“Going to Rainbow again?” Polly persisted sweetly.
“I … I’m going to finish my business,” he said, and then wondered how it sounded.
“Oh, I see.” Her eyes lost their luster behind a cool, steady gaze directed at Hunter. “You’re not very free with your introductions this morning.”
Wayne saw no way out of it. Her father would describe his companion and she would recognize the description. “This is Jim Hunter,” he said coldly. “Polly Arnold, Mister Hunter.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” said Hunter.
“Why are you taking Ted away?” Polly asked.
“He’s free, white, and twenty-one, and handy in the bargain,” said Hunter with a slight drawl. “I don’t think anybody would be taking him away far … unless he wanted to go.”
“That’s not answering my question,” the girl said, her fine eyes snapping.
“I don’t see why you should have to ask Mister Hunter any questions, Polly,” Wayne put in.
“Ted, have you had trouble at the ranch?” she asked in a different tone.
Anger tugged at the threads of his self-control. Hunter’s face bore an amused expression. “Really, Polly, I don’t think that question fits, either,” he replied.
“You don’t want to answer it!” she accused. “I’ll ask your father!”
“You’ve got too much sense to do a silly thing like that,” he told her sharply.
Then the girl of the range showed her temper—a temper that was a natural heritage of a girl who could shoot and ride with many men and still retain her adorable feminine traits.
“You’re throwing what sense you’ve got, Ted Wayne, to the winds,” she said. “And this man is helping you do it.”
“Polly! You’re talking before a stranger.” He shook out his reins and his face paled.
Without another word, the girl whirled her horse and rode swiftly away in the direction she had come.
“There’s one that’s worth holding on to,” was Hunter’s brief comment as they resumed their ride.
Wayne didn’t answer. He was angry—angry at Polly, angry at her father, angry at his own father—and disgusted with himself. Well, now, nothing much mattered. He saw that Hunter was keeping an eye on him, and he resented it. The glory of the morning seemed to fade. He saw only the yellow plain, the colorful outlines of the butte far ahead, the green band of timber along the river in the south. It was going to be a hot day.
Chapter Fourteen
Hunter did not follow the same trail Wayne had taken to Rainbow. He turned off above the spring on the Bar A southeast range and cut straight south toward the river. Whether this was a shorter way, a better trail, or an indication that Hunter did not want to meet anyone, Wayne could not conjecture. But he assumed that this must have been the way Jake Barry and his companions had gone the day they had preceded him on their return from Riverdale. In any event, it looked as if he already was learning some of the secrets of that wild district.
The new route did not prove to be shorter, but it was screened by timber on both sides a short distance below the spring where there was much marshy land. It was a dim trail and wound along the north bank of the river. Several times they passed intersecting cattle trails and Wayne wondered why Arnold would range his stock so near the river with its frequent breaks. It recalled to his mind the remark the Bar A owner had made to Hunter about the range near the butte not being so good this year. Somehow, that remark stuck in Wayne’s mind. The statement was simple enough, but it was the way in which Arnold had put it, and the look that had accompanied it, that had made such an impression upon him. And now, for the first time, a doubt assailed him regarding Hunter. It was reported that Darling was no cheap rustler, that he stole cattle wholesale when he operated along that line. If Hunter were a member of the Darling gang, hadn’t he, too, been mixed up in rustling? Wayne felt he could overlook almost anything except the stealing of cattle. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Hunter would rustle. He was, to all appearances, a cowman of the old school. Still, the great herds of more than one big outfit had been started with a running iron.
They emerged from the foliage along the riverbank in the late afternoon and rode across the bridge. Here Hunter again made a detour, going around the town on the west and entering on the south side, away from the river. Thus they avoided the main street and came into an alley, a narrow way between the buildings that Wayne recognized as the same alley into which he had followed Hunter and where Mort Green, the gambler, had aided him in the fight with Barry’s men.
They stopped at a small green house that fronted on the alley. Its two front windows were heavily curtained against the dying sun. There was a narrow porch and three steps.
“Wait for me,” Hunter instructed. He went up the steps and knocked at the door. In a few moments it was opened and he disappeared inside.
Like everything else connected with Hunter, this house and Hunter’s queer rapping on the door, and his vanishing were mysterious. Wayne was convinced this was the place Hunter had been heading for when he had followed him, four nights before. And now that Wayne was back in Rainbow, he wondered just what he would do. The inspiration of the preceding night deliberately to follow Hunter, if the man tried to shake him, did not seem reasonable in the light of broad day. In its stead he was seized by another idea. Suppose he were to get into trouble—trouble of his own making, if necessary—and look to Hunter for help? He discarded the idea immediately. Such a man as Hunter would not want to mix with a fellow who could not take care of himself. And Wayne needn’t have worried his brain in this respect, for even then events were shaping themselves, events over which neither he nor Hunter would have any control. Wayne’s first great adventure was being made to order with none of the principals to be involved aware of it.
Hunter came out shortly. “We’ll ride over and put up our horses,” he told Wayne. “Then we’ll come back here. It’s a place where we can get a good homemade meal … without grease.”
This sounded good to Wayne, not merely because of the promise of a good meal, but it indicated that Hunter was not shaking him for the time being, at least. Above all things, he wanted to get acquainted with this man.
It was hot, and the street was dusty. There were not many people about. They rode to the livery where Wayne started as he saw Fred Hastings, the owner. He had forgotten to tell his father he had met Hastings. But then, the man might not ask him about it. As it turned out, Hastings merely nodded, possibly because of the presence of Hunter. They walked back to the little green house at the end of the alley.
Hunter rapped on the door and it was speedily opened by a woman who admitted them at once. Wayne was struck by the cozy appearance of the room he entered. It was the full width of the house and must have been nearly half its length. The heating stove glistened in ebony and nickel. When not needed to furnish heat, it served as an ornament. There was a big couch with its head smothered in fancy pillows, easy chairs, a mahogany table with a tasteful runner and a vase of flowers upon it, deep rugs, a well-filled bookcase, an ornate phonograph, a small stand on which was a square of onyx holding a gold nugget in a depression in its top. The pictures were copies of great masters. It was a homelike room, a friendly room—and not the kind one would expect to find in a wild town such as Rainbow.
“Missus Trippett, this is Ted Wayne,” Hunter introduced.
The woman fitted into her surroundings perfectly, thought Wayne as he bowed slightly and took her hand. She was a buxom woman, pink-cheeked, round-faced, with blue eyes and beautiful hair that was snow-white. She radiated cheerfulness and hospitality.
“So this is the man who handed Jake what was comin’ to him,” she boomed in a voice that filled the room and contrasted strangely with its quiet tone.
Hunter looked at Wayne who was plainly showing his surprise. “You’ll find you’ve got a reputation here,” he said dryly. “The news of what happened over at Riverdale couldn’t keep.”
“T
hat’s right,” beamed Mrs. Trippett. “If somebody doesn’t ride into this town with news, the birds bring it, or a jack rabbit gallops in with a note tied to his ears. When my husband, Tom, was alive, he used to say all he had to do was to go outdoors and the wind would whisper the news in his ears. He found a river full of gold like that chunk you see on the stand over there and they had to kill him to get it away from him.” She twisted a corner of the white apron she wore over a blue house dress. “But you folks must be hungry. Jim’ll show you where to wash up, Mister Wayne. It won’t be long till you can eat.”
She led the way through a small dining room to an immaculate kitchen and Hunter beckoned to Wayne to follow him to a little covered porch outside.
“You’ll want hot water, Jim,” said Mrs. Trippett. “Take the tea kettle from the stove. And try to rub out them dust rings on your neck before you use the towel.”
Hunter grinned at Wayne. “We’re at home here,” he said simply.
Wayne took this to be a friendly advance and welcomed it with a flashing smile. “Right good of you to bring me here,” he told Hunter. The fact that Hunter had seen fit to bring him to the house showed that the man had more than passing interest in him.
“The madame’ll tell you about her late husband now and then, but a lot of it’s good stuff,” said Hunter when he brought the hot water. “She’s a good sort.”
“I can see that.” Wayne nodded.
By time they had washed and returned to the living room, and smoked a cigarette, Mrs. Trippett called them to supper.
A gorgeous lamp was lighted in the center of the table, for the sun was behind the western peaks and the trees shaded the window. It was an excellent meal of meat and vegetables, with homemade pickles and jellies, apple pie, and strong coffee.
“Tom always said more homes was broke up with weak coffee than with strong tempers,” said Mrs. Trippett as she filled their cups. “You won’t need any stick in that to make you sit up.”
She took a chair near the window while they ate. She seemed much interested in Wayne. “You don’t look heavy enough to lick Jake Barry,” she observed. “He’s a bull if there ever was one.”
“I reckon I was lucky,” said Wayne with a smile.
“There ain’t so much luck in fist fightin’,” said Mrs. Trippett, shaking her head. “Tom used to say that fists was made to fight with and guns was made to kill with. You better be careful, Mister Wayne. That Jake ain’t above takin’ a pot shot at you or gettin’ you mixed up in a gun play.”
“I’ve got to take my chances,” said Wayne. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Them’s the ones that run smack into it lots of times,” said the woman. “You’re too young and well set up to be stoppin’ hot lead. My Tom used to say it paid to turn corners slow.”
“I’ll take the middle of the street.” Wayne smiled. It was a common saying, but Hunter glanced at him quickly.
“There’s a punch in most things the madame says,” he remarked. Then, to the woman: “You haven’t heard anything about Jake, have you?”
“Well, I don’t think he’s in town,” she replied. “Somebody was sayin’ he’d gone away to heal up.”
Wayne was led to wonder just who came to the little green house. He was convinced that just anybody wouldn’t be welcome there. Was it patronized exclusively by members of the Darling band? And it wasn’t a boarding house, for there couldn’t be more than two bedrooms in the place. He wondered if he would be welcome there at some future time if he were not in Hunter’s company.
Twilight had fallen when Wayne and Hunter finished their supper and went back to the living room. Mrs. Trippett occupied herself with clearing the table and washing the dishes. Wayne heard her humming as she went about her work.
“You’ll let me pay for this,” he suggested to Hunter, thrusting a hand in his pocket.
“No, I have a ticket here,” said Hunter. “It isn’t a regular eating house. Where are you going to put up?”
“I guess the hotel is the only place,” replied Wayne. “I left my pack at the barn, as you know.”
“You better get your room,” Hunter suggested. “Suppose I’ll put up there tonight myself.” He blew a smoke ring absently. He didn’t want Wayne to know he was practically taking him under his wing. He wished to go slow, and was not altogether sure of his procedure. “Of course, it’s none of my business, but I was wondering what you figured on doing tonight.” There was nothing in the look he gave Wayne to signify more than an idle interest.
“I’m going to gamble,” Wayne told him readily.
“Well, that’s easy enough to do here,” Hunter said. “And Henseler’s place is as square as any. I’m going to stay here a while myself.”
Wayne could not mistake this for other than a friendly dismissal. “I’ll be sliding along,” he said, rising.
“You goin’?” said Mrs. Trippett in the dining room doorway. “You can come back when you feel like you’ve got to have something substantial with no frills, but don’t bring any cowpunchers, or card sharks, or gun twisters with you.” Her tone, despite the admonition, was one of invitation.
“I want to see you again, Missus Trippett,” said Wayne. “And I want to thank you.”
“Well, that’s something, too,” said the woman, her eyes brightening. “Tom used to say that thank you was the two easiest words in the language to say and the two hardest to say like you meant ’em. Good-bye.”
When Wayne had left to get his pack at the livery and engage a room at the hotel, Mrs. Trippett’s manner changed. “What about him?” she asked Hunter.
“He’s the son of Ed Wayne, owner of the Whippoorwill,” was Hunter’s noncommittal reply.
“Yes, I know. But what’s he doin’ over here with you?”
“He isn’t with me,” said Hunter with a wave of the hand. “Just rode in with me from over west of here. Is Green up yet?”
“He isn’t here. I haven’t seen him since supper yesterday. I hope you two are not goin’ to get this Wayne into a sky-high game. He seems like a straight-out fellow.”
“You know me better than that, madame,” said Hunter severely. “But if Green drops in, tell him I want to see him. I’ll be hanging out at The Three Colors tonight, I expect.”
Ten minutes later Hunter left the house. He walked to the end of the alley and around the rear of several buildings until he reached the rear of The Three Colors resort. He entered and passed through a hall with doors to private card rooms on either side and found Miles Henseler at the end of the bar near his office. After a few words with Hunter, the resort proprietor excused himself to the men who were with him and took Hunter into the office. They were closeted together nearly half an hour before Hunter came out alone, and after a quick survey of the big room left the place.
Wayne had seen fit to remain in his room at the hotel until dark. Now he pulled down his window shade and lighted the lamp. His pack was open on the bed and he took out his cleaning kit and carefully cleaned and oiled his gun. The weapon was one he had not carried for some time, but it was a duplicate of the gun he had lost. He counted his money and found that his celebration in Riversdale had left him a little more than $300 in cash. In addition to this he had the check for $5,000 his father had given him. He took this from a pocket, looked at it, and replaced it. He had a vague feeling of being terribly alone. Homesickness?
“Bah!” he said aloud. “What I need is some excitement.”
He had done a lot of thinking in the two hours while the twilight gathered and night closed in. His father and Polly Arnold were uppermost in his mind. He was angry with old Ed, but not bitter; he felt a growing resentment toward Polly. Now he shook off these thoughts, donned a soft gray shirt with a blue neckerchief, and buckled on his gun belt. The present was here; the future was just around the corner. He had not told Hunter not to say anything as to how he had come to leave the ranch as he believed Hunter would keep what he knew to himself.
He set off at once for
The Three Colors. Men who recognized him on the dim street turned for a second look. When he entered the resort, he saw instantly that he attracted attention. Men looked at him curiously or with undisguised interest. Hunter was right. He did have a reputation in this outlaw town this night, where before he had been unknown. The outcome of his fight with Jake Barry had pushed him into the limelight. He found the sensation not unpleasant. In fact, it gave him a thrill.
Miles Henseler greeted him cordially at his customary station at the lower end of the bar on the right side of the room. He even shook hands with Wayne—and the whole crowd knew at once that Wayne was not without friends.
“I’d like to see you privately for a minute,” said Wayne.
“Sure … anytime,” said Henseler, leading the way to his office. When they were seated, he said: “I should have told you the other morning that Jim would probably be back that night, but you made me sore. It was the first time I’d been mad in a month. I’m not perfect any more than anybody that comes into my place is perfect.”
“That’s all right,” said Wayne, although in his heart it wasn’t all right. “Give me a thousand out of this and keep the rest in the safe.” He drew the check for $5,000 from his pocket.
“Sure,” said Henseler, glancing at the signature. “I’d like to have a fistful of these. No, you needn’t endorse it now. You can endorse it when you draw the rest. And if you need more, you don’t have to ride back to the ranch. Just let me know. Your ticket can ride here for what you say.”
“Thanks,” returned Wayne. “But I don’t figure on running into debt.”
“Here you are. Five centuries and ten fifties.” Henseler handed him the roll of bills and Wayne added the $300 he had had in cash. Then he counted the whole. “Correct,” he said. “Have a drink?”
After two light drinks with Henseler he sought a place in a stud game. This was easily found and his entrance into the game filled it with seven players. Wayne knew no one at the table, but he saw at once that he was welcome. What was more, a group of spectators quickly collected and the table became a popular one with onlookers. Wayne bought $100 worth of chips, for the game was not a steep one. He was alert; his glances darted about constantly from under the pulled-down brim of his big hat. He saw Miles Henseler pass the table, but he did not see the look the resort proprietor gave his dealer. If he had, he might have been suspicious—for no reason at all. He won steadily, but not in any large amounts.
Rainbow Range Page 11
