The Rustler of Wind River Part 27

"It won't do you any good if you do," Chadron growled, turning and throwing the door open with gruff decision. He stood a moment glowering at her, his shoulders thrust into the room. "You can't leave here till I'm ready for you to go--I'm goin' to put my men on the watch for you. If you try it afoot they'll fetch you back, and if you git stubborn and try to ride off from 'em, they'll shoot your horse.

You take my word that I mean it, and set down and be good."

He closed the door. She heard his heavy tread, careless, it seemed, whether he broke the troubled sleep of his wife, pa.s.s out by way of the kitchen. She returned to the fire, surging with the outrage of it, and sat down to consider the situation.

There was no doubt that Chadron meant what he had said. This was only a mild proceeding to suppress evidence compared to his usual methods, as witnessed by the importation of Mark Thorn, and now his wholesale attempt with this army of hired gunslingers. But above the anger and indignation there was the exultant thought of Macdonald's triumph over the oppressor of the land. It glowed like a bright light in the turmoil of her present hour.

She had told Chadron that his master was on the way, and she had seen him swell with the cloud of anger that shrouded his black heart. And she knew that he feared that swift-footed man Macdonald, who had outgeneraled him and crippled him before he had struck a blow. Well, let him have his brutal way until morning; then she would prevail on Mrs. Chadron to rescind his order and let her go home.

There being nothing more to be hoped or dreaded in the way of news that night, Frances suppressed her wrath and went upstairs and to bed.

But not to sleep; only to lie there with her hot cheeks burning like fever, her hot heart triumphing in the complete confidence and justification of Macdonald that Chadron's desperate act had established. She glowed with inner warmth as she told herself that there would be no more doubting, no more swaying before the wind of her inclination. Her heart had read him truly that night in the garden close.

She heard Chadron ride away as she watched there for the dawn, and saw the cowboy guard that he had established rouse themselves while the east was only palely light and kindle their little fires. Soon the scent of their coffee and bacon came through her open window. Then she rose and dressed herself in her saddle garb again, and went tiptoeing past Mrs. Chadron's door.

Since going to bed Mrs. Chadron bad not stirred. She seemed to have plunged over the precipice of sleep and to be lying stunned at the bottom. Frances felt that there was no necessity for waking her out of that much-needed repose, for the plan that she had formulated within the past few minutes did not include an appeal for Mrs. Chadron's a.s.sistance in it.

Experience told her that Mrs. Chadron would accept unquestioningly the arrangements and orders of her husband, in whom her faith was boundless and her confidence without bottom. She would advance a hundred tearful pleas to take the edge off Frances' indignant anger, and weep and implore, but ten to one remain as steadfast as a ledge in her fealty to Saul. So Frances was preparing to proceed without her help or hindrance.

She went softly into the room where she had faced Chadron a few hours before, and crossed to the fireplace, where the last coals of the fire that had kept her company were red among the ashes. It was dark yet, only a little grayness, like murky water, showing under the rim of the east, but she knew where the antlers hung above the mantel, with the rifle in its case, and the two revolvers which Alvino had brought to his mistress from the wounded foreman in the bunkhouse.

But the antlers were empty. She felt them over with contracting heart, then struck a match to make sure. The guns were gone. Saul Chadron had removed them, foreseeing that they might stand her in the place of a friend.

She lit a lamp and began a search of the lower part of the house for arms. There was not a single piece left in any of the places where they commonly were a familiar sight. Even the shotgun was gone from over the kitchen door. She returned to the sitting-room and laid some sticks on the coals, and sat leaning toward the blaze in that sense of comradeship that is as old between man and fire as the servitude of that captive element.

Her elbows were on her knees, and her gloved hands were clasped, and the merry little fire laughed up into her fixed and thoughtful eyes.

Fire has but one mood, no matter what it cheers or destroys. It always laughs. There is no melancholy note in it, no drab, dull color of death such as the flood comes tainted with. Even while it eats away our homes and possessions, it has a certain comfort in its touch and glow if we stand far enough away.

Dawn broadened; the watery light came in like cold. Frances got up, shivering a little at the unfriendly look of the morning. She thought she heard a cautious foot stealing away from the window, and turned from it with contemptuous recollection of Chadron's threat to set spies over her.

Frances left the house with no caution to conceal her movements, and went to the barn. Alvino was hobbling about among the horses with his lantern. He gave her an open and guileless good-morning, and she told him to saddle her horse.

She was determined to ride boldly out of the gate and away, hardly convinced that even those seasoned ruffians would take a chance of hitting her by firing at her horse. None of the imported shooters was in sight as she mounted before the barn door, but two of them lounged casually at the gate as she approached.

"Where was you aimin' to go so early?" asked one of them, laying hand on her bridle.

"I'm the daughter of Colonel Landcraft, commanding officer at Fort Shakie, and I'm going home," she answered, as placidly and good-humoredly as if it might be his regular business to inquire.

"I'm sorry to have to edge in on your plans, sissy," the fellow returned, familiarly, "but n.o.body goes away from this ranch for some little time to come. That's the boss's orders. Don't you know them rustlers is shootin' up the country ever' which way all around here?

Shucks! It ain't safe for no lady to go skylarkin' around in."

"They wouldn't hurt me--they know there's a regiment of cavalry at the post standing up for me."

"I don't reckon them rustlers cares much more about them troopers than we do, sis."

"Will you please open the gate?"

"I hate to refuse a lady, but I dasn't do it." He shook his head in exaggerated gravity, and his companion covered a sputtering laugh with his hand.

Frances felt her resolution to keep her temper dissolving. She shifted her quirt as the quick desire to strike him down and ride over his ugly grinning face flashed through her. But the wooden stock was light under the braided leather; she knew that she could not have knocked a grunt out of the tough rascal who barred her way with his insolent leer in his mean squint eyes. He was a man who had nothing to lose, therefore nothing to fear.

"If it's dangerous for me to go alone, get your horse and come with me. I'll see that you get more out of it than you make working for Chadron."

The fellow squinted up at her with eyes half-shut, in an expression of cunning.

"Now you trot along back and behave you'self, before I have to take you down and spank you," he said.

The other three men of the ranch guard came waddling up in that slouching gait of saddle-men, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Frances saw that she would not be allowed to pa.s.s that way. But they were all at that spot; none of them could be watching the back gate.

She wheeled her long-legged cavalry horse to make a dash for it, and came face to face with Mrs. Chadron, who was hurrying from the house with excited gesticulations, pointing up the road.

"Somebody's comin', it looks like one of the boys, I saw him from the upstairs winder!" she announced, "Where was you goin', honey?"

"I was starting home, Mrs. Chadron, but these men--"

"There he comes!" cried Mrs. Chadron, hastening to the gate.

A horseman had come around the last brush-screened turn of the road, and was drawing near. Frances felt her heart leap like a hare, and a delicious feeling of triumph mingle with the great pride that swept through her in a warm flood. Tears were in her eyes, half-blinding her; a sob of gladness rose in her breast and burst forth a little happy cry.

For that was Alan Macdonald coming forward on his weary horse, bearing something in his arms wrapped in a blanket, out of which a shower of long hair fell in bright cascade over his arm.

Mrs. Chadron pressed her lips tight. Neither cry nor groan came out of them as she stood steadying herself by a straining grip on the gate, watching Macdonald's approach. None of them knew whether the burden that he bore was living or dead; none of them in the group at the gate but Frances knew the rider's face.

One of the cowboys opened the gate wide, without a word, to let him enter. Mrs. Chadron lifted her arms appealingly, and hurried to his side as he stopped. Stiffly he leaned over, his inert burden held tenderly, and lowered what he bore into Mrs. Chadron's outstretched arms.

With that change of position there was a sharp movement in the m.u.f.fling blanket, two arms reached up with the quick clutching of a falling child, and clasped him about the neck. Then a sharp cry of waking recognition, and Nola was sobbing on her mother's breast.

Alan Macdonald said no word. The light of the sunrise was strong on his face, set in the suffering of great weariness; the stiffness of his long and burdened ride was in his limbs. He turned his dusty horse, with its head low-drooping, and rode out the way that he had come. No hand was lifted to stop him, no voice raised in either benediction or curse.

Mrs. Chadron was soothing her daughter, who was incoherent in the joy of her delivery, holding her clasped in her arms. Beyond that bright head there was no world for that mother then; save for the words which she crooned in the child's ears there was no message in her soul.

Frances felt tears streaking her face in hot rivulets as she sat in her saddle, struck inactive by the great admiration, the boundless pride, that this unselfish deed woke in her. She never had, in her life of joyousness, experienced such a high sense of human admiration before.

The cowboy who had opened the gate still held it so, the spell of Macdonald's dramatic arrival still over him. With his comrades he stood speechless, gazing after the departing horseman.

Frances touched her horse lightly and rode after him. Mother and daughter were so estranged from all the world in that happy moment of reunion that neither saw her go, and the guards at the gate, either forgetful of their charge or softened by the moving scene, did not interpose to stop her.

Macdonald raised his drooping head with quick start as she came dashing to his side. She was weeping, and she put out her hand with a motion of entreaty, her voice thick with sobs.

"I wronged you and slandered you," she said, in bitter confession, "and I let you go when I should have spoken! I'm not worthy to ride along this road with you, Alan Macdonald, but I need your protection, I need your help. Will you let me go?"

He checked his horse and looked across at her, a tender softening coming into his tired face.

"Why, G.o.d bless you! there's only one road in the world for you and me," said he. His hand met hers where it fluttered like a dove between them; his slow, translating smile woke in his eyes and spread like a sunbeam over his stern lips.

Behind them Mrs. Chadron was calling. Frances turned and waved her hand.

"Come back, Frances, come back here!" Mrs. Chadron's words came distinctly to them, for they were not more than a hundred yards from the gate, and there was a note of eagerness in them, almost a command.

Both of them turned.