Without answering, she went to the bookshelf and took down a folded
sheet of paper. "Here is a letter I got yesterday," she explained, as
she handed it to him.
It was a rudely penciled note, but entirely plain in its message. "Spite
of what the coroner found, most folks believe you killed Ed Watson," it
began, abruptly. "Some of us don't blame you much. Others do, and they
say no matter what the jury reports you've got to go. I don't like to
see a woman abused, so you'd better take warning and pull out. Do it
right away." It was signed, "A Friend."
The ranger read this through twice before he spoke. "Did this come
through the mail?"
"Yes--addressed to me."
He pretended to make light of it. "I wouldn't spend much time over that.
It's only some smart Aleck's practical joke."
"I don't think so," she soberly replied. "It reads to me like a sincere
warning--from a woman. I haven't shown it to daddy yet, and I don't know
whether to do so or not. I thought of going over to see you, but I was
not sure of the way. I'm glad Providence sent you round to-day, for I am
uncertain about what to do."
"I'm a little uneasy about that warning myself," he confessed, after a
pause. "I hear the Kitsong gang is bitterly dissatisfied with the result
of the inquest thus far. They still insist on connecting you in some way
with the shooting. Fact is, I came over to-day to see if they had made
any new move."
All the lightness had gone out of his face now, and in the girl's eyes
the shadow deepened as she said:
"It seems to me that I have drawn more than my share of trouble. I came
out here hoping to find a sanctuary, and I seem to have fallen into a
den of wolves. These people would hang me if they could. I don't
understand their hate of us. They resent our being here. Sometimes I
feel as if they were only trying to drive us from our little ranch."
"Of course, all this talk of violence is nonsense," he vigorously went
on. "They can make you a whole lot of discomfort, but you are in no
danger."
Her glance was again remote as she said: "I cannot take that murder case
seriously. It all seems a thousand miles away from me now. And yet I am
afraid for daddy's sake. Why connect me with it? Is there no other woman
to accuse? Do you suppose a woman did the shooting? I don't."
"No. I think the footprints were accidental. I figure the killing was
done by some man who had it in for Watson. He was always rowing with his
help, and there are two or three Mexicans who have threatened to get
him. At the same time, I don't like this letter. They're a tough lot in
this valley." He mused a moment. "Yes, I guess you'd better plan to go."
Her gaze wandered. "I hate to leave my garden and my flowers," she said,
sadly. "After all, I've had some very peaceful hours in this nook." Her
face brightened. She became the genial hostess again. "If you have
finished your lunch, I wish you would come out and see my crops."
He followed her gladly, and their talk again became cheerfully
impersonal. Truly she had done wonders in a small space and in a short
time. Flower-beds glowed beside the towering rocks. Small ditches
supplied the plants with water, and from the rich red soil luscious
vegetables and fragrant blooms were springing.
All animation now, she pointed out her victories. "This is all my work,"
she explained, proudly. "Daddy isn't much of a hand with the spade or
the hoe. Therefore I leave the riding and the cows to him. I love to
paddle in the mud, and it has done me a great deal of good."
"What will you do with all this 'truck'?"
"Daddy intends to market it in town."
"He's away a good deal, I take it."
"Yes, I'm alone often all day, but he's always home before dark."
He voiced his concern. "I don't like to think of your being alone, even
in the daytime." He spoke as one who had been swiftly advanced from
stranger to trusted friend. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued,
as if moved by a sudden thought. "I'll go into camp across the creek for
to-night, and then if anything goes wrong I'll be within call."
"Oh no! Don't think of doing that! You must not neglect your duties.
Daddy is a pretty good marksman, and I have learned to handle a rifle,
and, besides"--here her tone became ironic--"in the chivalrous West a
woman need not fear."
"There is a whole lot of hot air about that Western chivalry talk," he
retorted. "Bad men are just as bad here as anywhere, and they're
particularly bad on the Shellfish. But, anyhow, you'll call on me if I
can be of any use, won't you?"
"I certainly shall do so," she responded, heartily, and there was
confidence and liking in her eyes as well as in the grip of her hand as
she said good-by.
When in the saddle and ready to ride away he called to her, "You won't
mind my coming over here again on Saturday, will you?"
"No, indeed. Only it is so far."
"Oh, the ride is nothing. I don't like to think of your being here
alone."
"I'm not afraid. But we shall be glad to see you just the same."
And in appreciation of her smile he removed his hat and rode away with
bared head.
The young ranger was highly exalted by this visit, and he was also
greatly disturbed, for the more he thought of that warning letter and
the conditions which gave rise to it, the more menacing it became. It
was all of a piece with the tone and character of the Shellfish gang,
for this remote valley had long borne an evil reputation, and Watson and
Kitsong had been its dominating spirits for more than twenty years and
deeply resented Kauffman's settlement in the canyon.
"It would be just like old Kit to take the law into his own hands," the
ranger admitted to himself. "And the writing in that letter looked to me
like Mrs. Abe Kitsong's."
Instead of going up to the Heart Lake sheep-camp, as he had planned to
do, he turned back to his station, moved by a desire to keep as near the
girl as his duties would permit. "For the next few days I'd better be
within call," he decided. "They may decide to arrest her--and if they
do, she'll need me."
He went about his evening meal like a man under the influence of a drug,
and when he sat down to his typewriter his mind was so completely filled
with visions of his entrancing neighbor that he could not successfully
cast up a column of figures. He lit his pipe for a diversion, but under
the spell of the smoke his recollection of just how she looked, how she
spoke, how she smiled (that sad, half-lighting of her face) set all his
nerves atingle. He grew restless.
"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself, sharply, but dared not
answer his own question. He knew his malady. His unrest was that of the
lover. Thereafter he gave himself up to the quiet joy of reviewing each
word she had uttered, and in doing so came to the conclusion that she
was in the mountains not so much for the cure of her lungs or throat as
to heal the hurt of some injustice. What it was he could not imagine,
but he believed that she was getting over it. "As she gets over it
she'll find life on the Shellfish intolerable and she'll go away," he
reasoned, and the thought of her going made his country lonesome, empty,
and of no account.
"I wish she wouldn't go about barefoot," he added, with a tinge of
jealousy. "And she mustn't let any of the Shellfish gang see her in that
dress." He was a little comforted by remembering her sudden flight when
she first perceived him coming across the bridge, and he wondered
whether the trustful attitude she afterward assumed was due entirely to
the fact that he was a Federal officer--he hoped not. Some part of it
sprang, he knew, from a liking for him.
The wilderness was no place for a woman. It was all well enough for a
vacation, but to ask any woman to live in a little cabin miles from
another woman, miles from a doctor, was out of the question. He began to
perceive that there were disabilities in the life of a forester. His
world was suddenly disorganized. Life became complex in its bearings,
and he felt the stirrings of new ambitions, new ideals. Civilization
took on a charm which it had not hitherto possessed.
He was awakened at dawn the following morning by the smell of burning
pine--a smell that summons the ranger as a drum arouses a soldier.
Rushing out of doors, he soon located the fire. It was off the forest
and to the southeast, but as any blaze within sight demanded
investigation, he put a pot of coffee on the fire and swiftly roped and
saddled one of his horses. In thirty minutes he was riding up the side
of a high hill which lay between the station and Otter Creek, a branch
of the Shellfish, at the mouth of which, some miles below, stood
Kitsong's ranch.
It was not yet light, the smoke was widely diffused, and the precise
location of the blaze could not be determined, but it appeared to be on
the Shellfish side of the ridge, just below Watson's pasture. Hence he
kept due south over the second height which divided the two creeks. It
was daylight when he reached the second hogback, and the smoke of the
fire was diminishing, but he thought it best to ride on to renew his
warning against the use of fire till the autumn rains set in, and he had
in mind also a plan to secure from Mrs. Kitsong a specimen of her
handwriting and to pick up whatever he could in the way of gossip
concerning the feeling against the Kauffmans.
He was still some miles from the ranch, and crossing a deep ravine, when
he heard the sound of a rifle far above him. Halting, he listened
intently. Another shot rang out, nearer and to the south, and a moment
later the faint reports of a revolver. This sent a wave of excitement
through his blood. A rifle-shot might mean only a poacher. A volley of
revolver-shots meant battle.
Reining his cayuse sharply to the right and giving him the spur, he sent
him on a swift, zigzagging scramble up the smooth slope. A third
rifle-shot echoed from the cliff, and was answered by a smaller weapon,
much nearer, and, with his hair almost on end with excitement, he
reached the summit which commanded the whole valley of the Otter, just
in time to witness the most astounding drama he had ever known.
Down the rough logging road from the west a team of horses was wildly
galloping, pursued at a distance by several horsemen, whose weapons,
spitting smoke at intervals, gave proof of their murderous intent. In
the clattering, tossing wagon a man was kneeling, rifle in hand, while a
woman, standing recklessly erect, urged the flying horses to greater
speed. Nothing could have been more desperate, more furious, than this
running battle.
"My God! It's the Kauffman team!" he exclaimed, and with a shrill shout
snatched his revolver from its holster and fired into the air, with
intent to announce his presence to the assailing horsemen. Even as he
did so he saw one of the far-off pursuing ruffians draw his horse to a
stand and take deliberate aim over his saddle at the flying wagon. The
off pony dropped in his traces, and the vehicle, swinging from the road,
struck a boulder and sent the man hurtling over the side; but the girl,
crouching low, kept her place. Almost before the wheels had ceased to
revolve she caught up the rifle which her companion had dropped and sent
a shot of defiance toward her pursuers.
"Brave girl!" shouted Hanscom, for he recognized Helen. "Hold the fort!"
But his voice, husky with excitement, failed to reach her.
She heard the sound of his revolver, however, and, believing him to be
only another of the attacking party, took aim at him and fired. The
bullet from her rifle flew so near his head that he heard its song.
Again her rifle flashed, this time at the man above her, and again the
forester shouted her name. In the midst of the vast and splendid
landscape she seemed a minute brave insect defending itself against
invading beasts. Her pursuers, recognizing the ranger's horse, wheeled
their ponies and disappeared in the forest.
Hanscom spurred his horse straight toward the girl, calling her name,
but even then she failed to recognize him till, lifting his hat from his
head, he desperately shouted:
"Don't shoot, girl--don't shoot! It's Hanscom--the ranger!"
She knew him at last, and, dropping her rifle to the ground, awaited his
approach in silence.
As he leaped from his horse and ran toward her she lifted her hands to
him in a gesture of relief and welcome, and he took her in his arms as
naturally as he would have taken a frightened child to his breast.
"Great God! What's the meaning of all this?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
She was white, but calm. "No, but daddy is--" And they hastened to where
the old man lay crumpled up beside a rock.
Hanscom knelt to the fallen man and examined him carefully. "He's
alive--he isn't wounded," he said. "He's only stunned. Wait! I'll bring
some water."
Running down to the bank, he filled his hat from the flood, and with
this soon brought the bruised and sadly bewildered rancher back to
consciousness.
Upon realizing who his rescuer was Kauffman's eyes misted with
gratitude. "My friend, I thank God for you. We were trying to find you.
We were on our way to claim your protection. We lost our road, and then
these bandits assaulted us."
The girl pieced out this explanation. She told of being awakened in the
night by a horse's hoofs clattering across the bridge. Some one rode
rapidly up to the door, dismounted, pushed a letter in over the
threshold, and rode away. "I rose and got the letter," she said. "It
warned us that trouble was already on the way. '_Get out!_' it said. I
roused daddy, we harnessed the horses and left the house as quickly as
we could. We dared not go down the valley, so we tried to reach you by
way of the mill. We took the wrong road at the lake. Our pursuers
trailed us and overtook us, as you saw."
It was all so monstrous that the ranger could scarcely believe it
true--and yet, there lay the dead horse and here was the old man beside
the stone. He did not refer to his own narrow escape, and apparently
Helen did not associate him with the horseman at whom she had fired with
such bewildering zeal.