by Dean Owen
Sandy heard a cry from Molly and saw, through the curtain of the falling rain, the wide-flared nostrils of her horse, its eyes protruding as the brute, with the ground slopping away beneath him, slid slowly down toward the gulf, the girl, her weight flung forward on the withers, her face white as paper, turning to him mutely for help. It was a bad moment. Sandy and his mount stood upon an island in a shifting sea. The whole cliff seemed working and crawling, slithering down.
He had no space to turn in, no chance to whirl his lariat, even for a side throw. There was no time to spin a loop. But his hand detached the rope, flying fingers found the free end as he pivoted in the saddle, thighs welded to the mare.
“Take a turn about the horn!” he shouted. “Hang to the end yo’se’f!” He sent the line jerking back, whistling as it streaked across the girl’s shoulders. She clutched for it, with plenty of slack, snubbed it about the saddle horn, clung to the end, made a bight of it about her body.
Sandy spoke to the mare.
“Steady, li’l’ lady, steady!” The rope was about his own horn; he thanked God that he had examined the cinches of Molly’s saddle. The bay was cat-footed; with the help of the mare Sandy believed he could dig and scrape and climb to safety. It was the decision of a split-second and he did not dare risk dragging the girl from the saddle past the struggling horse.
He felt Goldie stiffen beneath him, braced against the strain she knew was coming. The taut lariat hummed, it bruised into Sandy’s thigh. Behind, the bay snorted, struggling gallantly. They were poised on the brink of death for a moment, two—three—and then the mare began to move slowly forward, neck curved, ears cocked to her master’s urging, while the bay sloshed through the treacherous muck, found foothold, lost it, made a frantic leap, another, and landed trembling on the ledge. Sandy leaped from his saddle and caught Molly, sliding from her seat in sheer exhaustion and the revulsion of terror, clinging closely to him.
“It’s all right, Molly darlin’,” he said soothingly. “All set an’ safe. Rain’s oveh an’ stars comin’ out. We’re top of the pass. We’ll git down inter the cañon a ways an’ then we’ll light a fire an’ warm up a bit, ’fore we go on.”
She found her feet and cleared from his hold, gasping for recovery of herself.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I was scared an’ yet I knew you’d pull me out. I’m plumb shamed of myself. Jest like a damned gel to act that way.”
“Shucks! You wasn’t half as scared as the bay. Wonder did he strain himself?” He passed clever hands over the bay’s legs, talking to it.
“Yo’re all right, ol’ surelegs. Right as rain.” Goldie, the mare, stood stock-still with trailing lariat, watching them intelligently in the dusk that was growing quickly luminous as star after star shone through the flying wrack. A clean, strong wind blew through the throat of the pass. Sandy recoiled his lariat, gave Molly a hand to her foot to lift her to her saddle, mounted himself and they rode slowly down. The trail was in better shape this side, though half an inch of water still topped it. The turmoil of running waters far below burdened the night, but the danger from the storm was over.
Train time was long past. Sandy knew nothing of the change of schedule, but he was confident of winning clear. He knew a man in the little town they were aiming for whose livery stable was, in the march of the times, divided between horses and machines. There he expected to put up the horses until they could be returned to Three Star, and there he figured on hiring a car and a driver if, as he anticipated, there were no more trains that night. He believed that Mormon and Sam had delayed the sheriff. Probably the latter had given up the chase, but there was no telling. Jordan’s best attribute was his pertinacity. They should lose no time in getting out of the state.
CHAPTER IX
CAROCA
As Sandy had promised, there was a wide-bottomed cañon where great oaks grew on the flats beside the unfailing stream. The trees were only vast shapes in the starlight, the long grass was wet and clinging, the creek spouted and tore along as Sandy led the way on the mare to a shelving bench, a place where he had camped once long before and, with his out-of-doors-man’s craft, never forgotten. Molly was tired almost to insensibility as to what might be going on, soaked and chilled to limpness. Sandy got her out of the saddle and into a shallow cave in a sandy bank. The next thing she knew a fire was leaping and sending light and warmth into her nook.
She heard Sandy talking to his mare. Between the range rider and his mount there is always an understanding born of loneliness, close companionship and mutual appreciation. Sandy was certain that his ponies understood most of what he said, and they were very sure that Sandy understood them thoroughly.
“Used yore brains, you did, li’l’ old lady,” said Sandy. “Sure did. Can’t do much fo’ you now. There’s a li’l’ grain left fo’ you an’ the bay, an’ we’ll dry out these blankets a bit. Can’t let you stay long or we’ll git all stiffened up, but Chuck Goodwin, down to Caroca, he knows hawses an’ he’s a pal of mine. He’ll fix you with a hot mash an’, after that, anything on the menu from alfalfy to sugar. The pair of you. You bay, you, dern me if you ain’t a reg’lar goat! A couple o’ pie-eatin’, grain-chewin’, antelope-eyed, steel-legged cayuses, that’s what you are!”
Molly listened drowsily to the affection in his voice. It was nice to be spoken to that way, she thought. Nice to be looked after. Her dad had been fond of her, but his words had lacked the silk, the caress that savored the strength, as it did with Sandy. She snuggled into the warm heat-reflecting sand like a rabbit in its burrow.
“Eat this, Molly, an’ we got to be on our way.” Sandy was handing her a cupful of hot savory stew, made for the trip, warmed up hastily, the best kind of a meal after their strenuous experience, though Sandy bemoaned its quality.
“Figgered you an’ me ’ud eat on the Pullman ter-night,” he said. “But this snack’ll do us no harm. We’ll git a cup of coffee in Caroca if there’s a chance.”
She gulped the reviving food gratefully, strength coming back with the fuel that gave both warmth and motive power. Soon they were jogging on down the wide trough of the cañon beneath the white, steady stars, through scrub oak and chaparral, the air sweet scented with wild spice, through slopes set with sleeping folded poppies and Mariposa lilies, past cactus groves, columnar, stately, mystic; the mesa slopes receding, its great bulk dim mass, the twin notches that marked the Pass of the Goats hardly discernible against the sky. They crossed a white road, unfenced but evidently a main source of travel though now deserted.
“County line runs plumb down the middle of the road,” announced Sandy. “There’s the lights of Caroca blinkin’ away to the left. Too bad we missed the train. Sleepy?”
“Some,” she admitted.
“Me too,” lied Sandy companionably.
Coming down from the mesa he had talked with her about Barbara Redding, how welcome she would make Molly and what she would do for her. Molly had listened silently. Only once she had spoken.
“Why didn’t you marry her ’stead of that Redding?” she asked.
Sandy laughed, whole-heartedly.
“Don’t believe she’d have had me. Never figgered on marryin’ anybody. I’m a privateerin’ sort of a person, Molly, sailin’ under my own colors, that means. I’ve allus had the saddle itch till Mormon an’ Sam an’ me settled down to the ranch. Never had time enough in one place to fool round the gels.”
“Sam says yo’re woman-shy?” queried Molly.
“Mebbe I am. But it ain’t the way a dawg is gun-shy. Must be the horrible example Mormon’s set up.”
“Don’t you like wimmen?”
“Sure do. Admire ’em pow’ful. Never met the one I’d want to tie to, that’s all, Molly.”
“None of ’em pritty enough?”
“Pritty? Shucks! Looks don’t count so all-fired much. The woman I most admired was the wife of ol
’ Pete Holden, a desert prospector an’ drifter, like yore dad, Molly. She was old an’ tough an’ wiry, like he was. I don’t figger she’d ever have taken a blue ribbon in a beauty contest, but she was like first-grade linoleum, the pattern wore clean through an’ the stuff was top quality. She’d drifted with Pete over most of Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Arizony, Nevada and paht of New Mexico an’ Texas, an’ she warn’t jest his wife, she was his pal an’ fifty-fifty partner. Pete said the on’y time he ever knew her to hold out on him was once in the Cañon Pintada when he woke up in the night and saw her pourin’ water out of her canteen into his. Nothin’ pritty about Kate Holden, but she was full woman-size from foot callus to gray ha’r, back to back with Pete all the time she wasn’t standin’ side of him.”
“She warn’t eddicated?” asked Molly.
“She was. Some thought it funny, for Pete was no scholar. I’ve listened with him, more’n once when she’d tell us things about plants and insects, or about the stars, things we’d never dreamed of. They say she c’ud play the pianny an’ she sure c’ud sing. Ask Sam about that. But Pete was her man an’ she was his woman, so they trailed fine together.”
“I see,” said Molly. “She loved him.”
There was a peculiar quality to the tone of the girl’s voice. It was not the first time that Sandy had noticed it, lately wondering a little, not realizing that his own observation was a recognition based upon response. Now he figured that the low softness of her speech was due to her tired condition and a little wave of tenderness swept him, blent with admiration of her pluck. Saddle-racked, nerve-tried, she had never murmured, never mentioned the trials of the trail.
They entered the little town, once a cattle station, now renamed in musical Spanish, Caroca,—A Caress—a spot where fruits were grown and shipped and flowers bloomed the year round wherever the water caressed the earth. Sandy rode the mare into the livery where the last skirmish between hoof and rim, iron and rubber tire was being fought, and called for “Chuck” Goodwin.
A stout man came out, not so heavy, not so big as Mormon, but sheathed in flesh with the armor of ease and good living. He peered up at Sandy, then let out a shout.
“You long-legged, ornery, freckle-faced, gun-packin’ galoot, Sandy Bourke! Light off’n that cayuse, you an’ yore lady friend. Where in time did you-all drop from?”
“Come across the mesa. Like to git washed across through Paso Cabras,” said Sandy. “Miss Casey, let me make you ’quainted with Chuck Goodwin, one time the best hawss-shoer in the seven Cactus States, now sellin’ oil an’ gasoline at fancy prices, not to mention machines fo’ which he is agent.”
“Got a few oats left fo’ yore hawsses, Sandy. Miss, won’t you come inside the office? Where you bound, Sandy?”
“We was aimin’ to catch the seven o’clock train east, makin’ fo’ New Mexico an’ the Redding Ranch, where Miss Casey is to visit fo’ a spell, but we found the trail bad an’ a cloud-bu’st finally set us back so we quit hurryin’ an’ loafed in. Chuck, have you got a machine you c’ud rent us, with a driver?”
“You can have anything I got in the place with laigs or wheels, an’ welcome. Goin’ to the old Redding Ranch? Give my howdedo to Miss Barbara, or Mrs. Barbara as she is now. But—” He looked at the wall clock. “It’s a quarter of ten. Yore train’s been altered to suit main line schedules. She don’t come through till nine-thirty an’ she’s gen’ally late makin’ the grade. I ain’t heard her whistle yet. I wouldn’t wonder but what you can make it. Not that I’m aimin’ none to hurry you.”
The ex-blacksmith reached for the telephone and got his connection.
“Runnin’ twenty minutes late,” he announced. “Hop in my car an’ we’ll jest about make her. She don’t do much more’n hesitate at Caroca when she’s behind time.”
He hurried them out on the street to where a car stood by the curb. Molly and her few belongings got in behind, Sandy mounted with Goodwin.
“You’ll take good care of the hawsses, Chuck?” he said. “I’ll probably be back for ’em myse’f in three-fo’ days.”
“Seguro.” Goodwin stepped on his starter and the flywheel whirred to sputtering explosions. Another car came limping down the street, flat on both rims of one side, its paint plastered with mud, one light out, the other dimmed with mire. The driver called to Goodwin.
“Which way to the depot?”
Goodwin, his hand on the lever, foot on the clutch, was astounded to hear Sandy hissing out.
“Don’t tell ’em. Scoot ahead full speed.” Then, over his shoulder to the girl, “Crouch down there, Molly.” Goodwin was still a man of action and he knew Sandy Bourke of old. Out came the pedal, the gears engaged and the car shot ahead, beneath a swinging arc light. Sandy’s hat-rim did not sufficiently shade his face or Molly’s action had not been swift enough. There came a yell and a string of curses from the crippled car which backed and turned and followed, its torn treads flapping.
Goodwin asked no questions of Sandy. If the latter wanted ever to tell him why he required a quick exit out of Caroca, or why he was followed, he could. If not, never mind. He slid his gears into high and dodged around corners recklessly. A red lantern showed ahead in the middle of the road. They crashed through a light obstruction of boards and trestles, overturning the lantern and plowed on over rough stones.
“I’m mayor,” said Goodwin with a grin. “Breakin’ my own rules but I figger that broken stone’ll bother ’em some. We’ll chance it.”
They lunged through, regardless of tires and, behind them, the pursuing car rattled, lurched, skidded. A third tire blew out and as Goodwin swung a corner with two wheels in the air the sheriff’s machine smashed viciously across the sidewalk, poking its crumpling radiator into a cottonwood.
“Brazen bulls!” shouted Goodwin. “There she blows! You got to run.”
The depot was ahead, to one side of the road-crossing. The train, its clanging bell slowing for the stop, ground to a halt, the conductor swinging from a platform to glance at the “clear” board. He waved “ahead” as Sandy and Molly raced up and clambered to the platform from which the trainman had dropped off. Now the latter remounted while the train restarted, gathered speed.
“Where to?” he asked Sandy, surveying the pair of them curiously.
Sandy did not answer. He was watching four running figures coming down the street. A star flashed on the breast of one of them, a star dulled with mud. Goodwin had disappeared. Jordan pulled up, Plimsoll close behind him, and the depot building shut off Sandy’s view.
“Where to?” asked the conductor again. “Got reservations?”
“Bound for Boville, New Mexico. On the El Paso and Southwestern. What’s the charges? No reservations, but we rode fifty mile’ across the mesa to make the train.”
Sandy produced his roll and at the same time he grinned in the light of the conductor’s lantern. And Sandy’s smile was worth much more than ordinary currency. It stamped him bona-fide, certified his character. The conductor’s profession made him apt at such endorsements.
“We take you to Phoenix,” he said. “Change there for El Paso. I can give you a spare upper for the lady.”
Molly, all eyes, tired though they were, was staring at the Pullman Afro-American, flashing eyes and teeth and buttons at her and even more at Sandy.
“Fine!” said Sandy. “Smoker’s good enough fo’ me. He’s got a bed for you, Molly. See you in the morning.”
He waited, countenancing her while she climbed the short ladder to the already curtained berth. Molly’s system might be aquiver with wonder but she never showed loss of wits or poise. She might have traveled so a hundred times. Back of the curtain she curled up half-undressed but, even as Sandy registered to himself with a low chuckle: “She never turned a hair or shied.”
He found the smoking-room empty and rolled cigarettes. Presently the conductor came in to go over his b
atch of tickets and accounts.
“Cattle?” he asked Sandy.
“Yes, sir. Three Star Ranch, nigh to Hereford.”
“Business good these days? Beef’s high enough in the city.”
“It’s fair in the main,” answered Sandy. “Sometimes we seem right happy an’ prosperous an’ then ag’in,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes, “we’re jest a jump ahead of the sheriff.”
“Boss,” said the porter to the conductor, later, “Ah reckon that’s a bad man fo’ suah. Carryin’ two of them six-guns. You figgah he’s elopin’ wiv that gal?”
The conductor surveyed his aide disdainfully.
“You’ve been seeing too many cheap picture-shows lately, Clem,” he said. “Eloping with that young girl? I wouldn’t hint it to him if I were you. Don’t you know a he-man when you see one?”
CHAPTER X
SANDY RETURNS
Eight days passed before Sandy came riding back on Goldie, leading the bay, reaching the Three Star at the end of sunset. Mormon was in his chair with the one letter that Sandy had written on his lap. It was almost too dark to read it. Mormon’s eyes were beginning to fail him at anything short of long distance but he knew the contents by heart, yet he liked to keep the letter near him as a dog loves a favorite bone long after all the nourishment from it has been absorbed. Mormon was still penitent. He knew that the sheriff had just failed to make the train, but he did not cease to blame himself for submitting Sandy and Molly to so close a chance, neither did Sam forget occasionally to remind him of his lapse of tongue.
Sandy pulled in the mare beyond the corral. He could hear the sound of Sam’s harmonica and pictured him with the instrument cuddled up under his great mustache. Sam was playing The Girl I Left Behind Me and he managed to breathe a good deal of pathos into the primitive mouth organ.
