CHAPTER VII
That night Duane was not troubled by ghosts haunting his waking andsleeping hours. He awoke feeling bright and eager, and grateful toEuchre for having put something worth while into his mind. Duringbreakfast, however, he was unusually thoughtful, working over the ideaof how much or how little he would confide in the outlaw. He was awareof Euchre's scrutiny.
"Wal," began the old man, at last, "how'd you make out with the kid?"
"Kid?" inquired Duane, tentatively.
"Jennie, I mean. What'd you An' she talk about?"
"We had a little chat. You know you wanted me to cheer her up."
Euchre sat with coffee-cup poised and narrow eyes studying Duane.
"Reckon you cheered her, all right. What I'm afeared of is mebbe youdone the job too well."
"How so?"
"Wal, when I went in to Jen last night I thought she was half crazy.She was burstin' with excitement, an' the look in her eyes hurt me. Shewouldn't tell me a darn word you said. But she hung onto my hands,an' showed every way without speakin' how she wanted to thank me ferbringin' you over. Buck, it was plain to me thet you'd either gone thelimit or else you'd been kinder prodigal of cheer an' hope. I'd hate tothink you'd led Jennie to hope more'n ever would come true."
Euchre paused, and, as there seemed no reply forthcoming, he went on:
"Buck, I've seen some outlaws whose word was good. Mine is. You cantrust me. I trusted you, didn't I, takin' you over there an' puttin' youwise to my tryin' to help thet poor kid?"
Thus enjoined by Euchre, Duane began to tell the conversations withJennie and Mrs. Bland word for word. Long before he had reached an endEuchre set down the coffee-cup and began to stare, and at the conclusionof the story his face lost some of its red color and beads of sweatstood out thickly on his brow.
"Wal, if thet doesn't floor me!" he ejaculated, blinking at Duane."Young man, I figgered you was some swift, an' sure to make your mark onthis river; but I reckon I missed your real caliber. So thet's whatit means to be a man! I guess I'd forgot. Wal, I'm old, an' even if myheart was in the right place I never was built fer big stunts. Do youknow what it'll take to do all you promised Jen?"
"I haven't any idea," replied Duane, gravely.
"You'll have to pull the wool over Kate Bland's eyes, ant even if shefalls in love with you, which's shore likely, thet won't be easy.An' she'd kill you in a minnit, Buck, if she ever got wise. You ain'tmistaken her none, are you?"
"Not me, Euchre. She's a woman. I'd fear her more than any man."
"Wal, you'll have to kill Bland an' Chess Alloway an' Rugg, an' mebbesome others, before you can ride off into the hills with thet girl."
"Why? Can't we plan to be nice to Mrs. Bland and then at an opportunetime sneak off without any gun-play?"
"Don't see how on earth," returned Euchre, earnestly. "When Bland'saway he leaves all kinds of spies an' scouts watchin' the valley trails.They've all got rifles. You couldn't git by them. But when the boss ishome there's a difference. Only, of course, him an' Chess keep theireyes peeled. They both stay to home pretty much, except when they'replayin' monte or poker over at Benson's. So I say the best bet is topick out a good time in the afternoon, drift over careless-like with acouple of hosses, choke Mrs. Bland or knock her on the head, take Jenniewith you, an' make a rush to git out of the valley. If you had luck youmight pull thet stunt without throwin' a gun. But I reckon the bestfiggerin' would include dodgin' some lead an' leavin' at least Bland orAlloway dead behind you. I'm figgerin', of course, thet when they comehome an' find out you're visitin' Kate frequent they'll jest naturallylook fer results. Chess don't like you, fer no reason except you'reswift on the draw--mebbe swifter 'n him. Thet's the hell of thisgun-play business. No one can ever tell who's the swifter of two gunmentill they meet. Thet fact holds a fascination mebbe you'll learn someday. Bland would treat you civil onless there was reason not to, an'then I don't believe he'd invite himself to a meetin' with you. He'd setChess or Rugg to put you out of the way. Still Bland's no coward, an' ifyou came across him at a bad moment you'd have to be quicker 'n you waswith Bosomer."
"All right. I'll meet what comes," said Duane, quickly. "The great pointis to have horses ready and pick the right moment, then rush the trickthrough."
"Thet's the ONLY chance fer success. An' you can't do it alone."
"I'll have to. I wouldn't ask you to help me. Leave you behind!"
"Wal, I'll take my chances," replied Euchre, gruffly. "I'm goin' to helpJennie, you can gamble your last peso on thet. There's only four men inthis camp who would shoot me--Bland, an' his right-hand pards, an' thetrabbit-faced Benson. If you happened to put out Bland and Chess, I'dstand a good show with the other two. Anyway, I'm old an' tired--what'sthe difference if I do git plugged? I can risk as much as you, Buck,even if I am afraid of gun-play. You said correct, 'Hosses ready, theright minnit, then rush the trick.' Thet much 's settled. Now let'sfigger all the little details."
They talked and planned, though in truth it was Euchre who planned,Duane who listened and agreed. While awaiting the return of Bland andhis lieutenants it would be well for Duane to grow friendly with theother outlaws, to sit in a few games of monte, or show a willingnessto spend a little money. The two schemers were to call upon Mrs. Blandevery day--Euchre to carry messages of cheer and warning to Jennie,Duane to blind the elder woman at any cost. These preliminaries decidedupon, they proceeded to put them into action.
No hard task was it to win the friendship of the most of thosegood-natured outlaws. They were used to men of a better order thantheirs coming to the hidden camps and sooner or later sinking to theirlower level. Besides, with them everything was easy come, easy go. Thatwas why life itself went on so carelessly and usually ended so cheaply.There were men among them, however, that made Duane feel that terribleinexplicable wrath rise in his breast. He could not bear to be nearthem. He could not trust himself. He felt that any instant a word,a deed, something might call too deeply to that instinct he could nolonger control. Jackrabbit Benson was one of these men. Because ofhim and other outlaws of his ilk Duane could scarcely ever forgetthe reality of things. This was a hidden valley, a robbers' den, arendezvous for murderers, a wild place stained red by deeds of wild men.And because of that there was always a charged atmosphere. The merriest,idlest, most careless moment might in the flash of an eye end inruthless and tragic action. In an assemblage of desperate characters itcould not be otherwise. The terrible thing that Duane sensed was this.The valley was beautiful, sunny, fragrant, a place to dream in; themountaintops were always blue or gold rimmed, the yellow river slidslowly and majestically by, the birds sang in the cottonwoods, thehorses grazed and pranced, children played and women longed for love,freedom, happiness; the outlaws rode in and out, free with money andspeech; they lived comfortably in their adobe homes, smoked, gambled,talked, laughed, whiled away the idle hours--and all the time life therewas wrong, and the simplest moment might be precipitated by that evilinto the most awful of contrasts. Duane felt rather than saw a dark,brooding shadow over the valley.
Then, without any solicitation or encouragement from Duane, the Blandwoman fell passionately in love with him. His conscience was nevertroubled about the beginning of that affair. She launched herself. Ittook no great perspicuity on his part to see that. And the thing whichevidently held her in check was the newness, the strangeness, and forthe moment the all-satisfying fact of his respect for her. Duane exertedhimself to please, to amuse, to interest, to fascinate her, and alwayswith deference. That was his strong point, and it had made his parteasy so far. He believed he could carry the whole scheme through withoutinvolving himself any deeper.
He was playing at a game of love--playing with life and deaths Sometimeshe trembled, not that he feared Bland or Alloway or any other man, butat the deeps of life he had come to see into. He was carried out of hisold mood. Not once since this daring motive had stirred him had hebeen haunted by the phantom of Bain beside his bed. Rather had he beenhaunted by Jenn
ie's sad face, her wistful smile, her eyes. He never wasable to speak a word to her. What little communication he had with herwas through Euchre, who carried short messages. But he caught glimpsesof her every time he went to the Bland house. She contrived somehow topass door or window, to give him a look when chance afforded. And Duanediscovered with surprise that these moments were more thrilling tohim than any with Mrs. Bland. Often Duane knew Jennie was sitting justinside the window, and then he felt inspired in his talk, and it wasall made for her. So at least she came to know him while as yet she wasalmost a stranger. Jennie had been instructed by Euchre to listen, tounderstand that this was Duane's only chance to help keep her mind fromconstant worry, to gather the import of every word which had a doublemeaning.
Euchre said that the girl had begun to wither under the strain, to burnup with intense hope which had flamed within her. But all the differenceDuane could see was a paler face and darker, more wonderful eyes. Theeyes seemed to be entreating him to hurry, that time was flying, thatsoon it might be too late. Then there was another meaning in them, alight, a strange fire wholly inexplicable to Duane. It was only a flashgone in an instant. But he remembered it because he had never seen it inany other woman's eyes. And all through those waiting days he knew thatJennie's face, and especially the warm, fleeting glance she gave him,was responsible for a subtle and gradual change in him. This changehe fancied, was only that through remembrance of her he got rid of hispale, sickening ghosts.
One day a careless Mexican threw a lighted cigarette up into the brushmatting that served as a ceiling for Benson's den, and there was a firewhich left little more than the adobe walls standing. The result wasthat while repairs were being made there was no gambling and drinking.Time hung very heavily on the hands of some two-score outlaws. Dayspassed by without a brawl, and Bland's valley saw more successive hoursof peace than ever before. Duane, however, found the hours anything butempty. He spent more time at Mrs. Bland's; he walked miles on all thetrails leading out of the valley; he had a care for the condition of histwo horses.
Upon his return from the latest of these tramps Euchre suggested thatthey go down to the river to the boat-landing.
"Ferry couldn't run ashore this mornin'," said Euchre. "River gettin'low an' sand-bars makin' it hard fer hosses. There's a greaserfreight-wagon stuck in the mud. I reckon we might hear news from thefreighters. Bland's supposed to be in Mexico."
Nearly all the outlaws in camp were assembled on the riverbank, lollingin the shade of the cottonwoods. The heat was oppressive. Not anoutlaw offered to help the freighters, who were trying to dig a heavilyfreighted wagon out of the quicksand. Few outlaws would work forthemselves, let alone for the despised Mexicans.
Duane and Euchre joined the lazy group and sat down with them. Euchrelighted a black pipe, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, lay back incomfort after the manner of the majority of the outlaws. But Duanewas alert, observing, thoughtful. He never missed anything. It washis belief that any moment an idle word might be of benefit to him.Moreover, these rough men were always interesting.
"Bland's been chased across the river," said one.
"New, he's deliverin' cattle to thet Cuban ship," replied another.
"Big deal on, hey?"
"Some big. Rugg says the boss hed an order fer fifteen thousand."
"Say, that order'll take a year to fill."
"New. Hardin is in cahoots with Bland. Between 'em they'll fill ordersbigger 'n thet."
"Wondered what Hardin was rustlin' in here fer."
Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among theoutlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him.
"Kid Fuller's goin' to cash," said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw.
"So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad.But he took the fever," rejoined a comrade.
"Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'."
"Wal, Kate Bland ain't nursin' any shot-up boys these days. She hasn'tgot time."
A laugh followed this sally; then came a penetrating silence. Some ofthe outlaws glanced good-naturedly at Duane. They bore him no ill will.Manifestly they were aware of Mrs. Bland's infatuation.
"Pete, 'pears to me you've said thet before."
"Shore. Wal, it's happened before."
This remark drew louder laughter and more significant glances at Duane.He did not choose to ignore them any longer.
"Boys, poke all the fun you like at me, but don't mention any lady'sname again. My hand is nervous and itchy these days."
He smiled as he spoke, and his speech was drawled; but the good humor inno wise weakened it. Then his latter remark was significant to a classof men who from inclination and necessity practiced at gun-drawing untilthey wore callous and sore places on their thumbs and inculcated inthe very deeps of their nervous organization a habit that made even thesimplest and most innocent motion of the hand end at or near the hip.There was something remarkable about a gun-fighter's hand. It neverseemed to be gloved, never to be injured, never out of sight or in anawkward position.
There were grizzled outlaws in that group, some of whom had many notcheson their gun-handles, and they, with their comrades, accorded Duanesilence that carried conviction of the regard in which he was held.
Duane could not recall any other instance where he had let fall afamiliar speech to these men, and certainly he had never before hintedof his possibilities. He saw instantly that he could not have donebetter.
"Orful hot, ain't it?" remarked Bill Black, presently. Bill could notkeep quiet for long. He was a typical Texas desperado, had never beenanything else. He was stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding;a wiry little man, all muscle, with a square head, a hard face partlyblack from scrubby beard and red from sun, and a bright, roving, crueleye. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a grizzled breast.
"Is there any guy in this heah outfit sport enough to go swimmin'?" heasked.
"My Gawd, Bill, you ain't agoin' to wash!" exclaimed a comrade.
This raised a laugh in which Black joined. But no one seemed eager tojoin him in a bath.
"Laziest outfit I ever rustled with," went on Bill, discontentedly."Nuthin' to do! Say, if nobody wants to swim maybe some of you'llgamble?"
He produced a dirty pack of cards and waved them at the motionlesscrowd.
"Bill, you're too good at cards," replied a lanky outlaw.
"Now, Jasper, you say thet powerful sweet, an' you look sweet, er Imight take it to heart," replied Black, with a sudden change of tone.
Here it was again--that upflashing passion. What Jasper saw fit to replywould mollify the outlaw or it would not. There was an even balance.
"No offense, Bill," said Jasper, placidly, without moving.
Bill grunted and forgot Jasper. But he seemed restless and dissatisfied.Duane knew him to be an inveterate gambler. And as Benson's place wasout of running-order, Black was like a fish on dry land.
"Wal, if you-all are afraid of the cairds, what will you bet on?" heasked, in disgust.
"Bill, I'll play you a game of mumbly peg fer two bits." replied one.
Black eagerly accepted. Betting to him was a serious matter. The gameobsessed him, not the stakes. He entered into the mumbly peg contestwith a thoughtful mien and a corded brow. He won. Other comrades triedtheir luck with him and lost. Finally, when Bill had exhausted theirsupply of two-bit pieces or their desire for that particular game, heoffered to bet on anything.
"See thet turtle-dove there?" he said, pointing. "I'll bet he'll scareat one stone or he won't. Five pesos he'll fly or he won't fly when someone chucks a stone. Who'll take me up?"
That appeared to be more than the gambling spirit of several outlawscould withstand.
"Take thet. Easy money," said one.
"Who's goin' to chuck the stone?" asked another.
"Anybody," replied Bill.
"Wal, I'll bet you I can scare him with one stone," said the firstoutlaw.
"We're i
n on thet, Jim to fire the darnick," chimed in the others.
The money was put up, the stone thrown. The turtle-dove took flight, tothe great joy of all the outlaws except Bill.
"I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,"he offered, imperturbably.
Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity tocover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, andthey all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and thetree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocularremarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minuteshad passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued animpressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars.
"But it hadn't the same dove!" exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. "This'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple."
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
"Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? NowI'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove withone stone."
No one offered to take his wager.
"Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him withone stone."
Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wisedisconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together.The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard tothat bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kindof wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then heappeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently alittle ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularlystarved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave hima handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way huggingthe money.
"I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road," declared Bill."I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers."
Bill failed to interest any of his companions, and forthwith becamesullen and silent. Strangely his good humor departed in spite of thefact that he had won considerable.
Duane, watching the disgruntled outlaw, marveled at him and wonderedwhat was in his mind. These men were more variable than children, asunstable as water, as dangerous as dynamite.
"Bill, I'll bet you ten you can't spill whatever's in the bucket thetpeon's packin'," said the outlaw called Jim.
Black's head came up with the action of a hawk about to swoop.
Duane glanced from Black to the road, where he saw a crippled peoncarrying a tin bucket toward the river. This peon was a half-wittedIndian who lived in a shack and did odd jobs for the Mexicans. Duane hadmet him often.
"Jim, I'll take you up," replied Black.
Something, perhaps a harshness in his voice, caused Duane to whirl. Hecaught a leaping gleam in the outlaw's eye.
"Aw, Bill, thet's too fur a shot," said Jasper, as Black rested an elbowon his knee and sighted over the long, heavy Colt. The distance to thepeon was about fifty paces, too far for even the most expert shot to hita moving object so small as a bucket.
Duane, marvelously keen in the alignment of sights, was positive thatBlack held too high. Another look at the hard face, now tense and darkwith blood, confirmed Duane's suspicion that the outlaw was not aimingat the bucket at all. Duane leaped and struck the leveled gun out of hishand. Another outlaw picked it up.
Black fell back astounded. Deprived of his weapon, he did not seem thesame man, or else he was cowed by Duane's significant and formidablefront. Sullenly he turned away without even asking for his gun.