To the breathless spectators of the scene the man seemed to become older before their eyes; instead of a confident, bumptious bully they saw a haggard craven. Even his voice had changed.
"He lies, I don't know the Waterfront. I never heard of Mike O'Toole--"
The stranger's laugh stopped him. "Maybe, but who told you it was Mike?" he asked. "Well, we all make slips, and we had you fixed anyway."
"You can't arrest me here for an offence committed in another State," Garstone said desperately.
"That's my part," the second man said. He flicked aside his coat, showing the badge of a deputy-sheriff. "You'll be taken to Tucson, and sent on to New york."
Garstone shuddered. There was no escape; these cold-featured men would take him away to--death. He cursed the luck which had sent him to Rainbow; cursed that other fugitive from the underworld who had brought about his undoing. He visioned again the cave in the mountains, and heard a voice, "Rats has teeth, an' can bite." The rat had bitten, even then, and the wound would be fatal. The thought that this puny brat had bested him bred a madness in his brain. If he must die, it should not be alone; that grinning little beast .. . Livid with fury, he snatched a pistol from beneath his open coat and levelled it at yorky's breast.
"You first--vermin," he hissed.
The words were his last mistake. Ere he could press the trigger, a gun cracked, and he staggered, pitched sideways, and rolled off the platform, the weapon dropping from his twitching fingers. Sudden shoved his smoking six-shooter back into his belt.
"I had to do it," he said to the officers. "Yo're journey has been wasted."
"Oh, I guess not," the New Yorker replied callously. "Dead or alive was my instructions; he'll be less trouble in a box." And, as the puncher turned away, added, to his companion, "Did you see it? Hell! I'm glad they didn't ask me to collect him."
In the midst of the excitement, as the jostling crowd surged forward to get a sight of the corpse, someone touched his elbow--a very pale and trembling Yorky.
"Say, Mister, d'yer think Clancy'll git promotion fer this?" he questioned.
"Sure, he won't be a common flat-foot no more," the man replied. "There's a reward too; you both ought to come in on that."
"I don't want none of it--tell 'em Clancy can have my share," yorky said quickly. "He's got a wife an' little 'uns. He was kind ter me. I'd like fer him to know I'm well an' doin' fine."
"I'll tell him my own self, son," the detective promised, and when the boy had gone, "Clancy said he was a lunger, but hell, he don't look it. Pity more of our slum lads can't git out here and have a chance of becomin' real men."
Chapter XXVI
Two weeks later, Dan, following the course of the Rainbow on his way to the Wagon-wheel, came upon two saddled ponies contentedly cropping the rich grass of the river bank. Rounding a clump of willow, he discovered the owners, Malachi and Kate Maitland, sitting very close together, and so completely oblivious to the rest of the world that they failed to notice his approach.
"Space on this range bein' limited, folks naturally has to crowd one another," he mused aloud.
The girl started, flushed, and tried to draw away, but her companion clasped her waist more firmly, looked up, and grinned.
"Dan, I've the greatest news for you," he said. "We are to be married."
The rancher laughed. "You call that news? Why, Rainbow has knowed it ever since we got back from 01' Cloudy. I've on'y one thing to say, Phil--yo're a lucky fella."
"And that is no news to me," the doctor returned gravely. "Riding far, Dan?"
"I have business at the Wagon-wheel."
Malachi's eyes twinkled. "He has business at the Wagon-wheel," he told the girl beside him. "And maybe that range is larger and folks don't have to crowd one another."
They both smiled broadly, and it was Dover's turn to get red. "Aw, go to--Paradise," he said, and rode away.
To his mingled relief and disappointment, Zeb's old housekeeper answered his knock, conducted him to the sick rancher's room, and left them together. Trenton, sitting up in bed, welcomed his visitor grimly.
"Well, come to give me notice to quit?"
"No, just wanted to see if you're feelin' strong enough to tear this up," Dan replied, and threw a paper on the counterpane; it was the mortgage on the Wagon-wheel.
"What's the idea? Didn't you buy the ranch?"
"The Circle Dot took over the debt, an' you can pay in yore own time--I figure the cattle business is on the upgrade," Dover replied. "I've told our outfit that yore cows can graze to the river. That's all I gotta say." He turned to go.
"Wait a minute," Trenton said. "A week back I was called a stiff-necked, stubborn of fool; o'course, she didn't put it in those words--"
"She?" Dan wanted to know.
"Shore, my niece, Beth." The harsh, bony features had softened, and there was a shadow of a smile on the bloodless lips. "She's got pluck--nobody ever dared bawl me out, sick or well. It made me think, an' this clinches it. On top of savin' her life an' mine, you hand back my property. It shames me, * boy. I've allus sworn I'd never thank a Dover, but I'm doin' it."
The young man gripped the proffered thin hand willingly enough, and the Trenton-Dover war was at an end.
"I owe a hell of a lot to you an' yore men--'specially Green," the invalid said presently. "If you agree, I'd like to offer him his own terms to come here."
"I wish you could persuade him, for we've failed," Dan replied sadly. "Claims he has a promise to keep, which means puffin' out soon. You'll never budge him, he's as obstinate as a--Dover," he finished, with a grin.
The old man smiled too. "I've treated him middlin' shabby," he said. "I reckon I'll have to eat crow."
"Jim ain't that sort," Dan assured him. "He's the best friend I ever had, an' he won't let me do a thing--just says `Shucks' an' changes the subject. I'm damned sorry he's goin'."
"Ask him to come an' see me," the rancher said.
Dover promised, and was about to leave when he remembered something--the locket. He laid it on the bed.
"Guess this belongs to yore niece; I found it in the tent," he explained, and came away.
As he stepped into the open, he met the girl herself. She had no smile of welcome for him, and her greeting told why. "When do we move out?"
"I've been seein' yore uncle about that," he replied.
"You might have waited until he is stronger," she said heatedly. "I must go to him at once."
She left him standing there, and did not see the whimsical look which followed her. Dan hoisted himself into the saddle and set off, but he had gone less than fifty yards when he heard her call.
"Mister Dover."
He grinned wickedly, but took no notice, until the cry was repeated, breathlessly. He stopped and dismounted; the girl was hurrying towards him; her face was flushed, eyes moist.
"You are the meanest man I ever met," she began. "You save my life, restore my uncle's property after he has used you badly, and even bring back something the loss of which grieved me deeply--my mother's portrait, and you refuse to accept a word of thanks. Why have you always disliked me? I couldn't help being the daughter of a Trenton."
The curious mixture of indignation and gratitude made her so provokingly pretty that he had hard work to refrain from putting his arms about her and telling the truth--that he didn't care if she was the daughter of the Devil himself.
"I was afraid." He saw she did not comprehend, and went on. "Afraid I'd get too fond o' you, so I tried to build a barrier between us."
"And it had to be barbed wire?" she said.
"Yeah, but I found out that barbed wire won't keep thoughts from strayin', an' is liable to hurt those who handle it.
The soft dark eyes faced his bravely for an instant and then dropped. "I learned that too--Dan," she murmured.
It was quite a time before she had an opportunity to speak again, and, as she strove to rearrange her hair, it was a truly feminine remark:
"I expect I look a sight; I don't know what you must think of me."
"I think yo're the most beautiful girl in Arizona," he told her.
"Only in Arizona, Dan?" she teased.
"Arizona is my world," he replied.
"Mine too," she whispered, and brought about another interlude.