There was that in his manner that made the girl droop her eyelids. There was a warmth, a light in his eyes he had never permitted her to see before, and her woman’s instinct set her heart beating fast, so fast that she trembled and fidgeted nervously.
“Diane,” he went on, reaching out and quietly taking possession of one of her hands, and raising it till the bared wrist displayed the cruel bruise encircling it, “no man has a right to lay a hand upon a woman to give her pain. A woman has a right to look to her men-folk to protect her, and when they fail her, she is indeed in sore straits. This,” touching the bruises with his finger, “is the work of your father, the man of all who should protect you. You are sadly alone, so much alone that I cannot see what will be the end of it—if it is allowed to go on. Diane, I love you, and I want you, henceforward, to let me be your protector. You will need some whole-hearted support in the future. I can see it. And you can see it too. Say, tell me, little girl, fate has pitched us together in a stormy sea, surely it is for me to aid you with all the loving care and help I can bestow. Believe me, I am no idle boaster. I do not even say that my protection will be worth as much as that of our faithful old Joe, but, such as it is, it is yours, whether you take me with it or no, for as long as I live.”
Diane had had time to recover from her first embarrassment. She knew that she loved this man; knew that she had done so almost from the very first. He was so different from the men she had known about the ranch. She understood, and acknowledged without shame, the feeling that had prompted her first warning to him. She knew that ever since his coming to the ranch he had hardly ever been out of her thoughts. She had never attempted to deceive herself about him. All she had feared was that she might, by some chance act, betray her feelings to him, and so earn his everlasting contempt. She was very simple and single-minded. She had known practically no association with her sex. Her father, who had kept her a willing slave by his side all her life, had seen to that. And so she had been thrown upon her own resources, with the excellent result that she had grown up with a mind untainted by any worldly thought. And now, when this man came to her with his version of the old, old story, she knew no coquetry, knew how to exercise no coyness or other blandishment. She made no pretense of any sort. She loved him, so what else was there to do but to tell him so?
“Joe has been my faithful protector for years, Mr. Tresler,” she replied, her sweet round face blushing and smiling as she raised it to him, “and I know his value and goodness. But—but I’d sooner have you—ever so much.”
And of her own accord she raised her other hand to his and placed it trustfully within his only too willing clasp. But this was not sufficient for Tresler. He reached out and took her in his powerful arms and drew her to his breast. And when he released her there were tears again in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness.
“And now, sweetheart, we must be practical again,” he said. “If I am to be your protector, I must not allow my inclination to interfere with duty. Some day, when you are my wife, we shall be able to look back on this time and be proud of our restraint. Just now it is hard. It is a moment for kisses and happy dreams, and these things are denied us——”
He broke off and started as the flutter of the linen blind behind him drew his attention.
“I thought you shut the window,” he said sharply.
“I thought I did; perhaps I didn’t quite close it.”
Diane was about to move over to investigate, but Tresler restrained her.
“Wait.”
He went instead. The window was open about six inches. He closed and bolted it, and came back with a smile on his face that in no way deceived the girl.
“Yes, you left it open,” he said.
And Diane’s reply was an unconvinced “Ah!”
“Now let us be quick,” he went on. “Jake may threaten and bully, but he can do nothing to really hurt you. You are safe from him. For, before anything can possibly happen—I mean to you—I shall be on hand to help you. Joe is our watch-dog, asking his pardon. You can take heart in the thought that you are no longer alone. But developments are imminent, and I want you to watch your father closely, and endeavor to ascertain Jake’s attitude toward him. This is my fear—that Jake may put some nefarious scheme, as regards him, into operation; such schemes as we cannot anticipate. He may even try to silence me, or make me ineffective in some way before such time comes along. He may adopt some way of getting rid of me——”
“What way?” There was a world of fear and anxiety in Diane’s question, and she drew up close to him as though she would protect him with her own frail body.
Tresler shrugged. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter; I have my plans arranged. The thing that is of more importance is the fact that the night-riders are abroad again. I saw them on my way here. At the same spot where I saw them before. This time I shall not conceal my knowledge of the fact.”
“You mean you will tell Jake—to his face?”
Diane gave a little gasp, and her beautiful eyes fixed themselves apprehensively upon his. They had in their depths a soft look of admiration, in spite of her anxiety and fear. But Tresler saw nothing of that. He took her question seriously.
“Certainly; it is my only means of getting into line of battle. By this means I shall make myself the centre of open attack—if all our surmises be true. It is getting late and I must go. I want to witness the return of the ruffians.”
A silence fell. The man had said it was time for him to go, but he found it hard to tear himself away. He wanted to say so much to her; he wanted to ask her so much. Diane, half shyly, came a step nearer to him, and, though her face was smiling bravely, a pucker wrinkled her brows.
“Mr. Tresler——”
“I was christened ‘John.’”
“John, then.” The girl blushed faintly as she pronounced the name, which, spoken by her, seemed to seal the bond between them. “Is it absolutely necessary to tell Jake? Is it absolutely necessary to put yourself in such peril? Couldn’t you——”
But she got no further. Her lover’s arms were about her in an instant. He caught her to him in a great embrace and kissed her pleading, upturned face.
“Yes, yes, yes, child. It is absolutely necessary. No, you can’t go yet,” as she struggled feebly to free herself. “I ought to leave you now, yet I can hardly tear myself away. I have heaps to ask you: about yourself, your life, your father. I want to learn all there is in your little head, in your heart, little girl. I want to make our bond of love one of perfect sympathy and understanding of each other; of trust and confidence. It is necessary. We come together here with storm-clouds gathering on our horizon; with the storm actually breaking. We come together under strange and unusual circumstances, and must fight for this love of ours. Ours will be no flower-strewn path. This much I have fully realized; but it only makes me the more determined to see it through quickly. We have to fight—good. We will be early in the field. Now good-night, sweetheart. God bless you. Trust to me. Whatever I do will be done after careful deliberation; with a view to our common goal. If I am wrong, so much the worse. I will do all that is given me to do. And, last, remember this. Should anything happen to me, you have two friends who will never let Jake marry you. They are Joe and Arizona. Now, good-bye again.”
“But nothing will happen to you—Jack?”
Every vestige of independence, every atom of the old self-reliance had gone from the girl’s manner. She clung to him, timid, loving, a gentle, weak woman. Her whole soul was in her appeal and the look she bestowed.
“I hope not. Courage, little woman. I remember the white dress, the sad, dark little face beneath the straw sun-hat of the girl who knew no fear when two men held thoughts of slaying each other, and were almost in the act of putting them into execution. You must remember her too.”
“You are right, Jack. I will be brave and help you, if I can. Good-bye.”
They kissed once more, and Tresler hurried from the room with the precipita
ncy of a man who can only hold to his purpose by an ignominious flight from temptation.
Outside the door he paused, turned, and closed it carefully after him. And then he listened intently. He had in no way been deceived by the window business. He knew, as Diane knew, that she had closed it. Some hand from outside had opened it; and he wondered whose had been the hand, and what the purpose.
When he passed out of the kitchen, the whole aspect of the night had changed. There was not a star visible, and the only light to guide him was that which shone through the window. He waited while Diane bolted the door, then, as nothing appeared to cause him alarm, he moved off. He had to pass round the shed where Joe slept. This was an addition to the kitchen, and quite shut off from the house. He groped his way along the wall of it till he came to the door, which stood open. He was half inclined to go in and rouse the little choreman. He felt that he would like to tell his old friend of his luck, his happiness. Then it flashed through his mind that, seeing the door was open, Joe might still be abroad. So he contented himself with listening for the sound of his breathing. All was still within; his conjecture was right. Joe had not yet turned in.
He was puzzled. Where was Joe, and what was he doing at this hour of the night?
He moved on slowly now. His thoughts were fully occupied. He was not the man to let a single detail pass without careful analysis. And the matter was curious. Especially in conjunction with the fact of the open window. He attributed no treachery to Joe, but the thing wanted explanation. He rounded the building, and as he did so understood the change in the weather. A sharp gust of wind took him, and he felt several drops of rain splash upon his face. A moment later a flash of lightning preceded a distant rumble of thunder.
He quickened his pace and drew out into the open, leaving the shadow of the woods behind him as he turned toward the ranch buildings. The light in the kitchen had been put out. Evidently Diane had already gone to bed. He stepped out briskly, and a moment later another flash of lightning revealed the window close beside him. He mechanically stretched out a hand and felt along the sill. It was tightly closed all right. A crash of thunder warned him of the quick-rising summer storm that was upon him, and the rain was coming down with that ominous solidity which portends a real, if brief, deluge. He started at a run. A drenching at that hour was unpleasant to contemplate. He had intended witnessing the return of the night-riders, but, under the circumstances, that was now out of the question.
He had only gone a few paces when he brought up to a stand. Even amidst the noisy splashing of the rain, he thought he heard the sound of running feet somewhere near by; so he stood listening with every nerve straining. Then the promised deluge came and drowned every other sound. It was no use waiting longer, so he hurried on toward his quarters.
A dozen strides further on and the sky was split from end to end with a fork of lightning, and he was brought to a dead halt by the scene it revealed. It was gone in an instant, and the thunder crashed right above him. He had distinctly seen the figures of two men running. One was running toward him, and, curiously enough, the other was running from his left rear. And yet he had seen them both. Utterly heedless of the rain now, he waited for another flash. There was something strange doing, and he wished to fathom the mystery.
The duration of the storm was only a matter of a few minutes. It seemed to have spent itself in one flash of lightning and one peal of thunder. The second flash was long in coming. But at last a hazy sheet of white light shone for a second over the western sky, revealing the ghostly shadow of a man coming at him, bearing in his upraised hand some heavy weapon of offense. He leapt to avoid the blow. But he was too late. The weapon descended, and, though he flung his arms to protect himself, the darkness foiled him, and a crushing blow on the head felled him to the ground. And as he fell some great noise roared in his ears, or so it seemed, and echoed and reëchoed through his head. Then he knew no more.
All sound was lost in the deluge of rain. The sky was unrelieved by any further flashes of light for many minutes. Then, at last, one came. A weak, distant lighting up of the clouds, overhead, but it was sufficient to show the outstretched form of the stricken man lying with his white face staring up at the sky. Also it revealed a shadowy figure bending over him. There was no face visible, no distinct outline of form. And this figure was moving, and appeared to be testing the lifeless condition of the fallen man.
Half an hour later the rain ceased, but the water was still racing down the hill in little trickling rivulets toward the ranch buildings. And as rapidly as the storm had come up so the sky cleared. Again the stars shone out and a faint radiance dimly outlined the scene of the attack.
Within fifty yards of the rancher’s house Tresler was still stretched out upon the ground, but now a different figure was bending over him. It was a well-defined figure this time, a familiar figure. A little man with a gray head and a twisted face.
It was Joe Nelson trying, by every rough art his prairie life had taught him, to restore animation and consciousness in his friend. For a long time his efforts were unavailing; the task seemed hopeless. Then, when the little man had begun to fear the very worst, his patient suddenly moved and threw out his legs convulsively. Once the springs of life had been set in motion, the hardy constitution asserted itself, and, without further warning, Tresler sat bolt upright and stared about him wonderingly. For a few seconds he sat thus, then, with a movement of intense agony, one hand went up to his head.
“My God! What’s the matter with me? My head!”
He slowly rocked himself for a brief spell; then, with another start, he recognized his friend, and, with an effort, sprang to his feet.
“Joe!” he cried. Then he reeled and would have fallen but for the supporting arm about his waist.
“You wer’ nigh ‘done up.’ Say, I wus kind o’ rattled. I’d shaddered that feller fer an hour or more, an’ then lost him. Gee!” And there was an infinite expression of disgust in the exclamation.
“Him! Who?”
“Ther’s on’y one feller around here hatin’ you fit to murder, I guess.”
“You mean—Jake?” asked Tresler, in a queer tone.
“Sure,” was the emphatic reply.
“But, Joe, I saw the night-riders go out to-night. Not more than half an hour before the storm came on.”
The little man made no answer, but quietly urged his patient forward in the direction of the bunkhouse.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII
THE BEARDING OF JAKE
That night was one that lived long in Tresler’s memory. Weary in mind and body, he was yet unable to sleep when at last he sought his bunk. His head was racked with excruciating pain, which hammered through his brain with every pulsation of his throbbing temples. But it was not that alone which kept him awake. Thought ran riot with him, and his mind flew from one scene to another without concentration, without continuity, until he felt that if sleep did not come he must go mad.
He had talked late into the night with his shrewd counselor, Joe; and the net result of their talk was that all their theories, suspicions, deductions, were wrong. Jake and Red Mask were not one and the same. In all probability Jake had nothing to do with the ruffianly raider.
They were driven to this ultimate conclusion by the simple fact that while Tresler had been witnessing the movements of the masked night-rider, Joe had been zealously dogging the footsteps of the foreman in the general interests of his mistress. And that individual’s footsteps had never once taken him to the rancher’s private stable.
Jake had evidently been out on the spy himself. Of this Joe was certain, for the man had scoured the woods in the direction of the river; he had watched the trail from the rancher’s stable for nearly half an hour; he had crept up to the verandah of the house under cover of the darkness, seeking Joe knew not what, but always on the alert, always with the unmistakable patience of a man by no means new to such a task. Once Joe had missed him in the woods. Somehow, like a gigantic sh
adow, Jake had contrived to give him the slip. And this, on comparing notes, the two friends found coincided with the time of the episode of the unclosed window. Doubtless he had been the author of that matter. They made up their minds that he had witnessed the scene in the kitchen, which, of course, accounted for his later dastardly attack. Who had Jake been out looking for? What was the object of his espionage? Had he been looking for him, Tresler, or some one else? And herein lay the mystery. Herein, perhaps, lay the key to the greater problem they sought to solve.
Hour after hour Tresler lay awake, lost in a confusion of thought which refused his best efforts to straighten out. The acuteness of the pain in his head set his mind almost wandering. And he found himself aimlessly reviewing the events since his coming to Mosquito Bend. He tossed wearily, drearily, on his unyielding palliasse, driven to a realization of his own utter impotence. What had he done in the cause he had espoused? Nothing—simply nothing. Worse; he had thrust himself like some clumsy, bull-headed elephant, into the girl’s life, into the midst of her troubles, without even that animal’s capacity for attaining his object by sheer might. And the result was only to aggravate her lot; to cause Jake to hasten his plans, and add threats to his other persecutions. And as for the raiders, they were still at large and no nearer capture than when he had first arrived. Yes, he told himself, he had nothing but failure to his account. And that failure, instead of being harmlessly negative, was an aggravation of the situation.
But at last, miserable, overwrought, and suffering as he was, sleep came to him; a deep sleep that carried him far into the morning.
He had been left undisturbed by his comrades when they turned out at daybreak. Joe had seen to this. He had put them off with an invention of his fertile imagination which satisfied them. Then, having hurried through his own immediate morning duties, he waited, with that philosophic patience which he applied now in his declining years to all the greater issues of his life, for his friend’s awakening.
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