The Trail Horde, Charles Alden Seltzer [read out loud books .txt] 📗

to the table and stood beside it, his back to the fire, smiling ironically.

He heard no further sound, and he supposed the men had gone to the dugout to turn their horses into its shelter before again trying the door.

He was in a grimly humorous mood now, and he stooped, blew out the light and stepped toward the door, standing back of it, where it would swing against him when the men opened it.

He loosened the fastenings, stealthily. He wanted them to come in and find the two fence cutters there.

He stood for a long time at the door, listening, waiting. No sound reached his ears, and he scowled, puzzled. Then, above the wailing voice of the storm, came the shrill, piercing neigh of a horse.

Several times in his life had Lawler heard that sound—once when a cow-pony which had been bogged down in quicksand had neighed when he had been drawn under; and again when a horse which he had been riding had stepped into a gopher hole and had broken a leg. He had been forced to shoot the animal, for which he had formed a sincere attachment; and it had seemed to him that when he drew the pistol the horse knew what impended—for its shrill neigh had been almost human in its terrible appeal.

It was such a sound that now reached his ears above the roar of the storm.

Davies and Harris were in trouble.

With a bound Lawler tore the door open and stood, leaning against the terrific wind, trying to peer out into the white smother that shrieked around him. When he made out the outlines of a horse not more than half a dozen feet from the open doorway—the animal so encrusted with snow that he looked like a pallid ghost—and a shapeless bundle on his back that seemingly was ready to pitch into a huge drift that had formed in front of the cabin—he leaped outward, a groan of sympathy breaking from him.

In an instant he was inside again, carrying the shapeless bundle, his lips stiff and white as he peered close at it as he tenderly laid it on the floor of the cabin.

With swift movements he lighted the lamp again, and then returning to the bundle, leaned over it, pulling away a scarf that covered its head and disclosing a white, drawn face—the face of the woman he had met, in Willets, at the foot of the stairs leading to Gary Warden's office!

Lawler wheeled swiftly, leaping to first one and then to the other of the bunks where the fence cutters lay, tearing the ropes from them.

The tall man tumbled out first, urged by what he had seen and by the low tense voice of his captor. He seized a tin pan and dove out of the open doorway, returning instantly, the pan heaped high with snow. The other man, following the first quickly, dove through the snow drifts to the dugout where he fumbled in the slicker on Lawler's saddle until he found a flask.

By the time the little man returned the woman was in one of the lower bunks. A pair of bare feet, small and shapely, were sticking out over the edge of the bunk, and the tall fence cutter was vigorously rubbing snow upon them. A pair of small, high-top riding boots of soft, pliable leather, was lying beside the bunk near some pitiably thin stockings.

At the other end of the bunk Lawler was bathing, with ineffable tenderness and care, a face that had been swathed in the scarf he had previously removed. The long, glistening, black hair had been brushed back from its owner's forehead by Lawler; and a corner of a blanket had been modestly folded over a patch of white breast, exposed when Lawler had ruthlessly torn away the flimsy, fluffy waist.

"It was the scarf that saved her face," said Lawler, after he had worked over the unconscious form for a quarter of an hour. The face was flushed, now—which was a good sign; and the feet and ankles were beginning to show signs of restored circulation also—though more reluctantly.

"How she ever got through it I'm not pretending to say," declared Lawler, grimly. "But she did it, and the frost didn't get her, much. She'll be fresh as a daisy in a couple of hours."

The tall man—Link—had ceased his labors with the woman, and was standing near Lawler. He grinned at Lawler's words.

His face was flushed, his eyes were glowing with passion as he watched the inert form on the bunk.

"She's a peach," he said, thickly. Lawler was not looking at him; he was giving all his attention to the woman.

"Della Wharton," continued Link. "I've seen her at the Two Diamond—runnin' around with Warden. Warden's took a shine to her. Don't blame him." He muttered something else that Lawler did not hear, for Lawler was paying no attention to him.

Lawler held the flask to the woman's half-open mouth, and smiled when several drops of the strong spirits trickled over her tongue. Then he walked to the wood pile and replenished the fire. Returning, he saw Link standing close to the bunk, smiling bestially at the upturned face. When Lawler caught sight of him he was fingering the disordered hair, lifting it and letting it filter through his fingers.

Without a word, Lawler leaped and struck with bitter malignance. Not a sound escaped Link as he fell. Lawler lifted him bodily, threw him upon the pile of wood in the corner, where he lay huddled up, unconscious.

Wheeling swiftly, his eyes ablaze with the terrible passion that had seized him, Lawler faced the bunk. The woman's head was moving slowly from side to side, as though she were making an effort to lift it; her eyelids were fluttering, and her hands were straying over the bedclothing, the fingers closing and unclosing.

Lawler made a horrible grimace at Givens.

"Get out of here, damn you!" he said. "Go out and take care of her horse—anything! If you are in here when she wakes up, I'll kill you! And take that other skunk out of here, too—take him to the dugout, and don't come back here for an hour!"

He watched impatiently while Givens seized his companion and dragged him outside. Then Lawler fastened the door, and standing near it, watched the woman.

Her eyes were open. He could see them, even though he stood slightly behind her. She moved her head, lifted it and gazed around the room, seemingly bewildered at what she saw. Then she twisted her body around; saw her bare feet, and quickly drew an end of the bunk blanket over them.

And then she saw Lawler. Her eyes opened wide, filling with satisfaction, and she sat up, holding one hand to her throat, tight against the flesh, covering it with the other.

"Oh!" she said, thinly; "I—I got here, didn't I? But I didn't expect to find you here!"

CHAPTER XIX DEATH AT A DOOR

Lawler smiled. "Then I reckon we're both surprised, ma'am," he said. "I certainly wasn't expecting the norther to bring you. You had a mighty narrow squeeze. You were pretty near all in when I opened the door and saw you."

The girl drew a long, quavering breath and leaned back against the wall of the bunk, closing her eyes.

Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, showing the white throat through the damp, glistening folds; and when she again opened her eyes, they were big and luminous—and brown, Lawler took note of that, for the glare from the lamp was directly upon them.

Renewed life—animation—certainly beautified her. While Lawler had been working with her to restore her suspended vitality he had felt no emotion beyond an eagerness to restore her to consciousness. Now he was vibrant with sympathy, with pity, and with wonder.

Why had she come here? It was quite evident that she had come intentionally, for her words: "I got here, didn't I?" seemed to be proof of that. Also, she had not anticipated finding him at the cabin, for she had said so in as many words.

She gathered the blanket closer around her, noting that her feet were wrapped in it and that one end of it covered her throat. Lawler saw the blushes come and go in her face as she worked with the blanket, and he secretly applauded her modesty.

When she had arranged the blanket she looked straight at him. She studied his face long before she spoke, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction when he saw her lips form a faint, half-smile. She had decided she was not afraid of him.

She was embarrassed, but not to the point of prudishness. Her gaze was direct, frankly grateful. But there was something else in her eyes—a vague uneasiness, curiosity, repressed eagerness. She glanced swiftly around the interior of the cabin, and into the other bunks. And when she saw Lawler watching her keenly she blushed. And now, as she dropped her gaze, he saw her start as her eyes rested on the tangled ropes that Lawler had torn from the two fence cutters when he had released them after he had carried her into the cabin. The ropes were lying on the floor where he had thrown them in his haste.

"Has—has anything happened?" she asked, looking swiftly at him, blushing again.

"Plenty," he said; "you came."

"I—I mean—that is, has anything else happened?" she added. She seemed to hold her breath, for his answer.

"I caught two fence cutters."

"Did they cut the fence?" She was rigid, tense.

Lawler nodded, and he saw her hands clench.

"But there wasn't any damage done. I caught them just after they cut it, and I made them repair it before the cattle got through."

"And the two men?" she questioned, breathlessly.

"They're in the dugout—with the horses. They were in here, until you came."

She leaned back, breathing fast. Her color was high, her eyes were shining with satisfaction. And while Lawler watched her she laughed quaveringly.

"Then I had that long, cold ride for nothing," she said.

Lawler looked straight at her. "You knew the fence was to be cut?"

Her color receded and she met his gaze unflinchingly, resolutely.

"Yes. I overheard Gary Warden telling two of the Two Diamond men—Link and Givens—to cut it. Warden wanted to destroy all your cattle. It seems he has had men watching them—and your men. And he learned the herd was on the level near here. He told the men to wait until a storm threatened. Gary didn't know I overheard him telling the men to cut the fence; and I said nothing to him. But I waited until I saw an opportunity, and then I came, to warn the men I expected would be here. I didn't expect to find you here; and I intended to keep silent regarding what I had heard."

"Why are you telling it, now?"

She blushed again and gazed downward. Then she looked at him with direct, puzzled eyes.

"I—I really don't know," she said, hesitatingly. "I expect it was because I felt guilty—or because I thought I saw something in your eyes that made me think you knew that I hadn't ridden over here for the fun of it. It was a very cold and disagreeable ride.

"And, somehow, I—I think you ought to know it. When I overheard Gary telling those men to cut the fence it seemed to me that it was the meanest scheme I ever had heard of. I was so angry I could have horse-whipped Gary. At the time I believe I wasn't thinking of you at all—I just kept seeing those poor cows wandering away in the storm, to freeze to death in the open. And I determined to ride over here and prevent it. I suppose what I have told you will make trouble for Gary. I suppose I shouldn't have told you."

"Givens and Link told me."

"Oh! You made them tell, of course—you would do that. What are you going to do about it?"

"What would you do—Miss—" Lawler paused.

"I am Della Wharton," smiled the girl.

"Well, what would you do, Miss Wharton?"

The girl