jim munson, riding his pony over the home trail at a slow walk, drooped sleepily in his saddle. it was not a weirdly late bedtime, half-past ten, maybe, but he would have been sleeping soundly a good hour or more had this not been his night to go to town—if he chose. he had chosen. he would not have missed his chance for a good deal. but his dissipation had been light. the boss never tolerated much along that line. he had drunk with some congenial cronies from the circle e outfit complimentary to the future well-being and increasing wealth of this already well-known and flourishing cattle ranch. of course he must drink a return compliment to the same rose-colored prosperity for the three bars, which he did and sighed for more. that made two, and two were the limit, and here was the limit overreached already; for there had always to be a last little comforter to keep him from nodding in his saddle.
before the time arrived for that, there were some errands to be executed for the boys on duty at the home ranch. these necessitated a call at the post-office, the purchase of several slabs of plug tobacco, some corn-cob pipes, and some writing material for kin lathrop. he must not forget the baking powder for the cook. woe to him, munson, if there were no biscuits for breakfast. meanwhile he must not neglect to gather what little news was going. that would be a crime as heinous as the forgetting of the baking powder. but there didn’t seem to be anything doing to-night. only the sheriff was playing again behind the curtain. couldn’t fool him. damned hypocrite!
the errands accomplished to his satisfaction and nothing forgotten, as frequent and close inspection of the list written out by the scribe proved, his comforter swallowed, lingeringly, and regretfully, he was now riding homeward, drowsy but vastly contented with the world in general and particularly with his own lot therein. it was a sleepy night, cool and soft and still. he could walk his horse all the way if he wanted to. there was no haste. the boys would all be in bed. they would not even wait up for the mail, knowing his, jim’s, innate aversion to hurry. had he not been so drowsy, he would like to have sung a bit; but it required a little too much effort. he would just plod along.
must all be in bed at williston’s—no light anywhere. a little short of where the williston branch left the main trail, he half paused. if it were not so late, he would ride up and give them a hail. but of course they were asleep. everything seemed still and dark about the premises. he would just plod along.
“hello, there! where’d you come from?” he cried of a sudden, and before he had had time to carry his resolve into action.
a man on horseback had drawn rein directly in front of him. jim blinked with the suddenness of the shock.
“might ask you the same question,” responded the other with an easy laugh. “i’m for town to see the doctor about my little girl. been puny for a week.”
“oh! where you from?” asked jim, with the courteous interest of his kind.
“new man on the x y z,” answered the other, lightly. “must be gettin’ on. worried about my baby girl.”
he touched spurs to his horse and was off with a friendly “so long,” over his shoulder.
jim rode on thoughtfully.
“now don’t it beat the devil,” he was thinking, “how that there cow-puncher struck this trail comin’ from the x y z—with the x y z clean t’other side o’ town? yep, it beats the devil, for a fac’. he must be a ridin’ for his health. it beats the devil.” this last was long drawn out. he rode a little farther. “it beats the devil,” he thought again,—the wonder of it was waking him up,—“how that blamed fool could a’ struck this here trail a goin’ for doc.”
at the branch road he stopped irresolutely.
“it beats the devil—for a fac’.” he looked helplessly over his shoulder. the man was beyond sight and sound. “if he hadn’t said he was goin’ for doc and belonged to the x y z,” he pondered. he was swearing because he could not think of a way out of the maze of contradiction. he was so seldom at a loss, this braggadocio jim. “well, i reckon i won’t get any he’p a moonin’ here less’n i wait here till that son-of-a-gun comes back from seein’ doc. lord, i’d have to camp out all night. guess i’ll be a movin’ on. but i’m plumb a-foot for an idee as to how that idjit got here from the x y z.”
he shrugged his shoulders and picked up the fallen bridle-rein. he kept on straight ahead, and it was well for him that he did so. it was not the last of the affair. the old, prosaic trail seemed fairly bristling with ghostly visitants that night. he had gone but a scant quarter-mile when he met with a second horseman, and this time he would have sworn on oath that the man had not been on the forward trail as long as he should have been to be seen in the starlight. jim was not dozing now and he knew what he was about. the fellow struck the trail from across country and from the direction of williston’s home cattle sheds.
“the devil!” he muttered, and this time he was in deep and terrible earnest.
“hullo!” the fellow accosted him, genially.
“too damned pleasant—the whole bunch of em,” found quick lodgment in jim’s active brain. aloud, he responded with answering good-nature, “hullo!”
“where ye goin’?” asked the other, as if in no particular haste to part company. if he had met with a surprise, he carried it off well.
“home. been to town.” jim was on tenter hooks to be off.
“belong to the three bars, don’t you?”
“yep.”
“thought so. well, good luck to you.”
“say,” said jim, suddenly, “you don’t happen to hang out at the x y z, do you?”
“naw! what d’ye suppose i’d be doing here this time of night if i did?” there was scorn in his voice and suspicion, too. “why?” he asked.
“oh, nothin’. thought i knew your build, but i guess i was mistaken. so long.”
he had an itching desire to ask if this night traveller, too, was in quest of the doctor, but caution held him silent. he had need to proceed warily. he rode briskly along until he judged he had gone far enough to allay suspicion, then he halted suddenly. very wide-awake was jim now. his hand rested unconsciously on the colt’s 45, protruding from his loosely hanging belt. his impulse was to ride boldly back and up to williston’s door, and thus satisfy himself as to what was doing so mysteriously. there was not a cowardly drop in jim’s circulation. but if foul play was abroad for williston that night, he, jim, of course, was spotted and would never be permitted to reach the house. it would mean a useless sacrifice. now, he needed to be alive. there was a crying need for his good and active service. afterwards—well, it was all in the day’s work. it wouldn’t so much matter then. he touched spurs lightly, bent his head against the friction of the air and urged his horse to the maddest, wildest race he had ever run since that day long ago, to be forgotten by neither, when he had been broken to his master’s will.
paul langford dropped one shoe nervelessly to the wolfskin in front of his bed. though his bachelor room was plain in most respects, plain for the better convenience of the bachelor hands that had it to put to rights every day,—with the exception of a cook, langford kept no servant,—the wolfskin here, an indian blanket thrown over a stiff chair by the table, a japanese screen concealing the ugly little sheet-iron stove that stood over in its corner all the year round, gave evidence that his tastes were really luxurious. an oil lamp was burning dimly on the table. the soot of many burnings adhered to the chimney’s inner side.
“one would know it was jim’s week by looking at that chimney,” muttered the boss, eyeing the offending chimney discontentedly as he dropped the other shoe. “he seems to have an inborn aversion to cleaning chimneys. it must be a birthmark, or maybe he was too anxious to get to town to-night. i see i’ll have to discipline jim. i have to stop and think even now, sometimes, who’s boss of this shebang, he or i. sometimes i’m inclined to the opinion that he is. come to think of it, though,” whimsically, “i lean to a vague misgiving that i didn’t touch that low-down chimney myself last week. we’re kind of an ornery set, i’m thinking, every mother’s son of us—and i’m the worst of the lot. sometimes i wonder if it wouldn’t be better for the bunch of us, if one of the boys were to marry and bring his girl to the three bars. but i’ll be hanged if i know which one i’d care to give up to the feminine gender. besides, she’d be bossy—they all are—and she’d wear blue calico wrappers in the morning—they all do.”
he began pacing the floor in his stocking feet.
“wish i could get that blamed little girl of williston’s out of my head to-night. positively red-headed. well, call it auburn for the sake of politeness. what’s the difference? she’s a winner, though. wonder why i didn’t know about her before? wonder if dick’s in love with her? shouldn’t wonder. he’s plumb daffy on the subject of the old man. never thought of that before. or maybe it’s jim. no, she’s not his kind.” he stopped for a moment at the open window and looked out into the still, starry night “guess i’ll have to let the scribe commit matrimony, if he’s ‘willin’.’ he’s the only one of the bunch—fit.”
the sound of galloping hoof-beats on the hard road below came up to him as he stood at the window. a solitary horseman was coming that way and he was putting his horse to the limit, too.
“who the—deuce,” began langford. “it’s jim’s cow pony as sure as i’m a sinner! what brings him home at that pace, i wonder? is he drunk?”
he peered out indifferently. the hoof-beats rang nearer and nearer, clattered through the stable yards and, before they ceased, two or three revolver shots rang out in rapid succession. jim had fired into the air to arouse the house.
springing from his reeking bronco, he ran quickly to the stable and threw wide the door. here the boss, the first to gain the outside because already dressed, found him hastily saddling a fresh mount. langford asked no question. that would come later. he stepped silently to sade’s stall.
in an incredibly short space of time the rest of the boys came leaping out of the ranchhouse, slamming the door behind them. to be up and doing was the meat they fed upon. in less than ten minutes they were all mounted and ready, five of them, silent, full to the brim of reckless hardihood, prime for any adventure that would serve to break the monotony of their lives. more than that, every fibre of their being, when touched, would respond, a tuneful, sounding string of loyalty to the traditions of the three bars and to its young master. each was fully armed. they asked no question. yet there could be no doubt of a surprise when the time came for action. they were always prepared, these boys of the most popular ranch outfit west of the river. right in the face of this popularity, perhaps because of it, they were a bit overbearing, these boys, and held fellowship with any outside the three bars a thing not to be lightly entered into. it was a fine thing to work for the boss, and out of the content accruing therefrom sprang a conservatism like that of the proudest aristocrat of the land.
langford took the trail first. jim had said but the one word, “williston.” it was enough. nothing was to be heard but the rapid though regular pound of hoof-beats on the level trail. it is a silent country, the cow country, and its gravity begets gravity.
langford, riding slightly in advance, was having a bad time with himself. the keenest self-reproach was stabbing him like a physical pain. his honor—his good honor, that he held so high and stainless—was his word not given by it that the willistons might count on his sure protection? what had he done to merit this proud boast? knowing that jesse black was once more at liberty, fully realizing of what vast import to the state would be williston’s testimony when the rustlers should be brought to trial, he had sat stupidly back and done nothing. and he had promised. would williston have had the courage without that promise? why were not some of his cowboys even now sleeping with an eye upon that little claim shack where lived that scholar-man who was not fit for the rough life of the plains, maybe, but who had been brave enough and high-minded enough to lay his all on the white altar of telling what he knew for right’s sake. and the girl—
“god! the girl!” he cried aloud.
“what did you say, boss?” asked jim, pounding alongside.
“nothing!” said langford, curtly.
he spurred his mare savagely. in the shock of the surprise, and the sting that his neglected word brought him, he had forgotten the girl—williston’s “little girl” with the grave eyes—the girl who was not ten but twenty and more—the girl who had waited for him, whom he had sent on her long way alone, joyously, as one free of a duty that promised to be irksome—the girl who had brought the blood to his face when, ashamed, he had galloped off to the spring—the girl who had closed her door when a man’s curious eyes had roved that way. how could he forget?
the little cavalcade swept on with increased speed, following the lead of the master. soon the sound of shooting was borne to them distinctly through the quiet night.
“thank god, boys!” cried langford, digging in his spurs, once more. “they are not surprised! listen! god! what a plucky fight! if they can only hold out!”
at that moment a tiny tongue of flame leaped up away to the front of them, gleaming in the darkness like a beacon light. now there were two—they grew, spread, leaped heavenward in mad revel. langford’s heart sank like lead. he groaned in an exceeding bitterness of spirit. the worst had happened. would they be in time? these claim shanties burn like paper. and the girl! he doubted not that she had sustained her share of the good fight. she had fought like a man, she must die like a man,—would be the outlaw’s reasoning. he believed she would die like a man—if that meant bravely,—but something clutched at his heart-strings with the thought. her big, solemn eyes came back to him now as they had looked when she had lifted them to him gravely as he sat his horse and she had said she had waited for him. was she waiting now?
the boys rallied to the new impetus gloriously. they knew now what it meant and their hardy hearts thrilled to the excitement of it, and the danger. they swept from the main trail into the dimmer one leading to williston’s, without diminution of speed. presently, the boss drew rein with a suddenness that would have played havoc with the equilibrium of less seasoned horsemen than cowboys. they followed with the precision and accord of trained cavalrymen. now and then could be seen a black, sinister figure patrolling the burning homestead, but hugging closely the outer skirt of darkness, waiting for the doomed door to open.
“boys!” began langford. but he never gave the intended command to charge at once with wild shouting and shooting to frighten away the marauders and give warning to the besieged that rescue was at hand. for at that moment the door opened, and williston and his daughter stepped out in full view of raider and rescuer. would there be parley? a man, slouching in his saddle, rode up into the circle of lurid light. was it jesse black? there was something hauntingly familiar about the droop of the shoulders. that was all; hardly enough to hang a man.
langford raised his rifle quickly. his nerves were perfectly steady. his sight was never truer. his bullet went straight to the rifle arm of the outlaw; with a ringing shout he rallied his comrades, spurred his pony forward, and the little party charged the astounded raiders with a fury of shots that made each rustler stand well to his own support, leaving the willistons, for the time being, free from their attention.
the desperadoes were on the run. they cared to take no risk of identification. it was not easy to determine how many there were. there seemed a half-dozen or more, but probably four or five at the most would tell their number.
the flames were sinking. williston had disappeared. the boys scattered in wild pursuit. wheeling his horse, langford was in time to see a big, muscular fellow swing a girlish form to the saddle in front of him. quick as a flash he spurred forward, lifted his heavy colt’s revolver high over his head and brought it down on the fellow’s skull with a force that knocked him senseless without time for a sigh or moan. as his arms fell lax and he toppled in his saddle, langford caught the girl and swung her free of entanglement.
“poor little girl,” he breathed over her as her white face dropped with unconscious pathos against his big shoulder. “poor little girl—i’m sorry—i didn’t mean to—honest—i’m sorry.” he chafed her hands gently. “and i don’t know where your father is, either. are you hurt anywhere, or have you only fainted? god knows i don’t wonder. it was hellish. why, child, child, your arm! it is broken! oh, little girl, i didn’t mean to—honest—honest. i’m sorry.”
jim rode up panting, eyes blood-shot.
“we can’t find him, boss. they’ve carried him off, dead or alive.”
“is it so, jim? are you sure? how far did you follow?”
“we must have followed the wrong lead. if any one was ridin’ double, it wasn’t the ones we was after, that’s one thing sure. the blamed hoss thieves pulled clean away from us. our hosses were plumb winded anyway. and—there’s a deader out there, boss,” lowering his voice; “i found him as i came back.”
“that explains why no one was riding double,” said langford, thoughtfully.
“how’s the gal, boss?”
“i don’t know, jim. i—don’t know what to do now.”
his eyes were full of trouble.
“ain’t no use cryin’ over spilt milk and that’s a fac’. ’bout as sensible as a tryin’ to pick it up after it is spilt. we won’t find williston this here night, that’s one thing sure. so we’ll just tote the little gal home to the three bars with us.”
the boys were returning, silent, gloomy, disconsolate. they eyed the boss tentatively. would they receive praise or censure? they had worked hard.
“you’re all right, boys,” said langford, smiling away their gloom. “but about the girl. there is no woman at the three bars, you know—”
“so you’d leave her out all night to the dew and the coyotes and the hoss thieves, would you,” interrupted jim, with a fine sarcasm, “jest because there ain’t no growed-up woman at the three bars? what d’ye think williston’s little gal’d care for style? she ain’t afraid o’ us ol’ grizzled fellers. i hope to the lord there won’t never be no growed-up woman at the three bars,—yep, that’s what i hope. i think that mouse-haired gal reporter’d be just tumble fussy, and i think she’s a goin’ to marry a down easterner chap, anyway.”
“just pick up that fellow, will you, boys, and strap him to his horse, and we’ll take him along,” said langford. “i don’t believe he’s dead.”
“what fellow?” asked the scribe, peering casually about.
langford had unconsciously ridden forward a bit to meet the boys as they had clattered up shamefacedly. now he turned.
“why, that fellow over there. i knocked him out.”
he rode back slowly. there was no man there, nor the trace of a man. they stared at each other a moment, silently. then langford spoke.
“no, i am not going to leave williston’s little girl out in the dew,” he said, with an inscrutable smile. “while some of you ride in to get some one to see about that body out there and bring out the doctor, i’ll take her over to white’s for to-night, anyway. mrs. white will care for her. then perhaps we will send for the ‘gal reporter,’ jim.”
