Langford of the Three Bars Part 8

There was a stir in the forward part of the car. A man, hitherto sitting quietly by the side of an alert wiry little fellow who sat next the aisle, had attempted to bolt the car by springing over the empty seat in front of him and making a dash for the door. It was daring, but in vain.

His companion, as agile as he, had seized him and forced him again into his place before the rest of the pa.s.sengers fully understood that the attempt had really been made.

"Is he crazy? Are they taking him to Yankton?" asked Louise, the pretty color all gone from her face. "Did he think to jump off the train?"

"That's John Yellow Wolf, a young half-breed. He's wanted up in the Hills for cattle-rustling-United States Court case. That's Johnson with him, Deputy United States Marshal."

"Poor fellow," said Louise, pityingly.

"Don't waste your sympathy on such as he. They are degenerates-many of these half-breeds. They will swear to anything. They inherit all the evils of the two races. Good never mixes. Yellow Wolf would swear himself into everlasting torment for a pint of whiskey. You see my cause of complaint? But never think, Miss Dale, that these poor chaps of half-breeds, who are hardly responsible, are the only ones who are willing to swear to d.a.m.nable lies." There was a tang of bitterness in his voice. "Perjury, Miss Dale, perjury through fear or bribery or self-interest, G.o.d knows what, it is there I must break, I suppose, until the day of judgment, unless-I run away."

Louise, through all the working of his smart and sting, felt the quiet reserve strength of this man beside her, and, with a quick rush of longing to do her part, her woman's part of comforting and healing, she put her hand, small, ungloved, on his rough coat sleeve.

"Is that what you meant a while ago? But you don't mean it, do you? It is bitter and you do not mean it. Tell me that you do not mean it, Mr.

Gordon, please," she said, impulsively.

Smothering a wild impulse to keep the hand where it had lain such a brief, palpitating while, Gordon remained silent. G.o.d only knows what human longing he crushed down, what intense discouragement, what sick desire to lay down his thankless task and flee to the uttermost parts of the world to be away from the crying need he yet could not still. Then he answered simply, "I did not mean it, Miss Dale."

And then there did not seem to be anything to say between them for a long while. The half-breed had settled down with stolid indifference.

People had resumed their newspapers and magazines and day dreams after the fleeting excitement. It was very warm. Louise tried to create a little breeze by flicking her somewhat begrimed handkerchief in front of her face. Gordon took a newspaper from his pocket, folded it and fanned her gently. He was not used to the little graces of life, perhaps, but he did this well. An honest man and a kindly never goes far wrong in any direction.

"You must not think, Miss Dale," he said, seriously, "that it is all bad up here. I am only selfish. I have been harping on my own little corner of wickedness all the while. It is a good land. It will be better before long."

"When?" asked Louise.

"When we convict Jesse Black and when our Indian neighbors get over their mania for divorce," he answered, laughing softly.

Louise laughed merrily and so the journey ended as it had begun, with a laugh and a jest.

In the Judge's runabout, Louise held out her hand.

"I'm almost homesick," she cried, smiling.

CHAPTER IX

THE ATTACK ON THE LAZY S

It was late. The August night was cool and sweet after a weary day of intense heat. The door was thrown wide open. It was good to feel the night air creeping into the stifling room. There was no light within; and without, nothing but the brilliant stars in the quiet, brooding sky.

Williston was sitting just within the doorway. Mary, her hands clasped idly around her knees, sat on the doorstep, thoughtfully staring out into the still darkness. There was a stir.

"Bedtime, little girl," said Williston.

"Just a minute more, daddy. Must we have a light? Think how the mosquitoes will swarm. Let's go to bed in the dark."

"We will shut the door and next Summer, little girl, you shall have your screens. I promise you that, always providing, of course, Jesse Black leaves us alone."

Had it not been so dark, Mary could have seen the wistful smile on the thin, scholarly face. But though she could not see it, she knew it was there. There had been fairer hopes and more generous promises in the past few years. They had all gone the dreary way of impotent striving, of bitter disappointment. There was little need of light for Mary to read her father's thoughts.

"Sure, daddy," she answered, cheerily. "And I'll see that you don't forget. As for Jesse Black, he wouldn't dare with the Three Bars on his trail. Well, if you must have a light, you must," rising and stretching her firm-fleshed young arms far over her head. "You can't forget you were born in civilization, can you, daddy? I am sure I could be your man in the dark, if you'd let me, and I always turn your nightshirt right side out before hanging it on your bedpost, and your sheet and spread are turned down, and water right at hand. You funny, funny little father, who can't go to bed in the dark." She was rummaging around a shelf in search of matches. "Now, I have forgotten long since that I wasn't born on the plains. It wouldn't hurt me if I had misplaced my nightdress. I've done it," with a gay little laugh. He must be cheered up at all costs, this buffeted and disappointed but fine-minded, high-strung, and lovable father of hers. "And I haven't taken my hair down nights since-oh, since months ago, till-oh, well-so you see it's easy enough for me to go to bed in the dark."

Her hand touched the match box at last. A light flared out.

"Shut the door quick, dad," she said, lighting the lamp on the table.

"The skeeters'll eat us alive."

Williston stepped to the door. Just a moment he stood there in the doorway, the light streaming out into the night, tall, thoughtful, no weakling in spite of many failures and many mistakes. A fair mark he made, outlined against the brightly lighted room. It was quiet. Not even a coyote shrilled. And while he stood there looking up at the calm stars, a sudden sharp report rang out and the sacred peace of G.o.d, written in the serenity of still summer nights, was desecrated. Hissing and ominous, the bullet sang past Williston's head, perilously near, and lodged in the opposite wall. At that moment, the light was blown out. A great presence of mind had come to Mary in the time of imminent danger.

"Good, my dear!" cried Williston, in low tones. Quick as a flash, the door was slammed shut and bolted just as a second shot fell foul of it.

"Oh, my father!" cried Mary, groping her way to his side.

"Hush, my dear! They missed me clean. Don't lose your nerve, Mary. They won't find it so easy after all."

There had been no third shot. A profound silence followed the second report. There was no sound of horse or man. Whence, then, the shots? One man, maybe, creeping up like some foul beast of prey to strike in the dark. Was he still lurking near, abiding another opportunity?

It took but a moment for Williston to have the rifles c.o.c.ked and ready.

Mary took her own from him with a hand that trembled ever so slightly.

"What will you do, father?" she asked, holding her rifle lovingly and thanking G.o.d in a swift, unformed thought for every rattlesnake or other noxious creature whose life she had put out while doing her man's work of riding the range,-work which had given her not only a man's courage but a man's skill as well.

"Take the back window, girl," he answered, briefly. "I'll take the front. Stand to the side. Get used to the starlight and shoot every shadow you see, especially if it moves. Keep track of your shots, don't waste an effort and don't let anything creep up on you. They mustn't get near enough to fire the house."

His voice was sharp and incisive. The drifting habit had fallen from him, and he was his own master again.

Several heavy minutes dragged away without movement, without sound from without. The ticking of the clock pressed on strained ears like ghastly bell-tolling. Their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and, by the dim starlight, they were able to distinguish the outlines of the cattle-sheds, still, empty, black. Nothing moved out there.

"I think they're frightened off," said Mary at last, breathing more freely. "They were probably just one, or they'd not have left. He knew he missed you, or he would not have fired again. Do you think it was Jesse?"

"Jesse would not have missed," he said, grimly.

At that moment, a new sound broke the stillness, the whinny of a horse.

Reinforcement had approached within the shadow of the cattle-sheds.

Something moved out there at last.

"Daddy!" called Mary, in a choked whisper. "Come here-they are down at the sheds."

Williston stepped to the back window quickly.

"Change places," he said, briefly.

"Daddy!"

"Yes?"

"Keep up your nerve," she breathed between great heart-pumps.