“I didn’t realize you found my kisses so stirring,” he murmured. His tone was slightly amused, but it couldn’t hide the fact that he was left shaken by the kiss.…
Steve slowly opened her eyes, and when she saw Ben’s dark, handsome face where the grinning, freckled one had been, she was brought sharply back to the present.
“Oh,” she said sharply and pushed herself out of Ben’s arms. For heaven’s sake, what had she been thinking of! A bandit’s kiss, of all things!
Ben was gazing at her in complete puzzlement, and before he could say anything, she made a vague reference to some work she had to do and left the office hurriedly.
Outside, the air was hot and f full of the dust that., rose from Red Rock’s main street. As she made her way along the rough wooden walk to the sheriff’s office, she thought, What on earth is wrong with me? What made me think of that red-headed varmint? And right when Ben was kissing me, too. I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I do! She meant the bandit. I hate him! Lord, how I hate him! But that the warm feeling she had inside when she remembered his kiss wasn’t like any hatred she’d ever felt before.
* * * *
When the stage started out on its run from Red Rock to Pine Junction the next week with its shipment of gold, Steve was on it once again. Only this time she rode inside the coach and Jake Davis, an old friend of her Uncle Mort’s and a dead shot with a rifle,’ rode gun up on the driver’s seat beside Andy. This was the’ new plan she’ had mentioned to Ben. Riding back there alone, she’d have the element of surprise on her side because it wasn’t likely anyone’ would expect trouble from someone inside the coach. There were no other passengers. She had seen to that. She didn’t want innocent people getting hurt.
The stage’ had barely left Red Rock behind when trouble struck. Steve had just situated herself on one of the seats in a position which would give, her a vantage point to the rear and each side when she heard a shot from up front and a chorus of yells. For a few brief moments, the stagecoach strained to outrun the hold-up men, but it was no use. Finally, Steve heard Andy’s loud “whoa” and gradually the stage came to a lurching stop.
. Cautiously; taking care not to let herself be seen, Steve peeked through a side window. Two masked men rode up in a choking cloud of dust. One of them pulled his horse up right beside the driver’s seat and, with drawn gun, forced Andy and Jake to drop their guns. The other masked rider was coming straight to the rear of the coach. Steve swung her gun into position and fired. The man yelped and grabbed for his right shoulder, dropping his gun as he did so.
“It’s the sheriff,” he shouted to his companion, and before Steve could fire again she heard the man up front yeli, “Hold your fire or your pals up front here will get a bullet through their brains.”
It was no use. She didn’t dare fire another shot. The tone of the bandit’s voice made it plain he meant every word he said. Biting back tears of anger and frustration, Steve held her fire as she heard Andy comply with the gunman’s orders to hand over the strong box full of gold. Then the team of horses leapt forward in response to a shot in the air from the man’s gun. Steve fired her own gun in a last attempt, but the coach was swaying so violently her bullet, went wild.
Unable to choke back her disappointment any longer, Steve gave vent to bitter tears. She had failed again. What was she going to do? Maybe, the job was too much for her; maybe she should resign and let them put a man in her place. She could marry Ben then and settle down to a nice quiet life. Surely she could make a better wife than a sheriff.
This was the pattern of her thoughts for the next few miles until she’ felt the stage drawing, to a stop. Pine Junction already? She wiped her eyes on a sleeve and leaned out the window. What she saw left her spluttering with rage. They weren’t in Pine Junction! The red-headed snake who had held them up last trip had appeared again. Only this time, it was he who was out of luck. Wild, hysterical laughter burst from Steve’s lips and it wasn’t until she felt a stinging slap on her face that she regained her senses. Both Andy and Jake were bending over her and the red-head was looking on, his gun „ barrel poked inside the window.
“Stand back. Let her have some air,” the gunman ordered. Above his mask his blue eye» were concerned.
“You all right now?” he asked gruffly as she leaned back against the seat.
She attempted a sharp retort but could only nod weakly.
“Get back up front,” he told the other two men. “And no funny business unless you want the lady to get hurt.”
After shooting a couple of helpless looks at her, Andy and Jake made their way back to the front of the stage. The masked rider dismounted and pulled open the coach door. For one wild moment as he leaned over her, his face only inches away from her own, Steve thought he was going to kiss her and she felt a warm weakness invade her body. She hadn’t the strength to fight him off. What’s more, she didn’t want to.
But he didn’t kiss her. Instead he said savagely, “You little fool! Don’t you know you can get hurt playing this game? This is a man’s job. You’ve got no business playing sheriff.” And with one swift movement, he was mounted and gone.
His words had given Steve new life. How dare he call her a fool! She’d show him; she’d show them all. Next time the gold was due for shipment, she’d take it herself on horseback. She’d take the short cut to Pine Junction alone. She’d get that gold through to the railroad office if it was the last thing she did.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she shouted to Andy. “Let’s make tracks.”
She heard the whip crack, felt the horses spring into action and the next instant the coach was off in a cloud of dust.
She didn’t go to Ben this time and admit her failure. Rather he came to her. And it might have been her imagination but she thought she saw triumph written in bis handsome face.
“Look, Steve. For the last time, won’t you give up this nonsense? Marry me and forget about being a sheriff and concentrate on being a wife.” She felt the hard muscles of his body under his impeccably tailored’broadcloth jacket as he pulled her close.
“Give up?” she asked in astonishment. “Never; I’ll die first,” and frightened by her own remark, she pulled away from him and ran upstairs to her room.
* * * *
A few weeks later when the gold was due to be shipped once more, the stage left for Pine junction on schedule and beneath old Andy’s feet was an iron box. But there was no gold in it, only sand, and this amazing secret was known only to Steye.
An hour after the stage left, Steve mounted Star, her palimino, and sneaked out of town. Across her saddle was the iron chest containing the railroad’s’ gold. This time there would be no slip ups., She’d take a short cut to Pine Junction and with the iron box on the stage as decoy, she could carry the real chest to its destination without trouble.
But she was rnistaken! She hadn’t covered half the distance when a rider suddenly appeared from out of a tiny grove of trees and cut her off.
Oh, no! It couldn’t be I But it was. It was the red-headed bandit. This time he was without his mask but not without his gun. It remained pointed squarely at her until she obeyed his barked order to;drop her gun;
“Now get down off that horse,” he said sharply.
Steve started to protest but knowing it was useless, she shrugged and dismounted, dropping the chest to the ground before she did so.
WHEN SHE stood before him, defenseless and dismounted, the gunman replaced his gun in its holster and dropped down beside her. His freckled, pleasantly homely face was grim, and his blue eyes hard as he said, “I thought you’d pull something like this. You haven’t a grain of horse sense in that purty head of yours, have you?”
“Why, you— I don’t have to stand here and let you insult me,” Steve said, spluttering with rage.
“Well, you�
��re going to.” The man smiled, but it was a tight angry smile. “Do you know what you’ve been risking your neck for? Here, I’ll show you.” With one movement he shot the lock frcrin the iron chest and lifted the lid with the tip of his boot.:
Steve gazed down in stunned amazement. There was no gold in that box. Just a lot of old Iron.
“But, I don’t understand,” she gasped.
“Then I’ll explain it.” His voice softened a little. “Your boyfriend, Ben, has been shipping a box full of iron to the railroad instead of the gold he was supposed to ship. He had a couple of his boys hold up the stage each time the box was shipped so no one would find out about his crooked little game. That gold never left the bank; he kept it all nice and safe for himself.”
“But how do you fit in the picture?” Steve asked, ’her confusion growing by the minute.
“I’m an agent for the railroad,” he announced and seeing relief mingle with the’ surprise on her face, he grinned for the first time.
It was an engaging grin and Steve wasn’t sure whether the warmth that spread through her was relief at finding herself in the hands of a railroad agent instead of a bandit or something else.
“The railroad suspected there was dirty work afoot and sent me to find, out. I held up the stage and found iron in that box instead of gold. That gave: us all the evidence we needed. We’ve been waiting for the Federal authorities to come out to Red Rock and make the arrest. We got word they were arriving today. They’re probably making the arrests this very minute.”
“Bien—a crook?” Steve asked incredulously. She shook her head dazedly. “But why did you hold us up last time if you already had the evidence? And what are you doing here now?” This time the red-head’s grin threatened to split his face. “As for holding up the stage again, a little more evidence wouldn’t have hurt anything. Besides I wanted to keep an eye on you. That’s why I’m here now. You made it pretty plain you didn’t have sense enough to take care of yourself, so I decided to do it for you.” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. The next instant his mouth closed over hers and a wild searing flame which started at her mouth swept through her body. Her hands flattened against his back and pressed him even closer until she felt his heart beating against her like an untamed thing.
Finally he leaned back and asked, “Do I get the job?”
Steve shook her head to clear away the fog which enveloped it. “What job?” she asked faintly.
“The job of taking care of you, of making you give up this sheriff business and making you into a wife.”
“Why, sir, I don’t even know your name,” she replied coyly, making a nest of kisses under his ear.
He drew, back and gazed down at her a moment before declaring with an absolutely straight face, “My name’s Red.”
“Oh, no!” she cried and broke into peels of laughter that left her gasping. She just had time to catch her breath before Red’s grinning mouth claimed hers again and she knew beyond a question of a doubt that he got the job. But definitely!
THE SECRET CACHE, by E. C. Brill
I
THE BIRCH BARK LETTER
On the river bank a boy sat watching the slender birch canoes bobbing about in the swift current. The fresh wind reddened his cheeks and the roaring of the rapids filled his ears. Eagerly his eyes followed the movements of the canoes daringly poised in the stream just below the tossing, foaming, white water. It was the first day of the spring fishing, and more exciting sport than this Indian white-fishing Hugh Beaupré had never seen. Three canoes were engaged in the fascinating game, two Indians in each. One knelt in the stern with his paddle. The other stood erect in the bow, a slender pole fully ten feet long in his hands, balancing with extraordinary skill as the frail craft pitched about in the racing current.
The standing Indian in the nearest canoe was a fine figure of a young man, in close-fitting buckskin leggings, his slender, muscular, bronze body stripped to the waist. Above his black head, bent a little as he gazed intently down into the clear water, gulls wheeled and screamed in anger at the invasion of their fishing ground. Suddenly the fisherman pointed, with a swift movement of his left hand, to the spot where his keen eyes had caught the gleam of a fin. Instantly his companion responded to the signal. With a quick dig and twist of the paddle blade, he shot the canoe forward at an angle. Down went the scoop net on the end of the long pole and up in one movement. A dexterous flirt of the net, and the fish, its wet, silvery sides gleaming in the sun, landed in the bottom of the boat.
The lad on the bank had been holding his breath. Now his tense watchfulness relaxed, and he glanced farther up-stream at the white water boiling over and around the black rocks. A gleam of bright red among the bushes along the shore caught his eye. The tip of a scarlet cap, then a head, appeared above the budding alders, as a man came, with swift, swinging strides, along the shore path.
“Holá, Hugh Beaupré,” he cried, when he was close enough to be heard above the tumult of the rapids. “M’sieu Cadotte, he want you.”
The lad scrambled to his feet. “Monsieur Cadotte sent you for me?” he asked in surprise. “What does he want with me, Baptiste?”
“A messenger from the New Fort has come, but a few moments ago,” Baptiste replied, this time in French.
Hugh, half French himself, understood that language well, though he spoke it less fluently than English.
“From the Kaministikwia? He has brought news of my father?”
“That M’sieu did not tell me, but yes, I think it may be so, since M’sieu sends for you.”
Hugh had scarcely waited for an answer. Before Baptiste had finished his speech, the boy was running along the river path. The French Canadian strode after, the tassel of his cap bobbing, the ends of his scarlet sash streaming in the brisk breeze.
Hastening past the small cabins that faced the St. Mary’s River, Hugh turned towards a larger building, like the others of rough, unbarked logs. Here he knew he should find Monsieur Cadotte, fur trader and agent for the Northwest Fur Company. Finding the door open, the lad entered without ceremony.
Monsieur Cadotte was alone, going through for a second time the reports and letters the half-breed messenger had brought from the Company’s headquarters on the River Kaministikwia at the farther end of Lake Superior. The trader looked up as the boy entered.
“A letter for you, Hugh.” He lifted a packet from the rude table.
“From my father?” came the eager question.
“That I do not know, but no doubt it will give you news of him.”
A strange looking letter Cadotte handed the lad, a thin packet of birch bark tied about with rough cedar cord. On the outer wrapping the name “Hugh Beaupré” was written in a brownish fluid. Hugh cut the cord and removed the wrapper. His first glance at the thin squares of white, papery bark showed him that the writing was not his father’s. The letter was in French, in the same muddy brown ink as the address. The handwriting was good, better than the elder Beaupré’s, and the spelling not so bad as Hugh’s own when he attempted to write French. He had little difficulty in making out the meaning.
“My brother,” the letter began, “our father, before he died, bade me write to you at the Sault de Ste. Marie. In March he left the Lake of Red Cedars with one comrade and two dog sleds laden with furs. At the Fond du Lac he put sail to a bateau, and with the furs he started for the Grand Portage. But wind and rain came and the white fog. He knew not where he was and the waves bore him on the rocks. He escaped drowning and came at last to the Grand Portage and Wauswaugoning. But he was sore hurt in the head and the side, and before the setting of the sun his spirit had left his body. While he could yet speak he told me of you, my half-brother, and bade me write to you. He bade me tell you of the furs and of a packet of value hid in a safe place near the wreck of the bateau. He told me that the furs are for you and me
. He said you and I must get them and take them to the New Northwest Company at the Kaministikwia. The packet you must bear to a man in Montreal. Our father bade us keep silence and go quickly. He had enemies, as well I know. So, my brother, I bid you come as swiftly as you can to the Kaministikwia, where I will await you.
Thy half-brother,
Blaise Beaupré or Attekonse, Little Caribou.”
Hugh read the strange letter to the end, then turned back to the first bark sheet to read again. He had reached the last page a second time when Cadotte’s voice aroused him from his absorption.
“It is bad news?” the trader asked.
“Yes,” Hugh answered, raising his eyes from the letter. “My father is dead.”
“Bad news in truth.” Cadotte’s voice was vibrant with sympathy. “It was not, I hope, la petite vérole?” His despatches had informed him that the dreaded smallpox had broken out among the Indian villages west of Superior.
“No, he was wrecked.” Hugh hesitated, then continued, “On his spring trip down his boat went on the rocks, and he was so sorely hurt that he lived but a short time.”
“A sad accident truly. Believe me, I feel for you, my boy. If there is anything I can do——” Cadotte broke off, then added, “You will wish to return to your relatives. We must arrange to send you to Michilimackinac on the schooner. From there you can readily find a way of return to Montreal.”
Hugh was at a loss for a reply. He had not the slightest intention of returning to Montreal so soon. He must obey his half-brother’s summons and go to recover the furs and the packet that made up the lads’ joint inheritance. Kind though Cadotte had been, Hugh dared not tell him all. “He bade us keep silence,” Little Caribou had written, and one word in the letter disclosed to Hugh a good reason for silence.
The Third Western Megapack Page 10
