as the flames broke through the roof, langford came rushing up where the group stood a little apart from the press.
“dick! i have been looking for you everywhere,” he cried, hoarsely.
“what’s the trouble, old man?” asked gordon, quietly.
“i have something to tell you,” said langford, in a low voice. “come quick—let’s go back to your rooms. why, girls—”
“we will go, too,” said mary, with quiet decision. she had caught a glimpse of red sanderson’s face through the crowd, and she thought he had leered at her. she had been haunted by the vague feeling that she must have known the man who had attempted to carry her off—that dreadful night; but she had never been able to concentrate the abstract, fleeting impressions into comprehensive substance—never until she had seen that scar and glancing away in terror saw that langford, too, had seen; but she was not brave enough to lose herself and louise in the crowd where that man was. she could not. he had leered at louise, too, last night at supper. they could not ask the protection of gordon and langford back to the hotel then, when langford’s handsome, tanned face was white with the weight of what he had to tell.
“it will be best,” he agreed, unexpectedly. “come—we must hurry!”
it was williston’s “little girl” whom he took under his personal protection, diving up the street in the teeth of the gale which blew colder every moment, with a force and strength that kept mary half the time off her feet. a gentler knight was gordon—though as manly. all was dark around the premises. there was no one lurking near. everybody was dancing attendance on the court-house holocaust. gordon felt for his keys.
“how good it is to get out of the wind,” whispered louise. this proceeding smacked so much of the mysterious that whispering followed as a natural sequence.
they stepped within. it was inky black.
“lock the door,” said langford, in a low voice.
gordon complied, surprised, but asking no question. he knew his friend, and had faith in his judgment. then he lighted a lamp that stood on his desk.
“why did you do that?” asked louise, gravely.
“what?”
“lock the door.”
“i don’t know,” he answered, honestly. “i didn’t think you would notice the click. ask paul.”
“i’ll explain in a minute,” said langford. he stepped to the windows and drew the blinds closely.
“now that i have you safe,” he said, lightly, “i’ll confess i had an old woman’s scare. it came to me that as long as you are not, strictly speaking, on kind and loving terms with—every one west of the river,—and this being such an all-round nasty night anyway, why, i’d just spirit you home and give the charged atmosphere a chance of clearing a little.”
gordon looked at him steadily a moment. his face did not pale. yet he knew that langford had heard—or suspected—more than he intended to tell—then. it was good to see him shrug his shoulders in unconcern for the sake of the two white-faced girls who sat there in his stiff office chairs.
“you are an old duffer, paul,” he said, in pretended annoyance. “you treat me like a child. i won’t stand it always. you’ll see. some day i’ll rebel—and—then—”
“meanwhile, i’ll just trot these ladies back to the hotel,” said langford. “but you must promise to keep your head inside. we’re fixtures until we have that promise.”
“what, lock me up and run off with—all the ladies! i guess not! why didn’t we round up that way, i’d like to know? this isn’t utah, paul. you can’t have both.”
paul meant for him to lie low, then. he was also in a hurry to get the girls away. evidently the danger lay here. there was a tightening of the firm mouth and an ominous contraction of the pupils of the eyes. he stirred the fire, then jammed a huge, knotted stick into the sheet iron stove. it seemed as if everybody had sheet iron stoves in this country. the log caught with a pleasant roar as the draught sent flames leaping up the chimney. but paul made no movement to go. then he, gordon, had not understood his friend. maybe the menace was not here, but outside. if so, he must contrive to keep his guests interested here. he would leave the lead to paul. paul knew. he went back to his living-room and returned, bringing two heavy buggy robes.
“you will find my bachelor way of living very primitive,” he said, with his engaging smile. he arranged the robes over two of the chairs and pushed them close up to the stove. “i haven’t an easy chair in the house—prove it by paul, here. haven’t time to rock, and can’t afford to run the risk of cultivating slothful habits. take these, do,” he urged, “and remove your coats.”
“thank you—you are very kind,” said louise. “no, i won’t take off my jacket,” a spot of color staining her cheek when she thought of her gay kimono. involuntarily, she felt of her throat to make sure the muffler had not blown awry. “we shall be going soon, shan’t we, mr. langford? if mr. gordon is in any danger, you must stay with him and let us go alone. it is not far.”
“surely,” said mary, with a big sinking of the heart, but meaning what she said.
“not at all,” said gordon, decidedly. “it’s just his womanish way of bossing me. i’ll rebel some day. just wait! but before you go, i’ll make tea. you must have gotten chilled through.”
he would keep them here a while and then let them go—with langford. the thought made him feel cheap and cowardly and sneaking. far rather would he step out boldly and take his chances. but if there was to be any shooting, it must be where louise,—and mary, too—was not. he believed paul, in his zeal, had exaggerated evil omens, but there was louise in his bachelor rooms—where he had never thought to see her; there with her cheeks flushed with the proximity to the stove—his stove—her fair hair windblown. no breath of evil thing must assail her that night—that night, when she had glorified his lonely habitation—even though he himself must slink into a corner like a cowardly cur. a strange elation took possession of him. she was here. he thought of last night and seemed to walk on air. if he won out, maybe—but, fool that he was! what was there in this rough land for a girl like—louise?
“oh, no, that will be too much trouble,” gasped louise, in some alarm and thinking of aunt helen.
“thanks, old man, we’ll stay,” spoke up langford, cheerfully. “he makes excellent tea—really. i’ve tried it before. you will never regret staying.”
silently he watched his friend in the inner room bring out a battered tea-kettle, fill it with a steady hand and put it on the stove in the office, coming and going carelessly, seemingly conscious of nothing in the world but the comfort of his unexpected guests.
true to her sex, louise was curiously interested in the housekeeping arrangements of a genuine bachelor establishment. woman-like, she saw many things in the short time she was there—but nothing that diminished her respect for richard gordon. the bed in the inner chamber where both men slept was disarranged but clean. wearing apparel was strewn over chairs and tables. there was a litter of magazines on the floor. she laid them up against langford; she did not think gordon had the time or inclination to cultivate the magazine habit. she did not know to whose weakness to ascribe the tobacco pouch and brier-wood pipe placed invitingly by the side of a pair of gay, elaborately bead-embroidered moccasons, cosily stowed away under the head of the bed; but she was rather inclined to lay these, too, to langford’s charge. the howling tempest outside only served to enhance the cosiness of the rumbling fire and the closely drawn blinds.
but tea was never served in those bachelor rooms that night—neither that night nor ever again. it was a little dream that went up in flame with the walls that harbored it. who first became conscious that the tang of smoke was gradually filling their nostrils, it was hard to tell. they were not far behind each other in that consciousness. it was langford who discovered that the trouble was at the rear, where the wind would soon have the whole building fanned into flames. gordon unlocked the door quietly. he said nothing. but paul, springing in front of him, himself threw it open. it was no new dodge, this burning a man out to shoot him as one would drown out a gopher for the killing. he need not have been afraid. the alarm had spread. the street in front was rapidly filling. one would hardly have dared to shoot—then—if one had meant to. and he did not know. he only knew that deviltry had been in the air for gordon that night. he had suspected more than he had overheard, but it had been in the air.
gordon saw the action and understood it. he never forgot it. he said nothing, but gave his friend an illuminating smile that langford understood. neither ever spoke of it, neither ever forgot it. how tightly can quick impulses bind—forever.
outside, they encountered the judge in search of his delinquent charges.
“i’m sorry, dick,” he said. “dead loss, my boy. this beastly wind is your undoing.”
“i’m not worrying, judge,” responded gordon, grimly. “i intend for some one else to do that.”
“hellity damn, dick, hellity damn!” exploded jim munson in his ear. the words came whistling through his lips, caught and whirled backward by the play of the storm. the cold was getting bitter, and a fine, cutting snow was at last driving before the wind.
gordon, with a set face, plunged back into the room—already fire licked. langford and munson followed. there sat the little tea-service staring at them with dumb pathos. the three succeeded in rolling the safe with all its precious documents arranged within, out into the street. nothing else mattered much—to gordon. but other things were saved, and jim gallantly tossed out everything he could lay his hands on before gordon ordered everybody out for good and all. it was no longer safe to be within. gordon was the last one out. he carried a battered little teakettle in his hand. he looked at it in a whimsical surprise as if he had not known until then that he had it in his hand. obeying a sudden impulse, he held it out to louise.
“please take care of—my poor little dream,” he whispered with a strange, intent look.
before she could comprehend the significance or give answer, the judge had faced about. he bore the girls back to the hotel, scolding helplessly all the way as they scudded with the wind. but louise held the little tin kettle firmly.
men knew of richard gordon that night that he was a marked man. the secret workings of a secret clan had him on their proscription list. some one had at last found this unwearied and doggedly persistent young fellow in the way. in the way, he was a menace, a danger. he must be removed from out the way. he could not be bought from it—he should be warned from it. so now his home—his work room and his rest room, the first by many hours daily the more in use, with all its furnishings of bachelor plainness and utility, that yet had held a curious charm for some men, friends and cronies like langford—was burning that he might be warned. could any one say, “jesse black has done this thing”? would he not bring down proof of guilt by a retaliation struck too soon? it would seem as if he were anticipating an unfavorable verdict. so men reasoned. and even then they did not arise to stamp out the evil that had endured and hugged itself and spit out corruption in the cattle country. that was reserved for—another.
they talked of a match thrown down at the courthouse by a tramp, likely,—when it was past midnight, when the fire broke out with the wind a piercing gale, and when no vagrant but had long since left such cold comfort and had slept these many weeks in sunnier climes. some argued that the windows of the court-room might have been left open and the stove blown down by the wind tearing through, or the stove door might have blown open and remains of the fire been blown out, or the pipe might have fallen down. but it was a little odd that the same people said dick gordon’s office likely caught fire from flying sparks. dick’s office was two blocks to westward of the court-house and it would have been a brave spark and a lively one that could have made headway against that northwester.
