by Zane Grey
“I reckon we’ve all said that. None of the gang wants to quit. They all think, and I think, we can’t be touched. We may be blamed, but nothing can be proved. We’re too strong.”
“There’s where you’re dead wrong,” rejoined Sampson, emphatically. “I imagined that once, not long ago. I was bull-headed. Who would ever connect Roger Sampson with a rustler gang? I’ve changed my mind. I’ve begun to think. I’ve reasoned out things. We’re crooked and we can’t last. It’s the nature of life, even in wild Pecos, for conditions to grow better. The wise deal for us would be to divide equally and leave the country, all of us.”
“But you and I have all the stock—all the gain,” protested Wright.
“I’ll split mine.”
“I won’t—that settles that,” added Wright instantly.
Sampson spread wide his hands as if it was useless to try to convince this man. Talking had not increased his calmness, and he now showed more than impatience. A dull glint gleamed deep in his eyes. “Your stock and property will last a long time—do you lots of good when Steele—”
“Bah!” hoarsely croaked Wright. The Ranger’s name was a match applied to powder. “Haven’t I told you he’d be dead soon same as Hoden is?”
“Yes, you mentioned the supposition,” replied Sampson sarcastically. “I inquired, too just how that very desired event was to be brought about.”
“Blome’s here to kill Steele.”
“Bah!” retorted Sampson in turn. “Blome can’t kill this Ranger. He can’t face him with a ghost of a show—he’ll never get a chance at Steele’s back. The man don’t live on this border who’s quick and smart enough to kill Steele.”
“I’d like to know why?” demanded Wright sullenly.
“You ought to know. You’ve seen the Ranger pull a gun.”
“Who told you?” queried Wright, his face working.
“Oh, I guessed it, if that’ll do you.”
“If Jack doesn’t kill this damned Ranger I will,” replied Wright, pounding the table.
Sampson laughed contemptuously. “George, don’t make so much noise. And don’t be a fool. You’ve been on the border for ten years. You’ve packed a gun and you’ve used it. You’ve been with Blome and Snecker when they killed their men. You’ve been present at many fights. But you never saw a man like Steele. You haven’t got sense enough to see him right if you had a chance. Neither has Blome. The only way to get rid of Steele is for the gang to draw on him, all at once. And even then he’s going to drop some of them.”
“Sampson, you say that like a man who wouldn’t care much if Steele did drop some of them,” declared Wright, and now he was sarcastic.
“To tell you the truth I wouldn’t,” returned the other bluntly. “I’m pretty sick of this mess.”
Wright cursed in amaze. His emotions were out of all proportion to his intelligence. He was not at all quick-witted. I had never seen a vainer or more arrogant man. “Sampson, I don’t like your talk,” he said.
“If you don’t like the way I talk you know what you can do,” replied Sampson quickly. He stood up then, cool and quiet, with flash of eyes and set of lips that told me he was dangerous.
“Well, after all, that’s neither here nor there,” went on Wright, unconsciously cowed by the other. “The thing is, do I get the girl?”
“Not by any means, except her consent.”
“You’ll not make her marry me?”
“No. No,” replied Sampson, his voice still cold, low-pitched.
“All right. Then I’ll make her.”
Evidently Sampson understood the man before him so well that he wasted no more words. I knew what Wright never dreamed of, and that was that Sampson had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it.
Then heavy footsteps sounded outside, tramping upon the porch. I might have been mistaken, but I believed those footsteps saved Wright’s life.
“There they are,” said Wright, and he opened the door. Five masked men entered. About two of them I could not recognize anything familiar. I thought one had old Snecker’s burly shoulders and another Bo Snecker’s stripling shape. I did recognize Blome in spite of his mask, because his fair skin and hair, his garb and air of distinction made plain his identity. They all wore coats, hiding any weapons. The big man with burly shoulders shook hands with Sampson and the others stood back.
The atmosphere of that room had changed. Wright might have been a nonentity for all he counted. Sampson was another man—a stranger to me. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from his band, of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of these men. There was power here and he was bound.
The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others gathered round him, close to the table. There were evidently some signs of membership not plain to me. Then all the heads were bent over the table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining my ears I caught a word here and there. They were planning. I did not attempt to get at the meaning of the few words and phrases I distinguished, but held them in mind so to piece all together afterward. Before the plotters finished conferring I had an involuntary flashed knowledge of much and my whirling, excited mind made reception difficult.
When these rustlers finished whispering I was in a cold sweat. Steele was to be killed as soon as possible by Blome, or by the gang going to Steele’s house at night. Morton had been seen with the Ranger. He was to meet the same fate as Hoden, dealt by Bo Snecker, who evidently worked in the dark like a ferret. Any other person known to be communing with Steele, or interested in him, or suspected of either, was to be silenced. Then the town was to suffer a short deadly spell of violence, directed anywhere, for the purpose of intimidating those people who had begun to be restless under the influence of the Ranger. After that, big herds of stock were to be rustled off the ranches to the north and driven to El Paso.
Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by the slender fellow. As far as it was possible for me to be sure, I identified these two as Snecker and his son. The others, however, remained. Blome removed his mask, which action was duplicated by the two rustlers who had stayed with him. They were both young, bronzed, hard of countenance, not unlike cowboys. Evidently this was now a social call on Sampson. He set out cigars and liquors for his guests, and a general conversation ensued, differing little from what might have been indulged in by neighborly ranchers. There was not a word spoken that would have caused suspicion.
Blome was genial, gay, and he talked the most. Wright alone seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening. “What’s that?” he called suddenly.
The talking and laughter ceased. My own strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.
“Must be a rat,” replied Sampson in relief. Strange how any sudden or unknown thing weighed upon him.
The rustling became a rattle.
“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Blome.
Sampson got up from the table and peered round the room. Just at that instant I felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported me. I could scarcely credit my senses. But the rattle inside Sampson’s room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud was crumbling. I distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed with sickening coldness back to my heart and seemingly clogged it.
“What in the hell!” exclaimed Sampson.
“I smell dust,” said Blome sharply.
That was the signal for me to drop down from my perch, yet despite my care I made a noise.
“Did you hear a step?” queried Sampson.
Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. I began to squeeze my body through the narrow passage toward the patio.
“Hear him!” yelled Wright. “This side.”
�
��No, he’s going that way,” yelled someone else. The tramp of heavy boots lent me the strength and speed of desperation. I was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter. I almost tore my clothes off in that passage. The dust nearly stifled me.
When I burst into the patio it was not one single instant too soon. But one deep gash of breath revived me, and I was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court. Thumping footsteps turned me back. While there was a chance to get away I did not want to meet odds in a fight. I thought I heard someone running into the patio from the other end. I stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, I softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.
CHAPTER 9
IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO
A low cry greeted me. The room was light. I saw Sally Langdon sitting on her bed in her dressing gown. Shaking my gun at her with a fierce warning gesture to be silent, I turned to close the door. It was a heavy door, without bolt or bar, and when I had shut it I felt safe only for the moment. Then I gazed around the room. There was one window with blind closely drawn. I listened and seemed to hear footsteps retreating, dying away. Then I turned to Sally. She had slipped off the bed to her knees and was holding out trembling hands as if both to supplicate mercy and to ward me off. She was as white as the pillow on her bed. She was terribly frightened. Again with warning hand commanding silence I stepped softly forward, meaning to reassure her.
“Russ! Russ!” she whispered wildly, and I thought she was going to faint. When I got close and looked into her eyes I understood the strange dark expression in them. She was terrified because she believed I meant to kill her, or do worse, probably worse. She had believed many a hard story about me and had cared for me in spite of them. I remembered, then, that she had broken her promise, she had tempted me, led me to kiss her, made a fool out of me. I remembered, also how I had threatened her. This intrusion of mine was the wild cowboy’s vengeance.
I verily believed she thought I was drunk. I must have looked pretty hard and fierce, bursting into her room with that big gun in hand. My first action then was to lay the gun on her bureau.
“You poor kid!” I whispered, taking her hands and trying to raise her. But she stayed on her knees and clung to me.
“Russ! It was vile of me,” she whispered. “I know it. I deserve anything—anything! But I am only a kid. Russ, I didn’t break my word—I didn’t make you kiss me just for, vanity’s sake. I swear I didn’t. I wanted you to. For I care, Russ, I can’t help it. Please forgive me. Please let me off this time. Don’t—don’t—”
“Will you shut up!” I interrupted, half beside myself. And I used force in another way than speech. I shook her and sat her on the bed. “You little fool, I didn’t come in here to kill you or do some other awful thing, as you think. For God’s sake, Sally, what do you take me for?”
“Russ, you swore you’d do something terrible if I tempted you anymore,” she faltered. The way she searched my face with doubtful, fearful eyes hurt me.
“Listen,” and with the word I seemed to be pervaded by peace. “I didn’t know this was your room. I came in here to get away—to save my life. I was pursued. I was spying on Sampson and his men. They heard me, but did not see me. They don’t know who was listening. They’re after me now. I’m Special United States Deputy Marshal Sittell—Russell Archibald Sittell. I’m a Ranger. I’m here as secret aid to Steele.”
Sally’s eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening windows of thought. “Russ-ell Archi-bald Sittell,” she echoed. “Ranger! Secret aid to Steele!”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re no cowboy?”
“No.”
“Only a make-believe one?”
“Yes.”
“And the drinking, the gambling, the association with those low men—that was all put on?”
“Part of the game, Sally. I’m not a drinking man. And I sure hate those places I had to go in, and all that pertains to them.”
“Oh, so that’s it! I knew there was something. How glad—how glad I am!” Then Sally threw her arms around my neck, and without reserve or restraint began to kiss me and love me. It must have been a moment of sheer gladness to feel that I was not disreputable, a moment when something deep and womanly in her was vindicated. Assuredly she was entirely different from what she had ever been before.
There was a little space of time, a sweet confusion of senses, when I could not but meet her half-way in tenderness. Quite as suddenly, then she began to cry. I whispered in her ear, cautioning her to be careful, that my life was at stake; and after that she cried silently, with one of her arms round my neck, her head on my breast, and her hand clasping mine. So I held her for what seemed a long time. Indistinct voices came to me and footsteps seemingly a long way off. I heard the wind in the rose-bush outside. Some one walked down the stony court. Then a shrill neigh of a horse pierced the silence. A rider was mounting out there for some reason. With my life at stake I grasped all the sweetness of that situation. Sally stirred in my arms, raised a red, tear-stained yet happy face, and tried to smile. “It isn’t any time to cry,” she whispered. “But I had to. You can’t understand what it made me feel to learn you’re no drunkard, no desperado, but a man—a man like that Ranger!” Very sweetly and seriously she kissed me again. “Russ, if I didn’t honestly and truly love you before, I do now.”
Then she stood up and faced me with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes. “Tell me now. You were spying on my uncle?”
Briefly I told her what had happened before I entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men I had watched.
“My God! So it’s Uncle Roger! I knew something was very wrong here—with him, with the place, the people. And right off I hated George Wright. Russ, does Diane know?”
“She knows something. I haven’t any idea how much.”
“This explains her appeal to Steele. Oh, it’ll kill her! You don’t know how proud, how good Diane is. Oh, it’ll kill her!”
“Sally, she’s no baby. She’s got sand, that girl—”
The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted my attention, reminded me of my peril, and now, what counted more with me, made clear the probability of being discovered in Sally’s room. “I’ll have to get out of here,” I whispered.
“Wait,” she replied, detaining me. “Didn’t you say they were hunting for you?”
“They sure are,” I returned grimly.
“Oh! Then you mustn’t go. They might shoot you before you got away. Stay. If we hear them you can hide under my bed. I’ll turn out the light. I’ll meet them at the door. You can trust me. Stay, Russ. Wait till all quiets down, if we have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out.”
“Sally, I oughtn’t to stay. I don’t want to—I won’t,” I replied perplexed and stubborn.
“But you must. It’s the only safe way. They won’t come here.”
“Suppose they should? It’s an even chance Sampson’ll search every room and corner in this old house. If they found me here I couldn’t start a fight. You might be hurt. Then—the fact of my being here—” I did not finish what I meant, but instead made a step toward the door.
Sally was on me like a little whirlwind, white of face and dark of eye, with a resoluteness I could not have deemed her capable of. She was as strong and supple as a panther, too. But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her arms, the feel of her warm breast as she pressed me back were enough to make me weak as water. My knees buckled as I touched the chair, and I was glad to sit down. My face was wet with perspiration and a kind of cold ripple shot over me. I imagined I was losing my nerve then. Proof beyond doubt that Sally loved me was so sweet, so overwhelming a thing, that I could not resist, even to save her disgrace.
“Russ, the fact of your being here is the very thing to save you—if they come,” Sally whispered softly. “What do I care what they thin
k?” She put her arms round my neck. I gave up then and held her as if she indeed were my only hope. A noise, a stealthy sound, a step, froze that embrace into stone.
“Up yet, Sally?” came Sampson’s clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural.
“No. I’m in bed, reading. Good night, Uncle,” instantly replied Sally, so calmly and naturally that I marveled at the difference between man and woman. Perhaps that was the difference between love and hate.
“Are you alone?” went on Sampson’s penetrating voice, colder now.
“Yes,” replied Sally.
The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar. Sampson half entered, haggard, flaming-eyed. His leveled gun did not have to move an inch to cover me. Behind him I saw Wright and indistinctly, another man.
“Well!” gasped Sampson. He showed amazement. “Hands up, Russ!”
I put up my hands quickly, but all the time I was calculating what chance I had to leap for my gun or dash out the light. I was trapped. And fury, like the hot teeth of a wolf, bit into me. That leveled gun, the menace in Sampson’s puzzled eyes, Wright’s dark and hateful face, these loosened the spirit of fight in me. If Sally had not been there I would have made some desperate move.
Sampson barred Wright from entering, which action showed control as well as distrust.
“You lied!” said Sampson to Sally. He was hard as flint, yet doubtful and curious, too.
“Certainly I lied,” snapped Sally in reply. She was cool, almost flippant. I awakened to the knowledge that she was to be reckoned with in this situation. Suddenly she stepped squarely between Sampson and me.
“Move aside,” ordered Sampson sternly.
“I won’t! What do I care for your old gun? You shan’t shoot Russ or do anything else to him. It’s my fault he’s here in my room. I coaxed him to come.”
“You little hussy!” exclaimed Sampson, and he lowered the gun.
If I ever before had occasion to glory in Sally I had it then. She betrayed not the slightest fear. She looked as if she could fight like a little tigress. She was white, composed, defiant.
