Trailin'!

DREW SMILES

When the cattleman felt the rope snap back to his hand he could not realize at first just what had happened.  The crack of the gun had been no louder than the snapping of a twig in that storming of the river, and the only explanation he could find was that the rope had struck some superlatively sharp edge of the rock and been sawed in two.  But examining the cut end he found it severed as cleanly as if a knife had slashed across it, and then it was he knew and threw the lariat to the ground.

When he saw Bard scramble up the opposite bank he knew that his game was lost and all the tables reversed, for the Easterner was a full two hours closer to the home of Drew than he was, with the necessary detour up to the ford.  The Easterner might be delayed by the unknown country for a time, but not very long.  He was sure to meet someone who would point the way.  It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot down the piebald mustang.

The next instant he was racing straight up the river toward the ford.  The roan was not spared this day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew ranch, and now it was all important that the big grey man be warned; for there was a danger in that meeting, as Nash was beginning to feel.

By noon he reached the house and went straight to the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud to the eyes, a three days’ growth of whiskers blackening his face, and that face gaunt with the long, hard riding.  He found the imperturbable Drew deep in a book in his office.  While he was drawing breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile.

“I thought this would be the end of it,” he announced.

“The devil and all hell plays on the side of Bard,” answered the foreman.  “I had him safe—­almost tied hand and foot.  He got away.”

“Got away?”

“Shot the rope in two.”

The other placed a book-mark, closed the volume, and looked up with the utmost serenity.

“Try again,” he said quietly.  “Take half a dozen men with you, surprise him in the night——­”

“Surprise a wolf,” growled Nash.  “It’s just the same.”

The shaggy eyebrows stirred.

“How far is he away?”

“Two or three miles—­maybe half a dozen—­I don’t know.  He’ll be here before night.”

The big man changed colour and gripped the edge of the desk.  Nash had never dreamed that it would be possible to so stir him.

“Coming here?”

“Yes.”

“Nash—­you infernal fool!  Did you let him know where you were taking him?”

“No.  He was already on the way here.”

Once more Drew winced.  He rose now and strode across the room and back; from the wall the heavy echo of his footfall came sharply back.  And he paused in front of Nash, looming above his foreman like some primitive monster, or as the Grecian heroes loomed above the rank and file at the siege of Troy.  He was like a relic of some earlier period when bigger men were needed for a greater physical labour.

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know.  Says he wants to ask for the right of hunting on your old place on the other side of the range.  Which I’d tell a man it’s jest a lie.  He knows he can hunt there if he wants to.”

“Does he know me?”

“Just your name.”

“Did he ask many questions about me?”

“Wanted to know what you looked like.”

“And you told him?”

“A lot of things.  Said you were big and grey.  And I told him that story about you and John Bard.”

Drew slumped into a chair and ground the knuckles of his right hand across his forehead.  The white marks remained as he looked up again.

“What was that?”

“Why, how you happened to marry Joan Piotto and how Bard left the country.”

“That was all?”

“Is there any more, sir?”

The other stared into the distance, overlooking the question.

“Tell me what you’ve found out about him.”

“I been after him these three days.  Logan tipped him wrong, and he started the south trail for Eldara.  I got on his trail three times and couldn’t catch him till we hit Eldara.”

“I thought your roan was the most durable horse on the range, Steve.  You’ve often told me so.”

“He is.”

“But you couldn’t catch—­Bard?”

“He was on a faster horse than mine—­for a while.”

“Well?  Isn’t he now?’

“I killed the horse.”

“You showed your hand, then?  He knows you were sent after him?”

“No, he thinks it’s because of a woman.”

“Is he tangling himself up with some girl?” frowned the rancher.

“He’s cutting in on me with Sally Fortune—­damn his heart!”

And Nash paled visibly, even through whiskers and mud.  The other almost smiled.

“So soon, Nash?”

“With hosses and women, he don’t lose no time.”

“What’s he done?”

“The first trace I caught of him was at a shack of an old ranchhouse where he’d traded his lame hoss in.  They gave him the wildest mustang they had—­a hoss that was saddle-shy and that hadn’t never been ridden.  He busted that hoss in—­a little piebald mustang, tougher ’n iron—­and that was why I didn’t catch him till we hit Eldara.”

The smile was growing more palpable on the face of Drew, and he nodded for the story to continue.

“Then I come to a house which was all busted up because Bard had come along and flirted with the girl, and she’s got too proud for the feller she was engaged to—­begun thinkin’ of millionaires right away, I s’pose.

“Next I tracked him to Flanders’s saloon, where he’d showed up Sandy Ferguson the day before and licked him bad.  I seen Ferguson.  It was sure some lickin’.”

“Ferguson?  The gun-fighter?  The two-gun man?”

“Him.”

“Ah-h-h!” drawled the big man.

The colour was back in his face.  He seemed to be enjoying the recountal hugely.

“Then I hit Eldara and found all the lights out.”

“Because of Bard?”

“H-m!  He’d had a run-in with Butch Conklin, and Butch threatened to come back with all his gang and wipe Eldara off the map.  He stuck around and while he was waitin’ for Butch and his gang, he started flirtin’ with Sally—­Fortune.”

The name seemed to stick in his throat and he had to bring it out with a grimace.  “So now you want his blood, Nash?”

“I’ll have it,” said the cowpuncher quietly, “I’ve got gambler’s luck.  In the end I’m sure to win.”

“You’re not going to win here, Nash.”

“No?” queried the younger man, with a dangerous intonation.

“No.  I know the blood behind that chap.  You won’t win here.  Blood will out.”

He smote his great fist on the desk-top and his laugh was a thunder which reverberated through the room.

“Blood will out?  The blood of John Bard?” asked Nash.

Drew started.

“Who said John Bard?”

He grew grey again, the flush dying swiftly.  He started to his feet and repeated in a great voice, sweeping the room with a wild glance:  “Who said John Bard?”

“I thought maybe this was his son,” answered Nash.

“You’re a fool!  Does he look like John Bard?  No, there’s only one person in the world he looks like.”

He strode again up and down the room, repeating in a deep monotone: 
“John Bard!”

Coming to a sharp halt he said:  “I don’t want the rest of your story.  The point is that the boy will be here within—­an hour—­two hours.  We’ve got work to do before that time.”

“Listen to me,” answered the foreman, “don’t let him get inside this house.  I’d rather take part of hell into a house of mine.  Besides, if he sees me—­”

“He’s coming here, but he’s not going to see either of us—­my mind is made up—­neither of us until I have him helpless.”