The Night Riders Part 41

"You know I haven't, Jack."

Diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. But his remained unresponsive. This sudden awakening from his dream of love had more than startled him. It had left him feeling resentful against somebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. But he meant to have it out, cost what it might.

"That's all right, then," he said. "Now, tell me this other reason."

Suddenly he leant forward and looked down into her eyes. His hands, now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a pa.s.sionate clasp, and his face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love.

"Remember," he said, "this is no child's play, Danny. I am not the man to give you up easily. I am weak, I know; but I've still got a fight in me, and so long as I am a.s.sured of your love, I swear nothing shall part us. I love you as I have never loved anybody in my life--and I just want only you. Now tell me this other reason, dear."

But Diane still hesitated. Her evident distress wrung her lover's heart. He realized now that there was something very serious behind it all. He had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with which she turned toward him, and further tried to put him off.

"Father says you are to leave this house to-day. Afterward you will be turned off the ranch. It is only through the sheriff backing the doctor's orders that you were not turned out of here before."

Tresler made no response for a moment. Then he burst out into a hard, mirthless laugh.

"So!" he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. "Listen to me. Your father can turn me out of this house--though I'll save him that trouble--but he can't turn me off this ranch. My residence here is bought and paid for for three years. The agreement is signed and sealed. No, no, let him try another bluff." Then his manner changed to one of gentle persuasion. "But you have not come to the real reason, little one. Out with it. It is a bitter plum, I can tell. Something which makes you dread not only its consequences, but--something else.

Tell it me, Danny. Whatever it is you may be sure of me. My love for you is unalterable. Believe me, nothing shall come between us."

His voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on Diane was to set two great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. He had driven her to a corner, and there was no escape. But even so she made one more effort to avoid her shameful disclosure.

"Will--will you not take me at my word, Jack?" she asked imploringly.

"Not in this, dearest," he replied.

He spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice that the long-pent tears came with a rush. He let her weep. He felt it would do her good. And, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, he urged her again.

"Tell me," he whispered.

"I----"

The man waited with wonderful patience.

"Oh, don't--don't make me!" she cried.

"Yes, I must."

And at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers.

"I--I--father is--is only my legal father. He was away three years. I was born three days before he returned."

"Well, well." Tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simple girl sat cowering under the weight of her mother's shame. Then he suddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. "Why, Danny," he cried, pressing her to him, "I never felt so happy over anything in my life as the fact that Julian Marbolt is not your father."

"But the shame of it!" cried the girl, imagining that her lover had not fully understood.

"Shame? Shame?" he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms.

"Never let me hear that word on your lips again. You are the truest, sweetest, simplest child in the world. You are mine, Danny. My very own. And I tell you right here that I've won you and will hold you to my last dying day."

Now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. And Tresler kissed her softly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls that wreathed about her head. Then, after a while, he sat looking out of the window with a hard, unyielding stare. Weak as he was, he was ready to do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfully in his arms.

CHAPTER XIX

HOT UPON THE TRAIL

The most welcome thing that had happened to the men on the ranch for many a long day was Tresler's return to the bunkhouse. He was hailed with acclamation. Though he had found it hard to part with Diane under the doubtful circ.u.mstances, there was some compensation, certainly gratification, in the whole-hearted welcome of his rough comrades. It was not the effusion they displayed, but the deliberateness of their reception of him, that indexed their true feelings. Teddy Jinks refused to serve out the supper hash until Tresler had all he required. Lew Cawley washed out a plate for him, as a special favor; and Raw Harris, pessimist as he was, and who had a way of displaying the fact in all the little every-day matters of life, cleaned and sharpened a knife for him by prodding it up to the hilt in the hard-beaten earth, and cleaned the p.r.o.ngs of a fork with the edge of his buckskin shirt. But he could not thus outrage his principles without excusing himself, which he did, to the effect that he guessed "invalid fellers need onusual feedin'." Jacob Smith, whose habit it was to take his evening meals seated at the foot of the upright log which served as part of the door casing, and which contact with his broad, buckskin-covered shoulders had polished till it shone resplendently, renounced his coveted position in the invalid's favor.

Tresler was a guest of honor, for whom, on this one occasion at least, nothing was too good. And in this position Arizona supported him, cursing the flies that fell into his friend's pannikin of tea, and hooking them out with the point of his hash-besmeared knife as he sat on his log beside him. Joe, too, had come down specially to share the meal, but he, being a member of the household, was very small fry at the bunkhouse.

And Tresler delighted in the kindness thus showered on him. The freedom from the sick-room did him good; the air was good to breathe, the plain, wholesome food was good; but most of all those bronzed, tough faces around him seemed to put new life and vigor into his enfeebled frame. He realized that it was high time that he was at work again.

And there was lots for him to hear. Every man among them had something to add to the general hash of events, and in their usual way proceeded to ladle it out without regard for audience, contradicting, interrupting, cursing, until the unfortunate man who was the b.u.t.t of their remarks found himself almost overpowered by the babel.

At length Arizona drew them up with one of his sudden "yanks."

"Say," he cried, his eyes glaring fiercely and embracing the whole party with a great, comprehensive roll, "you fellers is like a crowd o' coyotes around a bone. I 'lows Tresler ain't an a'mighty deal better'n a bone about now, but his lugs ain't deef. Y're jest a gorl-darned lot o' oneddicated hoboes."

Which attack had the effect of reducing the pandemonium, but in no way suppressing the ardent spirits of the party. It acted as a challenge, which Jacob Smith promptly took up.

"Say, boys," he cried, "we're goin' to git eddication from Arizona!"

His remark was followed by a derisive roar of laughter at Arizona's expense. But the moment it had subsided the derided one shot out his retort.

"Guess ther's things and critturs down our country we don't never figger to eddicate--them's hogs."

"Fer the reason which they knows more'n you," returned Jacob, in no way worried by the personality.

The boys considered the point achieved by Jacob, and another laugh at Arizona's expense went up. He had stumped the cowpuncher, who now entered the fight with wonderfully good-natured zest.

"Say," he observed, "I ain't had a heap to do wi' your folks, Jacob, but I'm guessin' ef you're talkin' Gospel, things don't run in your fam'ly."

"Call him a hog right out, Arizona," put in Raw, lazily.

"I ain't callin' Jacob no hog; et 'ud be a nasty trick--on the hog,"

observed the ready-tongued man.

"Hallo, Jacob!" cried Lew, as the laugh turned on the other man this time.

But Arizona resented the interference, and rounded on him promptly.

"Say, you pa.s.son feller, I ain't heerd tell as it's the ways o' your country to b.u.t.t in an' boost folk on to a sc.r.a.p. It's gener'ly sed you're mostly ready to do the sc.r.a.ppin'."

"Which means?" Lew grinned in his large way.

"Wal, it mostly means--let's hear from you fust hand."

"It's not much use hearing from me on the subject of hogs. They aren't great on 'em in my country. Besides, you seem quite at home with 'em."

Arizona sprang to his feet, and, walking over to the hulking form of the parson's son, held his hand out.