The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  Lorraine crouched behind a juniper bush close against the rock and waited. The next flash came within a half-minute. It showed a man at the horse’s head, holding it by the bridle. The horse was rearing. Lorraine tried to scream that the man on the ground would be trampled, but something went wrong with her voice, so that she could only whisper.

  When the light came again the man who had been shot was not altogether on the ground. The other, working swiftly, had thrust the injured man’s foot through the stirrup. Lorraine saw him stand back and lift his quirt to slash the horse across the rump. Even through the crash of thunder Lorraine heard the horse go past her down the hill, galloping furiously. When she could see again she glimpsed him running, while something bounced along on the ground beside him.

  She saw the other man, with a dry branch in his hand, dragging it across the road where it ran between the two rocks. Then Lorraine Hunter, hardened to the sight of crimes committed for picture values only, realised sickeningly that she had just looked upon a real murder,—the cold-blooded killing of a man. She felt very sick. Queer little red sparks squirmed and danced before her eyes. She crumpled down quietly behind the jumper bush and did not know when the rain came, though it drenched her in the first two or three minutes of downpour.

  CHAPTER IV

  “SHE’S A GOOD GIRL WHEN SHE AIN’T CRAZY”

  When the sun has been up just long enough to take the before-dawn chill from the air without having swallowed all the diamonds that spangle bush and twig and grass-blade after a night’s soaking rain, it is good to ride over the hills of Idaho and feel oneself a king,—and never mind the crown and the sceptre. Lone Morgan, riding early to the Sawtooth to see the foreman about getting a man for a few days to help replace a bridge carried fifty yards downstream by a local cloudburst, would not have changed places with a millionaire. The horse he rode was the horse he loved, the horse he talked to like a pal when they were by themselves. The ridge gave him a wide outlook to the four corners of the earth. Far to the north the Sawtooth range showed blue, the nearer mountains pansy purple where the pine trees stood, the foothills shaded delicately where canyons swept down to the gray plain. To the south was the sagebrush, a soft, gray-green carpet under the sun. The sky was blue, the clouds were handfuls of clean cotton floating lazily. Of the night’s storm remained no trace save slippery mud when his horse struck a patch of clay, which was not often, and the packed sand still wet and soggy from the beating rain.

  Rock City showed black and inhospitable even in the sunlight. The rock walls rose sheer, the roofs slanted rakishly, the signs scratched on the rock by facetious riders were pointless and inane. Lone picked his way through the crooked defile that was marked MAIN STREET on the corner of the first huge boulder and came abruptly into the road. Here he turned north and shook his horse into a trot.

  A hundred yards or so down the slope beyond Rock City he pulled up short with a “What the hell!” that did not sound profane, but merely amazed. In the sodden road were the unmistakable footprints of a woman. Lone did not hesitate in naming the sex, for the wet sand held the imprint cleanly, daintily. Too shapely for a boy, too small for any one but a child or a woman with little feet, and with the point at the toes proclaiming the fashion of the towns, Lone guessed at once that she was a town girl, a stranger, probably,—and that she had passed since the rain; which meant since daylight.

  He swung his horse and rode back, wondering where she could have spent the night. Halfway through Rock City the footprints ended abruptly, and Lone turned back, riding down the trail at a lope. She couldn’t have gone far, he reasoned, and if she had been out all night in the rain, with no better shelter than Rock City afforded, she would need help,—“and lots of it, and pretty darn quick,” he added to John Doe, which was the ambiguous name of his horse.

  Half a mile farther on he overtook her. Rather, he sighted her in the trail, saw her duck in amongst the rocks and scattered brush of a small ravine, and spurred after her. It was precarious footing for his horse when he left the road, but John Doe was accustomed to that. He jumped boulders, shied around buckthorn, crashed through sagebrush and so brought the girl to bay against a wet bank, where she stood shivering. The terror in her face and her wide eyes would have made her famous in the movies. It made Lone afraid she was crazy.

  Lone swung off and went up to her guardedly, not knowing just what an insane woman might do when cornered. “There, now, I’m not going to hurt yuh at all,” he soothed. “I guess maybe you’re lost. What made you run away from me when you saw me coming?”

  Lorraine continued to stare at him.

  “I’m going to the ranch, and if you’d like a ride, I’ll lend you my horse. He’ll be gentle if I lead him. It’s a right smart walk from here.” Lone smiled, meaning to reassure her.

  “Are you the man I saw shoot that man and then fasten him to the stirrup of the saddle so the horse dragged him down the road? If you are, I—I——”

  “No—oh, no, I’m not the man,” Lone said gently. “I just now came from home. Better let me take you in to the ranch.”

  “I was going to the ranch—did you see him shoot that man and make the horse drag him—make the horse—he slashed that horse with the quirt—and he went tearing down the road dragging—it—it was—horrible!”

  “Yes—yes, don’t worry about it. We’ll fix him. You come and get on John Doe and let me take you to the ranch. Come on—you’re wet as a ducked pup.”

  “That man was just riding along—I saw him when it lightened. And he shot him—oh, can’t you do something?”

  “Yes, yes, they’re after him right now. Here. Just put your foot in the stirrup—I’ll help you up. Why, you’re soaked!” Perseveringly Lone urged her to the horse. “You’re soaking wet!” he exclaimed again.

  “It rained,” she muttered confusedly. “I thought it was the ranch—but they were rocks. Just rocks. Did you see him shoot that man? Why—why it shouldn’t be allowed! He ought to be arrested right away—I’d have called a policeman but—isn’t thunder and lightning just perfectly awful? And that horse—going down the road dragging——”

  “You’d better get some one to double for me in this scene,” she said irrelevantly. “I—I don’t know this horse, and if he starts running the boys might not catch him in time. It isn’t safe, is it?”

  “It’s safe,” said Lone pityingly. “You won’t be dragged. You just get on and ride. I’ll lead him. John Doe’s gentle as a dog.”

  “Just straight riding?” Lorraine considered the matter gravely. “Wel-ll—but I saw a man dragged, once. He’d been shot first. It—it was awful!”

  “I’ll bet it was. How’d you come to be walking so far?”

  Lorraine looked at him suspiciously. Lone thought her eyes were the most wonderful eyes—and the most terrible—that he had ever seen. Almond-shaped they were, the irises a clear, dark gray, the eyeballs blue-white like a healthy baby’s. That was the wonder of them. But their glassy shine made them terrible. Her lids lifted in a sudden stare.

  “You’re not the man, are you? I—I think he was taller than you. And his hat was brown. He’s a brute—a beast! To shoot a man just riding along—— It rained,” she added plaintively. “My bag is back there somewhere under a bush. I think I could find the bush—it was where a rabbit was sitting—but he’s probably gone by this time. A rabbit,” she told him impressively, “wouldn’t sit out in the rain all night, would he? He’d get wet. And a rabbit would feel horrid when he was wet—such thick fur he never would get dried out. Where do they go when it rains? They have holes in the ground, don’t they?”

  “Yes. Sure, they do. I’ll show you one, down the road here a little piece. Come on—it ain’t far.”

  To see a rabbit hole in the ground, Lorraine consented to mount and ride while Lone walked beside her, agreeing with everything she said that needed agreement. When she had gone a few rods, however, she began to call him Charlie and to criticise the direction of the picture. They should no
t, she declared, mix murders and thunderstorms in the same scene. While the storm effect was perfectly wonderful, she thought it rather detracted from the killing. She did not believe in lumping big stuff together like that. Why not have the killing done by moonlight, and use the storm when the murderer was getting away, or something like that? And as for taking them out on location and making all those storm scenes without telling them in advance so that they could have dry clothes afterwards, she thought it a perfect outrage! If it were not for spoiling the picture, she would quit, she asserted indignantly. She thought the director had better go back to driving a laundry wagon, which was probably where he came from.

  Lone agreed with her, even though he did not know what she was talking about. He walked as fast as he could, but even so he could not travel the six miles to the ranch very quickly. He could see that the girl was burning up with fever, and he could hear her voice growing husky,—could hear, too, the painful labouring of her breath. When she was not mumbling incoherent nonsense she was laughing hoarsely at the plight she was in, and after that she would hold both hands to her chest and moan in a way that made Lone grind his teeth.

  When he lifted her off his horse at the foreman’s cottage she was whispering things no one could understand. Three cowpunchers came running and hindered him a good deal in carrying her into the house, and the foreman’s wife ran excitedly from one room to the other, asking questions and demanding that some one do something “for pity’s sake, she may be dying for all you know, while you stand there gawping like fool-hens.”

  “She was out all night in the rain—got lost, somehow. She said she was coming here, so I brought her on. She’s down with a cold, Mrs Hawkins. Better take off them wet clothes and put hot blankets around her. And a poultice or something on her chest, I reckon.” Lone turned to the door, stopped to roll a cigarette, and watched Mrs Hawkins hurrying to Lorraine with a whisky toddy the cook had mixed for her.

  “A sweat’s awful good for a cold like she’s got,” he volunteered practically. “She’s out of her head—or she was when I found her. But I reckon that’s mostly scare, from being lost all night. Give her a good sweat, why don’t you?” He reached the doorstep and then turned back to add, “She left a grip back somewhere along the road. I’ll go hunt it up, I reckon.”

  He mounted John Doe and rode down to the corral, where two or three riders were killing time on various pretexts while they waited for details of Lone’s adventure. Delirious young women of the silk stocking class did not arrive at the Sawtooth every morning, and it was rumoured already amongst the men that she was some looker, which naturally whetted their interest in her.

  “I’ll bet it’s one of Bob’s girls, come trailin’ him up. Mebby another of them heart-ballum cases of Bob’s,” hazarded Pop Bridgers, who read nothing unless it was printed on pink paper, and who refused to believe that any good could come out of a city. “Ain’t that right, Loney? Hain’t she a heart-ballum girl of Bob’s?”

  From the saddle Lone stared down impassively at Pop and Pop’s companions. “I don’t know a thing about her,” he stated emphatically. “She said she was coming to the ranch, and she was scared of the thunder and lightning. That’s every word of sense I could get outa her. She ain’t altogether ignorant—she knows how to climb on a horse, anyway, and she kicked about having to ride sideways on account of her skirts. She was plumb out of her head, and talked wild, but she handled her reins like a rider. And she never mentioned Bob, nor anybody else excepting some fellow she called Charlie. She thought I was him, but she only talked to me friendly. She didn’t pull any love talk at all.”

  “Charlie?” Pop ruminated over a fresh quid of tobacco. “Charlie! Mebby Bob, he stakes himself to a different name now and then. There ain’t any Charlie, except Charlie Werner; she wouldn’t mean him, do yuh s’pose?”

  “Charlie Werner? Hunh! Say, Pop, she ain’t no squaw—is she, Loney?” Sid Sterling remonstrated.

  “If I can read brands,” Lone testified, “she’s no girl of Bob’s. She’s a good, honest girl when she ain’t crazy.”

  “And no good, honest girl who is not crazy could possibly be a girl of mine! Is that the idea, Lone?”

  Lone turned unhurriedly and looked at young Bob Warfield standing in the stable door with his hands in his trousers pockets and his pipe in his mouth.

  “That ain’t the argument. Pop, here, was wondering if she was another heart-ballum girl of yours,” Lone grinned unabashed. “I don’t know such a hell of a lot about heart-balm ladies, Bob. I ain’t a millionaire. I’m just making a guess at their brand—and it ain’t the brand this little lady carries.”

  Bob removed one hand from his pocket and cuddled the bowl of his pipe. “If she’s a woman, she’s a heart-balmer if she gets the chance. They all are, down deep in their tricky hearts. There isn’t a woman on earth that won’t sell a man’s soul out of his body if she happens to think it’s worth her while—and she can get away with it. But don’t for any sake call her my heart-balmer.”

  “That was Pop,” drawled Lone. “It don’t strike me as being any subject for you fellows to make remarks about, anyway,” he advised Pop firmly. “She’s a right nice little girl, and she’s pretty darn sick.” He touched John Doe with the spurs and rode away, stopping at the foreman’s gate to finish his business with Hawkins. He was a conscientious young man, and since he had charge of Elk Spring camp, he set its interests above his own, which was more than some of the Sawtooth men would have done in his place.

  Having reported the damage to the bridge and made his suggestions about the repairs, he touched up John Doe again and loped away on a purely personal matter, which had to do with finding the bag which the girl had told him was under a bush where a rabbit had been sitting.

  If she had not been so very sick, Lone would have laughed at her naïve method of identifying the spot. But he was too sorry for her to be amused at the vagaries of her sick brain. He did not believe anything she had said, except that she had been coming to the ranch and had left her bag under a bush beside the road. It should not be difficult to find it, if he followed the road and watched closely the bushes on either side.

  Until he reached the place where he had first sighted her, Lone rode swiftly, anxious to be through with the business and go his way. But when he came upon her footprints again, he pulled up and held John Doe to a walk, scanning each bush and boulder as he passed.

  It seemed probable that she had left the grip at Rock City where she must have spent the night. She had spoken of being deceived into thinking the place was the Sawtooth ranch until she had come into it and found it “just rocks.” Then, he reasoned, the storm had broken, and her fright had held her there. When daylight came she had either forgotten the bag or had left it deliberately.

  At Rock City, then, Lone stopped to examine the base of every rock, even riding around those nearest the road. The girl, he guessed shrewdly, had not wandered off the main highway, else she would not have been able to find it again. Rock City was confusing unless one was perfectly familiar with its curious, winding lanes.

  It was when he was riding slowly around the boulder marked “Palace Hotel, Rates Reasnible,” that he came upon the place where a horse had stood, on the side best sheltered from the storm. Deep hoof marks closely overlapping, an overturned stone here and there gave proof enough, and the rain-beaten soil that blurred the hoofprints farthest from the rock told him more. Lone backed away, dismounted, and, stepping carefully, went close. He could see no reason why a horse should have stood there with his head toward the road ten feet away, unless his rider was waiting for something—or some one. There were other boulders near which offered more shelter from rain.

  Next the rock he discovered a boot track, evidently made when the rider dismounted. He thought of the wild statement of the girl about seeing some one shoot a man and wondered briefly if there could be a basis of truth in what she said. But the road showed no sign of a struggle, though there were, here and there, hoofprin
ts half washed out with the rain.

  Lone went back to his horse and rode on, still looking for the bag. His search was thorough and, being a keen-eyed young man, he discovered the place where Lorraine had crouched down by a rock. She must have stayed there all night, for the scuffed soil was dry where her body had rested, and her purse, caught in the juniper bush close by, was sodden with rain.

  “The poor little kid!” he muttered, and with a sudden impulse he turned and looked toward the rock behind which the horse had stood. Help had been that close, and she had not known it, unless——

  “If anything happened there last night, she could have seen it from here,” he decided, and immediately put the thought away from him.

  “But nothing happened,” he added, “unless maybe she saw him ride out and go on down the road. She was out of her head and just imagined things.”

  He slipped the soaked purse into his coat pocket, remounted and rode on slowly, looking for the grip and half-believing she had not been carrying one, but had dreamed it just as she had dreamed that a man had been shot.

  He rode past the bag without seeing it, for Lorraine had thrust it far back under a stocky bush whose scraggly branches nearly touched the ground. So he came at last to the creek, swollen with the night’s storm so that it was swift and dangerous. Lone was turning back when John Doe threw up his head, stared up the creek for a moment and whinnied shrilly. Lone stood in the stirrups and looked.

  A blaze-faced horse was standing a short rifle-shot away, bridled and with an empty saddle. Whether he was tied or not Lone, could not tell at that distance, but he knew the horse by its banged forelock and its white face and sorrel ears, and he knew the owner of the horse. He rode toward it slowly.

  “Whoa, you rattle-headed fool,” he admonished, when the horse snorted and backed a step or two as he approached. He saw the bridle-reins dangling, broken, where the horse had stepped on them in running. “Broke loose and run off again,” he said, as he took down his rope and widened the loop. “I’ll bet Thurman would sell you for a bent nickel, this morning.”