Young Burt possessed the keenest eyes of any man in Snake Anson's gang, for which reason he was given the post as lookout from the lofty promontory. His instructions were to keep sharp watch over the open slopes below and to report any sight of a horse.
A cedar fire with green boughs on top of dead wood sent up a long, pale column of smoke. This signal-fire had been kept burning since sunrise.
The preceding night camp had been made on a level spot in the cedars back of the promontory. But manifestly Anson did not expect to remain there long. For, after breakfast, the packs had been made up and the horses stood saddled and bridled. They were restless and uneasy, tossing bits and fighting flies. The sun, now half-way to meridian, was hot and no breeze blew in that sheltered spot.
Shady Jones had ridden off early to fill the water-bags, and had not yet returned. Anson, thinner and scalier and more snakelike than ever, was dealing a greasy, dirty deck of cards, his opponent being the square-shaped, black-visaged Moze. In lieu of money the gamblers wagered with cedar-berries, each of which berries represented a pipeful of tobacco. Jim Wilson brooded under a cedar-tree, his unshaven face a dirty dust-hue, a smoldering fire in his light eyes, a sullen set to his jaw. Every little while he would raise his eyes to glance at Riggs, and it seemed that a quick glance was enough. Riggs paced to and fro in the open, coatless and hatless, his black-broadcloth trousers and embroidered vest dusty and torn. An enormous gun bumped awkwardly in its sheath swinging below his hip. Riggs looked perturbed. His face was sweating freely, yet it was far from red in color. He did not appear to mind the sun or the flies. His eyes were staring, dark, wild, shifting in gaze from everything they encountered. But often that gaze shot back to the captive girl sitting under a cedar some yards from the man.
Bo Rayner's little, booted feet were tied together with one end of a lasso and the other end trailed off over the ground. Her hands were free. Her riding-habit was dusty and disordered. Her eyes blazed defiantly out of a small, pale face.
“Harve Riggs, I wouldn't be standing in those cheap boots of yours for a million dollars,” she said, sarcastically. Riggs took no notice of her words.
“You pack that gun-sheath wrong end out. What have you got the gun for, anyhow?” she added, tauntingly.
Snake Anson let out a hoarse laugh and Moze's black visage opened in a huge grin. Jim Wilson seemed to drink in the girl's words. Sullen and somber, he bent his lean head, very still, as if listening.
“You'd better shut up,” said Riggs, darkly.
“I will not shut up,” declared Bo.
“Then I'll gag you,” he threatened.
“Gag me! Why, you dirty, low-down, two-bit of a bluff!” she exclaimed, hotly, “I'd like to see you try it. I'll tear that long hair of yours right off your head.”
Riggs advanced toward her with his hands clutching, as if eager to throttle her. The girl leaned forward, her face reddening, her eyes fierce.
“You damned little cat!” muttered Riggs, thickly. “I'll gag you—if you don't stop squallin'.”
“Come on. I dare you to lay a hand on me.... Harve Riggs, I'm not the least afraid of you. Can't you savvy that? You're a liar, a four-flush, a sneak! Why, you're not fit to wipe the feet of any of these outlaws.”
Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth protruding in a snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of the head.
Bo's head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she uttered no cry.
“Are you goin' to keep your jaw shut?” he demanded, stridently, and a dark tide of blood surged up into his neck.
“I should smile I'm not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate anger of opposition. “You've roped me—and you've struck me! Now get a club—stand off there—out of my reach—and beat me! Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you—I'd call you them!”
Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching, listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on his serpent-like face. Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet. If any one had observed him it would have been to note that he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the neck-band of his blouse.
Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she dodged.
“You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”
Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into remonstrance.
“Aw, Riggs, don't beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet won't do any good. Let her alone.”
“But she's got to shut up,” replied Riggs.
“How 'n hell air you goin' to shet her up? Mebbe if you get out of her sight she'll be quiet.... How about thet, girl?”
Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.
“Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.
“It strikes me you 'ain't,” replied Anson.
“You won't hear me make any so long as I'm treated decent,” said Bo. “I don't know what you've got to do with Riggs. He ran me down—roped me—dragged me to your camp. Now I've a hunch you're waiting for Beasley.”
“Girl, your hunch 's correct,” said Anson.
“Well, do you know I'm the wrong girl?”
“What's thet? I reckon you're Nell Rayner, who got left all old Auchincloss's property.”
“No. I'm Bo Rayner. Nell is my sister. She owns the ranch. Beasley wanted her.”
Anson cursed deep and low. Under his sharp, bristling eyebrows he bent cunning green eyes upon Riggs.
“Say, you! Is what this kid says so?”
“Yes. She's Nell Rayner's sister,” replied Riggs, doggedly.
“A-huh! Wal, why in the hell did you drag her into my camp an' off up here to signal Beasley? He ain't wantin' her. He wants the girl who owns the ranch. Did you take one fer the other—same as thet day we was with you?”
“Guess I must have,” replied Riggs, sullenly.
“But you knowed her from her sister afore you come to my camp?”
Riggs shook his head. He was paler now and sweating more freely. The dank hair hung wet over his forehead. His manner was that of a man suddenly realizing he had gotten into a tight place.
“Oh, he's a liar!” exclaimed Bo, with contemptuous ring in her voice. “He comes from my country. He has known Nell and me for years.”
Snake Anson turned to look at Wilson.
“Jim, now hyar's a queer deal this feller has rung in on us. I thought thet kid was pretty young. Don't you remember Beasley told us Nell Rayner was a handsome woman?”
“Wal, pard Anson, if this heah gurl ain't handsome my eyes have gone pore,” drawled Wilson.
“A-huh! So your Texas chilvaree over the ladies is some operatin',” retorted Anson, with fine sarcasm. “But thet ain't tellin' me what you think?”
“Wal, I ain't tellin' you what I think yet. But I know thet kid ain't Nell Rayner. For I've seen her.”
Anson studied his right-hand man for a moment, then, taking out his tobacco-pouch, he sat himself down upon a stone and proceeded leisurely to roll a cigarette. He put it between his thin lips and apparently forgot to light it. For a few moments he gazed at the yellow ground and some scant sage-brush. Riggs took to pacing up and down. Wilson leaned as before against the cedar. The girl slowly recovered from her excess of anger.
“Kid, see hyar,” said Anson, addressing the girl; “if Riggs knowed you wasn't Nell an' fetched you along anyhow—what 'd he do thet fur?”
“He chased me—caught me. Then he saw some one after us and he hurried to your camp. He was afraid—the cur!”
Riggs heard her reply, for he turned a malignant glance upon her.
“Anson, I fetched her because I know Nell Rayner will give up anythin' on earth for her,” he said, in loud voice.
Anson pondered this statement with an air of considering its apparent sincerity.
“Don't you believe him,” declared Bo Rayner, bluntly. “He's a liar. He's double-crossing Beasley and all of you.”
Riggs raised a shaking hand to clench it at her. “Keep still or it 'll be the worse for you.”
“Riggs, shut up yourself,” put in Anson, as he leisurely rose. “Mebbe it 'ain't occurred to you thet she might have some talk interestin' to me. An' I'm runnin' this hyar camp. ... Now, kid, talk up an' say what you like.”
“I said he was double-crossing you all,” replied the girl, instantly. “Why, I'm surprised you'd be caught in his company! My uncle Al and my sweetheart Carmichael and my friend Dale—they've all told me what Western men are, even down to outlaws, robbers, cutthroat rascals like you. And I know the West well enough now to be sure that four-flush doesn't belong here and can't last here. He went to Dodge City once and when he came back he made a bluff at being a bad man. He was a swaggering, bragging, drinking gun-fighter. He talked of the men he'd shot, of the fights he'd had. He dressed like some of those gun-throwing gamblers.... He was in love with my sister Nell. She hated him. He followed us out West and he has hung on our actions like a sneaking Indian. Why, Nell and I couldn't even walk to the store in the village. He rode after me out on the range—chased me.... For that Carmichael called Riggs's bluff down in Turner's saloon. Dared him to draw! Cussed him every name on the range! Slapped and beat and kicked him! Drove him out of Pine!... And now, whatever he has said to Beasley or you, it's a dead sure bet he's playing his own game. That's to get hold of Nell, and if not her—then me!... Oh, I'm out of breath—and I'm out of names to call him. If I talked forever—I'd never be—able to—do him justice. But lend me—a gun—a minute!”
Jim Wilson's quiet form vibrated with a start. Anson with his admiring smile pulled his gun and, taking a couple of steps forward, held it out butt first. She stretched eagerly for it and he jerked it away.
“Hold on there!” yelled Riggs, in alarm.
“Damme, Jim, if she didn't mean bizness!” exclaimed the outlaw.
“Wal, now—see heah, Miss. Would you bore him—if you hed a gun?” inquired Wilson, with curious interest. There was more of respect in his demeanor than admiration.
“No. I don't want his cowardly blood on my hands,” replied the girl. “But I'd make him dance—I'd make him run.”
“Shore you can handle a gun?”
She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her resolute lips twitched.
Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was pitched butt first to within a foot of her hand. She snatched it up, cocked it, aimed it, all before Anson could move. But he yelled:
“Drop thet gun, you little devil!”
Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him. He also yelled, but that yell was different from Anson's.
“Run or dance!” cried the girl.
The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand. She took both hands, and called derisively as she fired again. The second bullet hit at Riggs's feet, scattering the dust and fragments of stone all over him. He bounded here—there—then darted for the rocks. A third time the heavy gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let out a hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a rock.
“Plug him! Shoot off a leg!” yelled Snake Anson, whooping and stamping, as Riggs got out of sight.
Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same quietness that had characterized his manner toward the girl. Then, as Riggs disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took the gun from the girl's trembling hands. She was whiter than ever, but still resolute and defiant. Wilson took a glance over in the direction Riggs had hidden and then proceeded to reload the gun. Snake Anson's roar of laughter ceased rather suddenly.
“Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet gun,” he protested.
“I reckon she 'ain't nothin' ag'in' us,” replied Wilson.
“A-huh! You know a lot about wimmen now, don't you? But thet did my heart good. Jim, what 'n earth would you have did if thet 'd been you instead of Riggs?”
The query seemed important and amazing. Wilson pondered.
“Shore I'd stood there—stock-still—an' never moved an eye-winker.”
“An' let her shoot!” ejaculated Anson, nodding his long head. “Me, too!”
So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and baseness of their dishonest calling, rose to the challenging courage of a slip of a girl. She had the one thing they respected—nerve.
Just then a halloo, from the promontory brought Anson up with a start. Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the jagged rocks that hid the outlook. Moze shuffled his burly form after Anson.
“Miss, it shore was grand—thet performance of Mister Gunman Riggs,” remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the girl.
“Much obliged to you for lending me your gun,” she replied. “I—I hope I hit him—a little.”
“Wal, if you didn't sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin' about lead.”
“Jim Wilson? Are you the man—the outlaw my uncle Al knew?”
“Reckon I am, miss. Fer I knowed Al shore enough. What 'd he say aboot me?”
“I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson's gang. He mentioned you. Said you were a real gun-fighter. And what a shame it was you had to be an outlaw.”
“Wal! An' so old Al spoke thet nice of me.... It's tolerable likely I'll remember. An' now, miss, can I do anythin' for you?”
Swift as a flash she looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Wal, shore I don't mean much, I'm sorry to say. Nothin' to make you look like thet.... I hev to be an outlaw, shore as you're born. But—mebbe there's a difference in outlaws.”
She understood him and paid him the compliment not to voice her sudden upflashing hope that he might be one to betray his leader.
“Please take this rope off my feet. Let me walk a little. Let me have a—a little privacy. That fool watched every move I made. I promise not to run away. And, oh! I'm thirsty.”
“Shore you've got sense.” He freed her feet and helped her get up. “There'll be some fresh water any minit now, if you'll wait.”
Then he turned his back and walked over to where Riggs sat nursing a bullet-burn on his leg.
“Say, Riggs, I'm takin' the responsibility of loosin' the girl for a little spell. She can't get away. An' there ain't any sense in bein' mean.”
Riggs made no reply, and went on rolling down his trousers leg, lapped a fold over at the bottom and pulled on his boot. Then he strode out toward the promontory. Half-way there he encountered Anson tramping back.
“Beasley's comin' one way an' Shady's comin' another. We'll be off this hot point of rock by noon,” said the outlaw leader.
Riggs went on to the promontory to look for himself.
“Where's the girl?” demanded Anson, in surprise, when he got back to the camp.
“Wal, she's walkin' 'round between heah an' Pine,” drawled Wilson.
“Jim, you let her loose?”
“Shore I did. She's been hawg-tied all the time. An' she said she'd not run off. I'd take thet girl's word even to a sheep-thief.”
“A-huh. So would I, for all of thet. But, Jim, somethin's workin' in you. Ain't you sort of rememberin' a time when you was young—an' mebbe knowed pretty kids like this one?”
“Wal, if I am it 'll shore turn out bad fer somebody.”
Anson gave him a surprised stare and suddenly lost the bantering tone.
“A-huh! So thet's how it's workin',” he replied, and flung himself down in the shade.
Young Burt made his appearance then, wiping his sallow face. His deep-set, hungry eyes, upon which his comrades set such store, roved around the camp.
“Whar's the gurl?” he queried.
“Jim let her go out fer a stroll,” replied Anson.
“I seen Jim was gittin' softy over her. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
But Snake Anson did not crack a smile. The atmosphere appeared not to be congenial for jokes, a fact Burt rather suddenly divined. Riggs and Moze returned from the promontory, the latter reporting that Shady Jones was riding up close. Then the girl walked slowly into sight and approached to find a seat within ten yards of the group. They waited in silence until the expected horseman rode up with water-bottles slung on both sides of his saddle. His advent was welcome. All the men were thirsty. Wilson took water to the girl before drinking himself.
“Thet's an all-fired hot ride fer water,” declared the outlaw Shady, who somehow fitted his name in color and impression. “An', boss, if it's the same to you I won't take it ag'in.”
“Cheer up, Shady. We'll be rustlin' back in the mountains before sundown,” said Anson.
“Hang me if that ain't the cheerfulest news I've hed in some days. Hey, Moze?”
The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.
“I'm sick an' sore of this deal,” broke out Burt, evidently encouraged by his elders. “Ever since last fall we've been hangin' 'round—till jest lately freezin' in camps—no money—no drink—no grub wuth havin'. All on promises!”
Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang had struck the note of discord. Wilson seemed most detached from any sentiment prevailing there. Some strong thoughts were revolving in his brain.
“Burt, you ain't insinuatin' thet I made promises?” inquired Anson, ominously.
“No, boss, I ain't. You allus said we might hit it rich. But them promises was made to you. An' it 'd be jest like thet greaser to go back on his word now we got the gurl.”
“Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard hyar—Mister Riggs—him with the big gun—he waltzes up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted.”
Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then they all lapsed into surly silence. The object of their growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could muster.
Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of scent or sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence. Riggs nervously rose to his feet. And the others, still excepting Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a rangy bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.
“Howdy, Beasley?” was Anson's greeting.
“Hello, Snake, old man!” replied Beasley, as his bold, snapping black eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot, and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel discomfort. “I seen your smoke signal first off an' jumped my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I headed 'round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say!—you look queer!... What's wrong here? You haven't signaled me for nothin'?”
Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.
“Come out of the shade. Let him look you over.”
The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had hidden her from sight.
Beasley stared aghast—his jaw dropped.
“Thet's the kid sister of the woman I wanted!” he ejaculated.
“So we've jest been told.”
Astonishment still held Beasley.
“Told?” he echoed. Suddenly his big body leaped with a start. “Who got her? Who fetched her?”
“Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar,” replied Anson, with a subtle scorn.
“Riggs, you got the wrong girl,” shouted Beasley. “You made thet mistake once before. What're you up to?”
“I chased her an' when I got her, seein' it wasn't Nell Rayner—why—I kept her, anyhow,” replied Riggs. “An' I've got a word for your ear alone.”
“Man, you're crazy—queerin' my deal thet way!” roared Beasley. “You heard my plans.... Riggs, this girl-stealin' can't be done twice. Was you drinkin' or locoed or what?”
“Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross,” cut in Bo Rayner's cool voice.
The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then at Wilson, and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded dark with rush of purple blood. With one lunge he knocked Riggs flat, then stood over him with a convulsive hand at his gun.
“You white-livered card-sharp! I've a notion to bore you.... They told me you had a deal of your own, an' now I believe it.”
“Yes—I had,” replied Riggs, cautiously getting up. He was ghastly. “But I wasn't double-crossin' you. Your deal was to get the girl away from home so you could take possession of her property. An' I wanted her.”
“What for did you fetch the sister, then?” demanded Beasley, his big jaw bulging.
“Because I've a plan to—”
“Plan hell! You've spoiled my plan an' I've seen about enough of you.” Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze boded an uncertain will toward the man who had crossed him; his hand still hung low and clutching.
“Beasley, tell them to get my horse. I want to go home,” said Bo Rayner.
Slowly Beasley turned. Her words enjoined a silence. What to do with her now appeared a problem.
“I had nothin' to do with fetchin' you here an' I'll have nothin' to do with sendin' you back or whatever's done with you,” declared Beasley.
Then the girl's face flashed white again and her eyes changed to fire.
“You're as big a liar as Riggs,” she cried, passionately. “And you're a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls. Oh, we know your game! Milt Dale heard your plot with this outlaw Anson to steal my sister. You ought to be hanged—you half-breed greaser!”
“I'll cut out your tongue!” hissed Beasley.
“Yes, I'll bet you would if you had me alone. But these outlaws—these sheep-thieves—these tools you hire are better than you and Riggs.... What do you suppose Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He's my sweetheart—that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains enough to know what he'll do to you?”
“He'll not do much,” growled Beasley. But the thick purplish blood was receding from his face. “Your cowpuncher—”
“Bah!” she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his face. “He's from Texas! He's from TEXAS!”
“Supposin' he is from Texas?” demanded Beasley, in angry irritation. “What's thet? Texans are all over. There's Jim Wilson, Snake Anson's right-hand man. He's from Texas. But thet ain't scarin' any one.”
He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The girl's flaming glance followed his hand.
“Are you from Texas?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss, I am—an' I reckon I don't deserve it,” replied Wilson. It was certain that a vague shame attended his confession.
“Oh! I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a helpless girl!” she replied, in withering scorn of disappointment.
Jim Wilson dropped his head. If any one there suspected a serious turn to Wilson's attitude toward that situation it was the keen outlaw leader.
“Beasley, you're courtin' death,” he broke in.
“You bet you are!” added Bo, with a passion that made her listeners quiver. “You've put me at the mercy of a gang of outlaws! You may force my sister out of her home! But your day will come.' Tom Carmichael will KILL you.”
Beasley mounted his horse. Sullen, livid, furious, he sat shaking in the saddle, to glare down at the outlaw leader.
“Snake, thet's no fault of mine the deal's miscarried. I was square. I made my offer for the workin' out of my plan. It 'ain't been done. Now there's hell to pay an' I'm through.”
“Beasley, I reckon I couldn't hold you to anythin',” replied Anson, slowly. “But if you was square you ain't square now. We've hung around an' tried hard. My men are all sore. An' we're broke, with no outfit to speak of. Me an' you never fell out before. But I reckon we might.”
“Do I owe you any money—accordin' to the deal?” demanded Beasley.
“No, you don't,” responded Anson, sharply.
“Then thet's square. I wash my hands of the whole deal. Make Riggs pay up. He's got money an' he's got plans. Go in with him.”
With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away. The outlaws gazed after him until he disappeared in the cedars.
“What'd you expect from a greaser?” queried Shady Jones.
“Anson, didn't I say so?” added Burt.
The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands. Riggs showed immense relief.
“Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an' I'll ride off with the girl,” he said, eagerly.
“Where'd you go now?” queried Anson, curiously.
Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.
“You're no woodsman. An' onless you're plumb locoed you'd never risk goin' near Pine or Show Down. There'll be real trackers huntin' your trail.”
The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.
“Don't let him take me off—alone—in the woods!” she faltered. That was the first indication of her weakening.
Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. “I'm not bossin' this gang.”
“But you're a man!” she importuned.
“Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an' come with us,” said Anson, craftily. “I'm particular curious to see her brand you.”
“Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine,” said Jim Wilson.
Anson swore his amaze.
“It's sense,” continued Wilson. “We've shore got our own troubles, an' keepin' her 'll only add to them. I've a hunch. Now you know I ain't often givin' to buckin' your say-so. But this deal ain't tastin' good to me. Thet girl ought to be sent home.”
“But mebbe there's somethin' in it for us. Her sister 'd pay to git her back.”
“Wal, I shore hope you'll recollect I offered—thet's all,” concluded Wilson.
“Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we'd let Riggs take her off,” remonstrated the outlaw leader. He was perturbed and undecided. Wilson worried him.
The long Texan veered around full faced. What subtle transformation in him!
“Like hell we would!” he said.
It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail. He might have been leader here, but he was not the greater man. His face clouded.
“Break camp,” he ordered.
Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between Anson and Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get his horse.
In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear.
This start was made a little after the noon hour. They zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed it up to where it headed in the level forest. From there travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot. Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the cavalcade. His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat. The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades.
They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone, and twilight was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson, breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.
The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark slopes of spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in abundance. All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs, before the tired girl made an effort to get down. Riggs, observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off. She gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.
“Keep your paws to yourself,” she said. No evidence of exhaustion was there in her spirit.
Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.
“What come off?” he asked.
“Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the lady—as he was doin' the elegant,” replied Moze, who stood nearest.
“Jim, was you watchin'?” queried Anson. His curiosity had held through the afternoon.
“He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him,” replied Wilson.
“That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to Moze.
“Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he'll hoodoo this outfit. Jim was figgerin' correct.”
“Hoodoo—” cursed Anson, under his breath.
Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.
Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among the spruces. One by one they fell with swish and soft crash. Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off the branches with long sweeps. Presently he appeared in the semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him. He made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a low, projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides, quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture in front. Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and threw that inside the shelter. Then, touching the girl on the shoulder, he whispered:
“When you're ready, slip in there. An' don't lose no sleep by worryin', fer I'll be layin' right here.”
He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of the narrow aperture.
“Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan,” she whispered back.
“Mebbe,” was his gloomy reply.
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