Big Beulah after her. Big Dan could operate in the open in his pursuit of her. On account of Bonnie, Luke couldn’t. Which failed to shake Luke’s confidence. Nothing affected that quality in Luke Mason. Beulah knew this. In a way it kept her jumping, even as it did Bonnie.
But Turrentine was in the way. Often of late Mason had dropped casual remarks about the saloons, and to McQueen that hinted of trouble, far off and growing, trouble caused by a hill between Queeny Canyon and the Blind Monk. If and when it came, over Beulah, it would be about something else. And it was coming, though it wouldn’t reach any court.
Near the mouth of the canyon, a lone Apache crossed the road not a dozen yards ahead. As peaceful as you please, Luke was thinking. He stopped the horse and gazed thoughtfully after the savage. Then he caught himself about to speak to his Navajo. He laughed. Indian Joe was several miles south on a little errand.
3
THE RIDER OF THE NIGHT
DARKNESS HAD SETTLED over the Valley when A-T riders caught and held Bonnie’s attention. They moved in muffled trot in every direction.
She stood on the porch, in the same place where her father and Sack came upon her at about ten minutes of nine. Having listened to Luke’s compromise plan, as related by her parent, and finding it practical enough to silence her, she had watched them enter the bunkhouse without any protest. Sack had a job to do, she admitted resentfully. But her silence was no indication of how she felt about it. In the dark the tight lines of her face didn’t show.
First, Luke had struck off for Queeny instead of standing by her while she disposed of an odd situation—if the robber came—in her own way. By scoffing at an impossibility, she thought he was ignoring her. Next, she was left alone with a growing fear that should the Kid materialize, the urge of a dozen men to shoot would find outlet in at least one of them.
Silence was by now a negative, light thing. Then it seemed packed with urgency, seemed to call upon her to do something, to accept what might come with total indifference. She thought of the robber and smiled. He would not come here. He had no reason to risk it, had every reason not to.
She had turned to go inside the house when a rider entered the yard.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Southworth, Percy Southworth. Quite new at the A-T Station, y’know, Miss Bonnie.”
“Station?” she asked as the cowboy rode up. Then she knew. He was the English cowboy just in from Australia. “You gave me a start,” she said. “But why aren’t you with the others?”
“We spread out, y’know. Well, a stranger just rode past me toward the horse paddock. When I said, ‘I say, who goes there?’ the chap introduces himself with a pistol and remarks in quite contained voice, as though he were inviting me to sit and boil a billy of tea, ‘Tell Bonnie McQueen to call the riders in. I’m coming to the house.’ ”
“Then—it’s the Sacaton Kid!”
“Quite accurate, Miss Bonnie. That’s what he said. I was put in a ludicrous state of fluster when I heard his name, I assure you. Shall I call in the others?”
“Go to Mr. Sack. Tell him I said to warn the men against any shooting. And I mean it!”
As the cowboy galloped off into the night, Bonnie stood still and tense. So he had come. She couldn’t understand it. And he had asked for the riders, all bandit chasers now, to return. It simply failed to make sense. Shaking it off with a toss of her head, she went inside and returned with a lantern. She had no sooner placed it on the porch hook than a voice out of the night caused her to whirl.
“Hello, Bonnie.”
He was walking into the yellow lantern light with the payroll sack. Placing it on the porch, he looked up at her, examining her as though he liked all he saw.
An uncalled-for silence gripped her. Words wouldn’t come, and she just stood there unable to believe he had come here. All the while she was seeing his face for the first time. The eyes she had seen, but not the long muscular mouth, now set in a humorous line, or the strong chin and jaws and straight nose. He was the color of bronze and well dressed. She sensed a clean strong pride in him. Maybe he wasn’t the robber. The sandy hair and the pair of eyes said he was.
She found her voice. “You’re a fool to come here,” she said. “I had no idea you’d do it.”
“What about that trap you set, Bonnie?”
Aware that no explanation would sound convincing, she said, “Why did you do it?”
“Because that was part of my plan before I robbed the stage.”
She stared incredulously and sized him up again. This time for a fool. But the memory of his calm of yesterday was poignantly fresh. He was a copy of it now. His chill eyes showed no sign of disturbance. He might be a poke on a chuck line or a notorious gambler, though she could not deny that the open West had stamped him with its brand of self-reliance and vigilance. He was baffling.
“Perhaps you don’t know what happens to stage robbers around here,” she said. “They hang. Why don’t you leave while you can?”
“Thanks. But that isn’t a part of my plan.” His intent look held. He was taken by her large eyes, the directness and challenge and fear for his safety in them. The timbre of her voice, rich and low, attracted and excited him now as much as it had in memory. He was thinking these things and his look told her as much.
Her glance slid away, out into the night where running horses came on at full gallop.
“Very well,” she said. “It’s your funeral.”
He put his back to her and hung his thumbs in belt as the tattoo of hoofs drew closer. She was looking from the A-T riders getting off their horses in the yard back to him with a growing uneasiness. Her father and Sack dismounted and walked toward the porch wary and poised. An electric air hung over the scene, a split second away from either peace or powder smoke. Nothing happened and McQueen and Sack, backed by the riders, stood a few yards away.
Still Young appeared as calm as a guest for dinner. Bonnie followed the direction of his steady gaze, upon her father, who studied the robber intently. She looked from one to the other as their glance held strong and unsettling, each digging deep into the other’s eyes.
Sack was saying: “Well, Kid, I’ve seen all kinds of men, but you take the cake. Didn’t think you’d do it, much less hang around for a reception committee.”
Young made no reply.
McQueen said, “So this is the Sacaton Kid.” It was neither a question nor a statement, but an expression of his regard for outlaws in general. “All right, Sack. It’s up to you now.”
Bonnie said: “You’re wrong, father. He returned the payroll money, so we’re all square.”
“It’s not that easy, Bonnie. He broke the law, robbed, and shot. Just because he turned yellow and sneaked back here with it don’t mean he won’t try it again. A robber is a thief, same as a polecat is a skunk.”
The A-T foreman chuckled out loud. At his signal the punchers laughed.
Young broke the
