CHAPTER XIV
'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY
FOR an hour Barbara Harding paced the veranda of the
ranchhouse, pride and love battling for the ascendency within
her breast. She could not let him die, that she knew; but how
might she save him?
The strains of music and the laughter from the bunkhouse
had ceased. The ranch slept. Over the brow of the low bluff
upon the opposite side of the river a little party of silent
horsemen filed downward to the ford. At the bluff's foot a
barbed-wire fence marked the eastern boundary of the ranch's
enclosed fields. The foremost horseman dismounted and cut
the strands of wire, carrying them to one side from the path
of the feet of the horses which now passed through the
opening he had made.
Down into the river they rode following the ford even in the
darkness with an assurance which indicated long familiarity.
Then through a fringe of willows out across a meadow
toward the ranch buildings the riders made their way. The
manner of their approach, their utter silence, the hour, all
contributed toward the sinister.
Upon the veranda of the ranchhouse Barbara Harding
came to a sudden halt. Her entire manner indicated final
decision, and determination. A moment she stood in thought
and then ran quickly down the steps and in the direction of
the office. Here she found Eddie dozing at his post. She did
not disturb him. A glance through the window satisfied her
that he was alone with the prisoner. From the office building
Barbara passed on to the corral. A few horses stood within
the enclosure, their heads drooping dejectedly. As she entered
they raised their muzzles and sniffed suspiciously, ears a-cock,
and as the girl approached closer to them they moved warily
away, snorting, and passed around her to the opposite side of
the corral. As they moved by her she scrutinized them and her
heart dropped, for Brazos was not among them. He must
have been turned out into the pasture.
She passed over to the bars that closed the opening from
the corral into the pasture and wormed her way between two
of them. A hackamore with a piece of halter rope attached to
it hung across the upper bar. Taking it down she moved off
across the pasture in the direction the saddle horses most often
took when liberated from the corral.
If they had not crossed the river she felt that she might find
and catch Brazos, for lumps of sugar and bits of bread had
inspired in his equine soul a wondrous attachment for his
temporary mistress.
Down the beaten trail the animals had made to the river
the girl hurried, her eyes penetrating the darkness ahead and
to either hand for the looming bulks that would be the horses
she sought, and among which she might hope to discover the
gentle little Brazos.
The nearer she came to the river the lower dropped her
spirits, for as yet no sign of the animals was to be seen. To
have attempted to place a hackamore upon any of the wild
creatures in the corral would have been the height of
foolishness--only a well-sped riata in the hands of a strong
man could have captured one of these.
Closer and closer to the fringe of willows along the river
she came, until, at their very edge, there broke upon her
already taut nerves the hideous and uncanny scream of a
wildcat. The girl stopped short in her tracks. She felt the chill
of fear creep through her skin, and a twitching at the roots of
her hair evidenced to her the extremity of her terror. Should
she turn back? The horses might be between her and the river,
but judgment told her that they had crossed. Should she brave
the nervous fright of a passage through that dark, forbidding
labyrinth of gloom when she knew that she should not find
the horses within reach beyond?
She turned to retrace her steps. She must find another way!
But was there another way? And "Tomorrow they will shoot
him!" She shuddered, bit her lower lip in an effort to command
her courage, and then, wheeling, plunged into the thicket.
Again the cat screamed--close by--but the girl never
hesitated in her advance, and a few moments later she broke
through the willows a dozen paces from the river bank. Her
eyes strained through the night; but no horses were to be
seen.
The trail, cut by the hoofs of many animals, ran deep and
straight down into the swirling water. Upon the opposite side
Brazos must be feeding or resting, just beyond reach.
Barbara dug her nails into her palms in the bitterness of her
disappointment. She followed down to the very edge of the
water. It was black and forbidding. Even in the daytime she
would not have been confident of following the ford--by
night it would be madness to attempt it.
She choked down a sob. Her shoulders drooped. Her head
bent forward. She was the picture of disappointment and
despair.
"What can I do?" she moaned. "Tomorrow they will shoot
him!"
The thought seemed to electrify her.
"They shall not shoot him!" she cried aloud. "They shall
not shoot him while I live to prevent it!"
Again her head was up and her shoulders squared. Tying
the hackamore about her waist, she took a single deep breath
of reassurance and stepped out into the river. For a dozen
paces she found no difficulty in following the ford. It was
broad and straight; but toward the center of the river, as she
felt her way along a step at a time, she came to a place where
directly before her the ledge upon which she crossed shelved
off into deep water. She turned upward, trying to locate the
direction of the new turn; but here too there was no footing.
Down river she felt solid rock beneath her feet. Ah! this was
the way, and boldly she stepped out, the water already above
her knees. Two, three steps she took, and with each one her
confidence and hope arose, and then the fourth step--and
there was no footing. She felt herself lunging into the stream,
and tried to draw back and regain the ledge; but the force of
the current was too much for her, and, so suddenly it seemed
that she had thrown herself in, she was in the channel swimming
for her life.
The trend of the current there was back in the direction of
the bank she had but just quitted, yet so strong was her
determination to succeed for Billy Byrne's sake that she turned
her face toward the opposite shore and fought to reach the
seemingly impossible goal which love had set for her. Again
and again she was swept under by the force of the current.
Again and again she rose and battled, not for her own life; but
for the life of the man she once had loathed and whom she
later had come to love. Inch by inch she won toward the shore
of her desire, and inch by inch of her progress she felt her
strength failing. Could she win? Ah! if she were but a man,
and with the thought came another: Thank God that I am a
woman with a woman's love which gives strength to drive me
into the clutches of death for his sake!
Her heart thundered in tumultuous protest against the strain
of her panting lungs. Her limbs felt cold and numb; but she
could not give up even though she was now convinced that
she had thrown her life away uselessly. They would find her
body; but no one would ever guess what had driven her to
her death. Not even he would know that it was for his sake.
And then she felt the tugging of the channel current suddenly
lessen, an eddy carried her gently inshore, her feet touched the
sand and gravel of the bottom.
Gasping for breath, staggering, stumbling, she reeled on a
few paces and then slipped down clutching at the river's bank.
Here the water was shallow, and here she lay until her
strength returned. Then she urged herself up and onward,
climbed to the top of the bank with success at last within
reach.
To find the horses now required but a few minutes' search.
They stood huddled in a black mass close to the barbed-wire
fence at the extremity of the pasture. As she approached them
they commenced to separate slowly, edging away while they
faced her in curiosity. Softly she called: "Brazos! Come,
Brazos!" until a unit of the moving mass detached itself and
came toward her, nickering.
"Good Brazos!" she cooed. "That's a good pony," and
walked forward to meet him.
The animal let her reach up and stroke his forehead, while
he muzzled about her for the expected tidbit. Gently she
worked the hackamore over his nose and above his ears, and
when it was safely in place she breathed a deep sigh of relief
and throwing her arms about his neck pressed her cheek to
his.
"You dear old Brazos," she whispered.
The horse stood quietly while the girl wriggled herself to his
back, and then at a word and a touch from her heels moved
off at a walk in the direction of the ford. The crossing this
time was one of infinite ease, for Barbara let the rope lie loose
and Brazos take his own way.
Through the willows upon the opposite bank he shouldered
his path, across the meadow still at a walk, lest they arouse
attention, and through a gate which led directly from the
meadow into the ranchyard. Here she tied him to the outside
of the corral, while she went in search of saddle and bridle.
Whose she took she did not know, nor care, but that the
saddle was enormously heavy she was perfectly aware long
before she had dragged it halfway to where Brazos stood.
Three times she essayed to lift it to his back before she
succeeded in accomplishing the Herculean task, and had it
been any other horse upon the ranch than Brazos the thing
could never have been done; but the kindly little pony stood
in statuesque resignation while the heavy Mexican tree was
banged and thumped against his legs and ribs, until a lucky
swing carried it to his wethers.
Saddled and bridled Barbara led him to the rear of the
building and thus, by a roundabout way, to the back of the
office building. Here she could see a light in the room in
which Billy was confined, and after dropping the bridle reins
to the ground she made her way to the front of the structure.
Creeping stealthily to the porch she peered in at the window.
Eddie was stretched out in cramped though seeming
luxury in an office chair. His feet were cocked up on the desk
before him. In his lap lay his six-shooter ready for any
emergency. Another reposed in its holster at his belt.
Barbara tiptoed to the door. Holding her breath she turned
the knob gently. The door swung open without a sound, and
an instant later she stood within the room. Again her eyes
were fixed upon Eddie Shorter. She saw his nerveless fingers
relax their hold upon the grip of his revolver. She saw the
weapon slip farther down into his lap. He did not move, other
than to the deep and regular breathing of profound slumber.
Barbara crossed the room to his side.
Behind the ranchhouse three figures crept forward in the
shadows. Behind them a matter of a hundred yards stood a
little clump of horses and with them were the figures of more
men. These waited in silence. The other three crept toward the
house. It was such a ranchhouse as you might find by the
scores or hundreds throughout Texas. Grayson, evidently, or
some other Texan, had designed it. There was nothing Mexican
about it, nor anything beautiful. It stood two storied,
verandaed and hideous, a blot upon the soil of picturesque
Mexico.
To the roof of the veranda clambered the three prowlers,
and across it to an open window. The window belonged to
the bedroom of Miss Barbara Harding. Here they paused and
listened, then two of them entered the room. They were gone
for but a few minutes. When they emerged they showed
evidences, by their gestures to the third man who had awaited
outside, of disgust and disappointment.
Cautiously they descended as they had come and made
their way back to those other men who had remained with
the horses. Here there ensued a low-toned conference, and
while it progressed Barbara Harding reached forth a steady
hand which belied the terror in her soul and plucked the
revolver from Eddie Shorter's lap. Eddie slept on.
Again on tiptoe the girl recrossed the office to the locked
door leading into the back room. The key was in the lock.
Gingerly she turned it, keeping a furtive eye upon the sleeping
guard, and the muzzle of his own revolver leveled menacingly
upon him. Eddie Shorter stirred in his sleep and raised a hand
to his face. The heart of Barbara Harding ceased to beat while
she stood waiting for the man to open his eyes and discover
her; but he did nothing of the kind. Instead his hand dropped
limply at his side and he resumed his regular breathing.
The key turned in the lock beneath the gentle pressure of
her fingers, the bolt slipped quietly back and she pushed the
door ajar. Within, Billy Byrne turned inquiring eyes in the
direction of the opening door, and as he saw who it was
who entered surprise showed upon his face; but he spoke no
word for the girl held a silencing finger to her lips.
Quickly she came to his side and motioned him to rise
while she tugged at the knots which held the bonds in place
about his arms. Once she stopped long enough to recross the
room and close the door which she had left open when she
entered.
It required fully five minutes--the longest five minutes of
Barbara Harding's life, she thought--before the knots gave to
her efforts; but at last the rope fell to the floor and Billy
Byrne was free.
He started to speak, to thank her, and, perhaps, to scold
her for the rash thing she had undertaken for him; but
she silenced him again, and with a whispered, "Come!" turned
toward the door.
As she opened it a crack to reconnoiter she kept the
revolver pointed straight ahead of her into the adjoining
room. Eddie, however, still slept on in peaceful ignorance of
the trick which was being played upon him.
Now the two started forward for the door which opened
from the office upon the porch, and as they did so Barbara
turned again toward Billy to caution him to silence for his
spurs had tinkled as he moved. For a moment their eyes were
not upon Eddie Shorter and Fate had it that at that very
moment Eddie awoke and opened his own eyes.
The sight that met them was so astonishing that for a
second the Kansan could not move. He saw Barbara Harding,
a revolver in her hand, aiding the outlaw to escape, and in the
instant that surprise kept him motionless Eddie saw, too,
another picture--the picture of a motherly woman in a little
farmhouse back in Kansas, and Eddie realized that this man,
this outlaw, had been the means of arousing within him a
desire and a determination to return again to those loving
arms. Too, the man had saved his mother from injury, and
possible death.
Eddie shut his eyes quickly and thought hard and fast. Miss
Barbara had always been kind to him. In his boyish heart he
had loved her, hopelessly of course, in a boyish way. She
wanted the outlaw to escape. Eddie realized that he would do
anything that Miss Barbara wanted, even if he had to risk his
life at it.
The girl and the man were at the door. She pushed him
through ahead of her while she kept the revolver leveled upon
Eddie, then she passed out after him and closed the door,
while Eddie Shorter kept his eyes tightly closed and prayed to
his God that Billy Byrne might get safely away.
Outside and in the rear of the office building Barbara
pressed the revolver upon Billy.
"You will need it," she said. "There is Brazos--take him.
God bless and guard you, Billy!" and she was gone.
Billy swallowed bard. He wanted to run after her and take
her in his arms; but he recalled Bridge, and with a sigh turned
toward the patient Brazos. Languidly he gathered up the reins
and mounted, and then unconcernedly as though he were an
honored guest departing by daylight he rode out of the
ranchyard and turned Brazos' head north up the river road.
And as Billy disappeared in the darkness toward the north
Barbara Harding walked slowly toward the ranchhouse, while
from a little group of men and horses a hundred yards away
three men detached themselves and crept toward her, for they
had seen her in the moonlight as she left Billy outside the
office and strolled slowly in the direction of the house.
They hid in the shadow at the side of the house until the
girl had turned the corner and was approaching the veranda,
then they ran quickly forward and as she mounted the steps
she was seized from behind and dragged backward. A hand
was clapped over her mouth and a whispered threat warned
her to silence.
Half dragging and half carrying her the three men bore her
back to where their confederates awaited them. A huge fellow
mounted his pony and Barbara was lifted to the horn of the
saddle before him. Then the others mounted and as silently as
they had come they rode away, following the same path.
Barbara Harding had not cried out nor attempted to, for
she had seen very shortly after her capture that she was in the
hands of Indians and she judged from what she had heard of
the little band of Pimans who held forth in the mountains to
the east that they would as gladly knife her as not.
Jose was a Piman, and she immediately connected Jose with
the perpetration, or at least the planning of her abduction.
Thus she felt assured that no harm would come to her, since
Jose had been famous in his time for the number and size of
the ransoms he had collected.
Her father would pay what was demanded, she would be
returned and, aside from a few days of discomfort and hardship,
she would be none the worse off for her experience.
Reasoning thus it was not difficult to maintain her composure
and presence of mind.
As Barbara was borne toward the east, Billy Byrne rode
steadily northward. It was his intention to stop at Jose's hut
and deliver the message which Pesita had given him for the
old Indian. Then he would disappear into the mountains to
the west, join Pesita and urge a new raid upon some favored
friend of General Francisco Villa, for Billy had no love for
Villa.
He should have been glad to pay his respects to El Orobo
Rancho and its foreman; but the fact that Anthony Harding
owned it and that he and Barbara were there was sufficient
effectually to banish all thoughts of revenge along that line.
"Maybe I can get his goat later," he thought, "when he's
away from the ranch. I don't like that stiff, anyhow. He orter
been a harness bull."
It was four o'clock in the morning when Billy dismounted
in front of Jose's hut. He pounded on the door until the
man came and opened it.
"Eh!" exclaimed Jose as he saw who his early morning
visitor was, "you got away from them. Fine!" and the old
man chuckled. "I send word to Pesita two, four hours ago that
Villistas capture Capitan Byrne and take him to Cuivaca."
"Thanks," said Billy. "Pesita wants you to send Esteban to
him. I didn't have no chance to tell you last night while them
pikers was stickin' aroun', so I stops now on my way back to
the hills."
"I will send Esteban tonight if I can get him; but I do not
know. Esteban is working for the pig, Grayson."
"Wot's he doin' fer Grayson?" asked Billy. "And what was
the Grayson guy doin' up here with you, Jose? Ain't you
gettin' pretty thick with Pesita's enemies?"
"Jose good friends everybody," and the old man grinned.
"Grayson have a job he want good men for. Jose furnish
men. Grayson pay well. Job got nothin' do Pesita, Villa,
Carranza, revolution--just private job. Grayson want senorita.
He pay to get her. That all."
"Oh," said Billy, and yawned. He was not interested in Mr.
Grayson's amours. "Why didn't the poor boob go get her
himself?" he inquired disinterestedly. "He must be a yap to
hire a bunch o' guys to go cop off a siwash girl fer him."
"It is not a siwash girl, Senor Capitan," said Jose. "It is one
beautiful senorita--the daughter of the owner of El Orobo
Rancho."
"What?" cried Billy Byrne. "What's that you say?"
"Yes, Senor Capitan, what of it?" inquired Jose. "Grayson
he pay me furnish the men. Esteban he go with his warriors. I
get Esteban. They go tonight take away the senorita; but not
for Grayson," and the old fellow laughed. "I can no help can
I? Grayson pay me money get men. I get them. I no help if
they keep girl," and he shrugged.
"They're comin' for her tonight?" cried Billy.
"Si, senor," replied Jose. "Doubtless they already take her."
"Hell!" muttered Billy Byrne, as he swung Brazos about so
quickly that the little pony pivoted upon his hind legs and
dashed away toward the south over the same trail he had just
traversed.
