CHAPTER XXV—KEATS LOOKS FOR “SQUINT”

Neil Norton had been attending to Taylor’s affairs in Dawes during the

latter’s illness, and he had ridden to the Arrow this morning to

discuss with Taylor a letter he had received—for Taylor—from a Denver

cattle buyer. The inquiry was for Herefords of certain markings and

quality, and Norton could give the buyer no information. So Norton had

come to Taylor for the information.

“The herd is grazing in the Kelso Basin,” Taylor told Norton. Norton

knew the Kelso Basin was at least fifteen miles distant from the Arrow

ranchhouse—a deep, wide valley directly west, watered by the same

river that flowed near the Arrow ranchhouse.

“I can’t say, offhand, whether we’ve got what your Denver man wants.”

He grinned at Norton, adding: “But it’s a fine morning for a ride, and

I haven’t done much riding lately. I’ll go and take a look.”

“I’ll be looking, too,” declared Norton. “The _Eagle_ forms are ready

for the press, and there isn’t much to do.”

Later, Taylor, mounted on Spotted Tail, and Norton on a big, rangy

sorrel, the two men rode away. Taylor stopped at the horse corral gate

long enough to tell Bud Hemmingway, who was replacing a bar, that he

and Norton were riding to the Kelso Basin.

And there was one other to whom he had spoken—when he had gone into

the house to buckle on his cartridge-belt and pistols, just before he

went out to saddle Spotted Tail. It was the girl who had tantalized

him while they had been sitting on the rock. She had not spoken

frivolously to him inside the house; instead, she had gravely warned

him to be “careful;” that his wounds might bother him on a long

ride—and that she didn’t want him to suffer a relapse. And she watched

him as he and Norton rode away, following the dust-cloud that

enveloped them until it vanished into the mists of distance. Then she

turned from the door with a sigh, thinking of the fate that had made

her dependent upon the charity of the man she loved.

To Bud Hemmingway, working at the corral gate about an hour following

the departure of Taylor and Norton, there came an insistent demand to

look toward Dawes. It was merely one of those absurd impulses founded

upon a whim provoked by self-manufactured presentiment—but Bud looked.

What he saw caused him to stand erect and stare hard at the trail

between Mullarky’s cabin and the Arrow—for about two miles out came a

dozen or more riders, their horses traveling fast.

For several seconds Bud watched intently, straining his eyes in an

effort to distinguish something about the men that would make their

identity clear. And then he dropped the hammer he had been working

with and ran to the bunkhouse, where he put on his cartridge-belt and

pistol.

Returning to the bunkhouse door, he stood in it for a time, watching

the approaching men. Then he scowled, muttering:

“It’s that damned Keats an’ some of his bunch! What in hell are they

wantin’ at the Arrow?”

Bud was standing near the edge of the front gallery when Keats and his

men rode up. There were fourteen of the men, and, like their leader,

they were ill-visaged, bepistoled.

Marion Harlan had heard the noise of their approach, and she had come

to the front door. She stood in the opening, her gaze fixed

inquiringly upon the riders, though chiefly upon Keats, whose manner

proclaimed him the leader. He looked at Bud.

“Hello, Hemmingway!” he greeted, gruffly. “I take it the outfit ain’t

in?”

“Workin’, Kelso,” returned Bud. Bud’s gaze at Keats was belligerent;

he resented the presence of Keats and the men at the Arrow, for he had

never liked Keats, and he knew the relations between the visitor and

Taylor were strained almost to the point of open antagonism.

“What’s eatin’ you guys?” demanded Bud.

“Plenty!” stated Keats importantly. He turned to the men.

“Scatter!” he commanded; “an’ rustle him up, if he’s anywhere around!

Hey!” he shouted at a slender, rat-faced individual. “You an’ Darbey

search the house! Two more of you take a look at the bunkhouse—and the

rest of you nose around the other buildin’s. Keep your eyes peeled,

an’ if he goes to gettin’ fresh, plug him plenty!”

“Why, what is wrong?” demanded Marion. Her face was pale with

indignation, for she resented the authoritative tone used by Keats as

much as she resented the thought of the two men entering the house

unbidden.

Keats’s face flamed with sudden passion. With a snap of his wrist he

drew his gun and trained its muzzle on Bud.

“Wrong enough!” he snapped. He was looking at Bud while answering Miss

Harlan’s question. “I’m after Squint Taylor, an’ I’m goin’ to get

him—that’s all! An’ if you folks go to interferin’ it’ll be the worse

for you!”

Marion stiffened and braced herself in the doorway, her eyes wide with

dread and her lips parted to ask the question that Bud now spoke, his

voice drawling slightly with sarcasm.

“Taylor, eh?” he said. “What you wantin’ with Taylor?”

“I’m wantin’ him for murderin’ Larry Harlan!” snapped Keats.

Bud gulped, drew a deep breath and went pale. He looked at Marion, and

saw that the girl was terribly moved by Keats’s words. But neither the

girl nor Bud spoke while Keats dismounted, crossed the porch, and

stopped in front of the door, which was barred by the girl’s body.

“Get out of the way—I’m goin’ in!” ordered Keats.

The girl moved aside to let him pass, and as he crossed the threshold

she asked, weakly:

“How do you—how do they know Mr. Taylor killed Larry Harlan?”

Keats turned on her, grinning mirthlessly.

“How do we know anything?” he jeered. “Evidence—that’s what—an’ plenty

of it!”

Keats vanished inside, and Bud, his eyes snapping with the alert

glances he threw around him, slowly backed away from the porch toward

the stable. As he turned, after backing several feet, he saw Marion

walk slowly to a rocker that stood on the porch, drop weakly into it

and cover her face with her hands.

Gaining the stable, Bud worked fast; throwing a saddle and bridle upon

King, the speediest horse in the Arrow outfit, excepting Spotted Tail.

With movements that he tried hard to make casual, but with an

impatience that made his heart pound heavily, he got King out and led

him to the rear of the stable.

Some of Keats’s men were running from one building to another; but he

was not Taylor, and they seemed to pay no attention to him, beyond

giving him sharp glances.

Passing behind the blacksmith-shop, Bud heard a voice saying:

“Dead or alive, Keats says; an’ they’d admire to have him dead. I

heard Carrington tellin’ Keats!”

As the sound of the voice died away, Bud touched King’s flank with the

spurs. The big horse, after a day in the stable, was impatient and

eager for a run, and he swept past the scattered buildings of the

ranch with long, swift leaps that took him out upon the plains before

Keats could complete his search of the first floor of the house.

The two men who had searched the upper floor came downstairs, to meet

Keats in the front room. They grimly shook their heads at Keats, and

at his orders went outside to search with the other men.

Keats stepped to the door, saw Marion sitting limply in the

rocking-chair, her shoulders convulsed with sobs, and crossed to her,

shaking her with a brutal arm.

“Where’s that guy I left standin’ there? Where’s he—Hemmingway?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl dully.

Keats cursed and ran to the edge of the porch. With his gaze sweeping

the buildings, the pasture, the corrals, and the wide stretch of plain

westward, he stiffened, calling angrily to his men:

“There he goes—damn him! It’s that sneakin’ Bud Hemmingway, an’ he’s

gone to tell Taylor we’re after him! He knows where Taylor is! Get

your hosses!”

Forced to her feet by the intense activity that followed Keats’s

loudly bellowed orders, the girl crossed the porch, and from a point

near the end railing watched Keats and his men clamber into their

saddles and race after Bud. For a long time she watched them—a tiny

blot gliding over the plains, followed by a larger blot—and then she

walked slowly to the rocking-chair, looked down at it as though its

spaciousness invited her; then she turned from it, entered the house,

and going to her room—where Martha was sleeping—began feverishly

throwing her few belongings into the small handbag she had brought

with her from the big house.