The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XVI

  WHAT LOVE WILL DO

  Daylight was breaking when the jaded Lady Jezebel and her doublefreight raced into the ranch. The mare had done the journey inprecisely two hours and a quarter. Arizona galloped her up to thehouse and rounded the lean-to in which Joe slept. Then he pulled upand shouted. Just then he had no thought for the rancher or Jake. Hehad thought for no one but Tresler.

  His third shout brought Joe tumbling out of his bed.

  "Say, I've got a mighty sick man here," he cried, directly he heardthe choreman moving. "Git around an' lend a hand; gentle, too."

  "That you, Arizona?" Joe, half awake, questioned, blinking up at thehorseman in the faint light.

  "I guess; an' say, 'fore I git answerin' no fool questions, git a holton this notion. Red Mask's bin around Willow Bluff, an' Tresler's doneup. Savee?"

  "Tresler, did you say?" asked a girl's voice from the kitchen doorway."Wounded?"

  There was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely abovea whisper.

  Arizona was lifting Tresler down into Joe's arms. "I 'lows I didn'tknow you wus ther', missie," he replied, without turning from histask. "Careful, Joe; easy--easy now. He's dreadful sick, I guess.Yes, missie, it's him. They've kind o' scratched him some. 'Tain'tnothin' to gas about; jest barked his neck. Kind o' needs a bit o'band'ge. Gorl durn you, Joe! Git your arm under his shoulders an' kephis head steady; he'll git bleedin' to death ef y' ain't careful.Quiet, you jade!" he cried fiercely, to the mare whom Diane hadfrightened with her white robe as she came to help. "No, missie, notyou," Arizona exclaimed. "He's all blood an' mussed up." Then hediscovered that she had little on but a night-dress. "Gee! but youain't wropped up, missie. Jest git right in. Wal," as she deliberatelyproceeded to help the struggling Joe, "ef you will; but Joe ken do it,I guess. Ther', that's it. I ken git off'n this crazy slut of a marenow."

  Directly Arizona had quit the saddle he relieved Diane, and, with theutmost gentleness, started to take the sick man into the lean-to. Butthe girl protested at once.

  "Not in there," she said sharply. "Take him into the house. I'll goand fix a bed up-stairs. Bring him through the kitchen."

  She spoke quite calmly. Too calmly, Joe thought.

  "To that house?" Arizona protested.

  "Yes, yes, of course." Then the passion of grief let itself loose, andDiane cried, "And why not? Where else should he go? He belongs to me.Why do you stand there like an imbecile? Take him at once. Oh, Jack,Jack, why don't you speak? Oh, take him quickly! You said he wouldbleed to death. He isn't dead? No, tell me he isn't dead?"

  "Dead? Dead? Ha, ha!" Arizona threw all the scorn he was capable ofinto the words, and laughed with funereal gravity. "Say, that's realgood--real good. Him dead? Wal, I guess not. Pshaw! Say, missie, youain't ast after my health, an' I'm guessin' I oughter be sicker'n him,wi' that mare o' his. Say, jest git right ahead an' fix that bunk ferhim, like the daisy gal you are. What about bl--your father, missie?"

  "Never mind father. Come along."

  The man's horse-like attempt at lightness had its effect. The girlpulled herself together. She realized the emergency. She knew thatTresler needed her help. Arizona's manner had only emphasized thegravity of his case.

  She ran on ahead, and the other, bearing the unconscious man,followed.

  "Never mind father," Arizona muttered doubtfully. "Wal, here goes."Then he called back to Joe: "Git around that mare an' sling the saddleon a fresh plug; guess I'll need it."

  He passed through the kitchen, and stepping into the hall he wasstartled by the apparition of the blind man standing in the doorway ofhis bedroom. He was clad in his customary dressing-gown, and his eyesglowed ruddily in the light of the kitchen lamp.

  "What's this?" he asked sharply.

  "Tresler's bin done up," Arizona replied at once. "Guess the gang gotaround Willow Bluff--God's curse light on 'em!"

  "Hah! And where are you taking him?"

  "Up-sta'rs," was the brief reply. Then the cowpuncher bethought him ofhis duty to his employer. "Guess the cattle are safe, fer which youken thank the sheriff's gang. Miss Dianny's hustlin' a bunk fer him,"he added.

  In spite of his usual assurance, Arizona never felt easy with thisman. Now the rancher's manner decidedly thawed.

  "Yes, yes," he said gently. "Take the poor boy up-stairs. You'd bettergo for the doctor. You can give me the details afterward."

  He turned back into his room, and the other passed up the stairs.

  He laid the sick man on the bed, and pointed out to the girl thebandage on his neck, advising, in his practical fashion, itsreadjustment. Then he went swiftly from the house and rode into Forksfor Doc. Osler, the veterinary surgeon, the only available medical manin that part of the country.

  When Diane found herself alone with the man she loved stretched outbefore her, inert, like one dead, her first inclination was to sitdown and weep for him. She could face her own troubles with a certainfortitude, but to see this strong man laid low, perhaps dying, was adifferent thing, and her womanly weakness was near to overcoming her.But though the unshed tears filled her eyes, her love brought itscourage to her aid, and she approached the task Arizona had pointedout.

  With deft fingers she removed the sodden bandage, through which theblood was slowly oozing. The flow, which at once began again, alarmedher, and set her swiftly to work. Now she understood as well asArizona did what was amiss. She hurried out to her own room, andreturned quickly with materials for rebandaging, and her arms full ofclothes. Then, with the greatest care, she proceeded to bind up theneck, placing a cork on the artery below the severance. This shestrapped down so tightly that, for the time at least, the bleeding wasstaunched. Her object accomplished, she proceeded to dress herselfready for the doctor's coming.

  She had taken her place at the bedside, and was meditating on whatfurther could be done for her patient, when an event happened on whichshe had in nowise reckoned. Somebody was ascending the stair with theshuffling gait of one feeling his way. It was her father. The firsttime within her memory that he had visited the upper part of thehouse.

  A look of alarm leapt into her eyes as she gazed at the door, watchingfor his coming, and she realized only too well the possibilities ofthe situation. What would he say? What would he do?

  A moment later she was facing him with calm courage. Her fears hadbeen stifled by the knowledge of her lover's helplessness. One look athis dear, unconscious form had done for her what nothing else couldhave done. Her filial duty went out like a candle snuffed with wetfingers. There was not even a spark left.

  Julian Marbolt stepped across the threshold, and his head slowly movedround as though to ascertain in what direction his daughter wassitting. The oil-lamp seemed to attract his blind attention, and hiseyes fixed themselves upon it; but for a moment only. Then they passedon until they settled on the girl.

  "Where is he?" he asked coldly. "I can hear you breathing. Is hedead?"

  Diane sprang up and bent over her patient. "No," she said, halffearing that her father's inquiry was prophetic. "He is unconsciousfrom loss of blood. Arizona----"

  "Tchah! Arizona!--I want to talk to you. Here, give me your hand andlead me to the bedside. I will sit here. This place is unfamiliar."

  Diane did as she was bid. She was pale. A strained look was in hersoft brown eyes, but there was determination in the set of her lips.

  "What is the matter with you, girl?" her father asked. The softness ofhis speech in no way disguised the iciness of his manner. "You'reshaking."

  "There's nothing the matter with me," she replied pointedly.

  "Ah, thinking of him." His hand reached out until it rested on one ofTresler's legs. His remark seemed to require no answer, and a silencefell while Diane watched the eyes so steadily directed upon the sickman. Presently he went on. "These men have done well. They have savedthe cattle. Arizona mentioned the sheriff. I don't know much about ityet, but it seems to me this boy must have contrived their assistance.Smart work, if he did so.
"

  "Yes, father, and brave," added the girl in a low tone.

  His words had raised hope within her. But with his next he dashed it.

  "Brave? It was his duty," he snapped, resentful immediately. The redeyes were turned upon his daughter, and she fancied she saw somethingutterly cruel in their painful depths. "You are uncommonlyinterested," he went on slowly. "I was warned before that he and youwere too thick. I told you of it--cautioned you. Isn't thatsufficient, or have I to----" He left his threat unfinished.

  A color flushed slowly into Diane's cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

  "No, it isn't sufficient, father. You have no right to stop mespeaking to Mr. Tresler. I have bowed to your decision with regard tothe other men on the ranch. There, perhaps, you had a right--aparent's right. But it is different with Mr. Tresler. He is agentleman. As for character, you yourself admit it is unimpeachable.Then what right have you to refuse to allow me even speech with him?It is absurd, tyrannical; and I refuse to obey you."

  The frowning brows drew sharply down over the man's eyes. And Dianeunderstood the sudden rising of storm behind the mask-like face. Shewaited with a desperate calmness. It was the moral bravery prompted byher new-born love.

  But the storm held off, controlled by that indomitable will which madeJulian Marbolt an object of fear to all who came into contact withhim.

  "You are an ungrateful girl, a foolish girl," he said quietly. "Youare ungrateful that you refuse to obey me; and foolish, that you thinkto marry him."

  Diane sprang to her feet. "I--how----"

  "Tut! Do not protest. I know you have promised to be his wife. If youdenied it you would lie." He sat for a moment enjoying the girl'sdiscomfort. Then he went on, with a cruel smile about his lips as shereturned to her seat with a movement that was almost a collapse."That's better," he said, following her action by means of hiswonderful instinct. "Now let us be sensible--very sensible."

  His tone had become persuasive, such as might have been used to achild, and the girl wondered what further cruelty it masked. She hadnot long to wait.

  "You are going to give up this madness," he said coldly. "You willshow yourself amenable to reason--my reason--or I shall enforce mydemands in another way."

  The girl's exasperation was growing with each moment, but she keptsilence, waiting for him to finish.

  "You will never marry this man," he went on, with quiet emphasis. "Norany other man while I live. There is no marriage for you, my girl.There can be no marriage for you. And the more 'unimpeachable' a man'scharacter the less the possibility."

  "I don't pretend to understand you," Diane replied, with a coldnessequal to her father's own.

  "No; perhaps you don't." The man chuckled fiendishly.

  Tears sprang into the girl's eyes. She could no longer check them.And with them came the protest that she was also powerless towithhold.

  "Why may I not marry? Why can I not marry? Surely I can claim theright of every woman to marry the man of her choice. I know you haveno good will for me, father. Why, I cannot understand. I have alwaysobeyed you; I have ever striven to do my duty. If there has never beenany great affection displayed, it is not my fault. For, ever since Ican remember, you have done your best to kill the love I would havegiven you. How have I been ungrateful? What have I to be grateful for?I cannot remember one single kindness you have ever shown me. You haveset up a barrier between me and the world outside this ranch. I am aprisoner here. Why? Am I so hateful? Have I no claims on yourtoleration? Am I not your own flesh and blood?"

  "No!"

  The man's answer came with staggering force. It was the bursting ofthe storm of passion, which even his will could no longer restrain.But it was the whole storm, for he went no further. It was Diane whospoke next. Her cheeks had assumed an ashen hue, and her lips trembledso that she could scarcely frame her words.

  "What do you mean?" she gasped.

  "Tut! Your crazy obstinacy drives me to it," her father answeredimpatiently, but with perfect control. "Oh, you need have no fear.There is no legal shame to you. But there is that which will hit youharder, I think."

  "Father! What are you saying?"

  Something of the man's meaning was growing upon her. Old hints andinnuendoes against her mother were recalled by his words. Her throatparched while she watched the relentless face of this man who wasstill her father.

  "Saying? You know the story of my blindness. You know I spent threeyears visiting nearly every eye-doctor in Europe. But what you don'tknow, and shall know, is that I returned home to Jamaica at the end ofthat time to find myself the father of a three-days'-old baby girl."The man's teeth were clenched, rage and pain distorted his face,rendering his sightless stare a hideous thing. "Yes," he went on, butnow more to himself, "I returned home to that, and in time to hear thelast words your mother uttered in life; in time to feel--feel herdeath-struggles." He mouthed his words with unmistakable relish, andrelapsed into silence.

  Diane fell back with a bitter cry. The cry roused her father.

  "Well?" he continued. "You'll give this man up--now?"

  For some minutes there was no answer. The girl sat like a statuecarved in dead white stone; and the expression of her face was asstony as the mould of her features. Her blood was chilled; her brainrefused its office; and her heart--it was as though that fount of lifelay crushed within her bosom. Even the man lying sick on the bedbeside her had no meaning for her.

  "Well?" her father demanded impatiently. "You are going to giveTresler up now?"

  She heard him this time. With a rush everything came to her, and afeeling of utter helplessness swept over her. Oh, the shame of it!Suddenly she flung forward on the bed and sobbed her heart out besidethe man she must give up. He had been the one bright ray in the dullgray of her life. His love, come so quickly, so suddenly, to her hadleavened the memory of her unloved years. Their recollection had beenthrust into the background to give place to the sunshine of a preciousfirst love. And now it must all go. There was no other course open toher, she told herself; and in this decision was revealed her father'sconsummate devilishness. He understood her straightforward pride, ifhe had no appreciation of it. Then, suddenly, there came a feeling ofresentment and hatred for the author of her misfortune, and she sat upwith the tears only half dry on her cheeks. Her father's dead eyeswere upon her, and their hateful depths seemed to be searching her.She knew she must submit to his will. He mastered her as he masteredeverybody else.

  "It is not what I will," she said, in a low voice. "I understand; ourlives must remain apart." Then anger brought harshness into her tone."I would have given him up of my own accord had I known. I could nothave thrust the shame of my birth upon him. But you--you have keptthis from me all these years, saving it, in your heartless way, forsuch a moment as this. Why have you told me? Why do you keep me atyour side? Oh, I hate you!"

  "Yes, yes, of course you do," her father said, quite unmoved by herattack. "Now you are tasting something--only something--of thebitterness of my life. And it is good that you should. The parent'ssins--the children. Yes, you certainly can feel----"

  "For heaven's sake leave me!" the girl broke in, unable to stand thetaunting--the hideous enjoyment of the man.

  "Not yet; I haven't done. This man----" The rancher leant over thebed, and one hand felt its way over Tresler's body until it restedover his heart. "At one time I was glad he came here. I had reasons.His money was as good as in my pocket. He would have bought stock fromme at a goodish profit. Now I have changed my mind. I would sacrificethat. It would be better perhaps--perhaps. No, he is not dead yet. Buthe may die, eh, Diane? It would be better were he to die; it wouldsave your explanation to him. Yes, let him die. You are not going tomarry him. You would not care to see him marry another, as, of course,he will. Let him die. Love? Love? Why, it would be kindness toyourselves. Yes, let him die."

  "You--you--wretch!" Diane was on her feet, and her eyes blazed downupon the cruel, working face before her. The cry was literally wrungfrom her. "And that is
the man who was ready to give his life for yourinterests. That is the man whose cleverness and bravery you evenpraised. You want me to refuse him the trifling aid I can give him.You are a monster! You have parted us, but it is not sufficient; youwant his life."

  She suddenly bent over and seized her father's hand, where it restedupon Tresler's heart, and dragged it away.

  "Take your hand off him; don't touch him!" she cried in a frenzy. "Youare not----"

  But she got no further. The lean, sinewy hand had closed over hers,and held them both as in a vice; and the pressure made her cry out.

  "Listen!" he said fiercely. He, too, was standing now, and his tallfigure dwarfed hers. "He is to be moved out of here. I will have Jaketo see to it in the morning. And you shall know what it is to thwartme if you dare to interfere."

  He abruptly released her hands and turned away; but he shot roundagain as he heard her reply.

  "I shall nurse him," she said.

  "You will not."

  The girl laughed hysterically. The scene had been too much for her,and she was on the verge of breaking down.

  "We shall see," she cried after him, as he passed out of the room.

  The whole ranch was astir when Arizona returned with Doc. Osler. Nordid they come alone. Fyles had met them on the trail. He had justreturned from a fruitless pursuit of the raiders. He had personallyendeavored to track Red Mask, but the rustler had evaded him in thethick bush that lined the river; and his men had been equallyunsuccessful with the rest of the band. The hills had been their goal,and they had made it through the excellence of their horses. Althoughthe pursuers were well mounted their horses were heavier, and lostground hopelessly in the midst of the broken land of the foot-hills.

  Jake was closeted with the rancher at the coming of the doctor and hiscompanions; but their confabulation was brought to an abrupttermination at once.

  The doctor went to the wounded man, who still remained unconscious,while Fyles joined the rancher and his foreman in a discussion of thenight's doings. And while these things were going on Arizona and Joeshared the hospitality of the lean-to.

  The meeting in the rancher's den had not proceeded far when a summonsfrom up-stairs cut it short. Diane brought a message from the doctorasking her father and the sheriff to join him. Marbolt displayedunusual alacrity, and Fyles followed him as he tapped his way up tothe sick-room. Here the stick was abandoned, and he was led to hisseat by his daughter. Diane was pale, but alert and determined; whileher father wore a gentle look of the utmost concern. The doctor wasstanding beside the window gazing out over the pastures, but he turnedat once as they came in.

  "A nasty case, Mr. Marbolt," he said, the moment the rancher had takenup his position. "A very nasty case." He was a brusque little man witha pair of keen black eyes, which he turned on the blind man curiously."An artery cut by bullet. Small artery. Your daughter most cleverlystopped bleeding. Many thanks to her. Patient lost gallons of blood.Precarious position--very. No danger from wound now. Exhaustion only.Should he bleed again--death. But he won't; artery tied up securely.Miss Marbolt says you desire patient removed to usual quarters. I sayno! Remove him--artery break afresh--death. Sheriff, I orderdistinctly this man remains where he is. Am I right? Have I right?"

  "Undoubtedly." Then Fyles turned upon the blind man. "His orders areyour law, Mr. Marbolt," he said. "And you, of course, will be heldresponsible for any violation of them."

  The blind man nodded in acquiescence.

  "Good," said the doctor, rubbing his hands. "Nothing more for me now.Return to-morrow. Miss Marbolt, admirable nurse. Wish I was patient.He will be about again in two weeks. Artery small. Health good--young.Oh, yes, no fear. Only exhaustion. Hope you catch villains.Good-morning. Might have severed jugular--near shave."

  Doc. Osler bowed to the girl and passed out muttering, "Capitalnurse--beautiful." His departure brought the rancher to his feet, andhe groped his way to the door. As he passed his daughter he paused andgently patted her on the back.

  "Ah, child," he said, with a world of tolerant kindness in his voice,"I still think you are wrong. He would have been far better in his ownquarters, his familiar surroundings, and amongst his friends. You arequite inexperienced, and these men understand bullet wounds as well asany doctor. However, have your way. I hope you won't have cause toregret it."

  "All right, father," Diane replied, without turning her eyes from thecontemplation of her sick lover.

  And Fyles, standing at the foot of the bed watching the scene,speculated shrewdly as to the relations in which the girl and herpatient stood, and the possible parental disapproval of the same.Certainly he had no idea of the matters which had led up to thenecessity for his official services to enforce the doctor's orders.