HUSBAND AND LOVER
Where all the trail-wise men of Suffering Creek and the district had
failed, Scipio, the incompetent, succeeded. Such was the ironical
pleasure of the jade Fortune. Scipio had not the vaguest idea of
whither his quest would lead him. He had no ideas on the subject at
all. Only had he his fixed purpose hard in his mind, and, like a
loadstone, it drew him unerringly to his goal.
There was something absolutely ludicrous in the manner of his search.
But fortunately there are few ready to laugh at disaster. Thus it was
that wherever he went, wherever he paused amongst his fellows in
search of information he was received perfectly seriously, even when
he told the object of his search, and the story of its reason.
An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He
would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting
information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circumstances, his
purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as
Scipio's. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no
reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy
which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the
settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie
telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him
in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual
temperament prompted.
At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced
citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the
country.
"Say, fellers," he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the
bunkhouse door, "ther's a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin' fer
the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot 'em up. He's a sawed-off
mutt, an' don't look a heap like scarin' a jack-rabbit. I told him he
best git back to hum, an' git busy fixin' his funeral right, so he
wouldn't have no trouble later."
"Wher's he from?" someone asked.
"Sufferin' Creek," replied the cowpuncher, "an' seems to me he's got
more grit than savvee."
And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode
like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured
horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite
untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit
of sheer delight.
At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and
then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James
or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower
foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck,
however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation
that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to
hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do
so; and the message was signed "James."
"So ye see," said the farmer--a man named Nicholls--despondently,
"he's som'eres skulkin' around hyar."
"Seems like it," acquiesced Scipio.
Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other's mind, and
the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds.
"Say, you're lookin' fer him?" the farmer questioned harshly. Then he
leant forward, his eyes lighting with sudden anger. "If I tho't you
was--"
But Scipio's mild blue eyes, and his simple reply had a pacific effect
at once.
"I'm looking for him because he's stole my wife. And I'm goin' on
chasin' till I find him."
There was such mild sincerity in his visitor's manner that it was
impossible for the farmer to retain his suspicion.
"What you goin' to do about that four hundred?" inquired Scipio
later.
"He'll get no dollars out o' me. I ain't got 'em," replied Nicholls
hopelessly. Then his temper rose. "But I'm just goin' to sleep with a
gun to my hand, an' he'll get it good an' plenty, if he shoots the
life out of me, an' burns every stick I got, after."
Scipio nodded sympathetically.
"I'd feel that ways," he said. "Well, I guess I'll be gettin' on. My
mare'll be fed an' rested by this. Thanks for the feed. Guess I'll
hunt around this district a piece. Maybe I'll find--"
But suddenly the farmer awoke from the contemplation of his own
troubles and eyed the diminutive figure of his guest wonderingly, as
he stood up to go.
"Say," he observed critically, "guess you must be bustin' with grit
chasin' this feller."
Scipio shook his head.
"No," he said, with a wan smile. "But he's got--my wife."
"Ah."
And there was a world of understanding in the man's monosyllable.
Five minutes later the man-hunter was on the trail again. It was the
afternoon of the second day of his quest. He was saddle-sore and
weary, but his purpose knew no weakening. Gipsy was going fresh and
strong, and though she had already traveled probably a hundred miles
in her rider's aimless wanderings, she moved as though she was out for
a morning's exercise on a liberal diet of oats.
True to his intention Scipio scoured the district with an excess of
enthusiasm which carried him far, and sundown found him amongst the
beehive hummocks which form the approach to the greater hills. Up and
down these wonderful grassy dunes he roamed searching a resting-place
for himself and his mare. There was nothing of the sort in sight,
nothing but the endless series of grassy knolls, and the dividing
hollows which might conceal anything, from a ranch house to an
outlying cattle station. And finally he abandoned all hope of
shelter.
He had certainly lost himself. But, even so, he was not greatly
concerned. Why should he be? What did it matter? He knew that if the
worst came to the worst his mare could eat her fill of grass, and, for
himself, sleep in the open had no terrors. Of food for himself he had
not even begun to think. So he rode on until the last blaze of the
setting sun dropped behind the sky-line.
He was descending into a hollow, something deeper than usual. Hope ran
high that it was one of those hidden breaks, which, at intervals,
cross the sea of grassy dunes, and mark a mountain waterway. Nor was
he disappointed. A few moments later, to his delight, he found himself
gazing into the depths of one of the many rivulets trickling its
shallow way between low cut banks. Promptly he made up his mind that
it was the place for him to camp.
At the water's edge he scrambled out of the saddle and began to seek a
place where his mare could drink. It was a little difficult, for the
banks were sharp, and the bushes plentiful, and he had wandered at
least a hundred yards in his search for an opening when a human voice
abruptly hailed him from the far side of the stream. He looked across
without answering, and, to his intense surprise, beheld a horseman on
the opposite bank. The man, judging by his appearance, was a
cowpuncher, and, to Scipio's simple mind, was, like himself,
benighted.
"Hello," he replied at last, after a thoughtful stare.
The man was eyeing the yellow-headed figure with no very friendly
eyes, but this fact was lost upon Scipio, who saw in him only a fellow
man in misfortune. He saw the lariat on the horn of the saddle, the
man's chapps, his hard-muscled broncho pony gazing longingly at the
water. The guns at the man's waist, the scowling brow and shifty eyes
passed quite unobserved.
"Wher' you from?" demanded the man sharply.
"Suffering Creek," replied Scipio readily.
"Guess you've come quite a piece," said the other, after a considering
pause.
"I sure have."
"What you doin' here?"
The man's inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of
anybody, and answered quite without hesitation.
"I'm huntin' a man called James. You ain't seen him?"
But the man countered his question with another.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Scipio--and yours?"
In the dying light the man's saturnine features seemed to relax for a
moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once.
"Come right over," he invited. "Guess my name's Abe--Abe Conroy. I'm
out chasin' cattle." And the fact that he finished up with a
deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion.
Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man's
instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a
shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed
over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was
at his new acquaintance's side.
The stranger's mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by
the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner
of speech was comparatively jocular.
"So you're chasin' that crook, James," he said easily. "Queer, ain't
it?"
"What?"
"Why, he's run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that's how I'm
guessin'. I'm makin' up to his place right now to spy out things. I
was jest waitin' fer the sun to go. Y'see we're organizin' a vigilance
party to run--Say, I'd a notion fer a moment you was one of his
gang."
But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly.
"No. I just need to find him. I'm needin' it bad."
"Wot fer?"
For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave
him a moment's pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always
answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him.
"He's stole my wife," he said, his eyes directly gazing into the
other's face.
"Gee, he's a low-down skunk," declared the other, with a curse. But
the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion's
understanding.
Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew
of James' whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he
contented himself with stating his intention.
"I'll ride on with you," he said.
"What, right up to James' lay-out?"
"Sure. That's wher' I'm makin'."
For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the
afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored
enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now
he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows
were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear
purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite
course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was
for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.
"If you're set on makin' James' shanty, you best come right along.
Only"--he hesitated for the barest fraction of a second--"y'see, I'm
out after this cattle racket, an' I guess I owe it to my folks to git
their bizness thro' without no chance of upset. See?"
Scipio nodded. He saw the man's drift, and thought it quite splendid
of him.
"Now, I got to spy out things," the man went on, "an' if you get right
up ther' first it'll likely upset things fer me--you goin' ther' to
hold him up as it were." His smile was more pronounced. "Now I guess
I'll show you where his lay-out is if you'll sure give me your promise
to let me hunt around fer ha'f-an-hour around his corrals--'fore you
butt in. Then I'll get right back to you an' you can go up, an'--shoot
him to hell, if you notion that fancy."
Scipio almost beamed his thanks. The man's kindness seemed a noble
thing to him.
"You're a real bully fellow," he said. "Guess we'll start right now?"
The man turned and his shrewd eyes fixed themselves piercingly on the
little man's face.
"Yes," he said shortly, "we'll get on."
He led the way, his horse slightly in advance of the mare, and for
some time he made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. The
twilight was rapidly passing into the deeper shadows of night, but he
rode amongst the hills as though he were traveling a broad open trail.
There was no hesitation, no questioning glance as to his direction.
He might have been traveling a trail that he had been accustomed to
all his life. At last, however, he glanced round at his companion.
"Say, what you goin' to do when--you get there?" he asked.
"Fetch my wife back," replied Scipio earnestly.
"What'll James be doin'?"
"He can't keep her--she's mine."
"That's so. But--if he notions to keep her?"
Scipio was silent for some moments. His pale eyes were staring
straight ahead of him out into the growing darkness.
"Maybe, I'll have to shoot him," he said at last, as though there
could be no question about the matter.
The man nodded.
"Got useful guns?" he inquired casually.
"Got one."
"Ah, what is it? Magazine?"
Scipio pulled his antique possession out of his pocket and handed it
over for the man's inspection.
"It's all right," he said. "Guess the sights ain't good over a
distance, but at close range it'll make a nasty hole."
Conroy took the weapon in his hand. His keen eyes noted the age of the
pattern. He also saw the battered condition of the sights, and the
clumsy, rusted, protruding hammer. It was six-chambered, and he knew
that it must be all of forty years old. One of the earliest pattern
revolvers. The sight of it filled him with cruel amusement, but he
kept a serious face.
"I 'lows that should bring James to his senses," he observed, as he
handed it back to its owner.
Scipio read his answer as approval, and warmed towards him.
"I'd say so," he said, returning his antiquity to his pocket. "You
see, a gun's li'ble to rattle a feller like James. A man who can get
around when a feller's back's turned, an' make love to his wife, ain't
much of a man, is he? I mean he hasn't much grit. He's a coward sure.
If he'd got grit he wouldn't do it. Well, that's how I figger 'bout
this James. He's mean, an' a cowardly dog. I don't guess I'll have to
use that gun, but I jest brought it along to scare him to his senses,
if he needs it. Maybe though he won't need it when he sees me come
along--y'see, I'm Jessie's husband--guess that'll fix him sure."
"Guess you got James sized up good," observed the man, with his eyes
fixed ahead. "No, I don't see you'll need that gun."
They rode on, Scipio's spirits rising with every yard they traveled.
He knew he was nearing his wife with every passing moment. He had no
doubts, no fears. So long as he could reach her side he felt that all
would be well. In spite of her letter it never entered his head that
she cared for the man she had gone off with. He blamed James, and it
was no mere figure of speech when he said that he believed he had
"stolen" her. He believed such to be the case. He believed she had
gone unwillingly. In his mind it was a case of abduction. Again and
again he thanked Providence that he had fallen in with this man,
Conroy. He was a good fellow, he told himself, a good friend. And his
ideas were so coincident with his own about James.
They were approaching the higher hills. Towering, broken crags loomed
ahead darkly in the gathering gloom. The vast riven facets cut the
sky-line, and black patches of pine forests, and spruce, gave a
ghostly, threatening outlook. They must have been riding over two
hours when Scipio realized they were passing over a narrow cattle
track on the summit of a wooded hill. Then presently their horses
began a steep shelving descent which required great caution to
negotiate. And as they proceeded the darkness closed in upon them,
until they appeared to be making an almost precipitate descent into a
vast black pit. There was no light here at all except for the stars
above, for the last glow of twilight was completely shut off by the
great wall they were now leaving behind them.
No word was spoken. Each man was busy with his horse, and the animals
themselves were stumbling and floundering as they picked their
uncertain way. A quarter of an hour of this went by, then, suddenly,
ahead, still farther down the slope, two or three dim lights shone up
at them like will-o'-the-wisps. They seemed to dance about before
Scipio's eyes as they rode. Nor, as he pointed them out to his
companion, did he realize that this peculiarity was due to the motion
of his mare under him.
"Yep," replied Conroy dryly. "Them's James' lights."
"He's got a large place," said Scipio, with some awe in his tone.
"He sure has," agreed Conroy, smiling in the darkness. "He's got the
biggest an' best-stocked ranch in Montana."
"You say he's a--cattle thief?" Scipio was struggling to get things
into proper focus.
"He sure is." And Conroy's tone of satisfaction had the effect of
silencing further comment by his companion.
A few moments later the descent was completed, and the soft grass
under her feet set Gipsy dancing to get on, but Conroy pulled up.
"Here," he said authoritatively, "you set right here while I get on
an' get thro' with my business. I'll come along back for you."
Without demur Scipio waited, and his companion vanished in the
darkness. The little man had entered into an agreement, and had no
desire, in spite of his eagerness to be doing, of departing from the
letter of it. So he possessed himself in what patience he could until
Conroy's return.
The soft pad of the retiring horse's hoofs on the thick grass died
away. And presently one of the twinkling lights ahead was abruptly
shut out. The horseman had intervened on Scipio's line of vision. Then
the yellow gleam as suddenly reappeared, and the last sign of Conroy
passed. The waiting man watched with every faculty alert. His ears and
eyes straining for the least unusual sound or sight. But there was
none forthcoming.
Then he began to think. He began to consider the situation. He began
to picture to himself something of the scene that he hoped would
shortly take place between himself and the man James. It was the first
time he had thought of the matter deliberately, or attempted to
estimate its possibilities. Hitherto he had been too torn by his
emotions to consider anything in detail. And, even now, so imbued was
he with the right of his cause that he only saw his own point of view,
which somehow made James a mere plaything in his hands.
He found himself dictating his will upon the thief in firm tones. He
demanded his wife without heat, but with the knowledge of the power of
his gun lying behind his words. He felt the restraint he would use. He
would not bully. Who was he to bully after having had Jessie restored
to him? James should be dealt with as gently as his feelings would
permit him. Yes, thank God, he had no actual desire to hurt this man
who had so wronged him. The man was foolish, and he could afford to be
generous, having had Jessie restored to him. No, he would try hard to
forgive him. It would be a tremendous struggle, he knew, yet he felt,
with Jessie restored to him, he ought to make the effort. Somehow,
even now, he almost felt sorry for so misguided a--
But his reflections were suddenly cut short by the sound of horses'
hoofs returning, and, a moment later, Conroy loomed up in the
darkness. He came quite close up before he spoke, and then it was
almost in a whisper.
"I've located things," he said, with an air of deep satisfaction.
"Guess we'll make Mr. 'Lord' James hunt his hole 'fore we're thro'
with him. I figger a rawhide fixed neat about his neck'll 'bout meet
his case. An' say, I've news fer you. Ther's some o' his boys around.
He's jest right in ther' wher' you ken see that biggish light," he
went on, pointing at the illuminated square of a window. "I see him
through an open door round back. He's lyin' on a heap o' blankets
readin' a book. Ef you git along now you'll get him wher' you need
him, an'--an' I wouldn't take no chances. Get a drop on him from
outside the door, an'--wal, guess a feller like you'll know what to do
after that. I'm gettin' back to home."
Scipio glowed. He felt he could have hugged this good-natured
stranger. But he did not altogether agree with the man's suggestion of
getting the drop on James. He felt it would hardly be playing the
game. However, he intended to be guided by circumstances.
"Thanks, friend," he said, in his simple fashion. "You must let me
call you that," he went on eagerly. "You see, you've done something
for me to-night I can't never forget. Maybe you've got a wife of your
own, and if so you'll sure understand."
"Can't rightly say I've got a--wife," the man replied, "but I ken
understan' all right. James is low--doggone low," he added. And his
face was turned well away so that he could grin comfortably without
fear of the other seeing it.
"Well, so long," said Scipio hastily. "Seeing I shan't see you here
when I get back, I'd just like to thank you again."
"So long," replied the other. "An' you needn't to thank me too much."
Scipio urged his mare forward, and the man sat looking after him. And
somehow his face had lost something of its satisfied expression.
However, he sat there only a moment. Presently he lifted his reins
and set his horse at a canter in the direction of one of the more
distant lights.
"He's a pore fule," he muttered, "but it's a lousy trick anyways."
Thus he dismissed the matter from his mind with a callous shrug.
In the meantime Scipio neared the house from which shone the larger
light. As he drew towards it he saw its outline against the starlight.
It was a large, two-storied frame house of weather-boarding, with a
veranda fronting it. There were several windows on the hither side of
it, but light shone only in one of them. It was by this light the
horseman saw a tie-post some yards from the house. And without
hesitation he rode up to it, and, dismounting, secured his mare. Then,
following Conroy's directions, he proceeded on foot to the back of the
house where he was to find an open door. He turned the angle of the
building. Yes, the door was there all right, but whereas Conroy had
said that James was lying on his blankets reading, he now discovered
that the doorway was filled by that handsome thief's presence.
Before he realized what had happened, Scipio found himself in the full
glare of the light from the doorway, and James was smiling down upon
his yellow head with a curious blending of insolence and curiosity.
"I was wondering when you'd get around," he said, without shifting his
position. Then, as Scipio made no answer, he bestirred himself. "Come
right in," he added, and, lounging out of the doorway, he dropped back
into the room. "You'll find things a bit untidy," he went on calmly,
"you see I'm making changes in my domestic arrangements. This is
temporary, I guess. However, if you don't just mind that, why--come
right in."
The man's whole manner was one of good-humored indifference. There was
an unruffled assurance about him that was quite perfect, if studied.
Scipio's presence there seemed the last thing of concern to him. And
the effect of his manner on his visitor entirely upset all the
latter's preconceived intentions. Astonishment was his first feeling.
Then a sudden diffidence seized him, a diffidence that was nearly akin
to fear of his rival. But this passed in a moment, and was instantly
replaced by a hot rush of blood through his small body. All his
pictured interview died out of his recollections, and, in place of
that calmness with which he had intended to meet the man, he found his
pulses hammering and hot anger mounting to his head. The commonest of
human passions stirred in him, and he felt it would be good to hurt
this man who had so wronged him.
"Where's my wife?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness.
"Oh--it's that. Say, come right in?"
James was still smiling pleasantly. This time Scipio accepted the
invitation without thought of trap or anything else. He almost
precipitated himself into the room.
Nor in his fury did he observe his surroundings. He had no eyes for
the furnishings, the cheap comfort with which he was surrounded. And
though, as James had said, the place was untidy, he saw nothing and
none of it. His eyes were on the man; angry, bloodshot eyes, such eyes
as those of a furiously goaded dog, driven into a corner by the cruel
lash of a bully's whip.
"Yes, that's it. Wher's my wife?" Scipio demanded threateningly.
"You've stole her, and taken her from me. I've come to take her
back."
The force of his demands was tinged with the simplicity of a naturally
gentle disposition. And maybe, in consequence, something of their
sting was lost. The forceful bluster of an outraged man, determined
upon enforcing his demands, would probably have stirred James to
active protest, but, as it was, he only continued to smile his
insolence upon one whom he regarded as little better than a harmless
worm.
"One moment," he said, with an exasperating patience, "you say I stole
her. To have stolen her suggests that she was not willing to come
along. She came with me. Well, I guess she came because she fancied
it. You say you're going to take her back. Well," with a shrug, "I
kind of think she'll have something to say about going back."
For a moment Scipio stood aghast. He glanced about him helplessly.
Then, in a flash, his pale-blue eyes came back to the other's face.
"She's mine, I tell you! Mine! Mine! Mine!" he cried, in a frenzy of
rage and despair. "She's mine by the laws of God an' man. She's mine
by the love that has brought our kiddies into the world. Do you hear?
She's mine by every tie that can hold man and wife together. An'
you've stole her. She's all I've got. She's all I want. She's just
part of me, and I can't live without her. Ther's the kiddies to home
waitin' for her, and she's theirs, same as they are hers--and mine. I
tell you, you ain't going to keep her. She's got to come back." He
drew a deep breath to choke down his fury. "Say," he went on, with a
sudden moderating of his tone and his manner, taking on a pitiful
pleading, "do you think you love her? You? Do you think you know what
love is? You don't. You can't. You can't love her same as I do. I love
her honest. I love her so I want to work for her till I drop. I love
her so there's nothin' on earth I wouldn't do for her. My life is
hers. All that's me is hers. I ain't got a thought without her. Man,
you don't know what it is to love my Jessie. You can't, 'cos your
love's not honest. You've taken her same as you'd take any woman for
your pleasure. If I was dead, would you marry her? No, never, never,
never. She's a pastime to you, and when you've done with her you'd
turn her right out on this prairie to herd with the cattle, if ther'
wasn't anywher' else for her to go." Then his voice suddenly rose and
his fury supervened again. "God!" he cried fiercely. "Give me back my
wife. You're a thief. Give her back to me, I say. She's mine, d'you
understand--mine!"
Not for an instant did the smile on James' face relax. Maybe it became
more set, and his lips, perhaps, tightened, but the smile was there,
hard, unyielding in its very setness. And when Scipio's appeal came to
an end he spoke with an underlying harshness that did not carry its
way to the little man's distracted brain.
"She wouldn't go back to you, even if I let her--which I won't," he
said coldly.
The man's words seemed to bite right into the heart of his hearer.
Nothing could have been better calculated to goad him to extremity. In
one short, harsh sentence he had dashed every hope that the other
possessed. And with a rush the stricken man leapt at denial, which was
heartrending in its impotence.
"You lie!" he shouted. The old revolver was dragged from his pocket
and pointed shakingly at his tormentor's head. "Give her back to me!
Give her back, or--"
James' desperate courage never deserted him for an instant. And Scipio
was never allowed to complete his sentence. The other's hand suddenly
reached out, and the pistol was twisted from his shaking grasp with as
little apparent effort as though he had been a small child.
Scipio stared helpless and confused while James eyed the pattern of
the gun. Then he heard the man's contemptuous laugh and saw him pull
the trigger. The hammer refused to move. It was so rusted that the
weapon was quite useless. For a moment the desperado's eyes sought the
pale face of his would-be slayer. A devilish smile lurked in their
depths. Then he held out the pistol for the other to take, while his
whole manner underwent a hideous change.
"Here, take it, you wretched worm," he cried, with sudden savagery.
"Take it, you miserable fool," he added, as Scipio remained unheeding.
"It wouldn't blow even your fool brains out. Take it!" he reiterated,
with a command the other could no longer resist. "And now get out of
here," he went on mercilessly, as Scipio's hand closed over the
wretched weapon, "or I'll hand you over to the boys. They'll show you
less mercy than I do. They're waiting out there," he cried, pointing
at the door, "for my orders. One word from me and they'll cut the
liver out of you with rawhides, and Abe Conroy'll see it's done right.
Get you right out of here, and if ever you come squealing around my
quarters again I'll have you strung up by your wretched neck till
you're dead--dead as a crushed worm--dead as is your wife, Jessie, to
you from now out. Get out of here, you straw-headed sucker, get right
out, quick!"
But the tide of the man's fury seemed to utterly pass the little man
by. He made no attempt to obey. The pistol hung in his tightly
gripping hand, and his underlip protruded obstinately.
"She's mine, you thief!" he cried. "Give her back to me."
It was the cry of a beaten man whose spirit is unquenchable.
But James had finished. All that was worst in him was uppermost now.
With eyes blazing he stepped to the door and whistled. He might have
been whistling up his dogs. Perhaps those who responded were his dogs.
Three men came in, and the foremost of them was Abe Conroy.
"Here," cried James, his cruel eyes snapping, "take him out and set
him on his horse, and send him racing to hell after m'squitoes. And
don't handle him too easy."
What happened to him after that Scipio never fully understood. He had
a vague memory of being seized and buffeted and kicked into a state of
semi-unconsciousness. Nor did he rouse out of his stupor, until, sick
and sore in every limb, his poor yellow head aching and confused, he
found himself swaying dangerously about in the saddle, with Gipsy,
racing like a mad thing, under his helpless legs.