The Ranchman Part 29

"Love isn't silly," he declared. He looked rather fiercely at her. "What kind of a man do you like best?" he demanded.

She blushed. "I like a big man-about as big as you," she said. "A man with fierce eyes that glower at a woman when she talks to him of love-she insisting that she hasn't quite fallen in love-with _him_. I like a man who is jealous of the reputation of the woman he _professes_ to love; a man who is jealous of other men; a man who isn't so very good-looking, but who is a handsome man for all that-because he is so very manly; a man who will fight and risk his life for me."

"Could you name such a man?" he said. There was a scornful gleam in his eyes.

"I am looking at him this minute!" she said.

Grinning, for he knew all along that she had been talking of him, he wheeled quickly and tried to catch her in his arms. But she slipped off the rock and was around on the other side of it, keeping it between them while he tried to catch her. Instinctively he realized that the chase was hopeless, but he persisted.

"I'll never speak to you again if you catch me!" she warned, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

"But you told me--"

"That I liked you," she interrupted. "And liking a man isn't--"

And then she paused and looked down, blus.h.i.+ng, while Taylor, in the act of vaulting over the rock, collapsed and sat on it instead, red of face and embarra.s.sed.

For within a dozen paces of them, and looking rather embarra.s.sed and self-conscious, himself, though with a twinkle in his eyes that made Taylor's cheeks turn redder-was Bud Hemmingway.

"I'm beggin' your pardon," said the puncher; "but I've come to tell you that Neil Norton is here-again. He's been settin' on the porch for an hour or two-he says. But I think he's stretching it. Anyway, he's tired of waitin' for you-he says-an' he's been wonderin' if you was goin' to set on that boulder all day!"

Taylor slipped off the rock and started toward Bud, feigning resentment.

Bud, his face agitated by a broad grin, deliberately winked at Miss Harlan-though he spoke to Taylor.

"I'd be a little careful about how I went to jumpin' off boulders-you might bust your ankle again!"

And then Taylor grinned at Miss Harlan-who pretended a severity she did not feel; while Bud, cackling mirthfully, went toward the ranchhouse.

CHAPTER XXIV-A DEATH WARRANT

Carrington was not a coward; he was not even a cautious man. And the bitter malice that filled his heart, together with riotous impulses that seethed in his brain prompted him to go straight to the Arrow, wreak vengeance upon Taylor and drag Marion Harlan back to the big house he had bought for her.

But a certain memory of Taylor's face when the latter had been pursuing him through the big house; a knowledge of Taylor's ability to inflict punishment, together with a divination that Taylor would not hesitate to kill him should there arise the slightest opportunity-all these considerations served to deter Carrington from undertaking any rash action.

Taylor's opposition to his desires enraged Carrington. He had met and conquered many men-and he had coolly and deliberately robbed many others, himself standing secure and immune behind legal barriers. And he had seen his victims writhe and squirm and struggle in the meshes he had prepared for them. He had heard them rave and wail and threaten; but not one of them had attempted to inflict physical punishment upon him.

Taylor, however, was of the fighting type. On two occasions, now, Carrington had been given convincing proof of the man's ability. And he had seen in Taylor's eyes on the latest occasion the implacable gleam of iron resolution and-when Taylor had gone down, fighting to the last, in the sanguinary battle at the big house, he had not failed to note the indomitability of the man-the tenacious and dogged spirit that knows no defeat-a spirit that would not be denied.

And so, though Carrington's desires would have led him to recklessly carry the fight to the Arrow, certain dragging qualms of reluctance dissuaded him from another meeting with Taylor on equal terms.

And yet the malevolent pa.s.sions that gripped the big man would not tolerate the thought of opposition. Taylor was the only man who stood between him and his desires, and Taylor must be removed.

During the days of Carrington's confinement to his rooms above the Castle-awaiting the slow healing of the wound Taylor had inflicted upon him, and the many bruises that marred his face-mementoes of the terrible punishment Taylor had inflicted upon him-the big man nursed his venomous thoughts and laid plans for revenge upon his enemy.

As soon as he was able to appear in Dawes-to undergo without humiliation the inspection of his face by the citizens of the town-for news of his punishment had been whispered broadcast-he boarded a westbound train.

He got off at Nogel, a little mining town sitting at the base of some foothills in the Sangre de Christo Range, some miles from Dawes.

He spent three days in Nogel, interrogating the resident manager of the "Larry's Luck" mine, talking with miners and storekeepers and quizzing men in saloons-and at the beginning of the fourth day he returned to Dawes.

At about the time Miss Harlan and Taylor were sitting on the rock on the bank of the river near the Arrow, Carrington was in the courthouse at Dawes, leaning over Judge Littlefield's desk. A tall, sleek-looking man of middle age, with a cold, steady eye and a smooth smile, stood near Carrington. The man was neatly attired, and looked like a prosperous mine-owner or operator.

But had the judge looked sharply at his hands when he gripped the one that was held out to him when Carrington introduced the man; or had he been a physiognomist of average ability, he could not have failed to note the smooth softness of the man's hands and the gleam of guile and cunning swimming deep in his eyes.

But the judge noted none of those things. He had caught the man's name-Mint Morton-and instantly afterward all his senses became centered upon what the man was saying.

For the man spoke of conscience-and the judge had one of his own-a guilty one. So he listened attentively while the man talked.

The thing had been bothering the man for some months-or from the time it happened, he said. And he had come to make a confession.

He was a miner, having a claim near Nogel. He knew Quinton Taylor, and he had known Larry Harlan. One morning after leaving his mine on a trip to Nogel for supplies, he had pa.s.sed close to the "Larry's Luck" mine.

Being on good terms with the partners, he had thought of visiting them.

Approaching the mine on foot-having left his horse at a little distance-he heard Taylor and Harlan quarreling. He had no opportunity to interfere, for just as he came upon the men he saw Taylor knock Harlan down with a blow of his fist. And while Harlan lay unconscious on the ground Taylor had struck him on the head with a rock.

Morton had not revealed himself, then, fearing Taylor would attack him.

He had concealed himself, and had seen Taylor, apparently remorseful, trying to revive Harlan. These efforts proving futile, Taylor had rigged up a drag, placed Harlan on it, and had taken him to Nogel. But Harlan died on the way.

To Littlefield's inquiry as to why Morton had not reported the murder instantly, the man replied that, being a friend to Taylor, he had been reluctant to expose him.

After the man concluded his story the judge and Carrington exchanged glances. There was a vindictively triumphant gleam in Littlefield's eyes, for he still remembered the humiliation he had endured at Taylor's hands.

He took Morton's deposition, told him he would send for him, later; and dismissed him. Carrington, appearing to be much astonished over the man's confession, accompanied him to the station, where he watched him board the train that would take him back to Nogel.

And on the platform of one of the coaches, Carrington, grinning wickedly, gave the man a number of yellow-backed treasury notes.

"You think I won't have to come back-to testify against him?" asked the man, smiling coldly.

"Certainly not!" declared Carrington. "You've signed his death warrant this time!"

Carrington watched the train glide westward, and then returned to the courthouse. He found the judge sitting at his desk, gazing meditatively at the floor. For there had been something insincere in Morton's manner-his story of the murder had not been quite convincing-and in spite of his resentment against Taylor the judge did not desire to add anything to the burden already carried by his conscience.

Carrington grinned maliciously as he halted at Littlefield's side and laid a hand on the other's arm.

"We've got him, Littlefield!" he said. "Get busy. Issue a warrant for his arrest. I'll have Danforth send you some men to serve as deputies-twenty of them, if you think it necessary!"

The judge cleared his throat and looked with s.h.i.+fting eyes at the other.

"Look here, Carrington," he said, "I-I have some doubts about the sincerity of that man Morton. I'd like to postpone action in this case until I can make an investigation. It seems to me that-that Taylor, for all his-er-seeming viciousness, is not the kind of man to kill his partner. I'd like to delay just a little, to--"

"And let Taylor get wind of the thing-and escape. Not by a d.a.m.ned sight! One man's word is as good as another's in this country; and it's your duty as a judge of the court, here, to act upon any complaint. You issue the warrant. I'll get Keats to serve it. He'll bring Taylor here, and you can legally examine him. That's merely justice!"

Half an hour later, Carrington was handing the warrant to a big, rough-looking man with an habitual and cruel droop to the corners of his mouth.