Laramie Holds the Range

  CHAPTER VI

  WHICH WINS?

  He was long of limb, rather loose-jointed; but not ungraceful, except ashis simple manner and unassuming rig--neither soiled nor fresh--made himseem so; at all events what he might look like was apparently of slightmoment to him. He had a good walk--Kate noticed that when he crossed theplatform; not the choppy, high-heeled gait of a man that never doesanything but ride, but an easy step that matched the expressions of hiseyes. His quick movements seemed, as usual with bronzed Western men,younger than his face; and his twenty-eight years would, as a firstimpression, have passed for well above thirty, with Kate. She hadstruggled too long with charcoal and lead pencils not to perceive thathis frame was clean and his shoulders good; and his head was well set onthem, if the man would carry it where it belonged. But he was plainlynot vain; and since we usually accept at sight whatever draft men andwomen themselves draw on our impressions, Kate would have regarded himordinarily with no more than he demanded--indifference.

  "Any kind of saddle will do me," he answered in response to an inquiry;and he repeated his compliment to the horses. He looked well at his own:"This is a good pony." Kate assumed a little: "All our ponies are good."

  "I wish you'd show them to me sometime," was his unassuming request. Theremark should have been enough to warn Kate that her deception rested onvery thin ice; that it was more than probable he had already penetratedmuch of it. But, a beginner in deception, she was intent only on her ownpart and took his good-natured acquiescence at its face value. Themoment he saw her ponies he knew they were Doubleday's: yet he seemedwilling to forego his scruple rather than to lose the ride.

  Kate, too, was disposed to be amiable: "I will show them to yousometime," she said promptly.

  But whenever she thawed for an instant she felt directly the necessity offreezing up again. Her remarks were divided as evenly as a mountainApril day--one moment spring, the next winter. Happily for her purposes,the day itself was spring. She had mounted her horse but as she spoke,she slipped from her saddle, threw her lines and, walking hurriedly intothe dining room, returned with a handful of wrapped sandwiches. Shelooked at him as she held the package out: "How can we carry them?"

  He disposed of the store in a capacious pocket and then hesitated: "Iwonder if you'd mind waiting five minutes while I go up to Doubleday'shouse."

  "What for?" she asked, professing surprise.

  "To see what I can find out about where he is."

  "I've told you all you can find out by going to the house," she returneddeprecatingly. He looked at her as if undecided. "When you ask to goriding with me and I get the horses--I come first, don't I?" she askedcavalierly; and before he could help her she was back again in the saddle.

  He hesitated no longer: "You come first any time," he said, "andanywhere," he added, swinging up on his own pony.

  She looked sidewise at him as they trotted up the street: "You don't mindrather rough riding?"

  "Anything the ponies can stand," was all he said.

  Kate had given him her dun pony. Spirit-free all the time the trim beasteither through instinct knew his rider or meant to cast off care in along fling. He took the stage the moment his rider touched the saddle.Kate rode Dick, her lighter but faster gray pony. He danced attendancefor a time, but the dun kept the spotlight and gave Kate a chance toregard the man just from Medicine Bend critically. She had meant to puthim on exhibition--perhaps cherished a hope he might ride onlyindifferently well--yet in a country where everybody rode, this was muchto hope for. At all events, the result, with an added surprise, was adisappointment.

  If there be a latent awkwardness in a man, the saddle mirrors it; and ifthere lie in him anywhere dormant an unsuspected alertness, it wakes inthe saddle to action. Her companion had hardly found his stirrups beforeKate perceived a change. His body sprung molded from the cantle, hiscareless shoulders came to attention, and as the pony curvettedriotously, the rider's head, rising like a monitor straight from hisslender neck, invited his horse to show its paces.

  "You take the trail," said Kate's guest tersely, as they swung out on thedesert.

  "No," she returned, "you."

  "We'll take it together," was his reply.

  But despite her disclaiming, Kate did the guiding and her object was toget a good way from town. Her companion's frequently repeated effort wasto slow down for a talk; hers was to tantalize him by speeding away fromone. But she couldn't speed all of the time, and he eyed either herriding, or her habit, pretty closely for a good while without comment.Then a chance offered itself and he put a question: "Where did you learnto ride?"

  "All mountain girls ride, don't they?" she suggested.

  "You're not a mountain girl."

  "It was a mountain girl that taught me to ride,--away back in theAlleghanies--long before I ever saw this country."

  "Your mountain girl's pupils don't all ride like that, I'll gamble."

  "I wasn't very bright." Kate spurred ahead. The dun pony kept after her.

  "Compliments don't set very well on you, do they?" was the shot from herleft a moment later.

  She turned a full face on her companion: "I hate them," she declared withenergy.

  In luring this man away from his errand, she had yielded to a really wildimpulse and now the spirit of recklessness that ruled her mood seemed torevenge itself by counseling added dangers. She invited riding-hazards,that her victim disdained to comment on, until they must have appearedsilly to him. A long way from home they were crossing a high bench abovethe Falling Wall river, a bench cut by frequent lateral washes--some wideand all very deep. These breaks they jumped one after another withouttaking serious trouble to head them, though Kate's companion, riding onthe river side, gave her every chance to do so.

  "I suppose," he suggested at length, "you're pushing into rough countrybecause you like it."

  She looked at him: "Yes," she said, icily, "I do like it. But," sheadded, "if it's too rough for you, we'll go back." In that much of achallenge she felt safe.

  "I'm riding with you," he returned, a little dryly. "I like anything youlike."

  And at this juncture Kate's luck deserted her; it always seemed to whenshe most needed it. Ahead, there lay a stretch of smooth bench and shetook a run to cross it. But below a slight rise on the near side an uglybreak suddenly faced her. Decision was forced. Recklessness said: "Takeit." She spurred. The gray hesitated--almost as if to give his wantonmistress a chance to reconsider; but he got the quirt for his pains.

  The wiry beast was almost on the brink--he had hardly a moment to coil,but he shot across the gulf with a convulsive leap that carried his riderover, with nothing--absolutely nothing--to spare. He made the fartherside with three feet--the left hind foot slumped on the edge of the bankand down went the leg!

  Kate never forgot that moment. It was thirty feet, sheer, to the rocksbelow. And it would have been poor Dick on top of his foolish mistress.Kate really expected nothing better until with a terrific snort the ponyscrambled to safety. What a horse will do for thankless man!

  The frightened girl hardly dared look around even after she recovered herbreath--which she thought would never come back. On the sudden spurt,her companion had been a little behind her. She presumed that the dunwith commendable sense had refused the jump for when she glanced half wayaround--she was afraid her white face would betray her little panic--hisrider was galloping him back in an easy circle and heading him the secondtime for the formidable break. This time, too, the rider was letting hisreluctant beast understand who was master; and with enough of authorityto force him and enough consideration to give him confidence, he jumpedhim over the gap as Kate should have jumped Dick--with room and to spare.

  Her cheeks were burning again: "You did it much better," she said coolly,as he joined her. "Dick is getting slow."

  "That wasn't Dick's fault," he remarked, for he appeared a trifle upsethimself by the misadventure. "It was yours," he added bluntly.

/>   Her only answer was to push ahead. She could at least keep the manbusy--though she felt somewhat diffident about offering him furtherlessons in horsemanship.

  The trail led up a commanding ridge and her companion scanned the valleylying to the north beyond. Through it they could trace a slender watercourse. "This should be not far from Falling Wall Canyon," he suggested."And that creek must be a branch of the Sinking Water."

  "Oh, I've heard about that wonderful canyon," she exclaimed. "Tell meabout it."

  "It breaks through that near range," he said, pointing. "There are elkin the park across the next divide. There isn't a great deal to tellabout the canyon--it's just there, that's about all."

  "How deep is it?"

  "Three to six hundred feet."

  "Straight up and down, they say."

  "As near as the Lord could make it."

  "Is there any way of getting to the bottom of it?"

  "The easiest way would be to jump from the rim."

  "Oh, could we see it?"

  "Not tonight unless you want to camp out; and we're not exactly fixed forthat. Up close to the old mine bridge there's a trail into the canyon.It's pretty stiff. A sailor would warp his way down with a rope."

  The horses had halted by consent and their riders were contemplating themountains and valleys surrounding them. Her companion took advantage ofthe pause to dismount and inspect the legs of the ponies--and while heexamined those of his own horse for politeness' sake--he looked moreclosely at Dick's.

  "He must have got a wrench in that jump," confessed Kate, watching. "Wewere riding pretty fast, weren't we?"

  "For that kind of country, yes. I thought for a while," added hercompanion, in a dry way, "you must be showing me how to ride. Then Ifigured out you must be showing me how _you_ could ride."

  Kate stared straight ahead: "How absurd!" she exclaimed with coldcontempt for his conclusions, yet feeble in her sarcasm against hispenetration.

  "All I want to say is," he continued, remounting, "that I see you canride. You don't have to cover much country to prove that. You ride likea Western girl--and talk like an Eastern girl. Which are you?"

  She unfeelingly closed all inquiries: "Both," she answered indifferently."Let's head for the bottoms; about two miles from here there's aspring--good water."

  He looked skeptical: "If you can show me good water near here, I'll belearning something. I didn't know there was a water hole within tenmiles--but I don't know this lower country as well as my own."

  "What is your own?"

  He pointed to the Northeast to where a range of snow-capped peaks roseabove from the desert: "Those are the Lodge Pole mountains. That's wherethe Falling Wall river begins--where you see that snow. It circles cleararound the range, crosses the Reservation to the West and opens Southinto a high basin--that's my country--the Falling Wall. Then the rivercuts out of there through the canyon we're talking about and gets away tothe West again." Coming a step nearer to her he pointed again: "Now lookclose to the left of that strip of timber. You can just see a breakabove it--that's the high point of the canyon. A long time ago there wasa mining camp in those mountains--Horsehead--they started to build arailroad up there--did a lot of grading and put in the abutments for abridge across the canyon. Before they got the road built the camp playedout; they never finished it. All that country below there is the FallingWall."

  "Are they all thieves and outlaws over there?"

  He started a little in spite of himself and took his time to reply: "Itmust have been a thief or an outlaw that put that idea in your head," heobserved finally.

  "Oh, no, it was Tom Stone."

  His expression changed into contempt: "I didn't need but one guess."

  Kate asked him to explain, but he did not and she was not in a positionto object. She found the trail to the spring. Van Horn had taken herthere once. Dismounting at a little distance, the two made their waydown to it. "Score one for the rough rider," said her companion after hehad drunk. "And I thought I knew every drop of water in this country."

  "And I thought I knew every drop of water in thiscountry."]

  He produced the sandwiches and they sat down. Kate could judge the hourof the day only from the sun and dared not mention "time." Her companionasked as many questions as he could think of, and she managed her answerswith a minimum of information. And she asked herself one question thatdid not occur to him: "Why was she not frightened to death?" It musthave been the duel she felt she was fighting with this man to keep himaway from her father that banished her fears. In the saddle, eventsmoved too rapidly to admit of extended misgivings, and she had purposelyassigned to him the slower horse.

  It was only when they were taking the almost enforced moment of resttogether at the water hole--which might as well have been a thousandmiles from help as ten--that little chills did run up and down her back.As for her companion, it was useless to try to read him from his face ormanner; if she were playing one game, he might well be playing another asfar as anything she could gather from his features was concerned. Butshe had to confess there was never a look in his eyes--when she did lookinto them--that frightened her.

  And as she cautiously regarded him munching a sandwich and keeping hisown eyes rather away from than on her own, she asked herself whether shehad undertaken too much, and whether this sphinx-like face might hidedanger for her. She at least knew it was far from being possible to tellby looking at the outside of a man's head what might be going on inside.Only the plight of her father's affairs had seemed to justify her; eventhis did not seem to now, but it was too late to wish herself out of it.Besides--for most extraordinary notions will come into foolish girls'minds--was she not in the company of a great Federal court; and shouldn'tshe feel safe on that score?

  He certainly ate slowly. His appetite was astonishing. He invited Katemore than once to continue eating with him, but her first hasty sandwichand her latent uneasiness had more than satisfied her.

  "It must be very exciting, to be a deputy marshal," she remarked once,when she could think of no other earthly thing to say, and was stillafraid they might get back in time for the train.

  "It must be sometimes."

  "How does it feel to be chasing men all the time?"

  "I've had more experience myself in getting chased."

  She attempted to laugh: "Do they ever chase deputy marshals?"

  He took up, gravely, the last sandwich: "I expect they do once in awhile."

  "You ought to know, I should think."

  He offered her the sandwich and on her refusal bit into it: "No," hereturned simply, "for I'm not a deputy marshal."

  Kate was stunned: "Why, you said you were! What do you mean?" shedemanded when she could speak. He ate so deliberately! She thought henever would finish his mouthful and answer: "I mean--not regularly. Onceor twice I've been deputized to serve papers--when the job went begging.Farrell Kennedy, the marshal at Medicine Bend, is a friend ofmine--that's the nearest I come to working for him."

  "But if you're not a deputy marshal, what are you?" demanded Kate,uneasily.

  His face reflected the suspicion of a smile: "I guess the answer to thatwould depend a good deal on who told the story."

  "I could hardly imagine anyone chasing you," she continued, not knowingin her confusion what to say.

  "You ought to see me run sometime," he returned.

  "Oh, there's a prairie dog!" she exclaimed. She was looking to thefarther side of the water hole. "See? Over there by that bush! Iwonder if I could hit it?" She put her hand to her scabbard: "I've lostmy revolver!" She looked at him blankly. "Had it when you started,didn't you?" inquired her companion, undisturbed. Her hand rested on theempty scabbard in dismay: "I must have lost it on the way."

  He plunged his left hand into a capacious side pocket and drew out herrevolver. But instead of handing it to her he began to examine it as ifhe might return it or might not. She was on pins in an instant. Now she_was_ at his merc
y. "Is that mine?" she asked, frightened.

  "It is."

  "Where did you get it?" she demanded. Was she to get it back? He madeno move to let her know; just fingered the toy curiously. "Where youdropped it--before you made your leap for life." And looking up at her,he added: "We ought to've eaten our sandwiches first and drank afterward."

  "I don't understand--what did I do?" Kate knew her voice quivered a bitthough she was bound she would not show fear. "And while we aretalking"--she pointed--"the prairie dog is gone."

  "He'll be back," predicted her companion with slow confidence. "The gunbounced from your scabbard when you were running your horse along thebench. So I picked it up for you." He presented it on the palm of hishand.

  "How odd!" she exclaimed, trying to take it without appearing in a hurry."How stupid of me!" She knew her face, in spite of herself, flushedunder his gaze.

  "You were going a pretty good clip," he continued.

  "But a man would never do such a thing as to drop a revolver--you neverwould."

  "It might be a whole lot worse for me to do it than it would foryou--though if I carried a nice little gun like that it maybe wouldn'tmake so very much difference. There's your prairie dog again," he added,looking across the hole.

  "Of course a man would have to make fun of a pistol like this," sheanswered, the revolver lying in her hand. "Let me see yours." Thus farshe had seen no sign of any scabbard or holster. "And shoot that prairiedog for me," she added.

  "Mine would be pretty heavy for a prairie dog. You try him."

  "Oh, my poor little pistol is in disgrace," she returned, putting it up."Sec what you can do."

  He slipped his left hand under the right lapel of his coat and drew froma breast harness a Colt's revolver. Had she realized it was carried thatday in this very unobtrusive manner in anticipation of an unpleasantinterview with her father, Kate would have been speechless with fear. Asit was, no gun, though she had seen many since coming to the mountains,ever looked so big or formidable. The setting of the scene and hersituation may have magnified its impressiveness.

  "Why smash the prairie dog?" he asked quietly. "Look at his whiskers--hemay be the father of a family."

  "You might miss him."

  "If I should it would be time for me to quit this country."

  "Shoot at something else."

  "Why shoot at all?"

  "I want to see you."

  "We might get a shot at something on the way home."

  "You're not obliging." She held out her hand for his revolver. "Let mesee."

  "It makes me feel kind of foolish," he said defensively, "kind of like anold-fashioned cowboy, to be shooting right and left." On his right handhe held the heavy gun toward Kate.

  "How do you get practise?" she asked.

  He lifted his eyebrows the least bit: "To tell the truth I haven't hadmuch lately."

  "How can you tell then whether you could hit anything if you did shoot atit?"

  "That wouldn't be hard. If I didn't hit it, it would most likely hit me."

  "How could I practise to learn to shoot the way you do?"

  He looked at her inquiringly; "What do you know about the way I shoot?"

  "Nothing, of course. I mean the way that men who carry guns like thisshoot."

  He thought a moment. "Get down into a dark cellar with just one window.Block out all the light from that window except one small circle. Shoot,off-hand, till you can put five bullets through the circle withoutmussing up the general surroundings."

  "That sounds like hard work."

  "It's certainly----" He just hesitated and then continued: "hard on theammunition."

  She found by this time she could tolerate the dry smile that lighted hisface now and again, and the drawl of words that went with the expression.At times he seemed simple, yet there was shrewdness behind his humor.

  "I didn't see you stop back there on the bench to pick anything up," sheremarked abruptly, thinking of her own pistol again.

  "I circled back to get it."

  "Without dismounting?'"

  "You wouldn't hardly want to get off to pick up anything as light asthat."

  "I wish I'd seen you do it."

  "If you'd been looking I might've been trying to get hold of it yet."

  She examined the Colt's gun curiously. She asked him how to handle it.He obligingly broke it, emptied the cylinders and explained how it wasfired. But she was not equal to handling the big thing, and told him so.

  "Though if I should want to kill you now it would be easy, wouldn't it?"she reflected, after he had reloaded the gun and laid it in her hand, themuzzle pointing toward himself and her finger resting on the trigger.

  "Not without cocking the gun."

  "No, but I mean suppose I really _should_ want to kill you----"

  "I'll show you." He cocked the revolver and placed it again in her handand it lay once more with her finger on the trigger.

  "Now," he explained, "I'm covered."

  "And to kill you all I have to do is to pull the trigger."

  "Pulling the trigger, the way things are now, would certainly be a bigstart in that direction. But"--the dry suspicion of a laugh crossed hiseyes--"to point a gun at a man and pull the trigger doesn't always killhim--not, anyways, in this country. If it did, the population would falloff pretty strong in some of these northern counties. And you might besurprised if I told you you couldn't pull the trigger right now, anyway."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Try it."

  "But I might kill you!"

  "That's the point."

  "Nevertheless," she persisted, "I could if I _wanted_ to."

  "No matter how you put it, it's all the same--you can't want to."

  "No, but suppose I were bound to keep you from doing something--likeserving papers, for instance."

  His legs were crossed under him and he was tossing bits of the gravelunder his hand: "You'd have a better show to do that if you went at it inanother way."

  "What way?"

  "Well--by asking me not to serve them, for instance."

  "Do you mean to say if I asked you not to serve papers you wouldn't doit?" She eyed him with simulated indignation.

  He returned her gaze unafraid: "Try it," was his answer.

  She took a deep breath. Then she tossed her head: "I probably shouldn'tcare enough about it for that. Why don't you carry two revolvers?"

  "Too much like baggage."

  "Wouldn't it be a lot safer?"

  He smiled: "If one gun refused to go off promptly, two wouldn't help alot."

  Her eyes and her thoughts returned to the gun in her hand. For a momentshe had forgotten it. Suppose her finger, while she was talking, hadmechanically closed on the trigger. She blanched. "Take it," she said,holding the gun out in both hands and looking away.

  "Shall we let the dog go this time?" she heard him ask as he lowered thehammer.