CHAPTER XXI
THE HIDING PLACE
Disdaining any further attempt at concealment, Laramie rode angrilyover to Kitchen's barn; anyone that wanted a dispute with him just thencould have it, and promptly. Kitchen got up his horse and, cuttingshort the liveryman's attempt to talk, Laramie headed for home.
The sky was studded with a glory of stars. He rode fast, his fever ofanger acting as a spur to his anxiety, which was to get back to dressHawk's wounds.
His thoughts raced with the hoofs of his horse. Nothing could havegalled and humiliated him more than to realize how Kate Doubledayregarded him. Plainly she looked on him as no better than one of theordinary rustlers of the Falling Wall country. This was distressinglyclear; yet he knew in his own heart that hers was the only opinionamong her people that he cared anything about. Furious waves ofresentment alternated with the realization that such an issue wasinevitable--how could it be otherwise? She had heard the loose talk ofmen about her--Stone, alone, to reckon no other, could be depended onto lie freely about him. Van Horn, he was as sure, would not scrupleto blacken an enemy; and added to Laramie's discomfiture was thereflection that this man whose attentions to Kate he most dreaded, heldher ear against him and could, if need be, poison the wells.
To these could be added, as his implacable enemy, her own father. Thislast affair had cut off every hope of getting on with the men for whomhe had no respect and who for one reason or another hated him asheartily as he hated them.
Under such a load of entanglement lay the thought of Kate. What utterfoolishness even to think of her as he let himself think and hope!Clattering along, he told himself nothing could ever come of it butbitterness; and he cast the thought and hope of knowing her better andbetter until he could make her his own, completely out of his heart.
The only trouble was that neither she, nor the bitterness would stayout. As often as he put them out they came in again. The first fewmiles of his road were the same that she would soon be riding afterhim. Again and again he felt anger at the idea of her riding the worstof the Falling Wall trail at night to Pettigrew's. More than once hefelt the impulse to wait for her, and even slackened his pace.
But when he did so, there arose before him her picture as she flung thehateful words at him; they came back as keenly as if he heard themagain and he could feel his cheeks burning in the cold night air.Self-respect, if nothing else, would prevent his even speaking anotherword to her that night. His hatred of her father swelled in thethought that he should let her attempt such a ride.
For several miles beyond where he knew Kate must turn for the pass,Laramie rode on toward home; then watching his landmarks carefully hereined his horse directly to the left and headed for the broken countrylying between the Turkey and the mountains. At some little distancefrom the trail, he stopped and sitting immovable in his saddle,listened to ascertain whether he was followed. For almost thirtyminutes--and that is a long time--he waited, buried in the silence ofthe night and without the slightest impatience. He heard in thedistance the coyotes and the owls but no horseman passed nor did thesound of hoofs come within hearing. Then reining his pony's head againtoward the black heights of the Lodge Pole range he continued hisjourney.
Soon all semblance of any trail was left behind and he rode ofnecessity more slowly. More than once he halted, seemingly to reassurehimself as to his bearings for he was pushing his way where few menwould care to ride even in daylight. He was feeling across precipitousgashes and along treacherous ledges esteemed by Bighorn but feared byhorse and man; and among huge masses of rocky fragments that hadcrashed from dizzy heights above before finding a resting place. Andeven then they had been heaved and tumbled about by the fury ofmountain storms.
Laramie was, in fact, nearing the place--by the least passable of allapproaches--where he had hidden Hawk. Yet he did not hesitate eitherto stop or to listen or to double on his trail more than once.Maneuvering in this manner for a long time he emerged on a smallopening, turned almost squarely about and rode half a mile.Dismounting at this point and lifting his rifle from its scabbard heslung his bag over his shoulder and walked rapidly forward.
The hiding place had been well chosen. On a high plateau of theFalling Wall country, so broken as to forbid all chance travel and tobe secure from accidental intrusion--a breeding place for grizzlies andmountain lions--there had once been opened a considerable silver miningcamp. Substantial sums had been spent in development and from an oldTurkey Creek trail a road had been blasted and dug across the opencountry divided by the canyon of the Falling Wall river. In its escapefrom the mountains the river at this point cuts a deep gash through arock barrier and from this striking formation, known as the canyon ofthe Falling Wall, the river takes its name.
Where the old mine road crosses the plateau an ambitious bridge, asLaramie once told Kate, had been projected across the river. It wasdesigned to replace a ferry at the bottom of the canyon but with theruinous decline in the value of silver the mines had been abandoned; aweather-beaten abutment at the top of the south canyon wall aloneremained to recall the story. The earth and rock fill behind thisabutment had been washed out by storms leaving the framing timbersabove it intact, and below these there remained a cave-like space whichthe slowly decaying supports served to roof.
Laramie on a hunting trip had once discovered this retreat and had attimes used it as a shelter when caught over night in its vicinity.During subsequent visits he found an overhang in the rock behind theoriginal fill that made a second smaller chamber and in this he had asa boy cached his mink and rat traps and the discard of his huntingequipment.
To the later people coming into the Falling Wall country with cattlethe existence of all this was practically unknown. Nothing visiblebetrayed the retreat and to men who rarely left the saddle and hadlittle occasion to cross the bad lands, there was slight chance tostumble on it. It was here, a few miles west of his own home, thatLaramie had carried Hawk.
Making his way in the darkness toward the dugout, Laramie whistled lowand clearly, and planting his feet with care on a foothold of oldmasonry swung down to where a fissure opening in the rock affordedentrance into the irregular room.
A single word came in a low tone from the darkness: "Jim?"
Laramie, answering, struck a match and, after a little groping, lighteda candle and set it in a niche near where Hawk lay. The rustler wasstretched on a rude bunk. The furnishings of the cave-like refuge werethe scantiest. Between uprights supporting the old roof, a plankagainst the wall served as a narrow table; the bunk had been built intothe opposite wall out of planking left by the bridge carpenters. Forthe rest there was little more in the place than the few belongings ofa hunter's lodge long deserted. A quilt served for mattress andbedding for Hawk and his sunken eyes above his black beard showed howsorely he needed surgical care. To this, Laramie lost no time ingetting. He provided more lights, opened his kit of dressings and witha pail of water went to work.
What would have seemed impossible to a surgeon, Laramie with two hours'crude work accomplished on Hawk's wounds. But in a country where theair is so pure that major operations may be performed in ordinarycabins, cleanliness and care, even though rude, count for more thanthey possibly could elsewhere. The most difficult part of the taskthat night lay in getting water up the almost sheer canyon wall fromthe river three hundred feet below. It would have been a man's job indaylight; add to this black night and the care necessary to leave notraces of getting down and climbing up.
Leaving Hawk when the night was nearly spent, Laramie returned to hishorse, retraced his blind way through the bad lands and got to the roadsome miles above where he had left it. He started for home but leftthe road below his place and picking a trail through the hills came outhalf a mile northwest of his cabin. Here he cached his saddle andbridle, turned loose his horse and going forward with the stealth of anIndian he got close enough to his cabin to satisfy himself, afterpainstaking observation, that his cabin was neither i
n the hands of theenemy, nor under close-range surveillance. When he reached the househe disposed of his rifle, slipped inside and struck a light. On thestove he found his frying pan face downward and the coffee pot near itwith the lid raised. From this he knew that Simeral in his absence hadcared for his stock; and being relieved in his mind on this score helaid his revolver at hand and threw himself on the bed to sleep. Daywas just breaking.
Laramie Holds the Range Page 21
