The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana

“Jake. There’s something up, and – hark!”

They stood listening. The foreman’s voice was raised again. But now Marbolt’s broke in, sharp, incisive. And the words were plainly audible.

“Keep your voice down,” he said. “D’you want the girl to hear everything? You were always a blunderer, Jake.”

“Blunderer be – ” But he nevertheless lowered his tone, for the listeners could distinguish nothing more.

“He’s up to some devil’s work,” Tresler whispered, after making sure they could hear no more. “Danny,” he went on eagerly, “I must slip into the hall and try and hear what’s going on. I must be ready to – Listen! He’s cursing again. Wait here. Not a sound; not a word! There’s going to be trouble.”

And his assertion seemed to have reason enough, for the rancher’s sharp tones were now mingling with the harsher note of the other, and both had raised their voices again. Tresler waited for nothing now. He tiptoed to the door and stood listening. Then he crept silently out into the hall and stole along toward the blind man’s office. He paused as he drew near the open door, and glanced round for some hiding-place whence he could see within. The hall was unlit, and only the faintest light reached it from the office. There was a long, heavy overcoat hanging on the opposite wall, almost directly in front of the door, and he made for it, crossing the hall in the darkest part, and sidling along in the shadow until he reached it. Here he drew it in front of him, so that he only elongated its outline and yet obtained a full view of the room.

Jake was not visible. And Tresler concluded that he was sitting in the chair which he knew to be behind the door. But the blind man was almost directly in front of him. He was seated beside the small window table on which the lamp stood, a safety lamp, especially reserved for his use on account of his blindness. His ruddy eyes were staring in the direction in which Tresler believed Jake to be sitting, and such was the effect of that intent stare that the watching man drew well within his cover, as though he feared the sightless sockets would penetrate his hiding-place.

But even from this vantage ground he found his purpose thwarted. Jake was talking, but his voice was so low that it only reached him in a thick growl which blurred his words into a hazy murmur. Therefore he fixed his attention on the man facing him, watching, and seeking information from his expression and general attitude.

And what he beheld riveted his attention. Whatever control the blind man had over himself – and Tresler had reason to know what wonderful control he had – his expression was quite unguarded now. There was a devilish cruelty in every line in his hard, unyielding features. His sanguinary eyes were burning with a curiously real live light – probably the reflection of the lamp on the table – and his habitually knit brows were scowling to an extent that the eyes beneath them looked like sparks of living fire. And though he was lounging comfortably back in his chair, without energy, without alertness, and one arm was resting on the table at his side, and his outstretched fingers were indolently drumming out a tattoo on the bare wood, his breath was coming short and fast, in a manner that belied his attitude.

Had Tresler only seen behind the door he would have been startled, even alarmed. The inflamed Jake was oblivious to everything but his own purpose. His mind was set on the object of his talk, to the exclusion of all else. Just then he had not the slightest fear of the blind man. There was nothing of the submission about him now that he had displayed once before in Tresler’s presence. It was the spirit he had imbibed that had fortified him for the time. It is probable that Jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil.

And, though Tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its composition. But even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too.

“Ther’ ain’t no option fer you, Marbolt,” Jake was saying. “You’ve never given me an option, and I’m not goin’ to be such a blazing fool as to give you one. God A’mighty, Marbolt, ther’ never was a man treated as I’ve been by you. We’ve been together fer donkey’s years, I guess. ’Way back in them old days, when we was mates, before you was blind, before you was cranked against ’most everybody, when we scrapped agin them black-backs in the Indies side by side, when we quarreled an’ made friends again, I liked you, Marbolt, an’ I worked honest by you. There wa’n’t nothin’ mean to you, then, ’cep’ in handin’ out dollars. I hadn’t no kick comin’ those days. I worked fer so much, an’ I see I got it. I didn’t ask no more, an’ I guess I didn’t want. That’s all right. Then you got blind an’ you changed round. That’s where the rub come. I was no better than the rest to you. You fergot everything that had gone. You fergot I was a square dealin’ man by you, an’ since that time I’ve been dirt under your feet. Pshaw! it ain’t no use in talkin’; you know these things just as well as I do. But you might have given me a show. You might have treated me ‘white.’ It was to your interest. I’d have stayed by you. I’d have done good by you. An’ I’d have been real sorry when you died. But I ain’t no use fer that sort o’ thing now. What I want I’m goin’ to have, an’ you’ve got to give – see? It ain’t a question of ‘by-your-leave’ now. I say right here I want your gal.”

The man paused. But Marbolt remained undisturbed. He still beat an idle tattoo on the table, only his hand had drawn nearer to the lamp and the steady rapping of his fingers was a shade louder, as though more nervous force were unconsciously finding outlet in the movement.

“So you want my girl,” he said, his lips scarcely parting to let the tone of his voice pass.

“Ay,” Jake said emphatically, “I want that gal as I took out o’ the water once. You remember. You said she’d fell overboard, after I’d hauled her back on to the ship out o’ reach o’ the sharks. That’s what you said – after.”

He paused significantly. If he had expected any display from his hearer he must have been disappointed. The other remained quite still except for those moving fingers tapping their way nearer and nearer the lamp.

“Go on.”

“Wal, I’ve told you how I stand, an’ I’ve told you how you stand,” Jake proceeded, with his voice ever so little raised. He felt that the other was too easy. And, in his unimaginative way, he thought he had spoken too gently. “An’ I say again I want that gal fer my wife. Time was when you would have been glad to be quit of her, ’bout the time she fell overboard. Being ready to part then, why not now? I’m goin’ to get her, – an’ what do I pay in return? You know. You’ll go on ranchin’ in peace. I’ll even stay your foreman if you so want. I’ll shut right down on the business we both know of, an’ you won’t have nothin’ to fear. It’s a fair an’ square deal.”

“A fair and square deal; most generous.”

Even Jake detected the sarcasm, and his anger rose at once. But he gave no heed to those fingers which had now transferred their attention to the brass body of the lamp.

“I’m waitin’ fer your answer,” he said sharply.

Tresler now heard his words for the first time.

“Go slow, Jake, go slow,” retorted the rancher. “I like to digest the position thoroughly. You put it so well.”

The sarcasm had grown more fierce by reason of the restraint the rancher was putting on himself. And this restraint was further evident in the movement of the hand which had now settled itself upon the body of the lamp, and clutched it nervously.

Jake no longer kept check on himself. And his answer came in a roar.

“You shall take my price, or – ”

“Keep calm, you blundering jackass!” the blind man rasped between his clenched teeth.

“No, you don’t, Mr. blasted Marbolt!” cried Jake, springing to his feet and moving out to the middle of the room threateningly. “No, you don’t!” he cried again; “I’ve had enough of that. God’s curse on you for a low swine! I’ll talk no more; it’s ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Remember” – he bent over toward the sitting man and pointed in his face with fierce delight – “I am your master now, an’ ef you don’t do as I say, by G – ! but I’ll make you whine for mercy.”

And Marbolt’s answer came with a crash of brass and smashing of glass, a leap of flame, then darkness, as he hurled the lamp to the floor and extinguished it. It came in silence, but a silence ruffled by the sound of sudden movement. It came, as was only to be expected from a man like him, without warning, like the silent attack of a puma, and with as deadly intent.

Tresler could see nothing, but he knew that death was hovering over that room for some one. Suddenly he heard the table dragged or pushed across the floor, and Jake’s voice, harsh with the effort of struggle, reached him.

“You would, would you? Right; it’s you or me!”

At that moment the onlooker was about to rush forward, for what purpose he had but the vaguest idea. But even as he took the first step he felt himself seized forcibly by the arm from behind. And Diane’s voice whispered in his ear.

“Not you, Jack!” she said eagerly. “Leave it to me; I – I can save him – Jake.”

“Jake?”

“Yes.”

She was gone, and in an instant returned with the lighted kitchen lamp, which she held aloft as she rushed into the room.

Tresler was taken utterly by surprise. The girl’s movements were so sudden, so unexpected, and her words so strange.

There she stood in the middle of the room with the light held above her head like some statue. And all the signs of a deadly struggle were about her. Jake was sheltered behind the window table, and stood blinking in the sudden light, staring at her in blank astonishment. But the chief figure of interest was the blind man. He was groping about the opposite edge of the table, pitifully helpless, but snarling in impotent and thwarted fury. His right hand was still grasping the hilt of a vicious-looking, two-edged hunting-knife, whose point Tresler saw was dripping blood.

Suddenly he turned fiercely on the girl. For the moment he had been held silent, confounded, but now his voice rang out in an access of fury.

“You jade!” he cried, and moved as though to attack her.

Tresler was about to leap to her assistance, but at that instant the man’s attention was suddenly diverted. Jake saw his chance and made for the door. With a bitter imprecation the blind man lunged at him as he went, fell against the table, and stumbled almost to the ground. Instantly the girl took advantage of his position and followed Jake out, slamming the door behind her and swiftly turning the key as she went.

Diane had shown herself in a new light. Her presence of mind was startling, and the whole thing was enacted so swiftly that Tresler failed to grasp the full meaning of it all. Jake had not seen him. In a blind rush he had made for the hall door and passed out. The only thing that seemed real to Tresler was Diane’s safety, and he caught her by the arm to take her to the kitchen. But the girl’s readiness would permit of no such waste of time.

“No,” she whispered quickly. “Leave me and follow Jake. Joe is in the kitchen and will protect me if need be. Quick!” she went on, stamping her foot in her excitement. “Go! Look to him. There must be no murder done here.”

And Tresler was forced, much against his will, to leave her. For the moment Diane had soared to a height of alertness and ready action which was irresistible. Without a word he went, passing out of the front door.

Jake had left the verandah, and, in the moonlight, Tresler could see him moving down the hill in the direction of his shack. He followed him swiftly. But he was too late. The whole thing happened before his very eyes, while he was yet too far off to stay the ruthless act, before his warning shout could serve.

He saw a figure dart out from the rancher’s stable. He saw it halt and stand. He saw one arm stretched out, and he realized and shouted to Jake.

The foreman stood, turned, a pistol-shot rang out, and he fell on his face. Tresler ran forward, but before he could reach him two more shots rang out, and a third sent its bullet whistling past his own head.

He ran for the man who had fired them. He knew him now; it was Anton. But, fleet of foot, the half-breed had reached the stable, where a horse stood ready saddled. He saw him vault into the saddle, and he saw him vanish into the adjacent woods. Then, at last, he gave up the chase and ran back to the fallen man.

Kneeling at his side he raised the great leonine head. The man was alive, and he shouted to the men at the bunkhouse for aid. But even as he called Jake spoke.

“It ain’t no good,” he said, in a hoarse tone. “I’m done. Done up by that lyin’ son-of-a – , ‘Tough’ McCulloch. I might ’a’ known. Guess I flicked him sore.” He paused as the sound of running feet came from the bunkhouse and Arizona’s voice was calling to know Tresler’s whereabouts. Then the foreman’s great frame gave a shiver. “Quick, Tresler,” he said, in a voice that had suddenly grown faint; “ther’ ain’t much time. Listen! get around Widow Dangley’s place – to-night – two – mornin’ all – ”

There came a rattle of flowing blood in his throat which blurred anything else he had to say. But he had said sufficient. Tresler understood.

When Arizona came up Jake, so long the bully of Mosquito Bend, had passed over the One-Way Trail. He died shot in three places, twice in the chest and once in the stomach. Anton, or rather “Tough” McCulloch, had done his work with all the consummate skill for which he had once been so notorious. And, as something of this flashed through Tresler’s brain, another thought came with it, prompted by the presence of Arizona, who was now on his knees beside him.

“It’s Anton, Arizona,” he said. “Jake riled him. He shot him, and has bolted through the wood, back there, mounted on one of Marbolt’s horses. He’s making for the hills. Quick, here, listen! the others are coming. You know ‘Tough’ McCulloch?”

“Wal?” There was an ominous ring in Arizona’s voice.

“You’d like to find him?”

“Better’n heaven.”

“Anton is ‘Tough’ McCulloch.”

“Who told you?”

“Jake, here. I didn’t mention it before, because – because – ”

“Did you say the hills?”

Arizona had risen to his feet. There was no emotion in his manner. They might have been discussing the most ordinary topic. Now the rest of the men crowded round. And Tresler heard the rancher’s voice calling from the verandah to inquire into the meaning of the shots. However, heedless of the others, he replied to the cowpuncher’s question.

“Yes,” he said.

“Shake. S’long.”

The two men gripped and Arizona faded away in the uncertain light, in the direction of the barn.

And the dead Jake was borne by rough but gentle hands into his own shack. And there was not one amongst those “boys” but would have been ready and eager to help him, if help had been possible. Even on the prairie death atones for much that in life is voted intolerable.

CHAPTER XXI

AT WIDOW DANGLEY’S

Inside the hut, where Jake had so long been master, the boys were grouped round the bunk on which their old oppressor was laid out; the strong, rough fellows were awed with the magnitude of the outrage. Jake, Jake Harnach, the terror of the ranch, “done up.” The thought was amazing. Tresler was quietly stripping clothes from the dead man’s upper body to free the wounds for the doctor’s inspection, and Raw Harris was close beside him. It was while in the midst of this operation that the former came upon another wound. Raw Harris also saw it, and at once drew his attention.

“Guess I heerd four shots,” he said. “Say, that feller Anton was a daddy. Four of ’em, an’ all found their mark. I ’lows this one’s on’y a graze. Might ’a’ bin done wi’ a knife, et’s so clean. Yes, sirree, he was a daddy, sure.”

As no one seemed inclined to contradict the statement that Anton was a “daddy,” and as the question of four shots or three was of no vital interest to the onlookers, the matter passed unheeded. Only Tresler found food for reflection. That fourth wound he knew had not been inflicted by the half-breed. He remembered the rancher’s knife and its dripping point, and he remembered Jake’s cry, “You would, would you!” He needed no other explanation.

While the two men were still bending over their task there was a slight stir at the open door. The silent onlookers parted, leaving a sort of aisle to the bedside, and Julian Marbolt came shuffling his way through them, heralded by the regular tap, tap, of his guiding stick.

It was with many conflicting emotions that Tresler looked round when he heard the familiar sound. He stared at the man as he might stare at some horrid beast of prey, fascinated even against himself. It would have been hard to say what feeling was uppermost with him at the moment. Astonishment, loathing, expectation, and even some dread, all struggled for place, and the combination held him silent, waiting for what that hateful presence was to bring forth. He could have found it in his heart to denounce him then and there, only it would have served no purpose, and would probably have done much harm. Therefore he contented himself with gazing into the inflamed depths of the man’s mysterious eyes with an intentness he had never yet bestowed upon them, and while he looked all the horror of the scene in the office stole over him again and made him shudder.

“Where is he – where is Jake?” the blind man asked, halting accurately at the bedside.

The question was directed at no one in particular, but Tresler took it upon himself to answer.

“Lying on the bed before you,” he said coldly.

The man turned on him swiftly. “Ah – Tresler,” he said.

Then he bent over the bed, and his hands groped over the dead man’s body till they came into contact with the congealing blood round the wound in his stomach.

With a movement of repulsion he drew back sharply. “He’s not dead?” he questioned, with a queer eagerness, turning round to those about him.

“Yes, he is dead,” replied Tresler, with unintentional solemnity.

“Who – who did it?”

The question came in a tense voice, sharper and more eagerly than the preceding one.

“Anton,” chorused the men, as though finding relief from their long silence in the announcement. The crime was even secondary to the personality of the culprit with them. Anton’s name was uppermost in their minds, and so they spoke it readily.

“Anton? And where is he? Have you got him?”

The rancher had turned about, and addressed himself generally.

“Anton has made off with one of your horses,” said Tresler. “I tried to get him, but he had too much start for me. I was on foot.”

“Well, why are you all here? Have none of you sense enough to get after him?”

“Arizona is after him, and, until the sheriff comes, he is sufficient. He will never leave his trail.”

There was no mistaking the significance Tresler conveyed in his last remark. The rancher took him up sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“Arizona has no love for Anton.”

“Ah! And Jake. Who found him? Who was there when he died?”

Marbolt’s eyes had fixed themselves on Tresler’s face. And the latter had no hesitation in suiting his reply to his own purpose.

“I found him – dead; quite dead. His death must have been instantaneous.”

“So.”

Marbolt turned back to the bed.

The rancher stood over the dead man in silence for some minutes. Then, to Tresler’s horror, he broke out into a low-voiced lamentation, the hypocrisy of which made him want to seize him by the throat and choke the words ere they were uttered.

“My poor old Jake!” he said, with infinite pity. “Poor old Jake!” he repeated, addressing the dead man sorrowfully. “I wish now I’d taken your advice about that rascal and got rid of him. And to think that you should be the man on whom he was to wreak his treachery. I wonder how it came about. It must have been that rough temper of yours. Tresler,” he cried, pointing to the still form on the bed, “there lies the truest, the only friend I ever had. That man has stood by me when all others left me. Yes, we’ve fought side by side in the Indian days; ay, and further back still. I remember when he would have defended me with his life; poor Jake! I suppose he had his faults, the same as most of us have. Yes, and I wager his temper took him foul of Anton. Poor old Jake! I suppose we shall never know the truth of this.” He paused. Then he cried fiercely, “Damn it! Men, every one of you, I’ll give a thousand dollars to the one who brings Anton back, dead or alive. Dead from preference, then he won’t escape us. A thousand dollars. Now, who?”

But Tresler could stand it no longer. “Don’t trouble, Mr. Marbolt,” he said icily. “It is no use your offering rewards. The man who has gone after Anton will find him. And you can rest satisfied he’ll take nothing from you on that score. You may not know Arizona; I do.”

“You are confident,” the other retorted, resentful at once.

“I have reason to be,” came the decided answer.

Marbolt shook his close-cropped head. His resentment had gone from his manner again. He had few moods which he was unable to control at will. That was how it seemed to Tresler.

“I hope truly it may be as you say. But I must still doubt. However,” he went on, in a lighter tone, “in the meantime there is work to be done. The doctor must be summoned. Send some one for doctor and sheriff first thing to-morrow morning, Tresler. It is no use worrying them to-night. The sheriff has his night work to do, and wouldn’t thank us for routing him out now. Besides, nothing can be done until daylight! And the doctor is only needed to certify. Poor old Jake!”

He turned away with something very like a sigh. Half-way to the door he paused.

“Tresler, you take charge of things to-night. Have this door locked. And,” he added, with redoubled earnestness, “are you sure Arizona will hunt that man down?”

“Perfectly.”

Tresler smiled grimly. He fancied he understood the persistence.

There was a moment’s silence. Then the stick tapped, and the rancher passed out under the curious gaze of his men. Tresler, too, looked after him. Nor was there any doubt of his feelings now. He knew that his presence in the house during Marbolt’s murderous assault on Jake was unsuspected. And Marbolt, villainous hypocrite that he was, was covering his tracks. He loathed the blind villain as he never thought to have loathed anybody. And all through his thoughts there was a cold, hard vein of triumph which was utterly foreign to his nature, but which was quite in keeping with his feelings toward the man with whom he was dealing.

As Julian Marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the distant tapping of his stick had died away. Tresler looked round him at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his eyes. Joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. The faithful little fellow was at his post to care for Diane. Now he turned to Harris.

“Raw,” he said, “will you ride in for the doctor?”

“He said t’-morrer,” the man objected.

“I know. But if you’d care to do me a favor you’ll ride in and warn the doctor to-night, and then – ride out to Widow Dangley’s and meet us all there, cachéd in the neighborhood.”

The man stared; every man in that room was instantly agog with interest. Something in Tresler’s tone had brought a light to their eyes which he was glad to see.

“What is ’t?” asked Jacob, eagerly.

“Ay,” protested Raw; “no bluffin’.”

“There’s no bluffing about me,” Tresler said quickly. “I’m dead in earnest. Here, listen, boys. I want you all to go out quietly, one by one. It’s eight miles to Widow Dangley’s. Arrange to get there by half-past one in the morning – and don’t forget your guns. There’s a big bluff adjoining the house,” he suggested significantly. “I shall be along, and so will the sheriff and all his men. I think there’ll be a racket, and we may – there, I can tell you no more. I refrained from asking Marbolt’s permission; you remember what he said once before. We’ll not risk saying anything to him.”

“I’m in to the limit,” said Raw, with decision.

“Guess we don’t want no limit to this racket. We’ll jest get right along,” said Jacob, quietly.

And after that the men filed out one by one. And when the last had gone, Tresler put the lamp out and locked the door. Then he quietly stole up to the kitchen and peered in at the window. Diane was there, so was Joe, with two guns hanging to his belt. He had little difficulty in drawing their attention. There was no dalliance about his visit this time. He waived aside the eager questions with which the girl assailed him, and merely gave her a quiet warning.