The marshal rode rapidly towards the town. Despite the blazing sun, beads of cold sweat oozed from his brow when he thought of the danger he had been in. If the Mexican had taken his tale to King Burdette ...
"I'd be like him--buzzard-meat," he croaked aloud, and a shudder shook him as he recalled the stark still form he had left in the ravine. "Oughta planted him, I s'pose," he continued. "Hell, corpses can't chatter." The corners of his mouth came down in an ugly sneer as his mind reverted to the "leetle story" the dead man had used. "Coyote, huh? Well, I reckon he knows now that them critters has got teeth."
He drew his gun, reloaded the empty chambers, and pulled his horse down to a steady lope. He wanted to think. Purdie would go up in the air when he heard about his daughter. The marshal could vision him with his outfit riding headlong for the Circle B. There would be a battle and Purdie would lose it--maybe his life as well. Perhaps King too. ... Ramon had said the mountain lions had slain each other. That might happen--or could be made to; a marksman hidden in the brush. . . . He grinned devilishly; the "leetle story" might yet come true.
Chapter XXI
FOR a while after his visitors had gone Luce Burdette sat slumped in a chair, fists clenched, eyes staring into vacancy, his heart filled with a bitter fury against the man who had done this thing. The darkly handsome, satirical face, with its mocking smile of triumph, rose before him, and coupled with this knowledge of King's cruel, callous nature, suggested fearful possibilities.
"An' he's kin to me," the boy groaned. He struck the table fiercely. "He shan't have her, damn him, not while I live."
Two hours later he was threading a thicket of live-oaks which masked the slope at the rear of the Circle B ranch-house. Fortunately for his purpose the night was dark. Leaving his horse among the trees and carrying his lariat, he approached on foot, walking Indian-like on the balls of his feet and testing each step lest a cracking twig should betray him. It was a slow business, but presently he reached a strip of open ground where he would have to risk being seen. Here he paused, scanning the building. There was a lighted window just opposite to where he was crouching--the kitchen, which was his objective. For the rest, the place was in darkness, so far as he could tell. Light shone from the bunkhouse, fifty yards distant, and he could hear voices; some of the outfit would be there, playing cards, and yarning. Stooping, he sprinted across the shadowy space, reached the window and looked in. As he had expected and hoped, Mandy, the old coloured cook, was alone. Familiar taps on the pane brought her waddling hurriedly; she peered out and then cautiously raised the sash.
"Foh de Ian's sake, it cain't be yo, Massa Luce," she whispered tremulously.
"Shore is, Mammy," he replied, calling her by the name he knew she liked him to use. "Say, who's in the house?"
"Dey ain't nobody but me," she told him. "Dem King an' Sim done went out; mebbe dey is in de bunkhouse wid de boys. Yo don' oughta be hyar, honey; dat King, he massacree yo if he cotch you aroun'."
There was a mingling of fear and affection in her voice --Luce had always been her favourite; for his brothers she had little but dread.
"Good old Mammy," the boy said. "I ain't goin' to be `cotched.' " He bent forward so that he could see her face and said earnestly, "Are yu shore there is no one in the house but yoreself?"
At this question Mandy recoiled and the whites of her eyes showed big. "Lawdy, ain't I tol' yo?" she quavered, but Luce interrupted sternly :
"Come clean, Mammy; it ain't like yu to lie to me." Still she hesitated, pulled two ways by affection for the lad before her and terror of his elder brother; the former triumphed.
"King'll sho'ly take the hide off'n my back if he knows," she said huskily. "Dey's a gal locked up in yo ol' room. I dunno who she is--they done hustled me outa de way when she was fotched in."
"It's Nan Purdie, Mammy," Luce told her. "God! It makes me ashamed to know I'm a Burdette."
The deep disgust and anguish in his voice made the old Negress look at him strangely. This was not the merry lighthearted lad to whom she had been a mother. A sudden decision firmed her face.
"Yo needn't to be, honey. Yo ain't a Burdette, an' yo nevah was one," she said, and then, as she read his expression, "No, I ain't out o' ma haid--I'm tellin' yo true. Long time back, when we was crossin' Injun country on de way hyar, Ol' Man Burdette fin' yo cryin' in de brush--yo was 'bout knee-high to a jackrabbit. Pretty soon we light on a burned cabin an' two bodies; dey was white an' dat was all we--but I don' need to tell yo 'bout dem red devils. Mis' Burdette figured dey was yo folks an' 'lowed she'd 'dopt yo. The Ol' Man say, `Brand an' throw him in de herd, de damn li'l maverick; he'll make a Burdette one day.' But yo nevah did, honey; allus dere was a difference. Now, don't yo care ..."
To the boy the revelation and all it meant to him swept everything else from his mind. He did not doubt the story, and, looking back, found much to confirm it. Father and brothers had always treated him with a sort of good-natured contempt, an attitude he had put down to his age. Even after the Old Man's death he had not been admitted to the family's councils, nor invited to join in those periodic mysterious expeditions from which the men returned weary with riding and sometimes wounded. These things had hurt him, but now he was glad. Nameless and of unknown origin he might be, but he was not a Burdette, and Nan ... At the thought of her he drew himself up, his eyes shining.
"Care?" he echoed. "Why, Mammy, it's the grandest news I ever heard."Hell, if yu'd on'y told me afore."
"I was feared o' grievin' yo," the old woman said.
"Shore, yu couldn't know," Luce told her. "Now, I gotta get Miss Purdie outa this. If you hear anythin', warn me."
He melted into the shadow of the building, stealing along Until he stood beneath the window of his old room. It was nearly ten feet above his head--for the Circle B ranch-house boasted two storeys--but he was prepared for that. Close by stood a big cottonwood, a stout branch of which passed above the window. Hanging the lariat round his neck, he began to climb the tree, almost smiling as he recalled how often, as a boy, he had done the same thing with no other object than to enter unknown to his fatherand brothers. Dark as it was, he soon found the familiar hand and footholds, and in a few moments had swung himself along the branch. Kneeling upon the sill, he thrust up the unlatched sash and whispered :
"Miss Purdie--Nan."
A muffled mumble was the answer. He struck a match, shielding the light in his cupped hands that it might not show outside. The girl was seated on the bed--his bed once--her hands and feet tied, a handkerchief knotted over the lower part of her face. With great staring eyes she gazed at him, and then an expression of joy drove the fear away. She trembled as he removed the gag.
"Luce--you?" she breathed. "Oh, take me from this dreadful place."
"That's what I'm here for," he assured her, as he severed the bonds. "Yu ain't--hurt--any?" His voice shook as he asked the question.
"No," she whispered. "Only frightened of that,horrible man. Your brother."
"He ain't that, an' I'm not a Burdette, Nan," Luce told her exultantly. "No time to explain now--we gotta hustle. Do yu reckon yu can walk?"
"Yes, of course," she replied, stretching her cramped limbs experimentally.
"The door's locked, so I'll have to let yu down from the window," he went on, and slipped the loop of his rope beneath her armpits. "All yu gotta do is sit on the sill an' slide off."
All went well. With feet braced against the wall, Luce paid out the rope slowly when he felt the girl's weight upon it, and soon a whisper from below apprised him that she had landed safely. Then he retraced his way along the branch and in a moment was by her side.