Out of the Depths: A Romance of Reclamation
“Go away!” sobbed the prostrated man. “Go away! Take my pony–all! Only leave me!”
“If ever I saw a fellow plumb locoed!” muttered Gowan, half awe-struck.
“Maybe he’ll come to his senses if we leave him,” suggested Knowles. He took a step towards Ashton. “All right, son, we’ll go. But we’ll leave you half that veal, and we won’t take your hawss. D’you want help in looking for your outfit?”
Ashton shook his downbent head.
“Well, if you want to let the thieves get away with it, that’s your own lookout. You’d better strike back to the railroad.”
“Go away! Leave me!” moaned Ashton.
“Gone to smash–clean busted!” commented Gowan, as he turned about to go to his horse, his spurs jingling gayly.
Knowles followed him, shaking his head. The girl had been gazing at Ashton with an expression that varied from sympathetic commiseration to contemptuous pity. As her adopted father and Gowan mounted, she rode over to them.
“Go on,” she said. “I’ll overtake you as soon as I’ve watered my hawss.”
“You’re not going to speak to that kettle of mush again, Miss Chuckie,” remonstrated Gowan.
“Yes, I am, Kid, and you know you wouldn’t stop me if you could. He needs it. I’m glad you smashed his pistol. A rifle is not so handy.”
Knowles stared over the bushes at the huddled figure on the ground. “Look here, Chuckie, you can’t mean that?”
“Yes,” she insisted. “He is ready to do it right now, unless someone throws him a rope and hauls him out of the slough.”
“Lot of fuss over a tenderfoot you never saw before today,” grumbled Gowan.
“That’s not like you, Kid,” she reproached. “Besides, you don’t want the trouble of digging a grave. It would have to be deep, to keep out the coyotes. Daddy, you’re forgetting the veal.”
“So I am,” agreed the cowman. “Ride on, Kid. You’ll be carrying most weight.”
The puncher reluctantly wheeled his horse and started down the bank of the dry stream. Knowles unfastened the hind quarters of veal from behind the cantle of his saddle, lifted them into a fork of one of the low trees, and rode off after Gowan, folding up his blood-stained slicker.
The girl at once slipped from her pony and walked quietly around to the drooping, despairing man.
“Mr. Ashton,” she softly began, “they have gone. I have stayed to find out if there is anything I can do.”
She paused for him to reply. His shoulders quivered, but he remained silent. She went on soothingly: “You are all unstrung. The shock was too sudden. It must have been a terrible one! Won’t you tell me about it? Perhaps that will make you feel better.”
“As if anything could when I am ruined, utterly ruined!” he moaned.
“But how? Please tell me,” she urged.
Slowly he raised his haggard face and looked up at her. There could be no question but that she was full of sincere sympathy and concern for him. Her eyes shone upon him with all the motherly tenderness that any good woman, however young, has in her heart for those who suffer.
“It’s all in this–this letter,” he muttered brokenly. “Expected my remittance in it–Got ruin! ruin!”
“It had been opened,” suggested the girl. “Perhaps those who took your outfit also took your remittance money.”
“No, there wasn’t any–not a cent! My valet had my written instructions to open it and cash the money orders–that weren’t there! He and the guide–they came back. The letter had told them all, all! I was not here. They took the outfit–the money–divided it. Left that note–they had no more use for me… Ruined! utterly ruined!”
“But if you wish us to run them down?”
“No–good riddance! What they took is less than what I owed them. Ungrateful scoundrels!”
“That’s it!” approved the girl. “Get up your spunk. Cuss, if you like. Rip loose, good and hard. It will ease you off.”
“It’s no use,” he groaned, slumping back into his posture of abject dejection.
“Oh, come, now!” she encouraged. “You’re a young, healthy man. What if you have been bucked off this time? There are lots other hawsses in Life’s corral.”
He hung his head lower.
She went on, in an altered tone: “Mr. Ashton, it is evident you have been bred as a gentleman. I wish you to give me your word that you will not put an end to yourself.”
There was a prolonged pause. At last he stirred as if uneasy under her steady gaze. He could not see her eyes, yet he seemed to feel them. Twice he started to speak, but checked himself and hesitated. The third time he muttered a reluctant, “I–will not.”
“Good! I have your word,” she replied. “I must go now. When you’ve shaken yourself together a bit, come down to the ranch. You ride down Dry Fork to the junction, and then three miles up Plum Creek. Daddy’ll be glad to put you up a few days until you can think of what to do to get a new start. Good-by!”
She went back to her horse as lightfooted and graceful as an antelope. But he did not look up after her, nor did he respond to her cordial parting. For a long time after she rode away he continued to crouch as she had left him, motionless, almost torpid with the immensity of his loss.
The sun sank lower and lower. It touched the skyline of High Mesa and dipped below. The shadow of twilight fell upon Dry Fork and the waterhole. The man shivered and, as if afraid that the darkness would rush upon him, hastily opened his clenched hand and smoothed out the crumpled letter.
To his bloodshot eyes, the accusing words seemed to glare up at him in letters of fire:
Sir:
We have been instructed by our client, Mr. George Ashton, to inform you that he has at last learned the full particulars of the manner in which you obtained possession of the plans of Mr. Thomas Blake, C.E., drawn by him for the competition on the then projected Michamac bridge; how you copied said plans and destroyed the originals, and was awarded the construction of said bridge on said copied plans presented by you as of your own device and invention; that you were awarded and did enjoy the office of Resident Engineer of said bridge during a period covering the greater part of the construction thereof, and received the full salary of said office, to and until said Blake took charge of said bridge, which had been imperilled by your incompetence; and said Blake, against your strenuous objections and opposition and at great personal risk, saved said bridge from destruction.
Wherefore, because of the disgrace which you have, by reason of the aforesaid actions and conduct, brought upon his name, and because of various and sundry acts of disobedience, as well as your life of frivolity and dissipation,–our client has instructed us to inform you, that he has cut you off from him absolutely; that he has drawn a new will wherein the amount of your legacy is fixed at the sum of one ($1.00) dollar; that he will no longer make you an allowance in any sum whatever; that he no longer regards you as his son; that any communication addressed to him by you, either directly or indirectly, will not be received or read by him; and that he absolutely refuses to see you or to grant you a personal interview.
Respectfully, etc.The signature was that of his father’s confidential lawyers, and below, to the left, lest there be no possibility of misunderstanding, were his name and address in full: “Mr. Lafayette Ashton, Stockchute, Colorado.”
Again he bent over with his head on his breast and the letter clutched convulsively in his slender palm.
A bloodcurdling yell brought him to his feet with a sudden leap. He still did not know the difference between the cry of a coyote and the deeper note of a timber wolf. He hastily started a fire, and ran to fetch his rifle from the saddle sheath. The pony was quietly munching a wisp of grass as best he could with the bit in his mouth. The unconcern of the beast reassured his master, who, however, filled the magazine of his rifle before offsaddling.
Having hobbled the pony for the night, Ashton laid the rifle on the rim of the pool, stripped, and dived in. He went down like a plummet, reckless of the danger of striking some upjutting ledge. He may have forgotten for the moment his word to the girl, or he may have considered that it did not prevent him from courting death by accident.
But, deeply as he dived, he failed to reach bottom. He came up, puffing and blowing, and swam swiftly around the pool before scrambling out to dress. The combined effect of the vigorous exercise, the grateful coolness of the water, and the riddance of the day’s dust and sweat brought him ashore in a far less morbid frame of mind. Going up the bank, he pulled the hind quarters of veal from the tree and sliced off three or four ragged strips with his knife. After washing them, he put them to broil over his smoky fire of green twigs. The “cutlets” came off, one half raw and the other half burned to a crisp. But he had not eaten since the early forenoon. He devoured the mess without salt, ravenously. He topped off with the scant swallow of brandy left in his flask.
Stimulated by the food and drink, he set about gathering a large heap of wood. Three or four coyotes had approached his camp, attracted by the scent of the calf meat. With the fading of twilight into night they came in closer, making such a racket with their yelping and wailing that he thought himself surrounded by a pack of ravenous wolves.
He could not see how his pony was unconcernedly grazing within a few yards of one of the cowardly beasts. Had the wistful singers been timber wolves, the animal soon would have come hobbling in near the fire; but Ashton did not know that. He flung on brush and crouched down near the blaze, rifle in hand, peering out into the blackness. Every moment he expected to hear that terrible cry of which he had read, the death-scream of a horse, and then to hear the crunching of bones between the jaws of the ferocious wolves.
He had spent the previous night alone in camp, peacefully sleeping. But then the yells of the beasts of darkness had been far away, and the walls of his tent had shut him in from the wild. Tonight his nerves had been shattered by the terrible blow of his father’s repudiation. Worst of all, he had no tobacco with which to soothe them.
His dread of the supposed wolf pack in a way eased the anguish of his ruin by diverting his mind. But the lack of cigarettes served only to put a more frightful strain on his overwrought nerves. He felt it first in a vague discomfort that set his hands to groping automatically through his pockets. The absence of the usual box roused his consciousness, with a dismayed start, to the realization that he was absolutely without his soothing drug. The absconding guide and valet had taken the large store he had in camp, and, to please Miss Knowles, he had flung away all that were left in his pockets.
From vague fumbling he instantly concentrated his mind on an eager search for a packet that might have been overlooked, either in his pockets or around the camp. He could find none, nor even a single cigarette. His nerves were now clamoring wildly for their soothing poison. So great was the strain that it began to affect his mind. He fancied that the wolf pack was closing in to attack him. Twice he fired his rifle at imaginary eyes out in the darkness.
All the time the craving for nicotine increased in intensity, until he was half frantic. Midnight found him, torch in hand, crawling around on the ground where his tent had been pitched, hunting for cigarette stubs. He had only to look close in order to find any number. Most were no more than cork tips, but some had at least one puff left in them, and a few had been only half smoked.
Beside the bed he came upon almost a handful, close together. By this time his jangled nerves were “toning down.” He became conscious of great weariness. He stretched out on his leafy bed, and with his head pillowed on his arm, luxuriously sucked in the drugging smoke.
CHAPTER VI
A TEST OF CALIBER
When he opened his eyes the sun was beating down into his face. He had slept far into the morning. He stood up to stare around. His horse was cropping the grass near the lower side of the grove. There was no sign of any wolves. He walked over to his fireplace. The fire had burned to ashes hours ago. He started a fresh one with his patent lighter, and turned to where he had left the veal. It was gone.
He went a few steps farther, and found a bone gnawed clean of every shred of meat and gristle. A fox is a far less cunning thief than a coyote. The quantity of calf meat had alone saved his saddle and bridle, and even at that, one of the bridle reins was slashed and the stirrup leathers were gnawed. He looked from the white bone to the saddle, and ripped out a half dozen vigorous Anglo-Saxon oaths. It was not nice, but the explosion argued a far healthier frame of mind than either his morbid hysteria of the previous afternoon or his frenzy of the night.
After the outburst of anger had spent itself, he realized that he was hungry. The feeling became acute when he remembered that he had absolutely nothing on hand to eat. He hastened to saddle up. As he was about to mount he paused to look uncertainly up the trail on which he had thrown away the cigarettes. While he stood vacillating, his hand went to his hip pocket and drew out the silver-cased brandy flask. He looked at it, and its emptiness reminded him that he was thirsty. He went down to the pool for a drink. Having filled his flask, he returned up the bank and sprang into the saddle.
His horse, in fine fettle after the night’s rest and grazing, started off on the jump, cow pony fashion. Ashton gave him his head, and the horse bore him at a steady lope down along the stream, crossing over to the other bank of the dry bed, of his own volition, when the going became too rough on the near side. The direction of the railway was now off across the sagebrush flats to Ashton’s right, but he allowed his horse to continue on down the creek. About four miles from the waterhole he approached a bunch of grazing cattle. He drew rein and walked his horse past them, looking for a herder. There was none in sight. The animals were on their home range. He rode on down the creek at a canter.
A mile farther on, as he neared another scattered bunch of cattle, something thwacked the dry ground a little in front and to the left of him, throwing up a splash of sand and dust. His pony snorted and leaped ahead at a quickened pace.
Ashton turned to look back at the spot–and instinctively ducked as a bullet pinged past his ear so close that he felt the windage on his cheek. He did not lack quickness of perception. He glanced up the open slope to his left, and grasped the fact that someone was shooting at him with a rifle from the crest of the ridge half a mile distant.
Instantly he flung himself flat on his pony’s neck and dug in his spurs. The pony bounded forward with a suddenness that spoiled the aim of the third bullet. It whined past over the beast’s haunches. The fourth shot, best aimed of all, smashed the silver brandy flask in Ashton’s hip pocket. Had he been upright in the saddle, the steel-jacketed bullet must have pierced him through the waist.
With a yell of terror, he flattened himself still closer to his pony’s neck and dug in his spurs at every jump. The beast was already going at a pace that would have won most quarter-mile sprints. Just after the fourth shot he swept in among the scattered bunch of cattle, running at his highest speed. Still Ashton swung his sharp-roweled spurs. He knew that the range of a high-power rifle is well over a mile.
To his vast surprise, the shooting ceased the moment he raced into line with the first steer. The short respite gave him time to recover his wits.
As the pony sprinted clear of the last steer in the bunch, a fifth bullet ranged close down over Ashton’s head. He pulled hard on the right rein and leaned the same way. The sixth shot burned the skin on the pony’s hip as he swerved suddenly towards the edge of the creek channel. He made a wild leap out over the edge of the cut bank and came plunging down on a gravel bar. At once he started to race along the dry stream bed. But instead of spurring, Ashton now tugged at the bridle.
The pony swung to the left and came to a halt close in under the bank. Ashton cautiously straightened from his crouch. When erect he was just high enough to see over the edge of the bank. Looking back and up the ridge, he saw the figure of a man clearly outlined against the sky. His lips closed in resolute lines; his dark eyes flashed. Jerking out his rifle, he set the sight for fifteen hundred yards, and began firing at the would-be murderer as coolly and steadily as a marksman.
Before he had pulled the trigger the third time the man leaped sideways and knelt to return his fire. At once Ashton gripped his rifle still more firmly and drew back the automatic lever. The crackling discharge was like the fire of a miniature Maxim gun. Puffs of dust spouted up all around the man on the ridge crest. He sprang to his feet and ran back out of sight, jumping from side to side like an Indian.
“Ho!” shouted Ashton. “He’s running! I made him run!”
He sat up very erect in his saddle, staring defiantly at the place where the murderer had disappeared.
“The coward! I made him run!” he exulted.
He shifted his grip on his rifle, and the heat of the barrel reminded him that he had emptied the magazine. He reloaded the weapon to its fullest capacity, and stood up in his stirrups to stare at the ridge crest. The murderer did not reappear. Ashton’s exultance gave place to disappointment. He was more than ready to continue the duel.
He rode down the creek, searching for a place to ascend the cut bank. But by the time he came to a slope he had cooled sufficiently to realize the foolishness of bravado. Not unlikely the murderer was lying back out of sight, ready to shoot him when he came up out of the creek. He reflected, and decided that the going was quite good enough in the bottom of the creek bed. He rode on down the channel, over the gravel bars, at an easy canter.
After a half mile the bank became so low and the creek bed so sandy that he turned up on to the dry sod. As he did so he kept his eye warily on the now distant ridge. But no bullet came pinging down after him.
Instead, he heard the thud of galloping hoofs, and twisted about just in time to see a rider top a rise a short distance in front of him. He snapped down his breech sight and faced the supposed assailant with the rifle ready at his shoulder. Almost as quickly he lowered the weapon and snatched off his sombrero in joyful salute. The rider was Miss Knowles.
She waved back gayly and cantered up to him, her lovely face aglow with cordial greeting.
“Good noon!” she called. “So you have come at last? But better late than never.”
“How could I help coming?” he gallantly exclaimed.
“I see. The coyotes stole your cutlets, and you were hungry,” she bantered, as she came alongside and whirled her horse around to ride with him down the creek.
“How did you guess?” he asked.
“I know coyotes,” she replied. “They’re the worst–” She stopped short, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. “Oh, Mr. Ashton! how could you? I did not think you so cruel!”
“Cruel?” he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. “Ah, you refer to the spurring. But I simply couldn’t help it, you know. There was a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge back there.”
“A bandit–on Dry Mesa?” she incredulously exclaimed.
“Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times.”
The girl smiled. “You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at a coyote.”
“No,” he insisted, flushing under her look. “The ruffian was shooting at me. See here.”
He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had been torn out. From it he drew his brandy flask.
“That was done by the third or fourth shot,” he explained. “Do you wonder I was flat on my pony’s neck and spurring as hard as I could?”
The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it over with keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neat hole. Opposite it half of the other side had been burst out as if by an explosion within. She took off the silver cap, shook out the shattered glass of the inner flask, and looked again at the small hole.
“A thirty-eight,” she observed.
“Pardon me,” he replied. “I fail to–Ah, yes; thirty-eight caliber, you mean.”
“It is I who must ask pardon,” she said in frank apology. “Your rifle is a thirty-two. I heard a number of shots, ending with the rattle of an automatic. Thought you were after another deer.”
He could afford to smile at the merry thrust and the flash of dimples that accompanied it.
“At least it wasn’t a calf this time,” he replied. “Nor was it a doe. But it may have been a buck.”
“Indian?” she queried, with instant perception of his play on the word.
“I didn’t see any war plumes,” he admitted.
“War plumes? Oh, that is a joke!” she exclaimed. She chanced to look down at the shattered flask, and her merriment vanished. “But this isn’t any joke. Didn’t you see the man who was shooting at you?”
“Yes, after I jumped my pony down into the creek. Perhaps the bandit thought he had tumbled us both. He stood up on top the ridge, until I cut loose and made him run.”
“He ran?”
Ashton’s eyes sparkled at the remembrance, and his chest began to expand. Then he met the girl’s clear, direct gaze, and answered modestly: “Well, you see, when I had got down behind the bank our positions were reversed. He was the one in full view. It’s curious, though, Miss Knowles–shooting at that poor calf, under the impression it was a deer, I simply couldn’t hold my rifle steady, while–”
“No wonder, if it was your first deer,” put in the girl. “We call it buck fever.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t you have thought my first bandit–Why, I couldn’t have aimed at him more steadily if I had been made of cast iron.”
“Guess he had made you fighting mad,” she bantered; but under her seeming levity he perceived a change in her manner towards him immensely gratifying to his humbled self-esteem.
“At first I was just a trifle apprehensive–” He hesitated, and suddenly burst out with a candid confession–“No, not a trifle! Really, I was horribly frightened!”
This was more than the girl had hoped from him. She nodded and smiled in open approval. “You had a good right to be frightened. I don’t blame you for spurring that way. Look. It wasn’t only one shot that came close. There’s a neat hair brand on your hawss’s hip that wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Must have been the shot just before we took the bank,” said Ashton, twisting about to look at the streak cut by the bullet. “The first was the only other one that didn’t go higher.”
“But what did the man look like?” questioned Miss Isobel. “I can’t imagine who–Can it be that your guide has a grudge against you on account of his pay?”
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible before yesterday, though he was a surly fellow and inclined to be insolent.”
“All such men are apt to be with tenderfeet,” she remarked, permitting herself a half twinkle of her sweet eyes. “But I should have thought yours would have kept on going. Whatever you may have owed him, he had no right to steal your outfit. He must be a real badman, if it’s true he is the party who did this shooting.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” agreed Ashton. In her concern over him she looked so charming that he would have agreed if she had told him the moon was made of green cheese.
She shook her head thoughtfully, and went on: “I can’t imagine even one of our badmen trying to murder you that way. Their usual course would be to come up to you, face to face, pick a quarrel, and beat you to it on the draw. But whoever the cowardly scoundrel is, we’ll turn out the boys, and either run him down or out of the country.”
“If it’s my guide, he probably is running already.”
“I hope so,” replied the girl.
“You do! Don’t you want him punished?” exclaimed Ashton.
“Of course, but you see I don’t want Kid to–to cut another notch on his Colt’s.”
“I must say, I cannot see how that–”
“You could if you realized how kind and good he has been to me all these years. Do you know, when I first came West, I couldn’t tell a jackrabbit from a burro. Daddy had told me that each had big ears, and I got them mixed. And actually I didn’t know the off from the nigh side of a hawss!”