VICKY FINDS A WAY
Vicky, in her bedroom at Mrs. Budd’s, flogged herself with a whip of
scorn. She had acted on imperative impulse, just as she used to do when
she was a little girl. Her cheeks flamed again when she recalled what
the Irishwoman had said. Of course! Everybody would think she had done
it because she was in love with Hugh McClintock.
Savagely she mocked her own heroics. She had behaved ridiculously. There
was no excuse for her at all. Probably Hugh, too, was laughing at her or
else flattering himself that he had made a conquest. Her pride rebelled.
And yet—when she saw again in imagination the group of gunmen under
Sloan moving forward to attack, she knew that she would probably do the
same thing a second time, given the same circumstances.
Mrs. Budd knocked on the door. “Breakfast ready, deary.”
Miss Lowell became aware suddenly that she was very hungry. But she did
not want to meet Jim Budd. He would probably start teasing her, and if
he did she would certainly lose her temper. She fibbed.
“I’m not hungry yet. If you don’t mind I’ll come down and get a bite out
of the pantry later.”
“Mr. McClintock is here. He wants to thank you,” the landlady said
gently.
Hugh McClintock was the last man in the world that Vicky wanted to see
just now, but she would not for a month’s salary have let him know it.
“He needn’t trouble, I’m sure,” she said carelessly. “But I’ll be down
presently.”
She came to breakfast stormy-eyed. Hugh rose to meet her from his seat
next the door. He offered his hand.
For a fraction of a second she looked at it, apparently surprised. It
was as though she said, a little disdainfully, “What’s the use of all
this fuss about nothing?” Then her hand met his.
He said, in a low voice, “Old dog Tray’s mighty grateful, Vicky.”
But he spoke with a smile, words unstressed. She drew a breath of
relief. Hugh understood, anyhow. He was not imagining any foolishness.
“Oh, I didn’t want them to take that villain from you,” she explained.
“I’ll not be satisfied till he’s hanged. What have you heard about
Scot?”
“A telegram last night and one this mo’ning. He’s still holdin’ his own,
the doctors say. But they’re not hopeful. One of the bullets went into
his intestines.”
Tears brimmed her eyes. “Isn’t it dreadful—when people are happy, like
Scot and Mollie, that——”
He nodded, his throat tightening.
“Don’t let these buckwheats get cold,” Mrs. Budd said cheerfully,
bustling in with a hot plateful.
Jim Budd was sitting in the kitchen guarding the prisoner, but Byers,
Hugh, and Vicky, with an occasional word from Mrs. Budd, discussed plans
for getting Dutch to Carson.
Both Hugh and Byers were exhausted. The night through which they had
just come had been a terrible one. Their bodies from which the skin
peeled in flakes at several points of contact with their clothes, were a
torment to them. Eyebrows, eyelashes, and some of the front hair had
crisped away. The faces of both of them were fire-red, and from sunken
sockets blear-eyed old age gazed listlessly. They needed sleep
certainly, medical attention possibly.
The girl’s dark eyes softened as she looked at them. They had fought a
good fight, just as a matter of course and all in the day’s work. She
had been down a mine. Her imagination filled in the horrors of the
fearful hours in that hell’s cauldron from which they had at last
dragged the imprisoned miners.
“Let me send for Doctor Rogers,” she said gently.
“You feelin’ sick, Vicky?” Hugh asked with a flare of humour.
“I mean, to look at you and Mr. Byers.”
“We ain’t much to look at right now. I expect he’d rather see us some
time when we’re not so dog tired. Find us more entertainin’.”
“Then you’d better go upstairs and sleep. Mr. Budd says he’ll watch your
prisoner till night.”
“And what then?” asked Hugh. “We can’t just saddle up and hit the trail
for Carson. Never in the world get there. By this time they’ve wired to
Ralph Dodson. He’s on the job at the other end of the line.”
“What makes you think so?” Vicky asked.
“Because Bob Dodson hired Dutch to shoot Scot. He showed it when he lit
out with him in the middle of the night. Dodson has got to stand by
Dutch to keep him from telling all he knows. He’s sure sent a hurry-up
call for help to brother Ralph. Their play is to prevent me from
reaching Carson with Dutch a prisoner. Once there, with feeling in the
town high against him, the killer would be liable to tell who was back
of the shooting. He’d do it out of revenge because he had not been
rescued.”
“I can telegraph to Carson for help and have friends come and meet you.”
“That would mean a pitched battle. Can’t have that.”
“Oh, well, you go to bed and sleep,” Vicky said imperatively. “We can
decide later about how you’re going to reach Carson.”
Hugh nodded. “You’ll have me wakened if any word comes about Scot?”
“Of course.”
Within a few minutes both men, and Dutch, too, were sound asleep. It was
late in the afternoon when Mrs. Budd knocked on Hugh’s door to awaken
him.
He found Vicky waiting for him in the sitting room.
“You look better,” she said.
“I feel a hundred years younger,” he answered. “Any news about Scot?”
“No.”
“I’ll leave to-night. Can’t stay away any longer.”
“Yes. That would be best.”
“Is the house watched?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t help it. I’ll go soon as I’ve eaten.”
“I’m going, too,” she told him. “I ought to be with Mollie.”
“You come to-morrow—not to-day. There may be trouble.”
“No, there won’t be any trouble—and I’m going with you,” she answered.
There was a queer little smile on her face, a smile of friendly mockery.
“I’m not going alone, you know,” he explained. “Dutch travels with me.”
“Then there’ll be three of us.” She stepped to the kitchen door, but
before she opened it mirth bubbled in her face and broke to laughter.
“Come in, Mr. Dutch. We start on a long journey about dusk.”
Dutch shuffled into the room—at least the man was Dutch in walk, in
manner, dress, and beard. Hugh looked at him again, and still a third
time, before he discovered that this was Jim Budd made up for the part
of the desperado.
The young man’s puzzled eyes asked a question of Vicky.
“We three are going after supper,” she explained. “Their lookout is over
at Schmidt’s blacksmith shop. Mr. Budd will seem to have his hands tied.
Of course he’ll think it’s your prisoner.”
“If Jim doesn’t begin to tell him all about old Grimes,” McClintock said
drily.
“Yes, you mustn’t sing, Mr. Budd. You know there aren’t many voices like
yours,” the girl replied, laughing. “He’ll notify his friends, and
they’ll follow us. Probably they’ll telegraph ahead that we’re coming.
Very likely a welcome party will come to meet us. By that time Mr. Budd
will be Mr. Budd, and somebody will be sold.”
“Good enough,” agreed Hugh. “But haven’t you forgot one small detail?
The real Dutch has got to go to Carson. That’s what I came here for—to
get him.”
“He’ll go. As soon as the sheriff’s posse has clattered past after us,
Mr. Byers and your prisoner will take a very quiet walk up the gulch and
round Bald Knob. Horses are waiting there somewhere; I don’t know just
where. Your friend the lumberjack with the axe handle took them. He and
Mr. Byers will ride across the hills with the prisoner to Carson.”
Hugh looked at the eager, vital girl with frank admiration. “You’re a
wonder, Vicky, one sure enough whirlwind when you get going. Sounds
reasonable—if Dodson’s crowd let us get goin’ as you figure they will.
But you can’t tell. They may stop us right when we start up the cañon.
Then they’ll know Jim here isn’t Dutch, and the fat will certainly be in
the fire.”
“No, Hugh, we’ve had a message from a friend in the enemy’s camp.”
“Yes?”
“From Irish Tom.”
“Carberry?”
“Yes. At least, we think it’s from him. One of my little boys brought me
a note. Here it is.”
Hugh read the words scribbled on a sheet of torn note paper.
Tell McClintock to look out for trouble near Bell’s Camp. He’ll
be caught between two fires if he tries to take Dutch with him.
A Friend.
“What makes you think Carberry wrote this?” asked Hugh.
“Ned described the man who gave it to him,” Budd explained. “He’s sure a
ringer for Carberry—even to that red shirt he wears.”
“Might be Tom,” agreed Hugh. “My vote saved his life from the vigilantes
at Aurora. Tom’s not such a bad sort.”
“You see we’re safe till we reach Bell’s Camp,” interpreted Vicky. “The
sheriff and the gunmen he appoints as deputies will follow behind us and
we’ll be driven into the arms of those who come to meet us. That’s the
plan.”
“Yes—if Irish Tom wrote this and it’s not a trap.”
“Oh, well, beggars can’t be choosers,” she cried impatiently. “I don’t
suppose you have a better way to suggest.”
“Only in one particular, Vicky. No need of you going. There might be
shooting. I don’t say there will, but there might be.”
“Fiddlesticks! There won’t be, not if I’m there. Think I don’t know
Ralph Dodson?”
Budd came unexpectedly to her aid. “Miss Lowell’s sure right, Hugh. You
_know_ if she’s with us there won’t be no gun-play.”
Hugh hesitated. What his friends said was true enough. The West, even at
its worst, was very careful of its good women. No weapons would be used
in the presence of Victoria Lowell. But there was in him an extreme
reluctance to use her skirts as a protection behind which to hide. He
wanted to play his own hand and take Dutch out openly in the face of
opposition.
Yet he knew this was not possible. Vicky had worked out a feasible plan
of operations. It was only fair to give it a tryout.
“All right,” he conceded rather ungraciously. “Have it yore own way,
good people. Vicky, you’re road boss of this outfit. Go to it. When do
we start, did you say?”
Vicky dimpled with delight. “Right after supper.”