Jim Reid, with Kitty and Helen, was on the way back from Prescott as Kitty had planned. They were within ten miles of the ranch when the cattleman, who sat at the wheel of the automobile, saw a horseman coming toward them. A moment he watched the approaching figure, then, over his shoulder, he said to the girls, "Look at that fellow ride. There's something doin', sure." As he spoke he turned the machine well out of the road.
A moment later he added, "It's Curly Elson from the Cross-Triangle. Somethin's happened in the valley." As he spoke, he stopped the machine, and sprang out so that the cowboy could see and recognize him.
Curly did not draw rein until he was within a few feet of Reid; then he brought his running horse up with a suddenness that threw the animal on its haunches.
Curly spoke tersely. "Phil Acton is shot. We need a doctor quick."
Without a word Jim Reid leaped into the automobile. The car backed to turn around. As it paused an instant before starting forward again, Kitty put her hand on her father's shoulder.
"Wait!" she cried. "I'm going to Phil. Curly, I want your horse; you can go with father."
The cowboy was on the ground before she had finished speaking. And before the automobile was under way Kitty was riding back the way Curly had come.
Kitty was scarcely conscious of what she had said. The cowboy's first words had struck her with the force of a physical blow, and in that first moment, she had been weak and helpless. She had felt as though a heavy weight pressed her down; a gray mist was before her eyes, and she could not see clearly. "Phil Acton is shot—Phil Acton is shot!" The cowboy's words had repeated themselves over and over. Then, with a sudden rush, her strength came again—the mist cleared; she must go to Phil; she must go fast, fast. Oh, why was this horse so slow! If only she were riding her own Midnight! She did not think as she rode. She did not wonder, nor question, nor analyze her emotions. She only felt. It was Phil who was hurt—Phil, the boy with whom she had played when she was a little girl—the lad with whom she had gone to school—the young man who had won the first love of her young woman heart. It was Phil, her Phil, who was hurt, and she must go to him—she must go fast, fast!
It seemed to Kitty that hours passed before she reached the meadow lane. She was glad that Curly had left the gates open. As she crossed the familiar ground between the old Acton home and the ranch house on the other side of the sandy wash, she saw them. They were carrying him into the house as she rode into the yard, and at sight of that still form the gray mist came again, and she caught the saddle horn to save herself from falling. But it was only a moment until she was strong again, and ready to do all that Mrs. Baldwin asked.
Phil had regained consciousness before they started home with him, but he was very weak from the loss of blood and the journey in the buckboard, though Bob drove ever so carefully, was almost more than he could bear. But with the relief that came when he was at last lying quietly in his own bed, and with the help of the stimulant, the splendid physical strength and vitality that was his because of his natural and unspoiled life again brought him back from the shadows into the light of full consciousness.
It was then that the Dean, while Mrs. Baldwin and Kitty were occupied for a few moments in another part of the house, listened to all that his foreman could tell him about the affair up to the time that he had fallen unconscious. The Dean asked but few questions. But when the details were all clearly fixed in his mind, the older man bent over Phil and looked straight into the lad's clear and steady eyes, while he asked in a low tone, "Phil, did Patches do this?"
And the young man answered, "Uncle Will, I don't know."
With this he closed his eyes wearily, as though to sleep, and the Dean, seeing Kitty in the doorway, beckoned her to come and sit beside the bed. Then he stole quietly from the room.
As in a dream Phil had seen Kitty when she rode into the yard. And he had been conscious of her presence as she moved about the house and the room where he lay. But he had given no sign that he knew she was there. As she seated herself, at the Dean's bidding, the cowboy opened his eyes for a moment, and looked up into her face. Then again the weary lids closed, and he gave no hint that he recognized her, save that the white lips set in firmer lines as though at another stab of pain.
As she watched alone beside this man who had, since she could remember, been a part of her life, and as she realized that he was on the very border line of that land from which, if he entered, he could never return to her, Kitty Reid knew the truth that is greater than any knowledge that the schools of man can give. She knew the one great truth of her womanhood; knew it not from text book or class room; not from learned professor or cultured associates; but knew it from that good Master of Life who, with infinite wisdom, teaches his many pupils who are free to learn in the school of schools, the School of Nature. In that hour when the near presence of death so overshadowed all the trivial and non-essential things of life—when the little standards and petty values of poor human endeavor were as nothing—this woman knew that by the unwritten edict of God, who decreed that in all life two should be as one, this man was her only lawful mate. Environment, circumstance, that which we call culture and education, even death, might separate them; but nothing could nullify the fact that was attested by the instinct of her womanhood. Bending over the man who lay so still, she whispered the imperative will of her heart.
"Come back to me, Phil—I want you—I need you, dear—come back to me!"
Slowly he came out of the mists of weakness and pain to look up at her—doubtfully—wonderingly. But there was a light in Kitty's face that dispelled the doubt, and changed the look of wondering uncertainty to glad conviction. He did not speak. No word was necessary. Nor did he move, for he must be very still, and hold fast with all his strength to the life that was now so good. But the woman knew without words all that he would have said, and as his eyes closed again she bowed her head in thankfulness.
Then rising she stole softly to the window. She felt that she must look out for a moment into the world that was so suddenly new and beautiful.
Under the walnut trees she saw the Dean talking with the man whom she had promised to marry.
Later Mr. Reid, with Helen and Curly, brought the doctor, and the noise of the automobile summoned every soul on the place to wait for the physician's verdict of life or death.
While the Dean was in Phil's room with the physician, and the anxious ones were gathered in a little group in front of the house, Jim Reid stood apart from the others talking in low tones with the cowboy Bob. Patches, who was standing behind the automobile, heard Bob, who had raised his voice a little, say distinctly, "I tell you, sir, there ain't a bit of doubt in the world about it. There was the calf a layin' right there fresh-branded and marked. He'd plumb forgot to turn it loose, I reckon, bein' naturally rattled; or else he figgered that it warn't no use, if Phil should be able to tell what happened. The way I make it out is that Phil jumped him right in the act, so sudden that he shot without thinkin'; you know how he acts quick that-a-way. An' then he seen what he had done, an' that it was more than an even break that Phil wouldn't live, an' so figgered that his chance was better to stay an' run a bluff by comin' for help, an' all that. If he'd tried to make his get-away, there wouldn't 'a' been no question about it; an' he's got just nerve enough to take the chance he's a-takin' by stayin' right with the game."
Patches started as though to go toward the men, but at that moment the doctor came from the house. As the physician approached the waiting group, that odd, mirthless, self-mocking smile touched Patches' lips; then he stepped forward to listen with the others to the doctor's words.
Phil had a chance, the doctor said, but he told them frankly that it was only a chance. The injured man's wonderful vitality, his clean blood and unimpaired physical strength, together with his unshaken nerve and an indomitable will, were all greatly in his favor. With careful nursing they might with reason hope for his recovery.
With expressions of relief, the group separated. Patches walked away alone. Mr. Reid, who would return to Prescott with the doctor, said to his daughter when the physician was ready, "Come, Kitty, I'll go by the house, so as to take you and Mrs. Manning home."
But Kitty shook her head. "No, father. I'm not going home. Stella needs me here. Helen understands, don't you, Helen?"
And wise Mrs. Manning, seeing in Kitty's face something that the man had not observed, answered, "Yes, dear, I do understand. You must stay, of course. I'll run over again in the morning."
"Very well," answered Mr. Reid, who seemed in somewhat of a hurry. "I know you ought to stay. Tell Stella that mother will be over for a little while this evening." And the automobile moved away.
That night, while Mrs. Baldwin and Kitty watched by Phil's bedside, and Patches, in his room, waited, sleepless, alone with his thoughts, men from the ranch on the other side of the quiet meadow were riding swiftly through the darkness. Before the new day had driven the stars from the wide sky, a little company of silent, grim-faced horsemen gathered in the Pot-Hook-S corral. In the dim, gray light of the early morning they followed Jim Reid out of the corral, and, riding fast, crossed the valley above the meadows and approached the Cross-Triangle corrals from the west. One man in the company led a horse with an empty saddle. Just beyond the little rise of ground outside the big gate they halted, while Jim Reid with two others, leaving their horses with the silent riders behind the hill, went on into the corral, where they seated themselves on the edge of the long watering trough near the tank, which hid them from the house.
Fifteen minutes later, when the Dean stepped from the kitchen porch, he saw Curly running toward the house. As the older man hurried toward him, the cowboy, pale with excitement and anger, cried, "They've got him, sir—grabbed him when he went out to the corral."
The Dean understood instantly. "My horse, quick, Curly," he said, and hurried on toward the saddle shed. "Which way did they go?" he asked, as he mounted.
"Toward the cedars on the ridge where it happened," came the answer. "Do you want me?"
"No. Don't let them know in the house," came the reply. And the Dean was gone.
The little company of horsemen, with Patches in their midst, had reached the scene of the shooting, and had made their simple preparations. From that moment when they had covered him with their guns as he stepped through the corral gate, he had not spoken.
"Well, sir," said the spokesman, "have you anything to say before we proceed?"
Patches shook his head, and wonderingly they saw that curious mocking smile on his lips.
"I don't suppose that any remarks I might make would impress you gentlemen in the least," he said coolly. "It would be useless and unkind for me to detain you longer than is necessary."
An involuntary murmur of admiration came from the circle. They were men who could appreciate such unflinching courage.
In the short pause that followed, the Dean, riding as he had not ridden for years, was in their midst. Before they could check him the veteran cowman was beside Patches. With a quick motion he snatched the riata from the cowboy's neck. An instant more, and he had cut the rope that bound Patches' hands.
"Thank you, sir," said Patches calmly.
"Don't do that, Will," called Jim Reid peremptorily. "This is our business." In the same breath he shouted to his companions, "Take him again, boys," and started forward.
"Stand where you are," roared the Dean, and as they looked upon the stern countenance of the man who was so respected and loved throughout all that country, not a man moved. Reid himself involuntarily halted at the command.
"I'll do this and more, Jim Reid," said the Dean firmly, and there was that in his voice which, in the wild days of the past, had compelled many a man to fear and obey him. "It's my business enough that you can call this meetin' off right here. I'll be responsible for this man. You boys mean well, but you're a little mite too previous this trip."
"We aim to put a stop to that thievin' Tailholt Mountain outfit, Will," returned Reid, "an' we're goin' to do it right now."
A murmur of agreement came from the group.
The Dean did not give an inch. "You'll put a stop to nothin' this way; an' you'll sure start somethin' that'll be more than stealin' a few calves. The time for stringin' men up promiscuous like, on mere suspicion, is past in Arizona. I reckon there's more Cross-Triangle stock branded with the Tailholt Mountain iron than all the rest of you put together have lost, which sure entitles me to a front seat when it comes, to the show-down."
"He's right, boys," said one of the older men.
"You know I'm right, Tom," returned the Dean quickly. "You an' me have lived neighbors for pretty near thirty years, without ever a hard word passed between us, an' we've been through some mighty serious troubles together; an' you, too, George, an' Henry an' Bill. The rest of you boys I have known since you was little kids; an' me and your daddies worked an' fought side by side for decent livin' an' law-abidin' times before you was born. We did it 'cause we didn't want our children to go through with what we had to go through, or do some of the things that we had to do. An' now you're all thinkin' that you can cut me out of this. You think you can sneak out here before I'm out of my bed in the mornin', an' hang one of my own cowboys—as good a man as ever throwed a rope, too. Without sayin' a word to me, you come crawlin' right into my own corral, an' start to raisin' hell. I'm here to tell you that you can't do it. You can't do it because I won't let you."
The men, with downcast eyes, sat on their horses, ashamed. Two or three muttered approval. Jim Reid said earnestly, "That's all right, Will. We knew how you would feel, an' we were just aimin' to save you any more trouble. Them Tailholt Mountain thieves have gone too far this time. We can't let you turn that man loose."
"I ain't goin' to try to turn him loose," retorted the Dean.
The men looked at each other.
"What are you goin' to do, then?" asked the spokesman.
"I'm goin' to make you turn him loose," came the startling answer. "You fellows took him; you've got to let him go."
In spite of the grave situation several of the men grinned at the Dean's answer—it was so like him.
"I'll bet a steer he does it, too," whispered one.
The Dean turned to the man by his side. "Patches, tell these men all that you told me about this business."
When the cowboy had told his story in detail, up to the point where Phil came upon the scene, the Dean interrupted him, "Now, get down there an' show us exactly how it happened after Phil rode on to you an' Yavapai Joe."
Patches obeyed. As he was showing them where Phil stood when the shot was fired the Dean again interrupted with, "Wait a minute. Tom, you get down there an' stand just as Phil was standin'."
The cattleman obeyed.
When he had taken the position, the Dean continued, "Now, Patches, stand like you was when Phil was hit."
Patches obeyed.
"Now, then, where did that shot come from?" asked the Dean.
Patches pointed.
The Dean did not need to direct the next step in his demonstration. Three of the men were already off their horses, and moving around the bushes indicated by Patches.
"Here's the tracks, all right," called one. "An' here," added another, from a few feet further away, "was where he left his horse."
"An' now," continued the Dean, when the three men had come back from behind the bushes, and with Patches had remounted their horses, "I'll tell you somethin' else. I had a talk with Phil himself, an' the boy's story agrees with what Patches has just told you in every point. An', furthermore, Phil told me straight when I asked him that he didn't know himself who fired that shot."
He paused for a moment for them to grasp the full import of his words. Then he summed up the case.
"As the thing stands, we've got no evidence against anybody. It can't be proved that the calf wasn't Nick's property in the first place. It can't be proved that Nick was anywhere in the neighborhood. It can't be proved who fired that shot. It could have been Yavapai Joe, or anybody else, just as well as Nick. Phil himself, by bein' too quick to jump at conclusions, blocked this man's game, just when he was playin' the only hand that could have won out against Nick. If Phil hadn't 'a' happened on to Patches and Joe when he did, or if he had been a little slower about findin' a man guilty just because appearances were against him, we'd 'a' had the evidence from Yavapai Joe that we've been wantin', an' could 'a' called the turn on that Tailholt outfit proper. As it stands now, we're right where we was before. Now, what are you all goin' to do about it?"
The men grinned shamefacedly, but were glad that the tragedy had been averted. They were by no means convinced that Patches was not guilty, but they were quick to see the possibilities of a mistake in the situation.
"I reckon the Dean has adjourned the meetin', boys," said one.
"Come on," called another. "Let's be ridin'."
When the last man had disappeared in the timber, the Dean wiped the perspiration from his flushed face, and looked at Patches thoughtfully. Then that twinkle of approval came into the blue eyes, that a few moments before had been so cold and uncompromising.
"Come, son," he said gently, "let's go to breakfast. Stella'll be wonderin' what's keepin' us."
efore their late breakfast was over at the Cross-Triangle Ranch, Helen Manning came across the valley meadows to help with the work of the household. Jimmy brought her, but when she saw that she was really needed, and that Mrs. Baldwin would be glad of her help, she told Jimmy that she would stay for the day. Someone from the Cross-Triangle, the Dean said, would take her home when she was ready to go.
The afternoon was nearly gone when Curly returned from the lower end of the valley with a woman who would relieve Mrs. Baldwin of the housework, and, as her presence was no longer needed, Helen told the Dean that she would return to the Reid home.
"I'll just tell Patches to take you over in the buckboard," said the Dean. "It was mighty kind of you to give us a hand to-day; it's been a big help to Stella and Kitty."
"Please don't bother about the buckboard, Mr. Baldwin. I would enjoy the walk so much. But I would be glad if Mr. Patches could go with me—I would really feel safer, you know," she smiled.
Mrs. Baldwin was sleeping and Kitty was watching beside Phil, so the Dean himself went as far as the wash with Helen and Patches, as the two set out for their walk across the meadows. When Helen had said good-by to the Dean, with a promise to come again on the morrow, and he had turned back toward the house, she said to her companion, "Oh, Larry, I am so glad for this opportunity; I wanted to see you alone, and I couldn't think how it was to be managed. I have something to tell you, Larry, something that I must tell you, and you must promise to be very patient with me."
"You know what happened this morning, do you?" he asked gravely, for he thought from her words that she had, perhaps, chanced to hear of some further action to be taken by the suspicious cattlemen.
"It was terrible—terrible, Larry. Why didn't you tell them who you are? Why did you let them—" she could not finish.
He laughed shortly. "It would have been such a sinful waste of words. Can't you imagine me trying to make those men believe such a fairy story—under such circumstances?"
For a little they walked in silence; then he asked, "Is it about Jim Reid's suspicion that you wanted to see me, Helen?"
"No, Larry, it isn't. It's about Kitty," she answered.
"Oh!"
"Kitty told me all about it, to-day," Helen continued. "The poor child is almost beside herself."
The man did not speak. Helen looked up at him almost as a mother might have done.
"Do you love her so very much, Larry? Tell me truly, do you?"
Patches could not—dared not—look at her.
"Tell me, Larry," she insisted gently. "I must know. Do you love Kitty as a man ought to love his wife?"
The man answered in a voice that was low and shaking with emotion. "Why should you ask me such a question? You know the answer. What right have you to force me to tell you that which you already know—that I love you—another man's wife?"
Helen's face went white. In her anxiety for Kitty she, had not foreseen this situation in which, by her question, she had placed herself.
"Larry!" she said sharply.
"Well," he retorted passionately, "you insisted that I tell you the truth."
"I insisted that you tell me the truth about Kitty," she returned.
"Well, you have it," he answered quickly.
"Oh, Larry," she cried, "how could you—how could you ask a woman you do not love to be your wife? How could you do it, Larry? And just when I was so proud of you; so glad for you that you had found yourself; that you were such a splendid man!"
"Kitty and I are the best of friends," he answered in a dull, spiritless tone, "the best of companions. In the past year I have grown very fond of her—we have much in common. I can give her the life she desires—the life she is fitted for. I will make her happy; I will be true to her; I will be to her everything that a man should be to his wife."
"No, Larry," she said gently, touched by the hopelessness in his voice, for he had spoken as though he already knew that his attempt to justify his engagement to Kitty was vain. "No, Larry, you cannot be to Kitty everything that a man should be to his wife. You cannot, without love, be a husband to her."
Again they walked in silence for a little way. Then Helen asked: "And are you sure, Larry, that Kitty cares for you—as a woman ought to care, I mean?"
"I could not have asked her to be my wife if I had not thought so," he answered, with more spirit.
"Of course," returned his companion gently, "and Kitty could not have answered, 'yes,' if she had not believed that you loved her."
"Do you mean that you think Kitty does not care for me, Helen?"
"I know that she loves Phil Acton, Larry. I saw it in her face when we first learned that he was hurt. And to-day the poor girl confessed it. She loved him all the time, Larry—has loved him ever since they were boy and girl together. She has tried to deny her heart—she has tried to put other things above her love, but she knows now that she cannot. It is fortunate for you both that she realized her love for Mr. Acton before she had spoiled not only her own life but yours as well."
"But, how could she promise to be my wife when she loved Phil?" he demanded.
"But, how could you ask her when you—" Helen retorted quickly, without thinking of herself. Then she continued bravely, putting herself aside in her effort to make him understand. "You tempted her, Larry. You did not mean it so, perhaps, but you did. You tempted her with your wealth—with all that you could give her of material luxuries and ease and refinement. You tempted her to substitute those things for love. I know, Larry—I know, because you see, dear man, I was once tempted, too."
He made a gesture of protest, but she went on, "You did not know, but I can tell you now that nothing but the memory of my dear father's teaching saved me from a terrible mistake. You are a man now, Larry. You are more to me than any man in the world, save one; and more than any man in the world, save that one, I respect and admire you for the manhood you have gained. But oh, Larry, Larry, don't you see? 'When a man's a man' there is one thing above all others that he cannot do. He cannot take advantage of a woman's weakness; he cannot tempt her beyond her strength; he must be strong both for himself and her; he must save her always from herself."
The man lifted his head and looked away toward Granite Mountain. As once before this woman had aroused him to assert his manhood's strength, she called now to all that was finest and truest in the depth of his being.
"You are always right, Helen," he said, almost reverently.
"No, Larry," she answered quickly, "but you know that I am right in this."
"I will free Kitty from her promise at once," he said, as though to end the matter.
Helen answered quickly. "But that is exactly what you must not do."
The man was bewildered. "Why, I thought—what in the world do you mean?"
She laughed happily as she said, "Stupid Larry, don't you understand? You must make Kitty send you about your business. You must save her self-respect. Can't you see how ashamed and humiliated she would be if she imagined for a moment that you did not love her? Think what she would suffer if she knew that you had merely tried to buy her with your wealth and the things you possess!"
She disregarded his protest.
"That's exactly what your proposal meant, Larry. A girl like Kitty, if she knew the truth of what she had done, might even fancy herself unworthy to accept her happiness now that it has come. You must make her dismiss you, and all that you could give her. You must make her proud and happy to give herself to the man she loves."
"But—what can I do?" he asked in desperation.
"I don't know, Larry. But you must manage somehow—for Kitty's sake you must."
"If only the Dean had not interrupted the proceedings this morning, how it would have simplified everything!" he mused, and she saw that as always he was laughing at himself.
"Don't, Larry; please don't," she cried earnestly.
He looked at her curiously. "Would you have me lie to her, Helen—deliberately lie?"
She answered quietly. "I don't think that I would raise that question, if I were you, Larry—considering all the circumstances."
On his way back to the Cross-Triangle, Patches walked as a man who, having determined upon a difficult and distasteful task, is of a mind to undertake it without delay.
After supper that evening he managed to speak to Kitty when no one was near.
"I must see you alone for a few minutes to-night," he whispered hurriedly. "As soon as possible. I will be under the trees near the bank of the wash. Come to me as soon as it is dark, and you can slip away."
The young woman wondered at his manner. He was so hurried, and appeared so nervous and unlike himself.
"But, Patches, I—"
"You must!" he interrupted with a quick look toward the Dean, who was approaching them. "I have something to tell you—something that I must tell you to-night."
He turned to speak to the Dean, and Kitty presently left them. An hour later, when the night had come, she found him waiting as he had said.
"Listen, Kitty!" he began abruptly, and she thought from his manner and the tone of his voice that he was in a state of nervous fear. "I must go; I dare not stay here another day; I am going to-night."
"Why, Patches," she said, forcing herself to speak quietly in order to calm him. "What is the matter?"
"Matter?" he returned hurriedly. "You know what they tried to do to me this morning."
Kitty was shocked. It was true that she did not—could not—care for this man as she loved Phil, but she had thought him her dearest friend, and she respected and admired him. It was not good to find him now like this—shaken and afraid. She could not understand. For the moment her own trouble was put aside by her honest concern for him.
"But, Patches," she said earnestly, "that is all past now; it cannot happen again."
"You do not know," he returned, "or you would not feel so sure. Phil might—" He checked himself as if he feared to finish the sentence.
Kitty thought now that there must be more cause for his manner than she had guessed.
"But you are not a cattle thief," she protested. "You have only to explain who you are; no one would for a moment believe that Lawrence Knight could be guilty of stealing; it's ridiculous on the face of it!"
"You do not understand," he returned desperately. "There is more in this than stealing."
Kitty started. "You don't mean, Patches—you can't mean—Phil—" she gasped.
"Yes, I mean Phil," he whispered. "I—we were quarreling—I was angry. My God! girl, don't you see why I must go? I dare not stay. Listen, Kitty! It will be all right. Once I am out of this country and living under my own name I will be safe. Later you can come to me. You will come, won't you, dear? You know how I want you; this need make no change in our plans. If you love me you—"
She stopped him with a low cry. "And you—it was you who did that?"
"But I tell you we were quarreling, Kitty," he protested weakly.
"And you think that I could go to you now?" She was trembling with indignation. "Oh, you are so mistaken. It seems that I was mistaken, too. I never dreamed that you—nothing—nothing, that you could ever do would make me forget what you have told me. You are right to go."
"You mean that you will not come to me?" he faltered.
"Could you really think that I would?" she retorted.
"But, Kitty, you will let me go? You will not betray me? You will give me a chance?"
"It is the only thing that I can do," she answered coldly. "I should die of shame, if it were ever known that I had thought of being more to you than I have been; but you must go to-night."
And with this she left him, fairly running toward the house.
Alone in the darkness, Honorable Patches smiled mockingly to himself.
When morning came there was great excitement at the Cross-Triangle Ranch. Patches was missing. And more, the best horse in the Dean's outfit—the big bay with the blazed face, had also disappeared.
Quickly the news spread throughout the valley, and to the distant ranches. And many were the wise heads that nodded understandingly; and many were the "I told you so's." The man who had appeared among them so mysteriously, and who, for a year, had been a never-failing topic of conversation, had finally established his character beyond all question. But the cattlemen felt with reason, because of the Dean's vigorous defense of the man when they would have administered justice, that the matter was now in his hands. They offered their services, and much advice; they quietly joked about the price of horses; but the Dean laughed at their jokes, listened to their advice, and said that he thought the sheriff of Yavapai County could be trusted to handle the case.
To Helen only Kitty told of her last interview with Patches. And Helen, shocked and surprised at the thoroughness with which the man had brought about Kitty's freedom and peace of mind, bade the girl forget and be happy.
When the crisis was passed, and Phil was out of danger, Kitty returned to her home, but every day she and Helen drove across the meadows to see how the patient was progressing. Then one day Helen said good-by to her Williamson Valley friends, and went with Stanford to the home he had prepared for her. And after that Kitty spent still more of her time at the house across the wash from the old Acton homestead.
It was during those weeks of Phil's recovery, while he was slowly regaining his full measure of health and strength, that Kitty learned to know the cowboy in a way that she had never permitted herself to know him before. Little by little, as they sat together under the walnut trees, or walked slowly about the place, the young woman came to understand the mind of the man. As Phil shyly at first, then more freely, opened the doors of his inner self and talked to her as he had talked to Patches of the books he had read; of his observations and thoughts of nature, and of the great world movements and activities that by magazines and books and papers were brought to his hand, she learned to her surprise that even as he lived amid the scenes that called for the highest type of physical strength and courage, he lived an intellectual life that was as marked for its strength and manly vigor.
But while they came thus daily into more intimate and closer companionship they spoke to no one of their love. Kitty, knowing how her father would look upon her engagement to the cowboy, put off the announcement from time to time, not wishing their happy companionship to be marred during those days of Phil's recovery.
When he was strong enough to ride again, Kitty would come with Midnight, and together they would roam about the ranch and the country near by. So it happened that Sunday afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Reid, with the three boys, were making a neighborly call on the Baldwins, and Phil and Kitty were riding in the vicinity of the spot where Kitty had first met Patches.
They were seated in the shade of a cedar on the ridge not far from the drift fence gate, when Phil saw three horsemen approaching from the further side of the fence. By the time the horsemen had reached the gate, Phil knew them to be Yavapai Joe, Nick Cambert and Honorable Patches. Kitty, too, had, by this time, recognized the riders, and with an exclamation started to rise to her feet.
But Phil said quietly, "Wait, Kitty; there's something about that outfit that looks mighty queer to me."
The men were riding in single file, with Yavapai Joe in the lead and Patches last, and their positions were not changed when they halted while Joe, without dismounting, unlatched the gate. They came through the opening, still in the same order, and as they halted again, while Patches closed the gate, Phil saw what it was that caused them to move with such apparent lack of freedom in their relative positions, and why Nick Cambert's attitude in the saddle was so stiff and unnatural. Nick's hands were secured behind his back, and his feet were tied under the horse from stirrup to stirrup, while his horse was controlled by a lead rope, one end of which was made fast to Yavapai Joe's saddle horn.
Patches caught sight of the two under the tree as he came through the gate, but he gave no sign that he had noticed them. As the little procession moved slowly nearer, Phil and Kitty looked at each other without a word, but as they turned again to watch the approaching horsemen, Kitty impulsively grasped Phil's arm. And sitting so, in such unconscious intimacy, they must have made a pleasing picture; at least the man who rode behind Nick Cambert seemed to think so, for he was trying to smile.
When the riders were almost within speaking distance of the pair under the tree, they stopped; and the watchers saw Joe turn his face toward Patches for a moment, then look in their direction. Nick Cambert did not raise his head. Patches came on toward them alone.
As they saw that it was the man's purpose to speak to them, Phil and Kitty rose and stood waiting, Kitty with her hand still on her companion's arm. And now, as they were given a closer and less obstructed view of the man who had been their friend, Kitty and Phil again exchanged wondering glances. This was not the Honorable Patches whom they had known so intimately. The man's clothing was soiled with dirt, and old from rough usage, with here and there a ragged tear. His tall form drooped with weariness, and his unshaven face, dark and deeply tanned, and grimed with sweat and dirt, was thin and drawn and old, and his tired eyes, deep set in their dark hollows, were bloodshot as though from sleepless nights. His dry lips parted in a painful smile, as he dismounted stiffly and limped courteously forward to greet them.
"I know that I am scarcely presentable," he said in a voice that was as worn and old as his face, "but I could not resist the temptation to say 'Howdy'. Perhaps I should introduce myself though," he added, as if to save them from embarrassment. "My name is Lawrence Knight; I am a deputy sheriff of this county." A slight movement as he spoke threw back his unbuttoned jumper, and they saw the badge of his office. "In my official capacity I am taking a prisoner to Prescott."
Phil recovered first, and caught the officer's hand in a grip that told more than words.
Kitty nearly betrayed her secret when she gasped, "But you—you said that you—"
With his ready skill he saved her, "That my name was Patches? I know it was wrong to deceive you as I did, and I regret that it was necessary for me to lie so deliberately, but the situation seemed to demand it. And I hoped that when you understood you would forgive the part I was forced to play for the good of everyone interested."
Kitty understood the meaning in his words that was unknown to Phil, and her eyes expressed the gratitude that she could not speak.
"By the way," Patches continued, "I am not mistaken in offering my congratulations and best wishes, am I?"
They laughed happily.
"We have made no announcement yet," Phil answered, "but you seem to know everything."
"I feel like saying from the bottom of my heart 'God bless you, my children.' You make me feel strangely old," he returned, with a touch of his old wistfulness. Then he added in his droll way, "Perhaps, though, it's from living in the open and sleeping in my clothes so long. Talk about horses, I'd give my kingdom for a bath, a shave and a clean shirt. I had begun to think that our old friend Nick never would brand another calf; that he had reformed, just to get even with me, you know. By the way, Phil, you will be interested to know that Nick is the man who is really responsible for your happiness."
"How?" demanded Phil.
"Why, it was Nick who fired the shot that brought Kitty to her senses. My partner there, Yavapai Joe, saw him do it. If you people would like to thank my prisoner, I will permit it."
When they had decided that they would deny themselves that pleasure, Patches said, "I don't blame you; he's a surly, ill-tempered beast, anyway. Which reminds me that I must be about my official business, and land him in Prescott to-night. I am going to stop at the ranch and ask the Dean for the team and buckboard, though," he added, as he climbed painfully into the saddle. "Adios! my children. Don't stay out too late."
Hand in hand they watched him rejoin his companions and ride away behind the two Tailholt Mountain men.
The Dean and Mrs. Baldwin, with their friends from the neighboring ranch, were enjoying their Sunday afternoon together as old friends will, when the three Reid boys and Little Billy came running from the corral where they had been holding an amateur bronco riding contest with a calf for the wild and wicked outlaw. As they ran toward the group under the walnut trees, the lads disturbed the peaceful conversation of their elders with wild shouts of "Patches has come back! Patches has come back! Nick Cambert is with him—so's Yavapai Joe!"
Jim Reid sprang to his feet. But the Dean calmly kept his seat, and glancing up at his big friend with twinkling eyes, said to the boys, with pretended gruffness, "Aw, what's the matter with you kids? Don't you know that horse thief Patches wouldn't dare show himself in Williamson Valley again? You're havin' bad dreams—that's what's the matter with you. Or else you're tryin' to scare us."
"Honest, it's Patches, Uncle Will," cried Littly Billy.
"We seen him comin' from over beyond the corral," said Jimmy.
"I saw him first," shouted Conny. "I was up in the grand stand—I mean on the fence."
"Me, too," chirped Jack.
Jim Reid stood looking toward the corral. "The boys are right, Will," he said in a low tone. "There they come now."
As the three horsemen rode into the yard, and the watchers noted the peculiarity of their companionship, Jim Reid muttered something under his breath. But the Dean, as he rose leisurely to his feet, was smiling broadly.
The little procession halted when the horses evidenced their dislike of the automobile, and Patches came stiffly forward on foot. Lifting his battered hat courteously to the company, he said to the Dean, "I have returned your horse, sir. I'm very much obliged to you. I think you will find him in fairly good condition."
Jim Reid repeated whatever it was that he had muttered to himself.
The Dean chuckled. "Jim," he said to the big cattleman, "I want to introduce my friend, Mr. Lawrence Knight, one of Sheriff Gordon's deputies. It looks like he had been busy over in the Tailholt Mountain neighborhood."
The two men shook hands silently. Mrs. Reid greeted the officer cordially, while Mrs. Baldwin, to the Dean's great delight, demonstrated her welcome in the good old-fashioned mother way.
"Will Baldwin, I could shake you," she cried, as Patches stood, a little confused by her impulsive greeting. "Here you knew all the time; and you kept pesterin' me by trying to make me believe that you thought he had run away because he was a thief!"
It was, perhaps, the proudest moment of the Dean's life when he admitted that Patches had confided in him that morning when they were so late to breakfast. And how he had understood that the man's disappearance and the pretense of stealing a horse had been only a blind. The good Dean never dreamed that there was so much more in Honorable Patches' strategy than he knew!
"Mr. Baldwin," said Patches presently, "could you let me have the team and buckboard? I want to get my prisoners to Prescott to-night, and"—he laughed shortly—"well, I certainly would appreciate those cushions."
"Sure, son, you can have the whole Cross-Triangle outfit, if you want it," answered the Dean. "But hold on a minute." He turned with twinkling eyes to his neighbor. "Here's Jim with a perfectly good automobile that don't seem to be busy."
The big man responded cordially. "Why, of course; I'll be glad to take you in."
"Thank you," returned Patches. "I'll be ready in a minute."
"But you're goin' to have something to eat first," cried Mrs. Baldwin. "I'll bet you're half starved; you sure look it."
Patches shook his head. "Don't tempt me, mother; I can't stop now."
"But you'll come back home to-night, won't you?" she asked anxiously.
"I would like to," he said. "And may I bring a friend?"
"Your friends are our friends, son," she answered.
"Of course he's comin' back," said the Dean. "Where else would he go, I'd like to know?"
They watched him as he went to his prisoner, and as, unlocking the handcuff that held Nick's right wrist, he re-locked it on his own left arm, thus linking his prisoner securely to himself. Then he spoke to Joe, and the young man, dismounting, unfastened the rope that bound Nick's feet. When Nick was on the ground the three came toward the machine.
"I am afraid I must ask you to let someone take care of the horses," called Patches to the Dean.
"I'll look after them," the Dean returned. "Don't forget now that you're comin' back to-night; Jim will bring you."
Jim Reid, as the three men reached the automobile, said to Patches, "Will you take both of your prisoners in the back seat with you, or shall I take one of them in front with me?"
Patches looked the big man straight in the eyes, and they heard him answer with significant emphasis, as he placed his free hand on Yavapai Joe's shoulder, "I have only one prisoner, Mr. Reid. This man is my friend. He will take whatever seat he prefers."
Yavapai Joe climbed into the rear seat with the officer and his prisoner.
It was after dark when Mr. Reid returned to the ranch with Patches and Joe.
"You will find your room all ready, son," said Mrs. Baldwin, "and there's plenty of hot water in the bathroom tank for you both. Joe can take the extra bed in Curly's room. You show him. I'll have your supper as soon as you are ready."
Patches almost fell asleep at the table. As soon as they had finished he went to his bed, where he remained, as Phil reported at intervals during the next forenoon, "dead to the world," until dinner time. In the afternoon they gathered under the walnut trees—the Cross-Triangle household and the friends from the neighboring ranch—and Patches told them his story; how, when he had left the ranch that night, he had ridden straight to his old friend Stanford Manning; and how Stanford had gone with him to the sheriff, where, through Manning's influence, together with the letter which Patches had brought from the Dean, he had been made an officer of the law. As he told them briefly of his days and nights alone, they needed no minute details to understand what it had meant to him.
"It wasn't the work of catching Nick in a way to ensure his conviction that I minded," he said, "but the trouble was, that while I was watching Nick day and night, and dodging him all the time, I was afraid some enthusiastic cow-puncher would run on to me and treat himself to a shot just for luck. Not that I would have minded that so much, either, after the first week," he added in his droll way, "but considering all the circumstances it would have been rather a poor sort of finish."
"And what about Yavapai Joe?" asked Phil.
Patches smiled. "Where is Joe? What's he been doing all day?"
The Dean answered. "He's just been moseyin' around. I tried to get him to talk, but all he would say was that he'd rather let Mr. Knight tell it."
"Billy," said Patches, "will you find Yavapai Joe, and tell him that I would like to see him here?"
When Little Billy, with the assistance of Jimmy and Conny and Jack, had gone proudly on his mission, Patches said to the others, "Technically, of course, Joe is my prisoner until after the trial, but please don't let him feel it. He will be the principal witness for the state."
When Yavapai Joe appeared, embarrassed and ashamed in their presence, Patches said, as courteously as he would have introduced an equal, "Joe, I want my friends to know your real name. There is no better place in the world than right here to start that job of man-making that we have talked about. You remember that I told you how I started here."
Yavapai Joe lifted his head and stood straighter by his tall friend's side, and there was a new note in his voice as he answered, "Whatever you say goes, Mr. Knight."
Patches smiled. "Friends, this is Mr. Joseph Parkhill, the only son of the distinguished Professor Parkhill, whom you all know so well."
If Patches had planned to enjoy the surprise his words caused, he could not have been disappointed.
Presently, when Joe had slipped away again, Patches told them how, because of his interest in the young man, and because of the lad's strange knowledge of Professor Parkhill, he had written east for the distinguished scholar's history.
"The professor himself was not really so much to blame," said Patches. "It seems that he was born to an intellectual life. The poor fellow never had a chance. Even as a child he was exhibited as a prodigy—a shining example of the possibilities of the race, you know. His father, who was also a professor of some sort, died when he was a baby. His mother, unfortunately, possessed an income sufficient to make it unnecessary that Everard Charles should ever do a day's real work. At the age of twenty, he was graduated from college; at the age of twenty-one he was married to—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say—he was married by—his landlady's daughter. Quite likely the woman was ambitious to break into that higher life to which the professor aspired, and caught her cultured opportunity in an unguarded moment. The details are not clear. But when their only child, Joe, was six years old, the mother ran away with a carpenter who had been at work on the house for some six weeks. A maiden aunt of some fifty years, who was a worshiper of the professor's cult, came to keep his house and to train Joe in the way that good boys should go.
"But the lad proved rather too great a burden, and when he was thirteen they sent him to a school out here in the West, ostensibly for the benefit of the climate. The boy, it was said, being of abnormal mentality, needed to pursue his studies under the most favorable physical conditions. The professor, unhampered by his offspring, continued to climb his aesthetic ladder to intellectual and cultured glory. The boy in due time escaped from the school, and was educated by the man Dryden and Nick Cambert."
"And what will become of him now?" asked the Dean.
Patches smiled. "Why, the lad is twenty-one now, and we have agreed that it is about time that he began to make a man of himself—I can help him a little, perhaps—I have been trying occasionally the past year. But you see the conditions have not been altogether favorable to the experiment. It should be easy from now on."