THE GIRL AND THE GAME
She did not fully understand, she could not grasp everything yet, she
was filled with doubts and suspicions and a growing terror. What had her
uncle said to Thornton, what had the cowboy "swallowed whole"? What was
the whole scheme which connected the two men, which envolved Thornton
and the sheriff, which seemed clear in one moment only to be a tangle in
the next?
One thing only was perfectly clear now to the girl. And seeing it, she
gathered up her skirts in her two hands and ran, ran back along the
wall, keeping in the shadows, drawing close about her the dark cloak she
had thrown about her white dress. She must get into the house before
they came in, she must let her face show nothing, she must have time to
think before she spoke with them. So she came to the back door, paused a
brief moment, commanding her nerves to be steady, then slipped in,
letting the cloak fall from her shoulders. She saw Bud King standing
with his back to the wall watching the dancers, and going swiftly to
him, putting her hand lightly upon his arm, she summoned a smile into
her eyes as she cried breathlessly:
"Will you dance this with me?"
Young King looked at her in quick surprise, startled at the nearness of
the girl for whom his eyes had been seeking, and a little flush ran up
into his cheeks, a sparkle of gladness into his eyes.
"Sure," he grinned happily. "I been looking for you, Miss Waverly."
He ran his arm about her, she bent her head a little so that he could
not see the whiteness of her face, and they caught the beat of the
music. She lost the step, purposely that she might have a little more
time before they pass down the room toward Pollard and Broderick,
hesitated, taking her time to catch it, laughed at his apology for the
mistake, noted that her own laugh sounded free and natural, caught the
step, and swirled away into the crowd, daring now to look up laughingly
into Bud's face unmindful of the havoc she was working in his soul. The
two-step was lively; the room was warm, and the colour rose high in her
cheeks. But still she was careful to turn her head a little as they
whirled by the front door. But when, for the second time, the dance
carried them to the end of the room where Pollard and Broderick were,
she was so sure of herself that she sent a quick, laughing glance at her
uncle. And a little of the tightness about her heart was gone as she saw
the look of relief in his eyes.
King, reckless with the wine of her, demanded the next waltz, claiming
that this had been only half a dance, and she gave it to him laughingly,
the more pleased that she saw Broderick coming toward her and that this
was the second time tonight that he had been a little too late, and that
she saw a frown in his eyes as they followed her and King out upon the
floor.
But she knew that if she play her part as she must play it until she
could have time for the definite shaping of plans, she must dance again
with Broderick. When he came for her she nodded carelessly, let him take
her into his arms, and even looking up at him, forced a smile. For
surely, if these men could do what they were doing and give no hint of
it, she could play her part with clear eyes and a steady heart. She knew
now that Ben Broderick was a highwayman, that he had forced upon her the
insult of his kiss; already she suspected him of being the man who had
murdered Bill Varney, who had committed crime upon crime. But she knew,
too, and with as clear a knowledge, that she must give no slightest sign
of what her thoughts were. And as a result Mrs. Sturgis, watching her,
vowed to herself that "that Win Waverly was a little devil of a flirt!"
It seemed an endlessly long time until midnight. The lunches which had
come in baskets and boxes were spread out upon the benches, coffee was
made outside and brought in in steaming, blackened coffee pots to be
poured into tin cups, and the supper was a noisy, successful affair. The
girl so wanted to slip away, to get back into her own room at Pollard's
house where she might drop all pretence and think, think, think! But she
knew that she must seem to enjoy the dance, she must not let her uncle
guess that the night had grown bitter in her mouth as it had in Buck
Thornton's.
The benches were cleared and pushed back against the walls, the
musicians were at it again, when Pollard came to her.
"Don't you think, Winifred, we'd better be going?" he asked quietly. "It
is late, we've got a good ride ahead of us and I have a lot to do
tomorrow."
But she pleaded for one more dance, and then one more, and finally with
much seeming regretfulness allowed her uncle to slip on her cloak for
her.
"I may be a hypocrite," she told herself a little sternly, as she sat in
the buckboard at her uncle's side. "But they are playing me for a little
fool! And ... and if they knew that I guessed...."
She shivered and Pollard asked if she were cold.
It was a swift drive with few words spoken. Winifred, her chin sunk in
her wraps, seemed to be dozing much of the way, and Henry Pollard had
enough to think about to make the silence grateful. The cream-coloured
mares raced out across the level land of the valley, with little thought
of the light wagon and much thought of the home stable and hay. And,
racing on, they sped at last through the long alley-like street of
Hill's Corners, into the glaring light from the saloons, by many shadows
at the corners of houses, their ears smitten by much noise of loud
voices and the clack of booted feet upon the board sidewalks. When
Pollard jerked in his team at his own front gate, the girl slipped
quickly from the buckboard, saying quietly:
"I think I'll go right up to bed, Uncle Henry. I'm a little tired. Thank
you for taking me."
And when he said, "Good night, Winifred," she called back her good night
to him, and hurried under the old pear trees to the house. In the hall
she found her lamp burning where Mrs. Riddell had left it for her, and
taking it up she climbed the stairs to her room.
At last she was alone and could think! Her door was locked, her light
was out that no one might know she was awake, and she was crouching at
the open window, staring out at the night.
Out of a tangle of many doubts, suspicions and live terrors there were
at first two things which caught the high lights of her understanding,
standing clear of the shadows which obscured the others. Buck Thornton
was absolutely innocent of the thing she had imputed to him, and
unsuspecting of the evidence which was being piled up against him. And
her own uncle was the friend and the actual accomplice of the real
criminal.
Her thoughts harked back to the beginning of the story as she knew it,
reverting to that night when she had first seen Buck Thornton at Poke
Drury's road house. From that she passed in review all that she knew of
him; how he had come in while she was talking with the banker about the
errand which was to carry her over a lonely trail to her uncle. At first
she had been quick to suspect that Thornton had overheard a part of
their conversation, that he had known from the first that she was
carrying the five thousand dollars. Now she realized with a little
twinge of bitter self-accusation that she had been over hasty in judging
the man who had been kind to her.
She remembered how, on the trail from Dry Town, she had seen a man
following her, a man whose face, at the distance he maintained, was
hidden from her by his flapping hat brim, but whom she believed to be
Thornton. Upon what had she founded her belief? Upon the matter of his
being of about the size and form of the cowboy, upon the fact that he
rode a sorrel horse and that his clothes, even to the grey neck
handkerchief, were the same! How easy, how simple a matter for another
man to have a sorrel horse and to wear clothes like Thornton's!
She remembered that the cowboy's surprise had seemed sincere and lively
when she had told him she had seen him; she recalled his courtesy to her
in the Harte cabin, his willingness to walk seven miles carrying his
heavy saddle that she might have a night's rest under a roof with
another woman. Not to be forgotten was the wrath in his eye and voice
when she had come upon him with his limping horse, and now, at last she
knew why his horse had been lamed and by whom! For that seemingly wanton
cruelty had accomplished that which it was planned to do, making her
certain beyond a doubt that Thornton had lied to her, that he had been
the man whom she had seen following her, hence that he it was who had
robbed her and had kissed her into the bargain.
Now, in an altered mood she cast in review all that John Smith and his
wife had told her of him, and she knew that her first judgment there in
the storm-smitten road house, when she had deemed him clean and honest
and manly, had been the right judgment; that he was a man and a
gentleman; that he could be all that his eyes told of him, gentle unto
tenderness or as hard as tempered steel but always ... a man.
But there was so much which she did not grasp yet. She heard Henry
Pollard return from the stable where he had left the horses and enter
the house, passing down the hallway to his room. Still she sat, never
stirring save for the little involuntary shiver which ran over her from
head to foot, as her uncle came into the house. And still she worked at
the patchwork of her puzzle, putting it together piece by piece.
"Buck Thornton didn't do it," she whispered to herself, looking up at
the stars flung across the sky above the ugly little town. "Ben
Broderick did do it. He robbed me of Uncle's money. And Uncle knows! I
don't understand!"
But at last she thought that she did understand. Thornton was buying the
Poison Hole ranch from Pollard. Already he had paid fifteen thousand
dollars into the deal. Now, what would happen if it were proven that
Thornton had stolen back from Pollard's emissary five thousand of that
money? Thornton would go to jail and for a long time, and then....
But why was Pollard waiting? Why was Broderick waiting, urging
the sheriff to wait? She saw it all in a flash then! They would
prove ... they thought that they were sure of proof through her! ... that
Buck Thornton had robbed her of the five thousand dollars. They would
prove that Buck Thornton had killed Bill Varney; that he had robbed Hap
Smith at Poke Drury's road house; they would prove that Buck Thornton was
the man the whole country wanted, the man who had committed crime upon
crime! She knew that he was a new man here, that he had lived on the
Poison Hole ranch for only a year and that the evidence of which her own
word was to have been a part, would be sufficient to prove to the
countryside that Buck Thornton was the daredevil marauder they sought.
And how undeniably strong would that evidence be if all crime ceased
abruptly upon the arrest of this one man!
"It would not be the penitentiary for Buck Thornton," she thought
suddenly, her face whiter than it had been when she had overheard
Pollard and Broderick. "The ranch would come back into Henry Pollard's
hands, the men who have committed these crimes would be able to keep the
thousands and thousands of dollars they have taken from stages and
stolen cattle, and Buck Thornton would go to the gallows!"
It was unbelievable, it was unthinkable, it was impossible! And yet....
"And yet," she whispered through her white lips, "it is the truth!"
She sprang to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes
blazing. Buck Thornton had been good to her and in return she had done
much to give him over into their hands, she had insulted and reviled
him, she had sworn to the sheriff that he had robbed her. Now suddenly
she felt that she could never sleep again if she did not atone to him.
She was already at the door, her hat and gloves in her hand, ready to
run down stairs, to saddle her horse, to ride to Thornton with word of
warning, when a new thought came to her.
They were waiting, they were going to wait ten days; that much she had
overheard. Waiting for what? For some new crime, for the monster crime
of all, for the last play for the last and biggest stake?
She, too, would wait. Not ten days but until she might slip away without
this danger of being seen, of her errand being guessed. In the meantime
she would learn what she could.
She had not forgotten that Henry Pollard was her uncle. The thought
added its bitterness. But she remembered, too, the look she had seen
upon Pollard's face when she had told him that Thornton had robbed her,
she remembered the look of cruel satisfaction she had surprised there
more than once, and she knew that were he more than uncle, closer than
uncle, she could not act otherwise than she must act now.
Then, suddenly, she sank down upon her bed, alone and lonely in the
thick darkness, weary and vaguely afraid.
"Buck Thornton," she whispered, "I am afraid I need your help as much as
you need mine now!"