The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “Character, I suppose,” she mocked; “nobility, virtue?”

  “I think you have said it,” he smiled. “At least I haven’t the slightest desire to like you.”

  “School teachers are more in your line, I suppose,” she jibed.

  There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed herself.

  Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips straight and hard.

  At last she looked up. “What an odd courtship!”

  His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.

  “Yes—odd,” he returned, dryly.

  “But I suppose,” she said, in a tone equally dry; “that you will make up for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me.”

  “Yes; after we are married,” he smiled, ironically.

  “That will be as soon as we can get to town, I presume,” she went on, watching him with brazen directness. “You see,” she explained; “I have been here with you for about two weeks, you know, and my friends will ask embarrassing questions. You are so honorable that you cannot refuse to protect my reputation.”

  “I am sorry, of course, Miss Wharton. But you should have considered your reputation before you decided to come here.”

  “You mean that you won’t marry me?” she demanded. She got up and walked toward him, halting within a pace of him and standing stiffly before him.

  “You have perception, after all, it seems,” he said, gravely. “But you don’t understand human nature. No man—or woman—in this section will see anything wrong in your staying in this cabin with me during the storm. They will accept it as being the most natural thing in the world. It was a simple act of humanness for me to take you in, and it entails no offer of marriage. Perhaps it has been done, and will be done again, where there is an inclination to marry. It has been done in books, and in certain sections of the world where narrow-minded people are the manufacturers of public sentiment. The mere fact that I happened to save your life does not obligate me to marry you, Miss Wharton. And I do not feel like playing the martyr.”

  For an instant it seemed that Della would become hysterical. But when she looked into Lawler’s eyes and realized that mere acting would not deceive him, she sneered.

  “I might have known you wouldn’t be man enough to protect me!”

  Lawler smiled, but did not answer. And after an instant, during which Della surveyed him with scorn unspeakable, she strode stiffly to a chair in a far corner of the room and dropped into it.

  Lawler had been little affected. He pitied her because of her perverted moral sense, which sought an honorable marriage from a wild, immoral impulse. He pitied her because she was what she was—a wanton who was determined by scheme and wile to gain her ends. And he shrewdly suspected that she was not so much concerned for her reputation as she was eager to achieve what she had determined upon. Defeat to her kind is intolerable.

  “Gary Warden will never marry me if he discovers that I have been here,” declared Della from the corner.

  “You said you did not love Warden, Miss Wharton,” Lawler reminded her. “You wouldn’t marry a man you merely liked, would you?”

  “We have been engaged for a year. Certainly, I shall marry him. Why not? But he won’t have me, now!”

  “Does Warden love you, Miss Wharton?”

  “That doesn’t concern you!” she snapped.

  “No—not in the least. But if Warden loves you, and I went to him and explained that your being here was accidental—”

  “Bah!” she sneered; “you’re a fool, Lawler! Do you expect Gary Warden would swallow that! You don’t know him!”

  “Well,” said Lawler, gently; “he need not know. If you are afraid to face public opinion, to show by your actions that you have nothing to be ashamed of, I’ll take you to the Circle L, just as soon as we can get through. We’ll time ourselves to get there at night. No one need know, and you can tell Warden that you were caught in the storm and drifted to the Circle L, where you stayed with my mother. I can come back here and no one will ever know the difference.”

  “I don’t want to see your mother!” she sneered. “I’d be afraid she would be something like you! Ugh! I hate you!”

  “There is only one other way,” smiled Lawler. “I know Keller, the owner of the Willets Hotel, very intimately. I can take you there, at night—after the storm breaks. No one need know. You can say you were at the hotel all the time. And Keller will support your word.”

  “I presume I shall have to go to Willets—since I have to lie!” she said, wrathfully.

  “Yes,” said Lawler incisively; “it takes courage to be truthful, Miss Wharton. But if a person always tells the truth—”

  “Shut up!” she said savagely; “you make me sick!” She glared malignantly at him. “Ugh, I positively loathe you! I must have been crazy when I thought I saw something in you!” She paused for an instant to get her breath, and then she resumed, vindictively:

  “I hope they arrest you for killing those two men—Link and Givens. I hope they hang you. And they will hang you, because you can’t prove you acted in self-defense. You’ll be sorry you didn’t marry me when you realize that I might have saved you by telling the truth about the fight!”

  “Well,” he said; “you can’t testify without admitting you were here, you know.”

  “And I will never tell!” she declared; “I will never admit it!” she added, exultingly. “You’ll change your mind about marrying me—you’ll have to, to save your neck!”

  Lawler shook his head negatively.

  “You wouldn’t marry me to save your life?” asked the girl, incredulously.

  “Not to save my life, Miss Wharton.”

  “Well,” she said slowly; “you’re a damned fool!”

  Lawler smiled and turned away. He heard Della moving about in the cabin, but he did not look around.

  But later, after there had been a deep silence for a time, he ventured a backward glance. During the day he had kept the dividing blanket rolled up out of the way, fastening it with two loops that he had suspended from the ceiling. The blanket was now down—it was the first time Della had touched it.

  Lawler smiled, pulled a chair over near the fireplace, rolled a cigarette, and puffed slowly at it, reflecting that life in the cabin would now be more monotonous than ever.

  Della did not get out of her bunk during the day. She ate nothing, nor did she reply to Lawler when he invited her to partake of the food he had prepared.

  Late that afternoon Lawler noted a glow of light coming through the north window. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The snow had ceased and the wind had gone down. Far over in the west a cold sun, hanging its rim on a mountain peak, bathed the world with a shimmering, glittering, blinding light.

  Lawler went outside and shielding his eyes with his hands, peered out over the gleaming waste. He noted that the snow had drifted much, but that there were ridges where no snow had settled, as well as vast sections of plain where the wind had swept the snow clear. There would be no difficulty in reaching Willets, for the wind that was coming over the plains now was mild—almost warm.

  He went inside, told Della, and began to make preparations for the ride. And later that night, moving swiftly northward, under straggling clouds that obscured the moon, the two journeyed—Della swathed in clothing that
assured her of warmth, and still preserving a sullen silence; Lawler riding ahead, breaking trail.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  DELLA’S HANDKERCHIEF

  Dawn was just breaking when Lawler dropped from Red King at the windbreak near the line cabin. He put the big horse in the dugout, closed the dugout door and entered the cabin. Then he breathed a sigh of relief.

  There were still some glowing embers in the fireplace, and he soon had a roaring fire, in front of which he stood for a while, meditating.

  He had got Della Wharton into the Willets Hotel without, he felt certain, attracting attention. For when they had ridden into town—taking the back way in order to avoid any sleepless citizens that might be about—it was past midnight. Lawler had timed himself to reach town at about that hour, knowing that with the exception of a brothel or two, Willets would be dark.

  He had been fortunate. At his first knock on the rear door of the hotel, Keller had appeared; and Keller had instantly grasped the situation—though he plainly told Della that she was “goin’ to a whole lot of unnecessary trouble.” “Why, good Lord, ma’am, I reckon you had a right to hole up with Lawler! Nobody’d be blamin’ you. They’s a dozen men in this town that would make a colander out of anybody that’d hint things about a deal like that. Lawsy, ma’am, folks has got sense, ain’t they? But if you doubt ’em, I reckon we can take care of you.”

  Lawler prepared and ate breakfast. It had been a tiresome ride, and after eating, knowing that there was no occasion for haste in his return to the Circle L—except that his mother would wonder over his whereabouts—he stretched out in one of the lower bunks—the one he had occupied during Della’s stay in the cabin.

  He had not barred the door; and when, some hours later he awoke, he saw half a dozen men in the cabin. They were standing near the door, watching him. Foremost among them was Gary Warden.

  Lawler swung around in the bunk and sat on its edge, facing the men. They were Two Diamond men, for he recognized some of them.

  Lawler got to his feet. He saw no friendliness in the faces of the men; and Warden was pale, scowling.

  But Lawler smiled. “Looking for something, boys?” he said.

  “We’re looking for two men and a woman, Lawler. Have you seen anything of them?”

  “I’ve seen two men, Warden; but no woman.”

  Warden’s eyes quickened. Some color surged into his face.

  “How long have you been here, Lawler?”

  “Since the day the storm broke. Davies and Harris went to town for a spree, and I’ve been substituting for them.”

  He felt a savage amusement over Warden’s attempt to conceal his disappointment. He could see that the man was consumed with curiosity over the outcome of the fence cutting, though he dared not voice it.

  “Lawler,” said Warden; “we’ve lost two men—Link and Givens; and Della Wharton—who was staying at the Two Diamond.”

  “I’ve seen no woman, Warden. But I’ve seen Link and Givens. You’ll find them out by the windbreak. I had to kill them.”

  Lawler saw the men behind Warden grow rigid; Warden’s face grew ghastly.

  Lawler’s smile had gone. He was coldly alert, watching the men behind Lawler, aware that his news was a shock to them; divining they would not hesitate to do violence if an explanation was not quickly offered.

  But there was cold malice in Lawler’s heart toward Warden; and he stood, silent, watchful, until Warden recovered from his astonishment. He was determined to compel Warden to ask the question that, plainly, was in his mind.

  And at last Warden asked it:

  “What did you kill them for?”

  “I caught them cutting my fence, Warden. At just about the time the storm struck. I brought them here—after lifting their guns. I intended to take them to Sheriff Moreton, at Willets. But during the night I sent them out for wood, and when they re-entered the cabin they attacked me—Link with an axe, and Givens with a piece of cordwood. You can see where the axe landed—where it stuck in the floor, when Link missed me as I opened the door for him.”

  The door opened and the men filed out, eager to ascertain the truth of Lawler’s story. Warden did not move; but his eyes, the expression of his face, indicated that he did not doubt Lawler’s story. But he sought to discredit it.

  “What would my men cut your fence for, Lawler?”

  Lawler laughed. He had no intention of telling Warden about the confession the men had signed.

  “You ought to know, Warden—they were your men.”

  “Meaning that I sent them to cut the fence?” demanded Warden. His face was red with a wrath that was plainly artificial, or that had been aroused over the knowledge that Link and Givens had failed.

  “Meaning whatever you choose to think I mean, Warden,” said Lawler coldly. “I’ll make my explanations to the sheriff.”

  Warden had quickly recovered his composure. It was evident from Lawler’s manner that Link and Givens had not talked. He had been afraid they might have told Lawler that he had ordered them to cut the fence. If they had talked, Lawler would have mentioned it before this—any man would, for no man could have resisted the inevitable impulse to exult over his success in thwarting the men, of bringing confusion upon the author of the scheme. That was what Warden would have done, and he believed any man would have done it.

  He drew himself erect and walked slowly to the fireplace; where he halted, turned, and smiled at Lawler—a smile full of malice.

  “Your explanation of the killing of Link and Givens is a mighty flimsy one, Lawler, don’t you think? Moreton might want a witness,—eh?”

  “There was no witness, Warden.” Lawler had not turned. He was watching the door, for he expected the Two Diamond men to enter at any instant, and he knew they would deeply resent the killing of their companions. He did not intend to be taken by surprise.

  Warden, standing in front of the fireplace, noted the blanket suspended from the ceiling, swinging between the two tiers of bunks. He started, his face paled, and he looked searchingly at Lawler. And then, observing that Lawler was paying no attention to him, he moved slowly toward one of the bunks—the one Miss Wharton had occupied—noting the disturbed bedclothing. A white piece of cloth, crumpled and soiled, lay on a gray blanket. He took it up swiftly, stuck it into the front of his heavy coat and turned again toward the fireplace. With his back to Lawler he swiftly examined the cloth he had picked up. It was a handkerchief—a woman’s—and in one corner of it was an embroidered monogram containing the letters “D.W.” It was Della’s—he had seen that and others like it, many times, in her hands and at the Two Diamond, on the wash line.

  For a long time, with his back to Lawler, Warden fought to control the terrible jealousy that the finding of the handkerchief had aroused in him. His face was contorted with passion; his eyes were aflame with it. He had hated Lawler before; now the passion was a malignant poison that burned, through his veins like fire.

  He did not trust himself to speak—his voice would have betrayed him. He walked past Lawler, sneering silently as he reached the door, looking back as he opened it and stood on the threshold, muttering hoarsely:

  “You’ll hang for this, Lawler—damn you!”

  Lawler heard the Two Diamond men ride away, and he went to the door at the sound they made and saw they were carrying the bodies of Link and Givens—they were lashed to their horses, which the Two Diamond men had taken from the dugout. He watched them out of sight.

  It was only an hour or so later when Davies and Harris clattered to the door of the cabin. They were red and embarrassed, and confessed they had been intoxicated. But they were much relieved when they found that Lawler had headed the herd into the valley; and they were filled with rage when Lawler told them of the fence cutting and the killing of the two men. And they were delighted when Lawler told them to go on duty at the cabin, not even mentioning their dereliction.

  Half an hour after the appearance of Davies and Harris half a dozen Circle L men rode u
p, eager-eyed, overjoyed at finding their “boss”. They were covered with snow from their ride up the valley, through the big drifts they had encountered, but the glow in their eyes when they saw Lawler was safe indicated they had forgotten the rigors of the ride.

  They told him the herd had reached the shelters and that few of the cattle were missing; and a little later, with Lawler riding with them, they set out for the Circle L, shouting and laughing like schoolboys.

  Shorty, the tawny-haired giant, was with them.

  “Cuttin’ fences, eh?” he said as he rode close to Lawler. “Well, they’re sort of pickin’ on us, I reckon. First there’s Blondy Antrim; an’ now Link an’ Givens cuttin’ the fence. When you goin’ to cut loose an’ give ’em hell, Boss?”

  “Hell is closer than you think, Shorty,” said Lawler, gravely.

  CHAPTER XXV

  IN WHICH A MAN PLOTS

  When the storm broke Warden had shown by his actions that he was more concerned over Link and Givens than over Della Wharton. He had told Singleton to ride the trail to Willets, to search for the girl, while himself and several of the Two Diamond men started for the line cabin. Singleton had left the Two Diamond in the early evening, while Warden had delayed his departure until after midnight.

  Singleton had made good time, and he reached Willets long before midnight. He made some inquiries, discovering that Della Wharton had not been seen; and shortly after midnight he was in the low, squatty stable in the rear of the Wolf Saloon, saddling his horse for the return trip to the Two Diamond. He was convinced that Della had not come to Willets.

  He was about to lead the horse outside when he saw two horsemen riding through the drifts in the rear of a building near the Willets Hotel. The light was not good, but Singleton would have recognized Red King in any light, and he laughed exultantly as he saw the rider dismount.

  Singleton abruptly closed the stable door and darted into the shadow of the stable. Then he crouched, ran low behind a big drift, and gained the side of a building next to the Willets Hotel. He was close to the two riders, and he grinned maliciously when he saw that one of them was a woman.