THE BULLDOG BARKS
Joyce fainted for the first time in her life.
When she recovered consciousness Doble was splashing water in her face.
She was lying on the bunk from which she had fled a few minutes earlier.
The girl made a motion to rise and he put a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"Keep your hand off me!" she cried.
"Don't be a fool," he told her irritably. "I ain't gonna hurt you
none--if you behave reasonable:"
"Let me go," she demanded, and struggled to a sitting position on the
couch. "You let me go or my father--"
"What'll he do?" demanded the man brutally. "I've stood a heap from
that father of yore's. I reckon this would even the score even if I
hadn't--" He pulled up, just in time to keep from telling her that he had
fired the chaparral. He was quite sober enough to distrust his tongue. It
was likely, he knew, to let out some things that had better not be told.
She tried to slip by him and he thrust her back.
"Let me go!" she demanded. "At once!"
"You're not gonna go," he told her flatly. "You'll stay here--with me.
For keeps. Un'erstand?"
"Have you gone crazy?" she asked wildly, her heart fluttering like a
frightened bird in a cage. "Don't you know my father will search the
whole country for me?"
"Too late. We travel south soon as it's dark." He leaned forward and put
a hand on her knee, regardless of the fact that she shrank back quivering
from his touch. "Listen, girl. You been a high-stepper. Yore heels click
mighty loud when they hit the sidewalk. Good enough. Go far as you like.
I never did fancy the kind o' women that lick a man's hand. But you made
one mistake. I'm no doormat, an' nobody alive can wipe their feet on me.
You turned me down cold. You had the ol' man kick me outa my job as
foreman of the ranch. I told him an' you both I'd git even. But I don't
aim to rub it in. I'm gonna give you a chance to be Mrs. Doble. An' when
you marry me you git a man for a husband."
"I'll never marry you! Never! I'd rather be dead in my grave!" she broke
out passionately.
He went to the table, poured himself a drink, and gulped it down. His
laugh was sinister and mirthless.
"Please yorese'f, sweetheart," he jeered. "Only you won't be dead in
yore grave. You'll be keepin' house for Dug Doble. I'm not insistin' on
weddin' bells none. But women have their fancies an' I aim to be kind.
Take 'em or leave 'em."
She broke down and wept, her face in her hands. In her sheltered life she
had known only decent, clean-minded people. She did not know how to cope
with a man like this. The fear of him rose in her throat and choked her.
This dreadful thing he threatened could not be, she told herself. God
would not permit it. He would send her father or Dave Sanders or Bob Hart
to rescue her. And yet--when she looked at the man, big, gross, dominant,
flushed with drink and his triumph--the faith in her became a weak and
fluid stay for her soul. She collapsed like a child and sobbed.
Her wild alarm annoyed him. He was angered at her uncontrollable shudders
when he drew near. There was a savage desire in him to break through the
defense of her helplessness once for all. But his caution urged delay. He
must give her time to get accustomed to the idea of him. She had sense
enough to see that she must make the best of the business. When the
terror lifted from her mind she would be reasonable.
He repeated again that he was not going to hurt her if she met him
halfway, and to show good faith went out and left her alone.
The man sat down on a chopping-block outside and churned his hatred of
Sanders and Crawford. He spurred himself with drink, under its influence
recalling the injuries they had done him. His rage and passion simmered,
occasionally exploded into raucous curses. Once he strode into the house,
full of furious intent, but the eyes of the girl daunted him. They looked
at him as they might have looked at a tiger padding toward her.
He flung out of the house again, snarling at his own weakness. There was
something in him stronger than passion, stronger than his reckless will,
that would not let him lay a hand on her in the light of day. His
bloodshot eyes looked for the sun. In a few hours now it would be dark.
While he lounged sullenly on the chopping-block, shoulders and head
sunken, a sound brought him to alert attention. A horseman was galloping
down the slope on the other side of the valley.
Doble eased his guns to make sure of them. Intently he watched the
approaching figure. He recognized the horse, Chiquito, and then, with an
oath, the rider. His eyes gleamed with evil joy. At last! At last he and
Dave Sanders would settle accounts. One of them would be carried out of
the valley feet first.
Sanders leaped to the ground at the same instant that he pulled Chiquito
up. The horse was between him and his enemy.
The eyes of the men crossed in a long, level look.
"Where's Joyce Crawford?" asked Dave.
"That yore business?" Doble added to his retort the insult unmentionable.
"I'm makin' it mine. What have you done with her?" The speech of the
younger man took on again the intonation of earlier days. "I'm here to
find out."
A swish of skirts, a soft patter of feet, and Joyce was beside her
friend, clinging to him, weeping in his arms.
Doble moved round in a wide circumference. When shooting began he did not
want his foe to have the protection of the horse's body. Not even for the
beat of a lid did the eyes of either man lift from the other.
"Go back to the house, Joyce," said Dave evenly. "I want to talk with
this man alone."
The girl clung the tighter to him. "No, Dave, no! It's been ... awful."
The outlaw drew his long-barreled six-shooter, still circling the group.
He could not fire without running a risk of hitting Joyce.
"Hidin' behind a woman, are you?" he taunted, and again flung the epithet
men will not tolerate.
At any moment he might fire. Dave caught the wrists of the girl, dragged
them down from his neck, and flung her roughly from him to the ground. He
pulled out his little bulldog.
Doble fired and Dave fell. The outlaw moved cautiously closer, exultant
at his marksmanship. His enemy lay still, the pistol in his hand.
Apparently Sanders had been killed at the first shot.
"Come to git me with that popgun, did you? Hmp! Fat chance." The bad man
fired again, still approaching very carefully.
Round the corner of the house a man had come. He spoke quickly. "Turn
yore gun this way, Dug."
It was Shorty. His revolver flashed at the same instant. Doble staggered,
steadied himself, and fired.
The forty-fives roared. Yellow flames and smoke spurted. The bulldog
barked. Dave's parlor toy had come into action.
Out of the battle Shorty and Sanders came erect and uninjured. Doble
was lying on the ground, his revolver smoking a foot or two from the
twitching, outstretched hand.
The outlaw was dead before Shorty turned him over. A bullet had passed
through the heart. Another had struck him on the temple, a third in the
chest.
"We got him good," said Shorty. "It was comin' to him. I reckon you don't
know that he fired the chaparral on purpose. Wanted to wipe out the
Jackpot, I s'pose. Yes, Dug sure had it comin' to him."
Dave said nothing. He looked down at the man, eyes hard as jade, jaw
clamped tight. He knew that but for Shorty's arrival he would probably be
lying there himself.
"I was aimin' to shoot it out with him before I heard of this last
scullduggery. Soon as the kid woke me I hustled up my intentions." The
bad man looked at Dave's weapon with the flicker of a smile on his face.
"He called it a popgun. I took notice it was a right busy li'l'
plaything. But you got yore nerve all right. I'd say you hadn't a chance
in a thousand. You played yore hand fine, keelin' over so's he'd come
clost enough for you to get a crack at him. At that, he'd maybe 'a' got
you if I hadn't drapped in."
"Yes," said Sanders.
He walked across to the corral fence, where Joyce sat huddled against the
lower bars.
She lifted her head and looked at him from wan eyes out of which the life
had been stricken. They stared at him in dumb, amazed questioning.
Dave lifted her from the ground.
"I... I thought you... were dead," she whispered.
"Not even powder-burnt. His six-shooter outranged mine. I was trying to
get him closer."
"Is he...?"
"Yes. He'll never trouble any of us again."
She shuddered in his arms.
Dave ached for her in every tortured nerve. He did not know, and it was
not his place to ask, what price she had had to pay.
Presently she told him, not in words, without knowing what he was
suffering for her. A ghost of a smile touched her eyes.
"I knew you would come. It's all right now."
His heart leaped. "Yes, it's all right, Joyce."
She recurred to her fears for him. "You're not ... hiding any wounds from
me? I saw you fall and lie there while he shot at you."
"He never touched me."
She disengaged herself from his arms and looked at him, wan, haggard,
unshaven, eyes sunken, a tattered wretch scarred with burns.
"What have you done to yourself?" she asked, astonished at his
appearance.
"Souvenirs of the fire," he told her. "They'll wash and wear off. Don't
suppose I look exactly pretty."
He had never looked so handsome in her eyes.