Part 7 (1/2)

”Read that,” she said, and held it up, face out.

Printed neatly upon its s.h.i.+ning surface, in the jet-black ink that old Anita made from the berries of a certain bush which grew at the foot of the cliffs across the Valley, were these words:

”This well is planted. I hope it blows up the first thief who tries to destroy it. Tharon Last.”

Conford took the slab, scratched his head, holding his hat between thumb and finger, read it over, read it again, smiled, and then looked up.

”Might work,” he said, ”an' you're givin' out your stand an' knowledge broadcast, ain't you?”

”Certainly am,” said Tharon briefly. ”I said I'd fight, an' I want th'

whole Valley t' know it.”

”It does,” said Conford with conviction. ”I heard in Corvan yesterday that John Dement has rode th' range continuous since he finished brandin' his new herd to tell th' settlers about it.”

”Good,” said Tharon, ”couldn't be better. There's got to be a change in Lost Valley sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.”

And with that thought the girl let her quick mind sweep out to take in the future. She sent Conford off to post her placard and herself went rummaging among the possibilities which her defy had placed before her. She knew that Courtrey would be coldly furious. He had lived his life as suited him, had taken what and where he listed, by fair means or foul, and though every soul in the Valley knew him and his methods, none had spoken the convicting word. It was the pen-stroke at the end of the death-warrant to do so.

She knew that the faction of the settlers hated him and his with a vitriolic pa.s.sion, that they were in the minority, that they were no tin G.o.ds themselves, and that they were being beaten out, one by one.

Year by year Courtrey had added to his vast acreage, and it was a matter of common knowledge how he had done it. He was rich, powerful, bullying, a man whose self-aggrandizement knew no limit, whose merest whim was his law, whose will must not be thwarted. Year by year his _vaqueros_ drove down the Wall herds of fat cattle, their brands blurred, insolently raw and careless. Many a hapless man had stood and seen his own stock go by in Courtrey's band and dared not open his mouth. In fact Courtrey had been known to stop and chat with such a one, smiling his evil smile and enjoying the helpless chagrin of his victim.

”Insolent ruffian!” muttered Tharon this day, frowning above her daddy's pipes on the desk top. ”He's goin' t' get one run for his money from now till one of us is whipped. It may be me, but I'll leave my mark on him, so help me!

”Straight killin's too good for him. I want to smash him first.”

”Tharon, mi _Corazon_,” said Anita, stopping soft-foot beside her, ”it is bad for one to talk so, to himself. The Evil One works on the mind that way.”

Tharon laughed.

”Perhaps, Anita,” she said shortly, ”it is with the Evil One I have t'

do, an' no mistake.”

The old woman crossed herself and went away, her wrinkled face dim with care. And Tharon dressed herself neatly, put a ribbon on her hair, set her wide hat carefully on her head, buckled on her heavy gun-belt, and went to the corral for El Rey. Her daddy's saddle was her own now, a huge affair carved and ornamented, profusely studded with silver.

Along the right side below the pommel ran a darker stain, Jim Last's blood, set before his daughter like a star.

She mounted the silver stallion and went away down along the summer land, a shaft of light shooting through the green of the ranges.

Far over to her left she could see her cattle, beautiful bunches spread like figures in a tapestry. The figures of her riders were small dots on the outskirts.

El Rey, always hard on the bit, always strong-headed, wanted to run and she swung loose her rein and let him go. But run as he might, there was always in his speed that rising note, that seeming of reserve power.

She pa.s.sed the head of Black Coulee, swung out across the edge of Rolling Cove, thundered down to the ford of the Broken Bend. Here she let the stallion drink, deep draughts that would have slowed a lesser horse. El Rey went up the bank beyond the ford like a charging engine, squared away and stretched out to finish his run. He was within three miles of Corvan, set like a stone in a smooth green surface, before he came down and lifted his shoulders into his gait. With the first rock and swing of the singlefoot, Tharon smiled and settled herself more comfortably in the saddle. This was joy to her, this beautiful syncopation, this poetic marked time that reeled off the miles beneath her and would scarcely have shaken a pebble from her hat-brim.

As she struck the outskirts of the little town the unmistakable sound of El Rey's iron-shod hoofs brought heads into doors, children at the house corners to look upon her. She came down the main street at a smart clip, to bring up with a slide at the hitch-rail before Baston's store where the monthly mail was handled. There were horses tied there, and among them she saw what caused her to look twice with a narrowing of her keen eyes--a huge, raw-boned, black, rusty and slug-headed, among the Ironwood bays from Courtrey's Stronghold.

”H'm,” she told herself quietly, ”so there's where he was expected.”

She tied El Rey to himself, far from the rest, for she knew his imperious temper and that trouble would ensue if he was near strange horses.