"I was raised in Texas an' used to ride 'Pache fashion, knees up," he offered. "I reckon this is more comfortable."
Mrs. Lavigne put a blunt question. "What brought you here?"
"A restless nature an' this black lump of iniquity I'm a-top of," he answered lightly, patting the neck of his mount.
She saw that he was not to be drawn, but she tried again.
"The handsome stranger falls in love with his employer's daughter, rescues her from deadly peril, marries her and lives happy ever after," she bantered.
The picture drew unrestrained merriment from her companion. "This ain't no dime novel," he pointed out. "The lady ain't liable to be in deadly peril, an' her affections unless I'm mistook--is already corralled. As for the 'handsome stranger' "--he grinned joyously as he repeated the phrase--"he's got a job that'll keep him driftin' mebbe for years." The mirth died out, his face grew hard as granite, and his next words were spoken more to himself than to her, "I gotta find two men before I think of--one woman."
In that single flash the girl saw a phase of him she had not suspected--the careless, good-humoured cowboy had suddenly become a grim, relentless instrument of vengeance. There was death in the chilled gaze--death for those two men. She could not repress a shudder. The sardonic voice of the puncher recalled her straying thoughts.
"Shucks, I'm talkin' like a dime novel my own self," he reproved, and then, "What's been happenin' here?"
They were passing through the glade which had been the scene of Nan's capture, and the foreman's keen eyes had at once noted the hoof-torn, trampled grass near the prostrate tree. He slid from his saddle to examine the marks more closely, but they told him nothing save that a struggle had taken place. Then he picked up a crumpled scrap of paper--the note the girl had received, which had fallen unnoticed from her hand when she had been overpowered --and read it with knitted brow. In the bushes at the back of the fallen tree he found traces of waiting riders. Lu Lavigne watched him wonderingly, but asked no question, thereby raising herself in his estimation.
"Somethin' queer 'bout this," he remarked, as he mounted again. "I'll have to see Purdie right away. Do yu reckon yu can find yore way back?"
She looked at him, and the dark eyes were a shade reproachful. "You don't trust anyone overmuch, do you?" she said.
"This ain't my business," he evaded. "I'm real distressed I can't see yu on yore way."
And since he very evidently meant it, she smiled and again mimicked his own speech. "Li'l Miss Tenderfoot can take care o' herself, I reckon, partner," she said.
With a wave of her hand, she whirled her pony and trotted down the trail. His gaze followed the trim form until it vanished amid the trees.
"Partner," he mused. "Yu'd shore make a staunch one too." And then, "Hell, I'm gettin' soft in the head. Shake a bit o' life into them legs o' your'n, Nig; we got no time for dreamin'."
He reached the ranch-house only to find that Purdie was out on the range. An inquiry for Nan elicited the fact that she had gone out early for her morning ride and had not returned for the mid-day meal; the cook, who supplied the information, had to admit that this was unusual.
"She mighta gone to town," the foreman suggested, but the kitchen autocrat negatived the notion; on such occasions she always asked if supplies were needed. All the same, Sudden sent Curly to Windy, and sat down to wait for his employer. It was two hours later that Purdie came in and learned of his daughter's absence. At first he appeared little concerned.
"Nan was raised here, an' she knows the country," he said. "Happen her hoss has played out on her."
But his attitude altered abruptly when the foreman produced the scrap of paper and told how and when it had been found. Purple with passion, Purdie slammed one fist into another.
"That skunk writin' to Nan, an' askin' her to meet him?" he stormed. "By God, I'll..."
"Slow down, Purdie, we don't know that Luce Burdette sent that note," Sudden said quietly. "I've a hunch it's more serious than just a love affair."
"Nothin' could be more serious than my girl's carryin' on with one o' that crowd," the old man said savagely. He pulled out his gun, spun the cylinder to make sure it was in order, and said grimly, "Get me a hoss, Jim."
The foreman saw that in the rancher's present state of mind, argument would be useless. When he returned, riding Nigger and leading another horse, he found the cattleman striding up and down the verandah.
"No call for yu to come," he said. "I don't need help to kill a snake."
"I'm goin' along," Sudden said firmly. "If Luce had anythin' to do with this business I'll not interfere, but I'm thinkin' different; that boy may be a Burdette, but he's a white one."
The rancher snorted his disbelief, climbed into the saddle, and sent his pony down the trail on a dead run. The trip to town was accomplished in silence. The elder man was too full of anger to talk, and the younger's mind was busy with the problem of what had happened in the glade. It was possible that Luce and the girl had cut the knot of their perplexities by running away together, but they would scarcely have left the tell-tale note behind, and there would have been no indications of a struggle, or of hidden riders. If Luce had not written the note...
Daylight had departed when they reached Windy, and the town was a blur in which occasional blotches of pale light from a window here and there only served to accentuate the surrounding gloom. From "The Plaza" came the tinkle of a guitar and the chorus of a cowboy ditty; behind a cabin the dismal howl of a dog ended in a yelp of pain and a curse of content as some unseen sufferer hurled a rock successfully. Outside the saloons, rows of patient ponies announced that the usual evening entertainments had commenced. The C P pair dismounted at the hotel and inquired for Luce.
"He rid out this mornin', an' I ain't seen him since," McTurk informed them. "No, his war-bags is in his room."
The rancher's face grew darker. "Think he's at 'The Lucky Chance'?" he asked.
"Guess not," was the reply. "He'd have put his hoss in the corral, an' it ain't there; thinks a lot o' that grey, he does."
"We'll be back," Purdie said. "If young Burdette shows up --"
"Who wants me?" a quiet voice asked.
The man they were seeking had just entered; his tired, listless face hardened when he saw the elder of the visitors. Sudden stepped forward.
"Luce, can we have a word with yu--private?"
The boy led the way upstairs, lighted the lamp in a small sitting-room, and then faced them.
"Well, Jim, what is it now?" he asked wearily.
The foreman came to the point at once. "Is that yore writin', Luce?" he questioned, and placed the pencilled note before him.
Burdette read it with widening eyes. "No, it ain't," he said immediately, "but it's a pretty fair imitation."
"Yu didn't write or send it?" Sudden persisted.
"I did not," was the reply. "I wouldn't have the nerve anyway. What's it all mean?"
"We're tryin' to find out," the foreman explained, and told as much as they knew.
On the boy's face as he listened, bewilderment, suspicion and anger displayed themselves in turn. Even Purdie, prejudiced though he was, could not doubt his ignorance. But another aspect of the matter was rankling in the rancher's mind.
"Why should a writin' from yu fetch my gal to this place?" he asked. "Yu met her there afore?"