by Zane Grey
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Yorky, with plain dissatisfaction.
“I’m going to take him down to Gimlet Butte. Arizona and Wyoming and Texas will have to scrap it out for him there.”
“When, you get him there,” Yorky said significantly.
“Yes, when I get him there,” answered the Texan blandly, carefully oblivious of the other’s implication.
The moon was beginning to show itself over a hill before the Texan and Siegfried took the road with their captive. Fraser had carelessly let drop a remark to the effect that they would spend the night at the Dillon ranch.
His watch showed eleven o’clock before they reached the ranch, but he pushed on without turning in and did not stop until they came to the Howard place.
They roused Alec from sleep, and he cooked them a post-midnight supper, after which he saddled his cow pony, buckled on his belt, and took down his old rifle from the rack.
“I’ll jog along with you lads and see the fun,” he said.
Their prisoner had not eaten. The best he could do was to gulp down some coffee, for he was in a nervous chill of apprehension. Every gust of wind seemed to carry to him the patter of pursuit. The hooting of an owl sent a tremor through him.
“Don’t you reckon we had better hurry?” he had asked with dry lips more than once, while the others were eating.
He asked it again as they were setting off.
Howard looked him over with rising disgust, without answering. Presently, he remarked, apropos of nothing: “Are all your Texas wolves coyotes, Steve?”
He would have liked to know at least that it was a man whose life he was protecting, even though the fellow was also a villain. But this crumb of satisfaction was denied him.
CHAPTER XVII
ON THE ROAD TO GIMLET BUTTE
“We’ll go out by the river way,” said Howard tentatively. “Eh, what think, Sig? It’s longer, but Yorky will be expecting us to take the short cut over the pass.”
The Norwegian agreed. “It bane von chance, anyhow.”
By unfrequented trails they traversed the valley till they reached the cañon down which poured Squaw Creek on its way to the outside world. A road ran alongside this for a mile or two, but disappeared into the stream when the gulch narrowed. The first faint streaks of gray dawn were lightening the sky enough for Fraser to see this. He was riding in advance, and commented upon it to Siegfried, who rode with him.
The Norwegian laughed. “Ay bane t’ink we do some wadin’.”
They swung off to the right, and a little later splashed through the water for a few minutes and came out into a spreading valley beyond the sheer walls of the retreat they had left. Taking the road again, they traveled faster than they had been able to do before.
“Who left the valley yesterday for Gimlet Butte, Sig?” Howard asked, after it was light enough to see. “I notice tracks of two horses.”
“Ay bane vondering. Ay t’ink mebbe West over——”
“I reckon not. This ain’t the track of his big bay. Must ’a’ been yesterday, too, because it rained the night before.”
For some hours they could see occasionally the tracks of the two horses, but eventually lost them where two trails forked.
“Taking the Sweetwater cutout to the Butte, I reckon,” Howard surmised.
They traveled all day, except for a stop about ten o’clock for breakfast, and another late in the afternoon, to rest the horses. At night, they put up at a ranch house, and were in the saddle again early in the morning. Before noon, they struck a telephone line, and Fraser called up Brandt at a ranch.
“Hello! This Sheriff Brandt? Lieutenant Fraser, of the Texas Rangers, is talking. I’m on my way to town with a prisoner. We’re at Christy’s, now. There will, perhaps, be an attempt to take him from us. I’ll explain the circumstances later.… Yes.… Yes.… We can hold him, I think, but there may be trouble.… Yes, that’s it. We have no legal right to detain him, I suppose.… That’s what I was going to suggest. Better send about four men to meet us. We’ll come in on the Blasted Pine road. About nine to-night, I should think.”
As they rode easily along the dusty road, the Texan explained his plan to his friends.
“We don’t want any trouble with Yorky’s crowd. We ain’t any of us deputies, and my commission doesn’t run in Wyoming, of course. My notion is to lie low in the hills two or three hours this afternoon, and give Brandt a chance to send his men out to meet us. The responsibility will be on them, and we can be sworn in as deputies, too.”
They rested in a grassy draw, about fifteen miles from town, and took the trail again shortly after dark. It was an hour later that Fraser, who had an extraordinary quick ear, heard the sound of men riding toward them. He drew his party quickly into the shadows of the hills, a little distance from the road.
They could hear voices of the advancing party, and presently could make out words.
“I tell you, they’ve got to come in on this road, Slim,” one of the men was saying dogmatically. “We’re bound to meet up with them. That’s all there is to it.”
“Yorky,” whispered Howard, in the ranger’s ear.
They rode past in pairs, six of them in all. As chance would have it, Siegfried’s pony, perhaps recognizing a friend among those passing, nickered shrilly its greeting. Instantly, the riders drew up.
“Where did that come from?” Yorky asked, in a low voice.
“From over to the right. I see men there now See! Up against that hill.” Slim pointed toward the group in the shadow.
Yorky hailed them. “That you, Sig?”
“Yuh bane von good guesser,” answered the Norwegian.
“How many of you are there?”
“Four, Yorky,” Fraser replied.
“There are six of us. We’ve got you outnumbered, boys.”
Very faintly there came to the lieutenant the beat of horses’ feet. He sparred for time.
“What do you want, Yorky?”
“You know what we want. That murderer you’ve got there—that’s what we want.”
“We’re taking him in to be tried, Yorky. Justice will be done to him.”
“Not at Gimlet Butte it won’t. No jury will convict him for killing Jed Briscoe, from Lost Valley. We’re going to hang him, right now.”
“You’ll have to fight for him, my friend, and before you do that I want you to understand the facts.”
“We understand all the facts we need to, right now.”
The lieutenant rode forward alone. He knew that soon they too would hear the rhythmic beat of the advancing posse.
“We’ve got all night to settle this, boys. Let’s do what is fair and square. That’s all I ask.”
“Now you’re shouting, lieutenant. That’s all we ask.”
“It depends on what you mean by fair and square,” another one spoke up.
The ranger nodded amiably at him. “That you, Harris? Well, let’s look at the facts right. Here’s Lost Valley, that’s had a bad name ever since it was inhabited. Far as I can make out its settlers are honest men, regarded outside as miscreants. Just as folks were beginning to forget it, comes the Squaw Creek raid. Now, I’m not going into that, and I’m not going to say a word against the man that lies dead up in the hills. But I’ll say this: His death solves a problem for a good many of the boys up there. I’m going to make it my business to see that the facts are known right down in Gimlet Butte. I’m going to lift the blame from the boys that were present, and couldn’t help what happened.”
Yorky was impressed, but suspicion was not yet banished from his mind. “You seem to know a lot about it, lieutenant.”
“No use discussing that, Yorky. I know what I know. Here’s the great big point: If you lynch the man that shot Jed, the word will
go out that the valley is still a nest of lawless outlaws. The story will be that the Squaw Creek raiders and their friends did it. Just as the situation is clearing up nicely, you’ll make it a hundred times worse by seeming to indorse what Jed did on Squaw Creek.”
“By thunder, that’s right,” Harris blurted.
Fraser spoke again. “Listen, boys. Do you hear horses galloping? That is Sheriff Brandt’s deputies, coming to our assistance. You’ve lost the game, but you can save your faces yet. Join us, and kelp escort the prisoner to town. Nobody need know why you came out. We’ll put it that it was to guard against a lynching.”
The men looked at each other sheepishly. They had been outwitted, and in their hearts were glad of it. Harris turned to the ranger with a laugh. “You’re a good one, Fraser. Kept us here talking, while your reënforcements came up. Well, boys, I reckon we better join the Sunday-school class.”
So it happened that when Sheriff Brandt and his men came up they found the mountain folk united. He was surprised at the size of the force with the Texan.
“You’re certainly of a cautious disposition, lieutenant. With eight men to help you, I shouldn’t have figured you needed my posse,” he remarked.
“It gives you the credit of bringing in the prisoner, sheriff,” Steve told him unblushingly, voicing the first explanation that came to his mind.
CHAPTER XVIII
A WITNESS IN REBUTTAL
Two hours later, Lieutenant Fraser was closeted with Brandt and Hilliard. He told them his story—or as much of it as he deemed necessary. The prosecuting attorney heard him to an end before he gave a short, skeptical laugh.
“It doesn’t seem to me you’ve quite lived up to your reputation, lieutenant,” he commented.
“I wasn’t trying to,” retorted Steve.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I have told you how I got into the valley. I couldn’t go in there and betray my friends.”
Hilliard wagged his fat forefinger. “How about betraying our trust? How about throwing us down? We let you escape, after you had given us your word to do this job, didn’t we?”
“Yes. I had to throw you down. There wasn’t any other way.”
“You tell a pretty fishy story, lieutenant. It doesn’t stand to reason that one man did all the mischief on that Squaw Creek raid.”
“It is true. Not a shadow of a doubt of it. I’ll bring you three witnesses, if you’ll agree to hold them guiltless.”
“And I suppose I’m to agree to hold you guiltless of Faulkner’s death, too?” the lawyer demanded.
“I didn’t say that. I’m here, Mr. Hilliard, to deliver my person, because I can’t stand by the terms of our agreement. I think I’ve been fair with you.”
Hilliard looked at Brandt, with twinkling eyes. It struck Fraser that they had between them some joke in which he was not a sharer.
“You’re willing to assume full responsibility for the death of Faulkner, are you? Ready to plead guilty, eh?”
Fraser laughed. “Just a moment. I didn’t say that. What I said was that I’m here to stand my trial. It’s up to you to prove me guilty.”
“But, in point of fact, you practically admit it.”
“In point of fact, I would prefer not to say so. Prove it, if you can.”
“I have witnesses here, ready to swear to the truth, lieutenant.”
“Aren’t your witnesses prejudiced a little?”
“Maybe.” The smile on Hilliard’s fat face broadened. “Two of them are right here. Suppose we find out.”
He stepped to the door of the inner office, and opened it. From the room emerged Dillon and his daughter. The Texan looked at Arlie in blank amazement.
“This young lady says she was present, lieutenant, and knows who fired the shot that killed Faulkner.”
The ranger saw only Arlie. His gaze was full of deep reproach. “You came down here to save me,” he said, in the manner of one stating a fact.
“Why shouldn’t I? Ought I to have let you suffer for me? Did you think I was so base?”
“You oughtn’t to have done it. You have brought trouble on yourself.”
Her eyes glowed with deep fires. “I don’t care. I have done what was right. Did you think dad and I would sit still and let you pay forfeit for us?”
The lieutenant’s spirits rejoiced at the thing she had done, but his mind could not forget what she must go through.
“I’m glad and I’m sorry,” he said simply.
Hilliard came, smiling, to relieve the situation. “I’ve got a piece of good news for both of you. Two of the boys that were in that shooting scrap three miles from town came to my office the other day and admitted that they attacked you. It got noised around that there was a girl in it, and they were anxious to have the thing dropped. I don’t think either of you need worry about it any more.”
Dillon gave a shout. “Glory, hallelujah!” He had been much troubled, and his relief shone on his face. “I say, gentlemen, that’s the best news I’ve heard in twenty years. Let’s go celebrate it with just one.”
Brandt and Hilliard joined him, but the Texan lingered.
“I reckon I’ll join you later, gentlemen,” he said.
While their footsteps died away he looked steadily at Arlie. Her eyes met his and held fast. Beneath the olive of her cheeks, a color began to glow.
He held out both his hands. The light in his eyes softened, transfigured his hard face. “You can’t help it, honey. It may not be what you would have chosen, but it has got to be. You’re mine.”
Almost beneath her breath she spoke. “You forgot—the other girl.”
“What other girl? There is none—never was one.”
“The girl in the picture.”
His eyes opened wide. “Good gracious! She’s been married three months to a friend of mine. Larry Neill his name is.”
“And she isn’t your sweetheart at all? Never was?”
“I don’t reckon she ever was. Neill took that picture himself. We were laughing, because I had just been guying them about how quick they got engaged. She was saying I’d be engaged myself before six months. And I am. Ain’t I?”
She came to him slowly—first, the little outstretched hands, and then the soft, supple, resilient body. Slowly, too, her sweet reluctant lips came round to meet his.
“Yes, Steve, I’m yours. I think I always have been, even before I knew you.”
“Even when you hated me?” he asked presently.
“Most of all, when I hated you,” She laughed happily. “That was just another way of love.”
“We’ll have fifty years to find out all the different ways,” the man promised.
“Fifty years. Oh, Steve!”
She gave a happy little sigh, and nestled closer.
A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS, by Grace Livingston Hill
CHAPTER I
With a lurch the train came to a dead stop and Margaret Earle, hastily gathering up her belongings, hurried down the aisle and got out into the night.
It occurred to her, as she swung her heavy suit-case down the rather long step to the ground, and then carefully swung herself after it, that it was strange that neither conductor, brakeman, nor porter had come to help her off the train, when all three had taken the trouble to tell her that hers was the next station; but she could hear voices up ahead. Perhaps something was the matter with the engine that detained them and they had forgotten her for the moment.
The ground was rough where she stood, and there seemed no sign of a platform. Did they not have platforms in this wild Western land, or was the train so long that her car had stopped before reaching it?
She strained her eyes into the darkness, and tried to make out things from the two or three specks of light that danced abo
ut like fireflies in the distance. She could dimly see moving figures away up near the engine, and each one evidently carried a lantern. The train was tremendously long. A sudden feeling of isolation took possession of her. Perhaps she ought not to have got out until some one came to help her. Perhaps the train had not pulled into the station yet and she ought to get back on it and wait. Yet if the train started before she found the conductor she might be carried on somewhere and be justly blame her for a fool.
There did not seem to be any building on that side of the track. It was probably on the other, but she was standing too near the cars to see over. She tried to move back to look, but the ground sloped and she slipped and fell in the cinders, bruising her knee and cutting her wrist.
In sudden panic she arose. She would get back into the train, no matter what the consequences. They had no right to put her out here, away off from the station, at night, in a strange country. If the train started before she could find the conductor she would tell him that he must back it up again and let her off. He certainly could not expect her to get out like this.
She lifted the heavy suit-case up the high step that was even farther from the ground than it had been when she came down, because her fall had loosened some of the earth and caused it to slide away from the track. Then, reaching to the rail of the step, she tried to pull herself up, but as she did so the engine gave a long snort and the whole train, as if it were in league against her, lurched forward crazily, shaking off her hold. She slipped to her knees again, the suit-case, toppled from the lower step, descending upon her, and together they slid and rolled down the short bank, while the train, like an irresponsible nurse who had slapped her charge and left it to its fate, ran giddily off into the night.
The horror of being deserted helped the girl to rise in spite of bruises and shock. She lifted imploring hands to the unresponsive cars as they hurried by her—one, two, three, with bright windows, each showing a passenger, comfortable and safe inside, unconscious of her need.
