CHAPTER XII. THE SEAGE OF DOUBLE MOUNTAIN. TAMEO DE NAOS ET DONNÉ FERENTES, THE DICTIONARY. OE, HELLO! As the curtain rose to the flying echoes, long stepped to the edge of the dump, frying pan in hand, and sent back an answering shout in the startled high notes of a lonely man taken unawares. HELLO! He brandished his hospitable pan, then he put it down, cupped his hands to mouth, and trumpeted a hearty welcome. Chuck, come on, supper's ready! Can't see any one go by about two hours ago? Eh, louder! See a man on a sorrow horse? No, I've been in the tunnel. Come up! Can't, we're after an outlaw. What? After a murderer? Wait a minute, I'll go down. Too hard to yell so far. Mr. Long started precipitately down the zigzag, but the writers had got all the information of interest that Mr. Long could furnish, and they were eager to be in at the death. Can't wait. He's inside the mountain somewheres. Some of the boys are waiting for him at the other end. They rode on. Mr. Long posed for a statue of disappointment, hung on the steep trail, rather as if he might conclude to coil himself into a ball, and rolled down the hill to overtake them.  I want to hear about it. Did Jeff, Mr. Long, did Mr. Long in our attempt to escape? Not so. Gifted with prevision beyond most, Mr. Long's mind misgave him that these young men would be baffled in their pleasing expectations. They would be back before sundown, very cross, and a miner's brogan leaves a track not to be missed. That Mr. Long was unfainably fatigued from the varied efforts of the day, need not be mentioned, for that alone would have stayed his flight. But the nearest water, save Escondido, was thirty-five miles, and at Escondido he would be watched for. Not to say that, when he was missed, some of the searching party would straightaway go to Escondido to frustrate him. Present escape was not to be thought of. Instead Mr. Long made a hearty meal from the simple vions that had been in course of preparation when he was surprised, eeked out by canned corn fried in bacon grease to a crisp golden brown. Then, after a cigarette, he betook himself to sharpening tools with laudable industry. The tools were already sharp, but that did not stop Mr. Long. He built a fire in the forge, set up a step ladder of matched drills in the blackened water of the tempering tub. He thrust a gad and one short drill into the fire. When the gad was at a good cherry heat, he thrust it hissing into the tub to bring the water to a convincing temperature. And when he reheated, he did it again. From time to time he held the one drill to the anvil and shaped it, drawing it alternately to a chisel bit or a bowl bit. Mr. Long could sharpen a drill with any, having been in very truth, a miner of sorts. He could toy thus with one drill without giving it any very careful attention, and his thoughts were now busy on how best to be Mr. Long. Accordingly from time to time he added an artistic touch to Mr. Long. Grime under his fingernails, a smudge of smut on an eyebrow, his hands displeased him. After some experimenting to get the proper heat of it, he grasped the partially cooled gad with the drill pincers, and held it very lightly to a favoured few of those portions of the hand, known to Kyromaniacs as the mounts of Jupiter, Saturn, and other extinct immortals. Satisfactory blisters while you wait were thus obtained. These were pricked with a pin. Some were torn to tatters, with dust and coal rubbed in to give them a venerable appearance. The pain was no light matter, but Mr. Long had a real affection for Mr. Bransford's neck, and it is trifles like these that make perfection. The next expedient was even more heroic. Mr. Long assiduously put stone dust in one eye, leaving it tearful, bloodshot, and violently inflamed, and the other one was sympathetically red. Pidot, steel in my eye, explained Mr. Long. Unselfish devotion such as this is all too rare. All this time at proper intervals Mr. Long sharpened and resharpened that one long-suffering drill. He tripped into the tunnel and smote a mighty blow upon the country rock with a pick, therefore qualifying that pick for repointing, and laid it on the forge as next on the list. What further outrage he meditated is not known, for he now heard a horse coming up the trail. He was beating out a merry tattoo when a white-headed head rose through a trapped door, rose above the level of the dump, rather. Hammer in hand, Long straightened up joyfully as best he could, but could not straighten up the telltale droop of his shoulders. It was not altogether assumed either this hump, Jeff, Mr. Long, had not done so much work of this sort for years, and there was a very real pain between his shoulder blades. Still, but for the exigencies of art, he might have borne his neck less turtle-wise than he did. Hello, got him? Where's your partner? Watching the gap, the young man, a rather breathless from the climb, answered the last question first as he led his horse on the dump. No, we didn't get him, but he can't get away, hiding somewhere in the basin afoot, found his horse pretty well done up. The insolence of the outlaw's letter smoked him afresh. He reddened. No, tracks going out of the basin, two of our friends guarding the other end.  That's so? The speech came jerkily. He was still short of breath from his scramble. Not without a flying machine, said Long, no way out that I know of, except where the wagon-road goes. What's he done? Robbery. Murder. We'll see that he don't get out by the wagon-road, asserted the youth, confidently. Watch the gaps and starve him out. Oh, speaking of starving, said Toby, go into the tent and I'll bring you some supper while you tell me about it. Baked up another batch of bread on the chance you'd come back. Why, thank you very much, Mr. Long. Toby Long. Mr. Long, my name is Gerdon Steele. Glad to meet you. Why, if you will be so kind, that is what I came up to see you about. If you can let us have what we need, of course we will pay you for it. Of course you won't. It had not needed the offer to place Mr. Gerdon Steele quite accurately. He was a handsome lad, fresh complexion, dressed in the western manner as practiced on the boardwalk. You're welcome to what I got, sure, but I ain't got much variety. Gwen, the old liar, said he was coming out the twentieth. Sure enough, he didn't. So the grubs run low. Table in a tent. Come on. Oh, no, I couldn't, you know.  But if you could give me something, anything you have to take down there, I really couldn't, you know. The admirable doctrine of a noblesse oblige in its delicate application by this politeness was easier for its practitioner than to put it into words suited to the comprehension of his seers. He concluded lamely, I'll take it down there and we will eat it together. See here, said Toby, I'm as hungry to hear about your outboys. You are to eat. I'll just throw my bedding and a lot of chuck on your saddle. We'll carry the coffee pot and frying pan in our hands, and the sugar can and things like that. You can tank up and give me the news in small chunks at the same time. Afterward, the two of us can sleep while one stands guard. This was done. It was growing dark when they reached the bottom of the hill. The third-guardsmen had built a fire. Rex, this is Mr. Long, who had been kind enough to grubstake us and share our watch with us. Mr. Steele, you have observed, had accepted Mr. Long without question, but his first impression of Mr. Long had been gained under circumstances highly favorable to the designs of the latter gentlemen. Mr. Steele had come upon him unexpectedly, finding him, as it were, in a madious race, with all his skillfully arranged scenery to aid the illusion. The case was now otherwise the thousand-tongued vouching of his background lacked to him. Mr. Long had not saved his own unthinkable audacity to belie his face with all. From the first instant Mr. Rex Griffith was the prey of suspicion, acute, bigoted, cherlish, deep, dark, distrustful, damnable, and so on, down to zealous. He had a sharp eye. He wore no patees, and Mr. Long had a vaguely uncomfortable memory holding over from some previous incarnation of having seen that long shrewd face in a courtroom. The host on hospitable rights intent, likewise all ears and eager questionings, was all unconscious of hostile surveillance. Nothing could be more carefree, more at ease, than his bearing. His pleasant anticipatory excitement was the natural outlook for a lonely and newsless man. As the heart panteth for the water, so he thirsted for the story. But his impatient, hasty questions, following false sense, delayed the telling of the Arcadian tale. So innocent was he, so open and above board, that Griffith, watching, alert, felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. Yet he watched, doubting still, though his reason rebelled at the monstrous imaginings of his heart. That the outlaw, unarmed and unasked, should venture, such effrontery was inconceivable. He allowed Steele to tell the story, himself contributing only an occasional crafty question, designed to enable his host to betray himself. Bransford interrupted Mr. Long. Not Jeff Bransford up South Rainbow Way? That's the man, said Steele. I don't believe it, said Long Flatley. He was sipping coffee with his guests. He put his cup down. I know him a little. He don't.  He detailed the circumstances with skillful care. Besides, why did he run away? Gee, you ought to have seen that escape. It was splendid. Well, now, who'd have thought that demanded Long, Steele only half convinced? He didn't strike me like that kind of a man. Well, you never can tell. How come you fell as to be chasing him? You see, said Steele, everyone was sure he'd gone up to Rainbow. The sheriff and posse is up there now, looking for him. But we four, Stone and Harlow, the chaps at the other end, were with us, you know. We were up at the foothills on a deer hunt. We were out early. Sunup is the best time for deer, they tell me. And we had a spyglass. Well, we just happened to see a man ride out from between two hills quite a way off. Stone noticed right away that he was riding a sorrel horse. It was a sorrel horse that Bransford stole, you know. We didn't suspect, though, who it was till a bit later. Then Rex tried to pick him up again and saw that he was going out of his way to avoid the ridges, keeping cover, you know. Then we caught on and took after him, pal Mel. He had a big start, but he was riding slowly so as not to make a dust. That is, till he saw our dust, then he let out. Your not deputies then, said Long. Oh no, not at all, said Steele, secretly flattered. So Harlow and Stone galloped off to town. The program was that they'd wired down to Escondido to have horses ready for them, come down on number six, and head him off. They were not to tell anyone in Arcadia. There's $5,000 reward out for him, but it isn't that exactly. It was a cowardly beastly murder, don't you know. And we thought it would be rather a big thing if we could take him alone. You got him penned, all right, said Toby. He can't get out so far as I know, unless he runs over us or the men at the other end. Why, George, we must get away from this fire too. He set the example, dragging the bedding with him to the shelter of a big rock. He could pick us off too slick here in the light. How are you gonna get him?  Starve him out, said Griffith. This was base deceit. Deep in his heart he believed that the quarry sat beside him, well fed and contented, yet the unthinkable insolence of it, if this were indeed Bransford, dulled his belief. Long laughed as he spread down the bed. He'll shoot a deer. Maybe if he had it all planned out, he may have grub cashed in there somewhere. There's water tanks in the rocks. Hey, what are your partners at the other side gonna do for grub? Oh, they brought out cheese and crackers and stuff, said Gerd. I'll tell you what, boys, you've bit off more and you can chaw, said Jeff, Toby, that is.  But then you can't go in there to hunt for him without weakening your guard. And he'd be under shelter and have all the best of it.  I don't want none of it. I'd as leave put on boxing gloves and crawl into a hole after a bear. Look here now. This is your show. But I'm a heap older, new boys. Want to know what I think? Certainly, said Rex. Go on to talk turkey to me. An avaricious light came into Long's eyes. Of course you're in on the reward, said Rex, diffidently and rather stiffly. We're not in this for the money. I can use the money, whatever share you want to give me, said Long dryly. But if you take my advice, my shares won't be but a little. I think you ought to keep under shelter at the mouth of this canyon, one of you, and let the other one go to Escondido and send for help. Quit and a lot of it. What's the matter with you going? asked Griffith disingenuously. He wanted Long to show his hand. It would never do to abandon the siege of Double Mountain to arrest this Swaddi-san, Long, on mere suspicion. On the other hand, Mr. Rex Griffith had no idea of letting Long escape his clutches until his identity was established one way or the other beyond all question. That was why Long declined the offer. His honest gaze shifted. Much of a rider, he said evasively, young Griffith read correctly the thought which the excuse concealed. Evidently Long considered himself an elder soldier, if not a better, than either of his two young guests, but wished to spare their feelings by not letting them find it out. Griffith found this plain solution inconsistent with his homicidal theory. A murderer fleeing for his life would have jumped at the chance. There are two sides to every question. Let us, this once, prove both sides. Holy oblivious to Griffith's linkside watchfulness and his leading questions, Mr. Long yet recognized the futility of an attempt to ride away on Mr. Griffith's horse with Mr. Griffith's venison. There we have the other point of view. We'll have to send for Grubb anyway pursued this agatious Mr. Long. I've only got a little left and that old liar Gwen won't be out for four days if he comes then.  They get paid to tend to that. That looks to me like someone was going to get hurt. You've done enough. All this advice was so palpably sound that the doubter was for the second staggered for a second only. This was the man he had seen in the prisoner stock. He was morally sure of it. For all the difference of appearance this was the man. Yet those blasts, the far-seen fire, the hearty welcome, this delivery of himself into their hands. Griffith scarcely knew what he did think. He blamed himself for his unworthy suspicions. He blamed a girdie more for having no suspicions at all. Anything else he said? That sounds good. Toby studied for some time. Well, he said at last, there may be some way he can get out. I don't think he can but he might find a way. He knows he's trapped but likely he has no idea yet how many of us there are. So we know he'll try and he won't be just climbing for fun. He'll take a chance. Steel broke in. He didn't leave any rope on his saddle. Toby nodded. So he means to try it. Now here's five of us here. Seems to me that someone ought to ride round the mountain the first thing in the morning and every day afterward. Only here's hoping there won't be many of them to look for tracks. There isn't one chance in a hundred he can climb out. But if he goes out to hear a foot, we've got him sure. The man on guard wants to keep in shelter. It's light tonight. There's no chance for him to slip out without being seen. You say the old watchman ain't dead yet, Mr. Griffith? No. The latest bulletin was that he was almost holding his own. Hope he gets well, said Long. Good old geezer. Now, Cap, I've worked hard and you've ridden hard. Better set your guards and let the other two take a little snooze. Griffith was not proof against the insidious flattery of this unhesitant preference. He flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. Well, if I'm to be Captain, Gerd will take the first guard till eleven. Then you come in till two, Mr. Long. I'll stand from then on till daylight. In five minutes Mr. Long was enjoying the calm and restful sleep of fatigued innocence, but his poor Captain was doomed to have a bad night of it with two Bransfords on his hands, one in the basin and one in the bed beside him. His head was dizzy with a vicious circle. Like the gentlewoman of the nursery rhyme, he was tempted to cry, Rock, mercy on me, this is none of I. If he hailed his bedmate to justice and the real Bransford got away, that would be a nice predicament for an ambitious young man. He was sensitive to ridicule, and he saw here such an opportunity to earn it as knocks but once at any man's door. If on the other hand, while he held Bransford cooped tightly in the basin, this thrice accursed Long should escape him, and there should be no Bransford in the basin, what nonsense! What utter twaddle! Bransford was in the basin. He had found his horse and saddle, his tracks. No tracks had come out of the basin. Immediately on the discovery of the outlaws horse, Gerd had ridden back post haste, and held the pass while he, the Captain, had gone on to the mouth of the southern canyon and posted his friends. He had watched for tracks of a footman every step of the way, going and coming. There had been no tracks. Bransford was in the basin. He watched the face of the sleeping man. But by heaven this was Bransford. Was ever a poor Captain in such a predicament? A moment before he had fully and definitely decided once for all that this man was not Bransford, could not be Bransford, that it was not possible. His reason unwaveringly told him one thing, his eyesight the other. Yet Bransford, or an unfortunate twin of his, lay now beside him, and for further mockery slept peacefully, serene, untroubled. He looked upon the elusive Mr. Long with his species of horror. The face was drawn and lined. Yet, but forty-eight hours of tension would have left Bransford's face, not otherwise. He had noticed Bransford's hands in the courtroom, noticed their well-kept whiteness due as he had decided to the perennial cowboy glove. This man's hands, as he had seen by the campfire, were blistered and calloused. Callouses were not made in a day. He took another look at Long. Oh, thunder! He crept from bed. He whispered a word to Century Steel, not to outline the distressing state of his own mind, but merely to request Steel not to shoot him as he was going up to the mine. He climbed up the trail, chewing the unpalatable thought that Gurdon had seen nothing amiss, yet Gurd had been at the trial. The Captain began to wish he had never gone on that deer hunt. He went into the tent, struck a match, lit a candle, and examined everything closely. There was no gun in the camp and no cartridges. He found the spill of twisted paper under the table, smothered his qualms, and read it. He noted the open book for future examination in English, and now Toby's labor had their late reward, for Rex missed nothing. Every effort brought fresh disappointment, and every disappointment spurred him to fresh effort. He went into the tunnel, he scrutinized everything, even to the drills in the tub. The food supply tallied with Long's account. No detail escaped him, and every detail confirmed the growing belief that he, Captain Griffith, was a doddering imbecile. He returned to the outpost, convinced at last. Nevertheless merely to quiet the ravings of his insubordinate instincts, now in open revolt, he restaked the horses nearer to camp, and cautiously carried both saddles to the head of the bed. Concession merely encouraged the rebels to further and successful outrages. The government was overthrown. He drew sentry steel aside and imparted his doubts. That faithful follower, heaped scorn, mockery, laughter, and abuse upon his shrinking superior, recounted all the points from the first blasts of dynamite to the present moment, which favored the charitable belief above mentioned as newly entertained by Captain Griffith concerning himself. This belief of Captain Griffith was amply endorsed by his subordinate in terms of point and versatility.  This fellow's a yokel, an old rusty cap and ball single shot muzzle loader. The Bransford was an automatic steel frame high velocity. The better head he has, the more apt he is to do the unexpected.  You've got incipient, Parises.  The Captain sawed his couch, convinced, but holding his first opinion, savagely minded to arrest Mr. Long rather than let him have a gun to stand guard with. He was spared the decision. Mr. Long declined to Gerdon's proffered gun, saying that he would be right there and he was a poor shot anyway. Gerdon slept. Long took his place and Captain Rex from the bed watched the watcher. Never was there a more faithful sentinel than Mr. Long. Without relaxing his vigilance, even the smoke, he strained every faculty lest the wily Bransford should creep out through the shadows. The Captain saw him, a stooped figure sitting motionless by his rock, always alert, peering this way and that, turning his head to listen. Once Toby saw something. He crept noiselessly to the bed and shook his chief. Griffith came with his gun. Something was stirring in the bushes. After a little it moved out of the shadows. It was a prowling coyote. The Captain went back to bed once more, convinced of Long's fidelity, but resolved to keep a relentless eye on him just the same. And all unawares as he revolved the day's events in his mind, the Captain dropped off to troubled sleep. Mr. Long woke him at three. There had been a temptation to ride away, but the saddles were at the head of the bed. The ground was stony. He would be heard. He might have made an attempt to get both guns from under the pillow, but detection that meant ruin for him, since to shoot these boys or to hurt them, was out of the question. Escape by violence would have been easy and assured. Jeff preferred to trust his wits. He was enjoying himself very much. When the Captain got his relentless eyes open and realized what a chance he saw that further doubt was unworthy. Half an hour later the unworthy Captain stole noiselessly to Long's bedside and saw to his utter rage and distraction that Mr. Bransford was there again. It was almost too much to bear. He felt that he should always hate Long even after Bransford was safely hanged. Bransford's head had slipped from Long's pillow. Hating himself, Griffith subtly withdrew the miner's folded overalls and went through the pockets. He found there a knife smelling of dynamite, matches a turquoise carved to what was plainly meant to be the form of a bad tempered horse, and two small specimens of ore. Altogether the Captain passed a wild and whirling night. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 The Siege of Double Mountain Continued If the bowl had been stronger, my tail had been longer, Mother Goose. When the sun peeped over Rainbow Range, Captain Griffith bent over Toby Long's bed. His eyes were aching, burned, and sunken. The lids twitched. His face was haggard and drawn, but he had arrived at an unalterable decision. This thing could not and should not go on. His brain reeled now. Another such night would entitle him to state protection. He shook Mr. Long roughly, to hear, I believe, your Bransford himself. Thus, taken off his guard, Long threw back the bedding, rose to one elbow, still half asleep, and reached for his shoes, laughing and yawning alternately. Then, as he woke up a little more, he saw a better way to dress, dropped the shoes and unfurled his pillow, which by day he wore as overalls. Thumbling behind him, where the pillow had lain, he found a much soiled handkerchief and tenderly dabbed at his swollen eye. Bid a steel in my eye from a drillhead, he explained. Gemini, but it soar. Plainly he took the accusation as a pleasantry, calling for no answer. I mean it, I want to keep you under guard, said Captain Griffith, bitingly. Poor sleepy Toby, halfway into his overalls, stared up at Mr. Griffith. His mouth dropped open, he was quite at a loss for words. The Captain glared back at him. Toby kicked the overalls off and cuddled back into bed. Bully, he said, and I won't have to get breakfast. Girdon Steele sat up in bed, a happy man. His eye gave Mr. Long a discreetly confidential look, as of one who restrains himself out of instinctive politeness, from a sympathetic and meaningful tap of one's forehead. A new thought struck Mr. Long. He reached over behind steel for the rifle at the bed's edge, and thrust it into the latter's hands. Here, Boy Scout, watch me! He whispered, Don't let me escape while I sleep a few lines. I'm Bransford. Girdy rubbed his eyes and giggled. Don't you mind, Rex? That's the worst of this pipe habit. You never can tell how they'll break out next.  I've got him all the same and I'm going to keep him while you go to Escondido. His rifle was tucked under his arm. He patted the barrel significantly.  He sat up in bed. Oh, piffle. Oh, fudge. Oh, pickled moonshine. If I'm Bransford, what the deuce am I doing here? Why, you was both asleep.  You make me tired. Don't mind him long. He'll feel better when he takes a nap, said Gird joyfully. He has poor spells like this, and he misses his nerves. We always make allowances for him. Mr. Long's indignation at last overcame his politeness, and in his wrath he attacked friend and foe indiscriminately.  Don't the men at the other side know him, either? But, jinx, you hike out of this after breakfast and send for some grown-up men. I want part of that reward, and I'm going to have it. Look here. He turned to blackly to Girdon. Are you sure that Bransford, or anyone else, came in here at all yesterday? Or did you dream it?  Listen here. I worked like a dog yesterday. If you have me stand guard three hours tired as I was for nothing, there's going to be more to it. What kind of a sack and snike trick is this, anyway?  I ain't feelin' like any schoolboy pranks death now. No, no, that part's all straight. Bransford's in there, all right, protested Girdon. If you hadn't been working in the tunnel, you'd have seen him when he went by. Here's the note he left, and his horse and saddle are up at the spring. We left the horse there because he was lame and about all in. Bransford can't get away on him. Rex is just excited. That's all the matter with him, hankering for glory.  Here, read this insolent note, will you? Long glowered at the note and flung it aside. Anybody coulda wrote that.  You take these horses to water and bring back Bransford's horse and saddle, and then I'll know what to believe.  Great gobs and chunks of it.  I'm taking charge of this outfit now, and don't you forget it. And I don't want no maniac wandering round me with a gun.  Say, I was mistaken, said the deposed leader, thoroughly convinced once more. You do look like Bransford, you know. He laid down his rifle, obediently. Look like your grandmother's left hind foot, sneered the outraged minor. My eyes is brown, and so's Bransford's, outside of that. No, but you do a little, said his ally, Steele. I noticed it myself last night. Not much, but still there's a resemblance. Poor Cap Griffith just let his nerves and imagination run away with him. That's all. Long sniffed. Funny, I never heard of it before, he said. He was somewhat mollified, nevertheless, and, while cooking breakfast, he received very graciously a stammered and half-hearted apology from young Mr. Griffith, now reduced to the ranks. Ah, that's all right, kid. Let's say you be careful and don't shoot your partner when he comes back. Gordon brought back the sorrow-horse and the saddle, thereby allaying Mr. Long's wrathful mistrust that the whole affair was a practical joke. I told you Butter wouldn't suit the works, said Rex triumphantly, and watched the working of his test with a jealous eye. Long knew his Alice, but it was the best butter, he said. He surveyed the sorrow-horse, his eyes brightened. We'll whack up that blood money yet, he announced confidently. Now I'm going to walk over to the south side and get one of those fellows to ride, sign, round the mountain. You boys can sleep, turn and turn about, till I get back. Then I want Steel to go to Escondido and wire up to Arcadia that we got our bear by the tail and help to turn him loose, and tell Pappy Sanders to send me out some grub, or I'll skin him. Pappy's putting up for the mine, you know. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Griffith. He gave that luckless warrior a jeering look, as one who has forgiven, but not forgotten. Why don't you ride one of our horses, said Gordon? Want to keep him fresh?  Besides, if I ride a fresh horse in here, he'll maybe shoot me to get the horse, and if he could catch you lads away from shelter, maybe so he'd make a dash for it a shooting. See here, if I was dodging in here like him, know what I'd do? I'd just shoot a few lines on general principles to draw you away from the gates. Then, if you would end to see about it, I'd either kill you if I had to, or slip out if you give me the chance. You just stay right here, whatever happens. Keep under shelter, and keep your horses right by you. We got him bottled up, and we won't draw the cork till the sheriff come. I'll tell him to do the same way at the other end. I won't take any gun with me, and I'll stick to the main road. That way Bransford won't feel no call to shoot me, likely he's way up in the cliffs anyhow. Ride the sorrel horse then, why don't you?  Thus Mr. Griffith, again dissimulating every detail of Mr. Long's plan, forestalls suspicion, that these measures were precisely calculated to disarm suspicion, now occurred to Griffith's stubborn mind, for he had a stubborn mind. The morning's coffee had cleared it of cobwebs, and it clung more tenaciously than ever to the untenable and thrice-exploded theory that Long and Bransford were one and inseparable, now and forever. He meditated an ungenerous scheme for vindication, and to that end wished Mr. Long to ride the sorrel horse, for Mr. Long, if he were indeed the murderer, as of course he was, would indubitably, upon some plausible pretext, attempt to pass the guards at the farther end of the trip, where was no clear-eyed Griffith on guard. What more plausible that a modification of the plan already rehearsed, for Long to tell the wardens that Griffith had sent him to telegraph to the sheriff, let him once pass those warders on any pretext that would be final betrayal for all his shrewdness, there was no possibility that Long and Bransford could complete their escape on that lame sorrel. He would not be allowed to get much of a start, just enough to betray himself, then he, Griffith, would bring him back in triumph. It was a good scheme, all things considered, it reflected great credit upon Mr. Griffith's imagination, as in Poe's game of odd or even, where you must out-guess your opponent and follow his thought, Mr. Rex Griffith had guessed correctly in every respect. Such indeed had been Mr. Long's plan, only Rex did not guess quite often enough. Mr. Long had guessed just one layer deeper, namely that Mr. Griffith would follow his thought correctly and also follow him. Therefore, Mr. Long switched again. It was a bully game, better than poker. Mr. Long enjoyed it very much. Just as Rex expected, Toby allowed himself to be over persuaded and rode the sorrel horse. He renamed the sorrel horse Goldie on the swat, saddled him awkwardly, mounted in like manner, and rode into the shadowy depths of Double Mountain. Once he was out of sight, Mr. Griffith followed, despite the angry protest of Mr. Steele, alleging falsely that he was going to try for a deer. Toby rode slowly up the crooked and brush-lined canyon. Behind him, cautiously hidden, came Griffith, the hawk-eyed Avenger, waiting at each bend until Mr. Long had passed the next one, for closer observation of how Mr. Long bore himself in solitude. Mr. Long bore himself most disappointingly. He rode slowly and awkwardly, scanning with anxious care the hillsides before him. Not once did he look back lest he should detect Mr. Griffith. Near the summit, the Goldie horse shied and jumped. It was only one little jump, whereon too Goldie had been privately instigated by Mr. Long's thumb. Thumbing a horse as done by one, conversant with equine anatomy, produces surprising results, but it caught Mr. Long unawares and tumbled him ignominiously in the dust. Mr. Long sat in the sand and rubbed his shoulder. Goldie turned and looked down at him in unqualified astonishment. Mr. Long then cursed Mr. Branford's sorrel horse. He cursed Mr. Bransford for bringing the sorrel horse. He cursed himself for riding the sorrel horse. He cursed Mr. Griffith with one last longest heartfelt, crackling, hair-raising, comprehensive, and masterly curse for having persuaded him to ride the sorrel horse. Then he tied the sorrel horse to a bush and hobbled on foot, saying it all over backward.  This was conclusive. Bransford was reputed the best rider in Rainbow. This was long. He was convinced positively, finally, and irrevocably. He did not even follow Mr. Long to the other side of Double Mountain, but turned back to camp, keeping a sharp eye out for traces of the real Bransford to no effect. It was only by chance, a real chance, that clambering on the gatepost's cliffs to examine a curious whore of nice he happened to see Mr. Long as he returned. Mr. Long came afoot, leading the sorrel horse. Just before he came within sight of camp, he led the horse up beside a boulder, climbed clumsily into the saddle, clutched the saddle horn, and so rode into camp. The act was so natural of one that Griffith, already convinced, was convinced again. The more so because Long preserved a discreet silence as to the misadventure with the sorrel horse. Mr. Long reported profanely that the men on the other side had also been disposed to arrest him, and had been dissuaded with difficulty. So I guess I must look some like Bransford, though I would never have guessed it, reckoned nobody knows what they really looked like.  That squares you, kid. No hard feelings? Not a bit. I certainly thought you were Bransford at first, said Griffith. Well, the black-eyed one, Stone, he's coming round on the west side now, cut in a sign. You'll be all ready to start for us, Candido, as soon as he gets here, Gerd. Say, you don't want to wait for the sheriff if he's up on Rainbow. You wire a lot of your friends to come on the train at nine o'clock tonight. Sheriff can come when he gets back. There ain't but a few horses at Escondido.  Better take in both of ours, Gerd, said Griffith. He knew Long was all right, as has been said, but he was also newly persuaded of his own fallibility. He had been mistaken about Long being Bransford, therefore he might be mistaken about Long being Long. In this spirit of humility, he made the suggestion recorded above, and was grieved that Long endorsed it. And I want you to do two errands for me, kid. You give this to pappy sanders, the storekeeper, you know. Here he produced the little eopus from his pocket, and tell him to send it to a jeweler for me and get a hole board in it, so it'll balance. Want to use it for a watch charm when I get a watch. And if we pull off this Bransford affair, I'll have me a watch. Now, don't you lose that. It's Dirkoy's worth a heap of money.  I'll put him in my pocketbook, said Gerdon. Better give him to pappy first off, else you're liable to forget about him. He's so small. Then you tell pappy to send me out some grub. I won't make out no bill. He's grubstaken the mine. He'll know what to send. You just tell him I'm about out of patience. Tell him I want about everything there is, and I want it quick. And a jar for sourdough. I broke mine. And get some newspapers. He hesitated perceptibly. See here, boys, I hate to mention this, but oh, pappy, him and this Jeff Bransford is pretty good friends. I reckon that pappy won't much like it to furnish grub for you while you're putting the kibosh on Jeff. You'd better get some of your own.  Stone came while they saddled. He spoke apart with Griffith as to Mr. Long, and a certain favor he bore to the escaped bank robber. But Griffith, emitting his own self-deception in that line, outlined the history of the past unhappy night. Stone, who had suffered only a slight misgiving, was fully satisfied. As steel started for the railroad, Mr. Stone set out to complete the circuit of Double Mountain, in the which he found no runaway tracks, and Griffith and Long, sleeping alternately, especially Griffith, kept faithful ward over the gloomy gate of Double Mountain. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Roads This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 14 Flight Keep away from that wheelbarrow.  Elbert Hubbard Just after dark a horseman with a lead horse came jogging round the mountain on the trail from Escondido. On the lead horse was a pack bound rather slouchily, not to a pack saddle, but to an old riding saddle. The horses were unwilling to enter the circle of firelight, so the rider drew rain just beyond, a slender and boyish rider, with a flopping wide-brimmed hat to lodge for him. Oh, look whose ears, said Toby, as one who greets an unexpected friend. Hello, Toby, here's your food, grub, chalk, and provisions. Got your outlaw yet? Them other fellas will be out long toward midnight. You went on without waiting for an answer. Put me on your payroll. Pappy said I was to go to work, and if you was going to quit work to hunt down his friend, you'd better quit for good. Lead on to your little old mine. I don't know where it is, even. I'll go up and unpack, Rex, said Toby, but, of course, I'm not going to lose my part of that five thousand. Pappy's foolish. He's getting old. I'll be back after a while and bring down the papers. Chatting of the trapped outlaw, the old-fear men, climbed the zigzag to the mine. To griffith their voices dwindled to an indistinct murmur. A light glowed through the tent on the dump. The stranger pressed into Jeff's hand something small and hard. The little leopas. Here's your little old token. Pappy caught on at once and he sent me along to represent.  Do we have to go down the same trail again? Oh no, said Jeff. There's a wood trail leads round the mountain to the east. Who are you? I don't know you. Charlie Gibson. Pappy knows me. He sent the little stone horse to vouch for me. I'm okay. Time enough to explain when that we've made a clean getaway.   I'll light a candle in the tent and he'll think I'm reading the newspapers. That'll hold him awhile. I'll be going on down the trail, said Gibson. This way, isn't it? Yes, that's the one. All right, go slow and don't make any more noise than you can help. Jeff would have liked his own proper clothing and effects, but there was no time for resuscitation. Lighting the candle, he acquired Alice in Wonderland and thrust it into the bosom of his shirt. It had been years since last he read that admirable work. His way now led either to hiding or to jail, and with Alice to share his fate, he felt equal to either fortune. He left the candle burning, the tent shown with the mellow glow. If he didn't hear our horses coming down, we're a little bit of all right, said Jeff, as he rejoined his rescuer on the level. Even if he does, he may think we've gone to hobble him. Only he'd think we ought to water him first. Now, for the way of the transgressor to old Mexico, this little desert will be one busy place tomorrow. They circled Double Mountain, making a wide detour to avoid rough going, and riding at a hard gallop until, behind and to their right, a red spark of fire came into view from behind a hitherto intervening shoulder, marking where Stone and Harlow held the southward pass. Jeff drew rain and bore off obitly toward the road at an easy trot. They're there yet, so that's all right, he said. They've just put on fresh wood. I saw it flame up just then. He was in high feather. He began to laugh, or more accurately, he resumed his laughter, for he had been too mirthful for much speech. That poor devil Griffith will wait and fidget and stew. He'll think I'm in the tent reading the newspapers, reading about the Arcadian bank robbery likely. He'll wait a while, then he'll yell at me, then he'll think we've gone to hobble the horses. He won't want to leave the gap unguarded. He won't know what to think. Finally, he'll go up to the mine and see that pack piled off any which way, and no saddles. Then he'll know, but he won't know what to do. He'll think we're for old Mexico, but he won't know it for sure. And it's too dark to track us. Oh, my stars, but I bet he'll be mad. Which shows that we all make mistakes. Mr. Griffith, though young, was a firm character, as has been lightly intimated. He waited a reasonable time to allow for paper reading, then he waited a little longer and shouted. But when there was no answer, he knew at once precisely what had happened. He had not been a fool at all, whatever Steele and Bransford had assured him, and he was a bigger fool to have allowed himself to be persuaded that he had been. It is true that he didn't know what was best to do, but he knew exactly what he was going to do, and did it promptly. Seriously annoyed, he spurred through Double Mountain, gathered up stone in Harlow, and followed the southward road. Bransford had been on the way to old Mexico. He was on that road still. Griffith put everything on the one bold cast. While the other saddled, he threw fresh fuel on the fire, with a rankling memory of the candle in the deserted tent, and Hannibal had St. Joe. For the first time, Griffith had the better of the long battle of wits. That harmful of fuel slowed Jeff from gallop to trot, turned assured victory into a doubtful contest. When the fugitives regained the El Paso Road, Griffith's vindictive little band was not five miles behind them. The night was lightly clouded, not so dark, but that the pursuers noticed, or thought they noticed, the fresh tracks in the road when they came to them. They stopped, struck matches, and confirmed their hopes, two shod horses going south at a smart gate. The dirt was torn up too much for travelers on their lawful occasions. From that moment Griffith urged the chase unmercifully. The fleeing couple, in fancied security, lost ground with every mile. How on earth did you manage it?  Oh, wasn't me, it was Toby Long. You may not have lived much under the sea, and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster, quoted Jeff. Rocking in the saddle, he gave a mirthful resume of his little evanishment. And oh, just think of that candle burning away in that quiet, empty tent. If I could have seen Griffith's faith, he gloated. Oh, me, oh, my. And he was so sure. Say, Gibson, how do you come in this galley? As a lone prospector, his speech had been fittingly coarse.  Aren't you afraid you'll get into trouble? Nobody knows, I'm kettle-washing, except Pappy Sanders and you, say, Gibson. I was careful not to let your friends see me at the fire. I'll do you a good turn some time, said Jeff. He rode on in silence for a while, and presently was lost in his own thoughts, leaning over with his hands folded on his horse's neck. In a low and thoughtful voice, he half-repeated, half-chanted to himself. Il ole ole gaudi in the garden there alone, there came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone, so mystically, magically mellow as your own. Another silence. Then Jeff roused himself with a start. I'll tell you what, Gibson, you'd better cut loose from me. So far as I can see, you are only a kid. You don't want to get mixed up in a murder-scrape. This would go pretty hard with you if they can prove it on you. Of course, I'm awfully obliged to you and all that, but you'd better quit me while the quitting's good. Oh, no, I'll see you through, said Gibson lightly. Besides, I know you had nothing to do with the murder.  That's kind of you, I'm sure. See here, who sold you your chips, anyway. How'd you get in this game? Well, I got in this game, as you put it, because I jolly well wanted to, replied Charlie, with becoming spirit. That ought to be reason enough for anything in this country. Nothing against it in the rules, and I don't use the rules anyhow. If you must have it all spelled out for you, I knew, or at least I'd heard, that your friends were away from Rainbow, so I judged you wouldn't go up there. Then I knew those four amateur Sherlocks there in Mysed and Arcadia. When two of the deer hunters, after starting at 2 a.m., came back to Arcadia the same morning they left, looking all wise and important, and slipped off on the train to Escondido, saying nothing to any one, and when the other two didn't come home at all, I began to think, went down to the depot, found they had gone to Escondido, and I came on the next train. I found out Pappy was your friend, and when he got your little hurry up call, volunteered my services, seeing Pappy was too old and not footloose anyhow, with a wife and property. That's the how of it. Oh yes, that's all right, but what makes you think I'm innocent? I know Mr. White, you see, and Mr. White seems to think that at about the time the bank was robbed, you were in a garden. Charlie's voice was edged with faint mockery. Said Jeff Starfield.  Mr.  At this unexpected disclosure, Jeff lashed his horse to a gallop, his spurs, you remember, being certain feet under the Ophir dump, and strove to bring his thoughts to bear upon this new situation. He slowed down, and Charlie drew up beside him. You seem to have stayed quite a while in a garden, suggested Charlie. That tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble yet, said Jeff. You'll never live to be gray-headed. Charlie was not to be daunted. Say, Jeff, she's pretty easy to get acquainted with. What? And those eyes of hers, a little on a see you later style, aren't they? Jeff turned in his saddle. Now you look here, Mr. Charlie Gibson. I'm under obligation to you and so on, but I've heard all of that kind of talk. That's good. Oh, I know her, persisted Charlie. Know her by heart. Know her like a book. She made a fool of me, too. She drives him single, double, tandem, random, and four abreast.  Jeff launched his horse at the traducer. But Gibson spurred aside. Stop now, Jeffy. Easy does it. I've got a gun.  Gun or no gun.  Or, hark, what's that? It was a clatter far behind, a ringing of swift hoofs on hard ground. Bye, George. They're coming. Griffith will be a man yet, said Jeff, approvingly.   But I don't like it. Cut it out now, and ride like a drunk Indian. He laughed, loud and long. Think of that candle, will ya, burnin' away with a clear bright, steady flame, and nobody within ten miles of it. They raced side by side, but Gibson, heedless of their perilous situation, or perhaps taking advantage of it, took a malicious delight in agoting Jeff to madness, and he refused, either to be silent, or to talk about candles, notwithstanding Jeff's preference for that topic. I'm not joking. I'm telling you for your own good. Here the tormentor prudently fell back half a length, and raced his voice so as to be heard above the flying feet. Hasn't she gone back to New York? I'd like to know, and left you to get out of it the best way you can. She could have stayed if she'd wanted to. Don't tell me. Haven't I seen how she bosses her mother around? No, sir. She's willing to let you hang to save herself a little slander, or more likely a little talk. Jeff whirled his horse to his haunches, but once more Gibson was too quick for him. Gibson's horse was naturally the nimbler of the two, even without the advantage of spurs. That's a lie. She was going to tell. She was bound to tell. I made her keep silent. After I jumped out, she couldn't well say anything. That's why I jumped. Was I going to make her a target for such vile tongues as yours? For me?   You know you lie. I'll cram it down your throat if you'll get off and throw that gun down. It's likely I'll put the gun down.  Do you want to hang? Right on, and keep ahead. Remember, I've got a gun. Hanging's not so bad, snarl Jeff.  Oh, if I just had a gun. The sound of pursuit was clearer now, and of course the pursuers could hear the pursuit as well and fought for every inch. Jeff rode on furious at his helplessness. For several miles his tormentor raced behind in silence, fearing, if he persisted longer in his evil course, that Jeff would actually stop and give himself up. They gained now on their pursuers, who had pressed their horses over hard to make up the five-mile handicap. As they came to a patch of sandy ground, they eased the pace somewhat. Charlie drew a little closer to Jeff. Now, don't get mad. I had no idea you thought so much of the girl.  Or I wouldn't have deviled you so. I'll quit. How was I to know you'd stop to fight for her with the very rope around your neck? It's a pity she'll never know about it. You can't have seen her more than two or three times, and Heaven only knows where that was. On that camping trip, I reckon. What kind of a girl is she, anyhow, to hold clandestine interviews with a stranger?  No, she won't. It'll be gushy. Oh, my dear hero, how can I ever repay you? She won't let you out of her clutches, anybody, so long as it's a man. There, none of that. Go on, now, if you want to live.  A noose flew back from the darkness. Jeff's horse darted aside, and Gibson was dirt sprawling to the sand at the rope's end. Hat flew one way, gun another. Jeff ran to the six-shooter. Who's got the gun now? He jeered as he loosened the rope. I only wish we had two of them.  Charlie grabbed up his hat and spit sand from his mouth.  Pleasure first, business afterward.   You're too small, but all the same.  All I said and a lot more, I only thought, said Charlie spitefully. He was almost crying with rage as he limped to his horse. She's an angel on earth. Sure she is. Ride, you maniac. Ride, or you ought to be hung. I hope you do hang him, miserable ruffian. The following hoofs no longer rang sharply. They took on a muffled beat. They were on the sand's edge, not a mile behind. Right ahead, you. I've got the gun, remember, observed Jeff significantly. But if you slur that girl again, I'll not shoot you. I'll naturally wear you out with this belt. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove-Roads. This LibriValked recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15. Goodbye. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky. Their hoofs drum up the dawn. Two strong men, kipling. I'm not speaking to her now, and I'm not going to protest to Gibson in a changed tone. I'll promise my horse is failing, Jeff. I rode hard and fast from Escondido. Your horse carried nothing much but a saddle. That pack was mostly bluff, you know. And those fellow's horses have come twenty miles less than either of ours. No answer. I don't believe we're going to make it, Jeff. There was a forlorn little quaver in Charlie's voice. Jeff grunted, ah, maybe not. Griffith will be real pleased. Gibson rode closer. Can't we turn off the road and hide? Till daylight said, Jeff. Then they'll get us no way out of this desert except across the edges somewhere.  They won't bother to hunt for you maybe if they get me. No, it's my fault. I'll see it out. I'm sorry, Jeff, but it was so funny. Here, rather to Jeff's surprise, Charlie's dejection gave place to laughter. They rode up a sandy slope where mesquites grew black along the road. Blown sand had lodged to hummocks in their thick and matted growth. The road was a sunken way. How far is it from here, Jeff? Ten miles, maybe only eight, to the river. We're in Texas now. Have been for an hour. Think we can make it? Kinsabe. Gibson drew rain. You go on. Your horse isn't so tired. Oh, I guess not, said Jeff. Come on. The sound of pursuit came clear through the quiet night. There was silence for a while. What do you do, Jeff? Fight? I can't, said Jeff. Hurt those boys? I couldn't fight the way it is. Hardly even if it was the sheriff. I'll just hang, I reckon. They reached the top of the little slope and turned down the other side. I don't altogether like this hangin' idea, said Gibson. I got you into this, Jeff, so I'll just get you out again. Like the man in our town who was so wondrous wise, going to use bramble bushes too. Volatile Gibson in the stress of danger. Had forgotten his wrath.  Give me your rope and your gun, Jeff. Quick now. No, I won't mention your girl. Not once, hurry. What are you going to do? Asked Jeff, thoroughly mystified. Ever read the fool's errand, Charlie chuckled? No, well I have. Jump off and tie the end of your rope to that mesquite root. Quick. He sprang down, snatched one end of the coil from Jeff's hand, and stretched it taut across the road, a foot from the ground. Now your gun. Quick. He snatched the gun, tied an end of his own saddle-rope to the stretched one, near the middle, plunged through the mesquite over a hummock, paying out his rope as he went, wedged the gun firmly in the springing crotch of a mesquite tree, cocked it and tied the loose end of the trailing rope to the trigger. He ran back and sprang on his horse. Now ride, it's our last chance.  You'll do to take along.  They'll think it's us and an ambush skade. They'll take to the sand hills Jeff broke in. They'll shoot into the bushes.  They'll scatter out and surround that lonesome harmless moth and watch it till daylight.  He looked up at the sky. There's the morning star. See it? They have ridden the low moon out of the sky. Only there isn't any moon. Their hoofs drum up the dawn. Then they'll find our tracks. And if I only could see the captain's face, oh my threshings and the corn of my floor. And by then we'll be in Mexico and asleep. When Griffith finds that gun, oh, he'll never show his head in Arcadia again. Say, Charlie, I hope none of them get hurt when they strike your skip rope. It's Sandy. I hope you cared about me getting hurt when you dragged me from my horse, said Gibson, rather snappishly. You did hurt me, too.  And I got full of mesquite thorns when I set that gun. You don't care. I'm only the man that came to save your neck. That's the thanks I get. But the men that are trying to hang you. That's different. You'd better go back. They might get hurt. You'll be sorry sometime for the way you've treated me. There. It's too late now. A shot rang behind them. There was a brief silence. Then came a sharp fusillade, followed by scattering shots dwindling to longer intervals. Jeff clung to a saddle-horn. I guess they ain't hurt much, he laughed. Wish I could see him when they find out. Oh, down, kid. We've got lots of time now. We haven't, protested Charlie. Keep moving. It's hard on the horses. But they'll have a lifetime to rest in. They've telegraphed all over the country. You want to cross the river before daylight. It would be too bad for you to be caught now. Is there any ford, do you know? Not this time of year. River's up. Cross in a boat, then? Yes, sweet better. That horse of yours is pretty well used up. Don't believe he could swim it. Oh, I'm not going over. I'll get up to El Paso. I've got friends there. You'll get caught. No, I won't. I'm not going across. I tell you, and that's all there is to it. I guess I'll have something to say about things. I'm going to see you safely over, and that's the last you'll ever see of Charlie Gibson. Oh, well, Jeff reflected a little. If you're sure you won't come along, I'd rather swim. My horse is strong, yet. You see, it takes time to find a boat, and a boat means house and dogs. And I'll need my horse on the other side. How will you get to El Paso? Griffith will likely come down here about an hour by sun. Cross lots, a cryin'. I'll manage that, said Gibson. Not currently enough. You tend to your own affair. Oh, all right. Jeff wrote ahead. He whistled, and then he chanted his war song.  The choreofedon was horrified, and in a caress was shocked, and the chase young yield hippus, but he skipped away and mocked. Said they, you always were as small and mean as now we see, and that's conclusive evidence that you're always going to be. What? Be a great, tall, handsome beast with hoofs to gallop on? Why, you'll have to change your nature, said the loxlo fondeton. Jeff. Well, Jeff turned his head. Charlie was drooping visibly.  Jeff rode on in silence. This was a variable person, Gibson. They were dropping down from the mesa into the valley of the Rio Grande. Jeff. Jeff fell back beside Charlie. Tired, partner? Jeff, I'm terribly tired. I'm not used to riding so far, and I'm sleepy. So sleepy. All right, partner, we'll go slower. We'll walk. Most there now. There's the railroad. Keep on trotting. I can stand it. We must get to the river before daylight. Is it far? Charlie's voice was weary. The broad sombrero drooped sympathetically. Two miles to the river. El Paso, seven or eight miles up the line. Brace up, old man. You've done fine and dandy. It's just because the excitement is all over. Why should you go any farther anyhow? There's his leta up the track a bit. Follow the road up there and flag the first train. That'll be best. No, no. I'll go all the way. I'll make out. Charlie straightened himself with an effort. They crossed the SB track and came to a lane between cultivated fields. Jeff, I'd like to say something. It won't be break of my promise, really. I didn't mean what I said about, uh, you know, I was only teasing. She's a good enough girl, I guess, as girls go. Jeff nodded. I did not need to be told that. And you left her in a cruel position when you jumped out of the window. She can't tell now, so long as there's any other way.  If you just said at first that you were in the garden, oh, why didn't you? But after the chances you took, rather than to tell, why, Jeff, it would be terrible for her now. I know that, too, said Jeff. I suppose I was a fool, but I didn't want her to get mixed up with it. And at the same time, I cared less about hanging than any time I can remember. You see, I didn't know till the last minute that the garden was going to cut any figure. And do you suppose I'd have that courthouse full of fools buzzing and whispering at her? Not much. Maybe it was foolish, but I'm glad I did it. I'm glad of it, too.  Are you still mad at me? Since Charlie had recanted, and more especially since he had taken considerate thought for the girl's compulsory silence, Jeff's anger had evaporated. Well, that's all right, partner, only you ought never to talk that way about a girl, even for a joke. That's no good kind of a joke. Men now, that's different. See here I'll give you an order to a fellow in El Paso, Hibbler, to pay for your horses and your gun. Here's your belt, too. Charlie shook his head, impatiently. I don't want any money. Settle with Pappy for the horses. I won't take this one back. Keep the belt. You may want it to beat me with some time. What are you going to do, Jeff? Aren't you ever coming back? Sure I'll come back, if only to see Griffith again. I'll write to John Wesley Pringle. He's my mainest side-partner, and sick him on to find out who robbed that bank, to approve it rather. I just about almost nearly know who it was. Old Wessel straightened things out of flying. I'll be back in no time. I've got to come back, Charlie. The river was in sight. The stars were fading. There was a flush in the east, a smell of dawn in the air. Jeff, I wish you'd do something for me. Sure, Charlie, what is it?  Jeff was silent for a while. He had framed out another plan for the little Leopas, namely to give him to Miss Eleanor. He sighed, but he owed a good deal to Charlie. All right, Charlie, take good care of him. He's a lucky little horse. I think a heap of him. Here we are. The trees were distinct in the growing light Jeff rode into the river. The muddy river swirled about his horse's knees. He halted for parting. Gibson rode in beside him. Jeff took the precious Alice book from his bosom, put it in the crown of his miner's cap, and jammed the cap tightly on his head. Better change your mind, Charlie. Come along. We'll route somebody out and find a dish of stewed eggs. There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The father off from England to the nearer tis to France. Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you? No, I won't, I told you once. Snapped the beloved snail. Here's the little Leopas horse then. As Charlie took it, Jeff rung his hand. By George, I've got to change my notion of Arcadia people. If there's many like you and Griffith, Arcadia is going to crowd the map. Well, so long. It looks awful wide, Jeff. Oh, I'll be all right. Swim it myself if the horse plays out. And if I don't have no cramps, as am I to course after this ride. Well, here goes nothing. Take care of the little horse. I hope he brings you good luck. Well, so long then. Bransford rode into the muddy waters. They came to the horse's breast, his neck. He plunged in, sank, rose, and was born away down the swift current, breasting the flood stoutly. And so went quartering across to the farther bank. It took a long time. It was quite light when the horse found footing on a sandbar, half a mile below, rested and splashed whitely through the shallows to the bank. Gibson swung his sombrero, Jeff waved his hand, rode to the fringing bushes, and was gone. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove Rhoades This liberal box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 The Land of Afternoon Dreaming once more loves old, sad, dream divine. Los Abagnos de Santa Ualia del Norte, otherwise known as Mud Springs, is a Mexican hamlet with one street of about the same length. Los Abagnos and company lies in a loop of the Rio Grande, half of a long day from El Paso in mere miles, otherwise a contemporary of Damascus and Arpad. Thither, a mindful of the hot springs which supply the preliminaries of the name, Mr. Bransford made his way, mindful too, of sturdy old Don Francisco, a friend twice bound by ancient service given and returned. He climbed the slow long ridges to the high mesa, for the river bent here in a long oxbow, where a bold promontory shouldered far out to bar the way. Weary miles were to be saved by crossing the neck of this oxbow, and the tough horse tired and lagged. The slow sun rose as he reached the rim. It showed the white expanse of desert behind him, flooded with trembling light. Eastward, beyond the river, the buttressed and fantastic peaks of Fre Cristobal. There jutting shadows streaming into the gulf beyond. A thwart the silvery ribbon of gleaming water, twining in mazy loops across the valley floor. It showed the black rim at his feet, a frowning level wall of lava cliff, where the plain broke abruptly into the chasm beneath, the iron desolation of the steep sides, bolder strewn, savage and forbidding, a land of old upheaven from the abyss. Long since there had been a flourishing Mexican town in the valley, a wagon-road had painfully climbed a long ridge to the rim, twisting, doubling, turning, clinging hazardously to the hillside, its outer edge a wall built up with stone, till it came to the shoulder under the tremendous barrier. From there it turned northward, paralleling the rim in a mile-long curve, above a deep gorge, turning in a last desperate climb to a solitary gateway in the black wall, torn out by floodwaters through slow centuries. Smallpox had smitten the people, the treacherous river had devastated the fertile valley, and subsiding left the rich fields a waste of sand. The town was long deserted, the disused road was gullied and torn by flood, the soil washed away, leaving a heaped and crumbled track of tangled stone. But it was the only practicable way as far as the sand hills, and Jeff led his horse down the ruined path, with many a turning back and a scrambling detour. The shadows of the eastern hills drew back before him as he reached the sand dunes, when he rode through the silent streets of what had been Alamosita. The sun peered over Freia Cristobal, gilding the crumbling walls, where love and laughter had made music, where youth and hope and happiness had been. Silent now and deserted, given over to lizard and bat and owl, the smiling gardens joked with sand and grass, springing with mesquite and tornillo. A few fruit trees, gnarled and tangled, drooping for days departed, when young mothers sang low lullaby beneath their branches, passed away and forgotten, hopes and fears, tears and smiles, birth and death, joy and sorrow, hatred and sin and shame, falsehood and truth and courage and love. The sun shone cheerfully on these gray ruins, as it has shone on a thousand such, and will chime. Jeff turned down the river past the broken Asicrias, to where a massive spur of basaltic rock had turned the fury of the floods and spared a few fields. In this sheltered cove dwelt Don Francisco Escobar, in true pastoral and patriarchal manner, his stalwart sons and daughters, with their sons and daughters in turn, in clustering adobes around him. For neighbors the allied family of Gonzales y Otega. A cheerful settlement, this of Los Baños, nestling at the foot of the friendly rampart, sheltered alike from flood and wind. South and west, the close black rim, wall the horizon, the fantasy of Frec with the ball, closed in the narrow east. But northward, beyond the low sand hills and the blue heat haze, the high peaks of Ocon, Guadalupe and Rainbow, swam across the sleepy air, far and soft and dim. In their fields the hente of Gonzales y Otega and of Escobar, raised ample crops of alfalfa, wheat, corn, frijoles, and chili, with orchard, vineyard, and garden. Their cows, sheep, and goats, grazed the foothills between river and rim, watched by the young men or boys, penned nightly in the great corrals in the old Spanish fashion, as if the moor still swooped and forayed. Their horses roamed the hills at will, only a few being kept in the alfalfa pasture. They ground their own grain, tanned their cow hides at home. Mattress and pillow were wool of their raising, their blankets and cloth their own weave. There were granaries, a wine-press, a forge, a cumbrous stone mill, a great adobe oven like a monstrous beehive. Once a year their oxen drew the great high-sided wagons up the sandy road to El Paso, and returned with the year's marketing. Salt, axes, iron, and steel, powder and lead, bolts of white domestic, or amanta for seats and shirtlings, matches tea, coffee, tobacco, and sugar. Perhaps, if the saints had been kind, there were a few ribbons, trinkets, or brightly colored prints, of Joseph and Virgin and Child, Saint John the Beloved, the Annunciation, the Children and Christ, perhaps an American rifle or a plow. But for the most part they held not with innovations, plowed, sewed, and reaped, as their fathers did, threshing with oxen or goats. The women sewed by hand, cooked on fireplaces, or better still in the open air under the trees, with few and simple utensils. The family ate from whitest and cleanest of sheepskins spread on the floor. But the walls were snowy with white wash, the earthen floors smooth and clean, the coarse linen fresh and white, the scant furniture of the rooms, a pine bed, a chair or two, a mirror, a brass candlestick, with homemade candles, a cheap print on the wall, a great chest for clothes, blankets, and simple treasures, the bright fire in the cozy fireplace, all combined to give an indescribable air of cheerfulness, of only comfort and of rest. This quiet corner where people still lived as simply as when Abraham went up from Ur of the Caldees in the springtime of the world, held foreseeing eyes, an incommunicable charm. When Jeff came at last to Casa Escobar, the cattle were already on the hills, the pigs and chickens far afield. Don Francisco, white-haired, erect, welcomed him eagerly indeed, but with stately courtesy. Is it thou indeed, my son?  Enter then, amigo mio, thrice welcome, the house is thine in very truth. May the young men shall care for thy horse. He raised his voice. Three tall sons, abron as a nobile. Don Oceano came at the summons, gave Bransford grave greeting, and stood to await their father's commands. Fathers of families themselves, they presumed not to sit unbidden to join in the conversation, or to loiter. Breakfast was served presently in high state on the table reserved for honoured guests. Savory venison, chili, fish, eggs, tortillas, et al., enchiladas, cream, and esteeming coffee, such was the fare. Don Francisco sat gravely by to bear him company, while a silently hovering damsel anticipated every need. Thence, when his host could urge no more upon him, to the deep shading cotton-woods, wine was brought, and the makings of cigarettes, corn husks hand-cut, a great jar of tobacco, and a brazier of mesquite embers. At a little distance, women washed, wove, or sewed, the young men made buckskin, fashioned quirks, quips, ropes, bridal reins, ties-draps, hobbles, pack-sacks, and a chaparejos of rawhide, made cinches of horse-hair, wrought ox-yokes, plough-beams, and other things, needful for their simple husbandry. Meanwhile, Don Francisco entertained his guest with grave and leisurely recital of the year's annals. Mateo, son of Sebastian, had slain a great bear in the pass of all the winds. Alicia, daughter of their eldest, was wed with young Roman de la Oh of Cagnada Nogales to the much-healing of feud and ancient hatred. Diego, son of Eusebio, was proving a bold and fearless rider of wild horses, with reason, as behooved his father's son. He had carried away the gallio at the fiesta de San Juan, with the fleet dumb-cold creased from the wild bunch at Camado. The herds had grown, the crops prospered, all sorrow passed them by through the intercession of the blessed saints. The year's trophies were brought, he fingered with simple pride the great pelt of the silver tip. Antlers there were, and lion-skins, gleaming prisons of quartz, flint arrow-heads, and agates brought in by the shepherds, the costly Navajo blanket won by the fleet-lemmed dun at Cagnada races. Hither came presently another visitor, Florentino, baker of wild horses, despite his fifty years. Whizzened and withered and small, merry and cheerful, singer of forgotten folk songs, chanting, even as he came, the song of Macario Romero, Macario writing joyous and light-hearted, spite of warning, omen and sign, love lord to doom and death. Amigos. And so, listening, weary and outworn, Jeff fell asleep. Observe now how nature insists upon averages. Mr. Jeff Bransford was, as has been seen, an energetic man, but outraged nerves will have their revenge. After making proper amends to his damaged eye, Jeff's remnant of energy kept up long enough to dispatch young Tomas et Cobar y Mendoza to El Paso with a message to Hibbler, which message enjoined Hibbler at once to carry tidings to John Wesley Pringle somewhere in Chihuahua, asking him kindly to set right what Arcadian times were out of joint, as he, Jeff, felt the climate of old Mexico more favorable for his throat trouble than that of New Mexico, with a post-script asking Hibbler for money by bearer. And young Tomas was instructed to buy at Juarez a complete outfit of clothing for Jeff, including a gun. This done, the reaction set in, aided, perhaps, by the innervating lassitude of the hot baths and the sleepy atmosphere of that forgotten village. Jeff spent the better part of a weak asleep or half awake at best. He had pleasant dreams, too. One, perhaps, the best dream of all, was that on their wedding trip they should follow again the devious line of his flight from Arcadia. That would need a prairie schooner, no, a prairie steamboat, a prairie yacht. He could tell her all the hideous details, show her the mine, the camp of the besiegers, the ambush gate on the road, and if he could have Eleanor meet Griffith and Gibson for a crowning touch. After the strenuous violence of hand-strokes, here was a drowsy and peaceful time. The wine of that land was good, the shade pleasant, the Alitian philosophy more delightful than of your. He had all the accessories but one, of an earthly paradise. Man is ungrateful. Jeff was a man, neglectful of present bounties. His dreaming thoughts were all of the absent accessory and of a time when that absence should be no more, nor paradise be empty. Life, like the Griffin's classical master, had taught him laughter and grief. He turned now the forgotten pages of the book of his years. Enough black pages were there, as you will know well, having yourself searched old records before now, with tears. He cast up that long account, the wasted lendings, the outlawed debts, the dishonored promises, the talents of his stewardship, unprofitable and brought to not. Set down, how gladly, the items on the credit side, so men have set the good upon one side and the evil on the other side, since Crusoe's days and before, aghast the time when the great accountant, whose values are not ours, shall strike a final balance. Take that book at your elbow. Yes, either one, it doesn't matter. Now turn to where the hero first discovers his frightful condition, long after it has become a neighborhood property. He bent his head in humility. He was not worthy of her. Something like that? Those may not be the precise words, but he groaned. He always groans. By the way, how this man-saying must amuse womankind. Yes, and they actually say it too. Real life, flesh and blood, men. Who was it, said life was a poor imitation of literature. Happily either these people are insincere, or they reconsider the matter. Else what might we do for families? It is to be said that Jeff Bransford lacked this becoming delicacy. If he groaned, he swore also. If he decided that Miss Eleanor Hoffman deserved a better man than he was, he also highly resolved that she should not have him. For, after all, you know, said Jeff to Alice. I'm sure he's nothing extra, a quiet man and plain, and modest, though there isn't much of which he could be vain. And had I mind to chant his praise, this were the kindest line, somehow she loves him dearly, this little love of mine. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Bransford of Rainbow Range by Eugene Manlove Rhoads This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17, 20th Century And there that hulking prejudice sat all across the road. I took my hat, I took my coat, my load, I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus with an absent-minded air, and I walked directly through him as if he wasn't there. An Obstacle, Charlotte Perkins Stetson Johnny Dinez rode with a pleasant jingle down the shady street of Los Baños de Santa Ualia del Norte. His saddle was new, a caravan wrought with silver, his bridle shown as the sun, his spurs as bright stars. He shared music from his feet. Jeff saw him turn to Casa Escobar, Apple Blossoms made a fragrant lane for him. He paused at Jeff's tree. Altuali said, Johnny, the words as sharp command can be managed in two brisk syllables. The sound is then all we. It is a crisp and startling sound, and the sense of it in our idiom is, hands up. Jeff had been taking a late breakfast al fresco. He made glad room on his bench. Light, stranger, and look at your saddle. Pretty slick saddle, too. Guess your playmates must have went home talking to themselves last night.  The cult of Neil Admiraly reaches its highest pitch of prosperity in the cow countries, and Johnny knew that it was for him to broach tidings unasked. Oh, that reminds me, how old Lars Forcina, said Jeff, now free to question. Him, he's all right, said Johnny casually, going to marry one or more of the nurses. They're holding elimination contests now. Say, Johnny, when you go back, I wish you'd tell him I didn't do it. Cross my heart and hope to die if I did.  Jeff shook his head doubtfully. Evidence was pretty strong, pretty strong. Who was it then? Why, Lake himself, the old hog. If Lake keeps on like this, he's going to have people down on him, said Jeff. Who did the homesing, John Wesley? Oh, John Wesley, John Wesley, said Deena scornfully. You think the sun rises and sets, an old John Wesley Pringle? Nah, he didn't get back till it was all over. I cannot tell a lie.  Must have had it sharpened up, said Jeff. Tell it to me. Why, there isn't much to tell, said Deena's, suddenly modest. Come to think of it, I had a right considerable help. There was a young college, Jeff. He first put it into my head that it wasn't you. That would be the devil, said Jeff, ignoring the insult. Just so, names white and so's he, Billy White, S.M., and a G.P. I don't just remember them degrees, said Jeff. Ah, keep still and you'll hear more. They stand for some man and good people. Well, as I was saying, Billy, he seemed to think it wasn't you. He stuck to it that Badinsky, that's what he called you, was in a garden just when the bank was robbed. Johnny contemplated the apple tree over his head. It was a wandering and sober glance, but a muscle twitched in his cheek, and he made no further explanation about the garden. And then I remembered about nigger babe throwing you off, and I began to think maybe you didn't crack the safe after all, and there was some other things, little things, that made Billy and Jimmy Phillips, he was taken cards in the game too, made him think maybe it was like, but it wasn't no proof, not to say proof, and that's where I come in. Well, said Jeff, as Johnny paused. Simple enough, once you knowed how, said Johnny modestly. I'd been reading lots of them detective books, Sherlock Holmes, and all them fellas. I got Billy to have his folks stole Lake's sister away for the night, so she wouldn't be scared. Then me and Billy and Jimmy Phillips and Monty, we broke in and blowed up Lake's private safe. No trouble at all. Since the bank robin, everyone's been telling round just how it ought to be done. Crackin' saves. Funny how a fella picks up little scraps of useful knowledge like that, things you'd think he'd remember might come in handy most any time, and then forgets all about him. I wrote it down this time. Won't forget it again. Well, said Jeff again. Oh yes, and there was the nice money. All the notes and all the gold he could tote. Jeff's eye wandered to the new saddle. I kept some of the yellow stuff as a souvenir. Half a quarter, maybe a pint, said Johnny. I don't want no reward for doin' a good deed, and that's all.  Well, what do you say, prompted Johnny? Oh, thank you, thank you, said Jeff. You showed marvelous penetration, marvelous. But say, Johnny, if the money hadn't been there, wouldn't that have been awkward? Oh, Billy was pretty sure Lake was the man, and we figured he hadn't bothered to move it. You bein' the goat that way. What made you be a goat, Jeff?  I knew you were not strictly accountable, but why didn't you say, Judge, your honours, sir? At the time the bank was being robbed, I was in a garden with a young lady, talkin' about the hereafter, the here, and the here to fore. On the contrary, what made your Billy think it was Lake? Johnny told him in detail. Pretty good article of plain thinking, wasn't it? He concluded. Yet he mightn't have got started at all on the right track if he hadn't had the straight tip about your bein' in a garden. Johnny's eye reverted to the apple-tree. Lake found your nose-guard, you know, where you left it. I reckon maybe he saw you leave it there. Say, Jeff, Lake's grandfather must have been a white man. Anyhow, he's got one decent drop of blood in him from somewhere, for when we arrested him he didn't say a word about the garden. That was rather a good stunt, I think. Billy, for Lake, just once. Right you are. And, Mr. J. Dennis, I've been thinkin'. Jeff began. Johnny glanced at him anxiously. And I've about come to the conclusion that we're some narrow, contracted, and bigoted in Rainbow. We don't know at all. We ain't the only pebble from what I've seen of these archaedium in. They seem to be pretty good stuff. And like it's not, it's just the same way all along the beach. There's your Mr. White and Griffith and Gibson. Did I tell you about Gibson? Johnny flashed a brilliant smile. His smiles always looked larger than they really were, because Johnny was a very small man. I saw Griffith, and he gave me his version, several times. He's real upset, Griffith.  Didn't see Gibson, did ya? You know him? Nope. Pappy picked him up, or he picked Pappy up, rather. Hasn't been seen since. I guess Gibby, old boy, has gone to the wild bunch. He wouldn't suspect you of being innocent, and he dreamed he dwelt in the marble halls, make and choose, for the state. So he gets cold feet, and he just naturally evaporates. Good night. Yes, he said he was going to hike out, or something to that effect, responded Jeff absently. The fact being that he was not thinking of Gibson at all, but was pondering deep upon Miss Eleanor Hoffman. Had she gone to New York according to the original plan? It did not seem probable. Her face stood out before him, bright, vivid, sparkling, as he had seen her last in the courtroom of Arcadia. Good heavens! Was that only a week ago? Seven days? It seemed seven years. No, she had not gone. At least certainly not, until she was sure that he, Jeff, had made good his escape. Then perhaps she might have gone. Perhaps her mother had made her go. Oh, well, New York wasn't far, as he had told her that first wonderful day on Rainbow Rim. What a marvelous day that was. Jeff was suddenly struck with the thought that he had never seen Eleanor's mother. Great Scott! She had a father, too. How annoying! He meditated upon this unpleasant theme for a space. Then, as if groping in a dark room, he had suddenly turned on the light. His thought changed to, What a girl! What a wonderful girl! Where is she? Looking up, Jeff became once more aware of Johnny Dines, leg curled around the horn of the new saddle, elbow on knee, cheek on hand, contemplating his poor friend with benevolent pity. And then Jeff knew that he could make no queries of Johnny Dines. Johnny spoke soothingly, You are in North America. This is the 20th century. Your name is Bransford. That round, bright object is the sun. This direction is east. This way is called up. This is a stream of water that you see. It is called the Rio River Grande Bigue. We are advertised by our loving friends. I cannot sing the old songs. There's a reason. Two of a kind flock together. Never trump your partner's ace. It's a wise child that dreads the fire. Wake up! Come out of it. Change cars.   Wait till I say adios to my old compadre and the rest of the Escobar hintay, and I'll side you to El Paso. Not I. Little Johnny, he'll make San Elizario's Ferry by noon and Helms by dark. Thought maybe so. You'd be going along. Why, no, said Jeff uneasily. I guess maybe I'll go up to El Paso and a dune around the spell. Oh well, just as you say. Such be in the case. I'll be jogging. Better wait till after dinner. I'll square it with a dawn frontiesco, if anything's missing. No, that makes too long a jaunt for this afternoon. Me for San Elizario. So long. But beyond the first Asicria, he turned and rode back. Funny thing, Jeff. Remember me telling you about a girl I saw on May Hill the day Nigger Babe throwed you off? Now what was that girl's name? I've forgotten again. Oh yes, Hoffman, Miss Eleanor Hoffman. Well, she's at Arcadia still. The mother lady was all for going back to New York. But no, sir. Girl says she's twenty-one, likes Arcadia, and she's going to stay a spell. This way, so I hear.  Here, wait till I saddle my nag and say goodbye. Beyond San Elizario, as they climbed the pass of all the winds, the two friends halted to breathe their horses. Jeff, said Johnny, rather soberly. You can kick me after I say my little piece. I'll think poorly of you if you don't. But ain't you making maybe a mistake? That girl now. Nice girl and all that. But that girl's got money, Jeff.  Why, Johnny, he's so much more of a fool than the other fellow is a scoundrel. I get you, said Johnny. You mean that a submarine boat is better built for rope and steers than a mogul engine, is skillful at painting steeples, and you wonder if you can't get a fresh horse somewhere and go on through to Arcadia tonight. Something like that, admitted Jeff. Besides, he added lightly, while I'd like that girl just as well if I didn't have a cent. Why, as it happens, I'm pretty well fixed myself. I've got money to throw at the little dicky birds, all kinds of money. Got a fifty-one percent interest in a copper mine over at Harcuala that's been paying me all the way from ten to five thousand clear per each and every year for the past seven years. Besides, what I pay a lad for, look out to keep anybody but himself from stealing any of it. He's been buying real estate for me in Los Angeles lately. Johnny's jaw dropped in unaffected amazement. All this while, before you and Leo hit rainbow? Sure, said Jeff.  Oh, why not? Wasn't I having a heap of fun? Where can I see any better time than I had here? Or find better friends? Money's no good by itself. I haven't drawn a dollar from Arizona since I left. It was fun to make the mine go round at first, but when it got so it'd work, I looked for something else more amusing. I should think you'd want to travel anyhow. Travel? Echo Jeff? Travel?  Will you stay here if you marry her, Jeff? So you've no objection to make if I've got a few dollars? That squares everything all right, does it? Not a heap of protest from you now?  I'm just the same man I was fifteen minutes ago when you thought I didn't have any money. If I'm fit for her now, I was then. If I wasn't good enough then, I'm not good enough now. But I wasn't thinking of her. I was thinking of, um, how it would look. Look? Who cares how it looks? Just a silly prejudice. They say, um, what say they, um, let them say? Johnny, maybe I was just springing you. If I was lying about the money, how about it then? Changed your mind again? You wasn't lying, was ya? Can't tell ya. It doesn't really make any difference anyhow. End of Chapter 17