As soon as Wilfred had finished the letter, not without a wry smile over the query concerning himself, Bill Atkins exclaimed:
"THEN! Ho! And so she's no more kin to you, Brick, than to me; and her name's no more Willock than Atkins—and being but a stepdaughter to old Sneak, neither is it Gledware. Yet you have everlastingly had your own say about Lahoma, from claiming to be a cousin! I want you to know from this on that I claim as big a share in Lahoma as anybody else on this green and living earth."
Wilfred looked up, expecting Brick to consent to this on the ground that in all likelihood Bill's claim would last but a few years, anyway. It seemed too good an opening for Brick to lose; but instead of refreshing himself with his customary gibe, the huge fellow sat dark and glowering, his eyes staring upward at the crevice in the rock roof, the lantern-light showing his forehead deeply rutted in a threatening scowl.
"Another point needs clearing up," Bill said sharply. "What about Red Kimball's charge? DID you belong to his gang? ARE you a highwayman?"
Brick waved impatiently toward the letter that still gleamed in the young man's hand. "We goes on document'ry evidence," he said. "I takes a bold and open stand on the general plea of 'Not guilty' to nothing. That's technical, and it's arbitrary. Should you be asked had I ever expressed an opinion as to being a highwayman, or a lowwayman, you can report me as saying 'Not guilty,' according."
"Brick," interposed Wilfred, returning him the letter, "you're making a mistake not to trust us with the whole truth. If you wait for Lahoma's letters and only admit what she discovers, Bill and I can't form any plan of protecting you. While her information is coming, bit by bit, the man who wants you hanged is liable to show up—"
"Let 'im come!" growled Brick. "He can't get no closer to me than I'll be to him. I'm not going to air my past history. What Lahoma finds out, I admits frank and open; otherwise I stands firm as not guilty, being on safe ground, technical and arbitrary."
"But if Red Kimball brings the sheriff—it's only a matter of time—your plea of not guilty won't save you from arrest. And he'll have any number of rascals to prove what he pleases, whether it's the truth or not. If Gledware comes as a witness, his position will give him great influence against you—and the fact that he'd testify after you'd saved his life, would make a pretty hard hit with the jury."
"Jury nothing!" retorted Brick. "This case ain't never going to a jury. Such things is settled man to man, in these parts."
"But as surely as the sheriff serves his writ, you'll be landed in jail. And I happen to know the sheriff; he's a man that couldn't be turned from his duty—good friend of mine, too."
"Is, eh? Then you'd better advise with him for his good."
"Think of Lahoma. If you killed a man—whether the sheriff, or this Red Kimball—Lahoma could never feel toward you as she does today."
"And how would she feel toward me if I was hanged, uh? I guess she'd druther I laid my man low than that I swung high." Willock started up impatiently. "We're wasting words," he said, roughly. "There is but the two alternatives: I'm one of 'em, and Red Kimball is the other. It's simply a question of which gets which. I tries to make it plain, for there's no going back. Now are you with me, or not? If not, I'll fight it out along as I always done in times past and gone—and bedinged to 'em! I'm sorry my young days was as they was, and for Lahoma's sake I'd cut off this right arm—" he held it out, rigidly—"if that'd change the past. But the past—and bedinged TO it—can't be changed. It's there, right over your shoulder, out of reach. This mountain might as well say, 'I don't like being a big chunk of granite where all the rest of the country is a smooth prairie; I'm sorry I erupted; and I guess I'll go back into the heart of the earth where I come from.' A mountain that's erupted is erupted till kingdom come, and a man that's did a deed, has did it till the stars fall. But you CAN imagine this mountain saying, with some sense, too, 'Now, since I HAS erupted, I'll do my best to cover my nakedness with pretty cedars for to stay green in season and out of season, and I'll embroider myself with flowers and grasses, and send little mountain-streams down to make soft water in people's wells so they won't all-time be fretting because I takes up so much of good plowing-land,' says the mountain. I may not be a mountain, but I've got a good top to me which reasons against the future and forgets the past. I know Red Kimball—and now that he's learned where I live, one of us is too many, considering the hard times. I mean to keep hiding, not to be took by surprise; but I 'lows to come forth one of these days and walk about free and disposed, all danger having been removed."
"What about the law?" demanded Bill. "Do you think IT'S going to let you walk about free and disposed, after you've removed Red Kimball?"
"I hopes the law and me can get on peaceable together," returned the other grimly. "I've never had nothing to do with it, and I hopes to be let alone."
Wilfred spoke with sudden decision: "Brick, I'm with you to the end, and so is Bill. I have nothing to do with your purposes or plans except to offer the best advice I know—you've rejected it, but I'm with you just the same. It strikes me I can help you by going to Kansas City—for you need only Bill in the cove,—he can bring you Lahoma's letters. I'll hurry to Lahoma; and if she decides to come back, as I'm sure she will very soon—well, she'll need a protector. I'll bring her home. She asks in her letter what I'm here for. Wouldn't that be a good answer?"
Brick Willock laid his hand on the other's shoulder and stared into his face with troubled eyes. Gradually his countenance cleared and something of his old geniality returned. "A first-class answer, son! I believe you'll do it." He grasped Wilfred's hand. "These are troublous times, and it's good to feel a hand like this that's steady and true. Now I ain't going to drag you into nothing that could hurt you nor Bill, or make you feel sore over past days. I don't need nobody to lean on—but Lahoma does; and if Red Kimball pops it to me before I get a chance to keel him over, you two must look out for her."
"I'll look out for her myself, single-handed," said Bill gruffly.
"I know you would, old tap, as long as you lasts," said Willock with an unwonted note of gentleness. Bill was so embarrassed by the tone that he cringed awkwardly. After a pause, Willock suggested that Wilfred wait for one more letter from Lahoma, provided it come within the next twenty-four hours, then start up the trail for Chickasha and board the train for Kansas. "She might write something that needed instant work," he explained. "If so, I'd like to have you here. I'm looking for developments in her next letter."
"Strange to me," muttered Bill, "about Red Feather and that sneaking Gledware. Wonder how came the Indian with a pin on him that Gledware knew of?"
Willock's face was twisted into a sardonic grin. "Guess I could explain that, all right—but I says nothing beyond Lahoma's word. I banks on document'ry proofs, and otherwise stands technical and arbitrary."
Hitherto Wilfred, as guest of honor, had been offered the cabin as his sleeping-quarters, and he had accepted it because of the countless reminders of Lahoma's fresh and innocent life; but this night, he shared the dugout with Bill, from a sense of impending danger. Until a late hour they sat over the glowing coals, discussing their present situation and offering conjectures about Willock's younger days. There could hardly have been a stronger contrast between the emaciated old man of the huge white mustache, thin reddish cheeks and shock of white hair, and the broad-shouldered, handsome and erect young man—or the stern and gloomy countenance of the former, and the expressive eyes and flexible lips of Wilfred. Yet they seemed unconscious of any chasm of age or disposition as they spoke in low tones, not without frequent glances toward the barricaded door and the heavily curtained window.
The wind made strange noises overhead and at times one could be almost certain there was the stamping of a man's foot upon the earthen roof. The distant cry of a wild beast, and the nearer yelping of hungry wolves mingled with the whistling of the wind. Sometimes Wilfred rose and, passing noiselessly to the window, raised the curtain with a quick gesture to stare out on a dark and stormy night; and once, in doing so, he surprised a pair of red eyes under bristling gray hair which seemed to glow hot as molten lead, as the fire from the open stove caught them unaware.
"If my arms were tied," remarked Bill, "I'd rather trust myself to that coyote than to Red Kimball. I hate to think of Brick out yonder on the mountain, all alone, and no fire to warm him, afraid to smoke his pipe, I reckon. Well, this kind of thing can't last long, that's plain."
It was Wilfred's conviction that "this kind of thing" could not, indeed, last long, which kept him awake half through the night; and yet, when the morning sunlight flooded the cove, it seemed impossible that deeds of violence could be committed in so peaceful a world. In that delusion, however, he could not long remain; Lahoma's next letter came confirmatory of his worst fears.
"Just read it aloud, Wilfred," said Brick, as all gathered about the lantern in the retreat at the mountain-top. "We're all one, now, and I've got no secrets from you—at least none that's knowed to Lahoma. And if the case seems immediate, I reckon you'll prove game, son."
Wilfred nodded briefly. "My horse is ready saddled," he said, as he opened the letter addressed to Willock. "As soon as I've read 'Yours truly,' I'll be ready to jump into the saddle, so I say 'good-by' now!"
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