Still, clear moonlight lay upon the land, with the far hills like a
painted back drop against the stars when Bud, having ridden far and
fast, jogged wearily into town and dropped reins before the bank, where
a light shone faintly through the curtained windows and figures were
to be seen moving occasionally behind the green shades. He knocked,
and after a hushed minute Delkin himself admitted him. Bud walked from
force of habit to the grilled window and leaned his fore-arms heavily
upon the shelf, his cameo-pinned hat pushed back on his head as he
pressed his forehead against the bronze rods of the barrier.
"Well, I rode the high lines," he announced huskily because of the
dryness in his throat. "I saw the bunch from town go fogging along the
trail across the river, but I was back on the bench, following a mess
of horse tracks that took off toward the hills.
"There's something darn funny about this deal, Mr. Delkin." Delkin
had retreated again behind the partition as if that was what his
office required of him. "Here's how she lies, but I don't pretend to
understand it. I got my horse and rode back up here and out behind the
bank, so as to pick up any trail they had left. The only horses that
had stood for any length of time near the bank was a pack outfit that
had been on the vacant lot back here all afternoon, by the sign. It
was Bat Johnson had it--he works for Palmer. He rode away just as I
came around the corner of the bank, thinking I could get in at the side
door, and I overhauled him at the ford. He'd taken that stock trail
through the willows, back here, and he told me he'd got a glimpse of
three or four horses loping down through the draw to the ford ahead of
him. He hadn't seen any one leave the bank by the side door, he said,
for he was over to the blacksmith shop for a while and came and got his
horses just as I came in sight around the corner. He hadn't seen any
one that acted suspicious, but he hadn't been paying any attention, he
said.
"I rode back up the draw and picked up the trail of four horses, shod
all around. Your town posse crossed the river while I was in the draw,
and I followed the four horses across. The riders ahead of me didn't
pay any attention to the tracks. I suppose," he added scornfully, "they
were looking for masked men with white sacks full of money in their
arms! They just loped down the road, all in a bunch, as if they were
headed for a dance." Bud cleared his throat; this painstaking report
was dry work.
"Well, Mr. Delkin, those four horses--shod all around--took straight
across the bench beyond the Smoky, heading for the hills. Here's the
funny part, though: They didn't hunt the draws where they could keep
out of sight, but sifted right along in a beeline, across ridges and
into hollows and out again, until the tracks were lost where they
joined a bunch of range stock that's running back there on the bench
about eight miles. From there on I couldn't get a line on anything
at all. I tried to ride up on the bunch, but my horse was tired and
they're pretty wild, and they broke for the hills. There were shod
horses among them, and I'm sure that no one had time to catch up fresh
horses out of that band and leave the four--and, Mr. Delkin, those four
horses didn't travel as if they had riders. I'd swear they were running
loose, and beat it straight from town to join their own bunch of range
horses."
"And that's all you found out?" Delkin's voice was flat and old and
hopeless.
"That's the extent of it. It was a blind trail, I believe, and your
holdups went some other way. Perhaps that posse will pick up some sign,
though if they do it will be an accident."
The other men there asked a few questions, their manner as hopeless as
Delkin's. They were the directors and other officers of the bank, and
Bud sensed their feeling of helplessness before this calamity. The body
of the cashier had been removed, and these were staying on the scene
simply because they did not know what else to do.
"How's the bank? Cleaned out?" Bud was still conscious of his own
personal responsibilities.
"Everything." Delkin waved an apathetic hand. "We're so far from other
banks, and Charlie slept right here--so in spite of the fact that we
sometimes didn't have more than a dozen customers in here all day, we
kept more cash on hand than was safe. At least we had more on hand
right now than usual. With the bookkeeper sick, Charlie was alone here
part of the time. Near closing time especially. So few people came
in, along in the afternoon. We did most of our business during the
forenoons." He moistened his lips and looked away. "It looks as if
Charlie had just set the time lock and was getting ready to close the
vault when--it happened. Another half hour, perhaps, and they'd have
had to blow open the vault, and some one would have heard. Maybe five
minutes before you came--I can't see how they got away without being
seen."
"Well, I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Delkin. My horse and I are
both about all in. Of course you 'phoned for the sheriff."
"Right after it happened. He'll be here with a posse of his own before
morning."
Outside Bud almost collided with young Brunelle, who caught him by the
arm with an impulsive gesture.
"I recognized your horse. Come over to our cabin, won't you, Mr.
Larkin? You see I've discovered what your name is. I've been watching
for you to come back, for I knew you'd be hungry; and Marge--my sister
Margaret--has supper all ready for you. We're pretty lonely," he added
wistfully. "People here seem to be very clannish and cool toward
strangers."
"That's because they're roughnecks and know it," said Bud, and picked
up the reins of his horse. "If you'll wait until I put my horse in the
stable I'll be right with you. Only I'm liable to clean you out of grub
if I once start eating. There's over six feet of me, Lightfoot, and I'm
all hollow."
"That'll be all right," smiled the other. "It's yours while it
lasts--and that may not be long if the bank is really closed for good.
We haven't any money to buy more."
Delkin's hostler took charge of the Meadowlark horse and the two men
walked on to where a light shone through a cabin window, set back
from the main street in an open space that gave a close view of the
bluff. Bud very likely did not grasp the imminent poverty of his host,
probably because he was not paying much attention to his last sentence;
and that his ready acceptance of the invitation to supper was caused
chiefly by a too intimate knowledge of the hotel cuisine.
"My sister," Brunelle explained on the way, "is an author of short
stories. She has had one printed in the paper back home, and the
editors of several Eastern magazines have given her quite a good many
puffs on the stories she sent them. They were very sorry they couldn't
use them and said it wasn't because there was anything wrong with the
stories. I know all our friends at home are very anxious that she
should make that her life work. But back in our home town there never
seemed to be anything to write about, and Marge felt the need of going
where there would be interesting subjects. So when mother died we
decided to come right out West and write up some cowboy stories, and
I could illustrate them with pictures drawn from life. Western stories
are all the go now, and these ought to take pretty well with the
editors, I should think--though of course one needs to have a pull to
get right in. Still, these will be done right on the spot with pictures
of the real characters, and that will make a hit with the editors, I
should think.
"So that's the real reason why we came to Smoky Ford. We aren't telling
every one, because we don't want to make people self-conscious in our
presence. We want to win the confidence of the people. That's why I
danced in the saloon when they asked me to.
"We let it be known that my sister is out here for her health. That
isn't so far off, either, because she was all worn out with taking care
of mother, and the doctor advised her to go away somewhere for a while.
So we sold the property--and every dollar we have we put in the bank
here. We thought it would show our confidence in the town and help us
get in with the right people."
"There aren't any right people to get in with; not to amount to
anything," Bud told him bluntly. "Not in Smoky Ford. Delkin and--well,
there are four or five pretty nice men, but I don't know what kind of
wives they've got. Gossipy old hens, most of them, I suppose. I'd drift
to some other range, I believe, if I wanted to feel confidence in my
neighbors."
Budlike, he wondered if the sister was pretty and young. Tired as
he was, interest picked up his feet and pulled the sag out of his
shoulders when they neared the open doorway and he caught a glimpse
of the girl called Marge. He took off his hat and held it so that the
cameo brooch was hidden within the palm of his left hand, and gave his
rumpled brown hair a hasty rub with the other as he entered--silent,
positive proof that the young woman had already caught his roving young
masculine attention.
He ought to be hurrying on to the ranch that night. He told them so,
and then permitted himself to be persuaded into staying all night and
sharing the bed of his host, whom he persisted in calling Lightfoot in
spite of one or two corrections.
"Oh, I know why you call Lawrie that," cried Marge, who had been
studying closely this young cowboy, the very first one she had met on
friendly footing. "It's a custom of cowboys to give names to strangers,
just as the Indians do. You know, Lawrie, Indians name their young and
also strangers after the first thing that strikes their notice, the
names for adults usually being suggested by some mark or trait in the
individual that sets him apart from his fellows. Lawrie told me how
he danced in the saloon while you played for him, and of course your
custom demanded that you name him after his dancing. Don't you see,
Lawrie? He has already given you your tribal, cowboy name--Lightfoot. I
rather like it, I believe. So now you, at least, are initiated into the
tribe--made a member of the tribe of cowboys!"
She had a pretty, eager way of speaking, and her eyes were the
sparkly kind when she talked, yet Bud looked at her with a smoldering
indignation in his eyes. Living next door to the Belknap reservation,
he did not think much of Indians--less of their customs; he having
known them long and too well. Nor did he approve of any one calling
cowboys a tribe. He had barked knuckles on a man's cheek for less
cause before now, and he set his teeth into his lower lip to hold
in a retort discourteous. But Marge was a pretty girl, as has been
plainly intimated; her gray eyes sparkled like stars on a frosty night,
her skin was soft and whiter than any range girl could ever hope to
attain, and her mouth was red and provocative, daring male lips to
kisses.
"Well, then, what are you going to call me?" she challenged fearlessly,
as girls do who have been fed with flattery all their lives.
"I think perhaps I'll call you--Early," drawled Bud, a faint twitching
at the corners of his mouth.
A range girl would have taken warning and let well enough alone after
that. But Marge was not a range girl.
"But you aren't sure, so I can't accept that as final. And now,
there's something I've been dying to ask you, Mr. Larkin. Just why
do cowboys wear their sombreros pinned back like that? You know, I'm
gathering local color of the cattle ranges, and I like to get right at
the meaning of things." And with that, she pulled a notebook from her
pocket and held pencil point to her lips. "Is it some special mark--an
insignia of something? An insignia is a mark showing some certain
rank," she explained kindly.
"Well, I guess it's an insignia, then," Bud confessed. "But it's a
secret and I can't exactly explain. You won't see many wearing this
particular badge--insignia." He rolled the word as if it were a new one
and he liked the sound.
"Can't you even tell the name of the society or order?"
"Well--I can't go into details," said Bud gravely. "All I can say is
it's the range sign of the golden arrow." (He thought she must surely
see through that; she must certainly have read about that terrible
young god, Cupid, who shot arrows of gold for love and arrows tipped
with lead for hate. Surely she would remember that!)
But she didn't.
"The Golden Arrow? I don't--did you ever hear of that secret order,
Lawrie?"
"No," said Lawrie indifferently, "not that I remember. But Mr. Larkin
and I were going over to see if that posse has caught those bandits,
Marge. If the bank doesn't get that money back, and has to close its
doors, we're in a fix!"
"I know--but I want to find out about this secret society among the
cowboys, Lawrie. It's important that I study cowboys when I get
the chance, or how can I write about them realistically? And this
Golden Arrow stuff is something no author of Western stories has ever
mentioned. Can't you tell me a tiny bit more about it, Mr. Larkin?"
"Well, I know it's about the oldest society on earth," Bud elucidated
gravely. "I believe the very first savage--"
"Why, of course! How stupid of me not to see at once that the Golden
Arrow must be pure Indian!"
"Well, I dunno how pure it is, but I guess--"
"And you're a member! But what I can't understand, Mr. Larkin, is why
that cameo pin should be an emblem of the Golden Arrow."
"Why," said Bud, looking at her with soft, dark eyes that simply
couldn't lie, "the cameo pin is recognized everywhere as the paleface
sign."
"Of course!" cried Marge, and wrote it down in her book.
Bud went out, holding his lips carefully rigid and unsmiling, though he
made strange gulping sounds in his throat all the way down town.