Dorn Of The Mountains (22 page)

The smells, too, were the sweet stinging ones of spring, warm and pleasant—the odor of the clean fresh earth cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow water.

“I smell smoke,” said Dorn suddenly as he reined in, and turned for corroboration from his companion.

John sniffed the warm air. “Wal, you’re more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking his head.

They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the last slope. A long league of green slanted below them, breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that joined the cedar, and these in turn stretched on and down in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded into the obscurity of distance.

The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve on the edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny white dots set in green.

“Look there,” said Dorn, pointing.

Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped out of the slope, forming a promontory, and from it a thick, pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as soon as it had no background of green.

“They’s your smoke, shore enough,” replied John thoughtfully. “Now, I jest wonder who’s campin’ there. No water near or grass for horses.”

“John, that point’s been used for smoke signals many a time.”

“Was jest thinkin’ of thet same. Shall we ride around there an’ take a peek?”

“No. But we’ll remember that. If Beasley’s got his deep scheme goin’, he’ll have Snake Anson’s gang somewhere close.”

“Roy said thet same. Wal, it’s some three hours till sundown. The hosses keep up. I reckon I’m fooled, for we’ll make Pine all right. But old Tom there, he’s tired or lazy.”

The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut eyes were on Dorn.

“Tom’s not lazy an’ fat. He could travel at this gait for a week. But let’s rest a half hour an’ watch that smoke before movin’ on. We can make Pine before sundown.”

When travel had been resumed, halfway down the slope Dorn’s sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had passed, climbing in a long slat toward the promontory. He dismounted to examine them, and John, coming up, proceeded with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dorn made his deductions after which he stood in a brown study beside his horse, waiting for John.

“Wal, what’d you make of them here tracks?” asked that worthy.

“Some horses an’ a pony went along here yesterday, an’ today a single horse made that fresh track.”

“Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain’t so bad at hoss tracks,” observed John. “But how many horses went yesterday?”

“I couldn’t make out…several…maybe four or five.”

“Six hosses an’ a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be strict correct. Wal, supposin’ they did. What’s it mean to us?”

“I don’t know as I’d thought anythin’ unusual, if it hadn’t been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an’ then this here fresh track made along today. Looks queer to me.”

“Wish Roy was here,” replied John, scratching his head. “Milt, I’ve a hunch, if he was, he’d foller them tracks.”

“Maybe. But we haven’t time for that. We can back trail them, though, if they keep clear as they are here. An’ we’ll not lose any time, either.”

That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge of the cedars where, amid some jagged rocks, evidence showed that men had camped there for days. Here it ended as a broad trail. But from the north came the single fresh track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And there were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these interested John more than they did Dorn, who had to wait for his companion.

“Milt, it ain’t a colt’s…thet little track,” avowed John.

“Why not…an’ what if it isn’t?” queried Dorn.

“Wal, it ain’t, because a colt always straggles back, an’ from one side to another. This little track keeps close to the big one. An’, by George, it was made by a led mustang.”

John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping intent fire in his gray eyes. Dorn’s reply was to spur his horse into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.

When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that was the only thoroughfare of Pine, the sun was setting red and gold behind the mountains. The horses were too tired for any more than a walk. Natives of the village, catching sight of Dorn and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men in front of Turner’s gazed intently down the road, and soon manifested signs of excitement. Dorn and his comrade dismounted in front of Widow Cass’s cottage. And Dorn called as he strode up the little path. Mrs. Cass came out. She was white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of her, John Beeman drew a sharp breath.

“Wal, now…,” he began hoarsely, and left off.

“How’s Roy?” queried Dorn.

“Lord knows, I’m glad to see you, boys. Milt, you’re thin an’ strange-lookin’…. Roy’s had a little setback. He got a shock today an’ it throwed him off. Fever…an’ now he’s out of his head. It won’t do no good for you to waste time seein’ him. Take my word for it, he’s all right. But there’s others as…. For the land’s sake, Milt Dorn, you fetched thet cougar back! Don’t let him near me!”

“Tom won’t hurt you, auntie,” said Dorn as the cougar came padding up the path. “You were sayin’ somethin’…about others. Is Miss Helen safe? Hurry!”

“Ride up to see her…an’ waste no more time here.”

Dorn was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a trot. And that was a lagging trot that now did not leave Tom behind.

The ride up to Auchincloss’s ranch house seemed endless to Dorn. Natives came out in the road to watch after he had passed. Stern as Dorn was in dominating his feelings, he could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter what fateful events might hinge upon this nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he would see Helen Rayner.

There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A Mexican boy sat on the porch bench in the seat where Dorn remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of the big sitting room was open. The scent of flowers, the murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dorn. His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they were understood as the boy ran back around the house. Dorn knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.

Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in that moment of surprise, about the faithful, exhausted horses. As he unsaddled them, he talked. “For soft an’ fat hosses, winterin’ high up, wal, you’ve done somethin’.”

Then Dorn heard a voice in another room, a step, a
creak
of the door. It opened. A woman in white appeared. He recognized Helen. But instead of the rich brown bloom and dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish, and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.

“Oh! My friend…you’ve come,” she whispered.

Dorn put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was real, and then her arms went up around his neck.

“Oh, thank God! I knew you would come,” she said, and her head sank to his shoulder.

Dorn divined what he had suspected. Helen’s sister had been carried off. Yet while his quick mind grasped Helen’s broken spirit—the unbalance that was reason for this marvelous and glorious act—he did not take other meaning of the embrace to himself. He just stood there, transported, charged like a tree stuck by lightning, making sure with all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever how she was clinging around his neck, her face over his bursting heart, her quivering form close—pressed to his.

“It’s…Bo,” he said unsteadily.

“She went riding yesterday…and…never…came…back,” replied Helen brokenly.

“I’ve seen her trail. She’s been taken into the woods. I’ll find her. I’ll fetch her back,” he replied rapidly.

With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning. With another shock she raised her face—leaned back a little to look at him.

“You’ll find her…fetch her back?”

“Yes,” he answered instantly.

With that ringing word it seemed to Dorn she realized how she was standing. He felt her shake as she dropped her arms and stepped back while the white anguish of her face was flooded out by a wave of scarlet. But she was brave in her confusion. Her eyes never fell, although they changed swiftly, darkening with shame, amaze, and with feeling he could not read.

“I’m almost…out of my head,” she faltered.

“No wonder. I saw that…. Your meetin’ me as if I was your brother…. But now you must get clear-headed. I’ve no time to lose.” He led her to the door. “John, it’s Bo that’s gone!” he called. “Since yesterday.…Send the boy to get me a bag of meat an’ bread. You run to the corral an’ get me a fresh horse. My old horse, Ranger, if you can find him quick. An’ rustle.”

Without a word, John leaped bareback on one of the horses he had just unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.

Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay on the porch, and came to her.

“Oh, it’s Tom!” cried Helen, and, as he rubbed her knees, she patted his head with trembling hand. “You big, beautiful pet. Oh, how I remember! Oh, how Bo would love to….”

“Where’s Carmichael?” interrupted Dorn. “Out huntin’ Bo?”

“Yes. It was he who missed her first. He rode everywhere yesterday. Last night when he came back, he was wild. I’ve not seen him today. He made all the other men, but Hal and Joe, stay home at the ranch.”

“Right. An’ John must stay, too,” declared Dorn. “But it’s strange. Carmichael ought to have found the girl’s tracks. She was ridin’ a pony.”

“Bo rode Sam. He’s a little bronc’, very strong and fast.”

“I came across his tracks. How’d Carmichael miss them?”

“He didn’t. He found them…trailed them all along the north range. That’s where he forbid Bo to go. You see they’re in love with each other. They’ve been at odds. Neither will give in. Bo disobeyed him. There’s hard ground off the north range, so he said. He was able to follow her tracks only so far.”

“Were there any other tracks along with hers?”

“No.”

“Miss Helen, I found them ‘way southeast of Pine. Up on the slope of the mountain. There were seven other horses makin’ that trail…when we run across it. On the way down we found a camp where men had waited. An’ Bo’s pony, led by a rider on a big horse, come into that camp from the east…maybe north a little. An’ that tells the story.”

“Riggs ran her down…made off with her?” cried Helen passionately. “Oh, the villain! He had men in waiting. That’s Beasley’s work. They were after me.”

“It may not be just what you said, but that’s close enough. An’ Bo’s in a bad fix. You must face that an’ try to bear up under…fears of the worst.”

“My friend…you will save her!”

“I’ll fetch her back, alive or dead.”

“Dead! Oh, my God!” Helen cried, and closed her eyes an instant, to open them burning black. “But Bo isn’t dead. I know that…I feel it. She’ll not die very easily. She’s a little savage. She has no fear. She’d fight like a tigress for her life. She’s strong. You remember how strong. She can stand anything. Unless they murder her outright, she’ll live…a long time…through any ordeal.…So I beg you, my friend, don’t lose an hour…don’t ever give up.”

Dorn trembled under the clasp of her hands. Loosing his own from her clinging hold, he stepped out on the porch. At that moment John appeared on Ranger down the lane, coming at a gallop.

“Nell, I’ll never come back without her,” said Dorn. “I reckon you can hope…only be prepared. That’s all. It’s hard. But these damned deals are common out here in the West.”

“Suppose Beasley comes…here?” exclaimed Helen, and again her hand went out toward him.

“If he does, you refuse to get off,” replied Dorn. “But don’t let him or his greasers put a dirty hand on you. Should he threaten force…why pack some clothes…an’ your valuables…an’ go down to Missus Cass’s. An’ wait till I come back.”

“Wait…till you…come back,” she faltered, slowly turning white again. Her dark eyes dilated. “Milt…you’re like Las Vegas! You’ll kill Beasley!”

Dorn heard himself laugh, very cold and strange, foreign to his ears. A grim deadly hate of Beasley vied with the tenderness and pity he felt for this distressed girl. It was a sore trial to see her leaning there against the door—to be compelled to leave her alone. Abruptly he stalked off the porch. Tom followed him. The black horse whinnied his recognition of Dorn and snorted at sight of the cougar. Just then the Mexican boy returned with a bag. Dorn tied this, with the small pack, behind the saddle.

“John, you stay here with Miss Helen,” said Dorn. “An’ if Carmichael comes back, keep him, too! An’ to night, if anyone rides in to Pine from the way we come, you be sure to spot him.”

“I’ll do that, Milt,” responded John.

Dorn mounted, and, turning for a last word to Helen, he felt the words of cheer halt on his lips as he saw her standing, white and broken-hearted, with her hands to her bosom. He could not look twice.

“Come on there, you Tom!” he called to the cougar. “Reckon on this track you’ll pay me for all my trainin’ of you.”

“Oh…my friend,” came Helen’s sad voice, almost a whisper to his throbbing ears. “Heaven help you…to save her. I….”

Then Ranger started and Dorn heard no more. He could not look back. His eyes were full of tears and his breast ached. By a tremendous effort he shifted that emotion—called on all the spiritual energy of his being to the duty of this grim task before him.

He did not ride down through the village, but skirted the northern border, and marked around to the south, where, coming to the trail he had made an hour past, he headed on it, straight for the slope now darkening in the twilight. The big cougar showed more willingness to return on this trail than he had shown in the coming. Ranger was fresh and wanted to go, but Dorn held him in.