Part 51 (2/2)

The woman was sitting in a low chair with the guitar in her lap and her feet stretched out upon a stool. Her companions, two young men, hardly more than boys, were standing near a table on which stood a bottle of liquor. All had been stricken into instant immobility by the sudden interruption of the ranger. Each stared with open mouth and dazed eyes.

Hanscom knew them all. The girl was the wilful daughter of a Basque rancher over on the Porcupine. One of the boys was Henry Kitsong, a nephew of Abe, and the other a herder named Busby, who had been at one time a rider for Watson.

”Having a pleasant time, aren't you?” the ranger continued, still retaining his sarcastic intonation. From where he stood he could see the bottom of the girl's upturned shoes, and his alert brain took careful note of the size and shape of the soles. A flush of exultation ran over him. ”Those are the shoes that left those telltale footprints in the flour,” he said to himself.

”You lads had better let me have your guns,” he suggested. ”Busby, I'll take yours first.”

The young ruffian yielded his weapon only when the ranger repeated his request with menacing intonation. ”You next, Henry,” he said to Kitsong, and, having thus cut the claws of his young cubs, his pose relaxed. ”You thought the owners of the place safely out of reach, didn't you? You saw me go down in the valley with them? Well, I had a hunch that maybe you'd take advantage of my absence, so I just rode over. I was afraid you might drop down here and break things up. You see, I'm responsible for all these goods, and I don't want to see them destroyed. That music-box, for instance” (he addressed the girl); ”I happen to know that's a high-priced instrument, and I promised the owner to take good care of it. That bottle you fellows dug up I didn't know anything about, but I guess I'll confiscate that also. It ain't good for little boys.” He turned sharply on Kitsong. ”Henry, was your father in that band of sharpshooters this morning?”

”No, he wasn't,” blurted the boy. ”And I wasn't, either.”

”We'll see about that in the morning. Which of you rode a blaze-faced sorrel?” Neither answered, and Hanscom said, contentedly: ”Oh, well, we'll see about _that_ in the morning.”

Hanscom had drawn close to the girl, who remained as if paralyzed with fright. ”Senorita, I reckon I'll have to borrow one of your shoes for a minute.” As he stooped and laid hold of her slipper Busby fell upon him with the fury of a tiger.

Hanscom was surprised, for he had considered the fellow completely cowed by the loss of his revolver. He could have shot him dead, but he did not. He shook him off and swung at him with the big seven-shooter which he still held in his hand. The blow fell upon the young fellow's cheek-bone with such stunning force that he reeled and fell to the floor.

Young Kitsong cried out, ”You've killed him!”

”What was he trying to do to me?” retorted Hanscom. ”Now you take that kerchief of yours and tie his hands behind him. If either of you makes another move at me, you'll be sorry. Get busy now.”

Young Kitsong obeyed, awed by the ranger's tone, and Busby was soon securely tied. He writhed like a wildcat as his strength came back, but he was helpless, for Hanscom had taken a hand at las.h.i.+ng his feet together. There was something b.e.s.t.i.a.l in the boy's fury. He would have braved the ranger's pistol unhesitatingly after his momentary daze had pa.s.sed, for he had the blind rage of a trapped beast, and his strength was amazing.

During all this time the girl remained absolutely silent, her back against the wall, as if knowing that her capture would come next.

Hanscom fully expected her to take a hand in the struggle, but he was relieved--greatly relieved--by her att.i.tude of non-resistance.

”Now, Henry,” he said, with a breath of relief, ”I can't afford to let either you or the senorita out of my sight. I reckon you'll both have to sit right here and keep me company till morning. Mebbe the senorita will bustle about and make a pot of coffee--that'll help us all to keep awake. But first of all I want both her slippers. Bring 'em to me, Henry.”

Kitsong obeyed, and the girl yielded the slippers, the soles of which seemed to interest Hanscom very deeply.

He continued with polite intonation, ”We'll all start down the valley at daybreak.”

”What do you want of me?” asked the girl, hoa.r.s.ely.

”I want you as a witness to the a.s.sault Busby made on me; and then, you see, you're all housebreakers”--he waved his hand toward the front window, from which the screen had been torn and the gla.s.s broken--”and housebreaking is pretty serious business even in this country.

Furthermore, you were all concerned in that raid, and I'm going to see that you all feel the full weight of the law.”

All the time he was talking so easily and so confidently he was really saying to himself: ”To take you three to jail will be like driving so many wolves to market--but it's got to be done.”

He was tired, irritable, and eager to be clear of it all. His own cabin at the moment seemed an ideally peaceful retreat. Only his belief that in this girl's small shoe lay the absolute proof of Helen's innocence nerved him to go on with his self-imposed duty. His chief desire was to place these shoes in the coroner's hands and so end all dispute concerning the footprints in the flour.

The girl, whose name was Rita, sullenly made coffee, and as she brought it to him, he continued his interrogation:

”How did you get here?”

”I rode.”

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