They of the High Trails

by Garland, Hamlin

  At the top of the mesa he again mounted to his seat on the upturned saddle, and kept the team steadily on the trot down the swiftly descending road. The sun was high above them now, and every mile carried them deeper into the heat and dust of the plain, but the girl uttered no word of complaint. Her throat was parched with thirst, but she did not permit him to know even this, for to halt at a well meant delay. They rode in complete silence, save now and again when the ranger made some remark concerning the character of the ranches they were passing.

  "We are down among the men of the future now," he said—"the farmers who carry spades instead of guns."

  Once they met a boy on horseback, who stared at them in open-mouthed, absorbed interest, and twice men working in the fields beckoned to them, primitively curious to know who they were and where they were going.

  But Hanscom kept his ponies to their pace and replied only by shouting, "Got to catch the train!" In such wise he stayed them in their tracks, reluctant but helpless. At last, pointing to a small, wavering speck far out upon the level sod, he called with forceful cheerfulness: "There's the tank. We'll overhaul it in an hour." Then he added: "I've been thinking. What shall I do about the cabin? Shall I pack the furniture and ship it to you?"

  "No, no. Take it yourself or give it away. I care very little for most of the things, except daddy's violin and my guitar. Those you may keep until we send for them."

  "I shall take good care of the guitar," he asserted, with a look which she fully understood. "What about the books?"

  "You may keep them also. We'd like you to have them—wouldn't we, daddy?"

  "Yes, yes," said Kauffman. "There is nothing there of much value, but such as they are they are yours."

  "I shall store everything," the young fellow declared, firmly, "in the hope that some day you will come back."

  "That will never be! My life here is ended," she asserted.

  "You will not always feel as you do now," he urged. "All the people of the county are not of Watson's stripe."

  "That is true," she said. "I shall try not to be unjust, but I see now that in seeking seclusion in that lonely cañon we thrust ourselves among the most lawless citizens of the state, and cut ourselves off from the very people we should have known. However, I have had enough of solitude. My mind has changed. This week's experience has swept away the fog in my brain. I feel like one suddenly awakened. I see my folly and I shall go back to my people—to the city."

  The ranger, recognizing something inflexible in this, made no further appeal.

  There was nothing at the tank but a small, brown cottage in which the wife of the Mexican section boss lived, and to her Hanscom committed his charges and turned to the care of his almost exhausted team. The train was late, the guard at the tank said, and in consequence the ranger was torn between an agony of impatience and a dread of parting.

  It was probable that some of the Kitsongs were in the raiding party, and if they were hurt the Kauffmans were not safe till the state line was passed. It would be easy to head them off by a wire. It was a hideous coil to throw about a young girl seeking relief from some unusual sorrow, and though he longed even more deeply to keep her under his protection, he made no objection to her going.

  Returning to the section-house, he shared with her the simple meal which the reticent, smiling little Mexican woman had prepared, and did his best to cheer Kauffman with a belief in the early arrival of the train.

  "It will be here soon, I am sure," he said.

  Helen detected the lack of elation in his tone, and understood in some degree the sense of loss which made him heartsick, and yet she could not bring herself to utter words of comfort.

  At the close of the meal, as they set out to walk across the sand to the switch, he said to her: "Am I never to see you again?"

  "I hope so—somewhere, somehow," she replied, evasively.

  "I wish you'd set a time and place," he persisted. "I can't bear to see you go. You can't realize how I shall miss you."

  A fleeting gleam of amusement lighted her face. "You have known me only a few days."

  "Oh yes, I have. I've known you all summer. You kept me busy thinking about you. The whole country will seem empty now."

  She smiled. "I didn't know I filled so much space in the landscape. I thought I was but a speck in it." She hesitated a moment, then added: "I came out to lose myself in nature. I had come to hate men and to despise women. I was sick of my kind. I wanted to live like a savage, a part of the wild, and so—forget."

  "Animals sometimes live alone; savages never do," he corrected, "unless they are outlawed from their tribe."

  "That's what I tried to do—outlaw myself from my tribe. I wanted to get away from foolish comment, from malicious gossip."

  "Are you ready to go back to it now—I mean to the city?"

  "No, not quite; and yet this week's experience has shaken me and helped me. You have helped me, and I want to thank you for it. I begin to believe once more in good, brave, simple manhood. You and daddy have revived my faith in men."

  "Some man must have hurt you mighty bad," he said, simply. Then added: "I can't understand that. I don't see how any man could do anything but just naturally worship you."

  She was moved by the sincerity of his adoration, but she led him no farther in that direction. "At first I thought I had won a kind of peace. I was almost content in a benumbed way. Then came my arrest—and you. It was a rough awakening, but I begin to see that I still live, that I am young, that I can become breathless with excitement. This raid, this ride, has swept away all that deathlike numbness which had fallen upon me. I've had my lesson. Now I can go back. I must get away from here."

  Under the spell of her intense utterance the ranger's mind worked rapidly, filling in the pauses. "Yes, you'd better go away, but I'm not going to let you pass out of my life—not if I can help it! I'm going to resign and go where you go—"

  She laid a protesting hand upon his arm. "No, no!" she said. "Don't do that. Don't resign. Don't change your plans on my account. I'm not worth such a sacrifice, such risk."

  "You're worth any risk," he stoutly retorted, with some part of her own intensity in his voice. "I can't think of letting you go. I need you in my business." He smiled wanly. "I'm only a forest ranger at ninety dollars per month, but I'm going to be something else one of these days. I won't mind a long, rough trail if I can be sure of finding you at the end of it."

  The far-away whistle of the train spurred him into fierce demand. "You'll let me write to you, and you will reply once in a while, won't you? It will give me something to look forward to. You owe me that much!" he added.

  "Yes, I will write," she promised. "But I think it better that you should forget me. I hope we have not involved you in any trouble with your neighbors or with the coroner."

  "I am not worrying about that," he answered. "I am only concerned about you. I would go to jail in a minute to save you any further worry."

  "You are putting me so deeply in your debt that I can never repay you," she replied.

  "A letter now and then will help," he suggested.

  The train, panting, wheezing, hot with speed, came to a creeping halt, and the conductor, swinging out upon the side track, greeted the ranger pleasantly. "Hello, Hans! What are you doing here?"

  Hanscom returned his greeting gravely. "Billy, here are some friends of mine, just down from the hills. Take good care of them for me, will you?"

  "Sure thing, major," said the conductor. He helped Kauffman aboard, then turned to Helen. "Now, lady," he said, holding out a hand, "I'm sorry the step is so high, but—"

  The ranger, stooping, took the girl in his arms and set her feet on the lower step. "Good-by," he said, huskily. Then added: "For now. Write me soon."

  She turned and looked down upon him with a faint smile on her lips and a tender light in her eyes. "I promise. Good-by," she said, and entered the car.

  The ranger stood for a long time gazing after the train, then languidly wal
ked away toward his team.

  * * *

  Hanscom turned his face toward the forest with a full knowledge that his world had suddenly lost its charm. At one moment his thought went anxiously forward with the fugitives, at another it returned to confront the problem of his own desires. His act in thus assisting the main witness to escape might displease the court and would undoubtedly intensify the dislike which Kitsong had already expressed toward him. "My stay in the district is not likely to be as quiet as it has been," he said to himself.

  However, his own safety was not a question of grave concern. The mystery of Watson's death yet remained, and until that was solved Helen was still in danger of arrest. His mind at last settled to the task of discovering and punishing the raiders. Who was Watson's assassin? What fierce desire for revenge had prompted that savage assault?

  There was no necessary connection between that small footprint and the shooting, and yet, until it was proved to be the work of another, suspicion would point to Helen as the only woman of the vicinity who had the motive for the deed. To some the coroner's failure to hold her was almost criminal.

  His return to the hills was equivalent to running the gantlet. From every ranch-gate men and boys issued, wall-eyed with curiosity. They, of course, knew nothing of the raiding-party of the morning, but they understood that something unusual had taken place, for was not the ranger's saddle in his wagon, and his saddle-horse under harness, not to mention a streak of blood along the flanks of its mate? The eyes of these solitary cattlemen are as analytical as those of trained detectives. Nothing material escapes them. Being taught to observe from infancy, they had missed little of the ranger's errand.

  "Who were you taking to the train?" they asked.

  Hanscom's defense was silence and a species of jocular, curt evasion, and he succeeded at last in getting past them all without resort to direct and violent lying. As he had reason to suspect that one, at least, of the riflemen of the morning belonged to the Blackbird outfit, he decided to avoid that ranch altogether.

  It would be absurd to claim that his nerves were perfectly calm and his heart entirely unhurried as he crept across the mesa and dropped into the wooded cañon just above the pasture fence. Although sustained by his authority as a Federal officer, he was perfectly well aware that it was possible for him to meet with trouble when the gang found out what he had done.

  Another disturbing thought began to grow in his mind. "If those raiders watched me go down the hill, they may consider it a clever trick to drop in on the Kauffman place and loot the house. They know it is unguarded. Perhaps I ought to throw the saddle on old Baldy and ride over there to make sure about it."

  The more he considered this the more uneasy he became. "They're just about sure to run off the stock, or be up to some other devilment," he said. "They might set fire to the house." In the end he roped his extra horse and set out.

  Even by the cut-off it was a stiff ride, and it was nearly midnight as he topped the last ridge and came in sight of the cabin. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "Somebody has moved in. I'm just in time."

  A light was gleaming from the kitchen window, and the ranger's mind worked quickly. No one but members of the raiding-party would think of taking possession of this cabin so promptly. No one else would know that the Kauffmans were away. "That being the case," he said, musingly, "it stands me in hand to walk light and shifty." And he kept on above the ranch in order to drop down through the timber of the cañon.

  After tethering his horse upon a little plot of grass just west of the garden, he adjusted his revolver on his thigh at the precise point where it was handiest, and moved forward with care. "They mustn't have time even to think fight," he decided.

  As he rounded the corner of the stable he heard the voice of a girl singing, and the effect of this upon him was greater than any uproar. It was uncanny. It made him wonder what kind of woman she could be who could carol in the midst of the band of raiders. She might be more dangerous than the men. She certainly added another complication to the situation.

  Listening closely, he was able to detect the voices of at least two men as they joined discordantly in the refrain of the song. It was evident that all felt entirely secure, and the task to which the ranger now addressed himself was neither simple nor pleasant. To take these raiders unaware, to get the upper hand of them, and to bring them to justice was a dangerous program, but he was accustomed to taking chances and did not hesitate very long.

  Keeping close to the shadow, he crept from the corral to the garden fence and from the covert of a clump of tall sunflowers was able to peer into the cabin window with almost unobstructed vision. A woman was seated on a low chair in the middle of the floor, playing a guitar and singing a lively song. He could not see the men. "I wonder if that door is locked?" he queried. "If it isn't, the job is easy. If it is, I'll have to operate through a screen window."

  He remembered that both doors, front and back, were very strong, for Kauffman had been careful to have them heavily hinged and double-barred. They could not be broken except with a sledge. The screen on the windows could be ripped off, but to do that would make delay at the precise moment when a quarter of a second would be worth a lifetime. "No, I've got to gamble on that door being unlocked," he concluded, with the fatalism of the mountaineer, to whom danger is an ever-present side-partner.

  With his revolver in his hand, he slid through the garden and reached the corner of the house unperceived. The woman was now playing a dance tune, and the men were stamping and shouting; and under cover of their clamor the ranger, stooping low, passed the window and laid his hand on the knob. The door yielded to his pressure, and swiftly, almost soundlessly, he darted within and stood before the astounded trio like a ghost—an armed and very warlike ghost.

  "What's going on here?" he demanded, pleasantly, as with weapon in complete readiness he confronted them.

  He had no need to command quiet. They were all schooled in the rules of the game he was playing, and understood perfectly the advantage which he held over them. They read in his easy smile and jocular voice the deadly determination which possessed him.

  The woman was sitting in a low chair with the guitar in her lap and her feet stretched out upon a stool. Her companions, two young men, hardly more than boys, were standing near a table on which stood a bottle of liquor. All had been stricken into instant immobility by the sudden interruption of the ranger. Each stared with open mouth and dazed eyes.

  Hanscom knew them all. The girl was the wilful daughter of a Basque rancher over on the Porcupine. One of the boys was Henry Kitsong, a nephew of Abe, and the other a herder named Busby, who had been at one time a rider for Watson.

  "Having a pleasant time, aren't you?" the ranger continued, still retaining his sarcastic intonation. From where he stood he could see the bottom of the girl's upturned shoes, and his alert brain took careful note of the size and shape of the soles. A flush of exultation ran over him. "Those are the shoes that left those telltale footprints in the flour," he said to himself.

  "You lads had better let me have your guns," he suggested. "Busby, I'll take yours first."

  The young ruffian yielded his weapon only when the ranger repeated his request with menacing intonation. "You next, Henry," he said to Kitsong, and, having thus cut the claws of his young cubs, his pose relaxed. "You thought the owners of the place safely out of reach, didn't you? You saw me go down in the valley with them? Well, I had a hunch that maybe you'd take advantage of my absence, so I just rode over. I was afraid you might drop down here and break things up. You see, I'm responsible for all these goods, and I don't want to see them destroyed. That music-box, for instance" (he addressed the girl); "I happen to know that's a high-priced instrument, and I promised the owner to take good care of it. That bottle you fellows dug up I didn't know anything about, but I guess I'll confiscate that also. It ain't good for little boys." He turned sharply on Kitsong. "Henry, was your father in that band of sharpshooters this morning?"

 
"No, he wasn't," blurted the boy. "And I wasn't, either."

  "We'll see about that in the morning. Which of you rode a blaze-faced sorrel?" Neither answered, and Hanscom said, contentedly: "Oh, well, we'll see about that in the morning."

  Hanscom had drawn close to the girl, who remained as if paralyzed with fright. "Señorita, I reckon I'll have to borrow one of your shoes for a minute." As he stooped and laid hold of her slipper Busby fell upon him with the fury of a tiger.

  Hanscom was surprised, for he had considered the fellow completely cowed by the loss of his revolver. He could have shot him dead, but he did not. He shook him off and swung at him with the big seven-shooter which he still held in his hand. The blow fell upon the young fellow's cheek-bone with such stunning force that he reeled and fell to the floor.

  Young Kitsong cried out, "You've killed him!"

  "What was he trying to do to me?" retorted Hanscom. "Now you take that kerchief of yours and tie his hands behind him. If either of you makes another move at me, you'll be sorry. Get busy now."

  Young Kitsong obeyed, awed by the ranger's tone, and Busby was soon securely tied. He writhed like a wildcat as his strength came back, but he was helpless, for Hanscom had taken a hand at lashing his feet together. There was something bestial in the boy's fury. He would have braved the ranger's pistol unhesitatingly after his momentary daze had passed, for he had the blind rage of a trapped beast, and his strength was amazing.

  During all this time the girl remained absolutely silent, her back against the wall, as if knowing that her capture would come next. Hanscom fully expected her to take a hand in the struggle, but he was relieved—greatly relieved—by her attitude of non-resistance.

  "Now, Henry," he said, with a breath of relief, "I can't afford to let either you or the señorita out of my sight. I reckon you'll both have to sit right here and keep me company till morning. Mebbe the señorita will bustle about and make a pot of coffee—that'll help us all to keep awake. But first of all I want both her slippers. Bring 'em to me, Henry."