As has been said, Dot Huntington was, notwithstanding her eighteen years, a child of romance. She had been “living scenes” ever since her mother told her the first bed-time story in the long, long ago. She had wished so many, many times in the past that something really thrilling might happen to her—a big, exciting adventure. At this moment she felt that that thrilling something had at last happened. Here was that big, exciting adventure begun. It was all like one of her tremendous, wonderful dreams come true.
She quivered rapturously in the realization that she was a flesh-and-blood factor in some great tragic mystery, that, hero or villain, this sick, wounded man was her patient, dependent on her. A surge of pity swept suddenly into her heart at the thought; an odd sense of responsibility followed, bringing with it a subtle gratification she keenly welcomed.
She told herself that this stranger had ridden in out of that vast mystic horizon where all her dreams had taken shape—like any one of the impossible beings she visualized—looking for attention, care, succor. Yes, she would heed his call—whether he was good or bad. Why, indeed, should she question the moral status of a man half dead? She sat for a long time, her warmed-over meal cold, ruminating thus. How he must have suffered out in that awful wilderness of sand and furnace heat!
Then again came the sound of approaching hoofs.
Starting up out of her chair, she listened. It was the gait of a fresh horse. If it were her father returning early from camp? If it were somebody else? She had not given this phase of the matter a thought. She had lost sight of embarrassing consequences developing. Now vague fears she could not analyze began to assail her.
The hoofs had fallen into a trot, had come to a halt out on the road, ere she flitted through the house, reached the front door and peered cautiously out. A man had just dismounted at the gate. He also was a stranger, a big, broad man about fifty, wearing a split-crown sombrero, unusually wide of brim, and baggy trousers stuffed into high-heeled boots. He too was coated with the dust of long riding, his iron-gray mustache almost invisibly white with it, his six-shooter holsters standing out from his hips.
In the act of lowering the bars, he stooped to examine something on the ground. His appearance, coupled with this last suspicious move, sufficed to stamp him an officer of the law, even though he was not wearing his identifying star of authority.
Dot watched him a few seconds, reasoning that were he an officer, he undoubtedly hailed from San Buenaventura, the county seat, as she was well acquainted with the constable and deputy sheriffs who made their headquarters in Geerusalem. With this decision, she closed the door, locked it, and rushed into the parlor. Her patient was sleeping heavily. She shook him by the shoulder.
“Wake up! Wake up! There’s a—a sheriff outside!” she whispered hoarsely into his ear.
He scrambled off the lounge in a panic, wild-eyed, groggy, a curse bursting from his lips.
“Y’sure? Why in hell—— Git back, an’ let me at him! I’ll give him——” He fumbled feebly for his six-shooters, reeled off his balance, and tumbled over backward on the lounge. His gaze fastened on her, horrible with appeal. “You wouldn’t feed me to that buzzard—this way—would you, sister? Gimme an even break with the——” he gasped out.
A strange ominous fire was playing in Dot’s eyes. She was pale, but dangerously calm. She leaned over him and caught him quickly around the middle with her right arm.
“Come! Stand up! He won’t dare go into my room.”
He blundered to his feet, then through the small dining room and into her own quarters, adjoining the kitchen, she finally staggered with him and helped him onto her bed.
“Not a sound, now!” she warned.
“I’ll never ferget you for this, Miss—Miss Huntington,” he said hoarsely.
She closed the door after her as she went out, locked it, and hurriedly arranged her appearance before the wall glass in the kitchen. Then she threw on a sunbonnet and took a glistening something out of a drawer in the cupboard. She walked out of the back door, just as the stranger, having finished his investigations at the gate, approached along the driveway, leading his horse. He touched his hat to her as she came in view around the corner of the house, one hand hidden in the folds of her skirt.
“I jest dropped in to get a swaller of water for Chain Lightnin’—if you don’t mind,” he said pleasantly. “It’s right hot travelin’.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Help yourself.” She indicated the trough near by. She looked him over, with obvious suspicion.
While his horse drank, the visitor’s eyes wandered apparently aimlessly over the vicinity; they took in the girl, the buildings, the fresh hoofprints in the mud around the trough. He even hearkened to the munching of an animal in the barn—hungry munching, that was. Presently he sauntered back to her and halted a step away.
“You didn’t happen to see a feller ride by this way an hour or so ago, miss? Mighta looked shot—bleedin’ bad?” he said, watching her narrowly.
She nodded. “About two hours ago—yes. Are you——”
“By that you mean, he come an’ went—is that it?”
“I said he was here, not he is here, sir,” she parried, with emphasis.
He burst into a heavy chuckle, mopped his red face, but kept his hawklike eye riveted on her. “I see. Of course, if he was here you’d jest nacherly out with it, sence they ain’t no reason why you shouldn’t, eh?”
“Well, I declare! You’re awfully clever. You’ve read my mind—almost,” she exclaimed, giving him a radiant, tantalizing smile.
He winced and changed his tactics. When he spoke again it was in a well-assumed, worried confidential tone.
“Poor Bill! He bled like a stuck pig. I see it out by the gate. Y’see, miss, me an’ him’s old pals. He gets in a little scrimmich las’ night, an’ a depity sheriff whangs away at him. I bin’ tryin’ to ketch up with him sence about nine this mornin’. I’m dead anxious to——”
“It’s too bad,” interrupted Dot. “Really, if I’d known that, I’d have insisted on him waiting for you.” He caught the sly derision in her voice, and his jaws set.
“I see you got his hoss in the barn. I s’pose you presented him with a fresh one an’ fixed him up so’s he could go on comf’table?”
“Why, yes! I bandaged his head for him. That was the Christian thing to do, don’t you think? And that poor horse couldn’t have lasted him into Geerusalem. But how in the world did you ever guess——”
“How far is that?”
“Geerusalem? Four miles.”
“That’s about where he’s steerin’ for, don’t you reckon?” he asked shrewdly.
She flashed him another smile. “That’s just what I was going to ask you. How should I know his business? Being his old pal, you’re doing a lot of funny questioning, it seems to me.”
He flushed angrily. “You know consid’rable more than you let on, miss,” he said harshly, his eyes narrowing to pin points. “They ain’t no hoss went out that gate sence he come in here. Somebody ridden out before, but you helped this galoot outer the saddle an’ tramped over the other tracks. You can’t make no sucker outer me. Come through, now!”
She laughed daringly. “There’s more than one way of getting off this ranch—fast, stranger. I’ve had bother enough with one scamp already, without wasting breath on his partner.” She took a sudden step away from him, and the hand she had held concealed in the folds of her skirt came forth, holding a revolver. “Travel! Get out and hunt for your friend, before I give you a place to bandage!”
The unexpectedness of her action took him quite by surprise. He gazed hard at her for a few seconds, then he changed fronts with amazing rapidity. He began to grin broadly.
“Of co’se, you don’t know who you’re talkin’ to, miss, or you wouldn’t jerk a gun——”
“I’m talking to another scalawag. Are you traveling, or do you want what the deputy sheriff gave him?”
There was no doubting her earnestness. Firmness of purpose was stamped on her face, shone from her eyes. The man saw it.
“Why, I’m Sheriff Warburton, of San Buenaventura County, young lady,” he said rather awkwardly.
Dot had been looking straight at him, hard, inimically. Now, as he made known his identity, she also changed front. She wavered suddenly, amazement, pleasure, unbelief struggling across her face. She lowered the revolver and broke into a musical laugh.
“Sheriff Bob Warburton! Are you really? Sheriff? I’m Lemuel Huntington’s daughter, Dot.”
His eyes flew wide open. A snort of astonishment burst from him. His ruddy countenance expanded into a great warm smile.
“Lem’s daughter!” he exploded. “Get away! Well, I’ll be reediscongariconficated! Not that leetle knee-high tike I seen in Jupiter—le’s see, how many years ago was that? Well now, wouldn’t that bust you!” He grabbed her hand. “An’ this is Lem’s ranch, eh? Bless his heart! Where’s the good ol’ hoss thief?”
Presently she said: “Won’t you come inside, Sheriff Warburton, and let me fix you a little bite? You must be hungry——”
“By George! I jest hate to refuse that, Dot. I sure am hungry, but I got to git along.” He grinned slyly as he added: “My time’s all took up chasin’ this pardner of mine who you was so horspitable to.”
“Never mind. You’re liable to get shot gallivanting over the plains without your star and telling such awful whoppers to defenseless young women,” she warned him, with mock gravity.
“I’m more liable to, wearin’ it an’ tellin’ the truth, Dot. This galoot is a stick-up—bad clean through. I hear he’s got folks in these parts an’ I figgered you might be—well, mebby his sister. You’ll forgive my bein’ a leetle rough, Dot, but I——”
“If you’ll forgive my taking care of a wounded man and asking no questions, Sheriff Warburton. You were quite correct about him not leaving by the front gate. But there’s another gate in the north corner of the field, opening on the road between Geerusalem and Colony Town.”
“I was dead sure I was right. You can’t fool me on hoss tracks, Dot. Well, I’m goin’ on into Geerusalem first, to dig up a posse. Reckon I might see Lem. Anyway, tell him I’m comin’ out before I go back, to see how he’s behavin’ hisself.”
As he was riding out along the driveway he turned in his saddle and grinned at her.
“You got too big a heart, Dot. If you’d a-hung onto that pardner of mine, you’d ’a’ collected ten thousand dollars reeward—cash down.” He tapped the breast pocket of his corduroy coat as he spoke.