The Night Riders Page 23

  Daylight was breaking when the jaded Lady Jezebel and her double freight raced into the ranch. The mare had done the journey in precisely two hours and a quarter. Arizona galloped her up to the house and rounded the lean-to in which Joe slept. Then he pulled up and shouted. Just then he had no thought for the rancher or Jake. He had thought for no one but Tresler.

  His third shout brought Joe tumbling out of his bed.

  “Say, I’ve got a mighty sick man here,” he cried, directly he heard the choreman moving. “Git around an’ lend a hand; gentle, too.”

  “That you, Arizona?” Joe, half awake, questioned, blinking up at the horseman in the faint light.

  “I guess; an’ say, ’fore I git answerin’ no fool questions, git a holt on this notion. Red Mask’s bin around Willow Bluff, an’ Tresler’s done up. Savee?”

  “Tresler, did you say?” asked a girl’s voice from the kitchen doorway. “Wounded?”

  There was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely above a whisper.

  Arizona was lifting Tresler down into Joe’s arms. “I ’lows I didn’t know you wus ther’, missie,” he replied, without turning from his task. “Careful, Joe; easy—easy now. He’s dreadful sick, I guess. Yes, missie, it’s him. They’ve kind o’ scratched him some. ’Tain’t nothin’ to gas about; jest barked his neck. Kind o’ needs a bit o’ band’ge. Gorl durn you, Joe! Git your arm under his shoulders an’ kep his head steady; he’ll git bleedin’ to death ef y’ ain’t careful. Quiet, you jade!” he cried fiercely, to the mare whom Diane had frightened with her white robe as she came to help. “No, missie, not you,” Arizona exclaimed. “He’s all blood an’ mussed up.” Then he discovered that she had little on but a night-dress. “Gee! but you ain’t wropped up, missie. Jest git right in. Wal,” as she deliberately proceeded to help the struggling Joe, “ef you will; but Joe ken do it, I guess. Ther’, that’s it. I ken git off’n this crazy slut of a mare now.”

  Directly Arizona had quit the saddle he relieved Diane, and, with the utmost gentleness, started to take the sick man into the lean-to. But the girl protested at once.

  “Not in there,” she said sharply. “Take him into the house. I’ll go and fix a bed up-stairs. Bring him through the kitchen.”

  She spoke quite calmly. Too calmly, Joe thought.

  “To that house?” Arizona protested.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Then the passion of grief let itself loose, and Diane cried, “And why not? Where else should he go? He belongs to me. Why do you stand there like an imbecile? Take him at once. Oh, Jack, Jack, why don’t you speak? Oh, take him quickly! You said he would bleed to death. He isn’t dead? No, tell me he isn’t dead?”

  “Dead? Dead? Ha, ha!” Arizona threw all the scorn he was capable of into the words, and laughed with funereal gravity. “Say, that’s real good—real good. Him dead? Wal, I guess not. Pshaw! Say, missie, you ain’t ast after my health, an’ I’m guessin’ I oughter be sicker’n him, wi’ that mare o’ his. Say, jest git right ahead an’ fix that bunk fer him, like the daisy gal you are. What about bl—your father, missie?”

  “Never mind father. Come along.”

  The man’s horse-like attempt at lightness had its effect. The girl pulled herself together. She realized the emergency. She knew that Tresler needed her help. Arizona’s manner had only emphasized the gravity of his case.

  She ran on ahead, and the other, bearing the unconscious man, followed.

  “Never mind father,” Arizona muttered doubtfully. “Wal, here goes.” Then he called back to Joe: “Git around that mare an’ sling the saddle on a fresh plug; guess I’ll need it.”

  He passed through the kitchen, and stepping into the hall he was startled by the apparition of the blind man standing in the doorway of his bedroom. He was clad in his customary dressing-gown, and his eyes glowed ruddily in the light of the kitchen lamp.

  “What’s this?” he asked sharply.

  “Tresler’s bin done up,” Arizona replied at once. “Guess the gang got around Willow Bluff—God’s curse light on ’em!”

  “Hah! And where are you taking him?”

  “Up-sta’rs,” was the brief reply. Then the cowpuncher bethought him of his duty to his employer. “Guess the cattle are safe, fer which you ken thank the sheriff’s gang. Miss Dianny’s hustlin’ a bunk fer him,” he added.

  In spite of his usual assurance, Arizona never felt easy with this man. Now the rancher’s manner decidedly thawed.

  “Yes, yes,” he said gently. “Take the poor boy up-stairs. You’d better go for the doctor. You can give me the details afterward.”

  He turned back into his room, and the other passed up the stairs.

  He laid the sick man on the bed, and pointed out to the girl the bandage on his neck, advising, in his practical fashion, its readjustment. Then he went swiftly from the house and rode into Forks for Doc. Osler, the veterinary surgeon, the only available medical man in that part of the country.

  When Diane found herself alone with the man she loved stretched out before her, inert, like one dead, her first inclination was to sit down and weep for him. She could face her own troubles with a certain fortitude, but to see this strong man laid low, perhaps dying, was a different thing, and her womanly weakness was near to overcoming her. But though the unshed tears filled her eyes, her love brought its courage to her aid, and she approached the task Arizona had pointed out.

  With deft fingers she removed the sodden bandage, through which the blood was slowly oozing. The flow, which at once began again, alarmed her, and set her swiftly to work. Now she understood as well as Arizona did what was amiss. She hurried out to her own room, and returned quickly with materials for rebandaging, and her arms full of clothes. Then, with the greatest care, she proceeded to bind up the neck, placing a cork on the artery below the severance. This she strapped down so tightly that, for the time at least, the bleeding was staunched. Her object accomplished, she proceeded to dress herself ready for the doctor’s coming.

  She had taken her place at the bedside, and was meditating on what further could be done for her patient, when an event happened on which she had in nowise reckoned. Somebody was ascending the stair with the shuffling gait of one feeling his way. It was her father. The first time within her memory that he had visited the upper part of the house.

  A look of alarm leapt into her eyes as she gazed at the door, watching for his coming, and she realized only too well the possibilities of the situation. What would he say? What would he do?

  A moment later she was facing him with calm courage. Her fears had been stifled by the knowledge of her lover’s helplessness. One look at his dear, unconscious form had done for her what nothing else could have done. Her filial duty went out like a candle snuffed with wet fingers. There was not even a spark left.

  Julian Marbolt stepped across the threshold, and his head slowly moved round as though to ascertain in what direction his daughter was sitting. The oil-lamp seemed to attract his blind attention, and his eyes fixed themselves upon it; but for a moment only. Then they passed on until they settled on the girl.

  “Where is he?” he asked coldly. “I can hear you breathing. Is he dead?”

  Diane sprang up and bent over her patient. “No,” she said, half fearing that her father’s inquiry was prophetic. “He is unconscious from loss of blood. Arizona——”

  “Tchah! Arizona!—I want to talk to you. Here, give me your hand and lead me to the bedside. I will sit here. This place is unfamiliar.”

  Diane did as she was bid. She was pale. A strained look was in her soft brown eyes, but there was determination in the set of her lips.

  “What is the matter with you, girl?” her father asked. The softness of his speech in no way disguised the iciness of his manner. “You’re shaking.”

  “There’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied pointedly.

  “Ah, thinking of him.” His hand reached out until it rested on one of Tresler’s legs. His remark seemed to requi
re no answer, and a silence fell while Diane watched the eyes so steadily directed upon the sick man. Presently he went on. “These men have done well. They have saved the cattle. Arizona mentioned the sheriff. I don’t know much about it yet, but it seems to me this boy must have contrived their assistance. Smart work, if he did so.”

  “Yes, father, and brave,” added the girl in a low tone.

  His words had raised hope within her. But with his next he dashed it.

  “Brave? It was his duty,” he snapped, resentful immediately. The red eyes were turned upon his daughter, and she fancied she saw something utterly cruel in their painful depths. “You are uncommonly interested,” he went on slowly. “I was warned before that he and you were too thick. I told you of it—cautioned you. Isn’t that sufficient, or have I to——” He left his threat unfinished.

  A color flushed slowly into Diane’s cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

  “No, it isn’t sufficient, father. You have no right to stop me speaking to Mr. Tresler. I have bowed to your decision with regard to the other men on the ranch. There, perhaps, you had a right—a parent’s right. But it is different with Mr. Tresler. He is a gentleman. As for character, you yourself admit it is unimpeachable. Then what right have you to refuse to allow me even speech with him? It is absurd, tyrannical; and I refuse to obey you.”

  The frowning brows drew sharply down over the man’s eyes. And Diane understood the sudden rising of storm behind the mask-like face. She waited with a desperate calmness. It was the moral bravery prompted by her new-born love.

  But the storm held off, controlled by that indomitable will which made Julian Marbolt an object of fear to all who came into contact with him.

  “You are an ungrateful girl, a foolish girl,” he said quietly. “You are ungrateful that you refuse to obey me; and foolish, that you think to marry him.”

  Diane sprang to her feet. “I—how——”

  “Tut! Do not protest. I know you have promised to be his wife. If you denied it you would lie.” He sat for a moment enjoying the girl’s discomfort. Then he went on, with a cruel smile about his lips as she returned to her seat with a movement that was almost a collapse. “That’s better,” he said, following her action by means of his wonderful instinct. “Now let us be sensible—very sensible.”

  His tone had become persuasive, such as might have been used to a child, and the girl wondered what further cruelty it masked. She had not long to wait.

  “You are going to give up this madness,” he said coldly. “You will show yourself amenable to reason—my reason—or I shall enforce my demands in another way.”

  The girl’s exasperation was growing with each moment, but she kept silence, waiting for him to finish.

  “You will never marry this man,” he went on, with quiet emphasis. “Nor any other man while I live. There is no marriage for you, my girl. There can be no marriage for you. And the more ‘unimpeachable’ a man’s character the less the possibility.”

  “I don’t pretend to understand you,” Diane replied, with a coldness equal to her father’s own.

  “No; perhaps you don’t.” The man chuckled fiendishly.

  Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes. She could no longer check them. And with them came the protest that she was also powerless to withhold.

  “Why may I not marry? Why can I not marry? Surely I can claim the right of every woman to marry the man of her choice. I know you have no good will for me, father. Why, I cannot understand. I have always obeyed you; I have ever striven to do my duty. If there has never been any great affection displayed, it is not my fault. For, ever since I can remember, you have done your best to kill the love I would have given you. How have I been ungrateful? What have I to be grateful for? I cannot remember one single kindness you have ever shown me. You have set up a barrier between me and the world outside this ranch. I am a prisoner here. Why? Am I so hateful? Have I no claims on your toleration? Am I not your own flesh and blood?”

  “No!”

  The man’s answer came with staggering force. It was the bursting of the storm of passion, which even his will could no longer restrain. But it was the whole storm, for he went no further. It was Diane who spoke next. Her cheeks had assumed an ashen hue, and her lips trembled so that she could scarcely frame her words.

  “What do you mean?” she gasped.

  “Tut! Your crazy obstinacy drives me to it,” her father answered impatiently, but with perfect control. “Oh, you need have no fear. There is no legal shame to you. But there is that which will hit you harder, I think.”

  “Father! What are you saying?”

  Something of the man’s meaning was growing upon her. Old hints and innuendoes against her mother were recalled by his words. Her throat parched while she watched the relentless face of this man who was still her father.

  “Saying? You know the story of my blindness. You know I spent three years visiting nearly every eye-doctor in Europe. But what you don’t know, and shall know, is that I returned home to Jamaica at the end of that time to find myself the father of a three-days’-old baby girl.” The man’s teeth were clenched, rage and pain distorted his face, rendering his sightless stare a hideous thing. “Yes,” he went on, but now more to himself, “I returned home to that, and in time to hear the last words your mother uttered in life; in time to feel—feel her death-struggles.” He mouthed his words with unmistakable relish, and relapsed into silence.

  Diane fell back with a bitter cry. The cry roused her father.

  “Well?” he continued. “You’ll give this man up—now?”

  For some minutes there was no answer. The girl sat like a statue carved in dead white stone; and the expression of her face was as stony as the mould of her features. Her blood was chilled; her brain refused its office; and her heart—it was as though that fount of life lay crushed within her bosom. Even the man lying sick on the bed beside her had no meaning for her.

  “Well?” her father demanded impatiently. “You are going to give Tresler up now?”

  She heard him this time. With a rush everything came to her, and a feeling of utter helplessness swept over her. Oh, the shame of it! Suddenly she flung forward on the bed and sobbed her heart out beside the man she must give up. He had been the one bright ray in the dull gray of her life. His love, come so quickly, so suddenly, to her had leavened the memory of her unloved years. Their recollection had been thrust into the background to give place to the sunshine of a precious first love. And now it must all go. There was no other course open to her, she told herself; and in this decision was revealed her father’s consummate devilishness. He understood her straightforward pride, if he had no appreciation of it. Then, suddenly, there came a feeling of resentment and hatred for the author of her misfortune, and she sat up with the tears only half dry on her cheeks. Her father’s dead eyes were upon her, and their hateful depths seemed to be searching her. She knew she must submit to his will. He mastered her as he mastered everybody else.

  “It is not what I will,” she said, in a low voice. “I understand; our lives must remain apart.” Then anger brought harshness into her tone. “I would have given him up of my own accord had I known. I could not have thrust the shame of my birth upon him. But you—you have kept this from me all these years, saving it, in your heartless way, for such a moment as this. Why have you told me? Why do you keep me at your side? Oh, I hate you!”

  “Yes, yes, of course you do,” her father said, quite unmoved by her attack. “Now you are tasting something—only something—of the bitterness of my life. And it is good that you should. The parent’s sins—the children. Yes, you certainly can feel——”

  “For heaven’s sake leave me!” the girl broke in, unable to stand the taunting—the hideous enjoyment of the man.

  “Not yet; I haven’t done. This man——” The rancher leant over the bed, and one hand felt its way over Tresler’s body until it rested over his heart. “At one time I was glad he came here. I had reasons. His money was as good
as in my pocket. He would have bought stock from me at a goodish profit. Now I have changed my mind. I would sacrifice that. It would be better perhaps—perhaps. No, he is not dead yet. But he may die, eh, Diane? It would be better were he to die; it would save your explanation to him. Yes, let him die. You are not going to marry him. You would not care to see him marry another, as, of course, he will. Let him die. Love? Love? Why, it would be kindness to yourselves. Yes, let him die.”

  “You—you—wretch!” Diane was on her feet, and her eyes blazed down upon the cruel, working face before her. The cry was literally wrung from her. “And that is the man who was ready to give his life for your interests. That is the man whose cleverness and bravery you even praised. You want me to refuse him the trifling aid I can give him. You are a monster! You have parted us, but it is not sufficient; you want his life.”

  She suddenly bent over and seized her father’s hand, where it rested upon Tresler’s heart, and dragged it away.

  “Take your hand off him; don’t touch him!” she cried in a frenzy. “You are not——”

  But she got no further. The lean, sinewy hand had closed over hers, and held them both as in a vice; and the pressure made her cry out.

  “Listen!” he said fiercely. He, too, was standing now, and his tall figure dwarfed hers. “He is to be moved out of here. I will have Jake to see to it in the morning. And you shall know what it is to thwart me if you dare to interfere.”

  He abruptly released her hands and turned away; but he shot round again as he heard her reply.

  “I shall nurse him,” she said.

  “You will not.”

  The girl laughed hysterically. The scene had been too much for her, and she was on the verge of breaking down.

  “We shall see,” she cried after him, as he passed out of the room.

  The whole ranch was astir when Arizona returned with Doc. Osler. Nor did they come alone. Fyles had met them on the trail. He had just returned from a fruitless pursuit of the raiders. He had personally endeavored to track Red Mask, but the rustler had evaded him in the thick bush that lined the river; and his men had been equally unsuccessful with the rest of the band. The hills had been their goal, and they had made it through the excellence of their horses. Although the pursuers were well mounted their horses were heavier, and lost ground hopelessly in the midst of the broken land of the foot-hills.