"Don't you worry none about me!" laughed Mort, boastfully. "I been tellin' you right along that both of them fellers were in our way. I'll get th' marshal, all right; let's see if you fellers can get th' sheriff. An' Pop's right about th' drives: we got to make two more before we're ready to leave this country. We'll never find another layout as good."
"All right," growled the father. "We've had enough talk for tonight. Let's go to sleep: God knows I need some."
The talking ceased. Alice found her heart beating like a thing gone mad. The little room seemed to suffocate her, but she did not dare move, did not dare get up and open her door. She had heard too much to risk making a sound. It seemed to be days rather than hours before the darkness lessened, before the side of the draw near her window began to reveal its details in a ghostly, gray light.
While she lay there, waiting for the proper time to arise, her mind raced over the problems which were hers to solve. After what she had just heard, she could no longer remain under this roof. Thieves were bad enough, but assassins—! Bob Corson was the sheriff! He had been shot at four times, and some of them by the men in the next room, if she had heard aright. Oh, it was impossible; yet, it was true. She could hardly be expected to question the truth of their own admissions. And now they were going to shoot down the marshal, and without giving him a chance to fight back. They were going to kill her splendid rider. Perhaps, but not if she could do anything about it, and she felt that she could do considerable.
The room grew light, and she slipped out of bed, hurriedly dressing. She would catch one of the horses in the corral, saddle up, and be in town before her menfolk learned of her absence. Where she would go after that, she did not know, and did not care very much. The deadly apathy of hopelessness was settling down upon her. There was one thing she must do, and that was to get to Bentley and warn the marshal, and have him warn Bob Corson, and give him the facts as she knew them.
The kitchen somehow looked strange and unreal, notwithstanding the hours she had spent in it, the long, dreary hours. And on this morning, of course, the fire was slow to start. She had told them that the chimney needed cleaning out. She turned from the stove at a sudden thought: she was only wasting her time here: she could eat in Bentley. Let them fool with a foul chimney and get their own breakfasts themselves.
The thought sent her swiftly toward the door, and her hand was on the latch, when another thought stopped her in her tracks. If she fled now, they would know it, know it too soon, and also know that she must have overheard some of their conversation. They would be forewarned. Which was the better course? Slowly the answer came to her, the right answer. She must be here when they rode away, just as she always had been here. She must be the same, outwardly, as she always had been. Nothing must be unusual, no word or action must be different. Could she do it? It was not a question of whether she could or not: she must. If she let them leave first, it might be two or three days before they would return, before they would know that she had gone.
To say that time dragged would be to greatly understate the facts. Time barely moved, and each grudging minute was added torture to her. The sun was halfway to the meridian before she heard a stirring behind the closed door. More torturing minutes passed, and then Black Jack—she could no longer think of him as her father—stepped into the sitting room, rubbing heavy eyes with the backs of his hands.
He yawned and dropped heavily into a chair, groping on the floor for his boots. Again he yawned and glanced carelessly out through the open kitchen door. This sudden sizzling which assailed his eager ears was a pleasant sound, and the smell of the cooking bacon made his mouth water.
"Smells good, Alice," he said, standing up. He loafed to the connecting door and leaned against the casing. "Wake you up last night?"
"I seldom hear any of you come in, after I've gone to sleep," she answered, trying to keep her voice natural. She beat up the batter expertly and dropped a spoonful on the smoking skillet.
"We try not to bother you," he said, yawning again. "Seems like I'll never get caught up on my sleep," he growled, and then brightened suddenly; "but th' time is shore comin' when I will get caught up, when we all can take life easy. God knows it'll be time."
"But you've said that so many times before," she replied, smiling. If the blood would only quit pounding in her head!
"Yeah, I know," he admitted, easily: "but this time I'm talkin' good medicine. We'll be kissin' this damn' country good-bye before you know it. Just got a few things more to do, an' then we start. An' we leave all this stuff right where it lays."
A few more things to do! Yes: kill Bob Corson and the old marshal, and steal two more herds! Just a few more things like theft and murder.
"By the time you pour your coffee I'll be ready with a flapjack," she said, steadily, casually; and turned the cake deftly and without a tremble. Not only was she the daughter of a thief and the sister of thieves, but now the terms included murder. After she had reached town and given the warnings, she would just ride off in any direction at all. It did not matter where she went or what happened to her: Bob Corson would never see her again.
"That shore smells good," said Matt's booming voice as its owner stepped through the connecting door. "An' mebby I ain't ready to eat! Alice, yo're a wonder."
"Pour your own coffee and sit down," she ordered with a laugh. Her dear brother Matthew, scheming right now how he could safely put a bullet into the heart of the man she loved! "This cake is your father's; you're next."
"Serves me right for bein' second," he chuckled, and reached for the sugar bowl. He looked up at his father. "What are we goin' to do today, Pop?"
"Nothin'," grunted the older man, reaching for the blackstrap. "There ain't nothin' to do with our few head. Might as well go to town an' see th' boys."
"That suits me," said Matt, his eyes on the smoking skillet. "Let it brown more for me, Sis."
"All right," she replied, smiling to herself at the futility of this last little conversational gem spoken for her benefit. They spoke about riding to town, and then lacked the wit to carry out their pretense, riding off toward the head of the draw instead of down it toward the arroyo trail. She looked up to see Mort enter the room and heard Maurice close behind him. They were talking and laughing as easily as if their consciences were clean. A sudden feeling of revulsion swept over her: she could cheerfully poison them all!
The ordeal finally came to an end and she began, mechanically, to clear up the dishes and put things in order. She saw them get their horses and saddle up. This time they rode off down the draw toward the arroyo trail, and she found herself listening to the noise of the hoofs. Soon after they had dropped out of her sight most of the noise abruptly ceased, but one set of hoofs died out slowly, and then came back to her in the echo she had learned to listen for.
Three of them had turned to the right and were riding up the trail toward the Gap; the other, down it, toward Bentley. This, of course, would be Mort, on his way to keep watch over the marshal. She would give him half an hour's start before she followed.
This question of time bothered her. She wanted to get to town as soon as she could, to reduce the marshal's danger by as many minutes as possible; but she did not wish to get within sight of Mort. An hour would be better. She glanced again at the cheap alarm clock and nodded. She would wait an hour.
CHAPTER XIX
DOWN in Bentley the marshal had made his more or less perfunctory morning rounds and was seated inside the office, his thoughts on the innocent-looking eyebrow up on the slope across the road. He was wondering whether or not the sharpshooter had changed the cartridge in his gun, when he heard the steps of a horse coming down the street. Many horses passed that way, and he had no particular interest in this one until it stopped before his door. He looked up curiously. It was not Corson. He had known that since the sounds had first become audible—unless the forefeet had been shod.
He shifted a little on the chair to face the door squarely, and waited. And then he
was standing up, looking with surprise at the woman who stepped into the room. The brightness of the sun outside on the gray white street threw her into silhouette, and the dim light of the room made it difficult for him at once to see who she was. She did not leave him in doubt.
"Perhaps you remember me, marshal," she said in a tight, strange voice as she slowly took the chair that he was quick to offer her. "I'm Alice Meadows."
"Yes, ma'am. I shore do remember you," he replied, studying her rather closely. Seated as she now was, with the brighter light on her face, he was no longer handicapped in the matter of vision.
"I'm riding—I'm riding off to visit some friends," she continued, hesitantly, with embarrassment. Her face flushed suddenly, and strengthened the marshal's peculiar ideas that truth did not abide in a woman. He was justified in this, somewhat, since that had been his own personal experience; and, besides, Alice Meadows did not lie easily.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and waited patiently.
She did not know just how to proceed. As she had ridden toward town it had seemed a simple thing; but then she had been considering generalities. Face to face with the task, she found it difficult, and it was made more so because of her emotions upsetting her balance. Her face was set and drawn, and her eyes were desperate.
"Yes, ma'am," prompted the marshal, calmly studying her. "Yo're goin' to visit friends. On hossback?"
"Yes, on horseback!" she replied quickly, too quickly. It was an exclamation which was not necessary. Again she flushed, and her eyes grew more desperate.
The marshal was reflecting that from what he knew and had heard about the Meadows family, it had no acquaintances within horseback-riding range. If Alice Meadows was going to visit friends, then she would have to take the train, down at Carson, and ride many hours on it. An oblique thought impinged upon his consciousness: Mort Meadows, up there behind the eyebrow, must be doing some rough-and-tumble conjecturing about now. Then another thought broke through: perhaps he wasn't; perhaps this was part of a carefully thought out plan. He became even more alert.
"Is that what you rode in to tell me?" he asked her, watching her face through half-closed lids. He did not like the paleness of it between flushes, the drawn look, or the expression in her eyes. Had Mort changed the cartridge in that rifle?
"No, I just—just mentioned that," she said, her words so low that he had a little difficulty in hearing them.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, encouragingly, watching the nervous twisting and untwisting of her slender fingers.
"I came in to—I have a message for—I just came in to tell you that—that—" she said, and became suddenly mute. Her tongue refused to function.
"You have a message for me?" he asked curiously, mentally up in arms. Did Black Jack think he was a damned fool?
"Yes, for you and—and the—the—" again she faltered and stopped. She was rapidly going to pieces.
If it was a cooked-up message from Black Jack, then it would very likely concern the sheriff. Damn any blackguard that sent in a woman to tell his lies, to bait his traps!
"Sheriff?" he prompted, sitting erect in his chair. Her part in it was innocent, he decided, intuitively; and then he became a little anxious: she was threatening to lose control over herself, and he now believed that whatever resolution she had made, it was a desperate one. Going to visit friends on horseback!
"I—I've come to warn you—to tell you that—that—" Her voice died out. Her throat was dry, and she swallowed laboriously to moisten it. That, he knew, was caused by fear. This was a matter that would call for all his wits.
"Miss Alice, you just take things easy; but you shore got th' wrong chair," he said, stepping forward quickly. Perhaps Black Jack had no hand in this unexpected visit, and there was Mort up on the slope with a rifle trained on that door. Before she could get up or even understand his purpose, he had dragged her, chair and all, a full pace backward toward the side wall, and farther from the open door. He was ready to risk his own hide on that doctored cartridge, but not hers: Mort might have slid in a fresh one of his own.
"Wrong chair?" she asked with surprise. "I don't see what that—"
"No, ma'am; you wouldn't," interrupted the marshal, smiling reassuringly and moving away from her. He talked as he moved, hoping to calm her, to get her thoughts into healthier channels, to give her time to get better control over herself.
"You see, th' boys are kinda wild, here in town," he continued. "There ain't never no tellin' just where a bullet is goin' to go. Of course, they're just playful, but you ain't got no idear, a-tall, how reckless some of 'em are. A bullet might come right smack through that there door any minute now, except that th' light in here is kinda dim."
Her hands were clenched, and she was staring at the door as if fascinated by it. Somewhere up on that peaceful hillside slope Mort Meadows was lying, with his rifle trained on this building. She shuddered a little and turned her head quickly to look at her companion, and caught him assuming his poker face.
"Why, you mean—" she asked, her fingers twining again.
"Yes, ma'am," he Interrupted, calmly, kindly. Black Jack had nothing to do with this visit.
"You're not guessing?" she persisted, her voice strained and unnatural.
"Not much," he said, the smile growing.
"Then you know?"
"Yes, ma'am. I know quite a lot," he assured her, a certain grimness changing the pleasantness of the smile. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.
"You got any particular place in mind where yo're goin'?" he suddenly asked, flinging the question at her and watching closely for its effect. He counted a little on the abrupt change of subject.
"Oh, yes! Yes, of course I have!" she answered, but her eyes evaded him, and again the flush became noticeable.
This was one woman who did not make a practice of lying, he thought. She was having such a hard time of it that he felt sorry for her.
"Hum! Y-e-p. Of course you have," he said. "As an officer of th' law, I'll have to ask you to tell me just where that is, where I can find you if I need to," he stated, keeping his face grave and serious. He felt no pride, somehow, in this trickery; but it was necessary.
"Where it is—where I am going? I must tell you that?" she asked, incredulously. Her face had paled again and was set.
"Yes, ma'am; or not leave town."
"But I can't stay here! I can't stay here!" she exclaimed, almost in a panic. Her eyes were wide from fear.
"Well, you could stay on th' JM," he suggested with offhand carelessness, but he was missing nothing that her face might tell him.
"I can't stay there! I can't go back; but I must leave here and I must go somewhere!" Her panic was growing, and he felt sorry for her. "I can't go back there, now. I just can't stand it any longer!"
"You won't have to," he quickly assured her, now quite certain of at least one thing, and strongly suspecting others. "Have you any particular place in mind?" he demanded. His gaze locked with hers, and she shook her head without realizing it.
"Yes, of course," she answered, desperately. "Of course!"
He nodded understandingly, and his smile became gentle and friendly, a warm smile, inviting confidence. He was quite certain of his footing now.
"Well, ma'am, you can go. There ain't no reason why you can't. All you have to do is tell me just where yo're goin', an' promise me to stay there till you hear from me." At something in her look he shook his head reprovingly.
"Now, look here, Miss Alice: suppose you just listen to me. I'm old enough to be yore father. Yo're in a pile of trouble, an' it ain't no fault of yore own. Just a minute, now! You listen to me. Yo're in trouble, but you ain't goin' to stay in it very long. You said you came in to tell me somethin'?"
"Yes; but I don't know just how to begin."
"Y-e-p. Reckoned so. I don't want you to tell it to me. I don't want you to tell me anythin' that you might be sorry for later on. Yes, yes: but you just let me do th' talkin' for a few minutes, because I'm g
oin' to tell you a few things, a few things that you mebby rode in to tell me; an' then you won't have to say 'em a-tall. An' then I'm goin' to take you outa town an' leave you where you'll be safe an' well taken care of. Yo're to stay right there till I come after you or send a messenger for you. You promise that you'll stay there, like I just said, if I help you to get outa th' trouble that yo're in, right now?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her fingers twisting desperately. She could never see Bob Corson again, did not dare to, for she knew that she could not hold out against him in the long run. "I was just going to —just going to go—oh, I don't know what!"
"Yes; that's just about what I reckoned," said the marshal, his smile like a beam of sunlight. He was now definitely arrayed on her side, her side and Bob's, horse, foot, and artillery. "An' that's just what I'm figgerin' to stop. But you wouldn't go to do that if it wasn't necessary, would you?"
"Why, no; certainly not: but it is necessary. There's nothing else to be done."
"Looks like it, mebby; but if we find that it ain't, then you won't have no reason to go, will you?" he persisted. He wished he could put his finger on the mainspring of her actions.
"No, I guess not; not if we find that it isn't."
"Then there ain't no doubt about that," he said, nodding. "This is a kinda game. It's a game I know, an' you don't. Suppose you let me play th' cards, an' you watch how they run an' fall. You don't know how to play 'em, but I do. It's kinda right in my line. Now you give me th' promise I asked you, an' then I'll tell you what I was goin' to."
She nodded miserably, her eyes on his; and then a faint gleam of hope eased the tenseness of her expression. She felt a growing confidence in this old man.
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