"Oh yes, you were! You didn't know you left your footprints in some
flour on the floor, did you?"
Her glance was directed involuntarily toward her feet, as if in guilty
surprise. It was a slight but convincing evidence to the ranger, who
went on:
"Who was with you--Busby or Henry?"
"Nobody was with me. I wasn't there. I haven't been in the valley before
for weeks."
"You didn't go there alone. You wouldn't dare to go alone in the night,
and the man who was with you killed Watson."
She sat up with a gasp, and young Kitsong stared. Their surprise was too
genuine to be assumed. "What's that you say? Watson killed?"
"Yes. Watson was shot Monday night. Didn't you know that? Where have you
been that you haven't heard of it?"
Young Kitsong was all readiness to answer now. "We've been up in the
hills. We have a camp up there."
"Oh," said Hanscom, "kind of a robbers' den, eh? Has Busby been with
you?"
"Sure thing. We've all been fishing and hunting--" Here he stopped
suddenly, for to admit that he had been hunting out of season was to lay
himself liable to arrest as a poacher on the forest. He went on: "We all
came down here together."
"What were you doing chasing that team? What was the game in that?"
"Well, he shot at us first," answered the boy.
And Busby shouted from his position in the corner on the floor, "Shut
up, you fool!"
The ranger smiled. "Oh, it's got to all come out, Busby. I saw the man
on the sorrel horse fire that shot--don't forget that. And I know who
made the tracks in the flour. But I am beginning to wonder if you had
anything to do with warning the Kauffmans to get out."
He had indeed come to the end of his questioning, for his captives
refused to utter another word, and he himself fell silent, his mind
engaged with the intricacies of this problem. It might be that these
young dare-devils just happened to meet Kauffman on the road and decided
to hold him up. It was possible that they knew nothing of the warnings
which had been sent. But in that case, who pushed that final warning
under the door? Who let them know of trouble from above?
Dawn was creeping up the valley, and, calling young Kitsong from the
doze into which he had fallen, he said: "Now, Henry, I'm going to take
this bunch down to the sheriff, and you might as well make up your mind
to it first as last. You go out and saddle up while the senorita heats
up some more coffee, and we'll get ready and start."
Hanscom was by no means as confident as his voice sounded, and, as the
young fellow rose to go, only half expected him to show his face again.
"Well, let him slip," he said to himself. "I'll be safer without him."
Busby spoke up from the floor. "You stay with the game, Hank, and you
ride your own horse."
"You bet I'll ride my own horse," Kitsong violently retorted, from the
doorway.
The girl, who understood the significance of this controversy,
interposed. "I'll ride the sorrel. He's my horse, anyway."
Hanscom mockingly chimed in. "That's mighty fine and self-sacrificing,
but it won't do. The rider who fired that shot was a man. But I'll leave
it to Henry. Bring around the horses, and remember, if you slip out with
that bay horse I'll _know_ you rode the sorrel yesterday."
The situation had become too complicated for the girl, who fell silent,
while Busby cursed the ranger in fierce, set terms. "What right have you
got to arrest us, anyhow?"
"All the right I need. That shooting began inside the forest boundary,
and it's my duty to see that you are placed in the hands of the law."
Here his voice took on a note of grim determination. "And I want you to
understand there will be no funny business on the way down."
"How can I ride, all tied up like this?" demanded the ruffian.
"Oh, I'm going to untie you, and you are going to come along
quietly--either as live stock or freight--you can take your choice."
Busby, subdued by several hours on the floor, was disposed to do as he
was told, and Hanscom unbound his legs and permitted him to rise.
As young Kitsong brought the horses around in front of the cabin,
Hanscom was not disappointed in finding the girl's saddle on the sorrel.
He made no comment.
"Now, Busby, we'll mount you first," he said, and slipped the bridle
from the horse. "You see, to make sure of you I am going to lead your
pony." He then untied the youth's hands. "Climb on!" he commanded.
Busby silently mounted to his saddle, the girl took the sorrel, and at
command Kitsong started down the trail.
"You go next," said Hanscom to the girl, "now you, Busby," he added, and
with the rope across the horse's rump--the trick of a trained
trailer--he started down the trail.
Sinister as this small procession really was, it would have appeared
quite innocent to a casual observer as it went winding down the hill. No
one at a little distance would have been able to tell that in the silent
determination of the horseman in the rear lay the only law, the only
bond which kept these four riders in line. Neither Busby nor Kitsong nor
the girl doubted for an instant that if any of them made a deflection, a
rush for freedom, they would be shot. They knew that as a Federal
officer he had certain authority. Just how much authority they could not
determine, but they were aware that the shooting had begun in the
forest, which was his domain.
As they sighted Watson's cabin Hanscom was curious to know whether
nearing the scene of the crime would have any perceptible effect on
Busby. "Will he betray nervousness?" he asked himself.
Quite the contrary. As he came opposite the house, Busby turned in his
saddle and asked, "When was Watson killed?"
"Nobody knows exactly. Some time Monday night," answered the ranger.
A few miles down the road they met a rancher coming up the valley with a
timber-wagon, and to him the ranger explained briefly the nature of his
expedition, and said:
"Now, Tom, I reckon you'll have to turn around and help me take these
youngsters to the sheriff. I would rather have them in your wagon than
on horseback."
The rancher consented with almost instant readiness.
The prisoners were transferred to the wagon, and in this way the
remainder of the trip was covered.
V
The county jail was a square, brick structure standing in the midst of a
grove of small cottonwood-trees (planted in painful rows), and the
sheriff's office and his wife's parlor, situated on opposite sides of
the hall, occupied the front part of the first story, while the rear and
the basement served as kitchen and dungeon keep. Generally the lockup
was empty and the building quite as decorous as any other on the street,
although at certain times it resounded with life. On this day it was
quiet, and Throop and his wife, who served as matron, were sitting under
a tree as the rancher's wagon halted before the gate.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and Hanscom's prisoners
were dusty, tired, and sullen as they filed up the walk toward the
sheriff, who awaited their approach with an inquiring slant to his huge
head. Mrs. Throop retreated to the house.
When at close range Hanscom with a weary smile said, "I've brought you
some new boarders, Mr. Sheriff."
"So I see," said the officer, as he motioned them to enter the door.
"What's it all about?"
"It's a long story," replied the ranger, "and of course I can't go into
it here, but I want you to take charge of these people while I see
Carmody and find out what he wants done with them. I think he'll find
them valuable witnesses. Incidentally I may say they've been shooting a
horse and breaking and entering a house."
The sheriff was deeply impressed with this charge. "Well, well!" he
said, studying with especial care the downcast face of the girl. "I
thought it might be only killing game out of season, stealing timber, or
some such thing." He called a deputy. "Here, Tom, take these men into
the guard-room, and, Mrs. Throop, you look after this girl while I go
over the case with Mr. Hanscom."
"Don't let 'em talk with anybody," warned the ranger.