Starting at dusk from Corvan, Pete reached his destination around two o’clock, filled his sacks, tied them on his mules and started down, coming out of the Rockface in time to meet the dawn that quivered on the eastern ramparts.
But this night Old Pete, sturdy, fearless, unarmed, was not to see the accustomed pageant of the rising sun, the fleeing veils of shadows shifting on the Valley floor that he had watched with silent joy for all these years.
This night he was well down along his backward way, shouting in the darkness, for the slim moon had dropped down behind the lofty peaks above, when all the echoes in the world, it seemed, let loose in the cañons and all the weight of the universe itself came pressing hard upon his dauntless heart with the crack of a gun.
“Th’ price!” whispered Old Pete as he fell sprawling on his face, “fer pure flesh!” With which cryptic word he bade farewell to the sounding passes, the tenets of manhood as he conceived them, the valour, and the grumbling at life in general.
The little burros, placid and faithful, went on and saw the pageant of the dawn from the hidden gateway in the Wall, crept down the Rockface, single file, and at their accustomed hour stood at their accustomed place before the Golden Cloud.
It was Wan Lee, Old Pete’s bête noir, who found them there and ran shouting through the crowd of belated players in the saloon’s big room, his pig-tail flying, his almond eyes popping, to upset a table and batter on his master’s door and scream that the “bullos” were here, “allesame lone,” and that there was blood all spattered on the hind one’s rump!
* * *
CHAPTER VIII
WHITE ELLEN
So old Pete, the snow-packer, had paid the price of gallantry. The bullet he had averted from Tharon Last’s young head that day in the Golden Cloud but sheathed itself to wait for him. All the Valley knew it. Not a soul beneath the Rockface but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who, or whose agents, had followed Pete that night to the Cañon Country. Whispers went flying about as usual, and as usual nothing happened.
When the news of this came to Last’s Holding the mistress sat down at the big desk in the living room, laid her tawny head on her arms and wept.
There was in her a new softness, a new feeling of misery––as if one had wantonly killed a rollicking puppy before her eyes. Those tears were Old Pete’s requiem. She dried them quickly, however, and set another notch to her score with Courtrey.
It was then that the waiting game ceased abruptly.
Tharon, riding on El Rey, went in to Corvan. She tied the horse at the Court House steps and went boldly in to the sheriff’s office.
Behind her were Billy, like her shadow, and the sane and quiet Conford.
Steptoe Service, fat and important, was busy at his desk. His spurs lay on a table, his wide hat beside them. The star of his office shone on his suspender strap.
“Step Service,” said the girl straightly, “when are you goin’ to look into this here murder?”
Service swung round and shot an ugly look at her from his small eyes.
“Have already done so,” he said, “ben out an’ saw to th’ buryin’!”
Tharon gasped.
“Buried him already? How dared you do it?”
“Say,” said Service, banging a fist on his table, “I’m th’ sheriff of Menlo County, young woman. I ordered him buried.”
“Where?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Was Jim Banner there?”
“Jim Banner’s sick in bed––got th’ cholery morbus.”
Tharon’s eyes began to blaze.
“Bah!” she snapped, “th’ time’s ripe! Come on, boys,” and she whirled from the Court House.
As she ran across the street to where the Finger Marks were tied, she came face to face with Kenset on Captain.
Her face was red from brow to throat, her voice thick with rage.
“You talked o’ law, Mr. Kenset,” she cried at the brown horse’s shoulder, her eyes upraised to his, “an’ see what law there is in Lost Valley! Step Service has buried th’ snow-packer––without a by-your-leave from nobody! Th’ man––or woman––that kills Courtrey now ’counts for three men––Harkness, Last an’ Pete. I’m on my way to th’ Stronghold.”
She whirled again to run for the stallion, but the forest man leaned down and caught her shoulder in a grip of steel.
“Not now,” he said in that compelling low voice, “not now. I want to talk to you.”
“But I don’t want to talk to you!” she flung out, “I’m goin’!”
Over her head Conford’s anxious eyes met Kenset’s.
“Hold her,” they begged plainly, “we can’t.”
And Kenset held her, by physical strength.
The grey eyes of Billy were on him coldly. The boy was hot with anger at the man. He put a hand on Kenset’s arm.
“Let go,” he said, but Kenset shook him off.
“Come out on the plain a little way with me, all of you,” he said, “this is no place to talk.”
Tharon, standing where he had stopped her, her breast heaving, her lips apart, seemed struggling against an unknown force. She put up a hand and tried to dislodge his fingers on her shoulder, but could not.
Presently she wet her lips and looked around the street, already filled with watching folk, then up at Kenset.
“What for?” she asked.
“I think I can tell you something,” he answered quietly.
“All right,” she said briefly, “let go an’ I’ll come.”
Without a word the man loosed her. She went to El Rey and mounted.
Her riders mounted with her, Billy’s face frowning and set. From the steps of Baston’s store a few cowboys watched. There were no Stronghold men in town, for it was too early in the day.
In silence Kenset led out of town at a brisk canter. His lips were set, his eyes very grave.
In the short gallop that followed while they cleared the skirts of the town, he did some swift thinking, settled some heavy questions for himself.
He was about to take a decided step, to put himself on record in something that did not concern his work in the Valley.
He was going directly opposite to the teaching of his craft. He was about to take sides in this thing, when he had laid down for himself rigid lines of non-partisanship. His mind was working swiftly.
If he flung himself and his knowledge of the outside world and the law into this thing he sunk abruptly the thing for which he had come to Lost Valley––the middle course, the influence for order that he had hoped to establish that he might do his work for the Government.
But he could not help it. At any or all costs he must stop this blue-eyed girl from riding north to challenge Courtrey on his doorstep.
The blood congealed about his heart at the thought.
Where the rolling levels came up to the confines of the town they rode out far enough to be safe from eavesdroppers, halted and faced each other.
“Miss Last,” said Kenset gently, “I’m a stranger to you. I have little or no influence with you, but I beg you to listen to me. You say there is no help for the conditions existing in Lost Valley. That outrage follows outrage. True. I grant the thing is appalling. But there is redress. There is a law above the sheriff, when it can be proven that that officer has refused to do his duty. That law is invested in the coroner. Your coroner can arrest your sheriff. He can investigate a murder––he can issue a warrant and serve it anywhere in the State. He can subpoena witnesses. Did you know that?”
Tharon shook her head.
“Nor you?” he asked Conford.
“I knew somethin’ like that––but what’s th’ use? Banner’s a brave man, but he’s got a family. An’ he’s been only one against th’ whole push. What could he do when there wasn’t another man in th’ Valley dared to stand behind him? You saw what happened to Pete. He struck up Courtrey’s arm when he shot at Tharon one night last spring. Th’ same thing’d happen to Banner if he t
ried to pull off anythin’ like that.”
A light flamed up in Kenset’s eyes.
“If you, Miss Last,” he said straightly, “will give me your word to do no shooting, something like that will be pulled off here, and shortly.”
He looked directly at Tharon, and for the first time in her life she felt the strength of a gaze she couldn’t meet––not fully.
But Tharon shook her head.
“I’m sworn,” she said simply.
Kenset’s face lost a bit of colour. Billy, watching, turned grey beneath his tan. He saw something which none other did, a thing that darkened the heavens all suddenly.
“Then,” said Kenset quietly, “we’ll have to do without your promise and go ahead anyway. We’ll ride back to town, demand of Service a proper investigation by a coroner’s jury, and begin at the bottom.”
Tharon moved uneasily in her saddle.
“Why are you doin’ this?” she asked. “Why are you mixin’ up in our troubles? Why don’t you go back to your cabin an’ your pictures an’ books an’ things, an’ let us work out our own affairs?”
Kenset lifted a quick hand, dropped it again.
“God knows!” he said. “Let’s go.”
And he wheeled his horse and started for Corvan, the others falling into line at his side.
When Kenset, quietly impervious to the veiled hostility that met him everywhere, faced Steptoe Service and made his request, that dignitary felt a chill go down his spine. Like Old Pete he felt the man beneath the surface. He met him, however, with bluster and refused all reopening of a matter which he declared settled with the burial of the snow-packer in the sliding cañons where he was found.
“Very well,” said Kenset shortly, “you see I have witnesses to this,” and he turned on his heel and went out.
“Now, Miss Last,” he said when they were in the wholesome summer sunlight once more, “if you have any friends whom you think would stand for the right, send for them.”
“Th’ Vigilantes,” said the girl, “we’ll gather them in twenty-four hours.”
“The Vigilantes?”
“Th’ settlers,” said Conford.
“All right. Until they are here we’ll guard the mouth of this cañon that leads into the Rockface, as I understand it. Now take me to this man Banner.”
At a low, rambling house in the outskirts of Corvan they found Jim Banner, sitting on the edge of his bed, undeniably sick from some acute attack. His eyes were steady, however, and he listened in silence while Kenset talked.
“Mary,” he said, “bring me my boots an’ guns. I been layin’ for this day ever sence I been in office. I wisht Jim Last was here to witness it.”
In two hours Kenset was on his way to the blind mouth of the pass that led into the Cañon Country, Tharon was shooting back to the Holding on El Rey to put things on a watching basis there, while Conford and Billy went south and west to rouse the Vigilantes.
With Kenset rode Banner, weak and not quite steady in his saddle, but a fighting man notwithstanding.
All through the golden hours of that noonday while he jogged steadily on Captain, Kenset was thinking. He had food for thought, indeed. He carried a gun at last––he who had ridden the Valley unarmed, had meant never to carry one. He felt a stir within him of savagery, of excitement.
He meant to have justice done, to put a hard hand on the law of Lost Valley. Murders uninvestigated, cattle stolen at will, settlers’ homes burned over their heads, their hearths blown up by planted powder when they returned from any small trip, their horses run off––these things had seemed to him preposterous, mere shadows of facts. Now they were down to straight points before him, tangible, solid. He got them from the blue eyes of Tharon Last, the gun woman, and he had taken sides! He who had meant to keep so far out of the boiling turmoil.
He camped that night at the base of the Wall where the blind door entered, made his bed just inside the dead black passage, and watched while Banner, weary and still weak, slept in his blankets beside him.
This was new work for Kenset, strange work, this waiting for men who called themselves the Vigilantes––for a slim golden girl who rode and swore and pledged herself to blood!
More than once in the quiet night that followed, Kenset wiped a hand across his brow and found it moist with sweat.
What did he mean? Again and again he asked himself that question.
What did he mean by Tharon Last? What was this cold fire that burned him when he thought of her pulling those sinister blue guns on Courtrey? Did he fear to see her kill Courtrey––to see that shadowy stain on her hands––or did he fear something worse, infinitely worse––to see Courtrey, famous gun man, beat her to it!
He shuddered and sweat in the clear cold of the starlit night and searched his bewildered heart. He could find no answer save and except the weary one that Tharon Last must be holden from her sworn course.
Tharon Last who looked at him with those deep blue eyes and spoke so coolly of this promised killing! He recalled the earnest frown between her brows, the simple directness of her duty as she saw it and told it to him.
Either way––either way––she was lost to him forever––There he caught himself and started all over again.
What was she to him?
What could she ever be? She with her strange soul, her lack of soul!
What did he want her to be? One moment he ached with her loveliness––the next he shuddered at her savagery.
He did not want her to be anything! Why not go out to the dim and half-remembered world that he had left, the world of lights, padded floors and marble steps, leave this impossible land with its blood and wrongs? Nay, he could not leave Lost Valley. He was as much a part of it as the grim Rockface itself, the Vestal’s Veil eternally shimmering in its thousand feet of beauty. Life or death, for Kenset, it must be here.
So he waited and listened and watched the stars wheeling in everlasting majesty, and he found his hands falling now and again upon the gun-butts at his sides!
Near dawn Banner awoke, refreshed and stronger, and made him lie down for a few hours’ sleep.
When he awoke the sun was well up along the heavens and Banner was offering him a piece of dry bread and some jerky, spiced and smoked and as dry and sweet as anything he had ever eaten in all his life.
“They’re comin’,” said the man, “thar’s five comin’ from down along th’ Wall at th’ south––that’ll be Jameson, Hill and Thomas, an’ some others––an’ I see about ten or twelve, near’s I can make out, driftin’ in from up toward th’ Pomo settlement. Thar’s a dust cloud movin’ up from th’ Bottle Neck, too. They’ll be here by one o’clock at th’ furdest.”
And they were, a grim, silent group of men, determined, watchful, bent on the second step of the program to which they had pledged themselves that night at Last’s Holding. Tharon was there, too, and with her Bent Smith on Golden.
It was a goodly number who left their horses in charge of Hill and Dixon at the blind mouth and entered the long black cut. They climbed in low spoken quiet, their voices sounding back upon them with an odd dead effect. They went faster than Old Pete was wont to travel, for they meant to reach the spot of the tragedy before the early shadows should begin to sift down from the high world above. Tharon went eagerly, her eyes dilated.
Always she had dreamed of the Cañon Country. Always she had wondered what it was like. When she left the mouth of the black roofed cut and came out into the narrow, rockwalled cañon with its painted faces reaching up into the very skies, she gasped with amaze. Above her head she could see the endless cuts and crosscuts, the standing spires and narrow wedgelike walls that made a labyrinthian maze.
Billy, close beside her, as always, watched her with a pensive sadness.
And so the Vigilantes went in and up along the lower ways. There were those among them who had been here before, who from time to time had accompanied the snow-packer on his nightly trips just for the curiosity of the thing. The
se several men, among whom were Albright from the Pomo settlement––a squawman––took the lead, and Albright, keen as a hound on trail, picked up Old Pete’s marks and signs at a running walk.
And so it was, that, while the sun was still shining on the high peaks above and the cañons were filled with a strange pink light reflected from the red and yellow faces of the rock, the Vigilantes came suddenly to a halt, for Albright had stopped.
“Here’s where it happened,” he said, “there’s a blood-sign.” And he pointed to the Wall at a spot about breast high. A thin dark line, no wider than a blade of grass and about as long, spraying out to nothing at the upper end, leaned along the rock like a native marking. No other eye had seen it. Not one in a thousand would have seen it.
“Good,” said Kenset, “you’re the man for more of this.”
They crowded around and examined the telltale spray.
Not one among them but knew it for the stain of blood.
From that they spread out and back to search the sliding heaps of dust-like powdery rock-slide that lay everywhere along the walls.
It took Albright five minutes by Kenset’s watch to find the disturbed and clumsily smoothed dump which held all that was mortal of the snow-packer.
“Miss Last,” said Kenset as the men began to dig with the spades brought along for the purpose, “you had best step back a bit.”
But Tharon pushed nearer.
“This is my work,” she said with dignity. “I started this, I think.”
It was a pitiful job that Service and those with him had done for Old Pete. Rolled head-first into a shallow hole––no doubt with jest and laughter––it was his booted foot which first came to view, sticking grotesquely up through the loose slide-stuff.
It was brief work and grim work that followed, and soon the weazened form, bent and stiffened into something hardly human, lay in the soft pink light on the cañon’s floor.
Jim Banner knelt and examined it carefully and minutely, then every man in the group did likewise. They found evidence of one simple, staring fact––Old Pete had been shot squarely from behind, a little to the left.
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