Chapter 15

Smith's rifle was under the edge of his blanket, and his six-shooter in its holster lay by his head; but Tubbs, with the carelessness of a green hand and the over-confidence which had succeeded his nervousness, had leaned his rifle against a tree and laid his six-shooter and cartridge-belt in a crotch.

Ralston nodded to Babe, and simultaneously they raised their rifles and viewed the prostrate forms along the barrels.

"Put up your hands, men!"

The quick command, sharp, stern, penetrated the senses of the men inert in heavy sleep. Instantly Smith's hand was upon his gun. He had reached for it instinctively even before he sat up.

"Drop it!" There was no mistaking the intention expressed in Ralston's voice, and the gun fell from Smith's hand.

The red of Smith's skin changed to a curious yellow, not unlike the yellow of the slicker rolled on the back of his saddle. Panic-stricken for the moment, he grinned, almost foolishly; then his hands shot above his head.

A line of sunlight dropped into the creek-bottom, and a ray was caught by the deputy's badge which shone on Ralston's breast. The glitter of it seemed to fascinate Smith.

"You"--he drawled a vile name. "I orter have known!"

Still dazed with sleep, and not yet comprehending anything beyond the fact that he had been advised to put up his hands, and that a stranger had drawn an uncommonly fine bead on the head which he was in honor bound to preserve from mutilation, Tubbs blinked at Babe and inquired peevishly:

"What's the matter with you?" He had forgotten that he was a thief.

"Shove up your hands!" yelled Babe.

With an expression of annoyance, Tubbs did as he was bid, but dropped them again upon seeing Ralston.

"Oh, hello!" he called cheerfully.

"Put them hands back!" Babe waved his rifle-barrel significantly.

"What's the matter with you, feller?" inquired Tubbs crossly. Though he now recollected the circumstances under which they were found, Ralston's presence robbed the situation of any seriousness for him. It did not occur to Tubbs that any one who knew him could possibly do him harm.

"Keep your hands up, Tubbs," said Ralston curtly, "and, Babe, take the guns."

"What for a josh is this anyhow?"--in an aggrieved tone. "Ain't we all friends?"

"Shut up, you idjot!" snapped Smith irritably. His glance was full of malevolence as Babe took his guns. The yellow of his skin was now the only sign by which he betrayed his feelings. To all other appearances, he was himself again--insolent, defiant.

When it thoroughly dawned upon Tubbs that they were cornered and under arrest, he promptly went to pieces. He thrust his hands so high above his head that they lifted him to tiptoe, and they shook as with palsy.

"Stack the guns and get our horses, Babe," said Ralston.

"Mine's hard for a stranger to ketch," said Smith surlily. "I'll get him, for I don't aim to walk."

"All right; but don't make any break, Smith," Ralston warned.

"I'm not a fool," Smith answered gruffly.

Ralston's face relaxed as Smith sauntered toward his horse. He was glad that they had been taken without bloodshed, and, now the prisoners' guns had been removed, that possibility was passed.

Smith's horse was a newly broken bronco, and he was a wild beggar, as Smith had said; but he talked to him reassuringly as the horse jumped to the end of his picket-rope and stood snorting and trembling in fright, and finally laid his hand upon his neck and back. The fingers of one hand were entwined in the horse's mane, and suddenly, with a cat-like spring made possible only by his desperation, Smith landed on the bronco's back. With a yell of defiance which Ralston and Babe remembered for many a day, he kicked the animal in the ribs, and, as it reared in fright, it pulled loose from the picket-stake. Smith reached for the trailing rope, and they were gone!

Ralston shot to cripple the horse, but almost with the flash they were around the bend of the creek and out of sight. The breathless, speechless seconds seemed minutes long before he heard Babe coming.

"Aw-w-w!" roared that person in consternation and chagrin, as he literally dragged the horses behind him.

Ralston ran to meet him, and a glance of understanding passed between them as he leaped into the saddle and swept around the bend like a whirlwind, less than thirty seconds behind Smith.

Babe knew that he must secure Tubbs before he joined in the pursuit, and he was pulling the rawhide riata from his saddle when Tubbs, inspired by Smith's example and imbued with the hysterical courage which sometimes comes to men of his type in desperate straits, made a dash for his rifle, and reached it. He threw it to his shoulder, but, quick as he was, Babe was quicker.

With the lightning-like gesture which had made his name a byword where Babe himself was unknown, he pulled his six-shooter from its holster and shot Tubbs through the head. He fell his length, like a bundle of blankets, and, even as he dropped, Babe was in the saddle and away.

It was a desperate race that was on, between desperate men; for if Smith was desperate, Ralston was not less so. Every fibre of his being was concentrated in the determination to recapture the man who had twice outwitted him. The deputy sheriff's reputation was at stake; his pride and self-respect as well; and the blood-thirst was rising in him with each jump of his horse. Every other emotion paled, every other interest faded, beside the intensity of his desire to stop the man ahead of him.

Smith knew that he had only a chance in a thousand. He had seen Ralston with a six-shooter explode a cartridge placed on a rock as far away as he could see it, and he was riding the little brown mare whose swiftness Smith had reason to remember.

But he had the start, his bronco was young, its wind of the best, and it might have speed. The country was rough, Ralston's horse might fall with him. So long as Smith was at liberty there was a fighting chance, and as always, he took it.

The young horse, mad with fright, kept to the serpentine course of the creek-bottom, and Ralston, on the little mare, sure-footed and swift as a jack-rabbit, followed its lead.

The race was like a steeple-chase, with boulders and brush and fallen logs to be hurdled, and gullies and washouts to complicate the course. And at every outward curve the _pin-n-gg!_ of a bullet told Smith of his pursuer's nearness. Lying flat on the barebacked horse, he hung well to the side until he was again out of sight. The lead plowed up the dirt ahead of him and behind him, and flattened itself against rocks; and at each futile shot Smith looked over his shoulder and grinned in derision, though his skin had still the curious yellowness of fear.

The race was lasting longer than Smith had dared hope. It began to look as if it were to narrow to a test of endurance, for although Ralston's shots missed by only a hair's breadth at times, still, they missed. If Smith ever had prayed, he would have prayed then; but he had neither words nor faith, so he only hoped and rode.

A flat came into sight ahead and a yell burst from Ralston--a yell that was unexpected to himself. A wave of exultation which seemed to come from without swept over him. He touched the mare with the spur, and she skimmed the rocks as if his weight on her back were nothing. It was smoother, and he was close enough now to use his best weapon. He thrust the empty rifle into its scabbard, and shot at Smith's horse with his six-shooter. It stumbled; then its knees doubled under it, and Smith turned in the air. The game was up; Smith was afoot.

He picked up his hat and dusted his coat-sleeve while he waited, and his face was yellow and evil.

"That was a dum good horse," was Babe's single comment as he rode up.

"Get back to camp!" said Ralston peremptorily, and Smith, in his high-heeled, narrow-soled boots, stumbled ahead of them without a word.

He looked at Tubbs's body without surprise. Sullen and surly, he felt no regret that Tubbs, braggart and fool though he was, was dead. Smith had no conscience to remind him that he himself was responsible.

Babe shook out Smith's blue army blanket and rolled Tubbs in it. Smith had bought it from a drunken soldier, and he had owned it a long time. It was light and almost water-proof; he liked it, and he eyed Babe's action with disfavor.

"I reckon this gent will have to spend the day in a tree," said Babe prosaically.

"Couldn't you use no other blanket nor that?" demanded Smith.

It was the first time he had spoken.

"Don't take on so," Babe replied comfortingly. "They furnish blankets where you're goin'."

He went on with his work of throwing a hitch around Tubbs with his picket-rope.

Ralston divided the scanty rations which Smith and Tubbs, and he and Babe, had brought with them. He made coffee, and handed a cup to Smith first. The latter arose and changed his seat.

"I never could eat with a corp' settin' around," he said disagreeably.

Smith's fastidiousness made Babe's jaw drop, and a piece of biscuit which had made his cheek bulge inadvertently rolled out, but was skillfully intercepted before it reached the ground.

"I hope you'll excuse us, Mr. Smith," said Babe, bowing as well as he could sitting cross-legged on the ground. "I hope you'll overlook our forgittin' the napkins and toothpicks."

When they had finished, they slung Tubbs's body into a tree, beyond the reach of coyotes. The cattle they left to drift back to their range. Tubbs's horse was saddled for Smith, and, with Ralston holding the lead rope and Babe in the rear, the procession started back to the ranch.

Smith had much time to think on the homeward ride. He based his hopes upon the Indian woman. He knew that he could conciliate her with a look. She was resourceful, she had unlimited influence with the Indians, and she had proven that she was careless of her own life where he was concerned. She was a powerful ally. The situation was not so bad as it had seemed. He had been in tighter places, he told himself, and his spirits rose as he rode. Without the plodding cattle, they retraced their steps in half the time it had taken them to come, and it was not much after midday when they were sighted from the MacDonald ranch.

The Indians that Smith had missed were at the ford to meet them: Bear Chief, Yellow Bird, Running Rabbit, and others, who were strangers to him. They followed as Ralston and Babe rode with their prisoner up the path to put him under guard in the bunk-house.

Susie, McArthur, and Dora were at the door of the ranch-house, and Susie stepped out and stopped them when they would have passed.

"You can't take him there; that place is for our _friends_. There's the harness-house below. The dogs sleep there. There'll be room for one more."

The insult stung Smith to the quick.

"What _you_ got to say about it? Where's your mother?"

With narrowed eyes she looked for a moment into his ugly visage, then she laid her hand upon the rope and led his horse close to the open window of the bedroom.

"There," and she pointed to the still figure on its improvised bier. "There's my mother!"

Smith looked in silence, and once more showed by his yellowing skin the fear within him. The avenue of escape upon which he had counted almost with certainty, was closed to him. At that moment the harsh, high walls of the penitentiary loomed close; the doors looked wide open to receive him; but, after an instant's hesitation, he only shrugged his shoulders and said:

"Hell! I sleeps good anywhere."

In deference to Susie's wishes, Ralston and Babe had swung their horses to go back down the path when Smith turned in his saddle and looked at Dora. She was regarding him sorrowfully, her eyes misty with disappointment in him; and Smith misunderstood. A rush of feeling swept over him, and he burst out impulsively:

"Don't go back on me! I done it for you, girl! I done it to make _our stake_!"

Dora stood speechless, bewildered, confused under the astonished eyes upon her. She was appalled by the light in which he had placed her; and while the others followed to the harness-house below, she sank limply upon the door-sill, her face in her hands.

Smith sat on a wagon-tongue, swinging his legs, while they cleaned out the harness-house a bit for his occupancy.

"Throw down some straw and rustle up a blanket or two," said Babe; and McArthur pulled his saddle-blankets apart to contribute the cleanest toward Smith's bed.

Something in the alacrity the "bug-hunter" displayed angered Smith. He always had despised the little man in a general way. He uncinched his saddle on the wrong side; he clucked at his horse; he removed his hat when he talked to women; he was a weak and innocent fool to Smith, who lost no occasion to belittle him. Now, when the prisoner saw him moving about, free to go and come as he pleased, while he, Smith, was tied like an unruly pup, it, of a sudden, made his gorge rise; and, with one of his swift, characteristic transitions of mood, Smith turned to the Indians who guarded him.

"You never could find out who killed White Antelope--you smart-Alec Injuns!" he sneered contemptuously. "And you've always wanted to know, haven't you?" He eyed them one by one. "Why, you don't know straight up, you women warriors! I've a notion to tell you who killed White Antelope--just for fun--just because I want to laugh, me--Smith!"

The Indians drew closer.

"You think you're scouts," he went on tauntingly, "and you never saw White Antelope's blanket right under your nose! Put it back, feller"--he nodded at McArthur. "I don't aim to sleep on dead men's clothes!"

The Indians looked at the blanket, and at McArthur, whom they had grown to like and trust. They recognized it now, and in the corner they saw the stiff and dingy stain, the jagged tell-tale holes.

McArthur mechanically held it up to view. He had not the faintest recollection where it had been purchased, or of whom obtained. Tubbs always had attended to such things.

No one spoke in the grave silence, and Smith leered.

"I likes company," he said. "I'm sociable inclined. Put him in the dog-house with me."

Susie had listened with the Indians; she had looked at the blanket, the stain, the holes; she saw the blank consternation in McArthur's face, the gathering storm in the Indians' eyes. She stepped out a little from the rest.

"Mister _Smith_!" she said. "_Mister_ Smith"--with oily, sarcastic emphasis--"how did you know that was White Antelope's blanket, when you never _saw_ White Antelope?"

XXII

A MONGOLIAN CUPID

With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, Ralston leaned against the corner of the bunk-house, from which point of vantage he could catch a glimpse of the Schoolmarm's white-curtained window. He now had no feeling of elation over his success. Smith was a victorious captive. Ralston's heart ached miserably, and he wished that the day was ended and the morning come, that he might go, never to return.

He too had seen the mist in Dora's eyes; and, with Smith's words, the air-castles which had persistently built themselves without volition on his part, crumbled. There was nothing for him to do but to efface himself as quickly and as completely as possible. The sight of him could only be painful to Dora, and he wished to spare her all of that within his power.

He looked at the foothills, the red butte rising in their midst, the tinted Bad Lands, the winding, willow-fringed creek. It was all beautiful in its bizarre colorings; but the spirit of the picture, the warm, glowing heart of it, had gone from it for him. The world looked a dull and lifeless place. His love for Dora was greater than he had known, far mightier than he had realized until the end, the positive end, had come.

"Oh, Dora!" he whispered in utter wretchedness. "Dear little Schoolmarm!"

In the room behind the white-curtained window the Schoolmarm walked the floor with her cheeks aflame and as close to hysteria as ever she had been in her life.

"What _will_ he think of me!" she asked herself over and over again, clasping and unclasping her cold hands. "What _can_ he think but one thing?"

The more overwrought she became, the worse the situation seemed.

"And how he looked at me! How they all looked at me! Oh, it was too dreadful!"

She covered her burning face with her hands.

"There isn't the slightest doubt," she went on, "but that he thinks I knew all about it. Perhaps"--she paused in front of the mirror and stared into her own horrified eyes--"perhaps he thinks I belong to a gang of robbers! Maybe he thinks I am Smith's tool, or that Smith is my tool, or something like that! Oh, whatever made him say such a thing! 'Our stake--_our_ stake'--and--'I done it for you!'"

Another thought, still more terrifying occurred to her excited mind:

"What if he should have to arrest me as an accomplice!"

She sat down weakly on the edge of the bed.

"Oh," and she rocked to and fro in misery, "if only I never had tried to improve Smith's mind!"

The tears slipped from under the Schoolmarm's lashes, and her chin quivered.

Worn out by the all night's vigil at her mother's bedside, and the exciting events of the morning, Susie finally succumbed to the strain and slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was almost supper-time when she awakened. Passing the Schoolmarm's door, she heard a sound at which she stopped and frankly listened. Teacher was crying!

"Ling, this is an awful world. Everything seems to be upside down and inside out!"

"Plenty tlouble," agreed Ling, stepping briskly about as he collected ingredients for his biscuits.

"Don't seem to make much difference whether you love people or hate 'em; it all ends the same way--in tears."

"Plitty bad thing--love." Ling solemnly measured baking-powder. "Make people cly."

Susie surmised correctly that Ling's ears also had been close to a nearby keyhole.

"There'd 'a' been fewer tears on this ranch if it hadn't been for Smith."

"Many devils--Smith."

Susie sat on the corner of his work-table, and there was silence while he deftly mixed, rolled, and cut his dough.

"Mr. Ralston intends to go away in the morning," said Susie, as the biscuits were slammed in the oven.

Ling wagged his head dolorously.

"And they'll never see each other again."

His head continued to wag.

"Ling," Susie whispered, "we've got to _do_ something." She stepped lightly to the open door and closed it.

* * * * *

There were few at the supper-table that night, and there was none of the noisy banter which usually prevailed. The grub-liners came in softly and spoke in hushed tones, out of a kind of respect for two empty chairs which had been the recognized seats of Tubbs and the Indian woman.

Ralston bowed gravely as Dora entered--pale, her eyes showing traces of recent tears. Susie was absent, having no heart for food or company, and preferring to sit beside her mother for the brief time which remained to her. Even Meeteetse Ed shared in the general depression, and therefore it was in no spirit of flippancy that he observed as he replaced his cup violently in its saucer:

"Gosh A'mighty, Ling, you must have biled a gum-boot in this here tea!"

Dora, who had drank nearly half of hers, was unable to account for the peculiar tang which destroyed its flavor, and Ralston eyed the contents of his cup doubtfully after each swallow.

"Like as not the water's gittin' alkali," ventured Old Man Rulison.

"Alkali nothin'. That's gum-boot, or else a plug of Battle Ax fell in."

Ling bore Meeteetse's criticisms with surprising equanimity.

A moment later the lights blurred for Dora.

"I--I feel faint," she whispered, striving to rise.

Ralston, who had already noted her increasing pallor, hastened around the table and helped her into the air. Ling's immobile face was a study as he saw them leave the room together, but satisfaction was the most marked of its many expressions. He watched them from the pantry window as they walked to the cottonwood log which served as a garden-seat for all.

"I wonder if it was that queer tea?"

"It has been a hard day for you," Ralston replied gently.

Dora was silent, and they remained so for some minutes. Ralston spoke at last and with an effort.

"I am sorry--sorrier than I can tell you--that it has been necessary for me to hurt you. I should rather, far, far rather, hurt myself than you, Miss Marshall--I wish I could make you know that. What I have done has been because it was my duty. I am employed by men who trust me, and I was in honor bound to follow the course I have; but if I had known what I know now--if I had been sure--I might in some way have made it easier for you. I am going away to-morrow, and perhaps it will do no harm to tell you that I had hoped"--he stopped to steady his voice, and went on--"I had hoped that our friendship might end differently.

"I shall be gone in the morning before you are awake, so I will say good-night--and good-by." He arose and put out his hand. "Shall I send Susie to you?"

The lump in Dora's throat hurt her.

"Wait a minute," she whispered in a strained voice. "I want to say something, too, before you go. I don't want you to go away thinking that I knew anything of Smith's plans; that I knew he was going to steal cattle; that he was trying to make a 'stake' for us--for _me_. It is all a misunderstanding."

Dora was looking straight ahead of her, and did not see the change which came over Ralston's face.

"I never thought of Smith in any way except to help him," she went on. "He seemed different from most that stopped here, and I thought if I could just start him right, if only I could show him what he might do if he tried, he might be better for my efforts. And, after all, my time and good intentions were wasted. He deceived me in making me think that he too wanted to make more of his life, and that he was trying. And then to make such a speech before you all!"

"Don't think about it--or Smith," Ralston answered. "He has come to his inevitable end. When there's bad blood, mistaken ideals, and wrong standards of living, you can't do much--you can't do anything. There is only one thing which controls men of his type, and that is fear--fear of the law. His love for you is undoubtedly the best, the whitest, thing that ever came into his life, but it couldn't keep him straight, and never would. Don't worry. Your efforts haven't hurt him, or you. You are wiser, and maybe he is better."

"It's awfully good of you to comfort me," said Dora gratefully.

"Good of me?" he laughed softly. "Little Schoolmarm"--he laid a hand upon each shoulder and looked into her eyes--"I love you."

Her pupils dilated, and she breathed in wonder.

"You _love_ me?"

"I do." He brushed back a wisp of hair which had blown across her cheek, and, stooping, kissed her deliberately upon the mouth.

Inside the house a radiant Mongolian rushed from the pantry window into the room where Susie sat. He carried a nearly empty bottle which had once contained lemon extract, and his almond eyes danced as he handed it to her, whispering gleefully:

"All light! Good medicine!"

The big kerosene lamp screwed to the wall in the living-room had long since been lighted, but Susie still sat on the floor, leaning her cheek against the blanket which covered the Indian woman. The house was quiet save for Ling in the kitchen--and lonely--but she had a fancy that her mother would like to have her there beside her; so, although she was cramped from sitting, and the house was close after a hot day, she refused all offers to relieve her.

She was glad to see McArthur when he tapped on the door.

"I thought you'd like to read the letter that came with the picture," he said, as he pulled up a chair beside her. "I want you to know how welcome you will be."