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Two-Gun Man

<h2 id="id00761" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XIV</h2> <h5 id="id00762">ON THE EDGE OF THE PLATEAU</h5> Now that Ferguson was satisfied beyond doubt that Leviatt had been concealed in the thicket above the bed of the arroyo where he had come upon the dead Two Diamond cow, there remained but one disturbing thought: who was the man he had seen riding along the ridge away from the arroyo? Until he discovered the identity of the rider he must remain absolutely in the dark concerning Leviatt's motive in concealing the name of this other actor in the incident. He was positive that Leviatt knew the rider, but he was equally positive that Leviatt would keep this knowledge to himself. But on this morning he was not much disturbed over the mystery. Other things were troubling him. Would Miss Radford go riding with him? Would she change her mind over night? As he rode he consulted his silver timepiece. She had told him not to come before ten. The hands of his watch pointed to ten thirty when he entered the flat, and it was near eleven when he rode up to the cabin door—to find Miss Radford—arrayed in riding skirt, dainty boots, gauntleted gloves, blouse, and soft felt hat—awaiting him at the door. "You're late," she said, smiling as she came out upon the porch. If he had been less wise he might have told her that she had told him not to come until after ten and that he had noticed that she had been waiting for him in spite of her apparent reluctance of yesterday. But he steered carefully away from this pitfall. He dismounted and threw the bridle rein over Mustard's head, coming around beside the porch. "I wasn't thinkin' to hurry you, ma'am," he said. "But I reckon we'll go now. It's cert'nly a fine day for ridin'." He stood silent for a moment, looking about him. Then he flushed. "Why, I'm gettin' right box-headed, ma'am," he declared. "Here I am standin' an' makin' you sick with my palaver, an' your horse waitin' to be caught up." He stepped quickly to Mustard's side and uncoiled his rope. She stood on the porch, watching him as he proceeded to the corral, caught the pony, and flung a bridle on it. Then he led the animal to the porch and cinched the saddle carefully. Throwing the reins over the pommel of the saddle, he stood at the animal's head, waiting. She came to the edge of the porch, placed a slender, booted foot into the ox-bow stirrup, and swung gracefully up. In an instant he had vaulted into his own saddle, and together they rode out upon the gray-white floor of the flat. They rode two miles, keeping near the fringe of cottonwoods, and presently mounted a long slope. Half an hour later Miss Radford looked back and saw the flat spread out behind, silent, vast, deserted, slumbering in the swimming white sunlight. A little later she looked again, and the flat was no longer there, for they had reached the crest of the slope and their trail had wound them round to a broad level, from which began another slope, several miles distant. They had ridden for more than two hours, talking very little, when they reached the crest of the last rise and saw, spreading before them, a level many miles wide, stretching away in three directions. It was a grass plateau, but the grass was dry and drooping and rustled under the ponies' hoofs. There were no trees, but a post oak thicket skirted the southern edge, and it was toward this that he urged his pony. She followed, smiling to think that he was deceiving himself in believing that she had not yet explored this place. They came close to the thicket, and he swung off his horse and stood at her stirrup. "I was wantin' you to see the country from here," he said, as he helped her down. She watched him while he picketed the horses, so that they might not stray. Then they went together to the edge of the thicket, seating themselves in a welcome shade. At their feet the plateau dropped sheer, as though cut with a knife, and a little way out from the base lay a narrow ribbon of water that flowed slowly in its rocky bed, winding around the base of a small hill, spreading over a shallow bottom, and disappearing between the buttes farther down. Everything beneath them was distinguishable, though distant. Knobs rose here; there a flat spread. Mountains frowned in the distance, but so far away that they seemed like papier-mache shapes towering in a sea of blue. Like a map the country seemed as Miss Radford and Ferguson looked down upon it, yet a big map, over which one might wonder; more vast, more nearly perfect, richer in detail than any that could be evolved from the talents of man. Ridges, valleys, gullies, hills, knobs, and draws were all laid out in a vast basin. Miss Radford's gaze swept down into a section of flat near the river. "Why, there are some cattle down there!" she exclaimed. "Sure," he returned; "they're Two Diamond. Way off there behind that ridge is where the wagon is." He pointed to a long range of flat hills that stretched several miles. "The boys that are workin' on the other side of that ridge can't see them cattle like we can. Looks plum re-diculous." "There are no men with those cattle down there," she said, pointing to those below in the flat. "No," he returned quietly; "they're all off on the other side of the ridge." She smiled demurely at him. "Then we won't be interrupted—as we were yesterday," she said. Did she know that this was why he had selected this spot for the end of the ride? He looked quickly at her, but answered slowly. "They couldn't see us," he said. "If we was out in the open we'd be right on the skyline. Then anyone could see us. But we've got this thicket behind us, an' I reckon from down there we'd be pretty near invisible." He turned around, clasping his hands about one knee and looking squarely at her. "I expect you done a heap with your book yesterday—after I went away?" Her cheeks colored a little under his straight gaze. "I didn't stay there long," she equivocated. "But I got some very good ideas, and I am glad that I didn't write much. I should have had to destroy it, because I have decided upon a different beginning. Ben made the trip to Dry Bottom yesterday, and last night he told something that had happened there that has given me some very good material for a beginning." "That's awful interestin'," he observed. "So now you'll be able to start your book with somethin' that really happened?" "Real and original," she returned, with a quick glance at him. "Ben told me that about a month ago some men had a shooting match in Dry Bottom. They used a can for a target, and one man kept it in the air until he put six bullet holes through it. Ben says he is pretty handy with his weapons, but he could never do that. He insists that few men can, and he is inclined to think that the man who did do it must have been a gunfighter. I suppose you have never tried it?" Over his lips while she had been speaking had crept the slight mocking smile which always told better than words of the cold cynicism that moved him at times. Did she know anything? Did she suspect him? The smile masked an interest that illumined his eyes very slightly as he looked at her. "I expect that is plum slick shootin'," he returned slowly. "But some men can do it. I've knowed them. But I ain't heard that it's been done lately in this here country. I reckon Ben told you somethin' of how this man looked?" He had succeeded in putting the question very casually, and she had not caught the note of deep interest in his voice. "Why it's very odd," she said, looking him over carefully; "from Ben's description I should assume that the man looked very like you!" If her reply had startled him he gave little evidence of it. He sat perfectly quiet, gazing with steady eyes out over the big basin. For a time she sat silent also, her gaze following his. Then she turned. "That would be odd, wouldn't it?" she said. "What would?" he answered, not looking at her. "Why, if you were the man who had done that shooting! It would follow out the idea of my plot perfectly. For in my story the hero is hired to shoot a supposed rustler, and of course he would have to be a good shot. And since Ben has told me the story of the shooting match I have decided that the hero in my story shall be tested in that manner before being employed to shoot the rustler. Then he comes to the supposed rustler's cabin and meets the heroine, in much the same manner that you came. Now if it should turn out that you were the man who did the shooting in Dry Bottom my story up to this point would be very nearly real. And that would be fine!" She had allowed a little enthusiasm to creep into her voice, and he looked up at her quickly, a queer expression in his eyes. "You goin' to have your 'two-gun' man bit by a rattler?" he questioned. "Well, I don't know about that. It would make very little difference. But I should be delighted to find that you were the man who did the shooting over at Dry Bottom. Say that you are!" Even now he could not tell whether there was subtlety in her voice The old doubt rose again in his mind. Was she really serious in saying that she intended putting all this in her story, or was this a ruse, concealing an ulterior purpose? Suppose she and her brother suspected him of being the man who had participated in the shooting match in Dry Bottom? Suppose the brother, or she, had invented this tale about the book to draw him out? He was moved to an inward humor, amused to think that either of them should imagine him shallow enough to be caught thus. But what if they did catch him? Would they gain by it? They could gain nothing, but the knowledge would serve to put them on their guard. But if she did suspect him, what use was there in evasion or denial? He smiled whimsically. "I reckon your story is goin' to be real up to this point," he returned. "A while back I did shoot at a can in Dry Bottom." She gave an exclamation of delight. "Now, isn't that marvelous? No one shall be able to say that my beginning will be strictly fiction." She leaned closer to him, her eyes alight with eagerness. "Now please don't say that you are the man who shot the can five times," she pleaded. "I shouldn't want my hero to be beaten at anything he undertook. But I know that you were not beaten. Were you?" He smiled gravely. "I reckon I wasn't beat," he returned. She sat back and surveyed him with satisfaction. "I knew it," she stated, as though in her mind there had never existed any doubt of the fact. "Now," she said, plainly pleased over the result of her questioning, "I shall be able to proceed, entirely confident that my hero will be able to give a good account of himself in any situation." Her eyes baffled him. He gave up watching her and turned to look at the world beneath him. He would have given much to know her thoughts. She had said that from her brother's description of the man who had won the shooting match at Dry Bottom she would assume that that man had looked very like him. Did her brother hold this opinion also? Ferguson cared very little if he did. He was accustomed to danger, and he had gone into this business with his eyes open. And if Ben did know—— Unconsciously his lips straightened and his chin went forward slightly, giving his face an expression of hardness that made him look ten years older. Watching him, the girl drew a slow, full breath. It was a side of his character with which she was as yet unacquainted, and she marveled over it, comparing it to the side she already knew—the side that he had shown her—quiet, thoughtful, subtle. And now at a glance she saw him as men knew him—unyielding, unafraid, indomitable. Yet there was much in this sudden revelation of character to admire. She liked a man whom other men respected for the very traits that his expression had revealed. No man would be likely to adopt an air of superiority toward him; none would attempt to trifle with him. She felt that she ought not to trifle, but moved by some unaccountable impulse, she laughed. He turned his head at the laugh and looked quizzically at her. "I hope you were not thinking of killing some one?" she taunted. His right hand slowly clenched. Something metallic suddenly glinted his eyes, to be succeeded instantly by a slight mockery. "You afraid some one's goin' to be killed?" he inquired slowly. "Well—no," she returned, startled by the question. "But you looked so—so determined that I—I thought——" He suddenly seized her arm and drew her around so that she faced the little stretch of plain near the ridge about which they had been speaking previously. His lips were in straight lines again, his eyes gleaming interestedly. "You see that man down there among them cattle?" he questioned. Following his gaze, she saw a man among perhaps a dozen cattle. At the moment she looked the man had swung a rope, and she saw the loop fall true over the head of a cow the man had selected, saw the pony pivot and drag the cow prone. Then the man dismounted, ran swiftly to the side of the fallen cow, and busied himself about her hind legs. "What is he doing?" she asked, a sudden excitement shining in her eyes. "He's hog-tieing her now," returned Ferguson. She knew what that meant. She had seen Ben throw cattle in this manner when he was branding them. "Hog-tieing" meant binding their hind legs with a short piece of rope to prevent struggling while the brand was being applied. Apparently this was what the man was preparing to do. Smoke from a nearby fire curled lazily upward, and about this fire the man now worked—evidently turning some branding irons. He gave some little time to this, and while Miss Radford watched she heard Ferguson's voice again. "I reckon we're goin' to see some fun pretty soon," he said quietly. "Why?" she inquired quickly. He smiled. "Do you see that man ridin' through that break on the ridge?" he asked, pointing the place out to her. She nodded, puzzled by his manner. He continued dryly. "Well, if that man that's comin' through the break is what he ought to be he'll be shootin' pretty soon." "Why?" she gasped, catching at his sleeve, "why should he shoot?" He laughed again—grimly. "Well," he returned, "if a puncher ketches a rustler with the goods on he's got a heap of right to do some shootin'." She shuddered. "And do you think that man among the cattle is a rustler?" she asked. "Wait," he advised, peering intently toward the ridge. "Why," he continued presently, "there's another man ridin' this way. An' he's hidin' from the other—keepin' in the gullies an' the draws so's the first man can't see him if he looks back." He laughed softly. "It's plum re-diculous. Here we are, able to see all that's goin' on down there an' not able to take a hand in it. An' there's them three goin' ahead with what they're thinkin' about, not knowin' that we're watchin' them, an' two of them not knowin' that the third man is watchin'. I'd call that plum re-diculous." The first man was still riding through the break in the ridge, coming boldly, apparently unconscious of the presence of the man among the cattle, who was well concealed from the first man's eyes by a rocky promontory at the corner of the break. The third man was not over an eighth of a mile behind the first man, and riding slowly and carefully. At the rate the first man was riding not five minutes would elapse before he would come out into the plain full upon the point where the man among the cattle was working at his fire. Ferguson and Miss Radford watched the scene with interest. Plainly the first man was intruding. Or if not, he was the rustler's confederate and the third man was spying upon him. Miss Radford and Ferguson were to discover the key to the situation presently. "Do you think that man among the cattle is a rustler?" questioned Miss Radford. In her excitement she had pressed very close to Ferguson and was clutching his arm very tightly. "I reckon he is," returned Ferguson. "I ain't rememberin' that any ranch has cows that run the range unbranded; especially when the cow has got a calf, unless that cow is a maverick, an' that ain't likely, since she's runnin' with the Two Diamond bunch." He leaned forward, for the man had left the fire and was running toward the fallen cow. Once at her side the man bent over her, pressing the hot irons against the bottoms of her hoofs. A thin wreath of smoke curled upward; the cow struggled. Ferguson looked at Miss Radford. "Burnt her hoofs," he said shortly, "so she can't follow when he runs her calf off." "The brute!" declared Miss Radford, her face paling with anger. The man was fumbling with the rope that bound the cow's legs, when the first man rode around the edge of the break and came full upon him. From the distance at which Miss Radford and Ferguson watched they could not see the expression of either man's face, but they saw the rustler's right hand move downward; saw his pistol glitter in the sunlight. But the pistol was not raised. The first man's pistol had appeared just a fraction of a second sooner, and they saw that it was poised, menacing the rustler. For an instant the two men were motionless. Ferguson felt the grasp on his arm tighten, and he turned his head to see Miss Radford's face, pale and drawn; her eyes lifted to his with a slow, dawning horror in them. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "They are going to shoot!" She withdrew her hand from Ferguson's arm and held it, with the other, to her ears, cringing away from the edge of the cliff. She waited, breathless, for—it seemed to her—the space of several minutes, her head turned from the men, her eyes closed for fear that she might, in the dread of the moment, look toward the plain. She kept telling herself that she would not turn, but presently, in spite of her determination, the suspense was too great, and she turned quickly and fearfully, expecting to see at least one riderless horse. That would have been horrible enough. To her surprise both men still kept the positions that they had held when she had turned away. The newcomer's revolver still menaced the rustler. She looked up into Ferguson's face, to see a grim smile on it, to see his eyes, chilled and narrowed, fixed steadily upon the two horsemen. "Oh!" she said, "is it over?" Ferguson heard the question, and smiled mirthlessly without turning his head. "I reckon it ain't over—yet," he returned. "But I expect it'll be over pretty soon, if that guy that's got his gun on the rustler don't get a move on right quick. That other guy is comin' around the corner of that break, an' if he's the rustler's friend that man with the gun will get his pretty rapid." His voice raised a trifle, a slightly anxious note in it. "Why don't the damn fool turn around? He could see that last man now if he did. Now, what do you think of that?" Ferguson's voice was sharp and tense, and, in spite of herself, Miss Radford's gaze shifted again to the plains below her. Fascinated, her fear succumbing to the intense interest of the moment, she followed the movements of the trio. From around the corner of the break the third man had ridden. He was not over a hundred feet from the man who had caught the rustler and he was walking his horse now. The watchers on the edge of the plateau could see that he had taken in the situation and was stealing upon the captor, who sat in his saddle, his back to the advancing rider. Drawing a little closer, the third man stealthily dropped from his pony and crept forward. The significance of this movement dawned upon Miss Radford in a flash, and she again seized Ferguson's arm, tugging at it fiercely. "Why, he's going to kill that man!" she cried. "Can't you do something? For mercy's sake do! Shout, or shoot off your pistol—do something to warn him!" Ferguson flashed a swift glance at her, and she saw that his face wore a queer pallor. His expression had grown grimmer, but he smiled—a little sadly, she thought. "It ain't a bit of use tryin' to do anything," he returned, his gaze again on the men. "We're two miles from them men an' a thousand feet above them. There ain't any pistol report goin' to stop what's goin' on down there. All we can do is to watch. Mebbe we can recognize one of them. . . . Shucks!" The exclamation was called from him by a sudden movement on the part of the captor. The third man must have made a noise, for the captor turned sharply. At the instant he did so the rustler's pistol flashed in the sunlight. The watchers on the plateau did not hear the report at once, and when they did it came to them only faintly—a slight sound which was barely distinguishable. But they saw a sudden spurt of flame and smoke. The captor reeled drunkenly in his saddle, caught blindly at the pommel, and then slid slowly down into the grass of the plains. Ferguson drew a deep breath and, turning, looked sharply at Miss Radford. She had covered her face with her hands and was swaying dizzily. He was up from the rock in a flash and was supporting her, leading her away from the edge of the plateau. She went unresisting, her slender figure shuddering spasmodically, her hands still covering her face. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as the horror of the scene rose in her mind. "The brutes! The brutes!" Feeling that if he kept quiet she would recover from the shock of the incident sooner, Ferguson said nothing in reply to her outbreaks as he led her toward the ponies. For a moment after reaching them she leaned against her animal's shoulder, her face concealed from Ferguson by the pony's mane. Then he was at her side, speaking firmly. "You must get away from here," he said, "I ought to have got you away before—before that happened." She looked up, showing him a pair of wide, dry eyes, in which there was still a trace of horror. An expression of grave self-accusation shone in his. "You were not to blame," she said dully. "You may have anticipated a meeting of those men, but you could not have foreseen the end. Oh!" She shuddered again. "To think of seeing a man deliberately murdered!" "That's just what it was," he returned quietly; "just plain murder. They had him between them. He didn't have a chance. He was bound to get it from one or the other. Looks like they trapped him; run him down there on purpose." He held her stirrup. "I reckon you've seen enough, ma'am," he added. "You'd better hop right on your horse an' get back to Bear Flat." She shivered and raised her head, looking at him—a flash of fear in her eyes. "You are going down there!" she cried, her eyes dilating. He laughed grimly. "I cert'nly am, ma'am," he returned. "You'd better go right off. I'm ridin' down there to see how bad that man is hit." She started toward him, protesting. "Why, they will kill you, too!" she declared. He laughed again, with a sudden grim humor. "There ain't any danger," he returned. "They've sloped." Involuntarily she looked down. Far out on the plains, through the break in the ridge of hills, she could see two horsemen racing away. "The cowards!" she cried, her voice shaking with anger. "To shoot a man in cold blood and then run!" She looked at Ferguson, her figure stiffening with decision. "If you go down there I am going, too!" she declared. "He might need some help," she added, seeing the objection in his eyes, "and if he does I may be able to give it to him. You know," she continued, smiling wanly, "I have had some experience with sick people." He said nothing more, but silently assisted her into the saddle and swung into his own. They urged the animals to a rapid pace, she following him eagerly. It was a rough trail, leading through many gullies, around miniature hills, into bottoms where huge boulders and treacherous sand barred the way, along the face of dizzy cliffs, and through lava beds where the footing was uncertain and dangerous. But in an hour they were on the plains and riding toward the break in the ridge of hills, where the shooting had been done. The man's pony had moved off a little and was grazing unconcernedly when they arrived. A brown heap in the grass told where the man lay, and presently Ferguson was down beside him, one of his limp wrists between his fingers. He stood up after a moment, to confront Miss Radford, who had fallen behind during the last few minutes of the ride. Ferguson's face was grave, and there was a light in his eyes that thrilled her for a moment as she looked at him. "He ain't dead, ma'am," he said as he assisted her down from her pony. "The bullet got him in the shoulder." She caught a queer note in his voice—something approaching appeal. She looked swiftly at him, suspicious. "Do you know him?" she asked. "I reckon I do, ma'am," he returned. "It's Rope Jones. Once he stood by me when he thought I needed a friend. If there's any chance I'm goin' to get him to your cabin—where you can take care of him till he gets over this—if he ever does." She realized now how this tragedy had shocked her. She reeled and the world swam dizzily before her. Again she saw Ferguson dart forward, but she steadied herself and smiled reassuringly. "It is merely the thought that I must now put my little knowledge to a severe test," she said. "It rather frightened me. I don't know whether anything can be done." She succeeded in forcing herself to calmness and gave orders rapidly. "Get something under his head," she commanded. "No, that will be too high," she added, as she saw Ferguson start to unbuckle the saddle cinch on his pony. "Raise his head only a very little. That round thing that you have fastened to your saddle (the slicker) would do very well. There. Now get some water!" She was down beside the wounded man in another instant, cutting away a section of the shirt near the shoulder, with a knife that she had borrowed from Ferguson. The wound had not bled much and was lower than Ferguson had thought. But she gave it what care she could, and when Ferguson arrived with water—from the river, a mile away—she dressed the wound and applied water to Rope's forehead. Soon she saw that her efforts were to be of little avail. Rope lay pitifully slack and unresponsive. At the end of an hour's work Ferguson bent over her with a question on his lips. "Do you reckon he'll come around, ma'am?" She shook her head negatively. "The bullet has lodged somewhere—possibly in the lung," she returned. "It entered just above the heart, and he has bled much—internally. He may never regain consciousness." Ferguson's face paled with a sudden anger. "In that case, ma'am, we'll never know who shot him," he said slowly. "An' I'm wantin' to know that. Couldn't you fetch him to, ma'am—just long enough so's I could ask him?" She looked up with a slow glance. "I can try," she said. "Is there any more whiskey in your flask?" He produced the flask, and they both bent over Rope, forcing a generous portion of the liquor down his throat. Then, alternately bathing the wound and his forehead, they watched. They were rewarded presently by a faint flicker of the eyelids and a slow flow of color in the pale cheeks. Then after a little the eyes opened. In an instant Ferguson's lips were close to Rope's ear. "Who shot you, Rope, old man?" he asked eagerly. "You don't need to be afraid to tell me, it's Ferguson." The wounded man's eyes were glazed with a dull incomprehension. But slowly, as though at last he was faintly conscious of the significance of the question, his eyes glinted with the steady light of returning reason. Suddenly he smiled, his lips opening slightly. Both watchers leaned tensely forward to catch the low words. "Ferguson told me to look out," he mumbled. "He told me to be careful that they didn't get me between them. But I wasn't thinkin' it would happen just that way." And now his eyes opened scornfully and he struggled and lifted himself upon one arm, gazing at some imaginary object. "Why," he said slowly and distinctly, his voice cold and metallic, "you're a hell of a range boss! Why you——!" he broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed full upon Miss Radford. "Why, it's a woman! An' I thought—— Why, ma'am," he went on, apologetically, "I didn't know you was there! . . . But you ain't goin' to run off no calf while I'm lookin' at you. Shucks! Won't the Ol' Man be some surprised to know that Tucson an'——" He shuddered spasmodically and sat erect with a great effort. "You've got me, damn you!" he sneered. "But you won't never get anyone——" He swung his right hand over his head, as though the hand held a pistol. But the arm suddenly dropped, he shuddered again, and sank slowly back—his eyes wide and staring, but unseeing. Ferguson looked sharply at Miss Radford, who was suddenly bending over the prostrate man, her head on his breast. She arose after a little, tears starting to her eyes. "He has gone," she said slowly. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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