
But," he asserted cryptically, "I happen to know _that_ wasn't so."
"Then what did he go down there for?" demanded Nan indignantly, but
not warily.
McAlpin, the situation now in hand, took his time to it. He leaned
forward in a manner calculated to invite confidence without giving
offense. "Miss Nan," said he simply, "I worked for your Uncle Duke for
five years--you know that." Nan had, at least, heard it fifty times.
"I think a good deal of him--I think a good deal of you, so does the
missus, so does little Loretta--she's always asking about you, the
child is--and I hear and see a good deal here that other people don't
get next to--they can't. Now Henry de Spain was here, with me, sitting
right there where you are sitting, Miss Nan, in that chair," declared
McAlpin with an unanswerable finger, "not fifteen minutes before that
fight began, he was there. I told you he never went down there to
fight. Do you want the proof? I'll tell you--I wouldn't want anybody
else to know--will you keep it?"
Nan seemed indifferent. "Girls are not supposed to keep secrets," she
said obstinately.
Her narrator was not to be balked. He pointed to the coat-rack on the
wall in front of them both. "There is Henry de Spain's coat. He hung
it there just before he went down to the inn. Under it, if you look,
you'll find his belt of cartridges. Don't take my word--look for
yourself."
Giving this information time to sink in, McAlpin continued. Nan's eyes
had turned, despite her indifference, to the coat; but she was
thinking more intently about the belt which McAlpin asserted hung
under it. "You want to know what he did go down to the hotel for that
afternoon? I happen to know that, too," averred McAlpin, sitting down,
but respectfully, on the edge of the chair. "First I want to say this:
I worked for your Uncle Duke five years."
He paused to give Nan a chance to dispute the statement if she so
desired. Then taking her despairing silence as an indorsement of his
position in giving her a confidence, he went on: "Henry de Spain is
dead," he said quietly. She eyed him without so much as winking. "I
wouldn't tell it if he wasn't. Some of the boys don't believe he is.
I'm not a pessimist--not a bit--but I'm telling you it's a physical
impossibility for a man to take the fire of four revolvers in the
hands of four men like those four men, at arm's length, and live.
Henry de Spain is the cleverest man with a gun that ever rode the
Spanish Sinks, but limits is limits; the boy's dead. And he was always
talking about you. It's God's truth, and since he's dead it harms no
one to tell it to you, though I'd never breathe it to another. He was
fairly gone on you. Now that's the fair truth: the man was gone on
you. I knowed it, where others didn't know it. I was the only one he
could always ask about whether you'd been here, and when; and when you
might be expected coming again--and all such things like that.
"You don't have to knock me down, Miss Nan, to put me wise about a
man's being keen on a girl. I'm a married man," declared McAlpin with
modest pride. "He thought all the time he was fooling me, and keeping
covered. Why, I laughed to myself at his tricks to get information
without letting on! Now, that afternoon he came in here kind of moody.
It was an anniversary for him, and a hard one--the day his father was
shot from ambush--a good many years ago, but nary one of us had forgot
it. Then he happened to see your pony--this same pony you're riding
to-day--a-standing back there in the box-stall. He asked me whose it
was; and he asked me about you, and, by jinx! the way he perked up
when I told him you were coming in on the stage that afternoon! When
he heard you'd been sick, he was for going down to the hotel to get a
cup of coffee--for you!" McAlpin, like any good story-teller, was
already on his feet again. "He did it," he exclaimed, "and you know
what _he_ got when he stepped into the barroom." He took hold of de
Spain's coat and held it aside to enter his exhibit. "There," he
concluded, "is his cartridge-belt, hanging there yet. The boy is
dead--why shouldn't I tell you?"
Nan rode home much more excited, more bewildered than when she had
ridden over. What should she do? It was already pretty clear to her
that de Spain had not ridden unarmed to where she found him to ambush
any of the Morgans. He was not dead; but he was not far from it if
McAlpin was right and if she could credit her own senses in looking at
him. What ought she to do?
Other things McAlpin had said crowded her thoughts. Strangest shock of
all that this man of all other men should profess to care for her. She
had shown anger when McAlpin dared speak of it; at least, she thought
she had. And she still did not know how, sufficiently, to resent the
thought of such audacity on de Spain's part; but recalling all she
could of his words and actions, she was forced to confess to herself
that McAlpin's assertions were confirmed in them--and that what
McAlpin had said interpreted de Spain's unvarying attitude toward her.
This was, to say the least, a further awkward complication for her
feelings. She already had enough to confuse them.