THE DOUBLE THEFT
After that there were no more uncomfortable silences in the Harte cabin.
Thornton found a lamp, lighted it and placed it on the table. And with
the act he seemed to take upon himself the part of host, playing it with
a quiet courtesy and gentleness fitting well with the unconscious grace
of his lithe body and with the kindliness softening his dark eyes. He
told her of his ranch, of the cowboys working for him, of the cattle
they were running, of little incidents of everyday life on the range,
seeking to make her forget that in reality they were strangers very
unconventionally placed. And he did not once ask her a direct question
about herself or concerning her business. That she was quick to notice.
For an hour they chatted pleasantly. Now, when Thornton got to his feet
again, and went to the door to see what promise the night gave of being
cloudless and to note the moon already pushing up above the jagged
skyline where the trees stood upon the hill tops, she watched him with
an interest that was not tinged with the vague suspicion of an hour ago.
She saw that as he stood lounging in the doorway, his hands upon his
hips, one shoulder against the rude door jamb, he had to stoop his head
a little, and knew that he was a taller, bigger man than she had
realized until now.
"If I were as big as you are," she laughed at him, "I'd be in constant
fear of bumping my head in the dark."
He laughed with her, told her that he was getting used to it, and came
back for his hat.
"If you'll be getting ready," he told her, "I'll go out and bring in the
horses. If you're rested up?"
She assured him that she was, noted again how he stooped for the
doorway, and watched him move swiftly away through the shadows cast by
the trees about the cabin. She put on her hat, buckled on the spurs she
had dropped on the table, and was ready. Then, before he could have gone
half way to the barn, she heard swift steps coming back.
He had forgotten something; but what? She looked about her expecting to
see his tobacco sack or some such article, a block of matches, maybe,
which he had left behind. But there was nothing. She lifted the lamp in
her hand so that the weak rays searched out the four corners of the
cabin. Then she turned again toward the door.
Out yonder through the clear night came on the tall figure with the long
free stride of the man of the outdoors. In a patch of bright moonlight
his head was down as though his mood were one of thoughtfulness, and the
shadow of his wide hat hid his face and eyes from her. In the black
shade under the live oak before Harte's door he lifted his head
quickly; here he came for an instant to a dead halt, half turning. It
struck her abruptly that he was tense, that the atmosphere was suddenly
charged with uneasiness, that he was listening as a man listens who more
than half expects trouble.
"What is it?" she called. She could not make out more than the vague
outline of his figure now as he stood still, his body seeming to merge
into the great trunk of the tree. He did not answer. Again, head down
and hurriedly, he came on. On through the thinning fringe of shadow and
into the full bright moonlight.
A sudden formless fear which in no way could she explain was upon her.
His actions were so strange; they hinted at furtiveness. He had been so
outright and hearty and wholesome a moment ago and now struck her as
anything but the big free and easy man who had supped with her. She drew
back a little, her underlip caught between her teeth as was her habit
when undue stress was laid upon her nerves, her breath coming a trifle
irregularly. After all she was just a girl and he was a man, big, strong
and perhaps brutal, of whom she knew virtually nothing. And they were
very far from any other human beings....
He came straight on to the open door; as the lamp light fell upon him
her formless fear of a moment ago was swept up and engulfed in an access
of terror which made her sick and dizzy. All of the time until now, even
when appearances hinted at an inexplicable duplicity, she had felt safe
with him, trusting to what her natural instinct read of him in his eyes
and carriage and voice. And now she clutched at the mantel with one hand
while in the other the lamp swayed precariously.
The reason for her agitation was plain enough; had it been his sole
purpose to strike terror into her heart he could hardly have selected a
more efficient method. Across the face, hiding it entirely, leaving only
the eyes to glint through two rude slits at her, was a wide bandana
handkerchief. The big black hat was drawn low, now; the handkerchief,
bound about the brow, fell to a point well below the base of his throat.
"Easy there," he said in a voice which upon her ears was only a tense,
evil whisper. "Easy. You know what I want.... Look out for that lamp!
Making it dark in here, even setting the shack on fire, isn't going to
help much. Easy, girlie."
"You ... you ..." she panted, and found no word to go on.
He came in and strode across the room, taking the lamp from her and
setting it on the mantel. She had come near dropping it when his hand
brushed hers. Again she drew back from him hastily, her eyes running to
the door. But he forestalled her, closed the door and stood in her way,
towering above her, his air charged with menace.
"You pretty thing!" he muttered, his tone frankly sincere though his
voice was still hardly more than a harsh whisper. "If I just had time to
play with you ... I said you'd know what I want. And don't get funny
with the little toy pistol you'd be sure to have in your dress. It won't
do you any good; you know that, don't you?"
She did know. Her hand had already gone into her bosom where the "little
toy pistol" lay against that which she had vainly thought it could
guard, a thick envelope. The man came quite close to her, so close that
she felt his breath stir her hair, so close that his slightly uplifted
hand could come down upon her before she could stir an inch.
"You can tell Henry Pollard for me," he jeered from the secure
anticipation of his present triumph, "that the unknown stranger names
him seven kinds of fool. To think he could get across this way and sneak
that little wad by me! And by the by, it's getting late and if you don't
mind I'll take what's coming to me and move on."
Then she found her tongue, the fires blazed up in her eyes and a hot
flush came into her pale cheeks.
"Big brute and cur and coward!" she flung at him. "Woman-fighter!"
"All of that," he laughed insolently. "And then some. And you? Grey
eyed, pink beauty! By God, girl, you'd make an armful for a man! Soon to
be queen of Dead Man's Alley, eh? I'll see you there; I'll come and pay
my respects! Oh, but I will, coward that I am! But now...."
"There! Take it! Take it! Oh...."
She shuddered away from him, her face went white again, she grew cold
with the fear upon her. Just then she cared infinitely little for the
sheaf of banknotes in the yellow envelope which the banker had given to
her. She jerked the parcel out from her dress and tossed it to him, her
fingers fumbling with the button of the thin garment under which her
heart was beating wildly. And the little "toy pistol" she could have
hurled from her, too. Against this physical bigness, against this
insolent bravado and this swift sureness of eye and muscle, she knew the
small weapon to be a ridiculous and utterly insufficient plaything.
He caught the envelope and thumbed it, tore off an end and glanced
swiftly at the contents and then stowed it away inside his grey flannel
shirt. Again his eyes came back to her.
"I'm in a hurry," he said swiftly. "But there's always time for a girl
like you!"
She had foreseen how it would be. Now that she struggled to draw her
tiny revolver and fire he was upon her, his long arms about her, his
muscular strength making her own as nothing. And though he was breathing
more quickly still he had his quiet insolent laugh for still further
insult. Though she sought to strike at him he held her in utter
helplessness. Slowly he lifted her face, a big hand under her chin. The
lamp was close by; he blew down the chimney and save for the moonlight
across the threshold it was dark in the cabin. With his other hand he
lifted his crude mask from the lower part of his face. She sought again
to strike, to batter his lips. But her heart sank as the relentless
rigidity of his embrace baffled her attempt. He brought his face closer
to hers, slowly closer until at last she knew the outrage of a violent
kiss....
From outside came a little sound, not to be catalogued. It might have
been only a dead twig snapping under the talons of a night bird
alighting in the big oak tree. But suddenly the arms about her relaxed,
the man whirled and sprang back, whipped open the door and silently was
gone into the outer night.
Moaning, swaying, dizzy and sick, she crouched in a far corner. Then she
ran to the door and looked out. There was nothing moving to be seen
anywhere. Just the white moonlight here, the black patches of shadow
there, the sombre wall of the forest land a few yards away. Her nausea
of dread, her uncertainty, had passed. With never a glance behind her
she ran down toward the barn. She knew that she would be afraid to go
into the black maw of the silent building for her horse and yet she knew
that she must, that she must mount and ride.... She had never until now
known the terror of being alone, utterly alone in the night and the
wilderness.
Suddenly she stopped to stare incredulously. About a corner of the barn,
coming out into the bright moonlight, leading his own horse and her own,
was Buck Thornton. She was so certain that he had gone! For the instant
she could not move but stood powerless to lift a hand, rooted to the
spot. She noted that his face was unhidden now, his black hat pushed
far back on his head, while from his hip pocket trailed the end of a
handkerchief which may and may not have had slits let in it for his eyes
to peer through.
"You ... here? Yet?" she found herself stammering at him.
"Yes," he answered heavily. "I have been all this time looking for the
horses. The corral was broken; they had gotten out into the pasture."
"A likely tale!" she cried with a sudden heat of passionate fury at the
man and his cold manner and his mad thought that she was fool enough to
be beguiled from her knowledge of what he was. And then a fresh fear
made her draw back and widened her eyes. She had not thought of madness
but ... if the man were mad....
But he was not mad and she knew it. His were the clear eyes of perfect
sanity. He was simply ... an unthinkable brute.
"Look," she said as his horse moved nervously. "Your horse _does_ limp!"
His answer came quickly. And there was a queer note in his voice, harsh
and ugly, which sent a shiver through her shaken nerves:
"A man did that while we were in the cabin. With a knife." The moon
shone full in his face; she had never seen such a transformation, such a
semblance of quiet, cold rage. If the man were just acting....
"I've just got the hunch," he said bluntly, "that I know who he is, too.
And, for the last time, Winifred Waverly, I am interfering in your
business and advising you the best way I know how to turn back right
here and right now and forget that you've got an uncle named Pollard!"