Mavericks by William MacLeod Raine

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"You didn't, Phil," his sister reproached.

"Sure I did. He tried to take my gun from me," the boy explained hotly.

"Take him out to the bunk house, boys. I'll attend to him later,"
nodded Buck, turning away indifferently.

Stung to fury by the cavalier manner of his enemy, the boy leaped at him
like a wild cat. Weaver whirled round again, caught him by the shoulder
with his great hand, and shook him as if he had been a puppy. When he
dropped him, he nodded again to his men, who dragged out the struggling
boy.

Phyllis stood straight as an arrow, but white to the lips. "What are you
going to do to him?" she asked.

"How would a good chapping do, to start with? That is always good for an
unlicked cub."

"Don't!" she implored.

"But, my dear, why not--since it's for his good?"

Passion unleashed leaped from her. "You coward!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm right desolated to have your bad
opinion. But you say it almost as if you did hate me. That's a
compliment, you know. You didn't hate the coyote, you mentioned."

Her eyes flamed. "Hate you! If wishes could kill, you would be a
thousand times dead!"

"You disappoint me, my dear. I expected more than wishes from you.
There's a loaded revolver in that table drawer. It's yours, any time you
want it," he derided.

"Don't tempt me!" she cried wildly. "If you lay a hand on Phil, I'll use
it--I surely will."

His eyes shone with delight. "I wonder. By Jove, I've a mind to flog
the colt and see. I'll do it."

The passion sank in her as suddenly as it had risen. "No--you mustn't!
You don't know him--or us. We are from the South."

"That settles it. I will," he exulted. "You have called me a coward.
Would a coward do this, and defy your whole crew to its revenge?"

"Would a brave man break the pride of a high-spirited boy for such a
mean motive?" she countered.

"His pride will have to look out for itself. He took his chance of it
when he tried to assault me. What he'll get is only what's coming to
him."

"Please don't! I'll--I'll be different to you. Take it out on me," she
begged.

He laughed harshly. "Do you suppose I'm such a fool as not to know that
the way to take it out on you is to take it out of him?"

She had come nearer, a step at a time. Now she threw her hand out in a
gesture of abandon.

"Be generous! Don't punish me that way. Something dreadful will come of
it."

She broke down and struggled with her tears. He watched her for a moment
without speaking.

"Good enough. I'll be generous and let you pay his debt for him, if you
want to do it."

Her eyes were glad with the swift joy that leaped into them.

"That is good of you! And how shall I pay?" she cried.

"With a kiss."

She drew back as if he had struck her, all the sparkling eagerness
driven from her face.

"Oh!" she moaned.

"Just one kiss--I don't ask anything more. Give me that, and I'll turn
him loose. Honor bright."

He held her startled gaze as a snake holds that of a fascinated bird.

"Choose," he told her, in his masterful way.

Her imagination conceived a vision of her young brother being tortured
by this man. She had not the least doubt that he would do what he said,
and probably would think the boy got only what he deserved.

"Take it," she told him, and waited.

Perhaps he might have spared her had it not been for the look of deep
contempt that bit into his vanity.

He kissed her full on the lips.

Instantly she woke to life, struck him on the cheek with her little,
brown fist, and, with a sob of woe, turned and ran from the room.

Weaver cursed himself in a fury of anger. He felt himself to be a hound
because of the thing he had done, and he hated the instinct in him that
drove him to master her. He had insulted and trampled on her. Yet he
knew in his heart that he would have killed another man for doing it.

[Illustration: SHE DREW BACK AS IF HE HAD STRUCK HER, ALL THE SPARKLING
EAGERNESS DRIVEN FROM HER FACE. _Page 116_]

CHAPTER IX

PUNISHMENT

The cattleman strode into the bunk house, where young Sanderson sat
sulkily on a bed under the persuasion of Curly's rifle.

"Have this boy's horse saddled and brought around, Curly."

"You're the doctor," answered the cowboy promptly, and forthwith
vanished outdoors to obey instructions.

Phil looked sullenly at his captor, and waited for him to begin. One of
his hands was under the pillow of the cot upon which he sat. His fingers
circled the butt of a revolver he had found there, where one of the
riders had chanced to leave it that morning.

"I'm going to turn you loose to go home to the hills," Weaver told him.

"And my sister?"

"She stays here."

"Then so do I."

"That's up to you. There's no law against camping on the plains--that
is, out of range of the Twin Star."

"What are you going to do with her?" the boy demanded ominously.

"If you ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies."

"You'll let her go home with me--that's what you'll do," cried Phil.

"I reckon not. You've got a license to feel lucky you're going
yourself."

"By God, I say you shall!"

The cattleman's eyes took on their stony, snake-like look. His hand did
not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his
side.

"All right. Come a-shooting. I see you've got a gun under that pillow."

The weapon leaped into sight. "You're right I have! I'll drill you full
of holes as soon as wink."

Weaver laughed contemptuously. "Begin pumping, son."

"I'm going to take my sister home with me. You'll give orders to your
men to that effect."

"Guess again."

"I tell you I'll shoot your hide full of holes if you don't!" cried the
excited boy.

"Oh, no, you won't."

Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it. The very breath of
it fanned his cheek. During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was
a man who revelled in his sensations. He laughed into the very muzzle of
the six-shooter that covered him.

"Quit your play acting, boy," he jeered.

"I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains."

The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and
lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the
blue barrel.

"I reckon you'll scatter proper what few brains I've got."

With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed. He could not
possibly kill a man so willing as this. To draw guns with him, and
chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly. But this
way would be no less than murder.

"You devil!" he cried, with a boyish sob.

Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it. "Mighty careless of Ned
to leave it lying around this way," he commented absently, as if unaware
of the other's rage. "You never can tell when a gun is going to get into
the wrong hands."

"What are you letting me go for? You've got a reason. What is it?" Phil
demanded.

Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes. "The ransom price
has been paid," he explained.

"Paid! Who paid it?"

"Miss Phyllis Sanderson."

"Phyllis?" repeated the boy incredulously. "But she had no money."

"Did I say she paid it in money?"

"What do you mean?"

"She asked me to set you free. I named my price, and she agreed."

"What was your price?" the boy asked hoarsely.

"A kiss."

At that, Phil struck him full in the sardonic, mocking face. Blood
crimsoned the lips that had been crushed against the strong, white
teeth.

"Again," said Weaver.

The brown fist went back and shot forward like a piston rod. This time
it left an ugly gash over the cheek bone.

"Much obliged. Once more."

The young man balanced himself carefully, and struck hard and true
between the eyes.

A third, a fourth, and a fifth time Phil lashed out at the disfigured,
grinning face.

"Let's make it an even half dozen," the cattleman suggested.

But Phil had had enough of it. This was too much like butchery. His
passion had spent itself. He struck, but with no force behind the blow.

Weaver went to the washstand, dashed some water on his face, and pressed
a towel against the raw wounds. He flung the red-soaked towel aside just
as Curly cantered up on Sanderson's horse. The cow-puncher stared at his
boss in amazement, opened his lips to speak, and thought better of it.
He looked at Phil, whose knuckles were badly barked and bleeding.

Curly had seen his master marked up before, but on such occasions the
other man was a sight for the gods to wonder at. Now Weaver was the
spectacle, and the other was untouched. In view of Buck's reputation as
a rough-and-tumble fighter, this seemed no less than a miracle. Curly
departed with the wonder unexplained, for Weaver dismissed him with a
nod.

"Like to see your sister before you go?" the cattleman asked curtly of
Phil, over his shoulder.

"Yes."

Buck led the way across the plaza to the house, and clapped his hands in
the hall. Josephine answered the summons.

"Tell Miss Sanderson that her brother would like to see her."

The woman vanished up the stairway, and the two men waited in silence.
Presently Phyllis stood in the door. Her eyes ignored Weaver, and were
only for her brother. Her first glance told her that all was well so far
as he was concerned, even though it also let her know that the boy was
anxious.

"Phil!" she breathed.

"So you bought my freedom for me, did you?" the boy said, his voice
trembling.

Phyllis answered in the clearest of low voices. "Yes. Did he tell you?"

"You oughtn't to have done it. I'll have no such bargains made.
Understand that!" cried her brother, emotion in his high tones.

"I couldn't help it, Phil. I did it for the best. You don't know."

"I know that you're to keep out of this. I'll fight my own battles. In
our family the girls don't sell kisses. Remember that."

Phyl hung her head. She felt herself disgraced, but she knew that she
would do it again in like circumstances.

Weaver broke in roughly: "You young fool! She's worth a dozen of you,
who haven't sense enough to _sabe_ her kind."

The girl glanced at him involuntarily. At sight of his swollen and
beaten face, she started. Her gaze clung to him, eyes wild and
fluttering with apprehension.

"I've been taking a massage treatment," he explained.

Phyllis looked at her brother, then back at the ranchman. The thing was
beyond comprehension. Ten minutes ago, this ferocious Hercules had left
her, sound and unscratched. Now he returned with a face beaten and
almost beyond recognition from bloodstains.

"What--what is it?" The appeal was to her brother.

"He let me beat him," Phil explained.

"Let you beat him! Why?"

"I don't know."

What the boy said was true, yet it was something less than the truth. He
was dimly aware that this man knew himself to have violated the code,
and that he had submitted to punishment because of the violation.

"Tell me," Phyllis commanded.

Phil told her in three sentences. She looked at Weaver with eyes that
saw him in a new light. He still sneered, but behind the mask she got
for the first time a glimpse of another man. Only dimly she divined him;
but what she visioned was half devil and half hero, capable of things
great as well as of deeds despicable.

"I'm not going to leave you here in this house," young Sanderson told
her. "I'll not go. If you stay, I stay."

She shook her head. "No, Phil--you must go. I'm all right here--as safe
as I would be at home. You know, he has a right to send me to prison if
he wants to. I suppose he is holding me as a hostage against our friends
in the hills."

The boy accepted her decree under protest. He did not know what else to
do. Decision comes only with age, and he could hit on no policy that
would answer. Reluctantly he gave way.

"If you so much as touch her, you'll die for it," he gulped at Weaver,
in a sudden boyish passion. "We'll shoot you down like a dog."

"Or a coyote," suggested Buck, with a swift glance at Phyllis. "It seems
to be a family habit. I'm much obliged to you."

Phyl was in her brother's arms, frankly in tears.

It was all very well to tell him to go; it was quite another thing to
let him go without a good cry at losing him.

"Just say the word, and I'll see it out with you, sis," he told her.

"No, no! I want you to go. I wouldn't have you stay. Tell the boys it's
all right, and don't let them do anything rash."

Sanderson clenched his teeth, and looked at Weaver. "Oh, they'll do
nothing rash. Now they know you're here, they won't do a thing but sit
down and be happy, I expect."

The twins whispered together for a minute, then the boy kissed her, put
her from him suddenly, and strode away. From the door he called back two
words at the cattleman.

"Don't forget."

With that, he was gone. Yet a moment, and they heard the clatter of his
horse's hoofs.

"Why did you tell him?" Phyllis asked. "It will only anger them. Now
they will seek vengeance on you."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Search me. Perhaps I wanted to prove to
myself that a man may be a mean bully, and not all coyote. Perhaps I
wanted to get under his hide. Who knows?"

She knew, in part. He had treated her abominably, and wanted blindly to
pay for it in the first way that came to his mind. Half savage as he
sometimes was, that way had been to stand up to personal punishment, to
invite retaliation from his enemies.

"You must have your face looked to. Shall I call Josephine?"

"No," he answered harshly.

"I think I will. We can help it, I'm sure."

That "we" saved the day. He let her call the Mexican woman, and order
warm water, towels, dressings, and adhesive plaster. It seemed to him
more than a fancy that there was healing in the cool, soft fingers which
washed his face and adjusted the bandages. His eyes, usually so hard,
held now the dumb hunger one sees in those of a faithful dog. They
searched hers for something which he knew he would never find in them.

CHAPTER X

INTO THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY

A man lay on the top of Flat Rock, stretched at supple ease. By his side
was a carbine; in his hand a pair of field glasses. These last had been
trained upon Twin Star Ranch for some time, but were now focused upon a
pair of approaching riders. At the edge of the young willow grove the
two dismounted and came forward leisurely.

"Looks like the mountains are coming to Mahomet this trip," the watcher
told himself.

One figure was that of a girl--a brown, light-stepping nymph, upon whom
the checkered sunlight filtered through the leaves. The other was a
finely built man, strong as an ox, but with the sap of youth still in
his blood and the spring of it in his step, in spite of his nearly
twoscore years. He stopped at the foot of Flat Rock, and turned to his
companion.

"I've been wondering why you went riding with me yesterday and again
to-day, Miss Phyllis. I reckon I've hit on the reason."

"I like to ride."

"Yes, but I expect you don't like to ride with me so awful much."

"Yet you see I do," answered the girl with her swift, shy smile.

"And the reason is that you know I would be riding, anyway. You don't
want any of your people from the hills to use me as a mark. With you
along, they couldn't do it."

"My people don't shoot from ambush," she told him hotly. It was easy to
send her gallant spirit out in quick defense of her kindred.

He looked at his arm, still resting in a sling, and smiled
significantly.

She colored. "That was an impulse," she told him.

"And you're guarding me from any more family impulses like it." He
grinned. "Not that it flatters me so much, either. I've got a notion
tucked in the back of my head that you're watching me like a hen does
her one chick, for their sake and not for mine. Right guess, I'll bet a
dollar. How about it, Miss Sanderson?"

"Yes," she admitted. "At least, most for them."

"You'd like to call the chase off for the sake of the hunters, and not
for the sake of the coyote."

"I wish you wouldn't throw that word up to me. I oughtn't to have said
that. Please!"

"All right--I won't. It isn't your saying it, but thinking it, that
hurts."

"I don't think it."

"You think I'm entirely to blame in this trouble with your people. Don't
dodge. You know you think I'm a bully."

"I think you're very arbitrary," she replied, flushing.

"Same thing, I reckon. Maybe I am. Did you ever hear my side of the
story?"

"No. I'll listen, if you will tell me."

Weaver shook his head. "No--I guess that wouldn't be playing fair.
You're on the other side of the fence. That's where you belong. Come to
that, I'm no white-winged angel, anyhow. All that's said of me--most of
it, at least--I sure enough deserve."

"I wonder," she mused, smiling at him.

Scarcely a week before, she had been so immature that even callow Tom
Dixon had seemed experienced beside her. Now she was a young woman in
bloom, instinctively sure of herself, even without experience to guide
her. Though he had never said so, she knew quite well that this berserk
of the plains had begun to love her with all the strength of his untamed
heart. She would have been less than human had it not pleased her, even
though, at the same time, it terrified her.

Buck swept his hand around the horizon. "Ask anybody. They'll all give
me the same certificate of character. And I reckon they ain't so far
out, either," he added grimly.

"Perhaps they are all right, and yet all wrong too."

He looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe they don't see the other side of you" said Phyllis gently.

"How do you know there's another side?"

"I don't know how, but I do."

"I reckon it must be a right puny one."

"It has a good deal to fight against, hasn't it?"

"You're right it has. There's a devil in me that gets up on its hind
legs and strangles what little good it finds. But it certainly beats me
how you know so much that goes on inside a sweep like me."

"You forget. I'm not very good myself. You know my temper runs away with
me, too."

"You blessed lamb!" she heard him say under his breath; and the way he
said it made the exclamation half a groan.

For her naive confession emphasized the gulf between them. Yet it
pleased him mightily that she linked herself with him as a fellow
wrongdoer.

"I suppose you've been wondering why your people have made no attempt to
rescue you," he said presently; for he saw her eyes were turned toward
the hills beyond which lay her home.

"I'm glad they haven't, because it must have made trouble; but I _am_
surprised," she confessed.

"They have tried it--twice," he told her. "First time was Saturday
morning, just before daylight. We trapped them as they were coming
through the Box Canon. I knew they would come down that way, because it
was the nearest; so I was ready for them."

"And what happened?" Her dilated eyes were like those of a stricken doe.

"Nothing that time. I let them see I had them caught. They couldn't go
forward or back. They laid down their arms, and took the back trail.
There was no other way to escape being massacred."

"And the second time?"

Buck hesitated. "There was shooting that time. It was last night. My
riders outnumbered them and had cover. We drove them back."

"Anybody hurt?" cried Phyllis.

"One of them fell. But he got up and ran limping to his horse, I figured
he wasn't hurt badly."

"Was he--could you tell--" She leaned against the rock wall for support.

"No--I didn't know him. He was a young fellow. But you may be sure he
wasn't hit mortally. I know, because I shot him myself."

"You!" She drew back in a sudden sick horror of him.

"Why not?" he answered doggedly. "They were shooting at me--aiming to
kill, too. I shot low on purpose, when I might have killed him."

"Oh, I must go home--I must go home!" she moaned.

"I've got the sheriff's orders to hold you pending an investigation.
What harm does it do you to stay here a while?" he asked doggedly.

"Don't you see? When my father hears of it he will be furious. I made
Phil promise not to tell him. But he'll hear when he comes back. And
then--there will be trouble. He'll drag me from you, or he'll die
trying. He's that kind of man."

A pebble rolled down the face of the wall against which she leaned.
Weaver looked up quickly--to find himself covered by a carbine.

"Hands up, seh! No--don't reach for a gun."

"So it's you, Mr. Keller! Homesteading up there, I presume?"

"In a way of speaking. You remember I asked you a question."

"And I told you to go to Halifax."

"Well, I came back to answer the question myself. You're going to turn
the young lady loose."

"If you say so." Weaver's voice carried an inflection of sarcasm.

"That's what I say. Miss Sanderson, will you kindly unbuckle that belt
and round up the weapons of war? Good enough! I'll drift down that way
now myself."

Keller lowered himself from Flat Rock, keeping his prisoner covered as
carefully as he could the while. But, though Keller came down the steep
bluff with infinite pains, the rough going offered a chance of escape to
one so reckless as Weaver, of which he made not the least attempt to
avail himself. Instead, he smiled cynically and waited with his hand in
the air, as bidden. Keller, coming forward with both eyes on his
prisoner, slipped on a loose boulder that rolled beneath his foot,
stumbled, and fell, almost at the feet of the cattleman. He got up as
swiftly as a cat. Weaver and his derisive grin were in exactly the same
position.

Keller lowered his carbine instantly. This plainly was no case for the
coercion of arms.

"We'll cut out the gun play," he said. "Better rest the hand that's
reaching for the sky. I expect hostilities are over."

"You certainly had me scared stiff," Weaver mocked.

From the first roll of the pebble that had announced the presence of a
third party, Phyl had experienced surprise after surprise. She had
expected to see one of the Seven Mile boys or her brother instead of
Keller--had looked with a quaking heart for the cattleman to fling back
the swift challenge of a bullet. His tame surrender had amazed her,
especially when Keller's fall had given him a chance to seize the
carbine. His drawling, sarcastic badinage pointed to the same
conclusion. Evidently he had no desire to resist. Behind this must be
some purpose which she could not fathom.

"Elected yourself chaperon of the young lady, have you, Mr. Keller?"
Buck asked pleasantly.

The young man smiled at the girl before he answered. "You've been
losing too much time on the job, Mr. Weaver. Subject to her approval, I
got a notion I'd take her back home."

"Best place for her," assented Weaver promptly. "I've been thinking for
a day or two that she ought to get back to those school kids of hers.
But I'm going to take her there myself."

"Yourself!" Phyllis spoke up in quick surprise.

"Why not?" The cattleman smiled.

"Do you mean with your band of thugs?"

"No, ma'am. You and I will be enough."

The suggestion was of a piece with his usual audacity. The girl knew
that he would be quite capable of riding with her into the hills, where
he had a score of bitter, passionate enemies, and of affronting them, if
the notion should come into his head, even in their stronghold. Within
twenty-four hours he had shot one of them; yet he would go among them
with his jaunty, mocking smile and that hateful confidence of his.

"You would not be safe. They might kill you."

"Would that gratify you?"

"Yes!" she cried passionately.

He bowed. "Anything to give pleasure to a lady."

"No--you can't go! I won't go with you. I wouldn't be responsible for
what might happen."

"What might happen--another family impulse?"

"You know as well as I do--after what you've done. And there's bad blood
between you already. Besides, you are so reckless, so intemperate in
what you say and do."

"All right. If you won't go with me, I'll go alone," he said.

She appealed to Keller to support her, but the latter shook his head.

"No use. A wilful man must have his way. If he says he's going, I reckon
he'll go. But whyfor should I be euchred out of my ride. Let me go along
to keep the peace."

Her eyes thanked him. "If you are sure you can spare the time."

"Don't incommode yourself, if you're in a hurry. We won't miss you."
Weaver's cold stare more than hinted that three would be a crowd.

The younger man ignored him cheerfully. "Time to burn, Miss Sanderson."

"You don't want to let that spring plowing suffer," the cattleman
suggested ironically.

"That's so. Glad you mentioned it. I'll try to pick up some one to do it
at the store," returned the optimist.

"Seems to me there are a pair of us, Mr. Keller, who may not be welcome
at Seven Mile. Last time you were down there, weren't you the guest of
some willing lads who were arranging a little party for you?"

"Mr. Weaver," reproached Phyllis, flushing.

But the reference did not embarrass the nester in the least. He laughed
hardily, meeting his rival eye to eye. "The boys did have notions, but
I expect maybe they have got over them."

"Nothing like being hopeful. Now I'd back my show against yours every
day in the week."

The girl handed his revolver back to Weaver, after first asking a
question of the homesteader with her eyes.

"Oh, I get my hardware back, do I?" Buck grinned.

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