19
For Jude Cartwright the world was gone mad, as he spurred down thehills away from Sinclair and the girl. It was really only the secondtime in his life that he had been thwarted in an important matter. Tobe sure he had been raised roughly among rough men, but among theroughest of them, the repute of his family and the awe of his father'swide authority had served him as a shield in more ways than Judehimself could realize. He had grown very much accustomed to having hisway.
All things were made smooth for him; and when he reached the age whenhe began to think of marriage, and was tentatively courting half adozen girls of the district, unhoped-for great fortune had fairlydropped into his path.
The close acquaintance with old Mervin in that hunting trip had beenentirely accidental, and he had been astounded by the marriage contractwhich Mervin shortly after proposed between the two families.Ordinarily even Jude Cartwright, with all his self-esteem, would neverhave aspired to a star so remote as Mervin's daughter. The miracle,however, happened. He saw himself in the way to be the richest man onthe range, the possessor of the most lovely wife.
That dream was first pricked by the inexplicable disappearance of thegirl on their marriage day. He had laid that disappearance to foulplay. That she could have left him through any personal aversion neverentered his complacent young head.
He went out on the quest after the neighboring district had been combedfor his wife, and he had spent the intervening months in a ceaselesssearch, which grew more and more disheartening. It was only by chancethat he remembered that Mervin had lived for some time in Sour Creek,and only with the faintest hope of finding a clue that he decided tovisit that place. In his heart he was convinced that the girl was dead,but if she were really hiding it was quite possible that she might haveremembered the town where her father had made his first success withcattle.
Now the coincidence that had brought him face to face with her, stunnedhim. He was still only gradually recovering from it. It was totallyincredible that she should have fled at all. And it was entirely beyondthe range of credence that modest Elizabeth Mervin should have donnedthe clothes of a man and should be wandering through the hills with amale companion.
But when his wonder died away, he felt little or no pity for his wife.The pang that he felt was the torture of offended pride. Indeed, thefact that he had lost his wife meant less to him than that his wife hadseen him physically beaten by another man. He writhed in his saddle atthe memory.
Instantly his mind flashed back to the details of the scene. Herehearsed it with himself in a different role, beating the cowpuncherto a helpless pulp of bruised muscle, snatching away his wife. But evenif he had been able to do that, what would the outcome be? He could notlet the world know the truth--that his wife had fled from him in horroron their marriage day, that she had wondered about in the clothes of aman, that she was the companion of another man. And if he brought herback, certainly all these facts would come to light. The close-croppedhair alone would be damning evidence.
He framed a wild tale of abduction by villains, of an injury, asickness, a fever that forced a doctor to cut her hair short. He had nosooner framed the story than he threw it away as useless. With all hissoul he began to wish for the only possible solution which would savethe remnants of his ruined self-respect and keep him from the peril ofdiscovery. The girl must indubitably die!
By the time he came to this conclusion, he had struck out of the hills,and, as his horse hit the level going and picked up speed, the heart ofJude Cartwright became lighter. He would get weapons and the finesthorse money could buy in Sour Creek, trail the pair, take them bysurprise, and kill them both. Then back to the homeland and a new life!
Already he saw himself in it, his name surrounded with a glamour ofpathetic romance, as the sad widower with a mystery darkening his pastand future. It was an agreeable gloom into which he fell. Self-pitywarmed him and loosened his fierceness. He sighed with regret for hisown misfortunes.
In this frame of mind he reached Sour Creek and its hotel. While hewrote his name in the yellowed register he over-heard loud conversationin the farther end of the room. Two men had been outlawed thatday--John Gaspar, the schoolteacher who killed Quade, and RileySinclair, a stranger from the North.
Paying no further attention to the talk, he passed on into the generalmerchandise store which filled most of the lower story of the hotel.There he found the hardware department, and prominent among thehardware were the gun racks. He went over the Colts and with an experthand took up the guns, while the gray-headed storekeeper advanced aneulogium upon each weapon. His attention was distracted by the entranceof a tall, painfully thin man who seemed in great haste.
"What's all this about Cold Feet, Whitey?" he asked. "Cold Feet andSinclair?"
"I dunno, Sandersen, except that word come in from Woodville thatSinclair stuck up the sheriff on his way in with Jig, and Sinclair gotclean away. What could have been in his head to grab Jig?"
"I dunno," said Sandersen, apparently much perturbed. "They outlawed'em both, Whitey?"
There was an eagerness in this question so poorly concealed thatCartwright jerked up his head and regarded Sandersen with interest.
"Both," replied Whitey. "You seem sort of pleased, Sandersen?"
"I knowed that Sinclair would come to a bad end," said Sandersen moresoberly.
"Why, I thought they said you cottoned to him when the boys wasfiguring he might have had something to do with Quade?"
"Me? Well, yes, for a minute. But out at the necktie party, Whitey, Ikept watching him. Thinks a lot more'n he says, and gents like that isalways dangerous."
"Always," replied Whitey.
"But it's the last time Sinclair'll show his face in SourCreek--alive," said Sandersen.
"If he does show his face alive, it'll be a dead face pronto. You canlay to that."
Sandersen seemed to turn this fact over and over in his mind, withimmense satisfaction.
"And yet," pursued the storekeeper, "think of a full-grown man breakingthe law to save such a skinny little shrimp of a gent as Jig? Eh? Morelike a pretty girl than a boy, Jig is."
Cartwright exclaimed, and both of the others turned toward him.
"Here's the gun for me," he said huskily, "and that gunbelt--filled--and this holster. They'll all do."
"And a handy outfit," said Whitey. "That gun'll be a friend in need!"
"What makes you think they'll be a need?" asked Cartwright, with suchunnecessary violence that the others both stared. He went on moresmoothly: "What was you saying about a girl-faced gent?"
"The schoolteacher--he plugged a feller named Quade. Sinclair got himclean away from Sheriff Kern."
"And what sort of a looking gent is Sinclair? Long, brown, and prettyhusky-looking, with a mean eye?"
"You've named him! Where'd you meet up with him?"
"Over in the hills yonder, just where the north trail comes over therise. They was sitting down under a tree resting their hosses when Icome along. I got into an argument with this Sinclair--Long Riley, hecalled himself."
"Riley's his first name."
"We passed some words. Pretty soon I give him the lie! He made a reachfor his gun. I told him I wasn't armed and dared him to try his fists.He takes off his belt, and we went at it. A strong man, but he don'tknow nothing about hand fighting. I had him about ready to give up andbegging me to quit when this Jig, this girl-faced man you talkabout--he pulls a gun and slugs me in the back of the head with it."
Removing his sombrero he showed on the back of his head the great weltwhich had been made when he struck the ground with the weight ofSinclair on top of him. It was examined with intense interest by theother two.
"Dirty work!" said Sandersen sympathetically.
The storekeeper said nothing at all, but began to fold up a bolt ofcloth which lay half unrolled on the counter.
"It knocked me cold," continued Cartwright, "and when I come to, theywasn't no sign nor trace of 'em."
Buckling on the b
elt, he shoved the revolver viciously home in theholster.
"I'll land that pair before the posse gets to 'em, and when I land 'emI won't do no arguing with fists!"
"Say, I call that nerve," put in the storekeeper, with patentadmiration in his eyes, while he smoothed a fold of the cloth. "Runningagin' one gent like Sinclair is bad enough--let alone tackling two atonce. But you'd ought to take out a big insurance on your life, friend,before you take that trail. It's liable to be all out-trail and nocoming back."
A great deal of enthusiasm faded from Cartwright's face.
"How come?" he asked briefly.
"Nothing much. But they say this Sinclair is quite a gunfighter, myfriend. Up in his home town they scare the babies by talking aboutSinclair."
"H'm," murmured Cartwright. "He can't win always, and maybe I'll be thelucky man."
But he went out of the store with his head thoughtfully inclined.
"Think of meeting up with them two all alone and not knowing what theywas!" sighed Sandersen. "He's lucky to be alive, I'll tell a man."
Whitey grinned.
"Plenty of nerve in a gent like that," went on Sandersen, his pale blueeyes becoming dreamy. "Get your gat out, will you, Bill?"
Bill Sandersen obliged.
"Look at the butt. D'you see any point on it?"
"Nope."
"Did you look at that welt on the stranger's head?"
"Sure."
"Did you see a little cut in the middle of the welt?"
"Come to think of it, I sure did."
"Well, Sandersen, how d'you make out that a gun butt would make a cutlike that?"
"What are you driving at, Whitey?"
"I'm just discounting the stranger," said Whitey. "I dunno what othertalents he's got, but he's sure a fine nacheral liar."