WADLEY GOES HOME IN A BUCKBOARD
Clint Wadley took his daughter to the end of the street where his sister
lived, blowing her up like a Dutch uncle every foot of the way. The
thing she had done had violated his sense of the proprieties and he did
not hesitate to tell her so. He was the more unrestrained in his
scolding because for a few moments his heart had stood still at the
danger in which she had placed herself.
"If you was just a little younger I'd sure enough paddle you. Haven't
you been brought up a-tall? Did you grow up like Topsy, without any
folks? Don't you know better than to mix up in men's affairs an' git
yoreself talked about?" he spluttered.
Ramona hung her head and accepted his reproaches humbly. It was easy for
her to believe that she had been immodest and forward in her solicitude.
Probably Mr. Roberts--and everybody else, for that matter--thought she
could not be a nice girl, since she had been so silly.
"You go home an' stay there," continued Clint severely. "Don't you poke
yore head outside the door till I come back. I'll not have you traipsing
around this-a-way. Hear me, honey?"
"Yes, Dad," she murmured through the tears that were beginning to come.
"I reckon, when it comes to standin' off a crowd o' hoodlums, I don't
need any help from a half-grown little squab like you. I been too easy
on you. That's what ails you."
Ramona had not a word to say for herself. She crept into the house and
up to her room, flung herself on the bed and burst into a passion of
weeping. Why had she made such an exhibition of herself? She was ashamed
in every fiber of her being. Not only had she disgraced herself, but
also her father and her aunt.
Meanwhile her father was on his way back downtown. In spite of his years
the cattleman was hot-headed. He had something to say to Pete Dinsmore.
If it led to trouble Wadley would be more than content, for he believed
now that the Dinsmore gang--or some one of them acting in behalf of
all--had murdered his son, and he would not rest easy until he had
avenged the boy.
The Dinsmores were not at the Silver Dollar nor at the Bird Cage. A
lounger at the bar of the latter told the owner of the A T O that they
had gone to the corral for their horses. He had heard them say they were
going to leave town.
The cattleman followed them to the corral they frequented. Pete Dinsmore
was saddling his horse in front of the stable. The others were not in
sight, but a stable boy in ragged jeans was working over some harness
near the door.
Dinsmore sulkily watched Wadley approach. He was in a sour and sullen
rage. One of the privileges of a "bad-man" is to see others step softly
and speak humbly in his presence. But to-day a young fellow scarcely out
of his teens had made him look like a fool. Until he had killed Roberts,
the chief of the outlaws would never be satisfied, nor would his
prestige be what it had been. It had been the interference of Wadley and
his crowd that had saved the Ranger from him, and he was ready to vent
his anger on the cattleman if he found a good chance.
The outlaw knew well enough that he could not afford to quarrel with the
owner of the A T O. There was nothing to gain by it and everything to
lose, for even if the cattleman should be killed in a fair fight, the
Rangers would eventually either shoot the Dinsmores or run them out of
the country. But Pete was beyond reason just now. He was like a man with
a toothache who grinds on his sore molar in the intensity of his pain.
"I've come to tell you somethin', Dinsmore," said Wadley harshly.
"Come to apologize for throwin' me down, I reckon. You needn't. I'm
through with you."
"I'm not through with you. What I want to say is that you're a dog. No,
you're worse than any hound I ever knew; you're a yellow wolf."
"What's that?" cried the bad-man, astounded. His uninjured hand crept to
a revolver-butt.
"I believe in my soul that you murdered my boy."
"You're crazy, man--locoed sure enough. The Mexican--"
"Is a witness against you. When you heard that he had followed Ford that
night, you got to worryin'. You didn't know how much he had seen. So you
decided to play safe an' lynch him, you hellhound."
"Where did you dream that stuff, Wadley?" demanded Dinsmore, eyes
narrowed wrathfully.
"I didn't dream it, any more than I dreamed that you followed Ford from
the cap-rock where you hole up, an' shot him from behind at Battle
Butte."
"That's war talk, Wadley. I've just got one word to say to it. You're a
liar. Come a-shootin', soon as you're ready."
"That's now."
The cattleman reached for his forty-five, but before he could draw, a
shot rang out from the corral. Wadley staggered forward a step or two
and collapsed.
Pete did not relax his wariness. He knew that one of the gang had shot
Wadley, but he did not yet know how badly the man was hurt. From his
place behind the horse he took a couple of left-handed shots across the
saddle at the helpless man. The cattleman raised himself on an elbow,
but fell back with a grunt.
The position of Dinsmore was an awkward one to fire from. Without
lifting his gaze from the victim, he edged slowly round the bronco.
There was a shout of terror, a sudden rush of hurried feet. The
stableboy had flung himself down on Wadley in such a way as to protect
the prostrate body with his own.
"Git away from there!" ordered the outlaw, his face distorted with the
lust for blood that comes to the man-killer.
"No. You've done enough harm. Let him alone!" cried the boy wildly.
The young fellow was gaunt and ragged. A thin beard straggled over the
boyish face. The lips were bloodless, and the eyes filled with fear. But
he made no move to scramble for safety. It was plain that in spite of
his paralyzing horror he meant to stick where he was.
Dinsmore's lip curled cruelly. He hesitated. This boy was the only
witness against him. Why not make a clean job of it and wipe him out
too? He fired--and missed; Pete was not an expert left-hand shot.
"Look out, Pete. Men comin' down the road," called the other Dinsmore
from the gate of the corral.
Pete looked and saw two riders approaching. It was too late now to make
sure of Wadley or to silence the wrangler. He shoved his revolver back
into its place and swung to the saddle.
"Was it you shot Wadley?" he asked his brother.
"Yep, an none too soon. He was reachin' for his six-shooter."
"The fool would have it. Come, let's burn the wind out of here before a
crowd gathers."
Gurley and a fourth man joined them. The four galloped down the road and
disappeared in a cloud of white dust.
A moment later Jumbo Wilkins descended heavily from his horse. Quint
Sullivan, another rider for the A T O, was with him.
The big line-rider knelt beside his employer and examined the wound.
"Hit once--in the side," he pronounced.
"Will--will he live?" asked the white-faced stableboy.
"Don't know. But he's a tough nut, Clint is. He's liable to be cussin'
out the boys again in a month or two."
Wadley opened his eyes. "You're damn' whistlin', Jumbo. Get me to my
sister's."
Quint, a black-haired youth of twenty, gave a repressed whoop. "One
li'l' bit of a lead pill can't faze the boss. They took four or five
cracks at him an' didn't hit but once. That's plumb lucky."
"It would 'a' been luckier if they hadn't hit him at all, Quint,"
answered Jumbo dryly. "You fork yore hawss, son, an' go git Doc
Bridgman. An' you--whatever they call you, Mr. Hawss--rustler--harness a
team to that buckboard."
Jumbo, with the expertness of an old-timer who had faced emergencies of
this kind before, bound up the wound temporarily. The stable-rustler
hitched a team, covered the bottom of the buckboard with hay, and helped
Wilkins lift the wounded man to it.
Clint grinned faintly at the white-faced boy beside him. A flicker of
recognition lighted his eyes. "You look like you'd seen a ghost, Ridley.
Close call for both of us, eh? Lucky that Ranger plugged Dinsmore in the
shootin' arm. Pete's no two-gun man. Can't shoot for sour apples with
his left hand. Kicked up dust all around us, an' didn't score once."
"Quit yore talkin', Clint," ordered Jumbo.
"All right, Doc." The cattleman turned to Ridley. "Run ahead, boy, an'
prepare' Mona so's she won't be scared plumb to death. Tell her it's
only a triflin' flesh-wound. Keep her busy fixin' up a bed for me--an'
bandages. Don't let her worry. See?"
Ridley had come to town only two days before. Ever since the robbery he
had kept a lone camp on Turkey Creek. There was plenty of game for the
shooting, and in that vast emptiness of space he could nurse his wounded
self-respect. But he had run out of flour and salt. Because Tascosa was
farther from the A T O ranch than Clarendon he had chosen it as a point
to buy supplies. The owner of the corral had offered him a job, and he
had taken it. He had not supposed that Ramona was within a hundred miles
of the spot. The last thing in the world he wanted was to meet her, but
there was no help for it now.
Her aunt carried to Ramona the word that a man was waiting outside with
a message from her father. When she came down the porch steps, there
were still traces of tear-stains on her cheeks. In the gathering dusk
she did not at first recognize the man at the gate. She moved forward
doubtfully, a slip of a slender-limbed girl, full of the unstudied charm
and grace of youth.
Halfway down the path she stopped, her heart beating a little faster.
Could this wan and ragged man with the unkempt beard be Art Ridley,
always so careful of his clothes and his personal appearance? She was a
child of impulse. Her sympathy went out to him with a rush, and she
streamed down the path to meet him. A strong, warm little hand pressed
his. A flash of soft eyes irradiated him. On her lips was the tender
smile that told him she was still his friend.
"Where in the world have you been?" she cried. "And what have you been
doing to yourself?"
His blood glowed at the sweetness of her generosity.
"I've been--camping."
With the shyness and the boldness of a child she pushed home her
friendliness. "Why don't you ever come to see a fellow any more?"
He did not answer that, but plunged at his mission. "Miss Ramona, I've
got bad news for you. Your father has been hurt--not very badly, I
think. He told me to tell you that the wound was only a slight one."
'Mona went white to the lips. "How?" she whispered.
"The Dinsmores shot him. The men are bringing him here."
He caught her in his arms as she reeled. For a moment her little head
lay against his shoulder and her heart beat against his.
"A trifling flesh-wound, your father called it," went on Ridley. "He
said you were to get a bed ready for him, and fix bandages."
She steadied herself and beat back the wave of weakness that had swept
over her.
"Yes," she said. "I'll tell Aunt. Have they sent for the doctor?"
"Quint Sullivan went."
A wagon creaked. 'Mona flew into the house to tell her aunt, and out
again to meet her father. Her little ankles flashed down the road. Agile
as a boy, she climbed into the back of the buckboard.
"Oh, Dad!" she cried in a broken little voice, and her arms went round
him in a passion of love.
He was hurt worse than he was willing to admit to her.
"It's all right, honeybug. Doc Bridgman will fix me up fine. Yore old
dad is a mighty live sinner yet."
Ridley helped Jumbo carry the cattleman into the house. As he came out,
the doctor passed him going in.
Ridley slipped away in the gathering darkness and disappeared.