The rear grounds were rapidly filling up. Like children following a band-wagon, the crowd surged toward the new excitement of the discovered extension of the fire. Gordon drew a long breath.
“I thank God for your—foolishness,” he said, simply, smiling the smile his friends loved him for.
CHAPTER XIX—AN UNCONVENTIONAL TEA PARTY
As the flames broke through the roof, Langford came rushing up where the group stood a little apart from the press.
“Dick! I have been looking for you everywhere,” he cried, hoarsely.
“What’s the trouble, old man?” asked Gordon, quietly.
“I have something to tell you,” said Langford, in a low voice. “Come quick—let’s go back to your rooms. Why, girls—”
“We will go, too,” said Mary, with quiet decision. She had caught a glimpse of Red Sanderson’s face through the crowd, and she thought he had leered at her. She had been haunted by the vague feeling that she must have known the man who had attempted to carry her off—that dreadful night; but she had never been able to concentrate the abstract, fleeting impressions into comprehensive substance—never until she had seen that scar and glancing away in terror saw that Langford, too, had seen; but she was not brave enough to lose herself and Louise in the crowd where that man was. She could not. He had leered at Louise, too, last night at supper. They could not ask the protection of Gordon and Langford back to the hotel then, when Langford’s handsome, tanned face was white with the weight of what he had to tell.
“It will be best,” he agreed, unexpectedly. “Come—we must hurry!”
It was Williston’s “little girl” whom he took under his personal protection, diving up the street in the teeth of the gale which blew colder every moment, with a force and strength that kept Mary half the time off her feet. A gentler knight was Gordon—though as manly. All was dark around the premises. There was no one lurking near. Everybody was dancing attendance on the court-house holocaust. Gordon felt for his keys.
“How good it is to get out of the wind,” whispered Louise. This proceeding smacked so much of the mysterious that whispering followed as a natural sequence.
They stepped within. It was inky black.
“Lock the door,” said Langford, in a low voice.
Gordon complied, surprised, but asking no question. He knew his friend, and had faith in his judgment. Then he lighted a lamp that stood on his desk.
“Why did you do that?” asked Louise, gravely.
“What?”
“Lock the door.”
“I don’t know,” he answered, honestly. “I didn’t think you would notice the click. Ask Paul.”
“I’ll explain in a minute,” said Langford. He stepped to the windows and drew the blinds closely.
“Now that I have you safe,” he said, lightly, “I’ll confess I had an old woman’s scare. It came to me that as long as you are not, strictly speaking, on kind and loving terms with—every one west of the river,—and this being such an all-round nasty night anyway, why, I’d just spirit you home and give the charged atmosphere a chance of clearing a little.”
Gordon looked at him steadily a moment. His face did not pale. Yet he knew that Langford had heard—or suspected—more than he intended to tell—then. It was good to see him shrug his shoulders in unconcern for the sake of the two white-faced girls who sat there in his stiff office chairs.
“You are an old duffer, Paul,” he said, in pretended annoyance. “You treat me like a child. I won’t stand it always. You’ll see. Some day I’ll rebel—and—then—”
“Meanwhile, I’ll just trot these ladies back to the hotel,” said Langford. “But you must promise to keep your head inside. We’re fixtures until we have that promise.”
“What, lock me up and run off with—all the ladies! I guess not! Why didn’t we round up that way, I’d like to know? This isn’t Utah, Paul. You can’t have both.”
Paul meant for him to lie low, then. He was also in a hurry to get the girls away. Evidently the danger lay here. There was a tightening of the firm mouth and an ominous contraction of the pupils of the eyes. He stirred the fire, then jammed a huge, knotted stick into the sheet iron stove. It seemed as if everybody had sheet iron stoves in this country. The log caught with a pleasant roar as the draught sent flames leaping up the chimney. But Paul made no movement to go. Then he, Gordon, had not understood his friend. Maybe the menace was not here, but outside. If so, he must contrive to keep his guests interested here. He would leave the lead to Paul. Paul knew. He went back to his living-room and returned, bringing two heavy buggy robes.
“You will find my bachelor way of living very primitive,” he said, with his engaging smile. He arranged the robes over two of the chairs and pushed them close up to the stove. “I haven’t an easy chair in the house—prove it by Paul, here. Haven’t time to rock, and can’t afford to run the risk of cultivating slothful habits. Take these, do,” he urged, “and remove your coats.”
“Thank you—you are very kind,” said Louise. “No, I won’t take off my jacket,” a spot of color staining her cheek when she thought of her gay kimono. Involuntarily, she felt of her throat to make sure the muffler had not blown awry. “We shall be going soon, shan’t we, Mr. Langford? If Mr. Gordon is in any danger, you must stay with him and let us go alone. It is not far.”
“Surely,” said Mary, with a big sinking of the heart, but meaning what she said.
“Not at all,” said Gordon, decidedly. “It’s just his womanish way of bossing me. I’ll rebel some day. Just wait! But before you go, I’ll make tea. You must have gotten chilled through.”
He would keep them here a while and then let them go—with Langford. The thought made him feel cheap and cowardly and sneaking. Far rather would he step out boldly and take his chances. But if there was to be any shooting, it must be where Louise,—and Mary, too—was not. He believed Paul, in his zeal, had exaggerated evil omens, but there was Louise in his bachelor rooms—where he had never thought to see her; there with her cheeks flushed with the proximity to the stove—his stove—her fair hair windblown. No breath of evil thing must assail her that night—that night, when she had glorified his lonely habitation—even though he himself must slink into a corner like a cowardly cur. A strange elation took possession of him. She was here. He thought of last night and seemed to walk on air. If he won out, maybe—but, fool that he was! what was there in this rough land for a girl like—Louise?
“Oh, no, that will be too much trouble,” gasped Louise, in some alarm and thinking of Aunt Helen.
“Thanks, old man, we’ll stay,” spoke up Langford, cheerfully. “He makes excellent tea—really. I’ve tried it before. You will never regret staying.”
Silently he watched his friend in the inner room bring out a battered tea-kettle, fill it with a steady hand and put it on the stove in the office, coming and going carelessly, seemingly conscious of nothing in the world but the comfort of his unexpected guests.
True to her sex, Louise was curiously interested in the housekeeping arrangements of a genuine bachelor establishment. Woman-like, she saw many things in the short time she was there—but nothing that diminished her respect for Richard Gordon. The bed in the inner chamber where both men slept was disarranged but clean. Wearing apparel was strewn over chairs and tables. There was a litter of magazines on the floor. She laid them up against Langford; she did not think Gordon had the time or inclination to cultivate the magazine habit. She did not know to whose weakness to ascribe the tobacco pouch and brier-wood pipe placed invitingly by the side of a pair of gay, elaborately bead-embroidered moccasons, cosily stowed away under the head of the bed; but she was rather inclined to lay these, too, to Langford’s charge. The howling tempest outside only served to enhance the cosiness of the rumbling fire and the closely drawn blinds.
But tea was never served in those bachelor rooms that night—neither that night nor ever again. It was a little dream that went up in flame with the walls that harbored it. Who first became conscious that the tang of smoke was gradually filling their nostrils, it was hard to tell. They were not far behind each other in that consciousness. It was Langford who discovered that the trouble was at the rear, where the wind would soon have the whole building fanned into flames. Gordon unlocked the door quietly. He said nothing. But Paul, springing in front of him, himself threw it open. It was no new dodge, this burning a man out to shoot him as one would drown out a gopher for the killing. He need not have been afraid. The alarm had spread. The street in front was rapidly filling. One would hardly have dared to shoot—then—if one had meant to. And he did not know. He only knew that deviltry had been in the air for Gordon that night. He had suspected more than he had overheard, but it had been in the air.
Gordon saw the action and understood it. He never forgot it. He said nothing, but gave his friend an illuminating smile that Langford understood. Neither ever spoke of it, neither ever forgot it. How tightly can quick impulses bind—forever.
Outside, they encountered the Judge in search of his delinquent charges.
“I’m sorry, Dick,” he said. “Dead loss, my boy. This beastly wind is your undoing.”
“I’m not worrying, Judge,” responded Gordon, grimly. “I intend for some one else to do that.”
“Hellity damn, Dick, hellity damn!” exploded Jim Munson in his ear. The words came whistling through his lips, caught and whirled backward by the play of the storm. The cold was getting bitter, and a fine, cutting snow was at last driving before the wind.
Gordon, with a set face, plunged back into the room—already fire licked. Langford and Munson followed. There sat the little tea-service staring at them with dumb pathos. The three succeeded in rolling the safe with all its precious documents arranged within, out into the street. Nothing else mattered much—to Gordon. But other things were saved, and Jim gallantly tossed out everything he could lay his hands on before Gordon ordered everybody out for good and all. It was no longer safe to be within. Gordon was the last one out. He carried a battered little teakettle in his hand. He looked at it in a whimsical surprise as if he had not known until then that he had it in his hand. Obeying a sudden impulse, he held it out to Louise.
“Please take care of—my poor little dream,” he whispered with a strange, intent look.
Before she could comprehend the significance or give answer, the Judge had faced about. He bore the girls back to the hotel, scolding helplessly all the way as they scudded with the wind. But Louise held the little tin kettle firmly.
Men knew of Richard Gordon that night that he was a marked man. The secret workings of a secret clan had him on their proscription list. Some one had at last found this unwearied and doggedly persistent young fellow in the way. In the way, he was a menace, a danger. He must be removed from out the way. He could not be bought from it—he should be warned from it. So now his home—his work room and his rest room, the first by many hours daily the more in use, with all its furnishings of bachelor plainness and utility, that yet had held a curious charm for some men, friends and cronies like Langford—was burning that he might be warned. Could any one say, “Jesse Black has done this thing”? Would he not bring down proof of guilt by a retaliation struck too soon? It would seem as if he were anticipating an unfavorable verdict. So men reasoned. And even then they did not arise to stamp out the evil that had endured and hugged itself and spit out corruption in the cattle country. That was reserved for—another.
They talked of a match thrown down at the courthouse by a tramp, likely,—when it was past midnight, when the fire broke out with the wind a piercing gale, and when no vagrant but had long since left such cold comfort and had slept these many weeks in sunnier climes. Some argued that the windows of the court-room might have been left open and the stove blown down by the wind tearing through, or the stove door might have blown open and remains of the fire been blown out, or the pipe might have fallen down. But it was a little odd that the same people said Dick Gordon’s office likely caught fire from flying sparks. Dick’s office was two blocks to westward of the court-house and it would have been a brave spark and a lively one that could have made headway against that northwester.
CHAPTER XX—THE ESCAPE
The little county seat awoke in the morning to a strange sight. The storm had not abated. The wind was still blowing at blizzard rate off the northwest hills, and fine, icy snow was swirling so thickly through the cold air that vision was obstructed. Buildings were distinguishable only as shadows showing faintly through a heavy white veil. The thermometer had gone many degrees below the zero mark. It was steadily growing colder. The older inhabitants said it would surely break the record the coming night.
An immense fire had been built in the sitting-room. Thither Mary and Louise repaired. Here they were joined by Dale, Langford, and Gordon.
“You should be out at the ranch looking after your poor cattle, Mr. Langford,” said Mary, smilingly. She could be light-hearted now,—since a little secret had been whispered to her last night at a tea party where no tea had been drunk. Langford had gravitated toward her as naturally as steel to a magnet. He shrugged his big shoulders and laughed a little.
“The Scribe will do everything that can be done. Honest, now, did you think this trial could be pulled off without me?”
“But there can be no trial to-day.”
“Why not?”
“Did I dream the court-house burned last night?”
“If you did, we are all dreamers alike.”
“Then how can you hold court?”
“We have gone back to the time when Church and State were one and inseparable, and court convenes at ten o’clock sharp in the meeting-house,” he said.
Louise was looking white and miserable.
“You are not contemplating running away, are you?” asked Gordon. “This is unusual weather—really.”
She looked at him with a pitiful smile.
“I should like to be strong and brave and enduring and capable—like Mary. You don’t believe it, do you? It’s true, though. But I can’t. I’m weak and homesick and cold. I ought not to have come. I am not the kind. You said it, too, you know. I am going home just as soon as this court is over. I mean it.”
There was no mistaking that. Gordon bowed his head. His face was white. It had come sooner than he had thought.
All the records of the work of yesterday had been burned. There was nothing to do but begin at the beginning again. It was discouraging, uninteresting. But it had to be done. Dale refused positively to adjourn. The jurymen were all here. So the little frame church was bargained for. If the fire-bugs had thought to postpone events—to gain time—by last night’s work, they would find themselves very greatly mistaken. The church was long and narrow like a country schoolhouse, and rather roomy considering the size of the town. It had precise windows—also like a country schoolhouse,—four on the west side, through which the fine snow was drifting, four opposite. The storm kept few at home with the exception of the people from across the river. There were enough staying in the town to fill the room to its utmost limits. Standing room was at a premium. The entry was crowded. Men not able to get in ploughed back through the cutting wind and snow only to return presently to see if the situation had changed any during their brief absence. So all the work of yesterday was gone over again.
Mingled with the howl and bluster of the wind, and the swirl and swish of the snow drifting outside during the small hours of last night, sometimes had been distinguishable the solemn sound of heavy steps running—likened somewhat to the tramp of troops marching on the double-quick. To some to whom this sound was borne its meaning was clear, but others wondered, until daylight made it clear to all. The sorry day predicted for the cattle had come. The town was full of cattle. They hugged the south side of the buildings—standing in stolid patience with drooping heads. Never a structure in the whole town—house or store or barn or saloon—but was wind-break for some forlorn bunch huddled together, their faces always turned to the southeast, for the wind went that way. It was an odd sight. It was also a pitiful one. Hundreds had run with the wind from the higher range altitude, seeking the protection of the bluffs. The river only stopped the blind, onward impetus. The flat where the camps had been might have been a close corral, so thickly were the animals crowded together, their faces turned uncompromisingly with the wind.
But the most pathetic part of the situation made itself felt later in the day when the crying need of food for this vast herd began to be a serious menace. Starvation stared these hundreds of cattle in the face. Men felt this grimly. But it was out of the question to attempt to drive them back to the grass lands in the teeth of the storm. Nothing could be done that day at least. But during the second night the wind fell away, the snow ceased. Morning dawned clear, still, and stingingly cold, and the sun came up with a goodly following of sun-dogs. Then such a sight greeted the inhabitants of the little town as perhaps they had never seen before—and yet they had seen many things having to do with cattle. There was little grass in the town for them, but every little dead spear that had lived and died in the protection of the sidewalk or in out-of-the-way corners had been ravenously nipped. Where snow had drifted over a likely place, it had been pawed aside. Where there had been some grass, south of town and east, the ground was as naked now as though it had been peeled. Every bit of straw had been eaten from manure piles, so that only pawed-over mounds of pulverized dust remained. Garbage heaps looked as if there had been a general Spring cleaning-up. And there was nothing more now. Every heap of refuse, every grass plot had been ransacked—there was nothing left for those hundreds of starving brutes. Many jurors, held in waiting, begged permission to leave, to drive their cattle home. Whenever practicable, these requests were granted. The aggregate loss to the county would be enormous if the cattle were allowed to remain here many more days. Individual loss would go hard with many of the small owners. The cattle stupidly made no move to return to the grass lands of their own volition.
Later in the day, the numbers were somewhat thinned, but things were happening in the little church room that made men forget—so concentrated was the interest within those four walls. So close was the pack of people that the fire roaring in the big stove in the middle of the room was allowed to sink in smouldering quiet. The heavy air had been unbearable else. The snow that had been brought in on tramping feet lay in little melted pools on the rough flooring. Men forgot to eat peanuts and women forgot to chew their gum—except one or two extremely nervous ones whose jaws moved the faster under the stimulus of hysteria. Jesse Black was telling his story.
“Along toward the first of last July, I took a hike out into the Indian country to buy a few head o’ cattle. I trade considerable with the half-breeds around Crow Creek and Lower Brule. They’re always for sellin’ and if it comes to a show-down never haggle much about the lucre—it all goes for snake-juice anyway. Well, I landed at John Yellow Wolf’s shanty along about noon and found there was others ahead o’ me. Yellow Wolf always was a popular cuss. There was Charlie Nightbird, Pete Monroe, Jesse Big Cloud, and two or three others whose mugs I did not happen to be onto. After our feed, we all strolled out to the corral. Yellow Wolf said he had bought a likely little bunch from some English feller who was skipping the country—starved out and homesick—and hadn’t put ’em on the range yet. He said J R was the English feller’s brand. I didn’t suspicion no underhand dealin’s. Yellow Wolf’s always treated me white before, so I bargained for this here chap and three or four others and then pulled out for home driving the bunch. They fed at home for a spell and then I decided to put ’em on the range. On the way I fell in with Billy Brown here. He was dead set on havin’ the lot to fill in the chinks of the two carloads he was shippin’, so I up and lets him have ’em. I showed him this here bill-o’-sale from Yellow Wolf and made him out one from me, and that was all there was to it. He rode on to Velpen, and I turned on my trail.”
It was a straight story, and apparently damaging for the prosecution. It corroborated the attestations of other witnesses—many others. It had a plausible ring to it. Two bills of sale radiated atmospheric legality. If there had been dirty work, it must have originated with that renegade half-breed, Yellow Wolf. And Yellow Wolf was dead. He had died while serving a term in the penitentiary for cattle-rustling. Uncle Sam himself had set the seal upon him—and now he was dead. This insinuated charge he could not answer. The finality of it seemed to set its stamp upon the people gathered there—upon the twelve good men and true, as well as upon others. Yellow Wolf was dead. George Williston was dead. Their secrets had died with them. An inscrutable fate had lowered the veil. Who could pierce it? One might believe, but who could know? And the law required knowledge.
“We will call Charlie Nightbird,” said Small, complacently.
There was a little waiting silence—a breathless, palpitating silence.
“Is Charlie Nightbird present?” asked Small, casting rather anxious eyes over the packed, intent faces. Charlie Nightbird was not present. At least he made no sign of coming forward. The face of the young counsel for the State was immobile during the brief time they waited for Charlie Nightbird—whose dark, frozen face was at that moment turned toward the cold, sparkling sky, and who would never come, not if they waited for him till the last dread trump of the last dread day.
There was some mistake. Counsel had been misinformed. Nightbird was an important witness. He had been reported present. Never mind. He was probably unavoidably detained by the storm. They would call Jesse Big Cloud and others to corroborate the defendant’s statements—which they did, and the story was sustained in all its parts, major and minor. Then the defence rested.
Richard Gordon arose from his chair. His face was white. His lean jaws were set. His eyes were steel. He was anything but a lover now, this man Gordon. Yet the slim little court reporter with dark circles of homesickness under her eyes had never loved him half so well as at this moment. His voice was clear and deliberate.
“Your honor, I ask permission of the Court to call a witness in direct testimony. I assure your honor that the State had used all efforts in its power to obtain the presence of this witness before resting its case, but had failed and believed at the time that he could not be produced. The witness is now here and I consider his testimony of the utmost importance in this case.”
Counsel for the defendant objected strenuously, but the Court granted the petition. He wanted to hear everything that might throw some light on the dark places in the evidence.
“I call Mr. George Williston,” said Gordon.
Had the strain crazed him? Louise covered her eyes with her hands. Men sat as if dazed. And thus, the cynosure of all eyes—stupefied eyes—Williston of the ravaged Lazy S, thin and worn but calm, natural and scholarly-looking as of old—walked from the little ante-room at the side into the light and knowledge of men once more and raised his hand for the oath. Not until this was taken and he had sat quietly down in the witness chair did the tension snap. Even then men found it difficult to focus their attention on the enormous difference this new witness must make in the case that a few moments before had seemed settled.
Mary sat with shining eyes in the front row of wooden chairs. It was no wonder she had laughed and been so gay all the dreary yesterday and all the worse to-day. Louise shot her a look of pure gladness.
Small’s face was ludicrous in its drop-jawed astonishment. The little lawyer’s face was a study. A look of defiance had crept into the defendant’s countenance.
The preliminary questions were asked and answered.
“Mr. Williston, you may state where you were and what you saw on the fourteenth day of July last.”
Williston, the unfortunate gentleman and scholar, the vanquished cowman, for a brief while the most important man in the cow country, perhaps, was about to uncover to men’s understanding the dark secret hitherto obscured by a cloud of supposition and hearsay. He told the story of his visit to the island, and he told it well. It was enough. Gordon asked no further questions regarding that event.
“And now, Mr. Williston, you may tell what happened to you on the night of the thirtieth of last August.”
Williston began to tell the story of the night attack upon the Lazy S, when the galvanic Small jumped to his feet. The little lawyer touched him with a light hand.
“Your honor,” he said, smoothly, “I object to that as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not binding on the defendant.”
“Your honor,” interrupted Gordon, with great calmness, “we intend to show you before we get through that this testimony is competent, and that it is binding upon the defendant.”
“Was the defendant there?”
“The defendant was there.”
The objection was overruled.
So Williston told briefly but to the point the story of the night attack upon his home, of the defence by himself and his daughter, and of the burning of his house and sheds. Then he proceeded:
“Suddenly, some one caught me from behind, my arms were pinioned to my sides, something was clapped over my mouth. I was flung over a horse and strapped to the saddle all in less time than it takes to tell it, and was borne away in company with the man who had overpowered me.”
He paused a moment in his recital. Faces strained with expectancy devoured him—his every look and word and action. Mary was very pale, carried thus back to the dread realities of that night in August, and shuddered, remembering that ghastly galloping. Langford could scarce restrain himself. He wanted to rip out a blood curdling Sioux war-whoop on the spot.
“Who was this man, Mr. Williston?” asked Gordon.
“Jesse Black.”
Small was on his feet again, gesticulating wildly. “I object! This is all a fabrication, put in here to prejudice the minds of the jury against this defendant. It is a pack of lies, and I move that it be stricken from the record.”
The little lawyer bowed his head to the storm and shrugged up his shoulders. Perhaps he wished that he, or his associate—one of the unholy alliance at least—was where the wicked cease from troubling, on the far away islands of the deep seas, possibly, or home on the farm. But his expression told nothing.
“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” expostulated Judge Dale. “Gentlemen! I insist. This is all out of order.” Only one gentleman was out of order, but that was the Judge’s way. Gordon had remained provokingly cool under the tirade.
Again the soft touch. Small fell into his chair. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher standing on the attorneys’ table and drank a little of it nervously.
“I move,” said the little lawyer, “that all this touching upon the personal matter of this witness and having to do with his private quarrels be stricken out of the evidence as not bearing on the case in question.”
All in vain. The Judge ruled that it did bear on the case, and Williston picked up the thread of his story.
“We rode and rode hard—it must have been hours; daylight was coming before we stopped. Our horses were spent I had no idea where we were. From the formation of the land, I judged we were not far from the river. We were surrounded by bluffs. I can hardly make you see how cleverly this little retreat had been planned. It was in a valley—one of a hundred similar in all essential respects. The gulch at the bottom of the valley was heavily wooded with scrub-oak, cottonwood, woodbine, and plum-trees, and this tangle of foliage extended for some distance up the sides of the hills. In the midst of this underbrush—a most excellent screen—was a tiny cabin. In this tiny cabin I have lived, a closely watched prisoner, from that day until I escaped.”
The defendant stirred a little uneasily. Was he thinking of Nightbird with the dark, frozen face—who had not answered to his call?
“Black left me soon after. He did not unbind me, rather bound me the tighter. There was no one then to watch me. He deigned to inform me that he had found it rather inconvenient to kill me after the relief party rode up, as then there was no absolute surety of his making a clean get-away, and being caught in the act would be bound to be unpleasant, very unpleasant just then, so he had altered his plans a little—for the present. He gave me no hint either that time, nor either of the two times I saw him subsequently, as to what was to be his ultimate disposal of me. I could only suppose that after this trial was well over in his favor, and fear of indictment for arson and murder had blown over—if blow over it did,—he would then quietly put an end to me. Dead men tell no tales. The shanty in the gulch did not seem to be much of a rendezvous for secret meetings. I led a lonely existence. My jailers were mostly half-breeds—usually Charlie Nightbird. Two or three times Jake Sanderson was my guard.”
Then from the doorway came a loud, clear, resonant voice, a joyful voice, a voice whose tones fairly oozed rapture.
“Hellity damn! The Three Bars’s a gettin’ busy, Mouse-hair!”
Judge Dale started. He glared angrily in that direction.
“Remove that man!” he ordered, curtly. He liked Jim, but he could not brook this crying contempt of court. Jim was removed. He went quietly, but shaking his head reproachfully.
“I never would ’a’ thought it o’ the Jedge,” he murmured, disconsolately. “I never would ’a’ thought it.”
There was a movement in the back of the room. A man was making his way out, slipping along, cat-like, trying to evade attention. Quietly Gordon motioned to the sheriff and slipped a paper into his hand.
“Look sharp,” he whispered, his steady eyes on the shifty ones of the sheriff. “If you let him get away, just remember the handwriting on the wall. It’s our turn now.”
Presently, there was a slight scuffle by the door and two men quietly left the improvised court-room.
“Day before yesterday, in the afternoon,” continued Williston, “I managed to knock Nightbird down at the threshold as he was about to enter. I had secretly worked a cross-beam from the low, unfinished ceiling. There was nothing else in the room I might use for a weapon. They were very careful. I think I killed him, your honor and gentlemen of the jury. I am not sorry. There was no other way. But I would rather it had been the maker, not the tool. By the time I had made my way back to the Lazy S, I was too exhausted to go further; so I crawled over to my neighbors, the Whites, and Mother White made me a shake down. I lay there, nearly dead, until this morning.”
He leaned back wearily.
Black stood up. He was not lank nor lazy now, nor shuffling. His body was drawn to its full height. In the instant before the spring, Mary, who was sitting close to the attorneys’ table, met his glance squarely. She read there what he was about to do. Only a moment their eyes held each other’s, but it was time enough for a swift message of understanding, of utter dislike, and of a determined will to defeat the man’s purpose, to pass from the accusing brown eyes to the cruel ones of the defendant.
Quick as a flash, Black seized the chair upon which he had been sitting, sprang clear of the table and his lawyers, and landed close to Mary’s side. With his chair as a weapon, he meant to force his way to the nearest window. Mary’s eyes dilated. Unhesitatingly she seized the half-emptied glass on the table and dashed the contents of it full into the prisoner’s face. Blinded, he halted a moment in his mad rush. Mary’s quick manœuvre made Langford’s opportunity. He grappled with Black. The crowd went mad with excitement.
The prisoner still retained his chair. When Langford grappled with him, he attempted to bring it down upon the fair head of his antagonist. Mary gasped with dread, but Langford grasped the chair with one muscular hand, wrested it from the desperado’s hold, and threw it to the floor. The two men locked in a close embrace. Langford’s great strength was more than sufficient to hold the outlaw until the dazed officers could do their duty—had he been let alone; but two men, who had been standing near the door when the prisoner made his unexpected leap for liberty, had succeeded in worming their way through the excited crowd, and now suddenly threw themselves upon the ranchman, dragging him back.
“Stand aside or I’ll shoot!”
It was a girl’s voice, clear and firm. Mary had been the first to realize that Black’s friends, not Langford’s, had joined in the struggle. She snatched her revolver from her cowboy belt—she had not been without either since the Lazy S was burned—and cried out her challenge. Glancing quickly from the gleaming barrel to the determined face of the young girl, the men let go their hold of Langford and fell back precipitately.
Instantly, Langford sprang forward, but Black had made good use of his moment of grace. Swinging his arms to the right and left, he had beaten his way to the window, when Langford again seized him, but he had the advantage this time and he tore himself loose, throwing Langford violently against the window-casing. With his bare, clinched fist, he shivered the glass and leaped out—into the arms of Jim Munson.
The officers made gallant plunges through the stampeded crowd in their efforts to get clear of the room to follow the fugitive. But certain men managed to keep themselves clumsily, but with marvellous adroitness nevertheless, between the deputies and the doors and windows; so that several moments elapsed before the outside was finally gained.
Meanwhile, Jim struggled heroically with the outlaw. Black was far superior to him in weight and strength of limb, but Jim was quick and tough and daring. Expelled from the court room, he had been watching through the window. He had seen Mary’s quick action and his Boss’s splendid attack. He had also seen the little “gun play” and his eyes glowed in admiration of “Williston’s little girl,” though his generous heart ached for love of the woman who was not for him. He saw Black coming. He was ready for him. He grappled with him at once. If the Boss or the officers would only come now!
When they did come, they found Jim stretched at length on the frozen ground. He sat up slowly.
“You’re too late, boys,” he said; “the hoss thief was too much for me. He’s gone.”
It was true. The little street stretched before them still—deserted. Early twilight was coming on. The biting cold struck them broadside. The deputies scattered in vain pursuit.
CHAPTER XXI—THE MOVING SHADOW
“I’d rather not talk about it to-night. I’m not equal to it. It’s—too—too it’s devilish, Paul. I don’t seem to be able to grasp it. I can’t think about it with any coherence. I was so sure—so sure.”
Gordon was staring moodily out of the window, one arm hanging idly over the back of his chair. He had taken up office room in an empty shop building across the street from the hotel.
“It’s so devilish, it’s weird,” agreed the ranchman. “But your part was great. You vanquished Jesse Black. That is more than we hoped for a week ago. Is it your fault or mine that those fool deputies acted like flies in tangle-foot and went spraddle-fingered when something was expected of them? We have nothing to do with a little thing like a broken windowpane.”
There was an ugly cut on his forehead caused by his violent contact with the sharp edge of the window casing. He was pale, but he had lost none of the old faith in himself or in his power to dominate affairs in the cattle country. Defeat was intolerable to him. He refused to bow his head to it. To-day’s check only made him the more determined, if that were possible, to free the land of its shame.
“I’ll pull myself together again, never fear,” said Gordon. “Just give me to-night. You see that’s not all. I’ve something else to think about, too, now that I have time. It takes a fellow’s nerve away to have everything that is worth while drop out at once. But I’ve rallied before. I know I’m beastly selfish not to talk to you to-night, but—”
“Dick,” interrupted Langford, bluntly, “did she turn you down?”
“I never asked her. She is going back—home—next week.”
“If you let her.”
“You don’t quite understand, Paul,” said Gordon, a little wearily. “She said she could never live in this country—never. She would die here. Could I ask her after that? Could I ask her anyway, and be a man? I know. She would just pine away.”
“Girls don’t pine—only in imagination. They are tougher than you give them credit for.”
“But somehow, Mary seems different,” said Gordon, thoughtfully. He surprised a flush in his friend’s cheek. “You deserve her, old man, you’ll be very happy. She is the right kind. I congratulate you with all my heart.”
An odd lump came into Langford’s throat. Despite Gordon’s vigorous and healthful manhood, there seemed always a certain pathos of life surrounding him.
“I haven’t asked, either,” confessed Paul. “But you have made it possible for me to do so—to-night—to-morrow—whenever I can find a chance. Take my advice, old man, don’t let your girl go. You’ll find she is the kind after all. You don’t know her yet.”
Paul left the room, and Gordon paced the narrow confines of his shabby office—back and forth—many times. Then he threw himself once more into his chair. The hours were long. He had all night to think about things. When morning came, all his weakness would be over. No one should ever again see him so unmanned as Paul had seen him to-night And when Louise should go—his arms fell nervelessly to the table. He remained thus a moment, his eyes fixed and unseeing, and then his head dropped heavily upon his arms.
Alone in the night, Louise awoke. She found it impossible to fall asleep again. She was nervous. It must be something in the atmosphere. She tossed and tossed and flounced and flounced. She counted up to thousands. She made her mind a blank so often that she flew to thinking to escape the emptiness of it. Still her eyes were wide and her mind fairly a-quiver with activity. She slipped out of bed. She would tire herself into sleep. She even dressed. She would show herself. If she must be a midnight prowler, she would wear the garments people affect when they have their thoughts and energies fixed on matters mundane. Drawing the oil stove close to the window fronting the street, she sank into a chair, drew a heavy shawl over her shoulders, put her feet on the tiny fender, and prepared to fatigue herself into oblivion.
A light shone from the window across the way. He was still at work, then. He ought not to sit up so late. No wonder he was looking so worn out lately. He ought to have some one to look after him. He never thought of himself. He never had time. She would talk to him about keeping such late hours—if she were not going back to God’s country next week. Only next week! It was too good to be true,—and yet she sighed. But there was no other way. She ought never to have come. She was not big enough. He, too, had told her she was not the kind. Doubtless, he knew. And she didn’t belong to anybody here. She was glad she was going back to where she belonged to somebody. She would never go away again.
Was that Gordon passing back and forth in front of the window? Something must be troubling him. Was it because Jesse Black had escaped? But what a glorious vindication of his belief in the man’s guilt had that afternoon been given! Nothing lacked there. Why should he be sorry? Sometimes, she had thought he might care,—that day crossing the river for instance; but he was so reserved—he never said—and it was much, much better that he did not care, now that she was going away and would never come back. There was nothing in all the world that could make her come back to this big, bleak, lonesome land where she belonged to nobody. But she was sorry for him. He looked sad and lonely. He didn’t belong to anybody here, either, yet he wasn’t going to run away as she was. Well, but he was a man, and men were different.
And now she noticed that his head had sunk down onto his arms. How still he sat! The minutes passed away. Still he sat motionless, his face buried.
It was dark. The yellow gleam streaming out of the window only served to make the surrounding darkness denser. The lamp on the table cast a pale circle immediately in front of the office. There was no other flicker of light on the street. Into this circle there moved a shadow. It retreated,—advanced again,—glided back into obscurity. Was it something alive, or did the moving of the lamp cause the shadows to thus skip about? But the lamp had not been moved. It burned steadily in the same position. The relaxed form of the unconscious man was still bent over the table. Nothing had changed within. Probably some dog locked out for the night had trotted within the radius of light. Maybe a cotton-tail had hopped into the light for a second. Louise did not know whether rabbits ever came into the town, but it was likely they did. It might have been one of the strayed cattle wandering about in search of food. That was the most probable supposition of all. Of course it might have been only her imagination. The little pinch of fright engendered of the moving shadow and the eerie hour passed away. Her eyes grew pensive again. How still it was! Had Gordon fallen asleep? He lay so quietly. Had he grieved himself into slumber as a girl would do? No—men were not like that.
Ah! There was the moving shadow again! She caught her breath quickly. Then her eyes grew wide and fixed with terror. This time the shadow did not slink away again. It came near the window, crouching. Suddenly, it stood up straight. Merciful Father! Why is it that a human being, a creature of reason and judgment, prowling about at unnatural hours, inspires ten-fold more terror to his kind than does a brute in like circumstances of time and place? Louise tried to scream aloud. Her throat was parched. A sudden paralysis held her speechless. It was like a nightmare. She writhed and fought desperately to shake herself free of this dumb horror. The cold damp came out on her forehead. Afterward she remembered that she knew the man and that it was this knowledge that had caused her nightmare of horror to be so unspeakably dreadful. Now she was conscious only of the awfulness of not being able to cry out. If she could only awaken Mary! The man lifted his arm. He had something in his hand. Its terrible import broke the spell of her speechlessness.
“Mary! Mary!”
She thought she shrieked. In reality, she gasped out a broken whisper; but it thrilled so with terror and pleading that Mary was awakened on the instant. She sprang out of bed. As her feet touched the floor, a pistol shot rang out, close by. She had been trained to quick action, and superb health left no room for cobwebs to linger in the brain when she was suddenly aroused. She had no need for explanations. The shot was enough. If more was needed, there was the lighted window across the way and here was Louise crouched before their own. Swiftly and silently, she seized her revolver from the bureau, glided to the window, and fired three times in rapid succession, the reports mingling with the sound of shattered glass.
“I think I hit him the second time, Louise,” she said, with a dull calm. “I can’t be sure.”
She lighted a lamp and began to dress mechanically. Louise stayed not to answer. In the hall, she encountered Paul Langford, just as another shot rang out.
“Go back, Miss Dale,” he cried, hurriedly but peremptorily. “You mustn’t come. I am afraid there has been foul play.”
She looked at him. It hurt, that look.
“He is dead,” she whispered, “I am going to him,” and glided away from his detaining hand.
He hurried after her. Others had been aroused by the nearness of the pistol shots. Doors were thrown open. Voices demanded the meaning of the disturbance. Putting his arm around the trembling girl, Langford hastened across the street with her. At the door of Gordon’s office, he paused.
“I will go in first, Louise. You stay here.”
He spoke authoritatively; but she slipped in ahead of him. Her arms fell softly over the bowed shoulders. Her cheek dropped to the dark, gray-streaked hair. There was little change, seemingly. The form was only a little more relaxed, the attitude only a little more helpless. It seemed as if he might have been sleeping. There was a sound, a faint drip, drip, drip, in the room. It was steady, monotonous, like drops falling, from rain pipes after the storm is over. Langford opened the door.
“Doc! Doc Lockhart! Some one send Doc over here quick! Gordon’s office! Be quick about it!” he cried, in a loud, firm voice. Then he closed the door and locked it. In response to his call, footsteps were heard running. The door was tried. Then came loud knocking and voices demanding admittance.
“No one can come in but Doc,” cried Langford through the keyhole. “Send him quick, somebody, for God’s sake! Where’s Jim Munson? He’ll get him here. Quick, I tell you!”
He hastened back to the side of his friend and passed his hand gently over the right side to find the place whence came that heartbreaking drip. Disappointed in their desire to get in, men crowded before the window. Louise stepped softly forward and drew the blind between him and the mass of curious faces without. She was very pale, but quiet and self-possessed. She had rallied when Langford had whispered to her that Gordon’s heart was still beating. The doctor rapped loudly, calling to Langford to open. Paul admitted him and then stepped out in full sight of all, his hand still on the knob. The late moon was just rising. A faint light spread out before him.
“Boys,” he cried, a great grief in his stern voice, “it’s murder. Dick Gordon’s murdered. Now get—you know what for—and be quick about it!”
They laid him gently on the floor, took off his coat, and cut away the blood soaked shirts. Louise assisted with deft, tender hands. Presently, the heavy lids lifted, the gray eyes stared vacantly for a moment—then smiled. Paul bent over him.
“What happened, old man?” the wounded man whispered gropingly. It required much effort to say this little, and a shadow of pain fell over his face.
“Hush, Dick, dear boy,” said Langford, with a catch in his voice. “You’re all right now, but you mustn’t talk. You’re too weak. We are going to move you across to the hotel.”
“But what happened?” he insisted.
“You were shot, you know, Dick. Keep quiet, now! I’m going for a stretcher.”
“Am I done for?” the weak voice kept on. But there was no fear in it.
“You will be if you keep on talking like that”
Obeying a sign from the doctor, he slipped away and out. Gordon closed his eyes and was still for a long time. His face was white and drawn with suffering.
“Has he fainted?” whispered Louise.
The eyes opened quickly. They fell upon Louise, who had not time to draw away. The shadow of the old, sweet smile came and hovered around his lips.
“Louise,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is I,” she said, laying her hand lightly on his forehead. “You must be good until Paul gets back.”
“I’m done for, so the rest of the criminal calendar will have to go over. You can go back to—God’s country—sooner than you thought.”
“I am not going back to—God’s country,” said Louise, unexpectedly. She had not meant to say it, but she meant it when she said it.
“Come here, close to me, Louise,” said Gordon, in a low voice. He had forgotten the doctor. “You had better—I’ll get up if you don’t. Closer still. I want you to—kiss me before Paul gets back.”
Louise grew whiter. She glanced hesitatingly at the doctor, timidly at the new lover in the old man. Then she bent over him where he lay stretched on the floor and kissed him on the lips. A great light came into his eyes before he closed them contentedly and slipped into unconsciousness again.
Langford rounded up Jim Munson and sent him across with a stretcher, and then ran up stairs for an extra blanket off his own bed. It was bitterly cold, and Dick must be well wrapped. On the upper landing, he encountered Mary alone. Something in her desolate attitude stopped him.
“What’s the matter, Mary,” he demanded, seizing her hands.
“Nothing,” she answered, dully. “How is he?”
“All right, I trust and pray, but hurt terribly, wickedly.”
He did not quite understand. Did she love Gordon? Was that why she looked so heart-broken? Taking her face in his two hands, he compelled her to look at him straight.
“Now tell me,” he said.
“Did I kill him?” she asked.
“Kill whom?”
“Why, him—Jesse Black.”
Then he understood.
“Mary, my girl, was it you? Were those last shots yours?” All the riotous love in him trembled on his tongue.
“Did I?” she persisted.
“God grant you did,” he said, solemnly. “There is blood outside the window, but he is gone.”
“I don’t like to kill people,” she said, brokenly. “Why do I always have to do it?”
He drew her to him strongly and held her close against his breast.
“You are the bravest and best girl on earth,” he said. “My girl,—you are my girl, you know,—hereafter I will do all necessary killing for—my wife.”
He kissed the sweet, quivering lips as he said it.
Some one came running up the stairs, and stopped suddenly in front of the two in the passage.
“Why, Jim!” cried Langford in surprise. “I thought you had gone with the stretcher.”
“I did go,” said Jim, swallowing hard. He shifted nervously from one spurred foot to the other. “But I came back.”
He looked at Langford beseechingly.
“Boss, I want to see you a minute, ef—Mary don’t mind.”
“I will come with you, Jim, now,” said Langford with quick apprehension.
“Mary,”—Jim turned away and stared unseeingly down the staircase,—“go back to your room for a little while. I will call for you soon. Keep up your courage.”
“Wait,” said Mary, quietly. There were unsounded depths of despair in her voice, though it was so clear and low. “There was another shot. I remember now. Jim, tell me!”
Jim turned. The rough cowboy’s eyes were wet—for the first time in many a year.
“They—hope he won’t die, Mary, girl. Your father’s shot bad, but he ain’t dead. We think Black did it after he run from Gordon’s office. We found him on the corner.”
Langford squared his broad shoulders—then put strong, protecting arms around Mary. Now was he her all.
“Come, my darling, we will go to him together.”
She pushed him from her violently.
“I will go alone. Why should you come? He is mine. He is all I have—there is no one else. Why don’t you go? You are big and strong—can’t you make that man suffer for my father’s murder? Jim, take me to him.”
She seized the cowboy’s arm, and they went out together, and on down the stairs.
Langford stood still a moment, following them with his eyes. His face was white. He bent his head. Jim, looking back, saw him thus, the dull light from the hall-lamp falling upon the bent head and the yellow hair. When Langford raised his head, his face, though yet white, bore an expression of concentrated determination.
He, too, strode quickly down the stairs.
CHAPTER XXII—THE OUTLAW’S LAST STAND
In the morning the sheriff went to the island. He reported the place deserted. He made many other trips. Sometimes he took a deputy with him; more often he rode unaccompanied. Richard Gordon lay helpless in a burning fever, with Paul Langford in constant and untiring attendance upon him. George Williston was a sadly shattered man.
“I met Black on the corner west of Gordon’s office,” he explained, when he could talk. “I had not been able to sleep, and had been walking to tire my nerves into quiet. I was coming back to the hotel when I heard Black’s shot and then Mary’s. I ran forward and met Black on the corner, running. He stopped, cried out, ‘You, too, damn you,’ and that’s the last I knew until the boys picked me up.”
These were the most interested—Langford, Gordon, Williston. Had they been in the count, things might have been different. It is very probable a posse would have been formed for immediate pursuit. But others must do what had been better done had it not been for those shots in the dark. There was blood outside Gordon’s window; yet Black had not crawled home to die. He had not gone home at all,—at least, that is what the sheriff said. No one had seen the convicted man after his desperate and spectacular exit from the courtroom—no one at least but Louise, Mary, and her father. Mary’s shot had not killed him, but it had saved Richard Gordon’s life, which was a far better thing. It was impossible to track him out of town, for the cattle had trampled the snow in every direction.
The authorities could gather no outside information. The outlying claims and ranches refuted indignantly any hint of their having given aid or shelter to the fugitive, or of having any cognizance whatsoever regarding his possible whereabouts. So the pursuit, at first hot and excited, gradually wearied of following false leads,—contented itself with desultory journeys when prodded thereto by the compelling power of public opinion,—finally ceased altogether even as a pretence.
One of the first things done following the dramatic day in court had been to send the officers out to the little shanty in the valley where the half-breed lay dead across the threshold. A watch was also set upon this place; but no one ever came there.
August had come again, and Judge Dale was in Kemah to hear a court case.
Langford had ridden in from the ranch on purpose to see Judge Dale. His clothes were spattered with mud. There had been a succession of storms, lasting for several days; last night a cloud had burst out west somewhere. All the creeks were swollen.
“Judge, I believe Jesse Black has been on that island of his all the time.”
“What makes you think so, Langford?”
“Because our sheriff is four-flushing—he always was in sympathy with the gang, you know. Besides, where else can Black be?”
Dale puckered his lips thoughtfully.
“What have you heard?” he asked.
“Rumors are getting pretty thick that he has been seen in that neighborhood on several occasions. It is my honest belief he has never left it.”
“What did you think of doing about it, Langford?”
“I want you to give me a bench warrant, Judge. I am confident that I can get him. It is the shame of the county that he is still at large.”
“You have to deal with one of the worst and most desperate outlaws in the United States. You must know it will be a very hazardous undertaking, granting your surmises to be correct, and fraught with grave peril for some one.”
“I understand that fully.”
“This duty is another’s, not yours.”
“But that other is incompetent.”
“My dear fellow,” said the Judge, rising and laying his hand on Langford’s big shoulder, “do you really want to undertake this?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then I will give you the warrant, gladly. You are the one man in the State to do it—unless I except the gallant little deputy marshal. You know the danger. I admire your grit, my boy. Get him if you can; but take care of yourself. Your life is worth so much more than his. Who will you take with you?”
“Munson, of course. He will go in spite of the devil, and he’s the best man I know for anything like this. Then I thought of taking the deputy sheriff. He’s been true blue all along, and has done the very best possible under the conditions.”
“Very good. Take Johnson, too. He’ll be glad to go. He’s the pluckiest little fighter in the world,—not a cowardly hair in his head.”
So it was agreed, and the next morning, bright and early, the little posse, reinforced by others who had earnestly solicited the privilege of going along, started out on its journey. The rains were over, but the roads were heavy. In many places, they were forced to walk their mounts. No one but the initiated know what gumbo mud means. Until they took to the hills, the horses could scarcely lift their feet, so great would be the weight of the sticky black earth which clung in immense chunks to their hoofs. When they struck the hills, it was better and they pressed forward rapidly. Once only the sheriff had asserted that he had run across the famous outlaw. Black had resisted savagely and had escaped, sending back the bold taunt that he would never be taken alive. Such a message might mean death to some of the plucky posse now making for the old-time haunts of the desperado.
The sun struggled from behind rain-exhausted clouds, and a rollicking wind blew up. The clouds skurried away toward the horizon.
At White River ford, the men looked at each other in mute inquiry. The stream was a raging torrent. It was swollen until it was half again its ordinary width. The usually placid waters were rushing and twisting into whirlpool-like rapids.
“What now?” asked Baker, the deputy-sheriff.
“I’m thinkin’ this here little pleasure party’ll have to be postponed,” vouchsafed one of the volunteers, nodding his head wisely.
“We’ll sure have to wait for the cloud-bust to run out,” agreed another.
“Why, we can swim that all right,” put in Langford, rallying from his momentary set-back and riding his mount to the very edge of the swirling water.
“Hold on a minute there, Boss,” cried Jim. “Don’t be rash now. What’s the census of ’pinion o’ this here company? Shall we resk the ford or shall we not?”
“Why, Jim,” said Paul, a laugh in his blue eyes, “are you afraid? What’s come over you?”
“Nothin’. I ain’t no coward neither, and ef you wasn’t the Boss I’d show you. I was just a thinkin’ o’—somebody who’d care—that’s all.”
Just for a moment a far away look came into the young ranchman’s eyes. Then he straightened himself in his saddle.
“I, for one, am going to see this thing through,” he said, tersely. “What do you say, Johnson?”
“I never for one minute calculated on doing a thing else,” replied the deputy marshal, who had been standing somewhat apart awaiting the end of the controversy, with a good humored smile in his twinkling blue eyes.
“Good for you! Then come on!”
Paul urged Sade into the water. He was followed unhesitatingly by Munson, Johnson, and Baker. The others held back, and finally, after a short consultation, wheeled and retraced their steps.
“I ain’t no coward, neither,” muttered one, as he rode away, “but I plumb don’t see no sense in bein’ drownded. I’d ruther be killed a roundin’ up Jesse.”
The horses which had made the initial plunge were already in water up to their breasts. The current had an ominous rush to it.
“I don’t care. I didn’t mean to hold over and let our quarry get wind of this affair,” cried Langford, over his shoulder. “Keep your rifles dry, boys!”
Suddenly, without warning, Sade stepped into a hole and lost her balance for a moment. She struggled gallantly and recovered herself, yet it weakened her. It was not long before all the horses were compelled to swim, and the force of the current immediately began driving them down stream. Sade fought bravely against the pressure. She was a plucky little cow pony and loved her master, but it was about all she could do to keep from going under, let alone making much headway against the tremendous pressure of the current. Langford’s danger was grave.
“Steady, my girl!” he encouraged. He flung his feet free of the stirrups so that, if she went under, he would be ready to try it alone. Poor Sade! He should hate to lose her. If he released her now and struck off by himself, she might make it. He had never known White River to run so sullenly and strongly; it would be almost impossible for a man to breast it. And there was Mary—he could never go back to her and claim her for his own until he could bring Black back, too, to suffer for her father’s wrongs.
At that moment, Sade gave a little convulsive shudder, and the water rolled over her head. Langford slipped from the saddle, but in the instant of contact with the pushing current, his rifle was jerked violently from his hand and sank out of sight. With no time for vain regrets, he struck out for the shore. The struggle was tremendous. He was buffeted and beaten, and borne farther and farther down the stream. More than once in the endeavor to strike too squarely across, his head went under; but he was a strong swimmer, and soon scrambling up the bank some distance below the ford, he turned and sent a resonant hail to his comrades. They responded lustily. He had been the only one unhorsed. He threw himself face downward to cough up some of the water he had been compelled to swallow, and Munson, running up, began slapping him vigorously upon the back. He desisted only to run swiftly along the bank.
“Good for you,” Jim cried, approvingly, assisting Langford’s spent horse up the bank. Coming up to the party where Langford still lay stretched out full length, Sade rubbed her nose inquiringly over the big shoulders lying so low, and whinnied softly.
“Hello there!” cried Paul, springing excitedly to his feet. “Where’d you come from? Thought you had crossed the bar. Now I’ll just borrow a gun from one of you fellows and we’ll be getting along. Better my rifle than my horse at this stage of the game, anyway.”
The little party pushed on. The longer half of their journey was still before them. On the whole, perhaps, it was better the crowd had split. There was more unity of purpose among those who were left. The sun was getting hot, and Langford’s clothes dried rapidly.
Arrived at the entrance of the cross ravine which Williston had once sought out, the four men rode their horses safely through its length. The waters of the June rise had receded, and the outlaw’s presumably deserted holding was once more a peninsula. The wooded section in the near distance lay green, cool, and innocent looking in the late summer sun. The sands between stretched out hot in the white glare. From the gulch covert, the wiry marshal rode first. His face bore its wonted expression of good-humored alertness, but there was an inscrutable glint in his eyes that might have found place there because of a sure realization of the hazard of the situation and of his accepting it. Langford followed him quickly, and Munson and Baker were not far behind. They trotted breezily across the open in a bunch, without words. Where the indistinct trail to the house slipped into the wooded enclosure, they paused. Was the desperado at last really rounded up so that he must either submit quietly or turn at bay? It was so still. Spots of sunlight had filtered through the foliage and flecked the pathway. Insects flitted about. Bumble bees droned. Butterflies hovered over the snow-on-the-mountain. A turtle dove mourned. A snake glided sinuously through the grass. Peering down the warm, shaded interior, one might almost imagine one was in the heart of an ancient wood. The drowsy suggestions of solitude crept in upon the sensibilities of all the men and filled them with vague doubts. If this was the haunt of a man, a careless, sordid man, would this place which knew him breathe forth so sweet, still, and undisturbed a peace?
Langford first shook himself free of the haunting fear of a deserted hearthstone.
“I’d stake my all on my belief that he’s there,” he said, in a low voice. “Now listen, boys. Johnson and I will ride to the house and make the arrest, providing he doesn’t give us the slip. Baker, you and Jim will remain here in ambush in case he does. He’s bound to come this way to reach the mainland. Ready, Johnson?”
Jim interposed. His face was flinty with purpose.
“Not ef the court knows herself, and I think she do. Me and Johnson will do that there little arrestin’ job and the Boss he’ll stay here in the ambush. Ef anybody’s a countin’ on my totin’ the Boss’s openwork body back to Mary Williston, it’s high time he was a losin’ the count, for I ain’t goin’ to do it.”
He guided his horse straight into the path.
“But, Jim,” expostulated Langford, laying a detaining hand on the cowboy’s shoulder, “as for danger, there’s every bit as much—and more—here. Do you think Jesse Black will tamely sit down and wait for us to come up and nab him? I think he’ll run.”
“Then why are you a shirkin’, ef this is the worst spot o’ all? You ain’t no coward, Boss, leastways you never was. Why don’t you stay by it? That’s what I’d like to know.”
Johnson grinned appreciatively.
“Well, there’s always the supposition that he may not see us until we ride into his clearing,” admitted Langford. “Of course, then—it’s too late.”
Jim blocked the way.
“I’m an ornery, no-’count cowboy with no one in this hull world to know or care what becomes o’ me. There ain’t no one to care but me, and I can’t say I’m a hurtin’ myself any a carin’! You just wait till I screech, will you?”
“Jim,” said Langford, huskily, “you go back and behave yourself. I’m the Boss not you. You’ve got to obey orders. You’ve sassed me long enough. You get back, now!”
“Tell Mary, ef I come back a deader,” said Jim, “that women are s’perfluous critters, but I forgive her. She can’t help bein’ a woman.”
He gave his horse a dig with his knee and the animal bounded briskly forward.
“Jim! You fool boy! Come back!” cried Langford, plunging after him.
Johnson shrugged his shoulders, and wheeled his horse into clever concealment on one side of the path.
“Let the fool kids go,” he advised, dryly. “I’m a lookin’ for Jess to run, anyway.”
The two men rode boldly up toward the house. It seemed deserted. Weeds were growing around the door stoop, and crowding thickly up to the front windows. A spider’s silver web gleamed from casing to panel of the warped and weather stained door. The windows were blurred with the tricklings of rain through seasons of dust. Everything appeared unkempt, forlorn, desolate.
There was a sound from the rear. It carried a stealthy significance. A man leaped from the protection of the cabin and was seen running toward the barn. He was heavily armed.
“Stop that, Black!” yelled Langford, authoritatively. “We are going to take you, dead or alive—you’d better give yourself up! It will be better for you!”
The man answered nothing.
“Wing him with your rifle, Jim, before he gets to the barn,” said Paul, quickly.
The shot went wild. Black wrenched the door open, sprang upon the already bridled horse, and made a bold dash for the farther woods—and not in the direction where determined men waited in ambush. What did it mean? As his horse cleared the stable, he turned and shot a vindictive challenge to meet his pursuers.
“You won’t take me alive—and dead, I won’t go alone!”
He plunged forward in a northerly direction. Dimly he could be seen through the underbrush; but plainly could be heard the crackling of branches and the snapping of twigs as his horse whipped through the low lying foliage. Was there, then, another way to the mainland—other than the one over which Johnson and Baker kept guard? How could it be? How Langford longed for his good rifle and its carrying power. But he knew how to use a pistol, too. Both men sent menacing shots after the fugitive. Langford could not account for the strange direction. The only solution was that Black was leading his pursuers a chase through the woods, hoping to decoy them so deeply into the interior that he might, turning suddenly and straightly, gain time for his desperate sprint across the exposed stretch of sand. If this were true, Baker and Johnson would take care of him there.