The Duke Of Chimney Butte Read online

  CHAPTER XVI

  WHETSTONE COMES HOME

  Lambert saw the fire leaping around him, but felt no sting of its touch,keyed as he was in that swift moment of adjustment. From a man as deadhe was transformed in a breath back to a living, panting, hoping,struggling being, strong in the tenacious purpose of life. He leanedover his horse's neck, shouting encouragement, speaking endearments toit as to a woman in travail.

  There was silence on the bank behind him. Amazement over the leap thathad carried Whetstone across the place which they had designed for thegrave of both man and horse, held the four scoundrels breathless for aspell. Fascinated by the heroic animal's fight to draw himself clear ofthe fire which wrapped his hinder quarters, they forgot to shoot.

  A heave, a lurching struggle, a groan as if his heart burst in theterrific strain, and Whetstone lunged up the bank, staggered from hisknees, snorted the smoke out of his nostrils, gathered his feet underhim, and was away like a bullet. The sound of shots broke from the bankacross the fiery crevasse; bullets came so close to Lambert that he layflat against his horse's neck.

  As the gallant creature ran, sensible of his responsibilities for hismaster's life, it seemed, Lambert spoke to him encouragingly, proud ofthe tremendous thing that he had done. There was no sound of pursuit,but the shooting had stopped. Lambert knew they would follow as quicklyas they could ride round the field of fire.

  After going to this length, they could not allow him to escape. Therewould have been nothing to explain to any living man with him and alltrace of him obliterated in the fire, but with him alive and fleeing,saved by the winged leap of his splendid horse, they would be called toanswer, man by man.

  Whetstone did not appear to be badly hurt. He was stretching away like ahare, shaping his course toward the ranch as true as a pigeon. If theyovertook him they would have to ride harder than they ever rode intheir profitless lives before.

  Lambert estimated the distance between the place where they had trappedhim and the fire as fifteen miles. It must be nine or ten miles acrossto the Philbrook ranch, in the straightest line that a horse couldfollow, and from that point many miles more to the ranchhouse andrelease from his stifling ropes. The fence would be no security againsthis pursuing enemies, but it would look like the boundary of hope.

  Whether they lost so much time in getting around the fire that theymissed him, or whether they gave it up after a trial of speed againstWhetstone, Lambert never knew. He supposed that their belief was thatneither man nor horse would live to come into the sight of men again.However it fell, they did not approach within hearing if they followed,and were not in sight as dawn broke and broadened into day.

  Whetstone made the fence without slackening his speed. There Lambertchecked him with a word and looked back for his enemies. Finding thatthey were not near, he proceeded along the fence at easier gait, holdingthe animal's strength for the final heat, if they should make a suddenappearance. Somewhere along that miserable ride, after daylight hadbroken and the pieced wire that Grace Kerr had cut had been passed,Lambert fell unconscious across the horn of his saddle from the drain ofblood from his wounds and the unendurable pain of his bonds.

  In this manner the horse came bearing him home at sunrise. Taterleg wasaway on his beat, not uneasy over Lambert's absence. It was theexception for him to spend a night in the bunkhouse in that summerweather. So old Whetstone, jaded, scorched, bloody from his own and hismaster's wounds, was obliged to stand at the gate and whinny for helpwhen he arrived.

  It was hours afterward that the fence rider opened his eyes and sawVesta Philbrook, and closed them again, believing it was a delirium ofhis pain. Then Taterleg spoke on the other side of the bed, and he knewthat he had come through his perils into gentle hands.

  "How're you feelin', old sport?" Taterleg inquired with anxioustenderness.

  Lambert turned his head toward the voice and grinned a little, in theteeth-baring, hard-pulling way of a man who has withstood a great dealmore than the human body and mind ever were designed to undergo. Hethought he spoke to Taterleg; the words shaped on his tongue, his throatmoved. But there was such a roaring in his ears, like the sound of atrain crossing a trestle, that he could not hear his own voice.

  "Sure," said Taterleg, hopefully, "you're all right, ain't you, oldsport?"

  "Fine," said Lambert, hearing his voice small and dry, strange as thevoice of a man to him unknown.

  Vesta put her arm under his head, lifted him a little, gave him aswallow of water. It helped, or something helped. Perhaps it was thesympathetic tenderness of her good, honest eyes. He paid her withanother little grin, which hurt her more to see than him to give,wrenched even though it was from the bottom of his soul.

  "How's old Whetstone?" he asked, his voice coming clearer.

  "He's all right," she told him.

  "His tail's burnt off of him, mostly, and he's cut in the hams in acouple of places, but he ain't hurt any, as I can see," Taterleg said,with more truth than diplomacy.

  Lambert struggled to his elbow, the consciousness of what seemed hisingratitude to this dumb savior of his life smiting him with shame.

  "I must go and attend to him," he said.

  Vesta and Taterleg laid hands on him at once.

  "You'll bust them stitches I took in your back if you don't keep still,young feller," Taterleg warned. "Whetstone ain't as bad off as you, norhalf as bad."

  Lambert noticed then that his hands were wrapped in wet towels.

  "Burned?" he inquired, lifting his eyes to Vesta's face.

  "No, just swollen and inflamed. They'll be all right in a little while."

  "I blundered into their hands like a blind kitten," said he,reproachfully.

  "They'll eat lead for it!" said Taterleg.

  "It was Kerr and that gang," Lambert explained, not wanting to leave anydoubt behind if he should have to go.

  "You can tell us after a while," she said, with compassionatetenderness.

  "Sure," said Taterleg, cheerfully, "you lay back there and take it easy.I'll keep my eye on things."

  That evening, when the pain had eased out of his head, Lambert toldVesta what he had gone through, sparing nothing of the curiosity thathad led him, like a calf, into their hands. He passed briefly over theirattempt to herd him into the fire, except to give Whetstone the hero'spart, as he so well deserved.

  Vesta sat beside him, hearing him to the end of the brief recital thathe made of it in silence, her face white, her figure erect. When hefinished she laid her hand on his forehead, as if in tribute to themanhood that had borne him through such inhuman torture, and the loyaltythat had been the cause of its visitation. Then she went to the window,where she stood a long time looking over the sad sweep of brokencountry, the fringe of twilight on it in somber shadow.

  It was not so dark when she returned to her place at his bedside, but hecould see that she had been weeping in the silent pain that rises likea poison distillation from the heart.

  "It draws the best into it and breaks them," she said in greatbitterness, speaking as to herself. "It isn't worth the price!"

  "Never mind it, Vesta," he soothed, putting out his hand. She took itbetween her own, and held it, and a great comfort came to him in hertouch.

  "I'm going to sell the cattle as fast as I can move them, and give itup, Duke," she said, calling him by that name with the easyunconsciousness of a familiar habit, although she never had addressedhim so before.

  "You're not going away from here whipped, Vesta," he said with afirmness that gave new hope and courage to her sad heart. "I'll be outof this in a day or two, then we'll see about it--about several things.You're not going to leave this country whipped; neither am I."

  She sat in meditation, her face to the window, presenting the soft turnof her cheek and chin to Lambert's view. She was too fine and good forthat country, he thought, too good for the best that it ever could offeror give, no matter how generously the future might atone for thehardships of the past. It would be better for her to
leave it, he wantedher to leave it, but not with her handsome head bowed in defeat.

  "I think if you were to sift the earth and screen out its meanest, theywouldn't be a match for the people around here," she said. "Therewouldn't be a bit of use taking this outrage up with the authorities;Kerr and his gang would say it was a joke, and get away with it, too."

  "I wouldn't go squealing to the county authorities, Vesta, even if Iknew I'd get results. This is something a man has to square for himself.Maybe they intended it for a joke, too, but it was a little rougher thanI'm used to."

  "There's no doubt what their intention was. You can understand myfeelings toward them now, Duke; maybe I'll not seem such a savage."

  "I've got a case with you against them all, Vesta."

  He made no mental reservation as he spoke; there was no pleading forexception in Grace Kerr's dark eyes that he could grant. Long as he hadnestled the romance between them in his breast, long as he had lookedinto the West and sent his dream out after her, he could not, in thissore hour, forgive her the taint of her blood.

  He felt that all tenderness in him toward any of her name was dead. Ithad been a pretty fancy to hold, that thought of finding her, but shewas only swamp-fire that had lured him to the door of hell. Still themarvel of his meeting her, the violet scent of his old dream, lingeredsweetly with him like the perfume that remains after a beautiful womanwhose presence has illuminated a room. So hard does romance die.

  "I think I'll have to break my word to you and buckle on my gun againfor a little while," she said. "Mr. Wilson can't ride the fence alone,capable and willing as he is, and ready to go day and night."

  "Leave it to him till I'm out again, Vesta; that will only be a day ortwo----"

  "A day or two! Three or four weeks, if you do well."

  "No, not that long, not anything like that long," he denied withcertainty. "They didn't hurt me very much."

  "Well, if they didn't hurt you much they damaged you considerably."

  He grinned over the serious distinction that she made between the words.Then he thought, pleasantly, that Vesta's voice seemed fitted to herlips like the tone of some beautiful instrument. It was even and soft,slow and soothing, as her manner was deliberate and well calculated, herpresence a comfort to the eye and the mind alike.

  An exceptional combination of a girl, he reflected, speculating on whatsort of man would marry her. Whoever he was, whatever he might be, hewould be only secondary to her all through the compact. That chap wouldcome walking a little way behind her all the time, with a contented eyeand a certain pride in his situation. It was a diverting fancy as he laythere in the darkening room, Vesta coming down the years a strong,handsome, proud figure in the foreground, that man just far enoughbehind her to give the impression as he passed that he belonged to her_entourage_, but never quite overtaking her.

  Even so, the world might well envy the man his position. Still, if aman should happen along who could take the lead--but Vesta wouldn't havehim; she wouldn't surrender. It might cost her pain to go her way withher pretty head up, her eyes on the road far beyond, but she would goalone and hide her pain rather than surrender. That would be VestaPhilbrook's way.

  Myrtle, the negro woman, came in with chicken broth. Vesta made a lightfor him to sup by, protesting when he would sit up to help himself, thespoon impalpable in his numb fingers, still swollen and purple from thelong constriction of his bonds.

  Next morning Vesta came in arrayed in her riding habit, her sombrero on,as she had appeared the first time he saw her. Only she was so muchlovelier now, with the light of friendship and tender concern in herface, that he was gladdened by her presence in the door. It was as of asudden burst of music, or the voice of someone for whom the heart issick.

  He was perfectly fine, he told her, although he was as sore as a burn.In about two days he would be in the saddle again; she didn't need tobother about riding fence, it would be all right, he knew. Hisdeclaration didn't carry assurance. He could see that by the changingcast of her face, as sensitive as still water to a breathing wind.

  She was wearing her pistol, and appeared very competent with it on herhip, and very high-bred and above that station of contention and strife.He was troubled not a little at sight of her thus prepared to take upthe battles which she had renounced and surrendered into his hands onlyyesterday. She must have read it in his eyes.

  "I'm only going to watch the fence and repair it to keep the cattle inif they cut it," she said. "I'll not take the offensive, even if I seeher--them cutting it; I'll only act on the defensive, in any case. Ipromise you that, Duke."

  She left him with that promise, before he could commend her on thewisdom of her resolution, or set her right on the matter of Grace Kerr.From the way Vesta spoke, a man would think she believed he had sometender feeling for that wild girl, and the idea of it was sopreposterous that he felt his face grow hot.

  He was uneasy for Vesta that day, in spite of her promise to avoidtrouble, and fretted a good deal over his incapacitated state. Hisshoulder burned where Tom Hargus' knife had scraped the bone, hiswounded back was stiff.

  Without this bodily suffering he would have been miserable, for he hadthe sweat of his humiliation to wallow in, the black cloud of hiscontemplated vengeance across his mind in ever-deepening shadow. On hisday of reckoning he cogitated long, planning how he was to bring itabout. The law would not justify him in going out to seek these men andshooting them down where overtaken. Time and circumstance must be readyto his hand before he could strike and wipe out that disgraceful score.

  It was not to be believed that they would allow the matter to standwhere it was; that was a comforting thought. They would seek occasion torenew the trouble, and push it to their desired conclusion. That was theday to which he looked forward in hot eagerness. Never again would he betaken like a rabbit in a trap. He felt that, to stand clear before thelaw, he would have to wait for them to push their fight on him, but hevowed they never would find him unprepared, asleep or awake, under roofor under sky.

  He would get Taterleg to oil up a pair of pistols from among the numberaround the bunkhouse and leave them with him that night. There wassatisfaction in the anticipation of these preparations. Dwelling on themhe fell asleep. He woke late in the afternoon, when the sun was yellowon the wall, the shadow of the cottonwood leaves quivering likedragonflies' wings.

  On the little table beside his bed, near his glass, a bit of white paperlay. He looked at it curiously. It bore writing in ink and marks as of apin.

  _Just to say hello, Duke._

  That was the message, unsigned, folded as it had been pinned to thewire. Vesta had brought it and left it there while he slept.

  He drew himself up with stiff carefulness and read it again, holding itin his fingers then and gazing in abstraction out of the window,through which he could pick up the landscape across the river, missingthe brink of the mesa entirely.

  A softness, as of the rebirth of his old romance, swept him, submergingthe bitter thoughts and vengeful plans which had been his but a fewhours before, the lees of which were still heavy in him. This littlepiece of writing proved that Grace was innocent of anything that hadbefallen him. In the friendly good-will of her heart she thought him, asshe doubtless wished him, unharmed and well.

  There was something in that girl better than her connections would seemto guarantee; she was not intractable, she was not beyond the influenceof generosity, nor deaf to the argument of honor. It would be unfair tohold her birth and relationship against her. Nobility had sprung out ofbaseness many times in the painful history of human progress. If she wasvengeful and vindictive, it was what the country had made her. Sheshould not be judged for this in measure harsher than Vesta Philbrookshould be judged. The acts of both were controlled by what theybelieved to be the right.

  Perhaps, and who knows, and why not? So, a train of dreams starting andblowing from him, like smoke from a censer, perfumed smoke, purging theplace of demons which confuse the lines of men's and women's
lives andset them counter where they should go in amity, warm hand in warm hand,side by side.