The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod Raine
Teddy said “Yes” after the manner of a horse, as plain as words could say it.
From their feet the trail dropped again to another gorge, beyond which the ranger could make out a stretch of valley through which ran the gleam of a silvery thread.
“We’re going down now into Mantrap Gulch. The patch of green you see beyond is Lost Valley,” she told him.
“Lost Valley,” he repeated, in amazement. “Are we going to Lost Valley?”
“You’ve named our destination.”
“But—you don’t live in Lost Valley.”
“Don’t I?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she answered, amused at his consternation, if it were that.
“I wish I had known,” he said, as if to himself.
“You know now. Isn’t that soon enough? Are you afraid of the place, because people make a mystery of it?” she demanded impatiently.
“No. It isn’t that.” He looked across at the valley again, and asked abruptly: “Is this the only way in?”
“No. There is another, but this is the quickest.”
“Is the other as difficult as this?”
“In a way, yes. It is very much more round-about. It isn’t known much by the public. Not many outsiders have business in the valley.”
She volunteered no explanation in detail, and the man beside her said, with a grim laugh:
“There isn’t any general admission to the public this way, is there?”
“No. Oh, folks can come if they want to.”
He looked full in her face, and said significantly: “I thought the way to Lost Valley was a sort of a secret—one that those who know are not expected to tell.”
“Oh, that’s just talk. Not many come in but our friends. We’ve had to be careful lately. But you can’t call a secret what a thousand folks know.”
It was like a blow in the face to him. Not many but their friends! And she was taking him in confidently because he was her friend. What sort of a friend was he? he asked himself. He could not perform the task to which he was pledged without striking home at her. If he succeeded in ferreting out the Squaw Creek raiders he must send to the penitentiary, perhaps to death, her neighbors, and possibly her relatives. She had told him her father was not implicated, but a daughter’s faith in her parent was not convincing proof of his innocence. If not her father, a brother might be involved. And she was innocently making it easy for him to meet on a friendly footing these hospitable, unsuspecting savages, who had shed human blood because of the unleashed passions in them!
In that moment, while he looked away toward Lost Valley, he sickened of the task that lay before him. What would she think of him if she knew?
Arlie, too, had been looking down the gulch toward the valley. Now her gaze came slowly round to him and caught the expression of his face.
“What’s the matter?” she cried.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. An old heart pain that caught me suddenly.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll soon be home now. We’ll travel slowly.”
Her voice was tender with sympathy; so, too, were her eyes when he met them.
He looked away again and groaned in his heart.
Chapter IV.
The Warning of Mantrap Gulch
They followed the trail down into the cañon. As the ponies slowly picked their footing on the steep narrow path, he asked:
“Why do they call it Mantrap Gulch?”
“It got its name before my time in the days when outlaws hid here. A hunted man came to Lost Cañon, a murderer wanted by the law for more crimes than one. He was well treated by the settlers. They gave him shelter and work. He was safe, and he knew it. But he tried to make his peace with the law outside by breaking the law of the valley. He knew that two men were lying hid in a pocket gulch, opening from the valley—men who were wanted for train robbery. He wrote to the company offering to betray these men if they would pay him the reward and see that he was not punished for his crimes.
“It seems he was suspected. His letter was opened, and the exits from the valley were both guarded. Knowing he was discovered, he tried to slip out by the river way. He failed, sneaked through the settlement at night, and slipped into the cañon here. At this end of it he found armed men on guard. He ran back and found the entrance closed. He was in a trap. He tried to climb one of the walls. Do you see that point where the rock juts out?”
“About five hundred feet up? Yes.”
“He managed to climb that high. Nobody ever knows how he did it, but when morning broke there he was, like a fly on a wall. His hunters came and saw him. I suppose he could hear them laughing as their voices came echoing up to him. They shot above him, below him, on either side of him. He knew they were playing with him, and that they would finish him when they got ready. He must have been half crazy with fear. Anyhow, he lost his hold and fell. He was dead before they reached him. From that day this has been called Mantrap Gulch.”
The ranger looked up at the frowning walls which shut out the sunlight. His imagination pictured the drama—the hunted man’s wild flight up the gulch; his dreadful discovery that it was closed; his desperate attempt to climb by moonlight the impossible cliff, and the tragedy that overtook him.
The girl spoke again softly, almost as if she were in the presence of that far-off Nemesis. “I suppose he deserved it. It’s an awful thing to be a traitor; to sell the people who have befriended you. We can’t put ourselves in his place and know why he did it. All we can say is that we’re glad—glad that we have never known men who do such things. Do you think people always felt a sort of shrinking when they were near him, or did he seem just like other men?”
Glancing at the man who rode beside her, she cried out at the stricken look on his face. “It’s your heart again. You’re worn out with anxiety and privations. I should have remembered and come slower,” she reproached herself.
“I’m all right—now. It passes in a moment,” he said hoarsely.
But she had already slipped from the saddle and was at his bridle rein. “No—no. You must get down. We have plenty of time. We’ll rest here till you are better.”
There was nothing for it but to obey. He dismounted, feeling himself a humbug and a scoundrel. He sat down on a mossy rock, his back against another, while she trailed the reins and joined him.
“You are better now, aren’t you?” she asked, as she seated herself on an adjacent bowlder.
Gruffly he answered: “I’m all right.”
She thought she understood. Men do not like to be coddled. She began to talk cheerfully of the first thing that came into her head. He made the necessary monosyllabic responses when her speech put it up to him, but she saw that his mind was brooding over something else. Once she saw his gaze go up to the point on the cliff reached by the fugitive.
But it was not until they were again in the saddle that he spoke.
“Yes, he got what was coming to him. He had no right to complain.”
“That’s what my father says. I don’t deny the justice of it, but whenever I think of it, I feel sorry for him.”
“Why?”
Despite the quietness of the monosyllable, she divined an eager interest