The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
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The words of an old Scotch song that Mrs. Mackenzie sang came back to her:
“The span o' life's nae large eneugh,
Nor deep enough the sea,
Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,
To part my love frae me.”
No, they could not part their hearts in this world or the next, and with this sad comfort she flung herself on the rough bed and sobbed. She would grieve still, but the wildness of her grief and despair was gone, scattered by the knowledge that however their troubles eventuated they were now one in heart.
She was roused after a long time by the sound of the huge key grating in the lock. Through the opened door a figure descended, and by an illuminating swing of the turnkey's lantern she saw that it was Bucky. Next moment the door had closed and they were in each other's arms. Bucky's stubborn pride, the remembrance of the riches which of a sudden had transformed his little partner into an heiress and set a high wall of separation between them, these were swept clean away on a great wave of love which took Bucky off his feet and left him breathless.
“I had almost given you up,” she cried joyfully.
Again he passed his hand across her face. “You've been crying, little pardner. Were you crying on account of me?”
“On account of myself, because I was afraid I had lost you. Oh, Bucky, isn't it too good to be true?”
The ranger smiled, remembering that he had about fourteen hours to live, if the Megales faction triumphed. “Good! I should think it is. Bully! I've been famished to see Curly Haid again.”
“And to know that everything is going to come out all right and that we love each other.”
“That's right good hearing and most ce'tainly true on my side of it. But how do you happen to know it so sure?” he laughed gayly.
“Why, your letter, Bucky. It was the dearest letter. I love it.”
“But you weren't to read it for three hours,” he pretended to reprove, holding her at arm's length to laugh at her.
“Wasn't it three hours? It seemed ever so much longer.”
“You little rogue, you didn't play fair.” And to punish her he drew her soft, supple body to him in a close embrace, and for the first time kissed the sweet mouth that yielded itself to him.
“Tell me all about what happened to you,” she bade him playfully, after speech was again in order.
“Sure.” He caught her hand to lead her to the bench and she winced involuntarily.
“I burned it,” she explained, adding, with a ripple of shy laughter: “When I was reading your letter. It doesn't really hurt, though.”
But he had to see for himself and make much over the little blister that the flame of a match revealed to him. For they were both very much in love, and, in consequence, bubbling over with the foolishness that is the greatest inherited wisdom of the ages.
But though her lover had acquiesced so promptly to her demand for a full account of his adventures since leaving her, that young man had no intention of offering an unexpurged edition of them. It was his hope that O'Halloran would storm the prison during the night and effect a rescue. If so, good; if not, there was no need of her knowing that for them the new day would usher in fresh sorrow. So he gave her an account of his trial and its details, told her how he had been convicted, and how Colonel Onate had fought warily to get the sentence of execution postponed in order to give their friends a chance to rescue them.
“When Megales remanded me to prison I wanted to let out an Arizona yell, Curly. It sure seemed too good to be true.”
“But he may want the sentence carried out some time, if he changes his mind. Maybe in a week or two he may take a notion that—” She stopped, plainly sobered by the fear that the good news of his return might not be final.
“We won't cross that bridge till we come to it. You don't suppose our friends are going to sit down and fold their hands, do you? Not if I've got Mike O'Halloran and young Valdez sized up right. Fur is going to begin to fly pretty soon in this man's country. But it's up to us to help all we can, and I reckon we'll begin by taking a preliminary survey of this wickiup.”
Wickiup was distinctly good, since the word is used to apply to a frail Indian hut, and this cell was nothing less than a tomb built in the solid rock by blowing out a chamber with dynamite and covering the front with a solid sheet of iron, into which a door fitted. It did not take a very long investigation to prove to Bucky that escape was impossible by any exit except the door, which meant the same thing as impossible at all under present conditions. Yet he did not yield to this opinion without going over every inch of the walls many times to make sure that no secret panel opened into a tunnel from the room.
“I reckon they want to keep us, Curly. Mr. Megales has sure got us real safe this time. I'd be plumb discouraged about breaking jail out of this cage. It's ce'tainly us to stay hitched a while.”
About dark tortillas and frijoles were brought down to them by the facetious turnkey, who was accompanied as usual by two guards.
“Why don't my little birdies sing?” he asked, with a wink at the soldiers. “One of them will not do any singing after daybreak to-morrow. Ho, ho, my larks! Tune up, tune up!”
“What do you mean about one not singing after daybreak?” asked the girl, with eyes dilating.
“What! Hasn't he told you? Senor the ranger is to be hanged at the dawn unless he finds his tongue for Governor Megales. Ho, ho! Our birdie must speak even if he doesn't sing.” And with that as a parting shot the man clanged the door to after him and locked it.
“You never told me, Bucky. You have been trying to deceive me,” she groaned.
He shrugged his shoulders. “What was the use, girlie? I knew it would worry you, and do no good. Better let you sleep in peace, I thought.”
“While you kept watch alone and waited through the long night. Oh, Bucky!” She crept close to him and put her arms around his neck, holding him tight, as if in the hope that she could keep him against the untoward fate that was reaching for him. “Oh, Bucky, if I could only die for you!”
“Don't give up, little friend. I don't. Somehow I'll slip out, and then you'll have to live for me and not die for me.”
“What is it that the governor wants you to say that you won't?”
“Oh, he wants me to sell our friends. I told him to go climb a giant cactus.”
“Of course you couldn't do that,” she sighed regretfully.
He laughed. “Well, hardly, and call myself a white man.”
“But—” She blanched at the alternative. “Oh, Bucky, we must do something. We must—we must.”
“It ain't so bad as it looks, honey. You want to remember that Mike O'Halloran is on deck. What's the matter with him knocking out a home run and bringing us both in. I put a heap of confidence in that red-haided Irishman,” he answered cheerfully.
“You say that just to—to give me courage. You don't really think he can do anything,” she said wanly.
“That's just what I think, Curly. Some men have a way of getting things done. When you look at O'Halloran you feel this, the same as you do when you look at Val Collins. Oh, he'll get us out all right. I've been in several tighter holes than this one.” His mention of Collins suggested a diversion, and he took up a less distressing theme lightly. “Wonder what Val is doing at this precise moment. I'll bet he's beginning to make things warm for Wolf Leroy's bunch of miscreants. We'll have the robbers of the Limited behind the bars within two weeks now, or I miss my guess.”
He had succeeded in diverting her attention better than he had dared to hope. Her big eyes fixed on his much as if he had raised for her some forgotten spectre.
“That's another