Her first thought was to search elsewhere, although she immediately
realised the uselessness of any such attempt. The message had been in
her pocket as she recalled distinctly; she had fully intended
destroying it at the same time she had torn up the letter of
instruction, but failed to do so. Now it was in the hands of the La
Rue woman, and would be shown to the others. Stella blew out the light
and sat down by the open window endeavouring to figure out what all
this would mean. It was some time before she could recall to memory
the exact wording of the telegram, but finally it came to her bit by
bit:
If any clues, advise immediately. Willis digging hard. Letter of
instruction follows.
FARRISS.
There was no mention of names, yet these people could scarcely fail to
recognise that this had reference to the Cavendish case. Their fears
would lead to this conclusion, and they could safely argue that nothing
else would require the presence in Haskell of a New York newspaper
writer. Besides, if the man Enright had recognised her and knew of her
connection with the _Star_, it was scarcely probable that he would be
wholly unfamiliar with the name of Farriss, the city editor. No, they
would be on guard now, and she could hope to win no confidence. The
thought of personal danger never once entered her mind. Timidity was
not part of her nature and she gave this phase of the matter no
thought. All that seriously troubled her was the knowledge that she
was handicapped in the case, unable to carry out the plans previously
outlined.
From now on she would be watched, guarded against, deceived. That
these people--Enright particularly--were playing a desperate game for
big stakes, was already evident. They had not hesitated at murder to
achieve their ends, and yet the girl somehow failed to comprehend that
this discovery by them, that she was on their trail, placed her in
personal peril.
There were two reasons causing indifference--a carelessness engendered
by long newspaper experience, and a feeling that the telegram told so
little they would never realise how far the investigation had
progressed. All she could do then, would be to remain quiet, watch
closely for results, and, if necessary, have some one else sent out
from the home office to take up the work. But meanwhile she must
communicate with Westcott, tell him all that had occurred. She would
send him a note the first thing in the morning.
Somewhat reassured by this reasoning, she was still seated there,
staring out into the night, when Enright and Beaton returned. It must
have been late, for the street was practically deserted, the saloons
even being closed. The hotel was silent, although a lamp yet burned in
the office, the dull glow falling across the roadway in front of the
door. Stella heard the tread of horses' feet, before her eyes
distinguished the party approaching, and she drew back cautiously. In
the glow of the light she could perceive four men in saddle halted in
front of the hotel, three of whom dismounted, and entered the building,
the fourth grasping the reins of the riderless animals, and leading
them up the street. No word was spoken, except an order to the
departing horseman, and the girl could not be certain of the identity
of those below, although convinced the first two to disappear within
were Enright and Beaton. She heard the murmur of voices below and the
heavy steps of the men as they came slowly up the stairs. Then a door
opened creakingly and she caught the sound of a woman's voice.
"Is that you, Ned?"
"Sure; what are you doing up at this hour?"
"Never mind that. Who have you got with you?"
"Enright and Lacy--why?"
"I want you all to come in here a minute; don't make so much noise."
A voice or two grumbled, but feet shuffled along the bare floor, and
the door creaked again as it was carefully closed behind them. Stella
opened her own door a crack and listened; the hall, lighted only by a
single oil-lamp at the head of the stairs, was deserted and silent.
She stole cautiously forward, but the voices in Miss La Rue's room were
muffled and indistinct, not an audible word reaching her ears. The key
was in the lock, shutting out all view of the interior. Well, what was
the difference? She knew what was occurring within--the stolen
telegram was being displayed, and discussed. That would not delay them
long, and it would never do for her to be discovered in the hall.
Convinced of the uselessness of remaining, she returned to her own
room, closing and bolting the door.
This time she removed some of her clothing, and lay down on the bed,
conscious of being exceedingly tired, yet in no degree sleepy. She
rested there, with wide-open eyes, listening until the distant door
creaked again, and she heard the footsteps of the men in the hall.
They had not remained in the chorus girl's room long, nor was anything
said outside to arouse her suspicions. Reassured, Miss Donovan
snuggled down into her pillow, unable to distinguish where the men
went, but satisfied they had sought their rooms. They would attempt
nothing more that night, and she had better gain what rest she could.
It was not easy falling asleep, in spite of the silence, but at last
she dropped off into a doze.
Suddenly some unusual noise aroused her, and she sat upright, unable
for the moment to comprehend what had occurred. All was still,
oppressively still; she could hear the pounding of her own heart. Then
something tingled at the glass of her window, sharply distinct, as
though a pebble had been tossed upward. Instantly she was upon her
feet, and had crossed the room, her head thrust out. The light in the
office had been extinguished, and the night was black, yet she could
make out dimly the figure of a man close in against the side of the
house, a mere hulking shadow. At the same instant he seemed to move
slightly, and some missile grazed her face, and fell upon the floor,
striking the rug with a dull thud. She drew back in alarm, yet
immediately grasped the thought that this must be some secret message,
some communication from Westcott.
Drawing down the torn curtain, she touched a match to the lamp and
sought the intruding missile. It had rolled beneath the bed--a small
stone with a bit of paper securely attached. The girl tore this open
eagerly, her eyes searching the few lines:
Must see you to-night. Have learned things, and am going away. Go
down back stairs, and meet me at big cottonwood behind hotel; don't
fail.
J. W.
Her breath came fast as she read, and crunched the paper into the palm
of her hand. She understood, and felt no hesitancy. Westcott had made
discoveries so important he must communicate them at once and there was
no other way. He dare not come to her openly at that hour. Well, she
was not afraid--not of Jim Westcott. Even in her hurry she was dimly
conscious of the utter, complete confidence she felt in the man; even
of the strange interest he had inspired. She paused in her hasty
dressing, wondering at herself, dimly aware that a new feeling partly
actuated her desire to meet the man again--a feeling thoroughly alien
to the Cavendish mystery. She glanced into the cracked mirror and
laughed, half ashamed at her eagerness, yet utterly unable to suppress
the quickened beat of her pulse.
She was ready almost in a minute, and had blown out the lamp. Again
she ventured a glance out into the street below, but the skulking
figure had disappeared, no one lurked anywhere in the gloom. There was
not a sound to disturb the night. She almost held her breath as she
opened the door silently and crept out into the hall. Stella possessed
no knowledge of any back stairway, but the dim light enabled her to
advance in comparative quiet.
Once a board creaked slightly, even under her light tread, and she
paused, listening intently. She could distinguish the sound of heavy
sleepers, but no movement to cause alarm, and, assured of this, crept
forward. The hall turned sharply to the right, narrowing and becoming
dark as the rays of light failed to negotiate the corner. Twenty feet
down this passage ended in a door. This was unlocked, and yielded
easily to the grasp of her hand. It opened upon a narrow platform, and
she ventured forth. Gripping the hand-rail she descended slowly into
the darkness below, the excitement of the adventure causing her heart
to beat like a trip-hammer.
At the bottom she was in a gloom almost impenetrable, but her feet felt
a cinder path and against the slightly lighter sky her eyes managed to
distinguish the gaunt limbs of a tree not far distant, the only one
visible and doubtless the cottonwood referred to in the note.
Shrinking there in the black shadow of the building she realised
suddenly the terror of her position--the intense loneliness; the
silence seemed to smite her. There occurred to her mind the wild,
rough nature of the camp, the drunkenness of the night before; the wide
contrast between that other scene of debauchery and this solitude of
silence leaving her almost unnerved. She endeavoured to recall her
surroundings, how the land lay here at the rear of the hotel. She
could see only a few shapeless outlines of scattered buildings, not
enough to determine what they were like. She had passed along that way
toward the bridge that afternoon, yet now she could remember little,
except piles of discarded tin cans, a few scattered tents, and a cattle
corral on the summit of the ridge.
Still it was not far to the tree, and surely there could be no danger
at this hour. If there had been Westcott would never have asked her to
come. The very recurrence of his name gave her strength and courage.
Her hands clenched with determination and she drew in a long breath,
her body straightening. Why, actually, she had been frightened of the
dark; like a child she had been peopling the void with the demons of
fancy. It struck her as so ridiculous that she actually laughed to
herself as she started straight toward the tree, which now seemed to
beckon her.
It was a rough path, sandy, interspersed with small rocks, and led down
into a gully. The tree stood on the opposite bank, which was so steep
she had to grasp its outcropping roots in order to pull herself up.
Even after gaining footing she saw nothing of Westcott, heard no sound
indicating his presence.
A coyote howled mournfully in the distance, and a stray breath of air
stirred one of the great leaves above into a startled rustling. She
crept about the gnarled trunk, every nerve aquiver, shaded her eyes
with one hand, and peered anxiously around into the gloom. Suddenly
something moved to her right, and she shrank back against the tree,
uncertain if the shapeless thing approaching was man or beast. He was
almost upon her before she was sure; then her lips gave utterance to a
little sob of relief.
"Oh! You frightened me so!"
The man stopped, scarcely a yard away, a burly figure, but with face
indistinguishable.
"Sorry to do that," he said, "but no noise, please."
She shrank back to the edge of the bank, conscious of the grip of a
great fear.
"You--you are not Mr. Westcott?" she choked. "Who are you? What is it
you want?"
The man laughed, but made no move.
"Hard luck to come out here to meet Jim, an' run up against a totally
different proposition--hey, miss?" he said grimly. "However, this
ain't goin' ter be no love affair--not yit, at least. If I wuz you I
wouldn't try makin' no run fer it; an' if yer let out a screech, I'll
hav' ter be a bit rough."
"You--you are after me?"
"Sure; you've been playin' in a game what's none o' your business. Now
I reckon it's the other party's turn to throw some cards. Thought yer
was comin' out yere ter meet up with Jim Westcott, didn't yer?"
She made no answer, desperately seeking some means of escape, the full
significance of her position clear before her.
"Got a nice little note from Jim," the fellow went on, "an' lost no
time a gittin' yere. Well, Westcott is not liable to be sendin' fer
yer again very soon. What ther hell----"
She had dashed forward, seeking to place the trunk of the tree between
them, the unexpected movement so sudden, she avoided his grasp. But
success was only for an instant. Another hand gripped her, hurling her
back helplessly.
"You are some sweet little lady's man, Moore," snarled a new voice
raspingly. "Now let me handle this business my own way. Go get that
team turned around. I'll bring the girl. Come on now, miss, and the
less you have to say the better."
She grasped at the bark, but the fellow wrenched her loose, forcing her
forward. Her resistance evidently angered him, for he suddenly
snatched her up into the iron grip of his arms and held her there,
despite her struggles.
"Keep still, you damn tiger-cat," he hissed, "or I'll quiet you for
good. Don't take this for any play acting, or you'll soon be sorry.
There now, try it again on your own feet."
"Take your hands off me then."
"Very well--I will; but I've got something here to keep you quiet," and
he touched his belt threateningly.
"What is it you want of me? Who are you?"
"We'll discuss that later. Just now, move on--yes, straight ahead.
You see that wagon over there? Well, that is where you are bound at
present. Move on pronto."
She realised the completeness of the trap into which she had fallen,
the futility of resistance. If the man who seemed in control exhibited
any consideration, it was not from the slightest desire to show mercy,
but rather to render the work as easy as possible. She was as
helplessly in his power as though bound and gagged. Before them
appeared the dim outline of a canvas covered wagon silhouetted against
the sky, to which was hitched a team of horses.
As they approached the shapeless figures of two men appeared in the
gloom, one at the head of the team and the other holding back the
canvas top. Her guard gripped her arm, and peered about through the
darkness.
"Isn't Ned here yet?"
"Yes, all right," answered a muffled voice to the left. "I just came
out; here are the grips and other things."
"Sure you cleaned up everything?"
"Never left a pin; here, Moore, pass them up inside."
"And about the note?"
"She wrote that, and pinned it on the pillow."
"Good, that will leave things in fine shape," he laughed. "I'd like to
see Jim's face when he reads that, and the madder he gets the less he
will know what to do."
"And you want us to stay?" asked the other doubtfully.
"Stay--of course; I am going to stay myself. It is the only way to
divert suspicion. Good Lord, man, if we all disappeared at once they
would know easy enough what had happened. Don't you ever believe
Westcott is that kind of a fool. More than that--there will be no
safety for us now until we get him out of the way; he knows too much.
Whereas your fat friend--old money-bags?"
"He thought it best to keep out of it; he's back inside."
"I imagined so; this sort of thing is not in his line. All ready, Joe?"
The man at the wagon muttered some response.
"Then up you go, miss; here, put your foot on the wheel; give her a
lift, will you?"
Anxious to escape further indignities, and comprehending the
uselessness of any further struggle, with a man on either side of her,
Miss Donovan silently clambered into the wagon, and seated herself on a
wide board, evidently arranged for that purpose. The fellow who had
held back the top followed, and snuggled into the seat beside her. She
noticed now he held a gun in his hand, which he deposited between his
knees. The leader drew back the flap of canvas endeavouring to peer
into the dark interior.
"All set?"
"Sure."
"Well, keep awake, Joe, and mind what I told yer. Now, Moore, up with
you, and drive like hell; you must be in the bad lands before daylight."
A fellow clambered to the seat in front, his figure outlined against
the sky, and picked up the reins. Those within could hear the
shuffling of the horses' feet as though they were eager to be off. The
driver leaned forward.
"Whoa, there, now; quiet, Jerry. Did you say I was to take the ridge
road?"
"You bet; it's all rock and will leave no trail. Take it easy and
quiet until you are beyond Hennessey's ranch, and then give them the
whip."
The next moment they were under way, slowly advancing through the
darkness.