well if his horse stumbled.
He reached home in time to see Donny run across the road with the shotgun, and the orchard in time to prevent a general rush upon Stanley and his fellows—which was fortunate. He got them all out of the garden and into the house by sheer determination and biting sarcasm, and bore with surprising patience their angry upbraidings. He sat stoically silent while they called him a coward and various other things which were unpleasant in the extreme, and he even smiled when they finally desisted and trailed off sullenly to bed.
But when they were gone he sat alone upon the porch, brooding over the day and all it had held of trouble and perplexity. Evadna appeared tentatively in the open door, stood there for a minute or two waiting for some overture upon his part, gave him a chilly good-night when she realized he was not even thinking of her, and left him. So great was his absorption that he let her go, and it never occurred to him that she might possibly consider herself ill-used. He would have been distressed if he could have known how she cried herself to sleep but, manlike, he would also have been puzzled.
CHAPTER XVIII
A SHOT FROM THE RIM-ROCK
Good Indian was going to the stable to feed the horses next morning, when something whined past him and spatted viciously against the side of the chicken-house. Immediately afterward he thought he heard the sharp crack which a rifle makes, but the wind was blowing strongly up the valley, and he could not be sure.
He went over to the chicken-house, probed with his knife-blade into the plank where was the splintered hole, and located a bullet. He was turning it curiously in his fingers when another one plunked into the boards, three feet to one side of him; this time he was sure of the gun-sound, and he also saw a puff of blue smoke rise up on the rim-rock above him. He marked the place instinctively with his eyes, and went on to the stable, stepping rather more quickly than was his habit.
Inside, he sat down upon the oats-box, and meditated upon what he should do. He could not even guess at his assailant, much less reach him. A dozen men could be picked off by a rifle in the hands of one at the top, while they were climbing that bluff.
Even if one succeeded in reaching the foot of the rim-rock, there was a forty-foot wall of unscalable rock, with just the one narrow fissure where it was possible to climb up to the level above, by using both hands to cling to certain sharp projections while the feet sought a niche here and there in the wall. Easy enough—if one were but left to climb in peace, but absolutely suicidal if an enemy stood above.
He scowled through the little paneless window at what he could see of the bluff, and thought of the mile-long grade to be climbed and the rough stretch of lava rock, sage, and scattered bowlders to be gone over before one could reach the place upon a horse. Whoever was up there, he would have more than enough time to get completely away from the spot before it would be possible to gain so much as a glimpse of him.
And who could he be? And why was he shooting at Good Indian, so far a non-combatant, guiltless of even firing a single shot since the trouble began?
Wally came in, his hat far back on his head, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and his manner an odd mixture of conciliation and defiance, ready to assume either whole-heartedly at the first word from the man he had cursed so unstintingly before he slept. He looked at Good Indian, caught sight of the leaden pellet he was thoughtfully turning round and round in his fingers, and chose to ignore for the moment any unpleasantness in their immediate past.
“Where you ketchum?” he asked, coming a bit closer.
“In the side of the chicken-house.” Good Indian’s tone was laconic.
Wally reached out, and took the bullet from him that he might juggle it curiously in his own fingers. “I don’t think!” he scouted.
“There’s another one there to match this,” Good Indian stated calmly, “and if I should walk over there after it, I’ll gamble there’d be more.”
Wally dropped the flattened bullet, stooped, and groped for it in the litter on the floor, and when he had found it he eyed it more curiously than before. But he would have died in his tracks rather than ask a question.
“Didn’t anybody take a shot at you, as you came from the house?” Good Indian asked when he saw the mood of the other.
“If he did, he was careful not to let me find it out.” Wally’s expression hardened.
“He was more careless a while ago,” said Good Indian. “Some fellow up on the bluff sent me a little morning salute. But,” he added slowly, and with some satisfaction, “he’s a mighty poor shot.”
Jack sauntered in much as Wally had done, saw Good Indian sitting there, and wrinkled his eyes shut in a smile.
“Please, sir, I never meant a word I said!” he began, with exaggerated trepidation. “Why the dickens didn’t you murder the whole yapping bunch of us, Grant?” He clapped his hand affectionately upon the other’s shoulder. “We kinda run amuck yesterday afternoon,” he confessed cheerfully, “but it sure was fun while it lasted!”
“There’s liable to be some more fun of the same kind,” Wally informed him shortly. “Good Injun says someone on the bluff took a shot at him when he was coming to the stable. If any of them jumpers—”
“It’s easy to find out if it was one of them,” Grant cut in, as if the idea had just come to him. “We can very soon see if they’re all on their little patch of soil. Let’s go take a look.”
They went out guardedly, their eyes upon the rim-rock. Good Indian led the way through the corral, into the little pasture, and across that to where the long wall of giant poplars shut off the view.
“I admire courage,” he grinned, “but I sure do hate a fool.” Which was all the explanation he made for the detour that hid them from sight of anyone stationed upon the bluff, except while they were passing from the stable-door to the corral; and that, Jack said afterward, didn’t take all day.
Coming up from the rear, they surprised Stanley and one other peacefully boiling coffee in a lard pail which they must have stolen in the night from the ranch junk heap behind the blacksmith shop. The three peered out at them from a distant ambush, made sure that there were only two men there, and went on to the disputed part of the meadows. There the four were pottering about, craning necks now and then toward the ranch buildings as if they half feared an assault of some kind. Good Indian led the way back to the stable.
“If there was any way of getting around up there without being seen,” he began thoughtfully, “but there isn’t. And while I think of it,” he added, “we don’t want to let the women know about this.”
“They’re liable to suspect something,” Wally reminded dryly, “if one of us gets laid out cold.”
Good Indian laughed. “It doesn’t look as if he could hit anything smaller than a haystack. And anyway, I think I’m the boy he’s after, though I don’t see why. I haven’t done a thing—yet.”
“Let’s feed the horses and then pace along to the house, one at a time, and find out,” was Jack’s reckless suggestion. “Anybody that knows us at all can easy tell which is who. And I guess it would be tolerably safe.”
Foolhardy as the thing looked to be, they did it, each after his own manner of facing a known danger. Jack went first because, as he said, it was his idea, and he was willing to show his heart was in the right place. He rolled and lighted a cigarette, wrinkled his eyes shut in a laugh, and strolled nonchalantly out of the stable.
“Keep an eye on the rim-rock, boys,” he called back, without turning his head. A third of the way he went, stopped dead still, and made believe inspect something upon the ground at his feet.
“Ah, go on!” bawled Wally, his nerves all on edge.
Jack dug his heel into the dust, blew the ashes from his cigarette, and went on slowly to the gate, passed through, and stood well back, out of sight under the trees, to watch.
Wally snorted