The Return of the Mucker - Edgar Rice Burroughs (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗

“Where?” asked Grayson.

“One of Pesita’s officers rode him—an Americano. Tony and I saw this same man in Cuivaca the night the bank was robbed, and today he was riding the Brazos pony.” Again the dark eyes turned toward Bridge.

Grayson was quick to catch the significance of the Mexican’s meaning. The more so as it was directly in line with suspicions which he himself had been nursing since the robbery.

During the colloquy the boss entered the office. He had heard the returning vaqueros ride into the ranch and noting that they brought no steers with them had come to the office to hear their story. Barbara, spurred by curiosity, accompanied her father.

“You heard what Benito says?” asked Grayson, turning toward his employer.

The latter nodded. All eyes were upon Bridge.

“Well,” snapped Grayson, “what you gotta say fer yourself? I ben suspectin’ you right along. I knew derned well that that there Brazos pony never run off by hisself. You an’ that other crook from the States framed this whole thing up pretty slick, didn’tcha? Well, we’ll—”

“Wait a moment, wait a moment, Grayson,” interrupted the boss. “Give Mr. Bridge a chance to explain. You’re making a rather serious charge against him without any particularly strong proof to back your accusation.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed Bridge, with a smile. “I have known that Mr. Grayson suspected me of implication in the robbery; but who can blame him—a man who can’t ride might be guilty of almost anything.”

Grayson sniffed. Barbara took a step nearer Bridge. She had been ready to doubt him herself only an hour or so ago; but that was before he had been accused. Now that she found others arrayed against him her impulse was to come to his defense.

“You didn’t do it, did you, Mr. Bridge?” Her tone was almost pleading.

“If you mean robbing the bank,” he replied; “I did not Miss Barbara. I knew no more about it until after it was over than Benito or Tony—in fact they were the ones who discovered it while I was still asleep in my room above the bank.”

“Well, how did the robber git thet there Brazos pony then?” demanded Grayson savagely. “Thet’s what I want to know.”

“You’ll have to ask him, Mr. Grayson,” replied Bridge.

“Villa’ll ask him, when he gits holt of him,” snapped Grayson; “but I reckon he’ll git all the information out of you thet he wants first. He’ll be in Cuivaca tomorrer, an’ so will you.”

“You mean that you are going to turn me over to General Villa?” asked Bridge. “You are going to turn an American over to that butcher knowing that he’ll be shot inside of twenty-four hours?”

“Shootin’s too damned good fer a horse thief,” replied Grayson.

Barbara turned impulsively toward her father. “You won’t let Mr. Grayson do that?” she asked.

“Mr. Grayson knows best how to handle such an affair as this, Barbara,” replied her father. “He is my superintendent, and I have made it a point never to interfere with him.”

“You will let Mr. Bridge be shot without making an effort to save him?” she demanded.

“We do not know that he will be shot,” replied the ranch owner. “If he is innocent there is no reason why he should be punished. If he is guilty of implication in the Cuivaca bank robbery he deserves, according to the rules of war, to die, for General Villa, I am told, considers that a treasonable act. Some of the funds upon which his government depends for munitions of war were there—they were stolen and turned over to the enemies of Mexico.”

“And if we interfere we’ll turn Villa against us,” interposed Grayson. “He ain’t any too keen for Americans as it is. Why, if this fellow was my brother I’d hev to turn him over to the authorities.”

“Well, I thank God,” exclaimed Bridge fervently, “that in addition to being shot by Villa I don’t have to endure the added disgrace of being related to you, and I’m not so sure that I shall be hanged by Villa,” and with that he wiped the oil lamp from the table against which he had been leaning, and leaped across the room for the doorway.

Barbara and her father had been standing nearest the exit, and as the girl realized the bold break for liberty the man was making, she pushed her father to one side and threw open the door.

Bridge was through it in an instant, with a parting, “God bless you, little girl!” as he passed her. Then the door was closed with a bang. Barbara turned the key, withdrew it from the lock and threw it across the darkened room.

Grayson and the unwounded Mexicans leaped after the fugitive only to find their way barred by the locked door. Outside Bridge ran to the horses standing patiently with lowered heads awaiting the return of their masters. In an instant he was astride one of them, and lashing the others ahead of him with a quirt he spurred away into the night.

By the time Grayson and the Mexicans had wormed their way through one of the small windows of the office the new bookkeeper was beyond sight and earshot.

As the ranch foreman was saddling up with several of his men in the corral to give chase to the fugitive the boss strolled in and touched him on the arm.

“Mr. Grayson,” he said, “I have made it a point never to interfere with you; but I am going to ask you now not to pursue Mr. Bridge. I shall be glad if he makes good his escape. Barbara was right—he is a fellow-American. We cannot turn him over to Villa, or any other Mexican to be murdered.”

Grumblingly Grayson unsaddled. “Ef you’d seen what I’ve seen around here,” he said, “I guess you wouldn’t be so keen to save this feller’s hide.”

“What do you mean?” asked the boss.

“I mean that he’s ben tryin’ to make love to your daughter.”

The older man laughed. “Don’t be a fool, Grayson,” he said, and walked away.

An hour later Barbara was strolling up and down before the ranchhouse in the cool and refreshing air of the Chihuahua night. Her mind was occupied with disquieting reflections of the past few hours. Her pride was immeasurably hurt by the part impulse had forced her to take in the affair at the office. Not that she regretted that she had connived in the escape of Bridge; but it was humiliating that a girl of her position should have been compelled to play so melodramatic a part before Grayson and his Mexican vaqueros.

Then, too, was she disappointed in Bridge. She had looked upon him as a gentleman whom misfortune and wanderlust had reduced to the lowest stratum of society. Now she feared that he belonged to that substratum which lies below the lowest which society recognizes as a part of itself, and which is composed solely of the criminal class.

It was hard for Barbara to realize that she had associated with a thief—just for a moment it was hard, until recollection forced upon her the unwelcome fact of the status of another whom she had known—to whom she had given her love. The girl did not wince at the thought—instead she squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

“I am proud of him, whatever he may have been,” she murmured; but she was not thinking of the new bookkeeper. When she did think again of Bridge it was to be glad that he had escaped—“for he is an American, like myself.”

“Well!” exclaimed a voice behind her. “You played us a pretty trick, Miss Barbara.”

The girl turned to see Grayson approaching. To her surprise he seemed to hold no resentment whatsoever. She greeted him courteously.

“I couldn’t let you turn an American over to General Villa,” she said, “no matter what he had done.”

“I liked your spirit,” said the man. “You’re the kind o’ girl I ben lookin’ fer all my life—one with nerve an’ grit, an’ you got ‘em both. You liked thet bookkeepin’ critter, an’ he wasn’t half a man. I like you an’ I am a man, ef I do say so myself.”

The girl drew back in astonishment.

“Mr. Grayson!” she exclaimed. “You are forgetting yourself.”

“No I ain’t,” he cried hoarsely. “I love you an’ I’m goin’ to have you. You’d love me too ef you knew me better.”

He took a step forward and grasped her arm, trying to draw her to him. The girl pushed him away with one hand, and with the other struck him across the face.

Grayson dropped her arm, and as he did so she drew herself to her full height and looked him straight in the eyes.

“You may go now,” she said, her voice like ice. “I shall never speak of this to anyone—provided you never attempt to repeat it.”

The man made no reply. The blow in the face had cooled his ardor temporarily, but had it not also served another purpose?—to crystallize it into a firm and inexorable resolve.

When he had departed Barbara turned and entered the house.