Part 55 (1/2)

Casey and Sheriff Dove did not start the next afternoon. A telegram had detained the sheriff, and he did not reach Chakchak till night. He spent the evening with them, taking a great fancy to Clyde. He even blossomed out as a story teller, spinning yarns without embellishment and with great clearness. He told of cattle wars, of outlaws, of Indian fighters, of strange occurrences, of strange men, primitive of mind and of action, who had played their parts in the history of the West. It was information at first-hand, rare nowadays, and the listeners found the evening too short.

”Blanket time,” said the sheriff, looking at his watch. ”I ain't a young nighthawk no more. If we're to git a good start----”

”We'd like to hear more, sheriff,” said Clyde.

”Sho!” said Sheriff Dove, well pleased. ”I could keep yarnin' half the night to a pretty girl. I ain't too old for that. Maybe when we get back we'll have another session.”

Outside on the veranda she slipped her arm in his. ”Take good care of Casey for me, sheriff, please.”

”I sure will, little girl,” he replied. ”Don't you go to worryin', now.

There's no call to. If it was easier travellin' you might come along, for all the trouble there'll be.” He smiled down at her in fatherly fas.h.i.+on, his great, sinewy arm pressing hers, and the pressure rea.s.sured her.

”Thank you, sheriff. You--you're a _dear_!”

”Do I git a bid to the weddin'?”

”Of course you do.” Clyde blushed and laughed. ”Only I don't know just when it will be.”

”Make it soon,” he advised. ”Life's short, little girl. Take all the happiness you can git. Good night.”

They rode westward in the morning before the sun had risen, and camped that night in the foothills, having seen n.o.body. They entered the pa.s.s, and immediately came upon the trail of horses.

”Looks like there's been some travel,” said the sheriff. ”This here pa.s.s used much?”

”Not at this time of year. The Indians use it in the fall. They hunt across the range.”

”These horses is shod,” the sheriff remarked. ”I sh'd say there's been half a dozen of 'em. Not less. Maybe more. I've knowed men that could tell exact.”

”Not many of them left now.”

”That's so. There ain't much need for trailin' these days. Too many telegraph wires.”

They held to the pa.s.s, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the fire, smoking.

”This bunch of hosses,” the sheriff observed, ”seems to have split up here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the valley. What's down there?”

”Just valley. It's partly open and part heavy timber. There was a pack trail cut through once, but it's mostly grown up.”

”n.o.body lives down there?”

”Not a soul. Now and then somebody traps in winter.”

”Um.” The sheriff was thoughtful for some moments. ”Does McHale know the country hereabouts?”

”Fairly well. Better than I do. And McCrae knows it better than he does.”

”Um.” The sheriff became silent again. ”When a man goes to hidin' out,”

he observed after a long pause, ”he 'most always. .h.i.ts for the country he knows. Seems like it's human nature. I'd do it myself, and so'd you.

Seems like a man that's wanted is suspicious of strange ground. He don't know what's in it, and he's afraid of gettin' cornered. He don't know what he's goin' to run up against any mile. It's a mean feelin', that. It keeps a man on edge every minute. So he naturally makes for the district he's at home in. It's a mistake, but they all make it.