Part 30 (1/2)
”I never thought then that Ed Sorenson would be lying up there all mashed to pieces,” she said, with awed voice.
”I guess he didn't either,” was the dry response.
”He ought to be ready to stop chasing girls after this,” she declared.
”He won't if he can walk; his kind never does quit.”
”Then his kind ought to be locked up somewhere like mad dogs. In a 'sylum, maybe.”
”I guess you're right on that, Mary. They're dangerous.”
”Funny we didn't know he'd been up there, going past our house. He must have been there first before taking Janet.”
”Sneaked up in the night, probably. He'd have to have grub and so on if he expected to stay even a day or two. Crooks always look after their bellies, be sure.”
”I reckon Janet Hosmer will like Mr. Weir a whole lot now, don't you?”
”She ought to, if she doesn't.”
A long silence followed while Mary apparently pursued the line of thought opened up by this speculation.
”If she has the good sense I think she has,” the rancher stated at length, for his mind at least had been following out the subject, ”she'll not only like him a whole lot, but she'll lead him to the altar and put her brand on him.”
He spoke to unhearing ears. For just then Mary sagged against him, her head sank on his shoulder. He put an arm around her form and let her sleep, thus roughly expressing his tenderness and love. Weir had not only rescued Janet Hosmer from the clutches of the man now lying injured; he also had once saved Johnson's own child Mary from the scoundrel's grasp.
Weir might ask anything of him, even to the laying down of his life in his defense.
CHAPTER XIX
A QUEER PAPER
When Mary Johnson next opened her eyes it was at a little shake by her father. She had slept heavily despite the jolting of the wagon; and now looked about drowsy-eyed and at a loss to know where she was. Her clothes and face were damp, her hands cold. She wasn't sure yet but this was still a dream--the team and wagon, the cabin before which they stood, the trees and rocks scattered about the gra.s.sy park-like basin, and the soaring mountain peaks on every hand that were just touched by the first early sun-rays.
The rain and mists were gone, leaving the dawn clear, gray, sharp, scented with the pungent odor of balsam and pine. From a distance came the subdued murmur of Terry Creek, which here high in the mountain range had its source in springs and brooks flowing from pools. All was peaceful.
Mary's look came to rest on the cabin. Over it reared the great pines that grew in a clump behind. Its door was ajar, but the log house for any sign of occupancy might have been untenanted. Immediately the girl glanced back along the road they had come and beheld there in the dim shadow at the foot of the lofty granite ledge a shapeless black lump.
She s.h.i.+vered.
”You awake?” her father asked.
”Yes.” And she began to climb down over the wagon wheel.
”Wait here. I'll go in first. He might be----” But though the rancher did not complete his sentence the words spoken carried their own grave implication.
He came out again presently. Mary gazed at his face to read from it the news it might carry, and it was with a breath of relief she perceived that the injured man was still alive, for her father himself appeared easier of mind. Neither would by choice have a dead man for a pa.s.senger on the ride home, even Ed Sorenson.
”He's breathing, but is still unconscious,” Johnson declared. ”Must have got a crack in the head along with the rest. Face is covered with dried blood. From the stuff inside the house he must have been fixing for quite a stay--blankets, grub, whiskey, candles, and so on. We'll eat a bite ourselves before starting back; get the pail out of the wagon and bring some water and I'll make a pot of coffee. There's a fireplace and wood inside.”
”I'll get the water, but I'll stay out while you're boiling it,” the girl said. ”I don't want to see him until I have to go in and help carry him out.”