"Well, keep guessing, Bud, till I talk to Sundown." And Corliss walked slowly to the bunkhouse. He sat on the edge of the bunk and laid his hand on Sundown's sleeve. "Look here, Sun, if you know anything about this, just tell me. The money's gone and you didn't get that cut on the head trying to take it. I guess you're straight, all right, but I think you know something."
Sundown blinked and set his jaw.
Corliss observed and wisely forbore to threaten or command. "Did you recognize either of the men?" he asked, presently.
"No!" lied Sundown. "Wasn't I hit in the back of me head?"
Corliss smiled grimly. "What were you doing when you got hit?"
"Tryin' to stop the other guy—"
"What did he look like?"
"I dunno. Me lantern was on the floor. He was a hefty guy, bigger 'n you. Mebby six feet and pow'ful built. Had whiskers so's I couldn't pipe his face. Big puncher hat down over his eyes and a handkerchief tied like a mask. I was scared of him, you bet!"
Corliss slowly drew a sack of tobacco and papers from his pocket. He rolled a cigarette and puffed reflectively. Then he laughed. "I'm out about eighteen hundred. That's the first thing. Next, you're used up pretty bad and we're short-handed. Then, we're losing time trying to track the thieves. But I'm not riled up a little bit. Don't think I'm mad at you. I'm mighty glad you didn't get put out in this deal. That's where I stand. I want to find out who took the money. I don't say that I'll lift a rein to follow them. Depends on who did it."
Sundown winced, and gazed up helplessly. He felt oppressed by the broad-chested figure near him. He felt that he could not get away from—what? Not Corliss, for Corliss was undoubtedly friendly. In a flash he saw that he could not get away from the truth. Yet he determined to shield his old pal of the road. "You're sure givin' me the third degree," he said with an attempt at humor. "I reckon I got to come through. Boss, are you believin' I didn't take the cash?"
"Sure I am! But that isn't enough. Are you working for the Concho, Sun, or for some other outfit?"
"The Concho," muttered Sundown stubbornly.
"And I'm the Concho. You're working for me. Listen. I've got a yarn to spin. The man that took the money—or one of them—was short, and slim, and clean-shaved, and he didn't wear a puncher hat. You weren't scared of him because he was a coward. You tried to get him to play square and he talked to you while the other man got you from behind. That's just a guess, but you furnished the meat for it."
"Me hands are up," said Sundown.
"All right. I'm not going to get after Billy for this. You lied to me, but you lied to save your pal. Shake!"
CHAPTER X
THE STORM
Will Corliss, riding through the timberlands toward the west, shivered as a drop of rain touched his hand. He glanced up through the trees. The sky seemed clouded to the level of the pine-tops. He spurred his horse as he again felt a spatter of rain. Before him lay several miles of rugged trail leading to an open stretch across which he would again enter the timber on the edge of the hollow where Soper's cabin was concealed. When Corliss had suggested Soper's place as a rendezvous, Fadeaway had laughed to himself, knowing that old man Soper had been driven from the country by a committee of irate ranchers. The illicit sale of whiskey to the cowboys of the Concho Valley had been the cause of Soper's hurried evacuation. The cabin had been burned to the ground. Fadeaway knew that without Soper's assistance Corliss would be unable to get to the railroad—would be obliged either to return to the Concho or starve on the empty mesas.
Corliss bent his head as the rain drove faster. When he arrived at the edge of the mesa, the storm had increased to a steady dull roar of rushing rain. He hesitated to face the open and reined up beneath a spruce. He was drenched and shivered. The fever of drink had died out leaving him unstrung and strangely fearful of the night. His horse stood with lowered head, its storm-blown mane whipping in the wind like a wet cloth. A branch riven from a giant pine crashed down behind him. Corliss jerked upright in the saddle, and the horse, obeying the accidental touch of the spurs, plodded out to the mesa with head held sideways.
The rider's hands grew numb and he dropped the reins over the horn and shoved his hands in his pockets. Unaccustomed to riding he grew weary and, despite the storm, he drowsed, to awaken with a start as gusts of wind swept against his face. He raised his dripping hat and shook the water from it. Then he crouched shivering in the saddle. He cursed himself for a fool and longed for shelter and the warmth of a fire. Slowly a feeling of helplessness stole over him and he pictured himself returning to the Concho and asking forgiveness of his brother. Yet he kept stubbornly on, glancing ahead from time to time until at last he saw the dim edge of the distant timber—a black line against the darkness. He urged his horse to a trot, and was all but thrown as the animal suddenly avoided a prairie-dog hole. The sweep of the storm was broken as he entered the farther timber. Then came the muffled roll of thunder and an instant white flash. The horse reared as a bolt struck a pine. Came the ghastly whistle of flying splinters as the tree was shattered. Corliss grabbed the saddle-horn as the horse bolted through the timberlands, working against the curb to reach the open. Once more on the trail the animal quieted. They topped a gentle rise. Corliss breathed his relief. Soper's cabin was in the hollow below them.
Cautiously the horse worked sideways down the ridge, slipping and checking short as the loose stones slithered beneath his feet. At the bottom of the hollow Corliss reined up and shouted. The wind whipped his call to a thin shred of sound that was swept away in the roar of the storm. Again he shouted. As though in answer there came a burning flash of blue. The dripping trees surrounding the hollow jumped into view to be blotted from sight as the succeeding crash of thunder diminished to far titanic echoes. Where Soper's cabin had stood there was a wet, glistening heap of fallen logs and rafters, charred and twisted. The lightning flash had revealed more to the rider than the desolation of the burned and abandoned homestead. He saw with instant vividness the wrecked framework of his own plans. He heard the echo of Fadeaway's sneering laugh in the fury of the wind. He told himself that he had been duped and that he deserved it. Lacking physical strength to carry him through to a place of tentative safety, he gave up, and credited his sudden regret to true repentance rather than to weakness. He would return to the Concho, knowing that his brother would forgive him. He wept as he thought of his attitude of the repentant and broken son returning in sorrow to atone for his sin and shame. He magnified his wrongdoing to heroic proportions endeavoring to filch some sentimental comfort from the romantic. He it was that needed the sympathy of the world and not his brother John; John was a plodder, a clod, good enough, but incapable of emotion, or the finer feelings. And Eleanor Loring… she could have saved him from all this. He had begun well; had written acceptable verse… then had come her refusal to marry him. What a fool he had been through it all! The wind and rain chastised his emotional intoxication, and he turned shivering to look for shelter. Dismounting, he crept beneath a low spruce and shivered beneath the scant covering of his saddle-blanket. To-morrow the sun would shine on a new world. He would arise and conquer his temptation. As he drifted to troubled sleep he knew, deep in his heart, that despite his heroics he would at that moment have given the little canvas sack of his brother's money for the obliterating warmth of intoxication.
With the morning sun he rose and saddled. About to mount, his stiffened muscles blundered. He slipped and fell. The horse, keen with hunger, jumped away from him and trotted down the trail. He followed shouting. His strength gave out and he gave up the chase, wondering where the horse would go. Stumbling along the slippery trail, he cursed his clumsiness. A chill sweat gathered on his face. His legs trembled and he was forced to rest frequently. Crossing a stream, he stooped and drank. Then he toiled on, eagerly scanning the hoof-prints in the rain-gutted trail.
The sun was high when he arrived at the wagon-road above the Concho. Dazed and weak, he endeavored to determine which direction th
e horse had taken. The heat of the sun oppressed him. He became faint, and, crawling beneath the shade of a wayside fir, he rested, promising himself that he would, when the afternoon shadows drifted across the road, make his way to the Concho. He had slept little more than an hour when the swift patter of hoofs wakened him. As he got to his feet, a buckboard, drawn by a pair of pinto range-ponies, drew up. Corliss started back. The Mexican driving the ponies turned toward the sweet-faced Spanish woman beside him as though questioning her pleasure. She spoke in quick, low accents. He cramped the wagon and she stepped to the road. The Señora Loring, albeit having knowledge of his recent return to Antelope, his drinking, and all the unsavory rumors connected with his return, greeted Corliss as a mother greets a wayward son. She set all this knowledge aside and spoke to him with the placid wisdom of her years and nature. Her gentle solicitude touched him. She had been his foster-mother in those years that he and his brother had known no other fostering hand than that of old Hi Wingle, the cook, whose efforts to "raise" the Corliss boys were more largely faithful than discriminating.
Señora Loring knew at a glance that he was in trouble of some kind. She asked no questions, but held out her hands.
Corliss, blind with tears, dropped to his knee: "Madre! Madre!" he cried.
She patted his head. "You come with me. Then perhaps you have to say to me that which now you do not say."
He shook his head, but she paid no attention, leading the way to the buckboard. He climbed beside the driver, then with an ejaculation of apology, leaped to the road and helped her in.
"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?"
Again he shook his head. "I can't. I—"
She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.
"I'll tell you when—when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."
"I know," she said.
Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.
They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, and crossed the ford. The clustered adobes of the Loring homestead glimmered in the sun. Corliss glanced across the river toward the Concho. Again the Señora Loring questioned him with a glance.
He shook his head. "Away—anywhere," he said, gesturing toward the horizon.
"You come home with me," she said quietly. "Nellie is not at the home to-day. You rest, and then perhaps you go to the Concho."
As they entered the gateway of the Loring rancho, Corliss made as though to dismount. The Señora Loring touched his arm. He shrugged his shoulders; then gazed ahead at the peaceful habitation of the old sheep-herder.
The Señora told the driver to tie the team and wait. Then she entered the house. Corliss gazed about the familiar room while she made coffee. Half starved, he ate ravenously the meal she prepared for him. Later, when she came and sat opposite, her plump hands folded in her lap, her whole attitude restful and assuring, he told her of the robbery, concealing nothing save the name of Fadeaway.
Then he drew the canvas sack from his pocket. "I thought I could go back and face it out, but now, I can't. Will you—return it—and—tell John?"
She nodded. "Si! If you wish it so, my son. You would not do that as I would tell you—so I say nothing. I can only—what you say—help, with my hands," and she gestured gracefully as though leading a child. "You have money to go away?"
"No, madre."
"Then I give you the money." And the Señora, ignoring his half-hearted protests, stepped to an adjoining room and returned. "Here is this to help you go. Some day you come back strong and like your father the big John Corliss. Then I shall be much glad."
"I'll pay it back. I'll do anything—"
But she silenced him, touching his lips with her fingers. "No. The promise to make is not so hard, but to keep… Ah! When you come back, then you promise; si?"
Not a word of reproof, not a glance or a look of disapproval, yet Corliss knew that the Señora's heart was heavy with sorrow for him. He strode to the doorway. Señora Loring followed and called to the driver. As Corliss shook hands with her, she kissed him.
An anger against himself flushed his cheek. "I don't know which road I'll take, madre,—after I leave here,—this country. But I shall always remember… And tell Nell… that…" he hesitated.
The Señora smiled and patted his arm. "Si! I understand."
"And, madre, there is a man—vaquero, or cook, a big man, tall, that they call Sundown, who works for the Concho. If you see him, please tell him—that I sent it back." And he gestured toward the table whereon lay the little canvas sack of gold. "Good-bye!"
He stepped hurriedly from the veranda, climbed to the seat of the buckboard, and spoke to the driver. For a long time the Señora stood in the doorway watching the glint of the speeding ponies. Then she went to her bedroom and knelt before the little crucifix. Her prayer was, strangely enough, not for Will Corliss. She prayed that the sweet Madonna would forgive her if she had done wrong.
CHAPTER XI
CHANCE—CONQUEROR
Sundown's return to the camp occasioned some indirect questioning and not a little comment. He told the story of his adventure at the Concho in detail up to the point of his conversation with Will Corliss. Then he lapsed into generalities, exhibiting with some little pride the wound on his head as evidence of his attempt to prevent the robbery and incidentally as a reason for being unable to discourse further upon the subject. His oft-repeated recital invariably concluded with, "I steps in and tries to stop the first guy when Wham! round goes the room and I takes a sleep."
The men seemed satisfied with Sundown's graphic account in the main. Hi Wingle, the cook, asked no questions, but did a great deal of thinking. He was aware that Will Corliss had returned to the Concho, and also, through rumor, that Corliss and Fadeaway had been together in Antelope. The fact that the robbers failed to get the money—so it was given out—left the drama unfinished, and as such it lacked sustained interest. There would be no bandits to capture; no further excitement; so the talk eventually drifted to other subjects.
The assistant cook's evident melancholy finally gave place to a happier mood as he realized that he had gained a modicum of respect in a camp where hitherto he had been more or less of a joke. While he grieved over the events which led up to his newly attained prestige as a man of nerve, he was not a little proud of the prestige itself, and principally because he lacked the very quality of courage that he was now accredited with. Perhaps the fact that he had "played square," as he saw it, was the true foundation of his attitude.
He discharged his duties as assistant cook with a new and professional flourish that amused the riders. When they rolled from their blankets in the crisp air of the morning, they were never kept waiting for their coffee, hot bread, and frijoles. Moreover, he always had a small fire going, around which he arranged the tin plates, cups, knives and forks. This additional fire was acceptable, as the cooking was done on a large sheet-iron camp-stove, the immediate territory of which was sacred to Hi Wingle. Wingle, who had been an old-timer when most of the Concho hands were learning the rudiments of the game, took himself and his present occupation seriously. His stove was his altar, though burnt offerings were infrequent. He guarded his culinary precincts with a watchful eye. His attitude was somewhat akin to that of Cardinal Richelieu in the handkerchief scene, "Take but one step within these sacred bounds and on our head I'll lunch the cuss of Rum," or something to that effect. He was short, ruddy, and bald, and his antithesis, Sundown, was a source of constant amazement to him. Wingle had seen many tall men, but never such an elongated individual as his assistant. It became the habit of one or another of the boys to ask the cook the way to the distant Concho, usually after the evening meal, when they were loafing by the camp-fire. Wingle would thereupon scratch his head and assume an air of intense concentration. "Well," he would invariably remark, "you take the trail along Sundown's shadder there, and keep a-fannin' it smart for about three hours. When you come to the end of the shadder, take the right fork of
the river, and in another hour you'll strike the Concho. That's the quickest way." And this bit of attenuated humor never failed to produce an effect.
One morning, about a week after Sundown's return to his duties as assistant, while Wingle was drying his hands, preparatory to reading a few pages of his favorite novel, Sundown ambled into camp with an armful of greasewood, dumped it near the wagon, and, straightening up, rolled a cigarette.
Wingle, immersed in the novel, read for a while and then glanced up questioningly.
Sundown shook his head.
"Now this here story," said Wingle; "I read her forty-three times come next round-up, and blamed if I sabe her yet. Now, take it where the perfesser—a slim gent with large round eye-glasses behind which twinkled a couple of deep-set studyus eyes—so the book says; now, take it where he talks about them Hopi graves over there in the valley—"
"This here valley?" queried Sundown, immediately interested.
"Sure! Well, I can sabe all that. I seen 'em."
"Seen 'em?"
"Sure! Why Arizona's got more leavin's of history and dead Injuns and such, right on top of the ground, than any other State in the Union. Why, right over there in the cañon of the Concho there's a hull ruined Injun village—stones piled up in little circles, and what was huts and caves and the leavin's of a old irrigatin' ditch and busted ollas, and bones and arrow-heads and picture-writin' on the rocks—bears and eagles and mounting-lions and hosses—scratched right on the rocks. Them cliffs there is covered with it."
"Them?" queried Sundown, pointing toward the cañon, "Do they charge anything to see it?"
"Well, seein' they been dead about a thousand years, I reckon not."
"A thousand years! Huh! I ain't scared of no Injuns a thousand years old. How far is it to them picture-things?"
Sundown Slim Page 8
