Three horsemen galloped around the curve in the road that half circled
the house and the corral and the stables at Emerson Mead's ranch. One
of them swung his hat and shouted a loud "Whoo-oo-oo-ee!" But there
was no response from the house. Doors and windows were closed and not
a soul appeared in sight.
"That's queer," said Tuttle. "What's become of Billy Haney?"
"Boys, there's a man lyin' beside the door!" exclaimed Mead. "Somebody
is either drunk or dead!"
They swung off their horses and rushed to the prostrate figure, which
lay almost on its face.
"Great God, boys, it's Wellesly, and he's dying of thirst!" cried
Mead. "Nick, bring water, lots of it, cold from the pump! Here, Tom,
help me put him in the hammock."
They laid him in the hammock, in the cool shade of the cottonwoods,
where he had slept, to his own undoing, three days before. They
moistened his black, protruding tongue and let a few drops of the cool
liquid trickle down his parched throat. They poured water carefully
over his head and neck and on his wrists, and then drenched him from
head to foot with pailful after pailful of the fresh, cold water.
The patient moaned and moved his head. "He's alive, boys. We'll save
him yet," said Mead.
Through dim, half-awakened consciousness Wellesly heard the swish of
the water as it poured over his body, and felt the cool streams
trickling down his face. He gasped and his dry, cracked lips drew back
wolfishly from his teeth as he threw up his hands and seized the cup
from which Mead was carefully pouring the water over his head. Mead's
fingers closed tightly over the handle and his arm stiffened to iron.
"Softly, there, softly," he said in a gentle voice. "I can't let you
drink any now, because it would kill you. You shall have some soon."
With a choking yell Wellesly half raised himself and clung to the cup
with both hands, trying to force it to his mouth. Nick Ellhorn sprang
to his side and took hold of his shoulders.
"Sure, now, Mr. Wellesly," he began, and the Irish accent was rich and
strong in his coaxing, wheedling tones, "sure, now, you don't want to
be killin' yourself, after you've held out this far. Just you-all do
as we say and we'll bring you through all right. Sure, and you shall
be after havin' all the water you want, but you must take it on the
outside first. Ah, now, but isn't this shower bath nice!"
While he talked he gently forced the patient back and as Wellesly lay
down again Mead poured a little water into his mouth.
"If he goes luny now that's the end of him," said Emerson in a
repressed, tense voice. "We must not let him get excited. Nick, you'd
better stand there and keep him quiet, if you can, and pour water over
his face and head and put a little in his mouth sometimes."
Tuttle carried the water for their use, two pailsful at a time, and
Mead kept his body well drenched. Ellhorn stooped over the hammock and
continued his coaxing talk, drawling one sentence after another with
slurred r's and soft southern accents. With one hand he patted the
patient's head and shoulders and with the other he dashed water over
his face or trickled it, drop by drop, into his mouth. After a while
they gave the half-conscious man some weak tea, took off his wet
clothes and put him to bed. There they looked after him carefully,
giving him frequent but small instalments of food in liquid form and
an occasional swallow of water. After some hours they decided he was
out of danger and would recover without an illness. Then Nick Ellhorn
mounted a horse and rode away. When he returned he carried a burden
tied in a gunny sack, which he suspended from the limb of a tree and
carefully drenched with water many times before he retired. The next
day he anxiously watched the bag, keeping it constantly wet and shaded
and free to the breezes. And in the afternoon, with a smile curling
his mustache almost up to his eyes, he spread before Wellesly a big,
red watermelon, cold and luscious. With delight in his face and
chuckling in his voice he watched the sick man eat as much as Emerson
would allow him to have, and then begged that he be given more. To get
the melon Ellhorn had ridden fifteen miles and back, to the nearest
ranch beyond Mead's.
"I never saw a man look happier that you-all do right now," he said as
he watched Wellesly.
"And you never saw anybody who felt happier than I do with this melon
slipping down my throat," Wellesly responded. "I feel now as if I
should never want to do anything but swallow wet things all the rest
of my life. By the way, did one of you fellows stand beside me a long
time yesterday, coaxing me to lie still?"
"Yes," said Nick, "it was me. We had to make you keep quiet, or you'd
have gone luny because we wouldn't give you all the water you wanted
to drink. It would have killed you to drink the water, and if you had
yelled and fought yourself crazy for it I reckon you'd have died
anyway."
[Illustration: "ONCE HE CAME UPON HUMAN BONES, WITH SHREDS OF
CLOTHING."--_p. 179_]
"Well, I guess you saved my life, then. For if you hadn't kept me
quiet I'd have fought all creation for water. The notion took hold of
me that I was a helpless baby and that my mother was beside me,
turning a crank and making it rain into my mouth, and that all I had
to do was to lie still and listen to her voice and hold my mouth open
so that the drops could trickle down my throat. Lord! How good they
did feel! That was how I happened to lie still so contentedly."
"Nick could quiet a whole insane asylum when he gets on that
Blarneystone brogue of his," said Emerson.
All that day they did not allow Wellesly to do much talking, but kept
him lying most of the time in the hammock, in the shade of the
cottonwoods, where he slept or luxuriously spent the time slowly
swallowing the cool drinks the others brought to him.
In the early evening of the next day, when he had sufficiently
recovered his strength, they heard his story. He lay in the hammock,
with the mountain breeze blowing across his face and a pitcher of cold
tea beside him, and told them all that had happened to him from the
time he started for Las Plumas until consciousness failed him, with
his hands against the solid wall of Mead's house. The three tall
Texans listened gravely, Mead and Tuttle sitting one on each side of
the hammock and Ellhorn leaning against the tree at its foot. They
said nothing, but their eyes were fastened on his with the keenest
interest, and now and then they exchanged a nod or a look of
appreciation. When he finished silence fell on the group for a moment.
Then Mead stretched out a sun-browned hand and shook Wellesly's.
"I've never been a friend of yours, Mr. Wellesly," he said, "or
considered you one of mine. But I want to say, right now, that you've
got more grit than anybody I know in the southwest, and I'm proud to
have had the chance to save as brave a man as you are."
Tuttle seized Wellesly's other hand and exclaimed, "That's so! That's
straight talk! I'm with you there, Emerson!"
Ellhorn walked up to Wellesly's side and put his hand in a brotherly
way on the invalid's arm.
"I tell you what, Mr. Wellesly, we've fought you and the cattle
company straight from the shoulder, and I reckon we're likely to keep
on fightin' you as long as you fight us, but if you're goin' to give
us the sort of war you showed that desert--well, I reckon Emerson will
need all the help Tom and me can give him!"
Wellesly laughed in an embarrassed way and Ellhorn went on: "Now, just
see how things turn out. There's been another war over in Las Plumas
and we-all have been fightin' you and your interests and the cattle
company and the Republicans for all we were worth. They arrested
Emerson again on that same old murder fake, to say nothin' of me for
bein' drunk and disorderly, which I sure was, and there was hell to
pay for two days. They tried to take Emerson out of town, and Tom and
me held up the train they had him on. I buffaloed the engineer while
they took care of Daniels and Halliday, and then we pulled our
freight. And here we ride up to the ranch, fugitives from justice,
just barely in time to save you-all."
Wellesly laughed. "I am very glad you did it. My only regret is that
you didn't break jail several days earlier."
"I don't know whether or not you-all understand the position I take
about that Whittaker case," said Mead. "I reckon likely you think I
break jail every time you get me in just out of pure cussedness. But I
don't. I do it because I think you-all haven't any reason but pure
cussedness for puttin' me in. I consider that you haven't any right to
arrest me on mere suspicion, and I shall keep on resistin' arrest and
breakin' jail just as long as you fellows keep on tryin' to run me in
without any proof against me. Why, you don't even know that Will
Whittaker's dead! Now, Mr. Wellesly, I'll make a bargain with you."
Mead's eyes were fastened on Wellesly's with an intent look which
gripped the invalid's attention. Wellesly's eyelids suddenly half
closed and between them flashed out the strips of pale, brilliant
gray.
"All right, go on. I must hear it before I assent."
"It is this: I won't ask you to have any evidence that I had a hand in
the killing of Will Whittaker, if he is dead. But whenever you can
prove that he is dead and show that he died by violence, I give you my
word, and my friends here, Tom Tuttle and Nick Ellhorn, will add
theirs to mine, I give you my word that I'll submit quietly to arrest
and will stand trial for his murder. But unless you can do that I
shall keep on fightin' you till kingdom come!"
Tuttle and Ellhorn nodded. "He's right!" they exclaimed. "We'll stick
to what he says."
Wellesly considered Mead's challenge in silence for a moment. He was
wondering whether this was the courage of innocence or whether it was
mere bluffing audacity. It was very like the former, but he decided
that it must be the latter, because he was quite convinced that Mead
had killed Whittaker.
"Of course," he said, "after what you have done for me here--you have
saved my life and showed me the greatest kindness and generosity--I
can not allow any further proceedings to be taken against you, if I
can prevent them, which is not--"
"Oh, hang all that!" Mead interrupted with a gesture of irritation. "I
don't expect and don't want anything we have done just now to make any
difference with your feelings toward me, or change the policy of the
Fillmore Cattle Company. And I don't want it to influence the actions
of the Republicans in Las Plumas, either. We didn't do it for that
purpose, and I'm not buying protection for myself that way. What we
did was the barest humanity."
"No, Mr. Wellesly," Nick Ellhorn broke in, "you needn't have it on
your conscience that you must be grateful to us, because if we hadn't
saved you the Republicans over in Plumas would have said that we
killed you. We sure had to save you to save our own skins."
There was a general laugh at this, and Mead added quietly: "As it was
my men who were to blame for your condition, I suppose I would have
been, in a way, responsible."
Tuttle rose and began walking about uneasily. "When are we goin' to
start after 'em, Nick?" he said.
"I'm ready whenever you are."
"All right. To-morrow morning, then."
Wellesly looked up in surprise. It was the first word he had heard
from either of the three concerning his captors, and he was startled
by the calm assurance with which Tom had taken it for granted that he
and Nick would "go after 'em." "You two won't go alone!" he exclaimed.
"We're enough," Tuttle replied, a grim, expectant look on his big,
round face.
"You bet we are!" added Nick. "If they see Tom and me comin' they'll
know they've got to give up. They've seen us shoot, and that scrub,
Haney, has got some sense, though I reckon Jim would be just fool
enough to get behind a rock and pop at us till we blowed his brains
out."
"Oh, I say, now! This is a foolhardy scheme! Let them go, and if they
come out of there alive we'll get hold of them somehow. It would be
dangerous to the last degree for you two alone to attempt to bring
them out across that desert."
"Don't you worry," said Nick. "We ain't 'lowing to bring 'em out."
The next morning Tuttle and Ellhorn, with two loaded pack horses, set
out on their journey to the Oro Fino mountains, where they felt sure
the two kidnappers would still be engaged in their hunt for the lost
Winters mine. Mead had already sent word to the Fillmore ranch that
Wellesly was at his house and that some one might meet them at
Muletown that afternoon and carry him on to Las Plumas.
When the two men parted they looked each other in the eyes and shook
hands. Wellesly began to acknowledge his debt of gratitude. Mead cut
him short.
"That's all right, Mr. Wellesly," he said, "but I don't want you to
think for a minute that I expect this little affair to make any
difference in our relations. In the cattle business I still consider
you my enemy, and I propose to fight you as long as you try to prevent
what I hold to be just and fair dealing between the Fillmore Company
and the rest of us cattle raisers. We still stand exactly where we did
before."
Wellesly smiled admiringly. "Personally, I like your pluck, Mr. Mead,
but, if you will pardon my saying so, I think it is very ill-advised.
I'll frankly admit that you've beaten us this year at every turn. But
you can't keep up this sort of thing year after year, against the
resources and organization of a big company. The most distinctive
commercial feature of this period is the constant growth of big
interests at the expense of smaller ones. It is something that the
individual members of a big concern can't help, because it is bigger
than they are. Our stock-holders will undoubtedly wish to enlarge
their holdings and increase their profits, and I, being only one of a
number, can have no right to put my personal feelings above their
interests. You ought to see that the result is going to be inevitable
in your case, just as it is everywhere else. The little fellows can't
hold their own against the big ones. I am telling you all this in the
most friendly spirit, and I assure you it will be to your interest to
take my advice and compromise the whole matter. I'll guarantee that
the Fillmore people will meet you half way, and I am sure it will cost
you less in the long run."
As he listened to Wellesly the good-natured smile left Mead's face,
his lips shut in a hard line, and the defiant yellow flame, the light
of battle, which his friends knew to be the sign that he would fight
to the death, leaped into his eyes. He stared into Wellesly's face a
moment before he spoke.
"Compromise! I've got nothing to compromise! I reckon that means that
you want my two water holes and grazing land that join yours! Well,
you can't have them! But if you want any more fight over this cattle
business you can have all you want, and whenever you want it!" And he
turned on his heel and walked away. "I reckon they would like me to
compromise," he said to himself. "It would be lots of money in their
pockets, and holes in mine. It's a pity that a man with Wellesly's
grit should be such a hog!"
Wellesly shrugged his shoulders and climbed into the carriage that was
to take him to Las Plumas. "I can't help it," he thought, "if he
chooses to look at it that way. I told him the truth, and I put it in
the kindest way. The little fellows are sure to go down before the big
ones. That is the law that governs all commerce nowadays. He is bound
to be eaten up, and he ought to have sense enough to see it. He'd save
himself trouble and money if he would take my advice, compromise, and
get out now with what he can. He can't stop things from taking their
natural course, and the more he fights the sooner he'll go under. Of
course, I don't like to do anything against him, after he has saved my
life, but my private sentiments can't interfere with the company's
interests, and measures will have to be taken before next fall's
round-up to put a stop to this whole thing. I offered the olive
branch, and he refused it, and now he can have all the war he wants.
He is the head and backbone of all the opposition to us, and if we
were rid of him the Fillmore Company could double its profits. I don't
doubt for a minute that he killed Will Whittaker, and if we could
prove it that would solve the whole matter. He said he would submit to
arrest and trial if we could prove that Will died a violent death.
That means, of course, that nobody saw him commit the murder and that
he has hid the body where he thinks it can't be found.
"Then it must be very much out of the way, where he is sure nobody
would think of looking for it. Probably it isn't any where near the
traveled road, the cattle ranges, nor the ranches in the foothills. It
must be in some out of the way corner of the Fernandez plain.
Whittaker says the searching parties have been all over this part of
the country, so it must be farther up toward the north. The White
Sands are up that way, I remember, and if a body were buried there,
deep enough, it might as well be at the bottom of the sea. Yes, I
think that's a pretty good idea. Whittaker must send a searching party
up to the White Sands as soon as he can get one together. If we can
find that body--there's _adios_ to Emerson Mead and the fight against
us. He'll have to hang or go to the penitentiary for life."
When Wellesly reached Las Plumas he found the town basking in peace
and friendliness. Colonel Whittaker and Judge Harlin were enjoying a
midday mint julep together over the bar of the Palmleaf saloon; John
Daniels and Joe Davis were swapping yarns over a watermelon in the
back room of Pierre Delarue's store, while Delarue himself was
laughing gleefully at their stories, and Mrs. Harlin was assisting
Mrs. Daniels in preparations for the swellest card party of the
summer, which the sheriff's wife was to give that afternoon.
In the late afternoon Wellesly sat beside Marguerite Delarue on her
veranda and told her the story of his abduction and of his fight,
which he had come so near to losing, with the fiends of heat and
thirst. He showed her the bent and bloody pin which had helped to
liberate him from his captivity in the canyon and in soft and
lover-like tones told her that he owed his life to her and that a
lifetime of devotion would not be sufficient to express his gratitude.
But he stopped just short of asking her to accept the lifetime of
devotion. She was much moved and her tender blue eyes were misty with
tears as she listened to the story of his sufferings. He thought he
had never seen her look so sweet and attractive and so entirely in
accord with his ideal of womanly sympathy. When he told her how
Emerson Mead and his two friends had worked over him and by what a
narrow margin they had saved him from severe illness and probably from
death, her face brightened and she seemed much pleased. She asked some
questions about Mead, and was evidently so interested in this part of
the story that Wellesly, much to his surprise, felt a sudden impulse
of personal dislike and enmity toward the big Texan. That night, as he
sat at his window smoking and looking thoughtfully at the lop-sided
moon rising over the Hermosa mountains, he was thinking about
Marguerite Delarue and the advisability of asking her to marry him.
"Undoubtedly," he owned to himself, "I think more of her than I
usually do of women, because I never before cared a hang what their
feelings were toward other men. I must have been mistaken in thinking
there was anything between her and Mead. Her heart is as fresh as her
face, and I can go in and take it, and feel there have been no
predecessors, if I want to. Do I want to? I don't know. She's handsome
and she's got a stunning figure. Her feet aren't pretty, but they
would look better if she didn't wear such clumsy shoes. Well, I'd see
that she didn't. She seems to be sweet and gentle and sympathetic, and
the sort of woman that would be absorbed in her husband and his
interests. She's overfond of flattery, moral, mental and physical.
Gets that from Frenchy, I suppose, for you can start him strutting
like a rooster any time with a dozen words. But that isn't much of a
fault in a wife, after all, for if a fellow can only remember about it
it's the easiest way in the world to keep a woman happy. Well, I'll
think about it. There are no rivals in the field, and it will be time
enough to decide when I make my next visit to Las Plumas."
The next day he went to tell Marguerite good-bye and sat talking with
her a long time upon her veranda. Las Plumas had noticed the frequency
of his calls at the Delarue house on his last trip to the town, and
when it saw him there again two days in succession it felt sure that
a love story was going on under the roses and honeysuckles. The smoke
of the engine which carried him away had scarcely melted on the
horizon before people were saying to one another that it would be a
splendid match and what a fine thing it was for Marguerite Delarue
that so rich a man as Wellesly had fallen in love with her.
Judge Harlin at once drove out to Emerson Mead's ranch in order that
he might learn, from Mead's own lips, exactly what had happened to
Wellesly and what sort of a compact Mead had made with him concerning
the finding of Will Whittaker's body. They sat under the trees
discussing Wellesly's character, after Mead had told the whole story
down to their parting at Muletown.
"By the way," said Harlin, "they are saying, over in town, that
Wellesly is stuck on Frenchy Delarue's daughter, and that they are to
be married next fall. She is a stunning pretty girl, and as good as
she is pretty, but it seems to me rather odd for Wellesly to come down
here to get a wife. He's the sort of man you would expect to look for
money and position in a wife, rather than real worth."