The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗

not fit to

wipe the feet of any of these outlaws.”

 

Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth

protruding in a snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of

the head.

 

Bo’s head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she

uttered no cry.

 

“Are you goin’ to keep your jaw shut?” he demanded,

stridently, and a dark tide of blood surged up into his

neck.

 

“I should smile I’m not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate

anger of opposition. “You’ve roped me — and you’ve struck

me! Now get a club — stand off there — out of my reach —

and beat me! Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you —

I’d call you them!”

 

Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching,

listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on

his serpent-like face. Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet.

If any one had observed him it would have been to note that

he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all

the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the

neck-band of his blouse.

 

Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she

dodged.

 

“You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”

 

Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of

flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into

remonstrance.

 

“Aw, Riggs, don’t beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet

won’t do any good. Let her alone.”

 

“But she’s got to shut up,” replied Riggs.

 

“How ‘n hell air you goin’ to shet her up? Mebbe if you get

out of her sight she’ll be quiet… . How about thet,

girl?”

 

Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.

 

“Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.

 

“It strikes me you ‘ain’t,” replied Anson.

 

“You won’t hear me make any so long as I’m treated decent,”

said Bo. “I don’t know what you’ve got to do with Riggs. He

ran me down — roped me — dragged me to your camp. Now I’ve

a hunch you’re waiting for Beasley.”

 

“Girl, your hunch ‘s correct,” said Anson.

 

“Well, do you know I’m the wrong girl?”

 

“What’s thet? I reckon you’re Nell Rayner, who got left all

old Auchincloss’s property.”

 

“No. I’m Bo Rayner. Nell is my sister. She owns the ranch.

Beasley wanted her.”

 

Anson cursed deep and low. Under his sharp, bristling

eyebrows he bent cunning green eyes upon Riggs.

 

“Say, you! Is what this kid says so?”

 

“Yes. She’s Nell Rayner’s sister,” replied Riggs, doggedly.

 

“A-huh! Wal, why in the hell did you drag her into my camp

an’ off up here to signal Beasley? He ain’t wantin’ her. He

wants the girl who owns the ranch. Did you take one fer the

other — same as thet day we was with you?”

 

“Guess I must have,” replied Riggs, sullenly.

 

“But you knowed her from her sister afore you come to my

camp?”

 

Riggs shook his head. He was paler now and sweating more

freely. The dank hair hung wet over his forehead. His manner

was that of a man suddenly realizing he had gotten into a

tight place.

 

“Oh, he’s a liar!” exclaimed Bo, with contemptuous ring in

her voice. “He comes from my country. He has known Nell and

me for years.”

 

Snake Anson turned to look at Wilson.

 

“Jim, now hyar’s a queer deal this feller has rung in on us.

I thought thet kid was pretty young. Don’t you remember

Beasley told us Nell Rayner was a handsome woman?”

 

“Wal, pard Anson, if this heah gurl ain’t handsome my eyes

have gone pore,” drawled Wilson.

 

“A-huh! So your Texas chilvaree over the ladies is some

operatin’,” retorted Anson, with fine sarcasm. “But thet

ain’t tellin’ me what you think?”

 

“Wal, I ain’t tellin’ you what I think yet. But I know thet

kid ain’t Nell Rayner. For I’ve seen her.”

 

Anson studied his right-hand man for a moment, then, taking

out his tobacco-pouch, he sat himself down upon a stone and

proceeded leisurely to roll a cigarette. He put it between

his thin lips and apparently forgot to light it. For a few

moments he gazed at the yellow ground and some scant

sage-brush. Riggs took to pacing up and down. Wilson leaned

as before against the cedar. The girl slowly recovered from

her excess of anger.

 

“Kid, see hyar,” said Anson, addressing the girl; “if Riggs

knowed you wasn’t Nell an’ fetched you along anyhow — what

‘d he do thet fur?”

 

“He chased me — caught me. Then he saw some one after us

and he hurried to your camp. He was afraid — the cur!”

 

Riggs heard her reply, for he turned a malignant glance upon

her.

 

“Anson, I fetched her because I know Nell Rayner will give

up anythin’ on earth for her,” he said, in loud voice.

 

Anson pondered this statement with an air of considering its

apparent sincerity.

 

“Don’t you believe him,” declared Bo Rayner, bluntly. “He’s

a liar. He’s double-crossing Beasley and all of you.”

 

Riggs raised a shaking hand to clench it at her. “Keep still

or it ‘ll be the worse for you.”

 

“Riggs, shut up yourself,” put in Anson, as he leisurely

rose. “Mebbe it ‘ain’t occurred to you thet she might have

some talk interestin’ to me. An’ I’m runnin’ this hyar camp.

… Now, kid, talk up an’ say what you like.”

 

“I said he was double-crossing you all,” replied the girl,

instantly. “Why, I’m surprised you’d be caught in his

company! My uncle Al and my sweetheart Carmichael and my

friend Dale — they’ve all told me what Western men are,

even down to outlaws, robbers, cutthroat rascals like you.

And I know the West well enough now to be sure that

four-flush doesn’t belong here and can’t last here. He went

to Dodge City once and when he came back he made a bluff at

being a bad man. He was a swaggering, bragging, drinking

gun-fighter. He talked of the men he’d shot, of the fights

he’d had. He dressed like some of those gun-throwing

gamblers… . He was in love with my sister Nell. She

hated him. He followed us out West and he has hung on our

actions like a sneaking Indian. Why, Nell and I couldn’t

even walk to the store in the village. He rode after me out

on the range — chased me… . For that Carmichael called

Riggs’s bluff down in Turner’s saloon. Dared him to draw!

Cussed him every name on the range! Slapped and beat and

kicked him! Drove him out of Pine! … And now, whatever

he has said to Beasley or you, it’s a dead sure bet he’s

playing his own game. That’s to get hold of Nell, and if not

her — then me! … Oh, I’m out of breath — and I’m out

of names to call him. If I talked forever — I’d never be —

able to — do him justice. But lend me — a gun — a

minute!”

 

Jim Wilson’s quiet form vibrated with a start. Anson with

his admiring smile pulled his gun and, taking a couple of

steps forward, held it out butt first. She stretched eagerly

for it and he jerked it away.

 

“Hold on there!” yelled Riggs, in alarm.

 

“Damme, Jim, if she didn’t mean bizness!” exclaimed the

outlaw.

 

“Wal, now — see heah, Miss. Would you bore him — if you

hed a gun?” inquired Wilson, with curious interest. There

was more of respect in his demeanor than admiration.

 

“No. I don’t want his cowardly blood on my hands,” replied

the girl. “But I’d make him dance — I’d make him run.”

 

“Shore you can handle a gun?”

 

She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her

resolute lips twitched.

 

Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was

pitched butt first to within a foot of her hand. She

snatched it up, cocked it, aimed it, all before Anson could

move. But he yelled:

 

“Drop thet gun, you little devil!”

 

Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him. He

also yelled, but that yell was different from Anson’s.

 

“Run or dance!” cried the girl.

 

The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand. She

took both hands, and called derisively as she fired again.

The second bullet hit at Riggs’s feet, scattering the dust

and fragments of stone all over him. He bounded here —

there — then darted for the rocks. A third time the heavy

gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let

out a hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a

rock.

 

“Plug him! Shoot off a leg!” yelled Snake Anson, whooping

and stamping, as Riggs got out of sight.

 

Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same

quietness that had characterized his manner toward the girl.

Then, as Riggs disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took

the gun from the girl’s trembling hands. She was whiter than

ever, but still resolute and defiant. Wilson took a glance

over in the direction Riggs had hidden and then proceeded to

reload the gun. Snake Anson’s roar of laughter ceased rather

suddenly.

 

“Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet

gun,” he protested.

 

“I reckon she ‘ain’t nothin’ ag’in’ us,” replied Wilson.

 

“A-huh! You know a lot about wimmen now, don’t you? But thet

did my heart good. Jim, what ‘n earth would you have did if

thet ‘d been you instead of Riggs?”

 

The query seemed important and amazing. Wilson pondered.

 

“Shore I’d stood there — stock-still — an’ never moved an

eye-winker.”

 

“An’ let her shoot!” ejaculated Anson, nodding his long

head. “Me, too!”

 

So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and

baseness of their dishonest calling, rose to the challenging

courage of a slip of a girl. She had the one thing they

respected — nerve.

 

Just then a halloo, from the promontory brought Anson up

with a start. Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the

jagged rocks that hid the outlook. Moze shuffled his burly

form after Anson.

 

“Miss, it shore was grand — thet performance of Mister

Gunman Riggs,” remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the

girl.

 

“Much obliged to you for lending me your gun,” she replied.

“I — I hope I hit him — a little.”

 

“Wal, if you didn’t sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin’

about lead.”

 

“Jim Wilson? Are you the man — the outlaw my uncle Al

knew?”

 

“Reckon I am, miss. Fer I knowed Al shore enough. What ‘d he

say aboot me?”

 

“I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson’s gang.

He mentioned you. Said you were a real gun-fighter. And what

a shame it was you had to be an outlaw.”

 

“Wal! An’ so old Al spoke thet nice of me… . It’s

tolerable likely I’ll remember. An’ now, miss, can I do

anythin’ for you?”

 

Swift as a flash she looked at him.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Wal, shore I don’t mean much, I’m sorry to say. Nothin’ to

make you look like thet… . I hev to be an outlaw, shore

as you’re born. But — mebbe there’s a difference in

outlaws.”

 

She understood him and paid him the compliment not to voice

her sudden upflashing hope that he might be one to betray