Clyde heard the trample of hoofs dying in the distance, and then McHale's voice:
"You run the bluff, but you took an awful chance. That there Cross come mighty close to making a break."
"Nervous kind?"
"Yep. He's apt to be too blamed soon. T'other one, Dade, is cold-drawn. I judge he's bad. Ever hear of him?"
"No."
"Nor me," said McHale; "but he has the earmarks."
Casey's reply was lost as they turned away. Clyde waited until they were out of sight, and then descended. The morning adventure had given her food for thought. Until then she had been deceived by the smooth current of life at Chakchak. It had seemed an idyllic, carefree existence. Although she had known of the trouble, it had seemed far in the background; it was a skeleton which had not obtruded itself. Now, by accident, she had surprised it stalking abroad in the glare of day.
That afternoon she and Casey rode together. He was in his usual spirits, laughing, joking, full of whimsical good humour. But back of it she thought she detected a preoccupation. Occasionally he would be silent and his eyes would narrow as if he were working out some problem.
Far up beneath the shoulder of a butte a little spring of delicious water bubbled from the gravelly soil, trickled a few hundred yards, and disappeared. It was hidden by willow and cottonwood, draped with greenery, an oasis. Here they dismounted, drank the sweet spring water, watered the horses, and rested. Clyde sat down, leaning against a convenient tree. Casey stretched himself against another, his hands clasped behind his head, a long, thin cigar clenched between his teeth.
Through the fragrant smoke he eyed his companion in lazy content, noting how the mottled sunlight, filtering through the leaves, touched her glorious hair to living, coppery gold.
"Did you ever have your picture painted?" he asked suddenly.
"Why, no," she replied. "Whatever made you think of that?"
"Your hair and the sunlight on it. If I were a painter I should like to paint you now—and keep the picture."
"The first compliment you have ever paid me," she laughed, pleased nevertheless. "I shall remember it."
"And that's a compliment to me," he responded. "Funny what we recollect and what we don't. There doesn't seem to be any rule for it. But I think I shall always remember just how you look at this moment."
"That's very nice."
"I wonder if I may ask you something without offending you?"
"I don't think you would ask anything that should offend me."
"Thanks! It's this: I want to make things pleasant for you all. I've been wondering in my own mind why you came here. You won't misunderstand me. But why?"
"Have you forgotten your invitation?"
"No. But its acceptance was an unexpected piece of luck. There isn't much here to amuse you. What's the real reason?"
She looked full at him, and then dropped her eyes; her fingers plucked blades of grass and cast them aside.
"I don't think I know the answer," she replied at last. "For one thing, I thought I might help you—if you'd let me."
"Help me! How?"
"With money. You and the others."
"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "Whatever put that in your head?"
"The only letter you ever wrote me. I could read between the lines. Afterward Mr. Wade told me more. But he wouldn't take what I offered."
"I should say not—if you offered money. He was right."
"Do you mean that you wouldn't let me help you if you needed money?"
"Certainly I wouldn't."
"Because I'm a woman, I suppose."
"Partly. But I wouldn't let any one throw money away on what is apt to be a losing game."
"You think it that?"
"Size it up for yourself. You talked with Wade. Didn't he tell you so?"
"Practically, yes."
"Then you see! It wouldn't do at all."
"But it's my money. I can afford to lose it. I'll not have a pleasure or a luxury the less. And this is my pleasure. Would you refuse me this one thing? You lent me money!"
"Ten dollars—pshaw! This is different. I'm more grateful than I can tell you. But there's no necessity—just yet, anyway."
"Then I won't consider it a definite refusal. That was one reason why I came. And then I wanted to see your country. I wanted something new. I can't explain it very well. I had to come; something made me."
She flushed, but the eyes that met his inquiring gaze were entirely steady.
"Something made me. If the Wades had not been coming I should have come alone. I'm frank with you, you see."
"Yes, I understand the feeling," Casey said. "I have had it myself. I've had to get out of old surroundings sometimes. And I've always gone. Sometimes it has turned out well; sometimes not."
"We shall see how this turns out," she said, with a nod and a little laugh. "I've a feeling that I shall bring you luck."
"I believe you will," he agreed. "We'll say so, anyway. Just now I wouldn't trade places with any man on earth."
"JUST NOW I WOULDN'T TRADE PLACES WITH ANY MAN ON EARTH"
She laughed in pure pleasure, bending toward him. "I appropriate that to myself. Don't dare to explain it. Do you come here often?"
"Not very often. That maze of coulée and butte you see is a good cattle range. I come this way looking for strays. The last time I was here Sheila McCrae was with me."
Suddenly, for Clyde, the sunlight lost its golden charm. In an altered tone she said:
"Indeed!" And she added deliberately: "I don't think I ever met a nicer girl than Miss McCrae."
"No nicer anywhere," he agreed heartily. "Well, perhaps we'd better be moving. We have a long ride yet."
Their way led by devious cattle trails along the coulées, over ridges, into other coulées. Clyde lost all idea of direction, but her companion was never at a loss, and finally they emerged upon a broad, well-travelled trail. Then Clyde, after much inward debate, told Casey of her presence that morning at the interview with Dade and Cross.
"Well, they're quite a pair," said Casey. "They came to run some sort of a bluff, but concluded not to push it to a show-down. They'll make trouble for us, I suppose. They're simply hired men, and that's their job."
"What kind of trouble?"
"I wish I knew," he replied, shaking his head.
"Is it all worth while?" she asked. "I haven't asked a question about the blown-up dam and the cut ditches. I'm not going to. But where will it end? You admit that there may be violence—even bloodshed. Why not avoid it?"
"How?"
"By letting the courts settle it."
"If we could have our water till then, that's what we'd do. As it is—well, I'm afraid we can't afford to."
"I've already offered——"
"I know, I know," he interrupted; "but that's out of the question."
That evening dragged. There were long silences. Nobody seemed inclined to talk. Wade went to sleep in his chair, his cigar dropping from his relaxing fingers. He grumbled when his wife woke him.
"I'm dead sleepy. I'm going to bed. I'm too sleepy to care whether it's polite or not; I'm all in."
"So am I," said Kitty, yawning frankly. "I shall follow my lord and master."
"And I my amiable chaperon," said Clyde.
"I'm afraid all I have to follow is an example," said Casey. He came close to her in the moonlight. "Perhaps I seemed ungrateful this afternoon. I didn't mean to be. I can't tell you how much I appreciated your offer, your generosity; none the less because I can't possibly accept it."
"It is nothing," she said. "It is not even generosity. Real generosity must cost something in renunciation."
"No," he replied; "the cost has little to do with it. It is the spirit of the offer that counts. Don't belittle it."
"It cost me something to make the offer," she said impulsively. "The money would have been the least part of it."
"I don't think I understand."
"I'm glad you don't; and I can't explain now. Som
e day, perhaps. And now—good night."
He took her hand and looked down into her eyes. He could feel the hand tremble slightly, but the eyes were steady. Darkened by the moonlight they seemed unfathomable pools, deep, mysterious, holding something which he could almost but not quite discern. In the pale light her face lost colour. It was idealized, purified, the face of a dream. Her marvellous crown of hair shone strand by strand as of twisted gold; it shimmered with halolike glory. Her slightly parted lips, vivid against the white of the face, seemed to invite him.
He bent forward, and plucked himself angrily back from the temptation. She released her hand.
"Good night," she said softly.
"Good night," he responded, hesitated, and turned away to his own quarters.
But as Clyde sought her room she seemed to walk on air. She trembled in every fibre of her strong, young body, but her blood sang in her veins. The woman within her called aloud triumphantly. It was long before she slept, and when she did so her slumber was a procession of dreams.
She awoke somewhere in the night, with a strange sound in her ears, a detonation distant but thunderous. She rose, went to the window, and peered out.
As she stood, she commanded a view of Casey Dunne's quarters. The door opened, and two men emerged, running for the stables. It seemed not a minute till two horses were led out, ready saddled. The two men went up instantly. They tore past her window in a flurry of hoofs. She recognized Casey Dunne and McHale. Neither was completely dressed. But around the waist of each was a holster-weighted belt, and across each saddle was slanted a rifle. Because of these warlike manifestations Clyde slept no more that night.
CHAPTER XIX
As the night air vibrated with the first explosion Casey Dunne and McHale leaped from their beds, and rushed for the door, opened it, and stood listening. There they heard another and another.
"Dynamite!" cried McHale, reaching for his clothes. "I'll bet it's our dam. Jump into some pants, Casey. There's just a chance to get a sight of somebody."
They threw on clothes with furious haste, caught up weapons, and raced for the stables. Their haste communicated itself to their horses, which bolted before the riders were firm in the saddles. Casey, as they tore past the house, thought he caught a glimpse of white at Clyde's window; but just then he had his hands full with Shiner, who was expressing his disapproval of such unseemly hours by an endeavour to accomplish a blind runaway.
Halfway to the river they came upon the first evidence of dynamite in the form of a bit of wrecked fluming. Water poured down a sidehill from a mass of shattered boards and broken, displaced timbers. They scarcely paused to view the ruin, but rode for the dam. There was no dam. Where it had been, remained only a few forlorn and twisted posts between which the muddied water whispered softly. The work had been very complete. McHale swore into the night.
"Our own medicine! Well, watch us take it. We ain't like boys that can't build a little thing like a dam. Which way do you reckon them fellers went?"
"Try the old ford," said Casey. "It's all chance, anyway."
A mile downstream they came to the ford, where the river for a brief distance had broadened and shallowed. Fresh tracks of one horse led down to the water's edge. On the other side, where they emerged, they were still filled with muddy water.
"That's the cuss that blowed the flume," said McHale. "He's met up with another one or two here. They've gone on downstream, but we sure can't trail them in this light. What do we do?"
"Ride ahead and trust to luck," said Casey. "It's all we can do."
"I guess that's so," McHale agreed. "But if we run up on 'em——"
He paused abruptly. Out of the distance came the unmistakable sound of a blast, closely followed by a second.
"Another dam!" Casey exclaimed. "That's Oscar's, or Wyndham's. Our own medicine, sure enough!"
"If I can put a gunsight on to one of them fellers I'll fix him so's he won't hold medicine nohow," said McHale savagely. "No use followin' the river. They'll quit it now, and strike for somewheres. Let's take a chance and hike out sorter southeast. It's as good as any other way."
They struck southeast at a steady jog, angling away from the river. The night was absolutely cloudless; the moon, near the full, bathed the landscape in a flood of white light which threw objects into startling relief, but intensified the shadows. Beneath it the land slumbered in a silence broken only by the soft drumming of hoofs. But for an occasional small band of cattle lying quietly on the slopes, it seemed devoid of life.
They rode in silence, but with eyes and ears keenly alert. At the top of each rise they paused to search the surrounding country. Now and then they drew up to listen. But their watchfulness availed nothing.
"Looks like we're out o'luck," McHale observed finally.
"Looks that way," Casey admitted. "All the same, we'll keep going."
"If we happen across 'em," McHale continued, "I s'pose we round 'em up?"
"Of course. But they may take some rounding."
"Sure! Only I'll tell you, Casey, I'm awful tired of having it put all over me by fellers that ain't got no license to. Some of these gents that allow they're hard citizens ain't so dog-goned much. I s'pose they figure on us peaceable farmers bein' bluffed out by a hard face and a hostile talk. That's an awful bad bet for 'em to make."
They were approaching a region of broken ground, carved and ridged with coulées and low hills, worthless save for range purposes. There Casey decided that he would turn back. At best it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Chance only could serve them. Suddenly McHale checked his horse.
"Listen!" he said sharply.
They were riding by the base of a low hill. At one side the ground sloped away in a shallow depression which marked the head of a coulée. As they sat listening intently the stillness was broken by a hollow, muffled sound, the unmistakable trampling of hoofs. Faint at first, it increased in volume. Plainly, horses were coming up the draw.
Four horsemen came into view. They were riding carelessly, slouching in their saddles. One struck a match to light a pipe. The flame of it showed for an instant above his cupped hands. At a hundred yards they perceived the waiting horsemen, and halted abruptly.
"You there!" Casey hailed. "We want to talk to you!"
A vicious oath came as answer, distinct in the stillness. Then: "You get back and mind your own business!"
McHale's rifle action clicked and clashed as he levered a cartridge from magazine to chamber. "Up with your hands, the bunch of you," he ordered, "or——"
SO QUICK WAS HIS PIVOTING MOTION THAT CASEY WAS ALMOST UNSEATED
The remainder was lost in the bark of a gun as one of the other party fired. McHale's horse jumped as though stung, just as he pulled the trigger, bumping into Shiner. Immediately that uncertain quadruped wheeled and kicked at him. So quick was his pivoting motion that Casey was almost unseated. He saved himself, but lost his rifle, which fell to the ground. With a furious curse and a jerk of the bit he wheeled Shiner around, drawing his automatic belt gun.
But the four strangers had taken advantage of the incident to turn and plunge back into the coulée. They were almost out of sight. Casey's gun spat a continuous jet of flame across the night, the rapid reports blending into a roll of sound. McHale, cursing his unsteady horse, fired again and again. But the strangers, apparently unhurt, swept out of sight.
Casey leaped to the ground, secured his rifle, and was back in the saddle again in an instant. They sailed into the shallow head of the coulée at a dead run, Casey struggling to refill the clip of his automatic, McHale cursing his horse and himself because he had used the rifle instead of his six-shooter.
At its head the coulée was merely a slight depression. Farther on it broadened and deepened. Down the middle of its length ran a sinuous grove of cottonwoods. On either side its flanks were bare, white with clay and alkali, rising to steep banks of yellow earth, bald and bleached in the moonlight.
Through this
natural theatre thundered pursuers and pursued. The latter had secured a good lead. The windings of the coulée hid them from view.
Suddenly Casey became aware that there was no one ahead—that he and McHale were riding madly, to no purpose. At the same moment the latter made the like discovery. Their horses' hoofs slid and cut grooves in the earth as the riders dragged them to a halt. Usually considerate, in the excitement of the moment they used the brutal methods of the "buster."
"They've doubled back on us!" cried McHale. "Cut through them cottonwoods somewheres and let us go by a-hellin'. Fooled us, by glory, like we was a pair of hide-an'-go-seek kids. Yes—there they go now! Look up by the top past that cut bank!" He lifted his rifle as he spoke.
High up at the coulée's rim, some hundreds of yards away, figures moved. At that distance, even in the brilliant moonlight, details were lost. The eye could discern black spots merely; but it seemed that the men had dismounted for the ascent, and were helping the horses to scramble upward.
McHale fired, shoved down the lever, drew it home, and fired again. Since the light did not serve to show the dust puffs of the bullets, he could not tell whether he was shooting high or low. The main thing was that he did not hit. Casey chimed in. The bluffs and banks echoed to the reports of the high-powered rifles; but the figures gained the rim and vanished. Immediately afterward a tongue of flame leaped from the spot where they were last seen, and a bullet sang in close proximity to Casey's head. They wheeled into the shelter of the trees, where the shadows effectually concealed their whereabout. At short intervals bullets searched for their position. McHale bit large consolation and spat in disgust.
"I reckon it's a get-away," he said. "I ain't fool enough to go up that bank while they're there. And by the time we'd get around they'd be a couple of miles 'most anywheres."
"We've got ourselves to blame," said Casey.
"Well, that first shot burned up this cayuse of mine," McHale grumbled. "How could I shoot, with him jumpin' around? And that blasted, yeller-hided buzzard head of yours, he don't know no better'n to whale into him with both heels. It wouldn't happen again, not in a million years."
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