Part 49 (1/2)
”There is a whole lot of hot air about that Western chivalry talk,” he retorted. ”Bad men are just as bad here as anywhere, and they're particularly bad on the Sh.e.l.lfish. But, anyhow, you'll call on me if I can be of any use, won't you?”
”I certainly shall do so,” she responded, heartily, and there was confidence and liking in her eyes as well as in the grip of her hand as she said good-by.
When in the saddle and ready to ride away he called to her, ”You won't mind my coming over here again on Sat.u.r.day, will you?”
”No, indeed. Only it is so far.”
”Oh, the ride is nothing. I don't like to think of your being here alone.”
”I'm not afraid. But we shall be glad to see you just the same.”
And in appreciation of her smile he removed his hat and rode away with bared head.
The young ranger was highly exalted by this visit, and he was also greatly disturbed, for the more he thought of that warning letter and the conditions which gave rise to it, the more menacing it became. It was all of a piece with the tone and character of the Sh.e.l.lfish gang, for this remote valley had long borne an evil reputation, and Watson and Kitsong had been its dominating spirits for more than twenty years and deeply resented Kauffman's settlement in the canon.
”It would be just like old Kit to take the law into his own hands,” the ranger admitted to himself. ”And the writing in that letter looked to me like Mrs. Abe Kitsong's.”
Instead of going up to the Heart Lake sheep-camp, as he had planned to do, he turned back to his station, moved by a desire to keep as near the girl as his duties would permit. ”For the next few days I'd better be within call,” he decided. ”They may decide to arrest her--and if they do, she'll need me.”
He went about his evening meal like a man under the influence of a drug, and when he sat down to his typewriter his mind was so completely filled with visions of his entrancing neighbor that he could not successfully cast up a column of figures. He lit his pipe for a diversion, but under the spell of the smoke his recollection of just how she looked, how she spoke, how she smiled (that sad, half-lighting of her face) set all his nerves atingle. He grew restless.
”What's the matter with me?” he asked himself, sharply, but dared not answer his own question. He knew his malady. His unrest was that of the lover. Thereafter he gave himself up to the quiet joy of reviewing each word she had uttered, and in doing so came to the conclusion that she was in the mountains not so much for the cure of her lungs or throat as to heal the hurt of some injustice. What it was he could not imagine, but he believed that she was getting over it. ”As she gets over it she'll find life on the Sh.e.l.lfish intolerable and she'll go away,” he reasoned, and the thought of her going made his country lonesome, empty, and of no account.
”I wish she wouldn't go about barefoot,” he added, with a tinge of jealousy. ”And she mustn't let any of the Sh.e.l.lfish gang see her in that dress.” He was a little comforted by remembering her sudden flight when she first perceived him coming across the bridge, and he wondered whether the trustful att.i.tude she afterward a.s.sumed was due entirely to the fact that he was a Federal officer--he hoped not. Some part of it sprang, he knew, from a liking for him.
The wilderness was no place for a woman. It was all well enough for a vacation, but to ask any woman to live in a little cabin miles from another woman, miles from a doctor, was out of the question. He began to perceive that there were disabilities in the life of a forester. His world was suddenly disorganized. Life became complex in its bearings, and he felt the stirrings of new ambitions, new ideals. Civilization took on a charm which it had not hitherto possessed.
He was awakened at dawn the following morning by the smell of burning pine--a smell that summons the ranger as a drum arouses a soldier.
Rus.h.i.+ng out of doors, he soon located the fire. It was off the forest and to the southeast, but as any blaze within sight demanded investigation, he put a pot of coffee on the fire and swiftly roped and saddled one of his horses. In thirty minutes he was riding up the side of a high hill which lay between the station and Otter Creek, a branch of the Sh.e.l.lfish, at the mouth of which, some miles below, stood Kitsong's ranch.
It was not yet light, the smoke was widely diffused, and the precise location of the blaze could not be determined, but it appeared to be on the Sh.e.l.lfish side of the ridge, just below Watson's pasture. Hence he kept due south over the second height which divided the two creeks. It was daylight when he reached the second hogback, and the smoke of the fire was diminis.h.i.+ng, but he thought it best to ride on to renew his warning against the use of fire till the autumn rains set in, and he had in mind also a plan to secure from Mrs. Kitsong a specimen of her handwriting and to pick up whatever he could in the way of gossip concerning the feeling against the Kauffmans.
He was still some miles from the ranch, and crossing a deep ravine, when he heard the sound of a rifle far above him. Halting, he listened intently. Another shot rang out, nearer and to the south, and a moment later the faint reports of a revolver. This sent a wave of excitement through his blood. A rifle-shot might mean only a poacher. A volley of revolver-shots meant battle.
Reining his cayuse sharply to the right and giving him the spur, he sent him on a swift, zigzagging scramble up the smooth slope. A third rifle-shot echoed from the cliff, and was answered by a smaller weapon, much nearer, and, with his hair almost on end with excitement, he reached the summit which commanded the whole valley of the Otter, just in time to witness the most astounding drama he had ever known.
Down the rough logging road from the west a team of horses was wildly galloping, pursued at a distance by several hors.e.m.e.n, whose weapons, spitting smoke at intervals, gave proof of their murderous intent. In the clattering, tossing wagon a man was kneeling, rifle in hand, while a woman, standing recklessly erect, urged the flying horses to greater speed. Nothing could have been more desperate, more furious, than this running battle.
”My G.o.d! It's the Kauffman team!” he exclaimed, and with a shrill shout s.n.a.t.c.hed his revolver from its holster and fired into the air, with intent to announce his presence to the a.s.sailing hors.e.m.e.n. Even as he did so he saw one of the far-off pursuing ruffians draw his horse to a stand and take deliberate aim over his saddle at the flying wagon. The off pony dropped in his traces, and the vehicle, swinging from the road, struck a boulder and sent the man hurtling over the side; but the girl, crouching low, kept her place. Almost before the wheels had ceased to revolve she caught up the rifle which her companion had dropped and sent a shot of defiance toward her pursuers.
”Brave girl!” shouted Hanscom, for he recognized Helen. ”Hold the fort!”
But his voice, husky with excitement, failed to reach her.
She heard the sound of his revolver, however, and, believing him to be only another of the attacking party, took aim at him and fired. The bullet from her rifle flew so near his head that he heard its song.
Again her rifle flashed, this time at the man above her, and again the forester shouted her name. In the midst of the vast and splendid landscape she seemed a minute brave insect defending itself against invading beasts. Her pursuers, recognizing the ranger's horse, wheeled their ponies and disappeared in the forest.
Hanscom spurred his horse straight toward the girl, calling her name, but even then she failed to recognize him till, lifting his hat from his head, he desperately shouted:
”Don't shoot, girl--don't shoot! It's Hanscom--the ranger!”