Donna Carleton was drowsing in an armchair, trying to make up her mind whether or not to retire for the night, when she was roused by a sharp, peremptory knock on the door. Startled, and with a premonition of trouble gripping her, she crossed the room quickly and opened the portal.
The light, slanting over her shoulder, showed the cold, intent features of Buck English.
Donna did not miss the expression of his eyes.
“Some … something has happened?” she stammered.
He nodded. “Yes. Red Scudder has been shot. A dry-gulcher cut down on us as we were climbing the mesa. He’s not dead. But I need hot water and bandages. You’ve got an emergency kit here, Sundown tells me.”
“Yes. I’ll get it for you. And I’ll have the cook rustle up some hot water immediately.”
She ran out of the room, called some directions to Sevila, the Mexican cook, then came hurrying back with a first aid kit. She handed it to Buck and drew on a light sweater.
“No need your comin’ down to the bunkhouse,” objected Buck. “I can fix Red up all right.”
Donna’s answer was to push by him. Buck shrugged and followed.
* * * * *
Red Scudder lay on a bunk, his eyes open, but full of pain. The rest of the cowpunchers stood about, quiet and serious. A dusty, blood-soaked neckerchief was bound around Red’s head. He managed a twisted smile for Donna.
“Sho’ now, Miss Donna,” he whispered. “There ain’t no need you botherin’ about me. Ole Buck’ll fix this head of mine.”
Donna’s face was a little pale, but she did not waver.
“No more talking, if you please, Red,” she ordered. “Steady now … until I get this filthy bandage off.”
Red was steady enough, but Donna herself was the one who grew shaky as she saw the ragged, angry, blood-clotted tear where the bullet that had been intended for Buck had ripped its vicious way across the top of Red’s head.
Buck gently but firmly pushed her aside.
“You can help,” he said, not unkindly. “But leave the main job to me.”
When the hot water arrived, Buck carefully shaved about the wound, cleansed it thoroughly, and drew it together with several rather expertly placed sutures. A clean, firm bandage in place and the job was finished.
“Now you roll over and go to sleep, you knot-headed old maverick,” said Buck to Red. “You’ll be feelin’ a heap better by mornin’.”
Red grinned through white lips. “Okay. Gimme another drink of agua.”
The light was shaded and the rest of the ranch hands followed Buck outside.
Jiggs Maloney caught Buck by the arm. “Are ye after finishin’ the job tonight, Buck?” he asked. “Begorra, me and the rest of the boys are sure itchin’ to pull on a rope.”
Buck shook his head. “No, Jiggs. I’m aimin’ to make that jasper talk and find out who sicced him on us. I leave it up to you and the boys to see that he doesn’t get away.”
“Sure, and ye need waste no worry over that!” exploded Jiggs. “’Tis meself who’ll roost on the spalpeen’s tail like a ghost after a scaredy cat. Shorty and me’ll be with him for the rest of the night.”
As Buck started for his office, Donna fell into step with him.
“What Jiggs just said … does that mean you caught the one who did the shooting?” she asked him nervously.
“Yeah, we nailed him. Rode him down and pistol-whipped him. He’s locked up in the saddle shed.”
“Who … who was it?”
Buck hesitated. “I reckon you’d feel better if you didn’t know,” he drawled finally.
“Bosh! I insist on knowing. If you won’t tell me … well, I’ll ask one of the boys. Who is it?”
Buck shrugged. “If you insist … Curly Whipple.”
Donna stopped stock still. She caught her breath in an unconscious gasp of protest.
“No … no! That can’t be true. Curly … Curly would never do a thing like that. He isn’t that sort. I tell you it’s a mistake. You’re wrong. I don’t believe it!”
“You saw Red’s head. There ain’t no mistake. We caught Whipple cold.”
“But why … why should Curly do such a thing?” she muttered as much to herself as to Buck.
“I reckon I could shoot pretty close to the answer,” Buck said grimly. “But I’m gonna let him tell it in his own words … tomorrow.”
Donna had the feeling that she was beating futile fists against a cold, implacable stone wall. This fellow Buck English moved straight ahead, unheeding, remorseless, heartless—or so it seemed to the girl.
“He’ll never admit to something he never did,” she flamed.
A sardonic smile twisted Buck’s lips. “Faith like you have is worthy of a better object, Miss Donna,” he told her. “But he’ll talk, never fear. There’s a lot of ways of makin’ a polecat like him open up.
“For shame! You speak like you were going to torture him … or … or something. You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wrong,” was the level statement. “I’d dare anythin’. That jasper tried to dry-gulch me. He missed … but he came close to killin’ Red Scudder … one of the first real friends I’ve made here on the ranch. Red saved me from bein’ shot in the back by Buzz Layton. Anybody who hurts Red Scudder from here on out … hurts me. And I don’t take kindly to bein’ hurt … not even by you. Now you better run along to bed … and forget Curly Whipple. He ain’t now … and he never was … worth one second of worry by you. Good night.”
The door of his office closed behind him.
* * * * *
Donna felt almost as though he had slapped her in the face. Until now, she had always considered herself as somewhat of an authority about the ranch. Sundown Sloan had always made it a point to talk over any major problem with her. But this … this … Donna gritted her white teeth in a rising rage.
Buck English ignored her entirely, as far as her opinions went. Thrust her aside as though she were a child—suggested that she run along to bed.
She went to her room, but not to sleep. That was out of the question just now. Her thoughts were chaotic, her emotions upset.
For a time she paced to and fro in the confines of her bedroom, stifling her anger. After a bit she quieted and curled up in a chair to think.
Curly Whipple locked up—charged with attempted murder! It was a nightmarish thought.
Donna looked back. She had known Curly Whipple for a little more than a year. She sincerely liked him. She knew that her feelings toward Curly had never gone any deeper than this. But she had liked him. They had been good friends—nothing more. Her Uncle Jack had never objected to Curly’s visiting with her. And surely—had Curly been off-color, as sheriff, her uncle would have known it.
On one occasion Curly had grown sentimental, but Donna had checked his advances brusquely and it had never happened again. They had ridden together many times, and on one occasion she had gone to a dance in Cedarville with him. He had always been attentive, decent, and considerate. Now he was charged with an attempt at dastardly, cowardly murder. Donna could not bring herself to believe it.
On the other hand, there was no refuting the evidence of Red Scudder’s wounded head. Someone had certainly fired the shot that did that. And Curly had apparently been caught in the act. But why? Why should he have attempted such a thing?
Then Donna thought of the meeting of Curly with Buck English in the patio the previous night. She remembered the cold undercurrent of hostility between them. And at that time Curly had seemed strange—foreign to her. She remembered his muttered curses, his scalding denunciation of English to her. Obviously there was hate between these two—hate fomented through previous meetings at some time in the past.
She remembered the short talk between English and herself before Curly had ridden up. At this, she felt a warm, subtle chill. Somehow she knew that she was the first of her sex who had ever glimpsed beyond that chill, abrupt curtain which shrouded the real personality of Buck English. And she was just feminine enough to glory in this knowledge.
A new thought struck her. Why had English said what he had at the arrival of Curly—something to the effect of everything being spoiled now? There could be but one answer. It wasn’t the fact that Curly had shown up to break the spell.
It was as though English felt a certain censure for her at her friendship with Whipple. As though it was besmirching—unworthy. And Buck had also added the statement, not fifteen minutes before, that Curly was not worthy of a thought or a moment of worry from her.
On the other hand, English was certainly in no position to criticize others. As a whole, his reputation was far more widespread and notorious than that of Curly. For until English had spoken, she had never heard a word against Curly.
True, Buck English’s reputation was not an unmoral one. It was not mean, unclean, or unsavory. It had only to do with ruthlessness, cold unswerving fighting ability. It was that of an outlaw wolf, traveling a lone trail. Defiant, bold, careless of the conventions of law.
That he possessed fundamental requisites of stark manhood there could be no denying. But he was outspoken and brooked no interference with his authority. He was a man who a woman might follow, but never drive or master.
In summing up, Donna determined to hear the other side of the situation. She would have a talk with Curly.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight when Donna stole from the house, edged through the patio, and went down toward the corrals. She had heard Jiggs Maloney assure Buck that he and Shorty would stand guard over the prisoner for the night and she was certain of her ability to sway the two cowpunchers. She preferred not to ask permission of Buck. She resented his authority for reasons of her own.
Jiggs and Shorty were wide awake and on the job. Jiggs’ drawling brogue challenged Donna while she was still yards away from the saddle shed.
“’Tis late ye are up this evening, Miss Donna,” he said, coming to meet her. “And what’ll ye be after losing your beauty sleep over?”
Donna knew it was useless to equivocate. “Jiggs, I want to have a talk with Curly Whipple. I can’t help but feel that there is some mistake somewhere. I’ve known Curly a long time. I just can’t believe he did this. And I want to hear from him his side of the story.”
Jiggs shuffled his feet uneasily.
“Sure … and ’tis wasted sympathy, Miss Donna,” he mumbled. “’Tis a crooked, murdering, cowardly snake that Whipple is. Badness is in him, say I. Had I my way … he would’ve been kicking air, hanging from a rope hours ago. Now be a sensible girl and just go on back to the house and leave him to Shorty and me. I don’t think Buck would be after liking ye talking to him.”
“That’s neither here nor there, Jiggs,” replied Donna sharply. “Mister English may be foreman of this ranch, but his authority does not extend over me and my actions. I do not intend to aid Curly in escape. I merely want to talk to him. Surely there can be no harm in that,” she said, pausing before adding: “I demand that you let me see him.”
Jiggs fumbled for a reply. He wished silently that Buck would show up on scene and take over the responsibility of agreeing with or denying Donna’s wish. He stepped back, scratching his head.
“Are … are ye sure ye aren’t after helping him get away?” he said, wavering about his orders.
“For shame,” retorted Donna. “Of course I’m not. I have no weapon to give him or anything of the sort. I merely feel that he is entitled to tell his own story to someone who is not too prejudiced against him. Come, Jiggs … unlock the door for me.”
Jiggs swore softly and led the way to the door of the saddle shed, where Shorty rose from the steps at sight of the two.
“Miss Donna here wants to talk to that spalpeen inside, Shorty,” Jiggs growled to Shorty’s wondering exclamation of surprise. “See that ye watch the door careful while I open it.”
Jiggs pounded lustily on the portal. “Ye … Whipple. Are ye awake?”
“Yeah … I’m awake. What do you want?”
“Me?” Jiggs snapped, and paused before continuing. “I want to see ye kicking in a noose. But ’tis Miss Donna who wishes to talk to you. I’m opening the door, but should ye make one phony move, I will plug ye like I would a polecat.”
Jiggs waited briefly before turning the key. Then he drew his gun and kicked the door open.
He kept his eyes on the doorway of the shed when addressing Donna. “In ye go, Miss Donna. When ye are done … holler.”
Donna entered the murky interior, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Curly,” she said softly. “I want you to tell me your story of what happened.”
The door closed behind her. The interior of the place was shrouded with murk. She could not see her hand before her face. Suddenly an inexplicable fear gripped her. She stepped back until her shoulders struck the door.
“Curly!” she called again. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
A surly growl answered from the other end of the room. “What’s the use of me sayin’ anything? You won’t believe me.”
“You don’t know whether I will or not. Surely you must realize that I wouldn’t come here like this if I was absolutely convinced of your guilt. I felt that you were entitled to a hearing by someone who would be fair. Of course … if you feel differently … I’ll go.”
“There ain’t a heap to tell,” answered Whipple, his tone still harsh.
Donna heard the scrape of a foot, which made her jump. She was glad it was too dark for Curly to see her clearly.
“I was ridin’ the trail to town and was droppin’ down the mesa side. Just as I hit a turn in the trail a shot sounded in a gulch below me. The next thing I knew a bunch of riders came surgin’ up. Naturally I spun my horse and tried to make a ride of it. It was just about dark and I couldn’t recognize any of ’em. For all I knew that shot might’ve been aimed at me. Anyhow, I did some spurrin’.
“But somebody had a faster horse than me. They caught me in about ten jumps and pistol-whipped me. That was all I knew until I woke up in this shed. That buzzard, Buck English, was here … and when I told him what I told you, he gave me that horse laugh. Damn his arrogant, cold-blooded soul! All I ask is to get one more … I mean a chance at him … and I’ll sift lead into him if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Donna had been listening too closely to miss the slip that Whipple made. He had started to say—“get one more chance at him.” Of that Donna was certain. And it meant that Whipple was lying—that he had been the one that had fired the shot at Buck but had creased Red Scudder instead.
She sighed wearily. “I’ve heard enough. You’re lying. I’ve never been more certain.”
She turned toward the door, her lips parted to call to Jiggs.
And then there sounded a creak of boards, a slithering footstep. Before she could move, hard, clawing hands struck her shoulders, shifted quickly to her throat. But her call was already framed and sounded before that sudden cruel stricture could halt it.
“Jiggs!”
The door creaked open and Donna, choking and struggling blindly, was hurled through it. She smashed into Jiggs and fell away and the ground rose to meet her with a crash. She had a hazy impression of a crouching bulk lunging past her, heard the impact of a hard-swung fist—a single shot—then darkness, deep and unfathomable.