Part 23 (2/2)

Pete and Farrish slipped off the lariat that remained noosed around the outlaw's neck, and stepped back.

For some seconds there was no sound, no motion, no sign of any design on the part of Sunnysides. Then, with the swiftness and surprise of a flash of powder in the dark, a shocking thing occurred. Without a preliminary movement, either of lunging or bucking or leaping to one side, or any of the expected tactics, Sunnysides, with incredible suddenness, reared straight up into the air, threw himself over, and fell on his back, pinning Haig to the ground beneath him.

Before any of the men could move, the horse rolled over sprawling, scrambled to his feet, and charged at the fence. There was a crash and the sound of splintering wood. The top plank fell, broken in two jagged pieces, and the horse's forefeet were over the second plank.

But before he could leap again, Curley had caught the bridle rein, and swung the outlaw's head around, holding him there until Bill had leaned over the broken fence and roped the forelegs once more. After a moment of furious struggle, Sunnysides appeared to realize that it was useless; and thus the two men held him, with his forefeet still hanging outside the fence, while they turned their eyes toward Haig.

Farrish and the Indian knelt at his side. He lay quite still, unconscious, and for a moment they thought him dead. Pete put his head down on Haig's breast, and listened. Then he rose to his feet.

”Whisky!” he muttered, and ran toward the stable.

In two minutes he was back, bearing a flask, which he uncorked as he ran. Forcing the mouth of it between Haig's lips, he let the scorching liquor trickle down the throat until the flask was half emptied. Then he poured some of the whisky in the palm of his hand, and rubbed it on Haig's face and bared breast and wrists, while Farrish, in his turn, ran to the stable and brought a lap robe, which he folded and placed under Haig's head.

They waited helplessly, without speech. At the fence, Bill and Curley clung to their ropes. Sunnysides, his forefeet still projecting over the plank, and the saddle hanging lopsided from his back, had his head drawn back so far that he could see the group in the middle of the corral. His eyes were bloodshot, foam dripped from his mouth, the breath came whistling through his half-shut windpipe.

But in the cottonwoods the birds sang undisturbed, and the pines far up the hill droned their old tune unchanged. From the ranch house came the rattle of tin pans, and the voice of the cook singing a song of the round-up.

After a long time, Haig stirred. A moan came with the first deep breath; his eyes opened, staring up at the two faces above him; his lips moved, but at first no sound came from them. Pete leaned closer, and listened.

”Did--he--get--away?” came in a whisper.

”No,” answered Pete. ”He caught.”

A smile flickered on Haig's lips, and went out; and at the same time a tiny trickle of blood oozed out, and ran down through the dust on the white cheek. Pete and Farrish looked at each other; and when they turned to Haig again, his eyes were closed, and the pallor of his face had deepened to a bluish, ashen hue.

Pete bent quickly to put his ear again to Haig's breast.

CHAPTER XIII

HILLYER'S DILEMMA

Hillyer's loyal heart was near to bursting with joy. In all the days of his eager courts.h.i.+p Marion had never seemed so close to him, so fairly within his grasp, as now. She had welcomed him with totally unexpected warmth, considering the many times she had rejected him, and considering, too, the letter he had received from her on her departure. Absence, he thought, had advanced his cause for him. A dozen times he was on the point of boldly violating the six months'

embargo she had placed upon his pleadings; but as often as the fervent words rose to his lips fear froze them there, and he was silent.

As for Marion, she was for the moment absorbed in a little plan that was not for Robert's knowledge. She was intent upon meeting Philip in Robert's company; she wanted to bow to him, and smile, and let him see that there was one man at least who prized her, if he did not. But the imp of perversity seemed to have come to abide permanently in the Park. Though Marion, in the first two days of Robert's visit, guided him, in the big automobile, everywhere except beyond the Ridge and to the glade of the columbines, she had never a glimpse of Philip. All this maddened her; and if Robert had but spoken, there were times when--But Robert did not speak.

Near noon of the third day they met Smythe in the main valley road a mile or so below the post-office. At sight of him bobbing along toward them, almost lost between his horse and his sombrero, Marion's first impulse was to speed past him without stopping. She was not sure she could trust his discretion; for she had told Robert nothing about Philip Haig. But she did not wish to offend the faithful Smythe; and so, on second thought, she hurriedly acquainted Robert with the ident.i.ty of the approaching figure, and warned him to control his inevitable mirth.

”He is funny,” she said, laughing in spite of herself, ”but he can't help that. He's been very good to me, in his way.”

In the meantime Smythe's horse was deciding the matter on his own account. This was the first automobile the pony had ever seen, and he made up his mind promptly that he did not like it. He reared and bucked, bolting first to one side and the other of the road, and refused to consider Smythe's well-worded a.s.surance that wise horses were really fond of automobiles, which were taking a great deal of work off their shoulders.

Hillyer stopped the machine, and cut off the power. But the pony's suspicions had been thoroughly aroused, and the sudden silence seemed to him more portentous than even the noise of the motor. Smythe thereupon had his work cut out for him, but he would not compromise either by dismounting, or by turning and riding away. Slowly and patiently he urged the frightened pony toward the automobile until, after many setbacks and panics, he had brought him near enough for conversation.

”There now, Peanuts!” he said to the prancing animal. ”You see you were quite mistaken.” Then, to Hillyer and Marion: ”He's a little like myself. He doesn't really believe in ghosts, but he's dreadfully afraid of them.”

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