by L. P. Holmes
Then Donna thought of the meeting of Curly with Buck English in the patio the previous night. She remembered the cold undercurrent of hostility between them. And at that time Curly had seemed strange—foreign to her. She remembered his muttered curses, his scalding denunciation of English to her. Obviously there was hate between these two—hate fomented through previous meetings at some time in the past.
She remembered the short talk between English and herself before Curly had ridden up. At this, she felt a warm, subtle chill. Somehow she knew that she was the first of her sex who had ever glimpsed beyond that chill, abrupt curtain which shrouded the real personality of Buck English. And she was just feminine enough to glory in this knowledge.
A new thought struck her. Why had English said what he had at the arrival of Curly—something to the effect of everything being spoiled now? There could be but one answer. It wasn’t the fact that Curly had shown up to break the spell.
It was as though English felt a certain censure for her at her friendship with Whipple. As though it was besmirching—unworthy. And Buck had also added the statement, not fifteen minutes before, that Curly was not worthy of a thought or a moment of worry from her.
On the other hand, English was certainly in no position to criticize others. As a whole, his reputation was far more widespread and notorious than that of Curly. For until English had spoken, she had never heard a word against Curly.
True, Buck English’s reputation was not an unmoral one. It was not mean, unclean, or unsavory. It had only to do with ruthlessness, cold unswerving fighting ability. It was that of an outlaw wolf, traveling a lone trail. Defiant, bold, careless of the conventions of law.
That he possessed fundamental requisites of stark manhood there could be no denying. But he was outspoken and brooked no interference with his authority. He was a man who a woman might follow, but never drive or master.
In summing up, Donna determined to hear the other side of the situation. She would have a talk with Curly.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight when Donna stole from the house, edged through the patio, and went down toward the corrals. She had heard Jiggs Maloney assure Buck that he and Shorty would stand guard over the prisoner for the night and she was certain of her ability to sway the two cowpunchers. She preferred not to ask permission of Buck. She resented his authority for reasons of her own.
Jiggs and Shorty were wide awake and on the job. Jiggs’ drawling brogue challenged Donna while she was still yards away from the saddle shed.
“’Tis late ye are up this evening, Miss Donna,” he said, coming to meet her. “And what’ll ye be after losing your beauty sleep over?”
Donna knew it was useless to equivocate. “Jiggs, I want to have a talk with Curly Whipple. I can’t help but feel that there is some mistake somewhere. I’ve known Curly a long time. I just can’t believe he did this. And I want to hear from him his side of the story.”
Jiggs shuffled his feet uneasily.
“Sure … and ’tis wasted sympathy, Miss Donna,” he mumbled. “’Tis a crooked, murdering, cowardly snake that Whipple is. Badness is in him, say I. Had I my way … he would’ve been kicking air, hanging from a rope hours ago. Now be a sensible girl and just go on back to the house and leave him to Shorty and me. I don’t think Buck would be after liking ye talking to him.”
“That’s neither here nor there, Jiggs,” replied Donna sharply. “Mister English may be foreman of this ranch, but his authority does not extend over me and my actions. I do not intend to aid Curly in escape. I merely want to talk to him. Surely there can be no harm in that,” she said, pausing before adding: “I demand that you let me see him.”
Jiggs fumbled for a reply. He wished silently that Buck would show up on scene and take over the responsibility of agreeing with or denying Donna’s wish. He stepped back, scratching his head.
“Are … are ye sure ye aren’t after helping him get away?” he said, wavering about his orders.
“For shame,” retorted Donna. “Of course I’m not. I have no weapon to give him or anything of the sort. I merely feel that he is entitled to tell his own story to someone who is not too prejudiced against him. Come, Jiggs … unlock the door for me.”
Jiggs swore softly and led the way to the door of the saddle shed, where Shorty rose from the steps at sight of the two.
“Miss Donna here wants to talk to that spalpeen inside, Shorty,” Jiggs growled to Shorty’s wondering exclamation of surprise. “See that ye watch the door careful while I open it.”
Jiggs pounded lustily on the portal. “Ye … Whipple. Are ye awake?”
“Yeah … I’m awake. What do you want?”
“Me?” Jiggs snapped, and paused before continuing. “I want to see ye kicking in a noose. But ’tis Miss Donna who wishes to talk to you. I’m opening the door, but should ye make one phony move, I will plug ye like I would a polecat.”
Jiggs waited briefly before turning the key. Then he drew his gun and kicked the door open.
He kept his eyes on the doorway of the shed when addressing Donna. “In ye go, Miss Donna. When ye are done … holler.”
Donna entered the murky interior, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Curly,” she said softly. “I want you to tell me your story of what happened.”
The door closed behind her. The interior of the place was shrouded with murk. She could not see her hand before her face. Suddenly an inexplicable fear gripped her. She stepped back until her shoulders struck the door.
“Curly!” she called again. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
A surly growl answered from the other end of the room. “What’s the use of me sayin’ anything? You won’t believe me.”
“You don’t know whether I will or not. Surely you must realize that I wouldn’t come here like this if I was absolutely convinced of your guilt. I felt that you were entitled to a hearing by someone who would be fair. Of course … if you feel differently … I’ll go.”
“There ain’t a heap to tell,” answered Whipple, his tone still harsh.
Donna heard the scrape of a foot, which made her jump. She was glad it was too dark for Curly to see her clearly.
“I was ridin’ the trail to town and was droppin’ down the mesa side. Just as I hit a turn in the trail a shot sounded in a gulch below me. The next thing I knew a bunch of riders came surgin’ up. Naturally I spun my horse and tried to make a ride of it. It was just about dark and I couldn’t recognize any of ’em. For all I knew that shot might’ve been aimed at me. Anyhow, I did some spurrin’.
“But somebody had a faster horse than me. They caught me in about ten jumps and pistol-whipped me. That was all I knew until I woke up in this shed. That buzzard, Buck English, was here … and when I told him what I told you, he gave me that horse laugh. Damn his arrogant, cold-blooded soul! All I ask is to get one more … I mean a chance at him … and I’ll sift lead into him if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Donna had been listening too closely to miss the slip that Whipple made. He had started to say—“get one more chance at him.” Of that Donna was certain. And it meant that Whipple was lying—that he had been the one that had fired the shot at Buck but had creased Red Scudder instead.
She sighed wearily. “I’ve heard enough. You’re lying. I’ve never been more certain.”
She turned toward the door, her lips parted to call to Jiggs.
And then there sounded a creak of boards, a slithering footstep. Before she could move, hard, clawing hands struck her shoulders, shifted quickly to her throat. But her call was already framed and sounded before that sudden cruel stricture could halt it.
“Jiggs!”
The door creaked open and Donna, choking and struggling blindly, was hurled through it. She smashed into Jiggs and fell away and the ground rose to meet her with a crash. She had a hazy impr
ession of a crouching bulk lunging past her, heard the impact of a hard-swung fist—a single shot—then darkness, deep and unfathomable.
VI
The bite of raw whiskey in her throat brought Donna back to consciousness. She choked and gagged over the stimulant, for her throat felt tight and raw. Her head ached abominably.
She opened her eyes dazedly, to find a circle of anxious faces peering down at her. Foremost among them were the inscrutable features of Buck English. Beside him was the round, fat face of Sevila, the kindly old Mexican woman who did the cooking for the ranch. Beyond these two were Jiggs, Shorty Razee, and Sundown Sloan.
One of Shorty’s eyes was black and swollen shut.
“Feelin’ better?” asked Buck, his drawl quiet and gentle.
Donna nodded painfully. “My throat,” she murmured thickly. “Wh … what happened?”
“Don’t worry a bit about anythin’,” Buck said soothingly. “Try and get some sleep.” He patted Donna’s hand and then addressed the others. “Sevila, give her a hot bath and put her to bed. She’ll be fit enough by daylight. C’mon, boys … let’s get some rest ourselves. There’s plenty of work ahead for us.”
They trooped out, leaving her alone with Sevila, who hovered over her with gentle solicitude, murmuring guttural phrases of endearment.
In her strong arms she helped Donna to a tub of hot water, almost carrying her, and ministered to her much as if she were a child. The bath was wonderfully revivifying and, of a sudden, Donna remembered everything.
“Sevila!” she cried. “Does he hate me … does Buck hate me … for letting Cur- … that … that man get away? What a fool I am … what a fool.”
She began to sob and Sevila crooned softly to her.
“There … there, querida. It ees all right. And no … Señor Buck, he would not hate you. In hees own arms did he carry you here. And he hold you tight … oh, so very tight … and hees face was so gray and unhappy until he see that you was not so bad hurt. One thing eet ees certain though … there will be a vengeance done for thees. When Señor Buck see those marks on your throat, hees eyes were terrible. There was death in them. I … Sevila see that.”
Wisely, Sevila let Donna have her spell of tears, then she slowly tucked her into bed.
“Think no more of anytheeng, querida mia,” she comforted Donna. “Sleep, for eet will make you strong and well.”
The soporific effect of the whiskey and hot bath soon made itself felt. Besides, Donna felt emotionally exhausted. She was soon sound asleep, and color crept back into her wan cheeks.
* * * * *
It was still an hour before dawn. The world was chill and stark and somnolent. In the vault of the heavens the stars were beginning to slowly fade. Along the eastern horizon a thread of silver pierced the sky.
Horses snorted gustily as they trooped the length of Cedarville. They stamped to a halt before the little shack, which at one and the same time composed Sheriff Jack Carleton’s office and sleeping quarters.
Buck English swung stiffly from the saddle and pounded on the door.
Presently a sound of movement came from within and the door swung open, to disclose Jack Carleton in undershirt and overalls. He was yawning and his eyes were heavy with sleep. At sight of his visitor however, the sheriff snapped wide awake.
“Buck!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong? C’mon in … all you boys. Somebody rustle a fire in that stove while I get my boots on.”
When he returned, he found Buck and the others crowded about the stove, for the dawn hours of the desert and mesa are chilly.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
Buck spoke swiftly. “Yesterday … at dusk … Curly Whipple tried to dry-gulch me, Jack. He missed me and creased Red Scudder. Red’s makin’ the grade without much trouble. We caught Whipple and took him out to the ranch. We locked him in the saddle shed where I had Jiggs and Shorty guardin’ him for the night. I figured on puttin’ the pressure on him this mornin’ and makin’ him talk and tell me who put him up to the idea of taking me out.
“But Miss Donna … her and Whipple been pretty good friends, y’know … well, she figured maybe there had been a mistake or a misunderstanding somewhere, which was only natural on her part. So she went down and made Jiggs and Shorty let her in to have a talk with Whipple. I reckon she found out the kind of snake he is. Anyway … he choked her some and made a break for it. He got away in the dark.
“Miss Donna’s all right now. Scared her more than anythin’, I reckon. So me and the boys came on in to tell you that from here on out, we’re packin’ our guns, sittin’ light in the leather and tied down. Somethin’ mighty dirty is in the wind and we don’t figure to get caught unawares again. What’s your say on the thing?”
Carleton digested the news in frowning silence. When he looked up, his eyes were hard as flint.
“My ideas are the same as yours, Buck,” he said harshly. “No man can be blamed for throwin’ lead in defense of his life and property. They’re forcin’ this on us. We’ll—”
“They … Jack?” interrupted Buck. “Who do you mean by … they?”
“Canole, Slonicker … and Daggett,” snapped Carleton. “You see … yesterday after you and Red left with those two new riders, one of the boys who owes me a favor came here and told me that Canole, Slonicker, and Daggett … along with Curly Whipple, put in quite a session of talk in the back room of the Silver King.
“He also informed me that Whipple pulled out along the mesa trail ahead of you fellows. And then, after Whipple had left, Daggett called in Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia.
“That backroom confab didn’t break up for two hours. Now Daggett may figure I’m a fool. And mebbe I am in some ways. But he ain’t pullin’ the wool over my eyes no more. Him and Canole and Slonicker are out to break me … one way or another. Sittin’ tight and playin’ politics ain’t gonna help me. Sooner or later I’ll lose this office anyhow, and by that time … unless I take a stand … I won’t have no ranch left to go home to.
“So from here on out I fight ’em … straight up and down. Yeah … you boys should be packing guns … and you use ’em if you have to. If Daggett tries to put the screws on me about this job, I’ll smash his pug-ugly face clear back between his ears. My term is good for two years yet and while it lasts I aim to be sheriff … plenty.”
Buck smiled grimly. “That’s the talk, Jack. It’ll make things a heap simpler. For the present, just sit tight and say nothin’. But when I yell, come a-runnin’ … ready to do some arrestin’. If they make any more talk about your usin’ the office to further your own ends … we’ll call on ’em to prove it. Somethin’ tells me they won’t want too strict an investigation to take place.” He turned to the others. “Boys … you got your orders. Don’t go outta your way to start anythin’ with the S C Connected. But if they start it … finish it for ’em right on the spot. Now let’s be gettin’ home. I got a hunch I want to work some on.”
* * * * *
Donna Carleton slept until nearly noon.
She dressed and breakfasted and went outside. She spied Sundown Sloan puttering with a hinge on one of the corral gates.
“Hello, Sundown,” she said huskily. “Have you seen Buck … Mister English around?”
Sundown nodded. “Reckon you might find him down by the Gold Spring, honey. He was headin’ that way about fifteen minutes ago. How you feelin’ this mornin’?”
“Thanks. Oh … I’m all right … but not exactly proud of myself.”
Sundown grinned. “Shucks! Don’t go to feelin’ that way, child. Nobody is blamin’ you.”
“I’ll feel better when I am sure of that,” murmured Donna to herself as she moved away. “A lot better.” She headed where Sundown had directed her.
She saw Buck standing beside the basin of the spring, his head bent in thought. He showed traces of his sleepless night. His eyes wer
e slightly sunken and there were lines about his tight-clipped mouth.
At sight of Donna, he nodded quietly. “’Mornin’, Miss Donna,” he drawled. “Feelin’ better?”
“Not too well,” she said bravely. “I just wanted you to know that I’m not a bit proud of my judgment. It was entirely wrong. And … I’m sorry about being responsible for letting Whipple get away. It was all my fault.”
Buck studied her intently, then smiled, his face lighting up and his eyes becoming warm. “Spoken like a little thoroughbred. Now … knowin’ what I do, I’m just as well satisfied that he did make an escape.”
Donna eyed him doubtfully. “You’re just saying that,” she accused. “You think it will make me feel better.”
“If it does … I’m plumb tickled. But I mean it … just the same. And probably for reasons you’d never guess.”
“What are they?” she asked.
“Well, you see, Whipple never stopped for a horse or nothin’. He just piled right out afoot and hid somewhere in the dark. This mornin’ I went over his ridin’ outfit. There was a pair of saddlebags tied to his hull. They were empty … but I looked ’em over just the same. And what do you think I found sifted down into the seams of one of ’em?”
Donna was frankly puzzled. “I can’t imagine. What?”
“Arsenic powder,” Buck said slowly. “And this was the spring he poisoned with it … either him … or Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia.”
Donna was astounded. “You … you mean that all the while he was visiting me he was …?”
“Exactly, Miss Donna. It sure shapes up that way to me. On the face of it, it looks like Layton and Vanalia were drawin’ double wages all the time they been here. From your uncle … and from the S C Connected. Tell me … do you ever recollect Whipple doin’ much talkin’ with either of them two while he was comin’ and goin’ around the ranch here?”
“Why … yes … now that you mention it … I recall that he did. He generally managed to do a little chatting with one or the other of them. I remember asking him one time if he had known them before they came here.” She paused to think for several seconds, then blurted out: “And … oh, Buck … it was Whipple who recommended them for jobs to Uncle Jack.”
