"Nick's had a peculiar dream. Louie's poison got him a little
differently from Rob. Let us forget the gab and every man hit the
bottom of his glass. There's a tankful left. Watch us touch the high
spots in this little game."
He pointed to the cards.
There was a roar of applause.
"No you don't," said Nick determinedly. "It's bye, bye, boys, for me.
I'm taking a walk to myself."
"Take me along," cried Snoopy Bill, rising and joining him.
The gang watched the two delinquents lock arms and pass out into the
barroom. No man made a move to obstruct them. Any such attempt would
have been organized by either McClure or Sykes and for some reason they
were silent.
With the game broken up the party went out.
"Come over to the office," whispered Sykes to McClure and Foyle.
"Ford's next our game. We'll have to finish with a spurt if we are to
pull off a win."
The interview lasted a long time. They had barely entered upon it when
a shadow crept up and hung low near the window. With surprising
temerity the stealthy visitant lighted a cigarette. In the light of the
match appeared the dark visage of Nick Ford. He had sprung a bluff on
the plotters, basing his charge on a phrase or two he had overheard.
His guess had been shrewd. Satisfied that some conspiracy was afoot he
decided to shadow the three men with the result that he now sat at the
window listening with alert ears to the conversation going on within.
He caught significant parts of their talk, enough to discover that some
scheme was being concocted against the little school-teacher. He
listened breathlessly in effort to learn complete details, but without
success.
"Hang my ears!" was his impatient whisper. "Why can't I get it all?"
He had learned enough, however, to present him with a serious challenge.
"They've got me!" he whispered half fearfully. "Sykes has piles of
money. If I chuck him he'll break me sure."
Hearing signs of a break-up of the party he stole away to his home
debating the momentous demand the facts he had learned now suddenly made
upon his conscience. It was easier to threaten to split on the gang
than to come through with the threat, for Nick Ford was no squealer. It
was dawn before he arrived at a conclusion. Finally he decided.
"Ah, Brubbie!" he breathed softly. "For her sake I'll do it. She saved
you from the wolves. Yes, I'll do it. I'll let Ned Pullar know all."
*XXIII*
*THE ADVENTURE AT THE BRIDGE*
The morning following her interview with Ned, Mary elected to follow the
round-about route of the Buffalo paths. She had a desire to flee the
highway and sequester herself in the friendly silences. The flashing
June morning was zestful with the humours of capricious little winds
that pressed refreshingly on cheeks and lips and curled the brown hair
about her temples. She was gratefully aware of all this caressing
though looking out on the Valley with solemn eyes.
She was deep in the cogitations that pressed her continually when she
realized that Bobs had halted of his own accord on the bald peak.
Below her the lake lay a glistening quietude in the verdant lap of the
Valley. Vagrant breaths of tiny squalls dimpled the water here and
there shading it with fleeting frowns. Beneath her the Storm Rock hung
on the glassy sheet suspended between two skies. Cottonwoods and ragged
oak formed an inviting bower. The island so lonely and silent had an
unusual attraction for her.
"You dear little covert," she whispered. "How I should like to hide in
you to-day!"
With a sigh she turned Bobs down the hill and into Willow Glade where
she must perforce halt again and muse in the precious nook with its
haunting memories.
Throughout the day the children of The Craggs wondered at the frequent
periods of preoccupation that would creep over their usually so
attentive teacher. They were deeply touched by the singular gentleness
with which she resumed the task. For all their mute sympathy the hours
lagged strangely.
Nick Ford wasted no time in addressing himself to the task he had
resolved upon. It is hard to travel back over the devious way one has
come when that way has been too devious. To carry out his resolution
would involve a divulging of most unpleasant facts. He knew of the
intimate relations of Mary and Ned and trusted to Ned finding some way
of foiling the designs of the plotters once he was acquainted with the
fact that there was a plot. Hitching his horse he set out for the
homestead with laudable dispatch.
He was bowling along, passing through a bluff not far from his
destination when a shadow darted out of the trees ahead and his horse
stopped abruptly. His attention was directed to the unusual movements
at his horse's head when he felt a strong hand close tightly on his arm.
Turning with an exclamation of surprise he looked into the grinning
countenance of Reddy Sykes.
"Good-day, Nick!" was the quiet greeting. "Making a little morning run,
eh?"
"Hello, Sykes!" he replied innocently. "What are you doing here?"
Sykes grinned afresh.
"Let it out, Nick," was the reply. "You're heading for Pullar's. We've
been waiting for you. I saw the yellow streak in you last night. We
decided to head you off. You spoke about skunks in your little spiel.
You're right and we've trapped the same polecat this morning."
At the words he dragged the other from the vehicle. Realizing his
helplessness in the powerful hands of Sykes Nick decided to submit
quietly to the will of his captor. Taking him into the trees Sykes
sought to force a confession. But he found Nick had no particular use
for free speech just then.
"Hide his horse and rig in the bluff," directed Sykes, addressing Foyle.
"We'll gag this scab and hitch him to a tree for the present. If I make
the get-away you can send somebody in to let him go."
In the depths of the bluff they gagged him and tying his hands behind
his back strapped him to a big tree with his leather lines. Satisfied
of the security of their prisoner they slipped quietly out of sight.
During the noon hour Ned joined Mary in another ride in which
arrangements were perfected for their sudden nuptials. Resting in his
arms at parting she looked up into his eyes.
"I am looking forward to our ride to-morrow, Ned," said she. "But how I
should have delighted to set out on the great adventure from the
doorstep of Mother and Dad!"
"Keep them back, Mary!" enjoined Ned cheeringly as he saw the tears
shine in her eyes. Wrapping his sheltering arms about her he whispered
the optimism of his great heart into her fluttering spirit.
"In our heart of hearts, Mary," said he, "we both deplore this premature
wedding. But it is the only sane thing for us to do. Your mother will
agree with us when you tell her to-night. She will bless us. It is the
one way of assuring your protection. I believe another desirable and
most wonderful result will follow. It will break the spell Sykes has
cast over your father. A complete severance with Sykes and the crash of
his house of cards will restore your father to you clothed and in his
right mind."
At the words Ned felt the pressure of dear lips on his.
"Thank you, Ned!" were her happy words. "That is beautiful of you. And
you do not hate Father after all his injustice?"
"No, Mary, I pity him. It is after all his greater misfortune."
"Good-bye," said she at last. "It is very hopeful after all. Meet me
at the Buffalo Peak in the morning and we'll ride away into the days of
our happy dreams."
Ned watched from the edge of the trees until the small white figure
disappeared within the schoolhouse. He was troubled as she vanished
from sight. It occurred to him that she was very frail and lonely. He
had a powerful impression that he should ride through the Valley with
her in the evening as she returned to her home. He had proposed
accompanying her to the Peak at least, but she had demurred. It was
better that they should not be seen together. There were eyes that
would draw pertinent conclusions that might wreck everything.
Reluctantly he turned Darkey into the trail leading to the homestead.
The last few minutes with Ned greatly lightened Mary's spirits. She
felt that a wise providence was guiding them. On the heels of her great
depression there followed the ecstasy of a greater hope. Even
storm-clouds show a silver edge at times.
Shortly after four Bobs and his rider set out for home. The day had
been bright, but as the afternoon sped away a belt of blue clouds
appeared in the north. From distant bluffs came the murmurous roar of a
rising breeze. As she topped a ridge gusts of cold wind swept up behind
her and rushed past, imbuing Bobs with the storm panic. He scurried down
the trail at a spanking canter. Very soon they rode over the crest of
the Cut and down into its sheltering trees. She was riding along
immersed in her momentous reflections when the sudden pricking forward
of Bobs' ears recalled her to the task of guiding him down the ravine.
The cause of his interest she discovered in a vehicle ahead. It was
slowly threading the Cut, evidently on its way to Pellawa. She was
rapidly overhauling it. While conjecturing the personnel of its
passengers it wheeled out of sight about a sharp curve of the hill. She
followed, cantering a moment later into a narrowed pocket of the dip.
She slowed her horse, for before her the road ran over a pretty bridge,
scarcely wide enough for comfort in passing a carriage. The equipage
had stopped upon the bridge, crowding close to one side, leaving thus
plenty of room for her to pass. Sending Bobs ahead she walked him upon
the bridge. As she drew abreast of the vehicle she was startled to
recognize Chesley Sykes. An alarm leaped into her breast at meeting him
there, for the gulch was deep and thickly wooded. It was a hidden bit of
road.
Lifting his hat casually, Sykes addressed her in a friendly voice.
"Good-day, Miss McClure! An unexpected meeting!"
As he spoke, Bobs came to an abrupt stop. Mary glanced ahead. Foyle
stood in their path, his hands grasping the bridle rein. Instantly the
girl realized an ambuscade. With a low, frightened cry she plunged the
spurs into Bobs' flanks. Blocked in front he reared, tossing his head.
His wild leap lifted Foyle and threw him over the railing of the bridge.
A second leap and he snapped the rein out of Foyle's hands, dropping him
into the water beneath. He had shaken one assailant, however, only to
be confronted by another.
"Do not be alarmed, Mary," called Sykes, as he grasped the bridle. "No
harm will come to you." With Bobs plunging violently, the girl drew the
automatic.
"Let go," was her stern command, "or I'll shoot."
"Blaze away, Mary!" was the cool reply, as he dodged for shelter behind
Bobs' head.
Unhesitatingly the girl pulled and the gun spat its stream of lead. In
the confusion of the leaping horse and her dodging target with the
effort to sit her saddle, the balls went wide. Not all, however, for
twice came the soft wheeze of ball piercing flesh. As the balls went
home, Sykes cried out, though his vigour remained unimpaired. Aware that
the clip was empty she dropped the gun and addressed herself to sitting
the saddle and urging Bobs in his furious struggles to free himself.
Snorting in terror, the horse leaped into the ditch, dragging Sykes with
him into the trees. Plunging violently the horse galloped up the
hillside through the grove. Mary kept her seat, Bobs dodging in wild
plunging leaps among the trunks, until a low limb swept across their
path. She could not avoid it and it caught her full in the face,
sweeping her from the saddle. The powerful rebound of the strong branch
flung her to the ground, where she lay quiet, a bit of white in the
shrubs.
Relieved of her weight and still further terrorized, Bobs tore free from
Sykes and whirling about, dashed down the Cut. Running quickly to where
the still figure lay in the underbrush, Sykes picked it up in his arms
and carried it into a thicket of great trees. At that instant Foyle ran
up.
"Got the girl!" he applauded.
"Catch that horse," directed Sykes. "If he gets away he'll bring a nest
of hornets about our ears. Run the carriage out of sight until we are
ready. We made some change in our plans this morning. We are crossing
the lake to Magee's Cove. The horses are waiting there. It saves us a
ten-mile run about the frequented Pellawa end. The boat is ready near
Grant's Landing. I am making a further change in our plans. McClure
thinks we are taking the Limited for the West. Instead we are making a
bee-line for Uncle Sam's the instant we reach the Cove. The plucky chit
got me twice in the right arm. Only flea bites, but they are messing me
up rather for a crowded Pullman. Hold the carriage ready. You'll never
catch that broncho."
Foyle hastened away to do Sykes' bidding.
As Sykes looked upon the face so cruelly torn he was touched. He passed
his hand over his brow irresolute. Only a moment and the compunction
vanished. Shutting his jaw he muttered in determination:
"I've got you at last, Mary, and you stay with me. Nothing in God's
world will take you from me--and live."
*XXIV*
*THE STORM ROCK*
Hour succeeded hour with snail-footed pace as Nick Ford stood lashed to
his tree. He fought with his gag but it was jammed firmly into his
mouth and held with tight wrapped bands. The coils of the stout leather
reins swathed him securely to the tree. At noon he heard Ned ride by
and repass on his way home again. The rider was scarcely thirty yards
away. He made a fresh fight to free himself, but without avail. He had
ceased to struggle long before Mary cantered by on Bobs as she set out
for home. A pang smote the man as he realized that he had failed to warn
her of her danger. As the sound of the horse's hoofs died away a
strange emotion shook him. Weak from his struggles and the numbing
pressure of his lashings, a pathetic sense of guilt crept accusingly
over him. Big tears oozed out and rolled down his cheeks. Half crazed,
he prayed wild prayers that the girl might escape the evil fate lurking
on her trail.
An hour passed and he heard a voice call through the trees. Some urchin
was seeking his cows. From the sound of the boy's approach he was
coming straight for him. He was very near. Would he penetrate the
bluff? The spot was quiet. Evidently the boy listened, but no sound
occurring to attract his curiosity, he turned, whistling away, essaying
some other quarter. Then happened a surprising thing. He had made but
a few steps through the grass when Nick's horse lifted a sonorous
whinny. Nick fervently blessed him for the intervention. It sounded
like the sweetest music. The boy halted as if shot and whirling about
ran into the bluff. He found the horse and vehicle at once and, a
moment later, the man. Alarmed at first he retreated, but in a little
set busily to work releasing the captive. In a very short time Nick was
free.
"You are a good boy," said he gratefully as he made swift preparations
for the ride to the homestead. "I was tied to that tree by a couple of
scamps. I'll let you know all about it again. Just now I am in a great
hurry to let Ned Pullar know, for he is mighty interested. Many thanks,
lad. Bye, bye."
The boy gazed with astonished eyes as the man leaped on the bare back of
his horse and galloped through the trees.
Nick soon clattered into the Pullar yard. At the sound of the horseman
Ned and his father stepped out of the stable. The sight of the rider
and his evident excitement filled Ned with foreboding.
"Why the rush, Nick?" said he as he ran up.
"Listen hard, Ned," was the swift reply. "Get your bronc. I can talk
while you saddle. I hit out this way this morning to let you know, but
Sykes and Foyle copped me in the bluff near the school. You're up
against blankety hard luck. That deal of Foyle's was a frame-up. I was
in it and helped the gang dope your old man. I'm squealing now because
you've got the whitest little girl in the West and you'll have to burn
the trail if you are going to save her from Reddy Sykes. McClure's
bloods are waiting somewhere over the lake to run them to Whytewold.
There they take the Limited for God knows where. You may be able to
overhaul them, for this wind is mussing up the lake something fierce and
they'll lose a couple of hours scooting around the west end. Take a
look at Grant's Landing on the go-by."
By the time Nick uttered the last words Ned was in the saddle.
"Thank you, Nick," was his grateful cry as he flashed away.
"We'll follow him," cried Edward Pullar, as he watched the flying
horseman vanish at the end of the lane. "Sykes is a dangerous man and
the lad has nothing but his bare hands."
Leaning low over Darkey's neck, Ned heartened the lithe brute with the
courage of his voice. As they flew along, the school gleamed down a
vista. The memory of their last moments together, of the small white
figure so lonely and beset, swept him with an agony of apprehension.
Though his horse was skimming the trail with the speed of a swallow,
their pace seemed laggard to the anguished rider and he plunged in his
spurs. Smitten with fear, the animal leaped ahead at breakneck speed.
Instantly Ned realized the wantonness of the act. Pulling gently he
called penitently into the black ears:
"Forgive me, Darkey. I was cruel. I will do it no more. But carry me
fast, lad."
The kind tone soothed the horse and he settled into a steady stride that
devoured the miles. Overhead a change had taken place unnoticed by Ned
in the hurry-skurry of his start. The belt of blue clouds had spread
over the sky. Above was the explosion and flame of the breaking storm,
about him the whirl of the wind and enveloping clouds of dust. It was a
wild race through the hurricane to the brow of the Northwest Cut.
Recklessly they dashed down the ravine, the sound of the pounding hoofs
lost in the roar of the tempest. The dense cloud masses flung over them
the shadow of a deep twilight.
Bursting from the Cut he halted on the crown of the slope. Below was
the lake, a frowning gloom, horrible with the white fangs of the storm
caps. High over the Storm Rock rose an ominous cloud of spray. Above
the hiss of the whistling wind he could hear the low moan of writhing
waters.
Swiftly he read the turbid surface, tracing the shore line now scarcely
distinguishable in the brown murk. Near at hand was Grant's Landing. He
started as he detected upon it a group of people. They were looking out
into the lake. At sight of them, there came to him an augury of evil.
With a heavy foreboding he sent his horse thundering down the slope.
Leaping from the saddle he ran in among the watchers. In the uproar
they had not heard him ride up.
"There is something wrong!" cried a fearful voice. "They are drifting.
They will strike the rock."
He recognized the voice of Margaret Grant.
Her father was the first to discover his presence.
"Aye, lad! Is it you? 'Tis terrible distress we are in. McClure's
bairn is oot on the fell water."
He pointed to the foam-streaked lake.
"Where are they?" shouted Ned.
Margaret heard his voice.
"Ned, Ned!" she cried, running to him. "Mary's out on the lake with
Sykes and Foyle. There they are."
Straining his eyes he followed her hand. The boat was far out, visible
only in fleeting glimpses when riding the crest of a wave. They were
running before the wind, bearing down on the Storm Rock. Should the
boat strike, it would be crushed like an egg-shell. They were now so
close no escape was possible. It was but a matter of moments.
As the terrible truth came home to Ned, he stood motionless, impotent,
looking with blanching face on the impending tragedy. A great sob
rolled up his breast. He wanted to scream a warning over the chaos of
wind and flood. Suddenly it seemed to him but a little way to Mary
after all. Only the threatening chasm of the malignant waters. Should
it keep them apart? He smiled that strange, innocent smile that came
out somewhere from the indomitable depths of him. He would take up the
gauge of the malign thing grinning at him out there in the gloom. He
would swim to the rock. Running far up the shore he divested himself of
boots, coat and vest and threw himself on the rollers.
Charley Grant had followed him, thinking he had espied some means of
rescue. As he saw him plunge into the lake he shouted wildly:
"Come back, mon! Ye're daft to reesk it. Ye'll perish, lad."
But Ned could not hear him.
To the little company upon the landing it was a moment of horror. Their
fearful interest alternated between the daring swimmer and the boat
careering upon the rock.
"Mother! They are striking!" cried Margaret in a voice of awe.
As she was speaking the boat rose high, poised a moment on the black
waters, then vanished.
All eyes were strained to snatch a glimpse of the unfortunate craft.
But no vestige of it could they discover.
"They are gone, Mother! Gone!" moaned the girl, hiding her face in her
mother's breast.
"Can you see the lad?" called the mother, her vision blurred in tears.
Shading his eyes, Charley Grant searched the waves.
"Aye, aye! I see him yet," was the relieved cry.
For a few minutes they were able to see the head of the swimmer bob
about on the tossing flood. Then it, too, vanished in the ominous
gloom.
Flung high on a hissing breaker, Ned saw the boat strike and go out like
the snuffing of a light. For a moment his heart seemed to hold its beat
and he lay weak and helpless in the trough of the wave. Then he prayed
as men do when they come to grips with death. There came a response. A
new vigour flooded his body and with strokes of powerful sweep, he swam
on toward the rock. It was now down wind and he made straight for it,
taking the chance of being dashed upon its granite face. Watching with
eagle eye he bided his time, keeping his course dead upon the rock's
centre. As it loomed above a huge swell lifted him. Blinded with spray
he lay on the breaker awaiting the onset. It flung him on the rock with
the catapult of its snapping crest. Holding out his hands he sought to
ward the crash from his head. His strong arms took the impact, the
bones of his shoulders creaking under the strain. Withal his head
struck a jagged point. Sense reeled and he rolled hither and thither,
like a log on the churning wash. By a mighty effort he righted himself
and feeling a sharp edge, clung to it with all the strength of his
powerful clutch. Caught in the lateral flow of the split wave he was
carried to the side. Clinging to the jutting ledge by a sort of
hand-over-hand movement, he was floated around the rock. So far was he
borne that he could see the quieter waters of the lee shelter. Ten feet
more and he would be there. Then ensued a fierce struggle. The
subsiding wave sought to drag him back into the lake. With hands torn
on the ragged edges he fought to retain his precarious hold. A moment's
baffling balancing and the wave passed on. Quickly he drew himself into
a shielding niche. There he rested, breathing heavily. In a little he
would search the rock.