“Oh, no; José’s all right. He’s the best cowboy I’ve got and as docile as a yearling. He’s agreed to stay right on at the ranch with me. I’m glad to have such a smart, competent fellow to leave under Peters, for after the Fourth I expect to be away a good deal. I’ll have some time for myself then and I’m going into this hunt after Delafield for all I’m worth; I don’t think it will take me long to run him down now.”
Bancroft hesitated a moment, then, laying his hand on Conrad’s arm he spoke earnestly: “For God’s sake, Curt, give up this fool notion of yours. If you don’t, you’ll never get through alive. No sane man is going to let you get the drop on him, as you seem to think you can. He’s undoubtedly watching you right along, ready to put an end to the business as soon as he thinks you’re really dangerous. Let him pay you if he will; but stop this foolishness.”
Conrad laughed heartily and slapped Bancroft’s shoulder. “Why, Aleck,” said he, “the most satisfaction I’ve ever had comes out of knowing that I’m so hot on his tracks that I’ve got him buffaloed. Give it up? Not much! I’m going to lope down that trail at a two-minute gait, and Sumner L. Delafield is mighty soon going to wish he’d never been born.”
Bancroft turned half away, with a tightening of his lips under his brown moustache. “Very well. I’ll not trouble you with any more advice on the subject. But when you meet with disaster, as you undoubtedly will, you must remember that you’ve got nobody but yourself to blame. How’s the trial going?” he asked abruptly.
“Pretty fast; the case will go to the jury to-morrow. It won’t take them more than ten minutes to reach a verdict. You ought to come in and hear Judge Banks’s charge, Aleck. Dan tells me it’s sure to be interesting. He says you never can tell whether Banks will deliver an original poem or make up his charge out of quotations from Shakespeare.”
As the banker went up the hill to his home he remembered that he had heard Rutherford Jenkins was in town. To-morrow he must see the man and try again to induce him to consider the dangers of an indictment for conspiracy. At any rate, he would hold that affidavit of Melgares’ up his sleeve, and the time might come when it would be efficacious, even should Jenkins still scoff at it now. Conrad—he had given Conrad another warning, as plain as day, and if the man would rush on recklessly he must take the consequences. José Gonzalez was still at Socorro Springs—an accident could happen—and there was no time to lose!
Lucy saw her father coming when he was a block away and, instead of running to the gate to meet him, pretended not to have noticed him, and hastened into the house. Louise Dent remained on the veranda, pushing forward a lounging chair for him as he mounted the steps. She saw that he looked paler and more haggard than usual, and she longed to put her arms about him, as a mother might around a suffering child, and charm away his trouble and wretchedness. In her maiden life the innate mother-longing had found little appeasement; and so, when this youthful love came into her enriched and mellowed heart of middle life, it gathered into itself the repressed yearning of her nature, and the maternal side of it was strong and fierce. She neither condoned nor belittled the sins of the man she loved. For his wrongdoing and the suffering he had caused she felt sorrow, pity, remorse—remorse almost as keen as if she herself had been the guilty one. But her love enfolded him in spite of his sins, and even included them. For she told herself that if he had not been guilty she might never have known him, their paths might never have crossed.
In gentle, unobtrusive ways she ministered to his comfort; then, sitting beside him, her calm brow and steady eyes giving no sign of the tumult in her heart, she talked with sympathy and interest, gradually leading his thoughts away from the present into happy plans for the future. With keen satisfaction she saw the weary, desperate look fade from his face and eyes, giving place to one of comfort and content, and the assurance that she had made him forget his troubles, even for a little while, filled her heart with pleasure.
Lucy, sitting in her room, heard the murmur of their voices through her open windows. Her high spirits of the hour before were gone, and she sat dejected, her face mournful, and her head hanging like a flower broken on its stem. Presently she slipped down to the conservatory, took the pot of cactus Conrad had given her, ran across the back-yard, and threw it over the fence. Then she joined her father and Louise, seating herself on the arm of his chair and throwing her arm around his neck as she asked with loving concern about his welfare, told him he had not been looking well of late, and that he was working too hard and ought to have a rest. But that evening, after dinner, she rushed across the yard and out of the gate, and gathered up the cactus pot in her arms as if it were some small animal she had hurt. She returned it to its place in the conservatory, pressing her hands around it until its spines brought little drops of blood.
“I can’t help it!” she exclaimed in a vehement whisper. “I have to like him, and I shan’t try any more not to! He wouldn’t hurt daddy, I know he wouldn’t—because—because he wouldn’t—and because—he loves me!” A tiny smile curved her lips as she touched the plant caressingly and presently her whisper went on: “If I could only tell daddy that he needn’t be afraid or worried! Oh, I wish I could! But he mustn’t guess I know.” Her lips ceased moving and she stared unseeingly at the cactus, as her thought slowly took shape: “It’s worrying daddy awfully, and I mustn’t let it go on any longer. I’ll tell Mr. Conrad who Delafield is and he’ll stop right then—I know he will. He’ll despise us afterward—oh, he won’t love me after that!—but—poor daddy! he won’t be worried any more.”