A RIDE WITH TERRY
Returning at once to the Old Trusty, on the way passing Terry's car
which still stood in front of the store, Steve Packard asked for the
use of a telephone. Whitey nodded toward the office, a little room
thinly partitioned off from the larger. A moment later Barbee's voice
was answering from Ranch Number Ten.
"He's on the way, Barbee," said Steve quickly. "Left Red Creek just a
few minutes ago. I'll trail him. Give him the chance to prowl around
a little; try and find what he's after. But don't let him get away
with it! Understand? Shoot the legs out from under him if you have
to. I'll give you a month's pay for the night's work if you nail him
with the goods on."
Clicking up the receiver he went out on the street again, giving no
heed to the many glances which followed him. They knew who he was;
they were speculating on him. "Ol' man Packard's gran'son," he heard
one man say.
In the thick darkness lying under the poplar tree it was several
minutes before he was certain that his horse was gone. He had tethered
the animal himself; there was no dangling bit of rope to indicate a
broken tie-rope. Blenham, the practical, had simply taken thought of
detail.
"Not missing a single bet, is Blenham," he thought savagely.
He swung about and reentered the saloon. A buzz of talk up and down
the long room promptly died away as again the eyes of many men
travelled his way. It struck him that they had all been talking of
him; he knew that they must have marked those signs which Joe Woods's
fists had left on his face; he stood a moment looking in on them,
conscious for the first time of his rapidly swelling right eye, seeking
to estimate what these men made of him.
It seemed to him that the one emotion he glimpsed on all hands and in
varying degrees, was distrust. Little cause for surprise there: he was
a Packard and this was not the Packard side of Red Creek.
"Somebody's put me on foot," he announced crisply. "I left my horse
outside, tied. It's gone now. Know anything about it, any of you
boys?"
They looked their interest. Hereabouts one man did not trifle with
another man's horse. But there was no answer to his direct question.
"I've got to be riding," he went on quietly. "Who can lend me a
saddle-horse for the night? I'll pay double what it's worth."
Whitey Wimble gave his bar a long swipe with his wet towel.
"If you're askin' favors, seems to me you're on the wrong side the
street, ain't you, stranger?"
"Meaning I am a Packard?"
"You got me the firs' time. That's Packard's Town over yonder. Your
crowd----"
"Look at my eye!" then said Steve quickly.
A big man with a thin little voice at the far end of the room giggled.
"I seen it already," said Wimble.
"Know Joe Woods? Well, he's got another just like it. Know Blenham?
Blenham sicked him on me! Know old man Packard? He's sicking Blenham
on me. Want to know what I want a horse for? Blenham's got a head
start and I want to overhaul him! To tell him he's a crook and a
thief. Now is this side of Red Creek open to me or is it shut? What's
the answer, Whitey Wimble?"
Wimble appeared both impressed and yet hesitant. Here was a Packard to
deal with and Whitey Wimble when taking over the destiny of the Old
Trusty had been set clear in the matter that he had a ripe, old feud to
maintain; and still, looking at it the other way, here was a man who
carried the sign of Joe Woods's fist upon his bruised face, who
announced that he was out to get Blenham, that there was open trouble
between him and old man Packard.
Whitey Wimble, beginning by looking puzzled, wound up by turning a
distressed face toward Steve.
"It's kind of a fine point," he suggested finally. "Now, come right
down to it, it sort of looks to me----"
"Fine point!" cried Steve hotly, a sudden anger growing within him as
he thought how Blenham had played the game all along the line, how
Blenham might well prove too shrewd for a boy like Barbee, how a set of
prejudiced fools here in the Old Trusty by denying him the loan of a
horse might seriously be aiding Blenham whom none of them had any love
for. "Why, damn it, man, haven't I told you that Blenham has just put
a raw deal across on me, that he's coming close to getting away with
it, that all I ask is a horse to run him down? Who's going to let me
have one? I'm in a hurry!"
Never until now did he realize how strong a factor in the life of the
community was the prejudice against his blood. On every hand he saw
doubt, clouded eyes, distrust. Plainly many a man there held him for a
liar; would even go so far, it was possible, as to suggest later that
Steve Packard had meant to steal the horse he asked for. Steve stared
about him a moment, his back stiffening. Then, with a little grunt of
disgust, he strode across the room.
"At least," he flung over his shoulder at Whitey Wimble, "I am going to
use your telephone again!"
Without waiting for an answer and caring not the snap of his fingers
what that answer might be, he went to the telephone, jerking down the
receiver, saying brusquely to the operator:
"Ranch Number Ten, please. In a hurry."
He waited impatiently and, it seemed to him, an inexcusably long time.
Finally the operator said after the aloof manner of telephone girls:
"I am ringing them."
And again----
"I am ringing them."
And then----
"They do not answer."
And at last, and then only when Steve made emphatic that there must be
some one at the Number Ten bunk-house at this hour, the girl said:
"Wait a minute."
And after that:
"There seems to be something the matter with the line. I can't raise
any of the ranch-houses out that way. We'll send a man out in the
morning."
So he couldn't even warn Barbee that Blenham had made good his
head-start; that Blenham was plainly of one mind to-night; that it was
up to young Barbee to keep his eyes open and his gun cocked. He began
to understand why his grandfather had made Blenham one of his
right-hand men; he had the cool mind and the way of acting quickly
which makes for success.
"I got a horse for you, pardner," said a slow voice as Packard came out
of the office. "A cayuse as can't be beat for legs an' lungs. Come
ahead."
Steve looked at him eagerly. He was a little fellow, leather-cheeked,
keen-eyed, leisurely; a stranger, obviously a cowboy.
"I work for Brocky Lane," offered the stranger as they went out
together. "Know him, don't you?"
"I did a dozen years ago," answered Steve absently. "Where's your
horse?"
"You're Steve Packard, ain't you? You done Brocky a favor when you was
a kid, didn't you? Brocky told me. Brocky's done me a favor. I'm
doin' you a favor. That squares us up all 'round. Like a circle, all
in a ring, sort of; get me?"
"Yes," agreed Steve, feeling vaguely that the cowman had unknowingly
touched upon a problem in higher mathematics. He slipped a hand into
his pocket.
But the friend whom an old, long-forgotten kindness raised now for him
at his need, shook his head, would have none of Packard's money, and
led the way to a shed behind the saloon. Out of the darkness he
brought a tall, wall-eyed roan, quickly saddled and bridled and handed
over to Steve.
"Heeled?" came solicitously from the little man as Steve swung up into
the saddle.
"No."
"Well, Blenham is. He goes that way all the time. An' he's a right
good shot, the boys say. If there's some real sour blood stirred up
between him an' you there's no use bein' a plumb fool, is there? The
store's apt to be open yet; there's a firs'-class double-barrel
shot-gun, secon'-hand but as good as new, in the window. Only seven
dollars an' a half."
"I'll send the horse over to Brocky's to-morrow," called Steve. "And
as for being square--call on me at any time for the next favor. So
long."
"So long," responded the slow-voiced man.
Steve swung out toward the east, curbing his mount's eagerness,
settling himself in the saddle for a couple of hours of hard riding.
Slowly he would warm up the big roan, letting him out gradually,
steadily. Already he sensed that in truth here was "a cayuse hard to
beat for legs an' lungs." And Blenham's head-start was but a matter of
minutes, half an hour at most.
But before he had ridden fifty yards Steve whirled his horse and rode
back, going straight to the store. After all, since Blenham was
playing a game in which the stakes were no less than ten thousand
dollars, since Blenham was without doubt the man who had sought to kill
Bill Royce six months ago for the very same money, since Blenham always
"went heeled and was a right good shot," why then, as Brocky Lane's
cowboy put it, "there was no use bein' a plumb fool." And to ride a
hundred yards or so and buy a Colt .45 and a box of cartridges required
but a moment.
In the store the long shelves upon one side held dry-goods, while upon
the opposite shelves a miscellany of groceries was displayed; toward
the rear was the storekeeper's assortment of hardware near a counter
piled high with sweaters, boots, chaparejos, all jumbled hopelessly.
At the flank of this confusion was a show-case containing a rather fair
line of side-arms. Steve, his eye finding what it sought, went
straight to the back of the house. And then, looking through an open
door which gave entrance to the living-room of the storekeeper's
family, his glance met Terry's. She was rising to her feet, drawing on
her gauntlets.
"That's your train now," a woman's voice was saying.
Packard heard the whistling of a distant engine. He lifted his hat,
she promptly whirled about, giving him her back to look at.
"Here's what I want," said Steve as the storekeeper came to his side.
"That .45, and a box of cartridges."
Terry turned again quickly and he surprised a little look of interest
in her slightly widened eyes. A man doesn't buy a gun and a box of
cartridges at this time of night unless he has a use for them. Packard
took up his new purchases, went out, swung again into the saddle, and
clattered down the street.
The night was bright with stars, clear and sweet. Presently, with only
a handful of miles behind him, the moon rose above the distant ridge,
at the full, glorious and generous of light. He loosened his reins a
little, gave the big roan his head, and swept on through the
ghostly-lighted country.
Now and then, remarking some old remembered landmark, he glanced from
it to his watch; more than once, having slipped his watch again into
his pocket, he leaned forward and patted the horse's neck.
Then--he had done a little more than half the distance and was riding
through the thick shadows of Laurel Cañon, which marks the beginning of
the long grade--the unforeseen occurred; the unlooked-for which, he
knew now, he would have fully expected, had he not counted always upon
Blenham playing a lone hand.
In the middle of the inky blotch made by the laurels standing up
against the moon there was a spot through which the moon-rays found
their way, making a pool of light. As Packard rode into this bright
area he heard a rifle-shot, startlingly loud; saw the spit of flame
from just yonder, perhaps ten feet, certainly not more than twenty feet
away; felt the big roan plunge under him, race on unsteadily, and sink.
He slipped out of the saddle as the horse crashed down in the bushes at
the side of the road, and as he did so emptied his revolver into the
shadows whence had come the rifle-shot. But he knew that he was a fool
to hope to hit; the man had had time to select his spot, to screen his
own body with a boulder or fallen log, to leave open behind him a way
to safety and darkness.
"Not Blenham himself but one of his crowd did that," muttered Packard
as he turned back to the fallen horse. "Just to set me on foot again.
He isn't up to murder when he sees another way. And for ten dollars he
could hire one of his hangers-on to kill a horse."
Well, it was just another trick for Blenham. On foot now he must make
what time he could to the Pinchot farm, some three or four miles
further on, demand a horse there, and pray that Barbee was equal to his
task. But first he must not leave the big roan to suffer needlessly
and hopelessly.
He struck a match and made a flaring torch of a little wisp of dry
grass. Loving a good horse as he did, he felt a sudden and utterly new
sort of hatred of Blenham go rushing along his blood.
It was with a deep sigh of relief that he straightened up when he saw
that either chance or a remarkable skill with a rifle had saved Brocky
Lane's roan from any protracted pain.
Packard pushed on, seeking to make what time he could, breaking into a
jog-trot time and again upon a down-slope, conserving wind and strength
for the up-hill climbs, keeping in the shadows for the most part but
taking his chance over and over in the moonlit open.
Yet it was being borne in upon him that it was useless to hurry now;
that Blenham had made of his advantage a safe lead; that he might as
well slow down, make a cigarette, take his time. And still, being the
sort of man he was, he kept doggedly on, telling himself that a race is
anybody's race until the tape is broken; that Blenham might be having
his own troubles somewhere ahead; that quitting did no good and that it
is not good to be a "quitter." But he had little enough hope of coming
up again with Blenham that night.
And then, when he had been on foot not more than twenty minutes, a
faint, even, drumming sound swelling steadily through the night
somewhere behind him put a new, quick stir in his blood. He stopped,
stood almost breathless a moment, listening.
The smooth drumming grew louder; suddenly topping a rise the two
headlights of an automobile flashed into his eyes. Terry Temple, her
errand done in Red Creek, was racing homeward.
"And I'll beat Blenham to it yet!" cried Steve.
Where the moonlight streamed brightest and whitest across the road he
sprang out so that she could not fail to see him, tossing up both arms
in signal to her to stop. Her headlights blinded him one moment; he
heard the warning blast of her horn; he entertained briefly the
suspicion that she was going to refuse to stop.
Incredible--and yet he had not thought of her own likely emotions. To
have a man leap out into the road in front of her, all unexpectedly,
waving his arms and calling on her to stop-- Why, she'd think herself
fallen into the hands of a highwayman!
She was coming on, straight on, her horn emitting one long, sustained
shriek of menace. Packard ground his teeth; either she did not
recognize him and was bound upon getting by him, or she did recognize
him and was accepting her opportunity to emphasize her attitude toward
him.
In any case she was going by, she in whom lay his sole hope to come to
grips with Blenham. If he let her evade he might as well quit, quit in
utter disgust with the world.
With the world? Disgust with himself, that he had let Blenham beat
him, that he wasn't much of a man, that his old grandfather was right
about him. Her car was rushing down upon him; if he let it pass, why,
he'd be letting, not only a girl laugh at him, but he'd be letting his
chance rush by him. His chance that loomed up bigger than the oncoming
machine and more real; his chance not for to-night alone but for ever
after.
For if Blenham beat him to-night and his grandfather beat him again
later on, he knew that he would pass away from the country about Ranch
Number Ten, that he would give over all sustained effort to make
something of his life, that he would go back to drifting, rounding out
his days after the fashion of the last twelve years. It was while
Terry's car was speeding toward him that all of this ran through his
mind.
There was the possibility that, knowing who he was, Terry would try to
bluff him out of the road, counting confidently upon his leaping to
safety at the last moment; there was the other possibility that she
mistook his motives and would run him down in a sort of panic of
self-defense.
Packard, with his rather clear-cut conception of the girl's character
to steer by, saw the one way to master the situation. Whirling about,
his back to her now, he broke into a run, speeding along the road in
front of her. As he ran the hard lines about his mouth softened into a
rare grin: he'd have her guessing for a minute, anyway. And by the
time she got through guessing----
He had duplicated his feat of the afternoon at the bridge in Red Creek.
Terry, in her first astonishment that the man should turn and run
straight on in front of her, slowed down, hesitation in her mind. What
was he up to? Then there came sudden shadows in a narrow part of the
road, a sharp turn, the absolute necessity of slowing down just a
trifle more, and then----
"It's all right; go ahead!" called Packard lightly. He was standing on
her running-board.
She had thrown off her hat to the cool of the evening. As they passed
out from the shadows he could see her eyes. He pushed back his own hat
and Terry saw his eyes. For a moment, while the car sped on, neither
spoke.
Looking at her he had glimpsed wonder, an annoyance that was swiftly
growing into anger, and a certain assurance that Miss Terry Temple
fully intended to remember this day and to square accounts with Stephen
Packard.
Returning his look, Terry had seen but one emotion in his eyes: pure
triumph. She could not know how the man of him, having but just now
succeeded in this first task he had set himself, felt a sudden
confidence of the future.
"If I had let you go by," said Packard quietly, "I should have felt
that I had let my destiny pass me!"
"Don't you start in getting fresh just because it's moonlight!"
Steve looked puzzled, understood, put back his head and laughed
joyously. Then, his face suddenly serious again, he considered her
speculatively. Now for the first time he became aware that Terry was
already carrying a passenger. A small man, Japanese, immaculate, and
frightened so that his teeth were chattering.
He was Iki, who had come into Red Creek this evening by train and due
to cook for the Temple ranch. Just now he was screwed up in his place,
ready to jump if Steve moved his way, his purse clutched in his plump
hand, half offered already. Steve beamed upon him, then turned his
eyes, still speculative, upon Terry.
"Do you care to tell me," said Terry tartly, "why you're always getting
in my way? Think you're smart, climbing aboard like a monkey? You've
done the trick twice; do I have to look out for you every time I take
the car out?"
"I just happen to be in a hurry," said Packard. "And going your way.
Somebody shot my horse back there for me."
Her eyes grew actually round; Iki shivered audibly. But in the girl's
case the emotion aroused by Packard's words was short-lived. Why
should a man shoot the horse under Steve Packard? Disbelief reshaped
her eyes; she cried out at him as her foot went down on the accelerator:
"Think I'm the kind to believe all the yarns you can tell? If you want
to know what I think, Steve Packard--you're a liar!"
He laughed, well content with the moment and the situation, well
content with his unwilling companion just as she was.
"And do you know that what I told you this afternoon was true?" he
countered cheerfully. "You're just like my blazing old Grandy!
Instead of being my grandfather he ought to be yours. By golly, Miss
Terry Pert," teasing the blood higher into her cheeks with his
laughter, "that might be arranged, too! Mightn't it? You and I----"
"Oh!" cried Terry, and he had no doubts about her meaning what she
said. "Oh, I hate you! Yes, worse than I hate old Hell-Fire: he keeps
out of my trail, anyway. And you, you big bully, you woman-fighter,
you--you----"
Just in time he guessed her purpose and threw out his hand across her
steering-wheel and grasped her right hand. The car swerved dangerously
a moment, then came back to its steady course as Steve's other hand
closed over Terry's left. Slowly, putting his greater strength gently
against hers, he took her automatic from her.
"Thirty-eight calibre?" he said coolly. "There's nothing little
about your way of doing things, is there? And you meant to drill a
hole through me, I'm bound!"
Terry's face gleamed white in the pale light; and he knew from the look
in her eyes as they seemed fairly to clash with his, that it was the
white of sheer rage.
"I'd just as lief blow your head off as shoot a rattlesnake," she
announced crisply.
"I believe you," he grunted. "Just the same, if you'd only----"
"Oh, shut up!" she cried, shaking his hand free from hers on the wheel
and driving on recklessly.
"I would like to mention," came an uncertain voice from a very pale
Japanese, "that I must walk on my feet. I am most regretful----"
"Oh, shut up!" cried Terry. "Shut up!"
And for the rest of the ride both Iki and Steve Packard were silent.