The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine
about a mile back of the Lazy D Ranch was a deserted miner's cabin.
The hut sat on the edge of a bluff that commanded a view of the buildings below, while at the same time the pines that surrounded it screened the shack from any casual observation. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the mud chimney, and inside the cabin two men lounged before the open fire.
“It's his move, and he is going to make it soon. Every night I look for him to drop down on the ranch. His hate's kind of volcanic, Mr. Ned Bannister's is, and it's bound to bubble over mighty sudden one of these days,” said the younger of the two, rising and stretching himself.
“It did bubble over some when he drove two thousand of my sheep over the bluff and killed the whole outfit,” suggested the namesake of the man mentioned.
“Yes, I reckon that's some irritating,” agreed McWilliams. “But if I know him, he isn't going to be content with sheep so long as he can take it out of a real live man.”
“Or woman,” suggested the sheepman.
“Or woman,” agreed the other. “Especially when he thinks he can cut y'u deeper by striking at her. If he doesn't raid the Lazy D one of these nights, I'm a blamed poor prophet.”
Bannister nodded agreement. “He's near the end of his rope. He could see that if he were blind. When we captured Bostwick and they got a confession out of him, that started the landslide against him. It began to be noised abroad that the government was going to wipe him out. Folks began to lose their terror of him, and after that his whole outfit began to want to turn State's evidence. He isn't sure of one of them now; can't tell when he will be shot in the back by one of his own scoundrels for that two thousand dollars reward.”
The foreman strolled negligently to the door. His eyes drifted indolently down into the valley, and immediately sparkled with excitement.
“The signal's out, Bann,” he exclaimed. “It's in your window.”
The sheepman leaped to his feet and strode to the door. Down in the valley a light was gleaming in a window. Even while he looked another light appeared in a second window.
“She wants us both,” cried the foreman, running to the little corral back of the house.
He presently reappeared with two horses, both saddled, and they took the downward trail at once.
“If Miss Helen can keep him in play till we arrive,” murmured Mac anxiously.
“She can if he gives her a chance, and I think he will. There's a kind of cat instinct in him to play with his prey.”
“Yes, but he missed his kill last time by letting her fool him. That's what I'm afraid of' that he won't wait.”
They had reached lower ground now, and could put their ponies at a pounding gallop that ate up the trail fast. As they approached the houses, both men drew rein and looked carefully to their weapons. Then they slid from the saddles and slipped noiselessly forward.
What the foreman had said was exactly true. Helen Messiter did want them both, and she wanted them very much indeed.
After supper she had been dreamily playing over to herself one of Chopin's waltzes, when she became aware, by some instinct, that she was not alone in the room. There had been no least sound, no slightest stir to betray an alien presence. Yet that some one was in the room she knew, and by some subtle sixth sense could even put a name to the intruder.
Without turning she called over her shoulder: “Shall I finish the waltz?” No faintest tremor in the clear, sweet voice betrayed the racing heart.
“Y'u're a cool hand, my friend,” came his ready answer. “But I think we'll dispense with the music. I had enough last time to serve me for twice.”
She laughed as she swung on the stool, with that musical scorn which both allured and maddened. “I did rather do you that time,” she allowed.
“This is the return match. You won then. I win now,” he told her, with a look that chilled.
“Indeed! But isn't that rather discounting the future?”
“Only the immediate future. Y'u're mine, my beauty, and I mean to take y'u with me.”
Just a disdainful sweep of her eyes she gave him as she rose from the piano-stool and rearranged the lamps. “You mean so much that never comes to pass, Mr. Bannister. The road to the nether regions is paved with good intentions, we are given to understand. Not that yours can by any stretch of imagination be called 'good intentions.'”
“Contrariwise, then, perhaps the road to heaven may be paved with evil intentions. Since y'u travel the road with me, wherever it may lead, it were but gallant to hope so.”
He took three sharp steps toward her and stood looking down in her face, her sweet slenderness so close to him that the perfume mounted to his brain. Surely no maiden had ever been more desirable than this one, who held him in such contemptuous estimation that only her steady eyes moved at his approach. These held to his and defied him, while she stood leaning motionless against the table with such strong and supple grace. She knew what he meant to do, hated him for it, and would not give him the satisfaction of flying an inch from him or struggling with him.
“Your eyes are pools of splendor. That's right. Make them flash fire. I love to see such spirit, since it offers a more enticing pleasure in breaking,” he told her, with an admiration half ironic but wholly genuine. “Pools of splendor, my beauty! Therefore I salute them.”
At the touch of his lips upon her eyelids a shiver ran through her, but still she made no movement, was cold to him as marble. “You coward!” she said softly, with an infinite contempt.
“Your lips,” he continued to catalogue, “are ripe as fresh flesh of Southern fruit. No cupid ever possessed so adorable a mouth. A worshiper of Eros I, as now I prove.”
This time it was the mouth he kissed, the while her unconquered spirit looked out of the brave eyes, and fain would have murdered him. In turn he kissed her cold cheeks, the tip of one of her little ears, the small, clenched fist with which she longed to strike him.
“Are you quite through?”
“For the present, and now, having put the seal of my ownership on her more obvious charms, I'll take my bride home.”
“I would die first.”
“Nay, you'll die later, Madam Bannister, but not for many years, I hope,” he told her, with a theatrical bow.
“Do you think me so weak a thing as your words imply?”
“Rather so strong that the glory of overcoming y'u fills me with joy. Believe me, madam, though your master I am not less your slave,” he mocked.
“You are neither my master nor my slave, but a thing I detest,” she said, in a low voice that carried extraordinary intensity.
“And obey,” he added, suavely. “Come, madam, to horse, for our honeymoon.”
“I tell you I shall not go.”
“Then, in faith, we'll re-enact a modern edition of 'The Taming of the Shrew.' Y'u'll find me, sweet, as apt at the part as old Petruchio.” He paced complacently up the room and back, and quoted glibly:
“And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him, speak; 'tis charity to show.”
“Would you take me against my will?”
“Y'u have said it. What's your will to me? What I want I take. And I sure want my beautiful shrew.” His half-shuttered eyes gloated on her as he rattled off a couple more lines from the play he had mentioned.
“Kate, like the hazel-twig, Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.”
She let a swift glance travel anxiously to the door. “You are in a very poetical mood to-day.”
“As