The Orphan

  CHAPTER X

  THE ORPHAN PAYS TWO CALLS

  Shortly after nightfall a rider cantered along the stage route, fordingthe Limping Water and rode toward the town, whose few lights were bunchedtogether as if for protection against the spirits of the night. Hesoon passed the scattered corrals on the outskirts of Ford's Stationand, slowing to a walk, went carelessly past the row of saloons and thegeneral store and approached a neat, small house some two hundred yardswest of the stage office. He appeared careless as to being seen; in facta casual observer would have thought him to be some cowboy who wasfamiliar with the town and who feared the recognition of no man. But whilehe had no fear, he was alert; under his affected nonchalance nerveswere set for instant action. He was in the heart of the enemy's country,in the crude stronghold of the Law, and if anything hostile to himoccurred it would happen quickly. And he was familiar with the town,because he had on more than one occasion ridden through and explored it,but never before at such an early hour.

  Arriving at his destination he dismounted and, leaving his horseunrestrained by rope or strap, walked boldly up to the door of thesheriff's house and knocked. Soon he heard footsteps within and thedoor opened wide, revealing him standing hat in hand and smiling.

  "Good evening, ma'am," he said uneasily.

  The sheriff's wife stepped aside and the light fell full on his face.For an instant she was at a loss, and then the fresh scar on his foreheadand her husband's good description came to her aid. She gasped andstepped back involuntarily, astonished at his daring. Her act allowedher companions to see him and the effect was marked. Miss Ritchie satupright in expectation, her face beaming, for this was as romantic andunexpected as she could wish. Mary gasped and dropped her hands to herside, not knowing what to do or say, while Helen slowly laid her workaside and leaned forward slightly, regarding him intently, a curiousexpression on her face.

  "I only called to ask how the ladies were," he continued slowly, turninghis hat in his hands, apparently not noticing Mrs. Shields' surprise."I was afraid they might have--that their recent experience might havebothered them some."

  Evidently it was to be only a social call, and Mrs. Shields owed somethingto this fair-minded and chivalrous man. She smiled kindly, rememberingthat the caller was rather well thought of by her husband--he was not aman for women to fear, whatever else he might be.

  "It is very kind of you," she replied. "Won't you come in?" she asked fromthe habit of politeness, hardly expecting that he would do so.

  "Thank you, I will be glad to for a minute," he responded, slowly steppinginto the room, where he suddenly felt awkward and not at all comfortable.

  Helen picked up her work to fasten a thread, and he found himselfmarveling at the cleverness of her fingers. Again laying the workaside, she arose to meet him, a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes.It was so unusual to have been saved by an outlaw whom her brother hadtried to capture, and still more unusual to have him dare to call on herin her brother's own house, especially after her sister's direct cut atthe coach.

  "Won't you be seated?" she asked, indicating her own chair by the lightand taking his hat. When the hat left him he suffered a loss, for hehad nothing to twist and grip. He replied by dropping into the chair,not even seeing that it was out of range of the door as a complimentto his hostess. There was no sign of a weapon on him, his holster beingempty; but his blue flannel shirt was unbuttoned, the opening hidden byhis neck-kerchief. He had, however, only put his Colt there to have itout of sight, and not because he feared trouble. Habitual caution wasresponsible for the shirt being open, for he was not even sure that hewould fight if trouble should come upon him, unless the women gave hima clear field.

  Helen drew a chair from the wall and seated herself in the semi-circlewhich faced him.

  "I am very glad that your wound has healed so nicely," she said with asmile. "We are very sorry that you were hurt in our defense."

  "Oh, it wasn't anything," he quickly replied, smiling deprecatingly. "Youfixed it up so nice that it didn't bother me at all--didn't hurt a bit."

  "I am glad it was no worse," she replied, looking around the circle."Grace, Mary, you surely remember Mr.--Mr.----"

  "Please call me by the name you know me by--The Orphan," smiling broadly."I've almost forgotten that I ever had any other name."

  "Mr. Orphan--how funny it sounds," she laughed. "It's most original.Margaret, this is the gentleman to whom we certainly owe our lives. Oh! Iknow you don't like to be reminded of it," she went on, answering hisdeprecatory gesture, "no doubt you are accustomed to that sort of thingout here, but in the East such an experience does not often occur."

  "I am glad indeed to know and thank you," said Mrs. Shields, impulsivelyextending her hand. "Your bravery has put me still deeper in yourdebt. My husband--" her feelings overcame her as she realized that thiswas the man who had spared to her that husband, her laughing, burly,broad-shouldered, big-hearted king of men. Was it possible that thishandsome, confident stripling was his peer?

  Helen relieved the tension: "Mr. Orphan, this is Miss Ritchie, the sameMiss Ritchie who was so badly frightened when she first met you. Perhapsyou'll remember it. And this----"

  "I wasn't! I wasn't one bit frightened!" declared Miss Ritchie hotly, toThe Orphan's great enjoyment.

  "Now, Grace, don't fib--you can't deny it. And this is my sister who wasmean enough to keep her senses when I didn't. We thought highly of youthen, but even more so now. You see, my brother has been talking aboutyou, he takes a keen interest in you, Mr. Orphan--I declare I can't helplaughing at that name, it sounds so funny; but you will forgive me, won'tyou? I knew you would. Well, James has been saying nice things about you,and so you see we know you better now. He likes you real well, as wellas you will let him, and I'm awful sorry that he is not at home," shedared, her eyes flashing with delight. "I am sure he would like to meetyou very much; in fact he has said as much. Oh, he speaks of you quiteoften."

  The caller flushed, but he was determined to let them think him perfectlyat ease.

  "I am glad that he remembers me," he responded gravely. "I have onlymet him once, but I thought he was rather glad to see me. We had a veryenjoyable time together and I found him very pleasant." He was forcedto smile as he recalled the six Apaches in the sheriff's rear.

  "Helen was just saying what awful risks her brother ran," Miss Ritchieremarked, intently studying the rugged face before her. "But then, he'sa man. If I was a man, I wouldn't be afraid of them!"

  "My, how brave you are, Grace," laughed Mrs. Shields. "I heard quite tothe contrary about the stage ride."

  "Goodness, Margaret!" retorted Miss Ritchie, up in arms at the remark."You would have been afraid in that old coach if you had been banged aboutin it as I was. The noise was terrible, and that awful driver!"

  The caller smiled at her spirit and then replied to her, serious at once.

  "Well, he does take chances," he said. "But for that matter every manout in this country has to run risks. Now, I've taken some myself," headded, smiling quizzically. "But, you know, we get used to them after awhile--we get used to everything but hunger and thirst--and life. I'veeven gotten used to being lonesome, and I find that it really isn't so badafter all. And then, you know, lonesomeness does have its advantages attimes, for it certainly promotes peace, and the cartridges that it savesare worth considerable. But it took me several years before I could acceptit in that light with any degree of ease."

  Helen laughed merrily, for she most of all appreciated this outcast'shumor, and she liked him better the more he talked.

  "Yes, in time I suppose one does become accustomed to danger," shereplied, "although I'll be frank enough to admit that I don't believeI could," glancing at her friend. "You risked much by coming hereto-night--just suppose that you had called last night!"

  "The danger was only from a chance recognition in the street," he replied,smiling, "and it would have been equally dangerous for the man whorecognized me, and perhaps more so, since I was on the loo
kout--thatbalances. I would be the last man anyone would expect to be in Ford'sStation at this time, and once free of the town, I could elude thepursuers in the dark. And as for the sheriff, I knew that he was notat home to-night, and, had he been so, I doubt if it would have stayedme, for he is fair and square, and an unarmed man is safe with him inhis own house. He understands what a truce means, and we had one before."

  Mrs. Shields smiled at him in such warmth that he thanked his stars thathe had played fair out by the bowlder.

  "He told us of that!" Helen exclaimed, laughingly. "It was splendid ofyou, both of you. And, do you know, I liked you much better for it. AndI wanted to meet you again and talk with you; I'm dreadfully curious."

  "Helen!" reproved her sister, and, turning from the girl to him, she triedto explain away her sister's boldness. "You must excuse Helen, Mr.--Mr.Orphan, because she is not a day older than she was five years ago."

  "Why, Mary!" cried Helen, reproachfully, "how can you say that? Just theother day you said that I was quite grown up and dignified. I am sure thatMr.--oh, goodness, there's that name again!" she bewailed. "Why don't youget another name--that one sounds so funny!"

  The Orphan laughed: "I am not responsible for the name, I had no hand init. But, let's see what we can do," he said, counting on his fingers."There's Smith, Brown, Jones--Jones sounds well, why not say it?" he askedgravely. "I am sure that's easier to say and remember."

  "Yes, that _is_ better!" she cried. "Let's see," she said, experimenting."Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones--oh, pshaw, I like the other much better. I trustthat I'll get accustomed to it in time, and I certainly should, because Ihear it enough; only then it hasn't that formal Mister before it. And itis the Mister that causes all the trouble. Now, I'll try it again: I'msure that The Orphan (I said that real nicely, didn't I?) I'm sure thatThe Orphan doesn't think me lacking in dignity, does he?" she asked,regarding him merrily, and with a dare in her eyes.

  "Well, now really," he began, and then, seeing the look of warning in herface, he laughed softly. "Why, really, I think that you must be much moredignified than you were five years ago."

  "That's such a neat evasion that I hardly know whether to be angry ornot," she retorted, and then turned to Miss Ritchie, who was smiling.

  "Grace," she cried, "for goodness sake, say something! You don't want meto do all the talking, do you?" and before her friend could say a wordshe began a new attack, her eyes sparkling at the fun she was having.

  "What have you done since I told you to behave yourself?" she asked,assuming a judicial seriousness which was extremely comical.

  He laughed heartily, for she was so droll, her eyes flashing so withvivacity, and so rarely beautiful that he breathed deep in unconsciouseffort to absorb some of the atmosphere she had created. And he was notalone in his mirth, for Helen's audacity had caused smiles to come toMiss Ritchie and Mrs. Shields, who were content to take no part in theconversation, and even Mary forgot to be serious.

  "Well, I haven't had time to do much," he replied in humble apology,"although I have been occupied in a desultory way on the Cross Bar-8 fora week, and before that I was quite busily engaged in traveling for myhealth. You see, this climate occasionally affects me, and I am forcedto go south or west for a change of air. I was just starting out on mylast trip when I first met you, and I have reason to believe that mypromptness in leaving you saved me much annoyance. But I have cookedquite a few meals in the interim--and I've learned how mutton should bebroiled, too. I'll have to confess, however, that I have been out latenights. But then, I'll have a better record to report next time, honest Iwill."

  Helen leveled an accusing finger at him: "You spoiled all the cookingutensils on that ranch, and you scared that poor cook so bad that he fledin terror of his life and left those poor, tired men to get all theirown meals. Now, that was not right, do you see? The poor cook, he wasalmost frightened to death. I am almost ashamed of you; you will haveto promise that you will not do anything like that again."

  "I promise, cross my heart," he replied eagerly, thinking of the five deadpunchers she had been kind enough to overlook. "I solemnly promise neverto scare that cook again," then seeing that she was about to object, headded, "nor any other cook."

  "And you'll promise not to spoil any more tins, or terrorize that pooroutfit, or burn any more corrals, and everything like that?" she askedquickly, for she detected a trace of seriousness in his face and wished todrive home her advantage. If she could get a serious promise from him shewould rest content, for she knew he would keep his word.

  He thought for an instant and then turned a smiling face to her. Seeingveiled entreaty in her eyes, he suddenly felt a quiet gladness steal overhim. Perhaps she really cared about his welfare, after all, though hedared not hope for that. He grew serious, and when he spoke she knew thathe had given his word.

  "I promise not to take the initiative in any warfare, nor to harass theCross Bar-8 unless they force me to in self-defense," he replied.

  She hid her elation, for she had gained the point her brother had failedto win, and did not wish to risk anything by showing her feelings. Asif to reward him for yielding to her, she led the conversation from thepersonal grounds it had assumed and cleverly got him to talk about thecountry and everything pertaining to it.

  He was thoroughly at ease now, and for an hour held them interested byhis knowledge of the trails and the natural phenomena. He told them ofcattle herding, its dangers and sports; and his description of a stampedewas masterly. He recounted the struggles of the first settlers withthe Indians, and even quite extensively covered the field of practicalprospecting, lightening his story with naive bits of humor and wittypersonal opinions which had them laughing heartily. It was not long beforethey forgot that they were entertaining, or, rather, being entertained byan outlaw; and as for himself, it was the most pleasant evening he hadever known. There was such an air of friendliness and they were so naturaland human that he was stimulated to his best efforts; the barriers hadbeen broken down.

  "Oh, James says that you are a wonderful shot!" cried Helen, interruptinghis description of a shooting match at a cowboy carnival he had onceattended in a northern town. "He says that no man ever lived who couldhope to beat you with either rifle or revolver, six-shooter, as he callsit. Won't you let me see you shoot, some day?"

  He laughed deprecatingly: "You ask the sheriff to shoot for you," heresponded. "He can beat me, I'm sure."

  "No, he can't!" she cried impulsively, "because he said he couldn't. Thatwas why he couldn't get you--" she stopped, horrified at what she hadsaid. Then, determined to make the best of it, and knowing that excusesor apologies would make it worse, she hurriedly continued: "He says thatyou are so fair and square that he just will not take any advantage ofyou. He likes square people, and he isn't afraid to say it, either."

  The Orphan sat silently for half a minute, thinking hard, while Mrs.Shields looked anxiously at him. Here was peace and happiness. Thesheriff could come and go as he pleased, and every good citizen washis friend. He had a home--a pleasant contrast to the man who spent hisnights under the stars, not sure of his life from day to day, houndedfrom point to point, having no friend, no one who cared for him; hewas just an outlaw, and damned by his fellow men. Then he remembered whatHelen had said before leaving him at the coach. She had faith in him, forshe had told him so--and she would not lie. Her kindness and faith inhim, an outcast, had been with him in his thoughts ever since, and he hadfelt the loneliness of his life heavily from that day. He felt a strangegnawing at his heart and he slowly raised his eyes to her, eagerlydrinking in her radiant beauty, a beauty wonderful to him, for neverbefore had he seen a beautiful woman. To him women had always beenrepellent--and no wonder. He scorned those usually found in the cowtowns. At their best they were only ornaments, and to The Orphan'smind ornaments were trash. But now he suddenly awoke to the fact thatshe was more, that she was all that was worth fighting for, that shewas the missing half of his consciousness. And she herself had given himheart fo
r the fight, slight as it was, for he was like a drowning manclutching at straws. But still his cynicism swayed him and made himfear that it would be a hopeless battle. Again he thought of her brotherand suddenly envied him, and the liking he had felt for the sheriffbecame strong and clear. Shields was a white man, just and square.

  He slowly raised his eyes to Mrs. Shields and smiled, which caused herlook of anxiety to clear.

  "The Sheriff is the whitest man in this whole country," he said quietly,a trace of his mood being in his voice, "and only for that did I playsquare with him. In confidence, just to let you know that I am not asbad as people say, I will tell you that I have had him under my sightsmore than once, and that I will never try to harm him while he remainsthe man he is. I do not exaggerate when I say that I am naturally a goodjudge of men, and I knew what he was in less than a minute after I met him.

  "At this minute he is watching for me, he and Charley Winter and theLarkin brothers. They are lying quietly out on the plain, waiting forme to show up between them and the lights of the windows. This is notguesswork, for I know it. And if it was only the sheriff, and I did showup over his sights, he would call out and give me a chance to surrenderor fight, and not shoot me down like a dog; the others wouldn't. Andbecause of my faith in his squareness, and because I above all otherscan fully appreciate it at its highest value, I am going to ask you toremember this, Mrs. Shields: If he ever needs a man to stand at hisback, and I can be found, he has only to let me know. He is compromisinghimself with certain people because he has been fair to me, so pleaseremember what I said. He is the sheriff, and he only does his duty,for which I cannot blame him. Bill Howland may be able to find me iftrouble should come upon you and yours.

  "Others have hunted for me as if I was a cattle-killing wolf. They havetracked me and hounded me in gangs, determined to shoot me down at thefirst opportunity, and unawares, if possible. They have laid traps forme, tried to ambush me, and even stooped so low as to poison the waterof a remote water hole with wolf poison--strychnine. They knew that Ioccasionally filled my canteen from it. Those who fight me foully I repayin kind--but never with poison! It is my wits and gunplay against theirsand against their cowardice and dirty tricks. When I fight, it is notbecause I want to, except in the case of Indians, but because I must.But your husband is a white man, madam, a thoroughbred. He stands so farabove the rest of the men in this country that I have only respect andliking for him. Can you imagine the sheriff using poison to kill a man?

  "Once when I had finally found a good berth punching cows, once when I hadstarted out aright, I was discovered. They didn't get me, though theytried to hard enough. And they call me a murderer because I declined toremain inactive while they prepared for my funeral! Ever since I was alad of fifteen I have fought for my life at every turn, and continually.I have no friends, not a living soul cares whether I live or die. There isno one whom I can trust, and no one who trusts me. I have to be ever onthe lookout, and suspicious. Every man is my enemy, and all I have ismy life, worthless as it is. But pride will not let me lose it withoutmaking a fight.

  "I hope the time will come when you can see me shoot, Miss Shields, thatthe time will come when I can turn my back to my fellow men withoutfearing a shot. Only once have I done that--it was with your brother, andI enjoyed it immensely. And no one will welcome that day more devoutlythan the outlawed Orphan--the many times murderer--but by necessity:for I never killed a man unless he was trying to kill me, and I neverwill. I know what is _said_, but what I say is the truth. I can only askyou to believe me, although I realize that I am asking much."

  He arose and walked over to his sombrero, taking it up and turning towardthe door.

  "To-night is the first time in ten years that I have been in a stranger'shouse unarmed, and at ease. You have made the evening so pleasant forme, so delightfully strange, and you all have been so good to talk to meand treat me white that I find it impossible to thank you as I wish Icould. Words are hopelessly inadequate, and more or less empty, but youwill not lose by it," he said as he opened the door. "Good night, ladies."

  The door closed softly, quickly, and the women heard the canteringhoofbeats of his horse as they grew fainter and finally died out on theplain.

  His departure was seemingly unnoticed. They sat in silence for a minuteor more, each lost in her own thoughts, each deeply affected by hiswords, staring before them and picturing each as her temperamentguided, the hunted man's dangers and loneliness. Mrs. Shields sat as hehad left her, her chin resting in her hand, seeing only two men in achaparral, one of whom was the man she loved. She could hear theshooting and the war cries, she could see them meet, and clasp hands atthe parting; and her heart filled with kindly pity for the outcast, apity the others could not know. Helen, her face full in the light, herarms outstretched on the table before her and her eyes moist, wondered atthe savage unkindness of men, the almost unbelievable harshness ofman for man. Her head dropped to her arms, and her sister Mary, alsounder the spell, wondered at the expression she had seen on Helen'sface. Miss Ritchie, who had scarcely given more than a passing thoughtto the sadness in his words, was picturing his fights, drinking in thedash and courage which had so exalted him in her mind. With all hisloneliness, his danger, she almost envied him his devil-may-care, humorousrecklessness and good fortune, his superb self-confidence and prowess.Here was a man who fought his own battles, who stood alone against thebest the world sent against him, giving blow for blow, and alwaystriumphing.

  Mrs. Shields stirred, glanced at Helen's bowed head and sighed:

  "Now I understand why James likes him so. Poor boy, I believe that if hehad a chance he would be a different and better man. James is right; healways is."

  "I think he is just splendid!" cried Miss Ritchie with a start, emergingfrom her dreams of deeds of daring. "Simply splendid! Don't you Helen?"she asked impulsively.

  Helen arose and walked to the door of her room, turning her face towardthe wall as she passed them: "Yes, dear," she replied. "Good night."

  "Oh, why are men so cruel!" she cried softly as she paused before hermirror. "Why must they fight and kill one another! It's awful!"

  The door had softly opened and closed and Miss Ritchie's arms were aroundher neck, hugging tightly.

  "It _is_ awful, dear," she said. "But they can't kill _him!_ They can'thurt him, so don't you care. Come on to bed--I have _so_ much to talkabout! Don't put your hair up to-night, Helen--let's go right to bed!"

  Helen impulsively kissed her and pushed her away, her face flushed.

  "You dear, silly goose, do you think I am worrying about him? Why, I hadforgotten him. I'm thinking about James."

  "Yes, of course you are," laughed Miss Ritchie. "I was only teasing you,dear. But it _is_ too bad that nobody cares anything about him, isn't it,Helen?"

  Tears trembled in Helen's eyes and she turned quickly toward the bed."Well, it's his own fault--oh, don't talk to me, Grace! Poor James, allalone out there on that awful plain! I'm just as blue as I can be, sothere!"

  "Have a good, long cry, dear," suggested Miss Ritchie. "It does one _so_much good," she added as she stepped before the mirror. "But I think he isjust as splendid as he can be--I wish I was a man like him!"

  And while they played at pretending, the man who was uppermost in theirthoughts was playing a joke on the sheriff at the Cross Bar-8 which wouldopen that person's eyes wide in the morning.

  . . . . .

  On the ranch the darkness was intense and no sounds save the naturalnoises of the night could be heard. The sky was overcast with clouds andoccasionally a drop of rain fell. The haunting wail of a distant coyotequavered down the wind and the cattle in the corral were restless anduneasy. A mounted man suddenly topped a rise at a walk and then stoppedto stare at the dim lights in the windows of the houses nearly a mileaway. He laughed softly at the foolishness of the inmates trying toplot for _his_ death by doing something they had not dared to do for aweek. Who would be so foolish as to
ride up to those lighted windowsunless he was a tenderfoot?

  Leaping lightly to the grass, he hobbled his horse and then took a bundlefrom his saddle, which he strapped on his back and then went quietlyforward on foot, peering intently into the darkness before him. Soon hedropped to his hands and knees and crawled cautiously and without asound. After covering several hundred yards in this manner he droppedto his stomach and wriggled forward, his eyes strained for dangers. Aquarter of an hour elapsed, and then he heard a sneeze, muffled andindistinct, but still a sneeze. Avoiding the place from whence it came, hemade a wide detour and finally stopped, chuckling silently. Untyingthe bundle he removed it from his back and placed it upon a pile ofsand, which he heaped up for the purpose, and, printing his name in thesand at its base, retreated as he had come and without mishap. Aftersearching for a quarter of an hour for his horse he finally found it,removed the hobbles and vaulted to the saddle. Wheeling, he rode off ata walk, soon changing to a canter, in the direction of the LimpingWater. When he had gained it he chanced the danger of quicksands and rodenorth along the middle of the stream. If he was to be followed, theprobability was that his pursuers would ride south to find where he hadleft the water; and they must be delayed as long as possible.

  An hour later daylight swiftly developed and a peculiarly shaped pileof sand quaked and split asunder as a man arose from it. He shook himselfand spent some time in digging the sand from his pockets and boots andin cleaning his rifle of it. Then he walked wearily toward the bunk-house,whose occupants were still lost in the sleep of the exhausted. It was verytedious to stay awake all night peering at the lights in the distantwindows; and it was very hard to keep one's eyes from closing when lyingin that position, and without any sleep for twenty-four hours. Thesheriff determined to crawl into a bunk as soon as he possibly could andbe prepared for his next vigil.

  As he glanced over the plain he espied something which caused him to stareand rub his tired eyes, and which immediately banished sleep from hismind. Running to it, he suddenly stopped and swore: "Hell!" he shouted.

  His wife's blue flower pot sat snugly on the apex of a pile of sand andfrom it arose a geranium, which was tied to a supporting stick by a whiteribbon. He had whittled that stick himself, and he knew the flower pot.Roughly traced in the sand at its base was one word--"Orphan."

  "Margaret's geranium in its blue pot, by God!" cried the sheriff, hismouth open in amazement. "Well, I'll be d----d!" he exclaimed, runningtoward the corral for his horse. "If that son-of-a-gun ain't been outhere under my very nose while I watched for him!"