The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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up picturesquely in all the paraphernalia of the cowboy. Black-haired and white-toothed, lithe as a wolf, and endowed with a grace almost feline, it was easy to understand how this man appealed to the imagination of the reckless young fellows of this primeval valley. Everything he did was done well. Furthermore, he looked and acted the part of leader which he assumed.
Rocking Horse was in a different mood from its brother. It was hard to rope, and when Jed’s raw-hide had fallen over its head it was necessary to reënforce the lariat with two others. Finally the pony had to be flung down before a saddle could be put on. When Siegfried, who had been kneeling on its head, stepped back, the outlaw staggered to its feet, already badly shaken, to find an incubus clamped to the saddle.
No matter how it pitched, the human clothespin stuck to his seat, and apparently with as little concern as if he had been in a rowboat gently moved to and fro by the waves. Jed rode like a centaur, every motion attuned to those of the animal as much as if he were a part of it. No matter how it pounded or tossed, he stuck securely to the hurricane deck of the broncho.
Once only he was in danger, and that because Rocking Horse flung furiously against the wheel of a wagon and ground the rider’s leg till he grew dizzy with the pain. For an instant he caught at the saddle horn to steady himself as the roan bucked into the open again.
“He’s pulling leather!” some one shouted.
“Shut up, you goat!” advised the Texan good-naturedly. “Can’t you see his laig got jammed till he’s groggy? Wonder is, he didn’t take the dust! They don’t raise better riders than he is.”
“By hockey! He’s all in. Look out! Jed’s falling,” France cried, running forward.
It looked so for a moment, then Jed swam back to clear consciousness again, and waved them back. He began to use his quirt without mercy.
“Might know he’d game it out,” remarked Yorky.
He did. It was a long fight, and the horse was flecked with bloody foam before its spirit and strength failed. But the man in the saddle kept his seat till the victory was won.
Steve was on the spot to join heartily the murmur of applause, for he was too good a sportsman to grudge admiration even to his enemy.
“You’re the one best bet in riders, Mr. Briscoe. It’s a pleasure to watch you,” he said frankly.
Jed’s narrowed eyes drifted to him. “Oh, hell!” he drawled with insolent contempt, and turned on his heel.
From the clump of firs a young woman was descending, and Jed went to meet her.
“You rode splendidly,” she told him with vivid eyes. “Were you hurt when you were jammed again the wagon? I mean, does it still hurt?” For she noticed that he walked with a limp.
“I reckon I can stand the grief without an amputation. Arlie, I got something to tell you.”
She looked at him in her direct fashion and waited.
“It’s about your new friend.” He drew from a pocket some leaves torn out of a magazine. His finger indicated a picture. “Ever see that gentleman before?”
The girl looked at it coolly. “It seems to be Mr. Fraser taken in his uniform; Lieutenant Fraser, I should say.”
The cattleman’s face fell. “You know, then, who he is, and what he’s doing here.”
Without evasion, her gaze met his. “I understood him to say he was an officer in the Texas Rangers. You know why he is here.”
“You’re right, I do. But do you?”
“Well, what is it you mean? Out with it, Jed,” she demanded impatiently.
“He is here to get a man wanted in Texas, a man hiding in this valley right now.”
“I don’t believe it,” she returned quickly. “And if he is, that’s not your business or mine. It’s his duty, isn’t it?”
“I ain’t discussing that. You know the law of the valley, Arlie.”
“I don’t accept that as binding, Jed. Lots of people here don’t. Because Lost Valley used to be a nest of miscreants, it needn’t always be. I don’t see what right we’ve got to set ourselves above the law.”
“This valley has always stood by hunted men when they reached it. That’s our custom, and I mean to stick to it.”
“Very well. I hold you to that,” she answered quickly. “This man Fraser is a hunted man. He’s hunted because of what he did for me and dad. I claim the protection of the valley for him.”
“He can have it—if he’s what he says he is. But why ain’t he been square with us? Why didn’t he tell who he was?”
“He told me.”
“That ain’t enough, Arlie. If he did, you kept it quiet. We all had a right to know.”
“If you had asked him, he would have told you.”
“I ain’t so sure he would. Anyhow, I don’t like it. I believe he is here to get the man I told you of. Mebbe that ain’t all.”
“What more?” she scoffed.
“This fellow is the best range detective in the country. My notion is he’s spying around about that Squaw Creek raid.”
Under the dusky skin she flushed angrily. “My notion is you’re daffy, Jed. Talk sense, and I’ll listen to you. You haven’t a grain of proof.”
“I may get some yet,” he told her sulkily.
She laughed her disbelief. “When you do, let me know.”
And with that she gave her pony the signal to more forward.
Nevertheless, she met the ranger at the foot of the little hill with distinct coldness. When he came up to shake hands, she was too busy dismounting to notice.
“Your heart must be a good deal better. I suppose Lost Valley agrees with you.” She had swung down on the other side of the horse, and her glance at him across the saddle seat was like a rapier thrust.
He was aware at once of being in disgrace with her, and it chafed him that he had no adequate answer to her implied charge.
“My heart’s all right,” he said a little gruffly.
“Yes, it seems to be, lieutenant.”
She trailed the reins and turned away at once to find her father. The girl was disappointed in him. He had, in effect, lied to her. That was bad enough; but she felt that his lie had concealed something, how much she scarce dared say. Her tangled thoughts were in chaos. One moment she was ready to believe the worst; the next, it was impossible to conceive such a man so vile a spy as to reward hospitality with treachery.
Yet she remembered now that it had been while she was telling of the fate of the traitor Burke that she had driven him to his lie. Or had he not told it first when she pointed out Lost Valley at his feet? Yes, it was at that moment she had noticed his pallor. He had, at least, conscience enough to be ashamed of what he was doing. But she recognized a wide margin of difference between the possibilities of his guilt. It was one thing to come to the valley for an escaped murderer; it was quite another to use the hospitality of his host as a means to betray the friends of that host. Deep in her heart she could not find it possible to convict him of the latter alternative. He was too much a man, too vitally dynamic. No; whatever else he was, she felt sure he was not so hopelessly lost to decency. He had that electric spark of self-respect which may coexist with many faults, but not with treachery.
Chapter IX.
A Shot From Bald Knob
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