The Ranchman Part 37

And then as Carrington felt the distance being shortened-as he felt the presence of the black horse almost at the withers of his own animal-heard the breathing of the big pursuing beast, he knew that he was not to be shot.

Before he could swing his own horse to escape, the big, black horse was beside his own, and one of Taylor's arms shot out, the fingers gripping the collar of the big man's coat. Then with a vicious pull, swinging the black horse wide, Taylor jerked Carrington out of the saddle, so that he fell sidewise into the deep gra.s.s-while the black horse, eager for a run, and not immediately responding to Taylor's pull on the reins, ran some feet before he halted and wheeled.

And when he did finally face toward the spot where the big man had been jerked from the saddle, it was to face a succession of flame-streaks that shot from the spot where Carrington stood trying his best to send into Taylor a bullet that would put an end to the horrible presentiment of death that now filled the big man's heart.

He emptied his pistol and saw the black horse coming steadily toward him, its rider erect in the saddle, seeming not to heed the savagely barking weapon. And when the gun was empty, Carrington threw it from him and began to run. He ran, and with grim mockery, Taylor followed him a little distance-followed him until Carrington, exhausted, his breath coming in great coughing gasps, could run no farther. And then Taylor brought the big black to a halt near him, slid easily out of the saddle, and stepped forward to look into Carrington's face, his own stiff and set, his eyes gleaming with a pa.s.sion that made the other man groan hopelessly.

"Now, you miserable whelp!" said Taylor.

He lunged forward and the bodies of the two men made a swaying blot out of which came the sounds of blows, bitter and savage.

The little broken-nosed man laughed a little in recollection of Carrington's words about Martha. The big man had let him off easily, and he was properly grateful. And yet his grat.i.tude did not prevent him from betraying curiosity; and he watched the front of the house for Carrington's reappearance, wondering what he meant to do with the white girl, now that he had her.

Still watching the front porch, he saw Carrington run for his horse, leap upon it and sink down the side of the slope.

The little man then ran to the front of the house and, concealed among the trees, watched the duel that was waged in the moonlight. He saw Carrington break from the thicket, mount his horse and race out into the plain; he saw Taylor-for he had recognized him-send Spotted Tail after Carrington. But he did not see the finish of the race, nor did he see what followed. But some minutes later he saw a big, black horse tearing toward him from the spot where the race had ended. He muttered gutturally and profanely, leaped on his horse and sent it plunging down the trail toward Dawes, his face ghastly with fear.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV-THE WILL OF THE MOB

Parsons had always been an unemotional man. His own character being immune to the little twinging impulses of humanness that grow to generous and unselfish deeds, he had looked with derision upon all persons who betrayed concern for their fellow-men. And so Parsons had lived apart from his fellows; he had watched them from across the gulf of disinterest, where emotion was foreign.

But tonight Parsons was learning what emotion is. Not from others, but from himself. Emotions-thousands of them seethed in his brain and heart. He was in an advanced state of hysteria when he rode down the Dawes trail with Marion Harlan. For there was the huge, implacable, ruthless, and murderous Carrington, whom he had just pa.s.sed on the trail, to menace his very life-and he knew that just as soon as Carrington returned to the big house and found Marion gone and the guard dead, he would ride back to Dawes, seeking vengeance. And Carrington would know it was Parsons who had robbed him of the girl; for Carrington would inquire, and would discover that he had ridden into town with Marion. And when Parsons and Marion rode into Dawes fear, stark, abject, and naked, was in the man's soul.

Dawes was aflame with light as the two pa.s.sed down the street; and Parsons left the girl to sit on her horse in front of a darkened store, while he rode down the street, peering into other stores, alight and inviting. He hardly knew what he did want. He knew, however, that there was little time, for at any minute now Carrington might come thundering into town on his errand of vengeance; and whatever Parsons did must be done quickly.

He chose the second store he came to. He thought the place was a billiard-room until he entered and stood just inside the door blinking at the lights; and then he knew it was a saloon, for he saw the bar, the back-bar behind it, littered with bottles, and many tables scattered around. More, there were perhaps a hundred men in the place-some of them drinking; and at the sight of them all, realizing the mightiness of their number, Parsons raised his hands aloft and screamed frenziedly:

"Men! There's been a crime committed tonight! At the Huggins house!

Carrington did it! He abducted my niece! I want you men to help me!

Carrington is going to kill me! And I want you to protect my niece!"

For an instant after Parsons' voice died in a breathless gasp, for he blurted his story, the words coming in a stream, with hardly a pause between them; there was an odd, strained silence. Then a man far back in the room guffawed loudly:

"Plumb loco. Too much forty-rod!"

There was a half-hearted gale of laughter at the man's taunt; and then many men were around Parsons, ready to laugh and jeer. And while some of the men peered at Parsons, cynically inspecting him for signs of drunkenness, several others ran to the open door and looked out into the street.

"There's somethin' in his yappin', boys," stated a man who returned from the door; "there's a gal out here, sure enough, setting on a hoss, waitin'."

There was a concerted rush outside to see the girl, and Parsons was shoved and jostled until he, too, was forced to go out. And by the time Parsons reached Marion's side she had been questioned by the men. And wrathful curses arose from the lips of men around her.

"Didn't I know he was that kind of a skunk!" shouted a man near Parsons.

"I knowed it as soon as he beat Taylor out of the election!"

"I'm for stringin' the sc.u.m up!" yelled another man. "This town can git along without guys that go around abductin' wimmen!"

There were still other lurid and threatening comments. And many profane epithets rose, burdened with menace, for Carrington. But the girl, humiliated, weak, and trembling, did not hear all of them. She saw other men emerging from doorways-all of them running toward her to join those who had come out of the saloon. And then she saw a woman coming toward her, the men making a pathway for her-a motherly looking woman who, when she came near the girl, smiled up at her sympathetically and reached up her hands to help the girl out of the saddle.

Marion slipped down, and the woman's arms went around her. And with many grimly pitying glances from the men in the crowd about her, which parted to permit her to pa.s.s, she was led into a private dwelling at a little distance down the street, into a cozy room where there were signs of decency and refinement. The woman placed the girl in a chair, and stood beside her, smoothing her hair and talking to her in low, comforting tones; while outside a clamor rose and a confused mutter of many voices out of which she began to catch sentences, such as:

"Let's fan it to the big house an' git him!"

"There's too many crooks in this town-let's run 'em out!"

"What in h.e.l.l did he come here for?"

"Judge Littlefield is just as bad-he cheated Taylor out of the election!" "That's right," answered another voice. "Taylor's our man!"

"They are all wrought up over this, my dear," said the woman. "For a long time there has been an undercurrent of dissatisfaction over the way they cheated Quinton Taylor out of the mayoralty. I don't think it was a bit fair. And," she continued, "there are other things. They have found out that Carrington is behind a scheme to steal the water rights from the town-something he did to the board of directors of the irrigation company, I believe. And he has had his councilmen pa.s.s laws to widen some streets and open new ones. And the well-informed call it a steal, too. Mr. Norton has stirred up a lot of sentiment against Carrington and Danforth, and all the rest of them. Secretly, that is. And there is that murder charge against Quinton Taylor," went on the woman. "That is preposterous! Taylor was the best friend Larry Harlan ever had!"

But the girl turned her head, and her lips quivered, for the mention of Taylor had brought back to her the poignant sense of loss that she had felt when she had learned of the charge against Taylor. She bowed her head and wept silently, the woman trying again to comfort her, while outside the noise and tumult grew in volume-threatening violence.

By the time Marion Harlan had dropped into the chair in the room of the house into which the woman had taken her, the crowd that had collected in the street was packed and jammed against the buildings on each side of it.

Those who had come late demanded to be told what had happened; and some men lifted Parsons to the back of his horse, and with their hands on his legs, bracing him, Parsons repeated the story of what had occurred.

More-yielding to the frenzy that had now taken possession of his senses, he told of Carrington's plotting against the town; of the man's determination to loot and steal everything he could get his hands on. He told them of his own culpability; he a.s.sured them he had been as guilty as Carrington and Danforth-who was a mere tool, though as unscrupulous as Carrington. He gave them an account of Carrington's stewards.h.i.+p of his own money; and he related the story of Carrington's friends.h.i.+p with the governor, connecting Carrington's trip to the capital with the stealing of the election from Taylor.

It is the psychology of the mob that it responds in some measure to the frenzy of the man who agitates it. So it was with the great crowd that now swarmed the wide street of Dawes. Partisan feeling-all differences of opinion that in other times would have barred concerted action-was swept away by the fervent appeal Parsons made, and by his complete and scathing revelation of the iniquitous scheme to rob the town.

A great sigh arose as Parsons finished and was drawn down, his hat off, his hair ruffled, his eyes gleaming with the strength of the terrible frenzy he was laboring under. The crowd muttered; voices rose sharply; there was an impatient movement; a concerted stiffening of bodies and a long pause, as of preparation.

Aroused, seething with pa.s.sion, with a vindictive desire for action, swift and ruthless, the crowd waited-waited for a leader. And while the pause and the mutterings continued, the leader came.

It was the big, grim-faced Bothwell, at the head of the Arrow outfit.

With his horse in a dead run, the other horses of the outfit crowding him close, Bothwell brought his horse to a sliding halt at the edge of the crowd.

Bothwell's eyes were ablaze with the light of battle; and he stood in his stirrups, looming high above the heads of the men around him, and shouted:

"Where's my boss-Squint Taylor?" And before anyone could answer-"Where's that d.a.m.ned coyote Carrington? Where's Danforth? What's wrong here?"

It was Parsons who answered him. Parsons, again clambering into the saddle from which he had spoken, now shrieking shrilly:

"It's Carrington's work! He abducted Marion Harlan, my niece. He's a scoundrel and a thief, and he is trying to ruin this town!"

There was a short silence as Parsons slid again to the ground, and then the man growled profanely:

"Let's run the whole bunch out of town! Start somethin', Bothwell!"

Bothwell laughed, a booming bellow of grim mirth that stirred the crowd to movement. "We've been startin' somethin'! This outfit is out for a clean-up! There's been too much sneakin' an' murderin'; an' too many fake warrants flyin' around, with a bunch like them Keats guys sent out to kill innocent men. d.a.m.n their hides! Let's get 'em-all of 'em!"

He flung his horse around and leaped it between the other horses of the Arrow outfit, sending it straight to the doors of the city hall. Closing in behind him, the other members of the Arrow outfit followed; and behind them the crowd, now able to center its pa.s.sion upon something definite, rushed forward-a yelling, muttering, turbulent ma.s.s of men intent to destroy the things which the common conscience loathes.