KIDNAPPED
Barbara Morgan had yielded to the fever of impatience which had afflicted
her during the latter days of Harlan's absence from the Rancho Seco. She
had been impatient ever since she had been forced to stay close to the
house by Harlan's orders; but she had fought it off until now, for she
had been interested in Harlan, and had felt a deep wonder over his
probable actions regarding her future.
She had known, of course, that real danger from Deveny existed, for the
incident in Lamo had convinced her of that, but she felt that Harlan's
fears for her were rather extravagant--it was rather improbable that
Deveny would come boldly to the Rancho Seco and attempt to carry her away
by force.
The clear, brilliant sunshine of the country dispelled so grotesque a
thought; the peaceful hills seemed to smile their denial; and the broad
level near the entrance to the basin sent a calm message of reassurance
to her.
She had known Red Linton for a long time--for he had been with her father
for nearly two seasons--and she had respected him for what he had seemed
to be, a quiet, rather humorous man who did his work well, though without
flourishes. He had never figured prominently in her thoughts, however,
until the day Harlan had appointed him foreman of the Rancho Seco, and
then her attention had been attracted to him because he had seemed
interested in her.
And she had noted that Linton's interest in her seemed to grow after
Harlan's departure. He had talked with her several times, and she had
questioned him about Harlan's whereabouts. But Linton had not seemed to
know; at least, if he did know, he kept his knowledge strictly to
himself, not even intimating that he knew where Harlan had gone.
Another thing she noted was that Linton seemed to have her under
surveillance. Whenever she left the house--even for a short ride
eastward--where Harlan had told her she might ride without danger--she
discovered that Linton immediately mounted his horse, to linger somewhere
in sight.
The knowledge that she was watched began to irritate her and this morning
she had got up with a determination to ride without company. With that
end in view she had kept Billy all night in the patio; and when rather
late in the morning she saw Linton riding eastward, she hurriedly threw
saddle and bridle on the horse and rode westward, toward the big basin.
She kept the house between her and the point where she had seen
Linton--until a turn northward became inevitable; and then she urged
Billy to a faster pace, in an endeavor to cross the wide plain that
reached to the entrance to the basin before Linton could see her.
Many times during the days before the coming of Deveny and Haydon to the
valley she had ridden there; it had been a place in which reigned a
mighty silence which she had loved, which had thrilled her. During those
other days she was in the habit of riding to a point several miles up the
valley--between the little basin where the Star was now and the Rancho
Seco.
The trail led upward in a slow, gradual slope to that point--a rugged
promontory that jutted out from a mesa that rose above the floor of the
valley. The mesa was fringed at the southern edge with stunt oak and
nondescript brush. But there were breaks in the fringe which permitted
her to ride close to the edge of the mesa; and from there she could look
many miles up the valley--and across it, where the solemn hills rimmed
the southern horizon, to a trail--called the South Trail by cattlemen in
the valley, to distinguish it from the main trail leading through the
mighty hollow in which she rode.
When she reached the mesa she headed Billy directly for the break on the
promontory. Dismounting, she stretched her legs to disperse the saddle
weariness; then she found a huge rock which had been the seat from which
she had viewed the wondrous landscape in the past.
The reverent awe with which she had always viewed the valley was as
strong in her today as it had ever been--stronger, in fact, because she
had not seen the place for some time, and because in her heart there now
dwelt a sadness that had not been there in those other days--at least
since her mother had died.
She was high above the floor of the valley; and she could see the main
trail below her weaving around low mounds and sinking into depressions;
disappearing into timber groves, reappearing farther on, disappearing
again, and again reappearing until it grew blurred and indistinct in her
vision.
In the marvelous clarity of the atmosphere this morning every beauteous
feature of the valley was disclosed to her inspection. The early morning
haze had lifted, and the few fleecy clouds that floated in the blue bowl
of sky were motionless, their majestic billows glowing in the sun. She
saw a Mexican eagle swoop over the cloud, sailing on slow wing high above
it, and growing so distant in her vision that he became a mere speck
moving in the limitless expanse of space.
It was a colossal landscape, and its creator had neglected no detail. And
it was harmonious, from the emerald green that carpeted the floor of the
valley near the gleaming river to the gigantic shoulders of the rugged
hills that lifted their huge, bastioned walls into the blue of the sky.
Some tall rock spires that thrust their peaks skyward far over on the
southern side of the valley had always interested her; they seemed to be
sentinels that guarded the place, hinting of an ages-old mystery that
seemed to reign all about them.
But there was mystery in everything in the valley, she felt; for it lay
before her, spreading, slumbrous, basking in the brilliant
sunlight--seeming to wait, as it seemed to have waited from the dawn of
the first day, for man to wonder over it.
She saw the Mexican eagle again after a while. It was making a wide
circle beyond the rock spires, floating lazily above them in long,
graceful swoops that were so lacking in effort that she longed to be up
there with him--to ride the air with him, to feel the exhilaration he
must feel.
As she looked, however, she caught a faint blur on the southern horizon
of the big picture--a yellowish-black cloud that hugged the horizon and
traveled rapidly eastward. It was some time before she realized that what
she saw was a dust cloud, and there were men in it--horsemen.
She got up from the rock, her face slowly whitening. And into her heart
came a presentiment that those men in the dust cloud were abroad upon an
errand of evil.
No doubt the presentiment was caused from the dread and fear she had
lived under for days--the consciousness that Deveny was in the valley,
and a recollection of the warnings that Harlan had given her. And she
knew the horsemen could not be Rancho Seco men--for they had gone
southward from the ranch, and there was no grass range where the horsemen
were riding. Also, the men were riding eastward, toward the Rancho Seco.
Trembling a little with apprehension, she mounted Billy and sent him down
the slope to the floor of the valley. The descent was hazardous, and
Billy did not make good time, but when he reached the level at the foot
of the slope he stretched his neck and fell into a steady, rapid pace
that took him down the valley swiftly.
As the girl rode, the presentiment of evil increased, and she grew
nervous with a conviction that she would not be able to reach the Rancho
Seco much in advance of the men. For she could see them more clearly now,
because they were in the valley, traveling a shelving trail that sloped
down from the hills toward the level that stretched to the ranchhouse.
It was several miles from where she rode to the point where the horsemen
were riding, and she was traversing a long ridge which must have revealed
her to the men if they looked toward her.
She had thought--after she had left the promontory--of concealing herself
somewhere in the valley, to wait until she discovered who the men were
and what their errand was; but she had a fear that if the men were
Deveny's outlaws they might return up the valley and accidentally come
upon her. Also, she had yielded to the homing instinct which is strong in
all living beings, for at home was safety that could not be found
elsewhere.
The South Trail, she knew, converged with the valley trail at the edge of
the level. If she could reach that point a few minutes before the
horsemen reached it she would rely on Billy to maintain his lead. Billy
would have to maintain it!
Leaning far over Billy's mane she urged him on, coaxing him, flattering
him, calling to him in terms of endearment. And the loyal little animal
did his best, running as he had never run before.
Barbara though, watching the horsemen with eyes into which there had come
a glow of doubt, began to realize that Billy was losing the race. Also,
by the time she had gone four or five miles, she discovered that the men
had seen her. For the trails were growing close together now--not more
than half a mile of slightly broken country stretched between them, and
she could see the men waving their hats; could hear their voices above
the whir and clatter of Billy's passing.
Still, she was determined to win, and Billy's flanks felt the sting of
the quirt that, hitherto, had swung from Barbara's wrist.
Billy revealed a marvelous burst of speed. But it did not last, and the
horsemen, after hanging for an instant abreast of Billy, began to forge
ahead.
The courageous little animal had almost reached the covert that Harlan
had discovered the day he had visited the Star the first time, and was
nobly answering the stern urge of the quirt when another horseman
suddenly appeared on the trail directly ahead of the girl, seemingly
having ridden out of the covert.
The trail was narrow, and Billy could not swerve around the new rider.
So, sensing the danger of a collision he stiffened his legs, making a
sliding halt that carried him a dozen feet, leaving him upon his haunches
with Barbara frantically trying to keep to the saddle.
Then Billy's forehoofs came down; he grunted, heaved a tremendous sigh
and stood, his legs braced, awaiting orders.
No order came. For no words escaped Barbara's lips. She sat in the
saddle, her face ashen, terror clutching her.
For the horseman who had ridden out of the covert was Stroud, the Rancho
Seco straw-boss. He was grinning, and in his eyes was a gloating triumph
that she could not mistake.
"Lucky I took a notion to come in this mornin'," he said. "I just got
here. I seen you hittin' the breeze for fair while you was quite a piece
up the basin; an' I seen Deveny an' the boys a-fannin' it, too. An' I
says to myself: 'Stroud, here's Deveny racin' to see Miss Barbara, an'
her actin' like she don't want to see him. But I'll fix it so she does.'"
The girl touched Billy with the quirt, and the little animal lunged
forward, close to Stroud's horse. As the two beasts came close together
Barbara struck at Stroud with the quirt, hoping to disconcert him so that
she could send Billy past him.
Stroud ducked and shot a hand out, seized the quirt and wrenched it from
her hand. She screamed as the hairloop scraped the flesh of her wrist.
And then she heard a thundering clatter of hoofs and saw Deveny and his
men appear from beyond the covert and race toward her.
Deveny spoke no word. But as he rode toward her she saw the gleam in his
eyes, and she silently fought Stroud, who had grasped her and was pulling
her toward him.
It seemed to her that Deveny must have misunderstood Stroud's action, for
it was clear to her--even in the stress and confusion of the moment--that
Deveny thought Stroud had attacked her through motives that were strictly
personal.
Anyway, before Stroud could speak Deveny's pistol glittered. And
malignantly, his eyes blazing with a jealous, evil light, he shot
Stroud--twice.
He sat in the saddle, his lips twitching into a sneer as he watched the
straw-boss tumble from his horse and fall limply into the grass. Then
with a smile that was hideous with a triumphant passion, he spurred his
horse to Billy's side, pulled the girl from the saddle, and sent his
horse up the valley, motioning his men to follow.