by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER XVIII. A SHOT FROM THE RIM-ROCK
Good Indian was going to the stable to feed the horses next morning,when something whined past him and spatted viciously against the side ofthe chicken-house. Immediately afterward he thought he heard the sharpcrack which a rifle makes, but the wind was blowing strongly up thevalley, and he could not be sure.
He went over to the chicken-house, probed with his knife-blade intothe plank where was the splintered hole, and located a bullet. He wasturning it curiously in his fingers when another one plunked into theboards, three feet to one side of him; this time he was sure of thegun-sound, and he also saw a puff of blue smoke rise up on the rim-rockabove him. He marked the place instinctively with his eyes, and went onto the stable, stepping rather more quickly than was his habit.
Inside, he sat down upon the oats-box, and meditated upon what he shoulddo. He could not even guess at his assailant, much less reach him. Adozen men could be picked off by a rifle in the hands of one at the top,while they were climbing that bluff.
Even if one succeeded in reaching the foot of the rim-rock, there wasa forty-foot wall of unscalable rock, with just the one narrow fissurewhere it was possible to climb up to the level above, by using bothhands to cling to certain sharp projections while the feet sought aniche here and there in the wall. Easy enough--if one were but left toclimb in peace, but absolutely suicidal if an enemy stood above.
He scowled through the little paneless window at what he could see ofthe bluff, and thought of the mile-long grade to be climbed and therough stretch of lava rock, sage, and scattered bowlders to be gone overbefore one could reach the place upon a horse. Whoever was up there, hewould have more than enough time to get completely away from the spotbefore it would be possible to gain so much as a glimpse of him.
And who could he be? And why was he shooting at Good Indian, so far anon-combatant, guiltless of even firing a single shot since the troublebegan?
Wally came in, his hat far back on his head, a cigarette in thecorner of his mouth, and his manner an odd mixture of conciliation anddefiance, ready to assume either whole-heartedly at the first word fromthe man he had cursed so unstintingly before he slept. He looked at GoodIndian, caught sight of the leaden pellet he was thoughtfully turninground and round in his fingers, and chose to ignore for the moment anyunpleasantness in their immediate past.
"Where you ketchum?" he asked, coming a bit closer.
"In the side of the chicken-house." Good Indian's tone was laconic.
Wally reached out, and took the bullet from him that he might juggle itcuriously in his own fingers. "I don't think!" he scouted.
"There's another one there to match this," Good Indian stated calmly,"and if I should walk over there after it, I'll gamble there'd be more."
Wally dropped the flattened bullet, stooped, and groped for it in thelitter on the floor, and when he had found it he eyed it more curiouslythan before. But he would have died in his tracks rather than ask aquestion.
"Didn't anybody take a shot at you, as you came from the house?" GoodIndian asked when he saw the mood of the other.
"If he did, he was careful not to let me find it out." Wally'sexpression hardened.
"He was more careless a while ago," said Good Indian. "Some fellow upon the bluff sent me a little morning salute. But," he added slowly, andwith some satisfaction, "he's a mighty poor shot."
Jack sauntered in much as Wally had done, saw Good Indian sitting there,and wrinkled his eyes shut in a smile.
"Please, sir, I never meant a word I said!" he began, with exaggeratedtrepidation. "Why the dickens didn't you murder the whole yapping bunchof us, Grant?" He clapped his hand affectionately upon the other'sshoulder. "We kinda run amuck yesterday afternoon," he confessedcheerfully, "but it sure was fun while it lasted!"
"There's liable to be some more fun of the same kind," Wally informedhim shortly. "Good Injun says someone on the bluff took a shot at himwhen he was coming to the stable. If any of them jumpers--"
"It's easy to find out if it was one of them," Grant cut in, as if theidea had just come to him. "We can very soon see if they're all on theirlittle patch of soil. Let's go take a look."
They went out guardedly, their eyes upon the rim-rock. Good Indian ledthe way through the corral, into the little pasture, and across that towhere the long wall of giant poplars shut off the view.
"I admire courage," he grinned, "but I sure do hate a fool." Which wasall the explanation he made for the detour that hid them from sight ofanyone stationed upon the bluff, except while they were passing from thestable-door to the corral; and that, Jack said afterward, didn't takeall day.
Coming up from the rear, they surprised Stanley and one other peacefullyboiling coffee in a lard pail which they must have stolen in the nightfrom the ranch junk heap behind the blacksmith shop. The three peeredout at them from a distant ambush, made sure that there were only twomen there, and went on to the disputed part of the meadows. There thefour were pottering about, craning necks now and then toward the ranchbuildings as if they half feared an assault of some kind. Good Indianled the way back to the stable.
"If there was any way of getting around up there without being seen,"he began thoughtfully, "but there isn't. And while I think of it," headded, "we don't want to let the women know about this."
"They're liable to suspect something," Wally reminded dryly, "if one ofus gets laid out cold."
Good Indian laughed. "It doesn't look as if he could hit anythingsmaller than a haystack. And anyway, I think I'm the boy he's after,though I don't see why. I haven't done a thing--yet."
"Let's feed the horses and then pace along to the house, one at a time,and find out," was Jack's reckless suggestion. "Anybody that knows us atall can easy tell which is who. And I guess it would be tolerably safe."
Foolhardy as the thing looked to be, they did it, each after his ownmanner of facing a known danger. Jack went first because, as he said,it was his idea, and he was willing to show his heart was in the rightplace. He rolled and lighted a cigarette, wrinkled his eyes shut in alaugh, and strolled nonchalantly out of the stable.
"Keep an eye on the rim-rock, boys," he called back, without turning hishead. A third of the way he went, stopped dead still, and made believeinspect something upon the ground at his feet.
"Ah, go ON!" bawled Wally, his nerves all on edge.
Jack dug his heel into the dust, blew the ashes from his cigarette, andwent on slowly to the gate, passed through, and stood well back, out ofsight under the trees, to watch.
Wally snorted disdain of any proceeding so spectacular, but he was as hewas made, and he could not keep his dare-devil spirit quite in abeyance.He twitched his hat farther back on his head, stuck his hands deep intohis pockets, and walked deliberately out into the open, his neck asstiff as a newly elected politician on parade. He did not stop, as Jackhad done, but he facetiously whistled "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys aremarching," and he went at a pace which permitted him to finish the tunebefore he reached the gate. He joined Jack in the shade, and his face,when he looked back to the stable, was anxious.
"It must be Grant he wants, all right," he muttered, resting one handon Jack's shoulder and speaking so he could not be overheard from thehouse. "And I wish to the Lord he'd stay where he's at."
But Good Indian was already two paces from the door, coming steadily upthe path, neither faster nor slower than usual, with his eyes taking inevery object within sight as he went, and his thumb hooked inside hisbelt, near where his gun swung at his hip. It was not until his freehand was upon the gate that lack and Wally knew they had been holdingtheir breath.
"Well--here I am," said Good Indian, after a minute, smiling down atthem with the sunny look in his eyes. "I'm beginning to think I had adream. Only"--he dipped his fingers into the pocket of his shirt andbrought up the flattened bullet--"that is pretty blamed realistic--fora dream." His eyes searched involuntarily the rim-rock with a certainincredulity, as if he could not bring himself to believe
in that bullet,after all.
"But two of the jumpers are gone," said Wally. "I reckon we stirred 'emup some yesterday, and they're trying to get back at us."
"They've picked a dandy place," Good Indian observed. "I think maybe itwould be a good idea to hold that fort ourselves. We should have thoughtof that; only I never thought--"
Phoebe, heavy-eyed and pale from wakefulness and worry, came then, andcalled them in to breakfast. Gene and Clark came in, sulky still, andinclined to snappishness when they did speak. Donny announced that hehad been in the garden, and that Stanley told him he would blow the topof his head off if he saw him there again. "And I never done a thing tohim!" he declared virtuously.
Phoebe set down the coffee-pot with an air of decision.
"I want you boys to remember one thing," she said firmly, "and that isthat there must be no more shooting going on around here. It isn't onlywhat Baumberger thinks--I don't know as ho's got anything to say aboutit--it's what _I_ think. I know I'm only a woman, and you all consideryourselves men, whether you are or not, and it's beneath your dignity,maybe, to listen to your mother.
"But your mother has seen the day when she was counted on as much,almost, as if she'd been a man. Why, great grief! I've stood for hourspeeking out a knot-hole in the wall, with that same old shotgun Donnygot hold of, ready to shoot the first Injun that stuck his nose frombehind a rock."
The color came into her cheeks at the memory, and a sparkle into hereyes. "I've seen real fighting, when it was a life-and-death matter.I've tended to the men that were shot before my eyes, and I've sunghymns over them that died. You boys have grown up on some of the storiesabout the things I've been through.
"And here last night," she reproached irritatedly, "I heard someone say:'Oh, come on--we're scaring Mum to death!' The idea! 'scaring Mum!' Ican tell you young jackanapes one thing: If I thought there was anythingto be gained by it, or if it would save trouble instead of MAKINGtrouble, 'MUM' could go down there right now, old as she is, and SCAREDas she is, and clean out the whole, measly outfit!" She stared sternlyat the row of faces bent over their plates.
"Oh, you can laugh--it's only your mother!" she exclaimed indignantly,when she saw Jack's eyes go shut and Gene's mouth pucker into a tightknot. "But I'll have you to know I'm boss of this ranch when yourfather's gone, and if there's any more of that kid foolishnessto-day--laying behind a currant bush and shooting COFFEE-POTS!--I'llthrash the fellow that starts it! It isn't the kind of fighting I'VEbeen used to. I may be away behind the times--I guess I am!--but I'vealways been used to the idea that guns weren't to be used unless youmeant business. This thing of getting out and PLAYING gun-fight is kindasickening to a person that's seen the real thing.
"'Scaring Mum to death!"' She seemed to find it very hard to forgetthat, or to forgive it. "'SCARING MUM'--and Jack, there, was born in thetime of an Indian uprising, and I laid with your father's revolver onthe pillow where I could put my hand on it, day or night! YOU scareMum! MUM will scare YOU, if there's any more of that let's-play-Injunbusiness going on around this ranch. Why, I'd lead you down there by theear, every mother's son of you, and tell that man Stanley to SPANK you!"
"Mum can whip her weight in wildcats any old time," Wally announcedafter a heavy silence, and glared aggressively from one foolish-lookingface to another.
As was frequently the case, the wave of Phoebe's wrath ebbed harmlesslyaway in laughter as the humorous aspect of her tirade was brought to herattention.
"Just the same, I want you should mind what I tell you," she said, inher old motherly tone, "and keep away from those ruffians down there.You can't do anything but make 'em mad, and give 'em an excuse forkilling someone. When your father gets back, we'll see what's to bedone."
"All right, Mum. We won't look toward the garden to-day," Wally promisedlargely, and held out his cup to her to be refilled. "You can keep mygun, if you want to make dead sure."
"No, I can trust my boys, I hope," and she glowed with real pride inthem when she said it.
Good Indian lingered on the porch for half an hour or so, waiting forEvadna to appear. She may have seen him through the window--at any rateshe slipped out very quietly, and had her breakfast half eaten beforehe suspected that she was up; and when he went into the kitchen, she wastalking animatedly with Marie about Mexican drawn-work, and was drawingintricate little diagrams of certain patterns with her fork upon thetablecloth.
She looked up, and gave him a careless greeting, and went back todiscussing certain "wheels" in the corner of an imaginary lunch-clothand just how one went about making them. He made a tentative remark ortwo, trying to win her attention to himself, but she pushed her cup andsaucer aside to make room for further fork drawings, and glanced at himwith her most exaggerated Christmas-angel look.
"Don't interrupt, please," she said mincingly. "This is IMPORTANT. And,"she troubled to explain, "I'm really in a hurry, because I'm going tohelp Aunt Phoebe make strawberry jam."
If she thought that would fix his determination to remain and have herto himself for a few minutes, she was mistaken in her man. Good Indianturned on his heel, and went out with his chin in the air, and foundthat Gene and Clark had gone off to the meadow, with Donny an unwelcomeattendant, and that Wally and Jack were keeping the dust moving betweenthe gate and the stable, trying to tempt a shot from the bluff. Theywere much inclined to be skeptical regarding the bullet which GoodIndian carried in his breast-pocket.
"WE can't raise anybody," Wally told him disgustedly, "and I've madethree round trips myself. I'm going to quit fooling around, and go towork."
Whether he did or not, Good Indian did not wait to prove. He did notsay anything, either, about his own plans. He was hurt most unreasonablybecause of Evadna's behavior, and he felt as if he were groping aboutblindfolded so far as the Hart trouble was concerned. There must besomething to do, but he could not see what it was. It reminded him oddlyof when he sat down with his algebra open before him, and scowled ata problem where the x y z's seemed to be sprinkled through it with adiabolical frequency, and there was no visible means of discovering whatthe unknown quantities could possibly be.
He saddled Keno, and rode away in that silent preoccupation which theboys called the sulks for want of a better understanding of it. As amatter of fact, he was trying to put Evadna out of his mind for thepresent, so that he could think clearly of what he ought to do. Heglanced often up at the rim-rock as he rode slowly to the Point o'Rocks, and when he was halfway to the turn he thought he saw somethingmoving up there.
He pulled up to make sure, and a little blue ball puffed out likea child's balloon, burst, and dissipated itself in a thin, trailingribbon, which the wind caught and swept to nothing. At the same timesomething spatted into the trail ahead of him, sending up a little spurtof fine sand.
Keno started, perked up his ears toward the place, and went on, steppinggingerly. Good Indian's lips drew back, showing his teeth set tightlytogether. "Still at it, eh?" he muttered aloud, pricked Keno's flankswith his rowels, and galloped around the Point.
There, for the time being, he was safe. Unless the shooter upon therim-rock was mounted, he must travel swiftly indeed to reach again apoint within range of the grade road before Good Indian would pass outof sight again. For the trail wound in and out, looping back upon itselfwhere the hill was oversleep, hidden part of the time from the recedingwall of rock by huge bowlders and giant sage.
Grant knew that he was safe from that quarter, and was wondering whetherhe ought to ride up along the top of the bluff before going to Hartley,as he had intended.
He had almost reached the level, and was passing a steep, narrow, littlegully choked with rocks, when something started up so close beside himthat Keno ducked away and squatted almost upon his haunches. His gun wasin his hand, and his finger crooked upon the trigger, when a voice hefaintly recognized called to him softly:
"Yo' no shoot--no shoot--me no hurtum. All time yo' frien'." She stoodtrembling beside the trail, a gay, plaid shawl about her sho
ulders inplace of the usual blanket, her hair braided smoothly with bright,red ribbons entwined through it. Her dress was a plain slip of brightcalico, which had four-inch roses, very briery and each with agaudy butterfly poised upon the topmost petals running over it in aninextricable tangle. Beaded moccasins were on her feet, and her eyeswere frightened eyes, with the wistfulness of a timid animal. Yet shedid not seem to be afraid of Good Indian.
"I sorry I scare yo' horse," she said hesitatingly, speaking betterEnglish than before. "I heap hurry to get here. I speak with yo'."
"Well, what is it?" Good Indian's tone was not as brusque as his words;indeed, he spoke very gently, for him. This was the good-looking youngsquaw he had seen at the Indian camp. "What's your name?" he asked,remembering suddenly that he had never heard it.
"Rachel. Peppajee, he my uncle." She glanced up at him shyly, then downto where the pliant toe of her moccasin was patting a tiny depressioninto the dust. "Bad mans like for shoot yo'," she said, not lookingdirectly at him again. "Him up there, all time walk where him can lookdown, mebbyso see you, mebbyso shootum."
"I know--I'm going to ride around that way and round him up."Unconsciously his manner had the arrogance of strength and power to doas he wished, which belongs to healthy young males.
"N-o, no-o!" She drew a sharp breath "o' no good there! Dim shoot yo'.Yo' no go! Ah-h--I sorry I tellum yo' now. Bad mans, him. I watch, Itake care him no shoot. Him shoot, mebbyso _I_ shoot!"
With a little laugh that was more a plea for gentle judgment thananything else, she raised the plaid shawl, and gave him a glimpse of arather battered revolver, cheap when it was new and obviously well pastits prime.
"I want yo'--" she hesitated; "I want yo'--be heap careful. I want yo'no ride close by hill. Ride far out!" She made a sweeping gesture towardthe valley. "All time I watch."
He was staring at her in a puzzled way. She was handsome, after herwild, half-civilized type, and her anxiety for his welfare touched himand besought his interest.
"Indians go far down--" She swept her arm down the narrowing rivervalley. "Catch fish. Peppajee stay--no can walk far. I stay. All go,mebbyso stay five days." Her hand lifted involuntarily to mark thenumber.
He did not know why she told him all that, and he could not learn fromher anything about his assailant. She had been walking along the bluff,he gathered--though why, she failed to make clear to him. She had, froma distance, caught a glimpse of a man watching the valley beneath him.She had seen him raise a rifle, take long aim, and shoot--and she hadknown that he was shooting at Good Indian.
When he asked her the second time what was her errand up there--whethershe was following the man, or had suspected that he would be there--sheshook her head vaguely and took refuge behind the stolidity of her race.
In spite of her pleading, he put his horse to scrambling up the firstslope which it was possible to climb, and spent an hour riding, gun inhand, along the rim of the bluff, much as he had searched it the eveningbefore.
But there was nothing alive that he could discover, except a hawk whichlifted itself languorously off a high, sharp rock, and flapped lazilyout across the valley when he drew near. The man with the rifle haddisappeared as completely as if he had never been there, and therewas not one chance in a hundred of hunting him out, in all that roughjumble.
When he was turning back at last toward Hartley, he saw Rachel for amoment standing out against the deep blue of the sky, upon the very rimof the bluff. He waved a hand to her, but she gave no sign; only, forsome reason, he felt that she was watching him ride away, and he had abrief, vagrant memory of the wistfulness he had seen in her eyes.
On the heels of that came a vision of Evadna swinging in the hammockwhich hung between the two locust trees, and he longed unutterably to bewith her there. He would be, he promised himself, within the next houror so, and set his pace in accordance with his desire, resolved to makeshort work of his investigations in Hartley and his discussion of lateevents with Miss Georgie.
He had not, it seemed to him, had more than two minutes with Evadnasince that evening of rapturous memory when they rode home together fromthe Malad, and afterward sat upon the stone bench at the head of thepond, whispering together so softly that they did not even disturb thefrogs among the lily-pads within ten feet of them. It was not so longago, that evening. The time that had passed since might be reckonedeasily in hours, but to Good Indian it seemed a month, at the veryleast.