CHAPTER XVII
UNMASKED
At the Samuelson's ranch they found not only the doctor but LenChristie. Mr. Samuelson's condition had taken a sudden turn for thebetter and it was a jubilant little group that welcomed Patty as sherode up to the veranda. Vil Holland had muttered an excuse and gonedirectly to the bunk house where the doctor sought him out a fewminutes later and attended to his wound. From the top of "Lost Creek"divide, the ride had been made almost in silence. The cowboy'sreference to his jug had angered the girl into a moody reserve whichhe made no effort to dispel.
The news of Patty's rescue from the horse herd had preceded her,having been recounted by the Samuelson riders upon their return to theranch, and Mrs. Samuelson blamed herself unmercifully for havingallowed the girl to venture down the valley alone. Whichself-accusation was promptly silenced by Patty, who gently forced theold lady into an arm chair, and called her Mother Samuelson, andseated herself upon the step at her feet, and assured her that shewouldn't have missed the adventure for the world.
"We'll have a jolly little dinner party this evening," beamed Mrs.Samuelson, an hour later when the girl had finished recounting herpart in the night's adventure, "there'll be you and Mr. Christie, andDoctor Mallory, and the boys from the bunk house, and Vil Holland, andit will be in honor of Mr. Samuelson's turn for the better, and yourescape, and the successful routing of the horse-thieves."
"Too late to count Vil Holland in," smiled the doctor, who hadreturned to the veranda in time to hear the arrangement, "said he hadimportant business in town, and pulled out as soon as I'd got his armrigged up." And, in the doorway, the Reverend Len Christie smiledbehind a screen of cigarette smoke as he noted the toss of the head,and the decided tightening of the lips with which Patty greeted theannouncement.
"But, he's wounded!" protested Mrs. Samuelson. "In his condition,ought he attempt a ride like that?"
The doctor laughed: "You can't hurt these clean-blooded young buckswith a flesh wound. As far as fitness is concerned, he can ride toJericho if he wants to. Too bad he won't quit prospecting and settledown. He'd make some girl a mighty fine husband."
Christie laughed. "I don't think Vil is the marrying kind. In thefirst place he's been bitten too deep with the prospecting bug. And,again, women don't appeal to him. He's wedded to his prospecting. Heonly stops when driven to it by necessity, then he only works longenough to save up a grub-stake and he's off for the hills again. Ican't imagine that high priest of the pack horse and the frying panliving in a house!"
And so the talk went, everyone participating except Patty, who sat andlistened with an elaborate indifference that caused the Reverend Lento smile again to himself behind the gray cloud of his cigarettesmoke.
"You haven't forgotten about my school?" asked Patty next morning, asChristie and the doctor were preparing to leave for town.
"Indeed, I haven't!" laughed the Bishop of All Outdoors. "School opensthe first of September, and that's not very far away. But badly as weneed you, somehow I feel that we are not going to get you."
"Why?" asked the girl in surprise.
"A whole lot may happen in ten days--and I've got a hunch that beforethat time you will have made your strike."
"I hope so!" she exclaimed fervidly. "I know I shall just hate toteach school--and I'd never do it, either, if I didn't need agrub-stake."
As she watched him ride away, Patty was joined by Mrs. Samuelson whostepped from the house and thrust her arm through hers. "My husbandwants to meet you, my dear. He's so very much better thismorning--quite himself. And I must warn you that that means he's roughas an old bear, apparently, although in reality he's got the tenderestheart in the world. He always puts his worst foot foremost withstrangers--he may even swear."
Patty laughed: "I'm not afraid. You seem to have survived a good manyyears of him. He really can't be so terrible!"
"Oh, he's not terrible at all. Only, I know how much depends uponfirst impressions--and I do want you to like us."
Patty drew the old lady's arm about her waist and together theyascended the stairs: "I love you already, and although I have nevermet him I am going to love Mr. Samuelson, too--you see, I have heard agood deal about him here in the hills."
Entering the room, they advanced to the bed where a big-framed manwith a white mustache and a stubble of gray beard lay propped up onpillows. Sickness had not paled the rich mahogany of theweather-seamed face, and the eyes that met Patty's from beneath theirbushy brows were bright as a boy's. "Good morning! Good morning! So,you're Rod Sinclair's daughter, are you? An' a chip of the old block,by what mama's been tellin' me. I knew Rod well. He was a realprospector. Knew his business, an' went at it business fashion. Wasn'tlike most of 'em--makin' their rock-peckin' an excuse to get out ofworkin'. They tell me you ain't afraid to live alone in the hills, an'ain't afraid to make a midnight ride to fetch the doc for an oldlong-horn like me. That's stuff! Didn't know they bred it east of theMizoo. The ones mama an' I've seen around the theaters an' restaurantson our trips East would turn a man's stomach. Why, damn it, youngwoman, if I ever caught a daughter of mine painted up like a Piutean' stripped to the waist smokin' cigarettes an' drinkin' cocktails ina public restaurant, I'd peel the rest of her duds off an' turn herover my knee an' take a quirt to her, if she was forty!"
"Why, _papa_!"
"I would too--an' so would you!" Patty saw the old eyes twinkling withmischief, and she laughed merrily:
"And so would I," she agreed. "So there's no chance for any argument,is there?"
"We must go, now," reminded Mrs. Samuelson. "The doctor said you couldnot see any visitors yet. He made a special exception of MissSinclair, for just a few minutes."
"I wish you would call me Patty," smiled the girl. "Miss Sinclairsounds so--so formal----"
"Me, too!" exclaimed the invalid. "I'll go you one better, an' callyou Pat----"
"If you do, I'll call you Pap--" laughed the girl.
"That's a trade! An' say, they tell me you live over in Watts's sheepcamp. If you should happen to run across that reprobate of a VilHolland, you tell him to come over here. I want to see him about----"
"There, now, papa--remember the doctor said----"
"I don't care what the doctor said! He's finished his job an' gone,ain't he? It's bad enough to have to do what he says when you'resick--but, I'm all right now, an' the quicker he finds out I didn'thire him for a guardian, the better it'll be all round. As I was goin'to say, you tell Vil that Old Man Samuelson wants to see him _pronto_.Fall's comin' on, an' I'll have my hands full this winter with thehorses. He's the only cowman in the hills I'd trust them white faceswith, an' he's got to winter 'em for me. He's a natural born cowmanan' there's big money in it after he gets a start. I'll give him hisstart. It's time he woke up, an' left off his damned rock-peckin', an'settled down. If he keeps on long enough he'll have these hillswhittled down as flat as North Dakota, an' the wind'll blow us allover into the sheep country. Now, Pat, can you remember all that?"
The girl turned in the doorway, and smiled into the bright old eyes:"Oh, yes, Pap, I'll tell him if I see him. Good-by!"
"Good-by, an' good luck to you! Come to see us often. We old folks getpretty lonesome sometimes--especially mama. You see, I've got all thebest of it--I've got her, an' she's only got me!"
As Patty threaded the hills toward her cabin her thoughts followed theevents of the past few days; the visit of Len Christie in the earlymorning, when he had inadvertently showed her how to read her father'smap, the staking of the false claim, the visit to the Samuelson ranch,the horse raid, the finding of Vil Holland's glove and the bitterdisappointment that followed, then the finding of the notice thatdisclosed the identity of the real thief, and her genuine joy in thediscovery, her visit to Holland's camp, and their long ride together."I tried to show him that all my distrust of him was gone, but hehardly seemed to notice--unless--I wonder what he _did_ mean abouthaving a hunch that he would build that cabin before snow flies?"
For some time
she rode in silence, then she burst out vehemently: "Idon't care! I could love him--so there! I could just adore him! And Idon't wonder everybody likes him. He seems always so--so capable--soconfident. You just can't help liking him. If it weren't for that oldjug! He had to drag that in, even up there when he stood on the spotwhere we first met--and then at the Samuelsons' he wouldn't even waitfor dinner he was so crazy to get his old whisky jug filled. It neverseems to hurt him any," she continued. "But nobody can drink as muchas he does and not be hurt by it. I just know he meant that the cabinwas going to be for me--or, did he know that Mr. Samuelson was goingto ask him to winter the cattle? He's a regular cave man--I don't knowwhether I've been proposed to, or not!"
She crossed the trail for town and struck into a valley that shouldbring her out somewhere along the Watts fences. So engrossed was shein her thoughts that she failed to notice the horseman who slippednoiselessly into the scrub a quarter of a mile ahead. Slowly she rodeup the valley: "If he comes to teach me how to shoot, I'll tell himthat Mr. Samuelson wants to see him, and if he says any more about thecabin, or--or anything--I'll tell him he can choose between me and hisjug. And, if he chooses the jug, and I don't find daddy's mine--itisn't long 'til school opens. I don't mind--he has to work to get hisgrub-stake, and so will I."
Her horse snorted and shied violently, and when Patty recovered herseat it was to find her way blocked by a horseman who stood not tenfeet in front of her and leered into her eyes. The horseman was MonkBethune--a malignant, terrifying Bethune, as he sat regarding her withhis sneering smile. The girl's first impulse was to turn and fly, butas if divining her thoughts, the man pushed nearer, and she saw thathis eyes gleamed horribly between lids drawn to slits. Had hediscovered that she had tricked him with a false claim? If not why theglare of hate and the sneering smile that told plainer than words thathe had her completely in his power, and knew it.
"So, my fine lady--we meet again! We have much to talk about--you andI. But, first, about the claim. You thought you were very wise withyour lying about not having a map. You thought to save the whole loaffor yourself--you thought I was fool enough to believe you. If you hadlet me in, you would have had half--now you have nothing. The claim isall staked and filed, and the adjoining claims for a mile are stakedwith the stakes of my friends--and you have nothing! You were thefool! You couldn't have won against me. Failing in my story ofpartnership with your father, I had intended to marry you, and failingin that, I should have taken the map by force--for I knew you carriedit with you. But I dislike violence when the end may be gained byother means, so I waited until, at last, happened the thing I knewwould happen--you became careless. You left your precious map andphotograph in plain sight upon your little table--and now you havenothing." So he had not discovered the deception, but, throughaccident or design, had seized this opportunity to gloat over her, andtaunt her with her loss. His carefully assumed mask of suavecourtliness had disappeared, and Patty realized that at last she wasface to face with the real Bethune, a creature so degenerate that heboasted openly of having stolen her secret, as though the factredounded greatly to his credit.
A sudden rage seized her. She touched her horse with the spur: "Let mepass!" she demanded, her lips white.
The man's answer was a sneering laugh, as he blocked her way: "Ho! notso fast, my pretty! How about the Samuelson horse raid--your part init? Three of my best men are in hell because you tipped off that raidto Vil Holland! How you found it out I do not know--but women, of acertain kind, can find out anything from men. No doubt Clen, in somesweet secret meeting place, poured the story into your ear, althoughhe denies it on his life."
"What do you mean?"
"Ha! Ha! Injured innocence!" He leered knowingly into her flashingeyes: "It seems that everyone else knew what I did not. But, I am of aforgiving nature. I will not see you starve. Leave the others and cometo me----"
"_You cur!_" The words cut like a swish of a lash, and again the manlaughed:
"Oh, not so fast, you hussy! I must admit it rather piqued me to bebested in the matter of a woman--and by a soul-puncher. I was on handearly that morning, to spy upon your movements, as was my custom. Ispeak of the morning following the night that the very ReverendChristie spent with you in your cabin. I should not have believed ithad I not seen his horse running unsaddled with your own. Also later,I saw you come out of the cabin together. Then I damned myself for nothaving reached out before and taken what was there for me to take."
With a low cry of fury, the girl drove her spurs into her horse'ssides. The animal leaped against Bethune's horse, forcing him aside.The quarter-breed reached swiftly for her bridle reins, and as heleaned forward with his arm outstretched, Patty summoned all herstrength and, whirling her heavy braided rawhide quirt high above herhead, brought it down with the full sweep of her muscular arm. Thefeel of the blow was good as it landed squarely upon the inflamedbrutish face, and the shrill scream of pain that followed, sent a wildthrill of joy to the very heart of the girl. Again, the lash swunghigh, this time to descend upon the flank of her horse, and beforeBethune could recover himself, the frenzied animal shot up the valley,running with every ounce there was in him.
The valley floor was fairly level, and a hundred yards away the girlshot a swift glance over her shoulder. Bethune's horse was gettingunder way in frantic leaps that told of cruel spurring, and with hereyes to the front, she bent forward over the horn and slapped herhorse's neck with her gloved hand. She remembered with a quick gasp ofrelief that Bethune prided himself upon the fact that he never carrieda gun. She had once taunted Vil Holland with the fact, and he hadreplied that "greasers and breeds were generally sneaking enough to beknife men." Again, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled grimly asshe noted that the distance between the two flying horses hadincreased by half. "Good old boy," she whispered. "You can beathim--can 'run rings around him,' as Vil would say. It would be a longknife that could harm me now," she thought, as she pulled her Stetsontight against the sweep of the rushing wind. The ground was becomingmore and more uneven. Loose rock fragments were strewn about inincreasing numbers, and the valley was narrowing to an extent thatnecessitated frequent fording of the shallow creek. "He can't make anybetter time than I can," muttered the girl, as she noted theslackening of her horse's speed. She was riding on a loose rein,giving her horse his head, for she realized that to force him mightmean a misstep and a fall. She closed her eyes and shuddered at thethoughts of a fall. A thousand times better had she fallen and beenpounded to a pulp by the flying hoofs of the horse herd, than to fallnow--and survive it. The ascent became steeper. Her horse was stillrunning, but very slowly. His neck and shoulders were reeking withsweat, and she could hear the labored breath pumping through hisdistended nostrils.
A sudden fear shot through her. Nine valleys in every ten, she knew,ended in surmountable divides; and she knew, also, that one valley inevery ten did not. Suppose this one that she had chosen at randomterminated in a cul-de-sac? The way became steeper. Running was out ofthe question, and her horse was forging upward in a curiousscrambling walk. A noise of clattering rocks sounded behind her, andPatty glanced backward straight into the face of Bethune. Reckless ofa fall, in the blind fury of his passion, the quarter-breed had forcedhis horse to his utmost, and rapidly closed up the gap until scarcelyten yards separated him from the fleeing girl.
In a frenzy of terror she lashed her laboring horse's flanks as theanimal dug and clawed like a cat at the loose rock footing of thesteep ascent. White to the lips she searched the foreground for aravine or a coulee that would afford a means of escape. But before herloomed only the ever steepening wall, its surface half concealed bythe scattering scrub. Once more she looked backward. The breath waswhistling through the blood-red flaring nostrils of Bethune's horse,and her glance flew to the face of the man. Never in her wildestnightmares had she imagined the soul-curdling horror of that face. Thelips writhed back in a hideous grin of hate. A long blue-red weltbisected the features obliquely--a welt from which red blood
flowedfreely at the corner of a swollen eye. White foam gathered upon thedistorted lips and drooled down onto the chin where it mingled withthe blood in a pink meringue that dripped in fluffy chunks upon hisshirt front. The uninjured eye was a narrow gleam of venom, and thebreath swished through the man's nostrils as from the strain of greatphysical labor.
"Oh, for my gun!" thought the girl. "I'd--I'd _kill_ him!" With a wildscramble her horse went down. "Vil! Vil!" she shrieked, in a frenzy ofdespair, and freeing herself from the floundering animal, shestruggled to her feet and faced her pursuer with a sharp rock fragmentupraised in her two hands.
Monk Bethune laughed--as the fiends must laugh in hell. A laugh thatstruck a chill to the very heart of the girl. Her muscles went limp atthe sound of it and she felt the strength ebbing from her body likesand from an upturned glass. The rock fragment became an insupportableweight. It crashed to the ground, and rolled clattering to Bethune'sfeet. He, too, had dismounted, and stood beside his horse, his fistsslowly clenching and unclenching in gloating anticipation. Pattyturned to run, but her limbs felt numb and heavy, and she pitchedforward upon her knees. With a slow movement of his hand, Bethunewiped the pink foam from his chin, examined it, snapped it from hisfingers, cleansed them upon the sleeve of his shirt--and again,deliberately, he laughed, and started to climb slowly forward.
A rock slipped close beside the girl, and the next instant a voicesounded in her ear: "I don't reckon he's 'round yere, Miss. I hain'tsaw Vil this mo'nin'." Rifle in hand, Watts stepped from behind ascrub pine, and as his eyes fell upon Bethune, he stood fumbling hisbeard with uncertain fingers.
"He--he'll kill me!" gasped the girl.
"Sho', now, Miss--he won't hurt yo' none, will yo', Mr. Bethune?Gineral Jackson! Mr. Bethune, look at yo' face! Yo' must of rodeagain' a limb!"
"Shut up, and get out of here!" screamed the quarter-breed. "And, ifyou know what's good for you, you'll forget that you've seen anyonethis morning."
"B'en layin' up yere in the gap fer to git me a deer. I heerd yo'-allcomin', like, so's I waited."
"Get out, I tell you, before I kill you!" cried Bethune, besidehimself with rage. "Go!" The man's hand plunged beneath his shirt andcame out with a glitter of steel.
The mountaineer eyed the blade indifferently, and turned to the girl."Ef yo' goin' my ways, ma'am, jest yo' lead yo' hoss on ahaid. They'sa game trail runs slaunchways up th'ough the gap yender. I'll kind o'foller 'long behind."
"You fool!" shrilled Bethune, as he made a grab for the girl's reins,and the next instant found himself looking straight into the muzzle ofWatts's rifle.
"Drap them lines," drawled the mountaineer, "thet hain't yo' hoss. An'what's over an' above, yo' better put up yo' whittle, an' tu'n 'roundan' go back wher' yo' com' from."
"Lower that gun!" commanded Bethune. "It's cocked!"
"Yes, hit's cocked, Mr. Bethune, an' hit's sot mighty light on thetrigger. Ef I'd git a little scairt, er a little riled, er my foot 'udslip, yo'd have to be drug down to wher' the diggin's easy, an'buried."
Bethune deliberately slipped the knife back into his shirt, andlaughed: "Oh, come, now, Watts, a joke's a joke. I played a joke onMiss Sinclair to frighten her----"
"Yo' done hit, all right," interrupted Watts. "An' thet's the endon't."
The rifle muzzle still covered Bethune's chest in the precise regionof his heart, and once more he changed his tactics: "Don't be a fool,Watts," he said, in an undertone, "I'm rich--richer than you, oranyone else knows. I've located Rod Sinclair's strike and filed it. Ifyou just slip quietly off about your business, and forget that youever saw anyone here this morning--and see to it that you neverremember it again, you'll never regret it. I'll make it right withyou--I'll file you next to discovery."
"Yo' mean," asked Watts, slowly, "thet you've stoled the mine offenSinclair's darter, an' filed hit yo'self, an' thet ef I go 'way an'let yo' finish the job by murderin' the gal, yo'll give me some of themine--is thet what yo' tryin' to git at?"
"Put it anyway you want to, damn you! Words don't matter, but forGod's sake, get out! If she once gets through the gap----"
"Bethune," Watts drawled the name, even more than was his wont, andthe quarter-breed noticed that the usually roving eyes had set into ahard stare behind which lurked a dangerous glitter, "yo're a ornery,low-down cur-dog what hain't fitten to be run with by man, beast, ordevil. I'd ort to shoot yo' daid right wher' yo' at--an' mebbe I will.But comin' to squint yo' over, that there damage looks mo' like aquirt-lick than a limb. Thet ort to hurt like fire fer a couple adays, an' when it lets up yo' face hain't a-goin' to be so purty aswhat hit wus. Ef she'd jest of drug the quirt along a little when hitlanded she c'd of cut plumb into the bone--but hit's middlin' fair, ashit stands. I'm a-goin' to give yo' a chanct--an' a warnin', too. Nexttime I see yo' I'm a-going' to kill yo'--whenever, or wherever hit'sat. I'll do hit, jest as shore as my name is John Watts. Yo' kin gonow--back the way yo' come, pervidin' yo' go fast. I'm a-goin' tocount up to wher' I know how to--I hain't never be'n to school none,but I counted up to nineteen, onct--an' whin I git to wher' I cain'trec'lec' the nex' figger, I'm a-goin' to shoot, an' shoot straight.An' I hain't a-goin' to study long about them figgers, neither. Le'ssee, one comes fust--yere goes, then: One ... Two...." For a singleinstant, Bethune gazed into the man's eyes and the next, he spranginto the saddle, and dashing wildly down the steep slope, disappearedinto the scrub.
"Spec' I'd ort to killed him," regretted the mountaineer, as helowered the rifle, and gazed off down the valley, "but I hain't got noappetite fer diggin'."
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