The Night Riders Part 50

"Well, we'll get back with this," the officer replied quietly.

The dead man was lifted into the wagon, and, in a few minutes, the little party was on its way back to the ranch.

CHAPTER XXIII

A RETURN TO THE LAND OF THE PHILISTINES

The affairs of the ranch were taken in hand by Fyles. Everything was temporarily under his control, and an admirable administrator he proved. Nor could Tresler help thinking how much better he seemed suited by such pastoral surroundings than by the atmosphere of his proper calling. But this appointment only lasted a week. Then the authorities drafted a man to relieve him for the more urgent business of the investigation into the death of the rancher and his foreman, and the trial of the half-breed raiders captured at Widow Dangley's.

Diane, acting on Tresler's advice, had taken up her abode with Mrs.

Doc. Osler in Forks, which good, comfortable, kind, gossipy old woman insisted on treating her as a bereaved and ailing child, who must be comforted and ministered to, and incidentally dosed with tonics. As a matter of fact, Diane, though greatly shocked at the manner and conditions of her father's death, and the discovery that he was so terrible an outlaw, was suffering in no sense the bereavement of the death of a parent. She was heartily glad to get away from her old home, that had held so much unhappiness and misery for her. Later on, when Tresler sent her word that it was imperative for him to go into Whitewater with Fyles, that he had been summoned there as a witness, she was still more glad that she had left it. Thanks to the influence and consideration of Fyles, she had been spared the ordeal of the trial in Whitewater. She had given her sworn testimony at the preliminary inquiry on the ranch, and this had been put in as evidence at the higher court.

And so it was nearly a month before Tresler was free to return to Forks. And during that time he had been kept very busy. What with the ranch affairs, and matters of his own concerns, he had no time for anything but brief and infrequent little notes of loving encouragement to the waiting girl. But these messages tended otherwise than might have been expected. The sadness that had so long been almost second nature to the girl steadily deepened, and Mrs. Osler, ever kind and watchful of her charge, noticed the depression settling on her, and with motherly solicitude--she had no children of her own--insisted on the only remedy she understood--physic. And the girl submitted to the kindly treatment, knowing well enough that there was no physic to help her complaint. She knew that, in spite of his tender messages and a.s.surances of affection, Tresler could never be anything more in her life than he was at present. Even in death her father had carried out his threat. She could never marry. It would be a cruel outrage on any man. She told herself that no self-respecting man would ever marry a girl with such a past, such parentage.

And so she waited for her lover's return to tell him. Once she thought of writing it, but she knew Jack too well. He would only come down to Forks post haste, and that might upset his plans; and she had no desire to cause him further trouble. She would tell him her decision when he had leisure to come to her. Then she would wait for the government orders about the ranch, and, if she were allowed to keep it, she would sell the land as soon as possible and leave the country forever. She felt that this course was the right one to pursue; but it was very, very hard, and no measure of tonics could dispel the deepening shadows which the cruelty of her lot had brought to her young face.

It was wonderful the kindness and sympathy extended to her in that rough settlement. There was not a man or woman, especially the men, who did not do all in his or her power to make her forget her troubles. No one ever alluded to Mosquito Bend in her presence, and, instead, a.s.sumed a rough, cheerful jocularity, which sat as awkwardly on the majority as it well could. For most of them were illiterate, hard-living folk, rendered desperately serious in the struggle for existence.

And back to this place Tresler came one day. He was a very different man now from what he had been on his first visit. He looked about him as he crossed the market-place. Quickly locating Doc. Osler's little house, he smiled to himself as he thought of the girl waiting for him there. But he kept to his course and rode straight on to Carney's saloon. Here, as before, he dismounted. But he needed no help or guide. He straightway hooked his horse's reins over the tie-post and walked into the bar.

The first man to greet him was his old acquaintance Slum Ranks. The little man looked up at him in a speculative manner, slanting his eyes at him in a way he remembered so well. There was no change in the rascal's appearance. In fact, he was wearing the same clothes Tresler had first seen him in. They were no cleaner and no dirtier. The man seemed to have utterly stagnated since their first meeting, just as everything else in the saloon seemed to have stagnated. There were the same men there--one or two more besides--the same reeking atmosphere, the same dingy hue over the whole interior. Nothing seemed changed.

Slum's greeting was characteristic. "Wal, blind-hulks has pa.s.sed--eh?

I figgered you was comin' out on top. Guess the government'll treat you han'some."

The butcher guffawed from his place at the bar. Tresler saw that he was still standing with his back to it; his hands were still gripping the moulded edge, as though he had never changed his position since the first time he had seen him. Shaky, the carpenter, looked up from the little side table at which he was playing "solitaire" with a greasy pack of cards; his face still wore the puzzled look with which he had been contemplating the maze of spots and pictures a moment before. Those others who were new to him turned on him curiously as they heard Slum's greeting, and Carney paused in the act of wiping a gla.s.s, an occupation which never failed him, however bad trade might be.

Tresler felt that something was due to those who could display so much interest in his return, so he walked to the bar and called for drinks. Then he turned to Slum.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to take up my abode here for a week or two."

"I'm real glad," said Ranks, his little eyes lighting up at the prospect. He remembered how profitable this man had proved before.

"The missis'll be glad, too," he added. "I 'lows she's a far-seein'

wummin. We kep a best room fer such folk as you, now. A bran' noo iron bed, wi' green an' red stripes, an' a washbowl goin' with it. Say, it's a real dandy layout, an' on'y three dollars a week wi'out board.

Guess I'll git right over an' tell her to fix--eh?"

Tresler protested and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Don't bother.

Carney, here, is going to fix me up; aren't you, Carney?"

"That's how," replied the saloon-keeper, with a triumphant grin at the plausible Slum.

"Wal, now. You plumb rattle me. To think o' your goin' over from a pal like that," said Slum, protestingly, while the butcher guffawed and stretched his arms further along the bar.

"Guess he's had some," observed the carpenter, shuffling his cards anew. "I 'lows that bed has bugs, an' the wash-bowl's mostly used dippin' out swill," he finished up scornfully.

Ranks eyed the sad-faced man with an unfriendly look. "Guess I never knew you but what you was insultin', Shaky," he observed, in a tone of pity. "Some folks is like that. Guess you git figgerin' them cards too close. You never was bustin' wi' brains. Say, Carney," turning back to the bar complainingly, "wher's them durned brandy 'c.o.c.ks' Mr.

Tresler ordered a whiles back? You're gettin' most like a fun'ral on an up-hill trail. Slow--eh? Guess if we're to be pizened I sez do it quick."

"Comin' along, Slum," replied Carney, winking knowingly to let Tresler understand that the man's impatience was only a covering for his discomfiture at Shaky's hands. "I've done my best to pizen you this ten year. Guess Shaky's still pinin' fer the job o' nailin' a few planks around you. Here you are. More comin'."

"Who's needin' me?" asked Shaky, looking up from his cards. "Slum Ranks?" he questioned, pausing. "Guess I've got a plank or two fit fer him. Red pine. Burns better."

He lit his pipe with great display and sucked at it noisily. Slum lowered his c.o.c.ktail and turned a disgusted look on him.

"Say, go easy wi' that lucifer. Don't breathe on it, or ther' won't be no need fer red pine fer you."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Carney, jocosely, "the present--kep to the present. Because Slum, here, runs a--well, a boardin'

establishment, ther' ain't no need to discuss his future so coa.r.s.ely."

"Not so much slack, Carney," said Slum, a little angrily. "Guess my boardin' emporium's rilin' you some. You're feelin' a hur'cane; that's wot you're feelin', I guess. Makes you sick to see folks gittin' value fer their dollars, don't it?"

"Good fer you, good fer you," cried the butcher, and subsided with a loud guffaw.

The unusual burst of speech from this man caused general surprise. The entire company paused to stare at the shining, grinning face.

"Sail in, Slum," said a lean man Tresler had heard addressed as "Sawny" Martin. "I allus sez as you've got a dead eye fer the tack-head ev'ry time. But go easy, or the boss'll bar you on the slate."

"Don't owe him nuthin'," growled Slum.

"Which ain't or'nary in this company," observed the smiling Carney; he loved to get Slum angry. "Say, Shaky," he went on, "how do Slum fix you in his--hotel? You don't seem bustin' wi' vittals."

"Might do wuss," responded the carpenter, sorrowfully. "But, y' see, I stan' in wi' Doc. Osler, an' he physics me reg'lar."

Everybody laughed with the butcher this time.

"Say, you gorl-durned 'fun'ral boards,' you're gittin' kind o' fresh, but I'd bet a greenback to a last year's corn-shuck you don't quit ther' an' come grazin' around Carney's pastures, long as my missis does the cookin'."

"I 'lows your missis ken cook," said Shaky, with enthusiasm. "The feller as sez she can't lies. But wi' her, my respec' fer your hog-pen ends. I guess this argyment is closed fer va-cation. Who's fer 'draw'?"

Slum turned back to the bar. "Here, Carney," he said, planking out a ten-dollar bill, "hand over chips to that. We're losin' blessed hours ga.s.sin'. I'm goin' fer a hand at 'draw.' An' say, give us a new deck o' cards. Guess them o' Shaky's needs curry-combin' some. Mr.

Tresler," he went on, turning to his old boarder, "mebbe I owe you some. Have you a notion?"

"No thanks, Slum," replied Tresler, decidedly. "I'm getting an old hand now."

"Ah!"

And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features.

Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling pa.s.sion for "draw." And what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker--an artist. The baser instincts of the game appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there to best each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood that his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only would he resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would be real trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had been doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for years more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had no opinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them, and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in Life's great battle.

But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had been waiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler asked him the reason.

"Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler," the burly man said, with something like a smile. "He wouldn't come in. Shall we go out to him?"

The other a.s.sented, and they pa.s.sed out. Joe was sitting on his buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his old eyes.