The Rules of the Game

by Stewart Edward White

  XXXII

  Ware returned to headquarters toward evening of the next day. He hadridden hard and long, but he listened to Thorne's definition of his newduties with kindling eye, and considerable appearance of quietsatisfaction. Bob met him outside the office.

  "You aren't living up to your part, Ware," said he, with mock anxiety."According to Hoyle you ought to draw your gun, whirl the cylinder, andmurmur gently, Aha!"

  "Why should I do that?" asked Ware, considerably mystified.

  "To see if your weapon is in order, of course."

  "How would a fool trick like that show whether my gun's in shape?"

  "Hanged if I know," confessed Bob, "but they always do that in books andon the stage."

  "Well, my gun will shoot," said Ware, shortly.

  It was then too late to visit Welton that evening, but at a good hourthe following morning Bob announced his intention of going over to themill.

  "If you're going to be my faithful guardian, you'll have to walk," hetold Ware. "My horse is up north somewhere, and there isn't anothersaddle in camp."

  "I'm willing," said Ware; "my animals are plumb needy of a rest."

  At the last moment Amy joined them.

  "I have a day off instead of Sunday," she told them, "and you're thefirst humans that have discovered what two feet are made for. I nevercan get anybody to walk two steps with me," she complained.

  "Never tried before you acquired those _beautiful_ gray elkskin bootswith the _ravishing_ hobnails in 'em," chaffed Bob.

  Amy said nothing, but her cheeks burned with two red spots. She chattedeagerly, too eagerly, trying to throw into the expedition the air of aholiday excursion. Bob responded to her rather feverish gaiety, but Warelooked at her with an eye in which comprehension was slowly dawning. Hehad nothing to add to the rapid-fire conversation. Finally Amy inquiredwith mock anxiety, over his unwonted silence.

  "I'm on my job," replied Ware briefly.

  This silenced her for a moment or so, while she examined the woods aboutthem with furtive, searching glances as though their shadows mightconceal an enemy.

  To Bob, at least, the morning conduced to gaiety, for the air was crispand sparkling with the wine of early fall. Down through the sombrepines, here and there, flamed the delicate pink of a dogwood, the orangeof the azaleas, or the golden yellow of aspens ripening already underthe hurrying of early frosts. The squirrels, Stellar's jays,woodpeckers, nuthatches and chickadees were very busy scurrying here andthere, screaming gossip, or moving diligently and methodically as theirnatures were. All the rest of the forest was silent. Not a breath ofwind stirred the tallest fir-tip or swayed the most lofty pine branch.Through the woodland spaces the sunlight sparkled with the inconceivablebrilliance of the higher levels, as though the air were filled withglittering particles in suspension, like the mica snowstorms of the peepshows inside a child's candy egg.

  They dipped into the canon of the creek and out again through the yellowpines of the other side. They skirted the edge of the ancient clearingfor the almost prehistoric mill that had supplied early settlers withtheir lumber, and thence looked out through trees to the brown andshimmering plain lying far below.

  "My, I'm glad I'm not there!" exclaimed Amy fervently; "I always saythat," she added.

  "A hundred and eleven day before yesterday, Jack Pollock says," remarkedBob.

  So at last they gained the long ridge leading toward the mill and saw ahundred feet away the mill road, and the forks where their own wagontrail joined it.

  At this point they again entered the forest, screened by young growthand a thicket of alders.

  "Look there," Amy pointed out. "See that dogwood, up by the yellow pine.It's the most splendiferous we've seen yet. Wait a minute. I'm going toget a branch of it for Mr. Welton's office. I don't believe anybody everpicks anything for him."

  "Let me--" began Bob; but she was already gone, calling back over hershoulder.

  "No; this is my treat!"

  The men stopped in the wagon trail to wait for her. Bob watched withdistinct pleasure her lithe, active figure making its way through thetangle of underbrush, finally emerging into the clear and climbing withswift, sure movements to the little elevation on which grew thebeautiful, pink-leaved dogwoods. She turned when she had gained thelevel of the yellow pine, to wave her hand at her companions. Even atthe distance, Bob could make out the flush of her cheeks and divine thedelighted sparkle of her eyes.

  But as she turned, her gesture was arrested in midair, and almostinstantly she uttered a piercing scream. Bob had time to take a halfstep forward. Then a heavy blow on the back of his neck threw himforward. He stumbled and fell on his face. As he left his feet, thecrash of two revolver shots in quick succession rang in his ears.