of the hurt is over. Take care of yourself. Be as kind and just as you can in this terrible business. That's all I can say. I've lived in Casabella too long ever to expect a happy ending. Always it has been black curses, killings, treachery and brutality. I will stay here, no matter what happens. And...be careful."
She drew away, and as he turned he caught one glimpse of her white, clear face. Then he was on the porch, finding his party ready. He mounted and led it north along the yard, halting once to give Haggerty a last order. "Get the handy man to turn out a box for Nickum—and the rest of it. Don't leave this place until you hear from me."
"Where'll you be?" challenged Haggerty, a glint of slyness in the sullen eyes.
"Somewhere north of here," replied Clint, and presseti on. He swept on out into the prairie. Some time after he looked back and discovered a rider cutting away from the ranch to the southwest; and he smiled grimly.
CHAPTER VIII
Blind Bowlus sat on his doorstep that evening and stirred uneasily the crisp air. During the late afternoon his sharp ears had picked up the tremble of riders going rapidly southward through the pines. The average man would have missed the sound but Bowlus, almost sightless, absorbed the news of the world through his ears with an ability approaching the miraculous. The average man, also, would have thought nothing about these casual rumors of hoofbeats. Here again Bowlus knew better. The very tempo of the air first interested, then warned him. Later he heard the brush crackling back of his place, dying so suddenly that he knew an ambush had been established. At dusk a single rider had passed completely around the clearing on a scout, whereupon Bowlus grunted scornfully, "Damn fool, I couldn't draw a bead on him, blind as I be. Nobody fools old Bowlus."
All this was preliminary. He ate his supper, full in the knowledge that this little clearing was the center around which forces groped and parried for advantage. Dusk passed into dark and for a short interval the world was in the spell of a deep, pervading stillness. Bowlus, true to his habits, smoked a pipe, cheeks slightly turned to catch the first faint runner of night's breeze. He loved to rest on the stoop and feel the universe absorb the dying day, to wait ifor the first sound of wind in the leaves and to catch, through the blurred windows of his soul, the first faint sparkle of stars. These were elementary pleasures, but all that Bowlus had left to him; and like some pagan he steeped himself in the peace and vast serenity of it. Yet not this evening; his sensitive mind was alive to the impalpable threats of forthcoming struggle, his solitude destroyed. And because he was part and parcel of the rangeland he clenched his old fists and shook them outward.
"If I had my sight back—just for a month, even—they could cut me down and be damned to 'em. I'd ride with Box M again, I would. I'd swallow smoke and sling lead and sweat blood, like they're sure going to do. Just one more lick, that's all I'd ask. Hell, better be dead than useless."
He drew in his arms and listened. A stray fragment of sound came slow and soft over the clearing. His dog, crouched by the steps, rose and stiffened. Bowlus said, "Shut up, Tige," and ran a hand over the beast to discover which way he pointed. The dog's muzzle was against the east, trembling with a suppressed growl. "You hush, Tige, and mind your own business." A bit of metal jingled. Then all this faded and was lost for a full five minutes. Bowlus grew rigid, teeth clamping around the stem of his pipe. Fear came to him, the first time in years of lonely living. For the first time he felt a physical presence threatening his own safety. Somebody stood near by, ominously silent. Bowlus gripped the dog at his side with swift pressure to keep the animal from baying; instinctively he felt that his own life depended on remaining still and seemingly ignorant. So he talked idly to the dog.
"Fine evening. Fine, large evening, Tige. Stars is awful big tonight. Been a sort of a hot day, but she's a nice breeze right now. Yessir, Tige, we got a good quiet place to live."
Tige resisted his pressure and broke into a vicious growl. A voice near by muttered, "Keep that brute quiet or I'll strangle him, Bowlus."
Bowlus relaxed at the sound of the voice. The sinister silence was broken, his senses made contact with reality. Moreover, he knew the fellow. Out of the vast gallery of tones he had catalogued and stored away he took the rather high-pitched, immature voice of Curly and matched it with the present talk. It fitted.
"Lord sakes," he muttered, "you scared me." And for diplomatic reasons he went artlessly on. "Kind of upsets a blind gent like me to be disturbed by a stranger after dark."
"Don't know who I am, uh?"
"I can scarcely see daylight, let alone a face in the dark."
Curly advanced. Bowlus saw the flicker of a hand passing in front of his eyes, but kept his head very still. "I always wondered just bow blind you was," grumbled Curly. "I seen too many tricks in my life to be took to camp. But I reckon you're really sightless."
"Blind as a bat. I reckon you might be hungry. Most riders coming my way are. Step in and I'll toss a can o' beans for you—"
Curly interrupted. "Anybody around here, old man?"
"Just me and my dog."
Curly whistled softly. In another moment Bowlus made out riders sifting through the trees. Curly had edged into the cabin for a look. He came out again and walked off, softly giving orders to somebody. Then he returned and laid a hand on Bowlus' shoulder, pressing down hard. "You tell me the truth, old buzzard, or I'll take pleasure in laying my gun across that brittle skull of yours. I'd do it, too, savvy? Nobody around these woods, uh?"
"It's been awful quite today," said old Bowlus. "I ain't talked to a soul."
"Hear anything? Don't lie!"
Bowlus, from the tone of the outlaw's voice, visualized Curly leaning forward wolfishly, half-inclined to strike. So he decided on half-truth and spoke softly. "I think a spread o'men passed along the trail a spell before dark."
"Which way?"
"Towards Angels."
"Heard anything since—any brush rattle, any gear squeak, horses, or like that? Has your dog been uneasy. Smell anything in the wind?"
"Not till you come," said Bowlus. "But—" and he affected sudden mystery, "that bunch didn't seem to come back from Angels."
A long silence. Men were moving with sibilant swiftness about the clearing. Curly had gone off once more and Bowlus thought he was rid of the man. But the renegade was like a cat, evading even Bowlus' preternaturally sharp ears; without warning he was back, grumbling, "I don't trust you, not for a minute. When I see a stray horse on the landscape, I want to kill him or put him in my string. Same applies to you. Maybe you're a harmless duffer, but on the other hand you might be bait. Don't say anything, don't move outside of your cabin tonight. I'm watching this place all the time. If I—"
Bowlus waited patiently. He felt them ease off into the woods and it appeared as if the meadow was free of their presence again. His dog alternately lay stiffly silent or rose to growl. Somewhere in the high ground he caught the snap of a bough.
"Trap," he decided. "But who set it, Box M or Curly? Looks to me as if Box M had done such, for Curly acted like he smelled a rat. What brought him over? This ain't his country. I'd like to know what them shots meant this morning."
The breeze grew sharper; the man's old bones protested the cramped position he had so long held. Rising, he pushed the dog inside the house and followed, closing the door. Match in hand, he forebore striking it. A light would only bring grief on his head. Better to wait in the cold. Sit and wait, for sleep was not to be this blood-scented night.
"Tige, if I only had sight—"
Then he drew a great sigh and leaned against the wall. A single shot sent up a muffled echo amid the trees above the clearing. After this was a short lull, a breathless suspense as if the creatures of the earth were cringing away from man's sinister folly. It was only a moment. Another shot sounded, waking somewhere a swift reply. A ragged fusillade