by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER SIX
LONE ADVISES SILENCE
Twice in the next week Lone found an excuse for riding over to theSawtooth. During his first visit, the foreman's wife told him that theyoung lady was still too sick to talk much. The second time he went, PopBridgers spied him first and cackled over his coming to see the girl.Lone grinned and dissembled as best he could, knowing that Pop Bridgersfed his imagination upon denials and argument and remonstrance and waslikely to build gossip that might spread beyond the Sawtooth. Whereforehe did not go near the foreman's house that day, but contented himselfwith gathering from Pop's talk that the girl was still there.
After that he rode here and there, wherever he would be likely to meet aSawtooth rider, and so at last he came upon Al Woodruff loping along thecrest of Juniper Ridge. Al at first displayed no intention of stopping,but pulled up when he saw John Doe slowing down significantly. Lonewould have preferred a chat with some one else, for this was asharp-eyed, sharp-tongued man; but Al Woodruff stayed at the ranch andwould know all the news, and even though he might give it an ill-naturedtwist, Lone would at least know what was going on. Al hailed him with alaughing epithet.
"Say, you sure enough played hell all around, bringin' Brit Hunter'sgirl to the Sawtooth!" he began, chuckling as if he had some secretjoke. "Where'd you pick her up, Lone? She claims you found her at RockCity. That right?"
"No, it ain't right," Lone denied promptly, his dark eyes meeting Al'sglance steadily. "I found her in that gulch away this side. She was inamongst the rocks where she was trying to keep outa the rain. BritHunter's girl, is she? She told me she was going to the Sawtooth. She'dhave made it, too, if it hadn't been for the storm. She got as far asthe gulch, and the lightning scared her from going any farther." Heoffered Al his tobacco sack and fumbled for a match. "I never knew BritHunter had a girl."
"Nor me," Al said and sifted tobacco into a cigarette paper. "Bob, hedrove her over there yesterday. Took him close to all day to make thetrip--and Bob, he claims to hate women!"
"So would I, if I'd got stung for fifty thousand. She ain't that kind.She's a nice girl, far as I could tell. She got well, all right, didshe?"
"Yeah--only she was still coughing some when she left the ranch. Shelike to of had pneumonia, I guess. Queer how she claimed she spent thenight in Rock City, ain't it?"
"No," Lone answered judicially, "I don't know as it's so queer. Shenever realized how far she'd walked, I reckon. She was plumb crazy whenI found her. You couldn't take any stock in what she said. Say, youdidn't see that bay I was halter-breaking, did yuh, Al? He jumped thefence and got away on me, day before yesterday. I'd like to catch him upagain. He'll make a good horse."
Al had not seen the bay, and the talk tapered off desultorily to a final"So-long, see yuh later." Lone rode on, careful not to look back. So shewas Brit Hunter's girl! Lone whistled softly to himself while he studiedthis new angle of the problem,--for a problem he was beginning toconsider it. She was Brit Hunter's girl, and she had told them at theSawtooth that she had spent the night at Rock City. He wondered howmuch else she had told; how much she remembered of what she had toldhim.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a round leather pursewith a chain handle. It was soiled and shrunken with its wetting, andthe clasp had flecks of rust upon it. What it contained Lone did notknow. Virginia had taught him that a man must not be curious about thepersonal belongings of a woman. Now he turned the purse over, tried torub out the stiffness of the leather, and smiled a little as he droppedit back into his pocket.
"I've got my calling card," he said softly to John Doe. "I reckon I hadthe right hunch when I didn't turn it over to Mrs. Hawkins. I'll ask heragain about that grip she said she hid under a bush. I never heard aboutany of the boys finding it."
His thoughts returned to Al Woodruff and stopped there. Determined stillto attend strictly to his own affairs, his thoughts persisted in playingtruant and in straying to a subject he much preferred not to think of atall. Why should Al Woodruff be interested in the exact spot where BritHunter's daughter had spent the night of the storm? Why should Loneinstinctively discount her statement and lie whole-heartedly about it?
"Now if Al catches me up in that, he'll think I know a lot I don't know,or else----" He halted his thoughts there, for that, too, was aforbidden subject.
Forbidden subjects are like other forbidden things: they have a way ofmaking themselves very conspicuous. Lone was heading for the Quirt ranchby the most direct route, fearing, perhaps, that if he waited he wouldlose his nerve and would not go at all. Yet it was important that heshould go; he must return the girl's purse!
The most direct route to the Quirt took him down Juniper Ridge andacross Granite Creek near the Thurman ranch. Indeed, if he followed thetrail up Granite Creek and across the hilly country to Quirt Creek, hemust pass within fifty yards of the Thurman cabin. Lone's time waslimited, yet he took the direct route rather reluctantly. He did notwant to be reminded too sharply of Fred Thurman as a man who had livedhis life in his own way and had died so horribly.
"Well, he didn't have it coming to him--but it's done and over with,now, so it's no use thinking about it," he reflected, when the roofs ofthe Thurman ranch buildings began to show now and then through the thinranks of the cottonwoods along the creek.
But his face sobered as he rode along. It seemed to him that the sleepylittle meadows, the quiet murmuring of the creek, even the soft rustlingof the cottonwood leaves breathed a new loneliness, an emptiness wherethe man who had called this place home, who had clung to it in the faceof opposition that was growing into open warfare, had lived and had leftlife suddenly--unwarrantably, Lone knew in his heart. It might be of nouse to think about it, but the vivid memory of Fred Thurman was with himwhen he rode up the trail to the stable and the small corrals. He had tothink, whether he would or no.
At the corral he came unexpectedly in sight of the Swede, who grinned aguileless welcome and came toward him, so that Lone could not ride onunless he would advertise his dislike of the place. John Doe, plainlyglad to find an excuse to stop, slowed and came to where Swan waited bythe gate.
"By golly, this is lonesome here," Swan complained, heaving a greatsigh. "That judge don't get busy pretty quick, I'm maybe jumping my job.Lone, what you think? You believe in ghosts?"
"Naw. What's on your chest, Swan?" Lone slipped sidewise in the saddle,resting his muscles. "You been seeing things?"
"No--I don't be seeing things, Lone. But sometimes I been--like I _feel_something." He stared at Lone questioningly. "What you think, Lone, ifyou be sitting down eating your supper, maybe, and you feel somethingsay words in your brain? Like you know something talks to you and thenquits."
Lone gave Swan a long, measuring look, and Swan laughed uneasily.
"That sounds crazy. But it's true, what something tells me in my brain.I go and look, and by golly, it's there just like the words tell me."
Lone straightened in the saddle. "You better come clean, Swan, and tellthe whole thing. What was it? Don't talk in circles. What words did youfeel--in your brain?" In spite of himself, Lone felt as he had when thegirl had talked to him and called him Charlie.
Swan closed the gate behind him with steady hands. His lips were pressedfirmly together, as if he had definitely made up his mind to something.Lone was impressed somehow with Swan's perfect control of his speech,his thoughts, his actions. But he was puzzled rather than anything else,and when Swan turned, facing him, Lone's bewilderment did not lessen.
"I'll tell you. It's when I'm sitting down to eat my supper. I'm justreaching out my hand like this, to get my coffee. And something says inmy head, 'It's a lie. I don't ride backwards. Go look at my saddle.There's blood----' And that's all. It's like the words go far away so Ican't hear any more. So I eat my supper, and then I get the lantern andI go look. You come with me, Lone. I'll show you."
Without a word Lone dismounted and followed Swan into a small shedbeside the stable, where a worn stock saddle hung suspended
from acrosspiece, a rawhide string looped over the horn. Lone did not askwhose saddle it was, nor did Swan name the owner. There was no need.
Swan took the saddle and swung it around so that the right side wastoward them. It was what is called a full-stamped saddle, with thepopular wild-rose design on skirts and cantle. Much hard use andoccasional oilings had darkened the leather to a rich, red brown, marredwith old scars and scratches and the stains of many storms.
"Blood is hard to find when it's raining all night," Swan observed,speaking low as one does in the presence of death. "But if somebody isbleeding and falls off a horse slow, and catches hold of things andtries like hell to hang on----" He lifted the small flap that coveredthe cinch ring and revealed a reddish, flaked stain. Phlegmatically hewetted his finger tip on his tongue, rubbed the stain and held up hisfinger for Lone to see. "That's a damn funny place for blood, when a manis dragging on the ground," he commented drily. "And something else isdamn funny, Lone."
He lifted the wooden stirrup and touched with his finger the rowelmarks. "That is on the front part," he said. "I could swear in courtthat Fred's left foot was twisted--that's damn funny, Lone. I don't seemen ride backwards, much."
Lone turned on him and struck the stirrup from his hand. "I think youbetter forget it," he said fiercely. "He's dead--it can't help him anyto----" He stopped and pulled himself together. "Swan, you take a fool'sadvice and don't tell anybody else about feeling words talk in yourhead. They'll have you in the bug-house at Blackfoot, sure as you live."He looked at the saddle, hesitated, looked again at Swan, who waswatching him. "That blood most likely got there when Fred was packing adeer in from the hills. And marks on them old oxbow stirrups don't meana damn thing but the need of a new pair, maybe." He forced a laugh andstepped outside the shed. "Just shows you, Swan, that imagination andbeing alone all the time can raise Cain with a fellow. You want to watchyourself."
Swan followed him out, closing the door carefully behind him. "By golly,I'm watching out now," he assented thoughtfully. "You don't tellanybody, Lone."
"No, I won't tell anybody--and I'd advise you not to," Lone repeatedgrimly. "Just keep those thoughts outa your head, Swan. They're badmedicine."
He mounted John Doe and rode away, his eyes downcast, his quirt slappingabsently the weeds along the trail. It was not his business, andyet---- Lone shook himself together and put John Doe into a lope. He hadwarned Swan, and he could do no more.
Halfway to the Quirt he met Lorraine riding along the trail. She wouldhave passed him with no sign of recognition, but Lone lifted his hat andstopped. Lorraine looked at him, rode on a few steps and turned. "Didyou wish to speak about something?" she asked impersonally.
Lone felt the flush in his cheeks, which angered him to the point ofspeaking curtly. "Yes. I found your purse where you dropped it thatnight you were lost. I was bringing it over to you. My name's Morgan.I'm the man that found you and took you in to the ranch."
"Oh." Lorraine looked at him steadily. "You're the one they call Loney?"
"When they're feeling good toward me. I'm Lone Morgan. I went back tofind your grip--you said you left it under a bush, but the world's plumbfull of bushes. I found your purse, though."
"Thank you so much. I must have been an awful nuisance, but I was soscared--and things were terribly mixed in my mind. I didn't even havesense enough to tell you what ranch I was trying to find, did I? So youtook me to the wrong one, and I was a week there before I found it out.And then they were perfectly lovely about it and brought me--home." Sheturned the purse over and over in her hands, looking at it without muchinterest. She seemed in no hurry to ride on, which gave Lone courage.
"There's something I'd like to say," he began, groping for words thatwould make his meaning plain without telling too much. "I hope you won'tmind my telling you. You were kinda out of your head when I found you,and you said something about seeing a man shot and----"
"Oh!" Lorraine looked up at him, looked through him, he thought, withthose brilliant eyes of hers. "Then I did tell----"
"I just wanted to say," Lone interrupted her, "that I knew all the timeit was just a nightmare. I never mentioned it to anybody, and you'llforget all about it, I hope. You didn't tell any one else, did you?"
He looked up at her again and found her studying him curiously. "You'renot the man I saw," she said, as if she were satisfying herself on thatpoint. "I've wondered since--but I was sure, too, that I had seen it.Why mustn't I tell any one?"
Lone did not reply at once. The girl's eyes were disconcertingly direct,her voice and her manner disturbed him with their judicial calmness, soat variance with the wildness he remembered.
"Well, it's hard to explain," he said at last. "You're strange to thiscountry, and you don't know all the ins and outs of--things. It wouldn'tdo any good to you or anybody else, and it might do a lot of harm." Hiseyes nicked her face with a wistful glance. "You don't know me--I reallyhaven't got any right to ask or expect you to trust me. But I wish youwould, to the extent of forgetting that you saw--or thought yousaw--anything that night in Rock City."
Lorraine shivered and covered her eyes swiftly with one hand. His wordshad brought back too sharply that scene. But she shook off the emotionand faced him again.
"I saw a man murdered," she cried. "I wasn't sure afterwards; sometimesI thought I had dreamed it. But I was sure I saw it. I saw the horse goby, running--and you want me to keep still about that? What harm couldit do to tell? Perhaps it's true--perhaps I did see it all. I mightthink you were trying to cover up something--only, you're not the man Isaw--or thought I saw."
"No, of course I'm not. You dreamed the whole thing, and the way youtalked to me was so wild, folks would say you're crazy if they heard youtell it. You're a stranger here, Miss Hunter, and--your father is not aspopular in this country as he might be. He's got enemies that would beglad of the chance to stir up trouble for him. You--just dreamed allthat. I'm asking you to forget a bad dream, that's all, and not gotelling it to other folks."
For some time Lorraine did not answer. The horses conversed with sundrynose-rubbings, nibbled idly at convenient brush tips, and wondered nodoubt why their riders were so silent. Lone tried to think of somestronger argument, some appeal that would reach the girl withoutfrightening her or causing her to distrust him. But he did not know whatmore he could say without telling her what must not be told.
"Just how would it make trouble for my father?" Lorraine asked at last."I can't believe you'd ask me to help cover up a crime, but it seemshard to believe that a nightmare would cause any great commotion. Andwhy is my father unpopular?"
"Well, you don't know this country," Lone parried inexpertly. "It's allright in some ways, and in some ways it could be a lot improved. Folkshaven't got much to talk about. They go around gabbling their heads offabout every little thing, and adding onto it until you can't recognizeyour own remarks after they've been peddled for a week. You've maybeseen places like that."
"Oh, yes." Lorraine's eyes lighted with a smile. "Take a movie studio,for instance."
"Yes. Well, you being a stranger, you would get all the worst of it. Ijust thought I'd tell you; I'd hate to see you misunderstood by folksaround here. I--I feel kinda responsible for you; I'm the one that foundyou."
Lorraine's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm glad to know one person in thecountry who doesn't gabble his head off. You haven't answered any of myquestions, and you've made me feel as if you'd found a dangerous, wildwoman that morning. It isn't very flattering, but I think you're honest,anyway."
Lone smiled for the first time, and she found his smile pleasant. "I'mno angel," he disclaimed modestly, "and most folks think I could beimproved on a whole lot. But I'm honest in one way. I'm thinking aboutwhat's best for you, this time."
"I'm terribly grateful," Lorraine laughed. "I shall take great care notto go all around the country telling people my dreams. I can see that itwouldn't make me awfully popular." Then she sobered. "Mr. Morgan, thatwas a _horrible_ kind of--nightmare. Why, even
last night I woke upshivering, just imagining it all over again."
"It was sure horrible the way you talked about it," Lone assured her."It's because you were sick, I reckon. I wish you'd tell me as close asyou can where you left that grip of yours. You said it was under a bushwhere a rabbit was sitting. I'd like to find the grip--but I'm afraidthat rabbit has done moved!"
"Oh, Mr. Warfield and I found it, thank you. The rabbit had moved, but Isort of remembered how the road had looked along there, and we hunteduntil we discovered the place. Dad has driven in after my other luggageto-day--and I believe I must be getting home. I was only out for alittle ride."
She thanked him again for the trouble he had taken and rode away. Loneturned off the trail and, picking his way around rough outcroppings ofrock, and across unexpected little gullies, headed straight for the fordacross Granite Creek and home. Brit Hunter's girl, he was thinking, waseven nicer than he had pictured her. And that she could believe in thenightmare was a vast relief.