“Well, now,” said Ferguson, deeply moved; “I’m awful sorry you’re lookin’ at things like you are. But I wasn’t thinkin’ to try an’ make a fool of you. Things that I said to you I meant. I wouldn’t say things to a girl that I said to you if—”
She had suddenly stepped into the cabin and as suddenly reappeared holding the rifle that was kept always behind the door. She stood rigid on the porch, her eyes blazing through the moisture in them.
“You go now!” she commanded hotly; “I’ve heard enough of your lies! Get away from this cabin! If I ever see you around here again I won’t wait for Ben to shoot you!”
Ferguson hesitated, a deep red mounting over the scarf at his throat. Then his voice rose, tingling with regret. “There ain’t any use of me sayin’ anything now, ma’am,” he said. “You wouldn’t listen. I’m goin’ away, of course, because you want me to. You didn’t need to get that gun if you wanted to hurt me—what you’ve said would have been enough.” He bowed to her, not even looking at the rifle. “I’m goin’ now,” he concluded. “But I’m comin’ back. You’ll know then whether I’m the sneak you’ve said I was.”
He bowed again over the pony’s mane and urged the animal around the corner of the cabin, striking the trail that led through the flat toward the Two Diamond ranchhouse.
CHAPTER XXI
THE PROMISE
Ferguson heard loud talking and laughter in the bunkhouse when he passed there an hour after his departure from the Radford cabin in Bear Flat. It was near sundown and the boys were eating supper. Ferguson smiled grimly as he rode his pony to the corral gate, dismounted, pulled off the bridle and saddle, and turned the animal into the corral. The presence of the boys at the bunkhouse meant that the wagon outfit had come in—meant that Leviatt would have to come in—if he had not already done so.
The stray-man’s movements were very deliberate; there was an absence of superfluous energy that told of intensity of thought and singleness of purpose. He shouldered the saddle with a single movement, walked with it to the lean-to, threw it upon its accustomed peg, hung the bridle from the pommel, and then turned and for a brief time listened to the talk and laughter that issued from the open door and windows of the bunkhouse. With a sweep of his hands he drew his two guns from their holsters, rolled the cylinders and examined them minutely. Then he replaced the guns, hitched at his cartridge belt, and stepped out of the door of the lean-to.
In spite of his promise to Mary Radford to the effect that he would return to prove to her that he was not the man who had attempted to kill her brother he had no hope of discovering the guilty man. His suspicions, of course, centered upon Leviatt, but he knew that under the circumstances Mary Radford would have to be given convincing proof. The attempted murder of her brother, following the disclosure that he had been hired by Stafford to do the deed, must have seemed to her sufficient evidence of his guilt. He did not blame her for feeling bitter toward him; she had done the only thing natural under the circumstances. He had been very close to the garden of happiness—just close enough to scent its promise of fulfilled joy, when the gates had been violently closed in his face, to leave him standing without, contemplating the ragged path over which he must return to the old life.
He knew that Leviatt had been the instrument that had caused the gates to close; he knew that it had been he who had dropped the word that had caused the finger of accusation to point to him. “Stafford didn’t hire you to do it,” Mary Radford had said, ironically. The words rang in his ears still. Who had told her that Stafford had hired him to shoot Radford? Surely not Stafford. He himself had not hinted at the reason of his presence at the Two Diamond. And there was only one other man who knew. That man was Leviatt. As he stood beside the door of the lean-to the rage in his heart against the range boss grew more bitter, and the hues around his mouth straightened more grimly.
A few minutes later he stalked into the bunkhouse, among the men who, after finishing their meal, were lounging about, their small talk filling the room. The talk died away as he entered, the men adroitly gave him room, for there was something in the expression of his eyes, in the steely, boring glances that he cast about him, that told these men, inured to danger though they were, that the stray-man was in no gentle mood. He dropped a short word to the one among them that he knew best, at which they all straightened, for through the word they knew that he was looking for Leviatt.
But they knew nothing of Leviatt beyond the fact that he and Tucson had not accompanied the wagon to the home ranch. They inferred that the range boss and Tucson had gone about some business connected with the cattle. Therefore Ferguson did not stop long in the bunkhouse. Without a word he was gone, striding rapidly toward the ranchhouse. They looked after him, saying nothing, but aware that his quest for Leviatt was not without significance.
Five minutes later he was in Stafford’s office. The latter had been worrying about him. When Ferguson entered the manager’s manner was a trifle anxious.
“You seen anything of Radford yet?” he inquired.
“I ain’t got anything on Radford,” was the short reply.
His tone angered the manager. “I ain’t askin’ if you’ve got anything on him,” he returned. “But we missed more cattle yesterday, an’ it looks mighty suspicious. Since we had that talk about Radford, when you told me it wasn’t him doin’ the rustlin’ I’ve changed my mind a heap. I’m thinkin’ he rustled them cattle last night.”
Ferguson looked quizzically at him. “How many cattle you missin’?” he questioned.
Stafford banged a fist heavily down upon his desk top. “We’re twenty calves short on the tally,” he declared, “an’ half a dozen cows. We ain’t got to the steers yet, but I’m expectin’ to find them short too.”
Ferguson drew a deep breath. The number of cattle missing tallied exactly with the number he had seen in the basin down the river. A glint of triumph lighted his eyes, but he looked down upon Stafford, drawling:
“You been doin’ the tallyin’?”
“Yes.”
Ferguson was now smiling grimly.
“Where’s your range boss?” he questioned.
“The boys say he rode over to the river lookin’ for strays. Sent word that he’d be in to-morrow. But I don’t see what he’s got to do—”
“No,” returned Ferguson, “of course. You say them cattle was rustled last night?”
“Yes.” Stafford banged his fist down with a positiveness that left no doubt of his knowledge.
“Well, now,” observed Ferguson, “an’ so you’re certain Radford rustled them.” He smiled again saturninely.
“I ain’t sayin’ for certain,” returned Stafford, puzzled by Ferguson’s manner. “What I’m gettin’ at is that there ain’t no one around here that’d rustle them except Radford.”
“There ain’t no other nester around here that you know of?” questioned Ferguson.
“No. Radford’s the only one.”
Ferguson lingered a moment. Then he walked slowly to the door. “I reckon that’s all,” he said. “To-morrow I’m goin’ to show you your rustler.”
He had stepped out of the door and was gone into the gathering dusk before Stafford could ask the question that was on the end of his tongue.
CHAPTER XXII
KEEPING A PROMISE
Ferguson’s dreams had been troubled. Long before dawn he was awake and outside the bunkhouse, splashing water over his face from the tin wash basin that stood on the bench just outside the door. Before breakfast he had saddled and bridled Mustard, and directly after the meal he was in the saddle, riding slowly toward the river.
Before very long he was riding through Bear Flat, and after a time he came to the hill where only two short days before he had reveled in the supreme happiness that had followed months of hope and doubt. It did not seem as though it had been only two days. It seemed that time was playing him a trick. Yet he knew that to-day was like yesterday—each day like its predecessor—that if the hours dra
gged it was because in the bitterness of his soul he realized that today could not be—for him—like the day before yesterday; and that succeeding days gave no promise of restoring to him the happiness that he had lost.
He saw the sun rising above the rim of hills that surrounded the flat; he climbed to the rock upon which he had sat—with her—watching the shadows retreat to the mountains, watching the sun stream down into the clearing and upon the Radford cabin. But there was no longer beauty in the picture—for him. Hereafter he would return to that life that he had led of old; the old hard life that he had known before his brief romance had given him a fleeting glimpse of what might have been.
Many times, when his hopes had been high, he had felt a chilling fear that he would never be able to reach the pinnacle of promise; that in the end fate would place before him a barrier—the barrier in the shape of his contract with Stafford, that he had regretted many times.
Mary Radford would never believe his protest that he had not been hired to kill her brother. Fate, in the shape of Leviatt, had forestalled him there. Many times, when she had questioned him regarding the hero in her story, he had been on the point of taking her into his confidence as to the reason of his presence at the Two Diamond, but he had always put it off, hoping that things would be righted in the end and that he would be able to prove to her the honesty of his intentions.
But now that time was past. Whatever happened now she would believe him the creature that she despised—that all men despised; the man who strikes in the dark.
This, then, was to be the end. He could not say that he had been entirely blameless. He should have told her. But it was not the end that he was now contemplating. There could be no end until there had been an accounting between him and Leviatt. Perhaps the men who had shot Ben Radford in the back would never be known. He had his suspicions, but they availed nothing. In the light of present circumstances Miss Radford would never hold him guiltless.
Until near noon he sat on the rock on the crest of the hill, the lines of his face growing more grim, his anger slowly giving way to the satisfying calmness that comes when the mind has reached a conclusion. There would be a final scene with Leviatt, and then—
He rose from the rock, made his way deliberately down the hillside, mounted his pony, and struck the trail leading to the Two Diamond ranchhouse.
About noon Leviatt and Tucson rode in to the Two Diamond corral gate, dismounted from their ponies, and proceeded to the bunkhouse for dinner. The men of the outfit were already at the table, and after washing their faces from the tin wash basin on the bench outside the door, Leviatt and Tucson entered the bunkhouse and took their places. Greetings were given and returned through the medium of short nods—with several of the men even this was omitted. Leviatt was not a popular range boss, and there were some of the men who had whispered their suspicions that the death of Rope Jones had not been brought about in the regular way. Many of them remembered the incident that had occurred between Rope, the range boss, Tucson, and the new stray-man, and though opinions differed, there were some who held that the death of Rope might have resulted from the ill-feeling engendered by the incident. But in the absence of proof there was nothing to be done. So those men who held suspicions wisely refrained from talking in public.
Before the meal was finished the blacksmith poked his head in through the open doorway, calling: “Ol’ Man wants to see Leviatt up in the office!”
The blacksmith’s head was withdrawn before Leviatt, who had heard the voice but had not seen the speaker, could raise his voice in reply. He did not hasten, however, and remained at the table with Tucson for five minutes after the other men had left. Then, with a final word to Tucson, he rose and strode carelessly to the door of Stafford’s office. The latter had been waiting with some impatience, and at the appearance of the range boss he shoved his chair back from his desk and arose.
“Just come in?” he questioned.
“Just come in,” repeated Leviatt drawling. “Plum starved. Had to eat before I came down here.”
He entered and dropped lazily into a chair near the desk, stretching his legs comfortably. He had observed in Stafford’s manner certain signs of a subdued excitement, and while he affected not to notice this, there was a glint of feline humor in his eyes.
“Somebody said you wanted me,” he said. “Anything doin’?”
Stafford had held in as long as he could. Now he exploded.
“What in hell do you suppose I sent for you for?” he demanded, as, walking to and fro in the room, he paused and glared down at the range boss. “Where you been? We’re twenty calves an’ a dozen cows short on the tally!”
Leviatt looked up, his eyes suddenly flashing. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “They’re hittin’ them pretty heavy lately. When was they missed?”
Stafford spluttered impotently. “Night before last,” he flared. “An’ not a damned sign of where they went!”
Leviatt grinned coldly. “Them rustlers is gettin’ to be pretty slick, ain’t they?” he drawled.
Stafford’s face swelled with a rage that threatened to bring on apoplexy. He brought a tense fist heavily down upon his desk top.
“Slick!” he sneered. “I don’t reckon they’re any slick. It’s that I’ve got a no good outfit. There ain’t a man in the bunch could see a rustler if he’d hobbled a cow and was runnin’ her calf off before their eyes!” He hesitated to gain breath before continuing. “What have I got an outfit for? What have I got a range boss for? What have I got—!”
Leviatt grinned wickedly and Stafford hesitated, his hand upraised.
“Your stray-man doin’ anything these days?” questioned Leviatt significantly. “Because if he is,” resumed Leviatt, before the manager could reply, “he ought to manage to be around where them thieves are workin’.”
Stafford stiffened. He had developed a liking for the stray-man and he caught a note of venom in Leviatt’s voice.
“I reckon the stray-man knows what he’s doin’,” he replied. He returned to his chair beside the desk and sat in it, facing Leviatt, and speaking with heavy sarcasm. “The stray-man’s the only one of the whole bunch that’s doin’ anything,” he said.
“Sure,” sneered Leviatt; “he’s gettin’ paid for sparkin’ Mary Radford.”
“Mebbe he is,” returned Stafford. “I don’t know as I’d blame him any for that. But he’s been doin’ somethin’ else now an’ then, too.”
“Findin’ the man that’s been rustlin’ your stock, for instance,” mocked Leviatt.
Stafford leaned back in his chair, frowning.
“Look here, Leviatt,” he said steadily. “I might have spoke a little strong to you about them missin’ cattle. But I reckon you’re partly to blame. If you’d been minded to help Ferguson a little, instead of actin’ like a fool because you’ve thought he’s took a shine to Mary Radford, we might have been further along with them rustlers. As it is, Ferguson’s been playin’ a lone hand. But he claims to have been doin’ somethin’. He ain’t been in the habit of blowin’ his own horn, an’ I reckon we can rely on what he says. I’m wantin’ you to keep the boys together this afternoon, for we might need them to help Ferguson out. He’s promised to ride in to-day an’ show me the man who’s been rustlin’ my cattle.”
Leviatt’s lips slowly straightened. He sat more erect, and when he spoke the mockery had entirely gone from his voice and from his manner.
“He’s goin’ to do what?” he questioned coldly.
“Show me the man who’s been rustlin’ my cattle,” repeated Stafford.
For a brief space neither man spoke—nor moved. Stafford’s face wore the smile of a man who has just communicated some unexpected and astonishing news and was watching its effect with suppressed enjoyment. He knew that Leviatt felt bitter toward the stray-man and that the news that the latter might succeed in doing the thing that he had set out to do would not be received with any degree of pleasure by the range boss.
But watching closely, St
afford was forced to admit that Leviatt did not feel so strongly, or was cleverly repressing his emotions. There was no sign on the range boss’s face that he had been hurt by the news. His face had grown slightly paler and there was a hard glitter in his narrowed eyes. But his voice was steady.
“Well, now,” he said, “that ought to tickle you a heap.”
“I won’t be none disappointed,” returned Stafford.
Leviatt looked sharply at him and crossed his arms over his chest.
“When was you talkin’ to him?” he questioned.
“Yesterday.”
Leviatt’s lips moved slightly. “An’ when did you say them cattle was rustled?” he asked.
“Night before last,” returned Stafford.
Leviatt was silent for a brief time. Then he unfolded his arms and stood erect, his eyes boring into Stafford’s.
“When you expectin’ Ferguson?” he questioned.
“He didn’t say just when he was comin’ in,” returned Stafford. “But I reckon we might expect him any time.”
Leviatt strode to the door. Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled evilly. “I’m much obliged to you for tellin’ me,” he said. “We’ll be ready for him.”
A little over an hour after his departure from the hill, Ferguson rode up to the Two Diamond corral gate and dismounted.
Grouped around the door of the bunkhouse were several of the Two Diamond men; in a strip of shade from the blacksmith shop were others. Jocular words were hurled at him by some of the men as he drew the saddle from Mustard, for the stray-man’s quietness and invariable thoughtfulness had won him a place in the affections of many of the men, and their jocular greetings were evidence of this.
He nodded shortly to them, but did not answer. And instead of lugging his saddle to its accustomed peg in the lean-to, he threw it over the corral fence and left it. Then, without another look toward the men, he turned and strode toward the manager’s office.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 190
