The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
bad the way Denver figures it will?”
“Y'u might try a mustard plaster,” she gurgled, with laughter.
For once the debonair foreman's ready tongue had brought him to defeat. He was about to retire from the field temporarily when Nora herself offered first aid to the wounded.
“We would like to have you come along with us, Mr. McWilliams. I want you to come if you can spare the time.”
The soft eyes telegraphed an invitation with such a subtle suggestion of a private understanding that Mac was instantly encouraged to accept.
He knew, of course, that she was playing them against each other and sitting back to enjoy the result, but he was possessed of the hope common to youths in his case that he really was on a better footing with her than the other boys. This opinion, it may be added, was shared by Denver, Frisco and even Reddy as regards themselves. Which is merely another way of putting the regrettable fact that this very charming young woman was given to coquetting with the hearts of her admirers.
“Any time y'u get oneasy about that cough y'u go right on home, Denver. Don't stay jest out of politeness. We'll never miss y'u, anyhow,” the foreman assured him.
“Thank y'u, Mac. But y'u see I got to stay to keep Miss Nora from getting bored.”
“Was it a phrenologist strung y'u with the notion y'u was a cure for lonesomeness?”
“Shucks! I don't make no such claims. The only thing is it's a comfort when you're bored to have company. Miss Nora, she's so polite. But, y'u see, if I'm along I can take y'u for a walk when y'u get too bad.”
They reached the little trail that ran up to Lee Ming's place, and Denver suggested that Mac run in with the bundle so as to save Nora the climb.
“I'd like to, honest I would. But since y'u thought of it first I won't steal the credit of doing Miss Nora a good turn. We'll wait right here for y'u till y'u come back.”
“We'll all go up together,” decided Nora, and honors were easy.
In the pleasant moonlight they sauntered back, two of them still engaged in lively badinage, while the third played chorus with appreciative little giggles and murmurs of “Oh, Mr. Halliday!” and “You know you're just flattering me, Mr. McWilliams.”
If they had not been so absorbed in their gay foolishness the two men might not have walked so innocently into the trap 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