The Rustler of Wind River Part 25

"I'd be willing--I'd be glad--to go up there myself, alone, and take any message you might send," she offered. "I think they'd listen to reason, even to leaving the country if you want them to, rather than try to stand against a ga--force like this."

"You can't understand our side of it, Miss Frances,"--Chadron spoke impatiently, reaching out for the bundle that his wife was bringing while she was yet two rods away--"for you ain't been robbed and wronged by them nesters like we have. You've got to live it to know what it means, little lady. We've argued with 'em till we've used up all our words, but their fences is still there. Now we're goin' to clear 'em out."

"But Macdonald seemed hurt when I asked him how much money they wanted you to pay as Nola's ransom," she said.

"He's deep, and he's tricky--too deep and too slick for you." Chadron gathered up his reins, leaned over and whispered: "Don't say anything about that Thorn yarn to her"--a sideways jerk of the head toward his wife--"her trouble's deep enough without stirrin' it."

Chadron had the bundle now, and Mrs. Chadron was helping him tie it behind his saddle, shaking her head sadly as she handled the belongings of her child with gentle touch. Tears were running down her cheeks, but her usually ready words seemed dead upon her tongue.

From the direction of the barn a little commotion moved forward among the hors.e.m.e.n, like a wave before a breeze. Banjo Gibson appeared on his horse as the last thong was tied about Nola's bundle, his hat tilted more than its custom to spare the sore place over his eye.

The cowboys looked at his gaudy trappings with curious eyes. Chadron gave him a short word of greeting, and bent to kiss his wife good-bye.

"I'm with you in this here thing, Saul," said Banjo; "I'll ride to h.e.l.l's back door to help you find that little girl!"

Chadron slewed in his saddle with an ugly scowl.

"We don't want any banjo-pickers on this job, it's men's work!" he said.

Banjo seemed to droop with humiliation. Chuckles and derisive words were heard among Chadron's train. The little musician hung his bandaged head.

"Oh, you ortn't be hard on Banjo, he means well," Mrs. Chadron pleaded.

"He can stay here and scratch the pigs," Chadron returned, in his brutal way. "We've got to go now, old lady, but we'll be back before morning, and we'll bring Nola. Don't you worry any more; she'll be all right--they wouldn't dare to harm a hair of her head."

Mrs. Chadron looked at him with large hope and larger trust in her yearning face, and Banjo slewed his horse directly across the gate.

"Before you leave, Saul, I want to tell you this," he said. "You've hurt me, and you've hurt me _deep_! I'll leave here before another hour pa.s.ses by, and I'll never set a boot-heel inside of your door ag'in as long as you live!"

"Oh h.e.l.l!" said Chadron, spurring forward into the road.

Chadron's men rode away after him, except five whom he detailed to stay behind and guard the ranch. These turned their horses into the corral, made their little fire of twigs and gleaned brush in their manner of wood-scant frugality, and over it cooked their simple dinner, each man after his own way.

Banjo led his horse to the gate in front of the house and left it standing there while he went in to get his instruments. Mrs. Chadron was moved to a fresh outburst of weeping by his preparations for departure, and the sad, hurt look in his simple face.

"You stay here, Banjo; don't you go!" she begged. "Saul he didn't mean any harm by what he said--he won't remember nothing about it when he comes back."

"I'll remember it," Banjo told her, shaking his head in unbending determination, "and I couldn't be easy here like I was in the past. If I was to try to swaller a bite of Saul Chadron's grub after this it'd stick in my throat and choke me. No, I'm a-goin', mom, but I'm carryin' away kind thoughts of you in my breast, never to be forgot."

Banjo hitched the shoulder strap of the instrument from which he took his name with a jerking of the shoulder, and settled it in place; he took up his fiddle box and hooked it under his arm, and offered Mrs.

Chadron his hand. She was crying, her face in her ap.r.o.n, and did not see. Frances took the extended hand and clasped it warmly, for the little musician and his homely small sentiments had found a place in her heart.

"You shouldn't leave until your head gets better," she said; "you're hardly able to take another long ride after being in the saddle all night, hurt like you are."

Banjo looked at her with pain reflected in his shallow eyes.

"The hurt that gives me my misery is where it can't be seen," he said.

"Where are you goin', Banjo, with the country riled up this way, and you li'ble to be shot down any place by them rustlers?" Mrs. Chadron asked, looking at him appealingly, her ap.r.o.n ready to stem her gus.h.i.+ng tears.

"I'll go over to the mission and stay with Mother Mathews till I'm healed up. I'll be welcome in that house; I'd be welcome there if I was blind, and had m' back broke and couldn't touch a string."

"Yes, you would, Banjo," Mrs. Chadron nodded.

"She's married to a Injun, but she's as white as a angel's robe."

"She's a good soul, Banjo, as good as ever lived."

Frances took advantage of Banjo's trip to the reservation to send a note to her father apprising him of the tragedy at the ranch. Banjo b.u.t.toned it inside his coat, mounted his horse, and rode away.

Mrs. Chadron watched him out of sight with lamentations.

"I wish he'd 'a' stayed--it 'd 'a' been all right with Saul; Saul didn't mean any harm by what he said. He's the tender-heartedest man you ever saw, he wouldn't hurt a body's feelin's for a farm."

"I don't believe Banjo is a man to hold a grudge very long," Frances told her, looking after the retreating musician, her thoughts on him but hazily, but rather on a little highland bonnet with a bullet hole in its crown.

"No, he ain't," Mrs. Chadron agreed, plucking up a little brightness.

"But it's a bad sign, a mighty bad sign, when a friend parts from you with a hurt in his heart that way, and leaves your house in a huff and feels put out like Banjo does."

"Yes," said Frances, "we let them go away from us too often that way, with sore hearts that even a little word might ease."

She spoke with such wistful regret that the older woman felt its note through her own deep gloom. She groped out, tears blinding her, until her hand found her young friend's, and then she clasped it, and stood holding it, no words between them.

CHAPTER XV

ONE ROAD

Twenty-four hours after Banjo's departure a messenger arrived at the ranchhouse. It was one of the cowboys attached to the ranch, and he came with his right arm in a sling. He was worn, and beaten out by long hours in the saddle and the pain of his wound.

He said they had news of Nola, and that Chadron sent word that she would be home before another night pa.s.sed. This intelligence sent Mrs.

Chadron off to bedroom and kitchen to make preparations for her reception and restoration.

As she left the room Frances turned to the messenger, who stood swinging his big hat awkwardly by the brim. She untied the sling that held his wounded arm and made him sit by the table while she examined his injury, concerning which Mrs. Chadron, in her excitement, had not even inquired.

The shot had gone through the forearm, grazing the bone. When Frances, with the aid of Maggie, the Mexican woman with tender eyes, had cleansed and bound up the wound, she turned to him with a decisive air of demand.

"Now, tell me the truth," she said.

He was a bashful man, with a long, sheepish nose and the bluest of harmless eyes. He started a little when she made that demand, and blushed.

"That's what the boss told me to say," he demurred.

"I know he did; but what's happening?"

"Well, we ain't heard hide nor hair of her"--he looked round cautiously, lest Mrs. Chadron surprise him in the truth--"and them rustlers they're clean gone and took everything but their houses and fences along--beds and teams and stock, and everything."