Part 22 (1/2)
”Who, then, was the man that lay sprawled by the side of the trail?”
The girl shuddered at the memory of the cheap cotton s.h.i.+rt torn open at the throat, and the moonlight s.h.i.+ning whitely upon the bare leg.
”Some loyal rancher, probably, who dared to oppose the outlaws. It's murder!” she cried aloud. ”And yesterday I thought he was watching up there in the hills to see that no harm came to me!” She laughed--a hard, bitter laugh that held as much of mirth as the gurgle of a tide rip. ”But he's come to the end of his rope! I'll expose him! I'm not afraid of his lawless crew! He'll find out it will take more than rescuing me from that herd of wild horses to buy my silence! I'll ride straight to Samuelson's ranch in the morning, and from there to Thompson's, and I'll tell them about his part in the raid, and about his watching like a vulture from his notch in the hills, and about his stealing what he thought was daddy's map, and about his filing the claim. And did show 'em the glove and--” She paused abruptly: ”What a fool I was to come away without the notice! That would have proved it beyond any doubt, even if he hasn't recorded the claim!” For a long time she lay in the darkness planning her course for the day. All thought of sleep had vanished, and her eyes continually sought the window for signs of approaching light.
At the first faint glow of dawn the girl caught up her horse and headed for the false claim. It was but the work of a moment to locate the stake to which the notice was attached by means of a bit of twine.
Removing the paper, she thrust it into her pocket and returned to the cabin where she ate breakfast before starting for the Samuelson ranch.
Hurriedly was.h.i.+ng the dishes, she picked up the glove and thrust it into the bosom of her s.h.i.+rt, and drawing the crumpled notice from her pocket, smoothed it out upon the table. Her glance traveled rapidly over the penciled words to the signature, and she stared like one in a dream. The blood left her face. She closed her eyes and pa.s.sed her hand slowly over the lids. She opened them, and with a nerveless finger, touched the paper as if to make sure that it was real. Then, very slowly, she rose from her chair and crossing the room, stood in the doorway and gazed toward the notch in the hills until hot tears welled into her eyes and blurred the distant skyline. The next moment she was upon her bunk, where she lay shaken between fits of sobbing and hysterical laughter. She drew the glove, with its fringed gauntlet and its gaudily embroidered horseshoe from her s.h.i.+rt front and ran her fingers along its velvety softness. Impulsively, pa.s.sionately, she pressed the horseshoe to her lips, and leaping to her feet, thrust the glove inside her s.h.i.+rt and stepping lightly to the table reread the penciled lines upon the crumpled paper, and over and over again she read the signature; RAOUL BETHUNE, known also as MONK BETHUNE.
The atmosphere of the little cabin seemed stifling. Crumpling the paper into her pocket, she stepped out the door. She must do something--go some place--talk to someone! Her horse stood saddled where she had left him, and catching up the reins she mounted and headed him at a gallop for the ravine that led to the trampled notch in the hills. During the long upward climb the girl managed to collect her scattered wits. Where should she go? She breathed deeply of the pine-laden air. It was still early morning. A pair of magpies flitted in short flights from tree to tree along the trail, scolding incessantly as they waited to be frightened on to the next tree.
Patches of sunlight flashed vivid contrasts in their black and white plumage, and set off in a splendor of changing color the green and purple and bronze of their iridescent feathering. A deer bounded away in a blur of tan and white, and a little farther on, a porcupine lumbered lazily into the scrub. It was good to be alive! What difference did it make which direction she chose? All she wanted this morning was to ride, and ride, and ride! She had her father's map with her but was in no mood to study out its intricacies, nor to ride slowly up and down little valleys, scrutinizing rock ledges. She would visit the Samuelson ranch, and find out about the horse raid, and inquire after Mr. Samuelson, and then--well, there would be plenty of time to decide what to do then. But first, she would swing around by the little tent beside the creek and see if Vil Holland had returned.
Surely, he must have returned by this time, and she must tell him how it was she had been riding with the horses--and, she must give him back his glove. She blushed as she felt the pressure of its soft bulk where it rested just below her heart. Surely, he would need his glove--and maybe, if she were nice to him, he would tell her how it came to be there--and maybe he would explain--_this_. Her horse had stopped voluntarily after his steep climb, and she glanced down at the trampled gra.s.s, and from that to her own little cabin far below on Monte's Creek.
She wondered, as she rode through the timber how it was she had been so quick to doubt this grave, unsmiling hillman upon such a mere triviality as the finding of a glove. And then she wondered at her changed att.i.tude toward him. She had feared him at first, then despised him. And now--she recalled with a thrill, the lean ruggedness of him, the unwavering eyes and the unsmiling lips--now, at least, she respected him, and she no longer wondered why the people of the hills and the people of the town held him in regard. She knew that he had never sought to curry her favor--had never deviated a hair's breadth from the even tenor of his way in order to win her regard and, in their chance conversations, he had been blunt even to rudeness. And, yet, against her will, her opinion of him had changed. And this change had nothing whatever to do with her timely rescue from the horse herd--it had been gradual, so gradual that it had been an accomplished fact even before she suspected that any change was taking place.
The huge rock behind which nestled the little tent loomed before her, and hastily removing the glove from its hiding place, she came suddenly upon his camp. A blackened coffee pot was nestled close against a tiny fire upon which a pair of trout and some strips of bacon sizzled in a frying pan. She glanced toward the creek, at the same moment that Vil Holland turned at the sound of her horse's footsteps, and for several seconds they faced each other in silence.
The man was the first to speak:
”Good mornin'. If you'll step back around that rock for a minute, I'll slip into my s.h.i.+rt.”
And suddenly Patty realized that he was stripped to the waist, but her eyes never left the point high on his upper arm, almost against the shoulder, where a blood-stained bandage dangled untidily.
”You're hurt!” she cried, swinging from the saddle and running toward him.
”Nothin' but a scratch. I got nicked a little, night before last, an'
I just now got time to do it up again. It don't amount to anything--don't even hurt, to speak of. I can let that go, if you'll just----”
”Well, I won't just go away--or just anything else, except just attend to that wound--so there!” She was at his side, examining the clumsy bandage. ”Sit right down beside the creek, and I'll look at it. The first thing is to find out how badly you're hurt.”
”It ain't bad. Looks a lot worse than it is. It was an unhandy place to tie up, left-handed.”
Scooping up water in her hand Patty applied it to the bandage, and after repeating the process several times, began very gently to remove the cloth. ”Why it's clear through!” she cried, as the bandage came away and exposed the wound.
”Just through the meat--it missed the bone. That cold water feels good. It was gettin' kind of stiff.”
”What did you put on it?”
”Nothin'. Didn't have anything along, an' wouldn't have had time to fool with it if I'd been packin' a whole drug-store.”
”Where's your whisky?”
”I ain't got any.”
”Where's your jug? Surely there must be some in it--enough to wash out this wound.”
The man shook his head. ”No, the jug's plumb empty an' dry. I ain't be'n to town for 'most a week.”
Patty was fumbling at her saddle for the little ”first aid” kit that she faithfully carried, and until this moment, had never found use for. ”Probably the only time in the world it would ever do you any good, you haven't got it!” she exclaimed, disgustedly, as she unrolled a strip of gauze from about a tiny box of salve.
”I'm sorry there ain't any whisky in the jug. I never thought of keepin' it for accident.”