The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  Her aunt carried to Ramona the word that a man was waiting outside with a message from her father. When she came down the porch steps, there were still traces of tear-stains on her cheeks. In the gathering dusk she did not at first recognize the man at the gate. She moved forward doubtfully, a slip of a slender-limbed girl, full of the unstudied charm and grace of youth.

  Halfway down the path she stopped, her heart beating a little faster. Could this wan and ragged man with the unkempt beard be Art Ridley, always so careful of his clothes and his personal appearance? She was a child of impulse. Her sympathy went out to him with a rush, and she streamed down the path to meet him. A strong, warm little hand pressed his. A flash of soft eyes irradiated him. On her lips was the tender smile that told him she was still his friend.

  "Where in the world have you been?" she cried. "And what have you been doing to yourself?"

  His blood glowed at the sweetness of her generosity.

  "I've been--camping."

  With the shyness and the boldness of a child she pushed home her friendliness. "Why don't you ever come to see a fellow any more?"

  He did not answer that, but plunged at his mission. "Miss Ramona, I've got bad news for you. Your father has been hurt--not very badly, I think. He told me to tell you that the wound was only a slight one."

  'Mona went white to the lips. "How?" she whispered.

  "The Dinsmores shot him. The men are bringing him here."

  He caught her in his arms as she reeled. For a moment her little head lay against his shoulder and her heart beat against his.

  "A trifling flesh-wound, your father called it," went on Ridley. "He said you were to get a bed ready for him, and fix bandages."

  She steadied herself and beat back the wave of weakness that had swept over her.

  "Yes," she said. "I'll tell Aunt. Have they sent for the doctor?"

  "Quint Sullivan went."

  A wagon creaked. 'Mona flew into the house to tell her aunt, and out again to meet her father. Her little ankles flashed down the road. Agile as a boy, she climbed into the back of the buckboard.

  "Oh, Dad!" she cried in a broken little voice, and her arms went round him in a passion of love.

  He was hurt worse than he was willing to admit to her.

  "It's all right, honeybug. Doc Bridgman will fix me up fine. Yore old dad is a mighty live sinner yet."

  Ridley helped Jumbo carry the cattleman into the house. As he came out, the doctor passed him going in.

  Ridley slipped away in the gathering darkness and disappeared.

  CHAPTER XVII

  OLD-TIMERS

  As soon as Captain Ellison heard of what had happened at Tascosa, he went over on the stage from Mobeetie to look at the situation himself. He dropped in at once to see his old friends the Wadleys. Ramona opened the door to him.

  "Uncle Jim!" she cried, and promptly disappeared in his arms for a hug and a kiss.

  The Ranger Captain held her off and examined the lovely flushed face.

  "Dog it, you get prettier every day you live. I wisht I was thirty years younger. I'd make some of these lads get a move on 'em."

  "I wish you were," she laughed. "They need some competition to make them look at me. None of them would have a chance then--even if they wanted it."

  "I believe that. I got to believe it to keep my self-respect. It's all the consolation we old-timers have got. How's Clint?"

  "Better. You should hear him swear under his breath because the doctor won't let him smoke more than two pipes a day, and because we won't let him eat whatever he wants to. He's worse than a sore bear," said Ramona proudly.

  "Lead me to him."

  A moment later the Ranger and the cattleman were shaking hands. They had been partners in their youth, had fought side by side in the Civil War, and had shot plains Indians together at Adobe Walls a few years since. They were so close to each other that they could quarrel whenever they chose, which they frequently did.

  "How, old-timer!" exclaimed the Ranger Captain.

  "Starved to death. They feed me nothin' but slops--soup an' gruel an' custard an' milk-toast. Fine for a full-grown man, ain't it? Jim, you go out an' get me a big steak an' cook it in boilin' grease on a camp-fire, an' I'll give you a deed to the A T O."

  "To-morrow, Clint. The Doc says--"

  "Mañana! That's what they all say. Is this Mexico or God's country? What I want, I want now."

  "You always did--an' you 'most always got it too," said Ellison, his eyes twinkling reminiscently.

  'Mona shook a warning finger at her father. "Well, he won't get it now. He'll behave, too, or he'll not get his pipe to-night."

  The sick man grinned. "See how she bullies a poor old man, Jim. I'm worse than that Lear fellow in the play--most henpecked father you ever did see."

  "Will she let you talk?"

  "He may talk to you, Uncle Jim."

  "What did I tell you?" demanded the big cattleman from the bed with the mock bitterness that was a part of the fun they both enjoyed. "You see, I got to get her permission. I'm a slave."

  "That's what a nurse is for, Clint. You want to be glad you got the sweetest one in Texas." The Captain patted Ramona affectionately on the shoulder before he passed to the business of the day. "I want to know about all these ructions in Tascosa. Tell me the whole story."

  They told him. He listened in silence till they had finished, asked a question or two, and made one comment.

  "That boy Roberts of mine is sure some go-getter."

  "He'll do," conceded the cattleman. "That lucky shot of his--the one that busted Dinsmore's arm--certainly saved my life later."

  "Lucky shot!" exploded Ellison. "And you just through tellin' me how he plugged the dollars in the air! Doggone it, I want you to know there was no darned luck about it! My boys are the best shots in Texas."

  "I'll take any one of 'em on soon as I'm out--any time, any place, any mark," retorted Wadley promptly.

  "I'll go you. Roberts is a new man an' hasn't had much experience. I'll match him with you."

  "New man! H'mp! He's the best you've got, an' you know it."

  "I don't know whether he is, but he's good enough to make any old-timer like you look like a plugged nickel."

  The cattleman snorted again, disdaining an answer.

  "Dad is the best shot in Texas," pronounced Ramona calmly, rallying to her father's support. For years she had been the umpire between the two.

  The Captain threw up his hands. "I give up."

  "And Mr. Roberts is just about as good."

  "That's settled, then," said Ellison. "But what I came to say is that I'm goin' to round up the Dinsmore bunch. We can't convict 'em of murder on the evidence we have, but I'll arrest 'em for shootin' you an' try to get a confession out of one of 'em. Does that look reasonable, Clint?"

  Wadley considered this.

  "It's worth a try-out. The Dinsmores are game. They won't squeal. But I've a sneakin' notion Gurley is yellow. He might come through--or that other fellow Overstreet might. I don't know him. You want to be careful how you try to take that outfit, though, Jim. They're dangerous as rattlesnakes."

  "That's the kind of outfit my boys eat up," answered the chipper little officer as he rose to leave. "Well, so long, Clint. Behave proper, an' mebbe this young tyrant will give you a nice stick o' candy for a good boy."

  He went out chuckling.

  The cattleman snorted. "Beats all how crazy Jim is about those Ranger boys of his. He thinks the sun rises an' sets by them. I want to tell you they've got to sleep on the trail a long time an' get up early in the mo'nin' to catch the Dinsmores in bed. That bird Pete always has one eye open. What's more, he an' his gang wear their guns low."

  "I don't think Uncle Jim ought to send boys like Jack Roberts out against such desperadoes. It's not fair," Ramona said decisively.

  "Oh, ain't it?" Her father promptly switched to the other side. "You give me a bunch of boys like young Roberts, an' I'd undertake to clean up this who
le country, an' Lincoln County too. He's a dead shot. He's an A-1 trailer. He can whip his weight in wildcats. He's got savvy. He uses his brains. An' he's game from the toes up. What more does a man need?"

  "I didn't know you liked him," his daughter said innocently.

  "Like him? Jumpin' snakes, no! He's too darned fresh to suit me. What's likin' him got to do with it? I'm just tellin' you that no better officer ever stood in shoe-leather."

  "Oh, I see."

  Ramona said no more. She asked herself no questions as to the reason, but she knew that her father's words of praise were sweet to hear. They sent a warm glow of pride through her heart. She wanted to think well of this red-haired Ranger who trod the earth as though he were the heir of all the ages. In some strange way Fate had linked his life with hers from that moment when he had literally flung himself in her path to fight a mad bull for her life.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A SHOT OUT OF THE NIGHT

  Ramona sat on the porch in the gathering darkness. She had been reading aloud to her father, but he had fallen asleep beside her in his big armchair. During these convalescent days he usually took a nap after dinner and after supper. He called it forty winks, but to an unprejudiced listener the voice of his slumber sounded like a sawmill in action.

  The gate clicked, and a man walked up the path. He did not know that the soft eyes of the girl, sitting in the porch shadows, lit with pleasure at sight of him. Nothing in her voice or in her greeting told him so.

  He took off his hat and stood awkwardly with one booted foot on the lowest step.

  "I came to see Mr. Wadley," he presently explained, unaccountably short of small talk.

  She looked at her father and laughed. The saw was ripping through a series of knots in alternate crescendo and diminuendo. "Shall I wake him? He likes to sleep after eating. I think it does him good."

  "Don't you! I'll come some other time."

  "Couldn't you wait a little? He doesn't usually sleep long." The girl suggested it hospitably. His embarrassment relieved any she might otherwise have felt.

  "I reckon not."

  At the end of that simple sentence he stuck, and because of it Jack Roberts blushed. It was absurd. There was no sense in it, he told himself. It never troubled him to meet men. He hadn't felt any shyness when there had been a chance to function in action for her. But now he was all feet and hands before this slip of a girl. Was it because of that day when she had come flying between him and the guns of Dinsmore's lynching-party? He wanted to thank her, to tell her how deeply grateful he had been for the thought that had inspired her impulse. Instead of which he was, he did not forget to remind himself later, as expressive as a bump on a log.

  "Have you seen anything of Mr. Ridley?" she asked.

  "No, miss. He saved yore father's life from Pete Dinsmore. I reckon you know that."

  "Yes. I saw him for a moment. Poor boy! I think he is worrying himself sick. If you meet him will you tell him that everything's all right. Dad would like to see him."

  Their voices had dropped a note in order not to waken her father. For the same reason she had come down the steps and was moving with him toward the gate.

  If Jack had known how to say good-bye they would probably have parted at the fence, but he was not socially adequate for the business of turning his back gracefully on a young woman and walking away. As he backed from her he blurted out what was in his mind.

  "I gotta thank you for--for buttin' in the other day, Miss Ramona."

  She laughed, quite at her ease now. Why is it that the most tender-hearted young women like to see big two-fisted men afraid of them?

  "Oh, you thought I was buttin' in," she mocked, tilting a gay challenge of the eyes at him.

  "I roped the wrong word, miss. I--I thought--"

  What he thought was never a matter of record. She had followed him along the fence to complete his discomfiture and to enjoy her power to turn him from an efficient man into a bashful hobbledehoy.

  "Father gave me an awful scolding. He said I didn't act like a lady."

  "He's 'way off," differed Jack hotly.

  She shook her head. "No. You see I couldn't explain to everybody there that I did it for--for Rutherford--because I didn't want anything so dreadful as that poor Mexican's death on his account. Dad said some of the men might think I did it--oh, just to be showing off," she finished untruthfully.

  "Nobody would think that--nobody but a plumb idjit. I think you did fine."

  Having explained satisfactorily that she had not interfered for his sake, there was really no occasion for Ramona to linger. But Jack had found his tongue at last and the minutes slipped away.

  A sound in the brush on the far side of the road brought the Ranger to attention. It was the breaking of a twig. The foot that crushed it might belong to a cow or a horse. But Roberts took no chances. If some one was lying in wait, it was probably to get him.

  "Turn round an' walk to the house," he ordered the girl crisply. "Sing 'Swanee River' as you go. Quick!"

  There was a note in his voice that called for obedience. Ramona turned, a flurry of fear in her heart. She did not know what there was to be afraid of, but she was quite sure her companion had his reason. The words of the old plantation song trembled from her lips into the night.

  A dozen yards behind her Jack followed, backing toward the house. His six-shooter was in his hand, close to his side.

  He flashed one look backward. The parlor was lit up and Clint Wadley was lying on a lounge reading a paper. He was a tempting mark for anybody with a grudge against him.

  Jack took the last twenty yards on the run. He plunged into the parlor on the heels of Ramona.

  Simultaneously came the sound of a shot and of breaking glass. Wadley jumped up, in time to see the Ranger blow out the lamp. Jack caught Ramona by the shoulders and thrust her down to her knees in a corner of the room.

  "What in blue blazes--?" Clint began to demand angrily.

  "Keep still," interrupted Jack. "Some one's bushwhackin' either you or me."

  He crept to the window and drew down the blind. A small hole showed where the bullet had gone through the window and left behind it a star of shattered glass.

  Ramona began to whimper. Her father's arm found and encircled her. "It's all right, honey. He can't git us now."

  "I'm goin' out by the back door. Mebbe I can put salt on this bird's tail," said Jack. "You stay right where you are, Mr. Wadley. They can't hit either of you in that corner."

  "Oh, don't! Please don't go!" wailed the girl.

  Her words were a fillip to the Ranger. They sent a glow through his blood. He knew that at that moment she was not thinking of the danger to herself.

  "Don't you worry. I'll swing round on him wide. Ten to one he's already hittin' the dust fast to make his get-away."

  He slipped out of the room and out of the house. So slowly did he move that it was more than an hour before he returned to them.

  "I guessed right," he told the cattleman. "The fellow hit it up at a gallop through the brush. He's ten miles from here now."

  "Was he after me or you?"

  "Probably me. The Rangers ain't popular with some citizens. Looks to me like Steve Gurley's work."

  "I wouldn't be a Ranger if I was you. I'd resign," said Ramona impulsively.

  "Would you?" Jack glanced humorously at Wadley. "I don't expect yore father would indorse them sentiments, Miss Ramona. He'd tell me to go through."

  Clint nodded. "'Mona said you wanted to see me about somethin'."

  The young man showed a little embarrassment. The cattleman guessed the reason. He turned to his daughter.

  "Private business, honey."

  Ramona kissed her father good-night and shook hands with Jack. When they were alone the Ranger mentioned the reason for his call.

  "It's goin' around that Pete Dinsmore claims to have somethin' on Rutherford. The story is that he says you'd better lay off him or he'll tell what he knows."

  The eye
s of the cattleman winced. Otherwise he gave no sign of distress.

  "I've got to stand the gaff, Jack. He can't blackmail me, even if the hound cooks up some infernal story about Ford. I hate it most on 'Mona's account. It'll hurt the little girl like sixty."