AN ENCOUNTER
Kate awoke the morning after Hawk's funeral with a confused sense of
having consorted with her father's enemies; and of trying to justify
herself for having done what she had felt compelled to do to answer her
sense of self-respect.
And all this before anyone had accused her. But being extremely
dubious as to how her father would take her conduct, she was not only
ill at ease until she should meet him, but glad he had been away. And
it was something of a shock to her that morning to find his bedroom
door closed; it meant that during the night he had unexpectedly come
home.
After her breakfast she walked down to the corral to talk to Bradley
about the saddle horses. Not that she had anything to suggest, but
because she was nervous. Laramie was intruding more and more into her
mind; every time she banished him he returned, frequently bringing
someone else with him. Between the perplexities and the men that beset
her, Kate was not happy. And when, after a ramble along the creek, she
returned to the house, she was not surprised to find that her father,
coming from the breakfast table, hardly responded to her greeting. He
was much engrossed in cutting off the end of a cigar as he passed her
and in walking to the fireplace to find a match.
But the matches were not on the mantelpiece, where they belonged, and
this annoyed him. If he said nothing, it did not deceive Kate as to
his feelings. She hastened to hand him the matchbox from the table.
He took it without saying a word, but he slammed it back to its
accustomed place with a silent and ominous emphasis.
She knew it was coming. What surprised her was that she felt no
further inclination to shrink from the moment of reckoning she dreaded.
Doubleday, his cigar lighted, seated himself in his heavy chair beside
the fireplace.
"What kind of a trip had you, father?" Kate, as she asked, made a
pretense of arranging the papers and magazines on the table.
There was little promise of amiability in her father's answer; "What
d'y' mean," he asked.
"Did you get your notes extended?"
"Yes." His heavy jaw and teeth, after the word, snapped like a steel
trap. "Did you go to Abe Hawk's funeral?" He flung the question at
her like a hammer.
"Were you told I did?" Kate asked.
"Rode to the graveyard with him, didn't you?"
Kate saw there was no use softening her words: "Father," she said
instantly and firmly, "the night I came out from town in the storm I
got lost. I got on the wrong side of the creek. My horse gave out; I
was dead with the cold."
Her father flung his cigar into the fire: "What's that got to do with
it?" he broke in harshly.
"Just wait a moment."
"I don't want any long-winded story."
"I won't tell any."
"I won't listen to you," he shouted. "Answer my question."
Her eyes kindled: "You may call it whatever you like, but you will
listen to my answer in the way I make it. When I'd given up hope of
saving my life, and my horse was drifting, he fell into a dugout. And
in the dugout were two men--Abe Hawk and Jim Laramie. They thought
there was a party of men with me. They seized me. They got ready to
fight. I was at their mercy."
"What dugout?" demanded Doubleday. His husky tone seemed to indicate
he was cooling a little; the question took her off her guard.
"At the old mine bridge."
A flash of cunning lighted her father's eyes. The curtain fell
instantly, but not before Kate had seen. "When they questioned me,"
she hurried on, "I told them what had happened. They believed me.
They rode with me back to the creek. We swam our horses across. Mine
couldn't make the bank. Abe Hawk pulled me out and Laramie saved my
horse. But the bank caved in with Hawk when he pulled me out of the
creek and the next thing I heard, he was dead. I didn't go to his
funeral except to ride to the cemetery in the procession. Father,
could I do any less?" she demanded, wrought up.
Barb's harsh, red features never looked less uncompromising: "D' you
expect me to believe that stuff?" he asked, regarding her coldly. She
only eyed him as he eyed her: "D' you expect anybody to believe it?" he
continued, to drive in his contempt.
Kate turned white. When she spoke, her words were measured: "Oh, no,"
she said quietly. "I don't expect you any more to believe anything I
say. Those other men would believe me when they had me at their
mercy--when they might have choked or shot me or thrown me into the
Falling Wall canyon--they only believed me. But my own father--he
couldn't believe me----"
Neither appeal nor reproach moved her father; his mind was fixed. Van
Horn had been sarcastic over Kate's escapade; Barb's own men were
laughing at him. He interrupted Kate: "Pack up your things," he said
ruthlessly.
She faced her father without flinching: "What do you mean?" she asked.
He tossed his head with as little concern as if he were discharging a
cowboy: "Don't want you around here any longer," he snapped. "Pack up.
Get out."
She looked at him in silence. Perhaps, as she turned defiantly away
and walked to her room, she thought of the man that had deserted her
mother when she herself was a baby in her mother's arms. At any rate,
anger fortified her against the shock. Her preparations were soon
made. A trunk held all she wished to take. She asked Bradley to get
up her pony. Bradley was hitched up for a trip to Sleepy Cat and,
putting her trunk in the wagon, was on the road ahead of Kate. She
spent a little time in straightening up her room and shortly afterwards
rode down the trail for town.
Absorbed in thoughts tinged with bitterness and anger, she rode toward
the creek as if casting things up again and again in her mind, but
reaching no conclusion. When her horse struck the Sleepy Cat road he
turned into it because he was used to doing so, not because she guided
him. In this haphazard way she was jogging on, her eyes fixed on
nothing more encouraging than the storm-worn ruts along her way when a
shout startled her. Looking up, she saw she was nearing the lower gate
of the alfalfa patch and across the road a party of horsemen had
stopped Bradley with the wagon. She recognized Harry Van Horn--his
smart hat, erect figure and scarlet neckcloth would have identified him
before she could distinguish his features; and he always rode the best
horse. Stone and three of the Texas men were with him. With the
exception of Van Horn, they had dismounted, and with their drooping
horses close at hand were stacking their rifles against the gate and
yelling at Bradley.
Swinging his hat, Van Horn dashed toward Kate just as she looked up
and, whipping out his revolver, pulled his horse to its haunches
directly in front of her: "You're held up!" he cried.
The shock on her reverie was sudden and Kate was too confused and
frightened to speak.
"You can't get by without giving up your tobacco, girlie," Van Horn ran
on in sing-song raillery. "Shell out!" He held out his left hand for
the spoil and poised his gun high--a picture of life and dash. "You
see what's happening to Bradley." The cowboys, in great feather, were
dragging the old man with mock violence from the wagon.
Kate recovered her breath: "What's it all about?" she asked.
Van Horn put away his gun. He was in very good humor as he glanced
over at the boys crowding around Bradley: "They want tobacco," he
laughed.
"Oh."
"You know what I want."
Kate regarded his expectancy unmoved: "How should I know?" she asked,
chilling her question with indifference.
"Because," he exclaimed, sweeping back with a flourish the brim of his
hat, "I want you."
She eyed him without a tremor and responded without hesitation: "Well,
I can say you will never get me if that's all you want."
He laughed again: "Talk it over with me, Kate; talk it over."
His eyes, always bright and liquid, were a little inflamed. Still
laughing, he glanced toward the wagon. The boys were boisterous. Kate
could hear Bradley's voice in shrill protest: "What'd I be goin' to
town f'r, if I had a bottle?" he was demanding angrily. But, while she
looked and listened, Van Horn slipped quickly from his saddle and
caught her bridle rein: "Come on," he said, at her horse's head, "let's
walk down to the creek, girlie, and talk it all over."
Kate was indignant: "I won't walk anywhere----"
"I'll carry you."
She suppressed an angry word: "I'm on my way to town," she exclaimed.
"Let go my bridle!" She struck her horse. The beast jumped ahead.
Van Horn, laughing, held on. But the shock jerked him almost from his
feet. As he staggered forward, clinging to the rearing animal, the
half-muffled report of a revolver was heard. Almost like a
thunderbolt, it changed the situation. One of the Texas men had fired
in the air, but no one had seen him fire and the other Texans jumped
like longhorns. Stone, clapping his hand to his holster, whirled from
the wagon wheel. Kate, frightened more than ever, struck her horse
again; the bridle was jerked from Van Horn's hand and he turned
sharply. Quickest to grasp what he saw as his eye swept the road, he
yelled: "Look out, boys! There's Laramie!"
The words were not out of his mouth when Kate caught sight of a man
down the road leaping from a horse. As the rider touched the ground he
slapped his pony's shoulder and the beast dropped flat. The man, rifle
in hand, threw himself behind the prostrate animal and Kate heard his
brusque yell to Van Horn and the Texans: "Pitch up!"
It would have been hard to say who was most astonished. Laramie
evidently was not expecting an encounter. To dash on horseback into
any five men on foot, of the enemy's camp, was the last thing he would
be likely to attempt. If he did attempt it, he would never choose Van
Horn or Stone to be of the party. The ground about the scene was flat,
or only slightly rolling, with the branch road and its old ruts running
across it. Caught squarely in the open and without a sagebrush for
cover, he had been forced to drop behind his horse for shelter. Lying
flat and covering Van Horn and the men with his rifle, he awaited the
unpleasant odds against him.
The situation of the five men in front was even worse. Their rifles
were stacked against the gate hardly a dozen feet away. But to run a
gauntlet of a dozen feet against Laramie's rifle fire was a feat none
had stomach for, nor were they ready at a hundred yards to pit
revolvers against it. One of them might get him but they knew it would
be after some of the others had practically ceased to be interested in
the result.
The minds of the Texas men were perfectly clear; their hands shot up
like rockets. Stone had taken one big step toward the gate post--he
changed his mind, halted and his hands went up at the very instant
Laramie changed _his_ mind, and did not press the trigger against the
burly outline darkening the field of his sights. Van Horn, caught,
stood helpless and enraged--humiliated in circumstances he least
relished for humiliation. Everybody's hands were up. His one chance,
Van Horn realized, was to use his Colt's against the Winchester behind
the prostrate horse--it was not a living chance and no one knew it
better than he; his hands moved grudgingly up to his shoulders and he
sang out savagely: "What the blazes do you want?"
There was no answer from Laramie. To add to a difficult situation,
Kate's horse, nervous from the shouting and catching its mistress's own
fright, jumped and bucked till she was halfway down the road toward
Laramie before she could check him. To add to her confusion, words
came from ahead just loud enough for her to hear: "Pull the blamed
brute to one side, will you?" It was Laramie speaking, she knew. "If
he gets between me and that bunch," she heard him say, "I'm a goner."
She jerked her horse violently out of the road; Laramie had raised his
voice and kept right on talking: "Turn your back, Van Horn--you, too,
Stone. Shoot up your hands, you Texas--higher!" he called to one of
the Texans. And with the words not out of his mouth, he leaped as if
on springs to his feet. It seemed as if his rifle covered his enemies
all the time, even while he was doing it.
With his head forward, his elbows high and the Winchester laid against
his cheek; stepping like a cat, and swiftly and with his eyes fixed on
the men ahead, Laramie walked toward the wagon. In doing so he
approached Kate, whose horse had subsided. Laramie took no note of
her. She only heard his words as he passed: "You'd better get out of
this." Approaching his prisoners in such a way they could not reach
either the gate or the wagon without crossing his fire, Laramie
compelled Bradley, really nothing loath, to disarm the three cowboys in
turn and drop their guns into the wagonbox. Stone, sullen, was
gingerly approached by Bradley, under strict orders to keep out of
reach of his arms. But the old man knew all the tricks of the play
being staged, even though he was not able to turn them. And when
Stone, cursing, was ordered to lower his right arm and hand his
revolver to Bradley at arm's length, the old man's feet were planted at
least six feet from the foreman for a jump-away in case Stone tried to
clinch him and shoot at Laramie from behind Bradley's cover.
But after he was disarmed, Laramie was not through with Stone. Sullen
and obdurate, he was ordered to face away, while Bradley from behind
searched his pockets. And the crown of his abasement was reached when
Bradley drew from a hip pocket a full flask of whisky. The material
advantage of the find was not great, but the tactical advantage was
enormous. Behind Stone, Bradley silently but jeeringly held it up as
an exhibit for the thirsty Texas men; and to show it was full, uncorked
and with gusto sampled it. Stone was ordered back to his horse.
"How long is this joke, Laramie?" sang out Van Horn, his humor oozing.
"Can't you frisk a few cowboys in less than all day?"
"When I frisk a pair of cut-throats with them, it's different."
"Well, don't waste your valuable time on me. This is your
innings--I'll wait for mine."
"Drop your gun to the ground," returned Laramie. "Pick that up, Bill,"
he added to Bradley as Van Horn threw his revolver contemptuously from
its holster. He was searched with the same scrupulous care by old
Bradley, his morale greatly strengthened by Stone's flask: "I don't
give a d--n whether you get me or not," he retorted at Van Horn, in
answer to a low threat from his victim.
Laramie having told Van Horn to mount, turned to the Texas men: "Which
one of you boys wants to carry the rifles over to that big cottonwood
for me?" he asked, pointing toward the creek.
"I do," responded the nearest man, promptly.
"Don't you do it, Tex," called out Stone.
The Texan eyed his foreman: "Why not?" he demanded. "Ain't I been
ridin' this country all day with a man squealin' for a drink as loud as
I was, an' had his pocket full of it all the time? I'm through with my
job."
Laramie broke in without losing the precious moment: "Who set my house
on fire, Tex?" he demanded.
The Texan nodded in Stone's direction: "Ask him."
"He'd lie, Tex; I'm askin' you."
The rawboned horseman hesitated: "I'll talk that over with you when I'm
rested," he drawled.
"Go get your Colt's out of the wagon, Tex." Laramie pointed the way.
"Pick out the guns of the other two boys and tote them over to that
tree with you. The boys'll ride over there after you. Tell Barb I'll
give him twenty-four hours to get every hoof, round or split, that
belongs to me back to the Falling Wall--failing which I'll be over to
talk to him privately. Will you do that, Tex?"
"I sure will."
"These rustlers here," he looked toward Stone and Van Horn, "won't be
able to carry messages for awhile. They're ridin' to town with me.
Bill," he added, turning to Bradley, "dump their rifles into the wagon
and follow on along."
"What's this?" snapped Van Horn with an oath. "Going to town with you!
Not on your life."
"You're headed for jail tonight, Harry; that's all. You boys," he
spoke to the Texans and gave no heed to the oaths and abuse from Van
Horn, "ride down to the cottonwood and get your guns from Tex. There's
two good trails from here to town and plenty of room on both. Today
I'm riding the Double-draw bridge. If any of you are going to town,
take the other trail. Lead off now, you two."
He spoke to Van Horn and Stone, both mounted, and with the two headed
for town, and the Texans started up the road, Laramie climbed into his
own saddle. Not until then did he look around for Kate. She had
disappeared.