The Desert Rider

by L. P. Holmes

  “But I know for a fact that them fellows were workin’ for you. Therefore, it must’ve been at your orders that they rustled Red Mesa’s Bar C stock … that they poisoned the spring out at the ranch … that Whipple tried to dry-gulch me.”

  “You’re crazy,” parroted Daggett again, but his hands were twitching. “I tell you I had nothing to do with that crowd.”

  “You’re a liar by trade,” drawled Buck, “but a danged poor one just the same. You see, Daggett … before I left the Kanab Basin, I did some prowlin’ around and askin’ questions. Strange as it may seem, I found a couple of honest ranchers down there. They admitted buyin’ a lot of Bar C stock, vented to the S C Connected brand, in good faith.

  “Jack Carleton never sold a head of stock to the S C Connected in his life. Those cattle were stolen, as well as a lot more where the Bar C was run over into S C Connected. I’ve got iron bound evidence to that. Something else … the ranchers told me that in payment for the vented stock, they drew out checks … payable to Curtis Daggett.”

  Daggett recoiled and his lips sagged.

  “Your bein’ connected with the bank, you thought you could keep those checks under cover,” went on Buck. “And by raisin’ a lot of yappin’ around town you kept Jack Carleton close to home, so he wouldn’t find out anythin’. You were sore at him for havin’ beaten you in the election and you were out to bust him. The scheme’s backfired, Daggett.”

  Daggett caved. “Five hours,” he gulped. “I can’t settle my affairs in five hours. I have interests and responsibilities and …”

  “If you’re wise,” broke in Buck drily, “if you’re wise … your main interests will be gettin’ a long way from Cedarville as fast as you can. Of course”—he shrugged—“if you want to stick around and take a chance on facin’ it … that’s your business. But in five hours … if you’re not gone … I will call together a representative group of citizens and put the facts in front of ’em. I said five hours … and I meant it.”

  Daggett was like a palsied old man. “I’ll go,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”

  Buck stood up and walked to the door.

  He turned back to add: “You’re wise. You’re gettin’ a better break than you deserve. Canole and Slonicker and the rest … bad as they were … were men alongside of you, Daggett. You’re just a rat … a miserable, schemin’ rat. It’d be a disgrace to kill you. Remember … five hours!”

  The door closed behind him.

  * * * * *

  Out on the Red Mesa Ranch, Donna and Laura Kane were down at the rim, gazing into the mysterious desert. Laura was flushed, her eyes shining. Yet there was a shyness, a reluctance there also—almost timidity.

  Donna was unconscious of her companion’s mood. Her eyes, fixed steadily upon that remote rim of the world, which was the Madrigals, were brooding and wistful and lonely. Her fine brow was puckered with worry, and the tired lines of fearful waiting were about her lips. Her thoughts, her heart, and her hopes were plainly far away, riding the trail of danger and duty with Buck English.

  Abruptly Laura turned on Donna and caught both of the latter’s hands.

  “I don’t want you to think me a silly, frivolous woman, Donna!” she exclaimed. “And if it seems strange to you, remember … I ceased to love Curly Whipple many months ago. But the truth of it is, I’ve a secret I can’t keep to myself any longer. I’ve got to confide in someone … and I hope you will be patient with me. Dear girl … I’m in love again.”

  Donna turned to her slowly, her heart writhing as though before a dagger thrust. She gasped, and it was almost a cry of pain. “Not … not … ,” she was stammering helplessly.

  Laura spoke again swiftly. “My marriage with Curly was all a mistake. I knew it within a month after the wedding. Curly simply was not the sort of man I thought he was and I was miserable. Life with him was unbearable. He was shifty and ill-tempered, and I could never depend on him.

  “We’d quarrel, and he’d go off, sulking, and send me no word. I wouldn’t know where he was, or what he was doing, or when he’d be back. I was wretched day and night. But then when he did come back … penitent and full of promises … I’d give him another chance.

  “I knew it was useless, but I kept hoping something would happen to change him. I loved him once, you see, and it was a long time before I could accept the fact that we meant nothing to each other. Even then I determined to play the game … for … well, when one brings children into the world, one owes them certain obligations.

  “It was a dreary outlook, living with a man who I did not love and who did not love me. But I did my best. Then Curly left and he didn’t come back. There was nothing else to do but sue for a divorce. There were limits to my pride.

  “Naturally, the fact of Curly’s death was a terrible shock. But I’ve all my life left and I think … I’m sure … that I see real happiness ahead at last. Surely I cannot be blamed for welcoming the sunlight, after the shadows through which I have walked. Our lives are what we make them, and I don’t believe anyone will censure me if I strike out boldly for happiness.”

  Donna’s mind was whirling. This woman, glowing and animated, was speaking of sunlight—of happiness. Of striking out boldly for that which one desired. But where would be the sunshine for her—the happiness? Buck and Laura Kane! It was the natural thing. They had known each other for years—had been the best of friends. Buck and Laura’s brother had been pals.

  And Laura was attractive enough. She had looks, poise, mental brilliance. Buck had written to her, asking her to come to the Red Mesa country. And he had hounded down the man who had wronged her. Why had she not guessed this long ago? Yes, that would be it.

  No doubt Buck had always loved Laura, for he was that kind of a man. A one-woman man, whose love for that woman would follow her always, no matter what the circumstance. And yet, Buck had not seen Laura since she had arrived. Still that meant little. If he had written her one letter, he could have written her many.

  Donna’s thoughts flashed back over certain memories of her own, memories that had grown dearer and richer with every passing hour. Memories of the pitifully few times when she and Buck had achieved something of intimacy of thought and words. At those times he had been gentle, sincere. But Donna thought she could see now that all he ever meant was merely to be kind.

  In return she had flouted him, merely because of what she had guessed and guessed wrongly about that miserable fragment of a discarded letter. Well, she’d pay a lot for that misjudgment. Too much. All her life she’d remember—and feel regret. And she could say nothing, do nothing now …

  Suddenly she had a clear picture of Buck English silhouetted against the sunset, and something caught tight in her throat. Oh, the splendid pride and courage and fineness of him!

  But he was Laura’s …

  Laura was pressing her hands more tightly.

  “You’re not angry with me. Donna?” she was saying. “Please say you’re not blaming me. Oh, I’ll offer some sop to the conventions. I’ll wait six months before marrying again. But those months stretch ahead like an eternity.”

  For a moment Donna knew the wild urge to turn on Laura like a fury, to tell her that she should not have this man, this lean, silent tiger man. To tell her that Donna Carleton also had a heart and a desire for happiness, that this same Donna Carleton also intended to reach out and grasp at that happiness. But the thoroughbred strain in Donna was too strong.

  By a terrific effort she composed herself and, if her face was merely white and strained, it was only the stronger testimonial to her self-control. For the heart of her was dead.

  She faced Laura and even managed a ghost of a smile, a tragic, pitiful little smile.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Laura,” she said. “As you say, we must make our own lives. And happiness after your sorrow and tragedy will only make it the sweeter. I … I know your choice i
s right this time. Buck … Buck English is … wonderful! We both know that.”

  Laura stared at her in amazement. “Buck!” she exclaimed. “Who in the world was talking of Buck? I wasn’t talking about him.”

  Donna caught at her, almost fiercely. “You don’t … you didn’t mean that it was Buck?”

  Laura laughed joyously. “Oh … you dear, wonderful youngster. Of course not. I’m going to marry Red Scudder!”

  Then Laura’s arms went around Donna, for Donna had begun to sob.

  “Don’t you … don’t you,” she soothed. “You game little thoroughbred. You were willing to wish me well and all the time your heart was breaking because you thought it was Buck. Why, you and Buck were made for each other.

  “Don’t you think I’ve known all along? Well, I have. You’ve been worried sick about him. I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve heard it in your voice. But he’ll come back to you, quiet, still-faced as always. I’ve known Buck a long, long time. He is one man who fortune loves. He laughs at danger, and, Lord knows, he whips it at every turn of the road. Hold the same faith in him that he holds in himself. He’ll come back. He’ll always come back.”

  A spur chain clashed on a rock behind them. They turned—and were rigid. A queer, whimpering cry of relief broke from Donna.

  Laura was the first to recover. She jumped to her feet.

  “Buck!” she cried. “Buck English.”

  He came slowly up and took Laura’s outstretched hand.

  “Sure,” he drawled quietly. “I reckon you’ve heard?”

  Laura nodded, her eyes sobering. “Yes, Buck … I’ve heard. It … well, those things happen in life.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Buck. “They do. I’ll get busy with a law shark and clear up the title to your ranch so you can sell out, Laura.”

  She shook her head, and color crept into her cheeks.

  “I … I’m not going to sell it, Buck. Here … I’ve a secret to tell you.”

  She pulled his head down and whispered in his ear.

  Buck grinned joyously.

  “No!” he exploded. “Why, the lucky old redheaded son of a gun. Wait till I get my hands on him. If I don’t whale him but good! By golly … I’m tickled to death, Laura. Old Red’s a real, foursquare man. You ain’t makin’ no mistake this time.” He hugged and patted her shoulder, saying: “Now be a good girl and run along up to the house. I’ve got somethin’ to say … and it ain’t for your ears.”

  Laura laughed and hurried away.

  Buck looked at Donna.

  She had turned to face the desert again. He did not know it, but she was trembling.

  He drew a deep breath and stepped up beside her.

  “Donna,” he said quietly.

  She looked up at him, color beating in her cheeks, her eyes moist. “Hello, Buck,” she answered.

  He seemed to be groping for his words. His hands fumbled at his waist. First one, then the other of his crisscrossed gun belts fell free. He laid them on the rock beside Donna.

  “I’m wonderin’ … wonderin’ if I laid these guns away … if you’d look at me as somethin’ different from a human wolf,” he said quietly. “I used to think that I’d be plumb satisfied with life if I could do nothin’ else but pack those two guns and ride lone, hard trails. But that was before I met you. I know different now. There’s a new quality in the sunset … in the dawn … in the stars for me now. I’ve tried to think different, but it isn’t any use.”

  His voice took on a new intensity.

  “Everywhere I look … I see your face … every sound I hear is your voice. The whole world is different … now. I don’t know a heap about this thing called love. It never entered my life before. I never knew my mother … she died before I was old enough to experience her love. Dad … well, I worshiped him. But that was the love of son for father. This other … it’s like some glory that’s grown in me, a hunger that I can’t get away from. I wish I could have come to you different … without the stain of crimson on my hands. But that’s in the past now. I’m just what I am … and I love you. Is there any chance for me … Donna?”

  His eyes, anxious and pleading, rested on her face, but he could not read there the answer to his question. There was a still, brooding look about her, and he waited, not daring to speak the words that rushed up from his heart, words of longing and despair, and of a fierce exultant hope that was almost intolerable in its intensity.

  She was silent so long his face became almost haggard. Slowly she stood up and turned. She picked up the belts and holsters with their deadly contents. First one, then the other she buckled into place about his waist.

  Her eyes lifted to his at last.

  “I wouldn’t have you any different, Buck,” she told him softly. “As you stand now … as you have always been … I love you!”

  The sun arched and sank beyond the Madrigals. The desert softened, deepened—grew shadowy and luring. The night wind rushed upward from the gulf of the universe. Darkness grew about them. Still they sat there, she curled within the circle of his arm.

  In them, and in the world about them, breathed the promise of eternity.

  THE END

  About the Author

  L. P. Holmes was the author of a number of outstanding Western novels. Born in a snowed-in log cabin in the heart of the Rockies near Breckenridge, Colorado, Holmes moved with his family when very young to northern California and it was there that his father and older brothers built the ranch house where Holmes grew up and where, in later life, he would live again. He published his first story—“The Passing of the Ghost”—in Action Stories (1925). He was paid a ½¢ a word and received a check for $40. “Yeah … forty bucks,” he said later. “Don’t laugh. In those far-off days … a pair of young parents with a three-year-old son could buy a lot of groceries on forty bucks.” He went on to contribute nearly six hundred stories of varying lengths to the magazine market as well as to write numerous Western novels. For many years of his life, Holmes would write in the mornings and spend his afternoons calling on a group of friends in town, among them the blind Western author, Charles H. Snow, who Lew Holmes always called Judge Snow (because he was Napa’s Justice of the Peace from 1920–1924) and who frequently makes an appearance in later novels as a local justice in Holmes’ imaginary Western communities. Holmes produced such notable novels as Somewhere They Die (1955) for which he received the Spur Award from the Western Writers of America. In his novels one finds those themes so basic to his Western fiction: the loyalty that unites one man to another, the pride one must take in his work and a job well done, the innate generosity of most of the people who live in Holmes’ ambient Western communities, and the vital relationship between a man and a woman in making a better life together.