Meanwhile Collie kept a vigilant eye on Silent Saunders. The other, somewhat sullenly but efficiently, attended to his work. Collie's vigilance was rewarded unexpectedly and rather disagreeably.
One day, as he stood stroking Black Boyar's neck, he happened to glance across the yard. Saunders was saddling one of the horses in the corral. Louise, astride Boyar, spoke to Collie of some detail of the ranch work, purposely prolonging the conversation. Something of the Collie of the Oro barbecue had vanished. In its stead was an inexplicable but positive quality of masterfulness, apparent in poise and manner.
Louise, because she knew him so well, was puzzled and curious. She could not account for the change. She was frankly interested in him in spite of, or perhaps because of, his early misfortunes. Instinctively she felt that he had gained a moral confidence in himself. His physical excellence and ability had always been manifest. This morning, his grave, dark eyes, upturned to her face as he caressed Boyar, were disconcertingly straightforward. He seemed to be drinking his fill of her beauty. His quick smile, still boyish, and altogether irresistible, flashed as she spoke humorously of his conquest of the outlaw colt Yuma.
"I learned more—ridin' that cayuse for two minutes—than I ever expect to learn again in that time."
Remembering that she had been first to reach him when he was thrown, the fresh bloom of her cheeks deepened. Her eyelids drooped for an instant. "One can learn a great deal quickly, sometimes," she said. Then added, for he had smiled again,—"About horses."
"And folks." He spoke quietly and lifted her gauntleted hand, touching it lightly with his lips. So swift, so unexpected had been his homage that she did not realize it until it was irrevocably paid.
"Why, Collie!"
"Because you wasn't ashamed to help a guy in front of the others."
"Please don't say 'guy.' And why should I be ashamed to help any of our boys?" she said, laughing. She had quite recovered herself.
"'Course you wouldn't be. But this is a kind of 'good-bye,' too. I was going to ask you to mail this letter to Overland Red. I told him in it that I was coming."
"We are sorry that you are leaving," said Louise. "Uncle Walter said you had spoken to him."
"It isn't the money. I could wait. But I don't feel like taking all that money and not doing anything for it. I guess Red needs me, too. Brand says I'm a fool to quit here now. Mebby I am. I like it here; the work and everything."
Saunders, watching them, saw Collie give Louise a letter. He saw her tuck it in her waist and rein Boyar round toward the gate.
As Collie came toward the corrals he noticed that Saunders had saddled the pinto Rally. He was a little surprised. Rally was Walter Stone's favorite saddle-horse and used by none but him. He knew his employer was absent. Perhaps Saunders had instructions to bring Rally to the station.
Collie paid no further attention to Saunders until the latter came from his quarters with a coat and a blanket-roll which he tied to the saddle. Then Collie became interested. He left the road and climbed the hill back of the corrals. He watched Saunders astride the pinto as he opened the gate and spurred through without closing it. That was a little unusual.
"I feel almost like taking a cayuse and following him," muttered Collie. "But, no. What for, anyway?"
On a rise far below was Black Boyar, loping along easily. Collie saw him stop and turn into the Old Meadow Trail. He watched for Saunders to appear on the road below the ranch. Presently out from the shoulder of a hill leaped Rally. Saunders was plying quirt and spur. The pinto was doing his best.
"Something's wrong. I'll just take a chance." And Collie ran to the corral and roped the Yuma colt. He saddled her, led her a few steps that she might become used to the feel of the cinchas, and then mounted. He turned the pony up the hill and sat watching the pinto on the road below. He saw Saunders draw rein and dismount, apparently searching the road for something. Then he saw him mount quickly and disappear on the Old Meadow Trail.
Collie whirled the pony round and down the hill. Through the gateway he thundered. The steel-sinewed flanks stiffened and relaxed rhythmically as the hillside flew past. The Yuma colt, half-wild, ran with great leaps that ate into space. They swept through the first ford. A thin sheet of water spread on either side of them. The outlaw fought the curb all the way up the hill beyond. Pebbles clattered from her hoofs and spun skyward as she raced along the level of the hilltop.
Down the next grade the pony swung, taking the turns with short leaps. On the crest Collie checked her. The road beyond, clear to the valley, was empty.
He examined the tracks entering the Old Meadow Trail. He had not been mistaken. Saunders had ridden in. Mounting, Collie spurred through the greasewood, trusting to the pony's natural activity and sure-footedness.
Louise, sitting on the dream-rock in the old meadow, gazed out across the valley. Black Boyar stood near with trailing bridle-reins.
Despite herself the girl kept recalling Collie's face as he had talked with her at the ranch. Admiration she had known before and many times—adoration never, until that morning.
For a long time she dreamed. The shadows of the greasewood lengthened. The air grew cooler. Louise ended her soliloquy by saying aloud: "He's a nice boy, though. I do hope he will keep as he is."
Boyar, lifting his head, nickered and was answered by Rally, entering the meadow. Silent Saunders rode up hurriedly.
"Why, Saunders,—what is it? That's Rally! Were you going to meet Uncle Walter?"
"No, Miss. I'm in a hurry. Just hand over that letter that young Collie give to you at the ranch. I want it. I mean business."
"You want the letter? What do you mean? What right have you—"
"No right. Only I want it. I don't want to make trouble."
"You! A Western man, and speak that way to a woman! Saunders, I'm ashamed to think you ever worked for us."
"Oh, I know you got nerve. But I'm in a hurry. Hand it over. Then you can call me anything you like."
"I shall not hand it over."
"All right. I got to have it."
The girl, her gray eyes blazing with indignation, backed away as he strode toward her. "You'd dare, would you?" And as Saunders laughed she cut him across the face with her quirt.
His face, streaked with the red welt of the rawhide, grew white as he controlled his anger. He leaped at her and had his hands on her when she struck him again with all her strength. He staggered back, his hand to his eyes.
A wild rush of hoofs, a shock, a crash, and he was beneath the plunging feet of the Yuma colt. The pony flashed past, her head jerking up. Louise saw Collie leap to the ground and come running back.
Saunders, rolling to his side, reached for his holster, when he saw that in Collie's hand which precluded further argument.
"Don't get up!" said Collie quietly. "I never killed a man—but I'm going to, quick, if you lift a finger."
Saunders kept still. Collie stepped round behind him. "Now, get up, slow," he commanded.
When Saunders was on his feet, Collie reached forward and secured his gun.
"I'll send your check to the store," said Louise, addressing Saunders. "I shall tell Mr. Stone that I discharged you. I don't believe I had better tell the men about this."
"Beat it, Saunders," said Collie, laughing. "You are leaving here afoot, which suits me fine. Red would be plumb happy to know it."
"Red's goin' to walk into my lead some of these days."
"That's some day. This is to-day," said Collie.
Saunders, turning, gazed covetously at the pinto Rally. Collie saw, and smiled. "I missed twice. The third trick is goin' to be mine. Don't you forget that, Mister Kid," said Saunders.
"Oh, you here yet?" said Collie; and he was not a little gratified to notice that Saunders limped as he struck off down the trail.
Louise drew off her gauntlets and tossed them on the rock. Collie saw the print of Saunders's fingers on her wrist and forearm. "I ought to 'a' made him kneel down and ask you to let him live!" he said.
"I was afraid—at first. Then I was just angry. It was sickening to see the marks grow red and swell on his face. I hit him as hard as I could, but I'm not sorry."
"Sorry?" growled Collie. "He takes your brand with him. He didn't get the letter. I got to thank you a whole lot for that."
"But how did he know I had it? What did he want with the letter?"
"He saw me give it to you. He's one of the bunch, the Mojave bunch that's been trailing Red all over the country. When Red disappeared up in those desert hills, I reckon Saunders must have got hold of a paper and read about the get-away here at the Moonstone. He just naturally came over here and got a job to see if he couldn't trace Red."
"You are thinking of joining Mr. Summers at the claim?"
"Yes. The Eastern folks are gone now. I hate to go. But I got to get busy and make some money. A fellow hasn't much of a show without money these days."
Louise was silent. She sat gazing across the valley.
Collie approached her hesitatingly. "I just got to say it—after all that's happened. Seems that I could, now."
Louise paled and flushed. "Oh, Collie!" she cried entreatingly. "We have been such good friends. Please don't spoil it all!"
"I know I am a fool," he said, "or I was going to be. But please to take Boyar and go. I'll bring Rally. I was wrong to think you would listen a little."
But Louise remained sitting upon the rock as though she had not heard him. Slowly he stepped toward her, his spurs jingling musically. He caught up one of her gloves and turned it over and over in his fingers with a kind of clumsy reverence. "It's mighty little—and there's the shape of your hand in it, just like it bends when you hold the reins. It seems like a thing almost too good for me to touch, because it means you. I know you won't laugh at me, either."
Louise turned toward him. "No. I understand," she said.
"Here was where Red and I first saw you to know who you was. I used to hate folks that wore good clothes. I thought they was all the same, you and all that kind. But, no, it ain't so. You looked back once, when you were riding away from the jail that time. I was going to look for Red and not go to work at the Moonstone. I saw you look back. That settled it. I was proud to think you cared even anything for a tramp. I was mighty lonesome then. Since, I got to thinking I'd be somebody some day. But I can see where I stand. I'm a puncher, working for the Moonstone. You kind of liked me because I had hard luck when I was a kid. But that made me love you. It ain't wrong, I guess, to love something you can't ever reach up to. It ain't wrong to keep on loving, only it's awful lonesome not to ever tell you about it."
"I'm sorry, Collie," said Louise gently.
"Please don't you be sorry. Why, I'm glad! Maybe you don't think it is the best thing in the world to love a girl. I ain't asking anything but to just go on loving you. Seems like a man wants the girl he loves to know it, even if that is just all. You said I love horses. I do. But loving you started me loving horses. Red said once that I was just living like what I thought you wanted me to be. Red's wise when he takes his time to it. But now I'm living the way I think I want to. I won't ask you to say you care. I guess you don't—that way. But if I ever get rich—then—"
"Collie, you must not think I am different from any other girl. I'm just as selfish and stubborn as I can be. I almost feel ashamed to have you think of me as you do. Let's be sensible about it. You know I like you. I'm glad you care—for—what you think I am."
"That's it. You are always so kind to a fellow that it makes me feel mean to speak like I have. You listened—and I am pretty glad of that."
He turned and caught Boyar's bridle. Mounting he caught up Yuma and Rally. Slowly Collie and the girl rode the trail to the level of the summit. Slowly they dropped down the descent into Moonstone Cañon. The letter, Overland Red, Silent Saunders, were forgotten. Side by side plodded the pony Yuma and Black Boyar. Rally followed. The trees on the western edge of the cañon threw long, shadowy bars of dusk across the road. Quail called from the hillside. Other quail answered plaintively from a distance. Alternate warmth and coolness swam in the air and touched the riders' faces.
At a bend in the road the ponies crowded together. Collie's hand accidentally brushed against the girl's and she drew away. He glanced up quickly. She was gazing straight ahead at the distant peaks. He felt strangely pleased that she had drawn away from him when his hand touched hers. Some instinct told him that their old friendship had given place to something else—something as yet too vague to describe. She was not angry with him, he knew. Her face was troubled. He gazed at her as they rode and his heart yearned for her tenderly. Life had suddenly assumed a tensity that silenced them. The little lizards of the stones scurried away from either side of the road. One after another, with sprightly steps, a covey of mountain quail crossed the road before them, leaving little starlike tracks in the dust. Though homeward bound the ponies plodded with lowered heads. Moonstone Cañon, always wonderful in its wild, rugged beauty, seemed as a place of dreams, only real as it echoed the tread of the ponies. The cañon stream chattered, murmured, quarreled round a rock-strewn bend, laughed at itself, and passed, singing a cool-voiced melody.
They rode through a vale of enchantment, only known to Youth and Love. Her gray eyes were misty and troubled. His eyes were heavy with unuttered longing. His heart pounded until it almost choked him. He bit his lips that he might keep silent.
The glint of the slanting sunlight on her hair, the turn of her wrist as she held the reins, her apparent unconsciousness of all outward things enthralled him. A spell hung round him like a mist, blinding and baffling all clearer thought. And because Louise knew his heart, knew that his homage was not of books, but of his very self, she lingered in the dream whose thread she might have snapped with a word, a gesture.
Generously the girl blamed herself that she had been the one to cause him sorrow. She could not give herself to him, be his wife as she knew he wished her to be. Yet she liked him more than she cared to admit. He had fought for her once and taken his punishment with a grin. She felt joy in his homage, and yet she felt humility. In what way, she asked herself, was she better, cleaner of heart, kinder or cleverer than Collie? Why should people make distinctions as to birth, or breeding, or wealth, when character and physical excellence meant so much more?
"Collie!" she whispered, and the touch of her fingers on his arm was as the touch of fire,—"Collie!"
She drew one of her little gray gauntlets from her belt. "Here," she said, and the word was a caress.
But he put the proffered token away from him with a trembling hand. "Don't!" he cried. "I tried not to want you! I did try! This morning—before I told you—I could have knelt and prayed to your glove. But now, Louise, Louise Lacharme, I can't. That glove would burn me and drive me wild to come back to you."
"To come back to you ...?" The words sung themselves through her consciousness. "Come back to you...." He was going away. "You care so much?" she asked. There was a new light in her eyes. Her face was almost colorless. So she had looked when Saunders threatened her. She swayed in the saddle. Collie's arm was about her. She raised one arm and flung it round his neck, drawing his face down to her trembling lips. Then she drew away, her face burning.
Across the end of the cañon a vagrant sunbeam ran like a bridge of faëry gold. It pelted the gray wall with a million particles of mellow fire. It flickered, flashed anew, and faded. The ponies drew apart. The colt Yuma grew restless.
"Good-bye," murmured Louise.
"Like the sunshine," he said, pointing to the cliff.
"It is gone," she whispered, shivering a little as the shadows drew down.
"It will shine again," he said, smiling.
Without a word she touched Black Boyar with the spurs. A stone clattered down as he leaped forward, and she was gone.
Collie curbed the colt Yuma, who would have followed. "No, little hummingbird," he said whimsically. "We aren't so used to heaven that we can ride out of it quite so fast."
Next morning, with blanket and slicker rolled behind his saddle, he rode down the Moonstone Cañon Trail. At the foot of the range he turned eastward, a new world before him. The far hills, hiding the desert beyond, bulked large and mysterious.
Louise had not been present when he bade good-bye to his Moonstone friends.
The afternoon of the third day out from the Moonstone Ranch, Collie picketed the roan pony Yuma near a water-hole in the desert. He spread his saddle-blankets, rolled a cigarette, and smoked. Presently he rose and took some food from a saddle-pocket.
The pony, unused to the desert, fretted and sniffed at the sagebrush with evident disgust. Collie had given her water, but there was no grazing.
After he had eaten he studied the rough map that Overland had given him. There, to the south, was the desert town. He had passed that, as directed, skirting it widely. There to the east were the hills. Somewhere behind them was the hidden cañon and Overland Red.
Stiff and tired from his long ride, he stretched himself for a short rest. He dozed. Something touched his foot. It was the riata with which he had picketed the pony. He meant to travel again that night. He would sleep a little while. The horse, circling the picket, would be sure to awaken him again.
He slept heavily. The Yuma colt stood with rounded nostrils sniffing the night air. The pony faced in the direction of the distant town. She knew that another horse and rider were coming toward her through the darkness. They were far off, but coming.
For a long time she stood stamping impatiently at intervals. Finally she grew restive. The oncoming horse had stopped. That other animal, the man, had dismounted and was coming toward her on foot. She could not see through the starlit blanket of night, but she knew.
The man-thing drew a little nearer. The pony swerved as if about to run, but hesitated, ears flattened, curious, half-belligerent.
That afternoon Silent Saunders, riding along the border of the desert town, had seen a strange horse and rider far out—away from the road and evidently heading for the water-hole. Saunders rode into town, borrowed a pair of field-glasses, and rode out again. He at once recognized the roan pony as the Oro outlaw, but the rider? He was not so sure. He would investigate.
The fact that he saw no glimmer of fire as he now approached the water-hole made him doubly cautious. Nearer, he crouched behind a bush. He threw a pebble at the pony. She circled the picket, awakening Collie, who spoke to her sleepily. Saunders crept back toward his horse. He knew that voice. He would track the young rider to the range and beyond—to the gold. He rode back to town through the night, entered the saloon, and beckoned to a belated lounger.
Shivering in the morning starlight, Collie arose and saddled the pony. He rode in the general direction of the range. The blurred shadow of the foothills seemed stationary. His horse was not moving forward—simply walking a gigantic treadmill of black space that revolved beneath him. The hills drew no nearer than did the constellations above them.
Suddenly the shadows of the hills pushed back. Almost instantly he faced the quick rise of the range. Out of the silence came the slithering step of some one walking in the sand. The darkness seemed to expand.
Overland Red stood before him, silent, alert, anxious. "You, Chico?" he asked.
"Sure. Hello, Red."
"Anybody see you come across yesterday?"
"Not that I know of. I kept away from the town."
"Your hoss shod?"
"Yes. All around. Why?"
"Nothin'. I'm sufferin' glad to see you again. When we get on top of the hills, you take the left trail and keep on down. You can't miss the cañon. I'll leave you here. I got to stay here a spell to see that nothin' else comes up but the sun this mornin'."
"All right, Red. Your pardner down there?"
"Yep. Whistle when you get up to the meadow in the cañon. Billy'll be lookin' for you."
"Any trouble lately?"
"Nope. But Billy's got a hunch, though. He says he feels it in the air."
At the crest Collie rode on down the winding trail, or rather way, for no regular trail existed. At the foot of the range he turned to the right and entered the narrow cañon, following the stream until he came to the meadow, where he picketed the pony.
He continued on up the cañon on foot. When he arrived at the camp, Overland was there waiting. Winthrop and he greeted Collie cordially. "Short cut," explained Overland, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "No hoss trail, though. Too steep."
Faint dawn lights were shifting along the cañon walls as they had breakfast. As the morning sunlight spread to their camp Collie's natural curiosity in regard to Overland's pardner was satisfied. He saw a straight, slender figure, in flannel shirt and khaki. The gray eyes were peculiarly keen and humorous. Winthrop was not a little like his sister Anne in poise and coloring. The hands were nervously slender and aristocratic, albeit roughened and scarred by toil. There was a suggestion of dash and go about Winthrop that appealed to Collie. Even in repose the Easterner seemed to be alert. Undoubtedly he would make a good companion in any circumstance.
"There's spare blankets in the tent. Roll in for a snooze, Collie. Billy and me'll pack your saddle and stuff up here later."
"I guess I will. You might sponge Yuma's back a little, Red. She's brought me close to two hundred miles in the last three days."
"Sure, Bo! I'll brush her teeth and manicure her toe-nails if you say the word. I guess that hoss has kind of made a hit with you."
Collie yawned. "Mebby. But it isn't in it with the hit she'll make with you if you try to take up her feet. She's half-sister to a shot of dynamite. I'm only telling you so she won't kick your fool head off."
"You talk like most a full-size man," said Overland.
Down at the meadow, Overland looked at the colt and shook his head. "He is correct," he said succinctly. "That hoss don't welcome handlin' worth a bean."
Winthrop's silence rather stirred Overland's sensitive pride in his horsemanship. "'Course I broke and rode hundreds like her, down in Mex. But then I was paid for doin' it. It was my business then. Now, minin' and educatin' Collie is my business, and a busted neck wouldn't help any."
Winthrop realized for the first time that Overland's supreme interest in life was Collie's welfare. Heretofore the paternal note had not been evident. Winthrop had imagined them chums, friends, tramps together. They were more than that. Overland considered Collie an adopted son.
The Easterner glanced at Overland's broad shoulders stooped beneath the weight of the heavy stock saddle. Something in the man's humorous simplicity, his entire willingness to serve those whom he liked and his stiff indifference to all others, appealed to Winthrop. So this flotsam of the range, this erstwhile tramp, this paradox of coarseness and sentiment, had an object in life? A laudable object: that of serving with his sincerest effort the boy friend he had picked up on the desert, a castaway.
As they toiled up the stream toward the camp, Winthrop recalled their former chats by the night-fire. Now he began to see the drift of Overland's then frequent references to Collie. And there was a girl,—mentioned by Overland almost reverently,—the Rose Girl, Louise Lacharme, of whom Anne Marshall had written much in eulogy to him. And Winthrop himself?
His swift introspection left him aware that of them all he alone seemed to lack a definite aim. Making money—mining—was still to him a game, interesting and healthful, but play. To Overland it was life. Winthrop saw himself as he was. His improved health scoffed at the idea of becoming sentimental about it. He laughed, and Overland, turning, regarded him with bushy, interrogative brows.
"Nothing," said Winthrop.
"Ain't you feelin' good lately, Billy?"
"I'm all right."
"Glad of that. It's good to forget you got such a thing as health if you want to keep it. If you get to lookin' for it, like as not you'll find it's gone."
"I'm looking for something entirely different. Something you have—something that I never possessed."
"I don't know anything I got that you haven't 'less it's that new Stetson I got in Los. You can have her, Billy, and welcome. Your lid is gettin' on the bum."
"Not that," laughed Winthrop. "Something you keep under it."
"'T ain't me hair. I'm plumb sure of that."
"No."
"Mebby you're jealous of some of me highbrow ideas?"
"Add an 'l' and you have it."
"I-d-e-a-l-s. Oh, ideals, eh? Never owned none except that little electric do-diddle-um of the Guzzuh what makes the spark to keep the machinery goin'. That's called the 'Ideal.'"
"The spark to keep the machinery going—that's it," said Winthrop.
At the camp he prepared to make his trip to the Moonstone Ranch. He read his sister's letter over and over again. Finally he sauntered up the cañon to where Overland was at work. "I'll lend a hand," he said, in answer to Overland's questioning face. "I don't believe I'll go before to-morrow night. It is hardly right to leave the minute my new pardner arrives. I want to talk with him."
Overland nodded. "Guess you're right. It won't hurt to keep in the shadow of the hills for a day or two. Can't tell who might 'a' spotted Collie ridin' out this way."
That afternoon, toward evening, Collie arose, refreshed, and eager to inspect the claim. He could hear the faint click of pick and shovel up the cañon. He stretched himself, drank from the stream, and sauntered toward the meadow. He would see to his pony first.
He found the horse had been picketed afresh by Overland when he had come for the saddle. He was returning toward camp when he heard a slight noise behind him—the noise a man's boot makes stepping on a pebble that turns beneath his weight.
Collie wheeled quickly, saw nothing unusual, and turned again toward the camp. Then he hesitated. He would look down the cañon. He realized that he was unarmed. Then he grew ashamed of his hesitancy. He picked his way down the stream. A buzzard circled far above the cliffs. The air hummed with invisible bees in the rank wild clover. He peered past the next bend. A short distance below stood a riderless horse. The bridle was trailing. For an instant Collie did not realize the significance of the animal waiting patiently for its rider. Then, like the flash of a speeding film, he saw it all—his pony's tracks up the cañon—the rider who had undoubtedly seen him crossing to the water-hole, and who had waited until daylight to follow the tracks; who had dismounted, and was probably in ambush watching him. He summoned all his reserve courage. Turning away, he remarked, distinctly, naturally, casually, "Thought I heard something. Must have been the water."
He walked slowly back to the notch in the cañon walls. Stepping through it, he continued on up the stream. A few paces beyond the notch, and a face appeared in the cleft rock, watching him. The watcher seemed in doubt. Collie's action had been natural enough. Had he seen the horse? The hidden face grew crafty. The eyes grew cold. The watcher tapped the side of the cliff with his revolver butt. The noise was slight, but in that place of sensitive echoes, loud enough to be heard a long way up the cañon. Then it was that Collie made a courageous but terrible mistake. He heard the sound, and seemed to realize that it was made intentionally—to attract his attention. Yet he was not sure. He kept on, ignoring the sound. Had he not suspected some one was in the cañon, to have glanced back would have been the most natural thing in the world. The watcher realized this. He knew that the other had heard him—suspected his presence, and was making a daring bluff.
"Got to stop that," muttered the watcher, and he raised his hand.
The imprisoned report rolled and reëchoed like mountain thunder. Collie threw up his arms and lurched forward.
Below in the cañon clattered the hoofs of the speeding horse. The rider, still holding his six-gun, muzzle up, glanced back. "I didn't care partic'lar about gettin' him, but gettin' the kid hits the red-head between the eyes. I guess I'm about even now." And Silent Saunders holstered his gun, swung out of the cañon, and spurred down the mountain, not toward the desert town, but toward Gophertown, some thirty miles to the north. He had found the claim. The desert town folk he had used to good advantage. They had paid his expenses while he trailed Overland and Collie. They had even guaranteed him protection from the law—such as it was on the Mojave. He had every reason to be grateful to them, but he was just a step or two above them in criminal artistry. He had been a "killer." Like the lone wolf that calls the pack to the hunt, he turned instinctively to Gophertown, a settlement in the hills not unknown to a few of the authorities, but unmolested by them. The atmosphere of Gophertown was not conducive to long life.
Overland, leaning on his shovel, drew his sleeve across his forehead. "Reckon I'll go down and wake Collie. He'll sleep his head off and feel worse 'n thunder."
"I'll go," said Winthrop, throwing aside a pan of dirt with a fine disregard of its eventual value. "I want some tobacco, anyway."
"Fetch a couple of sticks of dynamite along, Billy. I'll put in one more shot for to-night."
A distant, reverberating report caused the two men to jerk into attitudes of tense surprise.
"What the hell!" exclaimed Overland, running toward the tent. "That wasn't the kid. Collie's only packin' a automatic, and here it is."
He stopped in the tent-door, grabbed up the gun and belt, and ran down the cañon, Winthrop following breathlessly. Near the notch he paused, motioning Winthrop to one side. "Mebby it was to draw us on. You keep there, Billy. I'll poke ahead."
But Overland did not go far. He almost stumbled over the prone figure of Collie. With a cry he tore his handkerchief from his throat and plugged the wound. "Clean through," he said, getting to his feet. "Get the whiskey."
"Shan't I help you carry him?" queried Winthrop.
Overland shook his head. "Get the whiskey and get a fire goin'. I'll bring him."
"Will he—live?" asked Winthrop, hesitating.
"I reckon not, Billy. He was plugged from behind—close—and clean through. Here's the slug."
Then Overland picked up the limp form. So this was the end of all his planning and his toil? He cursed himself for having urged Collie to come to the desert. He strode carefully, bent with the weight of that shattered body. He felt that he had lost more than the visible Collie; that he had lost the inspiration, the ideal, the grip on hope that had held him toward the goal of good endeavor. His old-time recklessness swept down upon him like the tides, submerging his better self. Yet he held steadily to one idea. He would do all that he could to save Collie's life. Failing in that ... there would be a red reckoning. After that he would not care what came.
Already he had planned to send Winthrop, in his big car, for a doctor. The car was at the desert town, where a liveryman accepted a royal monthly toll in advance to care for it.
At the tent Overland laid Collie on the blankets, bathed and bandaged the wound, and watched his low pulse quicken to the stimulant that he gave him in small doses.
"It's the shock as much as the wound," said Overland. "He got it close, and from behind—from behind do you hear?"
Winthrop, startled by the other's intensity, stammered: "What shall I do? What shall I do?"
Overland bit his nails and scowled. "You will ride to town. Collie's hoss is here. Take the Guzzuh and burn the road for Los and get a doctor. Not a pill doctor, but a knife man. Bring the car clean back here to the range. To hell with the chances."
Winthrop slipped into his coat and filled a canteen.
"If that horse throws me—" he began.
"You got to ride. You got to, understand? I dassent leave him."
Down in the meadow Overland saddled the pony Yuma. He mounted and she had her "spell" of bucking. "Now, take her and ride," said Overland. "After you hit the level, let her out and hang on. If any one tries to stick you up this time—why, jest nacherally plug 'em. Sabe?"
Two hours later a wild-eyed, sweating pony tore through the desert town at a run. Her rider slid to the ground as the liveryman grabbed the pony's bridle.
"Take—care—of her," gasped Winthrop. "I want—the machine."
"Anybody hurt?"
"Yes. Who did that?"
Winthrop stood with mouth open and eyes staring. The tires of the big machine were flat.
"I dunno. I watched her every day. I sleep here nights. Las' Sunday I was over to Daggett."
"And left no one in charge?"
"The boy was here."
"Well—the job is done. Take care of the horse. I'll be back in a minute."
At the station Winthrop wired for a special car and engine. He gave his check for the amount necessary and went back to the stable. He was working at the damaged tires when the agent appeared. "Special's at the Junction now. Be here in five minutes."
Winthrop climbed to the engine-cab. "I'll give you ten dollars for every minute you cut from the regular passenger schedule," he said.
The engineer nodded. "Get back on the plush and hang on," was his brief acknowledgment.
It was dark when the surgeon, drying his hands, came from the cañon stream to the tent. "That's about all I can do now," he said, slipping into his coat.
Overland, who was sitting on a box beside the tent, stood up and stretched himself. "Is he goin' to make it?" he asked.
"I can't say. He is young, in good condition, and strong. If you will get me some blankets, I'll turn in. Call me in about two hours."
Several days passed before the surgeon would express a definite opinion.
Collie lay, hollow-cheeked and ghastly, in the dim interior of the tent. His eyes were wide and fixed. Overland came in. Collie recognized him and tried to smile. Overland backed out of the tent and strode away growling. The tears were running down his unshaven cheeks. He did not return until later in the day. Then he asked the surgeon that oft-repeated question.
"I don't see how he can recover," said the surgeon quietly. "Of course there's a slim chance. Don't build on it, though."
"If there's a chance, I reckon he will freeze to it," said Overland. "From what he was ramblin' about when he was off his head, I reckon he's got somethin' more to live for than just himself."
"Has he any relatives?" queried the surgeon.
"Nope. Except me. But he was expectin' to have, I guess. And I tell you what, Doc, she's worth gettin' shot up for."
"Too bad! Too bad," muttered the surgeon.
The other shook his head. "If there is any one that he would care to see, or that would care to see him, you had better write at once."
Overland was stunned. The doctor's word had been given at last, and it was not a word of hope.
Overland Red bowed to the doctor's opinion, but his heart was unconquerable. He wrote a long letter to his old-time friend, Brand Williams, of the Moonstone Ranch. The letter was curiously worded. It did not mention Louise Lacharme, nor Mrs. Stone, nor the rancher. It was, in the main, about Mexico and the "old days"; no hint of Collie's accident was in the page until the very end. The letter concluded with "But you needn't think you owe me anything for that. I was glad to put him to the hush because we was pals them days. Collie was shot by Saunders. The doctor says he will die most likely. He was shot in the back. It would go bad with Saunders if the Moonstone boys ever heard of this."
The letter dispatched by Winthrop, Overland Red took courage. He felt that he himself was holding Collie's life from sinking. His huge optimism would not admit that his friend could die.
He was leaning back against a rock near the notch and gazing at the slanting moonlight that spread across the somber canyon walls. A week had gone since he mailed his letter to Brand Williams, of the Moonstone, and Collie was still alive. Overland shifted his position, standing beside him the Winchester that had lain across his knees, and pulling his sombrero over his eyes. The notch made an excellent background for an object over the sights of a rifle, even at night, so long as the moon shone. Gophertown riders would never venture that far up the cañon with horses. They would tether their ponies at the entrance and come afoot and under cover. Still, they would have to pass the notch in any event.
Thus it was that when, some few minutes later, Overland heard the faint jingle of rein-chains, he grinned. It was celestial music to him.
The sound came again, nearer the notch, and clearer. He remained motionless gazing at the shadowy opening.
Slowly a shaft of moonlight drew down toward the notch, silvering its ragged edges. Lower the light slid until it revealed the opening and in it the figure of a horseman. In the white light Overland could see the quirt dangling from the other's wrist. The horseman's wide belt glittered.
"Brand!" called Overland Red softly. The opposite wall took up the name hesitatingly and tossed it back.
"Brand!" whispered the echoes that drifted to the darkened corners of the cliff and were lost in voiceless murmurings.
"Brand your own stock," came the answer, low and distinct.
Overland laughed. It was their old-time pun upon the foreman's name. He got to his feet and approached. "It does me good," he said, extending his hand.
"How is Collie?" asked Williams, dismounting.
Overland heaved great sigh. "He's floatin' somewhere between here and the far shore. Mebby he's tryin' to pull through. The doc says the kid don't seem to care whether he does or not. Did—the little Rose Girl—tell you anything to—to say to him?"
"When I was leavin' she come out to the gate," said Williams. "She didn't say much. She only hands me this, and kind of whispered, 'Give him this. He will understand.'"
And Williams drew a small gray gauntlet from his shirt. Overland took the glove and tucked it in his pocket.
"Anything doing?" asked Williams.
"Nope. They're overdue to jump us if shootin' Collie was any sign."
"Like old times," said Williams.
"Like old times," echoed Overland. "No trouble findin' your way across?"
"Easy. Followed them automobile tracks clear to the range. We fed up at the town. The boys gets kind of restless—"
"Boys? Ain't you alone?"
"Hell, no!" replied Williams disgustedly. "I wish I was! I got four pigeon-toed, bow-legged, bat-eared Moonstoners down in that meadow, just itchin' mad to cut loose. And they ain't sayin' a word, which is suspicious. Worryin' across the old dry spot the last three days has kind of het 'em up. And then hearin' about Collie...."
"How'd you come to have so much comp'ny?" queried Overland.
"I was plumb fool enough to read that letter of yours to 'em. They all like Collie first-rate. Better than I calculated on. The boss talked turkey to 'em, but he had to let 'em come. He did everything he could to hold 'em, knowin' what was in the wind."
"And they quit?"
"Quit? Every red-eyed bat of 'em. Bud and Pars and Billy and Miguel. Told the boss they quit, because me bein' foreman they would do as I says, but if they quit I wasn't their foreman any longer, and they would do as they dum please. They had the nerve to tell me that I could come along if I was wishful."
"Kind of bad for Stone, eh?"
"The Price boys are holdin' down the ranch. You see, Jack, it hit us kind of hard, Collie ridin' away one mornin', and next thing your letter that he was down and pretty nigh out. The boys didn't just like that."
Overland nodded. "Well, Brand, I guess I'll step down and look 'em over."
"Only one thing, Jack. I feel kind of responsible for them boys, even if I ain't their foreman just now. Don't you go to spielin' to 'em and get 'em thinkin' foolish. They're about ready to shoot up a town, if necessary."
"Been hittin' the booze any?"
"Some. But not bad."
"All right. I don't want to say only 'How!' and thank 'em for Collie. If I say more than three words after that, you can have my hat."
"It don't take three words, sometimes," said Williams, somewhat ambiguously.
"Leave it to me," said Overland, still more ambiguously.
Ringed round their little fire in the meadow sat or lay the Moonstone riders. While crossing the desert Williams had sketched a few of the red episodes in Overland's early career. These pleased the riders mightily. They were anxious to meet Red Jack Summers. When Williams did introduce him, they were rather silent, asking after Collie in monosyllables. They seemed strangely reticent.
Both Williams and Overland felt an inexplicable tensity in the situation.
Miguel, the young Mexican vaquero, broke silence. "How long you call it to this Gophertown place, I think?"
"Thirty miles," said Overland.
"Walkin' backwards—like Miguel's talk," said Billy Dime.
"That's easy," said Bud Light.
"What's easy?" questioned Williams.
"Walkin' backwards," replied the facetious Bud.
"If you don't step on your neck," said Pars Long.
"I'm gettin' cold feet," asserted Bud Light after a silence.
"That disease is ketchin'," said Billy Dime.
"I know it. I been sleepin' next to you," retorted Bud.
Brand Williams glanced across the fire at Overland, who smiled inscrutably. The undercurrent was unfathomable to Williams, though he guessed its main drift.
Suddenly Pars Long glanced at the foreman. "Brand," he said quietly, "we expect you didn't read all of that letter from your friend here. You said Collie was shot. You didn't say how, which ain't natural. We been talkin' about it. Where was he hit?"
Overland saw his chance and grasped it with both hands. "In the back," he said slowly, and with great intensity.
Followed a silence in which the stamping of the tethered horses and the whisper of the fire were the only sounds.
Presently Miguel ran his fingers through his glossy black hair. "In the back!" he exclaimed. "And you needn't to tell that he was run away, neither."
"In the back?" echoed Billy Dime.
Overland and Williams exchanged glances. "You done it now," said Williams.
"'Cordin' to agreement," said Overland.
"Make it a wireless," said Billy Dime. "We ain't listenin', anyhow."
"Only thirty miles. What do you say, Brand?"
"Nothin'."
"As usual," ejaculated Dime.
"I say about three to-morrow morning," ventured Pars Long. "Light will be good about nine. We can do the thirty by nine. A fella would be able to ride round town then without fallin' over anything."
"What you fellas gettin' at?" queried Williams.
"Gophertown," replied Dime. "You want to come along?"
"Is it settled?" asked the foreman.
The group nodded.
"Well, boys, it would 'a' been my way of evenin' up for a pal."
"Then you're comin', too?"
"Do you think I'm packin' these here two guns and this belt jest to reduce my shape?" queried Williams in a rather hurt tone.
"Whoop-ee for Brand!" they chorused, and the tethered ponies shied and circled.
"I never rode out lookin' for trouble," said Williams. "And I never shied from lookin' at it when it come my way."
"Who said anything about trouble?" queried Billy Dime innocently. "I'm dry. I want a drink. I'm goin' over to Gophertown to get it. I'll treat the bunch."
"Which bunch?"
"Any and all—come stand up and down it."
"We'll be there when you call our numbers, sister. You comin'?" asked Pars Long, nodding toward Overland.
"Me? Nope.... I'm goin'. I'm goin' to ask you boys to kindly allow me the privilege of gettin' my drink first and by my lonesome. There will be a gent there with sore eyes. He got sore eyes waitin' and watchin' for me to call. I expect to cure him of his eye trouble. After that you will be as welcome as Mary's little lamb—fried."
"Bur-rie me not on the lo-o-ne prai-ree," sang Bud Light.
"Not while you got the fastest hoss in the outfit," said Williams.
"Collie's hoss is here," said Overland. "I'm ridin' her this trip. I kind of like the idea of usin' his hoss on this here errand of mercy."
"Three—to-morrow mornin'!" called Billy Dime, as Overland disappeared in the shadows.
Brand Williams, the taciturn, the silent, stepped from the fire and strode across the meadow. He paused opposite the Yuma colt and gazed at her in the moonlight. He jerked up his chin and laughed noiselessly. "Two-gun Jack Summers on that red Yuma hoss, ridin' into Gophertown with both hands filled and lookin' for trouble.... God! He was bad enough when he was dodgin' trouble. Well, I'm glad I'm livin' to see it. I was commencin' to think they wasn't any more men left in the country. I'm forty-seven year old. To-morrow I'll be twenty again ... or nothin'."