FROM THE JUNIPERS
Tommie the red-headed stayed after school to bring in kindling and a
supply of piñon wood for the big drum stove in the centre of the room.
Ever since his teacher had whipped him he had been her eager and willing
slave. His eye was always alert to anticipate the needs of the slim,
vital young woman he adored.
So wholly was his heart hers that Vicky was more touched than amused. He
was a forlorn little orphan, sometimes underfed, she suspected, and she
mothered him in such ways as she found possible. Perhaps she favoured
him ever so little in the assignment of school privileges dear to
children, such as letting him pass the water more often than she did
others.
“I got kindlin’ an’ wood ’n everythin’, teacher. What’ll I do now?” he
asked.
Vicky, working over next day’s lessons at the desk, smiled her thanks.
“That’s all, Tommie. You’re a great help. Run along home now.”
“Must I?” he pleaded. “Can’t I go home when you go?”
“No, Tommie. I’ve a lot of work to do yet. And you know you promised to
clean up the yard for Mrs. Fenway.”
Under pretense of seeing whether her pencil needed sharpening, Tommie
sidled up to the desk close to his teacher. She knew what he wanted. If
she had kissed him his masculine vanity would have been wounded, but the
lonely child in him craved affection. Her arm slipped round his shoulder
and she gave him a quick hug, scolding him a little at the same time
because his coat was torn.
Tommie grinned and ran out of the building. A moment later she heard his
carefree whoop outside.
It happened that the boy was at that particular stage of life when his
imagination revelled in make-believes. It was impossible for him to walk
home sedately along the path. He told himself he was Kit Carson, and he
hunted Indians as he dodged through the sage toward town.
The young scout’s heart gave a little jump of fear. For in the clump of
junipers to which his stealthy steps had brought him two men lay
stretched on the ground. One of them carried a rifle.
“I got it fixed,” the other was saying, almost in a murmur. “Sent him a
note from that li’l tiger cat the schoolmarm for him to come an’ walk
home with her. He’ll be along sure.”
Tommie recognized the man as Robert Dodson, the biggest figure in the
camp’s life.
“You’ll protect me, Dodson? You’ll not go back on me?”
“Sure we’ll protect you—me’n Ralph both—to a finish.”
“If you don’t, by God, I’ll peach on you sure.”
“Sho! It’s plumb safe. You do the job, then light out. No danger
a-tall.”
“All right. You c’n run along. I’ll git him sure as he passes along that
path,” the man with the rifle promised.
“Don’t you make any mistake. Get him right. No need to take any
chances.”
“I never missed at this distance in my life. He’s my meat.”
“Soon as you’re sure of him light out an’ come down Coyote Gulch. I got
an alibi all ready for you.”
Tommie, face ashen, his knees buckling under him, crept back on all
fours out of the junipers. As soon as he had reached the open sage the
fear in him mastered discretion. He ran wildly, his heart pumping
furiously. Fortunately, he was by that time too far away to attract the
attention of the two men.
Into the schoolroom he burst and flung himself on Vicky. One glance at
his face told her that he was very frightened.
“What is it, Tommie?” she asked, her arms about his shaking body.
He gasped out his news. She went white to the lips. It seemed to her for
a moment that her heart stopped beating. It must be Hugh McClintock they
were ambushing. She guessed they were luring him to his death by means
of a forged note from her.
What could she do? She must move quickly and surely. There were two ways
to town from the schoolhouse, one by the cut, the other over the hill.
The assassin was lying close to the point where these paths met. She
could not watch both and reach Hugh in time to save him.
Vicky did not know where Hugh was nor how to find him with a warning.
Five minutes loss of time in finding him might be fatal. She thought of
Ralph Dodson. Was he implicated in this? Even so, she knew he would cry
back if he knew the plot was discovered. He was always at his office at
this time of day, and that office was at this edge of town. If she could
get word to him . . .
“Listen, Tommie,” she cried. “You know Mr. Dodson’s office—Mr. Ralph
Dodson. Go to him quick as you can and tell him to come to me—right
away—at the cave-in where he rescued Johnny. Tell him he must come at
once—that I need him now. Understand?”
Tommie nodded. Already she was leaving the building with him.
“You go by the cut, and if you see Hugh McClintock tell him what you’ve
told me and that he’s to stay in town, she explained.
“Yes’m,” Tommie said. “I’ll ’member.”
“Don’t tell Mr. Dodson anything except that I want him just as soon as
he can get to me.”
“No’m, I won’t.” His heart beat fast with excitement, but he crushed
back the fear that mounted in him.
They separated. Tommie hurried along through the cut and Vicky climbed
the hill to the summit. She knew that the man lying in the junipers
could see her. If she had known exactly where he was, she would have
gone straight to him and forced him to give up his plan by remaining at
his side. But in the thick underbrush she knew there would be small
chance of finding him.
At the brow of the hill she stopped and swept the path with her eyes.
Nobody was coming toward her along it from town. Her heart was in a
tumult of alarm. If Hugh came by the cut and Tommie failed to meet him
or to impress him sufficiently of the danger, he would walk straight
into the ambush prepared for him.
She was torn by conflicting impulses. One was to hurry down the hill to
town with the hope of finding Hugh before he started. Another was to
retrace her steps toward the junction of paths and wait for him there.
Perhaps if the bushwhacker saw her there he would not dare to risk a
shot. But she rejected this as a vain hope. He could fire in perfect
security from the brush and slip away in the gathering dusk without any
likelihood of detection.
It was not in her nature to wait in patience while Hugh might be
hurrying into peril. She turned and walked swiftly back along the path
she had just climbed. The shadow of dusk was falling. Objects at a
distance began to appear shadowy, to take on indistinctness of outline.
The panic in her grew with the passing minutes. A pulse in her parched
throat beat fast. Sobs born of sheer terror choked her as she stumbled
forward.
She stopped, close to the tunnel where the little boy had been entombed.
With all her senses keyed she listened. No sound came to her tortured
brain, but waves of ether seemed to roll across the flat and beat upon
her ears. She waited, horrible endless minutes of agonized distress. In
a small voice she cried out to the man in the chaparral that she was
watching him, that if he fired she would be a witness against him. But
her hoarse voice scarce carried a dozen yards.
From out of the junipers a rifle cracked. She ran down the path blindly,
in an agony of fright. Before she had taken three steps the rifle
sounded again. A scream filled the dusk, a scream of fear and pain and
protest.
The lurching figure of a man moved out of the gloom toward the running
girl. It stumbled and went down.
With a sob of woe Vicky flung herself down upon the prostrate body.
“Hugh!” she cried, and the word carried all her love, fears, dreads, and
terrors.
No sound came from the still form her arms embraced.