CHAPTER XXII
STONE TRIES HIS HAND
In getting home safely, Laramie had not flattered himself that he wasnot actually under what in mountain phrase is termed the death watch.In matter of fact, Van Horn and Doubleday had gone home to stay untilthe excitement should blow over. But they had left Stone and two mencharged with intercepting Laramie on his return. The investing lineshad not, however, been skilfully drawn and Laramie had slipped through.
He slept undisturbed until the sun was an hour high. Then peeringthrough a corner of the blanket that hung before the window he sawStone and two companions half a mile from the house, riding slowly asif looking for a trail; particularly, as he readily surmised, for hisown trail. As to his horse betraying him, Laramie had no fear, knowingthe beast would make straight for the blue stem north of the hills. Itwas no part of Laramie's plan of defense to begin fighting or to forceany situation that favored him--as he believed the present one to do.
Few men that knew his enemies would have agreed with him in this view;they would, indeed, have thought it extremely precarious for Laramie tobe caught in any place he could not escape from unseen. But Laramiewas temperamentally a gambler with fortune and he put aside the worriesthat occasionally weighed on his friends. Standing at his one smallwindow--though this was by no means the only peephole in the cabinwalls--he watched without undue concern the scouting of the trio, whobeyond doubt had been hired to kill him and were only waiting theirchance.
After a long inspection of the ground--much of it out of sight of thecabin--broken by frequent colloquies, the three rode from the creekbottom out on the upper field and, halting, surveyed the distant cabinwith seeming doubt and suspicion. Two of them reined their horsestoward the creek. The third man spurred up the long slope straight forthe house.
This put a different aspect on things. Laramie tightened a little ashe watched the oncoming rider. If it should prove to be Stone--hehesitated at the thought, deciding on nothing until sure who the manmight be. But watching the approach of the unwelcome visitor coldly,Laramie put out his hand for his rifle. He thought of firing a warningshot; but to this he was much averse since it would mean a fight and asiege--neither of which he sought. As the man drew closer it wasapparent that it was not Stone and Laramie decided that milder measuresmight answer. He held his rifle across his arm and waited. But theman, as if conscious of the peril to which he was so coolly exposinghimself, galloped rapidly away, rejoined his companions and the triodisappeared.
Laramie at the window watched the departing horsemen. It appeared,from what he had seen, as if the watch had really been set on him. Hegot out his little bottle of oil and a rag and ramrod to clean hisrifle. He made the preparations and sat down to his task in a brownstudy.
The rifle had not been fired for some time, and it was a very long timesince it had been trained on a man. He took it apart slowly, thinkingless of what would next appear through the range of the sights than ofKate, as she confronted him the night before in Carpy's office. Herealized with a sort of shame that he was trying to forgive her forcalling him a thief--which, in point of fact, he argued, she had notactually done. And though she had certainly spoken careless-like, asBill Bradley might say, she had only credited the tales of his enemiesin her own household.
Laramie poked and squinted as he pondered his difficulties. He hadrefused to give up Hawk to be merely murdered; he could not do less andrespect himself. It had made her father more than ever his enemy;still he wanted Kate. Stone would assassinate him at any time for ahundred dollars; Van Horn, now that he was aware Laramie liked Kate,would do it for nothing. Laramie, indeed, realized that if he stood inVan Horn's way with a woman he would not figure any more in Harry'scalculations than a last year's birds' nest. And back of all loomedrancorous Barb Doubleday.
How, he asked himself, could a girl like Kate, pick such a bear for afather? All of which troublesome thinking brought him no nearer asolution of his difficulties. He had his life to look out for, Hawk totake care of and a strong-willed girl to bring to his way of thinking.
He reached, at last, the conclusion that the sooner he knew whether hecould leave his own place and ride to and from Sleepy Cat without being"potted" from ambush, the sooner he would know what to do next.Persuading himself that the watch would wait for him somewhere down theroad, Laramie, making coffee and cooking bacon, breakfasted, made hisfinal preparations for death by shaving himself with a venerable razor,and rifle in hand, got down as directly and briskly as possible to thecorral. He got up a horse, rode back into the hills, and recoveringhis saddle, started for Simeral's. Having spoken with Ben, Laramiemade a detour that brought him out on the creek a mile below his usualtrail. Thence he rode as contentedly as possible on his way.
The country for a few miles ahead was adapted for ambuscades. Thevalley was comparatively narrow and afforded more than one vantagepoint for covering a traveler. It was wholly a matter, Laramie felt,of bluffing it through. And beyond keeping a brisk pace with hishorse, he could do nothing to protect himself. "You're a fool forluck, Jim," he remembered Hawk's saying once to him, "but you'll get itsometime on your fool's luck, just the same."
When old Blackbeard, as he sometimes called Hawk--though no one elseventured to call him that--uttered the warning, it made no impressionon Laramie. Now it came back. Not unpleasantly, nor as a dread--onlyhe did recall at this time the words--which was more than he had everdone before. And he reflected that it would be very awkward for Hawk,if their common enemies should get his nurse at this particular time.
While this was running through his mind, he was not sorry to noticeahead of him the dust of the down stage. At that particular stretch ofthe road it would be less nerve-wearing to ride beside it a way. Heovertook the wagon and to his surprise found McAlpin on the box.McAlpin, overjoyed to see him, explained with a grin he was filling infor a sick man. In reality, he had substituted for the northern tripin the hope of seeing some fighting while out and the sight of Laramiewas the nearest he had got to it. Laramie, after a long talk, made anappointment to meet him in town in the evening and as they reached thefoot of the hill where the road climbed to the Sleepy Cat divide,Laramie feeling he had no further excuse for loitering, put spurs tohis horse and took a bridle trail, used as a cut-off, to get into safercountry.
He rode this trail unmolested, crossed the divide and coming out of thehills could see, to the south, Sleepy Cat lying below. He made up hismind that his judgment was more nearly right than his apprehension, androde down the slopes of the Crazy Woman, over the Double-draw bridgeand up the south hill in good spirits. He had, in fact, got half-wayup the long grade when he heard a rifle shot.
Knocked forward the next instant in his saddle, Laramie drooped overhis pommel. As his heels struck the horse's flanks, the beast sprangahead. The rebound jerked back the rider's head and shoulders. Whilethe horse dashed on, Laramie with as little fuss as possible pulled hisrifle from its scabbard, trying all the time to get his balance. Acareful observer could have noted that the rifle was drawn but held lowin the right hand as if the rider could not bring it up. Yet even aclose observer could hardly have detected in his convulsive swayingthat the wounded man was closely scanning the sides of the narrow roadalong which his horse was now flying. At all events, he seemed withfailing strength to be losing his seat as he lost control of his horse,and a hundred yards from where he had been struck he toppled helplesslyfrom the saddle into the roadway. The speed at which the horse wasgoing sent the fallen rider rolling along the grade, the sides of whichhad been torn in spots by summer torrents. Near one of these holes,Laramie had left the saddle, and into it he rolled headlong.
Knocked forward the next instant in his saddle, Laramiedrooped over his pommel]
The hole, between four and five feet deep, looked like an irregularwell with an overhang on one side and to the bottom of this, Laramie,covered with dust, tumbled. He righted himself and turning under theoverhang took breath, put do
wn his rifle, whipped out his revolver,looked toward the top of his well and listened.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the sunny morning. With his righthand, but holding his eyes and ears very much at attention, he drew ahandkerchief, wiped the dust from his eyes and face and twisted hishead around to investigate the stinging sensation high on his leftshoulder, almost at the neck. The rifle bullet had torn his coatcollar and shirt and creased the skin. He could feel no blood and sooninventoried the shot as only close. But he was waiting for the manthat fired it to appear at the hole to investigate; and with at leastthis one of his enemies he was in a mood to finish then and there.
Taking off his coat, as his wits continued to work, he spread it over alittle hump in front of him so it would catch the eye for an instantand with patient rage crouched back under the overhang. He so placedhimself that one could hardly see him without peering into the hole andthat might mean any one of several things for the man that venturedit--much depended, in Laramie's mind, on whose face he should see abovethe rim.
An interminable time passed. The first sound he heard was that ofhorses toiling up the long grade and the creaking of battered hubs;this he reckoned must be McAlpin with the stage. Where his hat hadrolled to, when he tumbled out of the saddle to simulate death, he hadno idea. If it lay in the road he might expect a visit from McAlpin.But without stopping, the stage rattled slowly up the grade.
It seemed then as if the distant gunman, after waiting for the stage topass, would not fail to reconnoiter the hole. Yet he did so fail. Thehigh hours of midday passed with Laramie patiently resting his Colt'sup between his knees and studying the yellow rim of the hole and theheavenly blue of the sky. His neck ached from the cramped position,long held, in which he had placed himself; but he moved no more than ifhe had been set in stone. Neither hunger, which was slight, northirst, at times troublesome, disturbed his watch. But it was in vain.
He sat like a spider in its web through the whole day without anincident. A few horsemen passed, an occasional wagon rumbled up anddown the hill; but none of the travelers looked in on Laramie. Towarddusk he heard a freighting outfit working laboriously up from thecreek. Resolving to give up his watch and go into town with this, hefelt his way cautiously out of his hiding place. Without really hopingto recover it, he began to search for his hat and to his surprise foundit in another gully near where he had tumbled from his horse. Thedriver of the freighting outfit wondered at seeing Laramie on foot. Heexplained that he had been hunting and that his horse had taken ashort-cut home.
Stone's companions under instructions had left him and returned toDoubleday's before the shot across the Crazy Woman. Stone himself gotback to Doubleday's ranch at about the time that Laramie started forSleepy Cat in the evening. But Barb Doubleday and Van Horn, he wastold, were in town. He followed them and discovered Van Horn in thebar room at the hotel.
"I hear you got him," muttered Van Horn, bending his keen eyes on Stone.
"Who said so?" demanded Stone.
"His horse came into Kitchen's barn this afternoon, all saddled.McAlpin is telling he heard a rifle shot on the Crazy Woman. They'rewild down at the barn over it. Did you get him?"
Stone paused over a glass of whisky; his face brightened: "I tumbledhim off his horse, if you call that getting him."
Van Horn asked questions impatiently. Stone answered with theindifference of the man that had turned a big trick. But Van Horninsisted on knowing what had become of Laramie.
"He tumbled into a hole," said Stone. "I didn't cross the creek tolook for him."
"Why didn't you?" asked Van Horn nervously.
Stone dallied with his glass: "I watched the hole all day. He didn'tcome out. That was enough, wasn't it?"
"No," snapped Van Horn.
"Well, I'll tell you, Harry; next time you and the old man want a jobdone, do it yourself. I never liked Laramie: I didn't care for gettingtoo close to the hole he tumbled into. After he was hit, he stuck tohis horse a little too long to suit me," said Stone shrewdly.
Van Horn's retort was contemptuous and pointed. He laughed: "Afraid ofhim, eh?"
Stone regarded him malevolently: "Look here!" he exclaimed harshly,"I'll make you a little proposition. When I get shaved we'll ride overto the Crazy Woman and you c'n look in the hole for yourself."
The uncertainty irritated Van Horn. When Stone, newly plastered,emerged from the barber shop, Van Horn took him with his story toDoubleday whom they found in his room, chewing the stub of a cold cigarand looking over a stock journal. He did not appear amiable, nor didhis face change much as the news was cautiously conveyed to him. WhenVan Horn announced he would ride out with Stone to examine the roadhole, Doubleday, whose expression had grown colder and colder, broke in:
"Needn't waste any time on that," he said with a snap of his jaw.
Stone snorted: "Maybe _you_ think he wasn't hit."
"Hit!" exclaimed Barb. "Hit!" he repeated, raising a long forefingerwith deep-drawn disgust. "He's sittin' in that room across the hallright now----"
"What's he doin'?"
"Playin' poker," muttered the old cattleman grimly, "with Doc. Carpyand Harry Tenison."