LOVE AND A RIFLE
Ferguson did not visit Miss Radford the next morning--he had seen
Leviatt and Tucson depart from the ranchhouse, had observed the
direction they took, and had followed them. For twenty miles he had
kept them in sight, watching them with a stern patience that had
brought its reward.
They had ridden twenty miles straight down the river, when Ferguson,
concealed behind a ridge, saw them suddenly disappear into a little
basin. Then he rode around the ridge, circled the rim of hills that
surrounded the basin, and dismounting from his pony, crept through a
scrub oak thicket to a point where he could look directly down upon
them.
He was surprised into a subdued whistle. Below him in the basin was an
adobe hut. He had been through this section of the country several
times but had never before stumbled upon the hut. This was not
remarkable, for situated as it was, in this little basin, hidden from
sight by a serried line of hills and ridges among which no cowpuncher
thought to travel--nor cared to--, the cabin was as safe from prying
eyes as it was possible for a human habitation to be.
There was a small corral near the cabin, in which there were several
steers, half a dozen cows, and perhaps twenty calves. As Ferguson's
eyes took in the latter detail, they glittered with triumph. Not even
the wildest stretch of the imagination could produce twenty calves from
half a dozen cows.
But Ferguson did not need this evidence to convince him that the men
who occupied the cabin were rustlers. Honest men did not find it
necessary to live in a basin in the hills where they were shut in from
sight of the open country. Cattle thieves did not always find it
necessary to do so--unless they were men like these, who had no herds
of their own among which to conceal their ill-gotten beasts. He was
convinced that these men were migratory thieves, who operated upon the
herds nearest them, remained until they had accumulated a considerable
number of cattle, and then drove the entire lot to some favored friend
who was not averse to running the risk of detection if through that
risk he came into possession of easily earned money.
There were two of the men, beside Leviatt and Tucson--tall,
rangy--looking their part. Ferguson watched them for half an hour, and
then, convinced that he would gain nothing more by remaining there, he
stealthily backed down the hillside to where his pony stood, mounted,
and rode toward the river.
Late in the afternoon he entered Bear Flat, urged his pony at a brisk
pace across it, and just before sundown drew rein in front of the
Radford cabin. He dismounted and stepped to the edge of the porch, a
smile of anticipation on his lips. The noise of his arrival brought
Mary Radford to the door. She came out upon the porch, and he saw that
her face was pale and her lips firmly set. Apparently something had
gone amiss with her and he halted, looking at her questioningly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"You ought to know," she returned quietly.
"I ain't good at guessin' riddles," he returned, grinning at her.
"There is no riddle," she answered, still quietly. She came forward
until she stood within two paces of him, her eyes meeting his squarely.
"When you left here last night did you meet Ben on the trail?" she
continued steadily.
He started, reddening a little. "Why, yes," he returned, wondering if
Ben had told her what had been said at that meeting; "was he tellin'
you about it?"
"Yes," she returned evenly, "he has been telling me about it. That
should be sufficient for you. I am sorry that I ever met you. You
should know why. If I were you I should not lose any time in getting
away from here."
Her voice was listless, even flat, but there was a grim note in it that
told that she was keeping her composure with difficulty. He laughed,
thinking that since he had made the new agreement with the Two Diamond
manager he had nothing to fear. "I reckon I ought to be scared," he
returned, "but I ain't. An' I don't consider that I'm losin' any time."
Her lips curved sarcastically. "You have said something like that
before," she told him, her eyes glittering scornfully. "You have a
great deal of faith in your ability to fool people. But you have
miscalculated this time.
"I know why you have come to the Two Diamond. I know what made you
come over here so much. Of course I am partly to blame. You have
fooled me as you have fooled everyone." She stood suddenly erect, her
eyes flashing. "If you planned to kill my brother, why did you not
have the manhood to meet him face to face?"
Ferguson flushed. Would it help his case to deny that he had thought
of fooling her, that he never had any intention of shooting Ben? He
thought not. Leviatt had poisoned her mind against him. He smiled
grimly.
"Someone's been talkin'," he said quietly. "You'd be helpin' to make
this case clear if you'd tell who it was."
"Someone has talked," she replied; "someone who knows. Why didn't you
tell me that you came here to kill Ben? That you were hired by
Stafford to do it?"
"Why, I didn't, ma'am," he protested, his face paling.
"You did!" She stamped one foot vehemently.
Ferguson's eyes drooped. "I came here to see if Ben was rustlin'
cattle, ma'am," he confessed frankly. "But I wasn't intendin' to shoot
him. Why, I've had lots of chances, an' I didn't do it. Ain't that
proof enough?"
"No," she returned, her voice thrilling with a sudden, bitter irony,
"you didn't shoot him. That is, you didn't shoot him while he was
looking at you--when there was a chance that he might have given you as
good as you sent. No, you didn't shoot him then--you waited until his
back was turned. You--you coward!"
Ferguson's lips whitened. "You're talkin' extravagant, ma'am," he said
coldly. "Somethin' is all mixed up. Has someone been shootin' Ben?"
She sneered, pinning him with a scornful, withering glance. "I
expected that you would deny it," she returned. "That would be
following out your policy of deception."
He leaned forward, his eyes wide with surprise. If she had not been
laboring under the excitement of the incident she might have seen that
his surprise was genuine, but she was certain that it was mere
craftiness--a craftiness that she had hitherto admired, but which now
awakened a fierce anger in her heart.
"When was he shot?" he questioned quietly.
"Last night," she answered scornfully. "Of course that is a surprise
to you too. An hour after you left he rode up to the cabin and fell
from his horse at the edge of the porch. He had been shot twice--both
times in the back." She laughed--almost hysterically. "Oh, you knew
enough not to take chances with him in spite of your bragging--in spite
of the reputation you have of being a 'two-gun' man!"
He winced under her words, his face whitening, his lips twitching, his
hands clenched that he might not lose his composure. But in spite of
the conflict that was going on within him at the moment he managed to
keep his voice quiet and even. It was admirable acting, she thought,
her eyes burning with passion--despicable, contemptible acting.
"I reckon I ain't the snake you think I am, ma'am," he said, looking
steadily at her. "But I'm admittin' that mebbe you've got cause to
think so. When I left Ben last night I shook hands with him, after
fixin' up the difference we'd had. Why, ma'am," he went on earnestly,
"I'd just got through tellin' him about you an' me figgerin' to get
hooked up. An' do you think I'd shoot him after that? Why, if I'd
been wantin' to shoot him I reckon there was nothin' to stop me while
he was standin' there. He'd never knowed what struck him. I'm tellin'
you that I didn't know he was shot; that----"
She made a gesture of impatience. "I don't think I care to hear any
more," she said. "I heard the shots here on the porch. I suppose you
were so far away at that time that you couldn't hear them?"
He writhed again under the scorn in her voice. But he spoke again,
earnestly. "I did hear some shootin'," he said, "after I'd gone on a
ways. But I reckoned it was Ben."
"What do you suppose he would be shooting at at that time of the
night?" she demanded.
"Why, I don't remember that I was doin' a heap of wonderin' at that
time about it," he returned hesitatingly. "Mebbe I thought he was
shootin' at a sage-hen, or a prairie-dog--or somethin'. I've often
took a shot at somethin' like that--when I've been alone that way." He
took a step toward her, his whole lithe body alive and tingling with
earnestness. "Why, ma'am, there's a big mistake somewheres. If I
could talk to Ben I'm sure I could explain----"
She drew her skirts close and stepped back toward the door. "There is
nothing to explain--now," she said coldly. "Ben is doing nicely, and
when he has fully recovered you will have a chance to explain to
him--if you are not afraid."
"Afraid?" he laughed grimly. "I expect, ma'am, that things look pretty
bad for me. They always do when someone's tryin' to make 'em. I
reckon there ain't any use of tryin' to straighten it out now--you
won't listen. But I'm tellin' you this: When everything comes out
you'll see that I didn't shoot your brother."
"Of course not," sneered the girl. "You did not shoot him. Stafford
did not hire you to do it. You didn't come here, pretending that you
had been bitten by a rattler, so that you might have a chance to worm
yourself into my brother's favor--and then shoot him. You haven't been
hanging around Bear Flat all summer, pretending to look for stray Two
Diamond cattle. You haven't been trying to make a fool of me----" Her
voice trembled and her lips quivered suspiciously.
"Well, now," said Ferguson, deeply moved; "I'm awful sorry you're
lookin' at things like you are. But I wasn't thinkin' to try an' make
a fool of you. Things that I said to you I meant. I wouldn't say
things to a girl that I said to you if----"
She had suddenly stepped into the cabin and as suddenly reappeared
holding the rifle that was kept always behind the door. She stood
rigid on the porch, her eyes blazing through the moisture in them.
"You go now!" she commanded hotly; "I've heard enough of your lies!
Get away from this cabin! If I ever see you around here again I won't
wait for Ben to shoot you!"
Ferguson hesitated, a deep red mounting over the scarf at his throat.
Then his voice rose, tingling with regret. "There ain't any use of me
sayin' anything now, ma'am," he said. "You wouldn't listen. I'm goin'
away, of course, because you want me to. You didn't need to get that
gun if you wanted to hurt me--what you've said would have been enough."
He bowed to her, not even looking at the rifle. "I'm goin' now," he
concluded. "But I'm comin' back. You'll know then whether I'm the
sneak you've said I was."
He bowed again over the pony's mane and urged the animal around the
corner of the cabin, striking the trail that led through the flat
toward the Two Diamond ranchhouse.