The Lure of the Dim Trails Page 2

  CHAPTER II. LOCAL COLOR IN THE RAW

  For the rest of the way Thurston watched the green hills slide by--andthe greener hollows--and gave himself up to visions of Fort Benton;visions of creaking bull-trains crawling slowly, like giant brown worms,up and down the long hill; of many high-piled bales of buffalo hidesupon the river bank, and clamorous little steamers churning up againstthe current; the Fort Benton that had, for many rushing miles, filledand colored the speech of Hank Graves and stimulated his childishhalf-memory.

  But when he reached the place and wandered aimlessly about the streets,the vision faded into half-resentful realization that these things wereno more forever. For the bull-trains, a roundup outfit clatterednoisily out of town and disappeared in an elusive dust-cloud; for thegay-blanketed Indians slipping like painted shadows from view, straycow-boys galloped into town, slid from their saddles and clanked withdragging rowels into the nearest saloon, or the post-office. Betweenwhiles the town cuddled luxuriously down in the deep little valleyand slept while the river, undisturbed by pompous steamers, murmured alullaby.

  It was not the Fort Benton he had come far to see, so that on the secondday he went away up the long hill that shut out the world and, until theeast-bound train came from over the prairies, paced the depot platformimpatiently with never a vision to keep him company.

  For a long time the gaze of Thurston clung fascinated to the wideprairie land, feeling again the stir in his blood. Then, when a deep cutshut from him the sight of the wilderness, he chanced to turn his head,and looked straight into the clear, blue-gray eyes of a girl acrossthe aisle. Thurston considered himself immune from blue-gray--or anyother-eyes, so that he permitted himself to regard her calmly andjudicially, his mind reverting to the fact that he would need a heroineto be kidnapped, and wondering if she would do. She was a Western girl,he could tell that by the tan and by her various little departures fromthe Eastern styles--such as doing her hair low rather than high. Wherehe had been used to seeing the hair of woman piled high and skeweredwith many pins, hers was brushed smoothly back-smoothly save for little,irresponsible waves here and there. Thurston decided that the style wasbecoming to her. He wondered if the fellow beside her were her brother;and then reminded himself sagely that brothers do not, as a rule, devotetheir time quite so assiduously to the entertainment of their sisters.He could not stare at her forever, and so he gave over his speculationsand went back to the prairies.

  Another hour, and Thurston was stiffing a yawn when the coaches bumpedsharply together and, with wheels screeching protest as the brakesclutched them, the train, grinding protest in every joint, came, with afinal heavy jar, to a dead stop. Thurston thought it was a wreck, untilout ahead came the sharp crackling of rifles. A passenger behind himleaned out of the window and a bullet shattered the glass above hishead; he drew back hastily.

  Some one hurried through the front vestibule, the door was pushedunceremoniously open and a man--a giant, he seemed to Thurston--stoppedjust inside, glared down the length of the coach through slits in theblack cloth over his face and bawled, "Hands up!"

  Thurston was so utterly surprised that his hands jerked themselvesinvoluntarily above his head, though he did not feel particularlyfrightened; he was filled with a stupefied sort of curiosity to knowwhat would come next. The coach, so far as he could see, seemed filledwith uplifted, trembling hands, so that he did not feel ashamed of hisown. The man behind him put up his hands with the other--but one of themheld a revolver that barked savagely and unexpectedly close against thecar of Thurston. Thurston ducked. There was an echo from the front, andthe man behind, who risked so much on one shot, lurched into the aisle,swaying uncertainly between the seats. He of the mask fired again,viciously, and the other collapsed into a still, awkwardly huddled heapon the floor. The revolver dropped from his fingers and struck againstThurston's foot, making him wince.

  Thurston had never before seen death come to a man, and the verysuddenness of it unnerved him. All his faculties were numbed before thatterrible, pitiless form in the door, and the limp, dead body at his feetin the aisle. He did not even remember that here was the savagelocal color he had come far a-seeking. He quite forgot to improve theopportunity by making mental note of all the little, convincing details,as was his wont.

  Presently he awoke to the realization of certain words spokeninsistently close beside him. He turned his eyes and saw that the girl,her eyes staring straight before her, her slim, brown hands uplifted,was yet commanding him imperiously, her voice holding to that murmuringmonotone more discreet than a whisper.

  "The gun--drop down--and get it. He can't see to shoot for the seat infront. Get the gun. Get the gun!" was what she was saying.

  Thurston looked at her helplessly, imploringly. In truth, he had neverfired a gun in all his peaceful life.

  "The gun--get it--and shoot!" Her eyes moved quickly in a cautious,side-long glance that commanded impatiently. Her straight eyebrows drewtogether imperiously. Then, when he met her eyes with that same helplesslook, she said another word that hurt. It was "Coward!"

  Thurston looked down at the gun, and at the huddled form. A tiny riverof blood was creeping toward him. Already it had reached his foot, andhis shoe was red along the sole. He moved his foot quickly away from it,and shuddered.

  "Coward!" murmured the girl contemptuously again, and a splotch of angershowed under the tan of her cheek.

  Thurston caught his breath and wondered if he could do it; he lookedtoward the door and thought how far it was to send a bullet straightwhen a man has never, in all his life, fired a gun. And without lookinghe could see that horrible, red stream creeping toward him like somemonster in a nightmare. His flesh crimpled with physical repulsion, buthe meant to try; perhaps he could shoot the man in the mask, so thatthere would be another huddled, lifeless Thing on the floor, and anothercreeping red stream.

  At that instant the tawny-haired young fellow beside the girl gatheredhimself for a spring, flung himself headlong before her and into theaisle; caught the dead man's pistol from the floor and fired, seeminglywith one movement. Then he sprang up, still firing as fast as thetrigger could move. From the door came answer, shot for shot, and thecar was filled with the stifling odor of burnt powder. A woman screamedhysterically.

  Then a puff of cool, prairie breeze came in through the shattered windowbehind Thurston, and the smoke-cloud lifted like a curtain blown upwardin the wind. The tawny-haired young fellow was walking coolly down theaisle, the smoking revolver pointing like an accusing finger toward theoutlaw who lay stretched upon his face, his fingers twitching.

  Outside, rifles were crackling like corn in a giant popper. Presentlyit slackened to an occasional shot. A brakeman, followed by two coatlessmail-clerks with Winchesters, ran down the length of the train callingout that there was no danger. The thud of their running feet, and thewholesome mingling of their shouting struck sharply in the silence afterthe shooting. One of the men swung up on the steps of the day coach andcame in.

  "Hello, Park," he cried to the tawny haired boy. "Got one, did yuh?That's good. We did, too got him alive. Think uh the nerve uh thatWagner bunch! to go up against a train in broad daylight. Made an easygetaway, too, except the feller we gloomed in the express car. How'sthis one? Dead?"

  "No. I reckon he'll get well enough to stretch a rope; he killed a man,in here." He motioned toward the huddled figure in the aisle. They cametogether, lifted the dead man and carried him away to the baggage car.A brakeman came with a cloth and wiped up the red pool, and Thurstonpressed his lips tightly together and turned away his head; he could notremember when the sight of anything had made him so deathly sick. Oncehe glanced slyly at the girl opposite, and saw that she was very whiteunder her tan, and that the hands in her lap were clasped tightly andyet shook. But she met his eyes squarely, and Thurston did not look ather again; he did not like the expression of her mouth.

  News of the holdup had been telegraphed ahead, and all Shellanne--whichwas not much of a crowd--gathered at the sta
tion to meet the train andcongratulate the heroes. Thurston alighted almost shamefacedly into themidst of the loud-voiced commotion. While he was looking uncertainlyabout him, wondering where to go and what to do, a voice he knew hailedhim with drawling welcome.

  "Hello, Bud. Got back quicker than you expected, didn't yuh? It's luckyI happened to be in town--yuh can ride out with me. Say, yuh got quitea bunch uh local color for a story, didn't yuh? You'll be writingblood-and-thunder for a month on the strength of this little episode, Ireckon." his twinkling eyes teased, though his face was quite serious,as was his voice.

  She of the blue-gray eyes turned and measured Thurston with adeliberate, leisurely glance, and her mouth still had that unpleasantexpression. Thurston colored guiltily, but Hank Graves lifted his hatand called her Mona, and asked her if she wasn't scared stiff, and ifshe were home to stay. Then he beckoned to the tawny-haired fellow withhis finger, and winked at Mona--a proceeding which shocked Thurstonconsiderably.

  "Mona--here, hold on a minute, can't yuh? Mona, this is a friend uhmine; Bud Thurston's his name. He's come out to study us up and round upa hunch uh real Western atmosphere. He's a story-writer. I used to whackbulls all over the country with his father. Bud, this is Mona Stevens;she ranges down close to the Lazy Eight, so the sooner yuh gitacquainted, the quicker." He did not explain what would be the quicker,and Thurston's embarrassment was only aggravated by the introduction.

  Miss Stevens gave him a chilly smile, the kind that is worse than noneat all and turned her back, thinly pretending that she heard her brothercalling her, which she did not. Her brother was loudly explaining whatwould have happened if he had been on that train and had got a whack atthe robbers, and his sister was far from his mind.

  Graves slapped the shoulder of the fellow they had called Park."You young devil, next time I leave the place for a week--yes, orovernight--I'll lock yuh up in the blacksmith shop. Have yuh got to beMona's special escort, these days?"

  "Wish I was," Park retorted, unmoved.

  "Different here--yuh ain't much account, as it is. Bud, this here's mywagon-boss, Park Holloway; one of 'em, that is. I'm going to turn yuhover to him and let him wise yuh up. Say, you young bucks ought to getalong together pretty smooth. Your dads run buffalo together beforeeither of yuh was born. Well, let's be moving--we ain't home yet. Got awar-bag, Bud?"

  Late that night Thurston lay upon a home-made bed and listened to thefrogs croaking monotonously in the hollow behind the house, and tothe lone coyote which harped upon the subject of his wrongs away on adistant hillside, and to the subdued snoring of Hank Graves in the roombeyond. He was trying to adjust himself to this new condition of things,and the new condition refused utterly to be measured by his acceptedstandard.

  According to that standard, he should feel repulsed and annoyed by thefamiliarity of strangers who persisted in calling him "Bud" withouttaking the trouble to find out whether or not he liked it. And whatpuzzled Thurston and put him all at sea was the consciousness that hedid like it, and that it struck familiarly upon his ears as something towhich he had been accustomed in the past.

  Also, according to his well-ordered past, he should hate this raw lifeand rawer country where could occur such brutal things as he had thatday witnessed. He should dislike a man like Park Holloway who, havingwounded a man unto death, had calmly dismissed the subject with theregret that his aim had not been better, so that he could have saved thecounty the expense of trying and hanging the fellow. Thurston was amazedto find that, down in the inner man of him, he admired Park Hollowayexceedingly, and privately resolved to perfect himself in the use offire-arms, he who had been wont to deplore the thinly veneered savageryof men who liked such things.

  After much speculation he decided that Mona Stevens would not do for akidnapped heroine. He could not seem to "see" her in such a position,and, besides, he told himself that such a type of girl did not attracthim at all. She had called him a coward--and why? simply because he,straight from the trammels of civilization, had not been prepared tomeet the situation thrust upon him-which she had thrust upon him. Shehad demanded of him something he had not the power to accomplish, andshe had called him a coward. And in his heart Thurston knew that it wasunjust, and that he was not a coward.