Chapter III: Part 3

The last quarter of a mile he rode in a whirl of dust while the thunder jarred the world about him; but he was storm-proof. He dismounted near the door, and his horse immediately moved into the shelter of the cabin wall.

The door was not barred; so Roper Bates surged inside and shut the door behind him. The cabin was lighted with a single lantern, which swayed from a rafter, and it took him several moments to get his dust-filled eyes accustomed to the dim light.

The pretty woman was sitting on the edge of the built-in bunk, staring at him. There was some one in the bunk, who moved restlessly and coughed dryly.

“What do you want here?” asked the woman hoarsely.

“Me?”

Roper Bates wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He did not know what to say just then. From overhead came a crashing snap of thunder, and the woman seemed to crouch lower on the bunk. Successive flashes of lightning made the room bright with a white glare.

Roper moved in a little closer and stared at the man in the bunk. He could see the man’s face now; it was very pale.

“What’sa matter—sick?” asked Roper thickly.

The woman nodded dumbly, and turned to put her hand on the sick man’s forehead. She turned back and repeated her question—

“What do you want here?”

“I—dunno.”

Roper Bates really did not know. Somehow he seemed to forget just why he had come there.

“Been sick long?”

Roper jerked his head toward the sick man.

“Three days and nights,” nodded the woman. “I haven’t had any sleep, and no one comes here.”

“Three days and nights,” parroted Roper. “You been settin’ there all that time?”

“I haven’t slept,” she corrected him wearily.

“Nobody to help yuh?”

Roper shook his head, as if answering his own question.

“Nobody? For ——’s sake!”

He moved in close to the side of the bed and looked down at Kirk.

“He’s the sheep-herder, ain’t he?”

“Yes—and my husband,” defiantly.

“Uh-huh—your husband,” agreed Roper thoughtfully. “A sheep-herder for a husband.”

Mrs. Kirk got up from the bunk and faced Roper Bates.

“What difference does that make?” she demanded. “We took this job together. If he’s a sheep-herder, so am I. No matter if he does herd sheep—he’s as good as you are.”

“Good as I am,” parroted Roper thoughtfully.

“He had to live in the hills, and there was nothing else for him to do. We had to live.”

“Had to,” agreed Roper slowly.

“And he’s my husband,” repeated Mrs. Kirk, very near to the verge of a breakdown, “and I love him more than anything in the world.”

Roper peered closely at her and looked at the man in the bunk.

“More ’n anythin’—in—the—world! Well, I’ll be eternally ——!” blurted Roper.

It was beyond his comprehension; yet he could get a glimmering of the idea.

“And nobody ever comes here,” said Mrs. Kirk bitterly. “They hate a sheep-herder so much that nobody cares what becomes of us.”

“Ain’t it ——?” agreed Roper. “Now, ain’t it, though?”

The little cabin shook in the heavy wind, and the rain beat in through the walls and the patched window-panes.

“Stormin’ outside,” observed Roper vacantly, and grinned at his own wit as he added, “and some of it’s comin’ in out of the wet.”

Suddenly he turned to Mrs. Kirk.

“You ain’t scared of me, are yuh?”

“No, I am not afraid of you. Why should I be?”

Roper did not say, but studied the face of the sick man for a while before he looked up at Mrs. Kirk.

“Yuh say yuh love him—more ’n—anythin’—even if he is a sheep-herder?”

“God knows I do. Why do you ask me that question?”

“And yuh ain’t afraid of me?”

“Not one bit,” declared Mrs. Kirk. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Stay and help yuh all I can, ma’am. I ain’t one of them lousy persons which looks down upon a sheep-herder. I reckon yore husband is quite some top-hand, when he’s up and doin’ his stuff.”

“Jim is my pal.”

“Whatcha know?” grunted Roper. “Whatcha know? Ma’am, you lay down and take a nap, and I’ll take care of him.”

There was one home-made rocking-chair in the room, and Mrs. Kirk sat down in it.

“I can not sleep, but it is a godsend to have some one here to talk with,” she said wearily.

“Yes’m,” nodded Roper slowly. “Nobody ever called me that name before, but it’s all right, I reckon.”

He slowly rolled a cigaret, and as he drew his lips across the edge of the paper he glanced at Mrs. Kirk. She had fallen asleep, with her head pillowed in her arm.

For a long time Roper stared at the floor, with the unlighted cigaret between his lips. He was trying to solve a problem which has never been answered; nor will it ever be, “Why does this woman love this man?”

Roper studied the face of the sick man. Kirk was a very ordinary-looking man. He was not big. Roper shook his head. It was a problem far beyond his ken.

He sifted the tobacco out of his cigaret paper and humped over with his chin in his hands. He had come there to take that woman away from her undeserving husband; and here he was, acting as nurse to that very husband.

For the better part of an hour he sat there like a statue, thinking of things that had never entered his head before. He did not want that woman now, and he wondered why he had ever wanted her. Where did he ever get the idea of taking her away from her husband?

Suddenly he heard the thudding of horses’ hoofs as a body of horsemen drew rein at the doorway. A man’s voice cursed openly—

“Git out of this, you —— sheep-herders!”

The voice aroused Mrs. Kirk, and she sat up, staring around. Somebody stumbled over the step and grasped the door. Roper Bates knew what it meant. The cattlemen had come to clean up the sheep-camps.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and three men filled the doorway. Quick as a flash Roper Bates threw up his six-shooter and fired at the lead man, who had a Winchester rifle leveled from his shoulder.

The man seemed to spin on his heel, and the rifle discharged into the ceiling, while the other men shot back with him as they jerked him out of the doorway. The door swung shut behind them, and Roper Bates’ last shot splintered the edge of it as it closed.

The room was full of powder-smoke. Mrs. Kirk had darted to the bunk as if to try to protect her husband, while Roper Bates was half-kneeling in the middle of the room, stuffing cartridges into his six-shooter.

“Got me in the leg,” he grunted; “but I made ’em pay for comin’ in without knockin’.”

He got carefully to his feet, yanked a blanket off the bed and managed to stumble over to the window, where he flung the blanket across the rough frame, cutting out the view from outside.

A bullet flicked in through the window and tore a slash in the blanket, but the latter remained in place. Roper was hopping on one foot along the wall, getting close to the door, when a man called from without—

“—— you, we’re comin’ after yuh!”

“Come on!” challenged Roper. “Open that door and grab a harp.”

Several bullets splintered through the door following his defiance, and one of them bit deeply into Roper’s ribs. He swayed closer to the door, but did not waste lead in reply.

Mrs. Kirk saw that Roper had been hit hard and started toward him, but he waved her back.

“Oh, why don’t you let them in?” she begged. “They will not hurt you. Why do you fight for us?”

“This ain’t no job for a woman and a sick man,” he stated hoarsely, “and it’s ’bout all I’m good fer.”

“Why did we ever come here?” said Mrs. Kirk weakly.

Roper turned his white face toward her and shook his head.

“Ma’am, I’ve asked m’self that same question. Down in Indiany, they farm with a plow instead of a six-gun. But I never left there of my own accord. I was only three year old, and m’ folks kinda hoodled me along with them.”

Roper was deadly serious. He was bleeding badly and barely able to brace himself against the log wall.

“If you don’t come out of there you’ll wish to —— yuh had!” yelled a voice.

“And if you come in here you’ll wish t’ —— yuh hadn’t,” answered Roper.

Another bullet splintered the door near the latch and thudded harmlessly into the wall.

From without came the sound of earnest conversation, and a voice called again.

“We’re goin’ to stampede your sheep, and if you ain’t out of there when we come back we’ll dynamite your shack.”

There came the sound of horses speeding away over the wet ground. Roper walked dizzily back to the table, where he sat down heavily in the rocking-chair.

“We must get out of here.”

Mrs. Kirk was nervously looking around the room, as if debating just what to save from the promised dynamiting.

“Tha’s all right,” grunted Roper dazedly. “Don’tcha worry. Them jaspers ain’t got no dynamite; but I’m bettin’ they’ve got some respect for a sheep-herder now.”

“But we must get to a doctor—for—you.”

“Never mind me, ma’am. Ain’t nobody worryin’ about me. I’m jist Roper Bates, cowpuncher. Got a hole in m’ leg and one in m’ bellows, but I’m feelin’ fine, y’ betcha—betcha.”

Roper Bates sank lower in his chair, and the heavy six-shooter fell to the floor.

* * * * *

It was a sadly bedraggled party which picked its way through the dark. There were no lights to guide them, no trail nor road. Skeeter Bill, under the double burden of Kales and Freel, traveled by instinct. Kales babbled meanngless things and wanted to lie down, but Skeeter doled out bad whisky to him and steadied him on one side, while Mrs. Porter guided him from the opposite side.

Through mesquite and sage they blundered along, sliding into washouts partly filled with muddy water, falling over rocks, crashing into brier patches, where the women left sections of their clothes.

As in a dream Mary Leeds followed. She had no sense of direction, and her feet had long since lost any sense of feeling. She was reduced to a mere dumb creature, following the man she loved. Ahead of her he struggled; a huge, queer-shaped hulk, uncomplaining, patient.

“Ain’t you tired, Skeeter Bill?” asked Mrs. Porter.

“Years and years ago,” laughed Skeeter; “but I’m sure paralyzed now. Mr. Kales, I wish you’d watch where yo’re puttin’ yore feet. I don’t mind walkin’ on m’ feet, but I hate like —— t’ have you doin’ it.”

From afar came the sound of firing as the Tin Cup gang rounded up and stampeded the sheep. Skeeter stopped and listened for a moment and hurried on.

“I’m scared,” admitted Skeeter. “Scared that somethin’ is happenin’ to the pals.”

“Who are the pals?” panted Mrs. Porter.

“Man and his wife. He’s sick and she’s stickin’ to him. Sheep-herder.”

Skeeter shifted his burden slightly.

“They ain’t jist husband and wife—they’re pals—bunkies,” he went on. “_Sabe_ what I mean, Mrs. Porter?”

“I think so, Skeeter Bill.”

“Dangdest thing I ever seen,” said Skeeter. “Kinda gives a feller a new idea of a wife. ’F a feller had a wife that was a pal t’ him— Say, by cripes, we found the shack!”

Just beyond them loomed the outlines of the little sheep cabin, but without a light showing.

“Lemme do the talkin’,” said Skeeter. “It ain’t safe to be a stranger around here.”

Skeeter went close to the door and called: “Mrs. Kirk! Yoohoo! Mrs. Kirk!”

For several moments there was silence, and then—

“Who is it?”

Mrs. Kirk’s voice sounded very weak.

“Skeeter Bill Sarg, who went after groceries.”

The splintered door creaked, and a faint light came from the interior.

“Why, I—I—” stammered Mrs. Kirk, astonished beyond measure to hear his voice.

She stepped aside and stared white-faced at Skeeter and his burden and at the others with him. Skeeter stared at Roper Bates, asprawl in the chair, and at the form under the blankets on the bed.

He lowered Freel to the floor and propped Kales up between the table and the wall. Mary Leeds and Mrs. Porter were staring at Mrs. Kirk while Skeeter Bill chafed his benumbed arms and neck and haltingly introduced them.

“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Skeeter, pointing at Roper Bates.

Haltingly Mrs. Kirk told of what had happened a short time before, while Roper Bates roused up sufficiently to look around dazedly. He looked from Mrs. Kirk to Skeeter Bill and nodded weakly.

“Pals,” he whispered. “Him—and—her.”

“Y’betcha, pardner,” nodded Skeeter, and walked over to the bunk, where he looked down at Kirk.

Bill went back to Freel and examined him. The sheriff was still alive, but unconscious. Kales was still mumbling incoherent things, but was too weak to do more than hold up his head.

“Kirk’s better off here than anywhere else,” stated Skeeter Bill; “but I’ve gotta git the rest of the cripples to a doctor pretty danged quick. Yuh still got the old horse and the wagon, Mrs. Kirk?”

Mrs. Kirk nodded, and Skeeter turned to Mrs. Porter.

“You keep house here while I hitch up.”

“But you can’t go back to town,” declared Mrs. Porter. “They’ll——”

“I betcha they will,” smiled Skeeter; “but it’s a case of three t’ one. ’F I don’t hand these three men over to a doctor they’ll all die.”

Skeeter patted Mrs. Porter on the shoulder as he started for the door.

“Mebbe they’ll only send me to the penitentiary, yuh see.”

It was only a few minutes’ work for Skeeter to hitch up the old horse and drive up to the door. He carried the three men out of the house and placed them in the wagon-box on an old quilt.

“You and Mary stay here with Mrs. Kirk,” said Skeeter to Mrs. Porter. “I’ll see that somebody comes after yuh in the mornin’.”

He turned to Mrs. Kirk and held out his hand.

“If I don’t see yuh ag’in—good luck to you and yore pal.”

“Well, we’ll sure see yuh, won’t we?” queried Mrs. Porter quickly.

“I shore hope so, but yuh can’t sometimes always tell. Mebbe I better tell you folks good-by, too.”

“Aw, ——!” blurted Mrs. Porter inelegantly and turned back into the shack, while Mary Leeds came slowly up to Skeeter and took hold of his sleeve.

“Skeeter Bill, can’t I go with you?”

“I— Mebbe yuh better not,” softly. “She’s a rough old road, and yuh can’t tell what might——”

“Does a pal mind rough old roads, Skeeter Bill?”

Mary was looking up into his face, a world of yearning in her eyes. Skeeter’s hand came up and touched her drenched, wind-blown hair for a moment, and he shook his head.

“There are no rough roads to a pal,” said Mary; and without a word Skeeter Bill helped her on to the rickety seat.

* * * * *

Crescent City was greatly excited over the events of the evening. The storm had taken a great toll in property, and the town was filled with ranchers whose places had been flooded in the big cloud-burst.

The train had backed into town, bringing two badly wounded men and a tale of a narrow escape from going into the river and of a mysterious hold-up, in which the sheriff and his prisoner had perished in the river. And to cap it all, a wounded sheepherder had ridden into town and told of a gang of raiders who had destroyed his camp and herd.

Jimmy Longhair and Bennie Harper, the two men who had been shot by the sheriff, were stretched out in the Moon River saloon and gambling-house while a doctor worked over them. The place was filled with hard-faced cattlemen who argued and declared pro and con.

Among those present were Bowen, Van Cleve and Orson. Swede Sorenson was still in San Gregario Cañon, unable to cross the river back to the Lazy H, and not knowing what had happened to their well-laid plans.

None of the three had been hurt in the skirmish with the Tin Cup gang, and had walked back to Crescent City. None of them had the slightest idea where Kales was; but they were under the impression that Kales had been shot. They did not know whether to stay in town or to make a getaway while the going was good.

Judge Grayson, who had been summoned, was greatly affected over the news of Freel’s death. He tried to get some kind of a statement from Longhair or Harper, but both of them refused to talk. They were both from the Tin Cup ranch, but they would say nothing to implicate any more of their outfit.

The train crew were in the saloon, adding their voices to the general hum of conversation. It had been a narrow escape for them, and they were willing to admit that they were very fortunate to be alive.

“I heard that torpedo,” stated the engineer, a grizzled old veteran, “and I hossed over the old Johnson-bar. The wind usually blows away the sand, but I guess the Lord was with us this time, ’cause it stayed on the rail. We sure upset folks a-plenty, but stopped with the pilot hangin’ out over the water. Wouldn’t have been a chance in the world except for that torpedo.”

“Who placed the torpedo?” queried the judge. “And what do you mean by a torpedo?”

“It’s a little metal case which is fastened to the rail,” explained the engineer. “It’s flat on each end and high in the center, with lead straps to clamp onto the rail. When the engine wheel hits it, the thing pops loud. Two of ’em is a slow-signal, ordering you to go cautious, but when only one pops, you better stop quick.”

“I understand,” nodded the judge. “But who placed that one on the rail?”

No one seemed to know.

“I don’t know who put it there—” the engineer shook his head—“but I do know that he saved a lot of us this night.”

“Amen to that,” agreed the judge.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the door, excited voices, the scrape of footsteps; and in came Skeeter Bill, carrying the sheriff in his arms. The crowd parted and let him through. He placed the sheriff on the floor, turned and went back out of the door, while men crowded around and looked down at Freel, who was still alive.

Before any one had time to call the doctor from his labors with the other two men Skeeter came back in with Kales. He placed him with Freel and went back without a word.

“My God!” exclaimed the judge piously. “What next?”

Back came Skeeter Bill again. This time he was carrying Roper Bates, and following him was Mary Leeds. Skeeter placed Roper on the floor and stood aside as the doctor came bustling through the crowd, answering some one’s hail.

Men looked queerly at Skeeter, but no one made any move to interfere with his freedom. Swiftly the doctor worked in his examination. Bowen, Orson and Van Cleve moved close together and watched closely, hoping against hope that Kales had not, and would not, tell what he knew.

“Any chance for them, doctor?” asked the judge.

“Yes, I think so. Freel is badly hurt, but is suffering mostly from loss of blood. This other man—” indicating Bates—“has been hit twice, but I think he will recover. This third man has a nasty hole in his shoulder, and he appears to have lost nearly all the fingers on his right hand. Perhaps his pistol exploded. Who is he?”

“Name’s Kales,” said a bystander. “Hired gunman.”

Kales stirred and opened his eyes, looking curiously up at the circle of faces.

“Did it stop?” he whispered weakly. “The train?”

“It stopped in time,” said the judge.

“Dropped—my—gun.”

Kales spaced his words widely, and frowned heavily as if in deep thought.

“I knowed that it took one torpedo to stop the train.”

He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Women and children—men—the—bridge—gone. No—gun—so—I——”

Kales tried to smile but only succeeded in contorting his homely face.

“The wind was too strong—blew—the—cartridge—off—the—rail—so—I——”

He licked his lips and tried to lift his injured hand, but the effort was too great. “I—I held it on the rail.”

“God!” cried the engineer wonderingly. “He lost his hand from holding a cartridge on the track.”

“A hired gunman,” said Skeeter Bill softly. “A paid killer.”

“Where did Roper Bates come in on this?” demanded a bearded cow-man.

Roper Bates was trying to sit up, and one of the crowd assisted him while another gave him a drink of liquor.

More men were coming into the door, clumping heavily in their wet boots. They shoved to the front—the Tin Cup outfit, with Monk Clark at their head. He looked at Skeeter Bill and blinked his eyes rapidly. It was like looking at a ghost. His eyes switched to the three men on the floor, and Roper Bates was looking up at him.

Clark’s men had halted behind him. One of them pointed at Skeeter and said:

“There’s the —— murderin’ sheeperder, Monk! He didn’t drown.”

Mary Leeds moved in closer to Skeeter, and he put an arm around her.

“Murderin’ ——!” gasped Roper Bates. “He only killed a man, Monk. You and your gang tried to kill a woman. If I hadn’t been there you’d ’a’ done it, too.”

The man who had given Roper Bates the drink was forcing a drink between Freel’s lips, and Freel choked over the fiery liquor. The man lifted Freel’s head a little higher, and Freel’s eyes slowly opened.

For a full minute he studied the crowd, and his eyes shifted to Skeeter Bill.

“What—happened?” he muttered. “They—shot——”

“I jumped into the river with yuh,” smiled Skeeter, “and then I packed yuh plumb over to the sheep-herder’s shack and then brought yuh here.”

Freel digested this as he studied Skeeter closely.

“You unlocked the handcuffs—when?”

“After I got yuh out of the river.”

“And—you—stayed?”

Skeeter’s mind flashed back to the bank of the river, in the drenching storm and darkness, when he started to toss the sheriff back into the flood.

“Yeah,” said Skeeter slowly. “I stayed.”

“You—had—your—chance,” said Freel painfully.

“I know I did.”

Skeeter’s voice held no regrets.

“I could ’a’ got away, Freel.” he went on. “But you wasn’t to blame for what was bein’ done t’ me. You was only doin’ your duty.”

Freel motioned for another drink, and the man gave him a generous portion.

“Duty!”

Freel’s voice was so low that the crowd shifted in closer to hear what he was saying.

“I was doin’ my duty, Sarg? No, I wasn’t. I was glad the judge gave you life, instead of the rope. I’ll tell you why.”

Freel’s eyes shifted around the crowd, and he nodded.

“Remember the day Cleve Hart was killed? I got shot that day—just a scratch. I was in that sheep-herder’s cabin when Cleve Hart came. He—they told me he had said things about the woman who lived there.

“I picked up the shotgun and came out. Maybe he didn’t recognize me, but he shot. I killed him and rode away.”

“You killed him!” exclaimed the judge. “You?”

“Me,” admitted the sheriff. “I—got—scared—afterwards. I’m—a—coward, judge.”

Men looked at each other in amazement, and many of them looked at Skeeter Bill, who had his arms around Mary Leeds and was staring into space.

“Judge,” called Freel softly. “Listen to me, judge. Will you find McClelland? I think he’s in Cinnibar now. Tell him I said to take these —— sheep out of the valley of Moon River right away.”

“Why, how can you order them out?” asked the judge.

“They—belong—to—me, judge. I—I—didn’t—know—they’d—start—so—much—trouble.”

Skeeter Bill moved slowly toward the door with his arm around Mary Leeds, and the Tin Cup gang, yet to pay for their misdeeds, removed their hats as the lanky cowpuncher and the girl went past, paying no heed to any one.

Outside, they climbed on to the rickety seat, turned the old gray horse around and started back toward the sheep-camp. The old wagon creaked in every joint, protesting against such continuous service; and the old gray horse shuffled along over the wet, misty road, taking its own gait, while two figures sat very close together on the lop-sided seat—two pals who found each other in the storm.

THE END

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1922 issue of Adventure magazine.]