The Hair-Trigger Kid - Max Brand (uplifting novels .TXT) 📗

Chapter 18 - A Volunteer

They looked at her in amazement.

 

Her cheek had not reddened, her voice had not altered or her eye

brightened. She was as gently calm as ever, but suddenly they knew that

she was steel. All three stood like children before her.

 

She explained to her husband: “I’ve put a good deal of my life into this

ranch and its affairs, my dear. If I have to die for the sake of it, I’ll

die without a whimper. But in the meantime, let’s find out what our

friends will do. Georgia, ride to see Chet Wagner. You try the Birch

family. I’ll go to the Peters myself.”

 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” broke in Milman. “You ride about

begging? I’ll go myself. And you stay here!”

 

She nodded at once.

 

“Of course, I’ll do what you wish, my dear,” said she.

 

But when the other three left the room, they all realized something they

had never guessed before—that little Elinore Milman was the real

controlling force in that ranch. Her own husband had not dreamed how true

it was, but looking dizzily back through the years, he could now realize

that a hundred times her voice, like a hand upon his shoulder, like a

hand at his back, had pushed him along the way she chose, and given him

courage for great attempts.

 

There was something mysterious—this utter manliness of resolution in a

woman—and to the mystery they trusted a good deal. If her body were

small, her soul was so great that it seemed to all three of them an

overwhelming thing.

 

They took horses at once and cut across country in varying directions.

 

There were a few squatters here and there who might have been picked up

more quickly, but Milman’s outfit, for many good reasons, was not on

speaking terms with the squatters. The nearest big ranches were the only

ones likely to be able to send forth men in sufficient numbers. Chet

Wagner, in particular, was as brave as a lion, though Georgia blushed

when she thought of appealing to him for help.

 

However, she set her teeth and went grimly on her way. She had a good

fast half-bred gelding under her, and the horse worked well this morning.

Her spirits rose. The keen morning wind of that gallop cut into her face

and blew away her doubts and sense of shame. After all, what was shameful

in asking the help of a man who once had asked her to marry him?

 

She thought back to her mother, rather bewildered by that quiet

exhibition of strength, and yet she could tell herself that many a time

before she had found the steel under that silken glove.

 

Her heart rose higher. Every rock was flashing with dew, and the grass

sparkled. Midsummer would have been thrice as trying, but at this season

the dew alone would enable those hardy range cattle to last quite a time.

In the meanwhile, they could find some way. If the neighbors could not or

would not help with guns, they might help with wise counsel. The familiar

face of the big blue mountains was a comfort to her, also. They had

looked down on her through so many happy days that it seemed impossible

that they now should see her in despair.

 

All would come out well, she told herself. There was too great a crop of

chivalry and manhood in the West for the Milmans to be abandoned in their

time of need.

 

Then, as the horse trotted to the top of a low hill which looked down

upon a wide, pleasant hollow, she reined it in suddenly with a leap of

the heart. For over the opposite knoll swept a big mule deer with its

long ears laid back with the speed of its running It floated down the

hillside with the peculiar, bounding gait of its species, and the girl,

watching and wondering, listened for the cry of dogs behind it, or the

howl of the wolf running on the trail.

 

There was no such outcry, but an instant later over the same hilltop

darted a rider on a black horse which had a strange vest of shining white

over the breast and the lower part of the throat.

 

Instantly she recognized the markings which had given the Duck Hawk its

name. And she saw the rider skillfully jockeying the fleet mare down the

slope.

 

It lost ground. Nothing that lives and runs on four feet can keep up with

a mule deer over sharp ups and downs. As though it had wings, the deer

smote the ground and rose, and settled, and floated forward again with

apparent lack of effort.

 

But in the flat of the hollow it was a different matter. The Hawk,

stretched out in a straight line, came like the wind, and the frightened

deer, with the shadow of a swinging rope whipping across it, vainly

strove to dodge.

 

That instant the rope started out and the deer, snagged around both

forefeet, tumbled head over heels.

 

It was fast to rise, but not fast enough.

 

Out of the saddle whipped the rider, and the hunting knife flashed across

the tender throat of the deer as it threw up its head to rise. Then,

stepping in, the Kid gave the poor beast the coup de gr�ce.

 

It was over in an instant.

 

But Georgia Milman found herself laughing with excitement. Here was a man

who ran down his venison on horseback! And suddenly she thought of the

wild Indians of the old days. Such feats must have been accomplished by

their most famous riders, now and then, a thing for the hunter to boast

of to the end of his days!

 

But there would be no boasting from the Kid.

 

Before she started her horse down the slope, she saw his knife expertly

at work in cutting up the quarry—speed and business were combined with a

rare efficiency.

 

And it seemed to the girl that it was as though she had seen a hawk drop

out of the sky. Now it tore the prey which it had struck down, and

presently it would be winging away across the hills.

 

She jogged the gelding down the hill, but had not gone far before the

Hawk jerked up her head and whinnied softly. The Kid, at this, stood up

from his butchering and watched the newcomer. He raised his hat and waved

it to her while she was still at a little distance.

 

“There’ll be venison steaks around here in another half hour, Miss

Milman,” said he. “Hop off and wangle the fire, while I get the cuts

off.”

 

She shook her head, still smiling down at the red-handed killer and his

kill.

 

“Do you do that often?” she asked him. “Do you run down your meat like

that very often?”

 

“It keeps the Hawk on edge,” said he. “Nothing like a good brush through

rough country to tune up a horse.”

 

“And nothing like a run after a mule deer to get you a broken neck,” she

observed.

 

He nodded, but there was no seriousness in his face.

 

“Well, rifles make a lot of noise,” said he, “and ammunition costs a lot

and weighs a lot. This is the Hawk’s fourteenth deer, if you’ll believe

it.”

 

The girl looked critically at the mare. She was breathing hard, but her

head was up, her eye was bright, and it was patent that she was still

full of running.

 

“I’d believe almost anything about her.”

 

Her face darkened suddenly.

 

“Are you with those people back at Hurry Creek?” she asked him. “Are you

out here hunting for that crew?”

 

“What crew?” said the Kid. “Who’s at Hurry Creek? I thought that ran out

on your land?”

 

“You’re not one of them,” she nodded, with a sigh of relief. “No, if you

were with them, of course, you’d be the top man, and not Champ Dixon.”

 

“Oh Dixon’s there, is he? ‘What’s his game?”

 

“Jumping my father’s water rights.”

 

The Kid squinted at the skyline, as if he hunted for a thought.