by Grey, Zane
Raidy snorted his disgust. "An' you once a wild-hoss hunter! Say, if Red had RUN off he'd never have come back. I asked you to take a peep at them marks on him. But you keep huggin' the hoss an' you won't look."
"Old-timer, I'm so happy to get him back that I don't want to do anythin' else. Besides, Raidy, on the square, I'd hate to have it proved he'd been stolen."
"Stolen? That's nonsense, I tell you," interposed Dillon, testily.
"Red took a little run an' come home. I've had many a hoss do it."
"Not wild hosses, Mister Dillon," snapped Raidy.
"What do you know about hosses, Raidy?"
"Wal, I reckon I've forgot more'n you ever knew," retorted the older man. "I ain't doubtin' you've HAD a lot of hosses, Dillon, but you didn't RAISE them--you didn't CATCH them--an' you didn't KEEP them long."
This was pretty plain speaking, as was evinced by Ben's stepping between the men, and the dark flash that wiped out Dillon's geniality.
"What're you hintin' at?" he queried.
"I'm not hintin'. I'm tellin' you, that's all. An' you can like it or lump it."
Ben raised a hand to silence Raidy. "That'll do. You're both privileged to your opinions, but don't get nasty."
"All right, boss," replied Raidy, in an aggrieved tone. "But my word is sort of ridiculed hyar. An' I'm askin' thet you look at these marks on Red. If you won't I reckon I'll take it as a slap at me, an' I'll quit you cold."
"Raidy!" exclaimed Ben, astounded.
"You know me, boss," returned the old horseman, sturdily.
Ben wavered. It was plain to Hettie that he hoped to keep peace between, the old and new hands, so valuable to him now. But Raidy had thrown down his gage and he looked formidable.
"Ben," called Hettie, from the fence, "you've known Raidy all your life. He taught you how to ride. It's only fair that you listen to him."
"All right, Raidy, if you feel that bad about it," replied Ben, resignedly.
Again the old horseman ran his gentle, skillful hands over Red's supple body, down to the wonderfully muscled legs. "Look hyar," said Raidy, as he stooped. "He's been hobbled. See! He's been gone TEN days. Thet mark was made no more'n yesterday."
"Reckon you're right," admitted Ben, as he slowly arose. "I apologize."
"No apology wanted," said Raidy. "All I want is for you to come out of your trance. . . . Now look hyar. Look at Red's nose.
He's been roped."
"By thunder! There's been a hackamore on him," ejaculated Ben.
Dillon was not to be outwitted, and he had swiftly followed Ben's examination of the horse.
"Damn if Raidy isn't right boss," he exploded, evidently regretful.
"I hadn't even looked at Red. But there are the marks, plain as print. . . . I apologize, too, Raidy. My mistake."
"Wal, Mister Dillon, I'm acceptin' your apology," drawled Raidy, his keen old hawk eyes on the handsome foreman.
Hettie was riding beside Marvie, across the western end of the sage flat, toward the fence which marked the limit of Ben Ide's ranch land.
Marvie dismounted to open the gate for them, and when he vaulted to the saddle again he grinned. "Nobody but Raidy saw us, an' he won't tell. But Ben would stand for anythin' to-day. Gee! how he loves that red horse!"
"He does indeed. Well, I love California Red, too."
"Ben's daffy over him. Gave me a hundred dollars, just for seein'
Red first!"
"Early to bed, early to rise, makes a boy healthy, wealthy, and--"
"Gee! I do feel rich!" interrupted Marvie. "An' I'd like to fly to town an' back. But it'll keep."
"Marvie, were you looking at Dillon when he first came on us and saw Red?" inquired Hettie.
"No, I wasn't. Why?" returned Marvie, turning to eye her.
"He struck me as being more amazed than any of us, and NOT so happy."
"Ahuh!" replied Marvie. It was evident that he chose to be noncommittal. Hettie, however, did not fail to catch the glint in his eye.
"Raidy and Dillon are at odds," she continued. "That's plain."
"Wasn't Dillon the slick one, though, when he turned the tables on Raidy?" rejoined Marvie, as if impelled.
"Yes. He's too clever for men. It takes a woman to see through him."
"I'll bet DAYLIGHT will show through him--presently," returned Marvie, in dark significance.
"Marv, you are absorbing a lot of Arizona."
"Here's where we turn off, Hettie," said Marvie, as he left the road. "Narrow trail, but good. Look out for the brush an' duck the branches. Ride now!"
He spurred his horse into a lope and Hettie did likewise. Soon they entered the forest, where the shade was welcome and no dust arose. Hettie had been on this trail several times, though not to go very far. It led west, toward the brakes and the frowning dark notches of the Mogollons, dim and purple in the distance. Soon they passed the limit of Hettie's experience in that direction, a fact which gave her a thrill. She scarcely had a chance, however, to look at the scenery, for Marvie was making time, and she had to watch her horse and the low branches.
They rode perhaps five miles before the trail began to penetrate deeper into the forest and to ascend into rockier and rougher country. They climbed high, and Hettie had a glimpse now and then of the red desert far to the north, and the black slopes beneath her, falling away to the west. She soon gathered what the brakes of the Mogollons meant. The brakes were canyons, running like the ridges of a washboard, walled with brush and rock, choked with dense thickets, above which the lofty pines and spruces towered.
Ridge after ridge Marvie climbed and descended, until coming to a deeper, clearer canyon he turned off to follow a willow-bordered stream.
As they progressed, again riding at a lope, the canyon widened and deepened, the walls grew rugged and unscalable, the fringe of pines on the rims lifted higher, and every aspect of the wilderness seemed likewise intensified. The time came when the horses had to walk again, down and down, under narrow gray shelves of stone, under the massed foliage of maple, oak, aspen, all beginning to show a tint of autumn, especially the fluttering aspens, just turning to gold. The stream grew larger, swifter, deeper, and its mellow roar filled the dreamy solitude.
At corners, where the trail turned, Marvie always exercised a caution which added more than romance to Hettie's feelings. This adventure grew with the miles. How dark, still, lonely some of the constrictions in this brake of the Mogollons!
Turkeys ran fleetly from the open grass patches into the thickets; deer walked up the steep wooded slopes; elk stopped their browsing on the willows to gaze at the disturbers of their solitude; beaver slipped off their muddy dams to make swirls in the still green pools; squirrels chattered; jays squalled; ravens croaked; hawks sailed across the blue strip of sky overhead.
"Somewhere along here we'll meet her," whispered Marvie, fearfully.
"It always scares me. That Cedar Hatt might be prowlin' along the rim to spy us. Rose is cute, though. I've waited half a day before she came."
They wound along the crooked trail, and if it were possible, Hettie imagined every vista wilder and more hauntingly beautiful than the last. The white bleached grass, the green willows, the amber rocks, the rushing foaming brook, the thickets of oak and aspen, russet and gold, the wonderful walls rising sheer, stained and mossy, gray and purple, up to the ragged fringed rims--all these aided the movement of leaves, the flash of birds, the fragrance of pine, the utter solitude, into working an enchantment upon Hettie's senses. No wonder Marvie had fallen in love with his wild Rose.
"I see her horse," whispered Marvie, as he halted. "She'll be near. We'll get off now. I'll hide our horses in the aspen thicket."
Hettie got off to hand her bridle to him, and waited while he led their mounts out of sight. How noiselessly he moved! Marvie had become a woodsman. Soon he returned and led her off the trail into the grass.
"Anyone ridin' along behind us would sure see our tracks," he whispered. "But that's a slim chance. You see it's a
n old unused trail here. The Hatts live over in the next canyon."
"She's a brave kid, to meet you this way. And you're not such a coward, Marvie, boy," returned Hettie.
He led her up a gradual grassy slope, into the protecting shelter of low pines and silver spruces. "Look at the elk beds," he whispered, pointing to round places where grass and moss had been flattened.
Hettie espied a ragged red pony, without a saddle, haltered to a sapling. Then she saw a dark curly head rise above the tall grass.
Next moment Marvie was speaking low: "Hettie, this is Rose Hatt. . . . Rose, I've fetched her. This's Hettie Ide, my best friend an' sort of sister."
As Hettie sank down, smiling, with hands outstretched, the girl rose to her knees, her eyes dilating, her face without color.
"Rose, I'm glad--to meet you," whispered Hettie, pantingly, and she kissed the girl.
"Oh, Miss Ide--you're good to come," faltered Rose. She was trembling all over. This child of the wilderness was nothing less than terrified at meeting one of Marvie's kin.
Marvie knelt beside Rose, and it was evident this was a torturing moment for him, too. The romance and excitement had passed. Ben Ide's sister was now face to face with the daughter of rustler and backwoodsman Elam Hatt, with the sister of notorious Cedar Hatt.
"Hettie, I reckon Rose won't be so scared an' shy if I leave you alone with her," said Marvie. "So I'll keep watch below. An' don't forget we haven't lots of time."
Then with a bright and reassuring look at Rose he slipped off under the low-spreading trees. Hettie turned to the girl, trying to think of words to put her at ease. How like a woodland wild flower! Rose wore a buckskin blouse fringed and beaded, a ragged brown skirt, and boots without stockings. She held a sprig of tiny aspen leaves, turning gold.
"Rose, since Marvie loves you, I must love you, too," said Hettie, speaking not what she had intended, but the words that welled from her heart. She did not need to be told that Rose Hatt had never had love of mother, sister, or friend. The girl gave a little gasping cry of wonder and pain, then fell into Hettie's arms, where she burst into tears.
This made the ordeal easier for Hettie, and she held the girl in silence until the paroxysms of weeping had subsided. Then she began to talk, kindly, soothingly, as if to a child, saying she hardly knew what, until the moment came when she felt she might venture a question. But before she could ask it Rose sat up, wiped her wet face, and smiled through her tears.
"Marvie was right," she said. "It's sure good to see you, hear you, now I'm over my scare. I'll never forget you till my dyin' day."
"Rose, you love Marvie, very much?" said Hettie, venturing to open the serious interview.
"Yes," replied the girl, simply. "I couldn't help it. But I didn't know at first. Not till the dance."
"Then you two have pledged your troth?"
"If you mean told our love, yes--Miss Ide. But I didn't promise to marry Marvie."
"He asked you, of course?"
"He begged me to," replied the girl, lifting her head with pride.
"Why did you refuse?"
"I love Marvie too well to hurt him with you an' all his family."
"Do you mean you think you'd disgrace him and us because you're a Hatt?"
"Yes, an' a good deal more I haven't told Marvie," she went on, steady of voice, though her round breast heaved. "Cedar would come down on Marvie an' you an' your brother Ben for money. An' so would another man whose name I daren't tell. He--this man--has got a hold on Cedar--an' me. He'd ruin us all."
"Rose, that's a strong statement," said Hettie. "But even if it isn't exaggerated it doesn't change the fact that you and Marvie ought to wait. You're both very young."
"I'm not exaggeratin'. I could tell you more. An' about marryin'--
Marvie's reason for hurry is to get me away from the life I live.
It's tumble, Miss Ide. I have to cook, wash, scrub for an outfit of rustlers an' hoss-thieves. Look at my hands! Look at the black marks--here--an' there. I get kicked an' beat. Marvie knows an' he can't stand it any longer."
"Could you not leave this home?" queried Hettie, earnestly.
"I've thought of that. Yes. I could. My dad wouldn't care. But I'd have to be a servant--or worse."
"No, indeed. Rose, you could come to my home."
"Oh, how--wonderful!" gasped the girl, rapturously clasping her hands. "But that'd be 'most the same as marryin' Marvie, so far as Cedar an'--that other man are concerned. . . . No, it'd never do.
But thank you--bless you!"
"Rose, we mustn't despair," continued Hettie, touched to the heart by this girl's sincerity. "Time will help us. If you could only escape this--this drudgery and shame."
"That's the hope which keeps me up, Miss Ide. If I could only tide over a little time! Cedar is goin' to hell fast. He's rustlin', gamblin', drinkin' harder than ever. He's under the thumb of--the man I daren't squeal on."
"But why daren't you?"
"Because if HE didn't kill me, Cedar would. I'm the only one outside of this Pine Tree outfit who KNOWS. An' my life ain't worth much."
"Pine Tree outfit!" echoed Hettie, her eyes lighting. "That's the mysterious gang of rustlers."
"It sure is. I'm trustin' you with my life, Miss Hettie. But I daren't tell more. Nobody knows how secrets slip out. You might talk in your sleep."
"Naturally. But I think you could risk it, considering I sleep alone," said Hettie. "Rose, this IS a plot. We're all involved.
Your people and mine. What a tangle! It must have been fate that brought you and Marvie together. Oh, if I only knew how best to advise you."
"Reckon I wish so, too. But I've got a hunch. It's my job to stick home--to fool my people--to learn all I can--to fight that devil off who--who . . . I must see Marvie very seldom an' be sure we're never ketched. Somethin' will happen, Miss Ide. You've made me feel it. You made things different. Neither Cedar--nor HIM, can last long in this country. Not now. I heard my dad say so. . . . Oh, this is the second time my hopes have risen. Oh, I wish I could tell you of another friend I found lately. I forgot. . . . But he came to my house an' there was hell. I listened at night through the chinks of the logs. Cedar was wild.
Cash Burridge was there. 'We've got a big deal on,' says Cash.
An' that pleased all the gang except Cedar. They set to whisperin' an' I heard no more."
"Rose--isn't your friend--Jim Lacy?" whispered Hettie, haltingly, with dry lips.
The girl caught her breath and drew back sharply, wonder the most predominant of her varying emotions.
"There, you have betrayed it," continued Hettie, forcefully, trying to command her voice. "Call Marvie now. We will plan another meeting, then hurry home. I've enough to think of--this time."
Rose silently slipped away under the pines, and Hettie, staring at the green-walled foliage, seemed to see a ghost. "Oh, my God!" she whispered in agony. "Nevada belongs to this thieving, vile crew!"
Chapter sixteen.
Frost fell early in September on the high rims of the Mogollons.
Soon after the sun set the rarefied air became cold and sharp, making a campfire something to draw the riders and hunters, and other men of the woodland.
A group of five dark-faced, dark-garbed campers sat around a beautiful opal-hearted cedar fire, at the wild edge of Black Butte, where it fell sheer into the brakes. Three of the men were playing cards, cross-legged in front of a saddle blanket, intensely intent on the greasy bits of colored pasteboard and the piles of gold coin and rolls of greenbacks. They were gambling--the absorbing pastime of all dyed-in-the-wool rustlers.
The other two men occupied a position on the opposite side of the fire. One had his back and his outspread palms to the blaze, while the other sat against a log.
"Hell, Jim," swore the standing man, flicking a hand toward the gamblers, "they couldn't hear the crack of doom. They'll gamble there all night or till one of them has all the money. An' what difference would it make now--if they did hear what
you say?"
"Wal, Cash, the fact is I'm not used to crowds," replied the other.
"It takes long to get acquainted. An' you know I can never be shore of any man."
"That's the price you pay for leadership. Reckon it's the same among honest businessmen in the world as among rustlers an' gunmen.
But I didn't mean to split hairs over it. I was just complainin' because you're so close-mouthed."
"What of it, Burridge?" queried Jim, somewhat acidly. "I shore talk plenty to you, don't I, when we're alone?"
"Course you do, Jim," answered Burridge. "All I want to get at is this. If you'd loosen up a little more, drink an' gamble a little, especially when we run into other outfits, it'd facilitate our plans."
"I reckon, Cash," returned Jim, wearily. "But how can I have a quick eye an' hand if I drink? I'll agree, though, to be more friendly an' set in a game now an' then."
"Good! Reckon that'll do. Lord, Jim, don't get me wrong! Ever since you called Hardy Rue out an' killed him I've been ready to crawl an' wear my fingernails off scratchin' for you. I mayn't have been your friend back in Lineville, but I sure love you now.
You've put me on my feet again."
"Wal, Cash, that's plain talk," replied Jim. "An' I don't mind sayin' I like you better than I used to. But I can't love any man or even be pards."
"Sure, sure I understand," returned Burridge, hastily. "An' I'm damn glad for small favors. But you needn't tell that to our gang or any of these outfits we meet. They all think you were my pard back in California an' are yet. Burt Stillwell would have shot me, surer than the Lord made little apples. But he was afraid of you.
He was undecided. He couldn't be himself, an' I'm tellin' you he was a bad hombre."
"Aw, bad, yes, in a sense of dirty yellow behind-your-back viciousness," agreed Jim, flashing a quick eloquent hand. "I hate to throw a gun on such fodder. But he forced it. He kept still till he got a few drinks. Then he r'iled up aboot Ben Ide's red horse, an' he put in that ridiculous claim for his pard, Cedar Hatt. Wanted a share of the divvy for the cattle--for this Hatt fellow."
"The hell he did! Well, I wondered what it was about. But I was so glad I didn't feel no curiosity," returned Burridge; he turned round to kick the fire-logs. Then again he faced his companion.
