Langford of the Three Bars Part 11

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 hors.e.m.e.n 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? G.o.d knows I don't wonder. It was h.e.l.lish. 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."

CHAPTER XI

"YOU ARE-THE BOSS"

She held out her left hand with a sad little smile. "It is good of you to come so soon," she said, simply.

She had begged so earnestly to sit up that Mrs. White had improvised an invalid's chair out of a huge old rocker and a cracker box. It did very well. Then she had partially clothed the girl in a skimpy wrapper of the sort Langford abominated, throwing a man's silk handkerchief where the wrapper failed to meet, and around the injured arm. Mrs. White had then recalled her husband from the stables where he was on the point of mounting to join the relief party that was to set off in search of Williston at ten o'clock. The starting point unanimously agreed upon was to be the pitiful remnants of Williston's home. Men shook their heads dubiously whenever the question of a possible leading trail was broached. The soil was hard and dry from an almost rainless July and August. The fugitives might strike across country anywhere with meagre chances of their trail being traced by any.

Mrs. White and her husband, kindly souls both, lifted the girl as gently as might be from the bed to the rudely constructed invalid's chair by the sitting-room window. Then they had left her-the woman to putter around her kitchen, the man to make good his appointment. But the exertion had been too much for Mary. She had counted on strength that she did not possess. Where had she lost it all? she wondered, lacking comprehension of her exceeding weakness. To be sure, her arm alternately ached and smarted, but one's arm was really such a small part of one, and she had been so strong-always. She tried to shake off the faintness creeping over her. It was effort thrown away. She lay back on her pillow, very white and worn, her pretty hair tangled and loosened from its coils.

Paul came. He was dusty and travel-stained. He had been almost continuously in his saddle since near midnight of the night before. He was here, big, strong, and worthy. Mary did not cry, but she remembered how she had wanted to a few hours ago and she wondered that she could not now. Strangely enough, it was Paul who wanted to cry now-but he didn't. He only swallowed hard and held her poor hand with all gentleness, afraid to let go lest he also let go his mastery over the almost insurmountable lump in his throat.

"I tried to come sooner," he said, huskily, at last, releasing her hand and standing before her. "But I've been riding all over-for men, you know,-and I had a talk with Gordon, too. It took time. He is coming out to see you this afternoon. He is coming with Doc. Don't you think you had better go back to bed now? You are so-so white. Let me carry you back to bed before I go."

"Are you going, too?" asked Mary, looking at him with wide eyes of grat.i.tude.

"Surely," he responded, quickly. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I-I-didn't know. I thought-there were a lot going-there would be enough without you. But-I am glad. If you go, it will be all right.

You will find him if any one can."

"Won't you let me carry you back to bed till Doc comes?" said Langford, brokenly.

"I could not bear it in bed," she said, clearly. Her brown eyes were beginning to shine with fever, and red spots had broken out in her pale cheeks. "If you make me go, I shall die. I hear it all the time when I am lying down-galloping, galloping, galloping. They never stop. They always begin all over again."

"What galloping, little girl?" asked Langford, soothingly. He saw she was becoming delirious. If Doc and d.i.c.k would only come before he had to go. But they were not coming until after dinner. He gazed down the dusty road. They would wait for him, the others. He was their leader by the natural-born right of push and energy, as well as by his having been the sole partic.i.p.ant, with his own cowboys, in the last night's tragedy. But would he do well to keep them waiting? They had already delayed too long. And yet how could he leave Williston's little girl like this-even to find Williston?

"They are carrying my father away," she said, with startling distinctness. "Don't you hear them? If you would listen, you could hear them. Do listen! They are getting faint now-you can hardly hear them.

They are fainter-fainter-fainter-"

She had raised her head. There was an alert look on her face. She leaned slightly toward the window.

"Good G.o.d! A man can't stand everything!" cried Langford, hoa.r.s.ely. He tore the knotted handkerchief from his throat. It was as if he was choking. Then he put his cool, strong hand to her burning forehead and gently smoothed back the rough hair. Gradually, the fixed look of an indescribable horror pa.s.sed away from her face. The strained, hard eyes softened, became dewy. She looked at him, a clinging helplessness in her eyes, but sweet and sane.

"Don't you worry, child," he said, comfortingly. "They can't help finding him. Twenty men with the sheriff start on the trail. There'll be fifty before night. They can't help finding him. I'm going to stay right here with you till Doc comes. I'll catch up with them before they've gone far. I'll send word to the boys not to wait. Must be somebody around the house, I reckon, besides the old lady."

He started cheerily for the door.

"Mr. Langford!"