Prairie Flowers Part 29

"On Purdy's trail!" Cinnabar fairly shouted the words. "Who's on who's trail? What's all this mixup about? Purdy ain't no horse-thief! He's a wet nurse in a orphan asylum! He's clean lookin' an' wholesome. He wouldn't lie!"

"Purdy!" exclaimed Janet, "have you been talking about Purdy all this time?"

A sudden gleam of comprehension shot from Cinnabar's eyes: "Who did you think I was talkin' about," he grinned, "the Gazookus of Timbucktoo?"

The girl broke into a peal of silvery laughter. A weight seemed suddenly to have been lifted from her heart--a weight that had borne heavier and heavier with the words of Cinnabar Joe. There was a chance that her Texan would prove to be the man she wanted him to be--the man she had pictured him during the long hours of the previous afternoon when alone in the cabin her thoughts had reverted again and again to the parting at the edge of the bad lands--the touch of his hand on her arm, the strong, firm grip of his fingers, and the strange rapturous something that had leaped from his eyes straight into her heart. But, all that was before she had known of--the other woman. The laughter died from her lips, and her eyes narrowed slightly. Cinnabar Joe was speaking:

"An' I suppose you've be'n talkin' about Tex Benton. She told Jennie he was on Purdy's trail."

"How did she know?"

"Search me. Jest naturally know'd that if he wasn't dead, that's what he'd be doin', I guess. How'd Purdy git holt of her, anyway?"

"This woman and Tex were washed ash.o.r.e when the ferry broke its cable, and while Tex was trying to get some horses, Purdy came along and found her."

"Where's the pilgrim?"

Janet shrugged: "Oh, he don't count. He's merely the wronged husband."

Cinnabar looked straight into her eyes: "Know Tex?" he asked, drily.

"I've seen him. He borrowed Blue, and he spent last night at the ranch."

"Well, then, believe me, you've seen some man! An' don't you go makin'

no more mistakes like you jest made. If them two was together they had a right to be. An' they'll come clean with a good reason. They's some things a _man_ won't do--an' runnin' off with another man's wife is one of 'em."

"Do you know him?" There was more than a trace of eagerness in the girl's voice.

"I'll say I know him! An' I'm tellin' it to you, sister, if he's on Purdy's trail, I'd rather be in h.e.l.l with my back broke than be in Purdy's shoes right now."

The girl turned abruptly and walked toward the house, and as Cinnabar followed her with his eyes, he smiled: "If them two could only hit it out--she'd make a fine woman fer him. By Gos.h.!.+ With a woman like that to kind of steady him down, Tex could be a big man in these parts--he's got the guts, an' he's got the aggucation, an' so's she. I mis...o...b.. he'd marry into no sheep outfit though, at that."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE OTHER WOMAN

At the door of the cabin Jennie greeted her caller effusively. Alice Endicott, who had insisted upon dressing, had finished her breakfast and was sitting propped up among the pillows on the bed.

"This is Janet McWhorter, our neighbour," introduced Jennie, taking the girl by the hand and leading her to the side of the bed, "an' this is Mrs.--Mrs.--why, do you know I can't call your married name to save me.

I never seen yer husban'--an' he's always spoke of in these parts as 'the pilgrim.'"

"Endicott," smiled Alice, as her glance noted with swift approval the girl's riding boots, her corduroy skirt, her grey flannel s.h.i.+rt, the scarf of burnt orange, and the roll-brim Stetson--noted, too, the six-gun and the belt of yellow cartridges. Each well-appointed detail bespoke the girl of the open range. But the Eastern woman perceived instantly that the gliding grace of her walk was never acquired in the saddle, nor were the well modulated tones of the full, throaty voice with which she acknowledged the introduction, a product of the cattle range.

"I am very glad to meet you--Mrs. Endicott." Their hands met, and as Alice looked into the girl's eyes, she wondered at the peculiar glance that flashed from their blue-black depths. It was not exactly a glance of hate, but rather of veiled antagonism, of distrust--almost of contempt. Alice's own eyes had been frankly friendly, but as they encountered the look, they fell before the blue-black eyes, and she turned appealingly toward Jennie. But the woman did not notice. She chattered on:

"Ontil yesterday, I ain't seen Mrs. Endicott sence that night, it's a year back, when Tex Benton brung you to the hotel in Wolf River an'

wanted the room--" Janet McWhorter sat down abruptly in a chair beside the table and became suddenly interested in fingering the rims of the cartridges in her belt. Jennie continued: "An' I jest give him a good blessin', 'cause I don't trust no cowpuncher--or didn't then--ontil he explained how it was. An' then he went away, an' Old Bat come an' tuck you off, an' we heard afterwards how you an' Bat, an' the pilgrim an'

Tex hit down through the bad lands an' crossed the river, an' you an'

the pilgrim was married in Timber City----"

Alice gave a little cry: "Oh, and he's there now! Worrying his heart out! He don't know where I am nor what's become of me! Oh, I've got to go to him! I've got to get word to him, somehow!"

Janet McWhorter looked up quickly, the blue-black eyes resting in frank surprise on the woman's face. Her husband! Why should she be so concerned about her husband? Must get back to him! Was she tired of the Texan already? Had her experience with Purdy taken the romance out of the adventure? Or, was the concern a.s.sumed for the benefit of her hearers? No. The girl decided the concern was not a.s.sumed--it was a very real concern--and there were real tears in the woman's eyes.

Jennie sought to soothe her: "There you go again, deary. We'll git you back to him as soon as ever we can. But there ain't no way with the river where it's at. But, tell us how come Purdy to have you tied up, an' what's Tex Benton got to do with it--an' your man in Timber City? I be'n most bustin' to hear about it."

"Oh, it all happened so suddenly--I hardly know myself. It seems like some horrid dream--some fantastic nightmare. We came to Timber City, Win and I, to be there on our anniversary. Win is going to buy a ranch, and while he was talking business I rode out on the trail a little way, and when I returned it was dark, and there was a crowd of men in front of the saloon and they were shooting. And one of them told me there was a man inside--a Texan. Somehow, I just knew it was Tex--our Tex--the one we came to know so well and to love a year ago. So I told them to stop shooting and I would go in and try to straighten things out. Tex had been drinking a little and he was obstinate. He had defied the marshal to arrest him and he absolutely refused to submit to arrest. I don't blame him much. The marshal is a fool and he thought, or pretended to think, that Tex was some terrible desperado, and he intended to hold him in jail indefinitely until he could look up his record.

"Tex managed to get out of the building and he jumped onto a horse and dashed right through the crowd, sending them sprawling in all directions. As he started down the trail they began to shoot at him, and men began to mount horses to ride after him. I knew they would kill him--and what had he done? Nothing! Except shoot a few bottles and things and break some windows--and they would have killed him for that!

"I knew they wouldn't dare shoot me, so before they could get onto their horses, I swung into the trail behind him so they would have to stop shooting. On and on I dashed through the darkness. At first I could hear the sounds of pursuit, yells and curses and shots, but my horse was faster than theirs and the sounds died away. He had almost reached the river when I overtook him. His horse had gone lame and we barely made the ferry-boat ahead of the mob. He tried to send me back as he led his horse onto the ferry--but I knew that the moment he shoved off from sh.o.r.e those fiends would kill him--he wouldn't have had a chance. So before he could prevent me, I followed him onto the boat and cut the rope that held it and we drifted out into the river--but the men on the bank didn't dare to shoot. He would have put back then if he could, but the current was too strong and it carried us farther and farther from sh.o.r.e.

"Then a great tree drifted down against us, and to save the boat from being swamped, Tex seized the ax and hacked the cable in two. The tree hit his head and knocked him senseless for a time. I bandaged it the best I could by the light of the lightning flashes, and we drifted on, fighting the flood and the trees. The boat sprang a leak and we bailed and bailed, and the next thing I knew he was shaking me, and day was just breaking, and we were close to sh.o.r.e. And he tied the rope to the saddle of my horse and made him jump overboard and we followed. That's the last I remember--jumping into the water--until I awoke, it must have been hours later, to find myself tied--and I got loose, and saw Long Bill Kearney beside the river, and I flew back to the horses, and just as I was about to escape, there stood that unspeakable Purdy, grinning at me." Alice paused and pressed her hands to her eyes as if to keep out the sight, "And, oh, the things he told me--the awful things--the threats--the promises--that were worse than the threats. I must have lost consciousness again--for the next thing I remember--I was here in this room, and you were bending over me."

The two listeners had sat spellbound by the narrative and at its conclusion, Janet McWhorter leaned forward and took one of Alice's hands in both of hers. And when Alice looked again into the girl's eyes lifted to her own, she read something akin to adoration in their depths.

The girl's lips moved: "And you did that--risked your life--everything--to save his life--to keep him from being shot!"

"It wasn't anything," protested Alice. "It was the least I could do. He risked his life for ours--Win's and mine--last year--and--why, I love that boy--like a sister. I never had a brother and--I need one."

"And maybe he needs--a sister," murmured Janet softly. And at the words Alice Endicott glanced swiftly into the girl's face, and her eyes glowed suddenly with the light of great understanding. Her own troubles were forgotten, and into her heart welled a mighty gladness. She pressed the hands that held her own.

"Do you know him?" she whispered.

The girl nodded: "Yes--a little. He borrowed one of our horses--and I rode with him when he went back to get you and bring you to the ranch.

And I rode to the edge of the bad lands with him when he took Purdy's trail. And then he sent me back."

"Then, he _is_ safe! Oh, I'm glad--glad! Purdy told me he had drowned, but I didn't believe him. I knew he would come to my rescue." She paused and her face clouded, "but, now, I am safe and he is in danger. Purdy may kill him----"

"Don't you go frettin' about that, deary," broke in Jennie. "If they's any killin' to be done between them two, Tex'll do it. Purdy's a gunman all right, but he'll never git Tex. Tex is the best man--an' Purdy knows it--an' his kind ain't never no good when they're buffaloed."

"But, he might shoot him from ambus.h.!.+"

"He better do it all to one shot, then. 'Cause, believe me, Tex, he'll hit the ground a-shootin'! An' now you two make yerselves to home while I run out an' tell Joe--I'm just a-bustin' to tell him an' he'll want to know."

As the woman hurried toward the stable, Alice patted the girl's hands.

"He's splendid," she whispered, "splendid!" Janet's eyes did not meet hers, and she continued, softly: "He's just a boy--impulsive, lovable.

And yet, at times he's so very much a man. And there doesn't seem to be anything he can't do. Always, no matter what the emergency, he does the right thing at the right time. And he has another side--once when I ventured to say that Corot would have loved to paint a certain sunset we were watching, he quietly informed me that Corot could not have painted it--could not have got into the feel of it--and I knew that he was right."

"He gets drunk," said the girl, without raising her eyes, "I could hate a man that gets drunk."

"I didn't say he is a saint. But I happen to know that when he makes up his mind not to drink, no power on earth can make him take even a single drink."

"He wouldn't drink at the ranch--I offered him a drink because I thought he needed one--and he did--but he refused it."