The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK ®. B.M. Bower
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The young squaw lingered, still gazing shyly at Miss Georgie.
“You no be ’fraid,” she repeated softly. “I friend. I take care. No trouble come Good Injun. I no let come. You no be sad.” She smiled wistfully, and was gone, as silently as moved her shadow before her on the cinders.
Miss Georgie stood by the window with her fingernails making little red half-moons in her palms, and watched the three squaws pad out of sight on the narrow trail to their camp, with the young squaw following after, until only a black head could be seen bobbing over the brow of the hill. When even that was gone, she turned from the window, and stood for a long minute with her hands pressed tightly over her face. She was trying to think, but instead she found herself listening intently to the monotonous “Ah-h-chuck! ah-h-chuck!” of the steam pump down the track, and to the spasmodic clicking of an order from the dispatcher to the passenger train two stations to the west.
When the train was cleared and the wires idle, she went suddenly to the table, laid her fingers purposefully upon the key, and called up her chief. It was another two hours’ leave of absence she asked for “on urgent business.” She got it, seasoned with a sarcastic reminder that her business was supposed to be with the railroad company, and that she would do well to cultivate exactness of expression and a taste for her duties in the office.
She was putting on her hat even while she listened to the message, and she astonished the man at the other end by making no retort whatever. She almost ran to the store, and she did not ask Pete for a saddle-horse; she just threw her office key at him, and told him she was going to take his bay, and she was at the stable before he closed the mouth he had opened in amazement at her whirlwind departure.
CHAPTER XXV
“I’D JUST AS SOON HANG FOR NINE MEN AS FOR ONE”
Baumberger climbed heavily out of the rig, and went lurching drunkenly up the path to the house where the cool shade of the grove was like paradise set close against the boundary of the purgatory of blazing sunshine and scorching sand. He had not gone ten steps from the stable when he met Good Indian face to face.
“Hullo,” he growled, stopping short and eying him malevolently with lowered head.
Good Indian’s lips curled silently, and he stepped aside to pursue his way. Baumberger swung his huge body toward him.
“I said hullo. Nothin’ wrong in that, is there? Hullo—d’yuh hear?”
“Go to the devil!” said Grant shortly.
Baumberger leered at him offensively. “Pretty Polly! Never learned but one set uh words in his life. Can’t yuh say anything but ‘Go to the devil!’ when a man speaks to yuh? Hey?”
“I could say a whole lot that you wouldn’t be particularly glad to hear.” Good Indian stopped, and faced him, coldly angry. For one thing, he knew that Evadna was waiting on the porch for him, and could see even if she could not hear; and Baumberger’s attitude was insulting. “I think,” he said meaningly, “I wouldn’t press the point if I were you.”
“Giving me advice, hey? And who the devil are you?”
“I wouldn’t ask, if I were you. But if you really want to know, I’m the fellow you hired Saunders to shoot. You blundered that time. You should have picked a better man, Mr. Baumberger. Saunders couldn’t have hit the side of a barn if he’d been locked inside it. You ought to have made sure—”
Baumberger glared at him, and then lunged, his eyes like an animal gone mad.
“I’ll make a better job, then!” he bellowed. “Saunders was a fool. I told him to get down next the trail and make a good job of it. I told him to kill you, you lying, renegade Injun—and if he couldn’t, I can! Yuh will watch me, hey?”
Good Indian backed from him in sheer amazement. Epithets unprintable poured in a stream from the loose, evil lips. Baumberger was a raving beast of a man. He would have torn the other to pieces and reveled in the doing. He bellowed forth threats against Good Indian and the Harts, young and old, and vaunted rashly the things he meant to do. Heat-mad and drink-mad he was, and it was as if the dam of his wily amiability had broken and let loose the whole vile reservoir of his pirate mind. He tried to strike Good Indian down where he stood, and when his blows were parried he stopped, swayed a minute in drunken uncertainty, and then make one of his catlike motions, pulled a gun, and fired without really taking aim.
Another gun spoke then, and Baumberger collapsed in the sand, a quivering heap of gross human flesh. Good Indian stood and looked down at him fixedly while the smoke floated away from the muzzle of his own gun. He heard Evadna screaming hysterically at the gate, and looked over there inquiringly. Phoebe was running toward him, and the boys—Wally and Gene and Jack, from the blacksmith shop. At the corner of the stable Miss Georgie was sliding from her saddle, her riding whip clenched tightly in her hand as she hurried to him. Peaceful stood beside the team, with the lines still in his hand.
It was Miss Georgie’s words which reached him clearly.
“You just had to do it, Grant. I saw the whole thing. You had to.”
“Oh, Grant—Grant! What have you done? What have you done?” That was Phoebe Hart, saying the same thing over and over with a queer, moaning inflection in her voice.
“D’yuh kill him?” Gene shouted excitedly, as he ran up to the spot.
“Yes.” Good Indian glanced once more at the heap before him. “And I’m liable to kill a few more before I’m through with the deal.” He swung short around, discovered that Evadna was clutching his arm and crying, and pulled loose from her with a gesture of impatience. With the gun still in his hand, he walked quickly down the road in the direction of the garden.
“He’s mad! The boy is mad! He’s going to kill—” Phoebe gave a sob, and ran after him, and with her went Miss Georgie and Evadna, white-faced, all three of them.
“Come on, boys—he’s going to clean out the whole bunch!” whooped Gene.
“Oh, choke off!” Wally gritted disgustedly, glancing over his shoulder at them. “Go back to the house, and stay there! Ma, make Vad quit that yelling, can’t yuh?” He looked eloquently at Jack, keeping pace with him and smiling with the steely glitter in his eyes. “Women make me sick!” he snorted under his breath.
Peaceful stared after them, went into the stable, and got a blanket to throw over Baumberger’s inert body, stooped, and made sure that the man was dead, with the left breast of his light negligee shirt all blackened with powder and soaked with blood; covered him well, and tied up the team. Then he went to the house, and got the old rifle that had killed Indians and buffalo alike, and went quickly through the grove to the garden. He was a methodical man, and he was counted slow, but nevertheless he reached the scene not much behind the others. Wally was trying to send his mother to the house with Evadna, and neither would go. Miss Georgie was standing near Good Indian, watching Stanley with her lips pressed together.
It is doubtful if Good Indian realized what the others were doing. He had gone straight past the line of stakes to where Stanley was sitting with his back against the lightning-stricken apricot tree. Stanley was smoking a cigarette as if he had heard nothing of the excitement, but his rifle was resting upon his knee in such a manner that he had but to lift it and take aim. The three others were upon their own claims, and they, also, seemed unobtrusively ready for whatever might be going to happen.
Good Indian appraised the situation with a quick glance as he came up, but he did not slacken his pace until he was within ten feet of Stanley.
“You’re across the dead line, m’ son,” said Stanley, with lazy significance. “And you, too,” he added, flickering a glance at Miss Georgie.
“The dead line,” said Good Indian coolly, “is beyond the Point o’ Rocks. I’d like to see you on the other side by sundown.”
Stanley looked him over, from the crown of his gray hat to the tips of his riding-boots, and laughed when