Part 4

He shook his head. “So far, everything’s guesswork. I dassent raise her hopes on that. It’s awful when a person’s hopes’re raised--and then go smash. I’ve got to find out where I was. There’s a scheme I heard of once----”

“Is it scattering beans?”

“No.” He laughed and reached across the kitchen table to cover a slim hand with one of his. “No”--more soberly--“it’s something different--it’s about Bobby. You’d have to let me take care of him for a few days and treat him real bad. I won’t tell you what I’d do to him, then it won’t fret you.”

“Take Bobby,” she urged. “But oh, don’t have any trouble out there with that man!” And she grew white and clung to his hand as she had never done before.

He stayed only long enough to reassure her, and went when the sun shone against the kitchen window. He had been twenty-four hours without sleep.

It was an anxious day for Letty. The doctor spent it in work after he had had his rest, and at six o’clock opened his medicine-case to put into it one or two things that had been lacking the previous night. When sundown came and the long, grateful twilight, he paid a visit to Bobby. Then he lighted the lamp in his office and sat down to wait. Dark brought the looked-for summons. The front gate squeaked on its hinges. Heavy steps sounded along the narrow boardwalk leading up to the porch. Next, following a short pause, came a knock.

The doctor opened the door. The man with the scar was in waiting. He kept out of range of the light that fell through the door, but the doctor could see that the face of his visitor was again half hidden by a handkerchief and that the slouch hat was worn low to shadow it.

“My friend’s suffering awful,” he said by way of greeting. “All over the place, Doc. I felt almost like putting him out of his misery.”

At once the doctor went for Bobby. An eager whinny hailed the opening of the stable door. But when the little horse was led out of his stall he hung back and all but refused to leave it. “You’ll have some supper out yonder,” promised his rider, and tied a generous feed of oats to the thongs of the big stock saddle.

A slender figure came swiftly across the corral. It was Letty, and she lifted her face to the doctor’s in mute anxiety. He whispered encouragement and bent to kiss her, then rode out to join his waiting guide.

The second trip to the cañon was, in every way, like the first except that it was made more quickly. When the clearing was reached and the doctor’s eyes were unbound he saw that there was no patch of light beyond the low shanty. “Didn’t dare leave a lamp,” explained the man with the scar as he cautiously opened the door. After he had peered in; listening, he entered quietly and struck a match.

The sick man was on the floor, stretched prone. His eyes were wide, but unseeing. His breathing was laboured.

They lifted him gently and laid him on the bed. Then the doctor, coat off, once more began his ministering, while the man with the scar seated himself on a bench by the door and smoked. The doctor paid the other no attention, but apparently gave his whole thought to his patient. Nevertheless, as he worked he kept on the alert for sounds, and, when his back was turned toward his guard, examined the wall against which stood the head of the bed.

He noticed that which made him certain that the shanty had a second, if a very small, room. Two of the upright foot-wide boards of the wall had been sawed across at a height of six feet from the floor. A few moments later he purposely dropped the cork of a bottle. As he stooped to feel about for it he gave a quick look at the lower ends of the sawed boards. Unlike the others in the wall, they cleared the floor by half an inch. It was probable that they formed a narrow, blind door; that the wall itself was a partition. He determined to be certain about it. “Fetch me some right cold water,” he said to the man with the scar.

For a moment the other remained seated and made no answer. Then, “All right,” he said reluctantly and, picking up a square kerosene can that had been fitted with a handle, went out.

The doctor waited, his eyes on his patient, his ears strained for the sound of vanishing footsteps. He heard none. The other was doubtless just outside, watching. The doctor walked to the table, took a square of prepared plaster from his case and, having turned the light down a little, laid the plaster upon the top of the globe.

The light went out. He stepped swiftly to the head of the bed and put a hand against the blind door. It swung inward a foot or more, then back into place again.

“Here!” The threatening voice was at the outside door, which opened and closed with a bang. “What’re you trying to do?”

The doctor took one long stride in the direction of the speaker. “Got a match?” he inquired innocently. “That blamed lamp went out.”

The other muttered and struck a match. When its light flashed the doctor was standing beside the table, the square of plaster in one hand.

“You ’tend to business!” warned the man with the scar. His thin lips were parted in a snarl.

“Now, look-a-here,” returned the doctor; “I’ve stood all the abuse I’m goin’ to. There ain’t another physician in this county that would a-came out here a second time with his eyes blinded and his hands tied--not if you had _ten_ friends dyin’. And I expect you to show me decent treatment.” He leaned forward across the table and looked the other man squarely in the face.

“Last night you wanted hot water. To-night you want cold.”

“Wal, excuse me, but I’m the best judge of what the sick gent needs. If I ain’t, why the dickens do you come after me?”

For the space of a minute they stood in silence, face to face. Then, as if partly convinced, the man with the scar once more took up his oil can. When his quick, shuffling steps had died away the doctor tried another plan. He stooped over the sick man until his lips were close to the crack that ran down the full length of the blind door, and began to speak the name that the grief-crazed mother at the mine had spoken: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”

He listened. There was no sound within or without. He spoke again, louder: “Laurie!”

First, a movement beyond the partition--a soft, rustling, creeping movement. Then, close to the wall, a little, weak, long-drawn sob!

The doctor straightened, his heart pounding so furiously that it hurt him, his face hot with the joy of his discovery. Smiling, he glanced down.

He looked into a pair of startled eyes that were staring up at him. “Who are you?” came the husky demand, and the sick man suddenly lifted himself to an elbow, almost as if he were about to leap from the bed.

The doctor could only stare back. The man was conscious. Had he heard him? What was to be done?

Before he could frame any course of action the man with the scar entered.

“Your friend’s lots better,” announced the doctor, turning toward the door. “Come and see.”

“That so?” The other crossed to the foot of the bed.

“Nick,” began the sick man, speaking with great effort, “don’t you trust anybody. You get out of here. Do you understand? Never mind me. I’m going to die. Look at my nails.” He put out a trembling hand.

“Don’t you worry,” answered the man with the scar. “The Doc came in blindfolded.”

“You’re taking chances,” persisted the younger man. “Go--just--leave me--water, and--a gun.” He sank back.

“You got to keep more quiet,” said the doctor. “Here.” He lifted a cup to the dry lips.

When he left the bedside the man with the scar followed and leaned close. “Bill’s going to die,” he said in a low voice. “Look at his nails.”

Instead, the doctor looked at the speaker. There was a sinister light in those little, alert eyes; a cruel twist to the thin mouth. And the whole expression of the scarred face bespoke a sudden determination--a fiendish determination. Bill was past saving. Soon the cabin would be left behind. And the doctor--why let him go back to the town?

“He’s going to die,” repeated the man with the scar. “And you know it.”

“My friend,” answered the doctor, “I’ll tell you the truth. He ain’t got more’n one chance in a hunderd--and that’s a pretty slim one. If he ain’t better to-morrow I’ve got to operate.” He sat down.

The man with the scar sat down in front of him. The table was between them. He leaned his arms on it. “Don’t take me for a fool,” he advised.

The doctor folded his arms. “Now, look a-here,” he retorted, smiling; “don’t take _me_ for a fool. I know what’s the matter with you.”

At that the man with the scar rose so suddenly that his bench tipped backward.

“Yas,” the doctor went on. “I know why you brung me here blindfolded and what you’re hidin’.”

The right hand of the man with the scar stole to his hip.

The doctor ignored the action. He went on speaking with clear directness: “You two fellers’ve located a gold mine. And you’ve got the crazy idea that I’m a-goin’ to bring out a bunch of locators. Wal, git over it. I’m not a prospector: I’m a doc.”

The hand on the weapon rested quiet. The man with the scar drew a gasping breath. Then long and keenly he studied the face of the doctor. After a time he dropped his arm, picked up his bench and reseated himself.

Some little time passed. The doctor smoked and nursed a knee. Once he got up to take the pulse of his patient and again to mark the temperature. But his every movement was leisurely, and he showed no wish to leave. The man with the scar sat, leaning on the table, apparently lost in thought.

All at once he rose. “Well, come on,” he said.

Again the doctor examined the sick man. “This’ll be a bad day for your friend,” he explained. “I’m leavin’ something to chase the pain.”

When they were ready to mount the other addressed him harshly. “Doc,” he said, “if you and me run into anybody on our way back it’ll be you that gets my first shot.”

“That’s a bargain,” answered the doctor good-naturedly.

But, riding out of the cañon, he felt far from confident. The previous night his guide had led briskly. Now the mule was lagging. The doctor found himself moving his body forward in his saddle to urge Bobby on. They had gone only a small part of the way homeward when the mule came to a stop. Bobby halted, too, and the doctor waited like a man who expects a blow in the dark. He listened. The other did not dismount. There was no audible movement ahead. But he felt that sinister face turned upon him.

“Say, that friend of your’n has got a wonderful constitution,” he remarked.

There was a short interval of silence. It seemed many minutes to the doctor. Then, “Get up!” said the voice ahead.

Letty was waiting for him when he turned in at the corral gate, though it was long past midnight. He had been under a severe strain, but she had been under a greater. He saw that when he lifted the lantern she brought him and looked into her face.

“Good news,” he told her, speaking low. “The baby’s there.”

Five minutes later he was back in his office once more and had Blue Top on the telephone. “Come,” was his message. “I’ve got a clue, Mr. Eastman. But don’t bring nobody with you.”

It seemed to him that he had only just lain down to rest when he was up again, admitting Eastman, who had come as quick as a horse could carry him. The father was more dishevelled than ever; and on his haggard, unshaven face stood out the sweat of effort and anxiety. Three days of agony had aged him.

“Oh, my boy!” were his first words.

“I know where he is, but I don’t know how to git there,” said the doctor. Briefly he explained.

Eastman, half distracted, paced the floor as he listened. “Oh, tell me what to do,” he cried when the doctor had finished. “My wife--it’s killing her.”

“The medicine I left’ll keep the sick feller up till this evenin’.”

“I’ll follow you to-night, then. Oh, I must! I must! The boy’ll need me. They dragged him over all those miles. Think of it! And wore out his poor little legs.”

“We’ve got to go about this thing mighty careful,” warned the doctor. “You trail me and somebody’ll be shot. Mebbe it’ll be me, mebbe it’ll be your baby.”

The father halted before the younger man. “But how can you help him,” he demanded, “with your hands tied?”

“Wal, I’ve thought of a scheme. The man that come after me searched me for a pistol both nights. But he’s never looked into the oat-bag. So, I’ll put a gun in that bag, and when I stand up from feedin’ Bobby I’ll have the drop on him.”

“He may get you first. Then what? Oh, I’ll never see my boy again!”

“Wal, if you can think of a better way, go ahead.”

But at the end of an hour Eastman agreed with the doctor that there was no better plan. “All right,” he said, “--all right--I’ll trust to you. Now I must telephone my wife that there’s hope.”

When the doctor awoke early that afternoon it was to learn that Mrs. Eastman had arrived and was at the hotel. Eastman himself called the doctor up to announce her coming and the latter asked the parents to remain secluded during the remainder of the day.

There was reason to believe that the kidnappers might have a confederate on watch in the town.

But Eastman had no thought beyond the finding of his child. “Suppose that sick man died to-day,” he said. “Won’t the other man leave and take Laurie with him? Doctor, I think I ought to start fifty men out on a search.”

The doctor opposed the suggestion. “Take my advice,” he urged kindly. “Tell Mrs. Eastman to be brave.”

Eastman only groaned and hung up. But later on he telephoned again and again, always with some fresh idea that was filling the heart of the waiting mother with forebodings.

Letty telephoned, too. “Don’t go alone to-night,” she begged. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I got to, Letty,” he declared. “If Eastman starts men out, which way’ll they go? It might take ’em a week to find that shanty.”

Night settled early, for long before twilight the sky became heavily overcast and a wind rose, sweeping the dust up in clouds as it drove through the town, and auguring a rainstorm. The doctor placed a light in his office, then took his station at a window in an unlighted front room.

The minutes dragged. Eight o’clock struck, and nine.

“Mebbe that sick feller did die,” he said to Letty over the telephone. “But----”

He hung up the receiver abruptly. There was a sound of galloping in the street. It ceased at the gate, when heavy steps came hurrying to his porch. It was the man with the scar.

“Doc,” he began, panting with his hard ride, “you said you’d operate----”

“Ready in a jiffy,” answered the doctor, and turned away to pick up hat and case.

The next instant there was a choking cry from the porch, then loud curses and the sound of fierce scuffling. The doctor whirled.

The man with the scar was flat on his back at the threshold, his wrists manacled, his shins ironed; over him stood a smooth-shaven, thick-set, middle-aged man armed with a revolver--the man who had halted the doctor on the Blue Top road; and Eastman was there.

“He stole my boy!” the father called out furiously. “I’m going to kill him!” He flung himself forward.

The man with the revolver pushed him back. And, “No! No!” expostulated the doctor. “Eastman! You’re makin’ a mistake!”

The prisoner gave a loud, hard laugh. “You bet your life he’s making a mistake!” he declared.

“We got you just the same,” said the man with the revolver triumphantly.

“Put him on a horse,” ordered Eastman, maddened more than ever by the taunting laugh. “He’ll take me to my boy or I’ll kill him.”

The captured man ignored the father. His look was on the doctor, and it was full of hate. “Ah, h--l!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “I could kick myself! Last night I had my finger on the trigger. But like a fool----”

Eastman was sobbing in baffled rage. “My baby!” he cried. “Four days with this brute! Think of it!”

“No more monkey business.” The man with the revolver was speaking, and he gave his prisoner a rough poke in the side with his boot. “You’re in the hands of the Sheriff, and you’re going to take us out to that cañon. We start right off.”

“No, we don’t,” was the answer. “You’ve trapped me, the three of you. Send me up if you can. My word’s as good as this doctor’s, and I don’t have to take you anywhere to hunt for evidence against me.”

“Get up,” commanded the sheriff. He unbuckled the irons from his prisoner’s legs.

The man with the scar rose. “Nobody’ll ever find that cabin or what’s in it,” he said doggedly. “And when Bill dies----”

“Oh, my God!” It was the father.

The doctor was leaning in the doorway. “What’d you do this for, Mr. Eastman?” he asked.

The tears were streaming down Eastman’s face. “We thought the Sheriff ought to come,” he faltered. “The boy’s mother is frantic. And this seemed the surest way.” The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve lost our best chance,” he said.

“See here, Doc,” broke in the sheriff. “I made the capture. And I want you to understand when we find the boy I’m entitled to the reward.”

The other turned astonished eyes upon him. “Reward?” he repeated.

“You mean to say you didn’t know there’s five thousand offered?”

“So that’s why you done this,” said the doctor, and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, I’ve heerd tell of fellers that put their foot in it. You’ve got your’n in plumb to the knee.”

“I’ll come out all right,” retorted the sheriff boastfully. “I’ll send for dogs. There’s three in Sacramento. I can have ’em here in eighteen hours.”

“If I don’t git to Bill,” said the doctor, “he’ll be dead before that.” He looked at the man with the scar.

“Eighteen hours!” repeated Eastman miserably.

Now the sheriff advanced upon his prisoner. “You’re going to take me to that cabin,” he said threateningly. “You don’t think so now, but I can make you change your mind. Come along.” He seized his prisoner by a shackled arm and jerked him toward the gate.

Eastman started after the two, pleading incoherently. But half-way to the gate he stopped. A girl blocked the walk. It was Letty.

“Depend on the doctor,” she said. “He took his life in his hands to find the boy. He was going to risk it again to bring him to you. And he didn’t even know there was a reward.”

Eastman turned and went stumbling back.

“But he doesn’t know the way,” he protested. “He said he didn’t.”

In answer, the doctor took his arm and led him down the street to the wide gate opening into Bobby’s corral. “I’ll have a horse here for you in a minute,” he said. “I’ll ride this one. You see, there’s another scheme. But it really don’t depend on me--it depends on this little bronc.”

When Bobby was saddled and bridled Letty put her cheek against his soft nose. “Do your best,” she whispered; and to his rider: “Don’t fail.”

The doctor took both her hands in his. “I’m a-goin’ to make it,” he declared. “Stay with the boy’s maw, little gal, till we come.”

Bobby was eager to be off, pawing as the doctor mounted and backing in a circle when his rider held him in to wait for Eastman. The reins loosened, the little horse sprang forward at a brisk canter, leading the way out of town.

It was at the forks of the road that the first halt was made. Here the doctor, having first tied the bridle reins to his pommel assumed the exact position in the saddle that he had twice been compelled to take, and laid his hands on his saddle-horn.

“Now, Bobby,” he said, touching the mustang gently with his heels, “here we are. Go on.”

Bobby moved forward, but hesitatingly, and, when he had gone a few steps, stopped, looking about him.

Again the doctor urged him kindly. “Want your supper, Bobby? Come, now.”

The little horse made forward at a brisk walk then, travelling straight south along the road that followed the track. Presently, however, he turned sharply to the right and entered the brush.

“Do you think he’s going right?” called out Eastman anxiously.

“Wal,” answered the doctor, “he acts like he means business. You see, for two days I ain’t give him a bite to eat except when he was out yonder in that cañon.”

Bobby was taking a westward course that was almost at right angles to the road he had just come down. He wound through scrubby liveoaks and bristling chaparral, evidently along no path. Behind him the other horse had to be urged constantly, for the undergrowth was heavy and hung across the way. But soon the brush parted to leave a straight, open track, so narrow, however, that it seemed only a path. The doctor got down and lit a match. They were on a trail that showed recent use. Upon it, stamped plainly in the dust, were the round, eastward-pointing hoofprints of a mule.

“Are we right?” asked Eastman.

“So far.”

Now both horses were pushed to a canter--until the path grew rough and steep. The doctor recognised this descent and listened for the sound of the rushing stream he had crossed both times under the guidance of the man with the scar. When the stream was washing the hoofs of their horses the doctor reached out to lay a hand on Eastman’s shoulder.

“My friend, we’re half-way!”

Eastman would have pressed ahead then, but the doctor would not permit it.

“Leave it to Bobby,” was his counsel. “Mr. Nick didn’t blindfold Bobby.”

The path ascended the long slope of a hogback. Pine needles covered the slope, and though the doctor dismounted a half-dozen times no path could be seen. But each time, as he stepped into the saddle again, the little horse went forward eagerly.

The hogback ended abruptly. Bobby turned to the left. The trip had seemed so short that now, as the doctor looked into the darkness below him, he could scarcely credit his senses.

“Eastman,” he said. “See below there!”

It was a spot of light.

From then on it was a wild ride. The horses did not leave the steep path; but they stumbled, slid or scrambled for a footing down the whole of the black descent. The doctor kept his eyes on the light. Eastman, divided between joy and fear, shouted out frenziedly toward the nearing shanty.

At the edge of the clearing both men flung themselves out of their saddles, then ran. Eastman led. And as he entered the low door he still hoarsely called: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”

A faint cry answered. It came from beyond the bed, on which lay a quiet form. The doctor reached to shove at the boards forming the blind door. They gave, disclosing a small inner room.

The next moment a little figure in soiled rompers came out of the darkness of the room, toddling unsteadily on bare legs, for the baby stockings were down over worn sandals. Fair hair hung uncombed about a face that was pitifully thin and streaked by tears and dust. The doctor lifted the boy up and swung him out, and the father spread his arms to receive him and caught the child to his breast.

The doctor laid back the rumpled covers of the bed then. “Bill,” he said kindly, and began to unbuckle the strap of his case.

“So that’s the other one.” It was Eastman, on his knees, the child clasped tight.

The doctor laid back the bedcovers very gently. “It _was_ the other one,” he answered.

* * * * *

Midnight, and the lost boy was in his mother’s arms, with Eastman hovering beside the two, and the doctor across from him, sitting on his heels, with a baby hand in his big, gentle grasp.

“Doctor, we’ll never be able to make it up to you,” said the father. “I don’t feel that the reward is half enough. But I want you to accept it with our lifelong gratitude.” They were in Mrs. Eastman’s sitting-room at the hotel. Her husband crossed to a desk.

The doctor stood up, colouring bashfully. “Aw, I can’t take money for findin’ the little feller,” he protested; and when Eastman came back, holding out a slip of paper to him, he shook his head decidedly. “No, sir, I just can’t,” he declared. Letty entered then, carrying a tray hidden under a napkin. He hastened across the room to take it from her.