The Benevolent Liar/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
It was not yet dawn when Tom, with conflicting memories, in which Edith Barnes had the most prominent part, turned into the Bonanza Trail. He had resolutely hastened his departure from the Barnes home when informed by the mine owner of the prospector's message; and now, walking homeward, he thought with something more than affection of all that Price had done for him. He asked nothing more than to “make good” and merit such loyalty. He was strangely confident, happy, and hopeful, when he came to the narrow place in the trail, and then, in the waning moonlight, he saw what lay thereon.
He walked fearfully forward, in a bent attitude, until by stooping over he recognized the face, and, with a strained cry, fell on his knees by the prospector, calling his name in desperate concern. He lifted the head, exposing the little, dark pool beneath, and suffered all the alarm of death, then slowly he rested the head back and with nervous, hasty fingers plucked open the blue shirt. His fingers came in contact with the exposed flesh, and he thrilled with the knowledge that it was still warm. He laid his ear against the heart and found it still beating weakly, and then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to wipe away the stains from the temple and examine the wound. He could not define the extent of its gravity, and, almost in panic, fell to chafing the listless hands and wrists until aware that such ministrations might prove futile and a waste of time.
He got to his feet and saw that the moon must shortly wane, and that he must do something if he would work with its failing light to guide. He struggled, desperately exerting his no mean strength, and finally got the limp and heavy weight up on his back and shoulders. He staggered forward under his burden, bent, panting, and straining until it seemed that his heart must burst with the effort. The cabin was less than half a mile away, and fortunately on a gentle, downhill course; yet, strong as he was, it required his ultimate strength to do the journey. His jaws were set, sweat dropped from his forehead over his eyes and nostrils, and he counted his steps to assure himself of progress. He reeled dizzily when, at barely a snail's pace and half dragging his burden, he came to the cabin door, threw his weight against it, felt the wooden latch snap, and fell on the bunk, where he lay for a moment, too exhausted to shift the inert weight from his back.
He wondered, almost in a panic of helplessness, what to do next; then, trembling, undressed Josh, got him beneath the blankets, and tried the efficacy of laving the still face with water from the household pail. Failing to revive his partner, he ran to the other room, slipped off his patent-leather shoes, tore off his collar and tie, his coat, vest, and suspenders, seized his working belt, buckled it tightly around him, and caught up a pair of loose, old shoes that he had found for comfort. He was panting from his haste when he pulled the cabin door shut behind him and started back toward Shingle.
To reach Frank Barnes was his goal, for Barnes would know best where to summon a surgeon. Dripping and panting, he raced up the long avenue of trees and through the gate, and saw, with an immense joy, that two of the windows of the house were still dimly lighted, indicating that the last of the dancers had but recently gone, and that host and hostess were preparing for bed, but not yet asleep. He forgot the bell in his distress and banged savagely and insistently on the door. A window over the veranda was thrown open, and he heard Barnes' call: “Well, well? What's wanted? Who is it?”
“It is I, Tom Rogers, Mr. Barnes,” he called hoarsely. “Come down! For God's sake, come quickly!”
He heard Barnes, the man of action, who knew the value of time in emergency, running down the staircase, and the door was jerked open. Tom leaned against the doorpost and between pants stammered his news. He was not even aware that a slim, girlish form in a white dressing robe and slippers had come behind her father, and, with clasped hands, was listening.
Barnes swore one heavy, angry oath and whirled.
“Edith!” he commanded. “Run across the street just as you are and get the doctor. Tell him to bring his emergency case. Then you go out to his stable and saddle his horse while he is dressing. Tom and I will be out in the road, waiting. Hurry, now! That's my girl!”
Without a word, she sprang past them and toward the gate.
“Tom, you go in to the sideboard and take a big drink of brandy to pull you up.”
He was halfway up the stairs before Tom could obey, and in an incredibly short time was racing downward again, dragging his shirt over his head as he came, and shouting instructions:
“Follow the path around the house to the stables, where I shall be saddling a couple of horses!”
A minute later, Tom, slowly regaining his breath and feeling the grateful stimulant, followed. He saw a light from a window across the road and heard voices. He stood to one side of the stable door, leaning against a post and slowly recovering, when Barnes shouted: “Catch this horse as he comes out! I'll bring the other.”
He obeyed and mounted, as they trotted slowly across the lawn and through the open front gate, instead of taking a more devious way, and came to a halt in the road. The doctor seemed unusually slow in coming, Tom thought impatiently. He saw a white shape rush past them toward the Barnes house, and the mine owner shouted: “Edith! Is he coming?”
“Yes” floated back, and again they waited.
Once more she appeared, more somberly clad, and ran past them.
“I'll hurry him up,” she called.
Barnes was strangely silent, sitting restlessly on his restive horse with all the skill that displayed the many years he had passed in the saddle.
“You can bet your life on one thing,” he said, suddenly turning toward Tom, “that if they've killed Josh Price, I'll get the man that did it if it takes all the time and money I've got! There is one of the whitest, squarest, truest men that ever lived. You don't know how white he is. I couldn't tell you in a week of all the decent things that man, rough and ugly as he is, has done for others. His faults were all brave ones. His weaknesses the kind that had no malice.”
Tom shuddered at the use of the past tense, and wondered if the surgeon would be too late or helpless to avert this tragedy that threatened to leave him bereft. Two horses came clattering through the surgeon's gate.
“Why—why, Edith! You're not going, are you?” Barnes asked, in a tone of surprise.
“Certainly,” she said. “Perhaps I can help.”
“Well, come on, then! We've no time to waste.”
He suddenly released the reins of his mount and swung the horse on its hind heels and galloped down the road. The others followed.. Tom's horse was ahead of the surgeon's and Edith's when they came to the end of the long main street down which they had thudded, surrounded by echoes; but already the mine owner had gone from sight. He bent forward and urged his horse to a run, the wind whistling past his ears and chilling his sweat-drenched shirt. He came to the cabin to see the miner's horse standing, with laboring sides and relaxed head, beside the open door. He flipped his reins over his horse's head in Western fashion and went in. Barnes was bending over the prospector, who did not seem to have moved. In but a short time Edith and the surgeon had joined them and the latter had taken charge.
“Hold that lamp closely, here, some one!” he said, and the girl caught the lamp from the table and obeyed. Tom noted with admiration that the hand that held it did not waver or tremble.
“Water!” said the surgeon tersely, opening his case.
Tom hastened to bring the pail.
“Frank, bolster his head up higher with something,' said the surgeon. “Now! That's better. We'll see. It looks pretty bad—but—never can tell.”
He immersed his fingers in the pail, wiped them on some cotton from his case, poured an antiseptic preparation over them, and began bathing the wound and feeling it with deft fingers, while the light brought out the intent frown of his brows and eyes. He turned at last, caught a pair of glittering scissors from the case, and began deftly clipping the wet hair from about the wound. No one spoke. All stood in an absorbed attitude of suspense. The red light of dawn filtered in and about them until the lamp began to pale; and then, with the last bandage placed, the surgeon straightened himself stiffly as if the bent posture had cramped him, and said: “That will do. We shall not need the light any longer.”
Edith put the lamp on the table, with a sigh of relaxation, and blew it out. Tom poured fresh water from another pail into the washbasin that stood on a little shelf outside the cabin door, and the surgeon walked to it, laved his hands, and accepted the proffered towel. He stood wiping his long, competent fingers with it when he pronounced his verdict.
“It's a bad wound,” he said to his three auditors, who stood breathlessly intent. “A mere fraction of a part of an inch—a small part—and all I could have done would have been nothing. I may have to trephine as it is. I can't tell until I have a better light. The skull is furrowed for some distance, and in one place has been shattered. The brain has not been broken, I think. I can't tell yet whether there is pressure on it, but I am hopeful” He paused thoughtfully, while Tom's heart throbbed like a steam hammer and Frank Barnes leaned his head forward with wide eyes. “Yes, I'm reasonably certain that he will live.”
Tom suddenly felt weak in the knees and dropped to the bench beside the cabin door.
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the girl, scarcely above a whisper; but Frank Barnes unexpectedly brought a closed fist into an open palm with an explosive “spat” and said: “Good! What you say, doc, goes for me, and that settles that. Now, the next thing is, who did it, and why? This is no job for a sheriff, who has to be brought down from the county seat. The town authorities of Shingle have nothing to do with it, because it's outside their jurisdiction. We don't want a lot of curious muckers talking about it and butting in out-here to get in our way. And I'm going to tackle this proposition myself, because I've got the right of an old friend, the time, and, if it's any use, the money.”
“Well, Barnes,” said the surgeon, “I think he will pull through. And if you wish it kept quiet, I shall say nothing to any one. You may need a nurse, and”
“I shall do that part,” interrupted Edith. “I took a course. I am capable.”
“That's right, Edith,” agreed Barnes approvingly. “If your mother were alive she'd volunteer in the same way. Now, doc, you give my girl instructions. And you, Tom, come along with me back up to where you found Josh. You and I have got a little work to do. Hold on a minute! We'll unsaddle those horses 'and give them a little water. They're cooled out now.”
“I shall remain here a while,” the doctor said quietly. “I must make another inspection of that wound when it gets broad daylight.” He consulted his watch. “I have four hours to spare,” he concluded.
It was broad daylight when they stood above the bloodstained spot in the narrow place of the trail, and Tom had finished his explanation.
“Good!” said Barnes. “Now, you see, he was probably walking straight ahead when he was creased. The trail is straight that way for two hundred yards. The bullet must have been fired from somewhere ahead and on Josh's left side, because that would be the angle to inflict such a wound on the right side. That is, unless his head was turned, which is not likely. If it had been fired from the other side, the bullet would have entered his head and killed him. Whoever did it was a good shot, I think. So we will go down the trail again and see what we can see. I think it must have been at fairly short range, because the bullet was at high velocity when it struck, leaving a clean, sharp furrow. A half-spent bullet would have smashed his head like an egg. Are you a good trailer? Had any experience?”
“I'm afraid not,” Tom admitted.
“Then you stay here. I am, and I don't want any extra tracks to bother over, or any extra broken twigs, or any other signs brushed out.”
He sat in the road and pulled off his boots and Tom watched him as he began, bent and methodical, his search beside the road.
“I think,” he said, straightening up and thoughtfully scowling down the trail, “that if I were to ambush a man in this place, expecting to shoot him by moonlight, I'd probably get behind those bowlders down there. Guess I'll go there first.”
He came back into the trail, and Tom kept abreast until they reached the selected place. Barnes left the road and began a careful investigation. Tom could see that he was beginning to show disappointment as yard after yard of bare rock was vainly inspected, and then saw him halt in his tortuous progress and drop to his knees.
“Got something here!” Barnes exclaimed. “Come up and see what you think of them. Pretty plain sign, too, you can bet.”
Tom joined him, and saw where a man had stood behind a bowlder.
“He waited quite a bit,” Barnes said. “See? He smoked two brown-paper cigarettes, and, getting cramped from waiting so long, got up occasionally and moved around to stretch his legs. He shot with a rifle. Stood it here while he waited. It's got a rubber shoulder shield, I have an idea, because the corners aren't sharp, and this ground is pretty moist.”
Tom made a wider circle.
“Here, Mr. Barnes!” he called. “Here is a very moist place, and the marks are plainer than any down there.”
The mine owner joined him.
“Fine! It certainly is,” he said. He looked up and saw that Tom was closely inspecting the boot print with puzzled eyes.
“Why—why,” Tom blurted out, “I'll swear I believe that is almost exactly the size of the footprint that Josh was trying to identify! Like the one we found back there by the bald rock on the main road.”
Barnes appeared bewildered.
“Down at the cabin, some place, Josh has a piece of slate with exact measurements,” exclaimed Tom, still staring at the print. “I'll go down and get it, and a ruler, if I can find them.”
He looked up exultantly, saw the inquiring look in Barnes' eyes, was abruptly aware that he had said too much, and flushed. He bent far over, nervously pretending to make a second investigation of the telltale mark, and, with averted head, walked back toward the road.
“I'll get them,” he called over his shoulder, while he hastened away.
“The same that … Piece of slate What on earth does he mean?” self-questioned the mine owner, sitting down and staring absently at the marks.
And Tom, down in the road, around the first bend, was standing still, biting his lip, and trying to measure the possibilities before him. If his surmise were correct—that the man who had discovered the loot from the robbed pay wagon was the same who had shot Josh Price, Tom Rogers' protector—then to forego the connecting evidence might mean that the man who had tried to murder Josh Price would escape. And to bring that piece of slate would necessitate some explanation to Frank Barnes, father of Edith Barnes, who already, in a half dozen meetings, had brought the repentant, distressed amateur outlaw to her feet.
He was suddenly aware that through two contributing factors he had achieved patience and hope, and had picked up the clean threads of life again, and that one of these was the stanch friend who lay hovering between life and death in the cabin below, and the other the girl who had received him and indirectly lifted him from despondency over failure and mistake to a plane where he could find hope. These two had given him courage to begin life anew. His throat restricted, and he felt like one who lays all upon an altar of sacrifice. He resumed his way, mindful of the man waiting for his return, and stumbled down the trail.
Stretched on the bench beside the door, the surgeon lay asleep, unmindful of the rising sun. From the kitchen end of the cabin came the smell of coffee brewing for future needs, and of bacon, crisping and appetizing. Pete, the favorite burro, was standing watchfully, his head inside the kitchen door. Tom stepped quietly inside, and, solicitous, stood above the bunk on which his partner rested, as quietly as before. Tom bent his head above the relaxed, parted lips and listened. The breathing of the unconscious man seemed deeper, stronger, more regular, as if vitality were fighting and winning from death, the opponent.
Knowing how great a value the prospector had placed upon that tablet of slate, Tom sought it in the most certain spot beneath the head of the bunk. His fingers found it with the first effort, and he withdrew it gently, as if fearing to rouse its grievously wounded owner. He picked the trousers up from the back of a homemade chair, where he had thrown them in haste, and the new carpenter's rule slipped from a hip pocket, its burnished brass binding catching and reflecting yellow rays of light. He tiptoed from the cabin needlessly, but fearful that his movements might disturb the sleeper, and ran around behind it toward the trail.
“That's funny!” exclaimed Frank Barnes, kneeling over the track whose measurements he had taken and tallied upon the slate. “Mighty odd! But the measurements of this track are identical with those on a piece of slate!”
Still resting on his knees, he looked up at the young man who stood beside him. Something in the tense lines of the latter's face arrested him. He got to his feet and folded the rule and held it and the tablet in his hand.
“Well,” he said, in a puzzled voice, “what I didn't quite get was why Josh had this other track marked down. What was he looking for? What had the other track to do with this? Where and how did he get it, and why? Explain it to me. Maybe we've got the answer of the whole confounded thing here, and to me it looks mighty important, as far as finding out what we've got to know is concerned.”
“It is important,” said Tom, looking him squarely in the eyes, but speaking in a voice heavy with hopelessness. “It is the measurement of an imprint left by the man who got the gold stolen from the Horseshoe. Josh and I tried to find him in the hope of returning that clean-up, because I was the man who held the pay wagon up and robbed it, and cached the gold.”