Читать книгу Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation - Bennet Robert Ames - Страница 7

When he opened his eyes the sun was beating down into his face. He had slept far into the morning. He stood up to stare around. His horse was cropping the grass near the lower side of the grove. There was no sign of any wolves. He walked over to his fireplace. The fire had burned to ashes hours ago. He started a fresh one with his patent lighter, and turned to where he had left the veal. It was gone.

He went a few steps farther, and found a bone gnawed clean of every shred of meat and gristle. A fox is a far less cunning thief than a coyote. The quantity of calf meat had alone saved his saddle and bridle, and even at that, one of the bridle reins was slashed and the stirrup leathers were gnawed. He looked from the white bone to the saddle, and ripped out a half dozen vigorous Anglo-Saxon oaths. It was not nice, but the explosion argued a far healthier frame of mind than either his morbid hysteria of the previous afternoon or his frenzy of the night.

After the outburst of anger had spent itself, he realized that he was hungry. The feeling became acute when he remembered that he had absolutely nothing on hand to eat. He hastened to saddle up. As he was about to mount he paused to look uncertainly up the trail on which he had thrown away the cigarettes. While he stood vacillating, his hand went to his hip pocket and drew out the silver-cased brandy flask. He looked at it, and its emptiness reminded him that he was thirsty. He went down to the pool for a drink. Having filled his flask, he returned up the bank and sprang into the saddle.

His horse, in fine fettle after the night’s rest and grazing, started off on the jump, cow pony fashion. Ashton gave him his head, and the horse bore him at a steady lope down along the stream, crossing over to the other bank of the dry bed, of his own volition, when the going became too rough on the near side. The direction of the railway was now off across the sagebrush flats to Ashton’s right, but he allowed his horse to continue on down the creek. About four miles from the waterhole he approached a bunch of grazing cattle. He drew rein and walked his horse past them, looking for a herder. There was none in sight. The animals were on their home range. He rode on down the creek at a canter.

A mile farther on, as he neared another scattered bunch of cattle, something thwacked the dry ground a little in front and to the left of him, throwing up a splash of sand and dust. His pony snorted and leaped ahead at a quickened pace.

Ashton turned to look back at the spot–and instinctively ducked as a bullet pinged past his ear so close that he felt the windage on his cheek. He did not lack quickness of perception. He glanced up the open slope to his left, and grasped the fact that someone was shooting at him with a rifle from the crest of the ridge half a mile distant.

Instantly he flung himself flat on his pony’s neck and dug in his spurs. The pony bounded forward with a suddenness that spoiled the aim of the third bullet. It whined past over the beast’s haunches. The fourth shot, best aimed of all, smashed the silver brandy flask in Ashton’s hip pocket. Had he been upright in the saddle, the steel-jacketed bullet must have pierced him through the waist.

With a yell of terror, he flattened himself still closer to his pony’s neck and dug in his spurs at every jump. The beast was already going at a pace that would have won most quarter-mile sprints. Just after the fourth shot he swept in among the scattered bunch of cattle, running at his highest speed. Still Ashton swung his sharp-roweled spurs. He knew that the range of a high-power rifle is well over a mile.

To his vast surprise, the shooting ceased the moment he raced into line with the first steer. The short respite gave him time to recover his wits.

As the pony sprinted clear of the last steer in the bunch, a fifth bullet ranged close down over Ashton’s head. He pulled hard on the right rein and leaned the same way. The sixth shot burned the skin on the pony’s hip as he swerved suddenly towards the edge of the creek channel. He made a wild leap out over the edge of the cut bank and came plunging down on a gravel bar. At once he started to race along the dry stream bed. But instead of spurring, Ashton now tugged at the bridle.

The pony swung to the left and came to a halt close in under the bank. Ashton cautiously straightened from his crouch. When erect he was just high enough to see over the edge of the bank. Looking back and up the ridge, he saw the figure of a man clearly outlined against the sky. His lips closed in resolute lines; his dark eyes flashed. Jerking out his rifle, he set the sight for fifteen hundred yards, and began firing at the would-be murderer as coolly and steadily as a marksman.

Before he had pulled the trigger the third time the man leaped sideways and knelt to return his fire. At once Ashton gripped his rifle still more firmly and drew back the automatic lever. The crackling discharge was like the fire of a miniature Maxim gun. Puffs of dust spouted up all around the man on the ridge crest. He sprang to his feet and ran back out of sight, jumping from side to side like an Indian.

“Ho!” shouted Ashton. “He’s running! I made him run!”

He sat up very erect in his saddle, staring defiantly at the place where the murderer had disappeared.

“The coward! I made him run!” he exulted.

He shifted his grip on his rifle, and the heat of the barrel reminded him that he had emptied the magazine. He reloaded the weapon to its fullest capacity, and stood up in his stirrups to stare at the ridge crest. The murderer did not reappear. Ashton’s exultance gave place to disappointment. He was more than ready to continue the duel.

He rode down the creek, searching for a place to ascend the cut bank. But by the time he came to a slope he had cooled sufficiently to realize the foolishness of bravado. Not unlikely the murderer was lying back out of sight, ready to shoot him when he came up out of the creek. He reflected, and decided that the going was quite good enough in the bottom of the creek bed. He rode on down the channel, over the gravel bars, at an easy canter.

After a half mile the bank became so low and the creek bed so sandy that he turned up on to the dry sod. As he did so he kept his eye warily on the now distant ridge. But no bullet came pinging down after him.

Instead, he heard the thud of galloping hoofs, and twisted about just in time to see a rider top a rise a short distance in front of him. He snapped down his breech sight and faced the supposed assailant with the rifle ready at his shoulder. Almost as quickly he lowered the weapon and snatched off his sombrero in joyful salute. The rider was Miss Knowles.

She waved back gayly and cantered up to him, her lovely face aglow with cordial greeting.

“Good noon!” she called. “So you have come at last? But better late than never.”

“How could I help coming?” he gallantly exclaimed.

“I see. The coyotes stole your cutlets, and you were hungry,” she bantered, as she came alongside and whirled her horse around to ride with him down the creek.

“How did you guess?” he asked.

“I know coyotes,” she replied. “They’re the worst–” She stopped short, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. “Oh, Mr. Ashton! how could you? I did not think you so cruel!”

“Cruel?” he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. “Ah, you refer to the spurring. But I simply couldn’t help it, you know. There was a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge back there.”

“A bandit–on Dry Mesa?” she incredulously exclaimed.

“Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times.”

The girl smiled. “You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at a coyote.”

“No,” he insisted, flushing under her look. “The ruffian was shooting at me. See here.”

He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had been torn out. From it he drew his brandy flask.

“That was done by the third or fourth shot,” he explained. “Do you wonder I was flat on my pony’s neck and spurring as hard as I could?”

The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it over with keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neat hole. Opposite it half of the other side had been burst out as if by an explosion within. She took off the silver cap, shook out the shattered glass of the inner flask, and looked again at the small hole.

“A thirty-eight,” she observed.

“Pardon me,” he replied. “I fail to–Ah, yes; thirty-eight caliber, you mean.”

“It is I who must ask pardon,” she said in frank apology. “Your rifle is a thirty-two. I heard a number of shots, ending with the rattle of an automatic. Thought you were after another deer.”

He could afford to smile at the merry thrust and the flash of dimples that accompanied it.

“At least it wasn’t a calf this time,” he replied. “Nor was it a doe. But it may have been a buck.”

“Indian?” she queried, with instant perception of his play on the word.

“I didn’t see any war plumes,” he admitted.

“War plumes? Oh, that is a joke!” she exclaimed. She chanced to look down at the shattered flask, and her merriment vanished. “But this isn’t any joke. Didn’t you see the man who was shooting at you?”

“Yes, after I jumped my pony down into the creek. Perhaps the bandit thought he had tumbled us both. He stood up on top the ridge, until I cut loose and made him run.”

“He ran?”

Ashton’s eyes sparkled at the remembrance, and his chest began to expand. Then he met the girl’s clear, direct gaze, and answered modestly: “Well, you see, when I had got down behind the bank our positions were reversed. He was the one in full view. It’s curious, though, Miss Knowles–shooting at that poor calf, under the impression it was a deer, I simply couldn’t hold my rifle steady, while–”

“No wonder, if it was your first deer,” put in the girl. “We call it buck fever.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you have thought my first bandit–Why, I couldn’t have aimed at him more steadily if I had been made of cast iron.”

“Guess he had made you fighting mad,” she bantered; but under her seeming levity he perceived a change in her manner towards him immensely gratifying to his humbled self-esteem.

“At first I was just a trifle apprehensive–” He hesitated, and suddenly burst out with a candid confession–“No, not a trifle! Really, I was horribly frightened!”

This was more than the girl had hoped from him. She nodded and smiled in open approval. “You had a good right to be frightened. I don’t blame you for spurring that way. Look. It wasn’t only one shot that came close. There’s a neat hair brand on your hawss’s hip that wasn’t there yesterday.”

“Must have been the shot just before we took the bank,” said Ashton, twisting about to look at the streak cut by the bullet. “The first was the only other one that didn’t go higher.”

“But what did the man look like?” questioned Miss Isobel. “I can’t imagine who–Can it be that your guide has a grudge against you on account of his pay?”

“I wouldn’t have thought it possible before yesterday, though he was a surly fellow and inclined to be insolent.”

“All such men are apt to be with tenderfeet,” she remarked, permitting herself a half twinkle of her sweet eyes. “But I should have thought yours would have kept on going. Whatever you may have owed him, he had no right to steal your outfit. He must be a real badman, if it’s true he is the party who did this shooting.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” agreed Ashton. In her concern over him she looked so charming that he would have agreed if she had told him the moon was made of green cheese.

She shook her head thoughtfully, and went on: “I can’t imagine even one of our badmen trying to murder you that way. Their usual course would be to come up to you, face to face, pick a quarrel, and beat you to it on the draw. But whoever the cowardly scoundrel is, we’ll turn out the boys, and either run him down or out of the country.”

“If it’s my guide, he probably is running already.”

“I hope so,” replied the girl.

“You do! Don’t you want him punished?” exclaimed Ashton.

“Of course, but you see I don’t want Kid to–to cut another notch on his Colt’s.”

“I must say, I cannot see how that–”

“You could if you realized how kind and good he has been to me all these years. Do you know, when I first came West, I couldn’t tell a jackrabbit from a burro. Daddy had told me that each had big ears, and I got them mixed. And actually I didn’t know the off from the nigh side of a hawss!”

“But we–er–have horses and riding-schools in the East,” put in Ashton.

She parried the indirect question without seeming to notice it. “You proved that yesterday, coming down from High Mesa. I felt sure I would have you pulling leather.”

“Pulling leather?” he asked. “You see, I own to my tenderfootness.”

“Grabbing your saddle to hold yourself on,” she explained. Before he could reply, she rose in her stirrups and pointed ahead with her quirt. “Look, that’s the top of the biggest haystack, up by the feed-sheds. You’ll see the buildings in half a minute.”

Unheeded by Ashton, she had guided him off to the left, away from Dry Fork, across the angle above its junction with Plum Creek. They were now coming up over the divide between the two streams. Ashton failed to locate the haystack until its two mates and the long, half-open shelter-sheds came into view.

A moment later he was looking at the horse corral and the group of log ranch houses. Below and beyond them the scattered groves of Plum Creek stretched away up across the mesa–green bouquets on the slender silver ribbon of the creek’s midsummer rill.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think of my home?”

“Your summer home,” he suggested.

“No, my real home,” she insisted. “Auntie couldn’t be nicer or fonder than she is; but her house is a residence, not a home, even to her. Anyway, here, where I have Daddy and Kid–I do so hope you and Kid will become friends.”

“Since you wish it, I shall try to do my part. But it is a matter that might take time, and–” he smiled ruefully and concluded with seeming irrelevance–“I have no home.”

She gazed at him with the look of tender motherly sympathy that he had been too distraught to really feel the previous day. “Do not say that, Mr. Ashton! Though a ranch house is hardly the kind of home to which you are accustomed, you will find that we range folks retain the old-fashioned Western ideas of hospitality.”

“My dear Miss Knowles!” he exclaimed with ardent gallantry, “the mere thought of being under the same sky with you–”

“Don’t, please,” she begged. “This is the blue sky we are under, not a stuccoed ceiling.”

“Well, I really meant it,” he protested, greatly dashed.

“Kid often says nice things to me. But he speaks with his hands,” she remarked.

“Deaf and dumb alphabet?” he queried wonderingly.

“Hardly,” she answered, dimpling under his puzzled gaze. “Actions speak louder than words, you know.”

“Ah!” he murmured, and his look indicated that she had given him food for thought.

They were now cantering down the long easy slope towards the ranch buildings. The girl’s quick eye perceived a horseman riding towards the ranch from one of the groves up Plum Creek.

“There’s Kid coming in,” she remarked. “He went out early this morning after a big wolf that had killed a calf. He reported last evening that he found the carcass over near the head of Plum Creek. A wolf that gets to killing calves this time of year is a pretty costly neighbor. Daddy told Kid to go out and try to get him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let him get this calf-killer,” observed Ashton.

“Oh, as soon as we saw your tenderfoot riding togs–!” she rejoined. “Seriously, though, you must not mind if the men poke a little fun at you. Most of them are more farmhands than cowboys, but Kid will be apt to lead off. I do so want you to be agreeable to Kid. He is almost a member of the family, not a hired man.”

“I shall try to be agreeable to him,” replied Ashton, a trifle stiffly.

The puncher had seen them probably before they saw him. He was riding at a pace that brought him to the horse corral a few moments ahead of them. When they came up he nodded carelessly in response to Ashton’s studiously polite greeting, “Good day, Mr. Gowan,” and turned to loosen the cinch of his saddle.

“You’ve been riding some,” remarked the girl, looking at the puncher’s heaving, lathered horse.

“Jumped that wolf–ran him,” replied Gowan, as he lifted off his saddle and deftly tossed it up on the top rail of the corral.

“You’re in luck,” congratulated Miss Isobel. She explained to Ashton: “The cattlemen in this county pay fifteen dollars for wolf scalps. That’s in addition to the state bounty.”

Ashton sprang off to offer her his hand. But she was on the ground as soon as he. Gowan stared at him between narrowed lids, and replied to the girl somewhat shortly: “I didn’t get him this time, Miss Chuckie.”

“You didn’t? That’s too bad! You don’t often miss. I wish you had been with me, to run down the scoundrel who tried to murder Mr. Ashton.”

Gowan burst into the harsh, strained laughter of one who seldom gives way to mirth. He checked himself abruptly and cast a hostile look at Ashton. “By–James, Miss Chuckie, you don’t mean to say you let a tenderfoot string you?”

“How about this?” asked the girl. She held out the silver flask, which she had not returned to Ashton.

Gowan gave it a casual glance, and answered almost jeeringly: “Easy enough for him to set it up and plug it–if he didn’t get too far away.”

“His rifle is a thirty-two. This was done by a thirty-eight,” she replied.

“Thirty-eight?” he repeated. “Let’s see.” He took the flask from her, drew a rifle cartridge from his belt, and fitted the steel-jacketed bullet into the clean, small hole. “You’re right, Miss Chuckie. It shore was a thirty-eight.” He turned sharply on Ashton. “Where’d it happen? Who was it?”

“Over on that dry stream,” answered Ashton. “Unfortunately the fellow was too far away for me to be able to describe him.”

“But we think it may have been his guide,” explained the girl.

“Guide?” muttered Gowan, staring intently at Ashton.

“Yes. You see, if he was mean enough to help steal Mr. Ashton’s outfit, he–”

“Shore, I savvy!” exclaimed the puncher. “I’ll rope a couple of fresh hawsses, and go out with Mr. Ashton after the two-legged wolf.”

“That’s like you, Kid! But you must wait at least until you’ve both had dinner. Mr. Ashton, I’m sure, is half starved.”

“Me, too, Miss Chuckie. But you know I’d rather eat a wolf or a rustler or even a daring desperado than sinkers and beans, any day.”

“You’ll come in with us and see what Daddy has to say about it,” the girl insisted.

She started to loosen her saddle-cinch. Gowan handed back the silver flask, and stripping off saddle and bridle from her horse, placed them on the rail beside his own. Ashton waited, as if expecting a like service. The puncher started off beside Miss Isobel without looking at him. Ashton flushed hotly, and hastened to do his own unsaddling.