The group on the veranda of the Valentine house had remained there for close to two hours. Mary sat halfway down the steps with her hands clasped about her knees. Elizabeth was above her, leaning against the railing. Morgan Valentine and his wife were in chairs on the veranda itself.
He was smoking his short-stemmed pipe steadily. Mrs. Valentine had abandoned her knitting some half an hour before, and now sat stiffly erect, with her chin drawn in, her mouth tight, her color ashen.
And every eye of the four was bent fixedly upon that point where the road swerved around the shoulder of the western hill and dipped toward the house in a long, swift curve. No one had spoken—hours, ages of silence, it seemed. But now and then the glance of Mrs. Valentine lowered upon Mary, and her lips stirred with bitter, soundless words. And once when Mary turned and looked up, she met the glance of Elizabeth fixed on her as though she were a snake.
All this trouble rested on the head of the girl, and only the eye of Morgan Valentine was kind and clear. But even he, toward the end, was abstracted,
Now, over the hill, a horseman darted. And the four rose to their feet at the signal. It was Louis Valentine. He was spurring his horse to a mad gallop down the slope. His hat off, he was waving it frantically. Every inch of his body spoke joy.
And a cry came from the watchers.
“Thank God, thank God!” whispered Mrs. Valentine, and fumbling blindly, she found the hand of her husband and clung to it.
Elizabeth was weeping soundlessly.
Now the courier plunged up to the house and flung himself out of the saddle.
“I seen him!” he cried. “I seen Charlie coming over the next rise! I seen him! He's all right! He's coming alone!”
“But you don't know,” said Mrs. Valentine. “He may be—”
“Not a scratch on him. I can tell by the way he's riding. Coming like sixty. Spurring every jump. He's got Baldy stretched out straighter'n a string. No wounded man could ride like that.”
Then Morgan Valentine spoke: “Did you see the saddle? How's it come that he drives in in the buckboard and comes riding a hossback? He drives Baldy in and rides him back? Where's the saddle?”
A gasp from Louis; half of his joy disappeared.
“You mean—you think Charlie took water—you—”
“I don't care what he did!” cried the boy's mother. “He's alive—he's safe—in spite of you, Morgan!”
“But his honor,” said the indomitable rancher. “How about that?”
There was no opportunity for further surmise. Over the hill came a second rider, and this time it was Charlie who appeared, spurring hard, as Louis had said. He did not wave his hat as he saw the waiting family. At their joyous shout that went tingling to him, he returned no answer.
“Rides like they was someone behind him,” muttered the ominous voice of Morgan Valentine, and for the first time he removed the pipe from between his teeth, and shaking himself clear from the hands of his wife, he stepped to the head of the stairs and waited.
Charlie Valentine dismounted less hastily than his brother had done and was caught in four pairs of arms; showered with exclamations from four pairs of lips. Only his father remained aloof.
“The saddle, Charlie!” he cried at length, even his iron nerve breaking under the strain. “Did you bring it out?”
At this the women and Louis released the boy and turned; his face could be seen clearly for the first time, and it was notable that there was not the slightest sign of exultation. He seemed to have aged many years; he had gone in hardly more than a child; he came out to the ranch from Salt Springs carrying his manhood stamped upon his face.
“There's the prize saddle on the hoss,” he said tersely.
“And Jud Boone?” breathed his brother Louis, half abashed before this new Charlie Valentine.
Dead silence. Had their own Charlie killed the man? Did that explain the gravity, the joylessness of his manner?
But Morgan Valentine came down the steps with gleaming eyes. He stretched out his hand.
“Son,” he said, “you live up to the blood that runs in you. I'll tell you now that when you left the house this morning, I thought you were riding to your death. I've had you dead in my thoughts, Charlie!”
“I can't shake your hand,” replied the son. “It wasn't me that killed Jud Boone.”
Another caught breath from the crowd. The arm of Morgan Valentine fell slowly to his side.
“I'll tell you how it was,” said Charlie slowly. He frowned and recalled the bitter picture in detail.
“When I faced Jud Boone, my nerve left me. I was like—like I was standing in a cold wind. That's the way his eye got on my nerves. I kept thinking—about death—and being young. And—I near crumpled up. I—I near took water. Along comes the last minute. I was just swaying between being a coward—and then something snapped in me. I called Jud Boone a liar, and then waited for the draw. But I knew I was simply waiting to be killed. My hand was shaking so I couldn't of hit the other side of the room. And Jud Boone was as cool as if he was getting ready to shoot at a target.
“And then—I heard a big voice call: 'Boone! Jud Boone! You're facing the wrong way!' “
He imitated that deep tone, that full voice, and a quiver ran through the listeners.
“Jud turned with a yell, with his gun out before he was clear around. Wasn't till he was clear around that the stranger made a move. Then it was just a jerk of his hand, a flash of light as the gun jumped into it—and he shot Jud Boone dead! And that's why I'm here—alive.”
“God bless him! Who did it, Charlie?”
But still Charlie showed no joy. He lifted his arm and pointed sternly at Mary Valentine. The others followed that pointing hand and saw her standing with a white face and great, staring eyes.
“I reckon you know, Mary. When it was over, he says to me: 'Tell her that she don't owe me nothing. That the account is just squared up, that's all.' I reckon you know who he was speaking about, Mary!”
“It was Jess Dreer,” said the girl faintly, “And—he got away, Charlie?”
“You must of known when you asked him to help me that there wasn't any way for him to get loose. Not with a whole line of men stretched around the saloon waiting for him—and Normans, all of them! You must of knowed you was asking him to step in and die! And him being that kind of a gent”—the voice of Charlie trembled—“he wouldn't say no to a woman.”
“Charlie, you aren't speaking true? He isn't caught?”
She had broken through the circle now and was clinging to him, pleading with him.
“Don't hold onto me, Mary,” said the boy coldly. “I swear that I'd rather be back there lying dead on the floor of Dan Carrol's place than to have Dreer die for me.”
“Hush,” broke in Morgan Valentine.
He was looking at Mary, not at his rescued son.
“Oh, Mary! That was what you done for us? Oh, Mary, and all the bitter things I been thinking of you!”
“I won't go, Aunt Maude,” said the girl steadily. “I want to know just what happened. After Boone dropped, what did Jess Dreer do?”
“He turned his gun in his hand and caught it by the barrel.
“ 'Boys,' he says, just as quiet as I'm talking now. 'Boys, I guess you know who I am. I'm Jess Dreer. They's about one chance in three that I could rush the lines outside and get clear. But I'm sort of tired. So I give myself up. Who'll take my gun?'
“Nobody moved. I called out: 'Jess, I'm with you. I'm at your back. We'll try it together.' I meant it. I'd of died for him. I still would! But he says: 'Go easy, boy. I know you're white, but don't you go making a mess of things for yourself.' “
“Charlie,” said Mary Valentine in the same calm voice in which she had spoken before, “I'll never forget what you said to Jess Dreer and the offer that you made.”
He went on, unheeding: “Then he goes up to Harrison and puts out his gun: 'Pardner,' he says, 'I figure you for a man-sized man. Take my gun and lead me to the lockup. They's a pretty fat little price on my head. It's all yours—and you can give it to charity.'
“But Harrison took Dreer's hand, not his gun. 'You've done a mighty fine thing,' he said. 'I dunno what your record is, Dreer, but here's one that would back you. And we'll see that you get a clean deal in Salt Springs.'
“But just then Sheriff Clancy comes through the door.
“ 'Will you make the same offer to me, Dreer?' he says, with his hand on his gun.
“I could see something flicker in the eyes of Dreer. He had his gun in a bad position—by the muzzle—but I thought for a minute that he was going to flip it and try to get Clancy first—and I think he could of done it.
“But he says: 'It ain't such a pretty party with you on the receiving end, Sheriff. Speaking personal, sheriffs ain't been my bunkies, generally. But here's the gun, Clancy.'
“ 'How d'you know me?' asked the sheriff.
“ 'I can tell you by the scar on your forehead,' says Jess.”
There was a cry of pain from Mary Valentine.
“Aye,” said the boy fiercely, “cry and wring your hands, Mary Valentine, but that won't save Jess Dreer. And he's going to be saved!”
“Charlie,” pleaded the girl, “let me have a chance to help!”
“Keep away, Mary. I'll tell you why. I been thinking about you all the way home. I been thinking about you ever since Jess Dreer talked to me that way and gave me that message for you. It was on account of you that he done it.
“And who was the cause of the whole thing? It was you! You made the fight between me and Joe Norman. And that fight laid the plan for this. It's on account of you that Jud Boone is dead just when he was trying to get a new start and be a decent man. It's on account of you that the finest man that ever wore a gun is waiting in jail for a rope. And I say that you ought to be punished some way for it.”
He had risen on tiptoe; his whole body had swelled to a greater size as he poured out the denunciation. “I don't know how, but—”
Morgan Valentine stepped in between them.
“You've talked enough,” he interrupted.
“Let him talk,” said the girl, and she smiled in a singular manner. “But I want you to know that I'm punished already, Charlie. More than I can bear. Because I love Jess Dreer!”
There was a stifled exclamation from Elizabeth.
But Charlie turned his rage into a sneer.
“You love him?” he said scornfully. “Well, you've had considerable practice loving men!”
