They were driven to this ultimate conclusion by the simple fact that while Tresler had been witnessing the movements of the masked night-rider, Joe had been zealously dogging the footsteps of the foreman in the general interests of his mistress. And that individual’s footsteps had never once taken him to the rancher’s private stable.
Jake had evidently been out on the spy himself. Of this Joe was certain, for the man had scoured the woods in the direction of the river; he had watched the trail from the rancher’s stable for nearly half an hour; he had crept up to the verandah of the house under cover of the darkness, seeking Joe knew not what, but always on the alert, always with the unmistakable patience of a man by no means new to such a task. Once Joe had missed him in the woods. Somehow, like a gigantic shadow, Jake had contrived to give him the slip. And this, on comparing notes, the two friends found coincided with the time of the episode of the unclosed window. Doubtless he had been the author of that matter. They made up their minds that he had witnessed the scene in the kitchen, which, of course, accounted for his later dastardly attack. Who had Jake been out looking for? What was the object of his espionage? Had he been looking for him, Tresler, or some one else? And herein lay the mystery. Herein, perhaps, lay the key to the greater problem they sought to solve.
Hour after hour Tresler lay awake, lost in a confusion of thought which refused his best efforts to straighten out. The acuteness of the pain in his head set his mind almost wandering. And he found himself aimlessly reviewing the events since his coming to Mosquito Bend. He tossed wearily, drearily, on his unyielding palliasse, driven to a realization of his own utter impotence. What had he done in the cause he had espoused? Nothing—simply nothing. Worse; he had thrust himself like some clumsy, bull-headed elephant, into the girl’s life, into the midst of her troubles, without even that animal’s capacity for attaining his object by sheer might. And the result was only to aggravate her lot; to cause Jake to hasten his plans, and add threats to his other persecutions. And as for the raiders, they were still at large and no nearer capture than when he had first arrived. Yes, he told himself, he had nothing but failure to his account. And that failure, instead of being harmlessly negative, was an aggravation of the situation.
But at last, miserable, overwrought, and suffering as he was, sleep came to him; a deep sleep that carried him far into the morning.
He had been left undisturbed by his comrades when they turned out at daybreak. Joe had seen to this. He had put them off with an invention of his fertile imagination which satisfied them. Then, having hurried through his own immediate morning duties, he waited, with that philosophic patience which he applied now in his declining years to all the greater issues of his life, for his friend’s awakening.
And when Tresler awoke he was wonderfully refreshed. His recuperative faculties were remarkable. The aching of his head had passed away, and with it the deplorable hopelessness of overnight. He sat up on his bunk, and the first object that his gaze fell upon was the patient figure of old Joe.
“Well—Scott! it’s late. What’s the time? Where are the boys? What are you doing here?”
He fired his questions rapidly. But Joe was not to be hurried; neither was he going to waste precious time on unnecessary talk. So he shrugged his shoulders and indicated the departure of the men to work with a backward jerk of his head, and, while Tresler performed his brief toilet, got to business in his own way.
“Feelin’ good?” he asked.