Following the Grass

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  To the right of the trail the mountain fell sheer to the floor of the valley. The sheep began to string out and hug the inside curve of the trail. Once or twice the dogs barked to hurry them on. Gault gave Pepper his head, but the horse could not keep up with the flock. In fact, he braced his body for every step he took and, although Gault had urgent need of haste, the horse was not to be pressed.

  The snail’s pace at which he rode fretted the man sorely, and it was with a keen sense of relief that he felt the horse veer off to the left some thirty minutes later. The trail widened here, and Pepper loped along. Gradually, he quartered on the wind. In a short while Gault realized that the violence of the storm had lessened. By this token, he knew they were descending the wide draw which led to the coulee. Before they reached it, Pepper caught up with the flock.

  Without conscious effort, a plan of what he must do had formulated in Gault’s mind. He intended to be far away by daylight; but when the sheep had been rounded up, so strong was habit in him, he stopped to help the dogs bunch the flock for the night. From his patience and the even tenor of his droning song, one would have little suspected that he had aught to hurry him.

  Half an hour must have passed as he continued to circle around the flock. The old ewes were the first to heed his song. Their example had a salutary effect upon the rest of the flock, and after the rams had impressed their households with their watchfulness and superior intelligence, they, too, bedded down. The tired dogs sat about, their eyes half closed. It was sign enough that the flock was safe.

  Gault did not attempt to find the trail of the man, or men, who had stampeded the sheep. The storm would have long since destroyed any sign. He knew the guilty ones were far away by now, for they would not have lingered after seeing the flock rushing down the mountain.

  Pepper had not eaten since noon, and so, when Gault left the coulee, he went directly to the barn and fed the horse. Much was to depend on Pepper in the next twelve hours. He loosened the cinches of his saddle as the animal ate and, before leaving the barn, he filled a small bag with oats and fastened it to a ring in the saddlebow. If he moved slowly it was because he dreaded to face Margarida.

  He had brought to her already such grief and misery as comes to few women, but the blow he was to deal her now made what had gone before seem as nothing. He knew she would meet it bravely. She ever had been the braver of the two. But why had God always demanded braveness of her? What had she done to deserve the load she had been made to carry?

  And this thing to-night! Gault knew she would have to bear the brunt of it. If he got away, he would come back some day to prove himself innocent. Failing that, he had only to die, hut she would have to stay here, poor, shamed—raising her son in a country where every man’s hand would be raised against him. God! Was there aught of justice in this?

  Gault raised his clenched fists to heaven, and a terrible oath escaped his lips. His honest, God-fearing nature had rebelled at last.

  “God—if there is a God—why You a-doin’ this to her?” he demanded in awful tones. “Why do You want to break her heart ?—and that’s what hit’s a-goin’ to mean! I ain’t never asked nuthin’ for myself; You ain’t had much to do for either of us; but I’m a-askin’ You now—how You a-goin’ to take care of her? What You a-goin’ to do for her and Joseph when I ain’t here no more?—You got to look out for ‘em, God! You got to take moughty good care of ‘em; ‘cause if Ye don’t—I ain’t a-goin’ to believe there’s any God! Don’t let no man’s hand touch my boy. He’s clean, and You got to keep him clean! Do all You can for him and his mammy, and if You can’t do nuthin’ for me—I won’t mind.”

  Margarida, worn out with anxiety, had dozed off in her chair beside the table. She sprang to her feet as her husband opened the door. “Joseph!” she cried as she ran toward him, her voice singing her relief at seeing him safely home.

  Gault appeared unusually tall in the flickering rays of the lamp, his face gaunt and drawn, his eyes bloodshot from the storm. Margarida caught the grim set of his mouth and the ghostly pallor of his face. She stopped short.

  “Joseph!” she exclaimed. “What has happened? What is it?”

  Gault pointed to the lamp. “Put it out!” he said sharply, and as Margarida blew out the flame, he locked the door.

  The ashes in the hearth were still aglow. Gault stirred them with his boot until they dimly illumined the room. The supplies for which he had gone to town were in a gunny sack thrown over his shoulder. He took the sack, and put it in the kitchen as he had always done, and coming back to the fireplace, he took several newspapers and a catalogue from his pocket and tossed them on the table.

  Margarida’s eyes followed him. His every move said to her that something serious had happened; but Gault, not seeing that she read him so well, tried to be casual as he spoke.

  “Had trouble with the sheep,” he began.

  Margarida stopped him. “They were all right just before the storm, but that’s not why you asked me to put out the lamp, Joseph.” Her tone was accusing. Gault stared at the glowing coals.

  “Yes—and—no, Rita,” he muttered. “Somebody stampeded the flock. I jest managed to turn ‘em this side of the fence. The fence is down—cut!”

  Margarida Gault’s face blanched. She grabbed her husband’s arms as if she would shake from him the mystery this night held.

  “You mean our sheep ?” she demanded incredulously. “Some one stampeded our sheep and cut the Circle-Z wire so they would go through?—Joseph!” It was a groan. Gault turned his head away.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” Margarida exclaimed when she could speak. “Tell me what happened! Everything!”

  But she had to drag the story from him, for he was still trying to hold back word of Dorr.

  “How could this have happened?” she demanded, when he had finished. “Who could have done this thing?”

  “Reckon the less we say about that the better hit”ll be. You and me know who done hit, but hit can’t be helped.”

  She caught her breath as understanding flashed in her brain. Trembling, she turned to the fire. “I— I— understand, Joseph,” she murmured brokenly, her voice tired, impotent. “I didn’t think they would stoop to this.”

  Gault winced. How could he tell her what must be told? He couldn’t just go. So it was with a decision born of desperation that he said tersely:

  “Guess you remember Kit Dorr, Rita.”

  His wife nodded, surprised at the mention of Dorr’s name at this time.

  “Of course. But why? Had he anything to do with this?”

  Gault cleared his throat nervously.

  “Kit’s dead—killed!”

  “Ah-h-h!” There was surprise and horror in her eyes. It seemed as if by some psychic force she foresaw the dénouement of the tragedy. Her mouth hung open. It seemed to ask a question.

  “I left him half buried in the sand beside the fence,” Gault went on, watching her mouth.

  “The fence?” Margarida’s hand flew to her mouth as she backed away, her eyes bulging. “Joseph—Joseph!” And when Gault’s eyes met hers, she stared at him madly; but he was mute. Slowly, then, a word formed on her lips:

  “You—”

  Gault could not answer at once. He shook his head slowly when he did speak, and his voice was hoarse:

  “No-o, Rita, hit wa’n’t me! I didn’t kill Kit Dorr. Folks is a-goin’ to say I did, though; an’ there ain’t no one a-goin’ to believe I didn’t.”

  “Oh, Joseph!” Margarida implored as she rushed to him and threw her arms about his neck. “Don’t say that! I have never known you to lie. If you say you did not kill him, I believe you. Look at me, Joseph. I have faith in you!”

  Gault trembled as he swept her up into his arms and kissed her.

  “I haven’t done much, have I, to pay you back for all the faith you’ve had in me?” he said brokenly.

  “Joseph, my man!” Margarida repeated again and again as she clung to him.

  Not until sh
e asked to be put down did he release her.

  “Joseph—do you know who shot Dorr?” she questioned.

  Gault nodded: “The same folks who stampeded the sheep. Ain’t no doubt of hit. Kit must a-happened along as they was cuttin’ the wire.”

  “You—you don’t think my father did this?” Margarida demanded. “He had nothing against Dorr.”

  “No! No, he didn’t have a hand in this, but the hatred of me that he’s preached all these years is to blame for hit. The Basque boys have been a-listenin’ to him so long they would do anythin’ to git rid of me. Dorr got hit ’cause he was in the way. The Circle-Z men must ’ve found Kit’s body some time ago. Like as not, they’ll be here, lookin’ for me, ’fore mornin’. Mornin’ll bring ’em, sure pop! got to be a long ways away by then.”

  Margarida just nodded. She knew as well as he that his life would be snuffed out if he were caught before the excitement subsided. Yes, he had to go. And these minutes—they were too precious to be wasted. Even while they had talked, a posse might have started for the cabin. The future was black for her, but the present was beset with such danger for her husband that she dared not think of what was to become of little Joseph and herself.

  “Is your horse ready?” she asked anxiously. “I’ll have a snack ready for you by the time you get him. We’ve been foolish to stand here idle.”

  Gault was back with Pepper by the time she had the lunch wrapped. The storm was abating. If it held on as it was now, he would be over the mountain and well into the Owyhee country by daylight. It was his intention to go down the Little Owyhee and cross into Idaho. Beyond that, he had no definite plan.

  “I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you where I’m headin’ for,” he said huskily. “You won’t have to lie to folks, then, when they try to dig hit out of you. If anybody comes to-night, say I ain’t home. An’ don’t worry no more’n you have to, Rita. Ain’t no way of sayin’ how long I’ll be gone. I’m a-goin’ to square this, some day. The wool’s contracted for; hit’ll give you money enough. You’ll have to git a boy for the sheep. Git word to Kincaid; he’ll find a herder for you. An’ if you need anythin’, ask Kin; he’s the only friend I got in the valley.”

  “Yes, yes—! Joseph,” Margarida answered, “but hurry, hurry! What if they came now?”

  “I got to kiss the baby ’fore I go,” Gault mumbled, and with his wife at his heels, he tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the door of the little cubby-hole in which the child slept. The boy did not stir as his father dropped to his knees and brushed his cheek with quivering lips. Icy despair tore at Gault’s heart as he gazed on his son and realized that this might be his last look at him. A mad impulse to awaken the child and hear his voice once more almost overcame the kneeling man.

  Gault felt his wife’s hand upon his shoulder, entreating him to delay no longer, but for a while he could not take his eyes away from the boy’s face; pride and love held him chained.

  Tears were denied Gault. Dry-eyed, he had to face the mother, or else even her fine courage must fail at his going. That he masked his misery was no small accomplishment.

  “Don’t tell him nuthin’,” Gault whispered when the door had been closed, “hit’d only poison his mind. When he asks about me, tell him I had to go away for a spell. Keep this night from him as long as you can, Rita, ’cause he’s gittin’ so he thinks like a man; he’d want to do some thin’. And that mustn’t be. I don’t want him to grow up with his heart full of hate and meanness. As long as I’m alive, this is my fight; I got to settle hit myself. If anythin’ happens, so I don’t get back, I know you’ll raise him to be a man. Teach him to—what?”

  The sudden fear which had flashed in Margarida’s eyes had forced the question from him.

  “Isn’t that our dogs?” she insisted.

  Gault listened.

  “Reckon hit is,” he muttered. “Some one’s a-comin’!”

  “Kiss me then—quick! Put your arms about me for a second, my man. Come back to me, Joseph! I couldn’t live without you. No matter when you come, I’ll be here! And now, go I Go! They’ll be here any minute !”

  Gault did not mount his horse until Margarida bolted the door. He heard something thud against it, and he wondered if she had fainted. He even ventured to call to her. When he heard her answer, he swung himself into his saddle and struck off across the mountain to the north of the coulee. The tears which had been denied him, blurred his eyes now. It did not matter; there was no one to see.

  Margarida had half fallen against the cabin door as she bolted it. Valiantly, she endeavored to arrange her disordered thoughts. What was she to do when these men came? Had she been asleep?—or would it not be better to pretend that she was anxiously waiting for her husband to return from town?

  As she pondered the matter, she heard horses outside the cabin. The next moment, the butt of a gun beat an angry tattoo on the door.

  “Hello-o-o !” a voice cried.

  “I hear you!” Margarida answered. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “Open the door!”

  “I’ll not open the door until I know who you are !” she called back.

  “I’m Eagan—Race Eagan, of the Circle-Z-I want to talk to your husband.”

  “My husband is not here !” she replied stoutly. “He went to town to-day. I’ve been expecting him home for hours.”

  Eagan conferred with the other men. Then:

  “Guess he’ll be along directly. We got to see him. You open up and let us in. Kit Dorr’s been killed. We’re here to get the man that got him. What you goin’ to do?”

  “Wait until I light a lamp,” Margarida exclaimed. “I’ll let you in. There isn’t anybody here who had anything to do with killing Kit Dorr.”

  Two other Circle-Z men were with Eagan. The three of them searched the cabin hurriedly.

  “He ain’t here,” Race grumbled. “He’s been here and gone, or he’ll come soon. We’ll wait a spell!”

  “You think my husband killed Dorr, eh?” Margarida asked, her eyes snapping.

  “What we think don’t matter! We want Gault! You said he hadn’t been here, didn’t yuh ?”

  Margarida nodded: “You understood me correctly.”

  Eagan pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.

  “Might as well sit down, boys,” he said brusquely, his eyes following Margarida as she walked back and forth. He found her singularly beautiful. He began to wonder about her and what was to become of her. Margarida caught his eyes and seemed to guess his thought. Eagan picked up a newspaper and read it aimlessly, still wondering about her. He stiffened suddenly.

  “Say! I thought you was mistaken, ma’am,” he exclaimed insolently. Turning to the others, he said:

  “Gault was here I She’s just been playin’ for time.’

  “What do you mean?” Margarida demanded.

  Eagan’s lip curled as he tossed the newspaper on the table :

  “I mean that there’s to-day’s Silver State. It couldn’t have got to Paradise before four o’clock. How did it get here if he didn’t fetch it? Ain’t no airships bringin’ mail up here, is there? And don’t you forget that foolin’ us won’t help him any. Where’s he headin’ for?”

  Eagan almost roared his question. Great was his surprise, then, to find little Joseph facing him from the kitchen door, his sleepy eyes squinting along the sights of his father’s old deer-gun.

  “Don’t you move!” the child warned. “You wouldn’t talk like that to my mammy if my daddy was here; and I reckon I ain’t going to let you do it, either!”

  “I’m damned I” Race drawled as he surveyed the boy. “I’do be damned! I guess you mean it!” He grunted as he turned to his companions:

  “Come on, let’s ride I And say, kid,” he added as he looked at Joseph, “for your sake, I hope your paw is travelin’ fast!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  ON BUCKSKIN.

  WINTER, long and lonely, came to the cabin on Buckskin Mountain, but it brought no word of t
he husband and father who had fled in the middle of the night. In the valley, men still talked about Joseph Gault and wondered where he had gone.

  That he had killed Dorr, no one doubted—save Tabor Kincaid—and his guilt was best proved by the fact that he had not waited to be hanged. In the beginning one or two dissented from this popular opinion, but as the story of Eagan’s encounter with Margarida spread, they were forced to admit themselves wrong.

  The killing itself was never investigated. What need for investigation, with the motive so evident and the guilty man almost self-confessed? And, so, although Dorr was soon forgotten, the hunt for Gault went on; but as time passed, and no word of him was had, the law turned to more urgent matters. And those good men and true, who had without trial judged Joseph Gault, contented themselves, with the inhumanity of man for the helpless, by openly scorning the woman and child who had been left to face them.

  But Margarida’s great task was not to win their approval. The wondering look which that mad, storm-filled night had put in little Joseph’s eyes had never quite left them, and although she had succeeded in clouding to him the reason for his father’s going, she was less successful in explaining why he remained away so long. And an uneasy feeling possessed her that he knew what had happened.

  In various ways she tried to keep his mind occupied, and she spent many long hours in teaching him how to read and write. Joseph rewarded her by making astounding progress. He was going on nine, now, and actually growing out of his clothes.

  Kincaid had sent them a Mexican boy to herd their sheep. He proved reliable and made himself handy about the place, but Joseph resented his being there, insisting that they could do without him.