The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES

  The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything wastemporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator heproved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemedsuited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of hisproper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then theauthorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent businessof the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman,and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley's.

  Diane, acting on Tresler's advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs.Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old womaninsisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must becomforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As amatter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner andconditions of her father's death, and the discovery that he was soterrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of thedeath of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her oldhome, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on,when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go intoWhitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness,she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influenceand consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of thetrial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at thepreliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidenceat the higher court.

  And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return toForks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with theranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time foranything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragementto the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than mighthave been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost secondnature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind andwatchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, andwith motherly solicitude--she had no children of her own--insisted onthe only remedy she understood--physic. And the girl submitted to thekindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to helpher complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages andassurances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in herlife than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried outhis threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on anyman. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry agirl with such a past, such parentage.

  And so she waited for her lover's return to tell him. Once she thoughtof writing it, but she knew Jack too well. He would only come down toForks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had nodesire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decisionwhen he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for thegovernment orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keepit, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the countryforever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but itwas very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel thedeepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to heryoung face.

  It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in thatrough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men,who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget hertroubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and,instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardlyon the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate,hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle forexistence.

  And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very differentman now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about himas he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler's littlehouse, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for himthere. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney'ssaloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help orguide. He straightway hooked his horse's reins over the tie-post andwalked into the bar.

  The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. Thelittle man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyesat him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in therascal's appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Treslerhad first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The manseemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just aseverything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were thesame men there--one or two more besides--the same reeking atmosphere,the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.

  Slum's greeting was characteristic. "Wal, blind-hulks has passed--eh?I figgered you was comin' out on top. Guess the government'll treatyou han'some."

  The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that hewas still standing with his back to it; his hands were still grippingthe moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position sincethe first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up fromthe little side table at which he was playing "solitaire" with agreasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with whichhe had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a momentbefore. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously asthey heard Slum's greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping aglass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade mightbe.

  Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display somuch interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called fordrinks. Then he turned to Slum.

  "Well," he said, "I'm going to take up my abode here for a week ortwo."

  "I'm real glad," said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at theprospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before."The missis'll be glad, too," he added. "I 'lows she's a far-seein'wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran' noo ironbed, wi' green an' red stripes, an' a washbowl goin' with it. Say,it's a real dandy layout, an' on'y three dollars a week wi'out board.Guess I'll git right over an' tell her to fix--eh?"

  Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Don't bother.Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren't you, Carney?"

  "That's how," replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at theplausible Slum.

  "Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o' your goin' over from a pallike that," said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed andstretched his arms further along the bar.

  "Guess he's had some," observed the carpenter, shuffling his cardsanew. "I 'lows that bed has bugs, an' the wash-bowl's mostly useddippin' out swill," he finished up scornfully.

  Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. "Guess I neverknew you but what you was insultin', Shaky," he observed, in a tone ofpity. "Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin' them cardstoo close. You never was bustin' wi' brains. Say, Carney," turningback to the bar complainingly, "wher's them durned brandy 'cocks' Mr.Tresler ordered a whiles back? You're gettin' most like a fun'ral onan up-hill trail. Slow--eh? Guess if we're to be pizened I sez do itquick."

  "Comin' along, Slum," replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Treslerunderstand that the man's impatience was only a covering for hisdiscomfiture at Shaky's hands. "I've done my best to pizen you thisten year. Guess Shaky's still pinin' fer the job o' nailin' a fewplanks around you. Here you are. More comin'."

  "Who's needin' me?" asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. "SlumRanks?" he questioned, pausing. "Guess I've got a plank or two fit ferhim. Red pine. Burns better."

  He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slumlowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.

  "Say, go easy wi' that lucifer. Don't breathe on it, or ther' won't beno need fer red pine fer you."

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Carney, jocosely, "the present--kep tothe present. Because Slum, here, runs a--well, a boardin'establishment, ther' ain't no need to discuss his future so coarsely."

  "Not so much slack, Carney," said Slum, a little angrily. "Gue
ss myboardin' emporium's rilin' you some. You're feelin' a hur'cane; that'swot you're feelin', I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin' valuefer their dollars, don't it?"

  "Good fer you, good fer you," cried the butcher, and subsided with aloud guffaw.

  The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. Theentire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.

  "Sail in, Slum," said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as"Sawny" Martin. "I allus sez as you've got a dead eye fer thetack-head ev'ry time. But go easy, or the boss'll bar you on theslate."

  "Don't owe him nuthin'," growled Slum.

  "Which ain't or'nary in this company," observed the smiling Carney; heloved to get Slum angry. "Say, Shaky," he went on, "how do Slum fixyou in his--hotel? You don't seem bustin' wi' vittals."

  "Might do wuss," responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. "But, y' see, Istan' in wi' Doc. Osler, an' he physics me reg'lar."

  Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.

  "Say, you gorl-durned 'fun'ral boards,' you're gittin' kind o' fresh,but I'd bet a greenback to a last year's corn-shuck you don't quitther' an' come grazin' around Carney's pastures, long as my missisdoes the cookin'."

  "I 'lows your missis ken cook," said Shaky, with enthusiasm. "Thefeller as sez she can't lies. But wi' her, my respec' fer your hog-penends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who's fer'draw'?"

  Slum turned back to the bar. "Here, Carney," he said, planking out aten-dollar bill, "hand over chips to that. We're losin' blessed hoursgassin'. I'm goin' fer a hand at 'draw.' An' say, give us a new decko' cards. Guess them o' Shaky's needs curry-combin' some. Mr.Tresler," he went on, turning to his old boarder, "mebbe I owe yousome. Have you a notion?"

  "No thanks, Slum," replied Tresler, decidedly. "I'm getting an oldhand now."

  "Ah!"

  And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted,mahogany features.

  Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recentbickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for "draw." Andwhat a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was apast master at poker--an artist. The baser instincts of the gameappealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there tobest each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood thathis neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only wouldhe resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would bereal trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had beendoing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it foryears more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had noopinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them,and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units inLife's great battle.

  But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had beenwaiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler askedhim the reason.

  "Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler," the burly man said, withsomething like a smile. "He wouldn't come in. Shall we go out to him?"

  The other assented, and they passed out. Joe was sitting on hisbuckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in hisold eyes.

  "Why are you sitting there?" Tresler asked at once. Then he regrettedhis question.

  "Wal," Joe drawled, without the least hesitation, "I'm figgerin' yououghter know by this time. Ther's things born to live on liquid, an'they've mostly growed tails. Guess I ain't growed that--yet. MebbeI'll git down at Doc. Osler's. An' I'll git on agin right ther'," headded, as an afterthought.

  Joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but Tresler wasannoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him.

  "Well, I'm sorry I suggested it, Joe," he said quickly; "as you say, Iought to have known better. Never mind, I want you to do me a favor."

  "Name it, an' I'll do it if I bust."

  The little man brightened at the thought of this man asking a favor ofhim.

  Tresler didn't respond at once. He didn't want to put the matter toobluntly. He didn't want to let Joe feel that he regarded him as asubordinate.

  "Well, you see, I'm looking for some one of good experience to give mesome friendly help. You see, I've bought a nice place, and--well, infact, I'm setting up ranching on my own, and I want you to come andhelp me with it. That's all."

  Joe looked out over the market-place, he looked away at the distanthills, his eyes turned on Doc. Osler's house; he cleared his throatand screwed his face into the most weird shape. His eyes sought thedoor of the saloon and finally came back to Tresler. He swallowed twoor three times, then suddenly thrust out his hand as though he weregoing to strike his benefactor.

  "Shake," he muttered hoarsely.

  And Tresler gripped the proffered hand. "And perhaps you'll have thatflower-garden, Joe," he said, "without the weeds."

  "Mr. Tresler, sir, shake agin."

  "Never mind the 'mister' or the 'sir,'" said Tresler. "We are oldfriends. Now, Fyles," he went on, turning to the officer, who had beenlooking on as an interested spectator, "have you any news for MissMarbolt?"

  "Yes, the decision's made. I've got the document here in my pocket."

  "Good. But don't tell it me. Give me an hour's start of you. I'm goingto see the lady myself. And, Joe," Tresler looked up into the oldman's beaming face. "Will you come with the sheriff when heinterviews--er--our client?"

  "All right, Mis----"

  "No."

  "Tresler, si----"

  "No."

  "All right, Tresler," said the old man, in a strangely husky voice.

  * * * * *

  Diane was confronting her lover for the last interview. Mrs. Osler haddiscreetly left them, and now they were sitting in the diminutiveparlor, the man, at the girl's expressed wish, sitting as far from heras the size of the room would permit. All his cheeriness had desertedhim and a decided frown marred the open frankness of his face.

  Diane, herself, looked a little older than when we saw her last at theranch. The dark shadows round her pretty eyes were darker, and herface looked thinner and paler, while her eyes shone with a feverishbrightness.

  "You overruled my decision once, Jack," she was saying in a low tonethat she had difficulty in keeping steady, "but this time it must notbe."

  "Well, look here, Danny, I can give you just an hour in which to easeyour mind, but I tell you candidly, after that you'll have to say'yes,' in spite of all your objections. So fire away. Here's thewatch. I'm going to time you."

  Tresler spoke lightly and finished up with a laugh. But he didn't feellike laughter. This objection came as a shock to him. He had picturedsuch a different meeting.

  Diane shook her head. "I can say all I have to say in less time thanthat, Jack. Promise me that you will not misunderstand me. You know myheart, dear. It is all yours, but, but--Jack, I did not tell all Iknew at the inquest."

  She paused, but Tresler made no offer to help her out. "I knew fathercould see at night. He was what Mr. Osler calls a--Nyc--Nyctalops.That's it. It's some strange disease and not real blindness at all, asfar as I can make out. He simply couldn't see in daylight becausethere was something about his eyes which let in so much light, thatall sense of vision was paralyzed, and at such time he sufferedintense pain. But when evening came, in the moonlight, or latetwilight; in fact at any time when there was no glare of light, just asoft radiance, he could not only see but was possessed of peculiarlyacute vision. How he kept his secret for so many years I don't know. Iunderstand why he did, but, even now, I cannot understand what drovehim to commit the dreadful deeds he did, so wealthy and all as hewas."

  Tresler thought he could guess pretty closely. But he waited for herto go on.

  "Jack, I discovered that he could see at night when you were ill, justbefore you recovered consciousness," she went on, in a solemn,awestruck tone.

  "Ah!"

  "Yes, while you were lying there insensible you narrowly escaped beingmurdered."
r />   Again she paused, and shuddered visibly.

  "I was afraid of something. His conduct when you were brought inwarned me. He seemed to resent your existence; he certainly resentedyour being in the house, but most of all my attendance on you. I wasvery watchful, but the strain was too much, and, one night, feelingthat the danger of sleep for me was very real, I barricaded thestairs. I did my utmost to keep awake, but foolishly sat down on myown bed and fell asleep. Then I awoke with a start; I can't say whatwoke me. Anyway, realizing I had slept, I became alarmed for you. Ipicked up the light and went out into the hall, where I found mybarricade removed----"

  "Yes, and your father at my bedside, with his hands at my throat."

  "Loosening the bandage."

  "To?"

  "To open the wound and let you bleed to death."

  "I see. Yes, I remember. I dreamt the whole scene, except the bandagebusiness. But you----"

  "I had the lighted lamp, and the moment its light flashed on him hewas as--as blind as a bat. His hands moved about your bandage fumblingand uncertain. Yes, he was blind enough then. I believe he would haveattacked me, only I threatened him with the lamp, and with calling forhelp."

  "Brave little woman--yes, I remember your words. They were in mydream. And that's how you knew what to do later on when Jake andhe----"

  The girl nodded.

  "So Fyles was right," Tresler went on musingly. "You did know."

  "Was I wrong, Jack, in not telling them at the inquest? You see he isdead, and----"

  "On the contrary, you were right. It would have done no manner ofgood. You might have told me, though."

  "Well, I didn't know what to do," the girl said, a little helplessly."You see I never thought of cattle-stealing. It never entered my headthat he was, or could be, Red Mask. I only looked upon it as avillainous attempt on your life, which would not be likely to occuragain, and which it would serve no purpose to tell you of. Besides,the horror----"

  "Yes, I see. Perhaps you were right. It would have put us on the righttrack though, as, later on, the fight with Jake and your action withregard to it did. Never mind; that's over. Julian Marbolt was an uttervillain from the start. You may as well know that his trading in'black ivory' was another name for slave-trading. His blindness hadnothing to do with driving him to crime, nor had your mother's doings.He was a rogue before. His blindness only enabled him to play a deepergame, which was a matter likely to appeal to his nature. However,nothing can be altered by discussing him. I have bought a ranchadjoining Mosquito Bend, and secured Joe's assistance as foreman. Ihave given out contracts for rebuilding the house; also, I've sentorders east for furnishings. I am going to buy my stock at the fallround-up. All I want now is for you to say when you will marry me,sweetheart."

  "But, Jack, you don't seem to understand. I can't marry you. Fatherwas a--a murderer."

  "I don't care what he was, Danny. It doesn't make the least differenceto me. I'm not marrying your father."

  Diane was distressed. The lightness of his treatment of the subjectbothered her. But she was in deadly earnest.

  "But, Jack, think of the disgrace! Your people! All the folk abouthere!"

  "Now don't let us be silly, Danny," Tresler said, coming over to thegirl's side and taking possession of her forcibly. In spite of protesthis arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed hertenderly. "My people are not marrying you. Nor are the folk--who, bythe way, can't, and have no desire to throw stones--doing so either.Now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, oncethrough your bravery. And I tell you no one has the right to save lifeand then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burdento the miserable wretch on whom they've lavished such care. That wouldbe a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentleheart. Sweetheart," he went on, kissing her again, "you must completethe good work. I am anything but well yet. In fact I am so weak thatany shock might cause a relapse. In short, there is only one thing, asfar as I can see, to save me from a horrid death--consumption orcolic, or some fell disease--and that's marriage. I know you must bebored to death by----No," as the girl tried to stop him, "don'tinterrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth--a sort of chronicinvalid, but if you don't marry me, well, I'll get Joe to bury mesomewhere at the crossroads. Look at all the money I've spent ingetting our home together. Think of it, Danny; our home! And old Joeto help us. And----"

  "Oh, stop, stop, or you'll make me----"

  "Marry me. Just exactly what I intend, darling. Now, seriously, let'sforget the old past; Jake, your father, Anton, all of them--exceptArizona."

  Diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests. There wassomething so strong, reliant, masterful about her Jack that made himirresistible to her. She knew she was wrong in allowing herself tothink like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak,loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right.If she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcameher sense of duty, was there much blame? Tresler felt the gentleclinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once.

  "Time's nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe arecoming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regionsfishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don't care which itis--I mean--no. Yes, quick! They're on the verandah."

  The girl nodded. "Yes," she said, so low that his face came in contactwith hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burlysheriff knocked at the door.

  He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side byside. He was still holding her hand.

  "Fyles," Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, "let me presentyou to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe," he added, turning on thelittle man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in hisnervous hand, and grinning ferociously, "are the corrals prepared, andhave you got my branding-irons ready? You see I've rounded her up."

  The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminentperil of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Dianelistened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merelyremarking in true wifely fashion--

  "Don't be absurd, Jack!"

  At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring themto seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunicpocket.

  "I've just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt," hesaid deliberately. "Shall I read it to you, or would you----?"

  "Never mind the reading," said Diane impulsively. "Tell me thecontents."

  "Well, I confess it's better so. The legal terms are confusing," saidthe officer emphatically. "You can read them later. I don't guess thegovernment could have acted better by you than they've done. Theproperty,"--he was careful to avoid the rancher's name--"the propertyis to remain yours, with this proviso. An inquiry has been arrangedfor, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years inthe district. And all approved claims will have to be settled out ofthe estate. Five years is the time allowed for all such claims to beput forward. After that everything reverts to you."

  Diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finishedspeaking.

  "And, Jack, when that time comes we'll sell it all and give the moneyto charity, and just live on in our own little home."

  "Done!" exclaimed Tresler. And seizing her in his arms he picked herup and gave her a resounding kiss. The action caused the sheriff tocough loudly, while Joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in avoice of wildest excitement, shouted--

  "Gee, but I want to holler!"

  CHAPTER XXIV

  ARIZONA

  When winter comes in Canada it shuts down with no uncertainty. Thesnow settles and remains. The sun shines, but without warmth. Thestill air bites through any clothing but furs, moccasins, orfelt-lined overshoes. The farmers hug the shelter of their houses, andonly that work which is known as "doing the chores" receives attentionwhen once winter sets its seal upon the land. Little traffic passesover the drifted
trails now; a horseman upon a social visit bent, abobsleigh loaded with cord-wood for the wood-stoves at home, a cutter,drawn by a rattling team of young bronchos, as rancher and wife seekthe alluring stores of some distant city to make their householdpurchases, even an occasional "jumper," one of those low-built,red-painted, one-horsed sleighs, which resemble nothing so much as apacking-case with a pair of shafts attached. But these are all; forwork has practically ceased in the agricultural regions, and a periodof hibernation has begun, when, like the dormouse, rancher and farmeralike pass their slack time in repose from the arduous labors of theopen season.

  Even the most brilliant sunlight cannot cheer the mournful outlook toany great extent. Out on the Edmonton trail, hundreds of miles to thenorth of Forks, at the crossroads where the Battule trail branches tothe east, the cheerless prospect is intensified by the skeleton armsof a snow-crowned bluff. The shelter of trees is no longer a shelteragainst the wind, which now comes shrieking through the leaflessbranches and drives out any benighted creature foolish enough to seekits protection against the winter storm. But in winter the crossroadsare usually deserted.

  Contrary to custom, however, it is evident that a horseman hasrecently visited the bluff. For there are hoof-prints on one of thecrossing trails; on the trail which comes from somewhere in the south.The marks are sharp indentations and look fresh, but they terminate asthe crossing is reached. Here they have turned off into the bush andare lost to view. The matter is somewhat incomprehensible.

  But there is something still more incomprehensible about the desolateplace. Just beyond where the hoof-prints turn off a lightning-strickenpine tree stands alone, bare and blackened by the fiery ordeal throughwhich it has passed, and, resting in the fork of one of its shriveledbranches, about the height of a horseman's head, is a board--a blackboard, black as is the tree-trunk which supports it.

  As we draw nearer to ascertain the object of so strange a phenomenonon a prairie trail we learn that some one has inscribed a message tothose who may arrive at the crossing. A message of strange meaning andobscure. The characters are laboriously executed in chalk, and havebeen emphasized with repeated markings and an attempt at blockcapitals. Also there is a hand sketched roughly upon the board, withan outstretched finger pointing vaguely somewhere in the direction ofthe trail which leads to Battule.

  "_This is the One-Way Trail_"

  We read this and glance at the pointing finger which is so shaky ofoutline, and our first inclination is to laugh. But somehow before thelaugh has well matured it dies away, leaving behind it a look ofwonder not unmixed with awe. For there is something sinister in themessage, which, though we do not understand it, still has power tomove us. If we are prairie folk we shall have no inclination to laughat all. Rather shall we frown and edge away from the ominous blackboard; and it is more than probable we shall avoid the trailindicated, and prefer to make a detour if our destination shouldchance to be Battule.

  Why is that board there? Who has set it up? And "the one-way trail" isthe trail over which there is no returning. The message is no jest.

  The coldly gleaming sun has set, and at last a horse and rider enterthe bluff. They turn off into the bush and are seen no more. The longnight passes. Dawn comes again, and, as the daylight broadens, thehorseman reappears and rides off down the trail. At evening he returnsagain; disappears into the bush again; and, with daylight, rides offagain. Day after day this curious coming and going continues withoutany apparent object, unless it be that the man has no place but theskeleton bush in which to rest. And with each coming and going theman rides slower, he lounges wearily in his saddle, and before the endof a week looks a mere spectre of the man who first rode into thebluff. Starvation is in the emaciated features, the brilliant feverisheyes. His horse, too, appears little better.

  At length one evening he enters the bush, and the following dawn failsto witness his departure. All that day there is the faint sound of ahorse moving about amongst the trees with that limping gait whichdenotes the application of a knee-halter. But the man makes no sound.

  As night comes on a solitary figure may be seen seated on a horse at apoint which is sheltered from the trail by a screen of bushes. The mansits still, silent, but drooping. His tall gaunt frame is bent almostdouble over the horn of his saddle in his weakness. The horse's headis hanging heavy with sleep, but the man's great, wild eyes are wideopen and alight with burning eagerness. The horse sleeps andfrequently has to be awakened by its rider as it stumbles beneath itsburden; but the man is as wakeful as the night-owl seeking its prey,and the grim set of his wasted face implies a purpose no lessruthless.

  At dawn the position is unchanged. The man still droops over hissaddle-horn, a little lower perhaps, but his general attitude is thesame. As the daylight shoots athwart the horizon and lightens thedarkness of the bush to a gray twilight the horse raises his head andpricks up his ears. The man's eyes glance swiftly toward the south andhis alertness is intensified.

  Now the soft rustle of flurrying snow becomes audible, and the muffledpounding of a horse's hoofs can be heard upon the trail. The look thatleaps into the waiting man's eyes tells plainly that this is what hehas so patiently awaited, that here, at last, is the key to his lonelyvigil. He draws his horse back further into the bushes and his handmoves swiftly to one of the holsters upon his hips. His thin, drawnfeatures are sternly set, and the sunken eyes are lit with a deep,hard light.

  Daylight broadens and reveals the barren surroundings; the sound drawsnearer. The silent horseman grips his gun and lays it across his lapwith his forefinger ready upon the trigger. His quick ears tell himthat the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking hishorse. The time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but hispatience is not exhausted by any means. For more than a week,subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven himto beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting.

  Now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles downthe trail toward him. It is a slight fur-clad figure much like hisown, but, to judge by the grim smile that passes across his gauntfeatures, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. Henotes the stranger's alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes,the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over theedge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close tothe saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. Nor does he fail to observe theuneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that, in spite of thesolitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings.

  The stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. His sidelongglances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. His horse comesto a dead stand opposite them, and the rider's eyes become fixed uponthe strange message. He reads; and while he reads his lips move likeone who spells out the words he sees.

  "This is the One-Way Trail," he reads. And then his eyes turn in thedirection of the pointing finger.

  He looks down the trail which leads to Battule, whither the finger ispointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his duskyfeatures. Instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant forhim. And, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhereout there. And yet he does not turn and flee. He simply sits lookingand thinking.

  Again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon theboard and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. And all thetime he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. For his mind goesback over many scenes that do him little credit. Even to his callousnature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and itseffect he cannot shake off. And while he stares his dark featureschange their hue, and he passes one mitted hand across his forehead.

  There is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yardsof him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty heretains his seat in the saddle; then he flashes a look in thedirection whence the noise proceeds, only to reel back as though toward off a blow. He is looking into the muzzle of a heavy "six" withArizona's blazi
ng eyes running over the sight.

  The silence of the bush remained unbroken as the two men looked intoeach other's faces. The gun did not belch forth its death-dealingpellet. It was simply there, leveled, to enforce its owner's will. Itscompelling presence was a power not easily to be defied in a countrywhere, in those days, the surest law was carried in the holster on thehip. The man recovered and submitted. His hands, encased in mitts, hadplaced him at a woeful disadvantage.

  Arizona saw this and lowered his gun, but his eyes never lost sight ofthe fur-clad hands before him. He straightened himself up in thesaddle, refusing to display any of his weakness to this man.

  "Guess I've waited fer you, 'Tough' McCulloch, fer nigh on a week," hesaid slowly, in a thin, strident voice. "I've coaxed you some too, Iguess. You wus hidden mighty tight, but not jest tight 'nuff. I 'lowsI located you, an' I wa'n't goin' to lose sight o' you. When you quitSkitter Bend, like the whipped cur you wus, I wus right hot on yourtrail. An' I ain't never left it. See? Say, in all the hundreds o'miles you've traveled sence you quit the creek ther' ain't bin a moveas you've took I ain't looked on at. I've trailed you, headed you, binalongside you, an' located wher' you wus makin', an' come along an'waited on you. Ther's a score 'tween you an' me as wants squarin'. I'mright here fer to squar' that score."

  Arizona's sombre face was unrelieved by any change of expressionwhile he was speaking. There was no anger in his tone; just cold, calmpurpose, and some contempt. And whatever feelings the half-breed mayhave had he seemed incapable of showing them, except in the sickly hueof his face.

  The fascination of the message on the board still seemed to attracthim, for, without heeding the other's words, he glanced over at theseared tree-trunk and nodded at it.

  "See. Dat ting. It your work. Hah?"

  "Yes; an' I take it the meanin's clear to you. You've struck the trailwe all stan' on some time, pardner, an' that trail is mostly calledthe 'One-Way Trail.' It's a slick, broad trail, an' one as is thatsmooth to the foot as you're like to find anywheres. It's so dead easyyou can't help goin' on, an' you on'y larn its cussedness when youkind o' notion gittin' back. I 'lows as one o' them glacier things ontop o' yonder mountains is li'ble to be easier climbin' nor turnin'back on that trail. The bed o' that trail is blood, blood that'smostly shed in crime, an' its surface is dusted wi' all manner o'wrong doin's sech as you an' me's bin up to. Say, it ain't a longtrail, I'm guessin', neither. It's dead short, in fac' the end comessudden-like, an' vi'lent. But I 'lows the end ain't allus jest thesame. Sometimes y'll find a rope hangin' in the air. Sometimes ther'sa knife jabbin' around; sometimes ther's a gun wi' a light pullwaitin' handy, same as mine. But I figger all them things mean jest'bout the same. It's death, pardner; an' it ain't easy neither. Say,you an' me's pretty nigh that end. You 'special. Guess you're goin' topass over fust. Mebbe I'll pass over when I'm ready. It ain't jestne'sary fer the likes o' us to yarn Gospel wi' one another, but I'mgoin' to tell you somethin' as mebbe you're worritin' over jest 'boutnow. It's 'bout a feller's gal--his wife--which the same that fellernever did you no harm. But fust y'll put up them mitts o' yours, Isees as they're gettin' oneasy, worritin' around as though they'd anotion to git a grip on suthin'."

  The half-breed made no attempt to obey, but stared coldly into thelean face before him.

  "Hands up!" roared Arizona, with such a dreadful change of tone thatthe man's hands were thrust above his head as though a shot had struckhim.

  Arizona moved over to him and removed a heavy pistol from the man'scoat pocket, and then, having satisfied himself that he had no otherweapons concealed about him, dropped back to his original position.

  "Ah, I wus jest sayin', 'bout that feller's wife," he went on quietly."Say, you acted the skunk t'ward that feller. An' that feller wus me.I don't say I wus jest a daisy husband fer that gal, but that wa'n'tyour consarn. Wot's troublin' wus your monkeyin' around, waitin' sohe's out o' the way an' then vamoosin' wi' the wench an' all. GuessI'm goin' to kill you fer that sure. But ther' ain't none o' the skunkto me. I'm goin' to treat you as you wouldn't treat me ef I wussettin' wher' you are, which I ain't. You're goin' to hit the One-WayTrail. But you ken hit it like what you ain't, an' that's a man."

  Arizona's calm, judicial tone goaded his hearer. But "Tough"McCulloch was not the man to shout. His was a deadlier compositionsuch as the open American hated and despised, and hardly understood.He contented himself with a cynical remark which fired the other'svolcanic temper so that he could scarcely hold his hand.

  "Me good to her," he said, with a shrug.

  "You wus good to her, wus you? You who knew her man wus livin'! You,as mebbe has ha'f a dozen wives livin'. You wus good to her! Wal,you're goin' to pay now. Savee? You're goin' to pay fer your flutterwi' chips, chips as drip wi' blood--your blood."

  The half-breed shrugged again. He was outwardly unconcerned, butinwardly he was cursing the luck that he had been wearing mitts uponhis hands when he entered the bluff. He watched Arizona as he climbedout of his saddle. He beheld the signs of weakness which the othercould no longer disguise, but they meant nothing to him, at least,nothing that could serve him. He knew he must wait the cowpuncher'spleasure; and why? The ring of white metal which marks the muzzle of agun has the power to hold brave man and coward alike. He dared notmove, and he was wise enough not to attempt it.

  Arizona drove his horse off into the bush, and stepped over to hisprisoner, who still remained mounted, halting abreast of the man'sstirrup and a few yards to one side of it. His features now wore theshadow of a grim smile as he paused and looked into the face whichdisplayed so much assumed unconcern.

  "See this gun," he said, drawing attention to the one he held in hisright hand; "it's a forty-fi', an' I'm guessin' it's loaded in twochambers." Then he scraped the snow off a small patch of the road withhis foot. "That gun I lay right here," he went on, stooping to depositit, but still keeping his eyes fixed upon the horseman. "Then I stepback, so," moving backward with long regular strides, "an' I reckon Icount fifteen paces. Then I clear another space," he added grimly,like some fiendish conjurer describing the process of his tricks, "andstand ready. Now, 'Tough' McCulloch, or Anton, or wotever you notionbest, skunk as you are, you're goin' to die decent. You're goin' todie as a gentleman in a square fought duel. You're goin' to die in aslap-up way as is a sight too good fer you, but don't go fer to makeno mistake--you're goin' to die. Yes, you're goin' to get off'n thatplug o' yours an' stand on that patch, an' I'm goin' to count three,nice an' steady, one-two-three! Just so. An' then we're goin' to grabup them guns an' let rip. I 'lows you'll fall first 'cause I'm goin'to kill you--sure. Say, you'll 'blige me by gittin' off'n that plug."

  The half-breed made no move. His unconcern was leaving him under thedeliberate purpose of this man.

  "Git off o' that plug!" Arizona roared out his command with all theforce of his suppressed passion.

  The man obeyed instantly. And it was plain now that his courage wasdeserting him. But in proportion his cunning rose. He made a pitifulattempt at swagger as he walked up to his mark, and his fierce eyeswatched every movement of his opponent. And Arizona's evidentcondition of starvation struck him forcibly, and the realization ofit suggested to his scheming brain a possible means of escape.

  "You mighty fine givin' chances, mister," he said, between his teeth."Maybe you sing different later. Bah! you make me laff. Say, I ready."

  "Yes, git right ahead an' laff," Arizona replied imperturbably. "An'meanwhiles while you're laffin', I'll trouble you to git out o' thatsheep's hide. It ain't fit clothin' fer you noways. Howsum, it helpsto thicken your hide. Take it off."

  The half-breed obeyed and the two men now stood motionless. Arizonawas an impressive figure in that world of snow. Never before had hispersonality been so marked. It may have been the purpose that movedhim that raised him to something superior to the lean, volcanic cowboyhe had hitherto been. His old slouching gait, in spite of his evidentweakness, was quite gone; his shaggy head was held erect, and he gazedupon his enemy
with eyes which the other could not face. For the time,at least, the indelible stamp of his disastrous life was disguised bythe fire of his eyes and the set of his features. And this moralstrength he conveyed in every action in a manner which no violence, noextent of vocabulary could have done. This man before him had robbedhim of the woman he had loved. He should die.

  His pistol was still in his hand.

  "When I say 'three,' you'll jest grab for your gun--an' fire," he saidsolemnly.

  He relapsed into silence, and, after a moment's pause, slowly stoopedto deposit his weapon. His great roving eyes never relaxed theirvigilance, and all the while he watched the man before him.

  Lower he bent, and the pistol touched the ground. He straightened upswiftly and stood ready.

  "One!"

  The half-breed started as though a sharp spasm of pain had convulsedhis body. Then he stood as if about to spring.

  "Two!"

  McCulloch moved again. He stooped with almost incredible swiftness andseized his gun, and the next moment two loud reports rang out, and hethrew his smoking weapon upon the ground.

  Arizona had not moved, though his face had gone a shade paler. He knewhe was wounded.

  "Three!"

  The American bent and seized his gun as the other made a dash for hishorse. He stood up, and took deliberate aim. The half-breed was in theact of swinging himself into his saddle. A shot rang out, and thewould-be fugitive's foot fell out of the stirrup, and his knees gaveunder him. Another shot split the air, and, without so much as agroan, the man fell in a heap upon the ground, while a thick redstream flowed from a wound at his left temple.

  Then silence reigned once more.

  After a while the sound of a slouching gait disturbed the grim peaceof the lonely bluff. Arizona shuffled slowly off the road. He reachedthe edge of the bush; but he went no further. For he reeled, and hishands clasped his body somewhere about his chest. His eyes were halfclosed, and his face looked ghastly in the wintry light. By a greateffort he steadied himself and abruptly sat down in the snow. He wasjust off the track and his back was against a bush.

  Leaning forward he drew his knees up and clasped his arms about them,and remained rocking himself slowly to and fro. And, as he sat, hefelt something moist and warm saturating his clothes about his chest.Several times he nodded and his lips moved, and his eyelids fell lowerand lower until he saw nothing of what was about him. He knew it wasover for him and he was satisfied.

  He remained for some time in this attitude. Once he opened his eyesand looked round, but, somehow, he drew no satisfaction from what hebeheld. The world about him seemed unsteady and strangely dark. Thesnow was no longer white, but had turned gray, and momentarily it grewdarker. He thankfully reclosed his eyes and continued to nursehimself. Now, too, his limbs began to grow cold, and to feel useless.He had difficulty in keeping his hands fast about his knees, but hefelt easy, and even comfortable. There was something soothing to himin that warm tide which he felt to be flowing from somewhere about hischest.

  The minutes slipped away and the man's lips continued their silentmovement. Was he praying for the soul which he knew to be passing fromhis body? It may have been so. It may have been that he was prayingfor a girl and a man whom he had learned to love in the old days ofMosquito Bend, and whom he was leaving behind him. This latter wasmore than likely, for his was not a selfish nature.

  Again his eyes opened, and now they were quite unseeing; but the brainbehind them was still clear, for words, which were intelligible, cameslowly from his ashen lips.

  "It's over, I guess," he muttered. "Maybe life ain't wi'out gold forsome. I 'lows I ain't jest struck color right. Wal, I'm ready for thereckonin'."

  His hands unclasped and his legs straightened themselves out. Like aweary man seeking repose he turned over and lay with his face buriedin the snow. Nor did he move again. For Arizona had ended his journeyover the One-Way Trail.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.