The Girl of the Golden West (16 page)

"I wasn't really asleep," spoke up the Girl, blinking sleepily.
"I'm jest so happy an' let down, that's all." The next moment,
however, she was forced to acknowledge that she was awfully sleepy
and would have to say good-night.

"All right," said Johnson, rising, and kissed her
good-night.

"That's your bed over there," she told him, pointing in the
direction of the curtains.

"But hadn't you better take the bed and let me sleep over
here?"

"Not much!"

"You're sure you would be more comfortable by the fire—sure,
now?"

"Yes, you bet!"

And so it was that Johnson decided to pass the night in the
Girl's canopied bed while she herself, rolled up in a blanket rug
before the fire, slept on the floor.

"This beats a bed any time," remarked the Girl, spreading out
the rug smoothly; and then, reaching up for the old patchwork, silk
quilt that hung from the loft, she added: "There's one thing—you
don't have to make it up in the mornin'."

"You're splendid, Girl!" laughed Johnson. Presently, he saw her
quietly closet herself in the cupboard, only to emerge a few
minutes later dressed for the night. Over her white cambric gown
with its coarse lace trimming showing at the throat, she wore a red
woollen blanket robe held in at the waist by a heavy, twisted, red
cord which, to the man who got a glimpse of her as she crossed the
room, made her prettier, even, than she had seemed at any time
yet.

Quietly, now, the Girl began to put her house in order. All the
lights, save the quaintly-shaded lamp that was suspended over the
table, were extinguished; that one, after many unsuccessful
attempts, was turned down so as to give the right minimum of light
which would not interfere with her lover's sleep. Then she went
over to the door to make sure that it was bolted. Outside the wind
howled and shrieked and moaned; but inside the cabin it had never
seemed more cosey and secure and peaceful to her.

"Now you can talk to me from your bunk an' I'll talk to you from
mine," she said in a sleepy, lazy voice.

Except for a prodigious yawn which came from the Girl there was
an ominous quiet hanging over the place that chilled the man.
Sudden sounds startled him, and he found it impossible to make any
progress with his preparations for the night. He was about to make
some remark, however, when to his well-attuned ears there came the
sound of approaching footsteps. In an instant he was standing in
the parting made by the curtains, his face eager, animated,
tense.

"What's that?" he whispered.

"That's snow slidin'," the Girl informed him without the
slightest trace of anxiety in her voice.

"God bless you, Girl," he murmured, and retreated back of the
curtains. It was only an instant before he was back again with:
"Why, there is something out there—sounded like people calling," he
again whispered.

"That's only the wind," she said, adding as she drew her robe
tightly about her: "Gettin' cold, ain't it?"

But, notwithstanding her assurances, Johnson did not feel
secure, and it was with many misgivings that he now directed his
footsteps towards the bed behind the curtains.

"Good-night!" he said uneasily.

"Good-night!" unconsciously returned the Girl in the same
tone.

Taking off her slippers the Girl now put on a pair of moccasins
and quietly went over to her bed, where she knelt down and made a
silent prayer.

"Good-night!" presently came from a little voice in the rug.

"Good-night!" answered the man now settled in the centre of the
much-befrilled bed.

There was a silence; then the little voice in the rug called
out:

"Say, what's your name?"

"Dick," whispered the man behind the curtains.

"So long, Dick!" drowsily.

"So long, Girl!" dreamily.

There was a brief silence; then, of a sudden, the Girl bolted
upright in bed, and asked:

"Say, Dick, are you sure you don't know that Nina
Micheltoreña?"

"Sure," prevaricated the man, not without some compunction.

Whereupon the Girl fell back on her pillows and called out
contentedly a final "Good-night!"

There was no mistaking then—no need to contrast her feeling of
anxiety of a few moments ago lest some other woman had preceded her
in his affections, with her indifference on former occasions when
her admirers had proved faithless, to make the Girl realise that
she was experiencing love and was dominated by a passion for this
man.

So that, with no reason whatever in her mind to question the
sincerity of Johnson's love for her, it would seem as if nothing
were wanting to make the Girl perfectly happy; that there could be
no room in her heart for any feeling other than elation. And yet,
curiously enough, the Girl could not doze off to sleep. Some
mysterious force—a vague foreboding of something about to
happen—impelled her to open her eyes again and again.

It was an odd and wholly new sensation, this conjuring up of
distressing spectres, for no girl was given less to that sort of
thing; all the same, it was with difficulty that she checked an
impulse to cry out to her lover—whom she believed to be asleep—and
make him dissipate, by renewed assurances, the mysterious barrier
which she felt was hemming her in.

As for Johnson, the moment that his head had touched the
pillows, he fell to thinking of the awkward situation in which he
was placed, the many complications in which his heart had involved
him and, finally, he found himself wondering whether the woman whom
he loved so dearly was also lying sleepless in her rug on the
floor.

And so it was not surprising that he should spring up the moment
that he heard cries from outside.

"Who's that knockin', I wonder?"

Although her voice showed no signs of distress or annoyance, the
question coming from her in a calm tone, the Girl was upon her feet
almost before she knew it. In a trice she removed all evidences
that she had been lying upon the floor, flinging the pillows and
silk coverlet to the wardrobe top.

In that same moment Johnson was standing in the parting of the
curtains, his hand raised warningly. In another moment he was over
to the door where, after taking his pistols from his overcoat
pockets, he stood in a cool, determined attitude, fingering his
weapons.

"But some one's ben callin'," the Girl was saying, at the very
moment when above the loud roaring of the wind another knock was
heard on the cabin door. "Who can it be?" she asked as if to
herself, and calmly went over to the table, where she took up the
candle and lit it.

Springing to her side, Johnson whispered tensely:

"Don't answer—you can't let anyone in—they wouldn't
understand."

The Girl eyed him quizzically.

"Understand what?" And before he had time to explain, much less
to check her, she was standing at the window, candle in hand,
peering out into the night.

"Why, it's the posse!" she cried, wheeling round suddenly. "How
did they ever risk it in this storm?"

At these words a crushed expression appeared on Johnson's
countenance; an uncanny sense of insecurity seized him. Once more
the loud, insistent pounding was repeated, and as before, the
outlaw, his hands on his guns, commanded her not to answer.

"But what on earth do the boys want?" inquired the Girl,
seemingly oblivious to what he was saying. Indeed, so much so that
as the voice of Nick rose high above the other sounds of the night,
calling,

"Min-Minnie-Girl, let us in!" she hurriedly brushed past him and
yelled through the door:

"What do you want?"

Again Johnson's hand went up imperatively.

"Don't let him come in!" he whispered.

But even then she heard not his warning, but silently,
tremulously listened to Sonora, who shouted through the door: "Say,
Girl, you all right?" And not until her answering voice had called
back her assurance that she was safe did she turn to the man at her
side and whisper in a voice that showed plainly her agitation and
fear:

"Jack Rance is there! If he was to see you here—he's that
jealous I'd be afraid—" She checked her words and quickly put her
ear close to the door, the voices outside having become louder and
more distinct. Presently she spun round on her heel and announced
excitedly: "Ashby's there, too!" And again she put her ear to the
door.

"Ashby!" The exclamation fell from Johnson's lips before he was
aware of it. It was impossible to deceive himself any longer—the
posse had tracked him!

"We want to come in, Girl!" suddenly rang out from the
well-known voice of Nick.

"But you can't come in!" shouted back the Girl above the noise
of the storm; then, taking advantage of a particularly loud howl of
the blast, she turned to Johnson and inquired: "What will I say?
What reason will I give?"

Serious as was Johnson's predicament, he could not suppress a
smile. In a surprisedly calm voice he told her to say that she had
gone to bed.

The Girl's eyes flooded with admiration.

"Why, o' course—that's it," she said, and turned back to the
door and called through it: "I've gone to bed, Nick! I'm in bed
now!"

The barkeeper's answer was lost in another loud howl of the
blast. Soon afterwards, however, the Girl made out that Nick was
endeavouring to convey to her a warning of some kind.

"You say you've come to warn me?" she cried.

"Yes, Ramerrez…!"

"What? Say that again?"

"Ramerrez is on the trail—"

"Ramerrez's on the trail!" repeated the Girl in tones of alarm;
and not waiting to hear further she motioned to Johnson to conceal
himself behind the curtains of the bed, muttering the while:

"I got to let 'em in—I can't keep 'em out there on such a
night…" He had barely reached his place of concealment when the
Girl slid back the bolts and bade the boys to come in.

Headed by Rance, the men quickly filed in and deposited their
lanterns on the floor. It was evident that they had found the storm
most severe, for their boots were soaked through and their heavy
buffalo overcoats, caps and ear-muffs were covered with snow, which
all, save Rance, proceeded to remove by shaking their shoulders and
stamping their feet. The latter, however, calmly took off his
gloves, pulled out a beautifully-creased handkerchief from his
pocket, and began slowly to flick off the snow from his elegant
mink overcoat before hanging it carefully upon a peg on the wall.
After that he went over to the table and warmed his hands over the
lighted candle there. Meanwhile, Sonora, his nose, as well as his
hands which with difficulty he removed from his heavy fur mittens,
showing red and swollen from the effects of the biting cold, had
gone over to the fire, where he ejaculated:

"Ouf, I'm cold! Glad you're safe, Girl!"

"Yes, Girl, The Polka's had a narrow squeak," observed Nick,
stamping his feet which, as well as his legs, were wrapped with
pieces of blankets for added warmth.

Unconsciously, at his words, the Girl's eyes travelled to the
bed; then, drawing her robe snugly about her, and seating herself,
she asked with suppressed excitement:

"Why, Nick, what's the matter? What's—"

Rance took it upon himself to do the answering. Sauntering over
to the Girl, he drawled out:

"It takes you a long time to get up, seems to me. You haven't so
much on, either," he went on, piercing her with his eyes.

Smilingly and not in the least disconcerted by the Sheriff's
remark, the Girl picked up a rug from the floor and wound it about
her knees.

"Well?" she interrogated.

"Well, we was sure that you was in trouble," put in Sonora. "My
breath jest stopped."

"Me? Me in trouble, Sonora?" A little laugh that was half-gay,
half-derisive, accompanied her words.

"See here, that man Ramerrez—" followed up Rance with a grim
look.

"—feller you was dancin' with," interposed Sonora, but checked
himself instantly lest he wound the Girl's feelings.

Whereupon, Rance, with no such compunctions, became the
spokesman, a grimace of pleasure spreading over his countenance as
he thought of the unpleasant surprise he was about to impart.
Stretching out his stiffened fingers over the blaze, he said in his
most brutal tones:

"Your polkying friend is none other than Ramerrez."

The Girl's eyes opened wide, but they did not look at the
Sheriff. They looked straight before her.

"I warned you, girl," spoke up Ashby, "that you should bank with
us oftener."

The Girl gave no sign of having heard him. Her slender figure
seemed to have shrunken perceptibly as she stared stupidly,
uncomprehendingly, into space.

"We say that Johnson was—" repeated Rance, impatiently.

"—what?" fell from the Girl's lips, her face pale and set.

"Are you deaf?" demanded Rance; and then, emphasising every
word, he rasped out: "The fellow you've been polkying with is the
man that has been asking people to hold up their hands."

"Oh, go on—you can't hand me out that!" Nevertheless the Girl
looked wildly about the room.

Angrily Rance strode over to her and sneered bitingly:

"You don't believe it yet, eh?"

"No, I don't believe it yet!" rapped out the Girl, laying great
stress upon the last word. "I know he isn't."

"Well, he 
is
 Ramerrez, and
he 
did
 come to The Polka to rob it," retorted
the Sheriff.

All at once the note of resentment in the Girl's voice became
positive; she flared back at him, though she flushed in spite of
herself.

"But he didn't rob it!"

"That's what gits me," fretted Sonora. "He didn't."

"I should think it would git you," snapped back the Girl, both
in her look and voice rebuking him for his words.

It was left to Ashby to spring another surprise.

"We've got his horse," he said pointedly.

"An' I never knowed one o' these men to separate from his
horse," commented Sonora, still smarting under the Girl's
reprimand.

"Right you are! And now that we've got his horse and this storm
is on, we've got him," said Rance, triumphantly. "But the last seen
of Johnson," he went on with a hasty movement towards the Girl and
eyeing her critically, "he was heading this way. You seen anything
of him?"

The Girl struggled hard to appear composed.

"Heading this way?" she inquired, reddening.

"So Nick said," declared Sonora, looking towards that individual
for proof of his words.

But Nick had caught the Girl's lightning glance imposing silence
upon him; in some embarrassment he stammered out:

"That is, he was—Sid said he saw 'im take the trail, too."

"But the trail ends here," pointed out Rance, at the same time
looking hard at the Girl. "And if she hasn't seen him, where was he
going?"

At this juncture Nick espied a cigar butt on the floor; unseen
by the others, he hurriedly picked it up and threw it in the
fire.

"One o' our dollar Havanas! Good Lord, he's here!" he muttered
to himself.

"Rance is right. Where was he goin'?" was the question with
which he was confronted by Sonora when about to return to the
others.

"Well, I tho't I seen him," evaded Nick with considerable
uneasiness. "I couldn't swear to it. You see it was dark, an'—Moses
but the Sidney Duck's a liar!"

At length, Ashby decided that the man had in all probability
been snowed under, ending confidently with:

"Something scared him off and he lit out without his horse."
Which remark brought temporary relief to the Girl, for Nick,
watching her, saw the colour return to her face.

Unconsciously, during this discussion, the Girl had risen to her
feet, but only to fall back in her chair again almost as suddenly,
a sign of nervousness which did not escape the sharp eye of the
Sheriff.

"How do you know the man's a road agent?" A shade almost of
contempt was in the Girl's question.

Sonora breathed on his badly nipped fingers before
answering:

"Well, two greasers jest now were pretty positive before they
quit."

Instantly the Girl's head went up in the air.

"Greasers!" she ejaculated scornfully, while her eyes
unfalteringly met Rance's steady gaze.

"But the woman knew him," was the Sheriff's vindictive
thrust.

The Girl started; her face went white.

"The woman—the woman d'you say?"

"Why, yes, it was a woman that first tol' them that Ramerrez was
in the camp to rob The Polka," Sonora informed her, though his tone
showed plainly his surprise at being compelled to repeat a thing
which, he wrongly believed, she already knew.

"We saw her at The Palmetto," leered Rance.

"And we missed the reward," frowned Ashby; at which Rance
quickly turned upon the speaker with:

"But Ramerrez is trapped."

There was a moment's startled pause in which the Girl struggled
with her passions; at last, she ventured:

"Who's this woman?"

The Sheriff laughed discordantly.

"Why, the woman of the back trail," he sneered.

"Nina Micheltoreña! Then she does know 'im—it's true—it goes
through me!" unwittingly burst from the Girl's lips.

The Sheriff, evidently, found the Situation amusing, for he
laughed outright.

"He's the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts
your throat," was his next stab.

The Girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted:

"Well, it's my throat, ain't it?"

"Well I'll be!—" The Sheriff's sentence was left unfinished, for
Nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered:

"Say, Rance, the Girl's cut up because she vouched for 'im.
Don't rub it in."

Notwithstanding, Rance, to the Girl's query of "How did this
Nina Micheltoreña know it?" took a keen delight in telling her:

"She's his girl."

"His girl?" repeated the Girl, mechanically.

"Yes. She gave us his picture," went on Rance; and taking the
photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, "with love
written on the back of it."