Some towns "nestle" on the plain. Others, more aspiring, "roost" in the hills. Gophertown squatted on the desert at the very edge of a range of barren foothills. Its principal street was not much more than a bridle-trail that led past eleven ramshackle cabins, derelicts of the old mining days when Gophertown knew gold.
The population of Gophertown was of an itinerant order. This was not always due to internecine disputes. Frequently a citizen became overbold and visited his old haunts instead of remaining safely, even if monotonously, at home. Train robbery was a sure passport to Gophertown's protection. Man-killing lent an added distinction to an applicant for hurried admission. Cattle-and horse-thieving were mere industries not to be confounded with these higher professions.
Overland Red had once wintered in Gophertown. Immediately previous to his arrival in Gophertown he had been obliged to maintain, in an unofficial capacity, his former prestige as sheriff of Abilene. The town of Abilene had sympathized with him heartily, but had advised him to absent himself indefinitely and within the hour.
The general store and saloon of the old mining camp still stood at the corner of the town facing the desert. A bleached and faded sign once read, "Palace Emporium." The letters now seemed to be shrinking from public gaze—vanishing into the wood as though ashamed of themselves. The wording of the sign had been frequently and indifferently punctuated. Each succeeding marksman had exploded his own theory, and passed on.
Liquor was still to be obtained at the general store. Provisions were occasionally teamed in and were made up of peculiarly conglomerate lots. There were no women in Gophertown. There was little local gossip. There was no regular watch kept on the outlands. Gophertown felt secure in itself. Each man was his own argus. He was expected to know his enemies by instinct. He was expected, as a usual thing, to settle his disputes single-handed.
Silent Saunders was in the general store and saloon. He was disgusted in that he had been unable to induce the citizens to ride out with him and clean up Overland Red's claim. Overland had once been of them, even if briefly. He had been popular, especially as he was then the quickest man with a gun they had ever honored with their patronage. Also, the Gophertown folk had recently received a warning letter from the superintendent of a transcontinental railroad. They were not interested in Saunders's proposal.
Saunders, coming from the saloon, was not a little surprised to see a band of horsemen far out on the desert. He felt that their presence in his vicinity had something to do with himself. He counted the horses. There were six of them. He knew instantly that the riders were cowmen, although he could not distinguish one from another. He beckoned to the saloon-keeper.
"We could 'a' stopped that," he said, pointing toward the desert.
"Big bunch. One—two—three—six of 'em. Big bunch to come visitin' here."
Saunders gestured toward the cañon behind Gophertown.
The saloon-keeper shook his head. "Don't think most of our boys will be back this week. Brandin' that bunch of new stock. Takes time to do it right."
"Well, here comes Parks and Santa Fé Smith," said Saunders. "That makes four of us."
"Mebby—and mebby not," said the saloon-keeper. "That depends. Depends on the party that's callin' and who they're callin' on."
"There's Sago—just ridin' the ledge trail. That's five."
"'Lige and Joe Kennedy are up at the corrals," said the saloon-keeper. "They would hate to miss anything like this."
"Mebby they won't, if that bunch gets past us," said Saunders.
"Seen the time when you could handle them alone, didn't you, Si?"
"Yes, and I can now."
"Nix, Si. Your gun arms ain't what they was sence Overland Red winged you."
"How in hell do you know he did?"
"I could tell you more. But come on in and have one on the house. If I was you, I'd set with my back to the door and be taking a drink. Red Summers never shot a man in the back yet. If he's playin' for you, why, that gives you a chance to pull a gun."
"How about you?" queried Saunders.
"Me? None of my business. I'm here to push the booze."
"And you'll do your collectin' with a gun, or go broke, if it's Red Summers and his friends."
"Tryin' to scare me because you are?" asked the bartender.
"Red helped Kennedy out of a mix once. Kennedy is his friend."
"But Joe ain't here. What's gettin' into you? How do you know it is Red, anyway? You act queer."
"I got a hunch," said Saunders.
"Then you want to go into action quick, for when a gunman gets a hunch that he knows who is trailin' him, it's a bad sign."
Saunders drummed on the table with his fingers. The drink of liquor had restored his nerve. Perhaps the riders were not coming to visit him, after all. He rose and stepped to the door. The oncoming horses were near enough for him to distinguish the roan outlaw Yuma—Collie's horse. Her rider's figure was only too familiar. Saunders fingered his belt. Unbuckling it, he stepped back into the barroom and laid the two-holstered guns and the belt on the table.
Parks, from up in the cañon, rode up, tied his pony, and strolled to the bar, nodding to Saunders. Following him came Santa Fé Smith, a bow-legged individual in sweater and blue jeans. He nodded to Saunders. Presently Sago, the Inyo County outlaw, came in, wheezing and perspiring. Saunders stepped to the bar and called for "one all around."
As they drank two more ponies clattered up and 'Lige and Joe Kennedy joined the group at the bar. "Hutch and Simpson are comin' afoot," said Joe Kennedy.
"That leaves Wagner and the Chink to hear from," said the saloon-keeper.
"Wagner's sick. I don't know where the Chink is. Everybody seems to 'a' got up in time for dinner, this mornin', eh?" And big Joe Kennedy laughed. "This here bar is right popular jest now."
"Goin' to be more popular," said the saloon-keeper.
"That so?" exclaimed several, facetiously.
"Ask Saunders there," said the saloon-keeper.
"Friends of yours, Silent?"
"Yes. Friends of mine."
"Whole six of 'em, eh?"
"Whole six of 'em."
"Well, we won't butt in. We'll give you lots of room."
Saunders said nothing. He paid for the liquor, and, stepping to the table, sat with his back to the doorway. In front of him lay his guns, placed handily, but with studied carelessness. He leaned naturally on one elbow, as though half asleep. His hat was tilted over his brows.
From outside came the jingle of spurs and rein-chains and the distant sound of voices. Saunders began leisurely to roll a cigarette. He laid a few matches on the table. Several of the men at the bar grinned knowingly.
Then came the gritting of heels on the hardpacked trail and Overland Red stood in the doorway. "Mornin', gents—and Saunders," he said, glancing at the figure seated back toward him.
"Hello, Red!" exclaimed Joe Kennedy. "Out early, ain't you. Have a drink."
"Not out too early. Hello, Lusk!"
"How, Red," said the saloon-keeper.
"Where's your friends. Ask 'em in," said Kennedy.
"Shall I ask 'em in, Saunders?" queried Overland, his voice edged with a double meaning.
"Not on my account," said Saunders over his shoulder.
"All right. Let's have a drink, boys."
Even "Go-Light" Sago, the vilest of the Gophertown crew, admired Overland's coolness in turning his back on Saunders and facing the bar.
For a second Saunders's fingers twitched. He glanced up.
Joe Kennedy was looking at him over his glass of whiskey. "Ain't you drinkin', Silent?" he asked.
"With some folks," said Saunders.
Overland whirled round. "Have a drink with me, then."
Saunders laughed.
"Then you don't smoke either, while I'm here," said Overland, his hand on his hip.
"That so?"
"Yes, that's so! When you try to pull that old bluff of a match-game on me, wait till I'm a hundred and four years old, Silent. That gun-trick died of old age. Think up a new one."
"Ain't you talkin' a little loud for polite sassiety?" questioned Sago, addressing Overland.
"Seein' you're the only one that thinks so, I reckon not," said Overland.
"Then," said Sago, moving slightly from the bar, "Saunders smokes."
It was an open declaration of war. Sago, the Inyo County outlaw, sided with Saunders.
According to the ethics of gunmen, Saunders was not armed. He was not "packing iron." His weapons lay on the table within reach, but he knew Overland would not precipitate matters by shooting him down where he sat. He glanced at Sago. The other winked.
"Then I smoke," said Saunders, and reached for a match. He shot from the hip, swinging his guns sideways. The stutter of Overland's automatics mingled with the roar of Saunders's heavy Colts.
Sago, jumping clear, pulled his gun. Kennedy clutched his arm. Saunders slid from his chair, coughed horribly, and wilted to the floor. Overland backed toward the door, both guns leveled.
Sago, jerking his arm free, threw two shots at Overland, who replied with a rippling tattoo of the automatics. The Inyo County outlaw sank to his hands and knees. Then Overland leaped through the doorway. The Moonstone riders spurred toward the saloon, thinking that the quarrel had provoked too many guns. Overland tried to stop them, but they were hot for fight.
"It's a clean up!" yelled Parks, running out of the saloon and mounting his horse. "You framed it, you red-headed son—" He got no further. Brand Williams, thundering down at the head of the Moonstone riders, threw a level shot that cut through Parks, who wavered, but managed to wheel his horse and fire at Overland Red. Then the outlaw slid from the saddle clawing at it as he fell.
The Gophertown men poured from the saloon, and, seizing their ponies, circled round to the back of the building, firing as they retreated.
Miguel spurred his big pinto in among them and emptied his gun. He rode out at a lope, reloading. The front of his flannel shirt was shot away, but he was not aware of it.
Billy Dime coolly sat his horse and "drew fine" at each shot, till a leaden slug drilled his gun-arm. He swore profusely, and wisely spurred out of range.
"I got one!" cried Miguel, swinging shut the cylinder of his gun. "I go get another one."
"Give 'em my com-pli-ments," said Dime, winding a handkerchief round his arm and knotting it with one hand and his teeth.
Williams, keeping under cover, fired slowly and with great precision. Overland Red, utterly unable to manage the Yuma colt under fire, rode up to Williams. "Let's call it off, Brand. I got my man. They was no need of the rest of it. How did it start, anyhow?"
"That's about what the kid said when he let go the wagon on top of the hill. I counted five Gophers down. Billy's hit, and Miguel's goin' to be, the dam' little fool. Look at him!"
The Gophertown men were drawing away toward the cañon. They turned occasionally to throw a shot at Miguel and Pars Long, who followed them.
Bud Light sat his horse, gazing solemnly at the stump of his gun-finger. His shirt was spattered with blood.
Suddenly Williams raised a shrill call. The Moonstone boys wheeled their ponies and rode toward him. Williams pointed up the cañon. Down it rode a group of men who seemed to be undecided in their movements. They would spur forward and then check and circle, apparently waiting for their friends to come up to them. "It's the rest of the Gophertown outfit. We might as well beat it," said Williams. "This here thing's gettin' too popular all to once."
"Did that guy get you?" asked Williams, nodding to Overland.
"Not what you'd notice," replied Overland. "We'll take a drink on the house. She ain't so tidy as she was."
"Neither is the guy behind the bar," said Bud Light, pointing with the stub of his finger to Lusk's face. The saloon-keeper had been hit between the eyes by a chance bullet.
"He's where he belongs," said Williams. "So is this one." And Williams touched Saunders's body with his boot. "Let's drink and vamoose."
"Here's to the kid!" cried Overland, strangely white and shaky.
"Here's hoping!" chorused the Moonstone riders.
None of the Moonstone boys had supposed that Overland Red was hit. He rode joyfully and even began a poem to the occasion. Williams was first to notice that Overland's speech was growing thick and that his free hand clasped the saddle-horn.
The others, riding a little to the rear, burst suddenly into boisterous laughter. "What you think, Brand?" called Pars Long. "Bud's jest been countin' his fingers and he says there is one missin'. He ain't sure yet, but he's countin' hard. He has to skip when he comes to number one on his right mitt. Says he can't get started to count, that way."
"Some lucky it ain't his head," replied Williams.
"His head? Bud would never miss that. But his pore little ole finger, layin' calm and cold back there. A very sad business, brethren."
"I paid twelve sweaty plunks for her in Los and look at her!" cried Pars Long, doffing his sombrero. The high crown was literally shot to pieces. "I guess I am some wise guy. You fellas kidded me about sportin' an extra high lid. Come on, Chico, they're laughin' at us!"
"If they'd 'a' shot the crown off clean down to your ears, you'd never noticed it," grumbled Billy Dime.
"Mebby I am a flat-headed chicken, Billy, but I got both wings yet," retorted Long.
Billy Dime looked down at the blood-soaked sleeve of his right arm. "The fella that did it is eatin' grass now," he muttered.
"Now, what's the matter with Miguel? Discovered any bullets nestin' in your manly buzzum, Miguel?"
"I think no. But I lose something," replied Miguel, smiling.
"That so?"
"I did have the tobacco and papers here," he said, and he put his hand on his chest. "Now I look and the pocket and some of the shirt is not there—and my tobacco is gone, and the little papers."
"Is that all? Sad. I thought you'd lost a railroad or a steamship or something. Cheer up! Things might be better."
"I think I like to smoke," said Miguel, quite seriously. "I will ride back and get some tobacco and some more papers."
"That ain't all you'll get. Here, smoke up. You look fine in that peek-a-boo shirt. Never knowed you had such a good shape. What size gloves do you wear, pet?" And Pars Long passed tobacco and papers to Miguel, who rolled a cigarette and smoked contentedly.
"Billy, you look sick," said Bud Light.
"Oh, no! I want to go to a dance, right away. Whoa!"
They drew rein. Williams, dismounting, was bending over his companion Overland, who had suddenly slipped from the saddle.
"Where's he punctured?" queried Bud Light.
Williams examined the prostrate man. "Kind of low down, and in the side. 'T ain't bad, but it's bad enough. Got any whiskey?"
"You bet! I got a pocket-gun here. Swiped it in the saloon." And Pars Long handed a flask to Williams.
The riders, standing round the fallen man, watched Williams as he bound up the wound, which was bleeding slowly. The whiskey partially revived Overland. He managed finally to cling to the saddle, supported by Williams.
"She's thirty hot miles to camp. Red won't last out," said Long.
"I say he does," said Bud Light. "Did you see them puckers in his hide? I counted seven. He ain't made to be stopped by a gun."
"Mebby he ain't stopped, but he's slowed up considerable. Did you see the two guys he got? Saunders was pretty nigh cut in two and the other one by the bar had four holes in him. I counted 'em, to quit thinkin' of my arm. Them automatics is fierce!"
"He would never 'a' got out if he'd been packin' a regular old six-gun," said Bud Light. "Both them guys were throwin' lead at him."
"How do you know? You wasn't there."
"Easy. He went in to get Saunders. He gets him. The other one takes a hand. He got him. We didn't do any shootin' inside."
"Guess that's right. But how about the barkeep?"
"Oh, he just got in the way. He was drilled between the lamps. In a mix like that who's goin' to take time to draw fine?"
"Did you see Brand lift the Gophertown guy out of his saddle—the one that was shootin' at Red in front of the joint? Brand threw a forty-five into him, and comin' on the jump, too. The Gopher humped up like he'd been horned by the Santa Fé Limited. Now what's the dope?"
Overland Red had again fallen from his horse. Williams beckoned to Long. "Take the Yuma colt, Pars, and fan it for the cañon. Send the doc back, and you stay with that young Winthrop and look after Collie. Your hoss is quieter for Red, anyway. Tell the doc to bring his tools along. I reckon we'll camp over there near the hills till to-morrow."
"Who was it got me?" questioned Overland as he was revived a second time.
"I don't know," replied Williams. "The only distinguishin' brand on him was one I put there. It ain't worryin' him now."
"Like old times," said Overland, trying to smile.
"Like old times," echoed Williams.
"I guess it was Parks," murmured Overland. "He had plenty of chance. I wasn't after him."
Slowly the group of horsemen rode across the desert. The afternoon sun made queer shadows of them and their mounts. Billy Dime rode bent forward. His face was white and beaded with sweat. Overland, on Long's pony, was supported by Miguel and Brand Williams. Pars Long had disappeared in the shadows of the range.
Billy Dime's eyes grew strangely bright. He laughed, gazing at the foreman's back. "The whole damn fuss was wrong, wrong, I tell you! We had no business shootin' up that town."
"But it was considerable pleasure," said Bud Light. "You're off your bean, Billy. I guess you forget what they did to Collie."
Billy Dime leered. The fever from his wound was working through his blood. "Don't pertend to me, Bud Light, that you come on this little pasear on account of Collie. It was her eyes that said to go. You know that. She never said words, but her eyes said to go—and to kill! Do you get that? That's what a woman can do to a man, without sayin' a word. And what did Collie ever do for me? Look at that arm. Look at it! What did Collie ever do for me to get shot up this way?" And Billy Dime began to weep. "I killed two of 'em—two of 'em. I saw 'em drop. I was drawin' fine—fine, I tell you, and I couldn't miss."
Bud Light rode forward to Williams. "Billy's gone off his crust. He's ravin' back there, Brand."
Williams drew Long's flask from his saddle-pocket. "Give him a shot of this. Take some yourself. Miguel and I don't need any. Hold on—I'll give Red a shot first. When it gets to workin', you yip and ride for the hills. We'll all ride—ride, you understand? It'll be a dry camp, and a hard flash, but we'll make it."
One morning, some three weeks after the invasion of Gophertown, Bud Light, Billy Dime, and Brand Williams appeared at the Moonstone Ranch office.
Quite casually they had dismounted, and jingling up had asked for Walter Stone. Upon his appearance the younger men applied individually for their old places. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and antiseptics. Quite as though nothing unusual had happened the rancher reinstated them.
"Have a good time, boys?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Very good time. Better than we expected," replied Billy Dime. Bud Light nodded.
Stone looked hard at Billy Dime's bandaged arm. "Miguel and Parson Long have a good time also?"
"Stayed to help Overland Red work the claim. Overland Red got hurt a little, doin' somethin'. He's all right now."
"None of the Moonstone boys were injured?"
"Nope. Not a one of us," replied Dime blandly.
Walter Stone's eyes twinkled, but he did not smile. "We will call it a vacation this time, with pay. Tell Williams to step in here, please." And the rancher dismissed his embarrassed and happy punchers with a gesture.
The interview with Williams was not so brief. "The boys came out of it all right?" asked Stone, shaking hands with his old foreman.
"Yes, sir."
"How did you manage that?"
"Didn't. They did."
"Any one—er—of the other side have an accident?"
"Saunders—and six gents got hurt pretty bad."
"Whew! Our boys were lucky."
"It was nothin' but luck that they ain't all back there now—on the sand. You see, the Gophertown outfit are all what you'd call good with a gun, but it was kind of a surprise, the spreadin' of the thing from Red's little private deal to a six-hand game. We sure was lucky."
"And Collie?"
Williams shook his head. "I don't know. We thought he had crossed over. Seems he took a new holt. The doc and Winthrop brung him to Los in the automobile. He's at the hospital. But they say he don't pick up any since he come there."
"All right, Brand. I think that is all."
"How about my name goin' back on the books?" asked Williams.
"It hasn't been off the books. You know, Louise attends to the time-sheet."
Williams nodded. "I expect Miguel and Parson Long will be sniffin' around lookin' for a job before long. They agreed to stay with Red till he got on his feet again. But they told him they would go just as soon as he was all right, for you couldn't run your ranch without 'em."
Walter Stone smiled broadly. "You're foreman, Brand."
"They was fightin' just as much for the name of the old Moonstone as for Collie, or for fun," said Williams.
"I know it. But I don't believe in such methods. That sort of thing is about done with," said Stone.
"I was readin' about the old days in the Panamint, not long ago," said Williams, gazing at a corner of the office. "I—they was a list of names of the ranchers that cleaned up the rustlers over there, back in '86. It was interestin'—some of them names."
Walter Stone coughed and turned in his chair. He gazed out of the window. Finally he faced Williams again. "We had to do it," he said, smiling.
Williams nodded. They understood each other.
The Marshalls, delighted with Los Angeles, had taken apartments in the city. Dr. Marshall, at the urgent request of Walter Stone, had called at the hospital to see Collie. The wound had healed slowly. Collie gained no strength. He seemed indifferent as to whether he recovered or not. Dr. Marshall, consulting with the surgeon, agreed that the young man's recovery was still doubtful. His vitality was extremely low. His usual optimism had stagnated.
Later, when Walter Stone, Mrs. Stone, and Louise visited the hospital, Collie had smiled wanly and said but little, thanking them for their visit with a word.
Louise returned home, heartsick and haunted by Collie's eyes that had seemed so listless, so indifferent, so weary. She had hoped to cheer him. His indifference affected her more than his actual physical condition, which seemed to be the cause of it. Louise recognized in herself a species of selfishness in feeling as she did. Like most folk of superabundant health she was unable to realize the possibilities of sickness. She longed for his companionship. She had not dared to ask herself whether or not she loved him. She was glad that he should love her—and yet she was not altogether happy. She had sent him her token, the little gray riding-gauntlet. He had in no way acknowledged it.
The sentiment incident to Collie's almost fatal misfortune did not blind her in the least. She told herself frankly that she missed him. At the ranch he had been with her much. From her he had gleaned of books and people. The actual advantage to him was not in the quantity of knowledge he had gained, but in the quality and direction suggested by her attitude toward all things. The advantage to her in his companionship had been the joy of giving, of shaping his thought, of seeing him slowly and unconsciously differentiate himself—stand apart from his fellows as something she had helped to create. This much of him she possessed through conscious effort.
Then to have seen him in the hospital, helpless, seemingly beyond any noticeable influence of her presence, stirred in her a kind of maternal jealousy. Straightway she visited Anne Marshall, who kissed her, held her at arms' length, saw the soft rose glow in her face, and spoke to the point, albeit in parables. Dr. Marshall had been very poor—a doctor in the slums—just before they were married. People had said things and had looked things, which was even worse. They subtly intimated that the doctor was marrying her for her money. She was the happiest woman in the world. She thought Collie was the manliest and most striking figure she had ever seen.
To all of which Louise listened quietly, blushing a little. "And he is wealthy," concluded Anne. "For so young a man, he is wealthy. The Rose Girl Mining Company, Incorporated, my dear, pays well. Collie is one of the three largest stockholders. You see, Billy and Overland Red have decided to turn the claim into a corporation."
"Don't you contradict your—your theory a little, Anne?" asked Louise.
"No, indeed! It doesn't matter in the least who has the money, so long as the man is the right one."
And Louise was silent, and a bit happier.
The little parcel that came to the hospital, directed to Collie, was from Overland. It was accompanied by a vividly worded note and a small, stained, and wrinkled glove, at once familiar.
Overland's note explained the delay in forwarding the glove. "It's some mussed up," he wrote, "because I had it in my shirt when I was hit. I was some mussed up likewise, or I would not 'a' forgot it so long. The little Rose Girl sent it to you by Brand when she thinks you was going to cross over on the last sunset limited. And I am feeling Fine, thanks. Do not rite to me if it gives you cramps.—Youres verry fathefuly, Jack."
Collie turned the gauntlet over in his trembling fingers. His eyes glowed. He called the nurse, telling her he was hungry.
Anne Marshall's visits were always refreshing. Well-gowned, cool, fragrant, she came, next afternoon, to Collie's bedside.
"You must get well," she said, smiling. "The doctor will be terribly disappointed if you don't. Isn't that coldly encouraging? What a thing to say!"
"I don't want to disappoint anybody," said Collie.
"Well, you will if you don't get better right away, sir! I wish I could do something to help. I can only sympathize and encourage the doctor."
"I know he's doing a whole lot for me. I think mebby you could help—a little—if you wanted to."
"Gracious! As though I didn't! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"It only came yesterday," said Collie, tremulously drawing the gauntlet from beneath his pillow.
Anne Marshall gazed at the soiled and wrinkled glove with unenlightened eyes. Then her quick smile flashed. "Oh! Now I know! So that is the talisman? Came yesterday? No wonder you seem brighter."
Collie's answering smile was irresistible. "It isn't just the glove—but would you—I mean, if you was like me—without being educated or anything—" He hesitated, breathing deeply.
But Anne Marshall understood him instantly, and answered his shyly questioning eyes.
"Indeed, I should. If I had half your chance, I shouldn't waste a minute in claiming the mate to that glove. One glove is of absolutely no use, you know."
"This one was—pretty much," sighed Collie. "I was feeling like letting go inside and not trying to—to stay any longer, just before it came."
"S-s-s-h! Don't even think of that. Some one called on me a few days ago. You are a very fortunate young man."
Anne Marshall's ambiguity was not altogether displeasing to Collie, in that it was not altogether unintelligible.
William Stanley Winthrop, sojourning briefly but fashionably in Los Angeles, appeared at the hospital in immaculate outing flannels. It was several weeks after his sister's last visit there. Winthrop took the convalescent Collie to the Moonstone Rancho in his car.
Bud Light and Billy Dime accidentally met the car in the valley and accompanied it vigorously through Moonstone Cañon.
Aunt Eleanor and Walter Stone were at the gate. Collie was helped to the house and immediately taken to the guest-room. He was much fatigued with the journey. The question in his eyes was answered by Aunt Eleanor. "Louise rode over to the north range to-day. She should be back now."
Winthrop scarce needed an introduction. He was Anne Marshall's brother. That was sufficient for the host and hostess. He was made welcome—as he was wherever he went. He had heard a great deal, from his sister, of the Stones, and their beautiful niece, Louise Lacharme. He was enthusiastic about the Moonstone Cañon. He grew even more enthusiastic after meeting Louise.
She came riding her black pony Boyar down the afternoon hillside—a picture that he never forgot. Her gray sombrero hung on the saddle-horn. Her gloves were tucked in her belt. She had loosened the neck of her blouse and rolled back her sleeves, at the spring above, to bathe her face and arms in the chill overflow. Her hair shone with a soft golden radiance that was ethereal in the flicker of afternoon sunlight through the live-oaks. From her golden head to the tip of her small riding-boot she was a harmony of vigor and grace, of exquisite coloring and infinite charm.
Her naturalness of manner, her direct simplicity, was almost, if not quite, her greatest attraction, and a quality which Winthrop fully appreciated.
"I have been quite curious about you, Mr. Winthrop," she said. "You are quite like Anne. I adore Anne. Shall we turn Boyar into the corral?"
If William Stanley Winthrop had had any idea of making an impression, he forgot it. The impression Louise was unconsciously making straightway absorbed his attention.
"Yes, indeed! Turn him into the corral—turn him into anything, Miss Lacharme. You have the magic. Make another admirer of him."
"Thank you, Mr. Winthrop. But Boyar could hardly be improved."
"You trained him, didn't you?" queried Winthrop.
Louise laughed. "Yes. But he was well-bred to begin with."
Winthrop ejaculated a mental "Ouch!" Simplicity did not necessarily mean stupidity.
"Do you enjoy mining—the real work—out there in the desert, Mr. Winthrop?"
"I could enjoy anything in company with Overland."
"Of course. Do you think people who have lots of money are apt to be cynical?" she asked.
"Not more so than people without money. But what splendid animals!" he exclaimed as they approached the corral.
"Uncle Walter and I are very fond of them," she said, turning Boyar into the inclosure.
"Do you know, Miss Lacharme, I like horses and dogs and cats, and I just revel in burros. But animals don't seem to like me. They're rather indifferent to me. I wonder if it is a matter of health, or magnetism, or something of that sort?"
"Oh, no! But it is difficult to explain. Even if you are very fond of animals it doesn't follow that they will like you. That seems rather cold, doesn't it? It's almost unfair."
"Yes, if one considers it seriously."
"Don't you?"
Winthrop gazed at her for a second before replying. "I see I must tell you the truth," he said lightly. "You compel it. It does hurt me to have anything or any one that I care for indifferent to me. Perhaps it's because I realize that I am giving affection and selfishly want 'value returned,' so to speak. Pardon me for becoming serious."
"Surely! But I thank you, too. See Boyar roll! He's happy. No, he doesn't roll because his back itches. You see, he's sweaty where the saddle covered him. Before he rolled, you noticed that he deliberately found a dusty spot. The dust dries the sweat and he doesn't take cold. That's the real explanation."
"I knew it couldn't be through happiness at leaving you," said Winthrop.
"If you are determined to keep it up," said Louise mischievously, "all right. But be careful, sir! I enjoy it. It's been dull—dreadfully dull since Anne and the doctor left. May I have your knife?"
A belated crimson Colombe rose nodded beneath the guest-room window. Louise cut the stem and pinned the flower in the lapel of Winthrop's white flannel coat. He gazed at her intent on her task.
"There!" she said, with a light touch of her supple fingers. "That will do." And slowly her gray eyes lifted to his.
The color flooded to his face. His eyes became momentarily brilliant. He drew a deep breath. "You told me to be careful. I shall be," he said, bowing slightly. "Please say something. Your silent attack was a little too—too successful."
"Truce?" she queried, laughing.
"Never!" replied Winthrop. "Even as our rather mutual and distinctly illustrious friend Overland says, 'Not till me wires are all down and me lights are out.'"
Collie, standing at the open French window just above them, drew back. Quite naturally, being a young man in love, he misinterpreted all that he had seen and heard. Louise had been away the day he was expected to return to the ranch. She had come back. She was seemingly satisfied with Winthrop's society. She was even more than satisfied; she was flirting with him. An unreasonable, bucolic jealousy, partly due to his condition, overcame Collie's usual serenity. His invalidism magnified the whole affair to absurd proportions.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze that caused Louise to glance up. His expression startled her. His eyes were burning. His face was unnaturally white. He met her glance, but gave no sign of recognition—a rudeness that he regretted even while he manifested it.
Louise turned away proudly, calling Winthrop's attention to a huge garden-seat beneath the live-oaks. "We have dinner out there quite often," she said, her eyes glowing. "Would you care to rest a while after your ride?"
"'A jug of wine—a loaf of bread—'" he quoted.
"But it isn't a wilderness. And dinner won't be ready for an hour yet. Don't you think a wilderness would have been utterly stupid with his 'thou' beside him singing everlastingly? Now please don't say, 'It would depend on the thou.'"
"Do you sing, Miss Lacharme?"
"A little."
"Please, then,—a little. Then I'll answer your question."
"I had rather not, just now."
"My answer would be the same in either case. This is living, after the desert and its loneliness. I discovered one thing out there, however,—myself. It was a surprise. My 'way-back ancestors must have been pirates."
"Mine—grew roses—in southern France."
"I am glad they eventually came to America," he said.
"Are you so fond of candy, Mr. Winthrop?"
"No."
"Neither am I."
"I'm glad they came, just the same. I simply can't help it."
"Overland—Mr. Summers—doesn't take life very seriously, does he?" asked Louise.
"Not as seriously as life has taken him, at odd times."
"You brought Collie in your car, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Yes. But he's pretty shaky yet. He's a little queer, in fact. As we came up the cañon he asked me to stop the car by the cliff, near this end,—that place where the sunlight comes through a kind of notch in the west. I thought he was tired of the motion of the car, so we stopped and he lay back looking at the cliff. Pretty soon the sun shot a long ray past us and it fairly splattered gold on the cañon wall. Then the shaft of sunlight went out. 'It will shine again,' he said, as if I didn't know that. Collie's a pretty sick man."
Later Winthrop and Louise joined the others at the veranda. Louise excused herself. She searched a long time before she found another rose. This time it was a Colombe bud, full, red, and beautiful. She stepped to Collie's window. "Boy!" she called softly.
White and trembling, he stood in the long window looking down at her. "I'm glad you are home again," she said.
He nodded, and glanced away.
"Boy!" she called again. "Catch." And she tossed the rose. He caught it and pressed it to his lips.
Evening, placidly content with the warm silence, departed lingeringly. Belated insects still buzzed in the wayside foliage. A bee, overtaken in his busy pilfering by the obliterating dusk, hung on a nodding mountain flower, unfearful above the cañon's emptiness. An occasional bird ventured a boldly questioning note that lingered unfinished in the silence of indecision. Across the road hopped a young rabbit, a little rounded shadow that melted into the blur of the sage. A cold white fire, spreading behind the purple-edged ranges, enriched their somber panoply with illusive enchantments, ever changing as the dim effulgence drifted from peak to peak. Shadows grew luminous and were gone. In their stead wooded valleys and wide cañons unfolded to the magic of the moon. There was no world but night and imagination.
With many rustlings the quail huddled in the live-oaks, complaining querulously until the darkness silenced them.
The warm, acrid fragrance of the hills was drawn intermittently across the cooler level of the shadowy road. A little owl, softly reiterating his cadences of rue, made loneliness as a thing tangible, a thing groping in the dusk with velvet hands.
Then came that hush of rest, that pause of preparation, as though night hesitated to awaken her countless myrmidons. With the lisping of invisible leaves the Great Master's music-book unfolded. That low, orchestral "F"—the dominant note of all nature's melodies—sounded in timorous unison—an experimental murmuring. Repeated in higher octaves, it swelled to shrill confidence, then a hundred, then myriad invisibles chanted to their beloved night or gossiped of the mystery of stars.
Then Night crept from the deep, cool cañons to the starlit peaks and knelt with her sister hill-folk, Silence and Solitude; knelt, listening with bowed head to that ancient antiphony of thankfulness and praise; then rose and faced the western sea.
Boyar, the black pony, shook his head with a silvery jingling of rein-chains. His sleek flanks glistened in the moonlight. Louise curbed him gently with hand and voice as he stepped through the wide gateway of the ranch.
He paced lightly across the first shallow ford. Then the narrowing walls of the cañon echoed his clean-cut steps—a patter of phantom hoof-beats following him, stride for stride. Down the long, ever-winding road they swung.
Louise, impelled to dreams by the languorous warm night and Boyar's easy stride up the steep, touched his neck with the rein and turned him into the Old Meadow Trail.
The tall, slender stems of the yucca and infrequent clumps of dwarfed cacti cast clear-edged shadows on the bare, moonlit ground. Boyar, sniffing, suddenly swung up and pivoted, his fore feet hanging over sheer black emptiness. Louise leaned forward, reining him round. Even before his fore feet touched the trail again, she heard the sibilant bur-r-ing of the cold, uncoiling thing as it slid down the blind shadows of the hillside.
"I shan't believe in omens," she murmured.
She reassured the trembling Boyar, who fretted sideways and snorted as he passed the spot where the snake had been coiled in the trail.
At the edge of the Old Meadow the girl dismounted, allowing Boyar to graze at will.
She climbed to the low rounded rock, her erstwhile throne of dreams, where she sat with knees gathered to her in her clasped hands. The pony paused in his grazing to lift his head and look at her with gently wondering eyes.
The utter solitude of the place, far above the viewless valley, allowed her thought a horizon impossible at the Moonstone Rancho. Alone she faced the grave question of making an unalterable choice. Collie had asked her to marry him. She had evaded direct reply to his direct question. She knew of no good reason why she should marry him. She knew of no better reason why she should not. She thought she was content with being loved. She was, for the moment.
The Old Meadow, that had once before revealed a sprightly and ragged romance, slumbered in the southern night; slumbered to awaken to the hushed tread of men and strange whisperings.
Down in the valley the coyotes called dismally, with that infinite shrill sadness of wild things that hunger, and in their wailing pulsed the eternal and unanswerable "Why?" challenging the peaceful stars. Something in their questioning cry impelled Louise to lift her hands to the night. "What is it? What is it up there—behind everything—that never, never answers?"
The moon was lost somewhere behind the ragged peaks. The night grew deeper. The Old Meadow, shadowed by the range above it, grew dark, impenetrable, a place without boundary or breadth or depth.
"Got a match, kid?"
Louise raised her head. Some one was afoot on the Old Meadow Trail. She could hear the whisper of dried grasses against the boots of the men as another voice replied, "Sure! Here you are." And Louise knew that Collie was one of the men.
About to call, she hesitated, strangely curious as to who the other man might be, and why Collie and he should foregather in the Old Meadow, at night.
"Never mind," mumbled the first speaker; "I thought I wanted to smoke, but I don't. I want to talk first—about the Rose Girl."
Louise tried to call out, but she was interrupted by Overland's voice. The two men had stopped at the lower side of the great rock. She could hear them plainly, although she could not see them.
"Collie—we're busted. We're done, Chico. I ain't said nothin' to Billy yet. He's got money, anyway. This here only hits you and me."
"What do you mean, Red?"
"I mean that the Rose Girl Mining Company, Incorporated, Jack Summers, President and General Manager, don't belong to us and never did. We been sellin' stock that ain't ours and never was."
"How's that?"
"I was goin' to write. But I ain't no hand to write about business. Writin' po'try is bad enough. You recollec' them papers and that dust Billy tried to find, out there by the track?"
"Yes."
"Well, I found it all. Since the company is workin' the claim now and I didn't have so much to do, I got to thinkin' of them papers. I went out there, paced her off down the track, guessed at about where it was, and found 'em."
"Found them?"
"Yes, sir. There was that little bag almost atop of the sand, account of wind and rain. Then there was a record of the claim, our claim. It's been filed on before. We made a mistake and filed on the wrong section. When me and Billy went to file, I noticed the clerk said something about havin' neighbors on the claim next, but I was scared of answerin' too many questions, so I give him some cigars and beat it."
"Who owns our claim, then?"
"That's the queer part of it. You know the guy we give the water to—the one that died out there. He owns the claim, or he did. It belongs by rights to his girl now. His name was André Lacharme."
"Lacharme!"
"Yes, Louise's pa. Recollect your boss tellin' us as how the Rose Girl's daddy was missin' out in the Mojave? Then they was a letter—old and 'most wore out—from Walter Stone himself. It was to him—her pa—tellin' him about the little Louise baby and askin' him to come to the Moonstone and take a job and quit prospectin'. That's where we stand."
Louise, breathless, listened and could not believe that she was real, that this was not a dream. André Lacharme! Her father!
"I seen a lawyer about it," resumed Overland. "He said it was plain enough that the claim belonged to the dead prospector or his girl, now. You see, we worked the claim and kep' up the work accordin' to law. What we made ain't ours, but I'm mighty glad it's hers. 'Course, we earned what dust we dug, all right. Now I'm leavin' it up to you. Do we tell her or do we say nothin', and go on gettin' rich?"
"Why do you put it up to me?" asked Collie.
"Because, kid, you got the most to lose. Your chance is about gone with the Rose Girl if you let go the gold. Sabe? The little Rose Girl is wise. She don't give two cents for money—but she ain't foolish enough to marry a puncher that's workin' for wages on her uncle's ranch. And when she gets all me and Billy made and your share, she'll be rich. That won't be no time for you to go courtin' her. It ain't that you ain't good enough for any girl. But now'days things is different. You got to have money."
"Do you think Louise would take the money?" asked Collie.
"I don't know. But that ain't it. We either give it up—or we don't. What do you say?"
"Why—to tell Louise, of course. I meant that right along. You ought to know that."
"You givin' it up because you had some fuss with her, or anything like that?"
"No, Red. I say tell her, because it's square. Did she stop to ask questions when I was in trouble? No. She went to work to help me, quick. I guess we care more for her than a whole carload of gold."
"Well, I guess. Once I wouldn't 'a' stopped to worry about whose gold it was. But knowin' the Rose Girl,—knowin' what she is,—why, it's makin' me soft in me morals."
"What do we do now, Red?"
"I'm goin' to beat it. Back to the dusty for mine."
"You don't have to do that, Red."
"That's just why I'm a-doin' it. I like to do what I like."
"Quitting now seems like saying, 'I'm whipped,'" said Collie. "Quitting after giving up our money to her looks like we were sore—even if we do it and smile. She would feel bad, Red. She'd think she drove us off."
"No, I reckon not. She'll see that I always been a good daddy to you and put you right in this case. It was all right when you had a chance. It ain't now. It ain't fair to her, neither, because she's like to stick to any promises she might 'a' made you."
"Why don't you ask Stone for a job?" said Collie.
"What? Me? After bein' President of the Rose Girl Mining Company, in—Say! They's no halfway house for me. It's all or nothin'. Why, I don't even own the Guzzuh. Could you stand it to see her every day, and you just a puncher workin' for the Moonstone. She would smile and treat you fine, and you'd be eatin' your own heart out for her."
"No, I couldn't," said Collie slowly. "Red, I guess you're right."
Collie's perspective was distorted through sudden disappointment. The old life of the road ... the vague to-morrows of indolence ... the sprightly companionship of Overland Red, inventive, eloquent....
"Red, if I come with you, it's because I can't stand seeing her—after everything that has happened. It is square to her, too, I guess."
"I ain't askin' you, Collie, but there's nothin' like ramblin' to make you forget. It's got hard work beat to a mush, because when you're ramblin' you're 'most always hungry. Listen! Love is when you ain't satisfied. So is a empty stomach. A fella's got to eat. Do you get that?"
"Yes. But, Red, you said you loved a woman once. You didn't forget."
"No, kid. I didn't. Once I didn't do nothin' else but remember. I got over that. It's only accidental to circumstances pertainin' to the fact that I remember now. You never seen me cry in my soup, did you?"
"But you're different."
"That's the blat every yearlin' makes till he grows up and finds out he's a cow jest like his ma. I ain't different inside. And bleedin' inside is dangerouser than bleedin' outside. Listen! Remember the little fire beside the track, when we was 'way up in the big hills? Remember the curve, like a snake unwindin' where she run round the hill, and nothin' beyond but space and the sun drippin' red in the ocean? Remember the chicken we swiped and et that night? And then the smokes and lookin' up at the stars? Remember that? Listen!
"It's beat it, bo, while your feet are mates,
And we'll see the whole United States.
With a smoke and a pal and a fire at night,
And up again in the mornin' bright,
With nothin' but road and sky in sight
And nothin' to do but go.
"Then, beat it, bo, while the walkin' 's good;
And the birds on the wires is sawin' wood.
If to-day ain't the finest for you and me,
There's always to-morrow, that's goin' to be.
And the day after that is a-comin'. See!
And nothin' to do but go.
"I'm the ramblin' son with the nervous feet,
That never was made for a steady beat.
I had many a job for a little spell;
I been on the bum, and I've hit it swell.
But there's only one road to Fare-ye-well,
And nothin' to do but go."
"With nothing to do but go," whispered Collie. "Red, we've always been friends?"
"You bet your return ticket!"
"And we are always going to be," said Collie. "I guess that settles it. I—I wish Saunders—had—finished me."
Louise, numb from sitting still so long, moved slightly.
"What's that?" exclaimed Collie.
"Jest some of your little old ideas changin' cars," replied Overland. "You'll get used to it."
"No; I heard something."
"You'll be seein' things next. Got a match? I'm jest dyin' for a smoke. Remember when she give us the makin's and you got hot at me?"
Overland cupped the flame in his hands and lighted his cigarette. The soft glow of the match spread in the windless air, penetrating the darkness. For an instant, a breath, Overland saw a startled face gazing down at him; the white face of the Rose Girl!
"Great Snakes!" he cried, stepping back as the flame expired.
"What's the matter, Red?"
"Nothin'. I was just thinkin'. I burned my mitt. Come on, Collie. Brand'll find a bunk for me to-night, I reckon. We'll tell the boss and the Rose Girl all about it to-morrow."