MISPLACED CONFIDENCE
Pickles was hungry. He cocked his eye anxiously at the sun and sighed.
He gazed in discouragement over the widespread furrowed earth where his
best efforts left so small a trace and dropping the hoe, sighed again.
With all his soul he wished he had not fled from the Double Y. Sudden
resolution armed him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and marched
manfully in the direction of the house. He refused to go hungry for
anybody.
Topping a rise, his head barely showed against the sky-line when he
dropped as if shot. The horseman making for the house might be Jean;
his glance had been too hasty for recognition. Flat against the earth,
Pickles pushed himself backward until he felt it safe to turn and gallop
clumsily down grade on hands and feet. Far enough, he sat and thought.
He could gain the barn unseen and if he ran, would have time to dash
into the house, grab some chuck, and get away again before the horseman
got there. He sprang to his feet and ran like a long-horn steer, gazed
upon by the stock in pasture with interest: they were not accustomed to
this style of locomotion in trousers.
Pickles made excellent time on the level but when he turned to breast
the slope it was harder going; and Pickles was tired; he had been at
work since sun-up with a short rest at breakfast. He gained the barn
winded but went through and crossed to the house without pausing. Back
of the house he stopped to listen. He had cut it too fine. The horse
was coming up to the door. "Darn it!" said Pickles, with bitter
emphasis.
The snap of the catch on the front door and Rose's voice told him she
had gone outside. Maybe the rider was n't coming in; they could n't see
the end window if they did and if he were quick--he squirmed over the
ledge, dropped noiselessly to the floor, sped through the doorway--and
almost dislocated his spine with the ferret-like turn he made in trying
to get back into the room the same instant he left it: he had barely
escaped the other's entry; if Rose came to the bedroom she would be
certain to exclaim at sight of him. Pickles breathed a short--a very
short--prayer. He put his hands to the window ledge--and stiffened.
"No, I can't stay. Rose, I 'm pullin' my freight. How soon can you come
along?"
It was Dave--he was going away--and he wanted Rose to go, too. Pickles
knelt silently by the bunk and muffled his rapid breathing in the
blankets, while he listened.
"Where?" asked Rose.
"Anywhere you say. I 'm a-goin' to clean up a gold mine in a few hours
an' yo 're goin' to help me spend it. We 'll get married first stop."
"A gold mine?"
"More money than you ever saw."
"And you want--me--to go with you?"
"Not with me. I got to get th' money first. I 'll get th' train to
Helena to-night. You get on at Jackson. You can make it easy on
Swaller."
"I must know more. Perhaps you tell true. Perhaps you run away. Tell
me."
"Got a good opinion o' yore future husband, ain't you? Quit foolin',
Rose. Have I got to show you the cards afore you take a hand?"
"Yes," was the decisive answer.
"All right. It's this way: Schatz deals to Peters from a cold deck. He
gets all th' money out o' the bank, Peters', McAllister's, an' his.
Then he lets me lift it, him not knowin' who I am, o' course. I do th'
mysterious disappearance act an' Schatz makes foolish noises too late.
A posse takes after me an' runs into a blind trail. I circle back to
town. Right there is where I fool Schatz. He thinks I 'm driftin'
along the Big Moose trail to hand th' money over to him graceful. 'Stead
o' that I 'm snortin' along the track to Helena with you. Schatz
dassent make no holler an' we leave him an' Peters to fight it out. Do
you get me?"
"They will kill you."
"Oh, not a whole lot, I reckon. I 'm gettin' so used to bein' killed
thataway, I sorter like it. Talk sense. Where's th' ole man?"
"I will leave a letter for him."
"Hip hooray! Mighty nigh kissin'-time, Rose. _Would_ be, on'y I can't
leave this blasted cayuse: 'fraid to trust him. Which way you goin'?
Don't show in Wayback. Hit th' river farther west."
Pickles had heard enough. His exit through the window was rapid and
silent. His retreat from the house, made along two sides of a triangle,
was prompted by his knowledge of the positions of Rose and Dave and he
manoeuvred so they should not be able to see him. Nevertheless the
security of the barn was very welcome, although he gained it only to
recall that the Goat was at pasture. Then Swallow must be in the
corral. He looked from the rear door. Yes, there he was, close to the
fence, gazing across the grass at the field stock and no doubt wishing
he were with them. Whimpering with suppressed delight the boy ran
silently to his rope, hanging in long loops over two pegs in the wall;
he coiled it ready to hand, crept out the door, and was at Swallow with
the rush of a bob-cat. The great stallion made one mighty bound, lashed
out one foot and stood with flattened ears; he knew the meaning of a
rope in that position as well as any cow-pony in Montana and the
indignity vexed while it subdued him. Pickles never bridled and saddled
so rapidly in his short life. Keeping the barn between him and the
house, he rode a mile or more out of his course before he dared to turn;
then he took his bearings, set a straight line for the Double Y ranch,
and gave Swallow his head. The good horse, scarcely feeling the boy's
light weight, went forward with a rush, but responded to the light hand
on the bridle and settled down, travelling mile after mile with the
tireless stride and ease of movement that had won him his name.
Greatly as he wished for the journey's end, Pickles rode with judgment.
The first doubt assailed him as he neared the Jill: would Swallow take
the water? He was not kept long in doubt. Swallow knew better than to
refuse. A master rider had put him through this stream, close to that
very spot, in the dark of a not long distant night. The sight of the
water sent the horse's ears pricking forward; he entered readily and
swam for the opposite bank the moment the ground left his feet. Pickles
shouted his delight; it would have broken his heart to have been
compelled to go back to the ford. Swallow scrambled out onto the bank
with little trouble and stretched out once more in his sweeping gallop;
he knew now where he was bound and pulled impatiently against the
restraining touch. The pace was a source of wonder to Pickles; seven
miles and a swim at the end of it and here he was asking for a loose
rein, demanding it, and going faster than ever. "Darned if I believe he
_can_ get tired," said Pickles; "go on then," and he gave him his head
and smiled a tired smile to note how the powerful limbs quickened their
action and the horse gathered pace until Pickles was travelling faster
than ever before in his life. Only the smoothness of the motion gave
him confidence in his own ability to hold out. "I could never 'a' made
it on th' Goat," he reflected. "Go on, boy! Eat 'em up!" One slender
black ear slanted toward him and away again. Swallow was eating 'em up
the best he knew how.
* * * * *
Having made her decision, Rose listened carefully to Dave's advice. The
more he talked the better she understood the situation; and Dave had
scarcely mounted to ride away before she began her own preparations.
They appeared to be very simple, merely the apparelling for a ride and
keeping watch after Dave to see that he kept on his way.
Dave's disappearance sent her hurrying to the stable. She was surprised
to find her bridle missing. On the next peg was Pickles' bridle, the
only one ready for instant use. She hesitated a moment at sight of the
heavy bit, but took it down and hastened to the edge of the pasture,
sending a clear call for Swallow as she ran. There came no answering
hoof-beats and she waited to reach the fence before calling again. A
glance to right and left and she put her hands to her mouth and sent
forth a ringing summons that carried to the far corner of the enclosure.
The wait of a few seconds told her that Swallow was not in the pasture.
Vexed and wondering she glanced from one to another of the animals near
her: two draft horses, a brood mare, its long-legged colt close by, all
watching her with that spell-bound intensity of gaze frequently accorded
the sudden appearance of a human among domestic animals running free.
Swallow would never be turned in the same field as these; then where was
he? Jean was riding the only saddle pony--no, there was the Goat.
Suspicion awoke in Rose: was it possible Pickles had dared to ride away
on Swallow!
The Goat had ideas of his own; he had positively no use for a bridle
just then, but Rose had ideas of a distinctly superior order of
intelligence and but little time was lost before the Goat was plunging
away to where Pickles should be, carrying Rose astride and bareback. Her
suspicions were confirmed in part: Pickles was not where he should be.
She swung the Goat through a half circle on his hind feet and started
back for the barn with a rush. Ten minutes later, the Goat, properly
saddled, turned short out of the farm road with a cat-like scramble onto
the Twin River trail. He had not carried so much weight since his old
master rode him and he did not like it, but knew better than to shirk;
he had tried that, and the spurs, two of them, clanking loosely on
Rose's small boots, had ripped his sides with quite an old-time fervor.
Rose had found time to adjust them after saddling; the last hole barely
held them but they served. How she longed for the free-striding gallop
of Swallow! The tied-in gait of the Goat was irksome to her but she
kept him to his work and Twin River drew rapidly nearer. With Dave's
instructions in mind she knew there was plenty of time but it would be
foolish to lessen the margin of safety by loitering.
A quarter of a mile from the ford she passed the stage from Wayback.
The driver was just whipping up to enter Twin River in style and the
stage occupants had opportunity to appraise Rose as she forged ahead.
"My heavens, what a beauty!" exclaimed a young lady on the seat beside
the driver, herself no mean specimen of God's handiwork. "Who is she?"
The driver shifted his whip and swept off his hat with a flourish. He
gazed admiringly after the rider. "That, ma'am, is the French Rose; an'
this is certainly my lucky day. I ain't seen two such pretty women
before in one day, not in a dog's age. I ain't never seen 'em," he
amended with enthusiastic conviction.
The coach cut through the ford to the hiss of the swirling water and
turned into the straight in time for them to see a man run out from the
Sweet-Echo to meet Rose, standing with his hand on the bridle while Rose
leaned forward in what looked suspiciously like a warm greeting.
Another exclamation escaped the young lady on the stage: "Whitby!" and
the blush called forth by the driver's frank admiration paled as she
watched the two whom they rapidly approached.
"Know him, ma'am?" asked the driver politely; but his companion was
oblivious to all but the scene before her.
Rose's imperious gesture and call had brought Whitby running. They had
achieved a warm regard for each other during Rose's numerous visits to
the Double Y, made at Dave's instigation; visits that had not ceased
until the arrival ef Hopalong and Mary, when Dave had declared it was no
use to try longer. Whitby grasped the significance of Rose's hurried
words in very brief time. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, thinking rapidly.
"By Jove! he will do it, too. They can't refuse to honor his check, you
know. Buck is the only one can stop it. Lucky Pickles was gone and you
came here instead of going to the Wayback bank. Buck has n't long left
me. I can catch him." He ran around to the shed at the rear and was
going fast when he turned into the trail, astride his pony. His
reassuring wave of the hand to Rose stopped in mid-air as he caught
sight of Margaret McAllister, standing on the footboard of the coach and
looking at him with an expression he did not in the least understand.
He made as if to pull up, thought better of it, and sweeping off his
hat, dug the spurs into his pony and shot out over the Big Moose trail
at a speed that promised to get him somewhere very soon.
* * * * *
Dave had not left the LaFrance cabin far behind when he pulled up with
an oath and after a short period of consideration, turned back, riding
at fair speed. He found cause to congratulate himself in starting early:
it gave him time to go back to Rose and furnish her money in case of
need. He saw her sooner than he expected. Turning a slight bend in the
trail, he had full view of the Goat, not two hundred yards away, and saw
him bound forward like a racer as the spurs ripped into him; Dave
gripped a shout in his throat at sight of this act: why was Rose in such
a hurry? Suspicion ebbed and flowed in his mind. If she were in such a
hurry, why was n't she on Swallow? But the spurring had been for speed,
not for punishment. Maybe she was saving Swallow for the longer
journey. But if content to tell her father by letter of her going, who
in Twin River needed a personal call? She could not be going farther
than Twin River--to the Double Y, for example: there was not time for
that. And why should she want to go there, either? Dave shook his head
impatiently. Either she was square or she was n't. If she was n't,
there would be a group of hard-riding boys pounding along the trail in
time to cut off Schatz at the bank. He decided to ride to within a
short distance of town, lay off the trail, and wait. If no one showed
up, he would stick to the original plan. If Rose played crooked, he
would take a train East. If too hard pressed, he could use the relays
south in place of Denver Gus. Denver might put up an argument but he
had one answer to all arguments that had always silenced opposition the
moment he produced it. "Get on, bronc," he commanded, heading for
Wayback.
* * * * *
Buck had got farther south than Whitby suspected; so far, that Whitby
was beginning to hope he had not struck off from the trail, when he
sighted him. Buck was riding head on shoulder, as if he had heard the
coming of his pursuer, and he pulled up at the other's wild gesture.
"What's eatin' him?" said Buck, smiling for the thousandth time at
Whitby's manner of riding; it was a constant wonder to Buck that a man
could sit a horse like that and stick to the worst of them as Whitby
did. "He shore ain't meanin' to swim the Black Jack to get to the
Fort." The smile faded as he suddenly realized the appeal in the
Englishman's frantic waving; he rode forward rapidly and they were soon
near enough together for Whitby to be sure his words would be heard and
understood.
"Twin River, Buck! Twin River! And ride like h--l!"
Buck's quirt bit into his pony's flank. Never before had he known the
Englishman profane; it must be serious. Whitby turned and raced ahead
of him, rapidly over-taken by Buck who rode a fresher and speedier
mount. As they ran side by side, Whitby rapidly repeated Rose's news.
"I can make it, Whit," declared Buck. "They won't try to work th' game
till closin' time at th' bank. Train bound west is due at Wayback about
then. Wish I had Allday under me. So long."
Whitby slowed to a lope and Buck drew away rapidly. His duty
accomplished, the Englishman's thoughts turned to the puzzling
expression on Margaret McAllister's face, as he had last seen it. He
tried in vain to analyze it and unconsciously pressed his tired horse
into a faster pace in his anxiety for an explanation.
Buck did not spare his pony. He _must_ be at the bank before the money
was paid over. The stringing up of Schatz by Judge Lynch would not
bring the money back; and Buck had grave doubts of his ability to
accomplish this retribution. Schatz appeared to grow stronger the more
he knew of him. Nobody but a man very sure of himself and his power
would dare such deviltry. Well, it would come to a personal
straightening of accounts. Buck's grim face was never sterner. But
first he must get to the bank. Resolutely putting aside all other
considerations he gave his whole mind to his horse. Presently he shook
his head: "Never make it," he muttered; "have to relay at Twin." Even
as he said it he saw ahead of him another rider approaching at an easy
lope; an expression of gratified pleasure appeared on Buck's face as he
saw the other dismount and begin to lengthen the stirrup leathers. It
was Rose. "By G--d! What a woman!" exclaimed Buck. "She thinks as
quick as Cassidy an' never overlooks a bet."
He urged his pony to its best speed. With a fresh mount in sight, his
object was practically assured. As he drew near, Rose called out:
"Horse wait for you at Two Fork Creek."
He pulled short beside her in two jumps. "Rose, I love you," he
declared, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; "you 'd oughta been a man!"
He sprang to the ground while speaking and was astride the Goat at a
bound, turning in his saddle to call back to her: "But I 'm most mighty
glad yo 're not." A wave of his hand and he faced about, settling in
his seat for the run to Two Fork, five miles beyond Twin River.
The crimson flood that burned in her face at his first remark, to recede
at his second, returned in full tide as she stood with lips apart and
eyes wide, watching him ride away. A trembling seized her, so that she
clung to the saddle for support. The moving figure became blurred as
the tears gathered in her eyes; she brushed them away impatiently with
the back of her hand. "He is not mean it that way," she murmured; "it
is only that he is glad I think about the horse."
She mounted and rode soberly toward Twin River. The pony, awaiting the
customary notice to attend to business and finding it long in coming,
began to entertain a sneaking affection for skirts, which until then he
had regarded with suspicious hostility.