Langford of the Three Bars Part 27

"I don't like to kill people," she said, brokenly. "Why do I always have to do it?"

He drew her to him strongly and held her close against his breast.

"You are the bravest and best girl on earth," he said. "My girl,-you are my girl, you know,-hereafter I will do all necessary killing for-my wife."

He kissed the sweet, quivering lips as he said it.

Some one came running up the stairs, and stopped suddenly in front of the two in the pa.s.sage.

"Why, Jim!" cried Langford in surprise. "I thought you had gone with the stretcher."

"I did go," said Jim, swallowing hard. He s.h.i.+fted nervously from one spurred foot to the other. "But I came back."

He looked at Langford beseechingly.

"Boss, I want to see you a minute, ef-Mary don't mind."

"I will come with you, Jim, now," said Langford with quick apprehension.

"Mary,"-Jim turned away and stared unseeingly down the staircase,-"go back to your room for a little while. I will call for you soon. Keep up your courage."

"Wait," said Mary, quietly. There were unsounded depths of despair in her voice, though it was so clear and low. "There was another shot. I remember now. Jim, tell me!"

Jim turned. The rough cowboy's eyes were wet-for the first time in many a year.

"They-hope he won't die, Mary, girl. Your father's shot bad, but he ain't dead. We think Black did it after he run from Gordon's office. We found him on the corner."

Langford squared his broad shoulders-then put strong, protecting arms around Mary. Now was he her all.

"Come, my darling, we will go to him together."

She pushed him from her violently.

"I will go alone. Why should you come? He is mine. He is all I have-there is no one else. Why don't you go? You are big and strong-can't you make that man suffer for my father's murder? Jim, take me to him."

She seized the cowboy's arm, and they went out together, and on down the stairs.

Langford stood still a moment, following them with his eyes. His face was white. He bent his head. Jim, looking back, saw him thus, the dull light from the hall-lamp falling upon the bent head and the yellow hair.

When Langford raised his head, his face, though yet white, bore an expression of concentrated determination.

He, too, strode quickly down the stairs.

CHAPTER XXII

THE OUTLAW'S LAST STAND

In the morning the sheriff went to the island. He reported the place deserted. He made many other trips. Sometimes he took a deputy with him; more often he rode unaccompanied. Richard Gordon lay helpless in a burning fever, with Paul Langford in constant and untiring attendance upon him. George Williston was a sadly shattered man.

"I met Black on the corner west of Gordon's office," he explained, when he could talk. "I had not been able to sleep, and had been walking to tire my nerves into quiet. I was coming back to the hotel when I heard Black's shot and then Mary's. I ran forward and met Black on the corner, running. He stopped, cried out, 'You, too, d.a.m.n you,' and that's the last I knew until the boys picked me up."

These were the most interested-Langford, Gordon, Williston. Had they been in the count, things might have been different. It is very probable a posse would have been formed for immediate pursuit. But others must do what had been better done had it not been for those shots in the dark.

There was blood outside Gordon's window; yet Black had not crawled home to die. He had not gone home at all,-at least, that is what the sheriff said. No one had seen the convicted man after his desperate and spectacular exit from the courtroom-no one at least but Louise, Mary, and her father. Mary's shot had not killed him, but it had saved Richard Gordon's life, which was a far better thing. It was impossible to track him out of town, for the cattle had trampled the snow in every direction.

The authorities could gather no outside information. The outlying claims and ranches refuted indignantly any hint of their having given aid or shelter to the fugitive, or of having any cognizance whatsoever regarding his possible whereabouts. So the pursuit, at first hot and excited, gradually wearied of following false leads,-contented itself with desultory journeys when prodded thereto by the compelling power of public opinion,-finally ceased altogether even as a pretence.

One of the first things done following the dramatic day in court had been to send the officers out to the little shanty in the valley where the half-breed lay dead across the threshold. A watch was also set upon this place; but no one ever came there.

August had come again, and Judge Dale was in Kemah to hear a court case.

Langford had ridden in from the ranch on purpose to see Judge Dale. His clothes were spattered with mud. There had been a succession of storms, lasting for several days; last night a cloud had burst out west somewhere. All the creeks were swollen.

"Judge, I believe Jesse Black has been on that island of his all the time."

"What makes you think so, Langford?"

"Because our sheriff is four-flus.h.i.+ng-he always was in sympathy with the gang, you know. Besides, where else can Black be?"

Dale puckered his lips thoughtfully.

"What have you heard?" he asked.

"Rumors are getting pretty thick that he has been seen in that neighborhood on several occasions. It is my honest belief he has never left it."

"What did you think of doing about it, Langford?"

"I want you to give me a bench warrant, Judge. I am confident that I can get him. It is the shame of the county that he is still at large."

"You have to deal with one of the worst and most desperate outlaws in the United States. You must know it will be a very hazardous undertaking, granting your surmises to be correct, and fraught with grave peril for some one."

"I understand that fully."

"This duty is another's, not yours."

"But that other is incompetent."

"My dear fellow," said the Judge, rising and laying his hand on Langford's big shoulder, "do you really want to undertake this?"

"I certainly do."

"Then I will give you the warrant, gladly. You are the one man in the State to do it-unless I except the gallant little deputy marshal. You know the danger. I admire your grit, my boy. Get him if you can; but take care of yourself. Your life is worth so much more than his. Who will you take with you?"

"Munson, of course. He will go in spite of the devil, and he's the best man I know for anything like this. Then I thought of taking the deputy sheriff. He's been true blue all along, and has done the very best possible under the conditions."

"Very good. Take Johnson, too. He'll be glad to go. He's the pluckiest little fighter in the world,-not a cowardly hair in his head."