The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
waiting for them at their journey's end. As it was, the first intimation they had of anything unusual was a stern command to surrender.
“Throw up your hands. Quick, you blank fools!”
A masked man covered them, in each hand a six-shooter, and at his summons the arms of the cow-punchers went instantly into the air.
Nora gave an involuntary little scream of dismay.
“Y'u don't need to be afraid, lady. Ain't nobody going to hurt you, I reckon,” the masked man growled.
“Sure they won't,” Mac reassured her, adding ironically: “This gun-play business is just neighborly frolic. Liable to happen any day in Wyoming.”
A second masked man stepped up. He, too was garnished with an arsenal.
“What's all this talking about?” he demanded sharply.
“We just been having a little conversation seh?” returned McWilliams, gently, his vigilant eyes searching through the disguise of the other “Just been telling the lady that your call is in friendly spirit. No objections, I suppose?”
The swarthy newcomer, who seemed to be in command, swore sourly.
“Y'u put a knot in your tongue, Mr. Foreman.”
“Ce'tainly, if y'u prefer,” returned the indomitable McWilliams.
“Shut up or I'll pump lead into you!”
“I'm padlocked, seh.”
Nora Darling interrupted the dialogue by quietly fainting. The foreman caught her as she fell.
“See what y'u done, y'u blamed chump!” he snapped.
Chapter 13.
The Two Cousins
The sheepman lay at his ease, the strong supple lines of him stretched lazily on the lounge. Helen was sitting beside him in an easy chair, and he watched the play of her face in the lamplight as she read from “The Little White Bird.” She was very good to see, so vitally alive and full of a sweet charm that half revealed and half concealed her personality. The imagination with which she threw herself into a discussion of the child fancies portrayed by the Scotch writer captured his fancy. It delighted him to tempt her into discussions that told him by suggestion something of what she thought and was.
They were in animated debate when the door opened to admit somebody else. He had stepped in so quietly that he stood there a little while without being observed, smiling down at them with triumphant malice behind the mask he wore. Perhaps it was the black visor that was responsible for the Mephisto effect, since it hid all the face but the leering eyes. These, narrowed to slits, swept the room and came back to its occupants. He was a tall man and well-knit, dressed incongruously in up-to-date riding breeches and boots, in combination with the usual gray shirt, knotted kerchief and wide-brimmed felt hat of the horseman of the plains. The dust of the desert lay thick on him, without in the least obscuring a certain ribald elegance, a distinction of wickedness that rested upon him as his due. To this result his debonair manner contributed, though it carried with it no suggestion of weakness. To the girl who looked up and found him there he looked indescribably sinister.
She half rose to her feet, dilated eyes fixed on him.
“Good evenin'. I came to make sure y'u got safe home, Miss Messiter,” he said.
The eyes of the two men clashed, the sheepman's stern and unyielding, his cousin's lit with the devil of triumph. But out of the faces of both men looked the inevitable conflict, the declaration of war that never ends till death.
“I've been a heap anxious about y'u—couldn't sleep for worrying. So I saddled up and rode in to find out if y'u were all right and to inquire how Cousin Ned was getting along.”
The sheepman, not deigning to move an inch from his position, looked in silence his steady contempt.
“This conversation sounds a whole lot like a monologue up to date,” he continued. “Now, maybe y'u don't know y'u have the honor of entertaining the King of the Bighorn.” The man's brown hand brushed the mask from his eyes and he bowed with mocking deference. “Miss Messiter, allow me to introduce myself again—Ned Bannister, train robber, rustler, kidnapper and general bad man. But I ain't told y'u the worst yet. I'm cousin to a sheepherder' and that's the lowest thing that walks.”
He limped forward a few steps and sat down. “Thank you, I believe I will stay a while since y'u both ask me so urgent. It isn't often I meet with a welcome so hearty and straight from the heart.”
It was not hard to see how the likeness between them contributed to the mistake that had been current concerning them. Side by side, no man could have mistaken one for the other. The color of their eyes, the shade of hair, even the cut of their features, were different. But beneath all distinctions in detail ran a family resemblance not to be denied. This man looked like his cousin, the sheepman, as the latter might have done if all his life he had given a free rein to evil passions.
The height, the build, the elastic tread of each, made further contributions to this effect of similarity.
“What are you doing here?” They were the first words spoken by the man on the lounge and they rang with a curt challenge.
“Come to inquire after the health of my dear cousin,” came the prompt silken answer.
“You villain!”
“My dear cousin, y'u speak with such conviction that y'u almost persuade me. But of course if I'm a villain I've got to live up to my reputation. Haven't I, Miss Messiter?”
“Wouldn't it be better to live it down?” she asked with a quietness that belied her terror. For there had been in his manner a threat, not against her but against the man whom her heart acknowledged as her lover.
He laughed. “Y'u're still hoping to make a Sunday school superintendent out of me, I see. Y'u haven't forgot all your schoolmarm ways yet, but I'll teach y'u to forget them.”
The other cousin watched him with a cool, quiet glance that never wavered. The outlaw was heavily armed, but his weapons were sheathed, and, though there was a wary glitter behind the vindictive exultation in his eyes, his capable hands betrayed no knowledge of the existence of his revolvers. It was, he knew, to be a moral victory, if one at all.
“Hope I'm not disturbing any happy family circle,” he remarked, and, taking two limping steps forward, he lifted the book from the girl's unresisting hands. “H'm! Barrie. I don't go much on him. He's too sissy for me. But I could have guessed the other Ned Bannister would be reading something like that,” he concluded, a flicker of sneering contempt crossing his face.
“Perhaps y'u'll learn some time to attend to your own business,” said the man on the couch quietly.
Hatred gleamed in the narrowed slits from which the soul of the other cousin looked down at him. “I'm a philanthropist, and my business is attending to other people's. They raise sheep, for instance, and I market them.”
The girl hastily interrupted. She had not feared for herself, but she knew fear for the indomitable man she had nursed back to life. “Won't you sit down, Mr. Bannister? Since you don't approve our literature, perhaps we can find some other diversion more to your taste.” She smiled faintly.
The man turned in smiling divination of her purpose, and sat down to play with her as a cat does with a mouse.
“Thank y'u, Miss Messiter, I believe I will. I called to thank y'u for your kindness to my cousin as well as to inquire about you. The word goes that y'u pulled my dear cousin back when death was reaching mighty strong for him. Of course I feel grateful to y'u. How is he getting along now?”
“He's doing very well, I think.”
“That's ce'tainly