Ranching For Sylvia Volume-554 by Harold Bindloss (chrome ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Sound Yet Beyond The Partition, And He Crept Softly Past The Horse; He

Longed To Lead It Out, But Decided That The Risk Would Be Too Great.

Then He Stood In The Gap Between The Wall And The Partition, Straining

Eyes And Ears, And Wondering Where The Rifle Lay.  He Could See

Nothing, However; And, Creeping On Cautiously, With Tingling Nerves And

An Intolerable Feeling Of Suspense, He Drew Level With The Doorway.  It

Was Hard To Refrain From Leaping Out, But This Might Make Some Noise.

Crossing The Threshold With Careful Movements, He Made For The Spot

Where He Had Cut The Wood.  He Struck Something That Rattled, But He

Found The Ax And The Feel Of It Sent A Thrill Through Him.  It Was

Light Enough To Be Carried Easily; And He Did Not Mean To Be Recaptured.

For Some Minutes He Moved Straight On, Hurting His Feet On The Stronger

Grass Stalks; And Then, Sitting Down, He Hastily Put On His Boots.

After That He Broke Into A Steady Run, Which He Meant To Keep Up As

Long As Possible.  He Was Now Anxious That The Threatened Storm Should

Not Break, Because If The Rustlers Had Gone To Sleep, The Longer They

Remained So The Better.  He Failed To Understand How He Had Escaped;

Perhaps His Guards Had Been Lulled Into False Security By His Tranquil

Demeanor; Perhaps They Had Trusted To Each Other; Or One, Rendered

Listless By The Tension In The Air, Had Relaxed His Watchfulness For A

Few Moments.  This, However, Did Not Matter.  George Was Free; And He

Only Wished That He Had Some Idea As To Where He Was Heading.  He

Wanted To Place A Long Distance Between Him And The Stable By Morning.

Dripping With Perspiration, Breathing Hard, He Kept Up A Steady Pace

For, So He Thought, An Hour, After Which He Walked A Mile Or Two, And

Then Broke Into A Run Again.  The Grass Was Short; He Struck No Brush,

And The Ax Did Not Encumber Him.  He Imagined That Dawn Must Be Getting

Near When A Dazzling Flash Swept The Prairie And There Was A Long

Reverberatory Rumbling Overhead.  He Was Almost Blinded And Bewildered,

Doubly Uncertain Where He Was Going; And Then A Great Stream Of White

Fire Fell From The Zenith.  The Thunder That Followed Was Deafening,

And For The Next Few Minutes Blaze Succeeded Blaze, And There Was A

Constant Crashing And Rumbling Overhead.  After That Came A Rush Of

Chilly Wind And The Air Was Filled With Falling Water.

A Hot, Steamy Smell Rose About Him; But George, Who Had Been Walking

Again, Began To Run.  He Must Use Every Exertion, For If He Were Right

In Concluding That He Had Been Detained On American Soil, His Pursuers

Would Follow Him North, And When Daylight Came A Mounted Man's View

Would Command A Wide Sweep Of Level Prairie.  The Storm Passed Away,

Muttering, Into The Distance; The Rain Ceased, And The Air Was Fresh

And Cool Until The Sun Sprang Up.  It Was On His Right Hand, He Thought

He Had Kept His Line; But He Stopped To Consider On The Edge Of A

Ravine.  The Sides Of The Hollow Were Clothed With Tall, Wet Grass And

Brush; It Would Offer Good Cover, But He Could Hardly Avoid Leaving A

Track If He Followed It, And His Pursuers Would Search Such Spots.  It

Seemed Wiser To Push On Across The Plain.

Descending Through The Thinnest Brush He Could Find, He Stopped For A

Drink From The Creek At The Bottom, And Then Went On As Fast As

Possible.  He Was Becoming Conscious Of A Pain In His Left Side; One

Foot Felt Sore; And As The Sun Got Hotter A Longing To Lie Down A While

Grew Steadily Stronger.  Still, He Could See Nothing But Short, Gray

Grass Ahead; He Must Hold On; There Might Be Bluffs Or Broken Country

Beyond The Skyline.

At Length A Small Square Block Cut Against The Dazzling Brightness And

Slowly Grew Into A Lonely Homestead.  After Some Consideration, George

Headed For It, And Toward Noon Reached A Little, Birch-Log Dwelling,

With A Sod Stable Beside It.  Both Had An Uncared-For Appearance, Which

Suggested Their Owner's Poverty.  As George Approached The Door, A

Gaunt, Hard-Faced Man In Dilapidated Overalls Came Out And Gazed At Him

In Surprise.  George's Clothing, Which Had Been Torn When He Was Seized

In The Bluff, Had Further Suffered During The Deluge.  He Looked A

Weary, Ragged Outcast.

"Can You Give Me Something To Eat And Hire Me A Horse?" He Asked.

The Farmer Seemed Suspicious.

"Guess I Want My Horses For The Binder; I'm Harvesting Oats."

"I'll Pay You Well For The Time You Lose," George Broke Out.

"How Much?"

Thrusting His Hand Into His Pocket, George Found With Dismay That His

Wallet, Which Contained Some Bills, Was Missing.

"Anything You Ask In Reason, But You'll Have To Take A Check On A

Brandon Bank.  Have You Got A Pen And Paper In The House?"

"How Am I To Know Your Check's Good?"  The Farmer Laughed Ironically.

George Was Doubtful Of The Man, But He Must Take A Risk.

"My Name's Lansing, From The Marston Homestead, Beyond Sage Butte.

It's A Pretty Big Place; Any Check I Give You Will Be Honored."

The Farmer Looked At Him With Growing Interest.

"Well," He Said, "You Can't Have My Horse."

It Was Evident From His Manner That Reasoning Would Be Useless.

"How Does Sage Butte Lie From Here?" George Asked Him.

"Can't Tell You; I've Never Been In The Place."

George Realized That He Had Blundered, Both In Calling At The Homestead

And In Mentioning His Name, Which Had Figured In The Newspaper Account

Of The Attack On Grant.  The Farmer, It Seemed, Had A Good Idea Of The

Situation, And If Not In League With The Rustlers, Was Afraid Of Them.

George Was Wasting Time And Giving Information That Might Put His

Pursuers On His Trail.  In The Meanwhile He Noticed A Face At The

Window And A Voice Called To The Man, Who Stepped Back Into The House

And Appeared Again With A Big Slab Of Cold Pie.

"Take This And Light Out," He Said.

Having Eaten Nothing Since His Supper, George Was Glad Of The Food; But

He Walked On Smartly For An Hour Before He Sat Down In A Clump Of Brush

And Made A Meal.  Then He Lighted His Pipe And Spent A Couple Of Hours

In Much Needed Rest.  Haste Was Highly Desirable; He Had No Doubt That

He Was Being Followed, But He Could Go No Farther For A While.

It Was Very Hot When He Got Up; He Was Sore All Over, And His Foot Was

Paining, But He Set Off At A Run And Kept It Up Until He Had Crossed A

Rise Two Miles Away.  The Country Was Getting More Broken, Which Was In

His Favor, Because The Clumps Of Bush And The Small Elevations Would

Tend To Hide Him.  He Went On Until Dusk, Without Finding Any Water;

And Then Lay Down Among Some Tall Grass In The Open.  There Was A

Little Bluff Not Far Off, But If The Rustlers Came That Way, He Thought

They Would Search It.  It Grew Cold As Darkness Crept Down; Indeed He

Imagined That The Temperature Had Fallen To Near Freezing-Point, As It

Sometimes Does On The Plains After A Scorching Day.

Part Of The Night He Lay Awake, Shivering; But During The Rest He

Slept; And He Rose At Dawn, Very Cold And Wet With Dew.  His Foot Was

Very Sore, And He Had A Sharp Pain In His Side.  For The First Hour,

Walking Cost Him An Effort; But As He Grew Warmer It Became Less

Difficult, And His Foot Felt Easier.  Then, As He Crossed A Slight

Elevation, He Saw A Faint Gray Smear On The Far Horizon And It Sent A

Thrill Through Him.  Canadian Locomotives Burning Native Coal Pour Out

Clouds Of Thick Black Smoke Which Can Be Seen A Long Way In The Clear

Air Of The Prairie.  George Was Thirty Or Forty Feet, He Thought, Above

The General Level Of The Plain, The Light Was Strong, And He Imagined

That It Would Take Him Most Of The Day To Reach The Spot Over Which The

Smoke Had Floated.  He Was, However, Heading For The Track, And He

Gathered His Courage.

He Saw No More Smoke For A Long Time--The Increasing Brightness Seemed

To Diminish The Clarity Of The Air.  Before Noon The Pain In His Side

Had Become Almost Insupportable, And His Head Was Swimming; He Felt

Worn Out, Scarcely Able To Keep On His Feet, But Again A Gray Streak On

The Horizon Put Heart Into Him.  It Did Not Appear To Move For A While,

And He Thought It Must Have Been Made By A Freight-Engine Working About

A Station.  Then, As He Came Down The Gradual Slope Of A Wide

Depression, A Long Bluff On Its Opposite Verge Cut The Skyline, A Hazy

Smear Of Neutral Color.  He Determined To Reach The Wood And Lie Down

For A Time In Its Shadow.

It Scarcely Seemed To Grow Any Nearer, And An Hour Had Passed Before It

Assumed Any Regularity Of Outline.  When It Had Grown Into Shape,

George Stopped And Looked About.  It Was Fiercely Hot, The Grass Was

Dazzlingly Bright, There Was No House Or Sign Of Cultivation As Far As

His Sight Ranged; But On Glancing Back He Started As He Saw Three Small

Mounted Figures On The Plain.  They Had Not Been There When He Last

Turned Around, And They Were Moving, Spread Out About A Mile Apart.  It

Was Obvious That The Rustlers Were On His Trail.  For Another Moment He

Looked At The Bluff, Breathing Hard, With His Lips Tight Set.  If He

Could Reach The Wood Before He Was Overtaken, It Would Offer Him Cover

From A Bullet, And If He Could Not Evade His Enemies, He Might Make A

Stand With The Ax Among The Thicker Trees.  It Was An Irrational Idea,