Kitabı oku: «The Ranchman», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXVII – BESIEGED
Hemmingway tentatively suggested that a ride through the gorge toward the Kelso Basin might simplify matters for himself and Taylor; it might, he said, even seem to make the defending of their position unnecessary. But his suggestions met with no enthusiasm from Taylor, who lounged among the rocks of his place of concealment calmly smoking.
Taylor gave some reasons for his disinclination to adopt Hemmingway’s suggestions.
“Norton will be back in an hour, with Bothwell and the outfit.” And now he grinned as he looked at Bud. “Miss Harlan told me to be careful about my scratches. I take it she don’t want no more sieges with a sick man. And I’m taking her advice. If I’d go to riding my horse like blazes, maybe I would get sick again. And she wouldn’t take care of me anymore. And I’d hate like blazes to run from Keats and his bunch of plug-uglies!”
So Hemmingway said no more on that subject.
They smoked and talked and watched the trail for signs of Keats and his men; while the sun, which had been behind the towering hills surrounding the gorge, traveled slowly above them, finally blazing down from a point directly overhead.
It became hot in the gorge; the air was stifling and the heat uncomfortable. Taylor did not seem to mind it, but Bud, with a vigorous appetite, and longings that ran to flapjacks and sirup, grew impatient.
“If a man could eat now,” he remarked once, while the sun was directly overhead, “why, it wouldn’t be so bad!”
And then, after the sun’s blazing rays had begun to diminish in intensity somewhat, Bud looked upward and saw that the shimmering orb had passed beyond the crest of a towering hill. He looked sharply at Taylor, who was intently watching the back trail, and said gravely:
“Norton ought to have been back with Bothwell and the bunch, now.”
“He’s an hour overdue,” said Taylor, without looking at Bud.
“I reckon somethin’s happened,” growled Bud. “Somethin’ always happens when a guy’s holed up, like this. It wouldn’t be so bad if a man could eat a little somethin’ – to sort of keep him from thinkin’ of it all the time. Or, mebbe, if there was a little excitement – or somethin’. A man could – ”
“There’ll be plenty of excitement before long,” interrupted Taylor. “Keats and his gang didn’t go very far. I just saw one of them sneaking along that rock-knob, down the gorge a piece. They’re going to stalk us. If you’re thinking of riding to Kelso – why – ” He grinned at Bud’s resentful scowl.
Lying flat on his stomach, he watched the rock-knob he had mentioned.
“Slick as an Indian,” he remarked once, while Bud, having ceased his discontented mutterings, kept his gaze on the rock also.
And then suddenly the eery silence of the gorge was broken by the sharp crack of Taylor’s rifle, and, simultaneously, by a shriek of pain. Report and shriek reverberated with weird, echoing cadences between the hills, growing less distinct always and finally the eery silence reigned again.
“They’ll know they can’t get careless, now,” grinned Taylor, working the ejector of his rifle.
Bud did not reply; and for another hour both men intently scanned the hills within range of their vision, straining their eyes to detect signs of movement that would warn them of the whereabouts of Keats and his men.
Anxiously Bud watched the rays of the sun creeping up a precipitous rock wall at a little distance. Slowly the streak of light narrowed, growing always less brilliant, and finally, when it vanished, Bud spoke:
“It’s comin’ on night, Squint. Somethin’s sure happened to Norton.” He wriggled impatiently, adding: “If we’re here when night comes we’ll have a picnic keepin’ them guys off of us.”
Taylor said nothing until the gorge began to darken with the shadows of twilight. Then he looked at Bud, his face grim.
“My stubbornness,” he said shortly. “I should have taken your advice about going to Kelso Basin – when we had a chance. But I felt certain that Norton would have the outfit here before this. Our chance is gone, now. There are some of Keats’s men in the hills, around us. I just saw one jump behind that rim rock on the shoulder of that big hill – there.” He indicated the spot. Then he again spoke to Bud.
“There’s a chance yet – for you. You take Spotted Tail and make a run for the basin. I’ll cover you.”
“What about you?” grumbled Bud.
Taylor grinned, and Bud laughed. “You was only funnin’ me, I reckon,” he said, earnestly. “You knowed I wouldn’t slope an’ leave you to fight it out alone – now didn’t you?”
“But if a man was hungry,” said Taylor, “and he knew there was grub with the outfit – ”
“I ain’t hungry no more,” declared Bud; “I’ve quit thinkin’ of flapjacks for more than – ”
He stiffened, and the first shadows of the night were split by a long, narrow flame-streak as his rifle crashed. And a man who had been slipping into the shelter of a depression on the side of a hill a hundred yards distant, tumbled grotesquely out and down, and went sliding to the bottom of the gorge.
As though the report of Bud’s rifle were a signal, a dozen vivid jets of fire flamed from various points in the surrounding hills, and the silence was rent by the vicious cracking of rifles and the drone and thud of bullets as they sped over the heads of the two men at the bottom of the gorge and flattened themselves against the rocks of their shelter.
That sound, too, died away. And in the heavy, portentous stillness which succeeded it, there came to the ears of the two besieged men the sounds of distant shouting, faint and far.
“It’s the outfit!” said Taylor.
And Bud, rolling over and over in an excess of joy over the coming of the Arrow men, hugged an imaginary form and yelled:
“Oh, Bothwell, you old son-of-a-gun! How I love you!”
CHAPTER XXVIII – THE FUGITIVE
One thought dominated Marion Harlan’s brain as she packed her belongings into the little handbag in her room at the Arrow – an overpowering, monstrous, hideous conviction that she had accepted charity from the man who was accused of murdering her father! There was no room in her brain for other thoughts or emotions; she was conscious of nothing but the horror of it; of the terrible uncertainty that confronted her – of the dread that Taylor might be guilty! She wanted to believe in him – she did believe in him, she told herself as she packed the bag; she could not accept the word of Keats as final. And yet she could not stay at the Arrow another minute – she could not endure the uncertainty. She must go away somewhere – anywhere, until the charge were proved, or until she could see Taylor, to look into his eyes, there to see his guilt or innocence.
She felt that the charge could not be true; for Taylor had treated her so fairly; he had been so sympathetically friendly; he had seemed to share her grief over her father’s death, and he had seemed so sincere in his declaration of his friendliness toward the man. He had even seemed to share her grief; and in the hallowed moments during which he had stood beside her while she had looked into her father’s room, he might have been secretly laughing at her!
And into her heart as she stood in the room, now, there crept a mighty shame – and the shadow of her mother’s misconduct never came so close as it did now. For she, too, had violated the laws of propriety; and what she was receiving was not more than her just due. And yet, though she could blame herself for coming to the Arrow, she could not excuse Taylor’s heinous conduct if he were guilty.
And then, the first fierce passion burning itself out, there followed the inevitable reaction – the numbing, staggering, sorrowing realization of loss. This in turn was succeeded by a frenzied desire to go away from the Arrow – from everybody and everything – to some place where none of them would ever see her again.
She started toward the door, and met Parsons – who was looking for her. He darted forward when he saw her, and grasped her by the shoulders.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
She told him, and the man’s face whitened.
“I was asleep, and heard nothing of it,” he said. “So that man Keats said they had plenty of evidence! You are going away? I wouldn’t, girl; there may have been a mistake. If I were you – ”
Her glance of horror brought Parsons’ protests to an end quickly. He, too, she thought, was under the spell of Taylor’s magnetism. That, or every person she knew was a prey to those vicious and fawning instincts to which she had yielded – the subordination of principle to greed – of ease, or of wealth, or of place.
She shuddered with sudden repugnance.
For the first time she had a doubt of Parsons – a revelation of that character which he had always succeeded in keeping hidden from her. She drew away from him and walked to the door, telling him that he might stay, but that she did not intend to remain in the house another minute.
She found a horse in the stable – two, in fact – the ones Taylor had insisted belonged to her and Martha. She threw saddle and bridle on hers, and was mounting, when she saw Martha standing at the stable door, watching her.
“Yo’ uncle says you goin’ away, honey – how’s that? An’ he done say somethin’ about Mr. Squint killin’ your father. Doan’ you b’lieve no fool nonsense like that! Mr. Squint wouldn’t kill nobody’s father! That deputy man ain’t nothin’ but a damn, no-good liar!”
Martha’s vehemence was genuine, but not convincing; and the girl mounted the horse, hanging the handbag from the pommel of the saddle.
“You’s sure goin’!” screamed the negro woman, frantic with a dread that she was in danger of losing the girl for whom she had formed a deep affection.
“You wait – you hear!” she demanded; “if you leave this house I’s a goin’, too!”
Marion waited until Martha led the other horse out, and then, with the negro woman following, she rode eastward on the Dawes trail, not once looking back.
And not a word did she say to Martha as they rode into the space that stretched to Dawes, for the girl’s heart was heavy with self-accusation.
They stopped for an instant at Mullarky’s cabin, and Mrs. Mullarky drew from the girl the story of the morning’s happenings. And like Martha, Mrs. Mullarky had an abiding faith in Taylor’s innocence. More – she scorned the charge of murder against him.
“Squint Taylor murder your father, child! Why, Squint Taylor thought more of Larry Harlan than he does of his right hand. An’ you ain’t goin’ to run away from him – for the very good reason that I ain’t goin’ to let you! You’re upset – that’s what – an’ you can’t think as straight as you ought to. You come right in here an’ sip a cup of tea, an’ take a rest. I’ll put your horses away. If you don’t want to stay at the Arrow while Taylor, the judge, an’ all the rest of them are pullin’ the packin’ out of that case, why, you can stay right here!”
Yielding to the insistent demands of the good woman, Marion meekly consented and went inside. And Mrs. Mullarky tried to make her comfortable, and attempted to soothe her and assure her of Taylor’s innocence.
But the girl was not convinced; and late in the afternoon, despite Mrs. Mullarky’s protests, she again mounted her horse and, followed by Martha, set out toward Dawes, intending to take the first east-bound train out of the town, to ride as far as the meager amount of money in her purse would take her. And as she rode, the sun went down behind the big hill on whose crest sat the big house, looming down upon the level from its lofty eminence; and the twilight came, bathing the world with its somber promise of greater darkness to follow. But the darkness that was coming over the world could not be greater than that which reigned in the girl’s heart.
CHAPTER XXIX – THE CAPTIVE
Carrington’s experiences with Taylor had not dulled the man’s savage impulses, nor had they cooled his feverish desire for the possession of Marion Harlan. In his brain rioted the dark, unbridled passions of those progenitors he had claimed in his talk with Parsons on the morning he had throttled the little man in his rooms above the Castle.
For the moment he had postponed the real beginning of his campaign for the possession of Dawes, his venomous hatred for Taylor and his passion for the girl overwhelming his greed.
He had watched the departure of Keats and his men, a flush of exultation on his face, his eyes alight with fires that reflected the malignant hatred he felt. And when Keats and the others disappeared down the trail that led to the Arrow, Carrington spent some time in Dawes. Shortly after noon he rode out the river trail toward the big house with two men that he had engaged to set the interior in order.
Carrington had not seen the house since the fight with Taylor in the front room, and the wreck and ruin that met his gaze as he stood in the door brought a sullen pout to his lips.
But he intended to exact heavy punishment for what had occurred at the big house; and as he watched the men setting things to order – mending the doors and repairing the broken furniture – he drew mental pictures that made his eyes flash with pleasure.
He felt that by this time Keats and his men should have settled with Taylor. After that, he, himself, would make the girl pay.
So he was having the house put in order, that it would again be habitable; and then, when that was done, and Taylor out of the way, he would go to the Arrow after the girl. But before he went to the Arrow he would await the return of Keats with the news that Taylor would no longer be able to thwart him.
Never in his life had he met a man he feared as he feared Taylor. There was something about Taylor that made Carrington’s soul shrivel. He knew what it was – it was his conviction of Taylor’s absolute honorableness, as arrayed against his own beastly impulses. But that knowledge merely served to intensify his hatred for Taylor.
Toward evening Carrington rode back to Dawes with the men; and while there he sought news from Keats. Danforth, from whom he inquired, could tell him nothing, and so Carrington knew that Taylor had not yet been disposed of. But Carrington knew the time would not be long now; and in a resort of a questionable character he found two men who listened eagerly to his proposals. Later, the two men accompanying him, he again rode to the big house.
And just as dusk began to settle over the big level at the foot of the long slope – and while the last glowing light from the day still softly bathed the big house, throwing it into bold relief on the crest of its flat-topped hill, Carrington was standing on the front porch, impatiently scanning the basin for signs of Keats and his men.
For a time he could distinguish little in the basin, for the mists of twilight were heavy down there. And then a moving object far out in the basin caught his gaze, and he leaned forward, peering intently, consumed with eagerness and curiosity.
A few minutes later, still staring into the basin, Carrington became aware that there were two moving objects. They were headed toward Dawes, and proceeding slowly; and at last, when they came nearer and he saw they were two women, on horses, he stiffened and shaded his eyes with his hands. And then he exclaimed sharply, and his eyes glowed with triumph – for he had recognized the women as Marion Harlan and Martha.
Moving slowly, so that he might not attract the attention of the women, should they happen to be looking toward the big house, he went inside and spoke shortly to the two men he had brought with him.
An instant later the three, Carrington leading, rode into the timber surrounding the house, filed silently through it, and with their horses in a slow trot, sank down the long slope that led into the big basin.
For a time they were not visible, as they worked their way through the chaparral on a little level near the bottom of the slope; and then they came into view again in some tall saccaton grass that grew as high as the backs of their horses.
They might have been swimming in that much water, for all the sound they made as they headed through the grass toward the Dawes trail, for they made no sound, and only their heads and the heads of their horses appeared above the swaying grass.
But they were seen. Martha, riding at a little distance behind Marion, and straining her eyes to watch the trail ahead, noted the movement in the saccaton, and called sharply to the girl:
“They’s somethin’ movin’ in that grass off to your right, honey! It wouldn’t be no cattle, heah; they’s never no cattle round heah, fo’ they ain’t no water. Lawsey!” she exclaimed, as she got a clear view of them; “it’s men!”
Marion halted her horse. Martha’s voice had startled her, for she had not been thinking of the present; her thoughts had been centered on Taylor.
A shiver of trepidation ran over her, though, when she saw the men, and she gathered the reins tightly in her hands, ready to wheel the animal under her should the appearance of the men indicate the imminence of danger.
And when she saw that danger did indeed threaten, she spoke to the horse and turned it toward the back trail. For she had recognized one of the three men as Carrington.
But the horse had not taken a dozen leaps before Carrington was beside her, his hand at her bridle. And as her horse came to a halt, Carrington’s animal lunged against it, bringing the two riders close together. Carrington leaned over, his face close to hers; she could feel his breath in her face as he laughed jeeringly, his voice vibrating with passion:
“So it is you, eh? I thought for a moment that I had made a mistake!” Holding to her horse’s bridle-rein with a steady pull that kept the horses close together, he spoke sharply to the two men who had halted near Martha: “Get the nigger! I’ll take care of this one!”
And instantly, with a brutal, ruthless strength and energy that took the girl completely by surprise, Carrington threw a swift arm out, grasped her by the waist, drew her out of the saddle, and swung her into his own, crosswise, so that she lay face up, looking at him.
She fought him then, silently, ferociously, though futilely. For he caught her hands, using both his own, pinning hers so that she could not use them, meanwhile laughing lowly at her efforts to escape.
Even in the dusk she could see the smiling, savage exultation in his eyes; the gloating, vindictive triumph, and her soul revolted at the horror in store for her, and the knowledge nerved her to another mighty effort. Tearing her hands free, she fought him again, scratching his face, striking him with all her force with her fists; squirming and twisting, even biting one of his hands when it came close to her lips as he essayed to grasp her throat, his eyes gleaming with ruthless malignance.
But her efforts availed little. In the end her arms were pinned again to her sides, and he pulled a rope from his saddle-horn and bound them. Then, as she lay back and glared at him, muttering imprecations that brought a mocking smile to his lips, he urged his horse forward, and sent it clattering up the slope, the two men following with Martha.
CHAPTER XXX – PARSONS HAS HUMAN INSTINCTS
Elam Parsons stood on the front porch of the Arrow ranchhouse for a long time after Marion and Martha departed, watching them as they slowly negotiated the narrow trail that led toward Dawes. Something of the man’s guilt assailed his consciousness as he stood there – a conception of the miserable part he had played in the girl’s life.
No doubt had not Fate and Carrington played a mean trick on Parsons, in robbing him of his money and his prospects, the man would not have entertained the thoughts he entertained at this moment; for success would have made a reckoning with conscience a remote possibility, dim and far.
And perhaps it was not conscience that was now troubling Parsons; at least Parsons did not lay the burden of his present thoughts upon so intangible a chimera. Parsons was too much of a materialist to admit he had a conscience.
But a twinge of something seized Parsons as he watched the girl ride away, and bitter thoughts racked his soul. He could not, however, classify his emotions, and so he stood there on the porch, undecided, vacillating, in the grip of a vague disquiet.
Parsons sat on the porch until long after noon; for, after Marion and Martha had vanished into the haze of distance, Parsons dropped into a chair and let his chin sink to his chest.
He did not get up to prepare food for himself; he did not think of eating, for the big, silent ranchhouse and the gloomy, vacant appearance of the other buildings drew the man’s attention to the aching emptiness of his own life. He had sought to gain everything – scheming, planning, plotting dishonestly; taking unfair advantage; robbing people without compunction – and he had gained nothing. Yes – he had gained Carrington’s contempt!
The recollection of Carrington’s treatment of him fired his passions with a thousand licking, leaping flames. In his gloomy meditations over the departure of the girl, he had almost forgotten Carrington. But he thought of Carrington now; and he sat stiff and rigid in the chair, glowering, his lips in a pout, his soul searing with hatred.
But even the nursing of that passion failed to satisfy Parsons. Something lacked. There was still that conviction of utter baseness – his own baseness – to torture him. And at last, toward evening, he discovered that he longed for the girl. He wanted to be near her; he wanted to do something for her to undo the wrong he had done her; he wanted to make some sort of reparation.
So the man assured himself. But he knew that deep in his inner consciousness lurked the dread knowledge that Taylor was aware of his baseness. For Taylor had overheard the conversation between Carrington and himself on the train, and Parsons feared that should Taylor by any chance escape Keats and his men and return to the Arrow to find Marion gone, he would vent his rage and fury upon the man who had sinned against the woman he loved. That was the emotion which dominated Parsons as he sat on the porch; it was the emotion that made the man fervently desire to make reparation to the girl; it was the emotion that finally moved him out of his chair and upon a horse that he found in the stable, to ride toward Dawes in the hope of finding her.
Parsons, too, stopped at the Mullarky cabin. He discovered that Marion had left there shortly before, after having refused Mrs. Mullarky’s proffer of shelter until the charge against Taylor could be disproved.
Parsons listened impatiently to the woman’s voluble defense of Taylor, and her condemnation of Keats and all those who were leagued against the Arrow owner. And then Parsons rode on.
Far out in the basin, indistinct in the twilight haze, he saw Marion and Martha riding toward Dawes, and he urged his horse in an effort to come up with them before they reached the bottom of the long, gradual rise that would take them into town.
Parsons had got within half a mile of them when he saw them halt and wait the coming of three horsemen, who advanced toward them from the opposite direction. Parsons did not feel like joining the group, for just at that moment he felt as though he could not bear to have anyone see his face – they might have discovered the guilt in it – and so he waited.
He saw the three men ride close to the other riders; he watched in astonishment while one of the strange riders pursued one of the women, catching her.
Parsons saw it all. But he did not ride forward, for he was in the grip of a mighty terror that robbed him of power to move. For he knew one of the strange riders was Carrington. He would have recognized him among a thousand other men.
Parsons watched the three men climb the big slope that led to the great house on the flat-topped hill. For many minutes after they had reached the crest of the hill Parsons sat motionless on his horse, gazing upward. And when he saw a light flare up in one of the rooms of the big house, he cursed, his face convulsed with impotent rage.
Marion Harlan did not yield to the overpowering weakness that seized her after she realized that further resistance to Carrington would be useless. And instead of yielding to the hysteria that threatened her, she clenched her hands and bit her lips in an effort to retain her composure. She succeeded. And during the progress of her captor’s horse up the long slope she kept a good grip on herself, fortifying herself against what might come when she and her captor reached the big house.
When they reached the crest of the hill, Carrington ordered the two men to take Martha around to the back of the house and confine her in one of the rooms. One man was to guard her. The other was to wait on the front porch until Carrington called him.
The girl had decided to make one more struggle when Carrington dismounted with her, but though she fought hard and bitterly, she did not succeed in escaping Carrington, and the latter finally lifted her in his arms and carried her into the front room, the room in which Carrington had fought with Taylor the day Taylor had killed the three men who had ambushed him.
Carrington lighted a lamp – it was this light Parsons had seen from the basin – placed it on a shelf, and in its light grinned triumphantly at the girl.
“Well, we are here,” he said.
In his voice was that passion that had been in it that other time, when he had pursued her into the house, and she had escaped him by hiding in the attic. She cringed from him, backing away a little, and, noting the movement, he laughed hoarsely.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “at least for an hour or two. I’ve got something more important on my mind. Do you know what it is?” he demanded, grinning hugely. “It’s Taylor!” He suddenly seemed to remember that he did not know why she had been abroad at dusk on the Dawes trail, and he came close to her.
“Did you see Keats today?”
She did not answer, meeting his gaze fairly, her eyes flashing with scorn and contempt. But he knew from the flame in her eyes that she had seen Keats, and he laughed derisively.
“So you saw him,” he jeered; “and you know that he came for Taylor. Did he find Taylor at the Arrow?”
Again she did not answer, and he went on, suspecting that Taylor had not been at the Arrow, and that Keats had gone to search for him. “No, Keats didn’t find him – that’s plain enough. I should have enjoyed being there to hear Keats tell you that Taylor had killed your father. You heard that, didn’t you? Yes,” he added, his grin broadening; “you heard that. So that’s why you left the Arrow! Well, I don’t blame you for leaving.”
He turned toward the door and wheeled again to face her. “You’ll enjoy this,” he sneered; “you’ve been so thick with Taylor. Bah!” he added as he saw her face redden at the insult; “I’ve known where you stood with Taylor ever since I caught you flirting with him on the station platform the day we came to Dawes. That’s why you went to the Arrow from here – refusing my attentions to give yourself to the man who killed your father!”
He laughed, and saw her writhe under the sound of it.
“It hurts, eh?” he said venomously; “well, this will hurt, too. Keats went out to get Taylor, but he will never bring Taylor in – alive. He has orders to kill him – understand? That’s why I’ve got more important business than you to attend to for the next few hours. I’m going to Dawes to find out if Keats has returned. And when Keats comes in with the news that Taylor is done for, I’m coming back here for you!”
Calling the man who was waiting on the porch, Carrington directed him to watch the girl; and then, with a last grin at her, he went out, mounted his horse, and rode the trail toward Dawes. And as he rode, he laughed maliciously, for he had not told her that the charge against Taylor was a false one, and that, so far as he knew, Taylor was not guilty of murdering her father.
