CHAPTER XXV
IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS
The afternoon of the third day out from the Moonstone Ranch, Colliepicketed the roan pony Yuma near a water-hole in the desert. He spreadhis saddle-blankets, rolled a cigarette, and smoked. Presently he roseand took some food from a saddle-pocket.
The pony, unused to the desert, fretted and sniffed at the sagebrushwith evident disgust. Collie had given her water, but there was nograzing.
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, asdirected, skirting it widely. There to the east were the hills.Somewhere behind them was the hidden canon and Overland Red.
Stiff and tired from his long ride, he stretched himself for a shortrest. He dozed. Something touched his foot. It was the riata with whichhe had picketed the pony. He meant to travel again that night. He wouldsleep a little while. The horse, circling the picket, would be sure toawaken him again.
He slept heavily. The Yuma colt stood with rounded nostrils sniffing thenight air. The pony faced in the direction of the distant town. She knewthat another horse and rider were coming toward her through thedarkness. They were far off, but coming.
For a long time she stood stamping impatiently at intervals. Finally shegrew restive. The oncoming horse had stopped. That other animal, theman, had dismounted and was coming toward her on foot. She could not seethrough 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 deserttown, had seen a strange horse and rider far out--away from the road andevidently heading for the water-hole. Saunders rode into town, borroweda pair of field-glasses, and rode out again. He at once recognized theroan pony as the Oro outlaw, but the rider? He was not so sure. He wouldinvestigate.
The fact that he saw no glimmer of fire as he now approached thewater-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. Heknew _that_ voice. He would track the young rider to the range andbeyond--to the gold. He rode back to town through the night, entered thesaloon, 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 thefoothills seemed stationary. His horse was not moving forward--simplywalking 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 facedthe quick rise of the range. Out of the silence came the slithering stepof some one walking in the sand. The darkness seemed to expand.
Overland Red stood before him, silent, alert, anxious. "You, Chico?" heasked.
"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 thehills, you take the left trail and keep on down. You can't miss thecanon. I'll leave you here. I got to stay here a spell to see thatnothin' 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 canon. Billy'll belookin' 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, forno regular trail existed. At the foot of the range he turned to theright and entered the narrow canon, following the stream until he cameto the meadow, where he picketed the pony.
He continued on up the canon 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 canon walls as they hadbreakfast. As the morning sunlight spread to their camp Collie's naturalcuriosity in regard to Overland's pardner was satisfied. He saw astraight, slender figure, in flannel shirt and khaki. The gray eyes werepeculiarly keen and humorous. Winthrop was not a little like his sisterAnne in poise and coloring. The hands were nervously slender andaristocratic, albeit roughened and scarred by toil. There was asuggestion of dash and go about Winthrop that appealed to Collie. Evenin repose the Easterner seemed to be alert. Undoubtedly he would make agood companion in any circumstance.
"There's spare blankets in the tent. Roll in for a snooze, Collie. Billyand me'll pack your saddle and stuff up here later."
"I guess I will. You might sponge Yuma's back a little, Red. She'sbrought 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 saythe 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 withyou if you try to take up her feet. She's half-sister to a shot ofdynamite. 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. "Heis correct," he said succinctly. "That hoss don't welcome handlin' wortha bean."
Winthrop's silence rather stirred Overland's sensitive pride in hishorsemanship. "'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 helpany."
Winthrop realized for the first time that Overland's supreme interest inlife was Collie's welfare. Heretofore the paternal note had not beenevident. 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 theweight of the heavy stock saddle. Something in the man's humoroussimplicity, his entire willingness to serve those whom he liked and hisstiff indifference to all others, appealed to Winthrop. So this flotsamof the range, this erstwhile tramp, this paradox of coarseness andsentiment, had an object in life? A laudable object: that of servingwith 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 theirformer chats by the night-fire. Now he began to see the drift ofOverland's then frequent references to Collie. And there was agirl,--mentioned by Overland almost reverently,--the Rose Girl, LouiseLacharme, of whom Anne Marshall had written much in eulogy to him. AndWinthrop himself?
His swift introspection left him aware that of them all he alone seemedto lack a definite aim. Making money--mining--was still to him a game,interesting and healthful, but play. To Overland it was life. Winthropsaw himself as he was. His improved health scoffed at the idea ofbecoming 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 youwant to keep it. If you get to lookin' for it, like as not you'll findit's gone."
"I'm looking for something entirely different. Something youhave--something that I never possessed."
"I don't know anything I got that you haven't 'less it's that newStetson 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 littleelectric do-diddle-um of the Guzzuh what makes the spark to keep themachinery 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 readhis sister's letter over and over again. Finally he sauntered up thecanon to where Overland was at work. "I'll lend a hand," he said, inanswer to Overland's questioning face. "I don't believe I'll go beforeto-morrow night. It is hardly right to leave the minute my new pardnerarrives. I want to talk with him."
Overland nodded. "Guess you're right. It won't hurt to keep in theshadow of the hills for a day or two. Can't tell who might 'a' spottedCollie ridin' out this way."
* * * * *
That afternoon, toward evening, Collie arose, refreshed, and eager toinspect the claim. He could hear the faint click of pick and shovel upthe canon. He stretched himself, drank from the stream, and saunteredtoward the meadow. He would see to his pony first.
He found the horse had been picketed afresh by Overland when he had comefor the saddle. He was returning toward camp when he heard a slightnoise behind him--the noise a man's boot makes stepping on a pebble thatturns beneath his weight.
Collie wheeled quickly, saw nothing unusual, and turned again toward thecamp. Then he hesitated. He would look down the canon. He realized thathe was unarmed. Then he grew ashamed of his hesitancy. He picked his waydown the stream. A buzzard circled far above the cliffs. The air hummedwith invisible bees in the rank wild clover. He peered past the nextbend. A short distance below stood a riderless horse. The bridle wastrailing. For an instant Collie did not realize the significance of theanimal waiting patiently for its rider. Then, like the flash of aspeeding film, he saw it all--his pony's tracks up the canon--the riderwho had undoubtedly seen him crossing to the water-hole, and who hadwaited until daylight to follow the tracks; who had dismounted, and wasprobably in ambush watching him. He summoned all his reserve courage.Turning away, he remarked, distinctly, naturally, casually, "Thought Iheard something. Must have been the water."
He walked slowly back to the notch in the canon walls. Stepping throughit, he continued on up the stream. A few paces beyond the notch, and aface appeared in the cleft rock, watching him. The watcher seemed indoubt. Collie's action had been natural enough. Had he seen the horse?The hidden face grew crafty. The eyes grew cold. The watcher tapped theside of the cliff with his revolver butt. The noise was slight, but inthat place of sensitive echoes, loud enough to be heard a long way upthe canon. Then it was that Collie made a courageous but terriblemistake. He heard the sound, and seemed to realize that it was madeintentionally--to attract his attention. Yet he was not sure. He kepton, ignoring the sound. Had he not suspected some one was in the canon,to have glanced back would have been the most natural thing in theworld. The watcher realized this. He knew that the other had heardhim--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 reechoed like mountain thunder. Colliethrew up his arms and lurched forward.
Below in the canon clattered the hoofs of the speeding horse. The rider,still holding his six-gun, muzzle up, glanced back. "I didn't carepartic'lar about gettin' _him_, but gettin' the kid hits the red-headbetween the eyes. I guess I'm about even now." And Silent Saundersholstered his gun, swung out of the canon, and spurred down themountain, not toward the desert town, but toward Gophertown, some thirtymiles to the north. He had found the claim. The desert town folk he hadused to good advantage. They had paid his expenses while he trailedOverland and Collie. They had even guaranteed him protection from thelaw--such as it was on the Mojave. He had every reason to be grateful tothem, but he was just a step or two above them in criminal artistry. Hehad been a "killer." Like the lone wolf that calls the pack to the hunt,he turned instinctively to Gophertown, a settlement in the hills notunknown to a few of the authorities, but unmolested by them. Theatmosphere of Gophertown was not conducive to long life.