The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

The laugh that followed ruined Smallbones’ last chance of influencing the public mind. He spluttered and shouted furiously, but no one would listen. And, in the midst of his discomfiture, a diversion was created by the entrance of a small man with a round, cheery face and bad feet. He was a freighter. He walked to the bar, called for a drink, and inquired where Mrs. Henderson lived. It was his inquiry that made him the centre of interest at once.

“Mrs. Henderson?” said Silas, as he set the whiskey before his customer. “Guess that’s her shanty yonder.” And he pointed through the window nearest him. “Freight?” he inquired casually, after the little man had taken his bearings.

“Sure. Harmonium.”

“Eh?”

Rocket’s astonishment was reflected in all the faces now crowding round.

“Yep.” Then the freighter perceived the interest he had created, and promptly became expansive. “From the Æolian Musical Corporation, Highfield, Californy. To order of William Henderson, shipped to wife of same, Barnriff, Montana. Kind o’ musical around these parts?”

“Wal, we’re comin’ on–comin’ on nicely,” observed Silas, winking at his friends gathered round.

Gay nodded, and proceeded to support him.

“Y’see, most of our leddies has got higher than ’cordions an’ sech things. Though I ’lows a concertina takes a beatin’. Still, education has got loose on Barnriff, an’ I heerd tell as ther’s some o’ the folks yearnin’ fer piannys. I did hear one of our leadin’ citizens, Mr. Anthony Smallbones, was about to finance a brass band layout.”

“Ther’ ain’t nuthin’ to beat a slap-up band,” agreed the freighter politely. “But these yer harmoniums, they’re kind o’ cussed, some. Guess my ma had one some years back, but she traded it off fer a new cook-stove, with a line o’ Chicago bacon thrown in. I won’t say but she had the best o’ the deal, too. Y’see that ther’ harmonium had its drawbacks. You never could gamble if it had a cold in the head or a mortal pain in its vitals. It wus kind o’ passionate in some of its keys, and wep’ an’ sniveled like a spanked kid in others. Then it would yep like a hound if you happened to push the wrong button, an’ groan to beat the band if you didn’t. Nope. They’re cur’us things if they ain’t treat right, an’ I guess my ma hadn’t got the knack o’ pullin’ them bolts right. Y’see she’d been trained hoein’ kebbeges on a farm in her early years, an’ I guess ther’ ain’t nothin’ more calc’lated to fix a woman queer fer the doin’s o’ perlite sassiety than hoein’ kebbeges. Guess I’ll get right on.”

He paid for his drink, and, followed by the whole company, hobbled out to his wagon. He was a queer figure, but, at the moment, his defects were forgotten in the interest created by his mission to Barnriff.

What prosperity the possession of a harmonium suggested to those men might have been judged by the attitude they took up the moment they were outside. They crowded round the wagon and gazed at the baize-covered instrument, caged within its protecting crate. They reached out and felt it through the baize; they peeked in through the gaping covering, and a hushed awe prevailed, until, with a cheery wave of the hand, the teamster drove off in the direction of Eve’s house.

Then the chorus of comment broke out.

“Gee!” exclaimed Wilkes. “A–a harmonium!” Then, overpowered by his emotion, he remained silent.

“Psha! Makes me sick!” cried Smallbones. “My sister in Iowa has got a fiddle; an’ I know she plays five toons on it–I’ve heerd her. She’s got a mouth organ, too, an’ a musical-box–electric! One ’ud think nobody had got nuthin’ but Will Henderson.” He strode back to the bar in dudgeon, filled to the brim with malicious envy.

Others took quite a different tone.

“It’s walnut,” said Restless, his professional instincts fully alert.

“Yep,” agreed Gay, “burr!”

“An’ it’s got pipes,” cried Rust, impressively. “I see ’em sure, stickin’ up under its wrappin’.”

“Most likely imitation,” suggested Gay, with commercial wisdom. “Y’see them things needs fakin’ up to please the eye. If they please the eye, they ain’t like to hit the ear-drums so bad. Wimmin is cur’us that aways.”

“Mebbe,” agreed Rust, bowing to the butcher’s superior knowledge. “But I guess it must ’a’ cost a heap o’ dollars. Say, Will must ’a’ got it rich. I’d like to savvee wher’,” he added, with a sigh, as they thoughtfully returned to the bar.

But nobody paid any attention to the blacksmith’s regrets. They were all too busy with their own. There was not a man amongst them but had been duly impressed by the arrival of the harmonium. Gay, who was prosperous, felt that a musical instrument was not altogether beyond his means. In fact, then and there he got the idea of his wife learning to play a couple of funeral hymns, so he’d be able to charge more for interments, and, at the same time, make them more artistic.

Restless, too, was mildly envious. But being a carpenter, he got no further in his admiration of Will’s wealth than the fact that he could decorate his home with burr walnut. He had always believed he had done well for himself in possessing a second-hand mahogany bureau, and an ash bedstead, but, after all, these were mere necessities, and their glory faded before burr walnut.

Rust, being a mere blacksmith, considered the wood but little, while the pipes fairly dazzled him. Henderson with a pipe organ! That was the wonder. He had only the vaguest notion of the cost, but, somewhere in the back of his head, he had a shadowy idea that such things ran into thousands of dollars.

A sort of depression crowded down the bar-room after the arrival of the harmonium. Nobody seemed inclined to drink, and talk was somehow impossible. Nor was it until Smallbones suddenly started, and gleefully pointed at the window, and informed the company that Jim Thorpe and Eve had parted at last at the gate of her cabbage patch, and that he was coming across to the saloon, that the gloom vanished, and a rapidly rising excitement took its place. All eyes were at once turned upon the window, and Smallbones again tasted the sweets of public prominence.

“Say,” he cried, “he’s comin’ right here. The nerve of it. I ’lows it’s up to us to get busy. I say he’s a cattle-thief, an’–”

But Jake turned on him furiously.

“Shut your ugly face,” he cried, “or–or I’ll break it.”

The baker’s threat was effective. Smallbones relapsed into moody silence, his beady eyes watching with the others the coming of the horseman. As Jim drew near they backed from the window. But they lost nothing of his movements. They watched him hitch his horse to the tying-post. They watched him thoughtfully loosen his cinchas. They saw that he had a roll of blankets at the cantle of his saddle, and saddle-bags at its sides. They saw, also, that he was armed liberally. A pair of guns on his saddle, and one attached to the cartridge belt about his hips. Each mind was speculating, and each mind was puzzled at the man’s apparent unconcern.

A moment later the swing doors parted, and Jim strode in. His dark eyes flashed a swift glance about the dingy interior. He noted the familiar faces, and very evident attitudes of unconcern. He knew at once that his coming had been witnessed, and that, in all probability, he had been well discussed. He was in no mood to mince matters, and intended to test the public feeling at once. With a cheery “Howdy,” which included everybody, he walked to the bar.

“Guess we’ll all drink, Silas,” he said cheerily, and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter.

But, for once in his life, the saloon-keeper felt it would be necessary to ask his customers what they would drink. This he did, while Jim turned to Jake and the butcher, who happened to be standing nearest to him.

“I’ve quit the ‘AZ’s,’” he said, with a light laugh. “Or p’r’aps I’d best say McLagan’s quit me. Say, I’m out on the war-path, chasing cattle-rustlers,” he went on, with a smile. “That bunch of cattle coming in with my brand on ’em has set my name stinking some with Mac, and I guess it’s up to me to–disinfect it. Eh?”

His final ejaculation was made at Rocket. There were three glasses set out on the counter, and the saloon-keeper was handing him his change.

“Three drinks,” that worthy was explaining. “The rest o’ the boys don’t guess they’re thirsty.”

Jim stiffened his back, and coldly glanced over the faces about him. He counted ten men, without including himself and Rocket. Of these, only two, Jake and Gay, had accepted his invitation. Suddenly his eyes rested on the triumphant face of Smallbones. Without a word he strode across the room, and his hand fell heavily on the man’s quaking shoulder. In a moment he had dragged him to the centre of the room.

“Guess you’ll do, Smallbones,” he began, as he released the man’s coat collar. “No, don’t move. You’re going to stand right there and hand me out the story I see dodging behind those wicked eyes of yours. You’ve got it there, good and plenty, back of them, so get going, and–we’ll all listen. Whatever I’ve got to say you’ll get after.”

Smallbones’ eyes snapped fire. He was furious at the rough handling, and he longed more than ever to hurt this man.

“You’re a strong man, an bein’ strong, you’re mighty free with your hands,” he snarled. “But you’re up agin it. Up agin it bad, Jim Thorpe.” His face lit with a grin of venom. “Say, you don’t need no story from me. You’ll get it plenty from–everywhere! McLagan’s quit you, because– Wal, I’m a law-abidin’ citizen, an’ don’t figger to drink with folks suspected of–cattle-rustlin’.”

Smallbones’ challenge held the whole room silent. Jake, watching and listening, was astonished at the man’s moral courage. But the chief interest was in the ex-ranch-foreman. What would he do?

The question was swiftly answered. Jim’s head went up, and a light laugh prefaced his words.

“So I’m up against it?” he said calmly. Then he gazed contemptuously round on those who had rejected his hospitality. “So that’s why all you fellows refused to drink with me. Well, it’s a nasty pill, and it’s likely to hand me indigestion.” Then he deliberately turned his back on Smallbones and glanced at the counter. The drinks he had bought were still there. He looked up with a frank smile into the faces of the two men who were willing to drink with him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it seems to me there are just two drinks between me and–the rope. Will you honor a suspected man by clinking glasses with him?”

He raised his own glass to them, and Jake and Gay nearly fell over each other in their frantic efforts to express their willingness, and their disapproval of Smallbones. They clumsily clinked their glasses, and drank to the last drop. Then, in silence, they set their glasses down.

“Thanks, Jake. Thanks, Gay,” said Jim, after a moment. Then he turned to the saloon-keeper. “I’m sorry the order’s so small,” he said, with a laugh.

“You can make it one bigger,” grinned Silas, and Promptly held out his hand.

The two men gripped.

“Thanks,” murmured Jim. And at the same instant Smallbones’ offensive voice broke in.

“A real elegant scene,” he sneered. “Most touchin’. Sort o’ mothers’ meetin’.” But in a second his tone changed to a furious rasp. “But don’t you mistake, Jim Thorpe; three drinks ain’t buyin’ you clear. If you’re the honest man you say, you’ll hev to prove it. There’s the cattle with your brand on ’em. Whose hand set it on? Who keeps that brand? Who runs his stock in hidin’ up in the hills? Them’s the questions we’re all astin’, an’ it’s up to you to answer ’em right. Ef you don’t, then–” he finished with a suggestive motion of hanging.

But Jim had had enough. A moment of blind fury seized upon him, and he swung round on his accuser. The heavy rawhide quirt hanging on his wrist was raised aloft threateningly, and his eyes were the eyes of a man at the limit of endurance.

“Another word from you and I’ll flay you alive with this quirt,” he cried. “You’ve had your say, and now, I guess, I’ll have mine. You know just as much as all the rest of the folk here; no more and no less. No more and no less than I do. When you or anybody else gets definite proof that I’m a cattle-thief you are at liberty to talk, but, until then, if I hear you, or of you, publicly charging me with cattle stealing, I’ll smash you, if I swing for it. Get right out, now. Get right out, quick!”

Smallbones stood for a moment glaring at the threatening man. His teeth were bared in a tigerish grin. He was the picture of ferocity, but, as Jim took a step toward him, his dark face white with passion, he dropped back and finally made for the door.

But the turn of fortune’s wheel was still against Jim. For Smallbones, the situation was saved by the advent of Doc Crombie. That redoubtable man pushed his way in through the swing doors and promptly hailed him back.

“Hold on, Smallbones,” he cried, “I’ve a word for you fellows. How many are there here?” He glanced round the bar swiftly, and finally his eyes rested on Jim Thorpe.

“Ah!” He paused, while he mentally estimated the prevailing feeling. Then he addressed himself to Silas behind the bar. “You’ll help the boys to drinks,” he said. Then, pointedly, “All of ’em.” After that, he turned to Jim. “Jest in from the ‘AZ’s’?” he inquired casually.

“McLagan’s quit me on account of those cattle,” Jim admitted, frankly.

“Those wi’ your brand on?”

“Sure.”

Doc smiled. He could not well have failed to become the leader of this village. Power was written in every line of his hard, shrewd face.

The moment the drinks had been served and heartily consumed, he addressed himself to the company generally. And, at his first words, Smallbones flashed a wicked look of triumph into the face of Jim Thorpe.

“It’s this cattle-rustlin’,” he said, coming to the point at once. “It’s got to quit, an’ it’s right up to us to see it does quit. I ain’t come here like a politician, nor a sky-pilot to talk the rights an’ wrongs of things. It’s not in my line ladlin’ out psalms an’ things. Ther’s folks paid fer that sort o’ hogwash. It’s jest been decided to run a gang o’ vigilantes over this district, an’ every feller called upon’s expected to roll up prompt. I’ve been around an’ located twelve of the boys from the ranges. I want eight more. With me it’ll make twenty-one. Smallbones,” he proceeded, turning on the hardware merchant with an authority that would not be denied, “you’ll make one. You two fellers, Jake, an’ you, carpenter–that’s three. You, Rust–that’s four. Long Pete an’ you, Sam Purdy, an’ Crook Wilson; you three ain’t doin’ a heap hangin’ around this bum canteen–that’s seven.” His eyes suddenly sought Jim’s, and a cold command fell upon his victim even before his words came. “Guess, under the circ’s,” he remarked pointedly, “you’d best make the eighth.”

But Jim shook his head. A light of determination, as keen as the doctor’s own, shone in the smiling eyes that confronted the man of authority.

“Not for mine, Doc,” he said deliberately. “Not on your life. Here, I don’t want any mistake,” he hastened on, as he watched the anger leap into the other’s face, and beheld the sparkle of malice lighting the beady eyes of Smallbones. “Just listen to me. If you’ll take a look around you’ll see a number of fellers, mostly good fellers, more than half of ’em believing me to be the rustler they’re all looking for. Well, for one thing you can’t put me on a vigilance committee with folks suspecting me. It isn’t fair either way, to me or them. Then, in the second place, I’ve got a say. I tell you, Doc, straight up and down, as man to man, I don’t hunt with hounds that are snapping at my shoulders in the run. I’m either a rustler or I’m not. I choose to say I’m not. That being so I guess I’m the most interested in running these gophers, who are, to their holes. Well, that’s what I’m going to do. But I’m going to do it in my own way, and not under any man’s command. I’ve got a few dollars by me and so long as they last, and my horse lasts out, I’m going to get busy. You’re a man of intelligence, so I guess you’ll see my point. Anyway, I hunt alone.”

It was a lucky thing for Jim Thorpe that he was dealing with a really strong man, and a fearless one. One weak spot in the character of Doc Crombie, one trifling pettiness, which could have taken umbrage at the defiance of his authority, one atom of small-mindedness, whereby he could have been influenced by the curious evidence against this man, and the yelping hounds of Barnriff would have been let loose, and set raging at his heels. As it was, Doc Crombie, whatever may have been his faults, was before all things a man.

He turned from Jim with a shrug.

“Plain speakin’s good med’cine,” he said, glancing coldly over his shoulder. “You’ve spoke a heap plain. So will I. Hit your own trail, boy. But remember, this dogone rustler’s got to be rounded up and finished off as neat as a rawhide rope’ll do it. If he ain’t found–wal, we’re goin’ to clear Barnriff of this trouble anyways. I don’t guess you need a heap of extry-ordinary understandin’ to get my meaning. You’re gettin’ a big chanct–why, take it. Gay,” he said, turning abruptly to the butcher, “I guess you’ll make the tally of the committee. We start out to-night.”

CHAPTER XXIII

TERROR

Eve was alone. Never in all her life had she been so absolutely alone as now. She rocked herself to and fro beside her kitchen stove, her thoughts and fears rioting through body and mind, until she sat shivering with terror in the warmth of her own fireside.

It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening and the vigilantes were due back in the village before midnight. What would be their news? What–? She paused, listening fearfully. But the sound she heard was only a creaking of the frame of her little home.

The suspense was nerve racking. Would it never end? Yes, she felt it would end–certainly, inevitably. And the conviction produced a fresh shudder in her slight body. Three hours ago she had seen Jim Thorpe and his jaded horse return to the village. She had longed to seek him out–he had gone to Peter Blunt’s hut for the night–and question him. But she had refrained. Whatever Jim’s actual attitude toward her, she must think of him in her calculations as the bitterest enemy. In her tense nervousness she laughed hysterically. Jim, her enemy? How ridiculous it seemed. And a year ago he had been her lover.

For a moment her terror eased. Thoughts of a year ago were far removed from the horror of her present. Jim could be nobody’s enemy unless it were his own. Her enemy? Never. He was too kind, too honest, too much a man. And yet–the haunting of the moment broke out afresh–he must be. In self-defense he must be her enemy. He could not clear his own name otherwise.

She pondered. Her eyes grew less wild, less frightened, and a soft glow welled up in her heart as she thought of the man whom she declared must be her enemy. Just for a moment she thought how different things might have been had only her choice fallen otherwise. Then she stifled her regrets, and, in an instant, was caught again in the toils of the horror that lay before her.

She tried to think out what she must do when the vigilantes returned. What would be her best course? She wanted advice so badly. She wanted to talk it over with somebody, somebody who had clear judgment, somebody who could think with a man’s cool courage. Yes, she wanted a man’s advice. And there was no man to whom she could appeal. Jim?–no, she decided that she could not go to him. She felt that, for safety, she had seen too much of him already. Peter? Ah, yes! But the thought of him only recalled to her mind another trouble with which she was beset. It was one, which, amidst the horror of the matter of the cattle stealing, had, for the moment, been banished from her mind.

She remembered the note she had received from him that morning, and groped for it in the bosom of her dress. It had reached her by a special messenger, and its tone, for Peter, was urgent and serious. She found it at last, and straightened out its creases. She was thankful for the occupation, and lingered over it before she read it over again.

“Dear Eve,

“Has Elia returned home? He left camp two mornings ago, before sun up. I’ve been hunting him ever since, but can’t locate him. I’ve a shrewd idea that he’s on the trail of your Will, but can’t be sure. Anyway, I’m worried to death about him, and, as a last resource, thought he might have gone back to you. Send word by the bearer.

“Yours,“Peter Blunt.”

Elia gone. The thought filled her with dismay. Elia was the one person in the world she still clung to. And now he had gone–been spirited away.

She thought of the poor stricken lad with his crooked body. She loved him as she might have loved a child of her own. Yes, he was much more to her than her brother. Had not she cared and struggled for him all these years? He had become part of her very life.

And Peter, in whose care she had left him, had failed her. Who on earth could she trust, if not Peter? She blamed him, blamed him bitterly; but, in her heart, she knew she had no right to. Peter would not willingly hurt her, and she knew well enough that if Elia had gone it was through no carelessness of this gentle, kindly man.

She put the note away, and sat staring into the fire. The change of thought had eased the pitch of her nerves for a moment. If she could only blot that other out altogether–but even as the wish was formulated in her brain, the horror and dread were on her again crushing her.

She sprang to her feet and paced the room with rapid, uneven strides. She could not rest. The dread of the return of the vigilantes obsessed her. She found herself vaguely wondering if they were all out. Was Doc Crombie out? No, she knew he wasn’t. That was something. That was the man she most dreaded. To her heated imagination he seemed inevitable. He could not fail in his self-imposed mission. He would hunt his man down. He would never pause until the wretched victim was swinging at the rope end.

She shuddered. This sort of thing had never before impressed its horror upon her as it did now. How should it? It had always seemed so far away, so remote from her life. And now–oh, God, to think that its shadow was so near her!

Then for a second her struggling brain eased with an undefined hope. She was thinking of how they had tried to track Will before, and how they had failed. She tried to tell herself that then their incentive had been even greater. Had it not been the greed of gold? And she well knew its power with these men. Yes, it suggested hope. But that one passing gleam vanished all too swiftly. She felt in her inmost heart that no such luck would serve him now. These men were bloodhounds on a trail of blood. They were demanding a life, nor would they lift their noses from the scent until their work was accomplished.

It was not the man. It was not the thought of his life that drove her frantic now. It was the horror of such an end to her wretched marriage. The wife of a cattle-thief! The widow of a man lynched by his fellow citizens! She buried her face in her hands, and hard, dry sobs racked her body.

For a moment she stood thus. Then she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes staring, her whole attitude alert, intent. There was a sound outside. She heard the clank of the latch. And now an awkward shuffling gait just outside her door. She moved toward the parlor and stood listening in the doorway.

Suddenly a light broke in upon her. That awkward footstep! She knew it! Her relief was heartbreaking. It was Elia. With a rush she was at the door, and the next moment she dragged the boy in, and was crooning over him like some mother over a long-lost child.

But the boy pushed her away roughly. His calm face and gentle eyes now shone with excitement, one of those excitements she so dreaded in him.

“Quit, sis,” he cried sharply. “I ain’t no use fer sech slobberin’. I ain’t a kid. Say–”

He broke off, eyeing her with his head bent sideways in the extraordinary attitude which a cruel nature had inflicted upon him.

“Yes.”

Eve’s eyes were full of a yearning tenderness. His rebuff meant nothing to her devotion. She believed it to be only his way. Part of the cruel disease for which he must be pitied and not blamed.

But his broken sentence remained uncompleted. His eyes were fixed upon her face bland yet sparkling with the thought behind them.

“Peter sent word to me to-day that you–you were lost,” Eve said.

The boy laughed without relaxing a muscle.