by B. M. Bower
Still, Snake held his own better than even Jim would have believed, and carried Lorraine up over Granite Ridge and down into the Sawtooth flat almost as quickly as Lorraine expected him to do. She came up to the Sawtooth ranch-houses with Snake in a lather of sweat and with her own determination unweakened to carry the war into the camp of her enemy. It was, she firmly believed, what should have been done long ago; what would have curbed effectually the arrogant powers of the Sawtooth.
She glanced at the foreman’s cottage only to make sure that Hawkins was nowhere in sight there, and rode on toward the corrals, intercepting Hawkins and a large, well-groomed, smooth-faced man whom she knew at once must be Senator Warfield himself. Unconsciously Lorraine mentally fitted herself into a dramatic movie “scene” and plunged straight into the subject.
“There has been,” she said tensely, “another Sawtooth accident. It worked better than the last one, when my father was sent over the grade into Spirit Canyon. Frank Johnson is dead. I am here to discover what you are going to do about it?” Her eyes were flashing, her chest was rising and falling rapidly when she had finished. She looked straight into Senator Warfield’s face, her own full in the sunlight, so that, had there been a camera “shooting” the scene, her expression would have been fully revealed—though she did not realise all that.
Senator Warfield looked her over calmly (just as a director would have wished him to do) and turned to Hawkins. “Who is this girl?” he asked. “Is she the one who came here temporarily—deranged?”
“She’s the girl,” Hawkins affirmed, his eyes everywhere but on Lorraine’s face. “Brit Hunter’s daughter—they say.”
“They say? I am his daughter! How dare you take that tone, Mr Hawkins? My home is at the Quirt. When you strike at the Quirt you strike at me. When you strike at me I am going to strike back. Since I came here two men have been killed and my father has been nearly killed. He may die yet—I don’t know what effect this shock will have upon him. But I know that Frank is dead, and that it’s up to me now to see that justice is done. You—you cowards! You will kill a man for the sake of a few dollars, but you kill in the dark. You cover your murders under the pretence of accidents. I want to tell you this: Of all the men you have murdered, Frank Johnson will be avenged. You are going to answer for that. I shall see that you do answer for it! There is justice in this country, there must be. I’m going to demand that justice shall be measured out to you. I——”
“Was she violent, before?” Senator Warfield asked Hawkins in an undertone which Lorraine heard distinctly. “You’re a deputy, Hawkins. If this keeps on, I’m afraid you will have to take her in and have her committed for insanity. It’s a shame, poor thing. At her age it is pitiful. Look how she has ridden that horse! Another mile would have finished him.”
“Do you mean to say you think I’m crazy? What an idea! It seems to me, Senator Warfield, that you are crazy yourself, to imagine that you can go on killing people and thinking you will never have to pay the penalty. You will pay. There is law in this land, even if——”
“This is pathetic,” said Senator Warfield, still speaking to Hawkins. “Her father—if he is her father—is sick and not able to take care of her. We’ll have to assume the responsibility ourselves, I’m afraid, Hawkins. She may harm herself, or——”
Lorraine turned white. She had never seen just such a situation arise in a screen story, but she knew what danger might lie in being accused of insanity. While Warfield was speaking, she had a swift vision of the evidence they could bring against her; how she had arrived there delirious after having walked out from Echo,—why, they would call even that a symptom of insanity! Lone had warned her of what people would say if she told any one of what she saw in Rock City, perhaps really believing that she had imagined it all. Lone might even think that she had some mental twist! Her world was reeling around her.
She whirled Snake on his hind feet, struck him sharply with the quirt and was galloping back over the trail past the Hawkins house before Senator Warfield had finished advising Hawkins. She saw Mrs Hawkins standing in the door, staring at her, but she did not stop. They would take her to the asylum; she felt that the Sawtooth had the power, that she had played directly into their hands, and that they would be as ruthless in dealing with her as they had been with the nesters whom they had killed. She knew it, she had read it in the inscrutable, level look of Senator Warfield, in the half cringing, wholly subservient manner of Hawkins when he listened to his master.
“They’re fiends!” she cried aloud once, while she urged Snake up the slope of Granite Ridge. “I believe they’d kill me if they were sure they could get away with it. But they could frame an insanity charge and put me—my God, what fiends they are!”
At the Sawtooth, Senator Warfield was talking with Mrs Hawkins while her husband saddled two horses. Mrs Hawkins lived within her four walls and called that her “spere,” and spoke of her husband as “he.” You know the type of woman. That Senator Warfield was anything less than a godlike man who stood very high on the ladder of Fame, she would never believe. So she related garrulously certain incoherent, aimless utterances of Lorraine’s, and cried a little, and thought it was perfectly awful that a sweet, pretty girl like that should be crazy. She would have made an ideal witness against Lorraine, her very sympathy carrying conviction of Lorraine’s need of it. That she did not convince Senator Warfield of Lorraine’s mental derangement was a mere detail. Senator Warfield had reasons for knowing that Lorraine was merely afflicted with a dangerous amount of knowledge and was using it without discretion.
“You mustn’t let her run loose and maybe kill herself or somebody else!” Mrs Hawkins exclaimed. “Oh, Senator, it’s awful to think of! When she went past the house I knew the poor thing wasn’t right——”
“We’ll overtake her,” Senator Warfield assured her comfortingly. “She can’t go very far on that horse. She’d ridden him half to death, getting here. He won’t hold out—he can’t. She came here, I suppose, because she had been here before. A sanitorium may be able to restore her to a normal condition. I can’t believe it’s anything more than some nervous disorder. Now don’t worry, my good woman. Just have a room ready, so that she will be comfortable here until we can get her to a sanitorium. It isn’t hopeless, I assure you—but I’m mighty glad I happened to be here so that I can take charge of the case. Now here comes Hawkins. We’ll bring her back—don’t you worry.”
“Well, take her away as quick as you can, Senator. I’m scared of crazy people. His brother went crazy in our house and——”
“Yes, yes—we’ll take care of her. Poor girl, I wish that I had been here when she first came,” said the senator, as he went to meet Hawkins, who was riding up from the corrals leading two horses—one for Lorraine, which shows what was his opinion of Snake.
CHAPTER XVII
YACK DON’T LIE
For a time the trail seemed to lead toward Whisper. Then it turned away and seemed about to end abruptly on a flat outcropping of rock two miles from Whisper camp. Lone frowned and stared at the ground, and Swan spoke sharply to Jack, who was nosing back and forth, at fault if ever a dog was. But presently he took up the scent and led them down a barren slope and into grassy ground where a bunch of horses grazed contentedly. Jack singled out one and ran toward it silently, as he had done all his trailing that morning. The horse looked up, stared and went galloping down the little valley, stampeding the others with him.
“That’s about where I thought we’d wind up—in a saddle bunch,” Lone observed disgustedly. “If I had the evidence you’re carrying in your pocket, Swan, I’d put that darn dog on the scent of the man, not the horse.”
“The man I’ve got,” Swan retorted. “I don’t have to trail him.”
“Well, now, you think you’ve got him. Here’s good, level ground—I couldn’t get outa sight in less than ten minutes, afoot. Let me walk out a ways, and you see if that handkerchief’s mine. Oh, search me all you want to, first,” he
added, when he read the suspicion in Swan’s eyes. “Make yourself safe as yuh please, but give me a fair show. You’ve made up your mind I’m the killer, and you’ve been fitting the evidence to me—or trying to.”
“It fits,” Swan pointed out dryly.
“You see if it does. The dog’ll tell you all about it in about two minutes if you give him a chance.”
Swan looked at him. “Yack don’t lie. By golly, I raised that dog to trail, and he trails, you bet! He’s cocker spaniel and bloodhound, and he knows things, that dog. All right, Lone, you walk over to that black rock and set down. If you think you frame something, maybe, I pack a dead man to the Quirt again.”
“You can, for all me,” Lone replied quietly. “I’d about as soon go that way as the way I am now.”
Swan watched him until he was seated on the rock as directed, his manacled hands resting on his knees, his face turned toward the horses. Then Swan took the blue handkerchief from his pocket, called Jack to him and muttered something in Swedish while the dog sniffed at the cloth. “Find him, Yack,” said Swan, standing straight again.
Jack went sniffing obediently in wide circles, crossing unconcernedly Lone’s footprints while he trotted back and forth. He hesitated once on the trail of the horse he had followed, stopped and looked at Swan inquiringly, and whined. Swan whistled the dog to him with a peculiar, birdlike note and called to Lone.
“You come back, Lone, and let Yack take a damn good smell of you. By golly, if that dog lies to me this time, I lick him good!”
Lone came back, grinning a little. “All right, now maybe you’ll listen to reason. I ain’t the kind to tell all I know and some besides, Swan. I’ve been a Sawtooth man, and a fellow kinda hates to throw down his outfit deliberate. But they’re going’ too strong for any white man to stand for. I quit them when they tried to get Brit Hunter. I don’t know so much, Swan, but I’m pretty good at guessing. So if you’ll come with me to Whisper, your dog may show yuh who owns that handkerchief. If he don’t, then I’m making a mistake, and I’d like to be set right.”
“Somebody rode that horse,” Swan meditated aloud. “Yack don’t make a mistake like that, and I don’t think I’m blind. Where’s the man that was on the horse? What you think, Lone?”
“Me? I think there was another horse somewhere close to that outcropping, tied to a bush, maybe. I think the man you’re after changed horses there, just on a chance that somebody might trail him from the road. You put your dog on the trail of that one particular horse, and he showed yuh where it was feeding with the bunch. It looks to me like it was turned loose, back there, and come on alone. Your man went to Whisper; I’ll bank money on that. Anyway, your dog’ll know if he’s been there.”
Swan thought it over, his eyes moving here and there to every hint of movement between the skyline and himself. Suddenly he turned to Lone, his face flushing with honest shame.
“Loney, take a damn Swede and give him something he believes, and you could pull his teeth before you pull that notion from his thick head. You acted funny, that day Fred Thurman was killed, and you gave yourself away at the stable when I showed you that saddle. So I think you’re the killer, and I keep on thinking that, and I’ve been trying to catch you with evidence. I’m a Swede, all right! Square head. Built of wood two inches thick. Loney, you kick me good. You don’t have time to ride over here, get some other horse and ride back to the Quirt after Frank was killed. You got there before I did, last night. We know Frank was dead not much more than one hour when we get him to the bunk-house. Yack, he gives you a good alibi.”
“I sure am glad we took the time to trail that horse, then,” Lone remarked, while Swan was removing the handcuffs. “You’re all right, Swan. Nothing like sticking to an idea till you know it’s wrong. Now, let’s stick to mine for awhile. Let’s go on to Whisper. It ain’t far.”
They returned to the rocky hillside where the trail had been covered, and searched here and there for the tracks of another horse; found the trail and followed it easily enough to Whisper. Swan put Jack once more on the scent of the handkerchief, and if actions meant anything, Jack proved conclusively that he found the Whisper camp reeking with the scent.
But that was all,—since Al was at that moment trailing Lorraine toward the Sawtooth.
“We may as well eat,” Swan suggested. “We’ll get him, by golly, but we don’t have to starve ourselves.”
“He wouldn’t know we’re after him,” Lone agreed. “He’ll stick around so as not to raise suspicion. And he might come back, most any time. If he does, we’ll say I’m out with you after coyotes, and we stopped here for a meal. That’s good enough to satisfy him—till you get the drop on him. But I want to tell yuh, Swan, you can’t take Al Woodruff as easy as you took me. And you couldn’t have taken me so easy if I’d been the man you wanted. Al would kill you as easy as you kill coyotes. Give him a reason, and you won’t need to give him a chance along with it. He’ll find the chance himself.”
Because they thought it likely that Al would soon return, they did not hurry. They were hungry, and they cooked enough food for four men and ate it leisurely. Jim was at the ranch, Sorry had undoubtedly returned before now, and the coroner would probably not arrive before noon, at the earliest.
Swan wanted to take Al Woodruff back with him in irons. He wanted to confront the coroner with the evidence he had found and the testimony which Lone could give. There had been too many killings already, he asserted in his naïve way; the sooner Al Woodruff was locked up, the safer the country would be.
He discussed with Lone the possibility of making Al talk,—the chance of his implicating the Sawtooth. Lone did not hope for much and said so.
“If Al was a talker he wouldn’t be holding the job he’s got,” Lone argued. “Don’t get the wrong idea again, Swan. Yuh may pin this on to Al, but that won’t let the Sawtooth in. The Sawtooth’s too slick for that. They’d be more likely to make up a lynching party right in the outfit and hang Al as an example than they would try to shield him. He’s played a lone hand, Swan, right from the start, unless I’m badly mistaken. The Sawtooth’s paid him for playing it, that’s all.”
“Warfield, he’s the man I want,” Swan confided. “It’s for more than killing these men. It goes into politics, Loney, and it goes deep. He’s bad for the government. Getting Warfield for having men killed is getting Warfield without telling secrets of politics. Warfield, he’s a smart man, by golly. He knows some one is after him in politics, but he don’t know some one is after him at home. So the big Swede has got to be smart enough to get the evidence against him for killing.”
“Well, I wish yuh luck, Swan, but I can’t say you’re going at it right. Al won’t talk, I tell yuh.”
Swan did not believe that. He waited another hour and made a mental inventory of everything in camp while he waited. Then, chiefly because Lone’s impatience finally influenced him, he set out to see where Al had gone.
According to Jack, Al had gone to the corral. From there they put Jack on the freshest hoof-prints leaving the place, and were led here and there in an apparently aimless journey to nowhere until, after Jack had been at fault in another rock patch, the trail took them straight away to the ridge overlooking the Quirt ranch. The two men looked at one another.
“That’s like Al,” Lone commented dryly. “Coyotes are foolish alongside him, and you’ll find it out. I’ll bet he’s been watching this place since daybreak.”
“Where he goes, Yack will follow,” Swan grinned cheerfully. “And I follow Yack. We’ll get him, Lone. That dog, he never quits till I say quit.”
“You better go down and get a horse, then,” Lone advised. “They’re all gentle. Al’s mounted, remember. He’s maybe gone to the Sawtooth, and that’s farther than you can walk.”
“I can walk all day and all night, when I need to go like that. I can take short cuts that a horse can’t take. I think I shall go on my own legs.”
“Well, I’m going down to the house first. I
know them two men riding down to the gate. I want to see what the boss and Hawkins have got to say about this last ‘accident.’ Better come on down, Swan. You might pick up something. They’re heading for the ranch, all right. Going to make a play at being neighbourly, I reckon.”
“You bet I want to see Warfield,” Swan assented rather eagerly and called Jack, who had nosed around the spot where Al had waited so long and was now trotting along the ridge on the next lap of Al’s journey.
They reached the gate in time to meet Warfield and Hawkins face to face. Hawkins gave Lone a quick, questioning look and nodded carelessly to Swan. Warfield, having a delicate errand to perform and knowing how much depended upon first impressions, pulled up eagerly when he recognised Lone.
“Has the girl arrived safely, Lone?” he asked anxiously.
“What girl?” Lone looked at him non-committally.
“Miss—ah—Hunter. Have you been away all the forenoon? The girl came to the ranch in such a condition that I was afraid she might do herself or some one else an injury. Has she been unbalanced for long?”
“If you mean Lorraine Hunter, she was all right last time I saw her, and that was last night.” Lone’s eyes narrowed a little as he watched the two. “You say she went to the Sawtooth?”
“She came pelting over there crazier than when you brought her in,” Hawkins broke in gruffly. “She ain’t safe going around alone like that.”
Senator Warfield glanced at him impatiently. “Is there any truth in her declaring that Frank Johnson is dead? She seemed to have had a shock of some kind. She was raving crazy, and in her rambling talk she said something about Frank Johnson having died last night.”
Lone glanced back as he led the way through the gate which Swan was holding open. “He didn’t die—he got killed last night,” he corrected.