by Harold Titus
CHAPTER XVI
THE MESSAGE ON THE SADDLE
The hours he spent in Yavapai that night were memorable ones for BruceBayard. He rode the distance to town at a slow walk and arrived afterthe sun had set. He had no appetite for food but, nevertheless, afterwashing in the kitchen, he went into the hotel dining room and talkedabsently to Nora.
It did not occur to him to mention what had happened that afternoon tothe girl. That had been a matter too purely personal to permit itsdiscussion with another. While he talked to her, his mind was whollyoccupied with thoughts other than those of which he spoke and he did notsee that the waitress was studying him carefully, reading what waswritten on his face. Nora knew that Ann was gone; she knew that she hadtaken with her a new conviction, a new courage, and the fact that Bayardhad left her at his ranch, probably with Ned Lytton, puzzled the girl.
Bruce was not certain that he had acted wisely. Many circumstances mightarise in which his presence at the ranch could be a determining factor.At times he wondered vaguely if Lytton might not attempt to do his wifeviolence, but always he comforted himself by assurance of her strengthof character, of her moral fiber, contrasting it with Ned's vacillatingnature.
"She'd take care of herself anywhere," he thought time after time.
When he had gone through with the formal routine of feeding himself hewent out to stroll about. He watched the train arrive and depart, hetalked absently with an Indian he knew and jested with the red man'ssquaw. He bought a Los Angeles paper and could not center his mind on aline of its printed pages. He walked aimlessly, finally entering thesaloon where a dozen were congregated.
"That piano of yours has got powerful lungs, ain't it?" he asked thebartender, wincing, as the mechanical instrument banged out its measure.
"This here beer's so hot it tastes like medicine," he complained,putting down his glass after his first swallow, and picking up thebottle to look at it with a wry face.
"It's right off th' ice," the other assured.
"You can have th' rest of it for th' deservin' poor," he said and strodeout, while the others laughed after him.
Up and down the street, into the general store to exchange absent-mindedpleasantries with the proprietor's wife, across to the hotel where hetried to sit quietly in a chair, back to the saloon; up and down, up anddown.
Down the main street of Yavapai]
A hundred yards from the Manzanita House was a corral and in it a scoreof young horses were being held to await shipment. In the course ofhis ambling, Bruce came to this bunch of animals and leaned against thebars, poking a hand through and snapping his thumb encouragingly as theponies crowded against the far side and eyed him with suspicion. Hetalked to them a time, then climbed the fence and perched on the toppole, snapping his fingers and making coaxing sounds in futile effort totempt the horses to come to him; and all the time his mind was back atthe Circle A, wondering what had transpired under his roof, in his room,that day.
Nora's voice startled him when it sounded so close behind, for he hadnot heard her approach.
"Why, you scart me bad!" he said, with a laugh, letting himself downbeside her. "What you doin' out to-night?"
He pinched her cheek with his old familiarity, but under the duress ofhis own thinking did not notice that she failed to respond in any way tohis pretended mood.
"I thought I'd like to walk a little an' get th' air," she said."An' ... tell you that I'm goin' away."
"Away, Nora?"
"Yes, I'm goin' to Prescott, Bruce."
He lifted his hat and scratched his ear and moved beside her as shestarted walking along the road, now a dim tape under the mountain stars.
"Why, Nora, I thought you was a fixture here; what'll we do withoutyou?"
He did not know how that hurt her, how the thought that he _could_ dowithout her hung about her heart like a sodden weight. She covered itwell, holding her voice steady, restraining the discouragement thatwanted to break into words, and the night kept secret with her thepallor of her face.
"I guess you'll get along, Bruce; you done it before I come an' I guessth' town'll keep on prosperin' after I leave. I ... I got a chance to gointo business."
"Why, that's fine, Sister."
"A lunch counter that I can get for two hundred; I've saved more 'n thatsince ... since I come here. That'll be better than workin' for somebodyelse an' I figure I'll make as much and maybe considerable more."
"That's fine!" he repeated. "Fine, Nora!"
In spite of the complexity of his thinking he found an interval ofrespite and was truly glad for her.
"I ... I wanted to tell you before anybody else knew, 'cause I ... Well,you made it possible. If you hadn't done this for me ... this here inYavapai ... I'd never been ..."
He laughed at her.
"Oh, yes you would, Nora. You had it in you. If I hadn't happened alongsome one else would. What we're goin' to be, we're goin' to be, Ifigure. I was only a lucky chance."
"Lucky," she repeated. "Lucky! God, Bruce, lucky for me!"
"Naw, lucky for me, Nora. Why, don't you know that every man likes tohave some woman dependin' on him? It's in us to want some female womanlookin' to us for protection an' help. It tickled me to death to think Iwas helpin' you, when, all the time, I knew down in my heart, I was onlyan accident.''
"You can say that, Bruce, but you can't make me believe it."
They walked far, talking of the past, of her future, but not once didthe conversation touch on Ann Lytton. Bayard kept away from it becauseof that privacy with which he had come to look on the affair, and thegirl knew that his presence there in town after Ann's departure for theranch could mean only that a crisis had been reached. With her woman'sheart, her intuition, she was confident of what the outcome would be.And though she had given her all to help bring it about, she knew thatthe sound of it in speech would precipitate that self-revelation whichshe had avoided so long, at such cost.
"I'll see you again," she said, when they stood before the hotel and shewas ready to enter for the night. "I'll see you again before I go,Bruce. And--I ... thank you ... thank you...."
She gripped his hand convulsively and lowered her head; then turned andran quickly up the steps, for she would not let him see the emotion, norlet him hear uncertain words form on her lips.
In her last speech with him, Nora had lied; she had lied because sheknew that to tell him she had packed her trunk and would leave on themorning train would bring thanks from him for what she had done for AnnLytton; and Nora could not have stood this. From the man downstairs shehad learned kindness, had learned that not all mistakes are sins, hadlearned that there is a judgment above that which denounces or commendsby rule of thumb. He had set in her heart a desire to be possessed byhim, had fed it unconsciously, had led her on and on to dream and plan;then, had unwittingly wrecked it. But he had made her too big, too fine,too gentle, to let jealousy control her for long. She had weakened justonce, and that had served to set in Nora's heart a new resolve, a finerpurpose than had ever found a place there before. And, as she stumbledup the narrow stairway, the tears scalding her cheeks, her soul wasglad, was light, was happy, for she knew true greatness.
Bayard roamed until after midnight; then went to his room in the hoteland slept brokenly until dawn. In those hours he chilled with fear andexperienced flushes of temper, but behind it all he was resigned,willing to wait. He had done his all, he had held himself strictlywithin the bounds of justice as he conceived it, and beyond that hecould do no more.
The east had only commenced to silver when he rode out of town at abrisk gallop. He did not realize what going back to his ranch meantuntil he was actually on his way and then with every length of the roadtraveled, his apprehensions rose. It was no business of his he argued,what had transpired the day before; it was Ann's affair ... and herhusband's. Yet, if he had left her alone, unprotected, and Lytton haddone her harm, he knew that he could never escape reproaching himself,and his suffering would be in proportion to hers. The
n, of the many,there was another disturbing possibility. Perhaps a completereconciliation had followed. Perhaps he would ride into his dooryard tofind Ann Lytton cooking breakfast for her husband, smiling and happy,refusing to meet his gaze, ashamed of what had been between them.
He prodded his pony to greater speed with that thought.
The sun was not yet up when he pulled his swift-breathing horse to astop. The outer gate stood open, and, as he rode through, his faceclouded slightly with annoyance over the unusual occurrence, but when helooked to the horse corral and saw that it, too, was open, and empty,that Abe was gone, his annoyance became fear. He spurred the tired ponyacross the yard and flung off before the house with eyes on that portionof the kitchen which was visible through the door. Then, stopped, stoodstill, and listened.
Not a sound except the breathing of his horse. The breeze had not yetcome up, no animal life was moving. An uncanny sense of desertion wasupon the place and for a moment Bayard knew real panic. What if someviolence....
"Lytton!" he called, cutting his half-formed, horrible thought short,and stepped into the room.
No answer greeted him and, after listening a moment, he again shouted.Then walked swiftly to the room where Ned Lytton had lived through thoseweeks. He knocked, waited, flung open the door and grunted at theemptiness which he found. One more room remained to be inspected--hisroom--and he turned to the door which was almost closed. He rappedlightly on the casing; louder, called for Lytton, grasped the knob andentered.
The overturned table, broken lamp, the spreading stain of its oil, therumpled rugs yielded their mute suggestion, and he moved slowly about,eyeing them, searching for other evidence, searching for something morethan the fact that a struggle had taken place, hoping to find it,fearing to know.
He stopped suddenly, holding his head to one side as though listening tocatch a distant sound.
"Both saddle horses gone ... they're gone," he muttered to himself andstarted from the room on a run.
He inspected the saddle rack under his wagonshed and saw that the thirdsaddle was missing, and then, with expert eyes, studied the ground forevidence.
A trail, barely discernible in the multitude of hoof-marks, led throughto the outer gate, crossed the road and struck straight east across thevalley.
"That's Abe," he said excitedly to himself. "That was made lateyesterday."
He stood erect and looked into the far reaches of the lower valleywhere the wreaths of mists in the hollows were turning to silver andthose without shelter becoming dispelled as the sun spread its firstwarmth over the country.
"You've stolen my horse!" he said aloud, and evenly, as though he weredispassionately charging some one before him with the misdeed. "Youstole my horse, but she ... was your woman!"
He straightened and lifted his head, moving it quickly from side to sideas he strove to identify a moving object far below him that had risensuddenly into sight on one of the valley swells and disappeared again ina wash. It was a horse, he knew, but whether it was a roamer of therange or a beast bearing a rider, he could not tell. He waited anxiouslyfor its reappearance, again hoping and fearing.
"Huh! You're carryin' nobody," he muttered aloud as the speck again cameinto view. "An' you sure are goin' some particular place!"
The animal was too far distant to be readily identified but about itsswing was a familiar something and, inspired by an idea, Bayard returnedto the house, emerged with a field glass and focused it on theapproaching horse. The animal was his sorrel stallion.
"Come on, Abe," he said aloud, putting down the binoculars with a handthat trembled. "They've sent you on home, or you've got away.... But howabout th' party you carried off?"
He walked to the gate and stood uneasily awaiting the arrival of theanimal. As the sorrel came into sight from the nearest wash into whichhe had disappeared he was moving at a deliberate trot, but when he madeout the figure of his waiting master he strode swifter, finally breakinginto a gallop and approaching at great speed, whinnering from time totime.
The bridle reins were knotted securely about the horn. He had notescaped; Abe had been sent home. He stopped before Bruce and nuzzled theman's hands as they caressed his hot, soft nose.
"It looks as if they had trouble before they left, from th' way my roomis," the man said to the horse as he stroked his nose, "but I know rightwell he'd never got you out of that corral alone an' never got you offin that direction unless somebody'd helped him; she might make you mind'cause she rode you once. If it wasn't for that ... I'd think she'd beenforced ... 'cause they must have had a racket...."
He led the horse through the gate and into the corral. There, he slippedthe bridle off, uncinched and dragged the saddle toward him. As thepolished, darkened seat turned to the bright sunlight, he saw that theleather had been defaced and, indignation mounting, he leaned over toinspect it. The resentment departed, a mingling of fear and triumph andrage rose within him, for on the saddle had been scratched in hasty,crude characters:
BOUND FOR MI NE HELP
No need to speculate as to the author of that message on the saddle.That Ann had been forced by circumstances to do the work furtively wasas evident. And the combination of facts which rode uppermost in hisconfused mentality was this. Ann Lytton was being taken to the Sunsetmine against her will; she had appealed to him for aid and, because ofthat, he knew that she had chosen between the two, between her husbandand her honorable lover!
For a moment, mad, hot triumph filled him. He had done his best with theruin of a man he had set out to reconstruct; he had groomed him well,conscientiously, giving him thorough care, great consideration, just tosatisfy his own moral sense; he had given him back to Ann at the cost ofintense suffering ... and it had not been enough for her; she was notsatisfied. Beside her husband, bound for her husband's mountain home,she had found herself in her hour of need and had cried out to him forhelp!
Bruce calculated swiftly as he stood there. Lytton's trail from theranch led straight eastward, toward the Sunset group. They had notridden the whole forty-five miles at one stretch. He was satisfied ofthat. Obviously, they had stopped for the night and out in that countrytoward which they had started was only one ranch that would not takethem miles out of their course. That was the home of Hi Boyd, a dozenmiles straight east, six miles south and east from Yavapai, thirty-threemiles from the Sunset group. By now they were making on, they couldfinish their journey before night....
And then recurred a thought that Bruce had overlooked in those momentsof speculation, of quick thinking:
"Good God, Benny Lynch's waitin' for him ... with murder in his heart!"he cried aloud, the horror at the remembrance so sharp, the meaning ofthis new factor in the situation so portentous, that the words came fromhis lips unconsciously. He stood beside the horse, staring down at themessage on the saddle again, bewildered, a feeling of helplessnesscoming over him.
"I can't let that happen, Abe, I can't!" he said. "I drove him there....He must have gone because ... He's found out she was here all along ...he's blamed it on me.... He's crazy mad an' he's ridin' straight to hisend!... It would free her, but I can't let it happen ... not thatway ...
"It's up to you to get me to town," he cried as he reached for thebridle. "Just to Yavapai ... that's all.... You're th' best horse in th'southwest, but they've got too much of a start on you. We'll tryautomobiles this once, Pardner!"
In an incredibly short time the saddle was on, cinch tight. He gatheredthe reins, called to the sorrel and Abe, infected with his excitement,wheeled for the gate, the man running by his side. As the animal roundedinto the road, Bruce vaulted into the saddle, pawed with his right footfor the flopping stirrup and leaning low on Abe's neck, shouted into hisears for speed.
Merely minutes transpired in that eight-mile race to Yavapai. Bayard'sidea was to hire the one automobile of which the town boasted, startdown the valley road that Lytton and Ann must follow to reach the mine,overtake and turn them back, somehow, on some pretext. He cou
ld arrangethe device later; he could think of the significance of Ann's appeal tohim when the man between them was free from the danger of which Bayardwas aware; his whole thought now was to beat time, to reach town withthe least possible waste of seconds. The steel sinews, the leatherlungs, the great heart of the beast under him responded nobly to thisneed. They stormed along the wagon tracks when they held straight,thundered through the unmarked grass and over rocks when the highwayturned and twisted. Once, when they ran through a shallow wash and Abeclimbed the far side with a scramble, fire shot from his shoes and Brucecried,
"You're th' stallion shod with fire, boy!"
It was a splendid, unfaltering run, and, when the rider swung downbefore the little corrugated iron building that housed Yavapai's motorcar, the stallion was black with water and his breath came and went withthe gasps of fatigue and nervous tension.
Bruce turned from his horse and stepped toward the open door of thegarage. A man was there, behind the car, looking dolefully down at anarray of grease covered parts that littered the floor.
"Jimmy, I want you to take me out on th' Valley road this mornin'. Howsoon can we get away?"
"It won't be this mornin' or this afternoon, Bruce," the man said, witha shake of his head. "I've got a busted differential."
"Can't it be fixed?"--misgiving in his voice.
"Not here. I have to send to Prescott for a new one. I'll be laid up acouple of days anyhow."
Bayard did not answer. Just stood trying to face the situation calmly,trying to figure his handicap.
"Is it awful important, Bruce?" the man asked, struck by the cowman'sattitude.
"I guess th' end of th' world's more important,"--as he turned away,"but to me, an' compared to this, it's a small sized accident."
He walked slowly out into the street and paused to look calculatingly atAbe. Then, turning abruptly, struck by a new possibility, he ran acrossto the Manzanita House, entered the door, strode into the office, tookdown the telephone receiver and rattled the hook impatiently.
"I want Hi Boyd's ranch," he said to the operator. Then, after a wait inwhich he shifted from foot to foot and swore under his breath: "Hello... Boyd's? Is this Hi Boyd? It is? ... Well Hi, this is Bruce Bayardan' I've got to have a horse from you this mornin'...."
"A horse!" came the thin, distant exclamation over the wire. "Everybodywants horses off me today...."
"But I've _got_ to have one, Hi! It's mighty important. Yours is th'only ranch that's on my way--"
"... an' we let one get away this mornin'," the voice went on, notpausing for Bruce's insistence, "'fore daylight an' left a lady whospent th' night with us a foot. We had to go catch up another for 'eman' Lytton--Ned Lytton, was th' man--only got on two hours ago ... threehours late! No, they ain't a horse on th' place that'll ride."
"Can't you catch one for me?" Bruce persisted.
"How? Run him down on foot? If I was a young man like you, I might, butnow...."
Bayard slammed up the receiver and turned away, staring at the floor. Hewalked into the street again, looking about almost wildly. One by onethe agencies that might prevent the impending catastrophe out yonder hadbeen rendered helpless. The automobile, the chance of getting a changehorse, his haste in riding to Yavapai and its consequent inroads madeupon Abe's strength.
"I'm playin' with a stacked deck!" he muttered, as he approached thestallion. "There ain't another horse in this country equal to you evenafter your mornin's work," he said, looking at the breathing, sweatdarkened creature. "I wouldn't ask you to do it for anybody else, Boy.But ... won't you do it for her? She sent for me. Will you take me back?It'll mean a lot to her, let alone what it means to me ... if I don'tstop him.
"It's thirty-five miles for us to make while they're doin' little more'n twenty, for they've been traveling since dawn. Maybe it'll be yourlast run ... It may break your heart.... How about it?"
In his desperation, something boyish came into his tone, his manner, andhe appealed to his horse as he would have pleaded with another humanbeing. The sorrel looked at him inquiringly, great intelligent eyesunblinking, ears forward with attentiveness and, after a moment, thewhite patch on his nose twitched and he moved closer against his masteras he gave a low little nicker.
"Is that your answer, Abe? Are you sayin' yes?" Bayard asked, andunbuckled his chap belt. "Is it, old timer? You're ... it's all up toyou!" He kicked out of his chaps, flung them to the hotel porch,mounted, reined the stallion about and high in the stirrups, a live,flexible weight, rode out of town at a slow trot, holding the horse tothe gait that the wind which blew in from the big expanse of countrymight cool him.
