'There mustn't be any mistakes. Rescuing the girl should square you with Welcome, which--with your customary stupidity--you have rubbed the wrong way.'
'Hell, Seth, you got no call to bawl me out like that,' Sark protested. 'My nerves is all shot up--been hittin' thebottle too much, I guess. I ain't forgettin' all you've done for me.'
'You'd best not,' was the ominous retort. 'I'm the boss; bear that in mind and we'll get along. Keep me posted.' With this autocratic farewell lie departed. Sark gazed after the huddled, black-coated form seated clumsily in the saddle as it moved slowly across the plain; the fear that makes men murder was in his eyes.
He splashed some liquor into a glass and raised it in mock salutation. 'Here's to yore everlastin' damnation, my--friend.'
Chapter XV
IT was past midnight and Welcome lay shrouded in unbroken darkness when a band of five masked riders, with a led animal, pulled up on the outskirts of the town and dismounted. Leaving two of their number to take charge of the horses, the other three stepped cautiously forward until they reached the rear of the restaurant. Despite the gloom they could see that the door was strongly built.
'Forcin' that will make a noise,' one of them whispered to the tall man who appeared to be the leader.
'I ain't a fool, Javert,' was the reply. 'There was two keys to this lock an' I still got one of 'em.' He stooped, fumbled for a moment, there was a slight grating noise, and the door swung back. With a cat-like tread, the marauders filed in, and made their way to the bedroom. One of them stumbled as he entered, and a female voice asked :
'Who is there?' Instantly Jake's rough hand closed her mouth. 'One more sound an' it'll be the worse for you,' he said hoarsely. 'Git some clothes on, an' if you want yore brat to live, keep mum. Wrap up, it's cold outside.'
'Where is my child?' she cried. 'What have you done with it?'
'I told you not to talk,' was the stern reply. 'The kid's safe--so far; it depends on you. Git busy--you got five minutes.' The indistinct shadows in the room faded away. With frantic haste she dressed, her heart pounding with fear. Who could these men be, and what did they want with her? The voice of their leader, though obviously disguised, had a familiar note. She heard the door open.
'Time's up.'
'Where are you taking me?' she ventured.
'Wait an' see.' With a sob of despair she surrendered and allowed them to lead her to where the horses were waiting, and lift her to the back of the spare one. Then the journey through the night began. Once she looked round, but could see no sign of the child; one rider, however, was behind the others, and it might be .. .
Sick with dread, she rode on, sitting slackly in the saddle, utterly overwhelmed by this sudden catastrophe.
They had been riding for hours--as it seemed to her--when the distant sound of tumbling water told her that they must be in the neighbourhood of the Silver Mane, the only fall of any size near Welcome. Were they bound for the Dumb-bell? Had Sark dared to do this thing? But the voice of the leader was not his, and presently, having crossed The Step, they veered northward, climbing a long slope, fording the creek above the fall, and heading, as she now guessed, for the hill country. Her heart grew heavier, as tales of the wild men, cattle-thieves and outlaws, who found a refuge in those almost inaccessible heights, recurred to her.
With the coming of the dawn, her gaze went anxiously to the rear, but the last rider was a mere blur in the grey, misty light.
'Keep yore eyes on the hoss,' a harsh voice ordered. 'The hardest part is to come.' Furtively she studied the speaker, but her scrutiny told nothing. Then, as his mount made a mis-step, he dragged on his rein, and she saw a white scar--relic of an old wound --running across the back of his hand. Mullins! She knew now why the muffled voice had seemed familiar. The knowledge contributed little in the shape of comfort.
Worn out, listless, and full of fear, the girl was aware only of an unending procession of straight black tree- trunks through which they wound with unerring precision. These seemed to have a mesmeric influence, and she was indeed barely conscious when they rode into the growing daylight once more and stopped at a stout, two- storied block-house.
'Git down.' The curt command aroused her, but stiff with cold and fatigue, she could not move; the man had to lift her from the saddle. The brief contact bred a repulsion which gave her new strength, and when he would have helped her further, she protested.
'I--can--walk.' Nevertheless, he gripped one arm and led her into the building, through a large room, and up a rude staircase to a smaller one, in which was a pallet bed, covered with a couple of coarse blankets.
'Rough quarters, but you won't be here long--if yo're wise,' he told her.
He went out, locking the door, but returned in a little while with a glass containing liquor. She shook her head.
'Drink it,' he ordered. 'I don't want a sick woman on my hands.' With an effort she swallowed the fiery spirit, which, though it made her choke, produced a warm glow in her chilled body.
'Bring my child,' she said. 'I've kept my part of the bargain.'
'Go on keepin' it an' you'll see him--later,' he replied, and with a leer in the slitted eyes, 'I'll have to learn you a lesson if you don't behave, an' I'm hopin' you won't. Sabe?' She sank down upon the bed and buried her face in her hands. The screech of the key as it turned in the lock drove home the helplessness of her position. While they held the child, she was tied, forced to comply with any demand they might make.
Night was drawing on when Sudden reached his destination. Bentley was larger even than he had expected, and the main street--for the place boasted more than one--was thronged. The brightly-lighted stores and saloons lit up a scene which, at another time, might have been interesting, but the marshal's long ride had left him with little appetite for further exertion. Moreover, he was not anxious for his presence to be known. So having secured a meal and a bed at one of the smaller hotels, he retired to rest.
Early next morning, he presented himself at the prison, situated about half a mile from the town. To the armed guard at the great iron gate, he explained who he was, and requested an interview with the Warden. After a short wait in a cell-like room furnished only with a couple of forms and a table, he was conducted across a wide yard to the main portion of the structure.
The room into which he was shown differed vastly from the one where he had waited. A comfortably-fitted office, the walls book-lined, chairs which invited occupation, a leather-covered desk, and behind it, a grey-haired man of fifty, who scanned his visitor closely.
'Have a seat, marshal,' he said. 'And tell me what I can do for you.'
'I thought mebbe yu could give me some information which might help in a matter I'm lookin' into,' Sudden explained.
'I'm at your service.'
'I've heard that yu had here, some years back, a man named Jesse Sark. Is that so?' The Warden rose, reached down a heavy register, and turned the pages. 'Here we are,' he said. 'Jesse Sark, clerk, convicted of robbing the bank where he was employed, and sent down for two years. There's a picture of him, if that interests you.' It did; the marshal stared at it in astonishment. 'That's not the fella,' he said disappointedly.
'It was taken when he came in, and the name is an uncommon one.'
'He must 'a' changed considerable,' Sudden reflected aloud.
The Warden looked up sharply. 'He probably has--men do when they're under the turf, I believe,' he replied drily, and added, 'Sark died just before his sentence was completed--we had an epidemic of fever in the prison.' Sudden's face fell. 'Seems I've been followin' a blind trail an' bothered yu for nothin',' he said. A thought occurred to him. 'There's just one point: did yore Sark have a confederate called Kent?' The Warden consulted another volume, and, after a short search, pointed to a page. 'This must be the one : Ezra Kent, convicted with, and sentenced to the same punishment as Sark. Discharged at the end of his term. His portrait is here also. Why, what is the matter, marshal?' For Sudden's expression was one of complete puzzlement. 'But that's the man I know as Jesse Sark,' he cried. 'Yu couldn't 'a' got the pictures mixed up, I s'pose?'
'Not possible,' was the reply. 'And if it had happened, this man'--tapping Kent's photograph--'would be in his grave.'
'Shore, that don't explain it,' Sudden agreed. 'Well, seh, I was beginnin' to fear I'd wasted my time, but
