“Hello there!” cried Paul, springing excitedly to his feet. “Where’d you come from? Thought you had crossed the bar. Now I’ll just borrow a gun from one of you fellows and we’ll be getting along. Better my rifle than my horse at this stage of the game, anyway.”
The little party pushed on. The longer half of their journey was still before them. On the whole, perhaps, it was better the crowd had split. There was more unity of purpose among those who were left. The sun was getting hot, and Langford’s clothes dried rapidly.
Arrived at the entrance of the cross ravine which Williston had once sought out, the four men rode their horses safely through its length. The waters of the June rise had receded, and the outlaw’s presumably deserted holding was once more a peninsula. The wooded section in the near distance lay green, cool, and innocent looking in the late summer sun. The sands between stretched out hot in the white glare. From the gulch covert, the wiry marshal rode first. His face bore its wonted expression of good-humored alertness, but there was an inscrutable glint in his eyes that might have found place there because of a sure realization of the hazard of the situation and of his accepting it. Langford followed him quickly, and Munson and Baker were not far behind. They trotted breezily across the open in a bunch, without words. Where the indistinct trail to the house slipped into the wooded enclosure, they paused. Was the desperado at last really rounded up so that he must either submit quietly or turn at bay? It was so still. Spots of sunlight had filtered through the foliage and flecked the pathway. Insects flitted about. Bumble bees droned. Butterflies hovered over the snow-on-the-mountain. A turtle dove mourned. A snake glided sinuously through the grass. Peering down the warm, shaded interior, one might almost imagine one was in the heart of an ancient wood. The drowsy suggestions of solitude crept in upon the sensibilities of all the men and filled them with vague doubts. If this was the haunt of a man, a careless, sordid man, would this place which knew him breathe forth so sweet, still, and undisturbed a peace?
Langford first shook himself free of the haunting fear of a deserted hearthstone.
“I’d stake my all on my belief that he’s there,” he said, in a low voice. “Now listen, boys. Johnson and I will ride to the house and make the arrest, providing he doesn’t give us the slip. Baker, you and Jim will remain here in ambush in case he does. He’s bound to come this way to reach the mainland. Ready, Johnson?”
Jim interposed. His face was flinty with purpose.
“Not ef the court knows herself, and I think she do. Me and Johnson will do that there little arrestin’ job and the Boss he’ll stay here in the ambush. Ef anybody’s a countin’ on my totin’ the Boss’s openwork body back to Mary Williston, it’s high time he was a losin’ the count, for I ain’t goin’ to do it.”
He guided his horse straight into the path.
“But, Jim,” expostulated Langford, laying a detaining hand on the cowboy’s shoulder, “as for danger, there’s every bit as much—and more—here. Do you think Jesse Black will tamely sit down and wait for us to come up and nab him? I think he’ll run.”
“Then why are you a shirkin’, ef this is the worst spot o’ all? You ain’t no coward, Boss, leastways you never was. Why don’t you stay by it? That’s what I’d like to know.”