It caused a general lifting of heads and then a respectful silence. To
have offered sympathy would have been insulting; to ask questions was
beneath their dignity, but four pairs of eyes burned with curiosity.
The least curious was Arizona. He was a fat, oily man from the
southland, whose past was unknown in the vicinity of Woodville, and
Arizona happened to be by no means desirous of rescuing that past from
oblivion. He held the southlander's contempt for the men and ways of
the north. His presence in the office was explained by the fact that he
had long before discovered it to be an excellent thing to stand in with
the sheriff. After this statement from Kern, therefore, he first
glanced at his three companions, and, observing their agitation, he
became somewhat stirred himself and puckered his fat brows above his
eyes, as he glanced back at Kern.
"You've heard of the killing of Quade?" asked the sheriff.
"Yesterday," said Red Chalmers.
"And that they got the killer?"
"Nope."
"It was a gent you'd never have suspected--that skinny little
schoolteacher, Gaspar."
"I never liked the looks of him," said Red Chalmers gloomily. "I always
got to have a second thought about a gent that's too smooth with the
ladies. And that was this here Jig. So he done the shooting?"
"It was a fight over Sally Bent," explained the sheriff. "Sandersen and
some of the rest in Sour Creek fixed up a posse and went out and
grabbed Gaspar. They gave him a lynch trial and was about to string him
up when a stranger named Sinclair, a man who had joined up with the
posse, steps out and holds for keeping Gaspar and turning him over to
me, to be hung all proper and legal. I heard about all this and went
out to the Bent house, first thing this morning, to get Gaspar, who was
left there in charge of this Sinclair. Any of you ever heard about
him?"
A general bowing of heads followed, as the men began to consider, all
save Arizona, who never thought when he could avoid it, and positively
never used his memory. He habitually allowed the dead past to bury its
dead.
"It appears to me like I've heard of a Sinclair up to Colma," murmured
Bill Wood. "That was four or five years back, and I b'lieve he was
called a sure man in a fight."
"That's him," muttered the sheriff. He was greatly relieved to know
that his antagonist had already achieved so comfortable a reputation.
"A big, lean, hungry-eyed gent, with a restless pair of hands. He come
along with me while I was bringing Gaspar, but I didn't think nothing
about it, most nacheral. I leave it to you, boys!"
Settling themselves they leaned forward in their chairs.
"We was talking about hosses and suchlike, which Sinclair talked
uncommon slick. He seemed a knowing gent, and I opened up to him, but
in the middle of things he paws out his Colt, as smooth as you ever
see, and he shoves it under my nose."
Sheriff Kern paused. He was wearing gloves in spite of the fact that he
was in his office. These gloves seem to have a peculiarly businesslike
meaning for the others, and now they watched, fascinated, while the
sheriff tugged his fingers deeper into the gloves, as if he were
getting ready for action. He cleared his throat and managed to snap out
the rest of the shameful statement.
"He stuck me up, boys, and he told Jig to beat it up the trail. Then he
backed off, keeping me covered all the time, until he was around the
hill. The minute he was out of sight I follered him, but when it come
into view, him and Gaspar was high-tailing through the hills. I didn't
have no rifle, and it was plumb foolish to chase two killers with
nothing but a Colt. Which I leave it to you gents!"
"Would have been crazy, sheriff," asserted Red Chalmers.
"I dunno," sighed Arizona, patting his fat stomach reminiscently. "I
dunno. I guess you was right, Kern."
The others glared at him, and the sheriff became purple.
"So I come back and figured that I'd best get together the handiest
little bunch of fighting men I could lay hands on. That's why I sent
for you four."
Clumsily they made their acknowledgements.
"Because," said Kern, "it don't take no senator to see that something
has got to be done. Sour Creek is after Gaspar, and now it'll be after
Sinclair, too. But they got clear of me, and I'm the sheriff of
Woodville. It's up to Woodville to get 'em back. Am I right?"
Again they nodded, and the sheriff, growing warmer as he talked,
snatched off a glove and mopped his forehead. As his arm fell, he noted
that Arizona had seen something which fascinated him. His eyes followed
every gesture of the sheriff's hand.
"Is that the whole story?" asked Arizona.
"The whole thing," declared Kern stoutly, and he glared at the man from
the southland.
"Because if it's anything worse," said Arizona innocently, "we'd ought
to know it. The honor of Woodville is at stake."
"Oh, it's bad enough this way," grumbled Joe Stockton, and the sheriff,
hastily restoring his glove, grunted assent.
"Now, boys, let's hear some plans."
"First thing," said Red Chalmers, rising, "is for each of us to pick
out the best hoss in his string, and then we'll all ride over to the
place where they left and pick up the trail."
"Not a bad idea," approved Kern.
There was a general rising.
"Sit down," said Arizona, who alone had not budged in his chair.
Without obeying, they turned to him.
"Was that the Morris trail, Kern?" asked Arizona.
"Sure."
"Well, you ain't got a chance of picking up the trail of two hosses out
of two hundred."
In silence they received the truth of this assertion. Then Joe Stockton
spoke. He was not exactly a troublemaker, but he took advantage of
every disturbance that came his way and improved it to the last
scruple.
"Sinclair comes from Colma, according to Bill, and Colma is north. Ride
north, Kern, and the north trail will keep us tolerable close to
Sinclair. We can tend to Gaspar later on--unless he's a pile more
dangerous'n he looks."
"Yes, Sinclair is the main one," said the sheriff. "He's more'n a
hundred Gaspars. Boys, the north trail looks good to me. We can pick up
Gaspar later on, as Joe Stockton says. Straight for Colma, that's where
we'll strike."
"Hold on," cut in Arizona.
Patently they regarded him with disfavor. There was something blandly
superior in Arizona's demeanor. He had a way of putting forth his
opinions as though it were not the slightest effort for him to
penetrate truths which were securely veiled from the eyes of ordinary
men.
Now he looked calmly, almost contemptuously upon the sheriff and the
rest of the posse.
"Gents, has any of you ever seen this Jig you talk about ride a hoss?"
"Me, of course," said the sheriff.
"Anything about him strike you when he was in a saddle?"
"Sure! Got a funny arm motion."
"Like he was fanning his ribs with his elbows to keep cool?" went on
Arizona, grinning.
The sheriff chuckled.
"Would you pick him for a good hand on a long trail?"
"Never in a million years," said the sheriff. "Is he?"
Kern seemed to admit his inferiority by asking this question. He bit
his lip and was about to go on and answer himself when Arizona cut in
with: "Never in a million years, sheriff. He couldn't do twenty miles
in a day without being laid up."
"What's the point of all this, Arizona?"
"I'll show you pronto. Let's go back to Sinclair. The other day he was
one of a bunch that pretty near got Gaspar hung, eh?"
"Yep."
"But at the last minute he saved Jig?"
"Sure. I just been telling you that."
Their inability to follow Arizona's train of thought irritated the
others. He literally held them in the palm of his hand as he developed
his argument.
"Why did he save Jig?" he went on. "Because when Gaspar was about to
swing, they was something about him that struck Sinclair. What was it?
I dunno, except that Jig is tolerable young looking and pretty
helpless, even though you say he killed Quade."
"Say he killed him?" burst out the sheriff. "It was plumb proved on
him."
"I'd sure like to see that proof," said the man from the southland.
"The point is that Sinclair took pity on him and kept him from the
noose. Then he stays that night guarding him and gets more and more
interested. This Jig has got a pile of education. I've heard him talk.
Today you come over the hills. Sinclair sees Woodville, figures that's
the place where Jig'll be hung, and he loses his nerve. He sticks you
up and gets Jig free. All right! D'you think he'll stop at that? Don't
he know that Jig's plumb helpless on the trail? And knowing that, d'you
think he'll split with Jig and leave the schoolteacher to be picked up
the first thing? No, sir, he'll stick with Jig and see him through."
"Well, all the better," snapped the sheriff. "That's going to make our
trail shorter--if what you say turns out true."
"It's true, well enough. Sinclair right now is camping somewhere in the
hills near Sour Creek, waiting for things to quiet down before he hits
the out-trail with this Gaspar."
"He wouldn't be fool enough for that," grumbled the sheriff.
"Fool? Has any one of you professional man hunters figured yet on
hunting for 'em near Sour Creek? Ain't you-all been talking long
trails--Colma, and what not?"
They were crushed.
"All you say is true, if Sinclair saddles himself with the tenderfoot.
Might as well tie so much lead around his neck."
"He'll do it, though," said Arizona carelessly. "I know him."
It caused a new focusing of attention upon him, and this time Arizona
seemed to regret that he stood in the limelight.
"You know him?" asked Joe Stockton softly.
The bright black eyes of the fat man glittered and flickered from face
to face. He seemed to be gauging them and deciding how much he could
say--or how little.
"Sure, I drifted up to this country one season and rode there. I heard
a pile about this Sinclair and seen him a couple of times."
"How good a man d'you figure him to be with a gun?" asked the sheriff
without apparent interest.
"Good enough," sighed Arizona. "Good enough, partner!"
Presently the sheriff showed that he was a man capable of taking good
advice, even though he could not stamp it as his own original device.
"Boys," he said, "I figure that what Arizona has said is tolerable
sound. Arizona, what d'you advise next?"
"That we go to Sour Creek pronto--and sit down and wait!"
A chorus of exclamations arose.
Arizona grew impatient with such stupidity. "Sinclair come to Sour
Creek to do something. I dunno what he wants, but what he wants he
ain't got yet, and he's the sort that'll stay till he does his work."
"I've got in touch with the authorities higher up, boys," declared
Kern. "Sinclair and Gaspar is both outlawed, with a price on their
heads. Won't that change Sinclair's mind and make him move on?"
"You don't know Sinclair," persisted Arizona. "You don't know him at
all, sheriff."
"Grab your hosses, boys. I'm following Arizona's lead."
Pouring out of the door in silence, the omniscience of Arizona lay
heavily upon their minds. Inside, the sheriff lingered with the wise
man from the southland.
"If I was to get in touch with Colma, Fatty, what d'you think they'd be
able to tell me about your record up there?"
The olive skin of Arizona became a bleached drab.
"I dunno," he said rather thickly, and all the while his little black
eyes were glittering and shifting. "Nothing much, Kern."
His glance steadied. "By the way, when you had your glove off a while
ago I seen something on your wrist that looked like a rope gall, Kern.
If I was to tell the boys that, what d'you figure they'd think about
their sheriff?"
It was Kern's turn to change color. For a moment he hesitated, and then
he dropped a hand lightly on Arizona's shoulder.
"Look here, Arizona," he muttered in the ear of the fat man, "what you
been before you hit Woodville I dunno, and I don't care. I figure we
come to a place where we'd both best keep our mouths shut. Eh?"
"Shake," said Arizona, and they went out the door, almost arm in arm.
19
For Jude Cartwright the world was gone mad, as he spurred down the
hills away from Sinclair and the girl. It was really only the second
time in his life that he had been thwarted in an important matter. To
be sure he had been raised roughly among rough men, but among the
roughest of them, the repute of his family and the awe of his father's
wide authority had served him as a shield in more ways than Jude
himself could realize. He had grown very much accustomed to having his
way.
All things were made smooth for him; and when he reached the age when
he began to think of marriage, and was tentatively courting half a
dozen girls of the district, unhoped-for great fortune had fairly
dropped into his path.
The close acquaintance with old Mervin in that hunting trip had been
entirely accidental, and he had been astounded by the marriage contract
which Mervin shortly after proposed between the two families.
Ordinarily even Jude Cartwright, with all his self-esteem, would never
have aspired to a star so remote as Mervin's daughter. The miracle,
however, happened. He saw himself in the way to be the richest man on
the range, the possessor of the most lovely wife.
That dream was first pricked by the inexplicable disappearance of the
girl on their marriage day. He had laid that disappearance to foul
play. That she could have left him through any personal aversion never
entered his complacent young head.
He went out on the quest after the neighboring district had been combed
for his wife, and he had spent the intervening months in a ceaseless
search, which grew more and more disheartening. It was only by chance
that he remembered that Mervin had lived for some time in Sour Creek,
and only with the faintest hope of finding a clue that he decided to
visit that place. In his heart he was convinced that the girl was dead,
but if she were really hiding it was quite possible that she might have
remembered the town where her father had made his first success with
cattle.
Now the coincidence that had brought him face to face with her, stunned
him. He was still only gradually recovering from it. It was totally
incredible that she should have fled at all. And it was entirely beyond
the range of credence that modest Elizabeth Mervin should have donned
the clothes of a man and should be wandering through the hills with a
male companion.
But when his wonder died away, he felt little or no pity for his wife.
The pang that he felt was the torture of offended pride. Indeed, the
fact that he had lost his wife meant less to him than that his wife had
seen him physically beaten by another man. He writhed in his saddle at
the memory.
Instantly his mind flashed back to the details of the scene. He
rehearsed it with himself in a different role, beating the cowpuncher
to a helpless pulp of bruised muscle, snatching away his wife. But even
if he had been able to do that, what would the outcome be? He could not
let the world know the truth--that his wife had fled from him in horror
on their marriage day, that she had wondered about in the clothes of a
man, that she was the companion of another man. And if he brought her
back, certainly all these facts would come to light. The close-cropped
hair alone would be damning evidence.
He framed a wild tale of abduction by villains, of an injury, a
sickness, a fever that forced a doctor to cut her hair short. He had no
sooner framed the story than he threw it away as useless. With all his
soul he began to wish for the only possible solution which would save
the remnants of his ruined self-respect and keep him from the peril of
discovery. The girl must indubitably die!
By the time he came to this conclusion, he had struck out of the hills,
and, as his horse hit the level going and picked up speed, the heart of
Jude Cartwright became lighter. He would get weapons and the finest
horse money could buy in Sour Creek, trail the pair, take them by
surprise, and kill them both. Then back to the homeland and a new life!
Already he saw himself in it, his name surrounded with a glamour of
pathetic romance, as the sad widower with a mystery darkening his past
and future. It was an agreeable gloom into which he fell. Self-pity
warmed him and loosened his fierceness. He sighed with regret for his
own misfortunes.
In this frame of mind he reached Sour Creek and its hotel. While he
wrote his name in the yellowed register he over-heard loud conversation
in the farther end of the room. Two men had been outlawed that
day--John Gaspar, the schoolteacher who killed Quade, and Riley
Sinclair, a stranger from the North.
Paying no further attention to the talk, he passed on into the general
merchandise store which filled most of the lower story of the hotel.
There he found the hardware department, and prominent among the
hardware were the gun racks. He went over the Colts and with an expert
hand took up the guns, while the gray-headed storekeeper advanced an
eulogium upon each weapon. His attention was distracted by the entrance
of a tall, painfully thin man who seemed in great haste.
"What's all this about Cold Feet, Whitey?" he asked. "Cold Feet and
Sinclair?"
"I dunno, Sandersen, except that word come in from Woodville that
Sinclair stuck up the sheriff on his way in with Jig, and Sinclair got
clean away. What could have been in his head to grab Jig?"
"I dunno," said Sandersen, apparently much perturbed. "They outlawed
'em both, Whitey?"
There was an eagerness in this question so poorly concealed that
Cartwright jerked up his head and regarded Sandersen with interest.
"Both," replied Whitey. "You seem sort of pleased, Sandersen?"
"I knowed that Sinclair would come to a bad end," said Sandersen more
soberly.
"Why, I thought they said you cottoned to him when the boys was
figuring he might have had something to do with Quade?"
"Me? Well, yes, for a minute. But out at the necktie party, Whitey, I
kept watching him. Thinks a lot more'n he says, and gents like that is
always dangerous."
"Always," replied Whitey.
"But it's the last time Sinclair'll show his face in Sour
Creek--alive," said Sandersen.
"If he does show his face alive, it'll be a dead face pronto. You can
lay to that."
Sandersen seemed to turn this fact over and over in his mind, with
immense satisfaction.
"And yet," pursued the storekeeper, "think of a full-grown man breaking
the law to save such a skinny little shrimp of a gent as Jig? Eh? More
like a pretty girl than a boy, Jig is."
Cartwright exclaimed, and both of the others turned toward him.
"Here's the gun for me," he said huskily, "and that gun
belt--filled--and this holster. They'll all do."
"And a handy outfit," said Whitey. "That gun'll be a friend in need!"
"What makes you think they'll be a need?" asked Cartwright, with such
unnecessary violence that the others both stared. He went on more
smoothly: "What was you saying about a girl-faced gent?"
"The schoolteacher--he plugged a feller named Quade. Sinclair got him
clean away from Sheriff Kern."
"And what sort of a looking gent is Sinclair? Long, brown, and pretty
husky-looking, with a mean eye?"
"You've named him! Where'd you meet up with him?"
"Over in the hills yonder, just where the north trail comes over the
rise. They was sitting down under a tree resting their hosses when I
come along. I got into an argument with this Sinclair--Long Riley, he
called himself."
"Riley's his first name."
"We passed some words. Pretty soon I give him the lie! He made a reach
for his gun. I told him I wasn't armed and dared him to try his fists.
He takes off his belt, and we went at it. A strong man, but he don't
know nothing about hand fighting. I had him about ready to give up and
begging me to quit when this Jig, this girl-faced man you talk
about--he pulls a gun and slugs me in the back of the head with it."
Removing his sombrero he showed on the back of his head the great welt
which had been made when he struck the ground with the weight of
Sinclair on top of him. It was examined with intense interest by the
other two.
"Dirty work!" said Sandersen sympathetically.
The storekeeper said nothing at all, but began to fold up a bolt of
cloth which lay half unrolled on the counter.
"It knocked me cold," continued Cartwright, "and when I come to, they
wasn't no sign nor trace of 'em."
Buckling on the belt, he shoved the revolver viciously home in the
holster.
"I'll land that pair before the posse gets to 'em, and when I land 'em
I won't do no arguing with fists!"
"Say, I call that nerve," put in the storekeeper, with patent
admiration in his eyes, while he smoothed a fold of the cloth. "Running
agin' one gent like Sinclair is bad enough--let alone tackling two at
once. But you'd ought to take out a big insurance on your life, friend,
before you take that trail. It's liable to be all out-trail and no
coming back."
A great deal of enthusiasm faded from Cartwright's face.
"How come?" he asked briefly.
"Nothing much. But they say this Sinclair is quite a gunfighter, my
friend. Up in his home town they scare the babies by talking about
Sinclair."
"H'm," murmured Cartwright. "He can't win always, and maybe I'll be the
lucky man."
But he went out of the store with his head thoughtfully inclined.
"Think of meeting up with them two all alone and not knowing what they
was!" sighed Sandersen. "He's lucky to be alive, I'll tell a man."
Whitey grinned.
"Plenty of nerve in a gent like that," went on Sandersen, his pale blue
eyes becoming dreamy. "Get your gat out, will you, Bill?"
Bill Sandersen obliged.
"Look at the butt. D'you see any point on it?"
"Nope."
"Did you look at that welt on the stranger's head?"
"Sure."
"Did you see a little cut in the middle of the welt?"
"Come to think of it, I sure did."
"Well, Sandersen, how d'you make out that a gun butt would make a cut
like that?"
"What are you driving at, Whitey?"
"I'm just discounting the stranger," said Whitey. "I dunno what other
talents he's got, but he's sure a fine nacheral liar."
20
It was some time before Riley Sinclair interrupted his pacing and,
turning, strode over to the dim outlines of the sleeping girl. She did
not speak, and, leaning close above her, he heard her regular
breathing.
Waiting until he was satisfied that she slept, he began to move
rapidly. First, with long, soft steps he went to his saddle, which was
perched on a ridge of rock. This he raised with infinite care,
gathering up the stirrups and the cinches so that nothing might drag or
strike. With this bundle secured, he once more went close to the figure
of the sleeper and this time dropped on one knee beside her. He could
see nothing distinctly by the starlight, but her forehead gleamed with
one faint highlight, and there was the pale glimmer of one hand above
the blankets.
For the moment he almost abandoned the plan on which he had resolved,
which was no less than to attempt to ride into Sour Creek and return to
the girl before she wakened in the dawn. But suppose that he failed,
and that she wakened to find herself alone in the mountain wilderness?
He shuddered at the idea, yet he saw no other issue for her than to
attempt the execution of his plan.
He rose hastily and walked off, letting his weight fall on his toes
altogether, so that the spurs might not jingle.
Even that brief rest had so far refreshed his mustang that he was
greeted with flattened ears and flying heels. These efforts Sinclair
met with a smile and terrible whispered curses, whose familiar sound
seemed to soothe the horse. He saddled at once, still using care to
avoid noise, and swung steeply down the side of the mountain. On the
descending trail, he could cut by one half the miles they had traversed
winding up the slope.
Recklessly he rode, giving the wise pony its head most of the time, and
only seeing that it did not exceed a certain speed, for when a horse
passes a certain rate of going it becomes as reckless as a drunken man.
Once or twice they floundered onto sheer gravel slides which the
broncho took by flinging back on its haunches and going down with
stiffly braced forelegs. But on the whole the mustang took care of
itself admirably.
In an amazingly short time they struck the more placid footing of the
valley, and Sinclair, looking up, could not believe that he had been so
short a time ago at the top of the flat-crested mountain.
He gave little time to wondering, however, but cut across the valley
floor at a steady lope. From the top of the mountain the lights of Sour
Creek were a close-gathered patch, from the level they appeared as a
scattering line. Sinclair held straight toward them, keeping away to
the left so as to come onto the well-beaten trail which he knew ran in
that direction. He found it and let the mustang drop back to a steady
dogtrot; for, if the journey to Sour Creek was now a short distance,
there would be a hard ride back to the flat-topped mountain if he
wished to accomplish his business and return before the full dawn. He
must be there by that time, for who could tell what the girl might do
when she found herself alone. Therefore he saved the cattle pony as
much as possible.
He was fairly close to Sour Creek, the lights fanning out broader and
broader as he approached. Suddenly two figures loomed up before him in
the night. He came near and made out a barelegged boy, riding without a
saddle and driving a cow before him. He was a very angry herdsman, this
boy. He kept up a continual monologue directed at the cow and his
horse, and so he did not hear the approach of Riley Sinclair until the
outlaw was close upon him. Then he hitched himself around, with his
hand on the hip of his old horse, swaying violently with the jerk of
the gait. He was glad of the company, it seemed.
"Evening, mister. You ain't Hi Corson, are you?"
"Nope, I ain't Hi. Kind of late driving that cow, ain't you?"
The boy swore with shrill fluency.
"We bought old Spot over at the Apwell place, and the darned old fool
keeps breaking down fences and running back every time she gets a
chance. Ain't nothing so foolish as a cow."
"Why don't your dad sell her for beef?"
"Beef?" The boy laughed. "Say, mister, I'd as soon try to chew leather.
They ain't nothing but bones and skin and meanness to old Spot. But
she's a good milker. When she comes in fresh she gives pretty nigh onto
four gallons a milking."
"Is that so!"
"Sure is! Hard to milk, though. Kick the hat right off'n your head if
you don't watch her. Never see such a fool cow as old Spot! Hey!"
Taking advantage of this diversion in the attention of her guardian,
Spot had ambled off to the side of the road. The boy darted his horse
after her and sent her trotting down the trail, with clicking hoofs and
long, sweeping steps that scuffed up a stifling dust.
"Ain't very good to heat a milker up by running 'em, son," reproved
Sinclair.
"I know it ain't. But it wouldn't make me sorry if old Spot just
nacherally dropped down dead--she gives me that much trouble. Look at
her now, doggone her!"
Spot had turned broadside to them and waited for the boy to catch up
before she would take another forward step.
"You just coming in to Sour Creek?"
"Yep, I'm strange to this town."
"Well, you sure couldn't have picked a more fussed-up time."
"How come?"
"Well, you hear about the killing of Quade, I reckon?"
"Not a word."
"You ain't? Where you been these days?"
"Oh, yonder in the hills."
"Chipping rocks, eh? Well, Quade was a gent that lived out the norm
trail, and he had a fuss with the schoolteacher over Sally Bent, and
the schoolteacher up and murders Quade, and they raise a posse and go
out to hang Gaspar, the teacher, and they're kept from it by a stranger
called Sinclair; when the sheriff comes to get Gaspar and hang him
legal and all, that Sinclair sticks up the sheriff and takes Gaspar
away, and now they're both outlawed, I hear tell, and they's a price on
their heads."
The lad brought it out in one huge sentence, sputtering over the words
in his haste.
"How much of a price?"
"I dunno. It keeps growing. Everybody around Woodville and Sour Creek
is chipping in to raise that price. They sure want to get Gaspar and
Sinclair bad. Gaspar ain't much. He's a kind of sissy, but Sinclair is
a killer--and then some."
Sinclair raised his head to the black, solemn mountains. Then he looked
back to his companion.
"Why, has he killed anybody lately?"
"He left one for dead right today!"
"You don't mean it! He sure must be bad."
"Oh, he's bad, right enough. They was a gent named Cartwright come into
town today with his head all banged up. He'd met up with Gaspar and
Sinclair in the hills, not knowing nothing about them. Got into an
argument with Sinclair, and, not being armed, he had it out with fists.
He was beating up Sinclair pretty bad--him being a good deal of a
man--when Gaspar sneaks up and whangs him on the back of the head with
the butt of his Colt. They rode off and left him for dead. But pretty
soon he wakes up. He comes on into Sour Creek, rarin' and tearin' and
huntin' for revenge. Sure will be a bad mess if he meets up with
Sinclair ag'in!"
"Reckon it had ought to be," replied Sinclair. "Like to see this gent
that waded into two outlaws with his bare fists."
"He's a man, right enough. Got a room up in the hotel. Must have a pile
of money, because he took the big room onto the north end of the hotel,
the room that's as big as a house. Nothin' else suited him at all. Dad
told me."
"I ain't got nothing particular on hand," murmured Sinclair. "Maybe I
can get in on this manhunt--if they ain't started already."
The boy laughed. "Everybody in town has been trying to get in on that
manhunt, but it ain't any use. Sheriff Kern has got a handpicked
posse--every one a fightin' fool, Dad says. Wish you luck, though. They
ain't starting till the morning. Well, here's where I branch off.
S'long! Hey, Spot, you old fool, git along, will you?"
Sinclair watched the youngster fade into the gloom behind the ambling
cow, then he struck on toward Sour Creek; but, before he reached the
main street, he wound off to the left and let his horse drift slowly
beyond the outlying houses.
His problem had become greatly complicated by the information from the
boy. He had a double purpose, which was to see Cartwright in the first
place, and then Sandersen, for these were the separate stumbling blocks
for Jig and for himself. For Cartwright he saw a solution, through
which he could avoid a killing, but Sandersen must die.
He skirted behind the most northerly outlying shed of the hotel,
dismounted there, and threw the reins. Then he slipped back into the
shadow of the main building. Directly above him he saw three dark
windows bunched together. This must be Cartwright's room.
21
It seemed patent to Bill Sandersen, earlier that afternoon, that fate
had stacked the cards against Riley Sinclair. Bill Sandersen indeed,
believed in fate. He felt that great hidden forces had always
controlled his life, moving him hither and yon according to their
pleasure.
To the dreamy mind of the mystic, men are accidents, and all they
perform are the dictates of the power and the brain of the other world.
Sandersen could tell at what definite moments hunches had seized him.
He had looked at the side of the mountain and suddenly felt, without
any reason or volition on his part, that he was impelled to search that
mountainside for gold-bearing ore. He had never fallen into the habit
of using his reason. He was a wonderful gambler, playing with singular
abandon, and usually winning. It mattered not what he held in his hand.
If the urge came to him, and the surety that he was going to bet, he
would wager everything in his wallet, all that he could borrow, on a
pair of treys. And when such a fit was on him, the overwhelming
confidence that shone in his face usually overpowered the other men
sitting in at the game. More than once a full house had been laid down
to his wretched pair. There were other occasions when he had lost the
very boots he wore, but the times of winning naturally overbalanced the
losses in the mind of Bill. It was not he who won, and it was not he
who lost. It was fate which ruled him. And that fate, he felt at
present, had sided against Riley Sinclair.
A sort of pity for the big cowpuncher moved him. He knew that he and
Quade and Lowrie deserved death in its most terrible form for their
betrayal of Hal Sinclair in the desert; and nothing but fate, he was
sure, could save him from the avenger. Fate, however, had definitely
intervened. What save blind fate could have stepped into the mind of
Sinclair and made him keep Cold Feet from the rope, when that hanging
would have removed forever all suspicion that Sinclair himself had
killed Quade?
Another man would have attributed both of those actions to common
decency in Sinclair, but Sandersen always hunted out more profound
reasons. In order to let the fact of his own salvation from Sinclair's
gun sink more definitely into his brain, he trotted his horse into the
hills that afternoon. When he came back he heard that the posse was in
town.
To another it might have seemed odd that the posse was there instead of
on the trail of the outlaws. But Sandersen never thought of so
practical a question. To him it was as clear as day. The posse had been
brought to Sour Creek by fate in order that he, Sandersen, might enlist
in its ranks and help in the great work of running down Sinclair, for,
after all, it was work primarily to his own interest. There was
something ironically absurd about it. He, Sandersen, having committed
the mortal crime of abandoning Hal Sinclair in the desert, was now
given the support of legal society to destroy the just avenger of that
original crime. It was hardly any wonder that Sandersen saw in all this
the hand of fate.
He went straight to the hotel and up to the room which the sheriff had
engaged. Cartwright was coming out with a black face, as Sandersen
entered. The former turned at the door and faced Kern and the four
assistants of the sheriff.
"I'll tell you what you'll do, you wise gents," he growled. "You'll
miss him altogether. You hear?"
And then he stamped down the hall.
Sandersen carefully removed his hat as he went in. He was quite aware
that Cartwright must have been just refused a place on the posse, and
he did not wish to appear too confident. He paid his compliments to the
bunch, except Arizona, to whom he was introduced. The sheriff
forestalled his request.
"You've come for a job in the posse, Bill?"
Hastily Sandersen cut in before the other should pronounce a final
judgment.
"I don't blame you for turning down Cartwright," he said. "A gent like
that who don't know the country ain't much use on the trail, eh?"
"The point is, Bill, that I got all the men I need. I don't want a
whole gang."
"But I got a special reason, sheriff. Besides a tolerable fast hoss
that might come in handy for a chase, I sling a tolerable fast gun,
sheriff. But beyond that all, I got a grudge."
"A grudge?" asked the sheriff, pricking his ears.
"So did Cartwright have a grudge," cut in Arizona dryly.
Perhaps after all, Sandersen felt, fate might not be with him in this
quest for Sinclair. He said earnestly: "You see, boys, it was me that
raised the posse that run down Cold Feet in the first place. It was me
that backed up Sinclair all the way through the trail, and I feel like
some of the blame for what happened is coming to me. I want to square
things up and get a chance at Sinclair. I want it mighty bad. You know
me, Kern. Gimme a chance, will you?"
"Well, that sounds like reason," admitted the sheriff. "Eh, boys?"
The posse nodded its general head, with the usual exception of Arizona,
who seemed to take a particular pleasure in diverging from the
judgments of the others.
"Just a minute, gents," he said. "Don't it strike you that they's
something the same with Cartwright and Sandersen? Both of 'em in
particular anxious to cut in on this party; both of 'em has grudges.
Cartwright said he didn't want no share of the money if you caught
Gaspar and Sinclair. Is that right for you, too, Sandersen?"
"It sure is. I want the fun, not the coin," said Sandersen.
"Boys," resumed Arizona, "it rounds up to this: Sinclair came down here
to Sour Creek for a purpose."
Sandersen began to listen intently. He even dreaded this fat man from
the southland.
"I dunno what this purpose was," went on Arizona, "but mostly when a
gent like Sinclair makes a trip they's a man at the far end of
it--because this ain't his range. Now, if it's a man, why shouldn't it
be one of these two, Cartwright or Sandersen, who both pack a grudge
against Sinclair? Sinclair is resting somewhere up yonder in them
hills. I'm sure of that. He's waiting there to get a chance to finish
his business in Sour Creek, and that business is Cartwright or
Sandersen, I dunno which. Now, I'm agin' taking in Sandersen. When
we're private I'll tell you my reason why."
There was something of an insult in this speech and the tall man took
instant offense.
"Partner," he drawled, "it looks to me like them reasons could be spoke
personal to me. Suppose you step outside and we talk shop?"
Arizona smiled. It took a man of some courage and standing to refuse
such an invitation without losing caste. But for some reason Arizona
was the last man in the world whom one could accuse of being a coward.
"Sandersen," he said coldly, "I don't mean to step on your toes. You
may be as good a man as the next. The reasons that I got agin' you
ain't personal whatever, which they're things I got a right to think,
me being an officer of the law for the time being. If you hold a grudge
agin' me for what I've said, you and me can talk it over after this
here job's done. Is that square?"
"I s'pose it's got to be," replied Sandersen. "Gents, does the word of
your fat friend go here?"
Left to themselves, the posse probably would have refused Arizona's
advice on general principles, but Arizona did not leave them to
themselves.
"Sure, my word goes," he hastened to put in. "The sheriff and all of us
work like a closed hand--all together!"
There was a subtle flattery about this that pleased the sheriff and the
others.
"Reckoning it all in all," said sheriff, "I think we better figure you
out, Sandersen. Besides they ain't anything to keep you and Cartwright
and the rest from rigging up a little posse of your own. Sinclair is up
yonder in the hill waiting--"
Suddenly he stopped. Sandersen was shaken as if by a violent ague, and
his face lost all color, becoming a sickly white.
"And we're going to find him by ourselves. S'long Sandersen, and thanks
for dropping in. No hard feelings, mind!"
To this friendly dismissal Sandersen returned no answer. He turned away
with a wide, staring eye, and went through the doorway like a man
walking in a dream. Arizona was instantly on his feet.
"You see, boys?" he asked exultantly. "I was right. When you said
Sinclair was waiting up there in the hills, Sandersen was scared. I was
right. He's one of them that Sinclair is after, and that's why he
wanted to throw in with us!"
"And why the devil shouldn't he?" asked the sheriff.
"For a good reason, sheriff, reason that'll save us a pile of riding.
We'll sit tight here in Sour Creek for a while and catch Sinclair right
here. D'you know how? By watching Cartwright and Sandersen. As sure as
they's a sky over us, Sinclair is going to make a try at one of 'em.
They both hate him. Well, you can lay to it that he hates 'em back. And
a man that Sinclair hates he's going to get sooner or later--chiefly
sooner. Sheriff, keep an eye on them two tonight, and you'll have
Sinclair playing right into your hands!"
"Looks to me," muttered Red Chalmers, "like you had a grudge agin'
Cartwright and Sandersen, using them for live bait and us for a trap."
"Why not?" asked Arizona, sitting down and rubbing his fat hands, much
pleased with himself. "Why not, I'd like to know?"
In the meantime Bill Sandersen had gone down to the street, still with
the staring eyes of a sleep walker. It was evening, and from the open
street he looked out and up to the mountains, growing blue and purple
against the sky. He had heard Hal Sinclair talk about Riley and Riley's
love for the higher mountains. They were "his country." And a great
surety dropped upon him that the fat man of the posse had been right.
Somewhere in those mountains Sinclair was lurking, ready for a descent
upon Sour Creek.
Now Sandersen grew cold. All that was superstitious in his nature took
him by the throat. The fate, which he had felt to be fighting with him,
he now was equally sure was aligned against him. Otherwise, why had the
posse refused to accept him as a member? For only one reason: He was
doomed to die by the hand of Riley Sinclair, and then, no doubt, Riley
Sinclair would fall in turn by the bullets of the posse.
The shadows were pouring out of the gorges of the western mountains,
and night began to invade the hollow of Sour Creek. Every downward step
of those shadows was to the feverish imagination of Sandersen a
forecast of the coming of Sinclair--Sinclair coming in spite of the
posse, in spite of the price upon his head.
In the few moments during which Sandersen remained in the street
watching, the tumult grew in his mind. He was afraid. He was mortally
in terror of something more than physical death, and, like the cornered
rat, he felt a sudden urge to go out and meet the danger halfway. A
dozen pictures came to him of Sinclair slipping into the town under
cover of the night, of the stealthy approach, of the gunplay that would
follow. Why not take the desperate chance of going out to find the
assailant and take him by surprise instead?
The mountains--that was the country of Sinclair. Instinctively his eye
fell and clung on the greatest height he could see, a flat-topped
mountain due west of Sour Creek. Sandersen swung into his saddle and
drove out of Sour Creek toward the goal and into the deepening gloom of
the evening.
22
In the darkness beneath the north windows of the hotel, Sinclair
consulted his watch, holding it close until he could make out the dim
position of the hands against the white dial. It was too early for
Cartwright to be in bed, unless he were a very long sleeper. So
Sinclair waited.
A continual danger lay beside him. The kitchen door constantly banged
open and shut, as the Chinese cook trotted out and back, carrying
scraps to the waste barrel, or bringing his new-washing tins to hang on
a rack in the open air, a resource on which he was forced to fall back
on account of his cramped quarters.
But the cook never left the bright shaft of light which fell through
the doorway behind and above him, and consequently he could not see
into the thick darkness where Sinclair crouched only a few yards away;
and the cowpuncher remained moveless. From time to time he looked up,
and still the windows were black.
After what seemed an eternity, there was a flicker, as when the wick of
a lamp is lighted, and then a steady glow as the chimney was put on
again. That glow brightened, decreased, became an unchanging light. The
wick had been trimmed, and Cartwright was in for the evening.
However, the cook had not ceased his pilgrimages. At the very moment
when Sinclair had straightened to attempt the climb up the side of the
house, the cook came out and crouched on the upper step, humming a
jangling tune and sucking audibly a long-stemmed pipe. The
queer-smelling smoke drifted across to Sinclair; for a moment he was on
the verge of attempting a quick leap and a tying and gagging of the
Oriental, but he desisted.
Instead, Sinclair flattened himself against the wall and waited.
Providence came to his assistance at that crisis. Someone called from
the interior of the house. There was an odd-sounding exclamation from
the cook, and then the latter jumped up and scurried inside, slamming
the screen door behind him with a great racket.
Sinclair raised his head and surveyed the side of the wall for the last
time. The sill of the window of the first floor was no higher than his
shoulders. The eaves above that window projected well out, and they
would afford an excellent hold by which he could swing himself up. But
having swung up, the great problem was to obtain sufficient purchase
for his knee to keep from sliding off before he had a chance to steady
himself. Once on the ledge of those eaves, he could stand up and look
through any one of the three windows into the room which, according to
the boy, Cartwright occupied.
He lifted himself onto the sill of the first window, bumping his nose
sharply against the pane of the glass.
Then began the more difficult task. He straightened and fixed his
fingers firmly on the ledge above him, waiting until his palm and the
fingertips had sweated into a steady grip. Then he stepped as far as
possible to one side and sprang up with a great heave of the shoulders.
But the effort was too great. He not only flung himself far enough up,
but too far, and his descending knee, striving for a hold, slipped off
as if from an oiled surface. He came down with a jar, the full length
of his arms, a fall that flung him down on his back on the ground.
With a stifled curse he leaped up again. It seemed that the noise of
that fall must have resounded for a great distance, but, as he stood
there listening, no one drew near. Someone came out of the front door
of the hotel, laughing.
The cowpuncher tried again. He managed the first stage of the ascent,
as before, very easily, but, making the second effort he exceeded too
much in caution and fell short. However, the fall did not include a
toppling all the way to the ground. His feet landed softly on the sill,
and, at the same time, voices turned the corner of the building beside
him. Sinclair flattened himself against the pane of the lower window
and held his breath. Two men were beneath him. Their heads were level
with his feet. He could have kicked the hats off their heads, without
the slightest trouble.
It was a mystery that they did not see him, he thought, until he
recalled that all men, at night, naturally face outward from a wall. It
is an instinct. They stood close together, talking rather low. The one
was fairly tall, and the other squat. The shorter man lighted a
cigarette. The match light glinted on an oily, olive skin, and so much
of the profile as he could see was faintly familiar. He sent his memory
lurching back into far places and old times, but he had no nerve for
reminiscence. He recalled himself to the danger of the moment and
listened to them talking.
"What's happened?" the taller man was saying.
"So far, nothing," grunted the other.
"And how long do you feel we'd ought to keep it up?"
"I dunno. I'll tell you when I get tired."
"Speaking personal, Fatty, I'm kind of tired of it right now. I want to
hit the hay."
"Buck up, buck up, partner. We'll get him yet!"
Now it flashed into the mind of Sinclair that it must be a pair of
crooked gamblers working on some fat purse in the hotel, come out here
to arrange plans because they failed to extract the bank roll as
quickly as they desired. Otherwise, there could be no meaning to this
talk of "getting" someone.
"But between you and me," grumbled the big man, "it looked from the
first like a bum game, Fatty."
"That's the trouble with you, Red. You ain't got any patience. How does
a cat catch a mouse? By sitting down and waiting--maybe three hours.
And the hungrier she gets, the longer she'll wait and the stiller
she'll sit. A man could take a good lesson out'n that."
"You always got a pile of fancy words," protested the big man.
Sinclair saw Fatty put his hand on the shoulder of his companion.
Plainly he was the dominant force of the two, in spite of his lack of
height.
"Red, as sure as you're born, they's something going to happen this
here night. My scars is itching, Red, and that means something."
Again the mind of Sinclair flashed back to something familiar. A man
who prophesied by the itching of his scars. But once more the danger of
the moment made his mind a blank to all else.
"What scars?" asked Red.
"Scratches I got when I was a kid," flashed the fat man. "That's all."
"Oh," chuckled Red, plainly unconvinced. "Well, we'll play the game a
little longer."
"That's the talk, partner. I tell you we got this trap baited, and it's
_got_ to catch!"
Presently they drifted around the corner of the building and out of
sight. For a moment Sinclair wondered what that trap could be which the
fat man had baited so carefully. His mind reverted to his original
picture of a card game. Cheap tricksters, sharpers with the cards, he
decided, and with that decision he banished them both from his mind.
There was no other sign of life around him. All of Sour Creek lived in
the main street, or went to bed at this hour of the early night. The
back of the hotel was safe from observance, except for the horse shed,
and the back of the shed was turned to him. He felt safe, and now he
turned, settled his fingers into a new grip on the eaves, and made his
third attempt. It succeeded to a nicety, his right knee catching
solidly on the ledge.
He got a fingertip hold on the boards and stood up. Straightening
himself slowly, he looked into the room through a corner of the window
pane.
Cartwright sat with his back to the window, a lamp beside him on the
table, writing. He had thrown off his heavy outer shirt, and he wore
only a cotton undershirt. His heavy shoulders and big-muscled arms
showed to great advantage, with the light and sharp shadows defining
each ridge. Now and then he lifted his head to think. Then he bent to
his writing again.
It occurred to Sinclair to fling the window up boldly, and when
Cartwright turned, cover him with a gun. But the chances, including his
position on the ledge, were very much against him. Cartwright would
probably snatch at his own gun which lay before him in its holster on
the table, and whirling he would try a snap shot.
The only other alternative was to raise the window--and that with
Cartwright four paces away!
First Sinclair took stock of the interior of the room. It was larger
than most parlors he had seen. There was a big double bed on each side
of it. Plainly it was intended to accommodate a whole party, and
Sinclair smiled at the vanity of the man who had insisted on taking
"the best you have." No wonder Sour Creek knew the room he had rented.
In the corner was a great fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log,
at least. He admired the massive andirons, palpably of home manufacture
in Sour Creek's blacksmith shop. It proved the age of the building. No
one would waste money on such a fireplace in these days. A little stove
would do twice the work of that great, hungry chimney. There were two
great chests of drawers, also, each looking as if it were built up from
the floor and made immovable, such was its weight. The beds, also, were
of an ancient and solid school of furniture making.
To be sure, everything was sadly run down. On the floor the thin old
carpet was worn completely through at the sides of the beds. Both
mirrors above the chest of drawers were sadly cracked, and the table at
which Cartwright sat, leaned to the right under the weight of the arm
he rested on it.
Having thus taken in the details of the battle ground, Sinclair made
ready for the attack. He made sure of his footing on the ledge, gave a
last glance over his shoulder to see that no one was in sight, and then
began to work at the window, moving it fractions of an inch at a time.
23
When the window was half raised--the work of a full ten
minutes--Sinclair drew his revolver and rested the barrel on the sill.
He continued to lift the sash, but now he used his left hand alone, and
thereby the noises became louder and more frequent. Cartwright
occasionally raised his head, but probably he was becoming accustomed
to the sounds.
Now the window was raised to its full height, and Sinclair prepared for
the command which would jerk Cartwright's hands above his head and make
him turn slowly to look into the mouth of the gun. Weight which he
could have handled easily with a lurch, became tenfold heavier with the
slowness of the lift; eventually both shoulders were in the room, and
he was kneeling on the sill.
Cartwright raised his hands slowly, luxuriously, and stretched. It was
a movement so opportune that Sinclair almost laughed aloud. He twisted
his legs over the sill and dropped lightly on the floor.
"No noise!" he called softly.
The arms of Cartwright became frozen in their position above his head.
He turned slowly, with little jerky movements, as though he had to
fight to make himself look. And then he saw Sinclair.
"Keep 'em up!" commanded the cowpuncher, "and get out of that chair,
real soft and slow. That's it!"
Without a word Cartwright obeyed. There was no need of speech, indeed,
for a score of expressions flashed into his face.
"Go over and lock the door."
He obeyed, keeping his arms above his head, all the way across the
room, while Sinclair jerked the new Colt out of its holster and tossed
it on the farthest bed. In the meantime Cartwright lingered at the door
for a moment with his hand on the key. No doubt he fought, for the
split part of a second, with a wild temptation to jerk that door open
and leap into the safety of the hall. Sinclair read that thought in the
tremor of the big man's body. But presently discretion prevailed.
Cartwright turned the key and faced about. He was a deadly gray, and
his lips were working.
"Now," he began.
"Wait till I start talking," urged Sinclair. "Come over here and sit
down. You're too close to the door to suit me, just now. This is a pile
better."
Cartwright obeyed quietly. Sitting down, he locked his hands nervously
about one knee and looked up with his eyes to Sinclair.
"I come in for a quiet talk," said Sinclair, dropping his gun into the
holster.
That movement drew a sudden brightening of the eyes of Cartwright, who
now straightened in his chair, as if he had regained hope.
"Don't make no mistake," said Sinclair, following the meaning of that
change accurately. "I'm pretty handy with this old gun, partner. And on
you, just now, they ain't any reason why I should take my time or any
chances, when it comes to shooting."
Unconsciously Cartwright moistened his white lips, and his eyes grew
big again.
"Except that the minute you shoot, you're a dead one, Sinclair."
"Me? Oh, no. When a gun's heard they'll run to the room where the
shot's been fired. And when they get the lock open, I'll be gone the
way I come from." Sinclair smiled genially on his enemy. "Don't start
raising any crop of delusions, friend. I mean business--a lot."
"Then talk business. I'll listen."
"Oh, thanks! I come here about your wife."
He watched Cartwright wince. In his heart he pitied the man. All the
story of Cartwright's spoiled boyhood and viciously selfish youth were
written in his face for the reading of such a man as Sinclair. The
rancher's son had begun well enough. Lack of discipline had undone him;
but whether his faults were fixed or changeable, Sinclair could not
tell. It was largely to learn this that he took the chances for the
interview.
"Go on," said Cartwright.
"In the first place, d'you know why she left you?"
An anguish came across Cartwright's face. It taught Sinclair at least
one thing--that the man loved her.
"You're the reason--maybe."
"Me? I never seen her till two days ago. That's a tolerable ugly thing
to say, Cartwright!"
"Well, I got tolerable ugly reasons for saying it," answered the other.
The cowpuncher sighed. "I follow the way you drift. But you're wrong,
partner. Fact is, I didn't know Cold Feet was a girl till this
evening."
Cartwright sneered, and Sinclair stiffened in his chair.
"Son," he said gravely, "the worst enemies I got will all tell you that
Riley Sinclair don't handle his own word careless. And I give you my
solemn word of honor that I didn't know she was a girl till this
evening, and that, right away after I found it out, I come down here to
straighten things out with you if I could. Will you believe it?"
It was a strange study to watch the working in the face of
Cartwright--of hope, passion, doubt, hatred. He leaned closer to
Sinclair, his big hands clutched together.
"Sinclair, I wish I could believe it!"
"Look me in the eye, man! I can stand it."
"By the Lord, it's true! But, Sinclair, have you come down to find out
if I'd take her back?"
"Would you?"
The other grew instantly crafty. "She's done me a pile of wrong,
Sinclair."
"She has," said the cowpuncher. He went on gently: "She must of cut
into your pride a lot."
"Oh, if it was known," said Cartwright, turning pale at the thought,
"she'd make me a laughing stock! Me, old Cartwright's son!"
"Yep, that'd be bad." He wondered at the frank egoism of the youth.
"I leave it to you," said Cartwright, settling back in his chair.
"Something had ought to be done to punish her. Besides, she's a weight
on your hands, and I can see you'd be anxious to get rid of her quick."
"How d'you aim to punish her?" asked Sinclair.
"Me?"
"Sure! Kind of a hard thing to do, wouldn't it be?"
Cartwright's eyes grew small. "Ways could be found." He swallowed hard.
"I'd find a heap of ways to make her wish she'd died sooner'n shame
me!"
"I s'pose you could," said Sinclair slowly. He lowered his glance for a
moment to keep his scorn from standing up in his eyes. "But I've heard
of men, Cartwright, that'd love a woman so hard that they'd forgive
anything."
"The world's full of fools," said the rich rancher. He stabbed a stern
forefinger into the palm of his other hand. "She's got to do a lot of
explaining before I'll look at her. She's got to make me an accounting
of every day she's spent since I last seen her at--"
"At the wedding?" asked Sinclair cruelly.
Cartwright writhed in the chair till it groaned beneath his uneasy
weight. "She told you that?"
"Look here," went on Sinclair, assuming a new tone of frank inquiry.
"Let's see if we can't find out why she left you?"
"They ain't any reason--just plain fool woman, that's all."
"But maybe she didn't love you, Cartwright. Did you ever think of
that?"
The big man stared. "Not love me? Who _would_ she love, then? Was they
anybody in them parts that could bring her as much as I could? Was they
anybody that had as good a house as mine, or as much land, or as much
cattle? Didn't I take her over the ground and show her what it amounted
to? Didn't I offer her her pick of my own string of riding horses?"
"Did you do as much as that?"
"Sure I did. She wouldn't have lacked for nothing."
"You sure must have loved her a lot," insinuated Sinclair. "Must have
been plumb foolish about her."
"Oh, I dunno about that. Love is one thing that ain't bothered me none.
I got important interests, Sinclair. I'm a business man. And this here
marriage was a business proposition. Her dad was a business man, and he
fixed it all up for us. It was to tie the two biggest bunches of land
together that could be found in them parts. Anyway"--he grinned--"I got
the land!"
"And why not let the girl go, then?"
"Why?" asked Cartwright eagerly. "Who wants her? You?"
"Maybe, if you'd let her go."
"Not in a thousand years! She's mine. They ain't no face but hers that
I can see opposite to me at the table--not one! Besides, she's mine,
and I'm going to keep her--after I've taught her a lesson or two!"
Sinclair wiped his forehead hastily. Eagerness to jump at the throat of
the man consumed him. He forced a smile on his thin lips and
persistently looked down.
"But think how easy it'd be, Cartwright. Think how easy you could get a
divorce on the grounds of desertion."
"And drag all this shame into the courts?"
"They's ways of hushing these here things up. It'd be easy. She
wouldn't put up no defense, mostlike. You'd win your case. And if
anybody asked questions, they'd simply say she was crazy, and that you
was lucky to get rid of her. They wouldn't blame you none. And it
wouldn't be no disgrace to be deserted by a crazy woman, would it?"
Cartwright drew back into a shell of opposition. "You talk pretty hot
for this."
"Because I'm telling you the way out for both of you."
"I can't see it. She's coming back to me. Nobody else is going to get
her. I've set my mind on it!"
"Partner, don't you see that neither of you could ever be happy?"
"Oh, we'd be happy enough. I'd forgive her--after a while."
"Yes, but what about her?"
"About her? Why, curse her, what right has she got to be considered?"
"Cartwright, she doesn't love you."
The bulldog came into the face of Cartwright and contorted it. "Don't
she belong to me by law? Ain't she sworn to--"
"Don't" said Sinclair, as if the words strangled him. "Don't say that,
Cartwright, if you please!"
"Why not? You put up a good slick talk, Sinclair. But you don't win. I
ain't going to give her up by no divorce. I'm going to keep her. I
don't love her enough to want her back, I hate her enough. They's only
one way that I'd stop caring about--stop fearing that she'd shame me.
And that's by having her six feet underground. But you, Sinclair, you
need coin. You're footloose. Suppose you was to take her and bring her
to--"
"Don't!" cried Sinclair again. "Don't say it, Cartwright. Think it over
again. Have mercy on her, man. She could make some home happy. Are you
going to destroy that chance?"
"Say, what kind of talk is this?" asked the big man.
"Now," said Sinclair, "look to your own rotten soul!"
The strength of Cartwright was cut away at the root. The color was
struck out of his face as by a mortal blow. "What d'you mean?" he
whispered.
"You don't deserve a man's chance, but I'm going to give it to you. Go
get your gun, Cartwright!"