Part 25 (1/2)

”Sho', now, Miss--he won't hurt yo' none, will yo', Mr. Bethune?

Gineral Jackson! Mr. Bethune, look at yo' face! Yo' must of rode again' a limb!”

”Shut up, and get out of here!” screamed the quarter-breed. ”And, if you know what's good for you, you'll forget that you've seen anyone this morning.”

”B'en layin' up yere in the gap fer to git me a deer. I heerd yo'-all comin', like, so's I waited.”

”Get out, I tell you, before I kill you!” cried Bethune, beside himself with rage. ”Go!” The man's hand plunged beneath his s.h.i.+rt and came out with a glitter of steel.

The mountaineer eyed the blade indifferently, and turned to the girl.

”Ef yo' goin' my ways, ma'am, jest yo' lead yo' hoss on ahaid. They's a game trail runs slaunchways up th'ough the gap yender. I'll kind o'

foller 'long behind.”

”You fool!” shrilled Bethune, as he made a grab for the girl's reins, and the next instant found himself looking straight into the muzzle of Watts's rifle.

”Drap them lines,” drawled the mountaineer, ”thet hain't yo' hoss. An'

what's over an' above, yo' better put up yo' whittle, an' tu'n 'round an' go back wher' yo' com' from.”

”Lower that gun!” commanded Bethune. ”It's c.o.c.ked!”

”Yes, hit's c.o.c.ked, Mr. Bethune, an' hit's sot mighty light on the trigger. Ef I'd git a little scairt, er a little riled, er my foot 'ud slip, yo'd have to be drug down to wher' the diggin's easy, an'

buried.”

Bethune deliberately slipped the knife back into his s.h.i.+rt, and laughed: ”Oh, come, now, Watts, a joke's a joke. I played a joke on Miss Sinclair to frighten her----”

”Yo' done hit, all right,” interrupted Watts. ”An' thet's the end on't.”

The rifle muzzle still covered Bethune's chest in the precise region of his heart, and once more he changed his tactics: ”Don't be a fool, Watts,” he said, in an undertone, ”I'm rich--richer than you, or anyone else knows. I've located Rod Sinclair's strike and filed it. If you just slip quietly off about your business, and forget that you ever saw anyone here this morning--and see to it that you never remember it again, you'll never regret it. I'll make it right with you--I'll file you next to discovery.”

”Yo' mean,” asked Watts, slowly, ”thet you've stoled the mine offen Sinclair's darter, an' filed hit yo'self, an' thet ef I go 'way an'

let yo' finish the job by murderin' the gal, yo'll give me some of the mine--is thet what yo' tryin' to git at?”

”Put it anyway you want to, d.a.m.n you! Words don't matter, but for G.o.d's sake, get out! If she once gets through the gap----”

”Bethune,” Watts drawled the name, even more than was his wont, and the quarter-breed noticed that the usually roving eyes had set into a hard stare behind which lurked a dangerous glitter, ”yo're a ornery, low-down cur-dog what hain't fitten to be run with by man, beast, or devil. I'd ort to shoot yo' daid right wher' yo' at--an' mebbe I will.

But comin' to squint yo' over, that there damage looks mo' like a quirt-lick than a limb. Thet ort to hurt like fire fer a couple a days, an' when it lets up yo' face hain't a-goin' to be so purty as what hit wus. Ef she'd jest of drug the quirt along a little when hit landed she c'd of cut plumb into the bone--but hit's middlin' fair, as. .h.i.t stands. I'm a-goin' to give yo' a chanct--an' a warnin', too. Next time I see yo' I'm a-going' to kill yo'--whenever, or wherever hit's at. I'll do hit, jest as sh.o.r.e as my name is John Watts. Yo' kin go now--back the way yo' come, pervidin' yo' go fast. I'm a-goin' to count up to wher' I know how to--I hain't never be'n to school none, but I counted up to nineteen, onct--an' whin I git to wher' I cain't rec'lec' the nex' figger, I'm a-goin' to shoot, an' shoot straight.

An' I hain't a-goin' to study long about them figgers, neither. Le's see, one comes fust--yere goes, then: One ... Two....” For a single instant, Bethune gazed into the man's eyes and the next, he sprang into the saddle, and das.h.i.+ng wildly down the steep slope, disappeared into the scrub.

”Spec' I'd ort to killed him,” regretted the mountaineer, as he lowered the rifle, and gazed off down the valley, ”but I hain't got no appet.i.te fer diggin'.”

CHAPTER XVIII

PATTY MAKES HER STRIKE

It was noon, one week from the day she had returned from the Samuelson ranch, and Patty Sinclair stood upon the high shoulder of a b.u.t.te and looked down into a rock-rimmed valley. Her eyes roved slowly up and down the depression where the dark green of the scrub contrasted sharply with the crinkly buffalo gra.s.s, yellowed to spun gold beneath the rays of the summer sun.

She reached up and stroked the neck of her horse. ”Just think, old partner, three days from now I may be teaching school in that horrid little town with its ratty hotel, and its picture shows, and its saloons, and you may be turned out in a pasture with nothing to do but eat and grow fat! If we don't find our claim to-day, or to-morrow, it's good-by hill country 'til next summer.”

The day following her encounter with Bethune, Vil Holland had appeared, true to his promise, and instructed her in the use of her father's six-gun. At the end of an hour's practice, she had been able to kick up the dirt in close proximity to a tomato can at fifteen steps, and twice she had actually hit it. ”That's good enough for any use you're apt to have for it,” her instructor had approved. ”The main thing is that you ain't afraid of it. An' remember,” he added, ”a gun ain't made to bluff with. Don't pull it on anyone unless you go through with it. Only short-horns an' pilgrims ever pull a gun that don't need wipin' before it's put back--I could show you the graves of several of 'em. I'm leavin' you some extry sh.e.l.ls that you can shoot up the scenery with. Always pick out somethin' little to shoot at--start in with tin cans and work down to match-sticks. When you can break six match-sticks with six shots at ten steps in ten seconds folks will call you handy with a gun.” He had made no mention of his trip to town, of his filing a homestead, or of their conversation upon the top of Lost Creek divide. When the lesson was finished, he had refused Patty's invitation to supper, mounted his horse, and disappeared up the ravine that led to the notch in the hills. Although neither had mentioned it, Patty somehow felt that he had heard from Watts of her encounter with Bethune. And now a week had pa.s.sed and she had seen neither Vil Holland nor the quarter-breed. It had been a week of anxiety and hard work for the girl who had devoted almost every hour of daylight to the unraveling of her father's map. Simple as the directions seemed, her inability to estimate distances had proven a serious handicap. But by dogged perseverance, and much retracing of steps, and correcting of false leads, she finally stood upon the rim of the valley she judged to lie two miles east of the humpbacked b.u.t.te that she had figured to be the inverted U of her father's map.