The voice was reinforced by the eyes, the cruel look, the brisk manner.
“Who are you?” she asked, although she felt she knew.
“I’m Mendicott,” he said curtly.
She sank into her chair. “I’m glad you’ve finally come,” she said.
He pulled a chair to the table and seated himself with a short laugh.
Then the still night air was suddenly rent with the reports of guns. The girl half rose, startled.
The outlaw motioned her back to her seat. “It’s a man we caught stealing from the commissary,” he said, baring his teeth in a queer smile. “He tried to get away. He was unpopular, and I ordered him shot.”
Chapter Ten
Hope Farman stared fixedly at the outlaw in undisguised horror while he coolly fashioned a cigarette of brown paper and loose tobacco. Her gaze was drawn to his fingers, moving so deftly, and she saw that his hands were slim, his fingers tapering, his nails well kept. In spite of his eyes and the look in them, which betrayed the real man, he had a certain debonair manner. His movements were graceful. He held his head at an aristocratic angle; he radiated confidence and deliberation. There was no doubt he was as clever as he was dangerous. But she wondered about the shots. Had he ordered them fired with an idea of impressing her—of frightening her?
“You don’t believe it?” he asked quietly.
She started. He had read her mind. “I guess you would do it,” she confessed, convinced he had spoken the truth.
“No man can steal from me,” he said coldly. “And no person can leave this place without my permission.” His tone was significant, and Hope knew he had made the statement for her benefit. He held up the finished cigarette. “Do you object to smoking?”
The girl shook her head. She had a desire to see him smoke, to note his movements. Already she had lost much of her fear of him because he interested her—fascinated her, perhaps.
He did not snap a match into flame with a thumbnail as she had seen most of the men do. Instead, he drew a silver matchbox from a pocket and made something of a ceremony of lighting his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, and looked at her closely as the smoke drifted out his small mouth between the tight, cold lips. “Are you comfortable here?” he asked.
“Oh . . . yes . . . but I’m lonely,” replied Hope with a catch in her voice. “Oh, why did you bring me here?” she added earnestly.
“It was necessary,” he answered calmly. “In fact, we looked for you before you arrived. I think you’ll be able to save your uncle a heap of trouble.”
“Oh . . . then he isn’t dead?” Hope asked eagerly.
The outlaw shook his head impatiently. “Brood didn’t shoot to kill,” he said shortly. “Your uncle is a fool . . . a big fool. He’s known for some time that he’s not wanted in this country.”
Hope’s eyes dimmed as she breathed deeply in relief at the welcome news. But she remembered quickly that Mendicott had said they anticipated her coming. They wished to use her in some way. Then the stampede had been part of a plan to frighten her and harass her uncle, and her uncle had suspected as much, which explained his being so angry with Brood. “Why isn’t my uncle wanted in this country?” she demanded boldly.
“Because I say so,” replied Mendicott sharply. “I’ve adopted this range. There are plenty of ranches in better spots than the one he’s in that’ll be good enough for him. This is scrub cattle country, anyway. But there’s no need for our talking about that end of it.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I don’t suppose you want to stay here any great length of time?”
“No . . . no!” exclaimed the girl. “It isn’t . . . right.”
“Right and wrong is according to the way you look at it,” he retorted.
She saw the hard look in his eyes, and it instantly recalled all the formidable things she had heard about this man who respected no law except his own will, and who depended upon his weapon and his hold over his followers to enforce it.
“It might be necessary for you to stay here some time,” he went on in modulated tones. “But there’s a way you might go free in an exceedingly short time.”
“What . . . what is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I suggest that you write a letter to your uncle.”
“Oh, and have him come for me?”
Mendicott laughed mirthlessly. “I wasn’t thinking of inviting him. If I’d wanted him here, I’d have had him here long ago. No, you don’t have to tell him to come for you. We’d have to guide him up, anyway.” He chuckled at this.
“Then what do you wish me to write to him?” asked the girl, puzzled.
“Suppose I dictate it,” he suggested.
“And I’m . . . to write it?”
“Exactly. I dictate and you write it and sign it. I have a fountain pen here and paper. I will see that the letter is delivered tomorrow.”
“And then I am to go free?” she asked suspiciously.
“That will depend upon the effect the letter has on your uncle,” was the cool reply. “I promise nothing. But it’s your one best bet, Miss Farman, and you can believe me when I say that.”
He took out his fountain pen, produced a piece of writing paper, drew back the table cover, and placed them on the bare table top before her.
She took up the pen with a feeling of misgiving and prepared to write as directed.
“Just take this all down,” he said. “Then, if you wish to ask any sensible questions, we can talk about it a minute. But I haven’t much time.”
She nodded in compliance.
He proceeded to dictate:
Dear Uncle Nathan:
I am held a prisoner by Mendicott in a place I do not know where. I am in a dangerous position, and he has no intention of letting me go until you have agreed to sell the ranch. He hasn’t harmed me in any way, but I am losing my health through my fears and worry. Why don’t you sell the ranch at a good price and we go to a better place and buy a new ranch and be happy? If you will make a deed according to his orders, he will let me go. He says he can make the deed good, and he won’t let me go until it is done. Please do this, Uncle, and let’s go away from here. I am very much afraid.
“That’s all,” said Mendicott after a brief pause. “Just sign it and I will see it is delivered. When the deal is made, you can go, and I will see that you get out without being molested.”
The girl put down the pen and looked straight into the cruel, black eyes of the outlaw. “But Uncle doesn’t want to sell his ranch,” she said seriously. “He told that man Brood that before he was shot.”
Mendicott shrugged. “He may change his mind when he gets your letter,” he said significantly.
“Why do you want Rancho del Encanto?” asked the girl.
This caused the outlaw to frown. The scars on his face took on a white hue. “That is a point we won’t talk about,” he said coldly. “It’s enough that I want it. I have my reasons, and . . . my reasons are good enough for me . . . and for him. He knew this was coming up, if he isn’t too much of a fool.”
“But a deed obtained in this way would hardly be legal, would it?” Hope asked shrewdly. “When they found out the facts, the authorities could cancel it, couldn’t they?”
“They could,” he agreed with a short laugh. “But I said that I could make the deed good. I mean it. And that note will have to be returned to me. If he made a yelp about the deed, he would find it hard living there again. He knows that, I guess.”
Hope’s face was pale. She wanted to spar for time, but could not see that it would do her any good. She was completely in his power, and she knew he could enforce the deed, hunt her uncle to earth if he made a complaint. She knew, too, that her uncle would consent to sell the ranch in order to remove her from Mendicott’s power. And she knew how Nathan Farman loved Rancho del Encanto. “My uncle thinks a lot of that ranch,” she said slowly, in a low voice. “He loved his wife and she died there, and it has associations that mean everything to him. If he was to lose it because of
me, I could never forgive myself. I can’t sign that paper. I just . . . can’t.”
Mendicott rose swiftly from his chair by the table. His face had darkened and his teeth were bared in a sneering smile. “You may change your mind,” he said in an ominous tone.
“Oh, you have me completely at your mercy,” said Hope, rising and throwing back her head. “You can be a half man or a thorough beast. But I won’t sacrifice the . . . the thing I believe my uncle holds most dear.”
He looked at her narrowly. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, stepping to the door. “I want that ranch. I’m going to have it, and . . . I hate women!”
“And what do you think women think about you?” asked the girl scornfully.
“I don’t care!” he flung back at her. “Think that over with the rest of it . . . tonight.”
The door closed after him and Hope was alone. She took up the paper, tore it fiercely into shreds, and flung them into the cold, blackened fireplace.
Chapter Eleven
Long into the night Hope sat on the bunk and thought. She strove to evolve a plan by which she could get out of the basin. Once out, she would take her chances on getting back to Rancho del Encanto. She could at least go down the mountains, by whatever trails she came across, and once in the foothills she believed she could find her way to the ranch. But to get out! She knew there was now a guard over her by day. She looked out twice during the night and saw the guard outside—the night guard. She had a wild idea of getting out the window and trying to find her way in the darkness. It would be all right in the vicinity of the stream, where she could see its silver ribbon in the starlight, but once away from it she would be lost. And she did not know just where the trail led out of the lower end of the basin. It seemed hopeless—the idea of escape.
She next considered a way to trick the master outlaw. If she signed the letter—which Mendicott would doubtless be glad to dictate again—she knew her uncle would give up the ranch rather than risk her being in the bandit’s hands any longer. Then she would be released. She believed Mendicott would keep his word. After that it might be possible to find a way to circumvent the outlaw. A large posse might capture him, or he might be killed. In any event, her uncle could expose the fraud, and, when the time was right, they might be able to corner Mendicott, even if he had had possession of the ranch a year, or two, or more. She thought long over this and finally decided it would be her best move. She speculated on the offer being a ruse, but could not determine how such a trick would aid the outlaw in any plan he might have other than acquiring the ranch. She believed she knew why he wanted Rancho del Encanto. It was isolated, and it was fairly convenient to the mountain rendezvous. He might not want to live there himself, but he could keep some of his men there, and it might aid him in his cattle-stealing operation. Anyway, the plan seemed more sensible than remaining Mendicott’s prisoner. And her uncle might need her. She went to bed fully decided to put it in effect the next day.
She was cheerful in the morning and up early. She took a long walk before breakfast, followed at a distance by the guard, who evidently had instructions not to molest her unless she entered forbidden territory. As she walked down the little stream, she was puzzled as to what became of it. It seemed to widen down the basin, and yet there was no opening in the sheer walls below where it could go out. The trail, as she remembered it, was cut in solid rock just before the final descent into the basin. She was minded to ask, out of pure curiosity, what became of the stream, but doubted that she would get an answer. She turned back, still puzzling over the stream’s disappearance.
Shortly after she reached the cabin, her breakfast arrived. It consisted of six thick slices of bread. She looked at the bread in surprise, then gazed at the man in dawning comprehension. The man avoided her eyes. But he looked at her in astonishment when she dropped into a chair and laughed heartily.
“He’s going to starve me out?” she asked, sobering with an effort. Then she jumped out of the chair and faced the man angrily. “Take that back to your master and throw it in his face!” she cried. “But tell him I had changed my mind long before the breakfast arrived. Bring me some more to read and tell him I want to see him when he’s ready. You know who I mean. Go and do as I say!”
The man hurried out with the small tray. Although the incident amused Hope, she realized that the outlaw could make it so miserable for her that she would have to yield to his wishes in the end. She did not underrate his cunning ability or fail to give him credit for a certain misguided ingenuity. In a remarkably short time the messenger returned, bringing an excellent warm breakfast and an armful of magazines. He wore a broad smile and served the meal on the table with elaborate pomp and obsequiousness.
“Did you tell him I had changed my mind before I saw the breakfast you first brought me?” Hope demanded.
“Yes,” was the polite reply, accompanied by a bow.
“What did he say?” asked the girl curiously.
“He grinned,” was the answer as the servitor withdrew.
After breakfast Hope took another walk. Her ankle was well again; she was happy that her uncle had been merely wounded; the air was cool and exhilarating and scented with the subtle perfume of wild blooms; the sun was bright, the sky as blue as deep water, and birds were singing joyously. For a time she forgot her troubles and reveled in the beauty of the sheltered spot. Then she descried Mendicott sauntering toward her cabin. She returned at her leisure and found him waiting for her, lounging against the log wall where she knew he had been watching her between the trees. He gave her a strange look in which she imagined she detected a glimmer of admiration. She returned his gaze coldly.
“You will have to dictate that letter over,” she said, entering the cabin. “I destroyed the one I wrote last night.”
“I thought you would,” he said. “I’ll make a change in this one and instead of mentioning my name make it ‘a man you know.’ Farman will understand all right, and, if he has any doubts, my man will tell him.”
“I wouldn’t think a man of your reputation and nefarious accomplishments would have to use much caution,” Hope scoffed.
“I don’t and I do,” he snapped out. “Are you ready to write?”
“When you’re ready to dictate,” she answered with a look of contempt.
He didn’t appear to mind her manner or her words, but produced the pen and paper, and she again wrote the letter, which was practically the same as the one he had composed the night before.
“I want you to know that I had changed my mind before I saw that miserable breakfast you sent,” she said, holding the pen poised for her signature. “You couldn’t have starved me into signing this.”
“I didn’t intend to starve you,” he said, frowning. “That was to last today only.”
“You thought a day would do it, or that you’d feed me well tomorrow and convince me by showing me what you could do if you wanted to?”
“You wasn’t to get anything tomorrow,” he said dryly with a flash of the cruel black eyes.
“Oh, then you did intend to starve me!” she accused in disgust.
“Next day you were to have good food again,” he said. “But there were to be a number of these . . . these examples.”
She caught her breath at his look and tone. In that instant she knew that he would have tortured her if necessary. She signed the letter, pushed it toward him, and rose. “Now let me out of here as soon as you can,” she said. “I am doing you honor by believing you will keep your word.”
“It isn’t the first time I’ve been honored like that,” he said grimly, as he put away the letter and pen. “I never forget my . . . promises. There’s a promise in this letter, only maybe you don’t know it.”
With that he was gone, leaving Hope to ponder over his words. The statement seemed to possess a sinister significance. She wondered if it wouldn’t be better, after all, if her uncle left the country. But she pressed her lips tightly, and her eyes flashed with defiance when she consid
ered the fact that it would break his heart to leave Rancho del Encanto.
It was not long before she saw three riders galloping down the basin. Mendicott had lost no time in sending the message on its way. Possibly he would have an answer back that night. How soon, she wondered, would she be free? And how soon before Mendicott’s power could be broken and her uncle live in peace in the home he loved?
She took one of the chairs out under the cottonwoods near the stream and went back for the magazines. There were nine of them, many of them old, all of them showing signs of wear in the hands of many readers. She looked at the covers first, remembering the name she had found written on one of those she had first received. Her lips curled in scorn as she thought of Channing. If he had been her friend and had meant to help her, he could have given her a signal and she would not have signed the letter Mendicott dictated. But he had ignored her. Moreover, he had given Brood an order, and Brood had obeyed. There was no doubt in her mind that Channing was a lieutenant of the outlaw’s. Why not? He was skilled in the use of a revolver. Mendicott was a notorious gunman, as Jim Crossley had hinted. Didn’t birds of a feather flock together? She knew nothing, of course, of the customary rivalry and jealousy between men of the lightning draw. Appearances and events were all against him. These deductions passed rapidly through her mind as she looked at the magazine covers. And now her gaze froze on the cover of a particular magazine. A figure had been inscribed upon it—the figure 12. She puzzled over this. Then, grasping the significance of the figure, and at the same time considering it foolish, she turned the pages of the magazine to page twelve. There, written in bold letters at the bottom of the page was a single word—tonight.
Hope’s eyes widened and her breath came fast. She recognized the handwriting. It was the same as that in which Channing’s name had been written on the other magazine. Was it Channing’s own writing? If so, he had indicated a page and left a message. Tonight! Did it mean that he intended to attempt to see her that night and wanted her to be expecting some signal from him—to be alert? What time would he attempt to come? She became excited and hurriedly began the examination of the other magazines so that if anyone were watching he would not become suspicions. Then she let the magazines slip to the ground and smiled. The message had been written on page twelve. What could it mean save that he intended to come at 12:00 that night. It was reasonable, cleverly done. The writing of the name the first time had paved the way for the next message. He expected her to ask for more reading matter. He had access in some way to the magazines the messenger secured. He had avoided her to prevent exciting suspicion. But hadn’t Brood told Mendicott of their first meeting, of the time Channing probably saved her life? Possibly Channing had more influence with Mendicott than had Brood. It might be Brood could not talk to Mendicott when he wished. Hope gave it up, but resolved to remain awake that night—all night, if necessary—to await results.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 7