THE ORPHAN OBEYS AN IMPULSE
WHEN Sneed promised to try to his men he spoke in good faith, and when he that of them were missing his anger to rise. But he was now they were his reach, so he only that they would not meet the sheriff, not only of the of the peace officer, but also good were hard to obtain, and he what such a meeting might easily into.
The that Ford’s Station him and his no love and that if the should meet with and, possibly, at the hands of any members of the Cross Bar-8, that trouble would be the for him and his men to to. Angrily to and in of the house he gave a and pointed lecture to of his men who near, 81abashed at their foreman’s anger. He stopped and looked toward the of land and at what he might be taking place in its and among its and bowlders.
“Fools!” he shouted, his at the Backbone. “Fools, to a man like that on his own ground, and in the way you’ll do it! You can’t keep together for long, and as sure as you separate, some of you will be missing to-night!”
Had he been able, he would have six cowboys, who were close together as they their way southward, every and every and bowlder. Their Colts were in their hands and their nerves were to the point.
They came to the stage road and, after a consultation, into it and up the opposite bank, where they left one of their number on while they on their search. The a which on the of the cañon above the entrance. He a cigarette, and the thin of slowly their way above him, and turning, for an instant, 82and then as as a rod. It was tobacco and very aromatic, and when the wind it up in clouds and it away it be for many feet.
Five minutes had passed since the had to to the south when something moved on the other of the cañon and then as the up. The was from sight, but he that he must smoke, for time passed slowly for him. Again something moved, this time a thin of mesquite. Gradually it took on the of a man, and he was the tell-tale vapor, the odor of which had him in time.
Retreating, he was soon to sight, and a minutes later he through a thin which on the of the cañon wall. As he did so the his out from the of his and along the trail. Again his he his cigarette and another.
“He won’t look again for a minutes, the fool,” the other as he into the road and across it. After a of 83climbing he the top of the cañon and again to sight.
Still the from the bowlder, and the near it, at last the opposite the smoker. He and slowly around it, his left hand a Colt; his right, a lariat. As the again to the end of the cañon his looked into a gun, and while his were to his the rope at him and over his shoulders, his arms to his side. It and a in it, and almost horizontally. It over his and about his throat, while another after it and in the puncher. Then the and and ran along it and over the guard’s wrists, shorter; and when it ceased, its was to the of his victim. The man was in the and and his captor, the guard’s own neck-kerchief into the open, mouth, the of the and then the into place.
84Roughly his to a of débris he it and and pushed the man into it, after which he pushed the into place and then ran to the bowlder, where he all tracks. Picking up the puncher’s he took the from it and it out on the plain, the across the into a of mesquite. Looking about him, to be sure he had not anything, he in the direction from which he had come.
He again appeared in the cañon, and ran along it until he came to the by the guard’s horse, which he into an and where he the animal hobbled. Loosening the he them over the horse’s and into the saddle. He his way until he had the level plain, when he northward, close to the of the Backbone to avoid being by the searchers. When he had put a dozen miles him he to the east, soon to the chaparrals.
The Orphan, a rise, looked to the 85southwest and saw something which almost his to rise, and was not the with him, which is mentioned to give proper to the of what he looked upon. He to the ground and saw that the were fastened, after which he into the saddle, and, of prayer for success, sent up at the possibility of failure.
Two miles to the of him he saw six almost to earth in the speed they had and were holding. Back of them and and the sun-bleached coach, and dusty, its tall driver up to his work, and with his arm and as he sent the home. Behind the stage the flap, a for the protection of luggage, out of the of wind by the speed of the coach. It at what so it. A thousand yards to the rear, in formation, the now and well ahead of the center, were five arm- and weapon-waving paint just be 86discerned by The Orphan’s good and glasses.
As yet, the for the has not been disclosed, The Orphan was proud in his that he had nerves and a sympathy, and this alone would not have much in his for the driver, and neither would it have the which his face, an by the of six who had for him as if he was a cowardly, cattle-killing coyote. But the baggage-flap two trunks, three and a of white boxes; and as if this was not for a man at reading, the door of the coach and alternately open and as the of the coach it. And through the opening he see a of and and blue.
The Orphan had ten years of his life against the of odds, and his brain had long methods of and had to conclusions. His were sharp, quick and on 87his nerves, often an action he of its need. He the and the unpleasant, who, very probably, were now in where their had gone; and he his to return and free that puncher. He asked himself no questions as to why or how, but his an into a that had and ideas about their use, and that now bucked, and its had to save those and and dresses.
The Apaches had passed the point south of him and were now more to the west, going at right to the he took. They were so upon upon that they did not look to the side–their were on the tall, man who up against the sky and them, and they had passed miles back. As he and the look at them which had so pleased him, they only and more recklessly, savagely.
Down from the north a brown, a dirty horse, and it was fresh. It 88gained steadily, silently, and its were in yards to each minute it ran, since it was at a angle. Astride of it and along its was a man and it to its effort. Soon the man up in his saddle, the its and to a as a to the rider’s shoulder, and at the the animal at its top speed. A of past the marksman’s to with the cloud in his wake, and the nearest brave, who was the last in the crescent, to the ground and rolled times. His horse, of its burden, ran off at an and was soon left behind. The of the and the noise of the of their own and of the reports of their own the report of the and soon another, and nearest, Apache also to the plain. This time the ahead and alongside the of the head-dress, who in his and looked back. His was good, but not good to see the .50 which passed through his and the ear of another warrior’s horse.
89The of the owning the ear looked backward, a and war-cry all in one and to shoot rapidly. His as the coach came to a stand, and another rifle, long silent, took a hand in the with a as if to make up for time. The fell, through by rifles, and the other, his magazine at the new factor, who was very in a cartridge, his about and toward the south, panic-stricken by the of the and by the execution. But the Apache’s last nearly the sheriff’s slate, The Orphan’s temple and him: a of an more to the right would have the Cross Bar-8 of any of revenge.
Bill, still the rifle, to the and ran to where his in the of the plain.
“I’ve got smoking,” he breathlessly, at last of his burden. Then he stopped short, swore, and over the figure, and the by and thigh, it over his and 90toward the coach, his progress slow and of the and dust. As he his he up and saw that his had left the stage and were together on the plain like in a lion country.
They were hysterical, and all talked at once, and their hands. But when they noticed the driver toward them with the across his their mute with a new fear. Up to then they had only of their own and bruises, but here, perhaps, was Death; here was the man who had his life that they might live, and he might have as they gained.
They Bill with questions and gave him no to reply. He past them and his in the of the coach, while they at of the blood-stained face, in their with and horror. Bill, them, with a for him, to the high seat and to the ground with a which he had from its fastenings. Pouring its over the he a pocket 91flask of into The Orphan’s mouth and then to and with his calloused, dust-covered hands, well the nature of the and that it had only stunned.
Soon the quivered, and then and the into those of the man above him, who in joy. Then, weak as he was and only by the of an will, the man to his and as one hand out to the stage for support, the other to his Colt. He still more as he slowly his and the plain for foes, the Colt from its holster.
As soon as he had his and while he was looking about him in a way the to talk again, excitedly, hysterically. They around this unshaven, blood-stained man and to thank him for their lives, their voices with sobs. He listened, of what they were trying to say, until his brain and him of thought. Then he to and spread his to erect. His hand to his for the 92sombrero which was not there, and he as he how he had it.
“Oh, how can we thank you!” the sheriff’s sister, a sob. “How can we thank you for what you have done! You saved our lives!” she cried, at the now past. “You saved our lives! You saved our lives!” she excitedly, and her hands in her agitation.
“How can we thank you, how can we!” the girl who had when the had begun. “It was splendid, splendid!” she cried, in her weakness. She was so white and and that The Orphan for her and started to say something, but had no chance. The three the to the of Bill, who that his talking ability was only after all.
Blood slowly the outlaw’s as he at them and to them, and the sister, the meaning of what she had seen, to Bill with an gesture.
93“Bring me some water, driver, immediately,” she impatiently, and Bill around to the from which a small of three gallons’ capacity. Quickly the from it he returned and out the plug, slowly the until water to through the and to the sand. Miss Shields took a small from her and it, to be stopped by Bill.
“Don’t that, miss!” he exclaimed. “Take one of mine. They ain’t much, and besides, they’re a whole bigger.”
“Thank you, but this is better,” she replied, as she the neck-kerchief which he out to her. She wet the of clean and Bill her as she to the of the outlaw, the for her and that the was not the only to the name of Shields. He the for her as she needed water, and she the carefully, pushing the long which in in her way, all the time the offers of from her companions. The Orphan had 94raised his hand to stop her, at so much attention to so a and not at all to such things, from with deep, black eyes.
“Please do not me,” she commanded, pushing his hand aside. “You can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or I shall think you selfish.”
He as a boy when for some good deed, of the to his gash, and he was of the attention. He not to look at her, but somehow his would not from her face, her of black and her eyes.
“You make me think that I’m hurt,” he as he to her hands. “Now, if it was a wound, why it might be all right. But, pshaw, all this and about a scratch!”
“Indeed!” she cried, the to the ground as she took another from her dress, his with her free hand. “I you would have what you call a wound! You should be that it is no 95worse! Why, just the more, and you would have–” she as she of it and away and a of from her skirt. Straightening up and him again she off the and the from it. Folding it into a she the over the after pushing the and it into place with the strip, it here and pushing it there until it her. Then, it tight, she the gold breast-pin which she at her and the into place, to her work with satisfaction.
“There!” she laughing delightedly. “You look well in a bandage! But I am sorry there is need for one,” she said, instantly. “But, then, it have been much worse, very much worse, couldn’t it?” she asked, brightly.
Before The Orphan reply, Bill saw a in the conversation, or he did, and to say something, for he unnatural.
“I got smokin’, Orphant!” he cried, up to his seat. “Leastawise, I had 96them war-whoops–yep! Here she is, right up and and dandy!”
Could he have the look which the at him he would have with fear. Three in chorus, and the from the outlaw, and and severe. But with the sheriff’s sister it was only momentarily, for she herself and the look of left her eyes. So this, then, was the Orphan, the of her had written! This young, sinewy, good-looking man, who had so on his feet, was the man the of had the pages of Eastern newspapers and magazines! Could he possibly be of the to him? Was he of the which had his name a of terror? As she wondered, by thoughts, he looked at her unflinchingly, and his thin a smile, and yet humorous.
Bill to the ground with the tobacco and, of what he had done, unruffled.
“That was d––n fine–begging the ladies’ 97pardon,” he cried. “Yes sir, it was sumptious, it was! And when I tell the how you saved his sisters, he’ll be some tickled! You just he will! And I’ll tell it right, too! Just the telling of it to me. Lord, when I looked to see how them war-whoops were from my hair, and saw you along like you was a train, I just had to yell, I was so tickled. It was just like I a pair of in a big jack-pot and two more! My, but didn’t I good! And, say–whenever you out of again, you just flag Bill Howland’s chariot: you can have all he’s got. That’s straight, you bet! Bill Howland don’t a turn like that, never.”
The he looked for did not and he from one to another as he that something was up.
“Come, dears, let us go,” said Mary Shields, her skirts and her on the outlaw. “We have to go, and we have so much time. Come, Grace,” she said to her friend, toward the coach.
Bill and how much time had been wasted, since had he that 98point in so a time. He had two miles to every one at his regular speed.
“Come, Helen!” came the from the elder, and with a of and impatience.
“Sister! Why, Mary, how can you be so mean!” the girl with the black eyes, angry and at the of the cut, her at its injustice. Her was up in arms and she walked to The Orphan and out her hand, her sister’s the in her mind in the outlaw’s favor.
“Forgive her!” she cried. “She doesn’t to be rude! She is so very nervous, and this has been too much for her. It was a man’s act, a man’s act! And one which I will always cherish, for I will this day, never, never!” she earnestly. “I don’t what they say about you, not a bit! I don’t it, for you not have done what you have if you are as they paint you. I will not wait for our driver to tell my about your act–he, at least, shall know you as you are, and some day he will return it, too.”
Then she looked from him to her hand: “Will 99you not shake hands with me? Show me that you are not angry. Are you to me to class me as an enemy, just my is the sheriff?”
He looked at her in and his as he took the hand.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “You are kind, and fair. I do not think of you as an enemy.”
“Helen! Are you coming?” came from the coach.
He at the and then laughed bitterly, recklessly, his squaring. There was no in his face, only a quizzical, cynicism.
“Oh, it’s a shame!” she cried, her moist. She a of and looked him full in the eyes. “Whatever you have done in the past, you will give them no to say such in the future, will you? You will it all you and work, and not be an any more, won’t you? You will prove my in you, for I have in you, won’t you? It will all be forgotten,” she added, as if her it so. Then she to the bandage. “There, now it’s all right–you must not touch it again like that.”
100“You are alone in your faith,” he bitterly, not to look at her.
“Oh, I not,” Bill, at the stage as if he would like to and it there. Then The Orphan at the which was contentedly, he out to the animal. “D––d old hen, that’s what she is!” he fiercely. “I don’t if she is the sheriff’s sister, that’s just what she is! Just a regular disposition!”
“You are kind, as as you are beautiful,” The Orphan simply. “But you don’t know.”
She at his and then that he spoke in sincerity.
“I know that you are going to do differently,” she as she her hand again. “Good-by.”
He his as he took it and flushed: “Good-by.”
She slowly and walked toward the coach, where she was by a silence.
Bill the to where The Orphan in thought, his and it around the of the saddle, 101the Colt still in the holster. Then he up for his and it to the skirt by the of leather which therefrom. Looking about him he the on the and, home the plug, it the of the where he it by the which the outlaw’s “slicker.” Jamming the of tobacco into the pocket of the he and at his gifts. He and to the and out his hand.
“There, pardner, shake!” he heartily. “Yore the best man in the whole d––d cow country, and I’ll tell ’em so, too, by God!”
The came out of his and looked him in the as he the hand with a which the driver wince.
“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” he replied. “You’ll if you about me.” Then he noticed the to his and frowned: “You take those things, I can’t. The is enough.”
“Oh, you borrow them ’til you see me again,” Bill. “You may need ’em,” he added as 102he and walked to the coach. He to his seat and the lines about his hands, the as soon as he could, and the coach on its way to Ford’s Station, the driver about old who didn’t know to be they were alive.
The Orphan about the gifts and then to take them for the time. He and past the coach door, near to the of the last horse, where he to Bill’s talk.
“How is it that you’ve got a Cross Bar-8 cayuse?” Bill asked at length, too happy to the of his question.
The Orphan’s hand and then stopped and to the pommel, and he looked up at the driver.
“Oh, one of their and I of swapped,” he laughingly replied, of the man under the débris. “Say, if I don’t as as the cañon with you, just climb up above on the left hand near the entrance and a that is up under a of rubbish, will you? I came near him, and I don’t want him to die in that way.”
103As he spoke he saw a group of over a and he them instinctively.
“There’s the now–tell them, I’m off for a ride,” he said, to the coach door, where he his hand to his and bowed.
