CHAPTER XXII
THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP
The Kerr ranch buildings were more than a mile away from the point whereLambert and the sheriff halted to look down on them. The ranchhouse wasa structure of logs from which the bark had been stripped, and which hadweathered white as bones. It was long and low, suggesting spaciousnessand comfort, and enclosed about by a white picket fence.
A winding trace of trees and brushwood marked the course of the streamthat ran behind it. On the brink of this little water, where it flashedfree of the tangled willows, there was a corral and stables, but no signof either animal or human life about the place.
"He may be out with the cattle," Lambert suggested.
"We'll wait for him to come back, if he is. He's sure to be home betweennow and tomorrow."
So that was her home, that was the roof that had sheltered her while shegrew in her loveliness. The soft call of his romance came whispering tohim again. Surely there was no attainder of blood to rise up against herand make her unclean; he would have sworn that moment, if put to thetest, that she was innocent of any knowing attempt to involve him to hisdisgrace. The gate of the world stood open to them to go away from thatharsh land and forget all that had gone before, as the gate of his heartwas open for all the love that it contained to rush out and embrace her,and purge her of the unfortunate accident of her birth.
After this, poor child, she would need a friend, as never before, withonly her step-mother, as she had told him, in the world to befriend her.A man's hand, a man's heart----
"I'll take the front door," said the sheriff. "You watch the back."
Lambert came out of his softening dream, down to the hard facts in thecase before him with a jolt. They were within half a mile of the house,approaching it from the front. He saw that it was built in the shape ofan L, the base of the letter to the left of them, shutting off a viewof the angle.
"He may see us in time to duck," the sheriff said, "and you can bank onit he's got a horse saddled around there at the back door. If he comesyour way, don't fool with him; let him have it where he lives."
They had not closed up half the distance between them and the house whentwo horsemen rode suddenly round the corner of the L and through thewide gate in the picket fence. Outside the fence they separated with thesuddenness of a preconcerted plan, darting away in opposite directions.Each wore a white hat, and from that distance they appeared as muchalike in size and bearing as a man and his reflection.
The sheriff swore a surprised oath at sight of them, and their cunningplan to confuse and divide the pursuing force.
"Which one of 'em's Kerr?" he shouted as he leaned in his saddle, urginghis horse on for all that it could do.
"I don't know," Lambert returned.
"I'll chance this one," said the sheriff, pointing. "Take the otherfeller."
Lambert knew that one of them was Grace Kerr. That he could not tellwhich, he upbraided himself, not willing that she should be subjected tothe indignity of pursuit. It was a clever trick, but the preparation forit and the readiness with which it was put into play seemed to reflect adoubt of her entire innocence in her father's dishonest transactions.Still, it was no more than natural that she should bend every faculty tothe assistance of her father in escaping the penalty of his crimes. Hewould do it himself under like conditions; the unnatural would be theother course.
These things he thought as he rode into the setting sun in pursuit ofthe fugitive designated by the sheriff. Whetstone was fresh and eagerafter his long rest, in spite of the twelve or fifteen miles which hehad covered already between the two ranches. Lambert held him in,doubtful whether he would be able to overtake the fleeing rider beforedark with the advantage of distance and a fresh horse that he or shehad.
If Kerr rode ahead of him, then he must be overtaken before night gavehim sanctuary; if Grace, it was only necessary to come close enough toher to make sure, then let her go her way untroubled. He held thedistance pretty well between them till sundown, when he felt the timehad come to close in and settle the doubt. Whetstone was still mainly inreserve, tireless, deep-winded creature that he was.
Lambert leaned over his neck, caressed him, spoke into the ear thattipped watchfully back. They were in fairly smooth country, stretches ofthin grasslands and broken barrens, but beyond them, a few miles, thehills rose, treeless and dun, offering refuge for the one who fled.Pursuit there would be difficult by day, impossible by night.
Whetstone quickened at his master's encouragement, pushing the race hardfor the one who led, cutting down the distance so rapidly that it seemedthe other must be purposely delaying. Half an hour more of daylight andit would be over.
The rider in the lead had driven his or her horse too hard in thebeginning, leaving no recovery of wind. Lambert remarked its wearinessas it took the next hill, laboring on in short, stiff jumps. At the topthe rider held in, as if to let the animal blow. It stood with noseclose to the ground, weariness in every line.
The sky was bright beyond horse and rider, cut sharply by the line ofthe hill. Against it the picture stood, black as a shadow, but with anunmistakable pose in the rider that made Lambert's heart jump and growglad.
It was Grace; chance had been kind to him again, leading him in the wayhis heart would have gone if it had been given the choice. She lookedback, turning with a hand on the cantle of her saddle. He waved hishand, to assure her, but she did not seem to read the friendly signal,for she rode on again, disappearing over the hill before he reached thecrest.
He plunged down after her, not sparing his horse where he should havespared him, urging him on when they struck the level again. There was nothought in him of Whetstone now--only of Grace.
He must overtake her in the quickest possible time, and convince her ofhis friendly sympathy; he must console and comfort her in this hour ofher need. Brave little thing, to draw him off that way, to keep onrunning into the very edge of night, that wild country ahead of her,for fear he would come close enough to recognize her and turn back tohelp the sheriff on the true trail. That's what was in her mind; shethought he hadn't recognized her, and was still fleeing to draw him asfar away as possible by dark. When he could come within shoutingdistance of her, he could make his intention plain. To that end hepushed on. Her horse had shown a fresh impulse of speed, carrying her alittle farther ahead. They were drawing close to the hills now, with agrowth of harsh and thorny brushwood in the low places along the runletsof dry streams.
Poor little bird, fleeing from him, luring him on like a trembling quailthat flutters before one's feet in the wheat to draw him away from hernest. She didn't know the compassion of his heart, the tenderness inwhich it strained to her over the intervening space. He forgot all, heforgave all, in the soft pleading of romance which came back to him likea well-loved melody.
He fretted that dusk was falling so fast. In the little strips ofvalley, growing narrower as he proceeded between the abrupt hills, itwas so nearly dark already that she appeared only dimly ahead of him,urging her horse on with unsparing hand. It seemed that she must havesome objective ahead of her, some refuge which she strained to make,some help that she hoped to summon.
He wondered if it might be the cow-camp, and felt a cold indraft on thehot tenderness of his heart for a moment. But, no; it could not be thecow-camp. There was no sign that grazing herds had been there lately.She was running because she was afraid to have him overtake her in thedusk, running to prolong the race until she could elude him in the dark,afraid of him, who loved her so!
They were entering the desolation of the hills. On the sides of the thinstrip of valley, down which he pursued her, there were great, darkrocks, as big as cottages along a village street. He shouted, callingher name, fearful that he should lose her in this broken country in thefast-deepening night. Although she was not more than two hundred yardsahead of him now, she did not seem to hear. In a moment she turned thebase of a great rock, and there he lost her.
The valley split a few rods beyond that p
oint, broadening a little,still set with its fantastic black monuments of splintered rock. It wasimpossible to see among them in either direction as far as Grace hadbeen in the lead when she passed out of his sight. He pulled up andshouted again, an appeal of tender concern in her name. There was noreply, no sound of her fleeing horse.
He leaned to look at the ground for tracks. No trace of her passing onthe hard earth with its mangy growth of grass. On a little way, stoppingto call her once more. His voice went echoing in that quiet place, butthere was no reply.
He turned back, thinking she must have gone down the other branch of thevalley. Whetstone came to a sudden stop, lifted his head with a jerk,his ears set forward, snorting an alarm. Quick on his action there camea shot, close at hand. Whetstone started with a quivering bound,stumbled to his knees, struggled to rise, then floundered with piteousgroans.
The Duke Of Chimney Butte Page 22