Czytaj książkę: «The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country», strona 15

CHAPTER XXIII
TERROR

Eve was alone. Never in all her life had she been so absolutely alone as now. She rocked herself to and fro beside her kitchen stove, her thoughts and fears rioting through body and mind, until she sat shivering with terror in the warmth of her own fireside.

It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening and the vigilantes were due back in the village before midnight. What would be their news? What–? She paused, listening fearfully. But the sound she heard was only a creaking of the frame of her little home.

The suspense was nerve racking. Would it never end? Yes, she felt it would end–certainly, inevitably. And the conviction produced a fresh shudder in her slight body. Three hours ago she had seen Jim Thorpe and his jaded horse return to the village. She had longed to seek him out–he had gone to Peter Blunt’s hut for the night–and question him. But she had refrained. Whatever Jim’s actual attitude toward her, she must think of him in her calculations as the bitterest enemy. In her tense nervousness she laughed hysterically. Jim, her enemy? How ridiculous it seemed. And a year ago he had been her lover.

For a moment her terror eased. Thoughts of a year ago were far removed from the horror of her present. Jim could be nobody’s enemy unless it were his own. Her enemy? Never. He was too kind, too honest, too much a man. And yet–the haunting of the moment broke out afresh–he must be. In self-defense he must be her enemy. He could not clear his own name otherwise.

She pondered. Her eyes grew less wild, less frightened, and a soft glow welled up in her heart as she thought of the man whom she declared must be her enemy. Just for a moment she thought how different things might have been had only her choice fallen otherwise. Then she stifled her regrets, and, in an instant, was caught again in the toils of the horror that lay before her.

She tried to think out what she must do when the vigilantes returned. What would be her best course? She wanted advice so badly. She wanted to talk it over with somebody, somebody who had clear judgment, somebody who could think with a man’s cool courage. Yes, she wanted a man’s advice. And there was no man to whom she could appeal. Jim?–no, she decided that she could not go to him. She felt that, for safety, she had seen too much of him already. Peter? Ah, yes! But the thought of him only recalled to her mind another trouble with which she was beset. It was one, which, amidst the horror of the matter of the cattle stealing, had, for the moment, been banished from her mind.

She remembered the note she had received from him that morning, and groped for it in the bosom of her dress. It had reached her by a special messenger, and its tone, for Peter, was urgent and serious. She found it at last, and straightened out its creases. She was thankful for the occupation, and lingered over it before she read it over again.

“Dear Eve,

“Has Elia returned home? He left camp two mornings ago, before sun up. I’ve been hunting him ever since, but can’t locate him. I’ve a shrewd idea that he’s on the trail of your Will, but can’t be sure. Anyway, I’m worried to death about him, and, as a last resource, thought he might have gone back to you. Send word by the bearer.

“Yours,

“Peter Blunt.”

Elia gone. The thought filled her with dismay. Elia was the one person in the world she still clung to. And now he had gone–been spirited away.

She thought of the poor stricken lad with his crooked body. She loved him as she might have loved a child of her own. Yes, he was much more to her than her brother. Had not she cared and struggled for him all these years? He had become part of her very life.

And Peter, in whose care she had left him, had failed her. Who on earth could she trust, if not Peter? She blamed him, blamed him bitterly; but, in her heart, she knew she had no right to. Peter would not willingly hurt her, and she knew well enough that if Elia had gone it was through no carelessness of this gentle, kindly man.

She put the note away, and sat staring into the fire. The change of thought had eased the pitch of her nerves for a moment. If she could only blot that other out altogether–but even as the wish was formulated in her brain, the horror and dread were on her again crushing her.

She sprang to her feet and paced the room with rapid, uneven strides. She could not rest. The dread of the return of the vigilantes obsessed her. She found herself vaguely wondering if they were all out. Was Doc Crombie out? No, she knew he wasn’t. That was something. That was the man she most dreaded. To her heated imagination he seemed inevitable. He could not fail in his self-imposed mission. He would hunt his man down. He would never pause until the wretched victim was swinging at the rope end.

She shuddered. This sort of thing had never before impressed its horror upon her as it did now. How should it? It had always seemed so far away, so remote from her life. And now–oh, God, to think that its shadow was so near her!

Then for a second her struggling brain eased with an undefined hope. She was thinking of how they had tried to track Will before, and how they had failed. She tried to tell herself that then their incentive had been even greater. Had it not been the greed of gold? And she well knew its power with these men. Yes, it suggested hope. But that one passing gleam vanished all too swiftly. She felt in her inmost heart that no such luck would serve him now. These men were bloodhounds on a trail of blood. They were demanding a life, nor would they lift their noses from the scent until their work was accomplished.

It was not the man. It was not the thought of his life that drove her frantic now. It was the horror of such an end to her wretched marriage. The wife of a cattle-thief! The widow of a man lynched by his fellow citizens! She buried her face in her hands, and hard, dry sobs racked her body.

For a moment she stood thus. Then she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes staring, her whole attitude alert, intent. There was a sound outside. She heard the clank of the latch. And now an awkward shuffling gait just outside her door. She moved toward the parlor and stood listening in the doorway.

Suddenly a light broke in upon her. That awkward footstep! She knew it! Her relief was heartbreaking. It was Elia. With a rush she was at the door, and the next moment she dragged the boy in, and was crooning over him like some mother over a long-lost child.

But the boy pushed her away roughly. His calm face and gentle eyes now shone with excitement, one of those excitements she so dreaded in him.

“Quit, sis,” he cried sharply. “I ain’t no use fer sech slobberin’. I ain’t a kid. Say–”

He broke off, eyeing her with his head bent sideways in the extraordinary attitude which a cruel nature had inflicted upon him.

“Yes.”

Eve’s eyes were full of a yearning tenderness. His rebuff meant nothing to her devotion. She believed it to be only his way. Part of the cruel disease for which he must be pitied and not blamed.

But his broken sentence remained uncompleted. His eyes were fixed upon her face bland yet sparkling with the thought behind them.

“Peter sent word to me to-day that you–you were lost,” Eve said.

The boy laughed without relaxing a muscle.

“Did he? He’s a fule someways.”

He passed into the kitchen and took Eve’s rocking-chair. She followed him, and stood leaning against the table.

“Then you–you didn’t get lost?”

“Say, you folks make me sick. Why ’ud I get lost more’n other fellers? You guess I’m a kid–but I ain’t. Lost! Gee! Say, sis, Peter orter know’d wher’ I was. I told him I was goin’. An’ I went. Sure I went.” He rubbed his delicate hands together in his glee. His eyes sparkled again with rising excitement. But Eve forgot her fears for him now; she was interested. She was lifted out of her own despair by his evident joy, and waited for him to tell his story.

But Elia had his own way of doing things, and that way was rarely a pleasant one. Nor was it now, as Eve was quickly to learn.

“Yes, sure, Peter’s a fule, someways–but I like him. He’s real good. Say, sis, he’s goin’ to give me all the gold he finds. He said so. Yep. An’ he’ll do it. Guess he’s good. That’s sure why I didn’t do what he told me not to.”

He sat blinking up at his sister with impish amusement. Suddenly something in his expression stirred his sister to alarm. Nor could she have said how it came to her, or what the nature of the alarm. It was there undefined, but none the less certain.

“What did he tell you not to do?” she asked anxiously.

“Give him away. Say, here, I’ll tell you. It’s a dandy yarn. Y’see I ain’t just as other folks are, sis; there’s things I ken do, an’ things I ken understand wot other folks can’t. Say, I ken trail like–like a wolf. Well, I guess one day I told Peter I could trail. I told him I could trail your Will, an’ find out wher’ he got his gold.”

“And did you?”

The girl’s demand was almost a shriek. The boy nodded his bent head wisely, and his eyes lit with malice.

“And you didn’t give him away? You wouldn’t–you wouldn’t? He’s my husband.”

The pleading in his sister’s voice was pitiful to hear.

“That’s sure what Peter made me promise–or I wouldn’t get his gold.”

Eve breathed more freely. But her relief was short-lived.

The boy began to laugh. It was a soft chuckle that found no expression in his face. The sound of it sent a shudder through the harassed woman.

“No. I didn’t give him away,” he said suddenly. “Sis, I trailed an’ trailed, an’ I found him. Gee, I found him. He was diggin’ his gold, but it was in the hides of cattle, an’ with a red-hot brandin’ iron. Gee! I watched him, but he didn’t see me. Oh, no, I took care of that. If he’d seen me he’d sure have killed me. Say, sis, your Will’s a cattle-thief. You’ve heerd tell of ’em, ain’t you? Do you know what they do to cattle-thieves? I’ll tell you. They hang ’em. They hang ’em slow. They haul ’em up, an’ their necks stretch, an’–an’ then they die. Then the coyotes come round an’ jump up an’ try to eat ’em. An’ they hang there till they stink. That’s how they treat cattle-rustlers. An’ Will’s a cattle-rustler.”

“For God’s sake, be quiet!”

The woman’s face was terrible in its horror, but it only seemed to give the boy pleasure, for he went on at once.

“Ther’ ain’t no use in squealin’. I didn’t give him away. I’d like to, because I’d like to see Will with his neck pulled sure. But I want Peter’s gold, an’ I wouldn’t get it if I give him away.”

“Did you come straight back here?” Eve questioned him sharply, a faint hope stirring her.

“Yep, sis, straight here.” He laughed silently while he watched her with feline glee. “An’ jest as fast as I could get, too. You see, I guessed I might miss Doc Crombie.”

“Doc Crombie?” The girl’s eyes dilated. She stood like one petrified.

“Sure. You see I couldn’t give Will away because of Peter. But I told him wher’ the stolen cattle wer’. An’ that I’d seen the rustlers at work, an’ if he got busy he’d get ’em right off, an’–”

But he got no further; Eve had him by the shoulders in a clutch that chilled his heart to a maddening fear. His eyes stared, and he gasped as though about to faint.

“You told him that–you–you? You never did! You couldn’t! You wouldn’t dare! Oh, God, and to think! Elia, Elia! Say you didn’t. You’ll never–you’ll never get Peter’s gold!”

The woman was beside herself. She had no idea of what she was saying. All she knew was that Doc Crombie had been told of Will’s hiding-place, and, for all she knew, might be on his way there now. Discovery was certain; and discovery meant–

But suddenly she realized the boy’s condition. He was on the verge of collapse from sheer dread of physical hurt. His face was ashen, and his eyes were almost starting from their sockets. In an agony of remorse and fear she released him and knelt before him.

“I’m sorry, Elia. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But–but you haven’t told Doc?” she cried piteously. “Say you haven’t, dear. Oh, God!”

She abruptly buried her face in her hands as though to shut out the horrid sight of this thing her brother had done.

Elia recovered quickly, but his vicious glee had dropped to a sulky savagery.

“You’re a fule, sis,” he said, in a sullen tone. “I sure did it for you–an’ ’cos I hate him. But say,” he cried, becoming suddenly suspicious. “I didn’t tell Doc who it was. I kep’ my promise to Peter. I sure didn’t give him away. So why for do you raise sech a racket? An’ anyway if he hangs you won’t be married to him no more. You–”

He broke off, listening. The sound of a horse galloping could be plainly heard. The noise abruptly ceased, and the boy looked up with the light of understanding in his eyes.

“One o’ the boys, sis. One o’ Doc’s boys. Mebbe–”

But he was interrupted by the opening of the outer door, and Peter Blunt strode in.

The expression of the man’s face was sufficient explanation of his unceremonious visit. He made no pretense at apology. He glanced swiftly round the little parlor, and finally espied Eve and her brother through the open kitchen door. He hurried across and stood before them, his eyes on the boy he had spent two days searching for.

“Thank God I’ve found you, laddie–” he began.

But Eve cut him short.

“Oh, Peter, Peter, thank God you’ve come!” she cried.

Immediately the man’s eyes were transferred to her face.

“What is it?” he demanded sharply. And some of the girl’s terror suddenly clutched at his heart.

“He’s found him. Will, I mean. Will’s the cattle-thief. He found him in the midst of re-branding. And he came right in and told–told Doc Crombie.”

In an instant Elia was sitting forward defending himself.

“I didn’t tell him who he was. Sure I didn’t, ’cos you said I wouldn’t get that gold if I did–if I give him away. I didn’t give him away, sure–sure. I jest told Doc where he’d find the rustlers. That’s all. That ain’t giving Will away, is it?”

But Peter ignored the boy’s defense. His shrewd mind was working swiftly. Here was his own unspoken suspicion of the man verified. The whole situation was all too clear. He turned to Eve with a sharp inquiry.

“So Will’s the cattle-thief. You knew it?”

The girl shook her head and wrung her hands piteously.

“No, no; I didn’t know it. Indeed, indeed, I didn’t. Lately I suspected–thought–but I didn’t know.” Then she cried helplessly. “Oh, Peter, what’s to be done? We must–we must save him!”

In an instant Elia was on his feet protesting.

“What for you want to save him?” he cried. “He’s a crook. He’s a thief. He’s bad–I tell you he’s bad.”

But Peter suddenly thrust out one great hand and pushed him back into his chair.

“Sit there and keep quiet,” he said sternly. “Now, let’s think. You told Doc, eh?”

“Yes,” retorted the boy sulkily. “An’ he’s goin’ out after ’em to-night. An’ I’m glad, ’cos they’ll get him.”

“If they get him you’ll never get your gold, laddie, because you’ve given him away. Do you understand?”

Eve, watching these two, began to realize something of the working of Peter’s mind. He meant to win Elia over to his side, and was adopting the only possible means.

The boy remained obstinately silent, and Peter went on.

“Now, see here, which would you rather do, get that gold–an’ there’s plenty; it comes right through here to Barnriff–or see Will hang?”

In spite of his hatred of Will, the boy was dazzled.

“I’d like to see Will hang–but–I’d rather git the gold.”

“Well,” said Peter, with a sigh of relief, “ther’s just one way for you to get it. You’ve got to put us wise how to get to Will to warn him before Doc gets him. If Will hangs, you don’t get your gold.”

A sudden hope lit Eve’s troubled face. This man, she knew, was to be Will’s savior–her savior. Her heart swelled with thankfulness and hope. This man, without a second’s demur, had embraced her cause, was ready to incriminate himself, to save the worst criminal a cattle country knows, because–just because he wanted to help a woman, who was nothing to him, and never could be anything to him. It was the love he had for all suffering humanity, the wonderful charity of his kindly heart, that made him desire to help all those who needed his help.

She was listening now to the manner in which he extracted from her unwilling brother the information he sought. He did it bit by bit, with much care and deliberation. He wanted no mistake. The direction in which Will’s secret corrals lay must be given with the last word in exactness, for any delay in finding him might upset his purpose.

Having extracted all the information necessary, he gave the lad a final warning.

“Now, see here, Elia, you’re a good lad–better than you seem; but I’m not going to be played with. I’ve got gold in plenty, sure, and you’re going to get it if you stay right here, and don’t say a word to any one about Will or this cattle-rustling. If you do anything that prevents Will getting clear away, or let folks know that he’s the rustler, then you get no gold–not one cent.”

“Then, wot’s this I’ve heerd about Jim? Guess you want him to get the blame. You want ’em to hang Jim Thorpe?”

The boy’s cunning was paralyzing. Eve’s eyes widened with a fresh fear, and, for a moment, Peter was gravely silent.

“Yes,” he said presently, “for a while he must still have the blame.”

Then he turned to the woman.

“I wish I could get hold of Jim,” he said regretfully. “Amongst other things, I want his horse.”

In an instant Eve remembered.

“He’s over in your shack. I saw him go there at sundown.”

Peter’s face cleared.

“Good,” he cried. “Come on, we’ll all go over there. I’ll go by the front way, with Elia. You sneak out the back way after we’re gone.”

CHAPTER XXIV
FOR A WOMAN

Seated before the cold stove in Peter Blunt’s hut, Jim Thorpe was lost in moody thought. His day had been long and wearying. He had risen before sun-up with little enough hope in his heart to cheer his day in the saddle, and now he was contemplating his blankets at night with even less.

Search, search. That had been his day. A fruitless search for the one man whom he now believed to be the only person who could lift the blight of suspicion from his overburdened shoulders.

Yes, where most Eve had sought to shield, she had most surely betrayed by her woman’s weakness and fear. For the truth had been forced upon Jim’s unsuspicious mind even against himself. Eve’s terror, during her long talk with him on his return from McLagan’s ranch, had done the very thing she had most sought to prevent. Her whole attitude had told him its own story of her anxiety for some one, and that some one could only have been her husband. And the rest had been brought about by the arguments of his own common sense.

At first her fear had only suggested the anxiety of a friend for himself, at the jeopardy in which public suspicion had placed him. Now he laughed at the conceit of the thought, although, at the time, it had seemed natural enough. Then the intensity of her fears had become so great, and the personal, selfish note in her attitude so pronounced, that his suspicion was aroused, and he found himself groping for its meaning, its necessity.

Her terror seemed absurd. It could not be for him. It was out of all proportion. No, it was not for him. Was it for herself? He could see no reason. Then, why? For whom? And in a flash, as such realizations sometimes do come, even to the most unsuspicious, the whole thing leaped into his focus. If she had nothing to fear for herself, for whom did she fear? There was but one person–her husband.

If she feared for her husband, then she must suspect him. If she suspected, then there must be reason. But once this key was put into his hand, it needed little argument to make the whole thing plain. Point after point occurred to his mind carrying with each a conviction that was beyond the necessity of any argument that he could offer. He saw the whole thing with much the same instinctive conviction with which the wife had seen it.

Will had calculated his revenge on him carefully. He saw now what Eve had missed. The using of the “**” brand,–which he must have stolen from Jim’s implement shed–the running of the small bunch of McLagan’s cattle with his, Jim’s; these things had been well thought out, a carefully calculated revenge for his interference on the night Will had come so near to killing his own wife. He meant to throw suspicion upon him, suspicion which, in such a country of hot-headed cattlemen, was so narrowly removed from conviction.

So he had set out on his solitary quest to find this man, and had failed. He felt that he must find him, yet he hardly knew how it could serve him to do so. For there was that in the back of his mind which sorely troubled him.

He was thinking of Eve. Poor Eve! With Will found, or suspicion directed upon him, her troubles would be a hundred times magnified. The man was her husband, and there was no doubt in his mind, that, whatever his faults, she still loved him. If he needed confirmation of his belief there was her anxiety, her terrible dread when talking to him. The position was one to tax a far more subtle mind than his. What was to be done?

Clear himself he must, but every way he looked seemed to be barred by the certainty of bringing disgrace and unhappiness upon Eve. The thought revolted him, and yet–and yet, why should he take the blame? Why should he leave his name stinking in the mire of such a crime? It was maddening. What devilish luck! Was there no end to the cruelty of his fate?

Suddenly, he laughed. He had to, or the thing would drive him to something desperate. Fate had such refreshing ways of getting at a man. She brought about his disgrace through no fault of his own, and then refused him the only means of clearing himself. Fortune certainly could be a jade when she chose. Clear himself at the expense of the one woman in the world he loved? No, he couldn’t do that. Perhaps that was why he was given such a cruel chance.

But his whimsical moment was quickly gone. The tragedy of his position was all too harsh for such levity, and he frowned down at the cold iron of Peter’s stove. What must he do? He could see no way out. For perhaps the hundredth time that day his question remained unanswered. One thing he had made up his mind to, although he could not see how it was to help him in his dilemma. He must find Will Henderson.

He rose from his seat, stretched his aching limbs, and turned to his blankets.

But he did not unroll them. The heavy step of some one approaching startled him. Who could it be? Peter was away–and yet–and yet– He listened intently, and suddenly his eyes lit. It was like Peter’s step. He went to the door and threw it open, and in a moment was greeting the one man whose coming at such a moment could have made him feel glad.

“Say, Peter, this is bully,” he cried, shaking the big man’s hand. “I didn’t guess you’d be coming along in. Who’s that with you? Eh? Oh, Elia.”

Peter nodded. But his usual smile was lacking.

“Yes. Eve’s just coming along. Ah, here she is,” he added, as the girl suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Come in, my dear,” he went on kindly. “Guess we caught Jim before he got down for the night.”

Jim offered the girl no greeting. All thought of formalities was driven from his mind at the sight of her expression. The hunted look in her eyes was even greater than it had been two days ago, and he wondered what fresh development had brought it about. He was not long left in doubt. Peter eyed him ruefully, and then glanced at the door which was still open.

“It’s trouble, Jim, fresh trouble, so–I guess I’ll shut this door tight.”

While he was doing so, Jim pushed the chair toward Eve, into which she almost fell. Then he glanced at Elia, speculating. As Peter returned to the group he dropped back and seated himself on the rough bed, waiting for enlightenment. Peter leaned himself against the table, his grizzled face frowning thoughtfully.

“I’m needing a horse to-night–now,” he said. “An’ he’s got to do sixty miles between this and sundown to-morrow. I want yours. Can I have it?”

The man’s shrewd blue eyes were steadily fixed on Jim’s face. He was putting all his knowledge of the ranchman to the test in his own subtle way. He was asking this man to help him against himself. He was asking this man to help him prevent his removing the unmerited suspicion with which he was branded. But he intended to do it openly, frankly. And his reason was because he understood a good deal of human nature, and of Jim Thorpe particularly.

“You can have him. What for?”

“No, no,” Eve cried, starting up to prevent Peter answering.

But the big man motioned her to calm herself.

“Don’t worry, Eve, my dear,” he said. “This thing’s between Jim an’ me. And I don’t think there’s going to be much explanation needed.”

Jim nodded, and his glance fell on Elia. He was wondering what part the boy was playing in the scene.

“It’s Will,” said Peter. “We’ve got to get him warned–for her sake.” He nodded in Eve’s direction, but turned away quickly as her face dropped into her two hands and remained hidden.

“You don’t need to tell me any more, Peter,” said Jim, huskily. “Just give me the other details. You see, I fancy I know all about him, except his whereabouts.”

Eve looked up startled.

“You know,” she whispered in awe.

Jim nodded.

“I’ve thought things out this last two days,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Peter. “But this warning. What’s made it necessary? Have others been–thinking?”

“No. They’ve been put wise.” Peter’s eyes sought the unsmiling face of Elia. “You see, Elia hunted him out. He’s told Doc where he’ll find the rustlers. But mercifully he didn’t say who the rustler was.”

“Ah, Elia hates Will,” Jim said thoughtfully.

“Doc’s setting out to-night to–find him,” Peter added.

Jim glanced from Eve to the grizzled man. Just for a second he marveled at him. Then the feeling passed as recollections flew through his mind of a dozen and one kindnesses of heart which this quaint Englishman had performed. This was just the sort of thing Peter would do. He would simply, and unconcernedly, thrust his head into the lion’s jaws to help anybody.

“You’re going to take the warning?” he inquired.

“Sure.” Then Peter added apologetically, with a swift glance in Eve’s direction, “You see, we can’t let ’em–find him.”

A shadowy smile grew into Jim’s eyes. Peter wanted his horse for a purpose. And that very purpose would inevitably drive the brand which was already upon him deeper and deeper into his flesh. He was calmly asking him to sacrifice himself for Eve. He glanced in the girl’s direction, and all the old love was uppermost in his simple heart.

“When did you get in?” he asked Peter, abruptly.

“Just now.”

“Been in the saddle all day?”

“Yep. But that’s no con–”

“No. Only I was thinking.”

Jim’s eyes were still on Eve. The girl was looking straight before her at the stove. She could only wait. These men, she felt, were shouldering her burden. But she was anxious. Somehow she hadn’t the same knowledge of Jim that Peter had. But then, how should she? Her point of view was so different.

Suddenly Jim started up.

“No, Peter, old friend, you can’t have the horse–I need it.”

Peter started forward. He was startled out of his belief in the man.

“What in–”

But Jim cut him short.

“Hold up, Peter. Eve’s here,” he said. Then he glanced at Elia. “I’ll carry that warning. And I’ll tell you why. Oh, no,” as Eve suddenly started to protest, “I’m only going to speak common sense. Here’s the facts which you, old friend, with all your wisdom, seem to have overlooked.” He smiled up into Peter’s face. “First, the man who goes must ride light. You can’t be accused of that. You see, we’ve sure got to get there first. My plug’s been out all day, and has only had about four hours’ rest. I can get the most out of him the easiest. Then, you see, you’re known to be in town, and if you pike the trail to-night folks’ll get guessing. Then, you see, it’s my business to be out–they expect it of me. Then–if things go wrong–which I don’t guess they will–my name stinks a bit around here, and, well, a bit more or less don’t cut any ice. Then there’s another thing–Elia. You’ve got to keep a close eye on him, sure. If they get at him–well– Anyway, that’s what I can’t do under the circumstances.”

Peter’s face grew almost stern as he listened to the marshaling of the man’s arguments. Jim saw his look and understood. But he had clearly made up his mind.

“It’s no use, Peter. You can’t have that horse. I’m going to get the saddle on.”

He rose to go. But the big man suddenly barred his way. His face was stern and set–something like a thunder-cloud seemed to have settled upon his kindly brow.

“Hold on. I’ll allow your arguments are mostly clear. Guess you’ll have to go. But I want to tell you this, Jim. If things go wrong, I’ll–I’ll shoot the man that lays hands on you. I’ll shoot him dead!”

But Eve was on her feet at Jim’s side, and her soft hands were gripping his arm with a nervous clutch.

“No, no, Jim,” she cried, with tears in her eyes. “You–you mustn’t go. I see it now. I didn’t see it before. You–you are branded now, and–and you’re going to help him. Oh, Jim, you mustn’t! We had no right to ask for your horse. Indeed, indeed we hadn’t. You mustn’t go. Neither of you must. No, please, please stay. It means hanging if you are–”

“Don’t you say anything more, Eve,” Jim said, gently but firmly releasing himself from her hold. “I’ve thought of all those things. Besides, you must never forget that Will–is my cousin.”

But Peter could stand no more.

“Come on,” he said, almost roughly. “It’s late enough already. Maybe they’ll be starting directly. Here, Elia, you tell us just where Will’s in hiding, and mind you don’t miss anything.”

It took barely five minutes for Elia to give the required directions again, which he did ungraciously enough. But Peter verified his account with the original story, and was satisfied.

Then the two men went out and saddled the horse. In three minutes Jim was in the saddle, and Peter gripped him by the hand.

“The good God’ll help you out for this, Jim. So long.”