CHAPTER XIV
THE ROCK AND THE MOONLIGHT
Randerson did not leave the scene of the fight immediately. He stood fora long time, after buckling on his belt and pistols, looking meditativelytoward the break in the canyon beyond which was Catherson's shack.
"Did the dresses have anything to do with it?" he asked himself, standingthere in the darkness. "New dresses might have--puttin' foolish notionsin her head. But I reckon the man--" He laughed grimly. He had thought itall over before, back there on the path when he had been talking toMasten and Hagar. He reflected again on it now. "Lookin' it square in theface, it's human nature. We'll allow that. We'll say a man has feelin's.But a man ought to have sense, too--or he ain't a man. If Masten was aboy, now, not realizin', there'd be excuses. But he's wised up.... If hisintentions had been honorable--but he's engaged to Ruth, an' theycouldn't. I reckon he'll pull his freight now. Catherson would sure musshim up some."
He mounted his pony and rode toward the Flying W ranchhouse. Halfwaythere he passed Masten. The moon had risen; by its light he could see theEasterner, who had halted his horse and was standing beside it, watchinghim. Randerson paid no heed to him.
"Thinkin' it over, I reckon," he decided, as he rode on. Looking back,when he reached the house, he saw that Masten was still standing besidehis horse.
At the sound of hoof beats, Uncle Jepson came out on the porch and peeredat the rider. Randerson could see Aunt Martha close behind him. UncleJepson was excited. He started off the porch toward Randerson.
"It's Randerson, mother!" he called shrilly back to Aunt Martha, who wasnow on the porch.
In a brief time Randerson learned that Ruth had gone riding--alone--aboutnoon, and had not returned. Randerson also discovered that the girl hadquestioned a puncher who had ridden in--asking him about Chavis' shackand the basin. Randerson's face, red from the blows that had landed onit, paled quickly.
"I reckon she's takin' her time about comin' in," he said. "Mebbe hercayuse has broke a leg--or somethin'." He grinned at Uncle Jepson. "Iexpect there ain't nothin' to worry about. I'll go look for her."
He climbed slowly into the saddle, and with a wave of the hand to theelderly couple rode his pony down past the bunkhouse at a pace that waslittle faster than a walk. He urged Patches to slightly greater speed ashe skirted the corral fence, but once out on the plains he loosened thereins, spoke sharply to the pony and began to ride in earnest.
Patches responded nobly to the grim note in his master's voice. Withstretching neck and flying hoofs he swooped with long, smooth undulationsthat sent him, looking like a splotched streak, splitting the night. Heran at his own will, his rider tall and loose in the saddle, speaking nofurther word, but thinking thoughts that narrowed his eyes, made themglint with steely hardness whenever the moonlight struck them, and causedhis lips to part, showing the clenched teeth between them, and shoved hischin forward with the queer set that marks the fighting man.
For he did not believe that Ruth's pony had broken a leg. She had gone tosee Chavis' shack, and Chavis--
One mile, two, three, four; Patches covered them in a mad riot ofrecklessness. Into depressions, over rises, leaping rocks and crashingthrough chaparral clumps, scaring rattlers, scorpions, toads, and otherdenizens to wild flight, he went, with not a thought for his own or hisrider's safety, knowing from the ring in his master's voice that speed,and speed alone, was wanted from him.
After a five mile run he was pulled down. He felt the effects of theeffort, but he was well warmed to his work now and he loped, though withmany a snort of impatience and toss of the head, by which he tried toconvey to his master his eagerness to be allowed to have his will.
On the crest of a hill he was drawn to a halt, while Randerson scannedthe country around him. Then, when the word came again to go, he was offwith a rush and a snort of delight, as wildly reckless as he had beenwhen he had discovered what was expected of him.
They flashed by the ford near the Lazette trail; along a ridge, the crestof which was hard and barren, making an ideal speedway; they sank into adepression with sickening suddenness, went out of it with a clatter, andthen went careening over a level until they reached a broken stretchwhere speed would mean certain death to both.
Patches was determined to risk it, but suddenly he was pulled in andforced to face the other way. And what he saw must have made him realizethat his wild race was ended, for he deflated his lungs shrilly, andrelaxed himself for a rest.
Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a giganticrock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidentlybeen watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she waspale and frightened--frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he mightnot be a friend.
This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill withrelief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenlystiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock.
He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to aclump of bunch-grass near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until shestruggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gazeintent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and thenshe drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands.
"Oh," she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked upat him. "Why," she added, "I have been here since before dark! And itmust be after midnight, now!"
"It's about nine. Where's your horse?"
"Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I sawChavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me,and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn'tcatch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killedhim! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awfuldarkness, and--Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "Inever was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!"
"I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with thesnakes, an' the dark, an' things."
She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her,and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling.
"I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some," he added, "forthey're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darknesson purpose to scare you."
"How can you joke about it?" she demanded resentfully.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said with quick contrition. "You see, I was gladto find you. An' you're all right now, you know."
"Yes, yes," she said, quickly forgiving. "I suppose I _am_ a coward."
"Why, no, ma'am, I reckon you ain't. Anybody sittin' here alone, a woman,especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They'd seem real.I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin'."
"It hurts terribly," she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at himplaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leatherseems like an iron band around it." She looked pleadingly at him. "Won'tyou please take it off?"
His embarrassment was genuine and deep.
"Why, I reckon I can, ma'am," he told her. "But I ain't never had a heapof experience--" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "withboots--boots, that is, that was on swelled ankles."
"Is it necessary to have experience?" she returned impatiently.
"Why, I reckon not, ma'am." He knelt beside her and grasped the boot,giving it a gentle tug. She cried out with pain and he dropped the bootand made a grimace of sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you, ma'am."
"I know you didn't"--peevishly. "Oh," she added as he took the boot inhand again, this time giving it a slight twist; "men are _such_ awkwardcreatures!"
"Why, I reckon they are, ma'am. That is, one, in particular. There'stimes when I can't get my own boots on." He grinned, and she looked icilyat him.
"Get hold of it just above the ankle, please," she instructed evenly anddrew the hem of her s
kirt tightly. "There!" she added as he seized thelimb gingerly, "now pull!"
He did as he had been bidden. She shrieked in agony and jerked the footaway, and he stood up, his face reflecting some of the pain and miserythat shone in hers.
"It's awful, ma'am," he sympathized. "Over at the Diamond H, one of theboys got his leg broke, last year, ridin' an outlaw, or tryin' to ridehim, which ain't quite the same thing--an' we had to get his boot offbefore we could set the break. Why, ma'am; we had to set on his head tokeep him from scarin' all the cattle off the range, with his screechin'."
She looked at him with eyes that told him plainly that no one was goingto sit on _her_ head--and that she would "screech" if she chose. And thenshe spoke to him with bitter sarcasm:
"Perhaps if you _tried_ to do something, instead of standing there,telling me something that happened _ages_ ago, I wouldn't have to sithere and endure this awful m-m-misery!"
The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. "Why, Ireckon it _must_ hurt like the devil, ma'am." He looked aroundhelplessly.
"Haven't you got something that you might take it off with?" she demandedtearfully. "Haven't you got a knife?"
He reddened guiltily. "I clean forgot it ma'am." He laughed withembarrassment. "I expect I'd never do for a doctor, ma'am; I'm so excitedan' forgetful. An' I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had tocut Hiller's boot off. That was the man I was tellin' you about. He--"
"Oh, dear," she said with heavy resignation, "I suppose you simply _must_talk! Do you _like_ to see me suffer?"
"Why, shucks, I feel awful sorry for you, ma'am. I'll sure hurry."
While he had been speaking he had drawn out his knife, and with as muchdelicacy as the circumstances would permit, he accomplished thedestruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to becareful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot waswithdrawn, showing her stockinged foot, puffed to abnormal proportions.She looked at it askance.
"Do you think it is b-broken?" she asked him, dreading.
He grasped it tenderly, discovered that the ankle moved freely, and afterpressing it in several places, looked up at her.
"I don't think it's broke, ma'am. It's a bad sprain though, I reckon. Ireckon it ought to be rubbed--so's to bring back the blood that couldn'tget in while the boot was on."
The foot was rubbed, he having drawn off the stocking with as muchdelicacy as he had exhibited in taking off the boot. And then whileRanderson considerately withdrew under pretense of looking at Patches,the stocking was put on again. When he came back it was to be met with arequest:
"Won't you please find my pony and bring him back?"
"Why, sure, ma'am." He started again for Patches, but halted and lookedback at her. "You won't be scared again?"
"No," she said. And then: "But you'll hurry, won't you?"
"I reckon." He was in the saddle quickly, loping Patches to the crest ofa hill near by in hopes of getting a view of the recreant pony. He got aglimpse of it, far back on the plains near some timber, and he was aboutto shout the news to Ruth, who was watching him intently, when he thoughtbetter of the notion and shut his lips.
Urging Patches forward, he rode toward Ruth's pony at a moderate pace.Three times during the ride he looked back. Twice he was able to seeRuth, but the third time he had swerved so that some bushes concealed himfrom her. He was forced to swerve still further to come up with the pony,and he noted that Ruth would never have been able to see her pony fromher position.
It was more than a mile to where the animal stood, and curiously, asthough to make amends for his previous bad behavior to Ruth, he cametrotting forward to Randerson, whinnying gently.
Randerson seized the bridle, and grinned at the animal.
"I reckon I ought to lam you a-plenty, you miserable deserter," he saidseverely, "runnin' away from your mistress that-a-way. Is that the wayfor a respectable horse to do? You've got her all nervous an' upset--an'she sure roasted me. Do you reckon there's any punishment that'd fit whatyou done? Well, I reckon! You come along with me!"
Leading the animal, he rode Patches to the edge of the timber. There,unbuckling one end of the reins from the bit ring, he doubled them,passed them through a gnarled root, made a firm knot and left the ponytied securely. Then he rode off and looked back, grinning.
"You're lost, you sufferin' runaway. Only you don't know it."
He loped Patches away and made a wide detour of the mesa, making surethat he appeared often on the sky line, so that he would be seen by Ruth.At the end of half an hour he rode back to where the girl was standing,watching him. He dismounted and approached her, standing before her, hisexpression one of grave worry.
"That outlaw of yours ain't anywhere in sight, ma'am," he said. "I reckonhe's stampeded back to the ranchhouse. You sure you ain't seen him gopast here?"
"No," she said, "unless he went way around, just after it got dark."
"I reckon that's what he must have done. Some horses is plumb mean. Butyou can't walk, you know," he added after a silence; "I reckon you'llhave to ride Patches."
"You would have to walk, then," she objected. "And that wouldn't befair!"
"Walkin' wouldn't bother me, ma'am." He got Patches and led him closer.She looked at the animal, speculatively.
"Don't you think he could carry both of us?" she asked.
He scrutinized Patches judicially. A light, which she did not see, leapedinto his eyes.
"Why, I didn't think of that. I reckon he could, ma'am. Anyway, we cantry it, if you want to."
He led Patches still closer. Then, with much care, he lifted Ruth andplaced her in the saddle, mounting behind her. Patches moved off.
After a silence which might have lasted while they rode a mile, Ruthspoke.
"My ankle feels very much easier."
"I'm glad of that, ma'am."
"Randerson," she said, after they had gone on a little ways further; "Ibeg your pardon for speaking to you the way I did, back there. But myfoot _did_ hurt terribly."
"Why, sure. I expect I deserved to get roasted."
Again there was a silence. Ruth seemed to be thinking deeply. At adistance that he tried to keep respectful, Randerson watched her, withworshipful admiration, noting the graceful disorder of her hair, thewisps at the nape of her neck. The delicate charm of her made him thrillwith the instinct of protection. So strong was this feeling that when hethought of her pony, back at the timber, guilt ceased to bother him.
Ruth related to him the conversation she had overheard between Chavis andKester, and he smiled understandingly at her.
"Do you reckon you feel as tender toward them now as you did before youfound that out?"
"I don't know," she replied. "It made me angry to hear them talk likethat. But as for hanging them--" She shivered. "There were times,tonight, though, when I thought hanging would be too good for them," sheconfessed.
"You'll shape up real western--give you time," he assured. "You'll beready to take your own part, without dependin' on laws to do it foryou--laws that don't reach far enough."
"I don't think I shall ever get your viewpoint," she declared.
"Well," he said, "Pickett was bound to try to get me. Do you think thatif I'd gone to the sheriff at Las Vegas, an' told him about Pickett, he'dhave done anything but poke fun at me? An' that word would have gone allover the country--that I was scared of Pickett--an' I'd have had to pullmy freight. I had to stand my ground, ma'am. Mebbe I'd have been a heroif I'd have let him shoot me, but I wouldn't have been here any more toknow about it. An' I'm plumb satisfied to be here, ma'am."
"How did you come to hear about me not getting home?" she asked.
"I'd rode in to see Catherson. I couldn't see him--because he wasn'tthere. Then I come on over to the ranchhouse, an' Uncle Jepson told meabout you not comin' in."
"Was Mr. Masten at the ranchhouse?"
He hesitated. Then he spoke slowly. "I didn't see him there, ma'am."
She evidently wondered why it
had not been Masten that had come for her.
They were near the house when she spoke again:
"Did you have an accident today, Randerson?"
"Why, ma'am?" he asked to gain time, for he knew that the moonlight hadbeen strong enough, and that he had been close enough to her, to permither to see.
"Your face has big, ugly, red marks on it, and the skin on your knucklesis all torn," she said.
"Patches throwed me twice, comin' after you, ma'am," he lied. "I plowedup the ground considerable. I've never knowed Patches to be sounreliable."
She turned in the saddle and looked full at him. "That is strange," shesaid, looking ahead again. "The men have told me that you are a wonderfulhorseman."
"The men was stretchin' the truth, I reckon," he said lightly.
"Anyway," she returned earnestly; "I thank you very much for coming forme."
She said nothing more to him until he helped her down at the edge of theporch at the ranchhouse. And then, while Uncle Jepson and Aunt Marthawere talking and laughing with pleasure at her return, she found time tosay, softly to him:
"I really don't blame you so much--about Pickett. I suppose it wasnecessary."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said gratefully.
He helped her inside, where the glare of the kerosene lamps fell uponhim. He saw Uncle Jepson looking at him searchingly; and he caught Ruth'squick, low question to Aunt Martha, as he was letting her gently down ina chair:
"Where is Willard?"
"He came in shortly after dark," Aunt Martha told her. "Jep was talkingto him, outside. He left a note for you. He told Jep that he was goingover to Lazette for a couple of weeks, my dear."
Randerson saw Ruth's frown. He also saw Aunt Martha looking intentlythrough her glasses at the bruises on his face.
"Why, boy," she exclaimed, "what has happened to you?"
Randerson reddened. It was going to be harder for him to lie to AuntMartha than to Ruth. But Ruth saved him the trouble.
"Randerson was thrown twice, riding out to get me," she explained.
"Throwed twice, eh?" said Uncle Jepson to Randerson, when a few minuteslater he followed the range boss out on the porch. He grinned atRanderson suspiciously. "Throwed twice, eh?" he repeated. "Masten's facelooks like some one had danced a jig on it. Huh! I cal'late that if youwas throwed twice, Masten's horse must have _drug_ him!"
"You ain't tellin' _her_!" suggested Randerson.
"You tell her anything _you_ want to tell her, my boy," whispered UncleJepson. "An' if I don't miss my reckonin', she'll _listen_ to you, someday."