THE WILL-O’-THE-WISP
The Kerr ranch buildings were more
than a mile away from the point where Lambert and
the sheriff halted to look down on them. The ranchhouse
was a structure of logs from which the bark had been
stripped, and which had weathered white as bones.
It was long and low, suggesting spaciousness and comfort,
and enclosed about by a white picket fence.
A winding trace of trees and brushwood
marked the course of the stream that ran behind it.
On the brink of this little water, where it flashed
free of the tangled willows, there was a corral and
stables, but no sign of either animal or human life
about the place.
“He may be out with the cattle,” Lambert
suggested.
“We’ll wait for him to
come back, if he is. He’s sure to be home
between now and tomorrow.”
So that was her home, that was the
roof that had sheltered her while she grew in her
loveliness. The soft call of his romance came
whispering to him again. Surely there was no
attainder of blood to rise up against her and make
her unclean; he would have sworn that moment, if put
to the test, that she was innocent of any knowing
attempt to involve him to his disgrace. The gate
of the world stood open to them to go away from that
harsh land and forget all that had gone before, as
the gate of his heart was open for all the love that
it contained to rush out and embrace her, and purge
her of the unfortunate accident of her birth.
After this, poor child, she would
need a friend, as never before, with only her step-mother,
as she had told him, in the world to befriend her.
A man’s hand, a man’s heart
“I’ll take the front door,”
said the sheriff. “You watch the back.”
Lambert came out of his softening
dream, down to the hard facts in the case before him
with a jolt. They were within half a mile of the
house, approaching it from the front. He saw
that it was built in the shape of an L, the base of
the letter to the left of them, shutting off a view
of the angle.
“He may see us in time to duck,”
the sheriff said, “and you can bank on it he’s
got a horse saddled around there at the back door.
If he comes your way, don’t fool with him; let
him have it where he lives.”
They had not closed up half the distance
between them and the house when two horsemen rode
suddenly round the corner of the L and through the
wide gate in the picket fence. Outside the fence
they separated with the suddenness of a preconcerted
plan, darting away in opposite directions. Each
wore a white hat, and from that distance they appeared
as much alike in size and bearing as a man and his
reflection.
The sheriff swore a surprised oath
at sight of them, and their cunning plan to confuse
and divide the pursuing force.
“Which one of ’em’s
Kerr?” he shouted as he leaned in his saddle,
urging his horse on for all that it could do.
“I don’t know,” Lambert returned.
“I’ll chance this one,”
said the sheriff, pointing. “Take the other
feller.”
Lambert knew that one of them was
Grace Kerr. That he could not tell which, he
upbraided himself, not willing that she should be subjected
to the indignity of pursuit. It was a clever
trick, but the preparation for it and the readiness
with which it was put into play seemed to reflect a
doubt of her entire innocence in her father’s
dishonest transactions. Still, it was no more
than natural that she should bend every faculty to
the assistance of her father in escaping the penalty
of his crimes. He would do it himself under like
conditions; the unnatural would be the other course.
These things he thought as he rode
into the setting sun in pursuit of the fugitive designated
by the sheriff. Whetstone was fresh and eager
after his long rest, in spite of the twelve or fifteen
miles which he had covered already between the two
ranches. Lambert held him in, doubtful whether
he would be able to overtake the fleeing rider before
dark with the advantage of distance and a fresh horse
that he or she had.
If Kerr rode ahead of him, then he
must be overtaken before night gave him sanctuary;
if Grace, it was only necessary to come close enough
to her to make sure, then let her go her way untroubled.
He held the distance pretty well between them till
sundown, when he felt the time had come to close in
and settle the doubt. Whetstone was still mainly
in reserve, tireless, deep-winded creature that he
was.
Lambert leaned over his neck, caressed
him, spoke into the ear that tipped watchfully back.
They were in fairly smooth country, stretches of thin
grasslands and broken barrens, but beyond them, a few
miles, the hills rose, treeless and dun, offering
refuge for the one who fled. Pursuit there would
be difficult by day, impossible by night.
Whetstone quickened at his master’s
encouragement, pushing the race hard for the one who
led, cutting down the distance so rapidly that it seemed
the other must be purposely delaying. Half an
hour more of daylight and it would be over.
The rider in the lead had driven his
or her horse too hard in the beginning, leaving no
recovery of wind. Lambert remarked its weariness
as it took the next hill, laboring on in short, stiff
jumps. At the top the rider held in, as if to
let the animal blow. It stood with nose close
to the ground, weariness in every line.
The sky was bright beyond horse and
rider, cut sharply by the line of the hill. Against
it the picture stood, black as a shadow, but with an
unmistakable pose in the rider that made Lambert’s
heart jump and grow glad.
It was Grace; chance had been kind
to him again, leading him in the way his heart would
have gone if it had been given the choice. She
looked back, turning with a hand on the cantle of
her saddle. He waved his hand, to assure her,
but she did not seem to read the friendly signal,
for she rode on again, disappearing over the hill before
he reached the crest.
He plunged down after her, not sparing
his horse where he should have spared him, urging
him on when they struck the level again. There
was no thought in him of Whetstone now only
of Grace.
He must overtake her in the quickest
possible time, and convince her of his friendly sympathy;
he must console and comfort her in this hour of her
need. Brave little thing, to draw him off that
way, to keep on running into the very edge of night,
that wild country ahead of her, for fear he would
come close enough to recognize her and turn back to
help the sheriff on the true trail. That’s
what was in her mind; she thought he hadn’t
recognized her, and was still fleeing to draw him as
far away as possible by dark. When he could come
within shouting distance of her, he could make his
intention plain. To that end he pushed on.
Her horse had shown a fresh impulse of speed, carrying
her a little farther ahead. They were drawing
close to the hills now, with a growth of harsh and
thorny brushwood in the low places along the runlets
of dry streams.
Poor little bird, fleeing from him,
luring him on like a trembling quail that flutters
before one’s feet in the wheat to draw him away
from her nest. She didn’t know the compassion
of his heart, the tenderness in which it strained
to her over the intervening space. He forgot all,
he forgave all, in the soft pleading of romance which
came back to him like a well-loved melody.
He fretted that dusk was falling so
fast. In the little strips of valley, growing
narrower as he proceeded between the abrupt hills,
it was so nearly dark already that she appeared only
dimly ahead of him, urging her horse on with unsparing
hand. It seemed that she must have some objective
ahead of her, some refuge which she strained to make,
some help that she hoped to summon.
He wondered if it might be the cow-camp,
and felt a cold indraft on the hot tenderness of his
heart for a moment. But, no; it could not be the
cow-camp. There was no sign that grazing herds
had been there lately. She was running because
she was afraid to have him overtake her in the dusk,
running to prolong the race until she could elude him
in the dark, afraid of him, who loved her so!
They were entering the desolation
of the hills. On the sides of the thin strip
of valley, down which he pursued her, there were great,
dark rocks, as big as cottages along a village street.
He shouted, calling her name, fearful that he should
lose her in this broken country in the fast-deepening
night. Although she was not more than two hundred
yards ahead of him now, she did not seem to hear.
In a moment she turned the base of a great rock, and
there he lost her.
The valley split a few rods beyond
that point, broadening a little, still set with its
fantastic black monuments of splintered rock.
It was impossible to see among them in either direction
as far as Grace had been in the lead when she passed
out of his sight. He pulled up and shouted again,
an appeal of tender concern in her name. There
was no reply, no sound of her fleeing horse.
He leaned to look at the ground for
tracks. No trace of her passing on the hard earth
with its mangy growth of grass. On a little way,
stopping to call her once more. His voice went
echoing in that quiet place, but there was no reply.
He turned back, thinking she must
have gone down the other branch of the valley.
Whetstone came to a sudden stop, lifted his head with
a jerk, his ears set forward, snorting an alarm.
Quick on his action there came a shot, close at hand.
Whetstone started with a quivering bound, stumbled
to his knees, struggled to rise, then floundered with
piteous groans.