“I can’t tell you what I mean,”
he was saying in explanation. “But you,
dad, I’ll be able to tell you. All I can
say is that he mustn’t be followed—unless
Pete here—”
The eyes of Pete opportunely opened. He looked
hazily about him.
“Is he gone?” asked Pete.
“Yes.”
“Thank the Lord!”
“Did you see him? What’s he like?”
“About seven feet tall. I saw him jump
off the roof of the house. I was right under
him. Tried to get my gun on him, but he came up
like a wild cat and went straight at me. Had
his fist in my face before I could get my finger on
the trigger. And then the earth came up and slapped
me in the face.” “There he goes!”
cried some one.
The sky was now of a brightness not far from day,
and, turning east, in the direction pointed out, Charles
Merchant saw a horseman ride over a hilltop, a black
form against the coloring horizon. He was moving
leisurely, keeping his horse at the cattle pony’s
lope. Presently he dipped away out of sight.
John Merchant dropped his hand on the shoulder of
his son. “What is it?” he asked.
“Heaven knows! Not I!”
“Here are more people! What’s this?
A night of surprise parties?”
Six riders came through the trees, rushing their horses,
and John Merchant saw Bill Dozier’s well-known,
lanky form in the lead. He brought his horse
from a dead run to a halt in the space of a single
jump and a slide. The next moment he was demanding
fresh mounts.
“Can you give ’em to me, Merchant?
But what’s all this?”
“You make your little talk,” said Merchant,
“and then I’ll make mine.”
“I’m after Andy Lanning. He’s
left a gent more dead than alive back in Martindale,
and I want him. Can you give me fresh horses for
me and my boys, Merchant?”
“But the man wasn’t dead? He wasn’t
dead?” cried the voice of a girl. The group
opened; Bill Dozier found himself facing a bright-haired
girl wrapped to the throat in a long coat, with slippers
on her feet.
“Not dead and not alive,” he answered.
“Just betwixt and between.”
“Thank God!” whispered the girl.
“Thank God!”
There was only one man in the group who should not
have heard that whispered phrase, and that man was
Charles Merchant. He was standing at her side.
It took less than five minutes for the deputy sheriff
to mount his men; he himself had the pick of the corral,
a dusty roan, and, as he drew the cinch taut, he turned
to find Charles Merchant at his side.
“Bill,” said the young fellow, “what
sort of a man is this Lanning?”
“He’s been a covered card, partner,”
said Bill Dozier. “He’s been a covered
card that seemed pretty good. Now he’s in
the game, and he looks like the rest of the Lannings—a
good lump of daring and defiance. Why d’you
ask?”
