The Range Boss by Charles Alden Seltzer (reader novel .TXT) 📖

as he saw the start that she could not repress. “I’ve been nosin’ around a little before I come in. I wasn’t figgerin’ on runnin’ into Abe Catherson.” He laughed thickly, as though some sort of passion surged over him. “So you’re all alone here—eh?”

She grew weak at the significance of his words, and leaned against the window-sill for support. And then with the realization that she must not seem to quail before him, she stood erect again and forced her voice to steadiness.

“Yes,” she said, “I am alone. Is there any need to repeat that? And being alone, I am in charge, here, and I don’t want you here for company.”

He laughed, making no move to withdraw.

“I’m here on business.”

“You can’t have any business with me. Come when the Cathersons are here.”

“The waitin’s good,” he grinned. He walked around to the side of the table, and with one hand resting on its top, looked closely at her, suspicion in his eyes. “Say,” he said in a confidential whisper, “it looks peculiar to me. Catherson an’ Hagar both gone. Hagar’s got your cayuse, leavin’ you here alone. Has ol’ Catherson tumbled to Masten bein’ thick with Hagar?”

“I don’t know,” she said, flushing. “It is no affair of mine!”

“It ain’t—eh?” he said with a laugh, low and derisive. “You don’t care what Masten does-eh? An’ you’re goin’ to marry him, Monday. Masten’s lucky,” he went on, giving her a look that made her shudder; “he’s got two girls. An’ one of them don’t care how much he loves the other.” He laughed as though the matter were one of high comedy.

His manner, the half-veiled, vulgar significance of his words and voice, roused her to a cold fury. She took a step toward him and stood rigid, her eyes flashing.

“You get out of this cabin, Tom Chavis!” she commanded. “Get out—instantly!” No longer was she afraid of him; she was resolute, unflinching.

But Chavis merely smiled—seemingly in huge enjoyment. And then, while he looked at her, his expression changed to wonder. “Holy smoke!” he said. “Where’s Masten’s eyes? He said you didn’t have any spirit, Ruth, that you was too cold an’ distant. I reckon Masten don’t know how to size up a girl—a girl, that is, which is thoroughbred. Seems as though his kind is more like Hagar!” He grinned cunningly and reached into a pocket, drawing out a paper. He chuckled over it, reading it. Then, as though she were certain to appreciate the joke, he held it out to her. “Read it, Ruth,” he invited, “it’s from Masten, askin’ Hagar to meet him, tomorrow, down the crick a ways. He’s dead scared to come here any more, since Randerson’s aimin’ to perforate him!”

Only one conscious emotion afflicted her at this minute: rage over Chavis’ inability to understand that she was not of the type of woman who could discuss such matters with a man. Evidently, in his eyes, all women were alike. She knew that such was his opinion when, refusing to take the paper, she stepped back, coldly, and he looked at her in surprise, a sneer following instantly.

“Don’t want to read it—eh? Not interested? Jealous, mebbe—eh?” He grinned. “Sure—that’s it, you’re jealous.” He laughed gleefully. “You women are sure jokes. Masten can’t wake you up—eh? Well, mebbe Masten—” He paused and licked his lips. “I reckon I don’t blame you, Ruth. Masten ain’t the sort of man. He’s too cold-blooded, hisself to make a woman sort of fan up to him. But there’s other guys in this country, Ruth, an’—”

She had seized the first thing that came to her hands, a glass jar that had set on the window sill behind her, and she hurled it furiously and accurately. It struck him fairly on the forehead and broke into many pieces, which clattered and rang on the bare board floor. The sound they made, the smashing, dull impact as the jar had struck Chavis, caused her heart to leap in wild applause—twanging a cord of latent savagery in her that set her nerves singing to its music. It was the first belligerent act of her life. It awakened in her the knowledge that she could defend herself, that the courage for which she had prayed that night when on the rock where Randerson had found her, was lurking deep, ready to answer her summons. She laughed at Chavis, and when she saw him wipe the blood from his face and look at her in bewilderment, she challenged him peremptorily:

“Go—now, you beast!”

His answer was a leering grin that made his face hideous. He looked like a wounded animal, with nothing but concentrated passion in his eyes. Her act had maddened him.

“I’ll fix you, you hussy!” he sneered cursing.

She saw now that he was aroused past all restraint, and when he came toward her, crouching, she knew that other missiles would not suffice, that to be absolutely safe she must get possession of the big pistol that reposed on the shelf near the door. So when he came toward her she slipped behind the table. He grasped it by its edge and tried to swing it out of the way, and when she held it he suddenly swooped down, seizing it by the legs and overturning it. As it fell he made a lunge at her, but she eluded him and bounded to the door. The box holding the miscellaneous articles she knocked out of its place, so that it fell with a tinkling crash, throwing its contents in all directions. Her fingers closed on the stock of the pistol, and she faced Chavis, who was a few feet away, leveling the big weapon at him. Her voice came firmly; she was surprised at her own calmness:

“Don’t move, Chavis, don’t dare to take a step, or I’ll kill you!”

Chavis halted, his face a dirty, chalkish white. Twice his lips opened, in astonishment or fear, she could not tell which, but no sound came from them. He stood silent, watching her, furtive-eyed, crouching.

In this interval her thoughts rioted in chaos, like dust before a hurricane. But a question dominated all: could she carry out her threat to kill Chavis, if he took the step?

She knew she would. For in this crisis she had discovered one of nature’s first laws. She had never understood, before, but in the last few minutes knowledge had come to her like a burst of light in the darkness. And a voice came to her also—Randerson’s; she mentally repeated the words he had spoken on the day he had told her about the rustlers: “I reckon you’d fight like a tiger, ma’am, if the time ever come when you had to.”

Yes, she would fight. Not as a tiger would fight, but as Randerson himself had fought—not with a lust to do murder, but in self-protection. And in this instant the spirit of Randerson seemed to stand beside her, applauding her, seeming to whisper words of encouragement to her. And she caught something of his manner when danger threatened; his cold deliberation, his steadiness of hand and eye, his grim alertness. For she had unconsciously studied him in the few minutes preceding the death of Pickett, and she was as unconsciously imitating him now.

Her thoughts ceased, however, when she saw Chavis grin at her, mockingly.

“It’s a bluff!” he said. “You couldn’t hit the ground, if you had a-hold of the gun with both hands!” He moved slightly, measuring the distance between them.

Plainly, she saw from his actions, from his tensed muscles, her threat would not stop him. She was very pale, and her breast heaved as though from a hard run; Chavis could hear the sound of her breathing as he set himself for a leap; but her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes glowed and widened as she followed the man’s movements. She was going to kill; she had steeled her mind to that. And when she saw the man’s muscles contract for the rush that he hoped would disconcert her, she fired, coolly and deliberately.

With the deafening roar of the weapon in her ears, a revulsion, swift, sickening, overcame her. The report reverberated hideously; she seemed to hear a thousand of them. And the smoke billowed around her, strong, pungent. Through it she saw Chavis stagger, clap one hand to his chest and tumble headlong, face down, at her feet. The interior of the cabin whirled in mad circles; the floor seemed to be rising to meet her, and she sank to it, the six-shooter striking the bare boards with a thud that sounded to her like a peal of thunder. And then oblivion, deep and welcome, descended.

Coming down through the break in the canyon, riding slightly in advance of Hagar, Randerson heard the report of a pistol, distant and muffled. He turned in the saddle and looked at Hagar questioningly.

“That come from your shack!” he said shortly; “Ruth there alone?”

He caught the girl’s quick affirmative, and Patches leaped high in the air from pain and astonishment as the spurs pressed his flanks. When he came down it was to plunge forward with furious bounds that sent him through the water of the river, driving the spume high over his head. He scrambled up the sloping further bank like a cat, gained the level and straightened to his work. Twice that day had riders clattered the narrow trail with remarkable speed, but Patches would have led them.

He was going his best when within fifty feet of the shack he heard Randerson’s voice and slowed down. Even then, so great was his impetus, he slid a dozen feet when he felt the reins, rose to keep from turning a somersault, and came down with a grunt.

In an instant Randerson was inside the cabin. Ruth lay prone, where she had fallen. Randerson, pale, grim-lipped, leaned over her.

“Fainted!” he decided. He stepped to the man and turned him over roughly.

“Chavis,” he ejaculated, his lips hardening. “Bored a-plenty!” he added, with vindictive satisfaction. He saw Ruth’s weapon, noted the gash in Chavis’ forehead, and smiled. “I reckon she fit like a tiger, all right!” he commented admiringly. And now he stood erect and looked down at Ruth compassionately. “She’s killed him, but she’ll die a-mournin’ over it!” Swift resolution made his eyes flash. He looked again at Ruth, saw that she was still in a state of deep unconsciousness. Running out of the cabin, he drew one of his six-shooters. When he had gone about twenty-five feet from the edge of the porch, he wheeled, threw the gun to a quick level, and aimed at the interior of the cabin. At the report he ran toward the cabin again, to meet Hagar, just riding up, wide-eyed and wondering.

“What is goin’ on?” she demanded. “What you doin’?”

“Killin’ a man,” he told her grimly. He seized her by the shoulders. “Understand,” he said sternly; “I killed him, no matter what happens. I’d just got here.”

With Hagar at his heels he entered the cabin again. While the girl worked with Ruth, he went to the rear wall of the cabin and examined it. When shooting from the outside he had aimed at the wall near a small mirror that was affixed there, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction when, embedded in one of the logs that formed the wall, he found the bullet.

Five minutes later he and Hagar led Ruth out on the porch. The girl was shaking and cringing, but trying hard to bear up under the recollection of her terrible experience. She had looked, once, at Chavis, on the floor of the cabin, when she had recovered, and her knees had sagged. But Randerson had gone to her assistance. She had looked at him, too, in mute agony of spirit,