CHAPTER XXX
LYNCH SCORES
How long she stood there staring fearfully at the empty window of theshed, Mary Thorne had no idea. She seemed frozen and incapable ofmovement. But at last, with a shiver, she came to herself, and bendingout, drew in the heavy wooden, shutters and fumbled with the catch. Thebolt was stiff from disuse, and her hands shook so that she was scarcelyable to thrust it into the socket. Still trembling, she closed and boltedthe door and made fast the other windows. Then she paused in the middle ofthe room, slim fingers clenched tightly together, and heart beating loudlyand unevenly.
"What shall I do?" she said aloud in a strained whisper. "What shall Ido?"
Her glance sought the short passage, and, through it, the cozy brightnessof the living-room.
"I mustn't let her know," she murmured.
After a moment more of indecision she stepped into the small room openingoff the kitchen, which had been occupied by Pedro and his wife. Havingbolted the shutters of the single window, she came back into the kitchenand stood beside the table, making a determined effort for self-control.Suddenly the sound of her aunt's voice came from the living-room.
"What are you doing, Mary? Can I help you?"
For a second the girl hesitated, nails digging painfully into her palms.Then she managed to find her voice.
"No thanks, dear. I'll be there in just a minute." Resolutely she took upthe saucepan and caddy and walked slowly toward the lighted doorway. Shefelt that a glance at her face would probably tell Mrs. Archer thatsomething was wrong, and so, entering the living-room, she went straightover to the fireplace. Kneeling on the hearth, she took the poker and madea little hollow amongst the burning sticks in which she placed the coveredsaucepan. When she stood up the heat had burned a convincingly rosy flushinto her cheeks.
"I was closing the shutters," she explained in a natural tone. "While thewater's boiling I think I'll do the same in the other rooms. Then we'llfeel quite safe and snug."
Mrs. Archer, who was arranging their supper on one end of the big table,agreed briefly but made no other comment. When Mary had secured theliving-room door and windows, she took the four bedrooms in turn, endingin the one whose incongruously masculine appointments had once arousedthe curiosity of Buck Green.
How long ago that seemed! She set her candle on the dresser and staredaround the room. If only she wasn't such a helpless little ninny!
"And I'm such a fool I wouldn't know how to use a revolver if I had it,"thought the girl forlornly. "I don't even know what I did with Dad's."
Then, of a sudden, her glance fell upon the cartridge-belt hanging onthe wall, from whose pendant holster protruded the butt of anefficient-looking six-shooter--Stratton's weapon, which, like everythingelse in the room, she had left religiously as she found it.
Stepping forward, she took hold of it gingerly and managed to draw itforth--a heavy, thirty-eight Colt, the barrel rust-pitted in a few places,but otherwise in excellent condition. She had no idea how to load it, butpresently discovered by peering into the magazine that the shells seemedto be already in place. Then all at once her eyes filled and a chokinglittle sob rose in her throat.
"Oh, if you were only here!" she whispered unevenly.
It would be hard to determine whether she was thinking of Stratton, thatdreamlike hero of hers, whose tragic death she had felt so keenly, or ofanother man who was very much alive indeed. Perhaps she scarcely knewherself. At all events it was only a momentary little breakdown. Pullingherself together, she returned to the living-room, carrying the bigsix-shooter half hidden by her skirts, and managed to slip it, apparentlyunseen, on a little stand above which hung the telephone to Las Vegascamp. By this time the water was boiling, and having made tea, she carriedthe pot back to the big table and sat down opposite Mrs. Archer.
For a minute or two she was busy with the cups and had no occasion toobserve her aunt's expression. Then, chancing to glance across the table,she was dismayed to find the older woman regarding her with searchingscrutiny.
"Well?" questioned Mrs. Archer briefly. "What is it?"
Mary stared at her guiltily. "What's--what?" she managed to parry.
"Why beat about the bush?" retorted her aunt. "Something's happened tofrighten you. I can see that perfectly well. You know how I detest beingkept in the dark, so you may as well tell me at once."
Mary hesitated. "But it--it may not--come to anything," she stammered. "Ididn't want to--to frighten you--"
"Rubbish!" An odd, delicately grim expression came into the little oldlady's face. "I'd rather be frightened unnecessarily than have somethingdrop on me out of a clear sky. Out with it!"
Then Mary gave in and was conscious of a distinct relief in having aconfident.
"It's only this," she said briefly. "When I went to close the back kitchenwindow a little while ago, I saw a--a face looking out of that littlewindow above the harness-room. Some one's--hiding there."
For an instant Mrs. Archer's delicately pretty, faded face turned quitepale. Then she rallied bravely.
"Who--who was it?" she asked in a voice not altogether steady.
"I--don't know. It disappeared at once. But I'm sure it wasn'timagination."
For a moment or two her aunt sat thinking. Then she glanced quickly acrossthe room. "Is that gun loaded?" she asked.
The girl nodded; she had ceased to be surprised at anything. For a spaceMrs. Archer regarded her untouched cup of tea thoughtfully. When shelooked up a bright spot of pink was glowing in each wrinkled cheek.
"It's not pleasant, but we must face it," she said. "It may be Pedro, oreven Maria. Both of them are cowards. On the other hand it may be Lynch.There's no use shutting one's eyes to possibilities."
Abruptly she rose and walked quickly into her bedroom, returning in amoment or two with a little chamois case from which she drew a tinytwenty-two caliber revolver, beautifully etched and silver-mounted, witha mother-of-pearl stock.
"Your uncle gave it to me many years ago and showed me how to use it," sheexplained, laying it beside her plate. "I've never shot it off, but I seeno reason why--"
She broke off with a gasp, and both women started and turned pale, as aharsh, metallic rattle rang through the room.
"What is it?" whispered Mary, half rising.
"The telephone! I can't get used to that strange rattle. Answer it,quickly!"
Springing up, Mary flew across the room and took down the receiver.
"Hello," she said tremulously. "Who is--_Oh, Buck!_" Her eyes widened andthe blood rushed into her face. "I'm so glad! But where are you?... I see.No, they're not here.... I know I did, but I thought--I wish now I'd toldyou. We--we're frightened.... What?.... No, not yet; but--but there's someone hiding in the loft over the harness-room.... I don't know, but I saw aface at the window.... Yes, everything's locked up, but--"
Abruptly she broke off and turned her head a little, the blood drainingslowly from her face. A sound had come to her which struck terror to herheart. Yet it was a sound familiar enough on the range-land--merely thebeat of a horse's hoofs, faint and far away, but growing rapidly nearer.
"Wait!" she called into the receiver, "Just a--minute."
Her frightened eyes sought Mrs. Archer and read confirmation in the elderwoman's strained attitude of listening.
"Some one's coming," the girl breathed. Suddenly she flung herselfdesperately at the telephone. "Buck!" she cried. "There's some one ridingup.... I don't know, but I'm--afraid.... Yes, do come quickly.... What'sthat?"
With a little cry she rattled the hook and repeatedly pressed the roundbutton which operated the bell. "Buck! Buck!" she cried into thereceiver.
The thud of hoofs came clearly to her now; it was as if the horse wasgalloping up the slope from the lower gate.
"What's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Archer, in a hoarse, dry voice.
With a despairing gesture the girl dropped the receiver and turned a facedrained of every particle of color.
"The wire's--dead," she said hop
elessly.
Mrs. Archer caught her breath sharply, but made no other sound. In thesilence that followed they could hear the horse pull up just beyond theveranda, and the sound of a man dropping lightly to the ground. Then camevery faintly the murmur of voices.
To the two women, standing motionless, with eyes riveted on the door, thepause that followed lengthened interminably. It seemed as if that low,stealthy, sibilant whispering was going on forever. Mrs. Archer held herlittle pearl-handled toy with a spasmodic grip which brought out a row ofdots across her delicate knuckles, rivaling her face in whiteness. MaryThorne's gray eyes, dilated with emotion, stood out against her pallorlike deep wells of black. One clenched hand hung straight at her side; theother rested on the butt of the Colt, lying on the stand below the uselessinstrument.
Suddenly the tension snapped as the heavy tread of feet sounded across theporch and a hand rattled the latch.
"Open up!" called a harsh, familiar voice.
There was no answer. Mrs. Archer reached out to steady herself against thetable. Mary's grip on the Colt tightened convulsively.
"Open up, I tell yuh," repeated the voice. "I ain't aimin' to--hurt yuh."
Then apparently a heavy shoulder thrust against the door, which shook andcreaked ominously. Suddenly the girl's slim figure straightened and shebrought her weapon around in front of her, holding it with both hands.
"If--if you try to force that door, I--I'll shoot," she called out.
The only answer was an incredulous laugh, and an instant later the man'sshoulder struck the panels with a crash that cracked one of them andpartly tore the bolt from its insecure fastenings.
Promptly the girl cocked her weapon, shut both eyes, and pulled thetrigger. The recoil jerked the barrel up, and the bullet lodged in theceiling. Before she could recover from the shock, there came anothercrash, the shattered door swung inward, and Tex Lynch sprang across thethreshold.
Again Mary lifted the heavy weapon and tried to nerve herself to fire. Butsomehow this was different from shooting through a solid wooden door, andshe could not bring herself to do it. Mrs. Archer had no such scruples.Her small, delicately-chiseled face was no longer soft and gentle. It hadfrozen into a white mask of horror, out of which the once-soft eyes blazedwith fierce determination. Bending across the table, she leveled hertoylike weapon at the advancing outlaw, and by the merest chance sent abullet flying so close to his head that he ducked instinctively. Aninstant later Pedro darted through the passage from the kitchen, snatchedthe weapon from her hand, and flung her roughly into a chair.
Her aunt's half-stifled cry stung Mary like a lash and roused her from thealmost hypnotic state in which, wide-eyed and terrified, she had beenwatching Lynch's swift advance.
"Oh!" she cried furiously. "You--you beast!"
He was within a few feet of her now, and moved by the double impulse offear and anger, her finger pressed the trigger. But there was no response,and too late the girl realized that she had failed to cock the weapon. Inanother moment Lynch had wrenched it from her hand.
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