The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  There was now nothing for the stray-man to do but watch. The men who had killed Rope were wary and dangerous, and their next move might be directed at him. But he was not disturbed. One thought brought him a mighty satisfaction. He was no longer employed to fasten upon Ben Radford the stigma of guilt; no longer need he feel oppressed with the guilty consciousness, when in the presence of Mary Radford, that he was, in a measure, a hired spy whose business it was to convict her brother of the crime of rustling. He might now meet the young woman face to face, without experiencing the sensation of guilt that had always affected him.

  Beneath his satisfaction lurked a deeper emotion. During the course of his acquaintance with Rope Jones he had developed a sincere affection for the man. The grief in his heart over Rope’s death was made more poignant because of the latter’s words, just before the final moment, which seemed to have been a plea for vengeance:

  “Ferguson told me to look out. He told me to be careful that they didn’t get me between them. But I wasn’t thinkin’ that it would happen just that way.”

  This had been all that Rope had said about his friend, but it showed that during his last conscious moments he had been thinking of the stray-man. As the days passed the words dwelt continually in Ferguson’s mind. Each day that he rode abroad, searching for evidence against the murderers, brought him a day nearer to the vengeance upon which he had determined.

  CHAPTER XVI

  LEVIATT TAKES A STEP

  Miss Radford was sitting on the flat rock on the hill where she had written the first page of her novel. The afternoon sun was coming slantwise over the western mountains, sinking steadily toward the rift out of which came the rose veil that she had watched many times. She had just completed a paragraph in which the villain appears when she became aware of someone standing near. She turned swiftly, with heightened color, to see Leviatt.

  His sudden appearance gave her something of a shock, for as he stood there, smiling at her, he answered perfectly the description she had just written. He might have just stepped from one of her pages. But the shock passed, leaving her a little pale, but quite composed—and not a little annoyed. She had found her work interesting; she had become quite absorbed in it. Therefore she failed to appreciate Leviatt’s sudden appearance, and with uptilted chin turned from him and pretended an interest in the rim of hills that surrounded the flat.

  For an instant Leviatt stood, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Then with a smile he stepped forward and seated himself beside her on the rock. She immediately drew her skirts close to her and shot a displeased glance at him from the corners of her eyes. Then seeing that he still sat there, she moved her belongings a few feet and followed them. He could not doubt the significance of this move, but had he been wise he might have ignored it. A woman’s impulses will move her to rebuke a man, but if he will accept without comment he may be reasonably sure of her pity, and pity is a path of promise.

  But the range boss neglected his opportunity. He made the mistake of thinking that because he had seen her many times while visiting her brother he might now with propriety assume an air of intimacy toward her.

  “I reckon this rock is plenty big enough for both of us,” he said amiably.

  She measured the distance between them with a calculating eye. “It is,” she returned quietly, “if you remain exactly where you are.”

  He forced a smile. “An’ if I don’t?” he inquired.

  “You may have the rock to yourself,” she returned coldly. “I did not ask you to come here.”

  He chose to ignore this hint, telling her that he had been to the cabin to see Ben and, finding him absent, had ridden through the flat. “I saw you when I was quite a piece away,” he concluded, “an’ thought mebbe you might be lonesome.”

  “When I am lonesome I choose my own company,” she returned coldly.

  “Why, sure,” he said, his tone slightly sarcastic; “you cert’nly ought to know who you want to talk to. But you ain’t objectin’ to me settin’ on this hill?” he inquired.

  “The hill is not mine,” she observed quietly, examining one of the written pages of her novel; “sit here as long as you like.”

  “Thanks.” He drawled the word. Leaning back on one elbow he stretched out as though assured that she would make no further objections to his presence. She ignored him completely and very deliberately arranged her papers and resumed writing.

  For a time he lay silent, watching the pencil travel the width of the page—and then back. A mass of completed manuscript lay at her side, the pages covered with carefully written, legible words. She had always taken a pardonable pride in her penmanship. For a while he watched her, puzzled, furtively trying to decipher some of the words that appeared upon the pages. But the distance was too great for him and he finally gave it up and fell to looking at her instead, though determined to solve the wordy mystery that was massed near her.

  Finally finding the silence irksome, he dropped an experimental word, speaking casually. “You must have been to school a heap—writin’ like you do.”

  She gave him no answer, being at that moment absorbed in a thought which she was trying to transcribe before it should take wings and be gone forever.

  “Writin’ comes easy to some people,” he persisted.

  The thought had been set down; she turned very slightly. “Yes,” she said looking steadily at him, “it does. So does impertinence.”

  He smiled easily. “I ain’t aimin’ to be impertinent,” he returned. “I wouldn’t reckon that askin’ you what you are writin’ would be impertinent. It’s too long for a letter.”

  “It is a novel,” she returned shortly.

  He smiled, exulting over this partial concession. “I reckon to write a book you must be some special kind of a woman,” he observed admiringly.

  She was silent. He sat up and leaned toward her, his eyes flashing with a sudden passion.

  “If that’s it,” he said with unmistakable significance, “I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m some partial to them special kind.”

  Her chin rose a little. “I am not concerned over your feelings,” she returned without looking at him.

  “That kind of a woman would naturally know a heap,” he went on, apparently unmindful of the rebuke; “they’d cert’nly know enough to be able to see when a man likes them.”

  She evidently understood the drift, for her eyes glowed subtly. “It is too bad that you are not a ‘special kind of man,’ then,” she replied.

  “Meanin’?” he questioned, his eyes glinting with eagerness.

  “Meaning that if you were a ‘special kind of man’ you would be able to tell when a woman doesn’t like you,” she said coldly.

  “I reckon that I ain’t a special kind then,” he declared, his face reddening slightly. “Of course, I’ve seen that you ain’t appeared to take much of a shine to me. But I’ve heard that there’s women that can be won if a man keeps at it long enough.”

  “Some men like to waste their time,” she returned quietly.

  “I don’t call it wastin’ time to be talkin’ to you,” he declared rapidly.

  “Our opinions differ,” she observed shortly, resting the pencil point on the page that she had been writing.

  Her profile was toward him; her cheeks were tinged with color; some stray wisps of hair hung, breeze-blown, over her forehead and temples. She made an attractive picture, sitting there with the soft sunlight about her, a picture whose beauty smote Leviatt’s heart with a pang of sudden regret and disappointment. She might have been his, but for the coming of Ferguson. And now, because of the stray-man’s wiles, he was losing her.

  A sudden rage seized upon him; he leaned forward, his face bloating poisonously. “Mebbe I could name a man who ain’t wastin’ his time!” he sneered.

  She turned suddenly and looked at him, dropping pencil and paper, her eyes flashing with a hitter scorn. “You are one of those sulking cowards who fawn over men and insult defenseless women!” she declared
, the words coming slowly and distinctly.

  He had realized before she answered that he had erred, and he smiled deprecatingly, the effort contorting his face.

  “I wasn’t meanin’ just that,” he said weakly. “I reckon it’s a clear field an’ no favors.” He took a step toward her, his voice growing tense. “I’ve been comin’ down to your cabin a lot, sayin’ that I was comin’ to see Ben. But I didn’t come to see Ben—I wanted to look at you. I reckon you knowed that. A woman can’t help but see when a man’s in love with her. But you’ve never give me a chance to tell you. I’m tellin’ you now. I want you to marry me. I’m range boss for the Two Diamond an’ I’ve got some stock that’s my own, an’ money in the bank over in Cimarron. I’ll put up a shack a few miles down the river an’—”

  “Stop!” commanded Miss Radford imperiously.

  Leviatt had been speaking rapidly, absorbed in his subject, assurance shining in his face. But at Miss Radford’s command he broke off suddenly and stiffened, surprise widening his eyes.

  “You have said enough,” she continued; “quite enough. I have never thought of you as a possible admirer. I certainly have done nothing that might lead you to believe I would marry you. I do not even like you—not even respect you. I am not certain that I shall ever marry, but if I do, I certainly shall not marry a man whose every look is an insult.”

  She turned haughtily and began to gather up her papers. There had been no excitement in her manner; her voice had been steady, even, and tempered with a slight scorn.

  For a brief space Leviatt stood, while the full significance of her refusal ate slowly into his consciousness. Whatever hopes he might have had had been swept away in those few short, pithy sentences. His passion checked, the structure erected by his imagination toppled to ruin, his vanity hurt, he stood before her stripped of the veneer that had made him seem, heretofore, nearly the man he professed to be.

  In her note book had been written:

  “Dave Leviatt. . . . One rather gets the impression that the stoop is a reflection of the man’s nature, which seems vindictive and suggests a low cunning. His eyes are small, deep set, and glitter when he talks. But they are steady and cold—almost merciless. One’s thoughts go instantly to the tiger. I shall try to create that impression in the reader’s mind.”

  And now as she looked at him she was sure that task would not be difficult. She had now an impression of him that seemed as though it had been seared into her mind. The eyes that she had thought merciless were now glittering malevolently, and she shuddered at the satyric upward curve of his lips as he stepped close to the rock and placed a hand upon the mass of manuscript lying there, that she had previously dropped, to prevent her leaving.

  “So you don’t love me?” he sneered. “You don’t even respect me. Why? Because you’ve taken a shine to that damned maverick that come here from Dry Bottom—Stafford’s new stray-man!”

  “That is my business,” she returned icily.

  “It sure is,” he said, the words writhing venomously through his lips. “An’ it’s my business too. There ain’t any damned—”

  He had glanced suddenly downward while he had been talking and his gaze rested upon an upturned page of the manuscript that lay beside him on the rock. He broke off speaking and reaching down took up the page, his eyes narrowing with interest. The page he had taken up was one from the first chapter and described in detail the shooting match in Dry Bottom. It was a truthful picture of what had actually happened. She had even used the real names of the characters. Leviatt saw a reference to the “Silver Dollar” saloon, to the loungers, to the stranger who had ridden up and who sat on his pony near the hitching rail, and who was called Ferguson. He saw his own name; read the story of how the stranger had eclipsed his feat by putting six bullets into the can.

  He dropped the page to the rock and looked up at Miss Radford with a short laugh.

  “So that’s what you’re writin’?” he sneered. “You’re writin’ somethin’ that really happened. You’re even writin’ the real names an’ tellin’ how Stafford’s stray-man butted in an’ beat me shootin’. You knowin’ this shows that him an’ you has been travelin’ pretty close together.”

  For an instant Miss Radford forgot her anger. Her eyes snapped with a sudden interest.

  “Were you the man who hit the can five times?” she questioned, unable to conceal her eagerness.

  She saw a flush slowly mount to his face. Evidently he had said more than he had intended.

  “Well, if I am?” he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer. “Him beatin’ me shootin’ that way don’t prove nothin’.”

  She was now becoming convinced of her cleverness. From Ben’s description of the man who had won the shooting match she had been able to lead Ferguson to the admission that he had been the central character in that incident, and now it had transpired that Leviatt was the man he had beaten. This had been the way she had written it in the story. So far the plot that had been born of her imagination had proved to be the story of a real occurrence.

  She had counted upon none but imaginary characters,—though she had determined to clothe these with reality through study—but now, she had discovered, she had been the chronicler of a real incident, and two of her characters had been pitted against each other in a contest in which there had been enough bitterness to provide the animus necessary to carry them through succeeding pages, ready and willing to fly at each other’s throats. She was not able to conceal her satisfaction over the discovery, and when she looked at Leviatt again she smiled broadly.

  “That confession explains a great many things,” she said, stooping to recover the page that he had dropped beside her upon the rock.

  “Meanin’ what?” he questioned, his eyes glittering evilly.

  “Meaning that I now know why you are not friendly toward Mr. Ferguson,” she returned. “I heard that he beat you in the shooting match,” she went on tauntingly, “and then when you insulted him afterwards, he talked very plainly to you.”

  The moment she had spoken she realized that her words had hurt him, for he paled and his eyes narrowed venomously. But his voice was cold and steady.

  “Was Mr. Ferguson tellin’ you that?” he inquired, succeeding in placing ironic emphasis upon the prefix.

  She was arranging the contents of her hand bag and she did not look up as she answered him.

  “That is my business,” she returned quietly. “But I don’t mind telling you that the man who told me about the occurrence would not lie about it.”

  “It’s nice that you’ve got such a heap of faith in him,” he sneered.

  It was plain to her that he thought Ferguson had told her about the shooting match, and it was equally plain that he still harbored evil thoughts against the stray-man. And also, he suspected that something more than mere friendship existed between her and Ferguson. She had long hoped that one day she might be given the opportunity of meeting in person a man whose soul was consumed with jealousy, in order that she might be able to gain some impressions of the intensity of his passion. This seemed to be her opportunity. Therefore she raised her chin a little and looked at him with a tantalizing smile.

  “Of course I have faith in him,” she declared, with a slight, biting emphasis. “I believe in him—absolutely.”

  She saw his lips twitch. “Sure,” he sneered, “you was just beginnin’ to believe in him that day when you was holdin’ hands with him—just about here. I reckon he was enjoyin’ himself.”

  She started, but smiled immediately. “So you saw that?” she inquired, knowing that he had, but taking a keen delight in seeing that he still remembered. But this conversation was becoming too personal; she had no desire to argue this point with him, even to get an impression of the depth of his passion, so she gathered up her belongings and prepared to depart. But he stepped deliberately in front of her, barring the way of escape. His face was aflame with passion.

  “I seen him holdin’ your hand,” he said, his vo
ice trembling; “I seen that he was holdin’ it longer than he had any right. An’ I seen you pull your hand away when you thought I was lookin’ at you. I reckon you’ve taken a shine to him; he’s the kind that the women like—with his slick ways an’ smooth palaver—an’ his love makin’.” He laughed with his lips only, his eyes narrowed to glittering pin points. She had not thought that jealousy could make a person half so repulsive.

  “If you’re lovin’ him,” he continued, leaning toward her, his muscles tense, his lips quivering with a passion that he was no longer able to repress, “I’m tellin’ you that you’re wastin’ your time. You wouldn’t think so much of him if you knowed that he come here—”

  Leviatt had become aware that Miss Radford was not listening; that she was no longer looking at him, but at something behind him. At the instant he became aware of this he turned sharply in his tracks, his right hand falling swiftly to his holster. Not over half a dozen paces distant stood Ben Radford, gravely watching.

  “Mebbe you folks are rehearsing a scene from that story,” he observed quietly. “I wasn’t intending to interrupt, but I heard loud talking and I thought mebbe it wasn’t anything private. So I just got off my horse and climbed up here, to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Leviatt’s hand fell away from the holster, a guilty grin overspreading his face. “I reckon we wasn’t rehearsin’ any scene,” he said, trying to make the words come easily. “I was just tellin’ your sister that—”

  Miss Radford laughed banteringly. “You have spoiled a chapter in my book, Ben,” she declared with pretended annoyance; “Mr. Leviatt had just finished proposing to me and was at the point where he was supposed to speak bitter words about his rival.” She laughed again, gazing at Leviatt with mocking eyes. “Of course, I shall never be able to tell my readers what he might have said, for you appeared at a most inopportune time. But he has taught me a great deal—much more, in fact, than I ever expected from him.”