The

Скачать книгу

wild, bad men of mine are lambs when I give the word. They wouldn't lift a hand against you. And there is a woman there--the mother of one of my boys, who was shot. We'll have you chaperoned for fair."

      "And if I say I won't go?"

      "You'll go if I strap you to your saddle."

      It was characteristic of Melissy that she made no further resistance. The sudden, wolfish gleam in his eyes had told her that he meant what he said. It was like her, too, that she made no outcry; that she did not shed tears or plead with him. A gallant spirit inhabited that slim, girlish body; and she yielded to the inevitable with quiet dignity. This surprised him greatly, and stung his reluctant admiration. At the same time, it set her apart from him and hedged her with spiritual barriers. Her body might ride with him into captivity; she was still captain of her soul.

      "You're a game one," he told her, as he helped her to the saddle.

      She did not answer, but looked straightforward between her horse's ears, without seeing him, waiting for him to give the word to start.

      CHAPTER VI

      IN DEAD MAN'S CACHE

      Not since the start of their journey had Melissy broken silence, save to answer, in few words as possible, the questions put to her by the outlaw. Yet her silence had not been sullenness. It had been the barrier which she had set up between them--one which he could not break down short of actual roughness.

      Of this she could not accuse him. Indeed, he had been thoughtful of her comfort. At sunset they had stopped by a spring, and he had shared with her such food as he had. Moreover, he had insisted that she should rest for a while before they took up the last stretch of the way.

      It was midnight now, and they had been traveling for many hours over rough mountain trails. There was more strength than one would look for in so slender a figure, yet Melissy was drooping with fatigue.

      "It's not far now. We'll be there in a few minutes," MacQueen promised her.

      They were ascending a narrow trail which ran along the sidehill through the timber. Presently they topped the summit, and the ground fell away from their feet to a bowl-shaped valley, over which the silvery moonshine played so that the basin seemed to swim in a magic sea of light.

      "Welcome to the Cache," he said to her.

      She was surprised out of her silence. "Dead Man's Cache?"

      "It has been called that."

      "Why?"

      She knew, but she wanted to see if he would tell a story which showed so plainly his own ruthlessness.

      He hesitated, but only for a moment.

      "There was a man named Havens. He had a reputation as a bad man, and I reckon he deserved it--if brand blotting, mail rustling, and shooting citizens are the credentials to win that title. Hard pressed on account of some deviltry, he drifted into this country, and was made welcome by those living here. The best we had was his. He was fed, outfitted, and kept safe from the law that was looking for him.

      "You would figure he was under big obligations to the men that did this for him--wouldn't you? But he was born skunk. When his chance came he offered to betray these men to the law, in exchange for a pardon for his own sneaking hide. The letter was found, and it was proved he wrote it. What ought those men to have done to him, Miss 'Lissie?"

      "I don't know." She shuddered.

      "There's got to be law, even in a place like this. We make our own laws, and the men that stay here have got to abide by them. Our law said this man must die. He died."

      She did not ask him how. The story went that the outlaws whom the wretched man had tried to sell let him escape on purpose--that, just as he thought he was free of them, their mocking laughter came to him from the rocks all around. He was completely surrounded. They had merely let him run into a trap. He escaped again, wandered without food for days, and again discovered that they had been watching him all the time. Turn whichever way he would, their rifles warned him back. He stumbled on, growing weaker and weaker. They would neither capture him nor let him go.

      For nearly a week the cruel game went on. Frequently he heard their voices in the hills about him. Sometimes he would call out to them pitifully to put him out of his misery. Only their horrible laughter answered. When he had reached the limit of endurance he lay down and died.

      And the man who had engineered that heartless revenge was riding beside her. He had been ready to tell her the whole story, if she had asked for it, and equally ready to justify it. Nothing could have shown her more plainly the character of the villain into whose hands she had fallen.

      They descended into the valley, winding in and out until they came suddenly upon ranch houses and a corral in a cleared space.

      A man came out of the shadows into the moonlight to meet them. Instantly Melissy recognized his walk. It was Boone.

      "Oh, it's you," MacQueen said coldly. "Any of the rest of the boys up?"

      "No."

      Not a dozen words had passed between them, but the girl sensed hostility. She was not surprised. Dunc Boone was not the man to take second place in any company of riff-raff, nor was MacQueen one likely to yield the supremacy he had fought to gain.

      The latter swung from the saddle and lifted Melissy from hers. As her feet struck the ground her face for the first time came full into the moonlight.

      Boone stifled a startled oath.

      "Melissy Lee!" Like a swiftly reined horse he swung around upon his chief. "What devil's work is this?"

      "My business, Dunc!" the other retorted in suave insult.

      "By God, no! I make it mine. This young lady's a friend of mine--or used to be. _Sabe_?"

      "I _sabe_ you'd better not try to sit in at this game, my friend."

      Boone swung abruptly upon Melissy. "How come you here, girl? Tell me!"

      And in three sentences she explained.

      "What's your play? Whyfor did you bring her?" the Arkansan demanded of MacQueen.

      The latter stood balanced on his heels with his feet wide apart. There was a scornful grin on his face, but his eyes were fixed warily on the other man.

      "What was I to do with her, Mr. Buttinski? She found out who I was. Could I send her home? If I did how was I to fix it so I could go to Mesa when it's necessary till we get this ransom business arranged?"

      "All right. But you understand she's a friend of mine. I'll not have her hurt."

      "Oh, go to the devil! I'm not in the habit of hurting young ladies."

      MacQueen swung on his heel insolently and knocked on the door of a cabin near.

      "Don't forget that I'm here when you need me," Boone told Melissy in a low voice.

      "I'll not forget," the girl made answer in a murmur.

      The wrinkled face of a Mexican woman appeared presently at a window. MacQueen jabbered a sentence or two in her language. She looked at Melissy and answered.

      The girl had not lived in Southern Arizona for twenty years without having a working knowledge of Spanish. Wherefore, she knew that her captor had ordered his own room prepared for her.

      While they waited for this to be made ready MacQueen hummed a snatch of a popular song. It happened to be a love ditty. Boone ground his teeth and glared at him, which appeared to amuse the other ruffian immensely.

      "Don't stay up on our account," MacQueen suggested presently with a malicious laugh. "We're not needing a chaperone any to speak of."

      The Mexican woman announced that the bedroom was ready and MacQueen escorted Melissy to the door of the room. He stood aside with mock gallantry to let her pass.

      "Have to lock you in," he apologized airily. "Not that it would do you any good to escape. We'd have you again

Скачать книгу