The Rangeland Avenger

  10

  The posse had hardly thrown its masks to the wind and galloped down theroad when Sally Bent came running from the house.

  "I knew they couldn't," she cried to John Gaspar. "I knew they wouldn'tdare. The cowards! I'll remember every one of them!"

  "Hush!" murmured Gaspar. His faint smile was for Riley Sinclair. "Oneof them is still here, you see!"

  With wrath flushing her face, the girl looked at Riley.

  "How do you dare to stay here and face me--after the things you said!"

  "Lady," replied Sinclair, "you mean after the things I made you say."

  "Just wait till Jerry comes," exclaimed Sally.

  At this Sinclair grew more sober.

  "Honey," he said dryly, "when your brother drops in, you just calm himdown, will you? Because if him and Gaspar together was to start inraising trouble--well, they'd be more action than you ever seen in thatcabin before. And, after it was all over, they'd have a dead Gaspar tocart over to Woodville. You can lay to that!"

  It took Sally somewhat aback, this confident ferociousness.

  "Them that brag ain't always the ones that do things," she declared."But why are you staying here?"

  "To keep Gaspar till the sheriff comes for him."

  Sally grew white.

  "Don't you see that there's nothing to be afraid of?" asked JohnGaspar. "See how close I came to death, and yet I was saved. Why, Goddoesn't let innocent men be killed, Sally."

  For a moment the girl stared at the schoolteacher with tears in hereyes; then she flashed at Riley a glance of utter scorn, as if invitinghim to see what an angel upon the earth he was persecuting. ButSinclair remained unmoved.

  He informed them of the conditions of his stay. He must be allowed tokeep John Gaspar in sight at all times. Only suspicious moves he wouldresent with violence. Sally Bent heard all of this with openlyexpressed hatred and contempt. John Gaspar showed no emotion whatever.

  "By heaven," declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about somehousework, "I'd actually think you believed that God was on your side.You talk about Him so familiar--like you and Him was partners."

  John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles. He had a way of looking fora long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to saywas first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how SallyBent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features andthe strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country wheremasculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasantexception.

  "You see," explained Gaspar, "I had to cheer Sally by saying somethinglike that. Women like to have such things said. She'll be absolutelyconfident now, because she thinks I'm not disturbed. Very odd, but verytrue."

  "And it seems to me," said Sinclair, frowning, "that you're not muchdisturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?"

  "What can I do?"

  "Maybe you'd be man enough to try to break away."

  "From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I'd as soon try to hidemyself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I'll give you myparole, my word of honor that I'll make no escape."

  But Sinclair struck in with: "I don't want your parole. Hang it, man,just do your best, and I'll do mine. You try to give me the slip, andI'll try to keep you from it. That's square all around."

  Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air ofjudicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great manywords came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained fromspeech.

  In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had neverdetested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great asthe sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlativelyweak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thingwas, Sinclair could not tell.

  Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsedhim. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certaintywas growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring himshame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not theslightest respect. Let them think as they pleased.

  It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never knownbefore, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. Hesoftened his voice. "Gaspar," he said, "keep your head up. Make upyour mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumbsick to see a grown man give up like you do!"

  His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.

  "You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage," went on Sinclair."Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be.Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"

  But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused.

  "Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see.You're made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak andtalons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty."

  "That's overrating me a pile," muttered Riley, greatly pleased by thistribute, as he felt it to be. "If you tried, maybe you could do a lotyourself. You're full of nerves, and a gent that's full of nerves makesa first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With themfingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start inand learn to be a man, Gaspar!"

  Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smallerman. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. Hestood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expressionof displeasure.

  Sinclair scowled darkly. "Now what d'you mean by that?"

  "I mean that I don't envy you," said Gaspar steadily. "I'd rather havethe other thing."

  "What other thing, Jig?"

  Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on thelips of a stranger.

  "You go into the world and take what you want. I'm stronger than that."

  "How are you stronger?" asked Riley.

  "Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me."

  "Jig, I was never smart at riddles. Go ahead and clear yourself up witha few more words."

  The other hesitated--not for words, but as if he wondered if it mightbe worth while for him to explain. Never in Riley Sinclair's life hadhe been taken so lightly.

  "Will you follow me into the house?" asked Gaspar at length.

  "I'll follow you, right enough," said Sinclair. "That's my job. Leadon."

  He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smallerroom to the side.

  Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room. Bookcases ranged along onewall were packed with books. The couch before the window was heapedwith cushions. There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so thatone could either sit or lie in it. There was a lamp with a biggreenish-yellow shade.

  "This is what I mean," murmured Jig.

  Riley Sinclair's bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously. "Well, you gotthis place fixed up pretty stuffy," he answered. "Outside of that, hangme if I see what you mean."

  Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whosedelicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at hiscompanion.

  "I really shouldn't expect you to understand, my friend."

  "Friend!" Sinclair exploded. "You're a queer bird, Jig. What do youmean by 'friend'?"

  "Why not?" asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his facebrightened into a smile. "I'd be swinging from the end of a rope if itweren't for you, you know."

  Sinclair shrugged away this rejoinder. He trod heavily to thebookshelves, took up two or three random volumes, and tossed themheedlessly back into place.

  "Well, kid, you're going to be yanked out of this little imitationworld of yours pretty pronto."

  "Ah, but perhaps not!"

  "Eh?"

  "Something may happen."

  "What can happen?"

  "Just something like you, my friend."

  The insistence on that word irritated Riley Sinclair.

  "Don't call me that," he replied in his most bru
tal manner. "Jig, d'youknow what a friend means?" he asked. "How d'you figure that word out?"

  Jig considered. "A friend is somebody you know and like and are glad tohave around."

  Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair. "That's just about what I knewyou'd say."

  "Am I wrong?"

  "Son, they ain't anything right about you, as far as I can make out.Wrong? You're as wrong as a yearling in a blizzard. Wrong? I shouldtell a man you're wrong! Lemme tell you what a friend is. He's thebunkie that guards your back in a fight; he's the man that can ask foryour hoss or your gun or your life, no matter how bad you want 'em;he's the gent that trusts you when the world calls you a liar; he's theone that don't grin when you're in trouble, who gives a cheer whenyou're going good. With a friend you let down the bars and turn yourmind loose like wild hosses. I take out my soul like a gun and show itto my friend in the palm of my hand. It's sure full of holes andstains, this life of mine, but my friend checks off the good agin' thebad, and when you're through he says: 'Partner, now I like you betterbecause I know you better.'

  "Son, I don't know what God means very well, and I ain't any bunkie ofthe law, but I'm tolerable well acquainted with what the word 'friend'means. When you use it, you want to look sharp."

  "I really believe," Jig said, "that you would be a friend like that. Ithink I understand."

  "You don't, though. To a friend you give yourself away, and you getyourself back bigger and stronger."

  "I didn't know," said Jig softly, "that friendship could mean all that.How many friends have you had?"

  The big cowpuncher paused. Then he said gently at length, "One friend."

  "In all your life?"

  "Sure! I was lucky and had one friend."

  Cold Feet leaned forward, eagerness in his eyes. "Tell me about him!"

  "I don't know you well enough, son."

  That jarring speech thrust Jig back into his chair, as if with aphysical hand. There, as though in covert, he continued to studySinclair. Presently he began to nod.

  "I knew it from the first, in spite of appearances."

  "Knew what?"

  "Knew that we'd get along."

  "And are we getting along, Jig?"

  "I think so."

  "Glad of that," muttered the cowpuncher dryly.

  "Ah," cried John Gaspar, "you're not as hard as you seem. One of thesedays I'll prove it. Besides, you won't forget me."

  "What makes you so sure of that?"

  Jig rose from his chair and stood leaning against it, his hands droppedlightly into the pockets of his dressing gown. He lookedextraordinarily boyish at that moment, and he seemed to have thefearlessness of a child which knows that the world has no real accountagainst it. Riley Sinclair set his teeth to keep back a flood of pitythat rose in him.

  "You wait and see," said Jig. He raised a finger at Sinclair. "I'llkeep coming back into your mind a long time after you leave me; andyou'll keep coming back into my mind. Oh, I know it!"

  "How in thunder do you?"

  "I don't know. Just because--well, how did I understand at the trialthat you knew I was innocent, and that you would let no harm come tome?"

  "Did you know that?" asked Sinclair.

  Instead of answering, Jig broke into his soft, pleasant laughter.