Kitsong obeyed, and the girl yielded the slippers, the soles of which seemed to interest Hanscom very deeply.
He continued with polite intonation, "We'll all start down the valley at daybreak."
"What do you want of me?" asked the girl, hoarsely.
"I want you as a witness to the assault Busby made on me; and then, you see, you're all housebreakers"—he waved his hand toward the front window, from which the screen had been torn and the glass broken—"and housebreaking is pretty serious business even in this country. Furthermore, you were all concerned in that raid, and I'm going to see that you all feel the full weight of the law."
All the time he was talking so easily and so confidently he was really saying to himself: "To take you three to jail will be like driving so many wolves to market—but it's got to be done."
He was tired, irritable, and eager to be clear of it all. His own cabin at the moment seemed an ideally peaceful retreat. Only his belief that in this girl's small shoe lay the absolute proof of Helen's innocence nerved him to go on with his self-imposed duty. His chief desire was to place these shoes in the coroner's hands and so end all dispute concerning the footprints in the flour.
The girl, whose name was Rita, sullenly made coffee, and as she brought it to him, he continued his interrogation:
"How did you get here?"
"I rode."
"Over the trail? Across the divide?"
"Yes."
"Were you in the raid this morning?"
"What raid? I don't know of any raid."
He knew she was lying, but he only said, "When did you leave home?"
"Three days ago."
"Where have you been?"
"In camp."
"Where?"
She pointed up the stream.
"How long have you been acquainted with this man Busby?"
Here he struck upon something stubborn and hard in the girl's nature. She refused to reply.
"When were you over here last?"
A warning word from Busby denoted that he understood the course of the ranger's questioning and was anxious to strengthen her resistance.
Hanscom had several hours in which to ponder, and soon arrived at a fairly accurate understanding of the whole situation. He remembered vaguely the report of a row between Watson and Busby, and he was aware of the reckless cruelty of the dead man. It might be that in revenge for some savagery on his part, some graceless act toward Rita, this moody, half-insane youth had crept upon the rancher and killed him.
He turned to young Kitsong. "I haven't seen you lately. Where have you been?"
"Over on the Porcupine."
"Working on Gonzales's ranch?"
"Yes, part of the time."
"Does your father know you are back in the valley?"
"No—yes, he does, too!"
"You fired that shot that killed the horse, didn't you?"
Young Kitsong betrayed anxiety. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Which of you rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"
In spite of himself the boy glanced quickly at the girl, who shook her head.
Hanscom addressed himself to her. "Señorita, which of your friends rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"
Her head dropped in silent refusal to answer.
"Oh, well," said the ranger, "we'll find out in the course of time. My eyesight is pretty keen, and I can swear that it was the man on the sorrel horse that fired the shot that stopped the Kauffman team. Now one or the other of you will have to answer to that charge." His voice took on a sterner note. "What were you doing on Watson's porch last Saturday?"
The girl started and flushed. "I wasn't on his porch."
"Oh yes, you were! You didn't know you left your footprints in some flour on the floor, did you?"
Her glance was directed involuntarily toward her feet, as if in guilty surprise. It was a slight but convincing evidence to the ranger, who went on:
"Who was with you—Busby or Henry?"
"Nobody was with me. I wasn't there. I haven't been in the valley before for weeks."
"You didn't go there alone. You wouldn't dare to go alone in the night, and the man who was with you killed Watson."
She sat up with a gasp, and young Kitsong stared. Their surprise was too genuine to be assumed. "What's that you say? Watson killed?"
"Yes. Watson was shot Monday night. Didn't you know that? Where have you been that you haven't heard of it?"
Young Kitsong was all readiness to answer now. "We've been up in the hills. We have a camp up there."
"Oh," said Hanscom, "kind of a robbers' den, eh? Has Busby been with you?"
"Sure thing. We've all been fishing and hunting—" Here he stopped suddenly, for to admit that he had been hunting out of season was to lay himself liable to arrest as a poacher on the forest. He went on: "We all came down here together."
"What were you doing chasing that team? What was the game in that?"
"Well, he shot at us first," answered the boy.
And Busby shouted from his position in the corner on the floor, "Shut up, you fool!"
The ranger smiled. "Oh, it's got to all come out, Busby. I saw the man on the sorrel horse fire that shot—don't forget that. And I know who made the tracks in the flour. But I am beginning to wonder if you had anything to do with warning the Kauffmans to get out."
He had indeed come to the end of his questioning, for his captives refused to utter another word, and he himself fell silent, his mind engaged with the intricacies of this problem. It might be that these young dare-devils just happened to meet Kauffman on the road and decided to hold him up. It was possible that they knew nothing of the warnings which had been sent. But in that case, who pushed that final warning under the door? Who let them know of trouble from above?
Dawn was creeping up the valley, and, calling young Kitsong from the doze into which he had fallen, he said: "Now, Henry, I'm going to take this bunch down to the sheriff, and you might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You go out and saddle up while the señorita heats up some more coffee, and we'll get ready and start."
Hanscom was by no means as confident as his voice sounded, and, as the young fellow rose to go, only half expected him to show his face again. "Well, let him slip," he said to himself. "I'll be safer without him."
Busby spoke up from the floor. "You stay with the game, Hank, and you ride your own horse."
"You bet I'll ride my own horse," Kitsong violently retorted, from the doorway.
The girl, who understood the significance of this controversy, interposed. "I'll ride the sorrel. He's my horse, anyway."
Hanscom mockingly chimed in. "That's mighty fine and self-sacrificing, but it won't do. The rider who fired that shot was a man. But I'll leave it to Henry. Bring around the horses, and remember, if you slip out with that bay horse I'll know you rode the sorrel yesterday."
The situation had become too complicated for the girl, who fell silent, while Busby cursed the ranger in fierce, set terms. "What right have you got to arrest us, anyhow?"
"All the right I need. That shooting began inside the forest boundary, and it's my duty to see that you are placed in the hands of the law." Here his voice took on a note of grim determination. "And I want you to understand there will be no funny business on the way down."
"How can I ride, all tied up like this?" demanded the ruffian.
"Oh, I'm going to untie you, and you are going to come along quietly—either as live stock or freight—you can take your choice."
Busby, subdued by several hours on the floor, was disposed to do as he was told, and Hanscom unbound his legs and permitted him to rise.
As young Kitsong brought the horses around in front of the cabin, Hanscom was not disappointed in finding the girl's saddle on the sorrel. He made no comment.
"Now, Busby, we'll mount you first," he said, and slipped the bridle from the horse. "You see, to make sure of you I am going to lead your pony." He then untied the youth's hands.
"Climb on!" he commanded.
Busby silently mounted to his saddle, the girl took the sorrel, and at command Kitsong started down the trail.
"You go next," said Hanscom to the girl, "now you, Busby," he added, and with the rope across the horse's rump—the trick of a trained trailer—he started down the trail.
Sinister as this small procession really was, it would have appeared quite innocent to a casual observer as it went winding down the hill. No one at a little distance would have been able to tell that in the silent determination of the horseman in the rear lay the only law, the only bond which kept these four riders in line. Neither Busby nor Kitsong nor the girl doubted for an instant that if any of them made a deflection, a rush for freedom, they would be shot. They knew that as a Federal officer he had certain authority. Just how much authority they could not determine, but they were aware that the shooting had begun in the forest, which was his domain.
As they sighted Watson's cabin Hanscom was curious to know whether nearing the scene of the crime would have any perceptible effect on Busby. "Will he betray nervousness?" he asked himself.
Quite the contrary. As he came opposite the house, Busby turned in his saddle and asked, "When was Watson killed?"
"Nobody knows exactly. Some time Monday night," answered the ranger.
A few miles down the road they met a rancher coming up the valley with a timber-wagon, and to him the ranger explained briefly the nature of his expedition, and said:
"Now, Tom, I reckon you'll have to turn around and help me take these youngsters to the sheriff. I would rather have them in your wagon than on horseback."
The rancher consented with almost instant readiness.
The prisoners were transferred to the wagon, and in this way the remainder of the trip was covered.
V
The county jail was a square, brick structure standing in the midst of a grove of small cottonwood-trees (planted in painful rows), and the sheriff's office and his wife's parlor, situated on opposite sides of the hall, occupied the front part of the first story, while the rear and the basement served as kitchen and dungeon keep. Generally the lockup was empty and the building quite as decorous as any other on the street, although at certain times it resounded with life. On this day it was quiet, and Throop and his wife, who served as matron, were sitting under a tree as the rancher's wagon halted before the gate.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and Hanscom's prisoners were dusty, tired, and sullen as they filed up the walk toward the sheriff, who awaited their approach with an inquiring slant to his huge head. Mrs. Throop retreated to the house.
When at close range Hanscom with a weary smile said, "I've brought you some new boarders, Mr. Sheriff."
"So I see," said the officer, as he motioned them to enter the door. "What's it all about?"
"It's a long story," replied the ranger, "and of course I can't go into it here, but I want you to take charge of these people while I see Carmody and find out what he wants done with them. I think he'll find them valuable witnesses. Incidentally I may say they've been shooting a horse and breaking and entering a house."
The sheriff was deeply impressed with this charge. "Well, well!" he said, studying with especial care the downcast face of the girl. "I thought it might be only killing game out of season, stealing timber, or some such thing." He called a deputy. "Here, Tom, take these men into the guard-room, and, Mrs. Throop, you look after this girl while I go over the case with Mr. Hanscom."
"Don't let 'em talk with anybody," warned the ranger.
The sheriff passed the word to the deputy, "That's right, Tom."
In deep relief the ranger followed the sheriff into his private office and dropped into a seat. "Jeerusalem! I'm tired!" he exclaimed. "That was a nervous job!"
"Cut loose," said the sheriff.
Hanscom then related as briefly as he could the story of the capture. At the end he confessed that he had hardly expected to reach town with all of them. "I had no authority to arrest them. I just bluffed them, as well as the rancher who drove the wagon, into thinking I had. I wanted them for Carmody to question, and I hung to the girl because I believe she can absolutely clear Kauffman and his daughter of any connection—"
Throop, who had listened intently, now broke out: "Well, I hope so. That old man and his girl sure are acquiring all kinds of misery. Kitsong got Carmody to issue a warrant for them yesterday, and I wired the authorities at Lone Rock and had them both taken from the train."
The ranger's face stiffened as he stared at the officer. "You did!"
"I did, and they're on their way back on No. 6."
"How could Carmody do that?" Hanscom demanded, hotly. "He told them to go—I heard him."
"He says not. He says he just excused the girl for the time being. He declares now that he expected them both to stay within call, and when he heard they were running away—"
"How did he know they were running away?"
"Search me! Some one on the train must have wired back."
"More likely the Blackbird Ranch 'phoned in. They are all related to Watson. I was afraid of them." He rose. "Well, that proves that Abe and his gang were at the bottom of that raid."
"Maybe so, but I don't see how Carmody can go into that—his job is to find the man or woman who killed Watson."
"Well, there's where I come in. I've got the girl who made those tracks on the floor."
The sheriff was thoughtful. "I guess you'd better call up Carmody—he's the whole works till his verdict is rendered, and he ought to be notified at once."
A moment's talk with the doctor's office disclosed the fact that he was out in the country on a medical trip, and would not return till late. "Reckon we'll have to wait," said the sheriff.
The ranger's face fell. After a pause he asked, "When does that train get in?"
"About six; it's an hour late."
"And they'll be jailed?"
"Sure thing! No other way. Carmody told me to take charge of them and see that they were both on hand to-morrow."
Hanscom's fine eyes flamed with indignation. "It's an outrage. That girl is as innocent of Watson's killing as you are. I won't have her humiliated in this way."
"You seem terribly interested in this young lady," remarked Throop, with a grin.
Hanscom was in no mood to dodge. "I am—and I'm going to save her from coming here if I can." He started for the door. "I'll see Judge Brinkley and get her released. Carmody has no authority to hold her."
"I hope you succeed," said the sheriff, sympathetically; "but at present I'm under orders from the coroner. It's up to him. So you think you've got the girl who made them tracks?"
"I certainly do, and I want you to hold these prisoners till Carmody gets home. Don't let anybody see them, and don't let them talk with one another. They'll all come before that jury to-morrow, and they mustn't have any chance to frame up a lie."
"All right. I see your point. Go ahead. Your prisoners will be here when you come back."
Hanscom went away, raging against the indignity which threatened Helen. At Carmody's office he waited an hour, hoping the coroner might return, and, in despair of any help from him, set out at last for Brinkley's office, resolute to secure the judge's interference.
The first man he met on the street stopped him with a jovial word: "Hello, Hans! Say, you want to watch out for Abe Kitsong. He came b'ilin' in half an hour ago, and is looking for you. Says you helped that Dutchman and his girl (or wife, or whatever she is) to get away, and that you've been arresting Henry, his nephew, without a warrant, and he swears he'll swat you good and plenty, on sight."
Hanscom's voice was savage as he replied: "You tell him that I'm big enough to be seen with the naked eye, and if he wants me right away he'll find me at Judge Brinkley's office."
The other man also grew serious. "All the same, Hans, keep an eye out," he urged. "Abe is sure to make you trouble. He's started in drinking, and when he's drunk he's poisonous as a rattler."
> "All right. I'm used to rattlers—I'll hear him before he strikes. He's a noisy brute."
The ranger could understand that Rita's father might very naturally be thrown into a fury of protest by the news of his daughter's arrest, but Kitsong's concern over a nephew whom he had not hitherto regarded as worth the slightest care did not appear especially logical or singularly important.
Brinkley was not in his office and so Hanscom went out to his house, out on the north bend of the river in a large lawn set with young trees.
The judge, seated on his porch in his shirt-sleeves, exhibited the placid ease of a man whose office work is done and his grass freshly sprinkled.
"Good evening, Hanscom," he pleasantly called. "Come up and have a seat and a smoke with the gardener."
"I have but a moment," the ranger replied, and plunged again into the story, which served in this instance as a preface to his plea for intervention. "You must help me, Judge. Miss McLaren must not go to jail. To arrest her in this way a second time is a crime. She's a lady, Judge, and as innocent of that shooting as a child."
"You surprise me," said Brinkley. "According to all reports she is very, very far from being a lady."
Hanscom threw out his hands in protest. "They're all wrong, Judge. I tell you she is a lady, and young and handsome."
"Handsome and young!" The judge's eyes took on a musing expression. "Well, well! that accounts for much. But what was she doing up there in the company of that old Dutchman?"
"I don't know why she came West, but I'm glad she did. I'm glad to have known her. That old Dutchman, as you call him, is her stepfather and a fine chap."
"But Carmody has arrested her. What caused him to do that?"
"I don't know. I can't understand it. It may be that Kitsong has put the screws on him some way."
The judge reflected. "As the only strange woman in the valley, the girl naturally falls under suspicion of having made those footprints."
They of the High Trails Page 25