A Texas Ranger (Western Classic). William MacLeod Raine
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a shuck.”
The girl came forward and the man leaned heavily on her as he limped to the road. The Texan followed with the buckskin she had been riding and tied it to the back of the road-wagon.
“Give me my purse,” the girl said to the convict after they were seated.
She emptied it and handed the roll of bills it contained to the owner of the team. He looked at it and at her, then shook his head.
“You’ll need it likely. I reckon I can trust you. Schoolmarms are mostly reliable.”
“I had rather pay now,” she answered tartly.
“What’s the rush?”
“I prefer to settle with you now.”
“All right, but I’m in no sweat for my money. My team and the wagon are worth two hundred and fifty dollars. Put this plug at forty and it would be high.” He jerked his head toward the brush where the other saddle-horse was. “That leaves me a balance of about two hundred and ten. Is that fair?”
She bit her lip in vexation. “I expect so, but I haven’t that much with me. Can’t I pay this seventy on account?”
“No, ma’am, you can’t. All or none.” There was a gleam of humor in his hard eyes. “I reckon you better let me come and collect after you get back to Fort Lincoln.”
She took out a note-book and pencil. “If you will give me your name and address please.”
He smiled hardily at her. “I’ve clean forgotten them.”
There was a warning flash in her disdainful eye.
“Just as you like. My name is Margaret Kinney. I will leave the money for you at the First National Bank.”
She gathered up the rains deftly.
“One moment.” He laid a hand on the lines. “I reckon you think I owe you an apology for what happened when we first met.”
A flood of spreading color dyed her cheeks. “I don’t think anything about it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” he contradicted. “And you’re going to think a heap more about it. You’re going to lay awake nights going over it.”
Out of eyes like live coals she gave him one look. “Will you take your hands from these reins please?”
“Presently. Just now I’m talking and you’re listening.”
“I don’t care to hear any apologies, sir,” she said stiffly.
“I’m not offering any,” he laughed, yet stung by her words.
“You’re merely insulting me again, I presume?”
“Some young women need punishing. I expect you’re one.”
She handed him the horsewhip, a sudden pulse of passion beating fiercely in her throat. “Very well. Make an end of it and let me see the last of you,” she challenged.
He cracked the lash expertly so that the horses quivered and would have started if his strong hand had not tightened on the lines.
The Westerner laughed again. “You’re game anyhow.”
“When you are quite through with me,” she suggested, very quietly.
But he noticed the fury of her deep-pupiled eyes, the turbulent rise and fall of her bosom.
“I’ll not punish you that way this time.” And he gave back the whip.
“If you won’t use it I will.”
The lash flashed up and down, twined itself savagely round his wrist, and left behind a bracelet of crimson. Startled, the horses leaped forward. The reins slipped free from his numbed fingers. Miss Kinney had made her good-by and was descending swiftly into the valley.
The man watched the rig sweep along that branch of the road which led to the south. Then he looked at his wrist and laughed.
“The plucky little devil! She’s a thoroughbred for fair. You bet I’ll make her pay for this. But ain’t she got sand in her craw? She’s surely hating me proper.” He laughed again in remembrance of the whole episode, finding in it something that stirred his blood immensely.
After the trap had swept round a curve out of sight he disappeared in the mesquite and bear-grass, presently returning with the roan that had been ridden by the escaped convict.
“Whoever would suppose she was the sister of that scurvy scalawag with jailbird branded all over his hulking hide? He ain’t fit to wipe her little feet on. She’s as fine as silk. Think of her going through what she is to save that coyote, and him as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. There ain’t any limit to what a good woman will do for a man when she thinks he’s got a claim on her, more especially if he’s a ruffian.”
With this bit of philosophic observation he rolled a cigarette and lit it.
“Him fall into bad company and be led away?” he added in disgust. “There ain’t any worse than him. But he’ll work her to the limit before she finds it out.”
Leisurely he swung to the saddle and rode down into the valley of the San Xavier, which rolled away from his feet in numberless tawny waves of unfeatured foot-hills and mesas and washes. Almost as far as the eye could see there stretched a sea of hilltops bathed in sun. Only on the west were they bounded, by the irregular saw-toothed edge of the Frenchman Hills, silhouetted against an incomparable blue. For a stretch of many miles the side of the range was painted scarlet by millions of poppies splashed broadcast.
“Nature’s gone to flower-gardening for fair on the mountains,” murmured the rider. “What with one thing and another I’ve got a notion I’m going to take a liking to this country.”
The man was plainly very tired with rapid travel, and about the middle of the afternoon the young man unsaddled and picketed the animal near a water-hole. He lay down in the shadow of a cottonwood, flat on his back, face upturned to the deep cobalt sky. Presently the drowse of the afternoon crept over him. The slumberous valley grew hazy to his nodding eyes. The reluctant lids ceased to open and he was fast asleep.
Chapter II.
Lieutenant Fraser Interferes
The sun had declined almost to a saddle in the Cuesta del Burro when the sleeper reopened his eyes. Even before he had shaken himself free of sleep he was uneasily aware of something wrong. Hazily the sound of voices drifted to him across an immense space. Blurred figures crossed before his unfocused gaze.
The first thing he saw clearly was the roan, still grazing in the circle of its picket-rope. Beside the bronco were two men looking the animal over critically.
“Been going some,” he heard one remark, pointing at the same time to the sweat-stains that streaked the shoulders and flanks.
“If he had me on his back he’d still be burning the wind, me being in his boots,” returned the second, with a grating laugh, jerking his head toward the sleeper. “Whatever led the durned fool to stop this side of the line beats me.”
“If he was hiking for Chihuahua he’s been hitting a mighty crooked trail. I don’t savvy it, him knowing the country as well as they say he does,” the first speaker made answer.
The traveler’s circling eye now discovered two more men, each of them covering him with a rifle. A voice from the rear assured him there was also a fifth member to the party.
“Look out! He’s awake,” it warned.
The young man’s hand inadvertently moved toward his revolver-butt. This drew a sharp imperative order from one of the men in front.
“Throw