by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A PAGE OF WRITING
Wind came with the sun and went shrieking across the high levels, takingwith it clouds of sand and bouncing tumbleweeds that rolled and lodgedfor a minute against some rock or bush and then went whirling on again ina fresh gust. Starr had not ridden two miles before his face began tofeel the sting of gravel in the sand clouds. His eyes, already achingwith a day's hard usage and a night of no sleep, smarted with the impactof the wind. He fumbled at the band of his big, Texas hat and pulled downa pair of motor goggles and put them on distastefully. Like blinders on ahorse they were, but he could not afford to face that wind withunprotected eyes--not when so very much depended upon his eyes and hisears and the keenest, coolest faculties of his mind.
Still worry nagged at him. He wanted to know who was the man that hadvisited Helen May so soon after he had left, and he wanted to know why alight had shone from her window at one o'clock last night; and whetherthe automobile had been going to Sunlight Basin, or merely in thatdirection.
He hurried, for he had no patience with worries that concerned Helen May.Besides, he meant to beg a breakfast from her, and he was afraid that ifhe waited too late she might be out with Pat and the goats, and he wouldhave to waste time on the kid (Vic would have resented that term asapplied to himself) who might be still laid up with his sprained ankle.
He was not thinking so much this morning about the knowledge he hadgained in the night. He had given several quiet hours to thought uponthat subject, and he had his course pretty clearly defined in his mind.He also had Sheriff O'Malley thoroughly coached and prepared to do hispart. The matter of Elfigo Apodaca, then, he laid aside for the present,and concerned himself chiefly with what on the surface were trifles, butwhich, taken together, formed a chain of disquieting incidents. Rabbitfelt his master's desire for haste, and loped steadily along the trail,dropping now and then into his smooth fox-trot, that was almost as fast agait; so it was still early morning when he dropped reins outside andrapped on the closed door.
Helen May opened the door cautiously, it seemed to him; a scant sixinches until she saw who he was, when she cried "Oh!" in a surprised,slightly confused tone, and let him in. Starr noticed two things at thefirst glance he gave her. The first was the blue crocheted cap which shewore; he did not know that it was called a breakfast-cap and that it wasvery stylish, for Starr, you must remember, lived apart from any intimatehome life that would familiarize him with such fripperies. The capsurprised him, but he liked the look of it even though he kept thatliking to himself.
The second thing he noticed was that Helen May was hiding something inher right hand which was dropped to her side. When she had let him in andturned away to offer him a chair, he saw that she had the pearl-handledsix-shooter.
She disappeared behind a screen, and came out with her right hand empty,evidently believing he had not seen how she had prepared herself for anemergency. She had only yesterday told him emphatically how harmless sheconsidered the country; and he had been careful to warn her only aboutrabid coyotes, so that without being alarmed, she would not go unarmedaway from home. It seemed queer to Starr that she should act as thoughshe expected rabid coyotes to come a-knocking at her door in broaddaylight. Had she, he thought swiftly, been only pretending that sheconsidered the country perfectly safe?
He could not help it; that six-shooter hidden in the folds of her skirtstuck in his mind. It was just a trifle, like her lighted window at oneo'clock in the morning; like that strange man who had called on her justafter Starr had left her, and with whom she had seemed to be on suchfriendly terms. He had warned her of coyotes. She was not supposed toknow that it was wise to arm herself before she opened her door to adaylight caller. At night, yes. But at seven o'clock in the morning?Starr did not suspect Helen May of anything, but he had been trained tosuspect mysterious trifles. In spite of himself, this trifle nagged athim unpleasantly.
He fancied that Helen May was just a shade flustered in her welcome; justa shade nervous in her movements, in her laughter, in the very tones ofher voice.
"You're out early," she said. "Vic isn't up yet; I suppose the goatsought to be let out, too. You couldn't have had your breakfast--or haveyou? One can expect almost anything of a man who just rides out ofnowhere at all hours, and disappears into nowhere."
"I shore wish that was so," Starr retorted banteringly. "I wish I had toride nowhere to-day."
"Oh, I meant the mystery of the unknown," she hurried to correct herself."You come out of the desert just any old time. And you go off into thedesert just as unexpectedly; by the way, did you--"
"Nope. I did not." She might forget that Vic was in the house, but Starrnever forgot things of that sort, and he wilfully forestalled herintention to ask about the shooting. "I didn't have any supper, either,beyond a sandwich or two that was mostly sand after I'd packed 'em aroundall day. I just naturally had to turn tramp and come ask for a handout,when I found out at daylight how close I was to breakfast."
"Why, of course. You know you won't have to beg very hard. I was justgoing to put on the coffee. So you make yourself at home, and I'll havebreakfast in a few minutes. Vic, for gracious sake, get up! Here'scompany already. And you'll have to let out the goats. Pat can keep themtogether awhile, but he can't open the gate, and I'm busy."
Starr heard the prodigious yawn of the awakening Vic, who sleptbehind a screen in the kitchen, bedrooms being a superfluous luxuryin which Johnny Calvert had not indulged himself. Starr followed herto the doorway.
"I'll go let out the goats," he offered. "I want to take off the bridleanyway, so Rabbit can feed around a little." He let himself out into thewhooping wind, feeling, for some inexplicable reason, depressed when hehad expected to feel only relief.
"Lord! I'm getting to the point where anything that ain't accompanied bya chart and diagrams looks suspicious to me. She's got more hawse sensethan I gave her credit for, that's all. She musta seen through my yarnin'about them mad coyotes. She's pretty cute, coming to the door with hersix-gun just like a real one! And never letting on to me that she had itright handy. I must be getting off my feed or something, the way I takethings wrong. Now her being up late--I'm just going to mention how faroff I saw her light burning--and how late it was. I'll see what she saysabout it."
But he did nothing of the kind, and for what he considered a very goodreason. The wind was blowing in eddying gusts, of the kind that seizesand whirls things; such a gust swooped into the room when he opened thedoor, seized upon some papers which lay on her writing desk, and sentthem clear across the room.
Starr hastily closed the door and rescued the papers where they hadflattened against the wall; and he wished he had gone blind before he sawwhat they were. A glance was all he gave, at first--the involuntaryglance which one gives to a bit of writing picked up in an odd place--butthat was enough to chill his blood with the shock of damningenlightenment. A page of writing, it was, fine, symmetrical, hard todecipher--a page of Holly Sommers' manuscript; you know that, of course.
But Starr did not know. He only knew the writing matched the pages ofrevolutionary stuff he had found in the office of _Las Nuevas._ There wasno need of comparing the two; the writing was unmistakable. And hebelieved that Helen May was the writer. He believed it when he glanced upand saw her coming in from the kitchen, and saw her eyes go to what hehad in his hand, and saw the start she gave before she hurried to takethe paper away.
"My gracious! My work--" she said agitatedly, when she had the papers inher hand. She went to her desk, looking perturbed, and gave a quick,seeking glance at the scattered papers there; then at Starr.
"Did any more--?"
"That's all," Starr said gravely. "It was the wind when I opened thedoor, caught them."
"My own carelessness. I don't know why I left my desk open," she said.And while he stood looking at her, she pulled down the roll-top with aslam, still visibly perturbed.
It was strange, he thought, that she should have a roll-top desk outhere,
anyway. He had seen it the other time he was at the house, and ithad struck him then as queer, though he had not given it more than apassing thought.
As a matter of fact, it was not queer. Johnny Calvert had dilated on thedestructiveness of rats, "pack rats" he called them. They would chewpaper all to bits, he said. So Helen May, being finicky about having herpapers chewed, had brought along this mouse-proof desk with her otherfurniture from Los Angeles.
Her perturbed manner, too, was the result of a finicky distaste forhaving any disorder in her papers, especially when it was work intrustedto her professionally. She never talked about the work she did forpeople, and she always kept it away from the eyes of those not concernedin it. That, she considered, was professional etiquette. She had straineda point when she had read a little of the manuscript to Vic. Vic was justa kid, and he was her brother, and he wouldn't understand what she readany more than would the horned toad down by the spring. But Starr wasdifferent, and she felt that she had been terribly careless andunprofessional, leaving the manuscript where pages could blow around theroom. What if a page had blown outside and got lost!
Starr had turned his back and was staring out of the window. He mighthave been staring at a blank wall, for all he saw through the glass. Hewas as pale as though he had just received some great physical shock, andhe had his hands doubled up into fists, so that his knuckles were white.His eyes were almost gray instead of hazel, and they were hard andhurt-looking.
Something in the set of his head and in the way his shoulders hadstiffened told Helen May that things had gone wrong just in the lastfew minutes. She gave him a second questioning glance, felt herheart go heavy while her brain seemed suddenly blank, and retreatedto the kitchen.
Helen May, influenced it may be by Starr's anxious thoughts of her, haddreamed of him; one of those vivid, intimate dreams that color our moodsand our thoughts long after we awaken. She had dreamed of being with himin the moonlight again; and Starr had sung again the love song of thedesert, and had afterwards taken her in his arms and held her close, andkissed her twice lingeringly, looking deep into her eyes afterwards.
She had awakened with the thrill of those kisses still tingling her lips,so that she had covered her face with both hands in a sort of shamed joythat dreams could be so terribly real--so terribly sweet, too. And then,not fifteen minutes after she awoke, and while the dream yet clogged herreason, Starr himself had confronted her when she opened the door. Shewould have been a remarkable young woman if she had not been flusteredand nervous and inclined toward incoherent speech.
And now, it was perfectly idiotic to judge a man's temper by the back ofhis neck, she told herself fiercely in the kitchen; perfectly idiotic,yet she did it. She was impressed with his displeasure, his bitterness,with some change in him which she could not define to herself. She wantedto cry, and she did not in the least know what there could possibly be tocry about.
Vic appeared, tousled and yawning and stupid as an owl in the sun. Hegrowled because the water bucket was empty and he must go to the spring,and he irritated Helen May to the point of wanting to shake him, when hewent limping down the path. She even called out sharply that he waslimping with the wrong foot, and that he ought to tie a string around hislame ankle so he could remember which one it was. Which made her feelmore disagreeable than ever, because Vic really did have a bad ankle, asthe swelling had proven when he went to bed last night.
Nothing seemed to go right, after that. She scorched the bacon, and shecaught her sleeve on the handle of the coffee pot and spilled about halfthe coffee, besides burning her wrist to a blister. She broke a cup, butthat had been cracked when she came, and at any other time she would nothave been surprised at all, or jarred out of her calm. She took out themuffins she had hurried to make for Starr, and they stuck to the tins andcame out in ragged pieces, which is enough to drive any woman desperate,I suppose. Vic slopped water on the floor when he came back with thebucket full, and the wind swooped a lot of sand into the kitchen, andshe was certain the bacon would be gritty as well as burned.
Of Starr she had not heard a sound, and she went to the door nervously tocall him when breakfast was at last on the table. He was standing exactlyas he had stood when she left the room. So far as she could see, he hadnot moved a muscle or turned his head or winked an eyelid. His stoninesschilled her so that it was an effort to form words to tell him thatbreakfast was ready.
There was an instant's pause before he turned, and Helen May felt that hehad almost decided not to eat. But he followed her to the kitchen andspoke to Vic quite humanly, as he took the chair she offered, andunfolded the napkin that struck an odd note of refinement among itsmakeshift surroundings; for the stove had only two real legs, the othertwo corners being propped up on rocks; the dish cupboard was of boxes,and everything in the way of food supplies stood scantily hidden behindthin curtains of white dotted swiss that Helen May had brought with her.
An hour ago Starr would have dwelt gloatingly upon these gracefulevidences of Helen May's brave fight against the crudities of hersurroundings. Now they gave him a keener thrust of pain. So did thetremble of her hand when Helen May poured his coffee; it betrayed toStarr her guilty fear that he had seen what was on those two papers. Heglanced up at her face, and caught her own troubled glance just flickingaway from him. She was scared, then! he told himself. She was watching tosee if he had read anything that seemed suspicious. Well, he'd have tocalm her down a little, just as a matter of policy. He couldn't let hertip him off to the bunch, whatever happened.
Starr smiled. "I sure feel like I'm imposing on good nature," he said,looking at her again with careful friendliness. "Coming here begging forbreakfast, and now when you've gone to the trouble of cooking it, I'vegot one of my pet headaches that won't let me enjoy anything. Hits methat way sometimes when I've had an extra long ride. But I sure wish ithad waited awhile."
Helen May gave him a quick, hopeful smile. "I have some awfully goodtablets," she said. "Wait till I give you one, before you eat. My doctorgave me a supply before I left home, because I have headache so much--ordid have. I'm getting much better, out here! I've hardly felt like thesame person, the last two or three weeks."
"You have got to show me where you're any better _acting_," Vic pointedout, with the merciless candor of beauty's young brother. "It sure ain'tyour disposition that's improved, I can tell you those."
"And with those few remarks you can close," Helen May retorted gleefully,hurrying off to get the headache tablet. It was just a headache, poorfellow! He wasn't peeved at all, and nothing was wrong!
It was astonishing how her mood had lightened in the past two minutes.She got him a glass of water to help the tablet down his throat, andstood close beside him while he swallowed it and thanked her, and beganto make some show of eating his breakfast. She was, in fact, the samewhimsically charming Helen May he had come to care a great deal for.
That made things harder than ever for Starr. If the tablet had beenprescribed for heartache rather than headache, Starr would have swallowedthankfully the dose. The murder, over against the other line of hills,had not seemed to him so terrible as those sheets of scribbled paperlocked away inside Helen May's desk. The grief of Estan's mother over herdead son was no more bitter than was Starr's grief at what he believedwas true of Helen May. Indeed, Starr's trouble was greater, because hemust mask it with a smile.
All through breakfast he talked with her, looked into her eyes, smiled ather across the table. But he was white under his tan. She thought thatwas from his headache, and was kinder than she meant to be because ofit; perhaps because of her dream too, though she was not conscious of anychange in her manner.
Starr could have cursed her for that change, which he believed was a slyattempt to win him over and make him forget anything he may have read onthose pages. He would not think of it then; time enough when he was awayand need not pretend or set a guard over his features and his tongue. Thehurt was there, the great, incredible, soul-searing hurt; but he wouldnot dwell
upon what had caused that hurt. He forced himself to talk andto laugh now and then, but afterwards he could not remember what they hadtalked about.
As soon as he decently could, he went away again into the howling windthat had done him so ill a turn. He did not know what he should do; thisdiscovery that Helen May was implicated had set him all at sea, but hefelt that he must get away somewhere and think the whole thing out beforehe went crazy.
He left the Basin, rode around behind it and, leaving Rabbit in thethicket where he had left him the day before, he toiled up the pinnacleand sat down in the shelter of a boulder pile where he would be out ofthe wind as well as out of sight, and where he could still stare somberlydown at the cabin.
And there he faced his trouble bravely, and at the same time hefulfilled his duty toward his government by keeping a watch over theplace that seemed to him then the most suspicious place in the country.The office of _Las Nuevas_, even, was not more so, as Starr saw thingsthen. For if _Las Nuevas_ were the distributing point for the propagandaliterature, this cabin of Helen May's seemed to be the fountain head.
First of all, and going back to the beginning, how did he really _know_that her story was true? How, for instance, did he know that her fatherhad not been one of the heads of the conspiracy? How did he know that herfather--it might even be her husband!--was dead? He had simply acceptedher word, as a matter of course, because she was a young woman, and moreattractive than the average young woman. Starr was terribly bitter, atthat point in his reasoning, and even felt certain that he hated allwomen. Well, then, her reason for being in the neighborhood would bear alot of looking into.
Then there was that automobile that had passed where he had found her andher goats, that evening. Was it plausible, he asked himself, that she hadactually walked over there? The machine had returned along the sametrail, running by moonlight with its lights out. Might it not have beencoming to pick her up? Only he had happened along, and she had let himwalk home with her, probably to keep him where she could watch him!
There was that shot at him from the pinnacle behind her cabin. There washer evident familiarity with firearms, though she professed not to own agun. There was the man who had been down there with her, not more than anhour after he had left her with a bullet burn across his arm. Starr sawnow how that close conversation might easily have been a conferencebetween her and the man who had shot at him.
There was the light in her window at one o'clock in the morning, and themachine with dimmed headlights making toward her place. There was herevident caution against undesirable callers, her coming to the door witha six-shooter hidden against her skirt. There was that handwriting, towhich Starr would unhesitatingly have sworn as being the same as on thepages he had found in the office of _Las Nuevas_. The writing wasunmistakable: fine, even, symmetrical as print, yet hard to decipher;slanting a little to the left instead of the right. He had studied toooften the pages in his pocket not to recognize it at a glance.
Most damning evidence of all the evidence against her were two or threewords which his eyes had picked from the context on the page uppermost inhis hand. He had become familiar with those words, written in thatpeculiar chirography. "Justice... submission ... ruling ..." He hadcaught them at a glance, though he did not know how they were connected,or what relation they bore to the general theme. Political bunk, his mindtagged it therefore, and had no doubt whatever that he was right.
"She's got brown eyes and blond hair, and that looks like mixed blood,"he reminded himself suddenly, after he had sat for a long while staringdown at the house. "How do I know her folks aren't Spanish or something?How do I know anything about her? I just swallowed what she handedout--like a damn' fool!"
Just after noon, when the wind had shown some sign of dying down to amore reasonable blow, Helen May came forth in her riding skirt and aTam o' Shanter cap and a sweater, with a package under her arm--apackage of manuscript which she had worked late to finish and was nowgoing to deliver.
She got the pinto pony which Vic had just ridden sulkily down to thecorral and left for her, and she rode away down the trail, jolting a gooddeal in the saddle when the pinto trotted a few steps, but apparentlywell pleased with herself.
Starr watched until she turned into the main trail that led toward SanBonito. Then, when he was reasonably sure of the direction she meant totake, he hurried down to where Rabbit waited, mounted that long-sufferinganimal and followed, using short cuts and deep washes that would hide himfrom sight, but keeping Helen May in view most of the time for all that.
