Bindloss Harold
The Cattle-Baron's Daughter
VIII
THE SHERIFF
Miss Schuyler had conjectured correctly respecting the rifle-shot which announced the arrival of a messenger; a few minutes after the puff of white smoke on the crest of the rise had drifted away, a mounted man rode up to Grant at a gallop. His horse was white with dust and spume, but his spurs were red.
“Railroad district executive sent me on to let you know the Sheriff had lost your man,” he said.
“Lost him,” said Grant.
“Well,” said the horseman, “put it as it pleases you, but, as he had him in the jail, it seems quite likely he let him go.”
There was a growl from the teamsters who had clustered round, and Grant’s face grew stern. “He was able to hold the two homesteaders Clavering’s boys brought him.”
“Oh, yes,” said the other, “he has them tight enough. You’ll remember one of the cattle-boys and a storekeeper got hurt during the trouble, and our men are not going to have much show at the trial Torrance and the Sheriff are fixing up!”
“Then,” said Grant wearily, “we’ll stop that trial. You will get a fresh horse in my stable and tell your executive I’m going to take our men out of jail, and if it suits them to stand in they can meet us at the trail forks, Thursday, ten at night.”
The man nodded. “I’m tolerably played out, but I’ll start back right now,” he said.
He rode off towards the homestead, and Grant turned to the rest. “Jake, you’ll take the eastern round; Charley, you’ll ride west. Give them the handful of oats at every shanty to show it’s urgent. They’re to be at Fremont in riding order at nine to-morrow night.”
In another ten minutes the men were riding hard across the prairie, and Grant, with a sigh, went on with his ploughing. It would be next year before he could sow, and whether he would ever reap the crop was more than any man in that region would have ventured to predict. He worked however, until the stars were out that night and commenced again when the red sun crept up above the prairie rim the next day; but soon after dusk mounted men rode up one by one to Fremont ranch. They rode good horses, and each carried a Winchester rifle slung behind him when they assembled, silent and grim, in the big living-room.
“Boys,” said Grant quietly, “we have borne a good deal, and tried to keep the law, but it is plain that the cattle-men, who bought it up, have left none for us. Now, the Sheriff, who has the two homesteaders safe, has let the man we sent him go.”
There was an ominous murmur and Grant went on. “The homesteaders, who only wanted to buy food and raised no trouble until they were fired on, will be tried by the cattle-men, and I needn’t tell you what kind of chance they’ll get. We pledged ourselves to see they had fair play when they came in, and there’s only one means of getting it. We are going to take them from the Sheriff, but there will be no fighting. We’ll ride in strong enough to leave no use for that. Now, before we start, are you all willing to ride with me?”
Again a hoarse murmur answered him, and Grant, glancing down the row of set faces under the big lamps, was satisfied.
“Then we’ll have supper,” he said quietly. “It may be a long while before any of us gets a meal again.”
It was a silent repast. As yet the homesteaders, at least in that district, had met contumely with patience and resisted passively each attempt to dislodge them, though it had cost their leader a strenuous effort to restrain the more ardent from the excesses some of their comrades farther east had already committed; but at last the most peaceful of them felt that the time to strike in turn had come. They mounted when supper was over and rode in silence past willow bluff and dusky rise across the desolate waste. The badger heard the jingle of their bridles, and now and then a lonely coyote, startled by the soft drumming of the hoofs, rose with bristling fur and howled; but no cow-boy heard their passage, or saw them wind in and out through devious hollows when daylight came. Still, here and there an anxious woman stood, with hazy eyes, in the door of a lonely shanty, wondering whether the man she had sent out to strike for the home he had built her would ever ride back again. For they, too, had their part in the struggle, and it was perhaps the hardest one.
It was late at night when they rode into the wooden town. Here and there a window was flung open; but the night was thick and dark, and there was little to see but the dust that whirled about the dimly flitting forms. That, however, was nothing unusual, for of late squadrons of stockriders and droves of weary cattle had passed into the town; and a long row of shadowy frame houses had been left behind before the fears of any citizen were aroused. It was, perhaps, their silent haste that betrayed the horsemen, for they rode in ordered ranks without a word, as men who have grim business in hand, until a hoarse shout went up. Then a pistol flashed in the darkness in front of them, doors were flung open, lights began to blink, and a half-seen horseman came on at a gallop down the shadowy street. He pulled his horse up within a pistol-shot from the homesteaders, and sat still in his saddle staring at them.
“You’ll have to get down, boys, or tell me what you want,” he said. “You can’t ride through here at night without a permit.”
There was a little ironical laughter, and somebody asked, “Who’s going to stop us?”
“The Sheriff’s guard,” said the horseman. “Stop right where you are until I bring them.”
“Keep clear,” said Grant sternly, “or we’ll ride over you. Forward, boys!”
There was a jingle of bridles, and the other man wheeled his horse as the heels went home. Quick as he was, the foremost riders were almost upon him, and as he went down the street at a gallop the wooden houses flung back a roar of hoofs. Every door was open now and the citizens peering out. Lights flashed in the windows, and somebody cried, “The rustler boys are coming!”
Other voices took up the cry; hoots of derision mingled with shouts of greeting, but still, without an answer, the men from the prairie rode on, Grant peering into the darkness as he swung in his saddle at the head of them. He saw one or two mounted men wheel their horses, and more on foot spring clear of the hoofs, and then the flash of a rifle beneath the black front of a building. A flagstaff ran up into the night above it, and there were shadowy objects upon the verandah. Grant threw up a hand.
“We’re here, boys,” he said.
Then it became evident that every man’s part had been allotted him, for while the hindmost wheeled their horses, and then sat still, with rifles across their saddles, barring the road by which they had come, the foremost pressed on, until, pulling up, they left a space behind them and commanded the street in front. The rest dismounted, and while one man stood at the heads of every pair of horses, the rest clustered round Grant in the middle of the open space. The jail rose dark and silent before them, and for the space of a moment or two there was an impressive stillness. It was broken by a shout from one of the rearguard.
“There’s quite a crowd rolling up. Get through as quick as you can!”
Grant stood forward. “We’ll give you half a minute to send somebody out to talk to us, and then we’re coming in,” he said.
The time was almost up before a voice rose from the building: “Who are you, any way, and what do you want?”
“Homesteaders,” was the answer. “We want the Sheriff.”
“Well,” said somebody, “I’ll tell him.”
Except for a growing clamour in the street behind there was silence until Breckenridge, who stood near Grant touched him,
“I don’t want to meddle, but aren’t we giving them an opportunity of securing their prisoners or making their defences good?” he said.
“That’s sense, any way,” said another man. “It would be ’way better to go right in now, while we can.”
Grant shook his head. “You have left this thing to me, and I want to put it through without losing a man. Men don’t usually back down when the shooting begins.”
Then a voice rose from the building: “You wanted the Sheriff. Here he is.”
A shadowy figure appeared at a window, and there was a murmur from Grant’s men.
“He needn’t be bashful,” said one of them. “Nobody’s going to hurt him. Can’t you bring a light, so we can see him?”
A burst of laughter followed, and Grant held up his hand. “It would be better, Sheriff; and you have my word that we’ll give you notice before we do anything if we can’t come to terms.”
It seemed from the delay that the Sheriff was undecided, but at last a light was brought, and the men below saw him standing at the window with an anxious face, and behind him two men with rifles, whose dress proclaimed them stockriders. He could also see the horsemen below, as Grant, who waited until the sight had made its due impression, had intended that he should. There were a good many of them, and the effect of their silence and the twinkling of light on their rifles was greater than that of any uproar would have been.
“Now you can see me, you needn’t keep me waiting,” said the Sheriff, with an attempt at jauntiness which betrayed his anxiety. “What do you want?”
“Two of your prisoners,” said Grant.
“I’m sorry you can’t have them,” said the Sheriff. “Hadn’t you better ride home again before I turn the boys loose on you?”
But his voice was not quite in keeping with his words, and it would have been wiser if he had turned his face aside.
“It’s a little too far to ride back without getting what we came for,” said Grant quietly. “Now, we have no great use for talking. We want two homesteaders, and we mean to get them; but that will satisfy us.”
“You want nobody else?”
“No. You can keep your criminals, or let them go, just as it suits you.”
There was a laugh from some of the horsemen, which was taken up by the crowd and swelled into a storm of cries. Some expressed approval, others anger, and the Sheriff stepped backwards.
“Then,” he said hoarsely, “if you want your friends, you must take them.”
The next moment the window shut with a bang, and the light died out, leaving the building once more in darkness.
“Get to work,” said Grant. “Forward, those who are going to cover the axe-men!”
There was a flash from the verandah, apparently in protest and without intent to hurt, for the next moment a few half-seen objects flung themselves over the balustrade as the men with the axes came up, and others with rifles took their places a few paces behind them. Then one of the horsemen shouted a question.
“Let them pass,” said Grant.
The door was solid and braced with iron, but those who assailed it had swung the axe since they had the strength to lift it, and in the hands of such men it is a very effective implement. The door shook and rattled as the great blades whirled and fell, each one dropping into the notch the other had made; the men panted as they smote; the splinters flew in showers.
“Holding out still!” gasped one of them. “There’s iron here. Get some of the boys to chop that redwood pillar, and we’ll drive it down.”
There was an approving murmur, but Grant grasped the man by the shoulder. “No,” he said. “We haven’t come to wreck the town. I’ve another plan if you’re more than two minutes getting in.”
The axes whirled faster, and at last a man turned breathlessly. “Get ready, boys,” he said. “One more on the bolt head, Jake, and we’re in!”
A brawny man twice whirled the hissing blade about his head, and as he swung forward with both hands on the haft with a dull crash the wedge of tempered steel clove the softer metal. The great door tilted and went down, and Breckenridge sprang past the axe-men through the opening. His voice came back exultantly out of the shadowy building. “It was the old country sent you the first man in!”
The men’s answer was a shout as they followed him, with a great trampling down the corridor, but the rest of the building was very silent, and nobody disputed their passage until at last a man with grey hair appeared with a lantern behind an iron grille.
“Open that thing,” said somebody.
The man smiled drily. “I couldn’t do it if I wanted to. I’ve given my keys away.”
One or two of the homesteaders glanced a trifle anxiously behind them. The corridor was filling up, and it dawned upon them that if anything barred their egress they would be helpless.
“Then what are you stopping for?” asked somebody.
“It’s in my contract,” said the jailer quietly. “I was raised in Kentucky. You don’t figure I’m scared of you?”
“No use for talking,” said a man. “You can’t argue with him. Go ahead with your axes and beat the blamed thing in.”
It cost them twenty minutes’ strenuous toil; but the grille went down, and two of the foremost seized the jailer.
“Let him go,” said Grant quietly. “Now, we can’t fool time away with you. Where’s the Sheriff?”
“I don’t quite know,” said the jailer, and the contempt in his voice answered the question.
Grant laughed a little. “Well,” he said, “I guess he’s sensible. Now, what you have got to do is to bring out the two homesteaders as quick as you can.”
“I told you I couldn’t do it,” said the other man.
“You listen to me. We are going to take those men out, if we have to pull this place to pieces until we find them. That, it’s quite plain, would let the others go, and you would lose the whole of your prisoners instead of two of them. Tell us where you put them, and you can keep the rest.”
“That’s square?”
“Oh, yes,” said Grant. “There are quite enough men of their kind loose in this country already.”
“Straight on,” said the jailer. “First door.”
They went on in silence, but there was a shout when somebody answered their questions from behind a door, which a few minutes later tottered and fell beneath the axes. Then, amidst acclamation, they led two men out, and showed them to the jailer.
“You know them?” said Grant. “Well, you can tell your Sheriff there wasn’t a cartridge in the rifles of the men who opened his jail. He’ll come back when the trouble’s over, but it seems to me the cattle-men have wasted a pile of dollars over him.”
He laughed when a question met them as they once more trampled into the verandah.
“Yes,” he said. “The boys are bringing them!”
Two horses were led forward, and the released men swung themselves into the saddle. There was a hasty mounting, and when the men swung into open fours a shout went up from the surging crowd.
“They have taken the homesteaders out. The Sheriff has backed down.”
A roar followed that expressed approbation and disgust; it was evident that the sympathies of the citizens were divided. In the momentary silence Grant’s voice rang out:
“Sling rifles! Keep your order and distance! Forward, boys!”
Again a hoarse cry went up, but there was only applause in it now, for the crowd recognized the boldness of the command and opened out, pressing back against the houses as the little band rode forward. Their silence was impressive, but the leader knew his countrymen, for, while taunts and display would have courted an onset, nobody seemed anxious to obstruct the men who sat unconcernedly in their saddles, with the rifles which alone warranted their daring disdainfully slung behind them.
On they went past clusters of wondering citizens, shouting sympathizers, and silent cattle-men, until there was a hoot of derision, and, perhaps in the hope of provoking a conflict in which the rest would join, a knot of men pushed out into the street from the verandah of the wooden hotel. Grant realized that a rash blow might unloose a storm of passion and rouse to fury men who were already regretting their supineness.
“Keep your pace and distance!” he commanded.
Looking straight in front of them, shadowy and silent, the leading four rode on, and once more the crowd melted from in front of them. As the last of the band passed through the opening that was made for them a man laughed as he turned in his saddle.
“We can’t stay any longer, boys, but it wasn’t your fault. It’s a man you want for Sheriff,” he said.
“No talking there! Gallop!” said Grant, and the horsemen flitted across the railroad track, and with a sinking thud of hoofs melted into the prairie. They had accomplished their purpose, and the cattle-men, going back disgustedly to remonstrate with the Sheriff, for a while failed to find him.
IX
THE PRISONER
The prairie was shining white in the moonlight with the first frost when Torrance, Hetty, and Miss Schuyler drove up to Allonby’s ranch. They were late in arriving and found a company of neighbours already assembled in the big general room. It was panelled with cedar from the Pacific slope, and about the doors and windows were rich hangings of tapestry, but the dust was thick upon them and their beauty had been wasted by the moth. Tarnished silver candlesticks and lamps which might have come from England a century ago, and a scarred piano littered with tattered music, were in keeping with the tapestry; for signs of taste were balanced by those of neglect, while here and there a roughly patched piece of furniture conveyed a plainer hint that dollars were scanty with Allonby. He was from the South, a spare, grey-haired man, with a stamp of old-fashioned dignity, and in his face a sadness not far removed from apathy and which, perhaps, accounted for the condition of his property.
His guests, among whom were a number of young men and women, were, however, apparently light-hearted, and had whiled away an hour or two with song and badinage. A little removed from them, in a corner with the great dusty curtain of a window behind her, sat Hetty Torrance with Allonby’s nephew and daughter. Miss Allonby was pale and slight and silent; but her cousin united the vivacity of the Northerner with the distinction that is still common in the South, and – for he was very young – Hetty found a mischievous pleasure in noticing his almost too open admiration for Flora Schuyler, who sat close beside them. A girl was singing indifferently, and when she stopped, Miss Allonby raised her head as a rhythmical sound became audible through the closing chords of the piano.
“Somebody riding here in a hurry!” she said.
It was significant that the hum of voices which followed the music ceased as the drumming of hoofs grew louder; the women looked anxious and the men glanced at one another. Tidings brought in haste were usually of moment then. Torrance, however, stood up and smiled at the assembly.
“I guess some of those rascally rustlers have been driving off a steer again,” he said. “Can’t you sing us something, Clavering?”
Clavering understood him, and it was a rollicking ballad he trolled out with verve and spirit; but still, though none of the guests now showed it openly, the anxious suspense did not abate, and by and by Miss Allonby smiled at the lad beside her somewhat drily.
“Never mind the story, Chris. I guess we know the rest. That man is riding hard, and you are as anxious as any of us,” she said.
A minute or two later there was a murmur of voices below, and Allonby went out. Nobody appeared to notice this, but the hum of somewhat meaningless talk which followed and the strained look in one or two of the women’s faces had its meaning. Every eye was turned towards the doorway until Allonby came back and spoke with Torrance apart. Then he smiled reassuringly upon his guests.
“You will be pleased to hear that some of our comrades have laid hands upon one of the leaders in the attack upon the jail,” he said. “They want to lodge him here until they can send for the Sheriff’s posse, and of course I could only agree. Though the State seems bent on treating us somewhat meanly, we are, I believe, still loyal citizens, and I feel quite sure you will overlook any trifling inconvenience the arrival of the prisoner may cause you.”
“Doesn’t he put it just a little curiously?” suggested Flora Schuyler.
“Well,” said Christopher Allonby, “it really isn’t nice to have one of our few pleasant evenings spoiled by this kind of thing.”
“You don’t understand. I am quite pleased with your uncle, but there’s something that amuses me in the idea of jailing one’s adversary from patriotic duty.”
Christopher Allonby smiled. “There’s a good deal of human nature in most of us, and it’s about time we got even with one or two of them.”
“Find out about it, Chris,” said Miss Allonby; “then come straight back and tell us.”
The young man approached a group of his elders who were talking together, and returned by and by.
“It was done quite smartly,” he said. “One of the homestead boys who had fallen out with Larry came over to us, and I fancy it was Clavering fixed the thing up with him. The boys didn’t know he had deserted them, and the man he took the oats to believed in him.”
“I can’t remember you telling a tale so one could understand it, Chris,” said Miss Allonby. “Why did he take the oats to him?”
The lad laughed. “They have their committees and executives, and when a man has to do anything they send a few grains of oats to him. One can’t see much use in it, and we know ’most everything about them; but it makes the thing kind of impressive, and the rustler fancied our boy was square when he got them. He was to ride over alone and meet somebody from one of the other executives at night in a bluff. He went, and found a band of cattle-boys waiting for him. I believe he hadn’t a show at all, for the man who went up to talk to him grabbed his rifle, but it seems he managed to damage one or two of them.”
“You don’t know who he is?” asked Miss Allonby; and Flora Schuyler noticed a sudden intentness in Hetty’s eyes.
“No,” said the lad, “but the boys will be here with him by and by, and I’m glad they made quite sure of him, any way.”
Hetty’s eyes sparkled. “You can’t be proud of them! It wasn’t very American.”
“Well, we can’t afford to be too particular, considering what we have at stake; though it might have sounded nicer if they had managed it differently. You don’t sympathize with the homestead boys, Miss Torrance?”
“Of course not!” said Hetty, with a little impatient gesture. “Still, that kind of meanness does not appeal to me. Even the men we don’t like would despise it. They rode into the town without a cartridge in their rifles, and took out their friends in spite of the Sheriff, while the crowd looked on.”
“It was Larry Grant fixed that, and ’tisn’t every day you can find a man like him. It ’most made me sick when I heard he had gone over to the rabble.”
“You were a friend of his?” asked Flora Schuyler.
“Oh, yes;” and a little shadow crept into Allonby’s face. “But, that’s over now. When a man goes back on his own folks there’s only one way of treating him, and it’s not going to be nice for Larry if we can catch him. We’re in too tight a place to show the man who can hurt us most much consideration.”
Hetty turned her head a moment, and then changed the subject, but not before Flora Schuyler noticed the little flush in her cheek. The music, laughter, and gay talk began again, and if anyone remembered that while they chased their cares away grim men who desired their downfall toiled and planned, no sign of the fact was visible.
Twenty minutes passed, and then the thud of hoofs once more rose from the prairie. It swelled into a drumming that jarred harsh and portentous through the music, and Hetty’s attention to the observations of her companions became visibly less marked. One by one the voices also seemed to sink, and it was evidently a relief to the listeners when a girl rose and closed the piano. Somebody made an effort to secure attention to a witty story, and there was general laughter, but it also ceased, and an impressive silence followed. Out of it came the jingle of bridles and trampling of hoofs, as the men outside pulled up, followed by voices in the hall, and once more Allonby went out.
“They’re right under this window,” said his nephew. “Slip quietly behind the curtains, and I think you can see them.”
Flora Schuyler drew the tapestry back, the rest followed her and Christopher Allonby flung it behind them, so that it shut out the light. In a moment or two their eyes had become accustomed to the change, and they saw a little group of mounted men close beneath. Two of them dismounted, and appeared to be speaking to some one at the door, but the rest sat with their rifles across their saddles and a prisoner in front of them. His hat was crushed and battered, his jacket rent, and Flora Schuyler fancied there was a red trickle down his cheek; but his face was turned partly away from the window, and he sat very still, apparently with his arms bound loosely at the wrists.
“All these to make sure of one man, and they have tied his hands!” she said.
Hetty noticed the ring in her companion’s voice, and Allonby made a little deprecatory gesture.
“It’s quite evident they had too much trouble getting him to take any chances of losing him,” he said. “I wish the fellow would turn his head. I fancy I should know him.”
A tremor ran through Hetty for she also felt she recognized that tattered figure. Then one of the horsemen seized the captive’s bridle, and the man made a slight indignant gesture as the jerk flung off his hands. Flora Schuyler closed her fingers tight.
“If I were a man I should go down and talk quite straight to them,” she said.
The prisoner was sitting stiffly now, but he swayed in the saddle when one of the cattle-men struck his horse and it plunged. He turned his head as he did so, and the moonlight shone into his face. It was very white, and there was a red smear on his forehead. Hetty gasped, and Flora Schuyler felt her fingers close almost cruelly upon her arm.
“It’s Larry!” she said.
Christopher Allonby nodded. “Yes, we have him at last,” he said. “Of course, one feels sorry; but he brought it on himself. They’re going to put him into the stable.”
The men rode forward, and when they passed out of sight Hetty slipped back from behind the curtain, and, sat down, shivering as she looked up at Miss Schuyler.
“I can’t help it, Flo. If one could only make them let him go!”
“You need not let any of them see it,” said Miss Schuyler, sharply. “Sit quite still here and talk to me. Now, what right had those men to arrest him?”
The warning was sufficient. Hetty shook out her dress and laughed, though her voice was not steady.
“It’s quite simple,” she said. “The Sheriff can call out any citizen to help him or send any man off after a criminal in an emergency. Of course, being a responsible man he stands in with us, and in times like these the arrangement suits everybody. We do what seems the right thing, and the Sheriff is quite pleased when we tell him.”
Flora Schuyler smiled drily. “Yes. It’s delightfully simple. Still, wouldn’t it make the thing more square if the other men had a good-natured Sheriff, too?”
“Now you are laughing at me. The difference is that we are in the right.”
“And Larry, of course, must be quite wrong!”
“No,” said Hetty, “he is mistaken. Flo, you have got to help me – I’m going to do something for him. Try to be nice to Chris Allonby. They’ll send him to take care of Larry.”
Miss Schuyler looked steadily at her companion. “You tried to make me believe you didn’t care for the man.”
A flush stole into Hetty’s cheek, and a sparkle to her eyes. “Can’t you do a nice thing without asking questions? Larry was very good to me for years, and – I’m sorry for him. Any way, it’s so easy. Chris is young, and you could fool any man with those big blue eyes if he let you look at him.”
Flora Schuyler made a half-impatient gesture, and then, sweeping her dress aside, made room for Christopher Allonby. She also succeeded so well with him that when the guests had departed and the girls came out into the corral where he was pacing up and down, he flung his cigar away and forsook his duty to join them. It was a long ride to Cedar Range, and Torrance had decided to stay with Allonby until morning.
“It was very hot inside – they would put so much wood in the stove,” said Hetty. “Besides, Flo’s fond of the moonlight.”
“Well,” said Allonby, “it’s quite nice out here, and I guess Miss Schuyler ought to like the moonlight. It’s kind to her.”
Flora Schuyler laughed as they walked past the end of the great wooden stable together. “If you look at it in one sense, that wasn’t pretty. You are guarding the prisoner?”
“Yes,” said the lad, with evident diffidence. “The boys who brought him here had ’bout enough of him, and they’re resting, while ours are out on the range. I’m here for two hours any way. It’s not quite pleasant to remember I’m watching Larry.”
“Of course!” and Miss Schuyler nodded sympathetically. “Now, couldn’t you just let us talk to him? The boys have cut his forehead, and Hetty wanted to bring him some balsam. I believe he used to be kind to her.”
Allonby looked doubtful, but Miss Schuyler glanced at him appealingly – and she knew how to use her eyes – while Hetty said:
“Now, don’t be foolish, Chris. Of course, we had just to ask your uncle, but he would have wanted to come with us and would have asked so many questions, while we knew you would tell nobody anything. You know I can’t help being sorry for Larry, and he has done quite a few nice things for you, too.”
“Miss Schuyler is going with you?”
“Of course,” and Hetty smiled mischievously as she glanced at her companion. “Still, you needn’t be jealous, Chris. I’ll take the best care she doesn’t make love to him.”
Flora Schuyler looked away across the prairie, which was not quite what one would have expected from a young woman of her capacities; but the laughing answer served to banish the lad’s suspicions, and he walked with them towards the door. Then he stopped, and when he drew a key from an inner pocket Hetty saw something twinkle in the moonlight at his belt.
“Chris,” she said, “stand still for a minute and shut your eyes quite tight.”
The lad did as he was bidden, for a few years ago he had been the complaisant victim of Hetty’s pleasantries, and felt a light touch on his lips. Then, there was a pluck at his belt, and Hetty was several yards away when he made a step forward with his eyes wide open. She was laughing at him, but there was a pistol in her hand.
