JERRY WOOD
When he was at the old Drew place before, Logan had told him of Jerry
Wood's place, five miles to the north among the hills; and to this he
now directed his horse, riding at a merciless speed, as if he strove to
gain, from the swift succession of rocks and trees that whirled past
him, new thoughts to supplant the ones which already occupied him.
He reached in a short time a little rise of ground below which stretched
a darkly wooded hollow, and in the midst the trees gave back from a
small house, a two-storied affair, with not a light showing. He wished
to announce himself and his name at this place under the pretence of
asking harbourage for the brief remainder of the night. The news of what
he had done at Drew's place could not have travelled before him to
Wood's house; but the next day it would be sure to come, and Wood could
say that he had seen Bard--alone--the previous night. It would be a
sufficient shield for the name of Sally Fortune in that incurious
region.
So he banged loudly at the door.
Eventually a light showed in an upper window and a voice cried: "Who's
there?"
"Anthony Bard."
"Who the devil is Anthony Bard?"
"Lost in the hills. Can you give me a place to sleep for the rest of the
night? I'm about done up."
"Wait a minute."
Voices stirred in the upper part of the house; the lantern disappeared;
steps sounded, descending the stairs, and then the door was unbarred and
held a cautious inch ajar. The ray of light jumped out at Bard like an
accusing arm.
Evidently a brief survey convinced Jerry Wood that the stranger was no
more than what he pretended. He opened the door wide and stepped back.
"Come in."
Bard moved inside, taking off his hat.
"How'd you happen to be lost in the hills?"
"I'm a bit of a stranger around here, you see."
The other surveyed him with a growing grin.
"I guess maybe you are. Sure, we'll put you up for the night. Where's
your hoss?"
He went out and raised the lantern above his head to look. The light
shone back from the lustrous wide eyes of the grey.
Wood turned to Bard.
"Seems to me I've seen that hoss."
"Yes. I bought it from Duffy out at Drew's place."
"Oh! Friend of Mr. Drew?"
Half a life spent on the mountain-desert had not been enough to remove
from Drew that distinguishing title of respect. The range has more great
men than it has "misters."
"Not exactly a friend," answered Bard.
"Sail right. Long's you know him, you're as good as gold with me. Come
on along to the barn and we'll knock down a feed for the hoss."
He chuckled as he led the way.
"For that matter, there ain't any I know that can say they're friends to
William Drew, though there's plenty that would like to if they thought
they could get away with it. How's he lookin'?"
"Why, big and grey."
"Sure. He never changes none. Time and years don't mean nothin' to Drew.
He started bein' a man when most of us is in short pants; he'll keep on
bein' a man till he goes out. He ain't got many friends--real ones--but
I don't know of any enemies, neither. All the time he's been on the
range Drew has never done a crooked piece of work. Every decent man on
the range would take his word ag'in'--well, ag'in' the Bible, for that
matter."
They reached the barn at the end of this encomium, and Bard unsaddled
his horse. The other watched him critically.
"Know somethin' about hosses, eh?"
"A little."
"When I seen you, I put you down for a tenderfoot. Don't mind, do you?
The way you talked put me out."
"For that matter, I suppose I am a tenderfoot."
"Speakin' of tenderfoots, I heard of one over to Eldara the other night
that raised considerable hell. You ain't him, are you?"
He lifted the lantern again and fixed his keen eyes on Bard.
"However," he went on, lowering the lantern with an apologetic laugh,
"I'm standin' here askin' questions and chatterin' like a woman, and
what you're thinkin' of is bed, eh? Come on with me."
Upstairs in the house he found Bard a corner room with a pile of straw
in the corner by way of a mattress. There he spread out some blankets,
wished his guest a good sleep, and departed.
Left to himself, Anthony stretched out flat on his back. It had been a
wild, hard day, but he felt not the slightest touch of weariness; all he
wished was to relax his muscles for a few moments. Moreover, he must be
away from the house with the dawn-first, because Sally Fortune might
waken, guess where he had gone, and follow him; secondly because the
news of what had happened at Drew's place might reach Wood at any hour.
So he lay trying to fight the thought of Sally from his mind and
concentrate on some way of getting back to Drew without riding the
gauntlet of the law.
The sleep which stole upon him came by slow degrees; or, rather, he was
not fully asleep, when a sound outside the house roused him to sharp
consciousness compared with which his drowsiness had been a sleep.
It was a knocking at the door, not loud, but repeated. At the same time
he heard Jerry Wood cursing softly in a neighbouring room, and then the
telltale creak of bedsprings.
The host was rousing himself a second time that night. Or, rather, it
was morning now, for when Anthony sat up he saw that the hills were
stepping out of the shadows of the night, black, ugly shapes revealed by
a grey background of the sky. A window went up noisily.
"Am I runnin' a hotel?" roared Jerry Wood. "Ain't I to have no sleep no
more? Who are ye?"
A lowered, muttering voice answered.
"All right," said Jerry, changing his tone at once. "I'll come down."
His steps descended the noisy stairs rapidly; the door creaked. Then
voices began again outside the house, an indistinct mumble, rising to
one sharp height in an exclamation.
Almost at once steps again sounded on the stairs, but softly now. Bard
went quietly to the door, locked it, and stole back to the window. Below
it extended the roof of a shed, joining the main body of the house only
a few feet under his window and sloping to what could not have been a
dangerous distance from the ground. He raised the window-sash.
Yet he waited, something as he had waited for Sally Fortune to speak
earlier in the night, with a sense of danger, but a danger which
thrilled and delighted him. No game of polo could match suspense like
this. Besides, he would be foolish to go before he was sure.
The walls were gaping with cracks that carried the sounds, and now he
heard a sibilant whisper with a perfect clearness.
"This is the room."
There was a click as the lock was tried.
"Locked, damn it!"
"Shut up, Butch. Jerry, have you got a bar, or anything? We'll pry it
down and break in on him before he can get in action."
"You're a fool, McNamara. That feller don't take a wink to get into
action. Sure he didn't hear you when you hollered out the window? That
was a fool move, Wood."
"I don't think he heard. There wasn't any sound from his room when I
passed it goin' downstairs. Think of the nerve of this bird comin' here
to roost after what he done."
"He didn't think we'd follow him so fast."
But Anthony waited for no more. He slipped out on the roof of the shed,
lowered himself hand below hand to the edge, and dropped lightly to the
ground.
The grey, at his coming, flattened back its ears, as though it knew that
more hard work was coming, but he saddled rapidly, led it outside, and
rode a short distance into the forest. There he stopped.
His course lay due north, and then a swerve to the side and a straight
course west for the ranch of William Drew. If the hounds of the law were
so close on his trace, they certainly would never suspect him of
doubling back in this manner, and he would have the rancher to himself
when he arrived.
Yet still he did not start the grey forward to the north. For to the
south lay Sally Fortune, and at the thought of her a singular hollowness
came about his heart, a loneliness, not for himself, but for her. Yes,
in a strange way all self was blotted from his emotion.
It would be a surrender to turn back--now.
And like a defeated man who rides in a lost cause, he swung the grey to
the south and rode back over the trail, his head bowed.