by Unknown
But if this girl should go home, he could not show his face at Mesa; and the spice of the thing would be gone. He was greatly taken with her beauty, her daring, and the charm of high spirits which radiated from her. Again and again he had found himself drawn back to her. He was not in love with her in any legitimate sense; but he knew now that, if he could see her no more, life would be a savorless thing, at least until his fancy had spent itself. Moreover, her presence at Dead Man's Cache would be a safeguard. With her in his power, Lee and Flatray, the most persistent of his hunters, would not dare to move against the outlaws.
Inclination and interest worked together. He decided to take her back with him to the country of hidden pockets and gulches. There, in time, he would win her love--so his vanity insisted. After that they would slip away from the scene of his crimes, and go back to the world from which he had years since vanished.
The dream grew on him. It got hold of his imagination. For a moment he saw himself as the man he had been meant for--the man he might have been, if he had been able to subdue his evil nature. He saw himself respected, a power in the community, going down to a serene old age, with this woman and their children by his side. Then he laughed derisively, and brushed aside the vision.
"Why didn't the real Lieutenant O'Connor arrive to expose you?" she asked.
"The real Bucky is handcuffed and guarded at Dead Man's Cache. I don't think he's enjoying himself to-day."
"You're getting quite a collection of prisoners. You'll be starting a penitentiary on your own account soon," she told him sharply.
"That's right. And I'm taking another one back with me to-night."
"Who is he?"
"It's a lady this time--Miss Melissy Lee."
His words shook her. An icy hand seemed to clamp upon her heart. The blood ebbed even from her lips, but her brave eyes never faltered from his.
"So you war on women, too!"
He gave her his most ironic bow. "I don't war on you, my dear. You shall have half of my kingdom, if you ask it--and all my heart."
"I can't use either," she told him quietly. "But I'm only a girl. If you have a spark of manliness in you, surely you won't take me a prisoner among those wild, bad men of yours."
"Those wild, bad men of mine are lambs when I give the word. They wouldn't lift a hand against you. And there is a woman there--the mother of one of my boys, who was shot. We'll have you chaperoned for fair."
"And if I say I won't go?"
"You'll go if I strap you to your saddle."
It was characteristic of Melissy that she made no further resistance. The sudden, wolfish gleam in his eyes had told her that he meant what he said. It was like her, too, that she made no outcry; that she did not shed tears or plead with him. A gallant spirit inhabited that slim, girlish body; and she yielded to the inevitable with quiet dignity. This surprised him greatly, and stung his reluctant admiration. At the same time, it set her apart from him and hedged her with spiritual barriers. Her body might ride with him into captivity; she was still captain of her soul.
"You're a game one," he told her, as he helped her to the saddle.
She did not answer, but looked straightforward between her horse's ears, without seeing him, waiting for him to give the word to start.
CHAPTER VI
IN DEAD MAN'S CACHE
Not since the start of their journey had Melissy broken silence, save to answer, in few words as possible, the questions put to her by the outlaw. Yet her silence had not been sullenness. It had been the barrier which she had set up between them--one which he could not break down short of actual roughness.
Of this she could not accuse him. Indeed, he had been thoughtful of her comfort. At sunset they had stopped by a spring, and he had shared with her such food as he had. Moreover, he had insisted that she should rest for a while before they took up the last stretch of the way.
It was midnight now, and they had been traveling for many hours over rough mountain trails. There was more strength than one would look for in so slender a figure, yet Melissy was drooping with fatigue.
"It's not far now. We'll be there in a few minutes," MacQueen promised her.
They were ascending a narrow trail which ran along the sidehill through the timber. Presently they topped the summit, and the ground fell away from their feet to a bowl-shaped valley, over which the silvery moonshine played so that the basin seemed to swim in a magic sea of light.
"Welcome to the Cache," he said to her.
She was surprised out of her silence. "Dead Man's Cache?"
"It has been called that."
"Why?"
She knew, but she wanted to see if he would tell a story which showed so plainly his own ruthlessness.
He hesitated, but only for a moment.
"There was a man named Havens. He had a reputation as a bad man, and I reckon he deserved it--if brand blotting, mail rustling, and shooting citizens are the credentials to win that title. Hard pressed on account of some deviltry, he drifted into this country, and was made welcome by those living here. The best we had was his. He was fed, outfitted, and kept safe from the law that was looking for him.
"You would figure he was under big obligations to the men that did this for him--wouldn't you? But he was born skunk. When his chance came he offered to betray these men to the law, in exchange for a pardon for his own sneaking hide. The letter was found, and it was proved he wrote it. What ought those men to have done to him, Miss 'Lissie?"
"I don't know." She shuddered.
"There's got to be law, even in a place like this. We make our own laws, and the men that stay here have got to abide by them. Our law said this man must die. He died."
She did not ask him how. The story went that the outlaws whom the wretched man had tried to sell let him escape on purpose--that, just as he thought he was free of them, their mocking laughter came to him from the rocks all around. He was completely surrounded. They had merely let him run into a trap. He escaped again, wandered without food for days, and again discovered that they had been watching him all the time. Turn whichever way he would, their rifles warned him back. He stumbled on, growing weaker and weaker. They would neither capture him nor let him go.
For nearly a week the cruel game went on. Frequently he heard their voices in the hills about him. Sometimes he would call out to them pitifully to put him out of his misery. Only their horrible laughter answered. When he had reached the limit of endurance he lay down and died.
And the man who had engineered that heartless revenge was riding beside her. He had been ready to tell her the whole story, if she had asked for it, and equally ready to justify it. Nothing could have shown her more plainly the character of the villain into whose hands she had fallen.
They descended into the valley, winding in and out until they came suddenly upon ranch houses and a corral in a cleared space.
A man came out of the shadows into the moonlight to meet them. Instantly Melissy recognized his walk. It was Boone.
"Oh, it's you," MacQueen said coldly. "Any of the rest of the boys up?"
"No."
Not a dozen words had passed between them, but the girl sensed hostility. She was not surprised. Dunc Boone was not the man to take second place in any company of riff-raff, nor was MacQueen one likely to yield the supremacy he had fought to gain.
The latter swung from the saddle and lifted Melissy from hers. As her feet struck the ground her face for the first time came full into the moonlight.
Boone stifled a startled oath.
"Melissy Lee!" Like a swiftly reined horse he swung around upon his chief. "What devil's work is this?"
"My business, Dunc!" the other retorted in suave insult.
"By God, no! I make it mine. This young lady's a friend of mine--or used to be. Sabe?"
"I sabe you'd better not try to sit in at this game, my friend."
Boone swung abruptly upon Melissy. "How come you here, girl? Tell me!"
And in three sentences she exp
lained.
"What's your play? Whyfor did you bring her?" the Arkansan demanded of MacQueen.
The latter stood balanced on his heels with his feet wide apart. There was a scornful grin on his face, but his eyes were fixed warily on the other man.
"What was I to do with her, Mr. Buttinski? She found out who I was. Could I send her home? If I did how was I to fix it so I could go to Mesa when it's necessary till we get this ransom business arranged?"
"All right. But you understand she's a friend of mine. I'll not have her hurt."
"Oh, go to the devil! I'm not in the habit of hurting young ladies."
MacQueen swung on his heel insolently and knocked on the door of a cabin near.
"Don't forget that I'm here when you need me," Boone told Melissy in a low voice.
"I'll not forget," the girl made answer in a murmur.
The wrinkled face of a Mexican woman appeared presently at a window. MacQueen jabbered a sentence or two in her language. She looked at Melissy and answered.
The girl had not lived in Southern Arizona for twenty years without having a working knowledge of Spanish. Wherefore, she knew that her captor had ordered his own room prepared for her.
While they waited for this to be made ready MacQueen hummed a snatch of a popular song. It happened to be a love ditty. Boone ground his teeth and glared at him, which appeared to amuse the other ruffian immensely.
"Don't stay up on our account," MacQueen suggested presently with a malicious laugh. "We're not needing a chaperone any to speak of."
The Mexican woman announced that the bedroom was ready and MacQueen escorted Melissy to the door of the room. He stood aside with mock gallantry to let her pass.
"Have to lock you in," he apologized airily. "Not that it would do you any good to escape. We'd have you again inside of twenty-four hours. This bit of the hills takes a heap of knowing. But we don't want you running away. You're too tired. So I lock the door and lie down on the porch under your window. Adios, señorita."
Melissy heard the key turn in the lock, and was grateful for the respite given her by the night. She was glad, too, that Boone was here. She knew him for a villain, but she hoped he would stand between her and MacQueen if the latter proved unruly in his attentions. Her guess was that Boone was jealous of the other--of his authority with the gang to which they both belonged, and now of his relationship to her. Out of this division might come hope for her.
So tired was she that, in spite of her alarms, sleep took her almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. When she awakened the sun was shining in at her window above the curtain strung across its lower half.
Some one was knocking at the door. When she asked who was there, in a voice which could not conceal its tremors, the answer came in feminine tones:
"'Tis I--Rosario Chaves."
The Mexican woman was not communicative, nor did she appear to be sympathetic. The plight of this girl might have moved even an unresponsive heart, but Rosario showed a stolid face to her distress. What had to be said, she said. For the rest, she declined conversation absolutely.
Breakfast was served Melissy in her room, after which Rosario led her outdoors. The woman gave her to understand that she might walk about the cleared space, but must not pass into the woods beyond. To point the need of obedience, Rosario seated herself on the porch, and began doing some drawn work upon which she was engaged.
Melissy walked toward the corral, but did not reach it. An old hag was seated in a chair beside one of the log cabins. From the color of her skin the girl judged her to be an Indian squaw. She wore moccasins, a dirty and shapeless one-piece dress, and a big sunbonnet, in which her head was buried.
Sitting on the floor of the porch, about fifteen feet from her, was a hard-faced customer, with stony eyes like those of a snake. He was sewing on a bridle that had given way. Melissy noticed that from the pocket of his chaps the butt of a revolver peeped. She judged it to be the custom in Dead Man's Cache to go garnished with weapons.
Her curiosity led her to deflect toward the old woman. But she had not taken three steps toward the cabin before the man with the jade eyes stopped her.
"That'll be near enough, ma'am," he said, civilly enough. "This old crone has a crazy spell whenever a stranger comes nigh. She's nutty. It ain't safe to come nearer--is it, old Sit-in-the-Sun?"
The squaw grunted. Simultaneously, she looked up, and Miss Lee thought that she had never seen more piercing eyes.
"Is Sit-in-the-Sun her name?" asked the girl curiously.
"That's the English of it. The Navajo word is a jawbreaker."
"Doesn't she understand English?"
"No more'n you do Choctaw, miss."
A quick step crunched the gravel behind Melissy. She did not need to look around to know that here was Black MacQueen.
"What's this--what's this, Hank?" he demanded sharply.
"The young lady started to come up and speak to old Sit-in-the-Sun. I was just explaining to her how crazy the old squaw is," Jeff answered with a grin.
"Oh! Is that all?" MacQueen turned to Melissy.
"She's plumb loony--dangerous, too. I don't want you to go near her."
The girl's eyes flashed. "Very considerate of you. But if you want to protect me from the really dangerous people here, you had better send me home."
"I tell you they do as I say, every man jack of them. I'd flay one alive if he insulted you."
"It's a privilege you don't sublet then," she retorted swiftly.
Admiration gleamed through his amusement. "Gad, you've got a sharp tongue. I'd pity the man you marry--unless he drove with a tight rein."
"That's not what we're discussing, Mr. MacQueen. Are you going to send me home?"
"Not till you've made us a nice long visit, my dear. You're quite safe here. My men are plumb gentle. They'll eat out of your hand. They don't insult ladies. I've taught 'em----"
"Pity you couldn't teach their leader, too."
He acknowledged the hit. "Come again, dearie. But what's your complaint? Haven't I treated you white so far?"
"No. You insulted me grossly when you brought me here by force."
"Did I lay a hand on you?"
"If it had been necessary you would have."
"You're right, I would," he nodded. "I've taken a fancy to you. You're a good-looking and a plucky little devil. I've a notion to fall in love with you."
"Don't!"
"Why not? Say I'm a villain and a bad lot. Wouldn't it be a good thing for me to tie up with a fine, straight-up young lady like you? Me, I like the way your eyes flash. You've got a devil of a temper, haven't you?"
They had been walking toward a pile of rocks some little way from the cluster of cabins. Now he sat down and smiled impudently across at her.
"That's my business," she flung back stormily.
Genially he nodded. "So it is. Mine, too, when we trot in double harness."
Her scornful eyes swept up and down him. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth."
"No. Well, I'm not partial to that game myself. I didn't mention matrimony, did I?"
The meaning she read in his mocking, half-closed eyes startled the girl. Seeing this, he added with a shrug:
"Just as you say about that. We'll make you Mrs. MacQueen on the level if you like."
The passion in her surged up. "I'd rather lie dead at your feet--I'd rather starve in these hills--I'd rather put a knife in my heart!"
He clapped his hands. "Fine! Fine! That Bernhardt woman hasn't got a thing on you when it comes to acting, my dear. You put that across bully. Never saw it done better."
"You--coward!" Her voice broke and she turned to leave him.
"Stop!" The ring of the word brought her feet to a halt. MacQueen padded across till he faced her. "Don't make any mistake, girl. You're mine. I don't care how. If it suits you to have a priest mumble words over us, good enough. But I'm the man you've got to get ready to love."
"I hate you."
"That's a good start, you little catamount."
"I'd rather die--a thousand times rather."
"Not you, my dear. You think you would right now, but inside of a week you'll be hunting for pet names to give me."
