CHAPTER XI
THE TRAIL OF THE NIGHT-RIDERS
A week passed before Tresler was again brought into contact withJake. When he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the"broncho-busting" carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to haveno share in it. Jacob Smith was waiting for him with a message fromJulian Marbolt; his orders were peremptory. He was to leave at oncefor Whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the younghorses now being broken for the troops. The rancher made his meaningquite plain. And Tresler was quick to understand that this was simplyto get him out of the way until such time as Jake's temper had cooledand the danger of a further rupture was averted.
He received his instructions without comment. It was rough on hismare, but as the Lady Jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she mustnot mind if she received a similar treatment in return. And so hewent, much to the disquiet of Joe Nelson, and with a characteristicadmonition from Arizona. That individual had just finished thrashing abull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn't move fromthe spot where he had been saddled, when Tresler came up. The lean manwas breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily.
"Kep y'r gun good an' handy," he said. "Et's mighty good company, ifet don't git gassin' wi'out you ast it a question."
In this case, however, there was no need for the advice. The journeywas a peaceful relief after the storms of Mosquito Bend. Treslertransacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to theauthorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing withtheir remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience andmoderation. Then he set out for the ranch again, in company with RawHarris and Lew Cawley--the two men who had brought the band into thetown.
His return to Mosquito Bend was very different from his first coming.It seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had beenridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. So much hadhappened since then. Now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man,with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpuncherswith him, in moleskin and buckskin, Mexican spurs, and slouch hat; hisgun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as herode. He was no longer "the guy with the pants" he had been when hefirst entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at themetamorphosis. It brought him nearer to the land, which, with all itsroughness, he felt to be the true life for him.
It was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping lowover the western hills, casting long shadows from behind thegorgeous-colored heat clouds. Its dying lustre shone like a fire ofmolten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills,until the densest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork ofNature's own cutting. And in the shadow cast by the hilly backgroundthere nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pasturesof succulent grass.
Yes, Tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the futuremight hold for him. He had missed his companions; he had missedArizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed Joe, with hisquaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to getback to Diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him asonly a lover can. But there was something more in his longing thanthat. Every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at thethought of what might be happening to her. Joe was there to send himword, but even this was insufficient. There had been times when hefelt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there hadbeen times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervoustension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare andoffer her a race against time back to the girl he loved.
His feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trailfrom the ford. He had no words for either of his companions, nor didthey seem inclined for speech. They passed the corrals in silence andreached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted themwith a nod or a casual "Hello!" They might have just returned from aday's work on the range for all the interest displayed at theircoming. But, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy's manner.There is rarely a "good-bye" on the prairie, unless it is when acomrade "hits the one-way trail." Even then it is more often a quiet"s'long," without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far morethan a flood of tears.
Jake was at his door when Tresler rode over to report. He was stillbearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of thembeheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. However, there wasnone of this in his manner as he made his report. And, much to hisastonishment, Jake displayed a cold civility. He surpassed himself.Not a sneer or sarcasm passed his lips. The report done, he went on tothe barn and stabled his mare for the night. Then he passed on towardhis quarters.
Before he reached his destination, however, he was joined by Nelson.The little man had evidently been waiting for him.
"Well?"
There was no greeting. Tresler put his monosyllabic question at once.And the choreman responded without hesitation.
"She's bin astin' fer you three times. When wus you gittin' aroundagin? I guessed I didn't know fer sure. She wus kind o' worrited, Ireckon." He paused, and his twisted face turned in the direction ofthe foreman's hut. "She wus weepin' last night," he went on. Then hepaused again, and his shrewd eyes came back to Tresler's face. "She'sbin weepin' to-day," he said, with a peculiar look of expectation inhis manner.
"What's the trouble?" The question came short and sharp.
"Mebbe she's lonesome."
"That's not it; you've got other reasons."
Joe looked away again. "Jake's bin around some. But I guess she'slonesome too. She's ast fer you." The little man's tone was full ofobstinacy.
Tresler understood his drift. If Joe had his way he'd march Diane andhim off to the nearest parson with no more delay than was required tosaddle two horses.
"I'm going to see her to-night," Tresler replied quietly. Then, as hesaw Jake appear again in the doorway, he said, "You'd better pass onnow. Maybe I'll see you afterward."
And Joe moved off without another word. Jake had seen them together,but he was unsuspicious. He was thinking of the scars on his face, andof something else that had nothing to do with their meeting. And histhoughts made him smile unpleasantly.
If Tresler's first greeting had been indifferent, his reception, as hecame over to the bunkhouse now, was far from being so. Talk flowedfreely, inquiries hailed him on every side; jests passed, sometimescoarse, sometimes subtle, but always cordial. All the men on the ranchhad a fair good-will for him. "Tenderfoot" he might be, but theyapproved his grit, and with frontiersmen grit is all that matters.
After supper he separated himself from his companions under pretext ofcleaning his saddlery. He hauled a bucket of water, and went down tothe lower corrals and disposed his accoutrements for the operation,but he did no work until he saw Arizona approaching. That unkemptpersonage loafed up in a sort of manner that plainly said he didn'tcare if he came or not. But Tresler knew this was only his manner. Thecleaning of the saddle now proceeded with assiduity, and Arizona sathimself down on a fallen log and spat tobacco-juice around him. Atlast he settled himself, nursing one knee in his clasped hands, andspoke with that air of absolute conviction which always characterizedhim.
"Say, Jake's grittin' his teeth tight," he said. Then, as anafterthought, "But he ain't showin' 'em."
Tresler looked up and studied the cadaverous face before him.
"You mean--about----"
"Wal, I wus jest figgerin' on how you wus standin'. Seems likelyyou're standin' lookin' east wi' a feller due west who's got the dropon yer; which, to my reckonin', ain't as safe as handin' trac's to alodge o' Cheyenne neches on the war-path."
"You think that Jake's quietly getting the drop on me?"
"Wal, I allow ef I wus Jake I'd be gettin' a'mighty busy that way. An'I kind o' calc'late that's wot he's doin'."
Tresler smiled and returned to his work. "And what form do you thinkhis 'drop' will take?" he asked, without looking up.
"I ain
't gifted wi' imagination. Y' ain't never sure which way a blindmule's likely ter kick. Jake's in the natur' of a blind mule. What Isez is, watch him. Don't look east when he's west. Say," he went on,in a tone of disgust, "you Noo Yorkers make me sick. Ther' ain'tnothin' ter hittin' a feller an' makin' him sore. It on'y gives himtime to git mad. A gun's handy an' sudden. On'y you need a goodishbore ef you're goin' ter perf'rate the hide of a guy like Jake.Pshaw!" he finished up witheringly, "you fellers ain't got shut o'last century."
"Maybe we haven't," Tresler retorted, with a good-humored laugh; "butyour enterprise has carried you so far ahead of time that you'veoverlapped. I tell you, man, you're back in the savage times. You'regroping in the prehistoric periods--Jurassic, Eocene, or some such."
"Guess I ain't familiar wi' Jurassics an' Eocenes," Arizona repliedgravely. "Mebbe that was before my time; but ef you're speakin' o'them fellers as clumped each other over the head wi' stone clubs, I'lows they had more savee than a Noo Yorker, ef they wus kind o'primitive in the'r habits."
Tresler accepted the argument in the spirit in which it was putforward. It was no use getting angry. Arizona was peculiar, but he hadreason to consider him, in his own parlance, "a decent citizen." Hewent on with his work steadily while the cowpuncher grunted out hisimpatience. Then at last, as though it were forced from him, thelatter jerked out a more modified opinion of the civilized American.It seemed as though Tresler's very silence had drawn it from him.
"Wal," he said grumblingly, "mebbe you Noo Yorkers has points--mebbe,I sez." Then he dismissed the subject with an impatient shrug of hisdrooping shoulders, and went off at a fresh angle. "Say, I wus kind o'wonderin' some 'bout that flea-bitten shadder, Joe Nelson. He'samazin' queer stayin' 'round here. He's foxin' some, too. Y' ain'tnever sure when you're like to strike them chewed-up features o' hisafter nightfall. Y' see he's kind o' quit drinkin'--leastways, he'sfrekent sober. Mebbe he can't sleep easy. Ther's suthin' worritin' hishead, sure. He 'pears ter me desp'rate restless--kind o' like an oldhoss wi' the bush-ticks. Et don't fit noways wi' the Joe Nelson Ioncet knew. Mebbe it's religion. Ther' ain't nuthin' like religion fermakin' things oneasy in your head. Joe allus had a strain o' religionin him."
The Southerner gazed gloomily at the saddle on the fence, while hemunched his tobacco in thoughtful silence.
"I don't think Joe's got religion," said Tresler, with a smile. "He'scertainly worried, and with reason. Jake's got his knife into him. No,I think Joe's got a definite object in staying around here, and Ishouldn't wonder if he's clever enough to attain it, whatever it is."
"That sounds more like Joe," assented the other, cheering up at thesuggestion. "Still, Joe allus had a strain o' religion in him," hepersisted. "I see him drop a man in his tracks oncet, an' cry like anoo-born babby 'cos ther' wa'n't a chu'ch book in Lone BrakeSettlement, an' he'd forgot his prayers, an' had ter let the fellerlie around fer the coyotes, instead o' buryin' him decent. That's awhiles ago. Guess Lone Brake's changed some. They do say ther's aBible ther' now. Kind o' roped safe to the desk in the meetin'-house,so the boys can't git foolin' wi' it. Yup," he went on, with anabstracted look in his expressive eyes, "religion's a mighty powerfulthing when it gits around. Most like the fever. I kind o' got touchedwi' it down Texas way on the Mexican border. Guess et wer' t' do wi' alady I favored at the time; but that ain't here nor there. Guess mosto' the religion comes along o' the wimmin folk. 'Longside o' wimminmen is muck."
Tresler nodded his appreciation of the sentiment.
"Gettin' religion's most like goin' on the bust. Hits yer sudden, an'yer don't git off'n it easy. The signs is allus the same. You kind o'worry when folks gits blasphemin', an' you don't feel like takin' ahand to help 'em out. You hate winnin' at 'draw,' an' talks easy whena feller holds 'fours' too frekent. An' your liquor turns on yourstummick. They're all signs," he added expansively. "When a fellergits like that he'd best git right off to the meetin'-house. That'show I tho't."
"And you went?"
"That's so. Say, an' it ain't easy. I 'lows my nerve's pretty rightfer most things, but when you git monkeyin' wi' religion it's kind o'different. 'Sides, ther's allus fellers ter choke you off. NassyWilkes, the s'loon-keeper, he'd had religion bad oncet, tho' I 'lowshe'd fergot most o't sence he'd been in the s'loon biz; he kind o'skeered me some. Sed they used a deal o' water, an' mostly got duckinggreenhorns in it. Wal, I put ha'f a dozen slugs o' whisky down myneck--which he sed would prevent me gittin' cold, seein' water wa'n'tin my line--an' hit the trail fer the meetin'."
"What denomination?" asked Tresler, curiously. "What religion?" headded, for the man's better understanding.
"Wal, I don't rightly knows," Arizona went on gravely. "I kind o'fancy the boys called 'em 'dippers'; but I guess this yarn don't callfer no argyment," he added, with a suspicion of his volcanic temperrising at the frequent interruptions. Then, as the other kept silence,he continued in his earnest way, "Guess that meetin'-house wus mostlyempty. Ther' wus one feller ther' a'ready when I come. He wus playin'toons on a kind o' 'cordian he worked wi' his feet----"
"Harmonium," suggested Tresler, diffidently.
"That's it. I could 'a' wep' as I looked at that feller, he wus thatnoble. He'd long ha'r greased reg'lar, an' wore swaller-tails. Guesshe wus workin' that concertina-thing like mad; an' he jest lookedright up at the ceilin' as if he wer' crazy fer some feller to come'long an' stop him 'fore he bust up the whole shootin' match."
"Looked inspired," Tresler suggested.
"Mebbe that's wot. Still, I wus glad I come. Then the folks comealong, an' the deac'n; an' the feller quit. Guess he wus plumb scarto' that deac'n, tho' I 'lows he wus a harmless-lookin' feller 'nough.I see him clear sheer out o' range on sight, which made me think hewus a mean-sperrited cuss anyway.
"Yes, I guess I wus glad I'd come; I felt that easy an' wholesome.Say, the meetin's dead gut stuff. Yes, sir--dead gut. I felt I'd neverhandle a gun again; I couldn't 'a' blasphemed 'longside a babby efyou'd give me ten dollars to try. An' I guess ther' wa'n't no dirtyGreaser as I couldn't ha' loved like a brother, I wus that soothed,an' peaceful, an' saft feelin'. I jest took a chaw o' plug, an' satback an' watched them folks lookin' so noble as they come along inthe'r funeral kids an' white chokers. Then the deac'n got good an'goin', an' I got right on to the 'A-mens,' fetchin' 'em that easy Iwished I'd never done nothin' else all my life. I set ther' feelin'real happy."
Arizona paused, and his wild eyes softened as his thoughts went backto those few happy moments of his chequered career. Then he heaved adeep sigh of regret and went on--
"But it wa'n't to last. No, sir, religion ain't fer the likes o' me.Ye can't play the devil an' mix wi' angels. They're bound to out you.Et's on'y natteral. Guess I'd bin chawin' some, an' ther' wa'n't nospit boxes. That's wher' the trouble come. Ther' wus a raw-boned cusswi' his missis settin' on the bench front o' me, an' I guess her silkfixin's got mussed up wi' t'bacca juice someways. I see her look downon the floor, then she kind o' gathered her skirts aroun' her an' gotwipin' wi' her han'k'chief. Then she looks aroun' at me, an', mefeelin' friendly, I kind o' smiled at her, not knowin' she wus riled.Then she got whisperin' to her wall-eyed galoot of a man, an' he turnsaroun' smart, an' he sez, wi' a scowl, sez he, 'The meetin'-houseain't no place fer chawin' hunks o' plug, mister; wher' wus youdragged from?' Ther' wus a nasty glint to his eye. But ef he wus goin'to fergit we wus in the meetin'-house I meant showin' him I wa'n't. SoI answers him perlite. Sez I, wi' a smile, 'Sir,' sez I, 'I take it weain't from the same hog trough.' I see he took it mean, but as afeller got up from behind an' shouts 'Silence,' I guessed things wouldpass over. But that buzzard-headed mule wus cantankerous. He beckonsthe other feller over an' tells him I wus chawin', an' the otherfeller sez to me: 'You can't chaw here, mussin' up the lady'sfixin's.'
"Wal, bein' on'y human, I got riled, but, not wishin' to raise aracket, I spat my chew out. I don't know how it come, but, I guess,bein' riled, I jest didn't take notice wher' I dumped it, till, kindo' sudden-like, I found I wus inspectin'
the vitals o' thatside-show-freak's gun. Sez he, in a nasty tone, which kind o'interrupted the deac'n's best langwidge, an' made folks fergit tofetch the 'A-men' right, 'You dog-gone son of a hog----' But I didn'twait fer no more. I sees then what's amiss. My chaw had located itselfon the lady's ankle--which I 'lows wus shapely--which she'd leftshowin' in gatherin' her fixin's aroun' her. I see that, an' I see hisstovepipe hat under the seat. I jest grabbed that hat sudden, an''fore he'd had time to drop his hammer I'd mushed it down on his headso he couldn't see. Then I ups, wi' the drop on him, an' I sez: 'Comeright along an' we'll settle like honest cit'zens.' An' wi' that Ibacked out o' the meetin'. Wal, I guess he wus clear grit. We settled.I 'lows he wus a dandy at the bizness end o' a gun, an' I walked lamefer a month after. But ther' was a onattached widdy in that town whenwe'd done."
"You killed him?" Tresler asked.
"Wal, I didn't wait to ast no details. Guess I got busy fergittin'religion right off. Mebbe ther's a proper time fer ev'rything, an' Idon't figger it's reas'nable argyfyin' even wi' a deac'n when hisswaller-tail pocket's bustin' wi' shootin' materials. No, sir, guessreligion ain't no use fer me."
Arizona heaved a deep sigh of regret. Tresler gathered up his saddleand bridle. Once or twice he had been ready to explode with laughterduring his companion's story, but the man's evident sincerity andearnestness had held him quiet; had made him realize that the storywas in the nature of a confidence, and was told in no spirit oflevity. And, somehow, now, at the end of it, he felt sorry for thiswandering outcast, with no future and only a disreputable past. Heknew there was far more real good in him than bad, and yet thereseemed no possible chance for him. He would go on as he was; he would"punch" cattle so long as he could find employment. And when chance,or some other matter, should plunge him on his beam ends, he wouldtake to what most cowboys in those days took to when they fell uponevil days--cattle-stealing. And, probably, end his days dancing at theend of a lariat, suspended from the bough of some stout old tree.
As he moved to go, Arizona rose abruptly from his seat, and stayed himwith a gesture.
"Guess I got side-tracked yarnin'. I wanted to tell you a few thingsthat's bin doin' sence you've bin away."
Tresler stood.
"Say," the other went on at once, "ther's suthin' doin' thick 'tweenJake an' blind hulks. Savee? I heerd Jake an' Miss Dianny gassin' atthe barn one day. She wus ther' gittin' her bit of a shoe fixed byJacob--him allus fixin' her shoes for her when they needs it--an' Jakecome along and made her go right in an' look at the new driver he wusbreakin' fer her. Guess they didn't see me, I wus up in the loftputtin' hay down. When they come in I wus standin' takin' a chaw, an'Jake's voice hit me squar' in the lug, an' I didn't try not to hearwhat he said. An' I soon felt good that I'd held still. Sez he, 'Youbest come out wi' me an' learn to drive her. She's dead easy.' An'Miss Dianny sez, sez she, 'I'll drive her when she's thoroughlybroken!' An' he sez, 'You mean you ain't goin' out wi' me?' An' sheanswers short-like, 'No.' Then sez he, mighty riled, 'You shan't goout with that mare by yourself to meet no Treslers,' sez he. 'I'llpromise you that. See? Your father's on to your racket, I've seen tothat. He knows you an' him's bin sparkin', an' he's real mad. That'sby the way,' he sez. 'What I want to tell you's this. You're goin' tomarry me, sure. See? An' your father's goin' to make you.' An' MissDianny jest laffed right out at him. But her laff wa'n't easy. An' sezshe, wi' mock 'nuff to make a man feel as mean as rank sow-belly,'Father will never let me marry, and you know it.' An' Jake standsquiet a minnit. Then I guess his voice jest rasped right up to methrough that hay-hole. 'I'm goin' to make him,' sez he, vicious-like.'A tidy ranch, this, eh? Wal, I tell you his money an' his stock an'his land won't help him a cent's worth ef he don't give you to me. Iken make him lick my boots if I so choose. See?' Ther' wa'n't anotherword spoke. An' I heerd 'em move clear. Then I dropped, an' pushin' myhead down through the hay-hole, I see that Jake's goin' out byhisself. Miss Dianny had gone out clear ahead, an' wus talkin' toJacob."
"What do you think it means?" asked Tresler, quietly.
And in a moment the other shot off into one of his volcanic surprises.
"I ain't calc'latin' the'r meanin'. Say, Tresler." The man paused, andhis great rolling eyes glanced furtively from right to left. Then hecame close up and spoke in a harsh whisper. "It's got to be. He ain'tfit to live. This is wot I wus thinkin'. I'll git right up to hisshack, an' I'll call him every son-of-a---- I ken think of. See? He'llgit riled, an'--wal, I owe her a debt o' gratitood, an' I can't neverpay it no other ways, so I'll jest see my slug finds his carkis right,'fore he does me in."
Arizona stepped back with an air of triumph. He could see no flaw inhis plan. It was splendid, subtle.
It was the one and only way to settle all the problems centering roundthe foreman. Thus he would pay off a whole shoal of debts, and ridDiane of Jake forever. And he felt positively injured when Treslershook his head.
"You would pay her ill if you did that," he said gravely. "Jake wasprobably only trying to frighten her. Besides, he is her father'sforeman. The man he trusts and relies on."
"You ain't got no savee," Arizona broke out in disgust. "Say, he won'tneed no foreman when Jake's out of the way. You'll marry the gal,an'----"
But he got no further. Tresler interrupted him coldly.
"That's enough, Arizona. We aren't going to discuss it further. In themeantime, believe me that I am wide awake to my position, and to MissMarbolt's, and ready to do the best for her in emergency. I must geton now, for I have several things to do before I turn in."
Arizona had no more to say. He relapsed into moody silence, and, asthey moved away together, Tresler was thankful for the freakish chancethat had made this man come to him with his plan before putting itinto execution. It was dark now, and as they reached the bunkhousethey parted. Tresler deposited his saddle at the barn, but he did notreturn to the bunkhouse. He meant to see Diane before he turned in, byhook or by crook.
He knew that the time had come when he must actively seek to help her.When Jake openly threatened her, and she was found weeping, there wascertainly need of that help. He was alarmed, seriously alarmed, andyet he hardly knew what it was he feared most. He quite realized thedifficulties that confronted him. She had given him no right tointerfere in her affairs. More, she would have every reason to resentsuch interference. But, in spite of this, he held to his resolve. Itwas his love that urged him on, his love that overbore his scruples,his gravest apprehensions. He told himself that he had the right whichevery man has. The right to woo and win for himself the love hecovets. It was for Diane to say "yea" or "nay," not her father. Therewas no comfort she had been accustomed to, or even luxury, that hecould not give her. There was no earthly reason why he should not tryto win her. He vividly called to mind what Joe had suggested, andArizona's unfinished sentence rang in his ears, but both suggestionsas a basis of hope he set aside with a lover's egotism. What couldthese men know or understand of such a matter?
He had left the barn, and his way took him well out from the ranchyards in the direction of the pinewoods. He remembered his walk on hisfirst night on the ranch, and meant to approach the back of the blindman's house by the same route.
The calm of the prairie night had settled upon the ranch. The lowingof the cattle was hushed, the dogs were silent; and the voices of menand the tramp of horses' hoofs were gone. There was only the harshcroaking of the frogs in the Mosquito River and the cry of theprowling coyote to disturb the peace of the summer night.
And as he walked, he felt for the first time something of the gripwhich sooner or later the prairie fixes upon those who seriously seeklife upon its bosom. Its real fascination begins only when the firststages of apprenticeship to its methods and habits are passing. Thevastness of its world, its silence, its profound suggestion ofsolitude, which ever remains even where townships and settlementsexist, holds for man a fascination which appeals to the primitivesenses and drags him back from the claims of civilization to the old,old life. And when that call comes,
and the latent savage is rousedfrom the depths of subjection, is it wonder that men yield to what,after all, is only the true human instinct--the right of theindividual to defend itself from all attacks of foes? No; and soTresler argued as he thought of the men who were his comrades.
Under the influence of his new feelings it seemed to him that life wasso small a thing, on which folks of civilization set much too high avalue. The ready appeal to the gun, which seemed to be one of thefirst principles of the frontiersman's life, was already beginning tolose its repugnance for him. After all, where no arbitration could beenforced, men still had a right to defend self and property.
His thoughts wandered on through a maze of argument which convincedhim notwithstanding he told himself that it was all wrong. He toldhimself weakly that his thoughts were the result of the demoralizinginfluence of lawless associates, but, in spite of this, he felt thatthere was, in reality, something in them of a deeper, more abidingnature.
He had made the woodland fringe, and was working his way back towardthe house. The darkness was profound here. The dense, sad-foliagedpines dropped their ponderous boughs low about him as he passed,shielding him from all possible view from the ranch. And, even overthe underlay of brittle cones, his moccasined feet bore him along ina silent, ghostly manner. It was the first time in his life he hadbeen forced to steal upon anybody's house like a thief in the night;but he felt that his object was more than sufficient justification.
Now he looked keenly for any sign of lights among the ranch buildings.The bunkhouse was in darkness, but Jake's house was still lit up.However, this did not bother him much. He knew that the foreman was inthe habit of keeping his lamp burning, even after retiring. Perhaps heread at night. The idea amused him, and he wondered what style ofliterature might appeal to a man of Jake's condition of mind. But evenas he watched, the light went out, and he felt more satisfied.
He reached a point on the edge of the forest opposite the barn. Thensomething brought him up with a start. Some unusual sound had caughthis ear. It was the murmur of voices in the distance. Immediately hismind went back to his first night on the ranch, and he remembered RedMask and his attendant horseman. Now he listened, peering hard intothe darkness in the direction of the house, at the point whence thesound was proceeding. Whoever were talking they seemed to be standingstill. The sound grew no louder, nor did it die away. His curiositydrew him on; and with cautious steps, he crept forward.
He tried to estimate how far the speakers were from the house. Itseemed to him that they were somewhere in the neighborhood of therancher's private stable. But he could not be altogether sure.
Now, as he drew nearer, the voices became louder. He could distinctlyhear the rise and fall of their tones, but still they wereunrecognizable. Again he paused, this time for caution's sake only. Heestimated that he was within twenty-five yards of the stable. It wouldnot be safe to go further. The steady murmur that reached him wastantalizing. Under ordinary circumstances he would have riskeddiscovery and gone on, but he could not jeopardize his present object.
He stretched himself under the shelter of a low bush, and, strangelyenough, recognized it as the one he had lain under on that memorablefirst night. This realization brought him a grim foreboding; he knewwhat he expected, he knew what was coming. And his foreboding wasfulfilled within a few seconds of taking up his position.
Suddenly he heard a door close, and the voices ceased speaking. Hewaited almost breathlessly for the next move. It came. The cracklingof pine cones under shod hoofs sounded sharply to his straining ears.It was a repetition of what had happened before. Two horsemen wereapproaching from the direction of the house. It was inevitable thathis hand should go to his gun, and, as he realized his own action, heunderstood how surely the prairie instincts had claimed him. But hewithdrew it quickly and waited, for he had no intention of takingaction. It might be Red Mask. It probably was. But he had no intentionof upsetting his present plans by any blind, precipitate attack uponthe desperado. Besides, if Red Mask and Jake were one, then theshooting of him, in cold blood, in the vicinity of the ranch, would,in the eyes of the police, be murder. No story of his would convince ajury that the foreman of Mosquito Bend was a cattle-rustler.
A moment later the horses dimly outlined themselves. There were two ofthem, as before. But he could not see well, the woods seemed darkerthan before; and, besides, they did not pass so near to him. They wenton like ghostly, silent shadows, only the scrunch of the conesunderfoot told of their solidity.
He waited until the sound died out, then he rose quietly and pursuedhis way. But what he had just witnessed plunged his thoughts into amoody channel. The night-riders were abroad again, riding uncheckedupon their desperate way, over the trail of murder and robbery theycut for themselves wherever they went. He wondered with dread who wasto be victim to-night. He remembered Manson Orr and shuddered. He hada bitter feeling that he had acted wrongly in letting them passunchallenged in spite of what reason and a cool judgment told him. Hisduty had been to investigate, but he also thought of a sad-faced girl,friendless and alone, weeping her heart out in the midst of her ownhome. And somehow his duty faded out before the second picture. And,as though to further encourage him, the memory of Joe Nelson's wordscame to him suddenly, and continued to haunt him persistently.
"You'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your ownbrand on her quick, eh?"