That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking and
sleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and grateful to
Euchre for having put something worth while into his mind. During
breakfast, however, he was unusually thoughtful, working over the idea
of how much or how little he would confide in the outlaw. He was aware
of Euchre's scrutiny.
“Wal,” began the old man, at last, “how'd you make out with the kid?”
“Kid?” inquired Duane, tentatively.
“Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?”
“We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up.”
Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane.
“Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe you
done the job too well.”
“How so?”
“Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half crazy.
She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her eyes hurt me. She
wouldn't tell me a darn word you said. But she hung onto my hands,
an' showed every way without speakin' how she wanted to thank me fer
bringin' you over. Buck, it was plain to me thet you'd either gone the
limit or else you'd been kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate to
think you'd led Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true.”
Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:
“Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You can
trust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there an' puttin' you
wise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?”
Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations with
Jennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had reached an end
Euchre set down the coffee-cup and began to stare, and at the conclusion
of the story his face lost some of its red color and beads of sweat
stood out thickly on his brow.
“Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!” he ejaculated, blinking at Duane.
“Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to make your mark on
this river; but I reckon I missed your real caliber. So thet's what
it means to be a man! I guess I'd forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if my
heart was in the right place I never was built fer big stunts. Do you
know what it'll take to do all you promised Jen?”
“I haven't any idea,” replied Duane, gravely.
“You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even if she
falls in love with you, which's shore likely, thet won't be easy.
An' she'd kill you in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got wise. You ain't
mistaken her none, are you?”
“Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man.”
“Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an' mebbe
some others, before you can ride off into the hills with thet girl.”
“Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportune
time sneak off without any gun-play?”
“Don't see how on earth,” returned Euchre, earnestly. “When Bland's
away he leaves all kinds of spies an' scouts watchin' the valley trails.
They've all got rifles. You couldn't git by them. But when the boss is
home there's a difference. Only, of course, him an' Chess keep their
eyes peeled. They both stay to home pretty much, except when they're
playin' monte or poker over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is to
pick out a good time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with a
couple of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take Jennie
with you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If you had luck you
might pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun. But I reckon the best
figgerin' would include dodgin' some lead an' leavin' at least Bland or
Alloway dead behind you. I'm figgerin', of course, thet when they come
home an' find out you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturally
look fer results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you're
swift on the draw--mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of this
gun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter of two gunmen
till they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination mebbe you'll learn some
day. Bland would treat you civil onless there was reason not to, an'
then I don't believe he'd invite himself to a meetin' with you. He'd set
Chess or Rugg to put you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' if
you came across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you was
with Bosomer.”
“All right. I'll meet what comes,” said Duane, quickly. “The great point
is to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trick
through.”
“Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone.”
“I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!”
“Wal, I'll take my chances,” replied Euchre, gruffly. “I'm goin' to help
Jennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet. There's only four men in
this camp who would shoot me--Bland, an' his right-hand pards, an' thet
rabbit-faced Benson. If you happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'd
stand a good show with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired--what's
the difference if I do git plugged? I can risk as much as you, Buck,
even if I am afraid of gun-play. You said correct, 'Hosses ready, the
right minnit, then rush the trick.' Thet much 's settled. Now let's
figger all the little details.”
They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who planned,
Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the return of Bland and
his lieutenants it would be well for Duane to grow friendly with the
other outlaws, to sit in a few games of monte, or show a willingness
to spend a little money. The two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Bland
every day--Euchre to carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie,
Duane to blind the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decided
upon, they proceeded to put them into action.
No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of those
good-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order than
theirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later sinking to their
lower level. Besides, with them everything was easy come, easy go. That
was why life itself went on so carelessly and usually ended so cheaply.
There were men among them, however, that made Duane feel that terrible
inexplicable wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be near
them. He could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word,
a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could no
longer control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men. Because of
him and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forget
the reality of things. This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, a
rendezvous for murderers, a wild place stained red by deeds of wild men.
And because of that there was always a charged atmosphere. The merriest,
idlest, most careless moment might in the flash of an eye end in
ruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate characters it
could not be otherwise. The terrible thing that Duane sensed was this.
The valley was beautiful, sunny, fragrant, a place to dream in; the
mountaintops were always blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slid
slowly and majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, the
horses grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love,
freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with money and
speech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes, smoked, gambled,
talked, laughed, whiled away the idle hours--and all the time life there
was wrong, and the simplest moment might be precipitated by that evil
into the most awful of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark,
brooding shadow over the valley.
Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the Bland
woman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience was never
troubled about the beginning of that affair. She launched herself. It
took no great perspicuity on his part to see that. And the thing which
evidently held her in check was the newness, the strangeness, and for
the moment the all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exerted
himself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and always
with deference. That was his strong point, and it had made his part
easy so far. He believed he could carry the whole scheme through without
involving himself any deeper.
He was playing at a game of love--playing with life and deaths Sometimes
he trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or any other man, but
at the deeps of life he had come to see into. He was carried out of his
old mood. Not once since this daring motive had stirred him had he
been haunted by the phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he been
haunted by Jennie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never was
able to speak a word to her. What little communication he had with her
was through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he caught glimpses
of her every time he went to the Bland house. She contrived somehow to
pass door or window, to give him a look when chance afforded. And Duane
discovered with surprise that these moments were more thrilling to
him than any with Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting just
inside the window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it was
all made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she was
almost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to listen, to
understand that this was Duane's only chance to help keep her mind from
constant worry, to gather the import of every word which had a double
meaning.
Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain, to burn
up with intense hope which had flamed within her. But all the difference
Duane could see was a paler face and darker, more wonderful eyes. The
eyes seemed to be entreating him to hurry, that time was flying, that
soon it might be too late. Then there was another meaning in them, a
light, a strange fire wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flash
gone in an instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it in
any other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he knew that
Jennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting glance she gave him,
was responsible for a subtle and gradual change in him. This change
he fancied, was only that through remembrance of her he got rid of his
pale, sickening ghosts.
One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into the brush
matting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den, and there was a fire
which left little more than the adobe walls standing. The result was
that while repairs were being made there was no gambling and drinking.
Time hung very heavily on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Days
passed by without a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hours
of peace than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything but
empty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on all the
trails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the condition of his
two horses.
Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested that
they go down to the river to the boat-landing.
“Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin',” said Euchre. “River gettin'
low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaser
freight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from the
freighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico.”
Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lolling
in the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not an
outlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavily
freighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work for
themselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans.
Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchre
lighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back in
comfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duane
was alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It was
his belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him.
Moreover, these rough men were always interesting.
“Bland's been chased across the river,” said one.
“New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship,” replied another.
“Big deal on, hey?”
“Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand.”
“Say, that order'll take a year to fill.”
“New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill orders
bigger 'n thet.”
“Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer.”
Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the
outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him.
“Kid Fuller's goin' to cash,” said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw.
“So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad.
But he took the fever,” rejoined a comrade.
“Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'.”
“Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn't
got time.”
A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some of
the outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will.
Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation.
“Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before.”
“Shore. Wal, it's happened before.”
This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane.
He did not choose to ignore them any longer.
“Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady's
name again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days.”
He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor in
no wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a class
of men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing until
they wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated in
the very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even the
simplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip.
There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It never
seemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in an
awkward position.
There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notches
on their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duane
silence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held.
Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall a
familiar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hinted
of his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have done
better.
“Orful hot, ain't it?” remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could not
keep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never been
anything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding;
a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partly
black from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, cruel
eye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.
“Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?” he
asked.
“My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!” exclaimed a comrade.
This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager to
join him in a bath.
“Laziest outfit I ever rustled with,” went on Bill, discontentedly.
“Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'll
gamble?”
He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionless
crowd.
“Bill, you're too good at cards,” replied a lanky outlaw.
“Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er I
might take it to heart,” replied Black, with a sudden change of tone.
Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to reply
would mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance.
“No offense, Bill,” said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and dissatisfied.
Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And as Benson's place was
out of running-order, Black was like a fish on dry land.
“Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?” he
asked, in disgust.
“Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits.” replied one.
Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter. The game
obsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the mumbly peg contest
with a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He won. Other comrades tried
their luck with him and lost. Finally, when Bill had exhausted their
supply of two-bit pieces or their desire for that particular game, he
offered to bet on anything.
“See thet turtle-dove there?” he said, pointing. “I'll bet he'll scare
at one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or he won't fly when some
one chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?”
That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlaws
could withstand.
“Take thet. Easy money,” said one.
“Who's goin' to chuck the stone?” asked another.
“Anybody,” replied Bill.
“Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone,” said the first
outlaw.
“We're in on thet, Jim to fire the darnick,” chimed in the others.
The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, to
the great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.
“I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,”
he offered, imperturbably.
Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity to
cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, and
they all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and the
tree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocular
remarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minutes
had passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an
impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars.
“But it hadn't the same dove!” exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. “This
'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple.”
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
“Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? Now
I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove with
one stone.”
No one offered to take his wager.
“Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him with
one stone.”
Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wise
disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together.
The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard to
that bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kind
of wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then he
appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently a
little ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularly
starved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave him
a handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging
the money.
“I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road,” declared Bill.
“I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.”
Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith became
sullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in spite of the
fact that he had won considerable.
Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and wondered
what was in his mind. These men were more variable than children, as
unstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.
“Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thet
peon's packin',” said the outlaw called Jim.
Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.
Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled peon
carrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a half-witted
Indian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for the Mexicans. Duane had
met him often.
“Jim, I'll take you up,” replied Black.
Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. He
caught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
“Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot,” said Jasper, as Black rested an elbow
on his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The distance to the
peon was about fifty paces, too far for even the most expert shot to hit
a moving object so small as a bucket.
Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was positive that
Black held too high. Another look at the hard face, now tense and dark
with blood, confirmed Duane's suspicion that the outlaw was not aiming
at the bucket at all. Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of his
hand. Another outlaw picked it up.
Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not seem the
same man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant and formidable
front. Sullenly he turned away without even asking for his gun.