by Zane Grey
“But you’re in love with him. That’s what has ailed you ever since you went to Flag. Anybody could see you were lovesick. Aren’t you?”
“Ma, I’m shore sick aboot somethin’,” replied Molly.
“For Heaven’s sake, then, why didn’t you accept him?”
“Because I’m Molly Dunn of the Cibeque.”
Then indeed the storm broke over Molly, though it was so vastly different from what she had anticipated that instead of casting her down it began to do the opposite. In fact her mother presented a most interesting and amusing study, after the first tirade about Molly’s lack of family pride. Molly learned that she was a granddaughter of Rose Hillyard of Virginia, and had bluer blood than any Traft who ever lived.
“Didn’t I always try to keep these West Fork louts away from you?” demanded Mrs. Dunn, in protest at the outrageous way she had been foiled. “Didn’t I bring you up different? You always were somebody, Molly Dunn. And that’s where your father and me split. Now, it’s proved. You’re courted by a fine young chap. He must be mad about you—to tell it in the street. They said his being a tenderfoot didn’t make him any the less a fighter from way back. … Molly, this young fellow will go far out here in the West. He’s got stuff in him. He’s nephew to old Jim Traft, they tell me, who owns ranches all over, and eighty thousand head of stock. … You can’t refuse to marry him. Why, it’ll be our salvation!”
Molly had to listen and she dared not voice her protest. Moreover she was as much amazed as her mother was indignant. She could not understand this sudden right about face in regard to her admirers. Temporary relief, however, came with an interruption in shape of the arrival of several young men, bringing Slinger home.
For once her mother’s tongue stopped its wagging. Arch Dunn was a spectacle to behold. He could walk, but that was about all, and he rewarded the kindly offices of those who had escorted him by driving them off. Both Mrs. Dunn and Molly stood back, afraid to approach or speak, and almost afraid to look. Slinger dragged himself around to the back porch, where he sagged to his bed.
“Arch—can I do anythin’?” faltered Molly.
“Wal, I reckon since I cain’t do for myself,” was the surprising answer.
Molly hastened to get a pan of water, soap and bandages and salve, and hurried to his side. She divined that by this incident she would either gain or lose a brother. She unbuckled the long spurs, shuddering at the bloodstains on one of them. Arch had got what he deserved. The imprint of hobnails on his face appeared to be a brand. He had been treated to a dose of his own medicine. But the fatal issue might be now that he would kill Jim Traft. Molly prayed and hoped. Could not the same thing, almost, that had happened to her, happen to Arch? She pulled off his boots, and then his wet and torn shirt. The mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt actually made it heavy.
It was not pleasant to look into her brother’s visage. Yet pity and tenderness came to her aid.
“Much obliged, Molly,” he said, when she had finished what little she could do. “Was you in town when the cyclone hit?”
“Yes, Arch. I—I saw it,” she replied, thrilled that he would talk to her in such wise. She prayed for something to make the moment helpful for this wayward brother.
“Did you see him lick me?”
She murmured an affirmative.
“My Gawd! who’d ever thunk it? A Missourie tenderfoot!—But, Molly, he had it on me. I never was so hurted in all my fights. He must have binged my nose a thousand times. I could have bellared out.”
“Arch, you must have—have hurt him very much, too,” said Molly. “He was all bloody.”
“Shore. I reckon so. I’d have cut him to pieces—I was thet mad. … Molly, I got too mad. An’ at thet he hurt me wuss with his sharp tongue.”
“It’d not have been so—so bad if you hadn’t tried to ’rooster’ him.”
“Wal, all’s fair in thet kind of a fight. I don’t care aboot thet any more’n I care aboot his lickin’ me. He’s simply a better man. I told them so. … But I reckon there’s another way.”
“Arch, you—you’ll meet Jim—force him to draw?”
“Thet’d be natural-like, wouldn’t it?”
“From the stand of the Cibque, yes. But there’s a bigger way to meet it, If you forced him to draw, you’d kill him!”
“Huh! I’m not so damn shore of thet. Mister Jim Traft is a surprisin’ hombre.”
“Arch, I shan’t beg you again,” went on Molly, eloquently, “but I’ll pray.”
“Pray? What fer?”
“For you to see clear.”
“How’n hell can I see anyway with both eyes shet?”
“Brother, I mean see with your spirit.”
“Aw, you talk like thet parson who was shot heah onct. … Molly, did Traft want to marry you?” Solemnly Molly nodded.
“I cain’t see very well. Talk. Honest now—did he?”
“Yes, Arch—an’ that justified my faith in him.”
“Reckon a fellar could do no more. … An’ you wouldn’t take him up ’cause you was Slinger Dunn’s sister?”
“That was one reason,” admitted Molly.
“What you mean?”
“Well, you’ve a reputation that to civilized folks would look terrible.”
“Molly, I’ll gamble there’s wuss men than me. It ain’t nuthin’ to pack a gun an’ use it when you’re crowded. … Now the day up the canyon. I shore gave young Traft a long time to shoot. An’ he had a rifle in his hands.”
“That’s what’s wrong aboot it, Arch. He wouldn’t want to kill you in the first place—an’ second, when you met him he’d forget he had a gun. Or be scared.”
“Scared! Thet hombre? He was orful scared of me today! Nope, it’s jest gun-slingin’ wasn’t brought up with him.”
“It’d be plain murder.”
“Wal, I’ll let him off—providin’ you agree to marry him.”
“Arch!” whispered Molly, at once rapt and stricken.
“Only deal you can make with me, an you bet it’s a hard one to swaller.”
Molly knew Slinger Dunn and that she must grasp at straws. “I—I’ll—take-you-up, Arch,” she said, in a strangled voice. “If he—asks me—any more.”
“Don’t worry none, sister. Thet hombre will be heah today. An’ you can make him ask you again. Reckon, though, he’ll wait till dark—not wantin’ you to see his mug. I shore bunged him up.”
Molly trembled on the brink of the precipice to which she had been driven. She dared not look over. She must leap with closed eyes.
“Did you—rooster him bad?” she asked.
“Nope. Only scratched him. But I was shore leg-gin’ it fer him when he ducked an’ grabbed me. … Fetch me a drink. I’m shore parchin’.”
Presently Molly stole away to her nest under the roof, thankful to let well enough alone, so far as Slinger was concerned. To secure his promise not to kill Jim was more than she had hoped for, at any cost. And that cost! What a terrible thing to take upon herself! If Jim did not ask her again and soon, he would not live very long. Slinger kept his promises. Molly felt that she would die for Jim and it was not so very much worse to have to marry him. The prospect dazzled and terrified her. If Jim would live in a log cabin and let her work for him! that would be heaven. But he would want to take her away from the Cibeque—from the woods! from Maple Spring! and wear stockings and live in the mansion of a ranch-house at Flagerstown, and meet his rich old uncle—his other relatives—and his mother. Molly was overcome at the thought. She could not do it. But to save his life she would do anything. She sank on her bed with a sensation as if her breast was caved in. And there she lay, like a wounded deer, for hours, and never could have accounted for them.
She crawled down to help get supper and she took some to Arch, who could not eat, and she sat at table more to avoid clash with her mother than to satisfy hunger.
In the dusk she wandered along outside the lane, irresistibly drawn. Her mother and brother were fo
ols. Jim would not come. She longed for him, yet prayed he would stay away.
The bats were whirling in the clear cool air overhead. The Diamond stood up black and bold, somehow strengthening her. All her life she had looked up to that mighty bulk. The smell of burning pine floated from the dark forest. A nighthawk flitted by with sharp note.
Then a whistle electrified Molly. She had been whistled for many times in this gloaming hour. It was one of the courting tricks of the Cibeque. But never before had a whistle sent a blade into her heart or lent her wings. Her moccasined feet pattered on the hard-packed ground.
She saw a dark form at the gate, leaning on the bars. She ran on. Yes—Jim! … Then somehow she was sitting on the top bar—one hand at her bursting breast and the other, which was her left, in Jim’s grasp. He spoke, but she did not distinguish what he said, and she could not reply. She felt his rough strong hands. He was slipping something on her finger. A ring!
Then from the gloom behind rasped a low hard voice: “Hands up, Traft!”
Dark forms appeared out of the brush, almost without rustle. One man shoved a gun against Jim’s back. Seth Haverly! Up went Jim’s hands. Molly recognized Sam Haverly. The third man came close—laid a powerful hand on her.
“If you yap we’ll kill him!”
Molly would have fallen but for his hold. It was Hackamore Jocelyn.
“Turn round, Traft, an’ march,” ordered Seth Haverly.
“What’s this? A hold-up?” queried Jim, hoarsely.
“Keep still—or it’ll be wuss!” hissed Haverly.
“Fellars, I’m takin’ the gurl along,” announced Jocelyn.
Haverly made a fierce gesture, which included his gun. “You air like hell! I’m tellin’ you ag’in, Jocelyn, thet I’m runnin’ this outfit. Stay heah an’ keep her quiet till we git away with the hosses.”
“But, Seth, I want the gurl,” replied Jocelyn, low and doggedly. “I’ll divvy my share of Traft’s ransom with you.”
“—you Jocelyn!” cursed Haverly. “We’ll have hell enough without that. Do you want Slinger Dunn on your trail? … Stay heah an’ hug the gurl who hasn’t no use fer you, if you’re that much of a sucker. But roller us pronto.”
The Haverlys then forced Jim ahead of them, vanishing in the gloom of the lane. Molly heard the whinny of a horse at a distance. She seemed paralyzed. Hack Jocelyn loomed over her.
“Molly, I’m takin’ you willin’ or by force,” he whispered, bending down to peer at her. “An’ don’t fergit—if you make even a peep they’ll shoot Traft.”
“Where they goin’?” gasped Molly.
“Up back on the Diamond. Thet wasn’t my idee. They don’t know Curly Prentiss. But they’re goin’ to hide Traft an’ hold him fer ransom. But when they git the money they’ll kill him. Hang him on the drift fence!—Thet’s the plan. An’ the only chanct of savin’ his life is fer you to go with me.”
“How’ll that—save Jim?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll stick out fer lettin’ him go. An’ if it comes to a pinch I’ll force them.”
“You swear to Gawd!” demanded Molly in fierce passion.
“Shore. I swear to Gawd.”
“Slinger will kill you. I cain’t answer fer him. It won’t be long till he’s on my trail. I’m warnin’ you, Hack Jocelyn.”
“I heah you,” he replied, grimly. “Reckon Slinger is—or would be—a stumper. But he’s crippled, an’ before he’s out ag’in, it’ll all be over. … I’ll hev my stake an’ we’ll ride out of the country.”
“You an’ me?” she queried, marveling at the man’s egotism and stupidity.
“You an’ me, Molly Dunn. Shore it’s been long in my mind. … Now, will I hev to hawg-tie you?”
“I’ll go willin’. But keep your hands off me.”
He led her down the darkening lane, out of the clearing into the forest.
CHAPTER
19
WHEN Jim Traft heard that rasping command to throw up his hands, and felt the hard prod of a gun against his back, he came down to earth with a sickening thud.
Behind Molly he saw a dark form rise and loom. He recognized it. Hack Jocelyn! With a muttered curse at his heedless disregard of Andy Stoneham’s warning he lifted his hands above his head. Then another dark form clinked into sight. He was ordered to face round. A swift glance was the last he had of Molly. Jocelyn’s looming over her further added to his dismay.
The men had their short and disgruntled argument, then Jim was faced down the lane. Jocelyn’s staying behind to “hug” Molly, as Haverly so vulgarly put it, made the heat dance back into Jim’s veins. He turned once to call out to Molly, but a hiss and a move from Haverly dissuaded him. He could scarcely help her, and after a moment’s reflection he saw the fallacy of Jocelyn’s kidnapping her, too, and he had faith in Molly’s wit and nerve. It galled him horribly to leave her there, to be subjected to rudeness, perhaps insult. And the uncertainty of the situation would grow on him until Jocelyn joined them again.
At the point where the lane entered the road to town three men waited with horses. Jim was amazed to make out his own horse, saddled and bridled. These kidnappers evidently were thorough and bold.
“What’s your game, Haverly?” queried Jim, breaking into a whispered colloquy.
“We’re holdin’ you fer ransom,” came the gruff reply. “We’ll take you to a hidin’-place an’ send a rider in to Flag.”
“Well, I’ll recommend my uncle’s paying it, provided you agree to two things.”
“An’ what’s them?”
“That the ransom isn’t made out of all reason—and that Hack Jocelyn doesn’t share in it.”
Haverly let out a grunt which might have meant anything. Jim conceived an idea, which he proceeded to put into execution at once.
“This man Jocelyn is no good,” went on Jim. “He had friends on the Diamond and he double-crossed them. He’s not a straight shooter. He plays both ends against the middle. You fellows are a lot of suckers.”
“Sam—you heah thet?” sharply ejaculated Haverly.
“Hell! I ain’t deaf,” replied one of the uneasy listeners.
“Jocelyn is using you Cibeque fellows to his own end and you can bet on it,” concluded Jim, thinking this entering wedge enough for the moment.
“Seth, I’m gettin’ leery myself,” replied Sam Haverly. “An’ I’m sorry I plugged Jocelyn’s game. When he killed Andy Stoneham tonight, right in the road, I shore throwed a fit. Nobody but Boyd an’ Hart an’ me seen it done. But you can gamble West Fork will lay thet on to us.”
“Killed Andy Stoneham!” ejaculated Seth, leaning forward. “When?”
“Jest now, almost. You ought to have heahed the shot.”
“Wal, I’ll be—! What on earth fer?”
“Jocelyn swore Stoneham was spyin’ on him an’ givin’ us away to Molly Dunn.”
“Ahuh. Jealous of poor Andy!—Gawd! but thet fellar is crazy aboot Molly Dunn. … We better not wait fer him. Tie his hoss, Boyd, an’ we’ll hit the trail.”
Jim was told to climb into his saddle.
“Hart, you head his hoss. An’ I’ll roller behind him.”
They started off at a trot and soon turned off the road into a trail. It was dark and overgrown with branches of trees that had to be dodged or brushed aside. Jim knew that he had not ridden down to West Fork by that trail. He settled himself for what he anticipated a long night ride and his thoughts were gloomy. He had been shocked to hear that Andy Stoneham had been shot by Jocelyn. Not an hour after Andy had warned Jim to keep indoors! But Jim had disregarded this advice, to his bitter regret. If only Jocelyn would catch up with them! His distrust of this cowboy had been more than justified. Jim realized now that Molly would be in peril. Jocelyn had insisted on kidnapping her, too. The chances were he would do it. Then, when he brought her along with him, there would be precipitated a complex situation. It might well be that Jocelyn in his passion had bitten off more than he could chew.
Jim grew darkly active in thought. He contended with the problem that presupposed Jocelyn was following with Molly. And while he cudgeled his brains he rode on into the denser forest. His captors were silent, and kept to a trot on level ground, and a walk over rough places and upgrades. The moon arose and sent a shadowed blanching into the forest. They rode down into a gully, where water ran over rocks, and the unshod horses slipped and splashed. It was weird and wonderful under the great pines, that moaned fitfully above. They climbed out of the gully to zigzag up a steep trail, soft and full of rocks. And after one of the halts to let the horses rest Jim made certain they were climbing the Diamond. The nerve of these Cibeque riders! Jim knew the Diamond was a big country, exceedingly wild and rough on the high west slope, but he would have staked a good deal on Curly Prentiss trailing them to their lair. Curly’s reputation as a tracker would have to be sustained. How the outfit would drive him! As to that, they would each and every one ride out on the man-hunt. This aspect of the situation was thrilling, but Jim felt qualms at the possible outcome. He had come to know his men now.
The moon went down; the sky grew dark blue and star-fired. Jim’s captors climbed out on top of the rim, and when Jim looked down into that black abyss he caught his breath. They rode on into the forest, toward the east, and after a long ride they headed a thick-timbered canyon, and turned west again. They climbed a ridge and kept to its summit for what seemed hours to the wearying Jim, and at last they cut down into wild dense forest. In the gray of dawn they rode up again, into open grassy parks where no hoof-tracks would show, down again and up once more, to descend a pine- and spruce-timbered slope, to enter at daylight a beautiful white-grassed park, fringed by forest.
Jim saw a shaggy gray log cabin in the edge of the pines. A flock of wild turkeys, all gobblers, stately and bronze-flecked, walked across the open. Far down the valley-like park, near a willow-bordered stream that wound through, stood deer motionless, with heads and long ears up.
Smoke issued from the rude outside stone chimney of the cabin. Then a man appeared, rifle in hand. Haverly let out a shrill whistle. Another man appeared, and he shouted in hoarse welcome.
