The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
and partin’, old hawss. I got to take you away for good, day after to-morrow.”
“Where are you going?” the girl asked quickly. Then, to cover the swift interest of her question: “But, of course, it is time you were going back to your business.”
“No, ma’am, that is just it. Seems to me either too soon or too late to be going.”
She had her face turned from him, and was busy over her plants, to hide the tremulous dismay that had shaken her at his news.
She did not ask him what he meant, nor did she ask again where he was going. For the moment, she could not trust her voice to say more.
“Too late, because I’ve seen in this valley some one I’ll never forget, and too soon because that some one will forget me, sure as a gun,” he told her.
“Not if you write to him.”
“It isn’t a him. It’s my little nurse.”
“I’ll tell auntie how you feel about it, and I’m sure she won’t forget you.”
“You know mighty well I ain’t talking about auntie.”
“Then I suppose you must mean me.”
“That’s who I’m meaning.”
“I think I’ll be able to remember you if I try—by Teddy,” she answered, without looking at him, and devoted herself to petting the horse.
“Is it—would it be any use to say any more, Arlie?” he asked, in a low voice, as he stood beside her, with Teddy’s nose in his hands.
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir. Please don’t say anything more about it.” Then again memory of the other girl flamed through her. “No, it wouldn’t—not a bit of use, not a bit,” she broke out fiercely.
“You mean you couldn’t——”
The flame in her face, the eyes that met his, as if drawn by a magnet, still held their anger, but mingled with it was a piteous plea for mercy. “I—I’m only a girl. Why don’t you let me alone?” she cried bitterly, and hard upon her own words turned and ran from the room.
Steve looked after her in amazed surprise. “Now don’t it beat the band the way a woman takes a thing.”
Dubiously he took himself to the stable and said good-by to Dillon.
An hour later she went down to dinner still flushed and excited. Before she had been in the room two minutes her father gave her a piece of startling news.
“I been talking to Steve. Gracious, gyurl, what do you reckon that boy’s a-goin’ to do?”
Arlie felt the color leap into her cheeks.
“What, dad?”
“He’s a’goin’ back to Gimlet Butte, to give himself up to Brandt, day after to-morrow.”
“But—what for?” she gasped.
“Durned if I know! He’s got some fool notion about playin’ fair. Seems he came into the Cedar Mountain country to catch the Squaw Creek raiders. Brandt let him escape on that pledge. Well, he’s give up that notion, and now he thinks, dad gum it, that it’s up to him to surrender to Brandt again.”
The girl’s eyes were like stars. “And he’s going to go back there and give himself up, to be tried for killing Faulkner.”
Dillon scratched his head. “By gum, gyurl, I didn’t think of that. We cayn’t let him go.”
“Yes, we can.”
“Why, honey, he didn’t kill Faulkner, looks like. We cayn’t let him go back there and take our medicine for us. Mebbe he would be lynched. It’s a sure thing he’d be convicted.”
“Never mind. Let him go. I’ve got a plan, dad.” Her vivid face was alive with the emotion which spoke in it. “When did he say he was going?” she asked buoyantly.
“Day after to-morrow. Seems he’s got business that keeps him hyer to-morrow. What’s yore idee, honey?”
She got up, and whispered it in his ear. His jaw dropped, and he stared at her in amazement.
Chapter XVI.
The Wolf Bites
Steve came drowsily to consciousness from confused dreams of a cattle stampede and the click of rifles in the hands of enemies who had the drop on him. The rare, untempered sunshine of the Rockies poured into his window from a world outside, wonderful as the early morning of creation. The hillside opposite was bathed miraculously in a flood of light, in which grasshoppers fiddled triumphantly their joy in life. The sources of his dreams discovered themselves in the bawl of thirsty cattle and the regular clicking of a windmill.
A glance at his watch told him that it was six o’clock.
“Time to get up, Steve,” he told himself, and forthwith did.
He chose a rough crash towel, slipped on a pair of Howard’s moccasins, and went down to the river through an ambient that had the sparkle and exhilaration of champagne. The mountain air was still finely crisp with the frost, in spite of the sun warmth that was beginning to mellow it. Flinging aside the Indian blanket he had caught up before leaving the cabin, he stood for an instant on the bank, a human being with the physical poise, compactness, and lithe-muscled smoothness of a tiger.
Even as he plunged a rifle cracked. While he dived through the air, before the shock of the icy water tingled through him, he was planning his escape. The opposite bank rose ten feet above the stream. He kept under the water until he came close to this, then swam swiftly along it with only his head showing, so as to keep him out of sight as much as possible.
Half a stone’s throw farther the bank fell again to the water’s edge, the river having broadened and grown shallow, as mountain creeks do. The ranger ran, stooping, along the bank, till it afforded him no more protection, then dashed across the stony-bottomed stream to the shelter of the thick aspens beyond.
Just as he expected, a shot rang from far up the mountainside. In another instant he was safe in the foliage of the young aspens.
In the sheer exhilaration of his escape he laughed aloud.
“Last show to score gone, Mr. Struve. I figured it just right. He waited too long for his first shot. Then the bank hid me. He wasn’t expecting to see me away down the stream, so he hadn’t time to sight his second one.”
Steve wound his way in and out among the aspens, working toward the tail of them, which ran up the hill a little way and dropped down almost to the back door of the cabin. Upon this he was presently pounding.
Howard let him in. He had a revolver in his hand, the first weapon he could snatch up.
“You durned old idiot! It’s a wonder you ain’t dead three ways for Sunday,” he shouted joyfully at sight of him. “Ain’t I told you ‘steen times to do what bathin’ you got to do, right here in the shack?”
The Texan laughed again. Naked as that of Father Adam, his splendid body was glowing with the bath and the exercise.
“He’s ce’tainly the worst chump ever, Alec. Had me in sight all the way down to the creek, but waited till I wasn’t moving. Reckon he was nervous. Anyhow, he waited just one-tenth of a second too late. Shot just as I leaned forward for my dive. He gave me a free hair-cut though.”
A swath showed where the bullet had mowed a furrow of hair so close that in one place it had slightly torn the scalp.
“He shot again, didn’t he?”
“Yep. I swam along the far bank, so that he couldn’t get at