The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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up the gulch; his dreadful discovery that it was closed; his desperate attempt to climb by moonlight the impossible cliff, and the tragedy that overtook him.
The girl spoke again softly, almost as if she were in the presence of that far-off Nemesis. “I suppose he deserved it. It’s an awful thing to be a traitor; to sell the people who have befriended you. We can’t put ourselves in his place and know why he did it. All we can say is that we’re glad—glad that we have never known men who do such things. Do you think people always felt a sort of shrinking when they were near him, or did he seem just like other men?”
Glancing at the man who rode beside her, she cried out at the stricken look on his face. “It’s your heart again. You’re worn out with anxiety and privations. I should have remembered and come slower,” she reproached herself.
“I’m all right—now. It passes in a moment,” he said hoarsely.
But she had already slipped from the saddle and was at his bridle rein. “No—no. You must get down. We have plenty of time. We’ll rest here till you are better.”
There was nothing for it but to obey. He dismounted, feeling himself a humbug and a scoundrel. He sat down on a mossy rock, his back against another, while she trailed the reins and joined him.
“You are better now, aren’t you?” she asked, as she seated herself on an adjacent bowlder.
Gruffly he answered: “I’m all right.”
She thought she understood. Men do not like to be coddled. She began to talk cheerfully of the first thing that came into her head. He made the necessary monosyllabic responses when her speech put it up to him, but she saw that his mind was brooding over something else. Once she saw his gaze go up to the point on the cliff reached by the fugitive.
But it was not until they were again in the saddle that he spoke.
“Yes, he got what was coming to him. He had no right to complain.”
“That’s what my father says. I don’t deny the justice of it, but whenever I think of it, I feel sorry for him.”
“Why?”
Despite the quietness of the monosyllable, she divined an eager interest back of his question.
“He must have suffered so. He wasn’t a brave man, they say. And he was one against many. They didn’t hunt him. They just closed the trap and let him wear himself out trying to get through. Think of that awful week of hunger and exposure in the hills before the end!”
“It must have been pretty bad, especially if he wasn’t a game man. But he had no legitimate kick coming. He took his chance and lost. It was up to him to pay.”
“His name was David Burke. When he was a little boy I suppose his mother used to call him Davy. He wasn’t bad then; just a little boy to be cuddled and petted. Perhaps he was married. Perhaps he had a sweetheart waiting for him outside, and praying for him. And they snuffed his life out as if he had been a rattlesnake.”
“Because he was a miscreant and it was best he shouldn’t live. Yes, they did right. I would have helped do it in their place.”
“My father did,” she sighed.
They did not speak again until they had passed from between the chill walls to the warm sunshine of the valley beyond. Among the rocks above the trail, she glimpsed some early anemones blossoming bravely.
She drew up with a little cry of pleasure. “They’re the first I have seen. I must have them.”
Fraser swung from the saddle, but he was not quick enough. She reached them before he did, and after they had gathered them she insisted upon sitting down again.
He had his suspicions, and voiced them. “I believe you got me off just to make me sit down.”
She laughed with deep delight. “I didn’t, but since we are here we shall.” And she ended debate by sitting down tailor-fashion, and beginning to arrange her little bouquet.
A meadow lark, troubadour of spring, trilled joyously somewhere in the pines above. The man looked up, then down at the vivid creature busy with her flowers at his feet. There was kinship between the two. She, too, was athrob with the joy note of spring.
“You’re to sit down,” she ordered, without looking up from the sheaf of anemone blossoms she was arranging.
He sank down beside her, aware vaguely of something new and poignant in his life.
Chapter V.
Jed Briscoe Takes a Hand
Suddenly a footfall, and a voice:
“Hello, Arlie! I been looking for you everywhere.”
The Texan’s gaze took in a slim dark man, goodlooking after a fashion, but with dissipation written on the rather sullen face.
“Well, you’ve found me,” the girl answered coolly.
“Yes, I’ve found you,” the man answered, with a steady, watchful eye on the Texan.
Miss Dillon was embarrassed at this plain hostility, but indignation too sparkled in her eye. “Anything in particular you want?”
The newcomer ignored her question. His hard gaze challenged the Southerner; did more than challenge—weighed and condemned.
But this young woman was not used to being ignored. Her voice took on an edge of sharpness.
“What can I do for you, Jed?”
“Who’s your friend?” the man demanded bluntly, insolently.
Arlie’s flush showed the swift, upblazing resentment she immediately controlled. “Mr. Fraser—just arrived from Texas. Mr. Fraser, let me introduce to you Mr. Briscoe.”
The Texan stepped forward to offer his hand, but Briscoe deliberately put both of his behind him.
“Might I ask what Mr. Fraser, just arrived from Texas, is doing here?” the young man drawled, contriving to make an insult of every syllable.
The girl’s eyes flashed dangerously. “He is here as my guest.”
“Oh, as your guest!”
“Doesn’t it please you, Jed?”
“Have I said it didn’t please me?” he retorted smoothly.
“Your looks say it.”
He let out a sudden furious oath. “Then my looks don’t lie any.”
Fraser was stepping forward, but with a gesture Arlie held him back. This was her battle, not his.
“What have you got to say about it?” she demanded.
“You had no right to bring him here. Who is he anyhow?”
“I think that is his business, and mine.”
“I make it mine,” he declared hotly. “I’ve heard about this fellow from your father. You met up with him on the trail. He says his name is Fraser. You don’t even know whether that is true. He may be a spy. How do you know he ain’t?”
“How do I know you aren’t?” she countered swiftly.
“You’ve known me all my life. Did you ever see him before?”
“Never.”
“Well, then!”
“He risked his life to save ours.”
“Risked nothing! It was a trick, I tell you.”
“It makes no difference to me what you tell me. Your opinion can’t affect mine.”
“You