The Orphan - Clarence E. Mulford (that summer book .TXT) 📗

moist. She made a gesture of helplessness and looked him full in the eyes. “Whatever you have done in the past, you will give them no cause to say such things in the future, will you? You will leave it all behind you and get work, and not be an outlaw any more, won’t you? You will prove my faith in you, for I have faith in you, won’t you? It will all be forgotten,” she added, as if her words made it so. Then she leaned forward to readjust the bandage. “There, now it’s all right–you must not touch it again like that.”

“You are alone in your faith,” he replied bitterly, not daring to look at her.

“Oh, I reckon not,” muttered Bill, scowling at the stage as if he would like to unhitch and leave it there. Then seeing The Orphan glance at the horse which was grazing contentedly, he went out to capture the animal. “D––d old hen, that’s what she is!” he muttered fiercely. “I don’t care if she is the sheriff’s sister, that’s just what she is! Just a regular ingrowing disposition!”

“You are kind, as kind as you are beautiful,” The Orphan responded simply. “But you don’t know.”

She flushed at his words and then decided that he spoke in simple sincerity.

“I know that you are going to do differently,” she replied as she extended her hand again. “Good-by.”

He bowed his head as he took it and flushed: “Good-by.”

She slowly turned and walked toward the coach, where she was received by a chilling silence.

Bill brought the horse to where The Orphan stood lost in thought, unbuckled his cartridge belt and wrapped it around the pommel of the saddle, the heavy Colt still in the holster. Then he clambered up for his rifle and tied it to the saddle skirt by the thongs of leather which dangled therefrom. Looking about him he espied the keg on the sand and, driving home the plug, slung it behind the cantle of the saddle where he fastend it by the straps which held the outlaw’s “slicker.” Jamming the package of tobacco into the pocket of the garment he stepped back and grinned sheepishly at his generous gifts. He turned abruptly and strode to the outlaw and shoved out his hand.

“There, pardner, shake!” he cried heartily. “Yore the best man in the whole d––d cow country, and I’ll tell ’em so, too, by God!”

The outlaw came out of his reverie and looked him searchingly in the face as he gripped the outstretched hand with a grip which made the driver wince.

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” he replied. “You’ll get yourself disliked if you enthuse about me.” Then he noticed the additions to his equipment and frowned: “You better take those things, I can’t. The spirit is enough.”

“Oh, you borrow them ’til you see me again,” replied Bill. “You may need ’em,” he added as he wheeled and walked to the coach. He climbed to his seat and wrapped the lines about his hands, cracking the whip as soon as he could, and the coach lurched on its way to Ford’s Station, the driver grunting about fool old maids who didn’t know enough to be glad they were alive.

The Orphan hesitated about the gifts and then decided to take them for the time. He mounted and rode past the coach door, keeping near to the flank of the last horse, where he listened to Bill’s endless talk.

“How is it that you’ve got a Cross Bar-8 cayuse?” Bill asked at length, too idiotically happy to realize the significance of his question.

The Orphan’s hand leaped suddenly and then stopped and dropped to the pommel, and he looked up at the driver.

“Oh, one of their punchers and I sort of swapped,” he laughingly replied, thinking of the man under the débris. “Say, if I don’t get as far as the cañon with you, just climb up above on the left hand side near the entrance and release a fool puncher that is covered up under a pile of rubbish, will you? I came near forgetting him, and I don’t want him to die in that way.”

As he spoke he saw a group of horsemen swing over a rise and he knew them instinctively.

“There’s the gang now–tell them, I’m off for a ride,” he said, dropping back to the coach door, where he raised his hand to his head and bowed.

CHAPTER VII
THE OUTFIT HUNTS FOR STRAYS

AS the group of punchers and the stage neared each other Bill saw two horsemen ride out into view beside a chaparral half a mile to the northwest, and he recognized Shields and Charley, who were loping forward as if to overtake the cowboys, their approach noiseless because of the deep sand. As the cowboys came nearer Bill recognized them as being the five worst men of the Cross Bar-8 outfit, and his loyalty to his new friend was no stronger than his dislike for the newcomers. They swept up at a canter and stopped abruptly near the front wheel.

“Who was that?” asked Larry Thompson impatiently, with his gloved hand indicating the direction taken by The Orphan.

“Friend of mine,” replied Bill, who was diplomatically pleasant. “Say,” he began, enthusing for effect, “you should have turned up sooner–you missed a regular circus! We was chased by five Apaches, and my friend cleaned ’em up right, he shore did! You should a seen it. I wouldn’t a missed it for––”

“Cheese it!” relentlessly continued Larry, interrupting the threatened verbal deluge. “Don’t be all day about it, Windy,” he cried; “who is he?”

“Why, a friend of mine, Tom Davis,” lied Bill. “He just wiped out a bunch of Apaches, like I was telling you. They was a-chasing me some plentiful and things was getting real interesting when he chipped in and took a hand from behind. And he certainly cleaned ’em up brown, he shore did! Say, I’ll bet you, even money, that he can lick the sheriff, or even The Orphant! He’s a holy terror on wheels, that’s what he is! Talk about lightning on the shoot–and he can hit twice in the same place, too, if he wants to, though there ain’t no use of it when he gets there once. The way he can heave lead is enough to make––”

“Choke it, Bill, choke it!” testily ordered Curley Smith, whose reputation was unsavory. “Tell us why in h–l he hit th’ trail so all-fired hard. Is yore friend some bashful?” he inquired ironically.

“Well,” replied Bill, grinning exasperatingly, “it all depends on how you looks at it. Women say he is, men swear he ain’t; you can take your choice. But they do say he ain’t no ladies’ man,” he jabbed maliciously, well knowing that Curley prided himself on being a “lady-killer.”

“Th’ h–l he ain’t!” retorted Curley, with a show of anger, preparing to argue, which would take time; and Bill was trying to give the outlaw a good start of them. “Th’ h–l he ain’t!” he repeated, leaning aggressively forward. “Yu keep yore opinions close to home, yu big-mouthed coyote!”

“Well, you asked me, didn’t you?” replied Bill. “And I told you, didn’t I? He’s a good man all around, and say, you should oughter hear him sing! He’s a singer from Singersville, he is. Got the finest voice this side of Chicago, that’s what.”

“That’s real interesting, and just what we was askin’ yu about,” replied Larry with withering sarcasm. “An’ bein’ so, Windy, we’ll shore give him all the music he wants to sing to before dark if we gets him. Yore lying ability is real highfalutin’. Now, suppose yu tell th’ truth before we drag it outen yu–who is he?”

“You ought to know it by this time. Didn’t I say his name is Tom Davis?” he replied, crossing his legs, his face wearing a bored look. “How many names do you think he’s got, anyhow? Ain’t one enough?”

“Look a-here!” cried Curley, pushing forward. “Was that th’ d––d Orphant? Come on, now, talk straight!”

“Orphant!” ejaculated Bill in surprise. “Did you say Orphant? Orphant nothing!” he responded. “What in h–l do you think I’d be lying about him for? Do I look easy? He ain’t no friend of mine! Besides, I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, never having seen that frisky gent. Holy gee! is the Orphant loose in this country, out here along my route!” he cried, simulating alarm.

“Well, we’ll take a chance anyhow,” interposed Jack Kelly. “I can tell when a fool lies. If it is yore friend Tom Davis we won’t hurt him none.”

“Honest, you won’t hurt him?” asked Bill, grinning broadly. “No, I reckon you won’t, all right,” he added, for the sheriff was close at hand now and was coming up at a walk, and Bill had an abiding faith in that official. He could be a trifle reckless how he talked now. He laughed sarcastically and hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Nope, I reckon you won’t hurt him, not a little bit. Not if he knows you’re going to try it on him. And if it should be Mister Orphant, well, I hear that he’s dead sore on being hunted–don’t like it for a d––n. I also hear he drinks blood instead of water and whips five men before breakfast every morning to get up an appetite. Oh, no, and you won’t hurt him neither, will you?”

“Yore real pert, now ain’t yu?” shouted Curley angrily. “Yore a whole lot sassy an’ smart, ain’t yu? But if we find that he is that Orphant, we’ll pay yu a visit so yu can explain just why yore so d––d friendly with him. He seems to have a whole lot of friends about this country, he does! Even the sheriff won’t hurt him. Even th’ brave sheriff loses his trail. Must be somethin’ in it for somebody, eh?”

“You’d better tell that to somebody else, the sheriff, for instance. He’d like to think it over,” responded Bill easily. “It’s a good chance to see a little branding, a la Colt, as the French say. Tell it to him, why don’t you?”

“I’m a-tellin’ it to yu, now, an’ I’ll tell it to Shields when I sees him, yu overgrown baby, yu!” shouted Curley, his hand dropping to his Colt. “Everybody knows it! Everybody is a-talkin’ about it! An’ we’ll have a new sheriff, too, before long! An’ as for yu, if we wasn’t in such a hurry, we’d give yu a lesson yu’d never forget! That d––d Orphant has got a pull, but we’re goin’ to give him a push, an’ plumb into hell! Either a pull or our brave sheriff is some ascairt of him! He’s a fine sheriff, he is, th’ big baby!”

“Pleasant afternoon, Curley,” came from behind the group, accompanied by a soft laugh. The voice was very pleasant and low. Curley stiffened and turned in his saddle like a flash. The sheriff was smiling, but there was a glint in his fighting eyes that gave grave warning. The sheriff smiled, but some men smile when most dangerous, and as an assurance of mastery and coolness.

“Looking for strays, or is it mavericks?” he casually asked, a question which left no doubt as to what the smile indicated, for it was a challenge. Maverick hunting was at that time akin to rustling, and it was occurring on the range despite the sheriff’s best efforts to stop it.

Curley flushed and mumbled something about a missing herd. He had suddenly remembered the scene at the corral, and it had a most subduing effect on him. The sheriff regarded him closely and then noted the bullet holes in the coach. The door of the vehicle was closed,