CHAPTER XXXII: IN THE TWO CABINS
The marshal's lips smiled.
"Sure, Jim," he drawled, "anything to oblige, although this is a newone on me. Come on, Matt; it seems the gentleman does not wish to bedisturbed---- Well, neither would I under such circumstances. Hereyou! line up there in single file, and get a move on you--pronto! Show'em what I mean, Matt; put that guy that talks English at the head----Yes, he's the one. Now look here, _amigo_, you march straight outthrough that door, and head for the bunk-house--do you get that?"
"_Si, senor_; I savvy!"
"Well, you better; tell those fellows that if one of 'em makes a breakhe's goin' ter be a dead Mex--will yer? Get to the other side of them,Matt; now step ahead--not too fast."
Westcott watched the procession file out, still clasping the partiallyunconscious girl in his arms. Moore, bringing up the rear, disappearedthrough the entrance, and vanished into the night without. Except forthe three motionless bodies, they were alone. The lamp on the highshelf flared fitfully in the wind, and the charred embers on the floorexhibited a glowing spark of colour. From a distance Brennan's voicegrowled out a gruff order to his line of prisoners. Then all wasstill. The eyes of the girl opened slowly, her lids trembling, but asthey rested on Westcott's face, she smiled.
"You are glad I came?"
"Glad! Why I never really knew what gladness meant before."
He bent lower, his heart pounding fiercely, strange words strugglingfor utterance.
"You love me?"
She looked at him, all the fervent Irish soul of her in her eyes. Thenone arm stole upward to his shoulder.
"As you love me," she whispered softly, "as you love me!"
"I can ask no more, sweetheart," he breathed soberly, and kissed her.At last she drew back, still restrained by his arms, but with her eyessuddenly grave and thoughtful.
"We forget," she chided, "where we are. You must let me go now, andsee if he is alive. I will wait on the bench, here."
"But you said he had been killed."
"I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that. The shotstruck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down. Itore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleedmuch. He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still."
"Poor old Fred. I'll do what I can for him--I'll not be away a minute,dear."
He could see little from the doorway, only the dark shadow of a man'sform lying full length on the floor. To enter he pushed aside theuptilted bed, picking up the shotgun, and setting it against the logwall. Then he took the lamp down from the shelf, and held it so thefeeble light fell upon the upturned face. He stared down at thefeatures thus revealed, unable for the moment to find expression forhis bewilderment.
"Can you come here, dear?" he called.
She stood beside him, gazing from his face into those features on whichthe rays of the lamp fell.
"What is it?" she questioned breathlessly. "Is he dead?"
"I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish."
"Not Cavendish! Why he told me that was his name; he even describedbeing thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; whocan he be, then?"
"That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish. Willyou hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?"
She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall,while he crossed the room, and knelt beside the motionless figure. Acareful examination revealed the man's wound to be painful though notparticularly serious, Westcott carefully redressed the wound as best hecould, then with one hand he lifted the man's head and the motioncaused the eyelids to flutter. Slowly the eyes opened, and stared upinto the face bending over him. The wounded man breathed heavily, thedull stare in his eyes changing to a look of bewildered intelligence.
"Where am I?" he asked thickly. "Oh, yes, I remember; I was shot. Whoare you?"
"I am Jim Westcott; do you remember me?"
The searching eyes evidenced no sense of recollection.
"No," he said, struggling to make the words clear. "I never heard thatname before."
Miss Donovan came forward, the lamp in her hand, the light shining fullin her face.
"But you told me you were Mr. Cavendish," she exclaimed, "and Mr.Westcott was an old friend of his--surely you must remember?"
He looked up at her, and endeavoured to smile, yet for the moment didnot answer. He seemed fascinated by the picture she made, as thoughsome vision had suddenly appeared before him.
"I--I remember you," he said at last. "You--you are Miss Donovan; I'llnever forget you; but I never saw this man before--I'm sure of that."
"And I am equally convinced as to the truth of that remark," returnedWestcott, "but why did you call yourself Cavendish?"
"Because that is my name--why shouldn't I?"
"Why, see here, man," and Westcott's voice no longer concealed hisindignation, "you no more resemble Fred Cavendish than I do; there isnot a feature in common between you."
"Fred Cavendish?"
"Certainly; of New York; who do you think we were talking about?"
"I've had no chance to think; you jump on me here, and insist I'm aliar, without even explaining what the trouble is all about. I claimmy name is Cavendish, and it is; but I've never once said I was FredCavendish of New York. If you must know, I am Ferdinand Cavendish ofLos Angeles."
Westcott permitted the man's head to rest back on the floor, and hearose to his feet. He felt dazed, stunned, as though stricken a suddenblow. His gaze wandered from the startled face of the motionless girlto the figure of the man outstretched on the floor at his feet.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "What can all this mean? You came from NewYork City?"
"Yes; I had been there a month attending to some business."
"And when you left for the coast, you took the midnight train on theNew York Central?"
"Yes. I had intended taking an earlier one, but was delayed."
"You bought return tickets at the station?"
"No; I had return tickets; they had to be validated."
"Then your name was signed to them; what is your usual signature?"
"F. Cavendish."
"I thought so. Stella, this has all been a strange blunder, but it isperfectly clear how it happened. That man Beaton evidently had neverseen Frederick Cavendish. He was simply informed that he would leaveNew York on that train. He met this Cavendish on board, perhaps evensaw his signature on the ticket, and cultivated his acquaintance. Thefellow never doubted but what he had the right man."
The wounded man managed to lift himself upon one elbow.
"What's that?" he asked anxiously. "You think he knocked me overboard,believing I was some one else? That all this has happened on accountof my name?"
"No doubt of it. You have been the victim of mistaken identity. Sohave we, for the matter of that."
He paused suddenly, overwhelmed by a swift thought. "But what aboutFred?" he asked breathless.
Stella's hand touched his arm.
"He--he must have been the dead man in the Waldron Apartments," shefaltered. "There is no other theory possible now."
The marshal of Haskell came out of the bunk-house, and closed the doorcarefully behind him. He was rather proud of his night's work, andfelt quite confident that the disarmed Mexicans locked within thosestrong log walls, and guarded by Moore, with a loaded rifle across hisknee, would remain quiet until daylight. The valley before him wasblack and silent. A blaze of light shone out through the broken doorand window of the smaller cabin, and he chuckled at remembrance of thelast scene he had witnessed there--the fainting girl lying inWestcott's arms. Naturally, and ordinarily, Mr. Brennan wasconsiderable of a cynic, but just now he felt in a far more genial andsympathetic mood.
"Jim's some man," he confided to himself, unconsciously speaking aloud."An' the girl's a nervy little thing--almighty good lookin', too. Ireckon it'll cost me a month's sal
ary fer a weddin' present, so maybethe joke's on me." His mind reverted to Mendez. "Five thousand on theold cuss," he muttered gloomily, "an' somebody else got the chance topot him. Well, by hooky, whoever it was sure did a good job--it wasthet shotgun cooked his goose, judgin' from the way his face waspeppered. Five thousand dollars--oh, hell!"
His eyes followed the outline of the valley, able to distinguish thedarker silhouette of the cliffs outstanding against the sky sprinkledwith stars. Far away toward the northern extremity a dull red glowindicated the presence of a small fire.
"Herders," Brennan soliloquised, his thought instantly shifting."Likely to be two, maybe three ov 'em out there; an' then there's themtwo on guard at the head o' the trail. I reckon they're wonderin' whatall this yere shootin' means; but 'tain't probable they'll kick up anyfuss yet awhile. We can handle them all right, if they do--hullo,there! What's comin' now?"
It was the thud of a horse's hoofs being ridden rapidly. Brennandropped to the ground, and skurried out of the light. He couldperceive nothing of the approaching rider, but whoever the fellow washe made no effort at secrecy. He drove his horse down the bank andinto the stream at a gallop, splashed noisily through the water, andcame loping up the nearer incline. Almost in front of the bunk-househe seemed suddenly struck by the silence and gleam of lights, for hepulled his pony up with a jerk, and sat there, staring about. To themarshal, crouching against the earth, his revolver drawn, horse and manappeared a grotesque shadow.
"Hullo!" the fellow shouted. "What's up? Did you think this wasChristmas Eve? Hey, there--Mendez; Cateras."
The little marshal straightened up, and took a step forward; the lightfrom the cabin window glistened wickedly on the blue steel of his gunbarrel.
"Hands up, Bill!" he said quietly, in a voice carrying conviction."None of that--don't play with me. Take your left hand an' unbuckleyour belt--I said the left. Now drop it into the dirt."
"Who the hell are you?"
"That doesn't make much difference, does it, as long as I've got thedrop?" asked the other genially. "But, if you must know to behappy--I'm the marshal o' Haskell. Go easy, boy; you've seen me shootafore this, an' I was born back in Texas with a weapon in each hand.Climb down off'n that hoss."
Lacy did so, his hands above his head, cursing angrily.
"What kind of a low-down trick is this, Brennan?" he snapped, glaringthrough the darkness at the face of his captor. "What's become ofPasqual Mendez? Ain't his outfit yere?"
"His outfit's here all right, dead an' alive," and Brennan chuckledcheerfully, "but not being no gospel sharp I can't just say whar ol'Mendez is. What's left ov his body is in thet cabin yonder, so full o'buckshot it ought ter weigh a ton."
"Dead?"
"As a door nail, if yer ask me. It was some nice ov yer ter comeridin' long here ter-night, Lacy. It sorter helps me ter make a good,decent clean-up ov this whole measly outfit. I reckon I'll stow yeraway, along with them others. Mosey up them steps there, an' don'ttake no chances lookin' back."
"I'll get you for this, Brennan."
"Not if the Circuit Court ain't gone out o' business, you won't. I'vegot yer cinched an' hog tied--here now; get in thar."
He opened the door just wide enough for Lacy to pass, holding it withone hand, his revolver ready and eager in the other.
A single lamp lit the room dingily, revealing the Mexicans bunched onthe farther side, a number of them lying down. Moore sat on a stoolbeside the door, a rifle in the hollow of his arm. He rose up as thedoor opened, and grinned at sight of Lacy's face.
"Well, I'll be dinged," he said. "What have we got here?"
Brennan thrust his new prisoner forward.
"Another one of yer ol' pals, Matt. You two ought ter have a lot tertalk over, an' thar's six hours yet till daylight."
The little marshal drew back, and closed the door. He heard the echoof an oath, or two, within as he turned the key in the lock. Then hestraightened up and laughed, slapping his knee with his hand.
"Well," he said at last, soberly. "I reckon my place will be aboutyere till sun-up; thar might be some more critters like thatgallivantin' round in these parts--I hope Matt's enjoyin' himself."
The Strange Case of Cavendish Page 32
