The Rider of the Mohave: A Western Story by James Fellom - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIV—WARBURTON GETS SQUARE

Walking their horses down Geerusalem Gulch, they went, riding side by side. Neither spoke. They passed the lonely, dilapidated rock hut where Lennox, wounded, had applied for help on that exciting night of his flight from camp, and crossed the monumented gravel bar that was to be known thereafter as Quintell’s Unlucky Boy. Ahead of them spread the great, gray floor of Soapweed Plains, looking under the sheen of the moon like some placid ghostly sea. From out of the immeasurable distances came the pitiful howl of a wild dog foraging hopelessly for food.

As they reached the point in the gulch where it began to spill its rocky bottom over the bosom of the plains, Dot turned her head and looked at Billy Gee. Her face was pale, her lips drawn.

“Why did you ever do it, Jerome?” she asked in dead tones.

He bent a sharp glance at her. Her cheeks shone wet in the moonlight.

“I’m glad now I did, Dot,” he said simply. “But he had me dead to rights—arrested. I couldn’t help it. It was my only way out. An’ I wanted to save you folks, an’ there was Lex bein’ swindled on that placer proposition. I wouldn’t stand for——”

“How did you know?”

“I seen him. It was right out yonder,” he said, pointing back up the wash where he had overheard Quintell and Harrison discussing the salting of the Lucky Boy group the night before. He explained the incident briefly to her. “He lit a match, an’ I got a look at his face an’ knowed him. You can’t ever guess how I felt about it, Dot,” he went on, in a harsh voice. “Here was the man who had made me a bandit, the man I bin huntin’ and huntin’ for three years. When he planted that evidence against me to clear himself an’ make me out the thief, I was one of his clerks, an’ I’d already bin talked about to run against him at the next election. That’s why he done it, I reckon. Well, it’s all over now.”

“But Pete knew all about it. Oh, Jerome, why didn’t you let him swear out a warrant for Quintell’s arrest!” cried Dot miserably.

“Poor ol’ Pete! He’s scary an’ funny, an’ more’n likely they’d think he was jest imaginin’ things. No, Dot! It’s better the way it turned out.” He paused, then continued in slow, plaintive tones: “After I got away from them night riders this mornin’, I kept lookin’ back. I was afraid they’d drop in at the ranch ag’in—an’ my mother was there. An’—well, you was out yonder, too, Dot. Anyway, I was worried an’ wasn’t watchin’ for Warburton. That’s how he come to git me.

“He took me over to Blue Mud Spring, an’ me an’ him an’ yore dad rode back to the ranch together. Then I told him about the Marysville robbery, an’ Pete tells his story of how he seen Miles leavin’ the city hall with a valise, round one o’clock, the night before the robbery. There was a lot more said, for instance, how Miles, or Quintell, as he calls himself, was tryin’ to drive you folks out o’ the country, an’ how he’d salted these claims to hold up the railroad comp’ny. Then I got the idea to git Miles, myself. I told Warburton I figgered that much was comin’ to me, seein’ as how Miles had made me a criminal. Yore dad took sides with me, Dot. Yes, he did. An’ Warburton agreed. He put me on my honor.”

He laughed. “Everything’s turned out dandy. An’ the Billy Geerusalem claims is goin’ to be split three ways, between Pete, my mother, an’ yore dad. That’s all bin fixed, Dot, an’ better days are comin’.”

As he finished speaking, he reached out suddenly, and his hand closed hard over hers. Her face was averted, streaming with silent tears. She was gazing mutely toward the boundless stretches of desolation beyond which lay the now invisible violet and yellow scallop of range that had formed the background of all her past romantic dreams. She faced him suddenly, a sob bursting from her, clutching his hand spasmodically.

“It’s not too late, Jerome. It’s not too late,” she cried. “You can escape. You have to! He must not take you. Do you know what it’ll mean? The penitentiary for life! Dear God! Never to get free! To count the long, long years passing, to grow old and wasted, to die and find your freedom in the grave. Jerome, he must not take you. You owe it to yourself, to your mother, to me! Jerome, for my sake, if for no other reason!”

She jerked her horse to an abrupt stop. Gone was her restraint. She was weeping passionately, appealingly, with hysterical abandon. He reined in beside her, leaned out of the saddle, caught her in his arms, and drew her to him. His breath was coming from him in great gasps.

“Dot—darling!” he choked hoarsely.

Her heart opened then, and she poured into his ear the strength of her love for him, all her secret hopes, her fears, her mounting despair, in one desperate outpouring of entreaty.

“Don’t you remember, Jerome, dearest?” she sobbed distractedly. “‘You poor, wounded wild animal,’ I called you. I wanted you then. You wandered out of my dreamland, a part of my dreams. You came living—dying, to me. You belonged to me. You belong to me now—now that my heart is breaking for you, dear.” She stroked his face fiercely with her hands. “To-night, I’ll speak to father. You must be on your way to the Mexican border by midnight. We’ll sell the ranch and the claims and follow, with your mother as soon as——”

She broke off. Through the dead silence, bearing down on them from the rear, came the sound of mad hoofs, the pop of a quirt against an animal’s flanks mingling with the wild, weird cries of a man. Then, into view loomed a diminutive rider. It was Tinnemaha Pete astride one of his little burros. Like some grotesque goblin of the night he came speeding up to them, cackling and sputtering incoherently.

“They tell me ye give up—quit like a dollar watch. Quit like a——” he screeched insanely, jerking his puffing burro to a stop. “Say it’s a danged lie, Billy! Billy, d’ye hear? Don’t tell me ye ain’t got the guts. Don’t tell me, my Billy boy ain’t got the guts. The son of Agatha! D’ye mark that, Dot? D’ye want—d’ye want to—d’ye want to kill me, Billy? To know—to know the buzzards’ll be peckin’ my innards outer me, sooner’n they oughter?”

He waved his skinny arms, a curious spasm of emotion sweeping over him, racking his shriveled little body.

“Jerome, did you hear? Oh, how can you refuse? How can you—— And Sheriff Warburton would understand. He is so good and generous. Please, Jerome, darling! Do as I say,” pleaded Dot passionately.

It was nearly midnight when Lemuel Huntington admitted them. Dot was pale and drawn of face, her eyes filled with suffering. Tinnemaha Pete puffed furiously at his old pipe and muttered endlessly to himself. Billy Gee sat down, bowed his head, and stared at the floor. Presently the girl brought up a chair and, taking her place close beside him, leaned her cheek against his arm and wept.

Lemuel, clad in an old-fashioned night robe, stood and blinked at them soberly. Throughout that day he had been repairing, where he could, the damage wrought by the night riders, so that, lacking certain pieces of furniture destroyed beyond all hope of restoration, the interior of the house looked much the same as it always had.

Standing thus, watching the trio, he presently nodded gravely to himself; for he recalled the agreement Billy Gee had entered into with Bob Warburton, and he knew without being told that Jule Quintell’s activities were at an end. Moreover, he was witnessing the verification of a long-standing suspicion that his Dot was in love with this outlaw. Without a word, he tiptoed into the little closet where Lennox lay and closed the door after him.

“It’s hell,” he whispered to the mining engineer, after they had discussed the situation. “But she’ll ferget it, soon’s she gits back to her edjucation. That’s one blessing. But ain’t it too bad, Lennox? You see, he saved my life to-day, when them kiyotes were takin’ me——”

“He saved mine, too,” broke in the other with a sigh.

The next day dawned finally. The sun rose, gloriously bright, and a playful little breeze came frolicking merrily out of the northwest. A lone mocking bird had lingered for one whole hour in the elderberry tree in the garden, pouring out a beautiful pæan, heralding to the desolate world its love of life and freedom.

Billy Gee was still at the ranch. He sat on the front porch with Dot. They sat facing the distant island of chromatic hills where nestled the camp of Geerusalem, watching the white thread of road that led to it. Sheriff Warburton would come by that road. Now and again, the girl would moan pitifully and wring her hands in silent agony. Every little while, Billy Gee would clasp her close, and he would kiss her hungrily and whisper fierce words of endearment into her ear.

Seated on a bench at one end of the porch, was Tinnemaha Pete. Like a faithful dog grown old and purblind and helpless, he kept his rheumy eyes riveted on this youthful partner of his who was determined to keep his promise with the “keys of the penitentiary.” Never, never had Tinnemaha Pete felt so broken-hearted, so near death, so desperate. A dark, awful resolution had found a sanctuary in his fanatical old brain. In the back pocket of his voluminous overalls lay a loaded revolver.

“An’ they kin hang me after,” he murmured to himself, over and over. “An’ they kin hang me after. I’ve lived long enough—what? He ain’t. An’ they kin hang me after. Betcha life, they kin—an’ I’ll laugh at ’em.”

From the direction of the barn came the sounds of Lemuel’s hammer, restoring the ravages of the mob. He was unusually solemn and thoughtful. Presently he threw down the hammer and perched himself on the top rail of the corral and watched the road to Geerusalem.

The hours dragged by, heavy, tragic hours. Eight, nine, ten, eleven o’clock came and went. At half past eleven, an automobile suddenly made its appearance out of the far-away island of hills. It approached at a wild rate. The driver proved to be Lex Sangerly—alone. He brought the car to a stop, leaped out and dashed up to the front porch. Tinnemaha Pete got to his feet and one clawlike hand reached into his overalls pocket.

“Compliments from Sheriff Warburton,” cried Lex jubilantly. “He’s attending to some official business and couldn’t get here at the appointed hour. He asked me to deliver this message to Jerome Liggs.” He flourished a yellow sheet of paper, a telegram, which he read aloud as Lemuel came hurrying up:

“L. S. SANGERLY, SENIOR, Manager M. & S. R. R.

“Your wire relative to Billy Gee’s parole considered and approved. Withdrawal of charges against him by your company and your personal concern in his case make me feel keenly interested in his redemption. Your views are directly in line with my own. As you must know I am inaugurating the honor system in the penal institutions of this State. Kindest regards to yourself and family. I am informing the sheriff of San Buenaventura County of my action.

“HIRAM BRONSON, GOVERNOR,
“State of California.”

A hysterical cry of joy burst from Dot. Tinnemaha Pete dropped the revolver back into his pocket and staggered blindly to the bench and made curious, choking noises in his throat.

Later that day, while Lemuel sat smoking on the porch and grinning contentedly to himself, Billy Gee came out of the house and confronted him.

“Huntington!” he said shortly. “You reckillect that mornin’ I told you I was goin’ to pay you back for sellin’ me out to Sheriff Warburton?”

The rancher took his pipe from his mouth and stared soberly at the other. He did not reply.

“Well, you’re payin’, old sport. Me an’ Dot’s goin’ to git married nex’ Sunday, whether you like it or not. That’s how I square up with you.”

Before Lemuel could reply there was a heavy footfall in the hall and a strident voice boomed heartily:

“Hold on there, a minute, kid! I got somepn to say about this.” They turned to see Sheriff Warburton standing in the doorway, a bandage around his head. Back of him stood Dot, her pretty face wreathed in smiles. The sheriff got out his handcuffs and approached the two men, his eye on Billy Gee. Lemuel catching the meaning of the action grinned broadly.

“I always told myself, that I’d hang these nickel-plated doodads on you some time, young feller,” said the sheriff gravely. “I’m goin’ to, right now—perticular on account of what you jest said. Come here, Dot!” He reached out and took the girl by the arm and brought her alongside of Billy Gee. With a deft movement, he handcuffed them together. “After Sunday, Billy, that’s the awful fix you’ll be in, an’ that’s how I square up with you. He’s a lucky dog, Dot,” he added laughingly.

Tinnemaha Pete, watching the proceedings with Mrs. Liggs, burst into a loud cackle of mirth.

“Son of a gun, Agatha! Did ye mark that? He ain’t sech a measly skunk, as I thought he was. What’re cryin’ about, Agatha?”

“I’m—I’m so happy, Pete,” she breathed, turning away.

In the months that followed, the Huntington ranch vanished, save for two fenced-in acres that held the house, outbuildings, and the cool, old-fashioned garden with the trim little grave in one corner. The townsite of Liggs sprang up mushroomlike and took its proud place on the map of San Buenaventura County. The Billy Geerusalem claims blossomed out, bonanzas, and the camp of Geerusalem lost its ranking as the metropolis of Soapweed Plains. It never knew a railroad—even as the elder Sangerly had avowed to Jule Quintell, now languishing in the State penitentiary.

Prosperity can never change the sterling members of the human family, no more than may the powers of alchemy convert slag into gold. They are still the same humble dwellers of the vast Mohave—Tinnemaha Pete, quaint, timid old desert rat; Sheriff Bob Warburton, big of soul and purposeful; achieving, ambitious Lex Sangerly; Dick Lennox, mining engineer of merit.

The dark days of uncertainty still remain green in the mind of Lemuel Huntington. They remain green, too, in the mind of his daughter, whose romantic brain worked out the destiny of her own happiness. Nor can the shy little mother, who lived and suffered for her wayward son, ever forget; nor that son, who found the turning point in the realization that the price for a hunted animal could not tempt her compassionate heart.

All this and more has been narrated by Dot in her novel, which she called “Billy Geerusalem,” and lovingly dedicated to the man who came to her out of the violet and yellow scallop of hills which had formed the background of all her romantic dreams.

THE END.