Читать книгу Knights of the Range - Zane Grey - Страница 7

Two eventful and fast-flying years later, almost to the day, Cap Britt sat his horse on the high slope above the mouth of Paso del Muerte, and with grim, bitter revolt in his heart, forced himself to admit that the evil times of his prophecy had come.

“They been comin’ ever since the Kurnel died,” he muttered darkly. “Slow but shore! . . . Wal, by Gawd, I didn’t get my hard ootfit none too soon.”

Britt gazed down across the eight miles of rolling gray rangeland, and on up the long slope to Don Carlos’ Rancho, standing like a picturesque fort, red and green on the high divide between the two great valleys. Holly Ripple was there on the porch, no doubt at this very moment with glass levelled upon him. It was that powerful glass which had brought about the present critical situation. He had a string of several hundred horses ranging up Paso del Muerte, among which were a number of the fine blooded Ripple stock. And the day before Britt had sent three of his riders over there to report on this drove of horses. They had not returned. For riders to lie out a night or several nights was nothing for the foreman to concern himself about. But early that morning Britt had taken a sweep of the range with the glass. And he had picked out one of those dark compact bunches of horsemen that were no longer rare on the range. They had disappeared up the pass. If they were not rustlers they were horse-thieves, a distinction with a difference. Holly Ripple had been unconcerned about the increasing loss of cattle, but highly indignant at the stealing of some of her thoroughbreds. Britt’s big outfit of cowboys was scattered all over the range for that day on various jobs. When he rode down at Holly’s order he expected to pick up some of the cowboys at White Pool; at least Stinger, Beef Talman, and Jim, who should have been there. But they were not there. Whereupon Britt had climbed the slope to the pass alone.

Dobe Cabin, in a grove of green and white aspen trees, lay beneath Britt in the mouth of the wide canyon. A substantial fence of peeled poles stretched from slope to slope. That bunch of riders who had roused the foreman’s suspicions had left the big gate open. Presently Britt espied dust clouds far up the winding pass, and soon after that a line of horses coming at a jogtrot. Britt waited until a number of dark riders on dark horses appeared; and then he dated the war on the Ripple range from that moment.

“Wal, it had to come, so why not right now?” he soliloquized, sombrely, and headed his mount down the slope. Arriving at the fence he got off his horse and closing the big gate he awaited developments with watchful vigilance and active mind. Britt scanned the slopes for some of his riders. He was going to need them presently. Horses and cattle grazed below, and under the mesa a few shaggy black buffalo had strayed up from the south. Britt was hard put to it to decide whether to ambush the raiders or meet them out in the open. In the former case he was pretty sure to be shot in a brush with eight or ten desperate men, but in the latter there was a chance that wit and nerve might serve him better. The question of letting these riders go unchallenged did not occur to the old Texas Ranger.

Dobe Cabin had been the home of a settler who had been murdered by Utes. A fine stream of water babbled down out of the pass; the aspens were out in their spring dress of fresh green, every leaf quivering in the still air; white-rumped antelope edged up the slope; wild turkeys were gobbling from a lofty wooded bench. Britt recalled the legend of Paso del Muerte, which concerned the massacre of some Spaniards by Apaches a century and more ago. It might have happened on a beautiful, serene, sunny New Mexico morning such as this. And he had a premonition that those bygone days of the old padres had been tame to those that were still to come.

Britt heard the bony crack of unshod hoofs on the rocks beyond the grove of aspens. Then gleams of brown and gray and black showed through the leaves. Soon horses appeared slipping leisurely between the slim white tree-trunks. Some splashed into the brook to drink while others trotted out of the grove into the sunlight. The foremost shot up long ears and halted with snorts. Others coming from behind forced them onward. Presently the band, sighting and scenting Britt, sheered to one side, and trooped to the left. Stragglers followed to join the main bunch.

The foreman climbed up on the high fence and sat on the top pole next to the gate. Shrill whistles from the driven animals would certainly acquaint the raiders that the advance had been halted. Britt counted two score and more of horses that had been selected from the stock by men who knew horses. These were all young, notable for thoroughbred points and the fact that they were unbranded.

“Cuss the luck!” growled Britt. “Another show-down. Stock we haven’t time to brand is just lost. Thet’s all. If I had twice as many cowboys I couldn’t put an iron on all the colts an’ calves thet belong to us.”

The horses stopped at the fence, stood head on for a while, and then began to graze toward the slope. Britt saw the riders before they discovered him. There were eight in sight. He rather inclined to the opinion that more were yet to come. Voices came clearly to him.

“Bill, somethin’ turned the dogies.”

“Gate closed.”

“Look thar!”

“Who’n hell’s thet?”

After a trenchant pause one of the riders answered: “Thet’s Cap Britt, foreman of the Ripple outfit.”

Britt recognized that surly voice as belonging to Mugg Dillon, one of his cowboys.

“Ride ahead—you,” ordered one of the group, sharply. “Take a peek in thet cabin.”

Dillon rode on out of the aspens and up to the open door of the cabin. Peering in he called gruffly: “Nobody hyar.”

Then the riders advanced, separating in a manner which told the Texan much; and in this formation they rode to within a hundred paces of the fence. Dillon fell in behind them. Britt’s swift eye took in many significant points. These men were superbly mounted on dark bays and blacks. They were heavily armed. A harder looking gang Britt had not seen on the range. Whatever else they were, they surely were cowmen. Britt needed only a glance to link the lithe, easily poised riders, all evincing the incomparable saddle-seat of cowboys, to the stone-faced, matured type of range-rustler and horse-thief.

“Hyar, Dillon,” rasped the leader, a swarthy man whose features were vague in the shadow of a wide sombrero. The rider called made haste to get out in front. “Come on an’ introduce me to your boss.”

“Easy, Bill,” cracked a dry voice from the line. “Thet hombre was a Texas Ranger.”

Warily the leader urged his horse all of fifty steps toward the fence. Dillon lined up beside him. At this distance Britt gathered from the cowboy’s ashen face that he was in a predicament from which there seemed to be no escape. Britt had never seen this man Bill. He had brawny shoulders and unkempt hair low on his thick neck. The foreman could catch only a gleam of rapacious eyes.

“Dillon, is this your boss?” he queried, gruffly, without looking at the cowboy.

“Yes.”

“Howdy, Britt.”

“Howdy, yoreself,” rejoined Britt, curtly.

“Enjoyin’ the scenery roundabout?” went on Bill, sarcastically.

“Not particular, leastways not in front.”

“Reckon you shut the gate on us.”

“Wal, it’s our gate.”

“You can open it pronto.”

The foreman vented a short dry laugh, but vouchsafed no other answer.

“What’s the idee, Britt?” went on the raider.

“I seen a bunch of our hawses comin’ an’ I didn’t want them to get out.”

“Your hosses?—How you goin’ to prove thet? They ain’t branded.”

“Wal, I reckon I cain’t prove it. But my ootfit knows ’em an’ they’ll be comin’ pronto.”

“Hell you say,” retorted Bill, flashing a plainsman’s gaze across the range. “Only one hossman in sight.”

“Mugg, where’d you leave Stinger an’ Brazos Keene?” inquired Britt, coldly.

“Boss, we left Stinger fer dead. An’ the last I seen of Brazos he was ridin’ hell-bent fer leather up the pass,” replied the cowboy, hurriedly.

Dillon had been the last rider taken on by Britt for the Ripple outfit, and he was an unknown and doubtful quality. Britt knew his status would be defined shortly.

“Mugg, how come you’re ridin’ with these gents?” drawled the foreman.

“I—he . . . boss, I jest had—to,” burst out Dillon, disconnectedly. He was not yet old enough at this game to face death coolly from two sides. Britt knew he was guilty.

“Bah!” ejaculated the raider, scornfully, and with a back sweep of his gloved left hand he struck Dillon from his saddle. The cowboy fell, and bounded up hatless, a cornered wolf. His horse plunged away dragging the bridle. “Britt, save me the trouble of borin’ the yellow pup.”

“Mugg, I reckon I wouldn’t bore you for double-crossin’ me,” drawled Britt, ponderingly. “But these air Miss Holly’s hawses—an’ some she puts store in. What air Brazos an’ Jim goin’ to do aboot this deal?”

“Britt,” interposed the raider, “I don’t mind tellin’ you thet Brazos took a flyin’ shot at Dillon an’ creased him, as you can see if you look close.”

“Cowboy, fork yore hawse an’ ride,” said Britt, contemptuously, after verifying the raider’s statement. Dillon bent over to pick up his sombrero.

“Suits me,” said Bill, laconically. “But fust open thet gate.”

Dillon had no choice but to comply and Britt likewise had no choice but to sit on the fence and take this humiliating procedure. He had himself well in hand, though an unwonted heat boiled beneath his skin. Britt knew his job. His life was worth more to Holly Ripple than that of this insolent raider, and all his men. Nevertheless it galled the Texan to withhold his hand.

“Thet fellar’s comin’ fast,” spoke up the raider, after Dillon had opened the gate.

Britt did not turn, but he had an uneasy premonition. Certainly no single rider in his outfit would be bearing swiftly down upon that doubtful group.

At this Britt wheeled so quickly as nearly to lose his seat on the fence. His sudden dread was verified. Scarcely two hundred paces distant came a black clean-limbed racer with Holly Ripple in the saddle. “Good Gawd!” groaned the foreman, in sudden distraction. Then, cupping his hands round his lips he bellowed stentorianly: “Holly, turn back! Hawse-thieves!”

She did not hear, however, or did not heed, but came up swiftly, a striking figure on the racer.

“Britt, you ain’t flatterin’, but I’ll pass it over,” remarked Bill, tersely.

In what seemed only a moment, and one fraught with acute concern and uncertainty for Britt, the fleet-footed black slowed down and plunged to a gravel-scattering halt at the gate. Britt had seen his young mistress many times to thrilling advantage, but never like this. She had not taken time to don her riding-garb, yet she sat her saddle astride, as the black, silver-mounted chaperejos proved. A thin jacket, buttoned tight, emphasized the slender voluptuousness of her form, as did the red spots in her cheeks the singular creamy whiteness of her beautiful face. Magnificent eyes, black as the wing of a raven, blazed levelly out upon the men. This was the first direct contact of Don Carlos’ granddaughter with the riff-raff of the ranges.

“Whoa, Stonewall. Steady,” she called to the spirited prancing horse, and she raked his flanks with her spurs. “Britt, is it—a raid?” she queried, pantingly.

“Wal, this gent heah contests our ownership of these hawses,” drawled the foreman, with a mildness he was far from feeling.

Holly rode inside the fence toward the raider chief.

“Dillon, close the gate,” she ordered, and the cowboy obeyed with no less alacrity than when he had opened it.

“I am Holly Ripple.”

Bill awkwardly doffed his sombrero, exposing a lean head of dark hair streaked with gray, a swarthy face which, but for its curious awe and smile, would have been a seamed bronze cast of evil.

“Howdy, Lady of Don Carlos’ Rancho. I sure am glad to meet you,” he replied. He appeared dazzled, not by the pride of that little regal head or the imperious contralto voice, but by the ravishing charm of this descendant of the dons.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Bill Heaver, at your service, Miss.”

“What are you?”

“I reckon I’m a little of all pertainin’ to the range,” he replied, with a broad grin. He had been momentarily impressed by her fearlessness, but that had passed.

“Were you driving these horses?”

“I sure was.”

“They belong to me.”

“You can’t prove thet, Lady. Not by unbranded stock on this range.”

“Yes, I can. At least I can prove I own some of them. . . . I’ve ridden that roan. I know that bay. . . . That sorrel is two years old. There’s a scar on his left flank where the cowboys started to brand him and I stopped them. . . . The pinto there I called Paint-brush. Most of these horses have been in the corrals at the ranch. I know them. I never forget a horse I’ve looked at closely.”

“Well, Lady, all thet makes no difference. They’re not wearin’ a brand. Thet’s all a hoss-dealer reckons with.”

Heaver replaced his sombrero, hiding the tell-tale ghoulish eyes. But not before Britt had caught the birth of a hot glint, like a spark. The raider had succumbed to Holly’s allure. It was an old story to Britt, though this man was the first desperado to face Holly with it. Britt’s hand slipped to his gun. If driven far he would kill Heaver, and any other of the band that threatened, and then depend upon intimidating the rest. All of the raiders had ridden up close, to surround the principals in a half circle against the fence. It was here that Britt discovered the presence of two new riders, one of whom, hanging a little back, struck him as somehow remarkable among these conspicuously formidable men. But Britt had only time for a glance, as Heaver was urging his horse toward Holly’s. What was the hardened lout up to? Holly had not sensed any peril in the moment. She had expressed anger at this deliberate theft of her horses, but no other emotion. Britt knew to his sorrow that the girl had never yet felt fear. This situation, however, was deplorable, and might easily lead to a catastrophe. Already it had passed out of Britt’s control. If Heaver grew ugly and answered to the leap of passion, Britt must take a desperate chance, and he grew cold and steely at the certainty of its inaction.

“So you’re the famous Holly Ripple?” queried Heaver, with a subtle voicing of his change to something intimately personal. Holly caught it, and was reining her horse aside when the raider stretched out a long arm and caught her bridle near the bit. “Hold on, my proud Señorita. Suppose you come in the cabin with me where we can have a little private confab about these hosses.”

“You insolent ruffian! Let go that bridle.” Holly supplemented her sharp words by lashing down with her quirt. The leather thongs cracked on Heaver’s bare wrist. Cursing, he let go in a hurry.

“You half-breed wench! I’ll——”

“Heaver, you fool! Look out for Britt!” interrupted the cool dry voice of the raider’s subordinate.

“Aw, to hell with him! You watch him, Covell. If he winks, bore him.”

Before Holly could get out of his reach, the raider seized her arm so fiercely that he almost unseated her. The red spots left her cheeks. Suddenly Holly appeared to realize the actuality of brutal affront, if not real peril. She made no move to wrench free.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, with incredulous amaze.

“For two-bits I’d pack you off to the mountains,” he answered, thickly.

“You—wouldn’t dare!” gasped Holly, shocked out of her poise.

“The hell I wouldn’t!—But I’ll let you off easy. . . . With a little lovin’! Thet proud white face will go red from rubbin’ stiff whiskers. Haw! Haw! . . . Come on. We’re goin’ in the cabin.”

“No!” she rang out.

One powerful pull dragged Holly out of her saddle on to Heaver’s hip, but her far foot caught in her stirrup.

“Britt, stop him!” she cried, struggling frantically. The horses began to plunge.

In one leap Britt cleared the space between him and Dillon. He snatched the cowboy’s gun from its holster.

“Open the gate,” he hissed, and with two guns extended low he wheeled to take his only chance. Heaver had hold of the girl and her bridle as well. The black was rearing, and the raider’s horse plunging. Heaver was at a great disadvantage in trying to hold Holly and draw her horse close so he could release her foot from the stirrup. The action of the horses and Holly’s furious struggle to free herself prevented Britt from getting in a shot at the outset of this fracas. He dared not fire for two reasons—fear of hitting Holly, and realization that if he killed Heaver while her foot was caught she would fall and be dragged. Suddenly Holly’s foot came free. The raider swung her clear, evidently oblivious to Britt’s rising gun. But as Britt had three horses between him and Covell he appeared momentarily protected from that quarter.

“Stop!”

A piercing command halted Heaver. It even shunted Britt for an instant from his deadly intent. Then from behind Britt and to one side a horse plunged in with screeching iron hoofs that sent sheets of gravel flying. Before he slid to a halt his rider leaped clear and with a single bound confronted Heaver and his men. The rowels of his long spurs kept up a whirling tinkle. This member of Heaver’s band was the striking new-comer whom Britt had glimpsed hanging in the background.

“Frayne!” expostulated the raider, with a rising inflection of voice that had vast significance for Britt. He knew men. For twenty years he had observed and heard desperate characters of the frontier in meetings that were critical.

“Let her go,” came the command, in icy staccato notes.

“Wh-what?” stammered the raider chief, his swarthy face burning dark red.

“Heaver, you heard me!” Frayne’s lithe form sank perceptibly, but even more significant were the quivering, claw-like hands that lowered as perceptibly over the big blue guns sheathed low on his thighs.

“My Gawd—Man!—What’s eatin’ you?” yelled Heaver, hoarsely, and his red visage turned a dirty white. He lowered Holly to the ground and dropped her bridle. Hurriedly she snatched it up and dragged the black away out through the gate, where she mounted.

Heaver leaned forward, shoving his huge sombrero back with nervous hand, showing his hard gray face beaded with sweat.

“Frayne, you buckin’ me?”

“What’s the sense of more talk?” queried the other, derisively.

“But talkin’ is on the cairds,” went on the raider, hoarsely, his voice losing its tremble for a gathering might of rage. “This hyar is the second time you’ve bucked agin me. I’ll allow you had some reason, leastways this time. But I was only tryin’ to scare the gurl.”

“Liar!”

“Well, at that I might have hugged an’ kissed her till she swallowed her high an’ mighty talk. . . . What was it to you, anyway? I’ve seen before you was kinda touchy about wimmen. Holly Ripple sort of got you, huh, the pretty black-eyed hussy of a half-breed?”

“Shut up, you dirty foul-mouthed dog! Miss Ripple is a lady, which is something you can’t appreciate. Leave her out of this.”

“Hellsfire! . . . Frayne, I’ll allow fer your stand, if you’re so testy over a gurl. But I let her off. An’ you’ll lay off more insultin’ talk—or we’re through.”

“Heaver, you’re dense. When I called you we were through.”

“Aha, we air, eh? All right. It’s damn good riddance,” fumed the leader.

“You’re not rid of me yet.”

Uncertainty ceased for Heaver. He changed again, not subtly, but with sudden hard realization that the breech was irremediable and something dire hung in the balance. Turning to Covell he cursed him roundly: “—— —— —— ——! This comes of your takin’ on men of his lone wolf stripe. I told you. . . . An’ now, —— —— you! Show yellow or come in!”

Britt wrenched his gaze from the infuriated Heaver to the man who had opposed him so strangely. In a flash then he caught the drift of events. This Frayne loomed as inevitable as destiny. Seasoned as Britt was, he felt galvanized through with the man’s terrible presence. Among hordes of Westerners, desperadoes, outlaws, he would have been recognized then as one of the few. He epitomized the raw wild spirit of the frontier. His lips curled in a snarl, his white teeth gleamed, his eyes were slits of gray fire. All his features combined to express an appalling power. And Britt had seen that power expended by more than one implacable and unquenchable killer.

“Frayne—I savvy,” choked out the raider chief, in hoarse passion. “But why you forcin’ me?”

“I don’t trail with your kind,” replied Frayne, deliberately. “You lied, same as you lied on the other deal. . . . I didn’t like the way you worked on Dillon to make him betray his outfit. We rode out here to steal a bunch of unbranded horses. But that wasn’t enough. When chance threw Miss Ripple in your way, out bristled the dirty dog in you. . . . You insulted her, pawed her off her horse. . . . You would have carried her off . . . leaving your men to fight this Texan. You’d have made your men accomplices in a crime that Westerners never forgive. You’d have put that stigma on me. . . . Now, Bill Heaver, have I made myself perfectly clear?”

“Per-fickly—clear—Frayne,” returned Heaver, haltingly. He drew a long deep breath that whistled with the intake. Then blood and arm and voice leaped simultaneously. “Covell! Bore him, men!”

Britt’s sight was not swift enough to catch Frayne’s draw. But there the big blue guns were, spouting red behind puffs of smoke. Then followed the crashes, almost together. Covell’s gun was out and half up when it exploded. But his face was fiercely blank and he was swaying backward when his gun went off. Heaver sagged in the saddle as his horse lunged away, to unseat him and throw him heavily. Then Covell fell. Neither man moved a muscle. Both had been dead before they struck the ground.

The other horses were hard to control. Iron arms dragged at their heads. Frayne had the riders covered. Perhaps the action of the horses favored Frayne in his intimidation of these men. None of them drew. As their mounts were pulled to a standstill Britt lined up beside Frayne with his two guns ready. The tension relaxed.

“You fellars ride. Pronto!” called Britt, seizing the moment.

Frayne’s left gun took a slight suggestive swerve toward the gate. As one man the raiders spurred their horses, almost running down the pale-faced Dillon, and galloped away toward San Marcos.

“Fork yore hawse, Mugg,” called Britt. “This range won’t be healthy fer you heahafter. You shore got off easy. Take yore gun.”

While Dillon hurried to leap astride Britt ran out the gate to where Holly hunched stiff over her pommel. The marble whiteness of her face, the dark fading horror of her dilated eyes, the palpitating of her heart attested to the strain she had come through.

“Holly, it’s all over,” said Britt, fervently, as he grasped the gauntleted hand that shook on her knee. “Brace up. We’re shore lucky. Mebbe I won’t scold you good when we get home!”

“He drove—the others away,” she panted, lifting her head to sweep the range with flashing glance.

“Wal, I sort of snicker to say he did,” drawled Britt, talking to ease the contraction of his throat.

“That devil—and the other man, Covell . . . dead?”

“Daid?—I reckon they air.”

“He killed them for me?”

“Holly, lass, it shore wasn’t fer anyone else. . . . Come oot of it now. You had nerve. Don’t collapse now after it’s all over.”

“He saved me—from God only knows what,” she whispered in awe.

“Yes, he did, Holly. I cain’t gainsay thet. I’d had no show on earth if he had sided with Heaver. Shore I’d have killed Heaver, an’ then more of them. But I’d have got mine pronto. An’ thet’d left you at their mercy. . . . Holly, fer Gawd’s sake let this be a lesson to you.”

“I must thank him—talk to him. . . . Go back, Britt. Give me a few moments. Then bring him to me.”

Britt sometimes opposed Holly when she was serene and tractable, but never in her imperious moods, or when she was stirred by emotion. Naturally she had been poignantly upset. Still he did not quite like her request and he was in a quandary. As there seemed to be no help for it, however, he hid his dismay and hurried back inside the enclosure.

He found Frayne leaning against the fence, one boot hooked on the lower pole. He was rolling a cigarette. Britt made note of the steady fingers. Frayne had shoved his sombrero back. His face was extraordinarily handsome, but that did not surprise Britt nearly so much as its utter absence of ashen hue, twitch, sweat, dark sombre cast, or anything else supposed to show in a man’s features immediately after dealing death. It was indeed a baffling face, smooth, unlined, like a stern image of bronze. Frayne had all the characteristics of the cowboy range-rider, even to the finest sombrero, belt, dress and boots, which but for their dark severity would have made him a dandy.

“Got a match, Tex?” he inquired, civilly. His intonation was not that of a Southerner. Nor would Britt have accorded him western birth. Nevertheless the West had made him what he was. Britt had not seen his like.

“Shore. Heah you air,” replied the Texan, producing a match.

“Hardly needed you in that little set-to,” he said, as he lighted the cigarette. “But thanks all the same.”

“You’re darn welcome,” grunted Britt, feelingly. “It was shore a bad mess. . . . Did you see me dancin’ aboot tryin’ to get a bead on Heaver?”

“Yes, I was afraid you’d hit Miss Ripple. That made me run in sooner than I might have. I was curious to watch Heaver. Stranger to me where women are concerned.”

“Wal, I seen thet, an’ I heahed you,” rejoined Britt. “But yore reasons don’t concern me. It was the result. Shore you saved me from gettin’ bored and Holly Ripple from wuss than death. . . . Seems sort of weak to thank you, Frayne.”

“Don’t try. It was nothing.”

“Wal, the girl wants to thank you. Come on oot.”

“Thanks, Britt, but I’d rather not.”

Holly, riding outside the fence on the grass, passed so close that she could not have failed to hear the cool speech of the raider. She turned in the gate, and rode up to the men. A wave of scarlet appeared to be receding from her face. Frayne stood out from the fence, and removing his sombrero, inclined his head.

“May I ask your name?” she queried, composedly, though to Britt’s astonishment, her usual poise had gone into eclipse.

“Frayne. Renn Frayne,” he replied. He was courteous but cold. The immeasurable distance between Holly Ripple and an outlaw of the range might have been imperceptible to Heaver, but not to this man.

“Mr. Frayne, I—I am exceedingly grateful for your—your timely interference.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss Ripple,” he returned, flipping his cigarette away. After that first direct glance he did not look up at her again. “I want no thanks. You only distress yourself further—coming inside near these dead men. Go away, at once.”

“It was sickening, but I am over that. . . . Thanks in this case seem so silly. But won’t you accept something substantial?”

“For what?” he retorted, and his wonderful gray eyes, clear and light as crystal, and as soulless, turned to fix upon her.

“Evidently you place little store upon your service to me,” she replied, pride gaining ascendancy.

“And you want to pay me for shooting a couple of dogs?”

“You make my duty difficult, Mr. Frayne. . . . But I do want to reward you. Will you accept money?”

“No.”

She stripped off a gauntlet to take a magnificent ring of Spanish design from her finger and proffered that to him with an appealing smile.

“Won’t you take this?”

“Thank you. I don’t want it.”

“Would you accept one of my thoroughbreds?” she persisted, hopefully.

“Miss Holly Ripple,” he said, as if stung, “I am Renn Frayne, outlaw, rustler, gunman. This day made me a horse-thief. I have not a dollar to my name, nor a bed to sleep in, nor a friend in the world. But I cannot accept pay or gift for what I did. You could not reward such service any more than you could buy it. Not from me.”

“Forgive me. I did not understand,” she replied, hastily. “But your—your kind have been unknown to me. How was I to know that a desperado—all you called yourself—could be a—a gentleman? You are a knight of the range, sir.” Plaintively she appealed to Britt. “What can I do, Cappy? He has placed me under eternal obligation.”

“Lass, I reckon you’ll have to let it go at thet,” replied Britt.

“Miss Ripple, I am rude, but I don’t misunderstand you,” said Frayne. “If you must do something for me. . . . But first—Haven’t you any more sense than to ride out on this range alone?”

“I—I do as I please,” retorted Holly.

“Then you ought to have a lesson. I’ve ridden all the wild ranges. And this is the worst. You are a headstrong little fool.”

“How dare you?”

“I call spades spades, Miss Ripple,” he rejoined. “It may do you further service to listen to the truth. You are a spoiled young woman. If Heaver had packed you off to the mountains, as he and many men like him have done before with girls—you’d soon have learned that blood, wealth, pride could avail you not at all. You would have become a rag. Heaver would have made you wash his feet.”

“Sir! . . . Pray do not make me resent your service to me.”

“That is nothing to me. But have you no father to hold you down?”

“He is gone—and my mother, too.” In spite of herself, Holly seemed impelled to answer him.

“It’s easy to see you have no husband. But surely a sweetheart——”

“No!” A crimson tide blotted out Holly’s lovely fairness.

“Small wonder then. Well, Miss Holly, if I were your father I’d spank some sense into you. And if I were your sweetheart, I’d beat you good and hard.”

Holly’s individuality seemed to have suffered a blight. Her great eyes opened like midnight gulfs. In mute fascination she stared at this stranger to whom she owed so great a debt and who, all in the same hour, dared to flay her as no one had ever dared.

“You’re a child, too,” he went on, as if astounded to contriteness. “Well, I’ll tell you how you can reward me. Promise on your honor never to ride out on this range again without men to protect you. That’d save you and your friends bitter grief. And for me it would mean one good deal to chalk up against all the bad ones.”

“I—promise,” she replied, tremulously.

“Thank you, Holly Ripple. I didn’t really think you would. . . . Shake hands on it, man to man. . . . There, we’re quits.”

“Do you trust me?” she asked, strangely. “Do you think I can keep it?”

He studied the beautiful face apparently blind to its charm, and impervious to the lure of her femininity, as one to whom the thought of attainableness had never occurred.

“You would never break your solemn word,” he said, with finality and turned to Britt. “Take her home, Tex. You’ll send some boys down to plant these stiffs?”

“Shore will, Frayne. You better search them.”

“Not me. And I mustn’t forget to tell you that your boy Stinger might still be alive.”

“If Brazos Keene got away from Heaver he’s right back with Stinger now. Cowboys don’t come any nervier than Brazos.”

“Brazos Keene. Wonder where I heard that name. He got away, Britt, believe me. They was all shooting at him. A chip off the old Texas block. Watch that lad, Britt.”

“Wait—please wait,” called Holly, as Frayne turned to look for his horse.

“I thought we were quits,” he said, dubiously.

“Not yet. I have something more to ask of you.”

Britt cursed under his breath. Almost, but not too late, to send him aghast and quaking the girl had come to her sweetest self. A man would have to be anchored like the rocks not to be drawn by those eyes of velvet blackness, shining eloquence of her strong and passionate soul.

“Make it adios, señorita,” Frayne said.

“You have no money, no bed, no friend in all the world.”

“I told you. It is unkind to remind me.”

“What will you do?”

“The same as many a time before. Ride on.”

“Not back to Heaver’s men!”

“No.”

“You’ll ride on alone, until loneliness drives you to other men like them?”

“The truth is bitter, Miss Ripple.”

“Renn Frayne, you do not belong to such gangs.”

“I did not once, but I do now.”

“You do not.”

“Why, may I ask?” he queried, wearily.

“Because of something noble in you. Because you killed to save a girl from harm!”

“Well, I shall remember how Holly Ripple romanced over me,” he rejoined, with the ghost of a smile.

“Will you work for me?” she asked.

“Miss—Ripple!” Frayne ejaculated, at last shocked out of his indifference.

“Will you ride for me?”

“Girl, you are mad,” he burst out, incredulously. “You ask me—Renn Frayne—to ride for you?”

“Yes. . . . Britt, don’t stand there like a gaping idiot. Tell him I need him, and why.”

“Wal, Frayne,” exploded the Texan, “it ain’t a bad idee. I’ve got an ootfit as wild as they come. With you at their haid we’d weather these comin’ years.”

“Man, the girl has you locoed.”

“Thet may be. But it ain’t the question. I reckon she means this. Turn yore back on ootfits like Heaver’s an’ raise yore hand fer Don Carlos’ Rancho.”

Frayne shivered and by that slight reaction he betrayed himself. His brazen boast of irremediable ill-fame was nullified.

“My God, you ask me this?” he besought, huskily, a hand going out to Holly as if to warn her.

“I beg of you.”

“But I am a thief!” he blazed.

“Yes, and you hate it,” she flashed, poignantly.

“Heah’s yore chance, Frayne,” interposed Britt, at last inspired. “I’ve known a heap of bad men turn oot good. Thet’s western. Air you big enough fer the break?”

“Miss Ripple, I’d be a liar if I denied the—the wonder of your offer. Only—it’s unbelievable. I’m new to this range, but the Texas Pan Handle, Kansas, all the ranges north, scream at me for listening to you.”

“I don’t care what you’ve been,” she went on, passionately. “It’s what you are now. . . . Those ranges are far, far away. Forget them. Bury that past. Fight for my rancho, my cattle, my horses, for me!”

Like a drunken man Frayne staggered back against the fence. Britt quickened to the most complex and moving situation of his experience. If this man had been utterly bad, he could not have remained so.

“I will never ask you one question,” went on Holly. “I’ll exact only one promise.”

“What?”

“That as long as you stay with me—and I hope it will be always—this, this dishonesty you confess will be as if it had never been. . . . Do you promise me?”

“I swear it. . . . But how can you trust me?”

“I made you a promise. You said I would never break my word. . . . Can I do less than trust you, Frayne? Here’s my hand.”

Blindly he reached out to take her ungloved hand in his, and bowed his face over it.

Holly gazed down upon his lowered head. Britt had seen many lights and shades in those splendid Spanish eyes, but none ever so soft and strange and mystically lovely as those that shone there now. It had taken an outcast of the range to reach Holly’s wayward heart. For two years Britt had watched her varied obsessions in the cowboys of Don Carlos’ Rancho. She had been Lee Ripple’s American girl, but her light and fickle fancies had been Spanish. Britt sighed over the inevitable, yet his love for Holly stormed his convictions and routed them.

Frayne lifted a cold face, from which emotion had been erased, and released her hand.

“Take her home, Britt. I will follow,” he said, composedly, and stalked toward his grazing horse.