CHAPTER XIX
THE SHOT IN THE DARK
Now that Mary Radford had obtained experience for the love scene in her story it might be expected that on returning to the cabin she would get out her writing materials and attempt to transcribe the emotions that had beset her during the afternoon, but she did nothing of the kind. After Ferguson’s departure she removed her riding garments, walked several times around the interior of the cabin, and for a long time studied her face in the looking glass. Yes, she discovered the happiness shining out of the glass. Several times, standing before the glass, she attempted to keep the lines of her face in repose, and though she almost succeeded in doing this she could not control her eyes—they simply would gleam with the light that seemed to say to her: “You may deceive people by making a mask of your face, but the eyes are the windows of the soul and through them people will see your secret.”
Ben hadn’t eaten much, she decided, as she seated herself at the table, after pouring a cup of tea. Before she had finished her meal she had begun to wonder over his absence—it was not his custom to go away in the night. She thought he might have gone to the corral, or might even be engaged in some small task in the stable. So after completing her meal she rose and went to the door, looking out.
There was no moon, only the starlight, but in this she was able to distinguish objects in the clearing, and if Ben had been working about anywhere she must have noticed him. She returned to the table and sat there long, pondering. Then she rose, heated some water, and washed and dried the dishes. Then she swept the kitchen floor and tidied things up a bit, returning to the door when all was complete.
Still no signs that Ben was anywhere in the vicinity. She opened the screen door and went out upon the porch, leaning against one of the slender posts. For a long time she stood thus, listening to the indescribable noises of the night. This was only the second time since she had been with Ben that he had left her alone at night, and a slight chill stole over her as she watched the dense shadows beyond the clearing, shadows that seemed suddenly dismal and foreboding. She had loved the silence, but now suddenly it too seemed too deep, too solemn to be real. She shuddered, and with some unaccountable impulse shrank back against the screen door, one hand upon it, ready to throw it open. In this position she stood for a few minutes, and then from somewhere in the flat came a slight sound—and then, after a short interval, another.
She shrank back again, a sudden fear chilling her, her hands clasped over her breast.
“Someone is shooting,” she said aloud.
She waited long for a repetition of the sounds. But she did not hear them again. Tremblingly she returned to the cabin and resumed her chair at the table, fighting against a growing presentiment that something had gone wrong with Ben. But she could not have told from what direction the sounds had come, and so it would have been folly for her to ride out to investigate. And so for an hour she sat at the table, cringing away from the silence, starting at intervals, when her imagination tricked her into the belief that sound had begun.
And then presently she became aware that there was sound. In the vast silence beyond the cabin door something had moved. She was on her feet instantly, her senses alert. Her fear had left her. Her face was pale, but her lips closed grimly as she went to the rack behind the door and took down a rifle that Ben always kept there. Then she turned the lamp low and cautiously stepped to the door.
A pony whinnied, standing with ears erect at the edge of the porch. In a crumpled heap on the ground lay a man. She caught her breath sharply, but in the next instant was out and bending over him. With a strength that seemed almost beyond her shy dragged the limp form to the door where the light from the lamp shone upon it.
“Ben!” she said sharply. “What has happened?” She shook him slightly, calling again to him.
Aroused, he opened his eyes, recognized her, and raised himself painfully upon one elbow, smiling weakly.
“It ain’t anything, sis,” he said. “Creased in the back of the head. Knocked me cold. Mebbe my shoulder too—I ain’t been able to lift my arm.” He smiled again—grimly, though wearily. “From the back too. The damned sneak!”
Her eyes filled vengefully, and she leaned closer to him, her voice tense. “Who, Ben? Who did it?”
“Ferguson,” he said sharply. And again, as his eyes closed: “The damned sneak.”
She swayed dizzily and came very near dropping him to the porch floor. But no sound came from her, and presently when the dizziness had passed, she dragged him to the door, propped it open with a chair, and then dragged him on through the opening to the kitchen, and from there to one of the adjoining rooms. Then with pale face and determined lips she set about the work of taking care of Ben’s wounds. The spot on the back of the head, she found, was a mere abrasion, as he had said. But his shoulder had been shattered, the bullet, she discovered, having passed clear through the fleshy part of the shoulder, after breaking one of the smaller bones.
Getting her scissors she clipped away the hair from the back of his head and sponged the wound and bandaged it, convinced that of itself it was not dangerous. Then she undressed him, and by the use of plenty of clear, cold water, a sponge, and some bandages, stopped the flow of blood in his shoulder and placed him in a comfortable position. He had very little fever, but she moved rapidly around him, taking his temperature, administering sedatives when he showed signs of restlessness, hovering over him constantly until the dawn began to come.
Soon after this he went off into a peaceful sleep, and, almost exhausted with her efforts and the excitement, she threw herself upon the floor beside his bed, sacrificing her own comfort that she might be near to watch should he need her. It was late in the afternoon when Radford opened his eyes to look out through the door that connected his room with the kitchen and saw his sister busying herself with the dishes. His mind was clear and he suffered very little pain. For a long time he lay, quietly watching her, while his thoughts went back to the meeting on the trail with Ferguson. Why hadn’t he carried out his original intention of shooting the stray-man down from ambush? He had doubted Leviatt’s word and had hesitated, wishing to give Ferguson the benefit of the doubt, and had received his reward in the shape of a bullet in the back—after practically making a peace pact with his intended victim.
He presently became aware that his sister was standing near him, and he looked up and smiled at her. Then in an instant she was kneeling beside him, admonishing him to quietness, smoothing his forehead, giving delighted little gasps over his improved condition. But in spite of her evident cheerfulness there was a suggestion of trouble swimming deep in her eyes; he could not help but see that she was making a brave attempt to hide her bitter disappointment over the turn things had taken. Therefore he was not surprised when, after she had attended to all his wants, she sank on her knees beside him.
“Ben,” she said, trying to keep a quiver out of her voice, “are you sure it was Ferguson who shot you?”
He patted her hand tenderly and sympathetically with his uninjured one. “I’m sorry for you, Mary,” he returned, “but there ain’t any doubt about it.” Then he told her of the warning he had received from Leviatt, and when he saw her lips curl at the mention of the Two Diamond range boss’s name he smiled.
“I thought the same thing that you are thinking, Mary,” he said. “And I didn’t want to shoot Ferguson. But as things have turned out I wouldn’t have been much wrong to have done it.”
She raised her head from the coverlet. “Did you see him before he shot you?” she questioned eagerly.
“Just a little before,” he returned. “I met him at a turn in the trail about half a mile from here. I made him get down off his horse and drop his guns. We had a talk, for I didn’t want to shoot him until I was sure, and he talked so clever that I thought he was telling the truth. But he wasn’t.”
He told her about Ferguson’s concealed pistol; how they had stood face to face with death between them, concluding: “By t
hat time I had decided not to shoot him. But he didn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger when he was looking at me. He waited until I’d got on my horse and was riding away. Then he sneaked up behind.”
He saw her body shiver, and he caressed her hair slowly, telling her that he was sorry things had turned out so, and promising her that when he recovered he would bring the Two Diamond stray-man to a strict accounting—providing the latter didn’t leave the country before. But he saw that his words had given her little comfort, for when an hour or so later he dropped off to sleep the last thing he saw was her seated at the table in the kitchen, her head bowed in her hands, crying softly.
“Poor little kid,” he said, as sleep dimmed his eyes; “it looks as though this would be the end of her story.”
CHAPTER XX
LOVE AND A RIFLE
Ferguson did not visit Miss Radford the next morning—he had seen Leviatt and Tucson depart from the ranchhouse, had observed the direction they took, and had followed them. For twenty miles he had kept them in sight, watching them with a stern patience that had brought its reward.
They had ridden twenty miles straight down the river, when Ferguson, concealed behind a ridge, saw them suddenly disappear into a little basin. Then he rode around the ridge, circled the rim of hills that surrounded the basin, and dismounting from his pony, crept through a scrub oak thicket to a point where he could look directly down upon them.
He was surprised into a subdued whistle. Below him in the basin was an adobe hut. He had been through this section of the country several times but had never before stumbled upon the hut. This was not remarkable, for situated as it was, in this little basin, hidden from sight by a serried line of hills and ridges among which no cowpuncher thought to travel—nor cared to—, the cabin was as safe from prying eyes as it was possible for a human habitation to be.
There was a small corral near the cabin, in which there were several steers, half a dozen cows, and perhaps twenty calves. As Ferguson’s eyes took in the latter detail, they glittered with triumph. Not even the wildest stretch of the imagination could produce twenty calves from half a dozen cows.
But Ferguson did not need this evidence to convince him that the men who occupied the cabin were rustlers. Honest men did not find it necessary to live in a basin in the hills where they were shut in from sight of the open country. Cattle thieves did not always find it necessary to do so—unless they were men like these, who had no herds of their own among which to conceal their ill-gotten beasts. He was convinced that these men were migratory thieves, who operated upon the herds nearest them, remained until they had accumulated a considerable number of cattle, and then drove the entire lot to some favored friend who was not averse to running the risk of detection if through that risk he came into possession of easily earned money.
There were two of the men, beside Leviatt and Tucson—tall, rangy—looking their part. Ferguson watched them for half an hour, and then, convinced that he would gain nothing more by remaining there, he stealthily backed down the hillside to where his pony stood, mounted, and rode toward the river.
Late in the afternoon he entered Bear Flat, urged his pony at a brisk pace across it, and just before sundown drew rein in front of the Radford cabin. He dismounted and stepped to the edge of the porch, a smile of anticipation on his lips. The noise of his arrival brought Mary Radford to the door. She came out upon the porch, and he saw that her face was pale and her lips firmly set. Apparently something had gone amiss with her and he halted, looking at her questioningly.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“You ought to know,” she returned quietly.
“I ain’t good at guessin’ riddles,” he returned, grinning at her.
“There is no riddle,” she answered, still quietly. She came forward until she stood within two paces of him, her eyes meeting his squarely. “When you left here last night did you meet Ben on the trail?” she continued steadily.
He started, reddening a little. “Why, yes,” he returned, wondering if Ben had told her what had been said at that meeting; “was he tellin’ you about it?”
“Yes,” she returned evenly, “he has been telling me about it. That should be sufficient for you. I am sorry that I ever met you. You should know why. If I were you I should not lose any time in getting away from here.”
Her voice was listless, even flat, but there was a grim note in it that told that she was keeping her composure with difficulty. He laughed, thinking that since he had made the new agreement with the Two Diamond manager he had nothing to fear. “I reckon I ought to be scared,” he returned, “but I ain’t. An’ I don’t consider that I’m losin’ any time.”
Her lips curved sarcastically. “You have said something like that before,” she told him, her eyes glittering scornfully. “You have a great deal of faith in your ability to fool people. But you have miscalculated this time.
“I know why you have come to the Two Diamond. I know what made you come over here so much. Of course I am partly to blame. You have fooled me as you have fooled everyone.” She stood suddenly erect, her eyes flashing. “If you planned to kill my brother, why did you not have the manhood to meet him face to face?”
Ferguson flushed. Would it help his case to deny that he had thought of fooling her, that he never had any intention of shooting Ben? He thought not. Leviatt had poisoned her mind against him. He smiled grimly.
“Someone’s been talkin’,” he said quietly. “You’d be helpin’ to make this case clear if you’d tell who it was.”
“Someone has talked,” she replied; “someone who knows. Why didn’t you tell me that you came here to kill Ben? That you were hired by Stafford to do it?”
“Why, I didn’t, ma’am,” he protested, his face paling.
“You did!” She stamped one foot vehemently.
Ferguson’s eyes drooped. “I came here to see if Ben was rustlin’ cattle, ma’am,” he confessed frankly. “But I wasn’t intendin’ to shoot him. Why, I’ve had lots of chances, an’ I didn’t do it. Ain’t that proof enough?”
“No,” she returned, her voice thrilling with a sudden, bitter irony, “you didn’t shoot him. That is, you didn’t shoot him while he was looking at you—when there was a chance that he might have given you as good as you sent. No, you didn’t shoot him then—you waited until his back was turned. You—you coward!”
Ferguson’s lips whitened. “You’re talkin’ extravagant, ma’am,” he said coldly. “Somethin’ is all mixed up. Has someone been shootin’ Ben?”
She sneered, pinning him with a scornful, withering glance. “I expected that you would deny it,” she returned. “That would be following out your policy of deception.”
He leaned forward, his eyes wide with surprise. If she had not been laboring under the excitement of the incident she might have seen that his surprise was genuine, but she was certain that it was mere craftiness—a craftiness that she had hitherto admired, but which now awakened a fierce anger in her heart.
“When was he shot?” he questioned quietly.
“Last night,” she answered scornfully. “Of course that is a surprise to you too. An hour after you left he rode up to the cabin and fell from his horse at the edge of the porch. He had been shot twice—both times in the back.” She laughed—almost hysterically. “Oh, you knew enough not to take chances with him in spite of your bragging—in spite of the reputation you have of being a ‘two-gun’ man!”
He winced under her words, his face whitening, his lips twitching, his hands clenched that he might not lose his composure. But in spite of the conflict that was going on within him at the moment he managed to keep his voice quiet and even. It was admirable acting, she thought, her eyes burning with passion—despicable, contemptible acting.
“I reckon I ain’t the snake you think I am, ma’am,” he said, looking steadily at her. “But I’m admittin’ that mebbe you’ve got cause to think so. When I left Ben last night I shook hands with him, after fixin’ up the difference
we’d had. Why, ma’am,” he went on earnestly, “I’d just got through tellin’ him about you an’ me figgerin’ to get hooked up. An’ do you think I’d shoot him after that? Why, if I’d been wantin’ to shoot him I reckon there was nothin’ to stop me while he was standin’ there. He’d never knowed what struck him. I’m tellin’ you that I didn’t know he was shot; that—”
She made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t think I care to hear any more,” she said. “I heard the shots here on the porch. I suppose you were so far away at that time that you couldn’t hear them?”
He writhed again under the scorn in her voice. But he spoke again, earnestly. “I did hear some shootin’,” he said, “after I’d gone on a ways. But I reckoned it was Ben.”
“What do you suppose he would be shooting at at that time of the night?” she demanded.
“Why, I don’t remember that I was doin’ a heap of wonderin’ at that time about it,” he returned hesitatingly. “Mebbe I thought he was shootin’ at a sage-hen, or a prairie-dog—or somethin’. I’ve often took a shot at somethin’ like that—when I’ve been alone that way.” He took a step toward her, his whole lithe body alive and tingling with earnestness. “Why, ma’am, there’s a big mistake somewheres. If I could talk to Ben I’m sure I could explain—”
She drew her skirts close and stepped back toward the door. “There is nothing to explain—now,” she said coldly. “Ben is doing nicely, and when he has fully recovered you will have a chance to explain to him—if you are not afraid.”
“Afraid?” he laughed grimly. “I expect, ma’am, that things look pretty bad for me. They always do when someone’s tryin’ to make ’em. I reckon there ain’t any use of tryin’ to straighten it out now—you won’t listen. But I’m tellin’ you this: When everything comes out you’ll see that I didn’t shoot your brother.”
“Of course not,” sneered the girl. “You did not shoot him. Stafford did not hire you to do it. You didn’t come here, pretending that you had been bitten by a rattler, so that you might have a chance to worm yourself into my brother’s favor—and then shoot him. You haven’t been hanging around Bear Flat all summer, pretending to look for stray Two Diamond cattle. You haven’t been trying to make a fool of me—” Her voice trembled and her lips quivered suspiciously.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 189
