The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  The old man took a grip on his rising wrath. "No--we're not kicking, any more than you've got a right to kick when we settle accounts with you."

  "As we're liable to do right shortly, now we've got you," said Dixon, vindictively.

  "All right--go ahead with the indictment," Weaver acquiesced quietly, ignoring the boy.

  "Keep still, Tom," Sanderson ordered, and went on with his grievance. "You try to run this valley as if you were God Almighty. By your way of it, a man has to come with hat in hand to ask you if he may take up land here. The United States says we may homestead, but Buck Weaver says we shan't. Uncle Sam says we may lease land to run sheep. Buck Weaver has another notion of it. We're to take orders from him. If we don't he clubs our sheep and drives off our cattle."

  "Cattle were here first," retorted Weaver. "The range is overstocked, and they've got a prior right. Nesters in the hills here are making money by rustling Twin Star calves. That's another thing."

  "Some of them. You'll not find any rustled calves with the Seven Mile brand on them. And we don't recognize any prior right. We came here legally. We intend to stay. Every time your riders club a bunch of our sheep, we'll even up on Twin Star cattle. You take my daughter captive; I hold you prisoner."

  "You'll be in luck if you get away from here with a whole skin," broke out Phil. "You came here to please yourself, but you'll stay to please us."

  "So?" Buck smiled urbanely. He was staying because he wanted to, though they never guessed it.

  "Unbuckle his gun belt, Tom," ordered the old man.

  "Save you the trouble." Weaver unbuckled the belt and tossed it, revolver and all, to Yeager.

  "Now, Mr. Weaver, we'll adjourn to the house."

  "Anything to oblige."

  "What about Mr. Keller?" Phyllis asked, in a low voice, of her father.

  The old man's keen, hard eyes surveyed the stranger. "Who is he? What do you know about him?"

  As shortly as she could, she told what she knew of Keller, and how he had rescued her from captivity.

  Her father strode forward and shook hands with the young man.

  "Make yourself at home, seh. We'll be glad to have you stay with us as long as you can. What you have done for my daughter puts us everlastingly in your debt."

  "Not worth mentioning. And, to be fair, I think Weaver was going to bring her home, anyhow."

  "The way the story reached me, he didn't mention it until you had the drop on him," answered Sanderson dryly.

  "That's right," nodded the cattleman ironically, from the porch. "You're the curly-haired hero, Keller, and I'm the red-headed villain of this play. You want to beware of the miscreant, Miss Sanderson, or he'll sure do you a meanness."

  Tom Dixon eyed him frostily. "I expect you'll not do her any meanness, Buck Weaver. From now on, you'll go one way and she'll go another. You'll be strangers."

  "You don't say!" Buck answered, looking him over derisively, as he passed into the house. "You're crowing loud for your size. And don't you bet heavy on that proposition, my friend."

  CHAPTER XI

  TOM DIXON

  With whoops and a waving of caps boys burst out of one door, while girls came out of the opposite one more demurely, but with the piping of gay soprano voices. For school was out, and young America free of restraint for eighteen hours at least. Resilient youth, like a coiled spring that has been loosed, was off with a bound. Horses were saddled or put to harness. The teacher came to the door, hand in hand with six-year-olds, who clung to her with fond good-bys before they climbed into the waiting buggies. The last straggler disappeared behind the dip in the road.

  The girl teacher turned from waving her fare-wells--to meet the eyes of a young man fastened upon her. Light-blue eyes they were, set in a good-looking, boyish face, that had somehow an effect of petulancy. It was not a strong face, yet it was no weaker than nine out of ten that one meets daily.

  "Got rid of your kiddies, Phyl?" the young man asked, with an air of cheerful confidence that seemed to be assumed to cover a doubt.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. "They have just gone--all but little Jimmie Tryon. He rides home with me."

  "Hang it! We never seem to be alone any more since you came back," complained the man.

  "Why should we?" asked the young woman, her gaze apparently as frank and direct as that of a boy.

  But he understood it for a challenge. "You didn't use to talk that way. You used to be glad enough to see me alone," he flung out.

  "Did I? One outgrows childish follies, I suppose," she answered quietly.

  "What's the matter with you?" he cried angrily. "It's been this way ever since----"

  He broke off.

  A faint, scornful smile touched her lips. "Ever since when, Tom?"

  "You know when well enough. Ever since I shot Buck Weaver."

  "And left me to pay forfeit," she suggested quickly, and as quickly broke off. "Hadn't we better talk of something else? I've tried to avoid this. Must we thrash it out?"

  "You can't throw me over like that, after what's been between us. I reckon you pretend to have forgotten that I used to keep company with you."

  A flush of annoyance glowed through the tan of her cheeks, but her eyes refused to yield to his. "Nonsense! Don't talk foolishness, Tom. We were just children."

  "Do you mean that everything's all off between us?"

  "We made a mistake. Let us be good friends and forget it, Tom," she pleaded.

  "What's the use of talking that way, Phyl?" He swung from the saddle, and came toward her eagerly. "I love you--always have since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. We're going to be married one of these days."

  She held up a hand to keep him back. "No--we're not. I know now that you're not the right man for me, and I'm not the right girl for you."

  "I'm the best judge of that," he retorted.

  She shook her head with certainty. It seemed a lifetime since this boy had kissed her at the dance and she had run, tingling, from his embrace. She felt now old enough in experience to be his mother.

  "No, Tom--let us both forget it. Go back to your other girls, and let me be just a friend."

  "I haven't any other girls," he answered sullenly. "And I won't be put off like that. You've got to tell me what has come between us. I've got a right to know, and I'm going to know."

  "Yes, you have a right--but don't press it. Just let it go at this: I didn't know my own mind then, and I do now."

  "It's something about the shooting of Buck Weaver," he growled uneasily.

  She was silent.

  "Well?" he demanded. "Out with it!"

  "I couldn't marry a man I don't respect from the bottom of my heart," she told him gently.

  "That's a dig at me, I reckon. Why don't you respect me? Is it because I shot Weaver?"

  "You shot him from ambush."

  "I didn't!" he protested angrily. "You know that ain't so, Phyl. I saw him riding down there, as big as coffee, and I let him have it. I wasn't lying in wait for him at all. It just came over me all of a heap to shoot, and I shot before----"

  "I understand that. But you shouldn't have shot without giving warning, even if it was right to shoot at all--which, of course, it wasn't."

  "Well, say I did wrong. Can't you forgive a fellow for making a mistake?"

  "It isn't a question of forgiveness, Tom. Somehow it goes deeper than that. I can't tell you just what I mean."

  "Haven't I told you I'm sorry?" he demanded, with boyish impatience.

  "Being sorry isn't enough. If you can't see it then I can't explain."

  "You're sore at me because I left you," he muttered, and for very shame his eyes could not meet hers.

  "No--I'm not sore at you, as you call it. I haven't the least resentment. But there's no use in trying to hide the truth. Since you ask for it, you shall have it. I don't want to be unkind, but I couldn't possibly marry you after that."

  The young man looked sulkily across the valley, his lips trembling with vexation and th
e shame of knowing that this girl had been a witness of that scene when he had fled like a scared rabbit and left her to bear the brunt of what he had done.

  "You told me to go, and now you blame me for doing what you said," he complained bitterly.

  She realized the weakness of his defense--that he had saved himself at the expense of the girl he claimed to love, simply because she had offered herself as a sacrifice in his place. She thought of another man, who, at the risk of his life, had held back the half dozen pursuers just to give a better chance to a girl he had not known a week. She thought of the cattleman who had ridden gayly into this valley of enemies, because he loved her, and was willing to face any punishment for the wrong he had done her. Her brother, too, pointed the same moral. He had defied the enemy, though he had been in his power. Not one of them would have done what Tom Dixon, in his panic terror, had allowed himself to do. But they were men, all of them--men of that stark courage that clings to self-respect rather than to life. This youth had met the acid test, and had failed in the assay. She had no anger toward him--only a kindly pity, and a touch of contempt which she could not help.

  "No--I don't blame you, Tom," she told him, very kindly. "But I can't marry you. I couldn't if you explained till Christmas. That is final. Now let us be friends."

  She held out her hand. He looked at it through the tears of mortification that were in his eyes, dashed it aside with an oath, swung to the saddle, and galloped down the road.

  Phyllis gave a wistful sigh. Tears filmed her eyes. He was her first lover, had given her apples and candy hearts when he was in the third grade and she learning her A, B, C. So she felt a heartache to see him go like this. Their friendship was shattered, too. Nor had she experience enough to know that this could not have endured, save as a form, after the wrench he had given it. Yet she knew him well enough now to be sure that it was his vanity and self-esteem that were hurt, and not his love. He would soon find consolation among the other ranch girls, upon whom he had been used to lavish his attentions at intervals when she was not handy to receive them.

  "Was Tom Dixon mean to you, teacher?"

  Little five-year-old Jimmie Tryon was standing before her, feet apart, fists knotted, and brow furrowed. She swooped upon her champion and snatched him up for a kiss.

  "Nobody has been mean to teacher, Jimmie, you dear little kiddikins," she cried. "It's all right, honey. Tom thinks it isn't, but before long he'll know it is."

  "Who'll tell him?" Jimmie wanted to know anxiously.

  "Some nice girl, little curiosity box. I don't know who yet, but it will be one of two or three I could name," she laughed.

  She harnessed the horse and hitched it to the trap in which Jimmie and she came to school. But before she had gathered up the reins to start, another young man strolled upon the scene.

  This one was walking and carried a rifle.

  At sight of him a glow began to burn through her dark cheeks. They had not been alone together before since that moment when the stress of their emotion had swept them to a meeting of warm lips and warm bodies that had startled her by the electric pulsing of her blood.

  Her eyes could not hold to his. Shame dragged the lashes down.

  With him it was not shame. The male in him rode triumphant because he had moved a girl to the deeps of her nature. But something in him, some saving sense of embarrassment, of reverence for the purity and innocence he sensed in her, made him shrink from pressing the victory. His mind cast about for a commonplace with which to meet her.

  He held up as a trophy of his prowess two cottontails. "Who says I can't shoot?" he wanted to know boisterously.

  "Where did you buy them?" she scoffed, faintly trying for sauciness.

  "That's a fine reward for honest virtue, after I tramped five miles to get them for your supper," protested Keller.

  She recovered her composure quickly, as women will.

  "If they are for my supper, we'll have to ask him to ride home with us--won't we, Jimmie? It would never do to have them reach the ranch too late," she said, making room for Keller in the seat beside her.

  It was after she had driven several hundred yards that he said, with a smile: "I met a young man on horseback as I was coming up. He went by me like a streak of light. Looked like he found this a right mournful world. You had ought to scatter sunshine and not gloom, Miss Phyllis."

  "Am I scattering gloom?" she asked demurely.

  "Not right now," he laughed. "But looks like you have been."

  She flicked a fly from the flank of her horse before she answered: "Some people are so noticing."

  "It was hanging right heavy on him. Had the look of a man who had lost his last friend," the young man observed meditatively.

  "Dear me! How pathetic!"

  "Yes--he sure looked like he'd rejoice to plug another cattleman. I 'most arranged to send for Buck Weaver again," said Keller calmly.

  Phyllis turned on him eyes brilliant with amazement. "What's that you say?"

  "I said he looked some like he'd admire to go gunning again."

  "Yes, but you said too----"

  "Sho! I've been using my eyes and ears. I never did find that story of yours easy to swallow. When I discovered from your brother that you was riding with Tom Dixon the day Buck was shot, and when I found out from 'Rastus that the gun that did the shooting was Dixon's, I surely smelt a mouse. Come to mill the thing out, I knew you led Buck's boys off on a blind trail, while the real coyote hunted cover."

  "He isn't a coyote," she objected.

  Larrabie thought of the youth with a faint smile of scorn. He knew how to respect an out-and-out villain; but there was no bottom to a man who would shoot from cover without warning, and then leave a girl to bear the blame of his wrongdoing. "No--I reckon coyote is too big a name for him," he admitted.

  "Buck Weaver ruined his father and drove him from his homestead. It was natural he should feel a grudge."

  "That's all right, too. We're talking about the way he settled it. How come you to let him do it?"

  "I was riding about twenty yards behind him. Suddenly I saw his gun go up, and stopped. I thought it might be an antelope. As soon as he had fired, he turned and told me he had shot Weaver. The poor boy was crazy with fear, now that he had done it. I took his gun and made him hide in the big rocks, while I cut across toward the cañon. The men saw me, and gave chase."

  "They fired at you. Thank God, none of them hit you," said Keller, with emphasis.

  Her swift gaze appreciated the deep feeling that welled from him. "Of course they did not know I was a woman. All they could see was that somebody was riding through the chaparral."

  "Jimmie, what do you think of a girl game enough to take so big a chance to save a friend? Deserves a Carnegie medal, don't you reckon?" Keller put the question to the third passenger, using him humorously as a vent to his feelings.

  Phyllis did not look at him, nor he at her. "And what do you think of a man game enough to take the same chance to save a girl who was not even a friend?" the girl asked of little Jimmie, as lightly as she could.

  "Wasn't she? Well, if my friends will save my life every time I need them to, like this enemy did, I'll be satisfied with them a-plenty."

  "He stood by her, too," she answered, trying to keep the matter impersonal.

  "Perhaps he wanted to make her his friend," Larrabie suggested.

  "There is no perhaps about his success," she said quietly, her gaze just beyond the ears of her horse. The young man dared now to look at her--a child of the sun despite her duskiness. Eagerly he awaited the deep, lustrous eyes that would presently sweep round upon him, big and dark and sparkling. When she turned her head, they were full of that new womanly dignity that yet did not obscure the shy innocence.

  "Look!" Jimmie Tryon pointed suddenly to the figure of a man disappearing from the road into the mesquite two hundred yards in front of them.

  "That's odd. I reckon you'd better wait here, and let me investigate a few," suggested Keller.r />
  "Be careful," she said anxiously.

  "It's all right. Don't worry," the young man assured her.

  He got down from the trap and dived into the underbrush, rifle in hand. The two in the buggy waited a long time. No sound came to them from the cactus-covered waste to indicate what was happening. When Phyllis' watch told her that he had been gone ten minutes, a cheerful hail came from the road in front.

  "All right. Come on."

  But it was far from all right. Keller had with him an old Mexican herder, called Manuel Quito--a man in the employ of her father. A bandanna was tied round his shoulder, and it was soaked with bloodstains. He told his story with many shrugs and much excited gesticulation. He and Jesus Menendez had been herding on Lone Pine when riders of the Twin Star outfit had descended upon them and attacked the sheep. He and Menendez had elected to fight, and Jesus had been shot down; he himself had barely escaped with his life--and that not without a wound. The cow-punchers had followed him, and continued to fire at him, but he had succeeded in escaping. Yes--he felt sure that Menendez was dead. Even if he had not been dead at first, they would have killed him.