by Fran Striker
Chapter IX
BRYANT TALKS
The wounded man in the cave sat with his back propped against the rockywall, fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. For the first timein nearly forty-eight hours he was able to think clearly. Beside himthere was a health-giving broth, and a sort of biscuit made by Tonto.The food was calculated to make rich blood and new strength in theshortest possible time.
The Texan had slept fitfully during the day, sipping the broth andnibbling food each time he wakened. Now, feeling well rested, he triedto piece the events of the past two days together. Most of the time wasvague to him. He remembered that it had been night when he'd crawled,wounded, to the ledge after seeing Silver desert him. Morning lightrevealed the cave into which he had crept with his torment of pain.Tonto must have found him then, though he could recollect nothing of theIndian's bandaging his shoulder. Most of that day, yesterday, he'dslept. Then, at sunset, Tonto had returned with food and herbs to dresshis injuries.
He couldn't remember much of what happened after that, but there werefaint recollections of the Indian's crude but nonetheless effectivesurgery, followed by applications of various sorts. Tonto had been withhim all night, plying the skill of the Indian in combating illness. Heremembered trying to ask Tonto what had become of Silver, but the Indianhad said something about waiting till he was stronger before talking.Then Tonto had left and the wounded man had slept. Now, at sunset, theIndian was due to return.
The Texan examined the food near him and wondered where it came from. Itwasn't wild turkey that might have been shot by Tonto, neither was itgame that might have been found in the woods. Tonto must have friendsclose by who supplied that food.
A little while ago, the Ranger had heard sounds that might have beenshots, but they were far away. He couldn't yet have implicit faith inall his senses. Now he heard what he thought might be hoofbeats, butagain he wasn't sure. He waited, and the sound came nearer. In a momentmore there could be no doubt about the rhythmic tattoo on the rocks inthe Gap. Horses, two at least, came close and stopped.
A moment later Tonto entered the cave. The Indian looked gratified whenhe saw that color had returned to the face of the Texan. He examinedthe wounded shoulder critically, and announced that the infection hadgone down considerably and that now there was no longer any doubt aboutthe Ranger's full recovery.
"Me leave camp on mountain," the Indian explained. "Fetch um Silverhere."
"Silver?"
"That right, him plenty safe here for time." The Indian explained howhuge rocks near the wall of the Gap made a satisfactory hiding place forboth the Ranger's white stallion and his own paint horse.
"Where was your camp, Tonto?"
Tonto told about the clearing on the side of Thunder Mountain and thetrail that led from the clearing downhill to the Basin and uphill to themountain's top. From the top of the mountain it was possible, despiteall rumors to the contrary, to ride in many directions.
"Then the Basin can be entered without going through this canyon?"
Tonto nodded.
"I've always been told that was impossible."
"It not impossible. You see bimeby. Get rest first. Get well. Then weride."
The wounded man was eager to leave the cave and start upon a campaign ofvengeance in behalf of his fallen comrades, but when he tried to rise,Tonto pressed him back to his seat.
"You wait," he said. "You not ready yet."
The effort made the Ranger quite aware that he was still weaker than hehad supposed.
While Tonto rebuilt a tiny smokeless fire of very dry bits of wood andprepared a new supply of hot food, he told how, the day before, he hadridden down the Gap to the spot where the massacre had taken place, andthen heard shooting far beyond. He had risked discovery by going as faras the entrance of the Basin. From there he could see the activityaround the house. He saw Mort's body carried to the big ranch house anda little later saw the girl, Penelope, take the children to the samerambling structure. Then the body of Rebecca had been taken there. Hetold all this in his jerky, stilted manner while he put things on thefire to cook and then redressed the Ranger's wounds.
"You need plenty more rest," Tonto told the convalescent man. "We talkmore bimeby."
"But, Tonto, tell me more about what you've seen. Did you find or seeanything of my guns and cartridge belt?"
"Talk more after you strong."
"Have you any idea who ambushed us?"
"Me got plenty scheme," the Indian said. "Talk bimeby."
"It was you who called Silver away from me--I remember your night-bird'scall. Why did you do that?"
Tonto refused to give the Texan any satisfaction. He explained that hehad several things that needed doing outside the cave, and that he wasin something of a hurry to get away. He further impressed the woundedman with the importance of rest, then more rest, to give the healingbroken flesh a chance to mend beyond the danger of tearing open anew.
The freshly made broth was steaming-hot and tasted good. When hefinished drinking it, the Ranger felt drowsiness creeping over him againdespite all of his recent sleep. The effort of even so short a talk withTonto seemed to have tired him. He felt strangely secure, now that hisIndian friend was with him. The sleep he needed now was natural sleepwithout the nightmares of the pain and fever.
Tonto watched the white man for some time and marked the regularity withwhich the sleeping man's chest rose and fell. A trace of a smile showedon the thin lips.
"Plenty rest," the Indian murmured. "Him need plenty rest for things tocome." Perhaps Tonto knew that he was being prophetic.
He remained in the cave till after darkness had fallen. Then heproceeded on a grim mission, taking with him a spade. Tonto knew from aprevious study of the ground near the scene of the massacre that no onefrom the Basin had ridden past the dead men lying there. Now, in thedarkness, he continued through the Gap until he reached the point whereit opened into Bryant's Basin. He waited there, watching the distantbuildings for signs of activity. He wanted to make sure his work of thenight could be followed through without interruption. He saw the ranchhouse brilliantly lighted, and near by the long row of lighted windowsthat marked the bunkhouse.
The dead men weren't far from the entrance of the Gap; it was less thana quarter of an hour's walk on foot--less than that if a man weremounted. Tonto knew his plans would occupy most of the night, and hemust not be found at work. He gathered huge armfuls of dry stalks anddead shrubbery, and spread them over the earth. Anyone entering the Gapwould certainly snap a warning that would be heard by Tonto. Then theIndian, shouldering his spade, turned his back on Bryant's Basin and thelighted house, and went to the dead men.
* * * * *
Inside the ranch house Penelope sank exhausted into a chair before thefireplace. Her uncle, sullen and morose, looked up at the girl.
"Get the kids tuh bed?" he asked.
Penny nodded. "We've got to find someone to take care of them, UncleBryant--some older woman who will come here."
"I already arranged fer that."
"You have?"
"Wallie spends most of his time in town, so I figgered he'd know moreabout things there. I told him tuh hire a woman that'll come here an'raise the youngsters."
"Wallie!" Penny couldn't conceal the contempt in her voice.
"I know he's not good fer much, the damn overdressed lout, but he knowseveryone in town from his tomcattin' around. He said he c'd find someonetuh take care of the kids."
Penny stretched her legs toward the fire and slouched back in the chair.The day had been a most strenuous one, beginning with the surprisingvisit of Rebecca to her room. Then there had been the ride up ThunderMountain, the meeting with Tonto, and the subsequent return with foodfor the Indian's friend. These incidents had been made to seem distant,despite the hours, by the shooting of Rebecca and Mort and the endlessdetails that had to be attended to because of them.
With Jeb bandaging Mort's wound while Vince barked instruct
ions, therehad been countless last rites that had to be performed for Becky. Thedead woman reposed in one of the big house's bedrooms, where she wouldbe until the burial.
Penny watched the dancing flames for several minutes. There were so manythings she wanted to discuss that she hardly knew where to begin. Bryantwas a hard man, at best, to talk to. The wrong thing spoken, and he'd gointo one of his tantrums or retire to a shell of stubborn silence thatwould tell her nothing.
"Jeb said you were the one who shot at Mort," the girl began.
Bryant nodded. "I sensed things boilin' up between him an' Rebecca fer along time. I didn't figure he'd go as far as killin' his wife or I'd o'done somethin' before now. I heard the shot he fired an' hoped it'd gonewild--that's why I shot tuh wound him."
"Then you didn't intend to kill him?"
"Course not," snapped Bryant quickly. "Shot tuh wing him, just like Idone. Yuh savvy that? I hit right where I aimed!" The old man leanedforward in his chair as he spoke, making a very definite point of whathe said.
Penelope nodded. "But now that Mort is going to recover, he'll of coursebe punished for murder, won't he?"
Bryant's eyes stared hard at the girl. "Who told yuh," he barked, "tuhask that?"
Penny was surprised at his intensity. "Why--why," she stammered, "no oneasked me to."
"You sure of that?"
"Of course."
"Yuh sure it wasn't that cowhand called Yuma that put yuh up tuh findin'out what my intentions was regardin' Mort?"
"I haven't talked with Yuma since he carried Mort here to the house."
Bryant leaned back, eyes squinting toward the fire, lips pursed inthought. Penny tried to study her uncle's eyes. Was it true that theywere failing? If so, how could he have fired with such amazing accuracy?She remembered what Jeb had said just after the shooting: "Men with eyesthat ain't no good can't shoot a rifle."
Bryant Cavendish was grumbling in an undertone.
"Run this place all my life. Built 'er up from nothin' to one o' thebest ranches in Texas. Now I can't turn without bein' told how tuh runmy own affairs by every saddle tramp that drifts in here fer work."
"Why did you mention Yuma?" asked Penny.
"I had a row with that upstart this afternoon."
"Oh--" Penny lifted her eyebrows questioningly "--you did?"
"As if I didn't know what's goin' on, on my own property. Why, thatpipsqueak from Arizona tried tuh tell me that I was hirin' outlaws! Itold him tuh mind his own damn business an' when I wanted advice fromhim I'd ask him fer it."
Penny calculated that the argument must have been previous to her talkwith Yuma, because Bryant and the blond cowhand had had no chance totalk after the shooting, which came almost immediately following herdiscussion at the corral. This, then, could not have been the cause ofthe strange change in Yuma's manner. Yuma had been almost antagonisticwhen she had met him beside Mort's fallen body.
"But, Uncle Bryant," said Penny seriously, "are you sure you haven't anyoutlaws working here? You might not know them, you see, and Yuma havingbeen outside the Basin until just recently...."
"That'll do," snapped the old man. "I'll run this ranch without help."
"Uncle Bryant, don't bite my head off, I'm just curious. What _are_ yougoing to do about Mort?"
"I aim tuh think the situation over, speak tuh him when he c'n talk, an'then make up my mind. You can tell that Yuma critter that, if yore amind tuh. I know what he thinks. He thinks I'm runnin' a reg'lar outlawhideout here an' thinks I'm goin' tuh let Mort get away with murderin'his wife. He'll be waitin' tuh see what I do! Well, he c'n wait!"
The subject was on thin ice. Penny knew it would take but little tothrow her uncle into a violent rage, but there were things she must havehim answer. In her very best manner she leaned close to the old man.
"Uncle Bryant," she said softly, "are you sure you can trust Vince andMort with the authority you give them?"
"No," was the surprising reply, "I know damn well I can't trust 'em,but I've got tuh. I can't get around, myself, an' I won't hire bossesfrom outside tuh boss my own flesh an' blood. I've got tuh let themworthless louts run things."
"I mean--" said Penny. Then she stopped. She was at a loss to know justhow to put the question that was foremost in her mind. She feltinstinctively that Bryant was honest. She'd known her uncle many years,and had yet to find him engaged in anything that was otherwise. Shestared into the fire for some time. Stern, bitter, unbending as the oldman was, he had been fair to Penny.
Bryant himself was the first to speak. He seemed to be voicing mentalills that had troubled him for some time.
"What choice have I got," he said, as if thinking aloud, "I know themfour nephews ain't worth a damn. If I could, I'd swap the four of 'emfer a jackass."
He turned to face Penelope. "Vince has a nature that'd pizon a rattlerthat was fool enough tuh bite him. Wallie ain't worth thinkin' about.Does nothin' but spend all he gets on clo'es that scare the hoss herides. Goes around with his hair all mutton-tallowed down an' a facethat's pasty as a fish's belly. Jeb ain't worth the powder tuh blow himtuh hell; he ain't the energy even tuh keep his face washed. Thentake--" Bryant spat into the fire "--Mort!" At the mention of the lastname the old man's disgust started at the corners of his mouth andfinished by drawing the whole mouth out of shape.
"Well, he's finished with murderin' his wife. I hated it when he broughta wife here, Penny. It wasn't that I disliked Rebecca; I never got tuhknow her. It would o' been the same with any wife Mort brought here. Iknow what a worthless pack them men are, an' it was seein' the Cavendishline propagated that riled me."
Penny had never heard her uncle speak in this way. It almost seemed asif he were baring the secrets of his soul.
"Now Becky is dead," he said with resignation. "We'll see that she'sburied proper an' take care of the kids. Nothin' more tuh do."
Bryant pushed himself from his chair and caught hold of the mantel overthe fireplace. He leaned partly against it, while he fumbled for hispipe and tobacco.
While he filled the pipe and tamped the fragrant weed down with a thumb,the old man went on speaking. "I know what folks think about me, Penny,"he said. "Because I've fought hard an' got rich an' minded my ownbusiness, they're all quick tuh call me all kinds of a crook."
Bryant lighted the pipe and sank back to his chair. His stern mannerrelaxed, and for a moment he looked like a very tired old man whosetroubles were almost too heavy to bear.
"I know the sort yer cousins are," he said at length. "God knows I ain'tgot where I am by not knowin' how tuh judge men as well as hosses.They're a pack o' hungry buzzards, just waitin' fer me tuh die so's theycan cut this property up among 'em. If they thought fer a second that Iwas hard of hearin' or of seein' or anything else, they'd pounce on thatas an advantage tuh them." Bryant's face lighted for a moment. "I guessshootin' Mort like I done will show 'em that I still can shoot straightwhen I've a mind tuh."
Penny couldn't ask then if Bryant's eyes were failing. He'd deny it, nomatter what the truth.
Bryant blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Only one thing I'm hopin'," hesaid. "I've got tuh see you taken care of."
A rap on the door broke off the conversation. Lonergan, a new man at theranch, was there. He was much more suave than any of the other employeesand seemed something more than just a cowboy, though he lived in thebunkhouse, with the others.
"I've been waitin' fer you, Lonergan," said Bryant.
"I'm ready."
Cavendish rose and muttered a word of good night to Penny. Lonerganfollowed the old man upstairs to the second floor, and a moment laterPenelope heard the door of a bedroom close.
She went outside, hoping the cool breeze of night would blow some of theconfusion from her mind. Someone came toward the porch from thedirection of the bunkhouse with a rolling gait. It was Yuma. He doffedhis hat when he saw Penny on the porch, and said, "I was sure hopin'you'd be about, Miss Penny."
"I hear that you and Uncle Bryant had some words, Yuma."
The moonlight showed the serious look on Yuma's face. He nodded. "That'ssort of why I come here. I--I wanted tuh speak with you, ma'am.... Ier--"
"Will you sit down?"
"Thanks, but I c'n sort of talk better, standin' up. I dunno just howtuh get intuh what I want tuh say, but I ... well, after I shot Mort--"
"_You?_"
"Eh?" said Yuma in surprise.
"Did you say _you_ shot Mort?" demanded Penny.
"Sure! I would have drilled him clean if I hadn't been thrown off by yeruncle's shootin'. That's why I come here."
"My-my uncle's shot ... then there were two shots?"
"We both fired tuhgether, Bryant an' me. His rifle bullet jest missedme. It drilled my hat here, as you c'n see." Yuma stuck his fingerthrough a neat hole in his hat. "I was fool enough tuh let Bryant knowthat I knowed the crooks that was workin' here. He tried tuh kill meso's I couldn't tell no one."
"Yuma, that isn't true. Uncle Bryant fired at Mort. He thought he hitMort; he told me so."
Yuma nodded. "That's what his story'll be," he said, "only, it don't godown with me. I come tuh ask yuh, Miss Penny, if there ain't some placeyou can go instead o' here."
"But I don't want to go anywhere else. Furthermore, I don't believe whatyou said about my uncle."
"Yuh won't leave, eh?"
"Of course not! This is my home!"
"It'd be downright unsafe here if somethin' happened tuh Bryant,wouldn't it, ma'am?"
Penny drew herself up stiffly. "Aren't you," she demanded, "having a lotto say--for a cowhand?"
"Mebbe so," the cowboy muttered. "I'm right sorry." With that he turnedand walked away.
Penny sat down on the steps more bewildered than ever. She felt weak,helpless against the strange confusion of ideas and intrigue, suspicionsand apprehensions, in the Basin. She stared across the level ground andsaw the mouth of Bryant's Gap brilliantly lighted by the moon.