The Bandit of Hell's Bend, Edgar Rice Burroughs [good novels to read txt] 📗

on we went streakin’ down thet mountain an’ five mile out onto the flat afore the stage hit the ground an’ then, o’ course, we hed to stop. It was too bad. I tell you I felt plumb sore. I hadn’t never ben off schedule sence I took the run.

“Then, all of a suddint, says one o’ the passengers, ‘Look back yender, Bill,’ says he. ‘Look what’s comin’!’ An’ I looked an’ there come them four wheels a-tearin’ across the flat straight fer us. Well, to make a long story short, they peters out right beside the stage an’ with the help o’ the passengers an’ some extra nuts we got ‘em back on where they belonged an’ pulled into Denver two hours ahead o’ time. But I tell you, Miss, thet was some ride. I’d hate to hev to take it again. Why-”

“Hands up! Put ‘em up!”

The stage had slowed down for the rough road through the gap, when two men with muffled faces stepped before the leaders, covering the driver and his lone passenger with wicked-looking six-guns.

Diana Henders sat as one turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the tall, fine figure of the leading high wayman. A little gust of wind moved the handkerchief that covered his face so that she saw, or she thought she saw, a scar upon the square chin. She was not afraid. It was not fear-physical fear that held her motionless-it was worse than that. It was the paralyzing terror of the heart and soul. Was it Bull? Could it be Bill?

But, dear God, could she be mistaken in the familiar lines of that figure-every movement, every gesture proclaimed the numbing truth? He had not spoken. She was glad of that, for she wanted something upon which to hang a doubt. The second man had given the brief commands. That he was Gregorio she had no doubt.

“Throw down the mail pouch,” he commanded, and Bill Gatlin threw it down.

The taller man took it and went to the rear of the stage, out of sight. Five minutes later Gregorio commanded them to drive on. That was all. The thing had not consumed six minutes, but in that brief time the structure of Diana’s life had been shaken to its foundations. A new, a terrible truth had engulfed her-a truth that should have up-borne her upon a wave of exaltation and happiness now dragged her down into the vortex of a whirlpool of self-loathing and misery.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes, Bill

Gatlin cracking his long whip-above the ears of the leaders, galloping smoothly over a comparatively level road.

“Doggone!” he said presently. “It’s gettin’ too almighty reg’lar to suit me, though I reckon as how I mought git lonesome if I wasn’t held up oncet in a while; but you hed your wish, Miss-you got to see

The Black Coyote, all right, and now what do you think? Is it or isn’t it Bull?”

Diana Henders bit her lip. “Of course it was not Bull,” she said.

“Looked powerful like him to me,” said Gatlin.

As they drew up in front of The Donovan House the usual idlers came forth to learn what new element this, their sole link to civilization, had infused into their midst. They greeted Diana none the less cordially because she was the only passenger and the stage had brought no new interest to Hendersville.

“Held up agin,” announced Bill. “Some on you better go an’ tell Gum-he might want to deputize someone.”

Immediately the crowd was interested. They asked many questions.

“They wa’n’t much to it,” said Bill Gatlin. “Bein’ as how they wa’n’t no gold he took the mail. I reckon if you was lookin’ fer any letters you won’t git them.”

A man from the Bar Y spoke up. “Thet New York feller up to the ranch was lookin’ fer a important piece o’ mail,” he said. “He sent me down special to git it.”

“Hey, what’s this?” demanded another, peering into the interior of the coach. “Here’s yer mail bag, Bill, a-lyin’ right in here.” He dragged it out and exhibited to the others.

“They’s somethin’ wrong with it-it’s ben cut open,” said another, pointing to a slit in the leather. Then the postmaster came up and rescued the sack. The crowd followed him to the general store in which the post-office was conducted. Here the postmaster, assisted by the crowd, went through the contents of the sack.

“Course I cain’t tell what’s missin’,” he said, “‘only they ain’t no registered letter fer Mr. Corson.”

Diana Henders had gone immediately into The Donovan House as quickly as she could clamber from the stage after it had come to a stop, and Mary Donovan had taken her into the privacy of her sitting room for the cup “o’ tay” that Diana had been looking forward to for the past couple of hours. Here she told the motherly Irish woman the details of her trip to Kansas City and the quandary she was in as to what procedure to follow in her future dealings with Corson.

“If I had anything to fight with, I’d fight,” she exclaimed; “but I’m all alone-even the law seems to be on their side, against justice.”

“Shure, an’ it’s not all alone ye are,” Mary Donovan assured her. “What wid all the friends ye have that would fight fer ye at the drop o’ the hat. Faith, they’d run thim tin-horns out o’ the country, an’ ye give the word.”

“I know,” assented the girl, “and I appreciate what the boys would do for me, but it can’t be done that way. Dad always stood for law and order and it wouldn’t do for me to sponsor illegal methods.”

“Ye’ve got to fight the divil wid fire,” said Mary.

Diana made no reply. She sat sipping her tea, her expression one of troubled sadness, but she was not thinking of those who would take her property from her nor of their unfair methods. Mary Donovan was moving about the room tidying up.

Diana set her empty cup upon the rickety center table which supported an oil lamp, a bible, a red plush photograph album and a gilded conch shell, and sighed. Mrs. Donovan glanced at her out of the corner of her eye and guessed shrewdly that there was something more than New Yorkers troubling her. Presently she came and stood in front of the girl.

“What is it, mavourneen?” she asked. “Be after tellin’ Mary Donovan.”

Diana rose, half turned her head away and bit her lower lip in an effort to hide or suppress a short, quick intaking of the breath that was almost a gasp.

“The stage was held up again today,” she said, mastering herself and turning, wide-eyed, toward the older woman. “I saw them-I saw them both.”

“Yis!” said Mary Donovan.

“But it wasn’t-it wasn’t he! It wasn’t, Mary Donovan!” and Diana, throwing herself upon the broad, motherly bosom, burst into tears, through which she gasped an occasional, “It wasn’t! It wasn’t!”

“Shure, now, it wasn’t,” soothed Mary, “an’ the first wan that’ll be after sayin’ it was’ll wish he’d nivir bin born, an’ even if it was, Diana Henders, there’s many a good man’s gone wrong an’ come right again.

“Why look at that ould fool Wildcat Bob! They do be sayin’ he was a road agent his-self thirty year ago an’ he’s killed so many men he’s lost count o’ ‘em, he has; but now look at him! A quiet an’ paceable ould man, an’ a good citizen whin he ain’t full o’ barbwire, which ain’t often.”

Diana dried her tears through a smile. “You’re very fond of Bob, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Run along wid ye, now!” exclaimed Mary Donovan, smiling coyly.

“I think Bob would make you a good husband,” continued Diana, “and you really need a man around here. Why don’t you marry him? I know he’s anxious enough.”

“Marry him, indade!” sniffed Mary. “The ould fool’s stricken dumb ivery time he’s alone wid me. If iver he’s married it is, it’s the girl that’ll be havin’ to pop the question.”

They were interrupted by a rap on the sitting room door. It. was the vaquero from the Bar Y who had come down for the mail.

“Bill Gatlin told me you was here, Miss,” he said. “Do you want me to tell Colby to send the buckboard down for yore?”

“I left Captain here, thanks,” replied Diana, “and as soon as I change my clothes I’ll ride back to the ranch.”

“Shall I wait fer you?” he inquired.

“No, thanks. I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she told him; “but if Pete is there you might ask him to ride out and meet me.”

A half-hour later Diana rode out of Hendersville on Captain along the winding, dusty road bordered by interminable sage and grease.-wood that stretched off in undulating billows of rolling land to the near mountains on the north and away to the south as far as the eye could reach where the softened outlines of other mountains rose, mysterious, through the haze. The low sun cast-long shadows toward the east, those of herself and her mount transformed into a weird creature of Brobdingnagian proportions mincing along upon preposterous legs.

The inhabitants of a prairie-dog village watched her approach with growing suspicions, scampering at last to the safety of their catacombian retreat–all but a single patriarch and two owls, who watched her from the safe proximity of burrow mouths until she had passed.

Drear and desolate the aspect of tie: scene, perhaps, but t(? Diana i$ was home, and a tear came tip her eye as she thought that in a day or a week shy; might be leaving it forever. Her home! And they were driving her away from it—stealing it from her—her home that her father had built for her mother-that he had planned that Diana should have after he had gone. The wickedness of it! The injustice! That was what rankled-the injustice! She dashed away the tear with an angry gesture. She would not be dispossessed! She would fight! Mary Donovan was right. It was no sin to light the devil with fire.

It was at this moment that she saw a horseman approaching her from the direction of the ranch. Her eyes, long accustomed to keen observation and to vast expanses, recognized the man minutes before his features were discernible, and a little cloud crossed her brow. It was not Texas Pete, as she had hoped, but Hal Colby. Perhaps it was for the best. She would have to see him sometime, and tell him. As he approached her she saw that there was no welcoming smile on his face, which wore a troubled expression. But his greeting was cordial.

“Hello, Di!” he cried. “Why didn’t you let me know that you was comin’ today?’

“There was no way to let you know, of course,” she replied. “You might have guessed that I would be back as soon as I could.”

“Tom jest got in from town an’ told me you was comin’. I hurried out to head you off. You don’t want to come to the ranch now, it wouldn’t be no ways pleasant for you.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“The Wainrights is there for one thing,” he said, drawing rein in front of her.

She set her firm little jaw and rode around him. “I am going home,” she said.

“I wouldn’t be foolish, Di,” he insisted. “It’ll only make more trouble. They as good as got the place now. We can’t fight ‘em. It wouldn’t get us nowheres.

“Lemme see what I kin get ‘em to do fer you. They’re willin’ to give you enough to live decent on if you’re reasonable, an’ I’ll git the most I kin fer you; but if you go to fightin’ ‘em they won’t give