"Mornin', Sark." The rancher jerked round, to gaze with startled eyes into the muzzle of a revolver less than two yards from his breast, and behind it, a face conveying menace in every line.
"Stand up," came the order. "An' lemme warn yu that one sound will be yore last in this world o' sin." Sark obeyed; this fellow only wanted an excuse to slay him; he had no intention of supplying it. Stepping closer, Dave removed the other's gun from the holster, tossed it in a far corner of the room, and made sure it was the only one.
"Now we can talk," he said. "Where's Mrs. Gray?" Light dawned upon the cattleman. Jake had succeeded, and this young fool had jumped to the conclusion that he was the culprit. With well-simulated astonishment, he protested:
"How would I know? I ain't seen her since " Dave cut in: "Lyin' won't serve yu. I'm wantin' the truth. Talk turkey, or . . ." It was no mere threat, and Sark knew he was in deadly peril. One glance at the ice-cold eyes and rigid jaw told as much. He must make him believe.
"It's the truth," he said sullenly. "What's happened to her?" Dave explained, watching closely, but the other had schooled his features to a wooden indifference; he was more than aware of that keen scrutiny.
"I ain't heard a word of it," was his comment. "She's not here--you can search the place."
"Kind o' yu," Dave retorted ironically. "We're doin' that together, an' if there's any interruption, the Dumb-bell will be shy an owner. Sabe?"
"My boys are all out on the range, which is lucky for you," Sark scowled.
Obeying the deputy's gesture he led the way, the consciousness that swift oblivion stalked at his heels producing an uneasy sensation between his shoulder-blades. Room by room they went over the house.
"Waste o' time," Sark sneered, but made no other demur.He was beginning to recover his poise. No trace of the missing girl having come to light, it would be his turn to talk.
The examination of the bunkhouse, barn, and smithy proved abortive; they returned to the ranch-house.
"Well, I hope yo're satisfied I had no part in this affair," the rancher began aggressively.
"Don't get brash, fella," Dave warned. "Yo're still at the end o' the gun, an' I ain't noways convinced."
"Plenty brave, ain't you?" Sark jeered. "Shove that six-shooter aside an' we'll see if you got any guts." Masters laughed. "I was hopin' yu'd look at it thataway," he replied. "Ever since I first seen yu tryin' to hang Jim, I've been achin' to get my han's on yu." He placed his weapon on a chair near the window, put his hat over it, and stepped lightly back. "C'mon, mongrel." The invitation was superfluous; even as it was uttered, Sark sprang in, his evil face betraying his satisfaction. He was the taller, bigger of the pair and had no doubt of the result. He judged the other to be an impetuous, boastful boy, and promised himself that he would soon take the conceit out of him. But here again, he mistook his man; having obtained the opportunity for which he had thirsted, Dave did not mean to throw it away by over-eagerness. A shrewd blow met the first rush and Sark went down, to lie amidst the fragments of a chair he had encountered in his fall.
Sark got up, kicked aside the broken furniture, and advanced. Dave met him half-way, slogging with right and left, and his opponent replied in kind.
For the first ten minutes Sark fought furiously, and it seemed possible that he might overwhelm his younger and lighter antagonist; but lack of condition began to tell. The cowboy's muscles were hard, yet flexible, he moved quickly and easily, balanced on the balls of his feet, and there was not an ounce of fat on his wiry frame, whereas Sark was paunchy, heavy drinking had sapped his power of endurance, and already the unwonted violent exercise was forcing him to breathe through his mouth.
Sark felt that he was losing, and the realization infuriated and spurred him to fiercer effort. Back and fore they swayed, slipping, stumbling, but always striking, and the scrape of boots on the floor was punctuated by the thud of fist upon flesh.
The end came with dramatic swiftness. The cattleman, breathing stertorously, one eye completely closed, and ribs pounded to an aching rawness, knew that only a mighty stroke could turn the tide of the battle in his favour. Suddenly retreating several paces, , he lowered his head, and charged madly. It was a desperate device, and if the other man did not know . . .
But Dave had once seen a fighter, butted bull-like in the belly, carried away unconscious and badly injured. In a flash he flung himself forward, caught Sark round the knees, and rising, hurled him over his shoulder. Aided by his own impetus, the rancher soared through the air as though shot from a catapult, slid the length of the table, sweeping it clean, and crashed to the floor.
Dave stood over the bloodstained, senseless mass sprawled amid the broken crockery.
"If yo're dead I don't care, but if you ain't, an' I find yu were lyin' to me, this ain't a circumstance to what I'll do to yu," he rasped. "An' if I can't, Jim'll see to it." Taking his gun and hat, he went into the sunshine.
From behind the glass door of the living-room, a battered, demoniac face saw him depart, and spat out vitriolic curses from cut and swollen lips. Far from killing him, Sark's fall had not even deprived him of his wits, but the terrific impact had left him in no shape to continue the combat, and lacking the courage to risk further punishment.
"You've won, but what has it got you?" he scoffed. "I hold the trump card--the woman, an' for every hurt you've given me, she shall pay--in full. Jim'll see to me, huh? What if we've seen to him first, Mister?"
Chapter XVII
DAVE MASTERS rode away from the Dumb-bell sore in body but elated in spirit--he had punished one whom he despised and hated from the moment of their meeting. His satisfaction, however, was heavily discounted by the fact that he had learned nothing of the missing girl.
"It ain't got us no place, Splinter," he reflected aloud. "Where do we look now?" He reined in and surveyed the piled-up, verdure-clad terraces leading to the grey spires of the Mystery range. Somewhere in those dark recesses, Mullins and his rustlers were supposed to be hiding. The name stirred his memory.
"Jakes ! " he muttered. "He wanted her, too, or, mebbe Sark's usin' him. We gotta find out." He slapped his mount on the neck_ An hour's journey brought them to the foothills and here the difficulty began. Dave decided to ride along the edge in the hope of finding tracks but presently abandoned the plan in despair, and choosing a spot where there seemed to be some sort of an opening, plunged into the shadowed depths. For a space, progress was possible, though the dense growth and gloom made it slow, but Dave was doubtful since they did not appear to be rising. His fears proved to be well-founded when a vertical wall of rock barred further advance; what had promised to be a passage up was no more than a blind rift in the mountain-side.
"Damn the luck," he muttered. "Jake's got more savvy than I gave him credit for." There was nothing for it but to go back and try again. But getting out was no easier than getting in, and consumed a great deal of time and much of the rider's patience.
They emerged into the glare of the sun to recommence the task of finding ingress to the labyrinth. It was a wearisome business. Time after time, disappointment only re- warded them, and success seemed as far off as ever when they halted on the lip of a shallow, gravel-bottomed pool, fed by one of the several creeks from the high ground. Getting down to slake his thirst he saw the prints of shod shoes. Struck by an idea, he walked all round the water, but found no more hoof-marks.