The Night Riders Part 52

"I don't care what he was, Danny. It doesn't make the least difference to me. I'm not marrying your father."

Diane was distressed. The lightness of his treatment of the subject bothered her. But she was in deadly earnest.

"But, Jack, think of the disgrace! Your people! All the folk about here!"

"Now don't let us be silly, Danny," Tresler said, coming over to the girl's side and taking possession of her forcibly. In spite of protest his arm slipped round her waist, and he drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. "My people are not marrying you. Nor are the folk--who, by the way, can't, and have no desire to throw stones--doing so either.

Now, you saved my life twice; once through your gentle nursing, once through your bravery. And I tell you no one has the right to save life and then proceed to do all in their power to make that life a burden to the miserable wretch on whom they've lavished such care. That would be a vile and unwomanly action, and quite foreign to your gentle heart. Sweetheart," he went on, kissing her again, "you must complete the good work. I am anything but well yet. In fact I am so weak that any shock might cause a relapse. In short, there is only one thing, as far as I can see, to save me from a horrid death--consumption or colic, or some fell disease--and that's marriage. I know you must be bored to death by----No," as the girl tried to stop him, "don't interrupt, you must know all the fearsome truth--a sort of chronic invalid, but if you don't marry me, well, I'll get Joe to bury me somewhere at the crossroads. Look at all the money I've spent in getting our home together. Think of it, Danny; our home! And old Joe to help us. And----"

"Oh, stop, stop, or you'll make me----"

"Marry me. Just exactly what I intend, darling. Now, seriously, let's forget the old past; Jake, your father, Anton, all of them--except Arizona."

Diane nestled closer to him in spite of her protests. There was something so strong, reliant, masterful about her Jack that made him irresistible to her. She knew she was wrong in allowing herself to think like this at such a moment, but, after all, she was a weak, loving woman, fighting in what she conceived to be the cause of right.

If she found that her heart, so long starved of affection, overcame her sense of duty, was there much blame? Tresler felt the gentle clinging movement, and pressed her for her answer at once.

"Time's nearly up, dearest. See through that window, Fyles and Joe are coming over to you. Is it marry, or am I to go to the Arctic regions fishing for polar bears without an overcoat? I don't care which it is--I mean--no. Yes, quick! They're on the verandah."

The girl nodded. "Yes," she said, so low that his face came in contact with hers in his effort to hear, and stayed there until the burly sheriff knocked at the door.

He entered, followed by Joe. Tresler and Diane were standing side by side. He was still holding her hand.

"Fyles," Tresler said at once, beaming upon both men, "let me present you to the future Mrs. John Tresler. Joe," he added, turning on the little man who was twisting his slouch hat up unmercifully in his nervous hand, and grinning ferociously, "are the corrals prepared, and have you got my branding-irons ready? You see I've rounded her up."

The little man grinned worse than ever, and appeared to be in imminent peril of extending his torn mouth into the region of his ear. Diane listened to the horrible suggestion without misgiving, merely remarking in true wifely fashion--

"Don't be absurd, Jack!"

At which Fyles smiled with appreciation. Then he coughed to bring them to seriousness, and produced an official envelope from his tunic pocket.

"I've just brought you the verdict on your property, Miss Marbolt," he said deliberately. "Shall I read it to you, or would you----?"

"Never mind the reading," said Diane impulsively. "Tell me the contents."

"Well, I confess it's better so. The legal terms are confusing," said the officer emphatically. "You can read them later. I don't guess the government could have acted better by you than they've done. The property,"--he was careful to avoid the rancher's name--"the property is to remain yours, with this proviso. An inquiry has been arranged for, into all claims for property lost during the last ten years in the district. And all approved claims will have to be settled out of the estate. Five years is the time allowed for all such claims to be put forward. After that everything reverts to you."

Diane turned to her lover the moment the officer had finished speaking.

"And, Jack, when that time comes we'll sell it all and give the money to charity, and just live on in our own little home."

"Done!" exclaimed Tresler. And seizing her in his arms he picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss. The action caused the sheriff to cough loudly, while Joe flung his hat fiercely to the ground, and in a voice of wildest excitement, shouted--

"Gee, but I want to holler!"

CHAPTER XXIV

ARIZONA

When winter comes in Canada it shuts down with no uncertainty. The snow settles and remains. The sun shines, but without warmth. The still air bites through any clothing but furs, moccasins, or felt-lined overshoes. The farmers hug the shelter of their houses, and only that work which is known as "doing the ch.o.r.es" receives attention when once winter sets its seal upon the land. Little traffic pa.s.ses over the drifted trails now; a horseman upon a social visit bent, a bobsleigh loaded with cord-wood for the wood-stoves at home, a cutter, drawn by a rattling team of young bronchos, as rancher and wife seek the alluring stores of some distant city to make their household purchases, even an occasional "jumper," one of those low-built, red-painted, one-horsed sleighs, which resemble nothing so much as a packing-case with a pair of shafts attached. But these are all; for work has practically ceased in the agricultural regions, and a period of hibernation has begun, when, like the dormouse, rancher and farmer alike pa.s.s their slack time in repose from the arduous labors of the open season.

Even the most brilliant sunlight cannot cheer the mournful outlook to any great extent. Out on the Edmonton trail, hundreds of miles to the north of Forks, at the crossroads where the Battule trail branches to the east, the cheerless prospect is intensified by the skeleton arms of a snow-crowned bluff. The shelter of trees is no longer a shelter against the wind, which now comes shrieking through the leafless branches and drives out any benighted creature foolish enough to seek its protection against the winter storm. But in winter the crossroads are usually deserted.

Contrary to custom, however, it is evident that a horseman has recently visited the bluff. For there are hoof-prints on one of the crossing trails; on the trail which comes from somewhere in the south.

The marks are sharp indentations and look fresh, but they terminate as the crossing is reached. Here they have turned off into the bush and are lost to view. The matter is somewhat incomprehensible.

But there is something still more incomprehensible about the desolate place. Just beyond where the hoof-prints turn off a lightning-stricken pine tree stands alone, bare and blackened by the fiery ordeal through which it has pa.s.sed, and, resting in the fork of one of its shriveled branches, about the height of a horseman's head, is a board--a black board, black as is the tree-trunk which supports it.

As we draw nearer to ascertain the object of so strange a phenomenon on a prairie trail we learn that some one has inscribed a message to those who may arrive at the crossing. A message of strange meaning and obscure. The characters are laboriously executed in chalk, and have been emphasized with repeated markings and an attempt at block capitals. Also there is a hand sketched roughly upon the board, with an outstretched finger pointing vaguely somewhere in the direction of the trail which leads to Battule.

"_This is the One-Way Trail_"

We read this and glance at the pointing finger which is so shaky of outline, and our first inclination is to laugh. But somehow before the laugh has well matured it dies away, leaving behind it a look of wonder not unmixed with awe. For there is something sinister in the message, which, though we do not understand it, still has power to move us. If we are prairie folk we shall have no inclination to laugh at all. Rather shall we frown and edge away from the ominous black board; and it is more than probable we shall avoid the trail indicated, and prefer to make a detour if our destination should chance to be Battule.

Why is that board there? Who has set it up? And "the one-way trail" is the trail over which there is no returning. The message is no jest.

The coldly gleaming sun has set, and at last a horse and rider enter the bluff. They turn off into the bush and are seen no more. The long night pa.s.ses. Dawn comes again, and, as the daylight broadens, the horseman reappears and rides off down the trail. At evening he returns again; disappears into the bush again; and, with daylight, rides off again. Day after day this curious coming and going continues without any apparent object, unless it be that the man has no place but the skeleton bush in which to rest. And with each coming and going the man rides slower, he lounges wearily in his saddle, and before the end of a week looks a mere spectre of the man who first rode into the bluff. Starvation is in the emaciated features, the brilliant feverish eyes. His horse, too, appears little better.

At length one evening he enters the bush, and the following dawn fails to witness his departure. All that day there is the faint sound of a horse moving about amongst the trees with that limping gait which denotes the application of a knee-halter. But the man makes no sound.

As night comes on a solitary figure may be seen seated on a horse at a point which is sheltered from the trail by a screen of bushes. The man sits still, silent, but drooping. His tall gaunt frame is bent almost double over the horn of his saddle in his weakness. The horse's head is hanging heavy with sleep, but the man's great, wild eyes are wide open and alight with burning eagerness. The horse sleeps and frequently has to be awakened by its rider as it stumbles beneath its burden; but the man is as wakeful as the night-owl seeking its prey, and the grim set of his wasted face implies a purpose no less ruthless.

At dawn the position is unchanged. The man still droops over his saddle-horn, a little lower perhaps, but his general att.i.tude is the same. As the daylight shoots athwart the horizon and lightens the darkness of the bush to a gray twilight the horse raises his head and p.r.i.c.ks up his ears. The man's eyes glance swiftly toward the south and his alertness is intensified.

Now the soft rustle of flurrying snow becomes audible, and the m.u.f.fled pounding of a horse's hoofs can be heard upon the trail. The look that leaps into the waiting man's eyes tells plainly that this is what he has so patiently awaited, that here, at last, is the key to his lonely vigil. He draws his horse back further into the bushes and his hand moves swiftly to one of the holsters upon his hips. His thin, drawn features are sternly set, and the sunken eyes are lit with a deep, hard light.

Daylight broadens and reveals the barren surroundings; the sound draws nearer. The silent horseman grips his gun and lays it across his lap with his forefinger ready upon the trigger. His quick ears tell him that the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking his horse. The time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but his patience is not exhausted by any means. For more than a week, subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven him to beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting.

Now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles down the trail toward him. It is a slight fur-clad figure much like his own, but, to judge by the grim smile that pa.s.ses across his gaunt features, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. He notes the stranger's alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes, the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over the edge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close to the saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. Nor does he fail to observe the uneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that, in spite of the solitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings.

The stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. His sidelong glances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. His horse comes to a dead stand opposite them, and the rider's eyes become fixed upon the strange message. He reads; and while he reads his lips move like one who spells out the words he sees.

"This is the One-Way Trail," he reads. And then his eyes turn in the direction of the pointing finger.

He looks down the trail which leads to Battule, whither the finger is pointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his dusky features. Instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant for him. And, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhere out there. And yet he does not turn and flee. He simply sits looking and thinking.

Again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon the board and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. And all the time he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. For his mind goes back over many scenes that do him little credit. Even to his callous nature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and its effect he cannot shake off. And while he stares his dark features change their hue, and he pa.s.ses one mitted hand across his forehead.

There is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yards of him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty he retains his seat in the saddle; then he flashes a look in the direction whence the noise proceeds, only to reel back as though to ward off a blow. He is looking into the muzzle of a heavy "six" with Arizona's blazing eyes running over the sight.

The silence of the bush remained unbroken as the two men looked into each other's faces. The gun did not belch forth its death-dealing pellet. It was simply there, leveled, to enforce its owner's will. Its compelling presence was a power not easily to be defied in a country where, in those days, the surest law was carried in the holster on the hip. The man recovered and submitted. His hands, encased in mitts, had placed him at a woeful disadvantage.

Arizona saw this and lowered his gun, but his eyes never lost sight of the fur-clad hands before him. He straightened himself up in the saddle, refusing to display any of his weakness to this man.

"Guess I've waited fer you, 'Tough' McCulloch, fer nigh on a week," he said slowly, in a thin, strident voice. "I've coaxed you some too, I guess. You wus hidden mighty tight, but not jest tight 'nuff. I 'lows I located you, an' I wa'n't goin' to lose sight o' you. When you quit Skitter Bend, like the whipped cur you wus, I wus right hot on your trail. An' I ain't never left it. See? Say, in all the hundreds o'

miles you've traveled sence you quit the creek ther' ain't bin a move as you've took I ain't looked on at. I've trailed you, headed you, bin alongside you, an' located wher' you wus makin', an' come along an'