Then, as he had done many a time before just for amusement, he climbed the tree, and severing the rope, allowed the corpse to slump to the ground. For an instant he clung to the branch, sick and dizzy, and then dropped down to kneel by his father's body. He kissed the cheek, and the cold contact sent a shiver through him. Presently he got up, and, going to the little garden patch, returned with a spade and began to dig.
It was a big job for hands so young, and the sun was low in the sky before the hole was large and deep enough. Dragging the body into it the boy covered it with a layer of green boughs, to shield the poor clay from the earth from which it sprang, and, ere the opening was completely filled in, he fetched heavy stones from the stream bed and packed them in that the grave might not be violated by wild creatures.
The burial finished, he was about to depart, when a sudden thought came to him. Opening his father's jack-knife, he set to work. When at length he turned to leave, the tree trunk bore, in letters a foot long and deeply cut, his father's brand:
There, in the gathering twilight, the white letters stood out, marking the last resting place of another victim of Judge Lynch. In the corral the boy found one pony and his own worn saddle. For these he knew he must thank the man Darby, who, on senting him free when the house was fired, had promised to leave them.
"I can't do nothin', son, but they shan't set yu afoot," he had said.
Everything else was gone; and, having saddled and mounted the pony, the boy, with a last look and a tightened throat, turned his face to the wilderness.
"I'm comin' back, Bartholomew," he said aloud. "An' when I do I'll be--shootin'."
Chapter I
THE little town of Hope Again lay dormant under the blistering heat of the midday sun, a heat which made exertion a curse and any sort of shade a blessing. The origin of the somewhat quaint name was a mystery, but it is conceivable that the place was christened by some luckless pioneer who, having survived the maddening monotony and deadly menace of the desert which stretched to the south, was moved to inspiration by the sight once more of water, trees and the distant hills.
Hope--as the dwellers therein usually called it--little warranted so encouraging a name. A far-flung frontier settlement, it differed in no way from a hundred others of its kind. Two straggling, irregular lines of apologies for buildings, constructed of timber, 'dobe or both, formed some sort of a street, and the spaces between them, littered with tin cans and other refuse, added to the unlovely picture. Only two of these erections aspired to the dignity of a second story, the "hotel" and the largest of the saloons--Muger's--which bore the inviting title "Come Again", and to which a dance hall was attached. The rest of the town comprised a bank, solidly built of 'dobe bricks, a blacksmith's, two general stores, one of which was also the posn office, several smaller saloons, shacks and dugouts, which sheltered the permanent population. Board sidewalks made progress for pedestrians possible, and at one end of the dusty, rutted road a rude timber bridge spanned the little river which, after a tortuous journey from the Mesa Mountains in the north, supplied the town with water and went on to lose itself in the sands of the desert less than a mile away. And over everything an almost impalpable dust cast a grey-white mantle.
The town appeared to be deserted save for two men standing in the doorway of one of the lesser saloons. One was the owner of the place, Bent, a short, squat fellow, with a craggy face in which the eyes twinkled good-humouredly. The other was a stranger, and the saloon-keeper--as is the way of his kind--was curious about him, but not unduly so, for in the West curiosity, like dynamite, must be handled carefully.
He was a tall man, apparently nearing thirty, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of the athlete. His clean-shaven, deeply-tanned face, with its steady grey-blue eyes and firm jaw, had the gravity of an Indian's, but there was a quirk of humour in the little lines at the corners of the mouth. His cowboy rig was plain but neat, and had evidently seen service; and the same appeared to be the case winh the two guns which hung low on his hips, the ends of the holsters tied down to facilitate the draw. A furtive examination of his horse in the corral behindthe saloon had told Bent nothing. He did not know the brand.
Bent, covertly regarding the lithe, lounging figure, continued his inward speculation. Was he an out-of-work puncher, a gun- man, or both, and what had brought him to Hope, which was on the direct route to nowhere? His meditations were interrupted in a curious manner. From up the street came a crack like a pistol-shot, a yelp of animal pain and a volley of oaths. Then from the door of the "Come Again" saloon a dog hurtled forth as nhough forcibly propelled. There was a rope round its neck, and holding the other end came a cowboy wielding a wicked quirt and a still more wicked tongue. The dog, having recovered from its ungainly sprawl in the dust, set off down the street, the man following, tugging on the rope and flicking the animal with the whip.
"I'll larn yu to fly at me, yu mongrel whelp o' nhe devil, if I have to lift the hide off'n yu an inch at a lick," he yelled. "Take that, yu--"
With the savage words the whip cracked again, and a fresh bleeding spon on the dog's back showed when the cruel end of the lash had bitten, removing hair and skin. The yelp of the tortured beast and the laugh of its persecutor rang out together. The apparent report of a firearm peopled the place as if by magic. From doors and windows heads protruded, while a few men, more curious or more venturesome than their fellows, came out on the sidewalk, but cautiously, for lead might be flying about, and a bullet is no respecter of persons. When they saw what was happening several of them smiled. "Mad" Martin was at his tricks again.
"Stay with him, boy. Ride him," one shouted.
"I'll ride him to hell an' back," yelled the cowboy, as, dragged by the nearly demented dog, he jerked by, his dug-in heels sending up clouds of dust. Opposite Benn's saloon he swung his quirt for another blow.
"Drop that whip ! " came a curt command.
The stranger had suddenly come alive; one stride took him to the edge of the sidewalk, and it was he who had spoken. Martin stared at him, a savage surprise in his beady eyes. Leaning back, he checked his progress for a moment.
"Yu can go plumb to hell," he retorted.
"Drop it, yu skunk," came the further order, and this time there was a cold menace in the tone.
Martin recognised it and knew that he must either obey or fight. He elected to do both. Dropping the quirt he snatched at his gun. The other man appeared to make no move until the weapon was clear of the holster, and then came a spurt of smoke from his right hip, and Martin toppled sideways into the dust,letting fall his own gun and the rope as he did so. The stranger stepped into the street and stood over the prostrate man. "That dawg belong to yu?" he asked.
"Yes, an' what the hell business is it o' yores, anyways?" spat out the other, his baleful eyes glaring murder.
"I've made it my business, an' I'm buyin' yore dawg," replied the stranger coolly, as he took a roll of bills from his pocket peeled off one and flung it down. "That's five times the dawg's value an' fifty times yores," he added contemptuously.
"This don't finish here--I'll get yu," Martin gritted.
"Better get--yoreself," the stranger warned sardonically.
The wounded man staggered to his feet and floundered back up the street, clutching his hurt arm, from the fingers of which the blood dripped redly. The victor watched him for a few moments and then stepped to the sidewalk again, whistling to the dog, which had paused uncertainly a few dozen yards away. Apparently recognising a friend, the animal, little more than a pup, of a mixed breed in which the wolfhound predominated, obeyed the call, alternately cringing and wagging its tail. The rescuer stooped and scratched its head.