The Trail Horde by Charles Alden Seltzer (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

throaty; "when I stepped into Jim Lefingwell's boots the county board of education appointed me to succeed Lefingwell as school commissioner for Willets. It strikes me that something ought to be done about the teacher punishing your boy. I think I had better have a talk with her."

"Shucks," growled Singleton; "I reckon the kid deserved what he got. He was tryin' to wallop her when Lawler come in. I ain't admirin' Ruth Hamlin none, but I reckon she wasn't to blame for that. If you was figgerin' to see Lawler, now, why that would be more to the point." He grinned crookedly at Warden, slight mockery in his gaze.

Warden scowled. "That's your job, Singleton. If he tries to 'wallop' me as he walloped you, I'll have something to say to him."

"It's safer to telegraph to the cuss," grinned Singleton, sourly.

Warden apparently did not hear Singleton's last words, for he was gazing meditatively past him. He took leave of Singleton and walked to the front of the saloon, where he stood for many minutes leaning on the bar, thoughtfully looking out into the street.

The shadows of the buildings across the street from him had grown long, and the light from the sun was mellowing when Warden walked to the front door and stood for an instant on the threshold.

Down the street in front of his office stood Red King. Other horses were hitched here and there, but there was no human being in sight. The quiet peace of the waning afternoon had settled over town; it was the period when human activity slackens.

Warden stepped down upon the sidewalk. There was a furtive gleam in his eyes, his face was flushed; he was in the grip of a passion that thoughts of Ruth Hamlin had brought to him. He had seen the girl a number of times; he had talked with her twice. Each time when he had talked with her he had felt the heat of a great desire seize him. And during his talk with Singleton he had yielded to the impulse that was now driving him.

Just why the impulse had come to him at that instant he could not have told. He knew Kane Lawler's name had been mentioned in connection with the girl's; and it might have been that his hatred of Lawler, and the sudden jealousy that had developed in him over the incident of the fluttering handkerchief, had gripped him. But he was aware that just at this time he was risking much—risking his life and jeopardizing the business venture in which he was engaged. Yet the impulse which was driving him had made him reckless; it had dulled his sense of responsibility; had swept away all considerations of caution. When he saw there was no one on the street he walked eastward to the livery stable where he kept his horse, saddled and bridled it, mounted and rode away.

His ranch, the Two Diamond, was fifteen miles southwestward. Warden rode directly east, bearing a little south after he had traveled some distance from town, striking a narrow trail that wound a sinuous course over the plains.

The passion that had seized Warden still held him. He told himself that he really intended merely to call upon Ruth professionally, in his rôle of school commissioner; he assured himself that she must be made to understand that the forcible disciplining of her pupils would not be tolerated. Yet as he rode he kept glancing backward apprehensively, though he knew that if he made his visit merely official he need have nothing to fear from anyone.

Twice, as Warden rode, he halted his horse and debated the wisdom of returning. And twice he rode on again telling himself he had a right to visit the girl, and that he meant no harm.

At most he desired merely to see the girl again, to experience the thrills that he had felt upon the other occasions he had talked with her. And when at dusk he came in sight of the Hamlin cabin he felt that he had really come on an official visit.

He saw Ruth's pony saddled and bridled, standing at a corner of the corral, where she had left him when she had returned from the schoolhouse some hours before.

She had found the house unoccupied when she arrived; there was evidence that her father had left shortly after breakfast—for the dishes were unwashed and the floor unswept—two duties that he always had performed, knowing that in the morning she had a ten-mile ride before her.

Table and floor had been attended to by the girl. But she had done little else. For hours she had sat in a chair near the front door, thinking of what had happened in the schoolhouse—of what she had heard—the evidence that Kane Lawler knew what her father had been doing, and that he was trying to protect her.

She believed it was the latter knowledge that made her feel so small, so insignificant, so utterly miserable. For while she was convinced that he would think no less of her, no matter what her father had done, the fact that Lawler was trying to keep the knowledge of her father's guilt from her told her that he appreciated the keen disgrace that threatened her.

When Warden dismounted near the cabin door she thought it was her father returning, and she got up and went to the stove, where she stood, lifting the iron lids, preparatory to starting a fire.

She felt that she could not look at her father, after what had happened; and so she laid some wood in the stove, deliberately keeping her back to the door, trying to think of something to say to her father—for she had determined to tell him about the incident of the morning.

She was forced to go to a shelf for matches, however, and when she turned, her eyes flashing with accusation, she saw Warden standing in the open doorway, watching her. She stood very still, and spoke no word.

When Warden noted the swift change of expression that came over her face—the astonishment that instantly dominated all else, he grinned smoothly.

"Surprised to see me, Miss Hamlin? You shouldn't be, after what happened at the schoolhouse today. I have called to have a talk with you about it."

The girl's quick smile was cold and indifferent. What happened to her now was of little importance. She supposed Warden had come to tell her she had been discharged; but that made little difference to her. She felt that she had done right in attempting to chastize Jimmy Singleton; and she would do it again under the same circumstances.

"Is it necessary to talk?" she questioned, coldly. "I am not sorry for what I did. I suppose you have come to notify me of my dismissal."

"On the contrary, I have come to assure you that you did what was right—exactly what I would have done," smiled Warden. "The only criticism I have is that you should not have dismissed school; you should have stayed right there and had it out."

Warden stepped inside and walked close to Ruth.

"I want to shake hands with you, Miss Hamlin; you have the necessary spirit."

Some color surged into Ruth's face. She realized now, that she did not want to lose the position—that it meant much to her. It meant at least her independence from her father, that she could support herself without depending upon the money he gained from his guilty practices. It meant, too, that the additional disgrace of being summarily dismissed would not descend upon her.

Impulsively, she took Warden's hand. She looked inquiringly at him though, when he gripped it tightly, and the color that had come into her face fled, leaving it pale, when Warden continued to hold the hand, gripping it so hard that she could not withdraw it. She looked intently at him, over the few feet of space that was between them, noting the queer light in his eyes—a glow of passion; watching the crimson tide that rose above his collar, staining his face darkly.

For the driving desire that had seized Warden had conquered him. Physical contact with the girl had brought his passions to life again. They had overwhelmed him, had sent his grain skittering back into those dead and gone periods when man's desires surmounted laws.

Warden no longer considered the risks whose ghosts had haunted him on his ride to the Hamlin cabin; his fears had been swallowed by the oblivion of mental irresponsibility. He had only the vivid knowledge that he was alone in the cabin with the girl.

"But there are people in Willets who are determined that you shall go," he said. "I can keep you on the job in spite of them, my dear—and I'll do it. But there are certain conditions—certain——"

She struck him, then, bringing her free hand around with a wide, full sweep. The open hand landed on the side of his face with a smack that resounded through the cabin, staggering him, causing him to release the other hand.

A great, red welt appeared on his cheek where the hand had struck; and he felt of his cheek with his fingers, amazed, incredulous. For an instant only, however, he stood, trying to wipe the sting of the blow away. Then he laughed throatily and started after her—she having retreated behind the table, where she stood, watching him, her eyes wide, her face dead white.

Warden, leaning far over the table, saw her eyes close as she stood there; saw her fingers grip the edge of the table; noted that her chin had dropped and that she seemed to be on the point of fainting.

Warden's back was toward the front door; he had to slip sideways to get around the table, and as he did so his profile was brought toward the door. He saw a shadow at his feet—a shadow cast by the last effulgent glow of the setting sun—a shadow made by a man standing in the doorway.

Warden halted and held hard to the table edge. Reason, cold, remorseless reason surged back into his brain, accompanied by a paralyzing fear. Some prescience told him that the man in the doorway was Kane Lawler. And though he was convinced of it, he was a long time lifting his head and in turning it the merest trifle toward the door. And when he saw that the dread apparition was indeed Lawler, and that Lawler's heavy pistol was extending from his side, the hand and arm behind it rigid, he stiffened, flung himself around and faced Lawler, his mouth open, his eyes bulging with the terrible dread of death and the awful certainty that death was imminent.

For an instant there was a silence—breathless, strained, pregnant with the promise of tragedy. Then the silence was rent by Lawler's voice, dry, light, and vibrant:

"Warden, if you move a quarter of an inch I'll blow you to hell!"

Lawler walked slowly to Ruth, took her by the shoulders and steadied her.

"It's Lawler, Ruth," he said reassuringly. "I want you to tell me what's wrong here." He shook her, gently, and she opened her eyes and looked at him dazedly. Then, as she seemed to recognize him, to become convinced that it was really Lawler whom she had seen in the doorway, she smiled and rested her head on his shoulder, her hands patting his arms and his back as though to convince herself beyond doubt.

For an instant she stood there, holding tightly to him; and then she released herself, stepping back with flushed cheeks and shamed eyes.

"Kane, I am so glad you came!" she said. "Why, Kane! that man—" She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

"I reckon that's all!" said Lawler. There was a cold, bitter grin on his lips as he stepped around the table and stood in front of Warden.

"Warden, I'm going back to town with you. We're going right now. Go out and get on your horse!"

Lawler's voice, the cold flame in his eyes and his icy deliberation, told Ruth of a