Brand Blotters

by Raine, William MacLeod

  “No.”

  Not a dozen words had passed between them, but the girl sensed hostility. She was not surprised. Dunc Boone was not the man to take second place in any company of riff-raff, nor was MacQueen one likely to yield the supremacy he had fought to gain.

  The latter swung from the saddle and lifted Melissy from hers. As her feet struck the ground her face for the first time came full into the moonlight.

  Boone stifled a startled oath.

  “Melissy Lee!” Like a swiftly reined horse he swung around upon his chief. “What devil’s work is this?”

  “My business, Dunc!” the other retorted in suave insult.

  “By God, no! I make it mine. This young lady’s a friend of mine—or used to be. Sabe?”

  “I sabe you’d better not try to sit in at this game, my friend.”

  Boone swung abruptly upon Melissy. “How come you here, girl? Tell me!”

  And in three sentences she explained.

  “What’s your play? Whyfor did you bring her?” the Arkansan demanded of MacQueen.

  The latter stood balanced on his heels with his feet wide apart. There was a scornful grin on his face, but his eyes were fixed warily on the other man.

  “What was I to do with her, Mr. Buttinski? She found out who I was. Could I send her home? If I did how was I to fix it so I could go to Mesa when it’s necessary till we get this ransom business arranged?”

  “All right. But you understand she’s a friend of mine. I’ll not have her hurt.”

  “Oh, go to the devil! I’m not in the habit of hurting young ladies.”

  MacQueen swung on his heel insolently and knocked on the door of a cabin near.

  “Don’t forget that I’m here when you need me,” Boone told Melissy in a low voice.

  “I’ll not forget,” the girl made answer in a murmur.

  The wrinkled face of a Mexican woman appeared presently at a window. MacQueen jabbered a sentence or two in her language. She looked at Melissy and answered.

  The girl had not lived in Southern Arizona for twenty years without having a working knowledge of Spanish. Wherefore, she knew that her captor had ordered his own room prepared for her.

  While they waited for this to be made ready MacQueen hummed a snatch of a popular song. It happened to be a love ditty. Boone ground his teeth and glared at him, which appeared to amuse the other ruffian immensely.

  “Don’t stay up on our account,” MacQueen suggested presently with a malicious laugh. “We’re not needing a chaperone any to speak of.”

  The Mexican woman announced that the bedroom was ready and MacQueen escorted Melissy to the door of the room. He stood aside with mock gallantry to let her pass.

  “Have to lock you in,” he apologized airily. “Not that it would do you any good to escape. We’d have you again inside of twenty-four hours. This bit of the hills takes a heap of knowing. But we don’t want you running away. You’re too tired. So I lock the door and lie down on the porch under your window. Adios, señorita.”

  Melissy heard the key turn in the lock, and was grateful for the respite given her by the night. She was glad, too, that Boone was here. She knew him for a villain, but she hoped he would stand between her and MacQueen if the latter proved unruly in his attentions. Her guess was that Boone was jealous of the other—of his authority with the gang to which they both belonged, and now of his relationship to her. Out of this division might come hope for her.

  So tired was she that, in spite of her alarms, sleep took her almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. When she awakened the sun was shining in at her window above the curtain strung across its lower half.

  Some one was knocking at the door. When she asked who was there, in a voice which could not conceal its tremors, the answer came in feminine tones:

  “’Tis I—Rosario Chaves.”

  The Mexican woman was not communicative, nor did she appear to be sympathetic. The plight of this girl might have moved even an unresponsive heart, but Rosario showed a stolid face to her distress. What had to be said, she said. For the rest, she declined conversation absolutely.

  Breakfast was served Melissy in her room, after which Rosario led her outdoors. The woman gave her to understand that she might walk about the cleared space, but must not pass into the woods beyond. To point the need of obedience, Rosario seated herself on the porch, and began doing some drawn work upon which she was engaged.

  Melissy walked toward the corral, but did not reach it. An old hag was seated in a chair beside one of the log cabins. From the color of her skin the girl judged her to be an Indian squaw. She wore moccasins, a dirty and shapeless one-piece dress, and a big sunbonnet, in which her head was buried.

  Sitting on the floor of the porch, about fifteen feet from her, was a hard-faced customer, with stony eyes like those of a snake. He was sewing on a bridle that had given way. Melissy noticed that from the pocket of his chaps the butt of a revolver peeped. She judged it to be the custom in Dead Man’s Cache to go garnished with weapons.

  Her curiosity led her to deflect toward the old woman. But she had not taken three steps toward the cabin before the man with the jade eyes stopped her.

  “That’ll be near enough, ma’am,” he said, civilly enough. “This old crone has a crazy spell whenever a stranger comes nigh. She’s nutty. It ain’t safe to come nearer—is it, old Sit-in-the-Sun?”

  The squaw grunted. Simultaneously, she looked up, and Miss Lee thought that she had never seen more piercing eyes.

  “Is Sit-in-the-Sun her name?” asked the girl curiously.

  “That’s the English of it. The Navajo word is a jawbreaker.”

  “Doesn’t she understand English?”

  “No more’n you do Choctaw, miss.”

  A quick step crunched the gravel behind Melissy. She did not need to look around to know that here was Black MacQueen.

  “What’s this—what’s this, Hank?” he demanded sharply.

  “The young lady started to come up and speak to old Sit-in-the-Sun. I was just explaining to her how crazy the old squaw is,” Jeff answered with a grin.

  “Oh! Is that all?” MacQueen turned to Melissy.

  “She’s plumb loony—dangerous, too. I don’t want you to go near her.”

  The girl’s eyes flashed. “Very considerate of you. But if you want to protect me from the really dangerous people here, you had better send me home.”

  “I tell you they do as I say, every man jack of them. I’d flay one alive if he insulted you.”

  “It’s a privilege you don’t sublet then,” she retorted swiftly.

  Admiration gleamed through his amusement. “Gad, you’ve got a sharp tongue. I’d pity the man you marry—unless he drove with a tight rein.”

  “That’s not what we’re discussing, Mr. MacQueen. Are you going to send me home?”

  “Not till you’ve made us a nice long visit, my dear. You’re quite safe here. My men are plumb gentle. They’ll eat out of your hand. They don’t insult ladies. I’ve taught ’em——”

  “Pity you couldn’t teach their leader, too.”

  He acknowledged the hit. “Come again, dearie. But what’s your complaint? Haven’t I treated you white so far?”

  “No. You insulted me grossly when you brought me here by force.”

  “Did I lay a hand on you?”

  “If it had been necessary you would have.”

  “You’re right, I would,” he nodded. “I’ve taken a fancy to you. You’re a good-looking and a plucky little devil. I’ve a notion to fall in love with you.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Why not? Say I’m a villain and a bad lot. Wouldn’t it be a good thing for me to tie up with a fine, straight-up young lady like you? Me, I like the way your eyes flash. You’ve got a devil of a temper, haven’t you?”

  They had been walking toward a pile of rocks some little way from the cluster of cabins. Now he sat down and smiled impudently across at her.

  “That’s my business,”
she flung back stormily.

  Genially he nodded. “So it is. Mine, too, when we trot in double harness.”

  Her scornful eyes swept up and down him. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

  “No. Well, I’m not partial to that game myself. I didn’t mention matrimony, did I?”

  The meaning she read in his mocking, half-closed eyes startled the girl. Seeing this, he added with a shrug:

  “Just as you say about that. We’ll make you Mrs. MacQueen on the level if you like.”

  The passion in her surged up. “I’d rather lie dead at your feet—I’d rather starve in these hills—I’d rather put a knife in my heart!”

  He clapped his hands. “Fine! Fine! That Bernhardt woman hasn’t got a thing on you when it comes to acting, my dear. You put that across bully. Never saw it done better.”

  “You—coward!” Her voice broke and she turned to leave him.

  “Stop!” The ring of the word brought her feet to a halt. MacQueen padded across till he faced her. “Don’t make any mistake, girl. You’re mine. I don’t care how. If it suits you to have a priest mumble words over us, good enough. But I’m the man you’ve got to get ready to love.”

  “I hate you.”

  “That’s a good start, you little catamount.”

  “I’d rather die—a thousand times rather.”

  “Not you, my dear. You think you would right now, but inside of a week you’ll be hunting for pet names to give me.”

  She ran blindly toward the house where her room was. On the way she passed at a little distance Dunc Boone and did not see him. His hungry eyes followed her—a slender creature of white and russet and gold, vivid as a hillside poppy, compact of life and fire and grace. He, too, was a miscreant and a villain, lost to honor and truth, but just now she held his heart in the hollow of her tightly clenched little fist. Good men and bad, at bottom we are all made of the same stuff, once we are down to the primal emotions that go deeper than civilization’s veneer.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  “TRAPPED!”

  Black MacQueen rolled a cigarette and sauntered toward the other outlaw.

  “I reckon you better saddle up and take a look over the Flattops, Dunc. The way I figure it Lee’s posse must be somewhere over there. Swing around toward the Elkhorns and get back to report by to-morrow evening, say.”

  Boone looked at him in an ugly manner. “Nothin’ doing, MacQueen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m no greaser, my friend. Orders don’t go with me.”

  “They don’t, eh? Who’s major domo of this outfit?”

  “I’m going to stay right here in this valley to-night. See?”

  “What’s eatin’ you, man?”

  “And every night so long as Melissy Lee stays.”

  MacQueen watched him with steady, hostile eyes. “So it’s the girl, is it? Want to cut in, do you? Oh, no, my friend. Two’s company; three’s a crowd. She’s mine.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And another thing, Mr. Boone. I don’t stand for any interference in my plans. Make a break at it and you’ll take a hurry up journey to kingdom come.”

  “Or you will.”

  “Don’t bank on that off chance. The boys are with me. You’re alone. If I give the word they’ll bump you off. Don’t make a mistake, Boone.”

  The Arkansan hesitated. What MacQueen said was true enough. His overbearing disposition had made him unpopular. He knew the others would side against him and that if it came to a showdown they would snuff out his life as a man does the flame of a candle. The rage died out of his eyes and gave place to a look of cunning.

  “It’s your say-so, Black. But there will be a day when it ain’t. Don’t forget that.”

  “And in the meantime you’ll ride the Flattops when I give the word?”

  Boone nodded sulkily. “I said you had the call, didn’t I?”

  “Then ride ’em now, damn you. And don’t show up in the Cache till to-morrow night.”

  MacQueen turned on his heel and strutted away. He was elated at his easy victory. If he had seen the look that followed him he might not have been so quiet in his mind.

  But on the surface he had cinched his leadership. Boone saddled and rode out of the Cache without another word to anybody. Sullen and vindictive he might be, but cowed he certainly seemed. MacQueen celebrated by frequent trips to his sleeping quarters, where each time he resorted to a bottle and a glass. No man had ever seen him intoxicated, but there were times when he drank a good deal for a few days at a stretch. His dissipation would be followed by months of total abstinence.

  All day the man persecuted Melissy with his attentions. His passion was veiled under a manner of mock deference, of insolent assurance, but as the hours passed the fears of the girl grew upon her. There were moments when she turned sick with waves of dread. In the sunshine, under the open sky, she could hold her own, but under cover of the night’s blackness ghastly horrors would creep toward her to destroy.

  Nor was there anybody to whom she might turn for help. Lane and Jackson were tools of their leader. The Mexican woman could do nothing even if she would. Boone alone might have helped her, and he had ridden away to save his own skin. So MacQueen told her to emphasize his triumph and her helplessness.

  To her fancy dusk fell over the valley like a pall. It brought with it the terrible night, under cover of which unthinkable things might be done. With no appetite, she sat down to supper opposite her captor. To see him gloat over her made her heart sink. Her courage was of no avail against the thing that threatened.

  Supper over, he made her sit with him on the porch for an hour to listen to his boasts of former conquests. And when he let her take her way to her room it was not “Good-night” but a mocking “Au revoir” he murmured as he bent to kiss her hand.

  Melissy found Rosario waiting for her, crouched in the darkness of the room that had been given the young woman. The Mexican spoke in her own language, softly, with many glances of alarm to make sure they were alone.

  “Hist, señorita. Here is a note. Read it. Destroy it. Swear not to betray Rosario.”

  By the light of a match Melissy read:

  “Behind the big rocks. In half an hour.

  “A Friend.”

  What could it mean? Who could have sent it? Rosario would answer no questions. She snatched the note, tore it into fragments, chewed them into a pulp. Then, still shaking her head obstinately, hurriedly left the room.

  But at least it meant hope. Her mind flew from her father to Jack Flatray, Bellamy, young Yarnell. It might be any of them. Or it might be O’Connor, who, perhaps, had by some miracle escaped.

  The minutes were hours to her. Interminably they dragged. The fear rose in her that MacQueen might come in time to cut off her escape. At last, in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand, she stole into the hall, out to the porch, and from it to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

  It was a night of both moon and stars. She had to cross a space washed in silvery light, taking the chance that nobody would see her. But first she stooped in the shadows to slip the shoes upon her feet. Her heart beat against her side as she had once seen that of a frightened mouse do. It seemed impossible for her to cover all that moonlit open unseen. Every moment she expected an alarm to ring out in the silent night. But none came.

  Safely she reached the big rocks. A voice called to her softly. She answered, and came face to face with Boone. A drawn revolver was in his hand.

  “You made it,” he panted, as a man might who had been running hard.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “But they’ll soon know. Let us get away.”

  “If you hadn’t come I was going in to kill him.”

  She noticed the hard glitter in his eyes as he spoke, the crouched look of the padding tiger ready for its kill. The man was torn with hatred and jealousy.

  Already they were moving back through the rocks to a dry wash that ran thr
ough the valley. The bed of this they followed for nearly a mile. Deflecting from it they pushed across the valley toward what appeared to be a sheer rock wall. With a twist to the left they swung back of a face of rock, turned sharply to the right, and found themselves in a fissure Melissy had not at all expected. Here ran a little cañon known only to those few who rode up and down it on the nefarious business of their unwholesome lives.

  Boone spoke harshly, breaking for the first time in half an hour his moody silence.

  “Safe at last. By God, I’ve evened my score with Black MacQueen.”

  And from the cliff above came the answer—a laugh full of mocking deviltry and malice.

  The Arkansan turned upon Melissy a startled face of agony, in which despair and hate stood out of a yellow pallor.

  “Trapped.”

  It was his last word to her. He swept the girl back against the shelter of the wall and ran crouching toward the entrance.

  A bullet zipped—a second—a third. He stumbled, but did not fall. Turning, he came back, dodging like a hunted fox. As he passed her, Melissy saw that his face was ghastly. He ran with a limp.

  A second time she heard the cackle of laughter. Guns cracked. Still the doomed man pushed forward. He went down, struck in the body, but dragged himself to his feet and staggered on.

  All this time he had seen nobody at whom he could fire. Not a shot had come from his revolver. He sank behind a rock for shelter. The ping of a bullet on the shale beside him brought the tortured man to his feet. He looked wildly about him, the moon shining on his bare head, and plunged up the cañon.

  And now it appeared his unseen tormentors were afraid he might escape them. Half a dozen shots came close together. Boone sank to the ground, writhed like a crushed worm, and twisted over so that his face was to the moonlight.

  Melissy ran forward and knelt beside him.

  “They’ve got me ... in half a dozen places.... I’m going fast.”

  “Oh, no ... no,” the girl protested.

  “Yep.... Surest thing you know.... I did you dirt onct, girl. And I’ve been a bad lot—a wolf, a killer.”