Part 5

“No more monkey business.” The man with the revolver was speaking, and he gave his prisoner a rough poke in the side with his boot. “You’re in the hands of the Sheriff, and you’re going to take us out to that cañon. We start right off.”

“No, we don’t,” was the answer. “You’ve trapped me, the three of you. Send me up if you can. My word’s as good as this doctor’s, and I don’t have to take you anywhere to hunt for evidence against me.”

“Get up,” commanded the sheriff. He unbuckled the irons from his prisoner’s legs.

The man with the scar rose. “Nobody’ll ever find that cabin or what’s in it,” he said doggedly. “And when Bill dies----”

“Oh, my God!” It was the father.

The doctor was leaning in the doorway. “What’d you do this for, Mr. Eastman?” he asked.

The tears were streaming down Eastman’s face. “We thought the Sheriff ought to come,” he faltered. “The boy’s mother is frantic. And this seemed the surest way.” The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve lost our best chance,” he said.

“See here, Doc,” broke in the sheriff. “I made the capture. And I want you to understand when we find the boy I’m entitled to the reward.”

The other turned astonished eyes upon him. “Reward?” he repeated.

“You mean to say you didn’t know there’s five thousand offered?”

“So that’s why you done this,” said the doctor, and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, I’ve heerd tell of fellers that put their foot in it. You’ve got your’n in plumb to the knee.”

“I’ll come out all right,” retorted the sheriff boastfully. “I’ll send for dogs. There’s three in Sacramento. I can have ’em here in eighteen hours.”

“If I don’t git to Bill,” said the doctor, “he’ll be dead before that.” He looked at the man with the scar.

“Eighteen hours!” repeated Eastman miserably.

Now the sheriff advanced upon his prisoner. “You’re going to take me to that cabin,” he said threateningly. “You don’t think so now, but I can make you change your mind. Come along.” He seized his prisoner by a shackled arm and jerked him toward the gate.

Eastman started after the two, pleading incoherently. But half-way to the gate he stopped. A girl blocked the walk. It was Letty.

“Depend on the doctor,” she said. “He took his life in his hands to find the boy. He was going to risk it again to bring him to you. And he didn’t even know there was a reward.”

Eastman turned and went stumbling back.

“But he doesn’t know the way,” he protested. “He said he didn’t.”

In answer, the doctor took his arm and led him down the street to the wide gate opening into Bobby’s corral. “I’ll have a horse here for you in a minute,” he said. “I’ll ride this one. You see, there’s another scheme. But it really don’t depend on me--it depends on this little bronc.”

When Bobby was saddled and bridled Letty put her cheek against his soft nose. “Do your best,” she whispered; and to his rider: “Don’t fail.”

The doctor took both her hands in his. “I’m a-goin’ to make it,” he declared. “Stay with the boy’s maw, little gal, till we come.”

Bobby was eager to be off, pawing as the doctor mounted and backing in a circle when his rider held him in to wait for Eastman. The reins loosened, the little horse sprang forward at a brisk canter, leading the way out of town.

It was at the forks of the road that the first halt was made. Here the doctor, having first tied the bridle reins to his pommel assumed the exact position in the saddle that he had twice been compelled to take, and laid his hands on his saddle-horn.

“Now, Bobby,” he said, touching the mustang gently with his heels, “here we are. Go on.”

Bobby moved forward, but hesitatingly, and, when he had gone a few steps, stopped, looking about him.

Again the doctor urged him kindly. “Want your supper, Bobby? Come, now.”

The little horse made forward at a brisk walk then, travelling straight south along the road that followed the track. Presently, however, he turned sharply to the right and entered the brush.

“Do you think he’s going right?” called out Eastman anxiously.

“Wal,” answered the doctor, “he acts like he means business. You see, for two days I ain’t give him a bite to eat except when he was out yonder in that cañon.”

Bobby was taking a westward course that was almost at right angles to the road he had just come down. He wound through scrubby liveoaks and bristling chaparral, evidently along no path. Behind him the other horse had to be urged constantly, for the undergrowth was heavy and hung across the way. But soon the brush parted to leave a straight, open track, so narrow, however, that it seemed only a path. The doctor got down and lit a match. They were on a trail that showed recent use. Upon it, stamped plainly in the dust, were the round, eastward-pointing hoofprints of a mule.

“Are we right?” asked Eastman.

“So far.”

Now both horses were pushed to a canter--until the path grew rough and steep. The doctor recognised this descent and listened for the sound of the rushing stream he had crossed both times under the guidance of the man with the scar. When the stream was washing the hoofs of their horses the doctor reached out to lay a hand on Eastman’s shoulder.

“My friend, we’re half-way!”

Eastman would have pressed ahead then, but the doctor would not permit it.

“Leave it to Bobby,” was his counsel. “Mr. Nick didn’t blindfold Bobby.”

The path ascended the long slope of a hogback. Pine needles covered the slope, and though the doctor dismounted a half-dozen times no path could be seen. But each time, as he stepped into the saddle again, the little horse went forward eagerly.

The hogback ended abruptly. Bobby turned to the left. The trip had seemed so short that now, as the doctor looked into the darkness below him, he could scarcely credit his senses.

“Eastman,” he said. “See below there!”

It was a spot of light.

From then on it was a wild ride. The horses did not leave the steep path; but they stumbled, slid or scrambled for a footing down the whole of the black descent. The doctor kept his eyes on the light. Eastman, divided between joy and fear, shouted out frenziedly toward the nearing shanty.

At the edge of the clearing both men flung themselves out of their saddles, then ran. Eastman led. And as he entered the low door he still hoarsely called: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”

A faint cry answered. It came from beyond the bed, on which lay a quiet form. The doctor reached to shove at the boards forming the blind door. They gave, disclosing a small inner room.

The next moment a little figure in soiled rompers came out of the darkness of the room, toddling unsteadily on bare legs, for the baby stockings were down over worn sandals. Fair hair hung uncombed about a face that was pitifully thin and streaked by tears and dust. The doctor lifted the boy up and swung him out, and the father spread his arms to receive him and caught the child to his breast.

The doctor laid back the rumpled covers of the bed then. “Bill,” he said kindly, and began to unbuckle the strap of his case.

“So that’s the other one.” It was Eastman, on his knees, the child clasped tight.

The doctor laid back the bedcovers very gently. “It _was_ the other one,” he answered.

* * * * *

Midnight, and the lost boy was in his mother’s arms, with Eastman hovering beside the two, and the doctor across from him, sitting on his heels, with a baby hand in his big, gentle grasp.

“Doctor, we’ll never be able to make it up to you,” said the father. “I don’t feel that the reward is half enough. But I want you to accept it with our lifelong gratitude.” They were in Mrs. Eastman’s sitting-room at the hotel. Her husband crossed to a desk.

The doctor stood up, colouring bashfully. “Aw, I can’t take money for findin’ the little feller,” he protested; and when Eastman came back, holding out a slip of paper to him, he shook his head decidedly. “No, sir, I just can’t,” he declared. Letty entered then, carrying a tray hidden under a napkin. He hastened across the room to take it from her.

“We’ll see about this later on,” answered Eastman. “You must accept it. And there’s another thing I want to offer. You know, Doctor Fowler’s been up from San Francisco to look over the Blue Top position. But he won’t suit. Do you think he’s been worrying about the finding of my boy? Not a bit of it. He’s been worrying for fear the bungalow wouldn’t be big enough to please his wife. There’s one thing I didn’t realise the other day, Doc. What we need is a physician that doesn’t put on so much style--the kind of a man that can meet any emergency, you understand--take a horse over a trail if it’s necessary.”

“Yas?” returned the doctor. The tray was still in his hands. And now it began to tremble so that there was a faint clink of glass. He stood looking down at it.

“In fact,” went on Eastman, “we need a doctor like you at the mine.”

The doctor raised his eyes to the girl standing at Mrs. Eastman’s side. And he saw that there was a look of great happiness on her face, like the happiness on the face of the young mother.

“Blue Top!” he said. Then: “Letty, do _you_ think the little shingled house is too small?”

THE BOOMERANG

When darkness settled a figure began to follow Patton--a tall, ungainly, heavy-shouldered figure. It shadowed him down the single street of the desert town to the depot, where he bought two tickets and checked two beribboned trunks; it lurked at his heels when he went back along the dirt sidewalk to Conley’s restaurant, the largest of the score of unpainted pine shacks that made up Searles. The restaurant faced the single track of the railroad line, and as Patton ate his supper, the figure stood on the ties, quiet and watchful. When Patton left the restaurant for the barber-shop farther along the street, it moved parallel with him, and took up its station outside a front window of the place.

Patton entered the shop hurriedly and dropped into the only chair. He was a man of, perhaps, forty, with black hair that was brushed away slickly from a narrow forehead, and black eyes set deep and near together. His nose was long and sharply pointed. His mouth was too full for his lean jaws, which gave his cheeks the appearance of being constantly sucked in. But he was far from ill-looking. And when he got out of the barber’s chair presently, fresh-shaven, there was a healthy glow to his dark skin under its trace of powder.

He arranged a spotless collar and a fresh tie, settled his soft hat on his carefully combed hair, adjusted his coat before a mirror, and went out. The figure moved with him, going toward the depot once more. A building beyond the station was brightly lighted. Patton made toward it, walking fast and whistling. The figure walked faster than he--until it was almost at his heels.

“Patton!”

Patton halted. “Hello,” he returned cheerily. “Who is it?”

The figure halted. “It’s Jeff Blandy,” was the answer.

“Oh.” The tone showed displeasure. Patton backed away a step. “Well, what can I do for you?”

Blandy did not reply at once. Then, “You can’t do nothin’ for _me_,” he said. “I just want to say a word or two about--Polly Baker.”

“Yes?” inquired Patton impatiently. “Well, hurry up. The ceremony’s at nine-thirty. The west-bound goes through at eleven.”

Again there was a short silence. When Blandy went on, his voice was lowered. “She ain’t got no paw nor maw, nor no brother. That’s why _I’m_ a-speakin’ to you.”

“I’ll look after her,” said Patton coldly.

“I’d like to feel right shore of that. You see, she and me has been good friends for a long while. And I want to ask you, Patton, to play fair with her, and----”

“Say! look here!” broke in the other man. “You’re putting your lip into something that’s none of your business.”

“Do y’ _think_ so?” retorted Blandy with sudden spirit. “Wal, out here in the West, a man’s likely to find hull crowds that’ll make it their business if he can’t see his way to treatin’ a woman white.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Patton.

“Just this: I happen to know about that Galindo business at Paicines. There’s _one_ place you didn’t act on the square. Wal, the Galindo girl’s a greaser, and her men folks oughta took better care of her. We won’t say nothin’ more about it, Patton. But don’t forgit this: A feller owes his wife somethin’ more’n just the weddin’ ceremony.”

“Oh, I see,” sneered Patton. “You’re trying to kick up a rumpus. You wanted Polly yourself.”

Blandy gave a short laugh. “Me?” he said. “_Me?_ Why, you’re crazy! All I’ve got to keep a wife on is my prospectin’ outfit and a’ old mangy mule. Me! Huh! No girl’d look at me--no fine, pretty girl that’s had lots of chances. I ain’t nothin’ but a slob.”

To that, Patton made no comment.

“No, you’re the kind of a man that a girl likes,” Blandy went on. “And you git a couple of hunderd from the East every month. You can take her away from this hole and make her nice and comfortable in Los Angeles, and give her a hired girl to wait on her, and decent clothes. Wal, that’s fine. But a’ easy time and good clothes don’t amount to a hill of beans with a woman if she ain’t happy. So--_play fair with her_, Patton. In the long run, it pays to do what’s right. You know that. Nine times outen ten, when a man picks up a club to take a’ underhanded shy at another person, Mister Stick comes whizzin’ right back and gives him a crack in the head like one of them----”

“That’ll do, Blandy,” interrupted Patton. His voice was hoarse with anger. “I haven’t any more time for your damned gossip.” He turned abruptly and strode away.

Blandy stayed where he was, his heavy shoulders stooped, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his weight shifted to one foot. He saw a door of the near-by house open wide to admit Patton; heard a chorus of gay voices greet the other man, and following a short wait, heard the tones of an organ, playing a march. He waited until the organ ceased; then, head lowered, and hat pulled down to his brows, he walked away slowly, going to the depot.

He halted in the shadow of the station and stayed there until the head-light of the west-bound train shone in the distance like a fallen star. The star grew. And through the night air came the thin shriek of the nearing engine. It was then that a laughing, chattering group left the brightly-lighted house and came hurrying toward the depot. Blandy turned from the approaching light.

The centre of the group was the bride, a slender girl in a white dress. As she stepped upon the platform, under the station lamps, Blandy leaned forward a little to catch a glimpse of her face. Her childish eyes, long-lashed and the blue of lapis lazuli, were bright with happiness, her cheeks an excited pink.

She saw the tall figure standing half in and half out of the shadow, and ran to him. “Jeff,” she began reprovingly, “you didn’t come to the wedding!”

He took her outstretched hand. “No,” he agreed; “no, I--I didn’t, but----” He paused awkwardly.

“I missed you, Jeff,” she declared. “Why, I wanted you there more than anybody else. And I wanted to wait till someone could go for you. But nobody’d seen you, and they didn’t know where you were--What was the matter, Jeff?”

“I--I had business to attend to,” he explained.

“Business! And you my best, best friend----”

The train was close. Voices began to summon her back to the wedding-party.

Blandy leaned down to her. “Dear little Polly,” he said huskily, “your old side-pardner wishes you all the luck that’s in the world.”

Then she was gone again. She smiled back at him from the steps of the car, and answered the chorus of farewells that was shouted up to her. The engine-bell clanged, the train moved. Patton sprang to the girl’s side amid a shower of rice. There was more shouting, which was answered from the car platform, and the west-bound pulled out, the green lights on the rear of the last coach glowing like the eyes of a serpent.

Blandy lifted a hand to his breast, then to his throat, then to his eyes. The group of wedding guests gone, and the depot platform dark, he crossed the railroad track, walking a little uncertainly. Out in the blackness, among the sage-brush, something was moving about--an animal. He went up to it, untied a rope, spoke a word of command, and started off northward--away from the town into the desert.

* * * * *

Jeff Blandy, staggering across the last mile of his journey, directed his way over the railroad track to Conley’s restaurant. The dust of many days and nights was upon him, powdering hair and clothes to the colour of his grey hat. The weariness of trudging over yielding and uneven ground was in his long legs and in the stoop of his shoulders. And the leathern sallow of his face wore a fresh gloss of vivid red that was like the reflection of a torch-flame. Yet in his eyes--as brown and big and appealingly honest as the eyes of a great, friendly dog--was a gleam that neither the sand-laden winds nor the scorching sun had dulled. And there was a smile lurking among the long bristles at the corners of his wide mouth.

Entering the restaurant, he found it unchanged, though a year had passed since he had left Searles. There were the two oilcloth-covered tables that reached from end to end of the room, and the counter, with its cash-register. But no one was on hand to take his order. Stiffly, he let himself down upon a chair at one end of the first table. Then, leaning back and dropping his hat to the floor at his side, he picked up a knife and rang a sharp summons on the rim of an empty glass.

The door into the kitchen swung open to admit a young man in shirt-sleeves and soiled apron,--a short, thick-set young man with the curly flaxen hair, full blue eyes and apple-red cheeks of a boy doll. He was carrying a pitcher of water.

Blandy drained his glass before he gave the other a nod. Then, “Gimme some ham and eggs and fried potatoes,” he began. “A steak, if you got it, too. And coffee. And some pie. And fruit----”

“Oranges is the only fruit,” interrupted the waiter.

“Orange’ll do. And could the cook mix me some flap-jacks?”

“I guess.”

“Then that’ll be all.”

The young man in shirt-sleeves went out, kicking the swinging door open before him and shouting his order. Left alone, Blandy helped himself to a second glass of water, after which he stretched his legs far under the table, folded his arms upon his breast, and took a deep breath. Then, as he waited, the smile at the corners of his mouth began slowly to spread, until his burned cheeks were wrinkled with it, and his moistened lips were parted to show a double line of strong white teeth. Thus he sat, all a-grin, dreaming.

Beyond the swinging doors, dishes were clattering, and there was a sound of sputtering and frying. The voice of the waiter rose and fell, too, amid the din of crockery and cooking; and mingled with his voice, now and then, was the voice of a woman. Presently, the tempting smell of ham was wafted out into the dining-room. It was then that Blandy drew in his feet and sat erect, turning his eyes kitchen-ward.

Soon the waiter appeared. Pyramided upon his towel-draped left arm were numerous plates and platters, topped by a huge cup of inky coffee that steamed as it washed gently from side to side with every sway of the arm. As the order was placed upon the table, together with some cutlery, which the waiter scattered with his right hand, Blandy picked up a knife and fork, pulled a platter into place before him, and began to eat, ravenously. Someone--a man--entered the front door and took a seat behind the cash-register. Blandy did not look up. One by one the platters and plates were emptied. At last, refreshed and satisfied, Blandy picked up an orange and began to peel it leisurely.

It was now that for the first time he chanced to look across at the man behind the counter. That glance brought him to his feet, the half-peeled orange in his hand. “Harvey Patton!” he exclaimed in amazement.

“How are you?” answered Patton, indifferently. The tip of his nose moved up and down a little as he spoke.

Blandy strode toward the counter. “What under the shinin’ sun are you doin’ back in _Searles_?” he demanded.

“Keeping restaurant.”

The other was silent for a moment, his astonished eyes still fixed upon Patton. Then, “Where’s--Polly?” he asked.

Patton jerked his head sidewise toward the kitchen. “She’s doing the cooking,” he explained, smiling.

Blandy’s staring eyes narrowed. He turned abruptly, crossed the room to the swinging door and struck it out of the way before him.

Just within the kitchen, he halted. It was a small room, reeking with smells, and suffocatingly hot. On the side farthest from Blandy was a sink. And bending over the sink, with her back to him, was a girl. As he looked at her, the red on his face slowly deepened, as if he were holding his breath. After a while, his glance travelled to the stove, upon which some pots were steaming; to the long kitchen table piled high with unwashed dishes; to the heaping oil can of scraps at the foot of the table; to the floor, spattered and unswept. When at last his look went back to the girl, the hairy skin at either side of his mouth was twitching with the effort of self-control.

“Polly!”

She turned. The perspiration was streaming from forehead and temples, so that her face and throat glistened, as her arms were glistening with the water that was streaming from elbows to finger-ends. Her face was more scarlet than his own. Out of that scarlet looked her eyes, which were shadowed by wide, dark circles.

“Why--why, Jeff!”

He shook his head, slowly and sadly. “And so you married to come to _this_,” he said in a low voice.

There was a bench beside the sink. She sank to it, as if too weary to keep her feet. As she sat there, leaning on a hand, he saw her, not as she was before him, tired and blowzy and wet with sweat, but as he had seen her last. He took a step toward her. “How does it come that you and Patton’re keepin’ a’ eatin’-house?” he asked.