Fugitives From Justice

: The Highgrader

At the Lodge too an early breakfast was held, though it was five hours

later than the one at the camp. The whole party was down by nine-thirty

and was on the road within the hour. The morning was such a one as only

the Rockies can produce. The wine of it ran through the blood warm and

stimulating. A blue sky flecked with light mackerel clouds stretched

from the fine edge of the mountains to the ragged line of hills that cut
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r /> off the view on the other side.



The horses were keen for the road and the pace was brisk. It was not

until half the distance had been covered that Joyce, who was riding

beside the captain, found opportunity for conversation.



"You sat up late, didn't you?"



"Early," the soldier laughed.



"How did the savage behave himself?"



"He went the distance well. We all contributed to the neat little roll

he carried away." Kilmeny smiled as he spoke. He was thinking of

Verinder, who had made a set against the miner and had tried to drive

him out by the size of his raises. The result had been unfortunate for

the millionaire.



"He has a good deal of assurance, hasn't he?" she asked lightly.



The captain hesitated. "Do you think that's quite the word? He fitted in

easily--wasn't shy or awkward--that sort of thing, you know--but he

wasn't obtrusive at all. Farquhar likes him."



"He's rather interesting," Joyce admitted.



She thought of him as a handsome untamed young barbarian, but it was

impossible for her to deny a certain amount of regard for any virile man

who admired her. The Westerner had not let his eyes rest often upon her,

but the subtle instinct of her sex had told her that he was very much

taken with her. Since Joyce Seldon was the center and circumference

about which most of her thoughts revolved, it followed that the young

man had chosen the sure way to her favor.



Moya Dwight too found that the young fisherman flitted in and out of her

mind a good deal. He had told her, with that sardonic smile, that he was

a workingman. Indeed, there had been something almost defiant in the way

he had said it, as if he would not for a moment accept their hospitality

on false pretenses. But, surely, he was worlds apart from any laborer

she had ever seen. Last evening he had been as much at his ease as Lord

Farquhar himself. A little uncertainty about the use of the spoons and

forks had not disturbed him at all. In spite of the soft vocal elisions

of the West, his speech had a dignity that suggested breeding. It was

quite likely he was not a gentleman, according to the code in which she

had been brought up, but it was equally sure there burned in him that

dynamic spark of self-respect which is at the base of all good manners.



The little town of Gunnison rioted with life. Born and brought up as she

had been in the iron caste of modern super-civilization, Moya found the

barbaric color of the occasion very appealing. As she looked down on the

arena from the box her party occupied, the heart of the girl throbbed

with the pure joy of it all. She loved this West, with its picturesque

chap-clad brown-faced riders. They were a hard-bitten lot, burned to a

brick red by the untempered sun of the Rockies. Cheerful sons of mirth

they were, carrying their years with a boyish exuberance that was

delightful.



Most of the competitors for the bucking broncho championship had been

eliminated before the arrival of the party from the Lodge. Among the

three who had reached the finals was their guest of the previous

evening.



"Jack Kilmeny will ride Teddy Roosevelt," blared the megaphone man.



The English officer turned to Farquhar. "Didn't quite catch the name.

Sounded like my own."



"That's what I thought," contributed his sister. A moment later, she

added: "Why, it's Mr. Crumbs."



That young man sauntered forward lazily, dragging his saddle by its

horn. He saddled the trembling animal warily, then swung lightly to the

seat. The broncho stood for an instant motionless, then humped itself

from the earth, an incarnate demon of action. As a pitcher, a weaver, a

sunfisher, this roan had no equal. Its ill-shaped nose and wicked red

eyes were enough to give one bad dreams. But the lean-flanked young

miner appeared clamped to the saddle. Lithe and sinuous as a panther, he

rode with a perfect ease that was captivating. Teddy tried all its

tricks. It went up into the air and came down with all four legs stiff

as iron posts. It shot forward in a series of quick sharp bucks. It

flung itself against the wall of the arena to crush the leg of this

rider who held the saddle with such perfect poise. But Jack Kilmeny was

equal to the occasion and more. When the brute went over backward, in a

somersault, he was out of the saddle and in again before the vicious

outlaw had staggered to its feet. Even the frontier West had never seen

a more daring and magnificent piece of horsemanship.



Captain Kilmeny clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Bravo! Well done!"

He turned to Moya, who sat beside him. "Finest bit of rough-riding I

ever saw. Not one man in a million could have done it."



"It's all in getting the hang of the thing, you know," drawled Verinder

complacently.



Moya, who was leaning forward with her dark eyes fixed on the two superb

animals fighting for mastery in the arena, thought both comments

characteristic. The captain was a sportsman and a gentleman, the

millionaire was neither.



India whispered in the ear of Moya. "He's as broadminded as a crab, just

about."



The reference was of course to Verinder. "I think we ought to be fair,

even to a crab, dear," Miss Dwight answered dryly.



The battle between the outlaw broncho and its rider was over. The

confidence of Teddy Roosevelt as well as its strength had been shaken.

The bucks of the pony were easy to foresee. Presently they ceased. The

horse stood with drooping head, foam dripping from its mouth, flanks

flecked with sweat stains.



Kilmeny swung from the saddle, and at the same time Colter stepped into

the arena. He drew Jack aside and whispered in his ear. India, watching

the rough-rider through field glasses, saw the face of the young man

grow grim and hard. Without the delay of a moment he pushed through the

crowd that gathered to congratulate him and walked out of the grounds

with Colter.



The other two riders who had reached the finals were both experts in the

saddle. One of them, however, had been traveling with a Wild West show

and was too soft to hold his own against the bit of incarnate deviltry

he was astride. To save himself he had to clutch at the horn of the

saddle.



"He's pulling leather," shouted one of the judges, and the man was waved

aside.



The third cowpuncher made a good showing, but his horse lacked the

energy and spirit of Teddy Roosevelt. The unanimous decision of the

judges was in favor of Kilmeny. But when they sought for him to award

the prize the new champion was nowhere to be found.



Moya Dwight felt with genuine disappointment that the man's courtesy had

failed. She and her friends had applauded his exploits liberally. The

least he could have done would have been to have made a short call at

their box. Instead, he had ignored them. She resolved to bear herself

more coldly if they met again.



The early shadows of sunset were stretching down the rough mountain

sides by the time the visitors from the Lodge reached the river canon on

their homeward way. Soon after this the champion rider and his friend

Colter passed them on a stretch of narrow road cut in the steep wall of

the gulch. The leathery face of the latter took them in impassively as

he gave them a little nod of recognition, but the younger man reined in

for a few words. He accepted their congratulations with a quiet "Glad

you enjoyed it," but it was plain that he was in a hurry. In his eyes

there was a certain hard wariness that seemed hardly to fit the

occasion. Moya could not avoid the impression that he was anxious about

something. As soon as he well could he put spurs to his horse and

cantered after his companion.



"I don't like your savage as well as I thought I was going to. If he

can't be pleasanter than that you may keep him yourself, Moya," Joyce

announced with a smile.



It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that the sound of hard riding

reached them from the rear. Five dusty, hard-bitten men, all armed with

rifles and revolvers, drew level with them. The leader threw a crisp

question at Lord Farquhar.



"Two riders pass you lately?"



"Yes."



"One on a big sorrel and the other on a roan with white stockings on the

front feet?"



"Yes."



"Say anything?"



"The younger one stopped for a few words. He is a Mr. Crumbs, camped on

the river just below us."



The lank man with the rifle across his saddle bow laughed grimly. "Yes,

he is--not. His name is Kilmeny--Jack Kilmeny. I'm the sheriff of

Gunnison County--and I want him bad."



"Did you say Kilmeny?" asked the captain sharply.



"That's what I said--the man that won the broncho busting contest

to-day."



To Moya, looking around upon the little group of armed men, there was a

menacing tenseness in their manner. Her mind was groping for an

explanation, but she understood this much--that the law was reaching out

for the devil-may-care youth who had so interested her.



"What do you want with him? What has he done?" she cried quickly.



"He and his friend held up the gatekeeper of the fair association and

got away with three thousand dollars."



"Held up! Do you mean robbed?"



"That's what I mean--vamoosed with the whole proceeds of the show. How

long since they passed?"



"Between a quarter and half an hour," answered Farquhar.



The sheriff nodded. "All ready, boys."



The clattering hoofs disappeared in a cloud of dust down the road.



The rough places of life had been padded for all these young women.

Never before had they come so close to its raw, ugly seams. The shadow

of the law, the sacredness of caste, had always guarded them.



India turned upon her brother big dilated eyes. "He said Kilmeny. Who

can the man be?"



"I don't know." He was silent a moment in frowning thought, struck by an

unwelcome idea. "You remember Uncle Archie. He had a son named Jack who

lives somewhere in Colorado. D'ye remember he came home when you were a

little kiddie? Stopped at granddad's."



The girl nodded. "He fought you once, didn't he?"



The captain nodded. The doubt began to grow into certainty. "Thought I

had seen his face before. He's our cousin Jack. That's who he is."



"And now he's a highwayman. By Jove, he doesn't look it," contributed

Farquhar.



"I don't believe it. Such nonsense!" flamed Moya.



"Fancy! A real live highwayman to supper with us," Joyce reminded them

with sparkling eyes.



"I'm sure he isn't. There must be a mistake."



"He was troubled about something, Moya," Lord Farquhar suggested. "He

and his friend were riding fast and plainly in a hurry."



"Didn't he stop to talk?"



"He had to do that to avoid suspicion. I could see his mind wasn't on

what he was saying. The man was anxious."



"I thought you liked him," Moya charged scornfully.



Her guardian smiled. "I did, but that isn't evidence that will acquit

him in court of being a road agent."



"He's India's cousin--maybe. How could he be a criminal? Shall we have

to cut her and Captain Kilmeny now?" Miss Dwight demanded hotly.



The captain laughed, but there was no mirth in his laughter. "You're a

stanch friend, Miss Dwight. By Jove, I hope you're right about him."



Deep in her heart Moya was not at all sure. What did she know of him?

And why should she care what he was? The man was a stranger to her.

Forty-eight hours ago she had never seen him. Why was it that every good

looking vagabond with a dash of the devil in him drew on her sympathies?

She recalled now that he had hesitated when she had mentioned his name,

no doubt making up his mind to let her think him other than he was. The

sheriff must know what he was talking about when he said the man was an

outlaw. But the appearance of him pleaded potently. Surely those clear

unflinching eyes were not the homes of villainy. Nor could she find it

possible to think his gallant grace of bearing the possession of a

miscreant.



Before the day was out her faith in him had sunk to zero. Captain

Kilmeny returned from the camp of the miners with the news that it was

deserted except for two of the deputies who had stayed to guard it

against the possible return of the robbers. He brought with him the

detailed story of the hold-up.



Two masked men on horseback had robbed the treasurer of the Gunnison

County Fair association as he was driving to the bank to deposit the

receipts of the day. The men had not been recognized, but the

description of the horses corresponded closely to those ridden by

Kilmeny and Colter. It was recalled that these two men had disappeared

as soon as the bucking broncho contest was over, not half an hour before

the robbery. This would allow them just time to return to the corral on

the outskirts of the town, where they had left their mounts, and to

saddle so as to meet the treasurer on his way to the bank. It happened

that the corral was deserted at the time, the boy in charge having left

to see the finals of the contest. Cumulative evidence of guilt lay in

the disappearance from the fishing camp not only of the two men

suspected, but also of their companions, Curly and Mosby.



"Think he really did it, Ned?" India asked her brother.



"Can't say, sis. Looks like it," he answered gloomily.



Of the party at the Lodge only one member was pleased at the turn events

had taken. Verinder's manner was as openly triumphant as he dared allow

it to become. It cried offensively, "I told you so!"



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