A MISTAKE
At breakfast, a ranchman brought in the news of the attack upon the
sheep camp, and by means of it set fire to a powder magazine. The
Sandersons went ramping mad for the moment. They saw red; and if they
could have laid hands on their enemy, they would undoubtedly have made
an end of him.
Phyllis, seeing the fury of their passion, trembled for the safety of
the man upstairs. He might be discovered at any moment. Yet she must go
to school as if nothing were the matter, and leave him to whatever fate
might have in store.
When the time came for her to go, she could hardly bring herself to
leave.
She was in her room, putting in the few minutes she usually spent there,
rearranging her hair and giving the last few touches to her toilet after
the breakfast.
"I hate to go," she confessed to Weaver. "Promise me you'll not make a
sound or open the door to anybody while I'm away."
"I promise," he told her.
She was very greatly troubled, and could not help showing it. Her face
was wan and drawn, all the youthful life stricken out of it.
"It will be all right," he reassured her. "I'll sit here and read,
without making a sound. Nothing will happen. You'll see."
"Oh, I hope not--I hope not!" she cried in a whisper. "You _will_ be
careful, won't you?"
"I sure will. A hen with one chick won't be a circumstance to me."
Larrabie Keller had hitched her horse and brought it round to the front
door. She leaned toward him after she had gathered the reins.
"You'll not go far away, will you? And if anything happens----"
"But it won't. Why should it?"
"Anna knows. She blundered upon him."
"Will she keep it quiet?"
"I think so, but she's a born gossip. Don't leave her alone with the
boys."
"All right," he nodded.
"I feel as if I ought to stay at home," the young teacher said
piteously, hoping that he would encourage her to do so.
He shook his head. "No--you've got to go, to divert suspicion. It will
be all right here. I'll keep both eyes open. Don't forget that I'm going
to be on the job all day."
"You're so good!"
"After I've been around you a while. It's catching." He tucked in the
dust robe, without looking at her.
But she looked at him, as she started, with that swift, shy glance of
hers, and felt the pink tint her cheeks beneath the tan. He was much in
her thoughts, this slender brown man with the look of quiet competence
and strength. Ever since that night in the kitchen, he had impressed
himself upon her imagination. She had fallen into the way of comparing
him with Tom Dixon, with her own brother, with Buck Weaver--and never to
his disadvantage.
He talked with a drawl. He walked and rode with an air of languid ease.
But the man himself, behind the indolence that sat upon him so
gracefully, was like a coiled spring. Sometimes she could see this force
in his eyes, when for the moment some thought eclipsed the gay good
humor of them. Winsome he was. He had already won her father, even as he
had won her. But the touch of affection in his manner never suggested
weakness.
From the porch Tom Dixon watched her departure sullenly. Since he could
not have her, he let himself grow jealous of the man who perhaps could.
And because he was what he was--a small man, full of vanity and
conceit--he must needs make parade of himself with another girl in the
role of conquering squire. Larrabie smiled as the young fellow went off
for a walk in obviously confidential talk with Anna Allan, but he
learned soon that it was no smiling matter.
Half an hour later, the girl came flying back along the trail the two
had taken. Catching sight of Keller, she ran across to him, plainly
quivering with excitement and fluttering with fears.
"Oh, Mr. Keller--I've done it now! I didn't think----I thought--"
"Take it easy," soothed the young man, with one of his winning smiles.
"Now, what is it you have done?" Already his eyes had picked out Dixon
returning, not quite so impetuously, along the trail.
"I told him about the man in Phyllis' room."
Larrabie's eyes narrowed and grew steely. "Yes?"
"I told him--I don't know why, but I never could keep a secret. I made
him promise not to tell. But he is going to tell the boys. There he
comes now. And I told Phyllis I wouldn't tell!" Anna began to cry,
miserably aware that she had made a mess of things.
"I just begged him not to tell--and he had promised. But he says it's
his duty, and he's going to do it. Oh, Mr. Keller--if Mr. Weaver is
there they will hurt him, and I'll be to blame."
"Yes, you will be," he told her bluntly. "But we may save him yet--if
you can go about your business and keep your mouth shut."
"Oh, I will--I will," she promised eagerly. "I'll not say a word--not to
anybody."
"See that you don't. Now, run along home. I'm going to have a quiet
little talk with that young man. Maybe I can persuade him to change his
mind," he said grimly.
"Please--if you could. I don't want to start any trouble."
Larrabie grinned, without taking his eyes from the man coming down the
trail. It was usually some good-natured idiot, with a predisposition to
gabbling, that made most of the trouble in the world.
"Well, you be a good girl and padlock your tongue. If you do, I'll fix
it up with Tom," he promised.
He sauntered forward toward the path. Dixon, full of his news, was
hurrying to the ranch. He was eager to tell it to the Sandersons,
because he wanted to reinstate himself in their good graces. For, though
neither of them knew he had fired the shot that wounded Weaver, he had
observed a distinct coolness toward him for his desertion of Phyllis in
her time of need. It had been all very well for him to explain that he
had thought it best to hurry home to get help. The fact remained that he
had run away and left her alone.
Now he was for pushing past Keller with a curt nod, but the latter
stopped him with a lift of the hand.
"What's your sweat?"
"Want to see me, do you?"
Keller nodded easily.
"All right. Unload your mind. I can't give you but a minute."
"Press of business on to-day?"
"It's _my_ business."
"I'm going to make it mine."
"What do you mean?" came the quick, suspicious retort.
"Let's walk back up the trail and talk it over."
"No."
"Yes."
Their eyes clashed, and those of the stronger man won.
"We can talk it over here," Dixon said sullenly.
"We can, but we won't."
"I don't know as I want to go back up the trail."
"Come." Larrabie let a hand fall on the shoulder of the other man--a
brown, strong hand that showed no more uncertainty than the steady eyes.
Dixon cursed peevishly, but after a moment he turned to go back. He did
not know why he went, except that there was something compelling about
this man. Besides, he told himself, his news would keep for half an hour
without spoiling. They walked nearly a quarter of a mile before he
stopped.
"Now get busy, Mr. Keller. I've got no time to monkey," he stormed,
attempting to regain what he had lost by his concession.
"Sho! You've got all day. This rush notion is the great failing of the
American people. We hadn't ought to go through life on the lope--no,
sir! We need to take the rest cure for that habit," Larrabie mused
aloud, seating himself on a flat boulder between Tom and the ranch.
Dixon let out an oath. "Did you bring me here to tell me that durn
foolishness?"
"Not only to tell you. I figured we would try out the rest cure, you and
me. We'll get close to nature out here in the sunshine, and not do a
thing but rest till the cows come home," Keller explained easily. His
voice was indolent, his manner amiable; but there was a wariness in his
eyes that showed him prepared for any move.
So it happened that when Dixon made the expected dash into the chaparral
Keller nailed him in a dozen strides.
"Let me alone! Let me go!" cried Tom furiously. "You've got no business
to keep me here."
"I'm doing it for pleasure, say."
The other tried to break away, but Larrabie had caught his arm and
twisted it in such a way that he could not move without great pain.
Impotently he writhed and cursed. Meanwhile his captor relieved him of
his revolver, and, with a sudden turn, dropped him to the ground and
stepped back.
"What's eating you, Keller? Have you gone plumb crazy? Gimme back that
gun and let me go," the young fellow screamed.
"You don't need the gun right now. Maybe, if you had it, you might take
a notion to plug me the way you did Buck Weaver."
"What--what's that?" Then, in angry suspicion: "I suppose Phyllis told
you that lie."
He had not finished speaking before he regretted it. The look in the
face of the other told him that he had gone too far and would have to
pay for it.
"Stand up, Tom Dixon! You've got to take a thrashing for that. There's
been one coming to you ever since you ran away and left a girl to stand
the gaff for you. Now it's due."
"I don't want to fight," Tom whined. "I reckon I oughtn't to have said
that, but you drove me to it. I'll apologize----"
"You'll apologize after your thrashing, not before. Stand up and take
it."
Dixon got to his feet very reluctantly. He was a larger man than his
opponent by twenty pounds--a husky, well-built fellow; but he was
entirely without the fighting edge. He knew himself already a beaten
man, and he cowered in spirit before his lithe antagonist, even while he
took off his coat and squared himself for the attack. For he knew, as
did anybody who looked at him carefully, that Keller was a game man from
the marrow out.
Men who knew him said of Larrabie Keller that he could whip his weight
in wild cats. Get him started, and he was a small cyclone in action. But
now he went at his man deliberately, with hard, straight, punishing
blows.
Dixon fought back wildly, desperately, but could not land. He could see
nothing but that face with the chilled-steel eyes, but when he lashed
out it was never there. Again and again, through the openings he left,
came a right or a left like a pile driver, with the weight of one
hundred and sixty pounds of muscle and bone back of it. He tried to
clinch, and was shaken off by body blows. At last he went down from an
uppercut, and stayed down, breathing heavily, a badly thrashed man.
"For God's sake, let me alone! I've had enough," he groaned.
"Sure of that?"
"You've pretty near killed me."
Larrabie laughed grimly. "You didn't get half enough. I'll listen to
that apology now, my friend."
With many sighs, the prostrate man came through with it haltingly. "I
didn't mean--I hadn't ought to have said----"
Keller interrupted the tearful voice. "That'll be enough. You will know
better, next time, how to speak respectfully of a lady. While we're on
the subject, I don't mind telling you that nobody told me. I'm not a
fool, and I put two and two together. That's all. I'm not her brother.
It wasn't my business to punish you because you played the coyote. But
when you said she lied to me, that's another matter."
For very shame, trampled in the dust as he had been, Tom could not
leave the subject alone. Besides, he had to make sure that the story
would be kept secret.
"The way of it was like this: After I shot Buck Weaver, we saw they
would kill me if I was caught; so we figured I had better hunt cover.
'Course I knew they wouldn't hurt a girl any," he got out sullenly.
"You don't have to explain it to me," answered the other coldly.
"You ain't expecting to tell the boys about me shooting Buck, are you?"
Dixon asked presently, hating himself for it. But he was afraid of Phil
and his father. They had told him plainly what they thought of him for
leaving the girl in the lurch. If they should discover that he had done
the shooting and left her to stand the blame for it, they would do more
than talk.
"I certainly ought to tell them. Likely they may want to see you about
it, and hear the particulars."
"There ain't any need of them knowing. If Phyl had wanted them to know,
she could have told them," said Tom sulkily. He had got carefully to his
feet, and was nursing his face with a handkerchief.
"We'll go and break our news together," suggested the other cheerfully.
"You tell them you think Weaver is in her room, and I'll tell them my
little spiel."
"There's no need telling them about me shooting Weaver, far as I can
see. I'd rather they didn't know."
"For that matter, there's no need telling them your notions about where
Buck is right now."
Tom said nothing, but his dogged look told Larrabie that he was not
persuaded.
"I tell you what we'll do," said Keller, then: "We'll unload on them
both stories, or we won't tell them either. Which shall it be?"
Dixon understood that an ultimatum was being served on him. For, though
his former foe was smiling, the smile was a frosty one.
"Just as you say. I reckon it's your call," he acquiesced sourly.
"No--I'm going to leave it to you," grinned Larrabie.
The man he had thrashed looked as if he would like to kill him. "We'll
close-herd both stories, then."
"Good enough! Don't let me keep you any longer, if you're in a hurry.
Now we've had our little talk, I'm satisfied."
But Dixon was not satisfied. He was stiff and sore physically, but
mentally he was worse. He had played a poor part, and must still do so.
If he went down to the ranch with his face in that condition, he could
not hope to escape observation. His vanity cried aloud against
submitting to the comment to which he would be subjected. The whole
story of the thrashing would be bound to come out.
"I can't go down looking like this," he growled.
"Do you have to go down?"
"Have to get my horse, don't I?"
"I'll bring it to you."
"And say nothing about--what has happened?"
"I don't care to talk of it any more than you do. I'll be a clam."
"All right--I'll wait here." Tom sat down on a boulder and chewed
tobacco, his head sunk in his clenched palms.
Keller walked down the trail to the ranch. He was glad to go in place of
Dixon; for he felt that the young man was unstable and could not be
depended upon not to fall into a rage, and, in a passionate impulse,
tell all he knew. He saddled the horse, explaining casually to the
wrangler that he had lost a bet with Tom, by the terms of which he had
to come down and saddle the latter's mount.
He swung to the back of the pony and cantered up the trail. But before
he had gone a hundred yards, he was off again, examining the hoofmarks
the animal left in the sand. The left hind mark differed from the others
in that the detail was blurred and showed nothing but a single flat
stamp.
This seemed to interest Keller greatly. He picked up the corresponding
foot of the cow pony, and found the cause of the irregularity to be a
deformity or swelling in the ball of the foot, which apparently was now
its normal condition. The young man whistled softly to himself, swung
again to the saddle, and continued on his way.
The owner of the horse had his back turned and did not hear him coming
as he padded up the soft trail. The man was testing in his hand
something that clicked.
Larrabie swung quietly to the ground, and waited. His eyes were like
tempered steel.
"Here's your horse," he said. Before the other man moved, he drawled: "I
reckon I'd better tell you I'm armed, too. Don't be hasty."
Dixon turned his swollen face to him in a childish fury. He had picked
up, and was holding in his hand, the revolver Larrabie had taken from
him and later thrown down. "Damn you, what do you mean? It's my own gun,
ain't it? Mean to say I'm a murderer?"
"I happen to know you have impulses that way. I thought I'd check this
one, to save you trouble."
He was standing carelessly with his right hand resting on the mane of
the pony; he had not even taken the precaution of lowering it to his
side, where the weapon might be supposed to lie.
For an instant Tom thought of taking a chance. The odds would be with
him, since he had the revolver ready to his fingers. But before that
indomitable ease his courage ebbed. He had not the stark fighting nerve
to pit himself against such a man as this.
"I don't know as I said anything about shooting. Looks like you're
trying to fasten another row on me," the craven said bitterly.
"I'm content if you are; and as far as I'm concerned, this thing is
between us two. It won't go any further."
Keller stood aside and watched Dixon mount. The hillman took his spleen
out on the horse, finding that the safest vent for his anger. He jerked
its head angrily, cursed it, and drove in the spurs cruelly. With a
leap, the cow pony was off. In fifty strides it reached the top of the
hill and disappeared.
Keller laughed grimly, and spoke aloud to himself, after the manner of
one who lives much alone.
"There's a _nice_ young man--yellow clear through. Queer thing she could
ever have fancied him. But I don't know, either. He's a right good
looker, and has lots of cheek; that goes a long way with girls. Likely
he was mighty careful before her. And he'd not been brought up against
the acid test, then."
His roving eyes took in with disgust the stains of tobacco juice
plastered all over the clean surface of the rocks.
"I'll bet a doughnut she never knew he chewed. Didn't know it myself
till now. Well, a man lives and learns. Buck Weaver told me he came on a
dead cow of his just after the rustlers had left. Fire still smoldering.
Tobacco stains still wet on the rocks. And one of the horses had a hind
hoof that left a blurred trail. Surely looks like Mr. Tom Dixon is
headed for the pen mighty fast."
He turned and strolled back to the house, smiling to himself.