The Ranchman Part 27

Taylor's last shot, when he had been automatically pressing the trigger after Carrington had struck him viciously with his fist, had brought down the last of the three men who had ambushed him. And one of his last bullets had struck Carrington, who had recovered consciousness and staggered out of the house in time to see the end of the fight. And the big man, in a black, malignant fury of hatred, was staggering toward Taylor, lifting a foot to kick him, when from the direction of the clearing in front of the house came a voice, hoa.r.s.e and vibrant with a cold, deadly rage:

"One kick an' I blow the top of your head off!" Carrington stopped short and wheeled, to face Ben Mullarky.

The Irishman's eyes were blazing with wrath, and as he came forward, peering at the figures lying on the ground near the house, Carrington retreated, holding up his hands.

"Three of ye pilin' on one, eh?" said Mullarky as he looked down at Taylor, huddled against the side of the house. "An' ye got him, too, didn't ye? I've a domn big notion to blow the top of your head off, anny way. Ye slope, ye big limb of the divvle, or I'll do it!"

Mullarky watched while Carrington mounted his horse and rode up the river trail toward Dawes, and the instant Carrington was out of sight, Mullarky was down on his knees beside Taylor, taking a lightning inventory of his wounds.

"Four of them, looks like!" he muttered thickly, his voice shaking with pity for the slack, limp, smoke-blackened figure that lay silent, the trace of a smile on its face. "An' two of them through the shoulder!" He paused, awed. "Lord, what a shindy!"

Then, swiftly gulping down his sympathy and his rage, Mullarky ran to his horse, which he had left at the edge of the wood when he had heard the shooting. He led the animal back to where Taylor lay, tenderly lifted Taylor in his arms, walked to the horse, and after much labor got Taylor up in front of him on the horse, Taylor's weight resting on his legs, the man's head and shoulders resting against him, to ease the jars of the journey.

Then he started, traveling as swiftly as possible down the big slope toward his own house, not so very far away.

Spotted Tail, jealously watching his master, saw him lifted to the back of the other horse. Shrewdly suspecting that all was not going well, and that his master would need him presently, Spotted Tail trotted after Mullarky.

In this manner, with Spotted Tail a few paces in his rear, Mullarky, still tenderly carrying his burden, reached his cabin.

He stilled Mrs. Mullarky's hysterical questions with a short command:

"Hitch up the buckboard while I'm gettin' him in shape!"

And then, while Mrs. Mullarky did as she was bidden, Mullarky carried Taylor inside the cabin, bathed his wounds, stanching the flow of blood as best he could-and came out again, carrying Taylor, and placed him in the bed of the light spring-wagon, upon some quilts-and upon a pillow that Mrs. Mullarky ran into the house to get, emerging with the reproach:

"You'd be lettin' him ride on them hard boards!"

Following Mullarky's instructions, Mrs. Mullarky climbed to the driver's seat and sent the buckboard toward the Arrow, driving as fast as she thought she dared. And Ben Mullarky, on Spotted Tail, turned his face toward Dawes, riding as he had never ridden before.

Parsons had reached the Arrow shortly after Taylor had departed for Dawes. The man had stopped at the Mullarky cabin to inquire the way from the lady, and she had frankly commented upon Parsons' battered appearance.

"So it was Carrington that mauled you, eh?" she said. "Well, he's a mighty evil man-the divvle take his sowl!"

Parsons concurred in this view of Carrington, though he did not tell Mrs. Mullarky so. He went on his way, refusing the good woman's proffer of a horse, for he wanted to go afoot to the Arrow. He felt sure of Marion's sympathy, but he wanted to make himself as pitiable an object as possible. And as he walked toward the Arrow he mentally dramatized the moment of his appearance at the ranchhouse-a bruised and battered figure dragging itself wearily forward, dusty, thirst-tortured, and despairing. He knew that spectacle would win the girl's swift sympathy.

The fact that the girl herself had been through almost the same experience did not affect him at all-he did not even think of it.

And when Parsons reached the Arrow the scene was even as he had dreamed it-Marion Harlan had seen him from afar, and came running to him, placing an arm about him, helping him forward, whispering words of sympathy in his ears, so that Parsons really began to look upon himself as a badly abused martyr.

Marion cared for him tenderly, once she got him into the ranchhouse. She bathed his bruised face, prepared breakfast for him, and later, learning from him that he had not slept during the night, she sent him off to bed, asking him as he went into the room if he had seen Ben Mullarky.

"For," she added, "he came here early this morning, after Mr. Taylor left, and I sent him to the big house to get some things for me."

But Parsons had not seen Mullarky.

And at last, when the morning was nearly gone, and Marion saw a horse-drawn vehicle approaching the Arrow from the direction of Dawes, she ran out, thinking Ben Mullarky had brought her "things" in his buckboard. But it was not Ben who was coming, but Mrs. Mullarky. The lady's face was very white and serious, and when the girl came close and she saw the look on the good woman's face, she halted in her tracks and stood rigid, her own face paling.

"Why, Mrs. Mullarky, what has happened?"

"Enough, deary." Mrs. Mullarky waved an eloquent hand toward the rear of the buckboard, and slowly approaching, the girl saw the huddled figure lying there, swathed in quilts.

She drew her breath sharply, and with pallid face, swaying a little, she walked to the rear of the buckboard and stood, holding hard to the rim of a wheel, looking down at Taylor's face with its closed eyes and its ghastly color.

She must have screamed, then, for she felt Mrs. Mullarky's arms around her, and she heard the lady's voice, saying: "Don't, deary; he ain't dead, yet-an' he won't die-we won't let him die."

She stood there by the buckboard for a time-until Mrs. Mullarky, running to one of the outbuildings, returned with Bud Hemmingway. Then, nerved to the ordeal by Bud's businesslike methods, and the awful profanity that gushed from his clenched teeth, she helped them carry Taylor into the house.

They took Taylor into his own room and laid him on the bed; a long, limp figure, pitifully shattered, lying very white and still.

The girl stayed in the room while Mrs. Mullarky and Bud ran hither and thither getting water, cloths, stimulants, and other indispensable articles. And during one of their absences the girl knelt beside the bed, and resting her head close to Taylor's-with her hands stroking his blackened face-she whispered:

"O Lord, save him-save him for-for me!"

CHAPTER XXII-LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

Before night the Arrow outfit, led by Bothwell, the range boss, came into the ranchhouse. For the news had reached them-after the manner in which all news travels in the cow-country-by word of mouth-and they had come in-all those who could be spared-to determine the truth of the rumor.

There were fifteen of them, rugged, capable-looking fellows; and despite the doctor's objections, they filed singly, though noiselessly, into Taylor's room and silently looked down upon their "boss." Marion, watching them from a corner of the room, noted their quick gulps of pity, their grim faces, the savage gleams that came into their eyes, and she knew they were thinking of vengeance upon the men who had wrought the injury to their employer.

Bothwell-big, grim, and deliberate of manner-said nothing as he looked down into his chief's face. But later, outside the house, listening to Bud Hemmingway's recital of how Taylor had been brought to the ranchhouse, Bothwell said shortly:

"I'm takin' a look!"

Shortly afterward, followed by every man of the outfit who had ridden in with him, Bothwell crossed the big basin and sent his horse up the long slope to the big house.

Outside they came upon the bodies of the two men with whom Taylor had fought. And inside the house they saw the other huddled on the floor near a door in the big front room. Silently the men filed through the house, looking into all the rooms, and noting the wreck and ruin that had been wrought. They saw the broken gla.s.s of the little window through which one of Carrington's men had fired the first shot; they noted the hole in the ceiling-caused by a bullet from Taylor's pistol; and they saw another hole in the wall near the door beside which Taylor had been standing just before he had swung the door open.

"Three of them-an' Carrington-accordin' to what Bud says," said Bothwell. "That's four." He smiled bitterly. "They got him all right-almost, I reckon. But from the looks of things they must have had a roarin' picnic doin' it!"

Not disturbing anything, the entire outfit mounted and rode swiftly down the Dawes trail, their hearts swelling with sympathy for Taylor and pa.s.sionate hatred for Carrington, "itching for a clean-up," as one sullen-looking member of the outfit described his feelings.

But there was no "clean-up." When they reached Dawes they found the town quiet-and men who saw them gave them plenty of room and forebore to argue with them. For it was known that they were reckless, hardy spirits when the mood came upon them, and that they worshiped Taylor.

And so they entered Dawes, and Dawes treated them with respect. Pa.s.sing the city hall, they noticed some men grouped in front of the building, and they halted, Bothwell dismounting and entering.

"What's the gang collectin' for?" he asked a man-whom he knew for Danforth. There was a belligerent thrust to Bothwell's chin, and a glare in his eyes that, Danforth felt, must be met with diplomacy.

"There's been trouble at the Huggins house, and I'm sending these men to investigate."

"Give them diggin' tools," said Bothwell grimly. "An' remember this-if there's any more herd-ridin' of our boss the Arrow outfit is startin' a private graveyard!" He pinned the mayor with a cold glare: "Where's Carrington?"

"In his rooms-under a doctor's care. He's. .h.i.t-bad. A bullet in his side."

"Ought to be in his gizzard!" growled Bothwell. He went out, mounted, and led his men away. They were reluctant to leave town, but Bothwell was insistent. "They ain't no fight in that bunch of plug-uglies!" he scoffed. "We'll go back an' 'tend to business, an' pull for the boss to get well!"