She glanced down again, blushing, and felt the silence embarra.s.sing, but all the things she would ordinarily have said suddenly seemed trivial and out of place, so she turned to the child with a gentle, "Be a good boy, Paul." Mead looked at her in silence, smiling gravely.

Many things were whirling about in his mind to say, but he hesitated before each one, doubting if that were the best. Paul kicked vigorously and shouted, "Come on! Come on! Aren't you ready to go, Mr.

Mead?" Emerson's grave smile relaxed into a foolish grin, he lifted his hat to Marguerite, and he and the boy cantered off.

Marguerite hurried back to her room and as she stood before her mirror, trembling, she resumed her hair dressing to the accompaniment of thoughts that ran contrariwise:

"I would think the man was dumb if I didn't know better. Why doesn't he ever say anything? He is certainly the rudest creature I ever saw!

He stares at me until I am so confused that I can not even be courteous. He isn't nearly so nice as Mr. Wellesly--I don't care, he isn't! I like Mr. Wellesly, and he seems to like me, but--he does not look at me out of his eyes as Mr. Mead does. I wonder--if he--looks at any one else that way?"

After Mead had returned the child he rode at once to his room, and while he bathed and shaved and dressed himself in the garments of civilization he gave himself up to gloomy thoughts about Marguerite.

"Of course, she thinks I am a criminal of the worst sort,--a thief and a murderer,--and maybe she does not like to have me stop at her gate.

She was nervous about it to-day, and she wouldn't come out until the kid made her. It is plain enough that she doesn't want to see me any more, and I suppose I ought not to stop there again. Still, the boy is always so pleased to ride with me that it would be a shame to take that pleasure away from him. But she doesn't like it--how sweet she looked in that sunbonnet!--and she's too kind-hearted to ask me not to. Well, she would rather I would not--yes, it is plain that she does not want me to do it--so--well--all right--I'll not stop there again."

His revolver lay on the table, hidden by some of the clothing he had just taken off. Under the stress of his thoughts it escaped both eye and mind. As he put on vest and coat he struggled to his final resolution. Then he quickly jammed his hat on his head, thinking, "I suppose I can't see her any more at all," and hurried into the street.

Presently he heard a loud whoop from the direction of the jail.

"That's Nick's yell, sure," he thought, "and it sounds as if he was drunk. Now what's to pay, I wonder!"

He hurried in the direction from which the sound had come, and was just in time to see Ellhorn, yelling and waving his hat, led by Jim Halliday into the jail, while a half-dozen excited Chinese, who had been following close behind, stood chattering at the door.

When the train which carried Thomson Tuttle northward left the station, Nick Ellhorn watched it disappear in the hot, white, quivering distance, and then wandered forlornly up town. He went first to Emerson Mead's room, but Mead had not yet returned. He went to Judge Harlin's office, and found that he was out of town. He next tried the Palmleaf saloon, where he solaced and cooled himself with some gla.s.ses of beer. Several men were already there, and others came in, whom he knew, and all wanted to hear about Emerson Mead's round-up and to congratulate him on its success. He drank mint juleps with two, straight whisky with two others, a c.o.c.ktail with another, and ended with more beer. He walked up the street to the hotel, and as he talked with the landlord he could feel the liquors he had so recklessly mixed beginning to bite into his blood and raise little commotions in remote corners of his brain. A pleasant-faced young Mexican came into the office, and the landlord asked him how his patient was. The young man replied in broken English that the man was a little better but very sad, and that he wished to find some one to stay with him a few minutes while he went out on an errand.

Nick Ellhorn's heart was warmed and expansive and he promptly volunteered to sit with the invalid and entertain him for an hour, and with effusive thanks the Mexican nurse conducted the tall Texan to the sick-room. White, gaunt and weak, the invalid lay in his bed and looked with eyes of envy and admiration at the tall, firm, well-knit frame, the big muscles and the tanned face of his companion. By that time Nick began to be conscious of a high, swift tide in his veins, and through his dancing brain came the conviction that he must hold a steady hand on himself and be very serious. He sat up stiff and straight in his chair by the bedside, and his demeanor was grave and solemn. When the sick man spoke of his health and strength, Nick replied with admonishing seriousness:

"I'd be just such a lookin' thing as you are if I stayed indoors like you do. You can't expect to be worth a whoop in h.e.l.l if you stay in the house and in bed all the time. I'll steal you away from here so that coyote of a Mexican can't get hold of you again, and I'll take you out to Emerson Mead's ranch and put you on a horse and make you ride after the cattle, and sure and you'll be a well man before you know it."

The invalid appeared apprehensive, and, feeling himself weakened by the fear lest something untoward might happen, he asked Ellhorn to give him a drink of brandy from a flask which stood on the mantel.

Nick poured the measured dose into a gla.s.s, smelt of it, and looked frowningly at the sick man.

"Do you-all mean to say that you drink this stuff, as sick as you are?

You can have it if you insist, but I tell you you'll be dead by sundown if you drink it! Sure and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, lyin' in bed and soakin' with brandy, right on the ragged edge of the tomb! That Mexican coyote ought to be shot as full of holes as a pepper box for keepin' this stuff in the room, and I'll do it when he comes back! I've taken a notion to you-all, and I'm goin' to carry you off on my horse to Emerson's ranch and make a well man of you. But you must sure let brandy and whisky alone, I'll tell you that right now!

And I'll put this out of your sight, so it won't be a temptation to you. I'll drink it myself, just to save your life!"

He poured the gla.s.s full and drank it off without a breath. Then he began to lecture the thoroughly frightened invalid on the evil results of too much indulgence in strong drink. "Look at me!" he solemnly exclaimed. "I used to drink just as bad as you do, and where did it bring me! Yes, sir! I've had feathers enough in my time to make me a good bed, but I scattered and wasted 'em all with whisky and brandy, just as you're doin' now, and here I am a-layin' on the hard ground!

But I've quit! No, sirree! I don't drink another drop, unless it's to save a friend, same as I'm drinkin' this."

When the Mexican nurse returned he found his patient fainting from fright, and a very drunken man solemnly marching up and down the room, flourishing an empty flask and uttering incoherent remarks about the evils of strong drink and the certainty of death.

"I've saved him!" Nick proudly exclaimed to the Mexican. "I've saved his life! He'd 'a' been drunk as I am, and dead, too, if I hadn't drunk all the brandy myself! I didn't let him touch a drop!"

The nurse pitched him out of the room and locked the door behind him, and he, after a dazed stare, stalked off indignantly to the front entrance. A Chinaman was pa.s.sing by, with placid face, folded arms and long queue flopping in the wind. Ellhorn grabbed the queue with a drunken shout. The man yelled from sudden fright, and started off on the run with Ellhorn hanging on to the braid, shouting, his spurs clicking and his revolver flapping at his side. Nick's yells and the Chinaman's frightened screams filled the street with noise and brought people running to see what was happening. Ellhorn whipped out his knife and cut off the queue at the Chinaman's neck, and the man, feeling the sudden release from the grip of the "white devil" behind him, ran with flying leaps down the street and at the end of the block banged against Jim Halliday, himself running to learn the cause of the uproar. The Chinaman knew Halliday's office, and with wild gestures and screaming chatter demanded that he should go back and arrest the man who had despoiled him of his dearest possession. Halliday, guessing that his enemy was too drunk to offer much resistance, hastened at once to the task, and in five minutes Nick Ellhorn was locked in the jail.

Emerson Mead at once went to work to get his friend out on bail. He saw the sheriff, John Daniels, go into the White Horse saloon and hurried after him. As they stood facing each other, leaning against the bar and talking earnestly, Mead saw Daniels flash a look of intelligence and nod his head slightly to some one who had entered from a back room toward which Emerson's back was turned. Instinctively he reached for his gun, and Jim Halliday grabbed his right wrist with both hands while John Daniels seized his left. With the first touch of their fingers, the remembrance flashed through his brain that he had left his revolver on the table in his room. He would have thought it as impossible to forget that as to forget his trousers, but the thing was done, and here was the result. He shrugged his shoulders and said quietly:

"You've caught me unarmed, boys. I'm at your service--this time."

They looked at him in doubting surprise. To catch Emerson Mead unarmed seemed a most unlikely fairy tale. The two men held his arms and Daniels called a third to search him. Mead flushed and bit his lip.

"I'm not used to having my word doubted," he said, "but I can't blame you for doubting it this time. I can hardly believe it myself. Jim, you've struck just the one chance in a thousand years."

Halliday laughed. "Well, I've been lucky twice to-day, and I reckon I haven't worn out the run yet."

Mead smiled indulgently down from his superior height, and said: "Work it while it runs, Jim; work it while it runs. You can have your innings now, but mine won't be long coming."

"Well, you won't have any chance to get yourself hauled over the back wall this time, I'll tell you that right now."

They hurried their prisoner off to jail, and in a few minutes he also was locked behind thick adobe walls.

CHAPTER XII

Albert Wellesly never made a new investment, nor allowed any change to be made in property in which he was interested, without first making a thorough personal inspection. For that reason he spent a number of busy days at the ranch, near the close of the round-up, inspecting the range and debating with Colonel Whittaker whether it would be better to enlarge it or to run the risk of overstocking by increasing the number of cattle on the land which they already held. They decided that if they could get control of certain springs and surrounding ranges, especially Emerson Mead's Alamo and Cienega springs and another belonging to McAlvin, which joined the range they already held, it would be exactly what they needed.

"These water holes would be worth a lot to us," said Colonel Whittaker, "but it would be just like these contrary cusses to refuse to sell at any price, especially to us."

"Then they'll have to be persuaded," Wellesly replied.

It was necessary for Colonel Whittaker to return to Las Plumas before they had quite finished their inspection, and Wellesly decided to remain a little longer and go back to town alone. Whittaker hesitated over the arrangement, for he knew that Wellesly had neither the instinct nor the training of the plainsman, and that he was unusually deficient in that sense of direction which is the traveler's best pilot over monotonous levels and rolling hills.

"Do you think you can find your way?" he said. "One of the boys can guide you over the range, and when you start back to town, unless you are perfectly sure of yourself, you'd better have him go with you, as far as Muletown, at least."

"Oh, I'll have no trouble about getting back," Wellesly replied. "It's a perfectly plain, straight road all the way, and all I'll have to do will be to follow the main track. I'll stay here two days longer and I'll take two days for the trip to town. You can expect me--this is Monday--some time Thursday afternoon."

The misadventure of Nick Ellhorn, which landed both him and Emerson Mead in jail, was on Tuesday afternoon, and it was early the next morning that Albert Wellesly left the ranch house and rode down through the foothills. He decided that the horse knew more about the road than he did, and would do just as well if left to its own guidance. So he let the reins lie loosely on its neck and, forgetful of his surroundings, was soon absorbed in a consideration of the problems of the cattle ranch. Well down toward the plain the road forked, one branch turning sharply to the right and the other to the left. The horse which he rode had, until recently, belonged to Emerson Mead, from whom the Fillmore Company had bought it. Left to its own will, at the forks it chose the left hand branch and cantered contentedly on over rising foothills. Wellesly's thoughts turned from the ranch to other business ventures in which he was interested. It was a long time and the horse had covered much ground before he finally looked about him to take his bearings and consider his progress. Looking at his watch he thought he ought to be well down in the plain toward Muletown, and wondered that he was still among the foothills. He had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong, but he said to himself that he had followed the straight road all the way and that therefore it must be all right. At any rate, it would be foolish not to go straight ahead until he should meet some one from whom he could ask directions. So he rode on and on and the sun rose higher and higher, and nowhere was there sign of human being. But at last he saw in the distance a splotch of green trees through which shone whitewashed walls. And presently he was hallooing in front of Emerson Mead's ranch house.

A thick-set, elderly man, with a round, smooth, pleasant face, out of which shrewdly looked small dark eyes, came out to see what was wanted. In his knocking around the world Billy Haney had kept fast hold of two principles. One was to find out all that he could about any stranger whom he chanced to meet, and the other, never to tell that stranger anything about himself that was true. In response to Wellesly's question, Haney told him that he was far off the road to Las Plumas, and then by means of two or three shrewd, roundabout questions and suggestions, he brought out enough information to enable him to guess who his visitor was. He knew about Wellesly's connection with the cattle company and his recent presence at the ranch, and the man's personal appearance had been described to him by Mead and Ellhorn. So he felt very sure of his ground when he shortly surprised the traveler by addressing him by name. Then he told Wellesly that his own name was Mullford, which was the name of a man who owned a cattle range much farther to the south and who had not been engaged in the recent trouble over the round-up. He represented himself as the owner of the place and said that he had been engaged in the cattle business ten years, but that he was not pleased with it and intended to pull out within the next year. It was nearly noon and he insisted that Wellesly should stay to dinner. An idea was dawning in his brain and he wanted time to consider it.

A hammock hung in the shade of the cottonwoods, where the breeze blew cool and refreshing, and he invited Wellesly to stretch himself there until dinner should be ready. A _vaquero_ took his horse to the stable and Wellesly threw himself into the hammock and looked up into the green thickets of the trees with a soul-satisfying sense of relief and comfort. His revolver in his hip pocket interfered with his ease and he took it out and laid it on a chair beside the hammock. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and in five minutes was asleep.

There was only one _vaquero_ at the ranch house, and he and Billy Haney and Wellesly were the only human beings within many miles. When the cow-boy had taken care of Wellesly's horse Haney called him into the kitchen. The man was tall and sinewy, with a hatchet face, a thin-lipped mouth and a sharp chin.

"Jim," said Haney, "I've got a scheme in my 'ead about that man, and I think there'll be lots of money in it. Do you want to come in?"

"What'll it be worth to me?"

"If there's anything in it, there'll be a big pile and we'll go 'alf and 'alf, and if there isn't--well, of course there's chances to be took in everything."

"What'll it cost?"

"Some work and some nerve, and then a quick scoot."

"All right, Billy. What's your play?"

When they had finished their planning Haney walked softly toward the hammock. A gentle snore from beneath the hat told him that Wellesly was sleeping quietly. He took the revolver from the chair, removed the cartridges from the six chambers and put it back in the same position.

Then he walked around to the other side of the sleeper and called him in a hearty tone. Wellesly rose yawning, and they started toward the house for luncheon.

"You've forgotten your revolver, sir," said Billy.