The Forfeit Part 8

"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones.

"My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazing rights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember.

You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morning because--I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see you privately. It's--important. You've been robbed last night, and--it's about them. The gang, I mean."

His pony was still blowing. Bob had ridden hard. He had first ridden into Orrville, and then followed the rancher out here. He was leaning over in the saddle lounging upon the horn of it. His eyes were gazing curiously, speculatively at the figure of the man who ruled the local cattle industry. He was calculating in his own way what might be the effect of the news he had to impart. What estimate this big man--and Bob knew him to be a big man--would have of him when he had told his news and claimed the--blood money? With each moment he shrank smaller and smaller in his own estimation.

Dug regarded him steadily.

"You've got news of them?"

Bob nodded, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Lew Hank.

"I've seen 'em. But--it's more than that."

The rancher turned quickly upon his foreman.

"Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's making with young Syme. I need a talk with Whitstone."

It was not without obvious and resentful reluctance that Lew Hank withdrew. Even his hardihood, however, was unequal to resisting so direct an order from his chief.

The two men watched him out of earshot. Then Dug, with almost precipitate haste, turned back to his visitor.

"Now, sir, I'm ready to hear anything you need to tell me."

But Bob was thinking of Ju Penrose as he had thought of him many times since he had listened and yielded to Effie's appeal. Every man has his price. Bob knew now that he, like the rest, had his price. That price a woman had set for him. Ju was right--hatefully right. Well, he would now refuse to be robbed of one cent of it.

He looked up sharply as the other made his demand.

"You're offering ten thousand dollars reward for the capture of the Lightfoot gang, Mr. McFarlane?"

"That's so."

The rancher's regard had deepened. There was a curious light s.h.i.+ning in his blue eyes. It was half speculative, half suggestive of growing excitement. It was wholly full of a burning interest.

"Say, I'd just like to know how I stand." Bob laughed that short hard laugh which bears no trace of mirth. "You see, I can put you wise. I can lead you right on to their camp so you can get 'em--while they're sleeping, or any other old way. Oh, yes, I'm ready to play my part right up to the limit. It don't matter a thing. I'm not just here to tell you about things. I'm here to lead you to that camp, and take a hand in the hanging when you get busy. You see, I'm a whole hogger.

But I want to know how things stand about that ten thousand dollar reward. Do I get it? If I get shot up does my wife get it? And when it's paid, do you shout about it? Does the gang down Orrville way need to know who it was they forgot to hand the name of Judas to when he was christened? I don't care a cuss on my own account. It's----"

But Dug McFarlane broke in upon the bitter raillery. He had no thought for the man or his feelings, just for one moment it seemed to him that some sort of miracle had happened. And his every thought and feeling was absorbed in it. Here, after five years of vain effort, here, after five years of depredations which had almost threatened the cattle industry in the district with complete crippling, here was a man who could lead them to the raiders' hiding-place, could show them how the hanging they all so cordially desired could be brought about. It was stupendous. It was--yes, it was miraculous.

His first impulse had been to give way to the excitement which stirred him, but he restrained himself.

"Ten thousand dollars will be paid by me to the man, or his nominee, privately, if his information leads to the hanging of this gang. Say, boy, we ain't goin' to split hairs or play any low games on this lay out. I'm a rich man, an' ten thousand dollars ain't a circ.u.mstance so we break up this gang. If we only get one of 'em or part of 'em, the man who shows me their hiding-place, and leads me to it, that man--or his wife--gets my ten thousand dollars. You can have it in writing.

But my word goes any old time. Now you can get busy and hand me the proposition."

The steady eyes, the emphatic tones of this big, straight-dealing rancher silenced the last doubt in Bob's lesser mind. He was out to do this dirty work with all his might in the interest of the woman who had inspired it. But he had scarcely been prepared for such simple methods as this man displayed. He had felt that it was for him to barter, to scheme, to secure the dollars Effie coveted. A deep sigh escaped him.

It may have been relief. It may have been of regret that he must stand before so straight-dealing a personality claiming his thirty pieces of silver.

He pa.s.sed one hand across his perspiring brow and thrust his prairie hat farther back upon his head. He would have preferred, however, to have drawn it down over his eyes to escape the searching gaze from the honest depths of the other's. Suddenly, with a gesture of impatience, he began to talk rapidly.

"It's no use, Mr. McFarlane, I hate this rotten work," he cried out.

"I--I hate it so bad I could just rather bite my tongue out than tell you the things I've got to. It's rotten. I don't know---- Say, you don't know me, and I don't guess you care a curse anyway. But I was brought up in a city and taught to believe things were a deal better than I've lately come to think they are. Psha! These fellers have got to be hanged when and where we get them. But it hurts me bad to think that I've got to take dollars for handing you their lives. Oh, that don't tell you a thing either. You'd say I don't need to take 'em.

But I do. I got to take those dollars, if they blister my hands and burn the bones inside 'em. I've got to have 'em, and I'd like to burn 'em, every blazing one. But I've got to have 'em. Say, I'll be paid on the nail when the job's done? If I get shot up the money'll be paid to my wife? Will you give me your word, sir? Your word of honor?"

"My word of honor."

"Say, then come right back with me to my shanty no, best not. We'll ride back to Orrville, and I'll hand you all I know as we go. I can quit you before we reach the towns.h.i.+p. Then you can hustle the crowd together and I'll be waiting ready at my shack to play my part--the dirty rotten Judas racket."

"Judas betrayed his--Master and Friend. Are these people your friends?

Is Lightfoot your master?"

"Heavens! What d'you take me for--a rustler?"

"Then quit your crazy talk of Judas. Your duty's plumb clear. Your duty's to hand these folks, these bandits, into our hands. The money's a matter of--choice. I'll just hand my man a word or two, and we'll get back Orrville way."

It was past midnight when Bob took up a position squatting on the sill of his own doorway. Standing close behind him, leaning against the rough casing, Effie looked down upon his huddled figure. Her eyes were alight with a power of suppressed excitement. The blood was surging through her young veins, and every nerve was tense with the strain of waiting, of antic.i.p.ation.

But her emotions were by no means shared by her husband. For all her beauty and woman's charm she was different, utterly different from him.

She had been brought up to the understanding that she would have to make her own way in the world. All her parents had been able to do for her was to see that she was as fully equipped for the adventure of life as their limited means would permit. Those means would die when her chief parent died, and the style in which they had lived left no margin for saving.

So, with cool calculation, Effie had set about her life's effort. Nor had she considered herself unsuccessful in the first spreading of her maiden wings. A millionaire's son! It was a splendid match. It had met with the entire approval of her family.

Then had come disillusionment. A determined opposition from Bob's father. She had been urged to break off the engagement. She even intended to do so. But some how she had miscalculated the nature which her education had been powerless to eradicate. She realized at last when the demands of her campaign made themselves heard, that there was something she had hitherto completely ignored. There was the woman's heart of her. She had most absurdly fallen in love with this first stepping-stone toward the goal of her ambition. It was the absurd uncalculating love of extreme youth. But it was sufficiently impetuous to flout all the reason which her training and upbringing had been calculated to inspire her with.

The rest followed in natural sequence, and now, after two years of married penury, she was ready to seize any straw which chance flung in her way as a means of salving that ambition which she now saw, with more perfectly clear vision, was completely upon the rocks.

Now, in her mind, there were only three matters of concern. Would Dug McFarlane come? Would they succeed in capturing this Lightfoot gang?

Would she get those ten thousand dollars, which appeared so vast a sum to eyes only accustomed to dwelling upon cents?

Bob was silent. His whole aspect seemed to have undergone a complete changes. He had returned to her with the story of his interview with Dug McFarlane. He had returned to her with the a.s.surance that he had sold his conscience, his honor, at her bidding, and he hoped she was satisfied. Since then he had wrapped himself in a moody silence which had defied her utmost effort to break down.

The horses stood ready saddled in the barn. Effie was clad in her riding suit. As yet the moon had not risen to reduce the starlit magnificence of the velvet summer night sky. Nor was there any sound to warn them that the hours of suspense were nearly over.

Finally, Effie could endure the silence no longer. Her dark eyes were intently gazing down upon the bowed figure of the man. They were hard with every bitter woman's emotion. She was full of a fierce, hot resentment against the man who could so obstinately resist the spirit of her longing.

"Bob," she cried at last, all restraint completely giving way, "do you know what I could do just now more willingly than anything else in the world? I could thrust out my foot and spurn you with it as you might any surly cur which barred your way. I tell you I'm hot with every feeling of contempt for your crazy att.i.tude. You dare to set yourself and your moral scruples between my welfare and the miserable life you've condemned me to. Your moral scruples. Were there ever such things? Morals? Ju Penrose's saloon day and night--for you. The s.l.u.ttish drudgery of this wretched place for me. Then you dare to place your conscience before my--comfort."

"Do I?"

The man did not look up. His brooding eyes were on the sky-line to the southeast.

"I've done as you needed. I've arranged everything with the--hangman.

You're going to touch those pleasant dollars. What more are you asking me?"

"What more? Yes, you've done these things because I've driven you to them. You? You'd rather see me sitting around here starving, a worn wreck of a woman, than lend a willing hand to bettering our lot. Oh, yes, you've done these things, and--I hate you for the way you've done them."

The man sat up. He s.h.i.+fted his position so that he could gaze up at the splendid creature standing over him.