The Red Book Magazine/Volume 15/Number 6/The Hold-up

by Hugh Pendexter

The
Hold-Up

BY
HUGH PENDEXTER

Author of “Loves of War” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY E. R. SCHRADER

Sheriff Powers halted after descending the veranda steps and studied her intently. A glance would have told even the casual observer that she was his daughter. The gray eyes that gravely returned his gaze were his eyes; the delicately moulded features in a way reflected the strength that so forcefully characterized his own tanned face. Despite her winsomeness and girlish beauty the two revealed their kinship in a striking degree. In a vague way he realized this and his scrutiny softened and his voice invited confidence as he awkwardly said:

“You aint gitting interested in him, be you?”

“He seems nice,” she evaded. “It is seldom one sees a man in Oretown in whom one can get interested.”

“He's a stranger. No one knows anything about him except that he comes from the East,” he said more firmly.

Montgomery following the winding path

“When you were not here to lead a posse after Black Mask he was the first take the lead,” she reminded him. “To me, that stamped him as one of us.”

He pursed his lips gloomily as if finding his fears well based. “I'm sorry you've took a fancy to him,” he continued. “I'm always suspicious of these Easterners.”

“But Jenks, the stage driver, said he rallied a posse—”

“Quit it,” he broke in sternly. “I said he was a stranger. I wish that was the worst I could think of him. His willingness to gun for Black Mask don't suit me. It don't suit Hickman, either.”

“Who cares for Jim Hickman?” she jeered, tossing her head.

He fumbled with his beard and then slowly reminded her: “There is many a girl along this valley what thinks of him, I reckon. It aint every girl what can have the superintendent of the Lucky B mine to wait on her and stand for her derned bursts of temper. You'll realize it when it's too late. But we're gitting from the trail; Jim and me aint the only ones that don't like this Montgomery.”

He paused, waiting for her to question him, but she seemed indifferent, and in desperation he continued: “He may catch a foolish girl's fancy by his patent-leather ways, but there's those who feel he'll never catch Black Mask.”

“What do you mean?” she gasped, now quickened into tense interest as she believed she interpreted the true import of his words.

Satisfied his veiled meaning had reached home, he half turned away, contenting himself with warning, “I've said my say; don't git interested. That's all.”

“He came here to get material for a book,” she said, speaking in a hardly audible voice. “He showed me his note-book. He is going to write a book about the mines.” Then with sudden fierceness she demanded: “What do you mean by saying his name in connection with an outlaw's?”

He bit his lip undecidedly for a moment and then faced her squarely:

“You're my girl. No matter how you feel toward this man I can trust you. Every one calls you the sheriff's girl, because they know you're true-blue and game. I know you'll never go back on your dad. Sabe? I aint afraid of blabbing office secrets to my own flesh and blood. I aint told a soul, but I aint afraid of my own girl. In the first place this Black Mask has guessed right every time in holding up the stage to corral the Lucky B's pay-roll. Sabe? It shows he's some one living right here in Oretown or over in Wheatonville. Neither place is so big but what I've got a line on every man in both.”

There was no escaping his meaning, and her eyes widened in horror and resentment. Reading her thoughts he added: “Mebbe this stranger, the only man I aint accounted for, knows Black Mask will never hurt him, eh? Mebbe people sometimes become play-actors off the theayter stage, eh?”

“It's horrible!” she choked; and he winced to see how the mere suspicion so sorely pained her

“I'd—I'd hoped it wa'n't so bad,” he attempted to sooth. “I wa'n't over-quick to suspect, but when the other fellers got to talking about him I got a bit curious. Right after the first hold-up he blew into camp and he aint done nothing since but pretend to be gitting stuff for a fool book. But, remember, you're my girl and game.”

The admonition fell unheeded. “I don't believe it,” she muttered, staring over his head at the blue peaks.

He watched her with a mixture of pity and chagrin as he bitterly observed: “Your faith is a mighty fine thing. It's the whole life of a woman. But a woman's faith is often banked on the wrong card. All I ask is that after the test has been made you wont feel hard against your old dad.”

The color left her cheeks, but her eyes emitted a new light, and straightening she cried: “Yes, I have faith. But what is the test?”

He hesitated and his eyes fell, while his bold mien changed to an air that was almost confusion. “You leave the testing to me. I aint mentioned it to no one. Not even to Hickman.”

“No,” she refused; “I demand to know your plan. You want to prove him—unworthy. Tell me how.”

“Kindly forgit, my dear, that I mentioned it. No one knows but me and the man who suggested it. That's Pierce, the president of the Wheatonville bank. My girl must keep shet of it all.”

“I am waiting,” she said, evenly.

Obviously he regretted having broached the subject and he looked about anxiously for some avenue of escape. He had never seen her like this before. Her mother's nature had been timid and gentle.

Suddenly it dawned upon him he was confronting his own youth, the hot-blooded impetuosity of the years now lost. He had raised a tumult he could not still. In his desire to retreat, his gaze gladdened, even in beholding the object of their discussion, Montgomery himself, now slowly following the winding valley path and making in their direction.

“I'll be going. We'll talk about this some other time,” he hurriedly began; but she quickly interposed.

“You must not go until you tell me the test. Yes; I see him. He's coming here. If you do not tell me I'll keep you here till he comes and repeat all we've said.”

He mopped the sweat from his forehead and frowned as he saw he was defeated. She was master.

“All right,” he cried. “I tried to spare you. I didn't want you to have it to remember. But you wont have it my way. You want to stampede. All right. Just mention kind of careless-like that the Lucky B pay-roll, three thousand dollars in gold, will be brought over from Wheatonville to-morrow morning by one man on a buckboard, instead of by the afternoon stage.”

“I will tell him,” she calmly answered.

“I'm sorry it's turned out this way,” he regretted. “But you'd have it so. Don't let results come between us. And, remember, no one knows of the scheme but you and Pierce and me. Hickman had suggested the early messenger as he must have the pay-roll to-morrow. But it was Pierce who planned for me to drop a word before Montgomery, and then be on hand to-morrow with a couple of the boys. If the Black Mask shows up, your dad will be five thousand dollars reward richer, or you'll be an orphan.”

“I will tell him,” she repeated.

“The messenger leaves at seven,” he continued. “If my fish bites I'll cure you of your foolishness and surprise and tickle Hickman by delivering at his office a dead man or a prisoner. Now, I'm going by the back way.”

But despite his haste to avoid meeting the man he intended to trap he drew the girl to him and fondly kissed her forehead, pleading, “Never git down on the old man, will ye? No matter what happens, remember we're good pals.”

“Always that, dad,” she half sobbed.

He turned the corner of the house just as Montgomery cleared a clump of jack-pines and toiled upward into full view. The girl watched the newcomer intently, waiting for him to wave his hand. But this, his usual cheery greeting, was wanting, and with a chill at the heart she observed his face was drawn with pain, and his eyes, now raised to hers for a moment, were haggard. The hateful fancy even thrust itself upon her that his gaze shifted in a species of fear.

“You look tired,” she greeted, seating herself on the lower step.

With a sigh he threw himself at her feet and pulled his hat low over his eyes. “I am tired,” he murmured, neglecting to meet her gaze. “I'm sick at heart.”

“Why! what's the matter?” she cried, an odd little quiver in her voice.

“Hang it all, Jane!” he exclaimed, pushing back his hat and glancing up at her with agony written deep across his face, “I ought to be shot—shot for coming here!”

She pressed a hand to her side and stared at him dully. “I don't understand,” she whispered,

“I know you don't,” he said brokenly, bowing his head. “Don't think me altogether bad, no matter what happens. Where's your father?”

She was now composed, although sharp lines showed about her mouth and her face looked older. “He's gone to arrange for a messenger to fetch over the mine's pay-roll early in the morning,” she found herself heavily explaining.

He lifted his head quickly and then, dropping his eyes, muttered, “I thought it always came by stage?”

“A messenger will bring the money by buckboard, leaving Wheatonville at seven in the morning,” she drearily continued.

“I see,” he murmured, speaking scarcely above a whisper.

For a few moments both were silent; she, white-faced and imploring with her eyes; he, with bowed head and hidden face.

“You—you said something about your coming here,” she reminded him, her voice choked with unshed tears. “Something—that wasn't nice.”

“I'm a cowardly cur!” he cried, suddenly rising and stretching wide his clenched hands as if baring his chest to a blow. “A—a coward to come here the first time. A cur to come the second. Forgive me! Try not to hate me overmuch. Keep your father with you to-morrow. Good-by.”

And without heeding her terrified face, or waiting for her agonizing pleading for him to explain—to trust her—he plunged recklessly down the steep path, fleeing as if pursued by an evil host. She, now dry-eyed and wan, leaned against the door-jamb and watched him, following his mad flight as one who sees the loss of all that makes life a precious thing.

"Never git down on the old man, will ye?”

“O, I pray he will do no wrong to-morrow,” she whispered, as he passed beyond her ken. And in an abandonment of mental anguish she sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

 

It was nearly an hour after her father had left the house next morning that she stole forth and hastened to the barn. All night she had counted the moments and feared the coming of the day. She had kept the faith; she had put the test; and now she had surrendered to fear and was hastening to undo her loyalty to her father. She was afraid. Somewhere along the Wheatonville road, with the inner vision, she could see a masked man crouching in the bushes. Near at hand she could see other forms, hostile to him; among them she beheld her father. Now the grinding of wheels smote the inner ear and with a smothered shriek she saw red flashes flame from the bushes and heard the groan of the bandit as he fell forward.

But the whinnying of her horse brought her back to the realization that she yet had a chance. If the messenger left the bank at seven o'clock she might be in time.

Wraith-like shapes of mist stole up from the floor of the valley as she led out her horse and with nervous hands flung on the saddle. Could she but cut in ahead of the messenger before he reached Red Creek she felt measurably certain of success. She would turn the messenger back. She would tell him her father ordered it thus. Then she would ride back to Oretown and her father would join her on the way, while the man in ambush would take alarm and the worst would be avoided.

Lightly gaining the saddle she raced madly along the rough path that led to Wheatonville. She had one advantage over her father and any posse; her road was as the cord to the bow compared with the regular trail between the two settlements.

“Don't touch him,” he gasped, “Go back!”

She knew now that she loved him; she could not help it.

She was the sheriff's girl, but she could not do her duty. She shuddered to remember she had not heeded Montgomery's pleading to keep her father by her side. Then she asked herself if it was not her duty to love and pity him, weak and unfortunate. All the powers of the state, all the wealth of the state, were behind her father, awful allies against the weak. The odds were uneven, she panted, as she urged her flying steed to greater exertions. One frail woman in the balance against the state, against law and order, should not be begrudged him.

And yet, for the sake of the gold he had stabbed her love. Now she was about to stab her father's love and trust.

“Poor old dad,” she sobbed, as behind her tears she saw his face filling with incredulous horror because of her broken faith.

But love must be served, and she gritted her teeth and the whipping wind dried her eyes as she leaned forward and anxiously checked off each landmark. He was deserving of death, but not at her father's hands, she told herself. Then in a tempest of fear she protested that he deserved it at the hands of no man. No; pride was but an artificial barrier and now it was down. Nothing counted but the gripping passion to save, save him.

She would never see him again, but as he had broken her heart it was fitting he should owe her his worthless life. Hope had died when the deputy rapped softly on their door at midnight and had hoarsely whispered how the suspect had stealthily ridden a horse out of Oretown toward Wheatonville. Yes; now she knew he must be an evil man. He was intent on a heinous crime. And her cheeks reddened in sympathy with her father's shame when he should have discovered she had played him false. Yet love must be served and she was but an automaton in the game. It was predestined just how she should play her little part. For ages the ledge had weathered and rotted away so that a rough trail could be followed by her in her wild dash to intercept a creaking buckboard. Eons of labor on the part of nature had hewed to this end—that a maid might ride to succor the worthless object of her passion. Vast cataclysms of primal forces, had occurred, that she might be convenienced in catering to her own shame.

So be it; and now her lips were white as she pressed them firmly together, and her eyes, bereft of all softer lights, blazed with but one purpose.

The sharp intake of her breath came with a hiss as she swung into the Oretown road. A sagging branch struck her face but she knew it not. Her soul encompassed but one desire—to catch the sound of wheels.

She reined in her horse and again listened.

At first the pounding of her heart confused her and she feared some one was galloping her way. Then as her blood slowed down she caught the welcome creak of the buckboard. With a gasp of relief she straightened and prepared to ride forward. She had no fear that Black Mask would operate so far from Oretown, or practically in the outskirts of Wheatonville. Then her lips parted in a mute inquiry. The sound of the wheels was fainter.

With a feline snarl she struck her horse and sent him bounding forward. She had been deceived; the wagon, instead of approaching, had passed her position and was drawing away. Every revolution of the wheels was carrying the messenger nearer Black Mask and nearer to the hidden posse.

Desperate, she called sharply to her tired mount and turned down the Oretown road. Then her heart sank and she went limp in the saddle as the sullen explosion of firearms reached her ears. The messenger was held up; the posse was in at the death.

With an inarticulate cry of anguish she galloped on, swaying slightly as she neared the end. Then in a trice the entire drama was staged before her. Mechanically she recalled a doll's house, the inmates fashioned from cardboard. For all the world the stiff and sprawling attitudes of some of the characters reminded her of those toys.

Upon the scene of puppets the gray crags looked down. A breath of air stirred the leaves, trembling the aspens as if they anticipated the Fuman cataclysm that impended. Ages agone these same mountains may have looked down upon other plays in which cave women, impelled by the elemental passion of all femininity, had rushed to the succor of their mates, doing the task that fate had given them to do, all unconscious of the crumbling crags above them.

In the middle of the road was the buckboard with a man huddled over the seat. Nearby, at the side of the road, was the figure that caught and held her horrified gaze. He was lying face downward, but the hideous black mask showed in profile. In wooden attitudes at the edge of the bushes stood several men. Above their heads a wisp of blue smoke lazily floated away.

With a shrill cry she flung herself from her horse and darted forward. At that the man on the buckboard was galvanized into action and staggered from the vehicle to intercept her, his linen duster, as well as his face, smeared with blood.

“Don't touch him!” he gasped, stretching out his arms. “Go back!”

“He's mine,” she moaned, gliding beyond his reach.

“God forgive me,” he cried. “But I call you all to witness I did not kill him. Even after he shot me I did not return his fire.”

She was well past his clawing hands by this time, deaf to all his cries.

Then a new voice rang out, “Stop, Jane!” And the sheriff leaped from the bushes. “Go back, if you love me.”

The man by the buckboard gave a hoarse cry and wiped his eyes clear of a trickle of blood and stared stupidly.

“I thought—I thought you—” he stammered thickly—

“Great Scott!” babbled the sheriff, pointing at him with both index fingers. “The messenger is Montgomery!”

With one hand on the cord of the mask the girl turned at the name and gazed frowningly at the man in the linen duster. Then she slowly stood erect and moved towards him with hands outstretched.

In her eyes was all the dumb misery she had felt now lighted by the wonder that the sheriff's exclamation had induced. Something was wrong. She could not understand. She passed the back of her hand across her eyes as if to brush away the mental cobwebs that had gathered there, blinding her.

“You—the messenger?” she queried, her voice faint and thin.

“I'm from the Butte detective agency,” he muttered, moving painfully to meet her. “Pierce and I planned this. But you shouldn't be here.”

“I thought—” she began, wearily.

He read the rest in her eyes and, bowing his head humbly, gently led her back to her horse. “Wait here for me. We go back together.”

“A detective!” roared the astonished sheriff. “And I thought ye was the outlaw!”

“And I feared you were—” began the detective. Then, catching the girl's wistful eyes, he faltered in conclusion, “suspicious of me.”

The sheriff's blank face slowly crinkled into a sour smile as he remarked, “Then we are even. But who have we here?” And he moved toward the silent form.

“Lead your horse down the road. I'll join you in a moment,” Montgomery called out to the girl—and not until she had turned the corner did he allow the sheriff's curious fingers to strip off the mask.

“I'll be derned if it aint Hickman!” cried a deputy.