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

by Unknown

  Once, on that dreadful day she would never forget, June had told Jake Houck that Bob Dillon was as brave as he. It had been the forlorn cry of a heart close to despair. But the words were true. She hugged that knowledge to her bosom. Jake had run away while Bob had stayed to face the mad dog. And not Jake alone! Blister Haines had run, with others of tested courage. Bob had outgamed him. He admitted it cheerfully.

  Maybe the others had not seen little Maggie Wiggins. But Bob had seen her. The child's cry had carried him back into the path of the brindle terrier. June was proud, not only of what he had done, but of the way he had done it. His brain had functioned swiftly, his motions been timed exactly. Only coördination of all his muscles had enabled him to down the dog so expertly and render the animal harmless.

  During the months since she had seen him June had thought often of the man whose name she legally bore. After the first few hours there had been no harshness in her memories of him. He was good. She had always felt that. There was something fine and sweet and generous in his nature. Without being able to reason it out, she was sure that no fair judgment would condemn him wholly because at a crisis he had failed to exhibit a quality the West holds in high esteem and considers fundamental. Into her heart there had come a tender pity for him, a maternal sympathy that flowed out whenever he came into her musings.

  Poor boy! She had learned to know him so well. He would whip himself with his own scorn. This misadventure that had overwhelmed him might frustrate all the promise of his life. He was too sensitive. If he lost heart--if he gave up--

  She had longed to send a message of hope to him, but she had been afraid that he might misunderstand it. Her position was ambiguous. She was his wife. The law said so. But of course she was not his wife at all except in name. They were joint victims of evil circumstance, a boy and a girl who had rushed to a foolish extreme. Some day one or the other of them would ask the law to free them of the tie that technically bound them together.

  Now she need not worry about him any longer. He had proved his mettle publicly. The court of common opinion would reverse the verdict it had passed upon him. He would go out of her life and she need no longer feel responsible for the shadow that had fallen over his.

  So she reasoned consistently, but something warm within her gave the lie to this cold disposition of their friendship. She did not want to let him go his way. She had no intention of letting him go. She could not express it, but in some intangible way he belonged to her. As a brother might, she told herself; not because Blister Haines had married them when they had gone to him in their hurry to solve a difficulty. Not for that reason at all, but because from the first hour of meeting, their spirits had gone out to each other in companionship. Bob had understood her. He had been the only person to whom she could confide her troubles, the only pal she had ever known.

  Standing before the glass in her small bedroom, June saw that her eyes were shining, the blood glowing through the dusky cheeks. Joy had vitalized her whole being, had made her beautiful as a wild rose. For the moment at least she was lyrically happy.

  This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of "Dixie" and "My Old Kentucky Home" as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of "Juanita." From that she drifted to the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

  A man was washing his hands in the tin basin provided outside for guests of the hotel. Through the window came to him the lilt of the fresh young voice.

  "Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' fo' to carry me home."

  The look of sullen, baffled rage on the man's dark face did not lighten. He had been beaten again. His revenge had been snatched from him almost at the moment of triumph. If that mad dog had not come round the corner just when it did, he would have evened the score between him and Dillon. June had seen the whole thing. She had been a partner in the red-headed boy's ovation. Houck ground his teeth in futile anger.

  Presently he slouched into the dining-room.

  Mollie saw him and walked across the room to June. "I'll wait on him if you don't want to."

  The waitress shook her head. "No, I don't want him to think I'm afraid of him. I'm not, either. I'll wait on him."

  June took Houck's order and presently served it.

  His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she glimpsed volcanic passion.

  "You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain't through with him yet, not by a jugful," he growled.

  "If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it to him," June answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.

  "An' I ain't through with you, I'd have you know."

  June finished putting his order on the table. "But I'm through with you, Jake Houck," she said, very quietly.

  "Don't think it. Don't you think it for a minute," he snarled. "I'm gonna--"

  He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.

  Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a brigadier-general.

  "Sit down, Jake Houck," she ordered. "Or get out. I don't care which. But don't you think I'll set by an' let you pester that girl. If you had a lick o' sense you'd know it ain't safe."

  There was nothing soft about Houck. He was a hard and callous citizen, and he lived largely outside the law and other people's standards of conduct. But he knew when he had run up against a brick wall. Mrs. Larson had only to lift her voice and half a dozen men would come running. He was in the country of the enemy, so to say.

  "Am I pesterin' her?" he demanded. "Can't I talk to a girl I knew when she was a baby? Have I got to get an O.K. from you before I say 'Good-mawnin' to her?"

  "Her father left June in my charge. I'm intendin' to see you let her alone. Get that straight."

  Houck gave up with a shrug of his big shoulders. He sat down and attacked the steak on his plate.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  "INJUNS"

  Bob swung down from the saddle in front of the bunkhouse.

  Reeves came to the door and waved a hand. "'Lo, Sure-Shot! What's new in Bear Cat?"

  "Fellow thinkin' of startin' a drug-store. Jim Weaver is the happy dad of twins. Mad dog shot on Main Street. New stage-line for Marvine planned. Mr. Jake Houck is enjoyin' a pleasant visit to our little city. I reckon that's about all."

  Dud had joined Tom in the doorway. "Meet up with Mr. Houck?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Have any talk?"

  "He had some, but he hadn't hardly got to goin' good when the mad dog sashayed up the street. Mr. Houck he adjourned the meetin' immediate."

  "More important business, I reckon," Dud grinned.

  "He didn't mention it, but all those present were in a kinda hurry."

  "So's some one else." Reeves nodded his head toward a small cloud of dust approaching the ranch.

  A rider galloped up and dragged his mount to a halt. "Utes have broke out! Killed a trapper on Squaw Creek! Burned two nesters' houses!" His voice was high and excited.

  "Rumor?" asked Dud.

  "No, sir. I talked with a fellow that seen the body. Met two families that had lit out from Squaw Creek. They're sure enough on the warpath."

  Harshaw took the matter seriously. He gave crisp orders to his riders to cover the creeks and warn all settlers to leave for Bear Cat or Meeker. Dud and Bob were assigned Milk Creek.

  It was hard for the young fellows, as they rode through a land of warm sunshine, to believe that there actually was another Indian outbreak. It had been ten years since the Meeker massacre and the defeat of Major Thornburg's troops. The country had begun to settle up. The Utes knew that their day was done, though they still came up occasionally from the reservation on illicit hunting trips.

  This very country over which they were riding was the scene of the Thornburg battle-field. The Indians had lain in a
mbush and waited for the troops to come over the brow of the rise. At the first volley the commander of the soldiers had fallen mortally wounded. The whites, taken by surprise, fell back in disorder. The Utes moved up on them from both sides and the trapped men fled.

  "Must 'a' been right about here Thornburg was shot," explained Dud. "Charley Mason was one o' the soldiers an' he told me all about it. Captain Jack was in charge of this bunch of Utes. Seems he had signal fires arranged with those at the agency an' they began their attacks at the same time. Charley claimed they didn't know there was Injuns within twenty miles when the bullets began to sing. Says he ran five miles before he took a breath."

  Bob looked around apprehensively. History might repeat itself. At this very moment the Utes might be lying in the draw ready to fire on them. He was filled with a sudden urgent desire to get through with their job and turn the heads of their ponies toward Bear Cat.

  "Makes a fellow feel kinda squeamish," Dud said. "Let's move, Bob."

  They carried the word to the settlers on the creek and turned in the direction of Bear Cat. They reached town late and found the place bustling with excitement. Families of settlers were arriving in wagons and on horseback from all directions. There were rumors that the Indians were marching on the town. A company of militia had been ordered to the scene by the Governor of the State and was expected to arrive on the second day from this.

  Camp-fires were burning in the park plaza and round them were grouped men, women, and children in from the ranches. On all the roads leading to town sentries were stationed. Others walked a patrol along the riverbank and along the skirts of the foothills.

  Three or four cowpunchers had been celebrating the declaration of war. In the community was a general feeling that the Utes must be put down once for all. In spite of the alarm many were glad that the unrest had come to an issue at last.

  Bob and Dud tied their horses to a hitching-rack and climbed the fence into the park. Blister came out of the shadows to meet them.

  "W-whad I tell you, Texas man?" he asked of Bob. "Show-down at last, like I said."

  Into the night lifted a startled yell. "Here come the Injuns!"

  Taut nerves snapped. Wails of terror rose here and there. A woman fainted. The sound of a revolver shot rang out.

  One of the roisterers, who had been loud in his threats of what he meant to do to the Indians, lost his braggadocio instantly. He leaped for the saddle of the nearest horse and dug his spurs home. In his fuddled condition he made a mistake. He had chosen, as a mount upon which to escape, the fence that encircled the park.

  "Gid ap! Gid ap!" he screamed.

  "Yore bronc is some balky, ain't it, Jud?" Hollister asked. He had already discovered that the panic had been caused by a false cry of "Wolf" raised by one of the fence rider's companions.

  "S-some one hitched it to a post," Blister suggested.

  "Ride him, puncher," urged Bob. "Stick to yore saddle if he does buck."

  Jud came off the fence sheepishly. "I was aimin' to go get help," he explained.

  "Where was you going for it--to Denver?" asked Blister.

  The night wore itself out. With the coming of day the spirits of the less hardy revived. The ranchers on the plaza breakfasted in groups, after which their children were bundled off to school. Scouts rode out to learn the whereabouts of the Utes and others to establish contact with the approaching militia.

  Harshaw organized a company of rangers made up mostly of cowpunchers from the river ranches. During the day more of these drifted in. By dusk he had a group of forty hard-riding young fellows who could shoot straight and were acquainted with the country over which they would have to operate. Blister was second in command. All of the Slash Lazy D riders had enlisted except one who had recently broken a leg.

  Scouts brought in word that the Utes had swung round Bear Cat and were camped about thirty miles up the river. Harshaw moved out to meet them. He suspected the Indians of planning to ambush the militia before the soldiers could join forces with the rangers.

  Bob had joined the rangers with no enthusiasm. He had enlisted because of pressure both within and without. He would have been ashamed not to offer himself. Moreover, everybody seemed to assume he would go. But he would much rather have stayed at Bear Cat with the home guards. From what he had picked up, he was far from sure that the Utes were to blame this time. The Houck killing, for instance. And that was not the only outrage they had endured. It struck him more like a rising of the whites. They had provoked the young bucks a good deal, and a sheriff's posse had arrested some of them for being off the reservation hunting. Wise diplomacy might at least have deferred the conflict.

  During the bustle of preparing to leave, Bob's spirits were normal even though his nerves were a little fluttery. As they rode out of town he caught sight for a moment of a slim, dark girl in a blue gingham at the door of the hotel. She waved a hand toward the group of horsemen. It was Dud who answered the good-bye. He had already, Bob guessed, said a private farewell of his own to June. At any rate, his friend had met Hollister coming out of the hotel a few minutes before. The cowpuncher's eyes were shining and a blue skirt was vanishing down the passage. There had been a queer ache in Bob Dillon's heart. He did not blame either of them. Of course June would prefer Dud to him. Any girl in her senses would. He had all the charm of gay and gallant youth walking in the sunshine.

  None the less it hurt and depressed him that there should be a private understanding between his friend and June. A poignant jealousy stabbed him. There was nothing in his character to attract a girl like June of swift and pouncing passion. He was too tame, too fearful. Dud had a spice of the devil in him. It flamed out unexpectedly. Yet he was reliable too. This clean, brown man, fair-haired and steady-eyed, riding with such incomparable ease, would do to tie to, in the phrase of the country. Small wonder a girl's heart turned to him.

  CHAPTER XXX

  A RECRUIT JOINS THE RANGERS

  Harshaw did not, during the first forty-eight hours after leaving Bear Cat, make contact with either the Indians or the militia. He moved warily, throwing out scouts as his party advanced. At night he posted sentries carefully to guard against a surprise attack. It was not the habit of the tribes to assault in the darkness, but he was taking no chances. It would be easy to fall into an ambush, but he had no intention of letting the rangers become the victims of carelessness.

  At the mouth of Wolf Creek a recruit joined the company. He rode up after camp had been made for the night.

  "Jake Houck," Bob whispered to Dud.

  "Who's boss of this outfit?" the big man demanded of Blister after he had swung from the saddle.

  "Harshaw. You'll find him over there with the cavvy."

  Houck straddled across to the remuda.

  "Lookin' for men to fight the Utes?" he asked brusquely of the owner of the Slash Lazy D brand.

  "Yes, sir."

  "If you mean business an' ain't bully-pussin' I'll take a hand," the Brown's Park man said, and both voice and manner were offensive.

  The captain of the rangers met him eye to eye. He did not like this fellow. His reputation was bad. In the old days he had been a rustler, rumor said. Since the affair of the Tolliver girl he had been very sulky and morose. This had culminated in the killing of the Ute. What the facts were about this Harshaw did not know. The man might be enlisting to satisfy a grudge or to make himself safe against counter-attack by helping to drive the Indians back to the reservation. The point that stood out was that Houck was a first-class fighting man. That was enough.

  "We mean business, Houck. Glad to have you join us. But get this straight. I'll not have you startin' trouble in camp. If you've got a private quarrel against any of the boys it will have to wait."

  "I ain't aimin' to start anything," growled Houck. "Not till this job's finished."

  "Good enough. Hear or see anything of the Utes as you came?"

  "No."

  "Which way you come?"

  Houck told him.
Presently the two men walked back toward the chuck-wagon.

  "Meet Mr. Houck, boys, any of you that ain't already met him," said Harshaw by way of introduction. "He's going to trail along with us for a while."

  The situation was awkward. Several of those present had met Houck only as the victim of their rude justice the night that June Tolliver had swum the river to escape him. Fortunately the cook at that moment bawled out that supper was ready.

  Afterward Blister had a word with Bob and Dud while he was arranging sentry duty with them.

  "Wish that b-bird hadn't come. He's here because he wants to drive the Utes outa the country before they get him. The way I heard it he had no business to kill that b-buck. Throwed down on him an' killed him onexpected. I didn't c-come to pull Jake Houck's chestnuts outa the fire for him. Not none. He ain't lookin' for to round up the Injuns and herd 'em back to the reservation. He's allowin' to kill as many as he can."