The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
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been troubled only to keep the stone free from dirt—the lettering he must have known by heart. At length Bard made out this inscription:
HERE SLEEPS
JOAN
WIFE OF WILLIAM DREW
SHE CHOSE THIS PLACE FOR REST
CHAPTER X
A BIT OF STALKING
It seemed as if the peaceful afternoons of Logan were ended forever, for the next day the scene of interruption was repeated under almost identical circumstances, save that the tree under which the shepherd sat was a little larger. Larger also was the man who rode over the brow of the hill to the east. The most durable cattle-pony would have staggered under the bulk of that rider, and therefore he rode a great, patient-eyed bay, with shoulders worthy of shoving against a work-collar; but the neck tapered down small behind a short head, and the legs, for all their breadth at shoulder and hip, slipped away to small hoofs, and ankles which sloped sharply to the rear, the sure sign of the fine saddle-horse.
Yet the strong horse was winded by the burden he bore, a mighty figure, deep-chested, amply shouldered, an ideal cavalier for the days when youths rode out in armour-plate to seek adventures and when men of fifty still lifted the lance to run a “friendly” course or two in the lists.
At sight of him Logan so far bestirred himself as to uncoil his long legs, rise, and stand with one shoulder propped against the tree.
“Evening, Mr. Drew,” he called.
“Hello, Logan. How’s everything with you?”
He would have ridden on, but at Logan’s reply he checked his horse to a slow walk.
“Busy. Lots of company lately, Mr. Drew.”
“Company?”
“Yes, there’s a young feller come along who says he wants to see you. He’s over there by the creek now, fishin’ I think. I told him I’d holler if I seen you, but I guess you wouldn’t mind ridin’ over that way yourself.”
Drew brought his horse to a halt.
“What does he want of me?”
“Dunno. Something about wanting to hunt and fish on your streams here.”
“Why didn’t you tell him he was welcome to do what he liked? Must be an Easterner, Logan.”
“Wants to bunk in the old house, too. Seems sort of interested in it.”
“That so? What sort of a fellow is he?”
“All right. A bit talky. Green; but he rides damn well, an’ he smokes good tobacco.”
His hand automatically rose and touched his breast pocket.
“I’ll go over to him,” said Drew, and swung his horse to the left, but only to come again to a halt.
He called over his shoulder: “What sort of a looking fellow?”
“Pretty keen—dark,” answered Logan, slipping down into his original position. “Thin face; black eyes.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Drew, and started at a trot for the creek.
Once more he imitated the actions of Bard the day before, however, for no sooner had the trees screened him thoroughly from the eyes of Logan than he abandoned his direct course for the creek. He swung from the saddle with an ease surprising in a man of such age and bulk and tossed the reins over the head of the horse.
Then he commenced a cautious stalking through the woods, silent as an Indian, stealthy of foot, with eyes that glanced sharply in all directions. Once a twig snapped under foot, and after that he remained motionless through a long moment, shrinking against the trunk of a tree and scanning the forest anxiously in all directions. At length he ventured out again, grown doubly cautious. In this manner he worked his way up the course of the stream, always keeping the waters just within sight but never passing out on the banks, where the walking would have been tenfold easier. So he came in sight of a figure far off through the trees.
If he had been cautious before, he became now as still as night. Dropping to hands and knees, or crouching almost as prone, he moved from the shadow of one tree to the next, now and then venturing a glance to make sure that he was pursuing the right course, until he manoeuvred to a point of vantage which commanded a clear view of Bard.
The latter was fishing, with his back to Drew. Again and again he cast his fly out under an overhanging limb which shadowed a deep pool. The big grey man set his teeth and waited with the patience of a stalking beast of prey, or a cat which will sit half the day waiting for the mouse to show above the opening of its hole.
Apparently there was a bite at length. The pole bent almost double and the reel played back and forth rapidly as the fisher wore down his victim. Finally he came close to the edge of the stream, dipped his net into the water, and jerked it up at once bearing a twisting, shining trout enwrapped in the meshes. Swinging about as he did so, Drew caught his first full glimpse of Anthony’s face, and knew him for the man who had ridden the wild horse at Madison Square Garden those weeks before.
Perhaps it was astonishment that moved the big man—surely it could not have been fear—yet he knelt there behind the sheltering tree grey-faced, wide, and blank of eye, as a man might look who dreamed and awoke to see his vision standing before him in full sunlit life. What his expression became then could not be said, for he buried his face in his hands and his great body shook with a tremor. If this was not fear it was something very like.
And very like a man in fear he stole back among the trees as cautiously as he had made his approach. Resuming his horse he rode straight for Logan.
“Couldn’t find your young friend,” he said, “along the creek.”
“Why,” said Logan, “I can reach him with a holler from here, I think.”
“Never mind; just tell him that he’s welcome to do what he pleases on the place; and he can bunk down at the house if he wants to. I’d like to know his name, though.”
“That’s easy. Anthony Bard.”
“Ah,” said Drew slowly, “Anthony Bard!”
“That’s it,” nodded Logan, and fixed a curious eye upon the big grey rider.
As if to escape from that inquiring scrutiny, Drew wheeled his horse and spurred at a sharp gallop up the hill, leaving Logan frowning behind.
“No stay over night,” muttered the shepherd. “No fooling about that damned old shack of a house; what’s wrong with Drew?”
He answered himself, for all shepherds are forced by the bitter loneliness of their work to talk with themselves. “The old boy’s worried. Damned if he isn’t! I’ll keep an eye on this Bard feller.”
And he loosened the revolver in its holster.
He might have been even more concerned had he seen the redoubled speed with which Drew galloped as soon as the hilltop was between him and Logan. Straight on he pushed his horse, not exactly like one who fled but rather more like one too busy with consuming thoughts to pay the slightest heed to the welfare of his mount. It was a spent horse on which he trotted late that night up to the big, yawning door of his barn.
“Where’s Nash?” he asked of the man who took his horse.
“Playing a game with the boys in the bunk-house, sir.”
So past the bunk-house Drew went on his way to his dwelling, knocked, and threw open the door. Inside, a dozen men, seated at or standing around a table, looked up.
“Nash!”
“Here.”
“On the jump, Nash. I’m in a hurry.”
There rose a man of a build much prized in pugilistic circles. In those same circles he would have been described as a fellow with a fighting face and a heavy-weight