Six Feet Four

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE GIRL AND THE GAME

  She did not fully understand, she could not grasp everything yet, shewas filled with doubts and suspicions and a growing terror. What had heruncle said to Thornton, what had the cowboy "swallowed whole"? What wasthe whole scheme which connected the two men, which envolved Thorntonand the sheriff, which seemed clear in one moment only to be a tangle inthe next?

  One thing only was perfectly clear now to the girl. And seeing it, shegathered up her skirts in her two hands and ran, ran back along thewall, keeping in the shadows, drawing close about her the dark cloak shehad thrown about her white dress. She must get into the house beforethey came in, she must let her face show nothing, she must have time tothink before she spoke with them. So she came to the back door, paused abrief moment, commanding her nerves to be steady, then slipped in,letting the cloak fall from her shoulders. She saw Bud King standingwith his back to the wall watching the dancers, and going swiftly tohim, putting her hand lightly upon his arm, she summoned a smile intoher eyes as she cried breathlessly:

  "Will you dance this with me?"

  Young King looked at her in quick surprise, startled at the nearness ofthe girl for whom his eyes had been seeking, and a little flush ran upinto his cheeks, a sparkle of gladness into his eyes.

  "Sure," he grinned happily. "I been looking for you, Miss Waverly."

  He ran his arm about her, she bent her head a little so that he couldnot see the whiteness of her face, and they caught the beat of themusic. She lost the step, purposely that she might have a little moretime before they pass down the room toward Pollard and Broderick,hesitated, taking her time to catch it, laughed at his apology for themistake, noted that her own laugh sounded free and natural, caught thestep, and swirled away into the crowd, daring now to look up laughinglyinto Bud's face unmindful of the havoc she was working in his soul. Thetwo-step was lively; the room was warm, and the colour rose high in hercheeks. But still she was careful to turn her head a little as theywhirled by the front door. But when, for the second time, the dancecarried them to the end of the room where Pollard and Broderick were,she was so sure of herself that she sent a quick, laughing glance at heruncle. And a little of the tightness about her heart was gone as she sawthe look of relief in his eyes.

  King, reckless with the wine of her, demanded the next waltz, claimingthat this had been only half a dance, and she gave it to him laughingly,the more pleased that she saw Broderick coming toward her and that thiswas the second time tonight that he had been a little too late, and thatshe saw a frown in his eyes as they followed her and King out upon thefloor.

  But she knew that if she play her part as she must play it until shecould have time for the definite shaping of plans, she must dance againwith Broderick. When he came for her she nodded carelessly, let him takeher into his arms, and even looking up at him, forced a smile. Forsurely, if these men could do what they were doing and give no hint ofit, she could play her part with clear eyes and a steady heart. She knewnow that Ben Broderick was a highwayman, that he had forced upon her theinsult of his kiss; already she suspected him of being the man who hadmurdered Bill Varney, who had committed crime upon crime. But she knew,too, and with as clear a knowledge, that she must give no slightest signof what her thoughts were. And as a result Mrs. Sturgis, watching her,vowed to herself that "that Win Waverly was a little devil of a flirt!"

  It seemed an endlessly long time until midnight. The lunches which hadcome in baskets and boxes were spread out upon the benches, coffee wasmade outside and brought in in steaming, blackened coffee pots to bepoured into tin cups, and the supper was a noisy, successful affair. Thegirl so wanted to slip away, to get back into her own room at Pollard'shouse where she might drop all pretence and think, think, think! But sheknew that she must seem to enjoy the dance, she must not let her uncleguess that the night had grown bitter in her mouth as it had in BuckThornton's.

  The benches were cleared and pushed back against the walls, themusicians were at it again, when Pollard came to her.

  "Don't you think, Winifred, we'd better be going?" he asked quietly. "Itis late, we've got a good ride ahead of us and I have a lot to dotomorrow."

  But she pleaded for one more dance, and then one more, and finally withmuch seeming regretfulness allowed her uncle to slip on her cloak forher.

  "I may be a hypocrite," she told herself a little sternly, as she sat inthe buckboard at her uncle's side. "But they are playing me for a littlefool! And ... and if they knew that I guessed...."

  She shivered and Pollard asked if she were cold.

  It was a swift drive with few words spoken. Winifred, her chin sunk inher wraps, seemed to be dozing much of the way, and Henry Pollard hadenough to think about to make the silence grateful. The cream-colouredmares raced out across the level land of the valley, with little thoughtof the light wagon and much thought of the home stable and hay. And,racing on, they sped at last through the long alley-like street ofHill's Corners, into the glaring light from the saloons, by many shadowsat the corners of houses, their ears smitten by much noise of loudvoices and the clack of booted feet upon the board sidewalks. WhenPollard jerked in his team at his own front gate, the girl slippedquickly from the buckboard, saying quietly:

  "I think I'll go right up to bed, Uncle Henry. I'm a little tired. Thankyou for taking me."

  And when he said, "Good night, Winifred," she called back her good nightto him, and hurried under the old pear trees to the house. In the hallshe found her lamp burning where Mrs. Riddell had left it for her, andtaking it up she climbed the stairs to her room.

  At last she was alone and could think! Her door was locked, her lightwas out that no one might know she was awake, and she was crouching atthe open window, staring out at the night.

  Out of a tangle of many doubts, suspicions and live terrors there wereat first two things which caught the high lights of her understanding,standing clear of the shadows which obscured the others. Buck Thorntonwas absolutely innocent of the thing she had imputed to him, andunsuspecting of the evidence which was being piled up against him. Andher own uncle was the friend and the actual accomplice of the realcriminal.

  Her thoughts harked back to the beginning of the story as she knew it,reverting to that night when she had first seen Buck Thornton at PokeDrury's road house. From that she passed in review all that she knew ofhim; how he had come in while she was talking with the banker about theerrand which was to carry her over a lonely trail to her uncle. At firstshe had been quick to suspect that Thornton had overheard a part oftheir conversation, that he had known from the first that she wascarrying the five thousand dollars. Now she realized with a littletwinge of bitter self-accusation that she had been over hasty in judgingthe man who had been kind to her.

  She remembered how, on the trail from Dry Town, she had seen a manfollowing her, a man whose face, at the distance he maintained, washidden from her by his flapping hat brim, but whom she believed to beThornton. Upon what had she founded her belief? Upon the matter of hisbeing of about the size and form of the cowboy, upon the fact that herode a sorrel horse and that his clothes, even to the grey neckhandkerchief, were the same! How easy, how simple a matter for anotherman to have a sorrel horse and to wear clothes like Thornton's!

  She remembered that the cowboy's surprise had seemed sincere and livelywhen she had told him she had seen him; she recalled his courtesy to herin the Harte cabin, his willingness to walk seven miles carrying hisheavy saddle that she might have a night's rest under a roof withanother woman. Not to be forgotten was the wrath in his eye and voicewhen she had come upon him with his limping horse, and now, at last sheknew why his horse had been lamed and by whom! For that seemingly wantoncruelty had accomplished that which it was planned to do, making hercertain beyond a doubt that Thornton had lied to her, that he had beenthe man whom she had seen following her, hence that he it was who hadrobbed her and had kissed her into the bargain.

  Now, in an altered mood she cast in review all t
hat John Smith and hiswife had told her of him, and she knew that her first judgment there inthe storm-smitten road house, when she had deemed him clean and honestand manly, had been the right judgment; that he was a man and agentleman; that he could be all that his eyes told of him, gentle untotenderness or as hard as tempered steel but always ... a man.

  But there was so much which she did not grasp yet. She heard HenryPollard return from the stable where he had left the horses and enterthe house, passing down the hallway to his room. Still she sat, neverstirring save for the little involuntary shiver which ran over her fromhead to foot, as her uncle came into the house. And still she worked atthe patchwork of her puzzle, putting it together piece by piece.

  "Buck Thornton didn't do it," she whispered to herself, looking up atthe stars flung across the sky above the ugly little town. "BenBroderick did do it. He robbed me of Uncle's money. And Uncle knows! Idon't understand!"

  But at last she thought that she did understand. Thornton was buying thePoison Hole ranch from Pollard. Already he had paid fifteen thousanddollars into the deal. Now, what would happen if it were proven thatThornton had stolen back from Pollard's emissary five thousand of thatmoney? Thornton would go to jail and for a long time, and then....

  But why was Pollard waiting? Why was Broderick waiting, urgingthe sheriff to wait? She saw it all in a flash then! They wouldprove ... they thought that they were sure of proof through her! ... thatBuck Thornton had robbed her of the five thousand dollars. They wouldprove that Buck Thornton had killed Bill Varney; that he had robbed HapSmith at Poke Drury's road house; they would prove that Buck Thornton wasthe man the whole country wanted, the man who had committed crime uponcrime! She knew that he was a new man here, that he had lived on thePoison Hole ranch for only a year and that the evidence of which her ownword was to have been a part, would be sufficient to prove to thecountryside that Buck Thornton was the daredevil marauder they sought.And how undeniably strong would that evidence be if all crime ceasedabruptly upon the arrest of this one man!

  "It would not be the penitentiary for Buck Thornton," she thoughtsuddenly, her face whiter than it had been when she had overheardPollard and Broderick. "The ranch would come back into Henry Pollard'shands, the men who have committed these crimes would be able to keep thethousands and thousands of dollars they have taken from stages andstolen cattle, and Buck Thornton would go to the gallows!"

  It was unbelievable, it was unthinkable, it was impossible! And yet....

  "And yet," she whispered through her white lips, "it is the truth!"

  She sprang to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyesblazing. Buck Thornton had been good to her and in return she had donemuch to give him over into their hands, she had insulted and reviledhim, she had sworn to the sheriff that he had robbed her. Now suddenlyshe felt that she could never sleep again if she did not atone to him.

  She was already at the door, her hat and gloves in her hand, ready torun down stairs, to saddle her horse, to ride to Thornton with word ofwarning, when a new thought came to her.

  They were waiting, they were going to wait ten days; that much she hadoverheard. Waiting for what? For some new crime, for the monster crimeof all, for the last play for the last and biggest stake?

  She, too, would wait. Not ten days but until she might slip away withoutthis danger of being seen, of her errand being guessed. In the meantimeshe would learn what she could.

  She had not forgotten that Henry Pollard was her uncle. The thoughtadded its bitterness. But she remembered, too, the look she had seenupon Pollard's face when she had told him that Thornton had robbed her,she remembered the look of cruel satisfaction she had surprised theremore than once, and she knew that were he more than uncle, closer thanuncle, she could not act otherwise than she must act now.

  Then, suddenly, she sank down upon her bed, alone and lonely in thethick darkness, weary and vaguely afraid.

  "Buck Thornton," she whispered, "I am afraid I need your help as much asyou need mine now!"