Prairie Flowers Part 21

"Yes," answered the girl, "of course you had the right. Only I--we--didn't leave it there on purpose. It----"

"It don't make any difference how it come to be there," he said dully, and as he pa.s.sed his hand heavily across his brow, she saw that his fingers fumbled for a moment on the bandage. "The news got around right quick. It was only last night."

"Long Bill Kearney stuck one on the corral post, and he left some at the lambing camp."

"Long Bill, eh?" The man repeated the name mechanically, with his eyes on the square of paper, while the girl pushed the blankets back and placed dishes upon the table.

"You must eat, now," she reminded him, as she filled his plate and poured a cup of steaming coffee.

The Texan drew up a chair and ate in silence. When he had finished he rolled a cigarette: "One hundred dollars," he said, as though speaking to himself, "that's a right pickyune reward to offer for a full-grown man. Why, there's over a thousand for Ca.s.s Grimshaw."

"Ca.s.s Grimshaw is a horse-thief. Apparently, horses are held in higher regard than mere wives."

Tex disregarded the withering sarcasm. He answered, evenly, "Looks that way. I suppose they figure a man could steal more of 'em."

"And now that Purdy has stolen her from you, will you continue the search, or look around for another. Surely, wives are cheap--another hundred dollars oughtn't to make any difference."

"No. Another hundred won't make any difference. Win Endicott was a fool to post that reward. It makes things look bad----"

"Look bad!" cried the girl, angrily. "Could it look any worse than it is?"

"No," agreed the Texan, "not with Purdy into it, it couldn't."

"Because, now--he'll probably claim the reward he and Long Bill--and you will have had your trouble for your pains."

"Claim the reward!" exclaimed the Texan. To the girl's surprise he seemed to grasp at the thought as a drowning man would grasp at a straw.

There was a new light in his eyes and the words seemed to hold a ray of hope. "Do you suppose he would? Would he hold her safe for a thousand dollars? Prob'ly he'll try to get more!" The man talked rapidly in short jerky sentences. "How'd Long Bill cross the river? Have those two got together? Does Purdy know about the reward?"

"Long Bill was riding----"

"Purdy's horse?"

"Not the one Purdy rode today--but, I think I've seen Purdy ride that horse."

"But, why did they go on spreadin' these bills? Why didn't they keep it to themselves?" The girl shook her head, and after a few moments of silence, during which his fists opened and closed as if striving to grasp at the truth, the Texan spoke: "Maybe if they had the girl hid away safe, they wanted folks to be on the lookout for me." He pushed back his chair abruptly and as he stood up the girl indicated the blankets, and the package of food.

"Here are blankets," she said, "and there is grub for tomorrow. There is a bunk in the loft----"

The Texan gathered the things into his arms: "Never mind the bunk," he said, "I'll sleep in the hay. I'll be wanting an early start. You've helped, girl," he said looking straight into her eyes, "you've guessed wrong--but you've helped--maybe more than you know. I reckon Win wasn't such a fool with his reward after all," and before she could frame a reply, the man had opened the door and disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER XX

AT CINNABAR JOE'S

Along toward the middle of the afternoon Cinnabar Joe laid down his hammer and smilingly accepted the sandwich his wife held out to him.

"You sure don't figure on starvin' me none, Jennie," he grinned as he bit generously into the thick morsel.

"Ranchin's some different from bartendin'--an' you're workin' awful hard, Joe." She surveyed the half-completed stable with critical eye: "Couple more weeks an' it'll be done!" she exclaimed in admiration, "I didn't know you was so handy. Look over to the house."

Cinnabar looked: "Gee! Curtains in the window! Looks like a regular outfit, now."

"Do you like 'em--honest? I didn't think you'd even notice they was hung." With the pride of new proprietorship, her eyes travelled over the tiny log cabin, the horse corral with its new peeled posts, and the stable which still lacked the roof: "We ain't be'n here quite two months, an' the best part is, we done it all ourselves. Why, Joe, I can't hardly believe we've really got an outfit of our own--with horses an' two hundred an' fifty head of cattle! It don't seem real. Seems like I'm bound to wake up an hear Hank roarin' to git up an' git breakfast. That's the way it ended so many times--my dream. I'm so sick of hotels I hope I'll never see another one all my life!"

"You an' me both! It's the same with bartendin'. But you ain't a-goin'

to wake up. This here's _real_!"

"Oh, I hope we can make a go of it!" cried the girl, a momentary shadow upon her face, "I hope nothin' happens----"

Her husband laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder: "They ain't nothin' goin' to happen," he rea.s.sured her, "we've got to make a go of it! What with all both of us has be'n able to save, an' with the bank stakin' us fer agin as much--they ain't no two ways about it--we've got to make good."

"Who's that?" asked the girl, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering toward the mouth of a coulee that gave into Red Sand Creek from the direction of the bad lands. Cinnabar followed her gaze and both watched a horseman who, from the shelter of a cutbank seemed to be submitting the larger valley to a most careful scrutiny.

"One of them horse-thieves, I guess," ventured, the girl, in a tone of disgust, "I wisht, Joe, you wouldn't have no truck with 'em."

"I don't have no dealin's with 'em, except to keep my mouth shut an'

haul their stuff out from town--same as all the other ranchers down in here does. A man wouldn't last long down here that didn't--they'd put him out of business. You don't need to fear I'll throw in with 'em. I guess if a man can tend bar for six years an' stay straight--straight enough so the bank ain't afraid to match his pile an' shove the money out through the window to him--there ain't much chance he won't stay straight ranchin'."

"It ain't that, Joe!" the girl hastened to a.s.sure him, "I never would married you if I hadn't know'd you was square. I don't want nothin' to do with them crooks--I've got a feelin' that, somehow, they'll throw it into you."

"About the only ones there is around here is Ca.s.s Grimshaw's gang an'

outside of runnin' off horses, Ca.s.s Grimshaw's on the level--everyone knows that."

"Well," replied the girl, doubtfully, "maybe they might be one horse-thief like that--but a whole gang--if they was that square they wouldn't be horse-thieves."

"What Ca.s.s says goes----"

"Look at comin', yonder!" interrupted Jennie, pointing to the lone rider, "if it ain't that low-down Jack Purdy, I'll jump in the crick!"

At the mention of the name of Purdy, Cinnabar Joe started perceptibly.

His wife noticed the movement, slight as it was--noted also, in one swift sidewise glance, that his face paled slightly under its new-found tan, and that a furtive--almost a hunted look had crept into his eyes.

Did her husband fear this man, and if so--why? A sudden nameless fear gripped her heart. She stepped close to Cinnabar Joe's side as though in some unaccountable way he needed her protection, and together they waited for the approaching rider. The man's horse splashed noisily into the creek, lowered his head to drink, but the rider jerked viciously on the reins so that the cruel spade bit pinked the foam at the animal's lips. Spurring the horse up the bank, he stopped before them, grinning.

"'Lo Cinnabar! 'Lo, Jennie! Heard you'd located on Red Sand, an' thought I'd run over an' look you up--bein' as we're neighbours."

"Neighbours!" cried the girl, in undisguised disgust, "Lord! I know'd the bad lands was bad enough--but I didn't think they was that bad. I thought you was plumb out of the country or dead, long before this!"

The man leered insolently: "Oh, you did, eh? Well, I ain't out of the country--an' I ain't dead--by a h.e.l.l of a ways! I guess Cinnabar wouldn't sob none if I was dead. You don't seem tickled to death to see an' old pal."

"Sure, you're welcome here, Jack. Anyone is. Anything I can do for you?"

The man seemed to pay no attention to the words, and swinging from the saddle, threw an arm over the horn, and surveyed the outfit with a sneering grin: "Saved up enough to start you an outfit of yer own, eh?

You ought to done pretty good tendin' bar for six years, with what you got paid, an' what you could knock down. Go to it! I'm for you. The better you do, the better I'll like it."

"What I've saved, I've earnt," replied Cinnabar evenly.

"Oh, sure--a man earns all he gits--no matter how he gits it. Even if it's shootin' up his old pals an' grabbin' off the reward."