The Rider of Golden Bar Part 55

"I can arrest her, I tell you," insisted the district attorney.

"No," said Craft firmly. "Miss Walton," he went on, turning to the girl, "we were a li'l excited when we came in here. Seeing that horse outside and all, we got the idea that maybe Bill was here. Will you give us your word he isn't?"

"Why, certainly," she said. "Bill isn't here, I give you my word."

"Fair enough," said Craft. "We'll be going. Come along, Arthur, move."

He and Sam hustled the district attorney out between them. Craft called in the cordon of hors.e.m.e.n that had surrounded the ranch-house.

"Crawl your horse, Arthur," ordered Craft. "What you waiting for?"

Arthur, swearing heartily, did as directed. "I don't see why you don't want me to have her arrested," he said in part as they rode townward.

"A few days in the cooler----"

"No sense in it," declared Craft. "A lot of folks in the county wouldn't like it either, she being a woman and a good-lookin' one besides. You leave her alone."

"Yeah," slipped in Sam, "wait till you get some real evidence against her. Suspicion ain't anything."

"It would be enough for me to arrest her all right," persisted the district attorney.

"Blah! You couldn't hold her a week," averred Craft, "and you know it.

And lemme tell you, I don't believe she knows any more about Bill Wingo than I do. You know they busted up this winter some time."

"Changed your tune mighty sudden," sneered the district attorney. "On the way out you were as sure as the rest of us we'd get some kind of a clue at Walton's. Those cartridges----"

"Dry up about those cartridges!" exclaimed Felix. "You got cartridges on the brain."

Then the wrangle became general.

Hazel, standing in the doorway, watched the cavalcade disappear around the bend in the draw.

"I guess," she said, taking a box of cartridges from the top shelf and snicking open the sealing with a finger nail, "I guess I'd better load this rifle."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BARE-HEADED MAN

"But I rode over here especially to bring you back with me to stay a while, a long while, as long as you like and longer." Thus Sally Jane, looking injured.

Hazel shook her head. "Can't, dear. Honestly, I'd like nothing better than to go a-visiting, but I've just got to look after the ranch."

Sally Jane gazed at her friend a moment in silence, then: "You don't really have to stay here, Hazel. You only think you do. You'd much better come over and stay with us. You know I'd love to have you, and this is no place for you all alone by yourself this way. Suppose----"

"Who'd hurt me?" interrupted Hazel. "Anyway, I'm not going to be driven off my own ranch by anybody. I'm going to stay here until I find a buyer for the place."

"But that may be a year," objected Sally Jane.

"It may be several years. Money's awfully tight just now, the Hillsville cashier said, the last time I was over."

"I don't care, somebody--some man ought to be here. Can't you get Ray back earlier than usual?"

Hazel shook her head. "I don't want to, Sally Jane. He went east to Missouri to visit his folks, and I'm not going to spoil his good time.

He'll be back in time for the spring round-up, though."

"That won't be till next month," objected Sally Jane. "Anything might happen in the meantime. Land alive, just look at this afternoon!"

"Well, look at it. Not a thing happened to hurt, did it? Lord, Sally Jane, men are the easiest things in the world to handle when you know how."

"You don't give them half enough credit," said Sally Jane dryly.

"Scratch a man and you'll catch a savage every time. Beasts!"

"Rats!" remarked Hazel, and gave her head a toss and turned her attention to practical things. "_Look_ at this clean floor! _Look_ at the dirt they tracked in! Oh, the devil! I could swear!"

She fetched a fresh bucket of water and began to scrub the floor anew.

"I'm going," announced Sally Jane. "Once more, Hazel, won't you change your mind and visit with us for a while?"

Hazel shook her head. "I only wish I felt able to. But you don't have to go yet. Stay to supper, do. Let the male parent get his own supper for a change. It won't hurt him. And there'll be a fine old moon to-night about eight."

"I promised Dad French bread for to-night, or I would. I can't disappoint him. So long. Ride over first chance you get."

When Sally Jane was gone, Hazel hurried to finish the scrubbing of the floor. When she had wrung out the last mop rag and hung it to dry behind the stove, she fed the chickens and horses, took the ax and bucksaw, went out to the woodpile and sawed and split a man's size jag of stove wood and kindling.

In the red glory of the sunset she returned to the house with her arms piled high with wood. She made sufficient trips to fill the woodbox, then started a fire in the stove, put on the coffeepot and ground up enough coffee for four cupfuls. She liked coffee, did Hazel Walton.

Bacon and potatoes were sputtering in their respective pans on the stove before it was so dark that she was forced to light the lamp.

She had slipped back the chimney into the clamps and was waiting for it to heat so that she could turn up the wick when the faintest of creaks at the door made her look up.

She did not move, just stood there staring stupidly at the bareheaded man that blocked the open doorway. For the bareheaded man was Dan Slike, his harsh face rendered even less prepossessing than usual by a week's stubble of beard. A six-shooter was in Dan Slike's hand, and the barrel was pointing at her breast.

"Don't go makin' any move toward that rifle on the hooks back of you,"

said Dan Slike, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.

"If you do, I'll have to beef you. I don't wanna hurt you--I ain't in the habit of hurting women, but by Gawd, if it comes to me or you, why it'll just naturally have to be you. Dish up that grub a-frying there on the stove. I'm hungry. Get a move on."

At that she turned in a flash and reached for the Winchester. She had it barely off the hooks when Dan Slike was beside her. With his left hand he seized the gun barrel and shoved it upward. And as he did so, he smote her across the top of the head with his pistol barrel.

A rocketing sheaf of sparks danced before her eyes and her knees gave way. She sank to the floor in a dazed heap. He dragged the Winchester from her failing grasp as she fell.

He began to work the lever of the rifle with expert rapidity. A twinkling stream of cartridges twirled against his chest and fell to the floor. Carefully he gathered all the cartridges and dropped them into the side pocket of his coat. The unloaded rifle he leaned against the door jamb.

Hazel slowly raised her body to a sitting position. She clung to a leg of the table for support. She pa.s.sed a hand very tenderly across the top of her head. She felt a little nauseated.

Dan Slike, watching her with hard, bright eyes, strode to the stove and poured himself out a cup of coffee. He spaded in a spoonful of sugar and stirred the mixture meditatively. But he did not cease to watch her.

"You'll be all right in about ten minutes," he said calmly. "I didn't hit you so awful hard. I didn't go to. Gawd, no! I figure always to be as gentle with a woman as I can. No sense in bein' rougher than you got to be, I say."