Scott Burton on the Range

by Edward G. Cheyney

While Scott finished his supper he planned carefully what he would do that evening. It would be no simple matter to locate that meeting place and get near enough to it to see and hear without being detected. At first he thought it would be best to go early and wait for the others, but he did not know exactly where it was to be and he did not know when Jed might get there. If Jed happened to get there before he did and saw him come snooping along he did not know exactly what would happen, but he felt pretty sure that he would not be in at the meeting. No, the safest plan would be to wait till Dawson had gone down the trail and then follow him.

Scott washed the dishes, finished up his diary and reports and straightened up the cabin. He glanced at his watch. It was just nine o’clock. He cast about for something to do, for he did not feel so nervous when he was busy, but he decided that nerves or no nerves the thing for him to do was sit quietly down and try to think of every contingency that might arise.

He pictured the situation as accurately as he could. He planned how he would try to approach them if they were in the open, or in the brush. He thought out just what he would say and do if they discovered him when he was coming down the trail or when he was eavesdropping on the conversation. He became so absorbed in it that he forgot all about his nerves.

He looked at his watch once more. Nine-thirty. Dawson might come along any time now. Suddenly it occurred to him that Dawson might come by the cabin to make sure that he was there. That would make it awkward. It would be very hard to get out of the cabin unnoticed without waiting so long after Dawson left that he might lose him. He decided to leave at once and wait for Dawson at the chute where the two trails met. Then he would be sure to see him whether he came by the cabin or not and it would not be so hard to follow him.

For a moment Scott looked uncertainly at the revolver hanging on the wall. He felt that he might need it to-night, but he had never carried one and he did not like the thing. His father’s coachman, an ex-prize fighter, had given him innumerable boxing lessons and he was not afraid of a fist fight with any man, but he did not like the idea of shooting a man. If he happened to hit a man—the chances of his doing so were not very good—he knew that he would always regret it and would keep wondering if it had really been unavoidable. He decided to leave the revolver.

There were no other preparations to make. He stuffed his flashlight into his pocket as an after thought, left the lamp burning as though he had just stepped out for a moment, and walked casually out of the cabin toward the wood pile. If Dawson were passing, it would be just as well that he did not see him walking down the trail. Once in the shadow of the woods he stopped and listened intently for some minutes. If there was any one else around he must have been doing the same thing for he could hear nothing. He circled around by the corral at the risk of a nicker from Jed and struck the trail once more well below the cabin. He walked carefully, avoiding the noisy gravel and arrived at the chute without accident.

Scott crawled into a little clump of aspens and settled down to wait. He had been doing so much of this hiding in the past few days that he began to feel like a sneak thief. It was a beautifully clear starlit night and cool as the nights in that high altitude always were. Scott missed the myriad night noises of the North, especially the incessant hum of the mosquitoes and other insects. Here there was not the buzz of a single wing. What few noises there were sounded strange to his Northern ear. The sharp yap of the coyote replaced the full throated bass of the timber wolf. He missed the weird cry of the loon and the sullen squawk of the blue heron. An almost imperceptible breeze set the aspen leaves to whispering softly.

Scott loved these night noises. Several nights at the cabin he had sat out in the open and listened to them a while before going to bed. Now they served to while away the time and break the monotony of his anxious vigil. He kept a sharp lookout on the junction of the trails and listened intently for he wanted to make certain whether Dawson had come by the cabin.

He was listening to the far away barking cry of a pack of coyotes on the trail of game, probably a rabbit. The sound rose and fell as the quarry led them up onto a ridge or down behind a hill, and almost died away altogether when the trail doubled back into some deep, spruce-filled cañon. He could almost see the chase and could tell whether they were gaining on their prey or losing ground. They were gaining now, gaining fast, probably with their victim in plain sight. The yaps were coming fast and furious and he expected them momentarily to break off with a snarl of triumph which he probably could not hear but would know was there.

Suddenly a faint click far up the trail in the direction of the cabin made him lose all interest in the distant chase. He listened tensely and caught the sound again. It came again, nearer this time, and soon he could hear the continuous clatter of steel hoofs of a pacing horse on the loose gravel of the trail. Dawson was coming and there was nothing silent or secret about the way he came. There was a difference between talking conspiracy over a public ’phone and riding over his own district where he could account for his presence in a thousand ways. In fact no one had the right to challenge him there at all. It suited Scott all right. The more noise Dawson made the easier it would be to follow him.