With a leap the half-breed swung about. As he did so the gleaming barrel of his gun flashed with a sharp report. A bullet whistled through Charlie Bryant's hat, another tore its way through the sleeve of his jacket. But before a third could find a vital spot in his body his own gun spat out certain death. The half-breed flung up his hands, and, with a sharp oath, his knees crumpled up under him, and he fell in a heap on the ground.
His face livid with passion, Charlie hurried across the intervening space. For one moment he stood gazing down upon the fallen man. Then he aimed a kick of spurning at the dead man's body and moved away.
It was some minutes before he left the precincts of the old corral with its evil history. He went into the hut and opened the secret cupboard. It was quite empty, and he closed it again. Then he passed out, and removed the saddle and bridle from the half-breed's horse, and turned it loose. Then, after one last look of hatred and loathing at the dead man, he moved away and vanished among the trees.
CHAPTER XXXV
ON MONDAY NIGHT
Big Brother Bill, after an evening of considerable worry, had retired to his little lean-to bedroom with its low, camp bedstead. It was useless sitting up any longer attempting one of those big worrying "thinks" which, usually, he was rather proud of achieving.
On this occasion thinking led him nowhither. His worries had come swiftly and significantly. In the first place, on Sunday afternoon he had been seriously concerned about Helen. It was not until Kate's going that either he or Helen had realized the girl's lonely position in the house on the river bank. It came home to them both as they returned thither at about sundown, to find that neither of the hired men had shown up again, and the work, even to the "chores" of the homestead, was at a standstill.
He really became angry in his anxiety. Angry with Kate, angry with the men. However, his displeasure was not likely to help matters, so he and Helen turned to and fed the few livestock, made them snug for the night, and then proceeded to consider Helen's position. After some debate it was decided to appeal to Mrs. John Day. This was promptly done, and the leading citizeness, after a closer cross-examination, consented to take the girl under her brusque wing, and lodged her in her own rather resplendent house.
This was comparatively satisfactory, and Bill breathed his relief. But hard upon this came the more alarming realization that Charlie did not return home on Sunday night. Not only that, but nothing was heard of him the whole of Monday. All the alarmed brother was able to discover was the fact that Charlie had left the saloon at the time O'Brien closed it, about midnight on Sunday, in a hopelessly drunken condition.
So, what with assisting Helen with the work of her homestead, and searching for his defaulting brother, Bill's day was an anxious one.
Then, at nightfall, a further concern added fresh trouble to his thought. Kid Blaney had defected as well, and, in consequence, the work of Charlie's little ranch had been completely at a standstill the whole day.
In the end, quite wearied out with his unusual exertions, Bill abandoned all further attempt to get a grip on the situation and went to bed. He knew he must be up early in the morning, at daylight, in fact, for he had promised Helen to be at the ceremony of the felling of the pine tree, for which all preparations had been duly made under the watchful and triumphant eye of Mrs. John Day.
Sleep, however, was long in coming. His brain was too busy, a sign he was secretly pleased at. He felt that during the last two days he had more than proved his ability in emergency. So, lying awake, waiting patiently for sleep to come, he rather felt like a general in action, perfectly assured of his own capacity to meet every situation successfully.
It was nearly midnight when he finally dropped off into a light and rather disturbed slumber. How long he had slept, or even if he really had slept at all, he was never quite sure, for, quite suddenly, he was aroused, and wide awake, by the sound of his own name being called in the darkness.
"Bill! Bill!"
At the second pronouncement of his name he was sitting up with his bare feet on the bare floor, and his great pajamaed body foolishly alert.
"Who in----" he began. But in a moment Charlie's voice cut him short.
"You there? Thank God! Where's the lamp? Quick, light it."
To Bill's credit it must be admitted he offered no further attempt at a blasphemous protest, but leaned over toward the Windsor chair on which the lamp stood, and fumbled for the matches.
The next moment he had struck a light, and the lamp was lit. He stood up and looked across the room. Charlie's slight figure was just inside the doorway. His face was ghastly in the yellow lamplight. His clothes were in a filthy condition, and, altogether, in Bill's own words, he looked like a priceless antique of some forgotten race.
However, the hunted look in the man's eyes smote his brother's generous heart, and a swift, anxious inquiry sprang to his lips.
"What's--what's up, Charlie?" he cried, gathering his clothes together, and beginning to dress himself.
Charlie's eyes glowed with a reflection of the lamplight.
"The game's up, Bill," he cried hoarsely. "My God, it's been given away. Pete Clancy, the feller you hammered, has turned informer. I--I shot him dead. Say, the gang's out to-night. They're coming in with a cargo of liquor. Fyles is wise to their play, and knows just how it's coming in. They'll be trapped to a man."
"You--shot Pete--dead?"
In the overwhelming rush of his brother's information, the death of the informer at his, Charlie's, hands seemed alone to penetrate Bill's, as yet, none too alert faculties.
"Yes, yes," cried the other impatiently. "I'd have shot him, or--or anybody else for such treachery, but--but--it's the other that matters. I've got to get out and stop that cargo. It's midnight now, and--God! If the police get----"
Bill's brain was working more rapidly, and so were his hands. He was almost dressed now.
"But you, Charlie," he cried, all his concern for his brother uppermost. "They'll get you. And--and they'll hang you for killing Pete--sure."
Suddenly a peal of hysterical laughter, which ended in a furious curse, rang through the room.
"God Almighty!" Charlie cried fiercely, "don't stand there yapping about me. Hang me? What in hell do I care what they do to me? I haven't come here about myself. Nothing that concerns me matters.
Here, it's midnight. I've time to reach 'em and give 'em the word.
See, that's why I'm here. I don't know what's happened by now, or what may happen. You offered to help. Will you help me now? Bill, I've got to get there, and warn 'em. The police will try and stop us. If there are two of us, one may get through--will you----?"
Bill crushed his hat on his head. His eyes, big and blue, were gleaming with the light of battle.
"Give me a gun, and come on," he cried. "I don't understand it all, but that don't matter. I'll think it out later. You're up against it, and that's good enough for me. Somebody's going to have to look bright if he lays hands on you, if it's Fyles, or McBain, or the devil knows who. Come on."
Picking up the lamp, Bill took the lead. Here, in action, he had no doubts or difficulties, Charlie was in trouble; Charlie was threatened; Charlie, his foolish, but well-loved brother.
Five minutes later two horsemen, regardless of rousing the inhabitants, regardless of who might see and recognize them, galloped headlong through the heart of the village.
CHAPTER XXXVI
STILL MONDAY NIGHT
The little river wound its silvery way through the heart of the valley. The broken summer clouds strove to shut out the brilliant light of the moon, and signally failed. The swift-moving currents of air kept them stirring, and breaking. So the tattered breaks through which peeped the radiant lamp of night, illuminated each fringe of mist with the sheen of burnished steel.
In spite of the high wind above, the night was still in the heart of the valley. So still. High up above, the racing wind kept up the constant movement, but not a breath below disturbed one single sun-scorched leaf. It was warm. The night air was heavy with the fragrance of ripening vegetation, and the busy droning sounds of stirring insect life chorused joyously and seductively with the murmuring of speeding waters.
The very stillness thrilled. It was the hush of portent, the hush of watchfulness, the hush of a threatening tension.
In the wide heart of the valley the waters of the river laughed, and sang, and frollicked on their way, while under cover of the deep night-shadows lurking figures waited, with nerves set, and weapons of destruction ready to fulfill their deadly mission. Strife loomed heavy amid the reigning peace, the ruthless, savage strife which seems ever to center the purpose of all sentient life.
So the moments passed. Minutes grew. With every passing minute the threat weighed heavier and heavier, until it seemed, at last, that only the smallest spark was needed to fire the train.
The racing clouds melted. They gathered again. Again and again the changes came and went. It was like one great, prolonged conflict wherein the darkening veil strove to hide the criminal secrets upon the earth below from the searching gaze.
For awhile the moon held sway. The river lit, a perfect mirror. Only the shadowed banks remained. Round the bend came a trifling object, small, uncertain in its outline. A sigh of relief went up from many lips. The tension was relaxed.
Caught in the dazzling light the object shot across the water to the sheltering bank. Then the clouds obscured the moonlight, and eyes strove vainly to penetrate the shadow.