Scott Burton on the Range

by Edward G. Cheyney

Early in the evening the ’phone rang. He had already become so nervous that he jumped almost out of his skin at the sound. It was the supervisor.

“I have only a minute, Burton, and must talk fast. You made a beautiful clean up of that bunch to-day and from a few things I have found out since, I believe you are right about all the rest of it. Jed is crazy. He has loaded up on fire water and is telling every one what he is going to do to you and the whole service. I want you to keep out of his way. You are probably no match for him with a gun and moreover I do not want any fights if I can help it.

“I understand that the big reservoir on the upper plateau is about full. The snows are melting pretty fast now. I want you to start up there early to-morrow and watch it. When it reaches the twenty foot mark open the spillway; it will raise Cain if it overflows. Stop and tell Baxter to look after your district, but do not tell any one else where you are going. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Scott answered.

“I’ll send for you when I want you for that investigation. So long. Take care of yourself.”

Scott had forgotten his fears while the supervisor was talking, but with the click of the receiver the old loneliness came over him again. So Jed was on the war path and Ramsey thought there was danger. He recognized that his assignment to the reservoir was only an excuse to get him out of the way. He was glad of the excuse himself and wondered whether the sensible thing would not be to go to Baxter’s for the night.

He had a hard time swallowing the idea of running away, even when he knew that it was the sensible thing to do. The cabin felt like a trap to him and he wandered out under the stars. He had a show there, no one could sneak up on him. He sat down on a log at the edge of the clearing and listened to the night noises as he had done so many times before. As the distant sounds floated up to him on the still night air and his trained ear caught the scurrying of tiny feet in the bushes about him, his confidence came back to him. He felt safe enough out there. It was just a matter of woodcraft now, and in that he was not afraid to put himself against any man. That would be a fair contest.

Far up along the ridge trail to the east a woman was running desperately. She was keeping to the shadow as much as possible and looking nervously back over her shoulder. Her breath was coming in gasps and it seemed as though she must give up, but she staggered on doggedly. The yapping of the coyotes and the lurking shadows of the forest trail seemed to have no horrors for her. They were overshadowed by another horror far more terrible. Her face wore a look of dread, but it was not the dread of the dangers of the night. She did not give a thought to her own safety. She was running a race with death and her only thought was that she might be too late.

She turned down the little trail to the patrolman’s cabin and made one more desperate effort. Her strength was failing but the sight of the light in the cabin seemed to buoy her up and lend wings to her feet. There was yet time. She staggered uncertainly to the open door of the cabin. There was no one there. The disappointment was too much for her and she sank to the step with a sob.

To Scott, sitting quietly in the shadow of the forest’s edge, the sight of this disheveled woman gliding into the flood of light from the cabin door had appeared like a specter. He hesitated a moment, suspicious of every one, but at the sound of that heartbroken sob he forgot his own danger and hastened to her. He raised the limp form gently and recognized Mrs. Dawson.