THE TRAP
For more than a month--or from a few days following the night on which
she had seen her father talking with Dave Singleton--Ruth Hamlin had
been aware that her parent was acting strangely. There had been an
interval--directly after that night when he had told her about his talk
with Lawler, when Lawler had offered to help him to regain his place
among men--that Hamlin had seemed to "go straight," as he had promised.
During that interval he had taken her into his confidence many times, to
discuss with her the new prospects that the future seemed to offer, and
to renew his assurances to her. It had seemed, then, that there was hope
for him.
Of late, though, a change had come over him. He no longer confided in
her; his eyes were beginning to take on again the expression of guilt
she had seen in them in the old days; his glances at her were no longer
direct, but furtive, as though he feared she might learn something of
his actions should she meet his gaze.
In the old days Ruth had passively endured the shame that Hamlin's
crimes had brought upon her. They had been so unexpected that they had
stunned her--they had been so miserably mean that she had not dared to
take anyone into her confidence.
However, the days of passive endurance were over. Lawler knew, and
Lawler had helped her father. And now, she was certain, her father had
again fallen.
She steeled herself against pity for him, determined that she would not
stand idly by and watch him betray Lawler. She did not know what she
intended to do, or what she could do, to prevent the stealing of the
Circle L cattle; but she determined to watch her father, hopeful that
she might devise some way to prevent the thefts.
She had passed many sleepless nights, having become aware that her
father was habitually absenting himself after nightfall, but she had
never been able to catch him in the act of leaving the cabin at those
times, though many nights she had purposely stayed awake.
Tonight she had gone to her room, to lie awake on the bed, fully
dressed. She had left the oil-lamp burning, for Hamlin had been sitting
at a table reading. She heard him get up after a while; saw the light
flicker and go out; heard her father cross the floor and go to his room.
There was a fire in the kitchen stove, for the weather during the day
had been cold, and she could hear the embers crackling for more than an
hour after her father went to his room. After that there followed a
brief time when she heard nothing.
She drew a blanket over her, and its welcome warmth brought on a
drowsiness to which she almost yielded. She was sure, however, that she
would not go to sleep, and she lay there, comfortably for, it seemed
merely a few minutes. And then a sound assailed her ears and she started
up, realizing that she had been asleep. For a chill had come into the
air of the cabin, and she knew the fire had gone out.
She sat up, breathing fast, and ran to her father's room. The bed had
not been slept in; and she emerged from the room, her face pallid with
resolution.
Running to the outside door she swung it open and looked out. Far out
upon the clear, moonlit sweep of plain stretching toward Willets, she
saw the shadowy figures of two horsemen.
Moving swiftly, she went to the corral, caught her pony, saddled it,
threw on a bridle, mounted and rode after the two horsemen, urging the
pony to its best efforts.
The speed at which the pony traveled did not equal the pace of the
animals ahead of her, however, and she steadily lost ground, though the
night was so clear that she did not lose sight of the figures in front
of her until they reached the shadows of Willets' buildings. She did
lose them there, though, and when she rode down the dimly lighted street
she could see no sign of them.
There was no one about, and she rode back and forth on the street,
searching for Hamlin's horse, which would give her a clue to Hamlin's
whereabouts. And at last, peering into a vacant space between two
buildings she saw Hamlin's horse, and another, hitched to a rail near an
outside stairway.
She got off the pony, threw the reins over its head and ran around to
the front of the building, into the light of some oil-lamps that stabbed
the semi-gloom of the street.
The building was occupied by the Wolf Saloon. She knew that, and it was
that knowledge that caused her to hesitate as she stood in front of it.
But her father was in there, she was certain. She had recognized the
horse that had been hitched close to her father's as one that Singleton
had ridden to the Hamlin cabin on several of his visits, and the cold
determination that had seized her at last gave her courage to swing the
front door of the saloon open. She hesitated on the threshold, white,
shaking with dread, almost afraid, now that she had come this far, to
face the terrible men she knew she would find inside. The ill-fame of
the place was notorious.
But while she hesitated, she heard her father's voice--a sound that
drove her to instant action, for it was high-pitched, and carried a note
of anger.
She went inside, then, no longer thinking of herself; her heart a throb
with concern, courage of a high order sustaining her. She pushed the
outside door open, burst through the double-swing door that screened the
barroom from the street, and stood in the front of the room blinking at
the lights.
The room was full of men--she did not know how many. They made a great
blur in front of her; and it seemed to her that all their faces were
turned to her. She had a flashing view of a multitude of inquiring eyes;
she noted the thick haze that hung over the room; her nostrils were
assailed by mingled odors that were nauseating. The flashing glance
showed her the long bar, a cluster of lights overhead; card tables; a
low ceiling, and a stairway leading from the barroom to a platform.
All sound had ceased with her entrance. She saw her father standing near
the center of the room.
He was standing alone, in sinister isolation. Singleton was facing him,
about a dozen feet distant. A few feet from Singleton stood another
man--dark of face, with cruel lips, and eyes that held a wanton light. A
little farther away--close to the bar--stood Gary Warden.
Her father seemed to be the only man in the room who had not seen her. A
terrible rage had gripped him; he seemed to have undergone a strange
transformation since she had seen him last; that manhood which she had
thought had departed from him appeared to have returned.
For he made a striking figure as he stood there. He was rigid, alert; he
seemed to dominate every man that faced him, that stood within sound of
his voice. He had been talking when Ruth entered; he was still talking,
unaware of her presence.
His voice was pitched high, it carried a note of defiance; it was
vibrant with passion. Fascinated by the change in him, Ruth stood
motionless, listening.
"So that's what you brought me here for?" he said, his voice shaking
with rage. He was looking at Singleton and the man who stood near the
latter. "You brought me here because you wanted to be sure there'd be
enough of you to down me. Well, damn you--get goin!"
His voice rose to a screech of awful rage; and while it still resounded
through the room he dropped his right hand and dragged at the pistol at
his hip.
It was done so swiftly that Ruth could make no movement to interfere.
And yet as swiftly as her father's hand had dropped to the holster at
his side, the dark-faced man who stood near Singleton anticipated the
movement. His right hand moved like a streak of light. It went down,
then up again with the same motion. The air rocked with a crashing
report, mingled with Ruth's scream of terror. And Hamlin's gun loosened
in his hand, his knees doubled and he tumbled headlong, to fall face
down at the feet of the dark-faced man who stood, sneering, some
blue-white smoke curling upward in mocking laziness from the muzzle of
his pistol.
Ruth had moved with the report of the pistol; she was at Hamlin's side
when he fell, grasping one of his arms; and she went down with him, to
one knee, dazed from the suddenness of the thing; palzied with horror,
the room reeling around her.
How long she knelt at her father's side she did not know. It seemed only
a second or two to her when she raised her head and looked around with
dumb, agonized grief at the faces that seemed to fill the place. Then
she heard Warden's voice; he spoke to the dark-faced man who had killed
her father, and his voice was vibrant with a mocking, Satanic
satisfaction.
"You've wanted her, Slade--take her!"
The dark-faced man grinned at her, bestially. She leaped to her feet at
the expression of his eyes, and started to run toward the door. But
terror shackled her feet; it seemed that some power was dragging at her,
holding her back from the door. She had not taken more than half a
dozen steps when Slade was upon her.
His strength seemed to be prodigious, for despite her desperate
resistance he lifted her from the floor, crushed her to him and started
for the stairs. She screamed, begging the men in the room to help her.
But through the haze she saw grinning faces turned to hers; heard loud
laughter and coarse oaths. And then came oblivion.