CHAPTER VII
THE OLD TRAIL
For another mile Wade followed the main road and then diverged sharplyto the left into what was known as the old, or upper, trail. This hadformerly been the valley road until made dangerous by a wash-out a yearor two previous. In the following spring the wash-out had been partiallyrepaired, but the going was still so rough that the new road waswidened, and had been used by preference ever since. The old trail,however, was nearly four miles the shorter of the two, and was stilltraveled in cases of emergency, although to do so at speed and in thedark was hazardous.
Wade's promise to Dorothy to take good care of himself had been madewith mental reservation, for, obsessed by his anxiety over Santry, theyoung ranchman was in no mood to spare either himself or his horse. Hisgoing was marked by a constant shower of stones, sometimes behind him,as the wiry cayuse climbed like a mountain goat; but as often in front,as horse and rider coasted perilously down some declivity. The horsesweated and trembled with nervousness, as a frightened child might, butnever refused to attempt what its master demanded of it. One mightalmost say that there existed a human understanding between man andbeast as to the importance of their errand; a common impulse, whichurged them onward.
When Wade reflected that Dorothy, too, had come over that trail by nightin his interest, he thought her more than ever a wonderful girl. Even toone born and raised in the cattle country, the trip would have beendifficult; but then he realized that Dorothy seemed much like aranch-bred girl in her courage and frank womanliness, nor was she anyless charming on that account. After all, he thought, women paid toohighly for little accomplishments, if to gain them they had to sacrificethe vital points of character. He could not help but contrast Helen'sinsistence that she should be escorted back to the hotel with Dorothy'sbrave ride alone, and while he was too loyal to Helen Rexhill to blameher in this respect, the thing made a deep impression upon him.
The way was long, and he had time for many thoughts. It was natural, inthe still night, with Dorothy only a little while gone, that he shouldthink tenderly of her, for this cost Santry nothing. For Santry, Wadewas reserving not thought but action. He was making up his mind that ifMoran had taken the foreman into custody on a trumped up charge ofmurder, the agent should feel the power of a greater tribunal than anycourt in the locality--the law of the Strong Arm! Behind him in this,the ranchman knew, was the whole of the cattle faction, and since warhad been thrust upon them he would not stop until the end came, whateverit might be. His conscience was clean, for he had exerted himselfmanfully in the cause of peace, even to the point where his owncharacter had suffered, and now the hour of reprisal was at hand.
He rode, at last, over the top of the Divide and into the little drawthat led up to the ranch buildings, in the windows of which lightsgleamed. With an imprecation at sight of them, he tied his horse to apost, and, revolver in hand, crept toward the house as quietly as aSioux.
Except for the light, there was no sign of life about the place, andWade craftily advanced into the deeper shadows close to the wall of thehouse. Taking off his hat, so that the crown might not betray him, hepeeped through a window. What he saw made him clinch his fingers andgrit his teeth in rage.
Inside were half a dozen men, besides three of his own ranch hands wholay trussed up like turkeys in one corner of the room; doubtless theyhad been surprised by the posse before they had opportunity to run orput up a fight. Moran was there, stretched comfortably on Wade's owncot, smoking a cigar. Once, he looked directly toward the window atwhich the watcher had placed himself, but the latter did not move.Instead, he fingered his gun and waited; he was not sure that he reallywanted to avoid detection; if it came, Moran would pay, and the rest, atthe moment, did not seem to matter. He had forgotten Dorothy entirely.
But Santry was not there and this fact puzzled Wade. The Sheriff was notthere either, and presently it occurred to the cattleman that a part ofthe posse, with Santry, might have returned to Crawling Water over themain trail. Probably Moran, with the rest, was waiting for him. Themere thought of Santry already on his way to jail filled Wade with abaffling sense of rage, and creeping from the house, he examined thesurrounding turf by the faint rays of the moon. It was badly cut up bythe feet of many horses, and several minutes passed before Wade wasreally sure that a number of mounted men had taken the trail back totown. Satisfied of this at length, he untied his horse and swung intothe saddle.
Before riding away he considered the advisability of driving off thehorses belonging to Moran's party, but there would still be others inthe corral, and besides their absence, when discovered, would givewarning of the impending attack. On second thought, however, he quietlymade his way to the corral and caught a fresh horse of his own. When hehad saddled it he set out over the old trail for the big pine.
When he reached the rendezvous his men were not there; but knowing thathe must meet them if he followed the road from there on he did not stop.He came upon them in a few minutes, riding toward him at full speed,with Tim Sullivan in the van, too drunk to stand erect, but able tobalance himself on a horse's back, drunk or sober.
"We come acrost Santry and the Sheriff a while back," explained Big BobLawson, one of Wade's own punchers. "They must be in town by now. We wasaimin' to light into 'em, but Santry wouldn't hear of it. Course, wetook our orders from him same as usual. He said to tell you that youwanted him to keep quiet, an' that's what he aimed to do."
"He said we wasn't to tell you that he didn't shoot them Swedes," put inanother of the men.
"What?" Wade demanded sharply.
"He said--hic!" broke in Tim Sullivan, with drunken gravity. "Hesaid--hic!--that if you didn't know that without--hic!--bein' told, youwasn't no friend of his'n, an'--hic!--you could go to hell."
"Shut up, you drunken fool!" Lawson snapped out.
"Jensen and his herder were shot in the back, they say. That clearsSantry," Wade declared, and sat for some moments in deep thought, whilethe men waited as patiently as they could. "Lawson," he said, at last."You're in charge for the present. Take the boys to the big pine andcamp there quietly until I come back. I'm going into town."
"Hadn't you better take us with you, boss? We'll stick. We're for youan' Bill Santry an' ag'in' these--sheepherders, whenever you say theword."
"That's--hic--what we are!" Sullivan hiccoughed.
Wade shook his head.
"No. You wait for me at the pine. You'll have to rustle your grub thebest way you can. I may not get back until to-morrow--until thisevening--it's morning now. But wait until I come. There will be plentyfor you to do later on and there is no use of you going back to townwith me. It might get you into worse trouble than you're headed foralready, and what I've got to do, I can do alone."
Wheeling his horse, he rode off toward Crawling Water.
That he could take his men with him, storm the jail and release Santry,Wade did not doubt, but to do so would be to bring each of the men intoopen conflict with the law, a responsibility which he was resolved tobear alone. Then, too, because his long ride had cooled him somewhat, heintended to make one more appeal to the Senator. Possibly, Moran hadexceeded his instructions, and if this were so, it was no more than justthat Rexhill, who had seemed to evince a willingness to be helpful,should have the opportunity to disown the act of his agent. Besides, ifSantry could be peaceably released, he would be freed of the chargehanging over him, which would not be the case if he were taken from thejail by strategy or violence.
* * * * *
With haggard countenance and inflamed eyes, Wade bore little resemblanceto his normal self when he again appeared before the Senator, whoreceived him in his dressing-gown, being just out of bed. Rexhilllistened with a show of sympathy to the cattleman's story, but evidentlyhe was in a different mood from the day before.
"My boy, your friendship for your foreman is leading you astray. Yourfaith in him, which is natural and does you credit, is blinding you toan impartial view of the case. Wh
y not let the law take its course? IfSantry is innocent his trial will prove it. At any rate, what can I do?"
"Senator--" Wade spoke with intense weariness. "Only yesterday youoffered to help us. The situation, as I explained it then, is unchangednow, except for the worse. Bill Santry is free of any complicity inJensen's death. I am positive of it. He sent me word that he had notleft the ranch, and he would not lie to save himself from hanging.Besides, the men were shot in the back, and that is absolute proof thatSantry didn't do it."
"Mere sentiment, Gordon; mere sentiment. Proof? Pooh!"
Rexhill's slightly contemptuous tone worked upon Wade in his exhausted,overwrought condition, and stung him. A strange look of cunning appearedin his eyes, as he leaned across the table which separated them.
"Senator, Moran made me an offer the other day for my land. If--I acceptthat offer, will you exert your influence in Santry's behalf?"
Coming so swiftly upon his planning, the prospect of such signal successwas so gratifying to Rexhill that only in halting speech could hemaintain a show of decorous restraint. His countenance expressedexultant relief, as well it might, since he seemed to see himselfsnatched out of the jaws of ruin.
"Why, Gordon, I--Of course, my boy, if you were to show such a generousspirit as that, I--er--should feel bound...." The sense of his remarkswas lost in the crash of Wade's fist upon the table.
"Damn you!" The cattleman was beyond himself with fatigue, rage, and arankling sense of injustice. "They told me that was your game. Ibelieved it of Moran, but I thought you were square. So you're thatsort, too, eh? Well, may you rot in hell before you get my land, yourobber! Now listen to me." He waved his hand in the direction of thestreet. "Out there's a hundred men--real men--who're waiting the word torun you out of this country, you and Moran, too, and by God we'll doit--we'll do it--and we'll begin right away!" Again his heavy fistcrashed down on the table "Never mind Bill Santry"--the instinct ofdiscretion was gaining in Wade.--"He can stay where he is for thepresent. First, we'll attend to you pirates--then we'll see."
He stopped suddenly at sight of Helen, who attracted by the noise, hadentered the room, and stood before him in a filmy negligee.
"What is the matter, Gordon?" she demanded anxiously.
"I beg your pardon." Wade spoke awkwardly, unashamed of himself, exceptfor her. "I'm worn out and I--I lost my temper."
"Will you--er--leave this room!" The Senator was beginning to pullhimself together. It was the first time he had ever been ragged in sucha way, and his composure had suffered; he spoke now with more than hisusual pomposity.
"I will," Wade answered curtly, as he turned on his heel and departed.
The Senator, puffing slightly, fiddled with his glasses.
"Your young friend has seen fit to accuse me of--of--" For the life ofhim, he could not at once say of just what he had been accused, unlesshe allowed self-accusation to prompt his words. "Some sheepherders havebeen murdered, I believe," he went on, "and Wade seems to think thatMoran and I are implicated."
"You!" his daughter exclaimed; evidently her amazement did not extend toMoran.
"Preposterous nonsense!"
"Yes, of course." Helen walked to the window and stood looking down intothe street. "I'm afraid Gordon hasn't improved since we saw him last,"she added, finally. "He seems quite a different person from the man Iused to know. What are you going to do about it?"
"Crush him!" The Senator's lips set in a thin, white line, as his handdescended on the table on the spot where Wade's fist had fallen. "This,apparently, is his gratitude to me for my interest in him. Now I intendto show him the other side of me."
"Certainly, no one could blame you for punishing him. Oh, everythingbetween him and me is quite over," said the girl, with a peculiar smile."He's a perfect bear."
"I'm glad you feel that way about it, Helen." Her father's set lipsrelaxed into a responsive smile. "You couldn't be my daughter and nothave some sense."
"Have I any?" Helen naively asked.
She was gazing out of the window again, and to her mind's eye the dusty,squalid street became a broad highway, with jewelers' shops on eitherside, and _modistes_, and other such charming things, just as they arefound in New York, or--Paris!
Hidden Gold Page 7
