The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod Raine
Avalanche, and disappeared with it to her bedroom. She had formerly lived in Gimlet Butte, and was still keenly interested in the gossip of the town.
Briscoe had scored one against Arlie by meeting her father, telling his side of the story, and returning with him to the house. Nevertheless Arlie, after giving him the slightest nod her duty as hostess would permit, made her frontal attack without hesitation.
“You’ll be glad to know, dad, that Mr. Fraser is our guest. He has had rather a stormy time since we saw him last, and he has consented to stay with us a few days till things blow over.”
Dillon, very ill at ease, shook hands with the Texan, and was understood to say that he was glad to see him.
“Then you don’t look it, dad,” Arlie told him, with a gleam of vexed laughter.
Her father turned reproachfully upon her. “Now, honey, yo’ done wrong to say that. Yo’ know Mr. Fraser is welcome to stay in my house long as he wants. I’m proud to have him stay. Do you think I forgot already what he done for us?”
“Of course not. Then it’s all settled,” Arlie cut in, and rushed on to another subject. “How’s the round-up coming, dad?”
“We’ll talk about the round-up later. What I’m saying is that Mr. Fraser has only got to say the word, and I’m there to he’p him till the cows come home.”
“That’s just what I told him, dad.”
“Hold yore hawsses, will yo’, honey? But, notwithstanding which, and not backing water on that proposition none, we come to another p’int.”
“Which Jed made to you carefully on the way down,” his daughter interrupted scornfully.
“It don’t matter who made it. The p’int is that there are reasons why strangers ain’t exactly welcome in this valley right now, Mr. Fraser. This country is full o’ suspicion. Whilst it’s onjust, charges are being made against us on the outside. Right now the settlers here have got to guard against furriners. Now I know yo’re all right, Mr. Fraser. But my neighbors don’t know it.”
“It was our lives he saved, not our neighbors’,” scoffed Arlie.
“K’rect. So I say, Mr. Fraser, if yo’ are out o’ funds, I’ll finance you. Wherever you want to go I’ll see you git there, but I hain’t got the right to invite you to stay in Lost Valley.”
“Better send him to Gimlet Butte, dad! He killed a man in helping us to escape, and he ‘s wanted bad! He broke jail to get here! Pay his expenses back to the Butte! Then if there’s a reward, you and Jed can divide it!” his daughter jeered.
“What’s that? Killed a man, yo’ say?”
“Yes. To save us. Shall we send him back under a rifle guard? Or shall we have Sheriff Brandt come and get him?”
“Gracious goodness, gyurl, shet up whilst I think. Killed a man, eh? This valley has always been open to fugitives. Ain’t that right, Jed?”
“To fugitives, yes,” said Jed significantly. “But that fact ain’t proved.”
“Jed’s getting right important. We’ll soon be asking him whether we can stay here,” said Arlie, with a scornful laugh. “And I say it is proved. We met the deputies the yon side of the big cañon.”
Briscoe looked at her out of dogged, half-shuttered eyes. He said nothing, but he looked the picture of malice.
Dillon rasped his stubbly chin and looked at the Texan. Far from an alert-minded man, he came to conclusions slowly. Now he arrived at one.
“Dad burn it, we’ll take the ‘fugitive’ for granted. Yo’ kin lie up here long as yo’ like, friend. I’ll guarantee yo’ to my neighbors. I reckon if they don’t like it they kin lump it. I ain’t a-going to give up the man that saved my gyurl’s life.”
The door opened and let in Miss Ruth Dillon. The little old lady had the newspaper in her hand, and her beady eyes were shining with excitement.
“It’s all in here, Mr. Fraser—about your capture and escape. But you didn’t tell us all of it. Perhaps you didn’t know, though, that they had plans to storm the jail and hang you?”
“Yes, I knew that,” the Texan answered coolly. “The jailer told me what was coming to me. I decided not to wait and see whether he was lying. I wrenched a bar from the window, lowered myself by my bedding, flew the coop, and borrowed a horse. That’s the whole story, ma’am, except that Miss Arlie brought me here to hide me.”
“Read aloud what the paper says,” Dillon ordered.
His sister handed the Avalanche to her niece. Arlie found the article and began to read:
“A dastardly outrage occurred three miles from Gimlet Butte last night. While on their way home from the trial of the well-known Three Pines sheep raid case, a small party of citizens were attacked by miscreants presumed to be from the Cedar Mountain country. How many of these there were we have no means of knowing, as the culprits disappeared in the mountains after murdering William Faulkner, a well-known sheep man, and wounding Tom Long.”
There followed a lurid account of the battle, written from the point of view of the other side. After which the editor paid his respects to Fraser, though not by name.
“One of the ruffians, for some unknown reason—perhaps in the hope of getting a chance to slay another victim—remained too long near the scene of the atrocity and was apprehended early this morning by that fearless deputy, James Schilling. He refused to give his name or any other information about himself. While the man is a stranger to Gimlet Butte, there can be no doubt that he is one of the Lost Valley desperadoes implicated in the Squaw Creek raid some months ago. Since the bullet that killed Faulkner was probably fired from the rifle carried by this man, it is safe to assume that the actual murderer was apprehended. The man is above medium height, well built and muscular, and carries all the earmarks of a desperate character.”
Arlie glanced up from her reading to smile at Fraser. “Dad and I are miscreants, and you are a ruffian and a desperate character,” she told him gayly.
“Go on, honey,” her father urged.
The account told how the prisoner had been confined in the jail, and how the citizens, wrought up by the continued lawlessness of the Lost Valley district, had quietly gathered to make an example of the captured man. While condemning lynching in general, the Avalanche wanted to go on record as saying that if ever it was justifiable this was the occasion. Unfortunately, the prisoner, giving thus further evidence of his desperate nature, had cut his way out of prison with a pocketknife and escaped from town by means of a horse he found saddled and did not hesitate to steal. At the time of going to press he had not yet been recaptured, though Sheriff Brandt had several posses on his trail. The outlaw had cut the telephone wires, but it was confidently believed he would be captured before he reached his friends in the mountains.
Arlie’s eyes were shining. She looked at Briscoe and handed him the paper triumphantly. This was her vindication for bringing the hunted man to Lost Valley. He had been fighting their battles and had almost lost his life in doing it. Jed might say what he liked while she had this to refute him.
“I guess that editor doesn’t believe so confidently as he pretends,” she said. “Anyhow, he has guessed wrong. Mr. Fraser has reached his friends, and they’ll look out for him.”
Her father came to her support radiantly. “You bet yore boots they will, honey. Shake hands on it, Mr. Fraser. I reckon yore satisfied too, Jed. Eh, boy?”
Briscoe viewed the scene with cynical malice. “Quite a hero, ain’t he? If you want to know, I stand pat. Mr. Fraser from Texas don’t draw the wool over my eyes none. Right now I serve notice to that effect. Meantime, since I don’t aim to join the happy circle of his admirers, I reckon I’ll duck.”
He nodded impudently at Arlie, turned on his heel, and went trailing off with jingling spur. They heard him