Bud Lee, in the thicker darkness lying along the edge of the plateau,
sat with his back against the rocks while he gave swift first aid to
his wound. He brought into requisition the knotted handkerchief from
about his throat, bound it tightly around the calf of his leg, and said
lightly to Judith:
"Just a fool scratch, you know. But I've no hankering to dribble out a
lot of blood from it."
Judith made no answer. Lee took up his rifle and turned to the spot
where she had been standing a moment ago. She was not there.
"Gone!" he grunted, frowning into the blackness hemming him in. "Now,
what do you suppose she's up to? Fainted, most likely."
He got up and moved along the low rock wall, seeking her. A spurt of
flame from the east corner of the cabin drew his eyes away from his
search and he pumped three quick shots in answer.
"Little chance of hitting anything," he muttered. "Too blamed dark.
Just fool's luck that I got mine in the leg."
Again he sought Judith, calling softly. There was no answer. Once
more came the spurt of flame from the shelter of the cabin wall. Then
fifty yards off to Lee's right, some fifty yards nearer the cabin,
another shot.
The first suspicion that one of the men from the cliffs had made his
way down to join issue at close quarters, was gone in a clear
understanding. That was the bark of Judith's rifle; she had slipped
away from him without an instant's delay and was creeping closer and
closer to the cabin.
"Damn the girl!" cried Lee angrily. "She'll get her fool self killed!"
But as he ran forward to join her, he realized that she was doing the
right thing--the only thing if they did not want to lie out here all
night for the men on the cliffs to pick off in the morning light. He
knew that she could shoot; it seemed that she could do everything that
was a man's work and which a woman should know nothing about.
A fresh thought locked his hand like steel about his gun-stock.
Suppose that Judith, in the mad thing she was attempting, should
actually succeed in it, that she should bring down the man she was
attacking? How would Bud Lee feel about it when the boys came to know?
What would Bud Lee answer when they asked what he was doing about that
time? "Nursin' a scratched leg? Mos' likely! Huh!" He could hear
old Carson's dry cackle.
Frowning into the night, he thought that he could make out the dim blur
of Judith's form. The girl was standing erect; shooting, too, for
again the duel of red spurts of flame told where she and her quarry
stood.
Meantime Lee ran on, changing his original purpose, swerving out from
where Judith was moving forward, turning to the left, hopeful to come
to close quarters with their assailant before she could go down under
that sharp rifle-fire or could bring down the other. For certainly, if
she kept on that way, the time would come when some one would stop hot
lead.
Lee shifted his rifle to his left hand, taking his revolver into his
right. From the cliffs came a shot and he grunted at it
contemptuously. It could do nothing but assure those below that there
was still some one up there.
"Three of them to our two," he estimated, "counting the two jaspers on
the cliff. Two of us to their one, counting what's down here. And
that's all that counts right this minute."
A shot from Judith; a shot from the cabin; two shots from the cliffs.
The two shots from above brought fresh news; not only were they closer
together, but they indicated the men up yonder were coming down. Lee
hurried.
Then, at last, his narrowed eyes made out the faint outline of that
which he sought. Close to the cabin, low down, evidently upon his
knees, was the most important factor to be considered, now. Still Lee
was too far away to be certain of a hit and he meant with all of the
grim determination in him to hit something at last. He ran on drawing
the fire away from Judith. A rifle-ball sang close to his side,
another and an other. He lost the dim shape of the kneeling man, who,
he thought, had risen from his knees and was standing, his body
tight-pressed to the cabin.
"Why the devil doesn't he run for it?" wondered Lee.
But evidently, be the reason what it might, the man had no intention of
running. A bullet cut through Lee's sleeve. At last Lee answered. He
ran in closer as he fired and, running, emptied his revolver, jammed it
into his waistband, clubbed his rifle . . . and realized with something
of a shock that there were but the two rifles on the cliffs to take
into consideration. That other rifle, at the cabin, was still. Out of
ammunition? Or plugged? Or playing 'possum? Which?
"Stop shooting!" he shouted to Judith.
"I'm coming!" she cried back to him.
Almost at the same instant, their two rifles ready, they came to the
cabin. Between them on the ground a man lay at the corner, moving
helplessly, groping for his fallen gun, falling back.
"Open the door," said Bud. "I'll get him inside and we'll see who he
is. Hurry, Judith; those other jaspers are working down this way as
fast as they know how."
Judith, taking time to snatch up the fallen rifle, ran around to the
door. Lee slipped his hands under the armpits of the wounded man and
dragged him in Judith's wake. In the cabin, the door shut, Lee struck
a match and went to a little shelf where there was a candle.
"Bill Crowdy!" gasped Judith.
Almost before Lee saw the man's face he saw the canvas bag tied to his
belt, a bag identical with the one he himself had brought from the bank
at Rocky Bend.
"The man that stuck up Charlie Miller," he said slowly. "And there's
your thousand bucks, or I'm a liar. I get something of their play now:
those two fellows up there were waiting to meet him and split the swag
three ways. And I've got the guess they'll be asking a look-in yet!"
He dropped a heavy bar into its place across the door and then went to
the two small windows and fastened the heavy oaken shutters. When he
came back to Judith she was bending over the wounded man. Crowdy's
eyes were closed; he looked to be on the verge of death. The girl's
face was almost as white as Crowdy's.
Lee knelt and with quick fingers sought the wound. There was a hole in
Crowdy's chest, high up near the throat, that was bleeding profusely.
At first that seemed the only wound. But in a second Lee had found
another. This was in the leg, and this, like Lee's, was bound tightly
with a handkerchief.
"Got that, first rattle out of the box!" commented Lee. "See it?
That's why he stuck on the job and didn't try to run for it. Looks
like a rifle-ball had smashed the bone."
He didn't look up. His fingers, busy with the string at Crowdy's belt,
brought away the canvas bag. There was blood on it; it was heavy and
gave forth the mellow jangle of gold.
"You win back your thousand on to-night's play," he said, holding up
the bag to Judith, lifting his eyes to her face.
But Judith shrank back, her eyes wide with horror.
"I don't want it! I can never touch it!" she whispered.
Suddenly she was shaking from head to foot, her eyes fixed in terrible
fascination upon Crowdy's face. Lee tossed the bag to the bunk across
the room, whence it fell clanking to the floor.
"Now she's going to faint," was his thought. "Well, I won't blame her
so damn much. Poor little kid!"
But he did not look at her again. He tore away Crowdy's shirt to
discover just how serious the wound in the chest was. The collar-bone
had been broken; the ball had ploughed its way through the upper chest,
well above the heart, and could be felt under the skin of the shoulder.
Unless Bill Crowdy bled to death, he stood an excellent chance of doing
time in the penitentiary. Lee stanched the flow of blood, made a rude
bandage, and then, lifting the body gently, carried it to the bunk.
Crowdy's lax arm, extended downward at the side of the bunk, seemed to
be reaching again for the canvas bag; the red fingers touched it with
their tips.
"Now," said Lee, speaking bluntly, afraid that a tone of sympathy might
merely aid the girl to "shake to pieces," "we've got a chance to be on
our way before Number Two and Number Three get into the game. Let's
run for it, Judith."
Judith went to the bench by the fireplace and sank down upon it. For a
moment she made no reply. Then she shook her head.
"We'll stay here until morning," she said finally, her voice surprising
Lee, who had looked for a sign of weakening to accord with her sudden
pallor and visible trembling.
"What for?" he wanted to know. "We'll have another fight on our hands
if we do. Those fellows, this deep in it, are not going to quit while
they know that there's all that money in the shack!"
"I don't care," said Judith firmly. "I won't run from them or anybody
else I know! And, besides, Bud Lee, I am not going to give them the
chance to get Crowdy away. . . . Do you think he is going to die?"
"No, I don't. Doc Tripp will fix him up."
"Then here I stay, for one. When I go, Bill Crowdy goes with me! He's
going to talk, and he's going to help me send Bayne Trevors to the pen."
Bud Lee expressed all he had to say in a silent whistle. He'd made
another mistake, that was all. Judith wasn't going to faint for him
to-night.
"Then," he said presently, setting her the example, "slip some fresh
cartridges into your rifle and get ready for more shooting. I'll put
out the light and we'll wait for what's next."
Judith replenished the magazine of her rifle. Lee, watching from under
the low-drawn brim of his hat, noted that her fingers were steady now.
Crowdy moved on his bunk, lifted a hand weakly, groaned, and grew
still. Presently he stirred again, asking weakly for water.
Lee went to the water-bucket standing in a corner. It happened to be
half full. He filled a cup, and lifting Crowdy's head, held it to the
fevered lips.
"Not exactly what you'd call fresh, is it, Crowdy?" he said lightly.
"But the spring's outside and I'm scared to go out in the dark."
Crowdy drank thirstily and lay back, his eyes closed again. Lee
rearranged his bandage.
"Put out the light now?" he asked Judith.
"No," she answered. "What's the use, Bud? There are no holes in the
walls they could stick a gun-barrel through, are there?"
No one knew better than he that there were not.
"You see," said Judith, with a half-smile, heroically assumed, "I'm a
little afraid of the dark, too! Anyway, since we've got to spend the
night with a man in Crowdy's shape, it will be more cosey, won't it,
with the light on?"
She even put out her hand to one of the books on the shelves which she
could reach from her bench.
"And now," she added, "I'm sure that our hermit won't mind if we peep
into his library, will he?"
"No," answered Lee gravely. "Most likely he'll be proud."
Lee found time to muse that life is made of incongruities, woman of
inconsistencies. Here with a badly hurt man lying ten feet from her,
with every likelihood of the night stillness being ripped in two by a
rifle-shot, Judith sat and turned the pages of a book. It was a volume
on the breeding and care of pure-blooded horses. Odd sort of thing for
her hermit to have brought here with him! Her hand took down another
volume. Horses again; a treatise by an eminent authority upon a newly
imported line from Arabia. A third book; this, a volume of Elizabethan
lyrics. Bud Lee flushed as he watched her. She turned the pages
slowly, came back to the fly-leaf page, read the name scrawled there
and, turning swiftly to Lee, said accusingly:
"David Burrill Lee, you are a humbug!"
"Wrong again," grinned Lee. "A hermit, you mean! 'A man with a soul.'
. . ."
"Scat!" answered Judith. But, under Bud Lee's teasing eyes, the color
began to come back into her cheeks. She _had_ been a wee bit
enthusiastic over her hermit, making of him a picturesque ideal. She
had visioned him, even to the calm eyes, gentle voice. A quick little
frown touched her brows as she realized that the eyes and voice which
her fancy had bestowed upon the hermit were in actuality the eyes and
voice of Bud Lee. But she had called him a dear. And Lee had been
laughing at her all the time--had not told her, would never have told
her. The thought came to her that she would like to slap Bud Lee's
face for him. And she had told Tripp she would like to slap Pollock
Hampton's. Good and hard!