Chapter 19

"Sure thing, major," said the conductor. He helped Kauffman aboard, then turned to Helen. "Now, lady," he said, holding out a hand, "I'm sorry the step is so high, but--"

The ranger, stooping, took the girl in his arms and set her feet on the lower step. "Good-by," he said, huskily. Then added: "For now. Write me soon."

She turned and looked down upon him with a faint smile on her lips and a tender light in her eyes. "I promise. Good-by," she said, and entered the car.

The ranger stood for a long time gazing after the train, then languidly walked away toward his team.

* * * * *

Hanscom turned his face toward the forest with a full knowledge that his world had suddenly lost its charm. At one moment his thought went anxiously forward with the fugitives, at another it returned to confront the problem of his own desires. His act in thus assisting the main witness to escape might displease the court and would undoubtedly intensify the dislike which Kitsong had already expressed toward him. "My stay in the district is not likely to be as quiet as it has been," he said to himself.

However, his own safety was not a question of grave concern. The mystery of Watson's death yet remained, and until that was solved Helen was still in danger of arrest. His mind at last settled to the task of discovering and punishing the raiders. Who was Watson's assassin? What fierce desire for revenge had prompted that savage assault?

There was no necessary connection between that small footprint and the shooting, and yet, until it was proved to be the work of another, suspicion would point to Helen as the only woman of the vicinity who had the motive for the deed. To some the coroner's failure to hold her was almost criminal.

His return to the hills was equivalent to running the gantlet. From every ranch-gate men and boys issued, wall-eyed with curiosity. They, of course, knew nothing of the raiding-party of the morning, but they understood that something unusual had taken place, for was not the ranger's saddle in his wagon, and his saddle-horse under harness, not to mention a streak of blood along the flanks of its mate? The eyes of these solitary cattlemen are as analytical as those of trained detectives. Nothing material escapes them. Being taught to observe from infancy, they had missed little of the ranger's errand.

"Who were you taking to the train?" they asked.

Hanscom's defense was silence and a species of jocular, curt evasion, and he succeeded at last in getting past them all without resort to direct and violent lying. As he had reason to suspect that one, at least, of the riflemen of the morning belonged to the Blackbird outfit, he decided to avoid that ranch altogether.

It would be absurd to claim that his nerves were perfectly calm and his heart entirely unhurried as he crept across the mesa and dropped into the wooded cañon just above the pasture fence. Although sustained by his authority as a Federal officer, he was perfectly well aware that it was possible for him to meet with trouble when the gang found out what he had done.

Another disturbing thought began to grow in his mind. "If those raiders watched me go down the hill, they may consider it a clever trick to drop in on the Kauffman place and loot the house. They know it is unguarded. Perhaps I ought to throw the saddle on old Baldy and ride over there to make sure about it."

The more he considered this the more uneasy he became. "They're just about sure to run off the stock, or be up to some other devilment," he said. "They might set fire to the house." In the end he roped his extra horse and set out.

Even by the cut-off it was a stiff ride, and it was nearly midnight as he topped the last ridge and came in sight of the cabin. "Hello!" he exclaimed. "Somebody _has_ moved in. I'm just in time."

A light was gleaming from the kitchen window, and the ranger's mind worked quickly. No one but members of the raiding-party would think of taking possession of this cabin so promptly. No one else would know that the Kauffmans were away. "That being the case," he said, musingly, "it stands me in hand to walk light and shifty." And he kept on above the ranch in order to drop down through the timber of the cañon.

After tethering his horse upon a little plot of grass just west of the garden, he adjusted his revolver on his thigh at the precise point where it was handiest, and moved forward with care. "They mustn't have time even to _think_ fight," he decided.

As he rounded the corner of the stable he heard the voice of a girl singing, and the effect of this upon him was greater than any uproar. It was uncanny. It made him wonder what kind of woman she could be who could carol in the midst of the band of raiders. She might be more dangerous than the men. She certainly added another complication to the situation.

Listening closely, he was able to detect the voices of at least two men as they joined discordantly in the refrain of the song. It was evident that all felt entirely secure, and the task to which the ranger now addressed himself was neither simple nor pleasant. To take these raiders unaware, to get the upper hand of them, and to bring them to justice was a dangerous program, but he was accustomed to taking chances and did not hesitate very long.

Keeping close to the shadow, he crept from the corral to the garden fence and from the covert of a clump of tall sunflowers was able to peer into the cabin window with almost unobstructed vision. A woman was seated on a low chair in the middle of the floor, playing a guitar and singing a lively song. He could not see the men. "I wonder if that door is locked?" he queried. "If it isn't, the job is easy. If it is, I'll have to operate through a screen window."

He remembered that both doors, front and back, were very strong, for Kauffman had been careful to have them heavily hinged and double-barred. They could not be broken except with a sledge. The screen on the windows could be ripped off, but to do that would make delay at the precise moment when a quarter of a second would be worth a lifetime. "No, I've got to gamble on that door being unlocked," he concluded, with the fatalism of the mountaineer, to whom danger is an ever-present side-partner.

With his revolver in his hand, he slid through the garden and reached the corner of the house unperceived. The woman was now playing a dance tune, and the men were stamping and shouting; and under cover of their clamor the ranger, stooping low, passed the window and laid his hand on the knob. The door yielded to his pressure, and swiftly, almost soundlessly, he darted within and stood before the astounded trio like a ghost--an armed and very warlike ghost.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, pleasantly, as with weapon in complete readiness he confronted them.

He had no need to command quiet. They were all schooled in the rules of the game he was playing, and understood perfectly the advantage which he held over them. They read in his easy smile and jocular voice the deadly determination which possessed him.

The woman was sitting in a low chair with the guitar in her lap and her feet stretched out upon a stool. Her companions, two young men, hardly more than boys, were standing near a table on which stood a bottle of liquor. All had been stricken into instant immobility by the sudden interruption of the ranger. Each stared with open mouth and dazed eyes.

Hanscom knew them all. The girl was the wilful daughter of a Basque rancher over on the Porcupine. One of the boys was Henry Kitsong, a nephew of Abe, and the other a herder named Busby, who had been at one time a rider for Watson.

"Having a pleasant time, aren't you?" the ranger continued, still retaining his sarcastic intonation. From where he stood he could see the bottom of the girl's upturned shoes, and his alert brain took careful note of the size and shape of the soles. A flush of exultation ran over him. "Those are the shoes that left those telltale footprints in the flour," he said to himself.

"You lads had better let me have your guns," he suggested. "Busby, I'll take yours first."

The young ruffian yielded his weapon only when the ranger repeated his request with menacing intonation. "You next, Henry," he said to Kitsong, and, having thus cut the claws of his young cubs, his pose relaxed. "You thought the owners of the place safely out of reach, didn't you? You saw me go down in the valley with them? Well, I had a hunch that maybe you'd take advantage of my absence, so I just rode over. I was afraid you might drop down here and break things up. You see, I'm responsible for all these goods, and I don't want to see them destroyed. That music-box, for instance" (he addressed the girl); "I happen to know that's a high-priced instrument, and I promised the owner to take good care of it. That bottle you fellows dug up I didn't know anything about, but I guess I'll confiscate that also. It ain't good for little boys." He turned sharply on Kitsong. "Henry, was your father in that band of sharpshooters this morning?"

"No, he wasn't," blurted the boy. "And I wasn't, either."

"We'll see about that in the morning. Which of you rode a blaze-faced sorrel?" Neither answered, and Hanscom said, contentedly: "Oh, well, we'll see about _that_ in the morning."

Hanscom had drawn close to the girl, who remained as if paralyzed with fright. "Señorita, I reckon I'll have to borrow one of your shoes for a minute." As he stooped and laid hold of her slipper Busby fell upon him with the fury of a tiger.

Hanscom was surprised, for he had considered the fellow completely cowed by the loss of his revolver. He could have shot him dead, but he did not. He shook him off and swung at him with the big seven-shooter which he still held in his hand. The blow fell upon the young fellow's cheek-bone with such stunning force that he reeled and fell to the floor.

Young Kitsong cried out, "You've killed him!"

"What was he trying to do to me?" retorted Hanscom. "Now you take that kerchief of yours and tie his hands behind him. If either of you makes another move at me, you'll be sorry. Get busy now."

Young Kitsong obeyed, awed by the ranger's tone, and Busby was soon securely tied. He writhed like a wildcat as his strength came back, but he was helpless, for Hanscom had taken a hand at lashing his feet together. There was something bestial in the boy's fury. He would have braved the ranger's pistol unhesitatingly after his momentary daze had passed, for he had the blind rage of a trapped beast, and his strength was amazing.

During all this time the girl remained absolutely silent, her back against the wall, as if knowing that her capture would come next. Hanscom fully expected her to take a hand in the struggle, but he was relieved--greatly relieved--by her attitude of non-resistance.

"Now, Henry," he said, with a breath of relief, "I can't afford to let either you or the señorita out of my sight. I reckon you'll both have to sit right here and keep me company till morning. Mebbe the señorita will bustle about and make a pot of coffee--that'll help us all to keep awake. But first of all I want both her slippers. Bring 'em to me, Henry."

Kitsong obeyed, and the girl yielded the slippers, the soles of which seemed to interest Hanscom very deeply.

He continued with polite intonation, "We'll all start down the valley at daybreak."

"What do you want of me?" asked the girl, hoarsely.

"I want you as a witness to the assault Busby made on me; and then, you see, you're all housebreakers"--he waved his hand toward the front window, from which the screen had been torn and the glass broken--"and housebreaking is pretty serious business even in this country. Furthermore, you were all concerned in that raid, and I'm going to see that you all feel the full weight of the law."

All the time he was talking so easily and so confidently he was really saying to himself: "To take you three to jail will be like driving so many wolves to market--but it's got to be done."

He was tired, irritable, and eager to be clear of it all. His own cabin at the moment seemed an ideally peaceful retreat. Only his belief that in this girl's small shoe lay the absolute proof of Helen's innocence nerved him to go on with his self-imposed duty. His chief desire was to place these shoes in the coroner's hands and so end all dispute concerning the footprints in the flour.

The girl, whose name was Rita, sullenly made coffee, and as she brought it to him, he continued his interrogation:

"How did you get here?"

"I rode."

"Over the trail? Across the divide?"

"Yes."

"Were you in the raid this morning?"

"What raid? I don't know of any raid."

He knew she was lying, but he only said, "When did you leave home?"

"Three days ago."

"Where have you been?"

"In camp."

"Where?"

She pointed up the stream.

"How long have you been acquainted with this man Busby?"

Here he struck upon something stubborn and hard in the girl's nature. She refused to reply.

"When were you over here last?"

A warning word from Busby denoted that he understood the course of the ranger's questioning and was anxious to strengthen her resistance.

Hanscom had several hours in which to ponder, and soon arrived at a fairly accurate understanding of the whole situation. He remembered vaguely the report of a row between Watson and Busby, and he was aware of the reckless cruelty of the dead man. It might be that in revenge for some savagery on his part, some graceless act toward Rita, this moody, half-insane youth had crept upon the rancher and killed him.

He turned to young Kitsong. "I haven't seen you lately. Where have you been?"

"Over on the Porcupine."

"Working on Gonzales's ranch?"

"Yes, part of the time."

"Does your father know you are back in the valley?"

"No--yes, he does, too!"

"You fired that shot that killed the horse, didn't you?"

Young Kitsong betrayed anxiety. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Which of you rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"

In spite of himself the boy glanced quickly at the girl, who shook her head.

Hanscom addressed himself to her. "Señorita, which of your friends rode the blaze-faced sorrel?"

Her head dropped in silent refusal to answer.

"Oh, well," said the ranger, "we'll find out in the course of time. My eyesight is pretty keen, and I can swear that it was the man on the sorrel horse that fired the shot that stopped the Kauffman team. Now one or the other of you will have to answer to that charge." His voice took on a sterner note. "What were you doing on Watson's porch last Saturday?"

The girl started and flushed. "I wasn't on his porch."

"Oh yes, you were! You didn't know you left your footprints in some flour on the floor, did you?"

Her glance was directed involuntarily toward her feet, as if in guilty surprise. It was a slight but convincing evidence to the ranger, who went on:

"Who was with you--Busby or Henry?"

"Nobody was with me. I wasn't there. I haven't been in the valley before for weeks."

"You didn't go there alone. You wouldn't dare to go alone in the night, and the man who was with you killed Watson."

She sat up with a gasp, and young Kitsong stared. Their surprise was too genuine to be assumed. "What's that you say? Watson killed?"

"Yes. Watson was shot Monday night. Didn't you know that? Where have you been that you haven't heard of it?"

Young Kitsong was all readiness to answer now. "We've been up in the hills. We have a camp up there."

"Oh," said Hanscom, "kind of a robbers' den, eh? Has Busby been with you?"

"Sure thing. We've all been fishing and hunting--" Here he stopped suddenly, for to admit that he had been hunting out of season was to lay himself liable to arrest as a poacher on the forest. He went on: "We all came down here together."

"What were you doing chasing that team? What was the game in that?"

"Well, he shot at us first," answered the boy.

And Busby shouted from his position in the corner on the floor, "Shut up, you fool!"

The ranger smiled. "Oh, it's got to all come out, Busby. I saw the man on the sorrel horse fire that shot--don't forget that. And I know who made the tracks in the flour. But I am beginning to wonder if you had anything to do with warning the Kauffmans to get out."

He had indeed come to the end of his questioning, for his captives refused to utter another word, and he himself fell silent, his mind engaged with the intricacies of this problem. It might be that these young dare-devils just happened to meet Kauffman on the road and decided to hold him up. It was possible that they knew nothing of the warnings which had been sent. But in that case, who pushed that final warning under the door? Who let them know of trouble from above?

Dawn was creeping up the valley, and, calling young Kitsong from the doze into which he had fallen, he said: "Now, Henry, I'm going to take this bunch down to the sheriff, and you might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You go out and saddle up while the señorita heats up some more coffee, and we'll get ready and start."

Hanscom was by no means as confident as his voice sounded, and, as the young fellow rose to go, only half expected him to show his face again. "Well, let him slip," he said to himself. "I'll be safer without him."

Busby spoke up from the floor. "You stay with the game, Hank, and you ride your own horse."

"You bet I'll ride my own horse," Kitsong violently retorted, from the doorway.

The girl, who understood the significance of this controversy, interposed. "I'll ride the sorrel. He's my horse, anyway."

Hanscom mockingly chimed in. "That's mighty fine and self-sacrificing, but it won't do. The rider who fired that shot was a man. But I'll leave it to Henry. Bring around the horses, and remember, if you slip out with that bay horse I'll _know_ you rode the sorrel yesterday."

The situation had become too complicated for the girl, who fell silent, while Busby cursed the ranger in fierce, set terms. "What right have you got to arrest us, anyhow?"

"All the right I need. That shooting began inside the forest boundary, and it's my duty to see that you are placed in the hands of the law." Here his voice took on a note of grim determination. "And I want you to understand there will be no funny business on the way down."

"How can I ride, all tied up like this?" demanded the ruffian.

"Oh, I'm going to untie you, and you are going to come along quietly--either as live stock or freight--you can take your choice."

Busby, subdued by several hours on the floor, was disposed to do as he was told, and Hanscom unbound his legs and permitted him to rise.

As young Kitsong brought the horses around in front of the cabin, Hanscom was not disappointed in finding the girl's saddle on the sorrel. He made no comment.

"Now, Busby, we'll mount you first," he said, and slipped the bridle from the horse. "You see, to make sure of you I am going to lead your pony." He then untied the youth's hands. "Climb on!" he commanded.

Busby silently mounted to his saddle, the girl took the sorrel, and at command Kitsong started down the trail.

"You go next," said Hanscom to the girl, "now you, Busby," he added, and with the rope across the horse's rump--the trick of a trained trailer--he started down the trail.

Sinister as this small procession really was, it would have appeared quite innocent to a casual observer as it went winding down the hill. No one at a little distance would have been able to tell that in the silent determination of the horseman in the rear lay the only law, the only bond which kept these four riders in line. Neither Busby nor Kitsong nor the girl doubted for an instant that if any of them made a deflection, a rush for freedom, they would be shot. They knew that as a Federal officer he had certain authority. Just how much authority they could not determine, but they were aware that the shooting had begun in the forest, which was his domain.

As they sighted Watson's cabin Hanscom was curious to know whether nearing the scene of the crime would have any perceptible effect on Busby. "Will he betray nervousness?" he asked himself.

Quite the contrary. As he came opposite the house, Busby turned in his saddle and asked, "When was Watson killed?"

"Nobody knows exactly. Some time Monday night," answered the ranger.

A few miles down the road they met a rancher coming up the valley with a timber-wagon, and to him the ranger explained briefly the nature of his expedition, and said:

"Now, Tom, I reckon you'll have to turn around and help me take these youngsters to the sheriff. I would rather have them in your wagon than on horseback."

The rancher consented with almost instant readiness.

The prisoners were transferred to the wagon, and in this way the remainder of the trip was covered.

V

The county jail was a square, brick structure standing in the midst of a grove of small cottonwood-trees (planted in painful rows), and the sheriff's office and his wife's parlor, situated on opposite sides of the hall, occupied the front part of the first story, while the rear and the basement served as kitchen and dungeon keep. Generally the lockup was empty and the building quite as decorous as any other on the street, although at certain times it resounded with life. On this day it was quiet, and Throop and his wife, who served as matron, were sitting under a tree as the rancher's wagon halted before the gate.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon and Hanscom's prisoners were dusty, tired, and sullen as they filed up the walk toward the sheriff, who awaited their approach with an inquiring slant to his huge head. Mrs. Throop retreated to the house.

When at close range Hanscom with a weary smile said, "I've brought you some new boarders, Mr. Sheriff."

"So I see," said the officer, as he motioned them to enter the door. "What's it all about?"

"It's a long story," replied the ranger, "and of course I can't go into it here, but I want you to take charge of these people while I see Carmody and find out what he wants done with them. I think he'll find them valuable witnesses. Incidentally I may say they've been shooting a horse and breaking and entering a house."

The sheriff was deeply impressed with this charge. "Well, well!" he said, studying with especial care the downcast face of the girl. "I thought it might be only killing game out of season, stealing timber, or some such thing." He called a deputy. "Here, Tom, take these men into the guard-room, and, Mrs. Throop, you look after this girl while I go over the case with Mr. Hanscom."

"Don't let 'em talk with anybody," warned the ranger.

The sheriff passed the word to the deputy, "That's right, Tom."

In deep relief the ranger followed the sheriff into his private office and dropped into a seat. "Jeerusalem! I'm tired!" he exclaimed. "That was a nervous job!"

"Cut loose," said the sheriff.

Hanscom then related as briefly as he could the story of the capture. At the end he confessed that he had hardly expected to reach town with all of them. "I had no authority to arrest them. I just bluffed them, as well as the rancher who drove the wagon, into thinking I had. I wanted them for Carmody to question, and I hung to the girl because I believe she can absolutely clear Kauffman and his daughter of any connection--"

Throop, who had listened intently, now broke out: "Well, I hope so. That old man and his girl sure are acquiring all kinds of misery. Kitsong got Carmody to issue a warrant for them yesterday, and I wired the authorities at Lone Rock and had them both taken from the train."

The ranger's face stiffened as he stared at the officer. "You did!"

"I did, and they're on their way back on No. 6."

"How could Carmody do that?" Hanscom demanded, hotly. "He told them to go--I heard him."