It was with full cognizance of these facts and their uselessness to him that the next morning Mr. Ned Brice turned from the road where the coach had just halted on the previous night and approached the settlers cabin. If a little less sanguine than he was in Yuba Bills presence, he was still doggedly inflexible in his design, whatever it might have been, for he had not revealed it even to Yuba Bill. It was his own; it was probably crude and youthful in its directness, but for that reason it was probably more convincing than the vacillations of older counsel.
He paused a moment at the closed door, conscious, however, of some hurried movement within which signified that his approach had been observed. The door was opened, and disclosed only the old woman. The same dogged expression was on her face as when he had last seen it, with the addition of querulous expectancy. In reply to his polite Good-morning, she abruptly faced him with her hands still on the door.
Ye kin stop right there! Ef yer want ter make any talk about this yar robbery, ye might ez well skedaddle to oncet, for we aint takin any to-day!
I have no wish to talk about the robbery, said Brice quietly, and as far as I can prevent it, you will not be troubled by any questions. If you doubt my word or the intentions of the company, perhaps you will kindly read that.
He drew from his pocket a still damp copy of The Red Dog Clarion and pointed to a paragraph.
Wots that? she said querulously, feeling for her spectacles.
Shall I read it?
Go on.
He read it slowly aloud. I grieve to say it had been jointly concocted the night before at the office of the Clarion by himself and the young journalistthe latters assistance being his own personal tribute to the graces of Miss Flo. It read as follows:
The greatest assistance was rendered by Hiram Tarbox, Esq., a resident of the vicinity, in removing the obstruction, which was, no doubt, the preliminary work of some of the robber gang, and in providing hospitality for the delayed passengers. In fact, but for the timely warning of Yuba Bill by Mr. Tarbox, the coach might have crashed into the tree at that dangerous point, and an accident ensued more disastrous to life and limb than the robbery itself.
The sudden and unmistakable delight that expanded the old womans mouth was so convincing that it might have given Brice a tinge of remorse over the success of his stratagem, had he not been utterly absorbed in his purpose. Hiram! she shouted suddenly.
The old man appeared from some back door with a promptness that proved his near proximity, and glanced angrily at Brice until he caught sight of his wifes face. Then his anger changed to wonder.
Read that again, young feller, she said exultingly.
Brice re-read the paragraph aloud for Mr. Tarboxs benefit.
That ar Hiram Tarbox, Esquire, means YOU, Hiram, she gasped, in delighted explanation.
Hiram seized the paper, read the paragraph himself, spread out the whole page, examined it carefully, and then a fatuous grin began slowly to extend itself over his whole face, invading his eyes and ears, until the heavy, harsh, dogged lines of his nostrils and jaws had utterly disappeared.
Bgosh! he said, thats square! Kin I keep it?
Certainly, said Brice. I brought it for you.
Is that all ye came for? said Hiram, with sudden suspicion.
No, said the young man frankly. Yet he hesitated a moment as he added, I would like to see Miss Flora.
His hesitation and heightened color were more disarming to suspicion than the most elaborate and carefully prepared indifference. With their knowledge and pride in their relatives fascinations they felt it could have but one meaning! Hiram wiped his mouth with his hand, assumed a demure expression, glanced at his wife, and answered:
She aint here now.
Mr. Brices face displayed his disappointment. But the true lover holds a talisman potent with old and young. Mrs. Tarbox felt a sneaking maternal pity for this suddenly stricken Strephon.
Shes gone home, she added more gentlywent at sun-up this mornin.
Home, repeated Brice. Wheres that?
Mrs. Tarbox looked at her husband and hesitated. Then she saida little in her old mannerHer uncles.
Can you direct me the way there? asked Brice simply.
The astonishment in their faces presently darkened into suspicion again. Ef thats your little game, began Hiram, with a lowering brow
I have no little game but to see her and speak with her, said Brice boldly. I am alone and unarmed, as you see, he continued, pointing to his empty belt and small dispatch bag slung on his shoulder, and certainly unable to do any one any harm. I am willing to take what risks there are. And as no one knows of my intention, nor of my coming here, whatever might happen to me, no one need know it. You would be safe from questioning.
There was that hopeful determination in his manner that overrode their resigned doggedness. Ef we knew how to direct you thar, said the old woman cautiously, yed be killed outer hand afore ye even set eyes on the girl. The house is in a holler with hills kept by spies; yed be a dead man as soon as ye crossed its boundary.
Wot do YOU know about it? interrupted her husband quickly, in querulous warning. Wot are ye talkin about?
You leave me alone, Hiram! I aint goin to let that young feller get popped off without a show, or without knowin jest wot hes got to tackle, nohow ye kin fix it! And cant ye see hes bound to go, whatever ye says?
Mr. Tarbox saw this fact plainly in Brices eyes, and hesitated.
The most that I kin tell ye, he said gloomily, is the way the gal takes when she goes from here, but how far it is, or if it aint a blind, I cant swar, for I hevnt bin thar myself, and Harry never comes here but on an off night, when the coach aint runnin and thars no travel. He stopped suddenly and uneasily, as if he had said too much.
Thar ye go, Hiram, and ye talk of others gabblin! So ye might as well tell the young feller how that thar aint but one way, and thats the way Harry takes, too, when he comes yer oncet in an age to talk to his own flesh and blood, and see a Christian face that aint agin him!
Mr. Tarbox was silent. Ye know whar the tree was thrown down on the road, he said at last.
Yes.
The mountain rises straight up on the right side of the road, all hazel brush and thornwhar a goat couldnt climb.
Yes.
But thats a lie! for thars a little trail, not a foot wide, runs up from the road for a mile, keepin it in view all the while, but bein hidden by the brush. Ye kin see everything from thar, and hear a teamster spit on the road.
Go on, said Brice impatiently.
Then it goes up and over the ridge, and down the other side into a little gulch until it comes to the canyon of the North Fork, where the stage road crosses over the bridge high up. The trail winds round the bank of the Fork and comes out on the LEFT side of the stage road about a thousand feet below it. Thats the valley and hollow whar Harry lives, and thats the only way it can be found. For all along the LEFT of the stage road is a sheer pitch down that thousand feet, whar no one kin git up or down.
I understand, said Brice, with sparkling eyes. Ill find my way all right.
And when ye git thar, look out for yourself! put in the woman earnestly. Ye may have regular greenhorns luck and pick up Flo afore ye cross the boundary, for shes that bold that when she gets lonesome o stayin thar she goes wanderin out o bounds.
I understand, said Brice, with sparkling eyes. Ill find my way all right.
And when ye git thar, look out for yourself! put in the woman earnestly. Ye may have regular greenhorns luck and pick up Flo afore ye cross the boundary, for shes that bold that when she gets lonesome o stayin thar she goes wanderin out o bounds.
Hev ye any weppin,any shootin-iron about ye? asked Tarbox, with a latent suspicion.
The young man smiled, and again showed his empty belt. None! he said truthfully.
I aint sure ef that aint the safest thing arter all with a shot like Harry, remarked the old man grimly. Well, so long! he added, and turned away.
It was clearly a leave-taking, and Brice, warmly thanking them both, returned to the road.
It was not far to the scene of the obstruction, yet but for Tarboxs timely hint, the little trail up the mountain side would have escaped his observation. Ascending, he soon found himself creeping along a narrow ledge of rock, hidden from the road that ran fifty yards below by a thick network growth of thorn and bramble, which still enabled him to see its whole parallel length. Perilous in the extreme to any hesitating foot, at one point, directly above the obstruction, the ledge itself was missingbroken away by the fall of the tree from the forest crest higher up. For an instant Brice stood dizzy and irresolute before the gap. Looking down for a foothold, his eye caught the faint imprint of a womans shoe on a clayey rock projecting midway of the chasm. It must have been the young girls footprint made that morning, for the narrow toe was pointed in the direction she would go! Where SHE could pass should he shrink from going? Without further hesitation he twined his fingers around the roots above him, and half swung, half pulled himself along until he once more felt the ledge below him.
From time to time, as he went on along the difficult track, the narrow little toe-print pointed the way to him, like an arrow through the wilds. It was a pleasant thought, and yet a perplexing one. Would he have undertaken this quest just to see her? Would he be content with that if his other motive failed? For as he made his way up to the ridge he was more than once assailed by doubts of the practical success of his enterprise. In the excitement of last night, and even the hopefulness of the early morning, it seemed an easy thing to persuade the vain and eccentric highwayman that their interests might be identical, and to convince him that his, Brices, assistance to recover the stolen greenbacks and insure the punishment of the robber, with the possible addition of a reward from the express company, would be an inducement for them to work together. The risks that he was running seemed to his youthful fancy to atone for any defects in his logic or his plans. Yet as he crossed the ridge, leaving the civilized highway behind him, and descended the narrow trail, which grew wilder at each step, his arguments seemed no longer so convincing. He now hurried forward, however, with a feverish haste to anticipate the worst that might befall him.
The trail grew more intricate in the deep ferns; the friendly little footprint had vanished in this primeval wilderness. As he pushed through the gorge, he could hear at last the roar of the North Fork forcing its way through the canyon that crossed the gorge at right angles. At last he reached its current, shut in by two narrow precipitous walls that were spanned five hundred feet above by the stage road over a perilous bridge. As he approached the gloomy canyon, he remembered that the river, seen from above, seemed to have no banks, but to have cut its way through the solid rock.
He found, however, a faint ledge made by caught driftwood from the current and the debris of the overhanging cliffs. Again the narrow footprint on the ooze was his guide. At last, emerging from the canyon, a strange view burst upon his sight. The river turned abruptly to the right, and, following the mountain side, left a small hollow completely walled in by the surrounding heights. To his left was the ridge he had descended from on the other side, and he now understood the singular detour he had made. He was on the other side of the stage road also, which ran along the mountain shelf a thousand feet above him. The wall, a sheer cliff, made the hollow inaccessible from that side. Little hills covered with buckeye encompassed it. It looked like a sylvan retreat, and yet was as secure in its isolation and approaches as the outlaws den that it was.
He was gazing at the singular prospect when a shot rang in the air. It seemed to come from a distance, and he interpreted it as a signal. But it was followed presently by another; and putting his hand to his hat to keep it from falling, he found that the upturned brim had been pierced by a bullet. He stopped at this evident hint, and, taking his dispatch bag from his shoulder, placed it significantly upon a boulder, and looked around as if to await the appearance of the unseen marksman. The rifle shot rang out again, the bag quivered, and turned over with a bullet hole through it!
He took out his white handkerchief and waved it. Another shot followed, and the handkerchief was snapped from his fingers, torn from corner to corner. A feeling of desperation and fury seized him; he was being played with by a masked and skillful assassin, who only waited until it pleased him to fire the deadly shot! But this time he could see the rifle smoke drifting from under a sycamore not a hundred yards away. He set his white lips together, but with a determined face and unfaltering step walked directly towards it. In another moment he believed and almost hoped that all would be over. With such a marksman he would not be maimed, but killed outright.
He had not covered half the distance before a man lounged out from behind the tree carelessly shouldering his rifle. He was tall but slightly built, with an amused, critical manner, and nothing about him to suggest the bloodthirsty assassin. He met Brice halfway, dropping his rifle slantingly across his breast with his hands lightly grasping the lock, and gazed at the young man curiously.
You look as if youd had a big scare, old man, but youve clear grit for all that! he said, with a critical and reassuring smile. Now, what are you doing here? Stay, he continued, as Brices parched lips prevented him from replying immediately. I ought to know your face. Hello! youre the expressman! His glance suddenly shifted, and swept past Brice over the ground beyond him to the entrance of the hollow, but his smile returned as he apparently satisfied himself that the young man was alone. Well, what do you want?
I want to see Snapshot Harry, said Brice, with an effort. His voice came back more slowly than his color, but that was perhaps hurried by a sense of shame at his physical weakness.
What you want is a drop o whiskey, said the stranger good humoredly, taking his arm, and well find it in that shanty just behind the tree. To Brices surprise, a few steps in that direction revealed a fair-sized cabin, with a slight pretentiousness about it of neatness, comfort, and picturesque effect, far superior to the Tarbox shanty. A few flowers were in boxes on the windowsigns, as Brice fancied, of feminine taste. When they reached the threshold, somewhat of this quality was also visible in the interior. When Brice had partaken of the whiskey, the stranger, who had kept silence, pointed to a chair, and said smilingly:
I am Henry Dimwood, alias Snapshot Harry, and this is my house.
I came to speak with you about the robbery of greenbacks from the coach last night, began Brice hurriedly, with a sudden access of hope at his reception. I mean, of course,he stopped and hesitated,the actual robbery before YOU stopped us.