STRATEGY
One week went to repairs. To a man of action such a week is longer
than ten years of service. But chained to a bed in the Sleepy Cat
hospital, de Spain had no escape from one week of thinking, and for
that week he thought about Nan Morgan.
He rebelled at the situation that had placed him at enmity with her
kinsfolk, yet he realized there was no help for this. The Morgans were
a law unto themselves. Hardened men with a hardened code, they lived
in their fastness like Ishmaelites. Counselled by their leader, old
Duke Morgan, brains of the clan and influential enough to keep outside
the penalties of the law themselves, their understanding with the
outlaws of the Sinks was apparently complete, and the hospitality of
one or another of their following within the Gap afforded a refuge for
practically any mountain criminal.
But none of these reflections lightened de Spain's burden of
discontent. One thought alone possessed him--Nan; her comely body,
which he worshipped to the tips of her graceful fingers; her alert
mind, which he saw reflected in the simplest thought she expressed;
her mobile lips, which he followed to the least sound they gave forth!
The longer he pictured her, figured as she had appeared to him like a
phantom on Music Mountain, the more he longed to be back at the foot
of it, wounded again and famished. And the impulse that moved him the
first moment he could get out of bed and into a saddle was to spur his
way hard and fast to her; to make her, against a score of burly
cousins, his own; and never to release her from his sudden arms
again.
With de Spain, to think was to do; at least to do something, but not
without further careful thinking, and not without anticipating every
chance of failure. And his manner was to cast up all difficulties and
obstacles in a situation, brush them aside, and have his will if the
heavens fell. Such a temperament he had inherited from his father's
fiery heart and his mother's suffering, close-set lips as he had
remembered them in the little pictures of her; and he now set himself,
while doing his routine work every day, to do one particular thing--to
see, talk to, plead with, struggle with the woman, or girl,
rather--child even, to his thoughts, so fragile she was--this girl who
had given him back his life against her own marauding relatives.
For many days Nan seemed a match for all the wiles de Spain could use
to catch sight of her. He spent his days riding up and down the line
on horseback; driving behind his team; on the stages; in and out of
the streets of Sleepy Cat--nominally looking for stock, for equipment,
for supplies, or frankly for nothing--but always looking for Nan.
His friends saw that something was absorbing him in an unusual, even
an extraordinary way, yet none could arrive at a certain conclusion as
to what it was. When Scott in secret conference was appealed to by
Jeffries, he smiled foolishly, at a loss, and shook his head.
Lefever argued with less reticence. "It stands to reason, Jeffries. A
man that went through that ten minutes at Calabasas would naturally
think a good deal about what he is getting out of his job, and what
his future chances are for being promoted any minute, day or night, by
a forty-five."
"Perhaps his salary had better be raised," conceded Jeffries
reflectively.
"I figure," pursued Lefever, "that he has already saved the company
fifty thousands in depredations during the next year or two. The
Calabasas gang is busted for five years--they would eat out of his
hand--isn't that so, Bob?"
"The Calabasas gang, yes; not the Morgans."
John's eyes opened on Scott with that solemnity he could assume to
bolster a baldly unconvincing statement. "Not now, Bob. Not now, I
admit; but they will."
Scott only smiled. "What do you make out of the way he acts?"
persisted Lefever, resenting his companion's incredulity.
"I can't make anything of it," premised Bob, "except that he has
something on his mind. If you'll tell me what happened from the time
he jumped through the window at Calabasas till he walked into his room
that night at the barn, I'll tell you what he's thinking about."
"What do you mean, what happened?"
"Henry left some things out of his story."
"How do you know?"
"I heard him tell it."
Jeffries, acting without delay on the suspicion that de Spain was
getting ready to resign, raised his salary. To his surprise, de Spain
told him that the company was already paying him more than he was
worth and declined the raise; yet he took nobody whomsoever into his
confidence.
However, the scent of something concealed in de Spain's story had long
before touched Lefever's own nostrils, and he was stimulated by mere
pride to run the secret down. Accordingly, he set himself to find, in
a decent way, something in the nature of an explanation.
De Spain, in the interval, made no progress in his endeavor to see
Nan. The one man in the country who could have surmised the situation
between the two--the barn boss, McAlpin--if he entertained suspicions,
was far too pawky to share them with any one.
When two weeks had passed without de Spain's having seen Nan or having
heard of her being seen, the conclusion urged itself on him that she
was either ill or in trouble--perhaps in trouble for helping him; a
moment later he was laying plans to get into the Gap to find out.
Nothing in the way of a venture could be more foolhardy--this he
admitted to himself--nothing, he consoled himself by reflecting, but
something stronger than danger could justify it. Of all the motley
Morgan following within the mountain fastness he could count on but
one man to help him in the slightest degree--this was the derelict,
Bull Page. There was no choice but to use him, and he was easily
enlisted, for the Calabasas affair had made a heroic figure of de
Spain in the barrooms. De Spain, accordingly, lay in wait for the old
man and intercepted him one day on the road to Sleepy Cat, walking
the twenty miles patiently for his whiskey.
"You must be the only man in the Gap, Bull, that can't borrow or steal
a horse to ride," remarked de Spain, stopping him near the river
bridge.
Page pushed back the broken brim of his hat and looked up. "You
wouldn't believe it," he said, imparting a cheerful confidence, "but
ten years ago I had horses to lend to every man 'tween here and Thief
River." He nodded toward Sleepy Cat with a wrecked smile, and by a
dramatic chance the broken hat brim fell with the words: "They've got
'em all."
"Your fault, Bull."
"Say!" Up went the broken brim, and the whiskied face lighted with a
shaking smile, "you turned some trick on that Calabasas crew--some
fight," Bull chuckled.
"Bull, is old Duke Morgan a Republican?"
Bull looked surprised at the turn of de Spain's question, but answered
in good faith: "Duke votes 'most any ticket that's agin the
railroad."
"How about picking a couple of good barnmen over in the Gap, Bull?"
"What kind of a job y'got?"
"See McAlpin the next time you're over at Calabasas. How about that
girl that lives with Duke?"
Bull's face lighted. "Nan! Say! she's a little hummer!"
"I hear she's gone down to Thief River teaching school."
"Came by Duke's less'n three hours ago. Seen her in the kitchen makin'
bread."
"They're looking for a school-teacher down there, anyway. Much
sickness in the Gap lately, Bull?"
"On'y sickness I knowed lately is what you're responsible for y'self,"
retorted Bull with a grin. "Pity y' left over any chips at all from
that Calabasas job, eh?"
"See McAlpin, Bull, next time you're over Calabasas way. Here"--de
Spain drew some currency from his pocket and handed a bill to Page.
"Go get your hair cut. Don't talk too much--wear your whiskers long
and your tongue short."
"Right-o!"
"You understand."
"Take it from old Bull Page, he's a world's wonder of a sucker, but he
knows his friends."
"But remember this--you don't know me. If anybody knows you for a
friend of mine, you are no good to me. See?"
Bull was beyond expressing his comprehension in words alone. He
winked, nodded, and screwed his face into a thousand wrinkles. De
Spain, wheeling, rode away, the old man blinking first after him, and
then at the money in his hand. He didn't profess to understand
everything in the high country, but he could still distinguish the
principal figures at the end of a bank-note. When he tramped to
Calabasas the next day to interview McAlpin he received more advice,
with a strong burr, about keeping his own counsel, and a little
expense money to run him until an opening presented itself on the
pay-roll.
But long before Bull Page reached Calabasas that day de Spain had
acted. When he left Bull at the bridge, he started for Calabasas, took
supper there, ordered a saddle-horse for one o'clock in the morning,
went to his room, slept soundly and, shortly after he was called,
started for Music Mountain. He walked his horse into the Gap and rode
straight for Duke Morgan's fortress. Leaving the horse under a heavy
mountain-pine close to the road, de Spain walked carefully but
directly around the house to the east side. The sky was cloudy and the
darkness almost complete. He made his way as close as he could to
Nan's window, and raised the soft, crooning note of the desert owl.
After a while he was able to distinguish the outline of her casement,
and, with much patience and some little skill remaining from the
boyhood days, he kept up the faint call. Down at the big barn the
chained watch-dog tore himself with a fury of barking at the intruder,
but mountain-lions were common in the Gap, and the noisy sentinel
gained no credit for his alarm. Indeed, when the dog slackened his
fierceness, de Spain threw a stone over his way to encourage a fresh
outburst. But neither the guardian nor the intruder was able to arouse
any one within the house.
Undeterred by his failure, de Spain held his ground as long as he
dared. When daybreak threatened, he withdrew. The following night he
was in the Gap earlier, and with renewed determination. He tossed a
pebble into Nan's open window and renewed his soft call. Soon, a light
flickered for an instant within the room and died out. In the darkness
following this, de Spain thought he discerned a figure outlined at the
casement. Some minutes later a door opened and closed. He repeated the
cry of the owl, and could hear a footstep; the next moment he
whispered her name as she stood before him.
"What is it you want?" she asked, so calmly that it upset him. "Why do
you come here?"
Where he stood he was afraid of the sound of her voice, and afraid of
his own. "To see you," he said, collecting himself. "Come over to the
pine-tree."
Under its heavy branches where the darkness was most intense, he told
her why he had come--because he could not see her anywhere outside.
"There is nothing to see me about," she responded, still calm. "I
helped you because you were wounded. I was glad to see you get away
without fighting--I hate bloodshed."
"But put yourself in my place a little, won't you? After what you did
for me, isn't it natural I should want to be sure you are well and not
in any trouble on my account?"
"It may be natural, but it isn't necessary. I am in no trouble. No one
here knows I even know you."
"Excuse me for coming, then. I couldn't rest, Nan, without knowing
something. I was here last night."
"I know you were."
He started. "You made no sign."
"Why should I? I suspected it was you. When you came again to-night I
knew I should have to speak to you--at least, to ask you not to come
again."
"But you will be in and out of town sometimes, won't you, Nan?"
"If I am, it will not be to talk with you."
The words were spoken deliberately. De Spain was silent for a moment.
"Not even to speak to me?" he asked.
"You must know the position I am in," she answered. "And what a
position you place me in if I am seen to speak to you. This is my
home. You are the enemy of my people."
"Not because I want to be."
"And you can't expect them not to resent any acquaintance on my part
with you."
He paused before continuing. "Do you count Gale Morgan as one of your
people?" he asked evenly.
"I suppose I must."
"Don't you think you ought to count all of your friends, your
well-wishers, those who would defend you with their lives, among your
people?" She made no answer. "Aren't they the kind of people," he
persisted, "you need when you are in trouble?"
"You needn't remind me I should be grateful to you----"
"Nan!" he exclaimed.
"For I am," she continued, unmoved. "But----"
"It's a shame to accuse me in that way."
"You were thinking when you spoke of what happened with Gale on Music
Mountain."
"I wish to God you and I were on Music Mountain again! I never lived
or did anything worth living for, till you came to me that day on
Music Mountain. It's true I was thinking of what happened when I
spoke--but not to remind you you owed anything to me. You don't; get
that out of your head."
"I do, though."
"I spoke in the way I did because I wanted to remind you of what might
happen some time when I'm not near."
"I shan't be caught off my guard again. I know how to defend myself
from a drunken man."
He could not restrain all the bitterness he felt. "That man," he said
deliberately, "is more dangerous sober than drunk."
"When I can't defend myself, my uncle will defend me."
"Ask him to let me help."
"He doesn't need any help. And he would never ask you, if he did. I
can't live at home and know you; that is why I ask you not to come
again."
He was silent. "Don't you think, all things considered," she
hesitated, as if not knowing how easiest to put it, "you ought to be
willing to shake hands and say good-by?"
"Why, if you wish it," he answered, taken aback. And he added more
quietly, "yes, if you say so."
"I mean for good."
"I--" he returned, pausing, "don't."
"You are not willing to be fair."
"I want to be fair--I don't want to promise more than human nature
will stand for--and then break my word."
"I am not asking a whole lot."
"Not a whole lot to you, I know. But do you really mean that you don't
want me ever to speak to you again?"
"If you must put it that way--yes."
"Well," he took a long breath, "there is one way to make sure of that.
I'll tell you honestly I don't want to stand in the way of such a
wish, if it's really yours. As you have said, it isn't fair, perhaps,
for me to go against it. Got your pistol with you, Nan?"
"No."
"That is the way you take care of yourself, is it?"
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself not to be. And you don't even
know whom you'll meet before you can lock the front door again. You
promised me never to go out without it. Promise me that once more,
will you?" She did as he asked her. "Now, give me your hand, please,"
he went on. "Take hold of this."
"What is it?"
"The butt of my revolver. Don't be afraid." She heard the slight click
of the hammer with a thrill of strange apprehension. "What are you
doing?" she demanded hurriedly.
"Put your finger on the trigger--so. It is cocked. Now pull."
She caught her breath. "What do you mean?"
He was holding the gun in his two hands, his fingers overlapping hers,
the muzzle at the breast of his jacket. "Pull," he repeated, "that's
all you have to do; I'm steadying it."
She snatched back her hand. "What do you mean?" she cried. "For me to
kill you? Shame!"
"You are too excited--all I asked you was to take the trouble to crook
your finger--and I'll never speak to you again--you'll have your wish
forever."
"Shame!"
"Why shame?" he retorted. "I mean what I say. If you meant what you
said, why don't you put it out of my power ever to speak to you? Do
you want me to pull the trigger?"
"I told you once I'm not an assassin--how dare you ask me to do such
a thing?" she cried furiously.
"Call your uncle," he suggested coolly. "You may hold this meantime so
you'll know he's in no danger. Take my gun and call your uncle----"
"Shame on you!"
"Call Gale--call any man in the Gap--they'll jump at the chance."
"You are a cold-blooded, brutal wretch--I'm sorry I ever helped
you--I'm sorry I ever let you help me--I'm sorry I ever saw you!"
She sprang away before he could interpose a word. He stood stunned by
the suddenness of her outburst, trying to listen and to breathe at the
same time. He heard the front door close, and stood waiting. But no
further sound from the house greeted his ears.
"And I thought," he muttered to himself, "that might calm her down a
little. I'm certainly in wrong, now."