The Night Riders

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  “Once,” Tresler replied. Then he told the officer of his runaway ride.

  Fyles listened with interest. At the conclusion he said, “Pity you didn’t tell me of this before. However, you missed the chief interest. Look away down there in the shelter of the cliff. See—about a mile down. Corrals enough to shepherd ten thousand head. And they are cunningly disposed.”

  Tresler now became aware of a scattered array of corrals, stretching away out into the distance, but so arranged at the foot of the towering walls of the valley that they needed looking for closely.

  Then he looked up at the ledge which had been the scene of the disaster, and the ladder of hewn steps above, and he pointed at them.

  “I wonder what’s on the other side?”

  “That’s an easy one,” replied his companion promptly. “Half-breeds.”

  “A settlement?”

  “That’s about it. You remember the Breeds cleared away from their old settlement lately. We’ve never found them. Once they take to the hills, it’s like a needle in a haystack. Maybe friend Anton is in hiding there.”

  “I doubt it. ‘Tough’ McCulloch didn’t belong to them, as I told you. He comes from over the border. No; he’s getting away as fast as his horse can carry him. And Arizona isn’t far off his trail, if I’m any judge.”

  Fyles’s great round face was turned contemplatively on his companion.

  “Well, that’s for the future, anyhow,” he observed, and moved to a bush some yards away. “Let’s take it easy. Money, one of my deputies, has gone in for a wagon. I don’t expect him for a couple of hours or so. We must keep it company,” he added, nodding his head in the direction of the dead man.

  They sat down and silently lit their pipes. Fyles was the first to speak.

  “Guess I’ve got to thank you,” he said, as though that sort of thing was quite out of his province.

  Tresler shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Thank my poor mare.” Then he added, with a bitter laugh, “Why, but for the accident of his fall, I’m not sure he wouldn’t have escaped. I’m pretty weak-kneed when it comes to dropping a man in cold blood.”

  The other shook his head.

  “No; he wouldn’t have escaped. You underestimate yourself. But even if you had missed I had him covered with my carbine. I was watching the whole thing down here. You see, Money and I came on behind. I don’t suppose we were more than a few minutes after you. That mare you were riding was a dandy. I see she’s done.”

  “Yes,” Tresler said sorrowfully. “And I’m not ashamed to say it’s hit me hard. She did us a good turn.”

  “And she owed it to us.”

  “You mean when she upset everything during the fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s more than made amends. In spite of her temper, that mare of mine was the finest thing on the ranch.”

  “Yours?” Fyles raised his eyebrows.

  “Well—Marbolt’s.”

  But the officer shook his head. “Nor Marbolt’s. She belonged to me. Three years ago I turned her out to graze at Whitewater with a bunch of others, as an incorrigible rogue and vagabond. The whole lot were stolen and one of the guard shot. Her name was ‘Strike ’em.’”

  “Strike ’em?”

  “Yes. Ever have her come at you with both front feet, and her mouth open?”

  Tresler nodded.

  “That’s it. ‘Strike ’em.’ Fine mare—half blood.”

  “But Marbolt told Jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit.”

  “Dare say he did.”

  Fyles relit his pipe for about the twentieth time, which caused Tresler to hand him his pouch.

  “Try tobacco,” he said, with a smile.

  The sheriff accepted the invitation with unruffled composure. The gentle sarcasm passed quite unheeded. Probably the man was too intent on the business of the moment, for he went on as though no interruption had occurred.

  “After seeing you on that mare I found the ranch interesting. But the man’s blindness fooled me right along. I had no trouble in ascertaining that Jake had nothing to do with things. Also I was assured that none of the ‘hands’ were playing the game. Anton was the man for me. But soon I discovered that he was not the actual leader. So far, good. There was only Marbolt left; but he was blind. Last night, when you came for me, and told me what had happened at the ranch, and about the lighted lamp, I tumbled. But even so I still failed to understand all. The man was blind in daylight, and could see in darkness or half-light. Now, what the deuce sort of blind disease is that? And he seems to have kept the secret, acting the blind man at all times. It was clever—devilish clever.”

  Tresler nodded. “Yes; he fooled us all, even his daughter.”

  The other shot a quick glance from out of the corners of his eyes.

  “I suppose so,” he observed, and waited.

  They smoked in silence.

  “What are you going to do next?” asked Tresler, as the other showed no disposition to speak.

  The man shrugged. “Take possession of the ranch. Just keep the hands to run it. The lady had better go into Forks if she has any friends there. You might see to that. I understand that you are—gossip, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’ll be inquiries and formalities. The property I don’t know about. That will be settled by the government.”

  Tresler became thoughtful. Suddenly he turned to his companion.

  “Sheriff,” he said earnestly, “I hope you’ll spare Miss Marbolt all you can. She has lived a terribly unhappy life with him. I can assure you she has known nothing of this—nothing of the strange blindness. I would swear it with my last breath.”

  “I don’t doubt you, my boy,” the other said heartily. “We owe you too much to doubt you. She shall not be bothered more than can be helped. But she had some knowledge of that blindness, or she would not have acted as she did with that lamp. I tell you candidly she will have to make a statement.”

  “Have no doubt; she will explain.”

  “Sure—ah! I think I hear the wheels of the wagon.” Fyles looked round. Then he settled himself down again. “Jake,” he went on, “was smartest of us all. I can’t believe he was ever told of his patron’s curious blindness. He must have discovered it. He was playing a big game. And all for a woman! Well, well.”

  “No doubt he thought she was worth it,” said Tresler, with some asperity.

  The officer smiled at the tone. “No doubt, no doubt. Still, he wasn’t young. He fooled you when he concurred with your suspicions of Anton—that is, he knew you were off the true scent, and meant keeping you off it. I can understand, too, why you were sent to Willow Bluff. You knew too much, you were too inquiring. Besides, from your own showing to Jake—which he carried on to the blind man for his own ends—you wanted too much. You had to be got rid of, as others have been got rid of before. Yes, it was all very clever. And he never spared his own stock. Robbed himself by transferring a bunch of steers to these corrals, and, later on, I suppose, letting them drift back to his own pastures. I only wonder why, with a ranch like his, he ran the risk.”

  “Perhaps it was old-time associations. He was a slave-trader once, and no doubt he stocked his ranch originally by raiding the Indians’ cattle. Then, when white people came around, and the Indians disappeared, he continued his depredations on less open lines.”

  “Ah! slave-trader, was he? Who said?”

  “Miss Marbolt innocently told me he once traded in the Indies in ‘black ivory.’ She did not understand.”

  “Just so—ah, here is the wagon.”

  Fyles rose leisurely to his feet. And Money drove up.

  “The best of news, sheriff,” the latter cried at once. “Captured the lot. Some of the boys are badly damaged, but we’ve got ’em all.”

  “Well, we’ll get back with this,” the officer replied quietly.

  The dead man was lifted into the wagon, and, in a few minutes, the little party was on its way back to
the ranch.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES

  The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything was temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he proved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemed suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his proper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then the authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman, and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley’s.

  Diane, acting on Tresler’s advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs. Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As a matter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and conditions of her father’s death, and the discovery that he was so terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the death of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her old home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on, when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go into Whitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness, she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influence and consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the trial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at the preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence at the higher court.

  And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return to Forks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with the ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement to the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than might have been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost second nature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind and watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and with motherly solicitude—she had no children of her own—insisted on the only remedy she understood—physic. And the girl submitted to the kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help her complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages and assurances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in her life than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried out his threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on any man. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a girl with such a past, such parentage.

  And so she waited for her lover’s return to tell him. Once she thought of writing it, but she knew Jack too well. He would only come down to Forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no desire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decision when he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for the government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country forever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her young face.

  It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that rough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men, who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her troubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and, instead, assumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly on the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate, hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for existence.

  And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very different man now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about him as he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler’s little house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him there. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney’s saloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help or guide. He straightway hooked his horse’s reins over the tie-post and walked into the bar.

  The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the rascal’s appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the same men there—one or two more besides—the same reeking atmosphere, the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.

  Slum’s greeting was characteristic. “Wal, blind-hulks has passed—eh? I figgered you was comin’ out on top. Guess the government’ll treat you han’some.”

  The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing “solitaire” with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard Slum’s greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a glass, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be.

  Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. Then he turned to Slum.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m going to take up my abode here for a week or two.”

  “I’m real glad,” said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before. “The missis’ll be glad, too,” he added. “I ’lows she’s a far-seein’ wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran’ noo iron bed, wi’ green an’ red stripes, an’ a washbowl goin’ with it. Say, it’s a real dandy layout, an’ on’y three dollars a week wi’out board. Guess I’ll git right over an’ tell her to fix—eh?”

  Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Don’t bother. Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren’t you, Carney?”

  “That’s how,” replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible Slum.

  “Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o’ your goin’ over from a pal like that,” said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar.

  “Guess he’s had some,” observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. “I ’lows that bed has bugs, an’ the wash-bowl’s mostly used dippin’ out swill,” he finished up scornfully.

  Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. “Guess I never knew you but what you was insultin’, Shaky,” he observed, in a tone of pity. “Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin’ them cards too close. You never was bustin’ wi’ brains. Say, Carney,” turning back to the bar complainingly, “wher’s them durned brandy ‘cocks’ Mr. Tresler ordered a whiles back? You’re gettin’ most like a fun’ral on an up-hill trail. Slow—eh? Guess if we’re to be pizened I sez do it quick.”

  “Comin’ along, Slum,” replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler understand that the man’s impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at Shaky’s hands. “I’ve done my best to pizen you this ten year. Guess Shaky’s still pinin’ fer the job o’ nailin’ a few planks around you. Here you are. More comin’.”

  “Who’s needin’ me?” asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. “Slum Ranks?” he questioned, pausing. “Guess I’ve got a plank or two fit fer him. Red pine. Burns better.”

  He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum lowered his cocktail and turned a disgusted look on him.

  “Say, go easy wi’ that lucifer. D
on’t breathe on it, or ther’ won’t be no need fer red pine fer you.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Carney, jocosely, “the present—kep to the present. Because Slum, here, runs a—well, a boardin’ establishment, ther’ ain’t no need to discuss his future so coarsely.”

  “Not so much slack, Carney,” said Slum, a little angrily. “Guess my boardin’ emporium’s rilin’ you some. You’re feelin’ a hur’cane; that’s wot you’re feelin’, I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin’ value fer their dollars, don’t it?”

  “Good fer you, good fer you,” cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw.

  The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.

  “Sail in, Slum,” said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as “Sawny” Martin. “I allus sez as you’ve got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev’ry time. But go easy, or the boss’ll bar you on the slate.”

  “Don’t owe him nuthin’,” growled Slum.

  “Which ain’t or’nary in this company,” observed the smiling Carney; he loved to get Slum angry. “Say, Shaky,” he went on, “how do Slum fix you in his—hotel? You don’t seem bustin’ wi’ vittals.”

  “Might do wuss,” responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. “But, y’ see, I stan’ in wi’ Doc. Osler, an’ he physics me reg’lar.”

  Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.

  “Say, you gorl-durned ‘fun’ral boards,’ you’re gittin’ kind o’ fresh, but I’d bet a greenback to a last year’s corn-shuck you don’t quit ther’ an’ come grazin’ around Carney’s pastures, long as my missis does the cookin’.”

  “I ’lows your missis ken cook,” said Shaky, with enthusiasm. “The feller as sez she can’t lies. But wi’ her, my respec’ fer your hog-pen ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who’s fer ‘draw’?”