The Night Riders

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  And as he walked, he felt for the first time something of the grip which sooner or later the prairie fixes upon those who seriously seek life upon its bosom. Its real fascination begins only when the first stages of apprenticeship to its methods and habits are passing. The vastness of its world, its silence, its profound suggestion of solitude, which ever remains even where townships and settlements exist, holds for man a fascination which appeals to the primitive senses and drags him back from the claims of civilization to the old, old life. And when that call comes, and the latent savage is roused from the depths of subjection, is it wonder that men yield to what, after all, is only the true human instinct—the right of the individual to defend itself from all attacks of foes? No; and so Tresler argued as he thought of the men who were his comrades.

  Under the influence of his new feelings it seemed to him that life was so small a thing, on which folks of civilization set much too high a value. The ready appeal to the gun, which seemed to be one of the first principles of the frontiersman’s life, was already beginning to lose its repugnance for him. After all, where no arbitration could be enforced, men still had a right to defend self and property.

  His thoughts wandered on through a maze of argument which convinced him notwithstanding he told himself that it was all wrong. He told himself weakly that his thoughts were the result of the demoralizing influence of lawless associates, but, in spite of this, he felt that there was, in reality, something in them of a deeper, more abiding nature.

  He had made the woodland fringe, and was working his way back toward the house. The darkness was profound here. The dense, sad-foliaged pines dropped their ponderous boughs low about him as he passed, shielding him from all possible view from the ranch. And, even over the underlay of brittle cones, his moccasined feet bore him along in a silent, ghostly manner. It was the first time in his life he had been forced to steal upon anybody’s house like a thief in the night; but he felt that his object was more than sufficient justification.

  Now he looked keenly for any sign of lights among the ranch buildings. The bunkhouse was in darkness, but Jake’s house was still lit up. However, this did not bother him much. He knew that the foreman was in the habit of keeping his lamp burning, even after retiring. Perhaps he read at night. The idea amused him, and he wondered what style of literature might appeal to a man of Jake’s condition of mind. But even as he watched, the light went out, and he felt more satisfied.

  He reached a point on the edge of the forest opposite the barn. Then something brought him up with a start. Some unusual sound had caught his ear. It was the murmur of voices in the distance. Immediately his mind went back to his first night on the ranch, and he remembered Red Mask and his attendant horseman. Now he listened, peering hard into the darkness in the direction of the house, at the point whence the sound was proceeding. Whoever were talking they seemed to be standing still. The sound grew no louder, nor did it die away. His curiosity drew him on; and with cautious steps, he crept forward.

  He tried to estimate how far the speakers were from the house. It seemed to him that they were somewhere in the neighborhood of the rancher’s private stable. But he could not be altogether sure.

  Now, as he drew nearer, the voices became louder. He could distinctly hear the rise and fall of their tones, but still they were unrecognizable. Again he paused, this time for caution’s sake only. He estimated that he was within twenty-five yards of the stable. It would not be safe to go further. The steady murmur that reached him was tantalizing. Under ordinary circumstances he would have risked discovery and gone on, but he could not jeopardize his present object.

  He stretched himself under the shelter of a low bush, and, strangely enough, recognized it as the one he had lain under on that memorable first night. This realization brought him a grim foreboding; he knew what he expected, he knew what was coming. And his foreboding was fulfilled within a few seconds of taking up his position.

  Suddenly he heard a door close, and the voices ceased speaking. He waited almost breathlessly for the next move. It came. The crackling of pine cones under shod hoofs sounded sharply to his straining ears. It was a repetition of what had happened before. Two horsemen were approaching from the direction of the house. It was inevitable that his hand should go to his gun, and, as he realized his own action, he understood how surely the prairie instincts had claimed him. But he withdrew it quickly and waited, for he had no intention of taking action. It might be Red Mask. It probably was. But he had no intention of upsetting his present plans by any blind, precipitate attack upon the desperado. Besides, if Red Mask and Jake were one, then the shooting of him, in cold blood, in the vicinity of the ranch, would, in the eyes of the police, be murder. No story of his would convince a jury that the foreman of Mosquito Bend was a cattle-rustler.

  A moment later the horses dimly outlined themselves. There were two of them, as before. But he could not see well, the woods seemed darker than before; and, besides, they did not pass so near to him. They went on like ghostly, silent shadows, only the scrunch of the cones underfoot told of their solidity.

  He waited until the sound died out, then he rose quietly and pursued his way. But what he had just witnessed plunged his thoughts into a moody channel. The night-riders were abroad again, riding unchecked upon their desperate way, over the trail of murder and robbery they cut for themselves wherever they went. He wondered with dread who was to be victim to-night. He remembered Manson Orr and shuddered. He had a bitter feeling that he had acted wrongly in letting them pass unchallenged in spite of what reason and a cool judgment told him. His duty had been to investigate, but he also thought of a sad-faced girl, friendless and alone, weeping her heart out in the midst of her own home. And somehow his duty faded out before the second picture. And, as though to further encourage him, the memory of Joe Nelson’s words came to him suddenly, and continued to haunt him persistently.

  “You’ll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an’ set your own brand on her quick, eh?”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII

  THE RISING OF A SUMMER STORM

  When the horsemen had passed out of hearing, Tresler still exerted the utmost caution. He had yet to pass the blind man’s room, and he knew that that individual’s hearing was something bordering on the marvelous, and, he argued, he must still be up, or, at least, awake. So he moved on with the lightest tread, with every sense alert; watchful alike for every unusual sound or movement. At the stable he paused and gently tried the door. It was fast. He put his ear to it and listened, and was forced to be content with the rattle of the collar chains, and the sound of the heavy-breathing animals within. He would have liked to investigate further, for the noise of the shutting door, he knew, had come from the stable, but it behooved him to refrain. It would be worse than useless to rouse the man, Anton, who slept over the stable. And there was no other means of ascertaining what had been going on.

  He crept on; and now the shadowy outline of the house itself shut him off from the ranch. He cleared the danger zone of the rancher’s bedroom and reached the kitchen, where he met with a first disappointment. He was relieved and delighted to find that a light was still burning there; but his joy was dashed almost immediately by finding that the linen blind was down, and not a crack showed by which he could get a view of the room. He dared not go to the door until he had ascertained who was within, so he stood for a moment uncertain what to do. Then he suddenly remembered that the kitchen had another window on the far side of the lean-to. It would mean passing out into the open again; still, the darkness was such that the risk was reduced to a minimum.

  With no further hesitation he hurried round. His only care now was to tread quietly, and even this seemed unnecessary, for the blind man’s room was at the other side of the house, and, if his suspicions were correct, Jake was busy at his nocturnal trade. Fortune favored him. The blind was down, but the lower sash of the window was raised, and he saw that, by pulling the linen on one side, he could obtain
a full view of the room.

  He was about to carry out his purpose. His hand was raised and reaching toward the window, when the sound of weeping came to him and checked his action. He stood listening for a second. Then, with a stifled ejaculation, he thrust his hand out further, and caught the edge of the blind.

  He paused for nothing now. He had no scruples. He knew without inquiry who it was that was weeping within; who else but Diane could it be? And at the sound of each choking sob, his heart was wrung, and he longed to clasp her in his arms and comfort her. This love of his which had taken its place so suddenly in his life thrilled through his body like a fiery torrent roused to fever heat by the sound of the girl’s sobs.

  Drawing the edge of the blind sharply on one side, he peered into the room. His worst fears were realized. Diane was at the far side of the kitchen sitting over the square cook-stove, rocking herself to and fro in an access of misery, and, in what seemed to him, an attitude of physical suffering. Her pretty head was bowed low upon her hands, and her whole frame was shaken by the sobs she was struggling hard to, but could not, suppress.

  He took all this in at a glance, then his eyes rested upon her arms. The sleeves of her dress had been unfastened, and were thrown back from her wrists, leaving them bare to the elbow. And he saw, to his horror and indignation, that the soft, rounded flesh of her forearm was swollen and bruised. The sight made him clench his teeth, and his blue eyes suddenly hardened. He no longer permitted caution to govern his actions.

  “Hist, Diane!” he whispered hoarsely. And he shook the stiff blind to further draw her attention. “It is I, Tresler,” he went on urgently.

  And the girl sprang from her seat instantly and faced the window. She dashed her hand across her eyes and hastily sought to readjust her sleeves. But the pitiful attempt to thus hide her trouble only made the signs more marked. The tears still flowed, in spite of her bravest manner, and no effort of hers was able to keep the sweet lips from quivering.

  She took one step in the direction of the window, but drew up with such a violent start and expression of alarm in her tearful eyes, that Tresler peered all round the room for the cause. He saw nothing more startling than a slumbering cat and the fragments of a broken lamp upon the floor, and his eyes went back to her again. Then, as he marked her attitude of attention, he understood. She was listening for the familiar but ominous “tap, tap” of her father’s stick. He too listened. Then, as no sound came to his straining ears, he spoke again.

  “I must speak with you, Miss Diane,” he whispered. “Open the back door.”

  It was only after making his demand that he realized how impossible it must have sounded to the distraught girl. It was the first time, since he had set out to see her, that it occurred to him how one-sided was the proposition. She had no knowledge of his resolve to thrust his aid upon her. He told himself that she could have no possible inkling of his feelings toward her; and he waited with no little anxiety for her response.

  Nor was that response long in coming. She made another effort to dash the tears from her eyes. Then, half defiantly and half eagerly, she stepped up to the window.

  “Go round to the door, quick!” she whispered, and moved off again as though she stood in imminent peril as a consequence of her words.

  And Tresler was round at the door and standing in the shadow of the water-barrel before the bolt was slipped back. Now, as the girl raised the latch and silently opened the door, he slid within. He offered no explanation, but simply pointed to the window.

  “We must close that,” he said in a low tone.

  And Diane obeyed without demur. There was a quiet unobtrusive force about this man whenever his actions were directed into a definite channel. And Diane found herself complying without the least resentment, or even doubt as to the necessity for his orders. Now she came back to him, and raised a pair of trusting eyes to his face, and he, looking down into them, thought he had never gazed upon anything so sweetly pathetic; nor had he ever encountered anything quite so rousing as the implicit trust of her manner toward him. Whatever he had felt for her before, it was as nothing to the delicious sense of protection, the indefinable wave of responsibility, almost parental, that now swept over him. He felt that, come what might, she was his to cherish, to guard, to pilot through whatever shoals her life might hold for her. It was the effect of her simple womanly trust appealing to his manhood, unconsciously for her part, but nevertheless surely. Nor was that feeling only due to his love for her; it was largely the chivalrous instinct of a brave and strong man for a weak woman that filled his heart at that moment.

  “There is a lot for us to talk about,” he said. “A lot that others mustn’t hear,” he added thoughtfully.

  “What others?” Diane asked anxiously.

  Tresler deemed it best to avoid half measures, and answered with prompt decision—

  “Your father, for one.”

  “Then,” said Diane, steadying at once, “we had better close the door into the passage.”

  She suited the action to the word, and returned dry-eyed and calm.

  “My father?” Her question was sharp; it was a demand.

  Instead of answering her, Tresler pointed to the broken lamp on the floor.

  “You have had an accident,” he said, and his blue eyes compelled hers, and held them.

  “Yes,” she said, after the least possible hesitation. Then, not without a slight touch of resentment: “But you have not answered my question.”

  “I’ll answer that later on. Let me go on in my own way.”

  The girl was impressed with the gravity of his manner. She felt uneasy too. She felt how impossible it would be to hide anything from this man, who, quiet yet kindly, could exercise so masterful an influence over her. And there was a good deal just now she would have liked to keep from him. While they were talking she drew the sleeves of her dress down over her bruised wrists. Tresler saw the action and called her attention to the blackened flesh she was endeavoring to hide.

  “Another accident?” he asked. And Diane kept silence. “Two accidents, and—tears,” he went on, in so gentle a tone that fresh tears slowly welled up into her eyes. “That is quite unlike you, Miss—Diane. One moment. Let me look.” He reached out to take her hands, but she drew away from him. He shrugged his shoulders. “I wonder if it were an accident?” he said, his keen eyes searching her face. “It would be strange to bruise both wrists by—accident.”

  The girl held silent for a while. It was evident that a struggle was going on in her mind. Tresler watched. He saw the indecision. He knew how sorely he was pressing his advantage. Yet he must do it, if he would carry out his purpose. He felt that he was acting the brute, but it was the only way. Every barrier must be swept aside. At last she threw her head back with an impatient movement, and a slight flush of anger tinged her cheeks.

  “And what if it were no accident?”

  “The bruises or the lamp?”

  “Both.”

  “Then”—and Tresler’s tone was keenly incisive—“it is the work of some cruelly disposed person. You would not wilfully bruise yourself, Diane,” he moved nearer to her, and his voice softened wonderfully; “is there any real reason why you cannot trust me with the truth? May I not share something of your troubles? See, I will save you the pain of the telling. If I am right, do not answer me, and I shall understand. Your father has been here, and it was his doing—these things.”

  The anger had passed out of the girl’s face, and her eyes, troubled enough but yielding, looked up into his.

  “But how do you——?”

  “Some one, we both know whom, has maliciously been talking to your father,” Tresler went on, without heeding the interruption; “has been lying to him to prejudice him against me—us. And your father has accepted his tales without testing their veracity. Having done so, he has spoken to you. What has passed between you I do not know, nor shall I attempt to fathom. The result is more than sufficient for me. You are unhappy; you have been
unusually unhappy for days. You have wept much, and now you bear signs of violence on your arms.”

  Diane averted her gaze, her head was bent, and her eyes were fixed upon the broken lamp.

  “Shall I go on?” Tresler continued. “Shall I tell you the whole story? Yes, I had better.”

  Diane nodded without looking at him.

  “You know most of it, but you may not have looked at it quite in the same way that I do.” His tone was very low, there was a great depth of earnestness in it. “We are all in the midst of a foul conspiracy, and that conspiracy it is for us to break up. Your father is threatened. You know it. And you are threatened with marriage to a rascal that should be wiped off the face of the earth. And this is the work of one man whom we believe to be the scourge of the countryside; whom we call Red Mask or Jake Harnach, according to when and where we meet him. Now, is this all to go on without protest? Will you submit? Is your father to be victimized?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “No,” she said. Then with a sudden burst of passion she went on, only keeping her voice low by the greatest effort. “But what can we do? I have warned father. He has been told all that you have told me. He laughed. And I grew angry. Then he grew angry, too. And—and these things are the result. Oh, he hates you because he believes Jake’s stories. And he scorns all my accusations against Jake, and treats me worse than some silly, tattling servant girl. How can we do anything?”

  It was that last question that set fire to the powder-train. She had coupled herself with him, and Tresler, seeking only the faintest loophole, jumped at the opportunity it afforded him. His serious face softened. A slow, gentle smile crept into his eyes, and Diane was held by their caressing gaze.

  “We can do something. We are going to do something,” he said. “Not singly, but together; you and I.”