Patty Finds A Glove

: The Gold Girl

Dismounting before her cabin, Patty dropped her reins, pushed open the

door, and entered. Her eyes flew to the little dressing table. The

packet was gone! With a thrill of exultation she carefully inspected

the room. Everything was exactly as she had left it. No blundering

Microby had been here during her absence, for well she knew that

Microby could no more have invaded the cabin without leaving traces of

her visit th n she could have flown to the moon. It was midday. She

had intended to rest when she reached the cabin, but her impatience to

establish once for all the identity of the cunning prowler dispelled

her weariness, and after a hurried luncheon, she was once more in the

saddle. "We've both earned a good rest, old fellow," she confided to

her horse, as he threaded the coulee she had marked 1 NW, "but it's

only six or seven miles, and we simply must know who it is that has

been calling on us so persistently. And when I find daddy's mine and

have just oodles of money, I'm going to make it up to you for working

you so hard. You're going to have a nice, big, light, roomy box stall,

and a great big grassy pasture with a creek running through it, and

you're going to have oats three times a day, and you're never going to

have to work any more, and every day I'll saddle you myself and we'll

take a ride just for fun."



Having disposed of her horse's future in this eminently satisfactory

manner, the girl fell to planning her own. She would build a big house

and live in Middleton, and fairly flaunt her gold in the faces of

those who had scoffed at her father--no, she hated Middleton! She

would go there once in a while, to visit Aunt Rebecca, but mainly to

show the narrow, hide-bound natives what they had missed by not

backing her father with a few of their miserable dollars. She would

live in New York--in Washington--in Los Angeles. No, she would live

right here in the hills--the hills, that daddy had loved, and whose

secret he had wrested from their silent embrace. And when she tired of

the hills she would travel. Not the slightest doubt as to her ability

to locate her father's claim assailed her, now that she had learned

to read his map.



It was wonderfully good to be alive. Her glance traveled from the tiny

creek whose shallow waters purled and burbled about her horse's feet,

to the high-flung peaks of the mountains, their loftier reaches

rearing naked and craggy above the dark green girdle of pines. Slowly

and majestically, hardly more than a speck against the blue, an eagle

soared. It was a good world--courage and perseverance made things work

out right. It was cowardly to despair--to become disheartened. She

would find her father's mine--but, first she would prove that Bethune

was a scoundrel of the deepest dye. And she would prove, she admitted

to herself she wanted to prove, that Vil Holland was all his friends

believed him to be. But, she blushed with shame--what must he think of

her? Of her defense of Bethune, of her deliberate rudeness, and worst

of all, of her night ride with the horse-thieves? He knew she had

suspected him--had even accused him. Would he ever regard her as other

than a silly fool? Vividly she pictured him as he had looked lashing

his way to her through the wildly crowding horse herd, determined,

capable, masterful--and wondered vaguely what her answer would have

been had he made love to her as Bethune had done? She smiled at the

thought of Vil Holland, the unsmiling, the outspoken, the

self-sufficient Vil Holland making love!



Upon the summit of a high ridge she paused and gazed down into the

little valley where she had located the false claim. A few moments

more and she would know to a certainty the identity of the prowler who

had repeatedly searched her cabin. Certain as she was whose stakes she

would find marking the claim, it was with a rapidly beating heart that

she urged her horse into the valley and across the creek toward the

rock wall. Yes, there was a stake! And another! And there was the plot

of ground she had laboriously broken at the foot of the wall. She

swung from the saddle and examined the spot. The rock fragments she

had selected from her father's samples were gone! And now to find the

notice! As she turned to search for the other stakes, her glance

rested upon an object that held her rooted in her tracks. For a moment

her heart stopped beating as she stared at the little patch of gray

buckskin that lay limp and neglected where it had fallen. Slowly she

walked to it, stooped, and recovered it from the ground. It was a

gauntleted riding glove--Vil Holland's. She could not be mistaken,

she had seen that glove upon the hand of its owner too many times,

with its deep buckskin fringe, and the horseshoe embroidered in red

and green silk upon its back.



For a long time she stared at the green and red horseshoe. So it was

Vil Holland, after all, and not Monk Bethune, who had systematically

searched her cabin. Vil Holland, who had watched continually from his

notch in the hills. She had been right in the first place, and the

others had been wrong. Everybody disliked Bethune, and disliking him,

had attributed to him all the crookedness of the hill country, and all

the time, under their very noses, Vil Holland was the real

plotter--and they liked him! She could see it all, now--how, with

Bethune for the scapegoat, he was enabled, unsuspected, to plan and

carry out his various schemes, and with no possible chance of

detection--for he himself was the confidential employee of the

ranchmen--the man whose business it was to put an end to the

lawlessness of the hill country.



Patty was surprised that she was not angry. Indeed, she was not

conscious of any emotion. She realized, as she stood there holding the

gaily embroidered glove in her hand, that the rapture, the gladness

of mere existence had left her, and that where only a few minutes

before, her heart had throbbed with the very joy of living, it now

seemed like a thing of weight, whose heaviness oppressed her. She felt

strangely alone and helpless. She glanced about her. The sun still

shone on the green pines and the sparkling waters of the creek, and

above the high-tossed crags the eagle still circled, but the thrill of

joy in these things was gone. Slowly she turned and, still holding the

glove, mounted, and headed for the cabin on Monte's Creek.



At the door she unsaddled her horse, hobbled him, and turned him

loose. She realized that she was very tired, and threw herself down

upon the bunk. When she awoke the cabin was in darkness. The door

stood wide open as she had left it. For a moment she lay trying to

collect her bewildered senses. Through the open door, dimly

silhouetted against the starry sky, she made out the notch in the

valley rim. Her sense rallied with a rush, and she started nervously

as a pack rat scurried across the floor and paused upon the door sill

to peer inquisitively at her with his beady eyes. Crossing the room,

she closed and barred the door, and lighted the lamp. It was twelve

o'clock. She peered at herself in the glass and with an exclamation of

anger, dampened her wash-cloth and scrubbed furiously at her cheek

where, in deep tracery appeared the perfect shape of a horseshoe.



She was very hungry, and rummaging in the cupboard set out a cold

lunch which she devoured to the last crumb. Then she blew out the lamp

and, removing her riding boots, threw herself down upon the bunk to

think. She was angry now, and the longer she thought the angrier she

got. "I can see it all as plain as day," she muttered. "There isn't

anything he wouldn't do! He did cut that pack sack, and he ran the

sheep man out of the hills because he knew it would be dangerous for

him to have a neighbor that might talk. And the Samuelson horse raid!

Of all the diabolical plotting! With his outlaw friends holding

trusted positions on the ranch, and old Mr. Samuelson sick in bed! Oh,

it was cleverly planned! And that Pierce was right in with them. No

wonder he wanted to lock me in his cellar!



"Who, then, was the man that lay sprawled by the side of the trail?"

The girl shuddered at the memory of the cheap cotton shirt torn open

at the throat, and the moonlight shining whitely upon the bare leg.

"Some loyal rancher, probably, who dared to oppose the outlaws. It's

murder!" she cried aloud. "And yesterday I thought he was watching up

there in the hills to see that no harm came to me!" She laughed--a

hard, bitter laugh that held as much of mirth as the gurgle of a tide

rip. "But he's come to the end of his rope! I'll expose him! I'm not

afraid of his lawless crew! He'll find out it will take more than

rescuing me from that herd of wild horses to buy my silence! I'll ride

straight to Samuelson's ranch in the morning, and from there to

Thompson's, and I'll tell them about his part in the raid, and about

his watching like a vulture from his notch in the hills, and about his

stealing what he thought was daddy's map, and about his filing the

claim. And did show 'em the glove and--" She paused abruptly: "What a

fool I was to come away without the notice! That would have proved it

beyond any doubt, even if he hasn't recorded the claim!" For a long

time she lay in the darkness planning her course for the day. All

thought of sleep had vanished, and her eyes continually sought the

window for signs of approaching light.



At the first faint glow of dawn the girl caught up her horse and

headed for the false claim. It was but the work of a moment to locate

the stake to which the notice was attached by means of a bit of twine.

Removing the paper, she thrust it into her pocket and returned to the

cabin where she ate breakfast before starting for the Samuelson ranch.

Hurriedly washing the dishes, she picked up the glove and thrust it

into the bosom of her shirt, and drawing the crumpled notice from her

pocket, smoothed it out upon the table. Her glance traveled rapidly

over the penciled words to the signature, and she stared like one in a

dream. The blood left her face. She closed her eyes and passed her

hand slowly over the lids. She opened them, and with a nerveless

finger, touched the paper as if to make sure that it was real. Then,

very slowly, she rose from her chair and crossing the room, stood in

the doorway and gazed toward the notch in the hills until hot tears

welled into her eyes and blurred the distant skyline. The next moment

she was upon her bunk, where she lay shaken between fits of sobbing

and hysterical laughter. She drew the glove, with its fringed gauntlet

and its gaudily embroidered horseshoe from her shirt front and ran her

fingers along its velvety softness. Impulsively, passionately, she

pressed the horseshoe to her lips, and leaping to her feet, thrust the

glove inside her shirt and stepping lightly to the table reread the

penciled lines upon the crumpled paper, and over and over again she

read the signature; RAOUL BETHUNE, known also as MONK BETHUNE.



The atmosphere of the little cabin seemed stifling. Crumpling the

paper into her pocket, she stepped out the door. She must do

something--go some place--talk to someone! Her horse stood saddled

where she had left him, and catching up the reins she mounted and

headed him at a gallop for the ravine that led to the trampled notch

in the hills. During the long upward climb the girl managed to collect

her scattered wits. Where should she go? She breathed deeply of the

pine-laden air. It was still early morning. A pair of magpies flitted

in short flights from tree to tree along the trail, scolding

incessantly as they waited to be frightened on to the next tree.

Patches of sunlight flashed vivid contrasts in their black and white

plumage, and set off in a splendor of changing color the green and

purple and bronze of their iridescent feathering. A deer bounded away

in a blur of tan and white, and a little farther on, a porcupine

lumbered lazily into the scrub. It was good to be alive! What

difference did it make which direction she chose? All she wanted this

morning was to ride, and ride, and ride! She had her father's map with

her but was in no mood to study out its intricacies, nor to ride

slowly up and down little valleys, scrutinizing rock ledges. She would

visit the Samuelson ranch, and find out about the horse raid, and

inquire after Mr. Samuelson, and then--well, there would be plenty of

time to decide what to do then. But first, she would swing around by

the little tent beside the creek and see if Vil Holland had returned.

Surely, he must have returned by this time, and she must tell him how

it was she had been riding with the horses--and, she must give him

back his glove. She blushed as she felt the pressure of its soft bulk

where it rested just below her heart. Surely, he would need his

glove--and maybe, if she were nice to him, he would tell her how it

came to be there--and maybe he would explain--this. Her horse had

stopped voluntarily after his steep climb, and she glanced down at the

trampled grass, and from that to her own little cabin far below on

Monte's Creek.



She wondered, as she rode through the timber how it was she had been

so quick to doubt this grave, unsmiling hillman upon such a mere

triviality as the finding of a glove. And then she wondered at her

changed attitude toward him. She had feared him at first, then

despised him. And now--she recalled with a thrill, the lean ruggedness

of him, the unwavering eyes and the unsmiling lips--now, at least, she

respected him, and she no longer wondered why the people of the hills

and the people of the town held him in regard. She knew that he had

never sought to curry her favor--had never deviated a hair's breadth

from the even tenor of his way in order to win her regard and, in

their chance conversations, he had been blunt even to rudeness. And,

yet, against her will, her opinion of him had changed. And this change

had nothing whatever to do with her timely rescue from the horse

herd--it had been gradual, so gradual that it had been an accomplished

fact even before she suspected that any change was taking place.



The huge rock behind which nestled the little tent loomed before her,

and hastily removing the glove from its hiding place, she came

suddenly upon his camp. A blackened coffee pot was nestled close

against a tiny fire upon which a pair of trout and some strips of

bacon sizzled in a frying pan. She glanced toward the creek, at the

same moment that Vil Holland turned at the sound of her horse's

footsteps, and for several seconds they faced each other in silence.

The man was the first to speak:



"Good mornin'. If you'll step back around that rock for a minute, I'll

slip into my shirt."



And suddenly Patty realized that he was stripped to the waist, but her

eyes never left the point high on his upper arm, almost against the

shoulder, where a blood-stained bandage dangled untidily.



"You're hurt!" she cried, swinging from the saddle and running toward

him.



"Nothin' but a scratch. I got nicked a little, night before last, an'

I just now got time to do it up again. It don't amount to

anything--don't even hurt, to speak of. I can let that go, if you'll

just----"



"Well, I won't just go away--or just anything else, except just attend

to that wound--so there!" She was at his side, examining the clumsy

bandage. "Sit right down beside the creek, and I'll look at it. The

first thing is to find out how badly you're hurt."



"It ain't bad. Looks a lot worse than it is. It was an unhandy place

to tie up, left-handed."



Scooping up water in her hand Patty applied it to the bandage, and

after repeating the process several times, began very gently to

remove the cloth. "Why it's clear through!" she cried, as the bandage

came away and exposed the wound.



"Just through the meat--it missed the bone. That cold water feels

good. It was gettin' kind of stiff."



"What did you put on it?"



"Nothin'. Didn't have anything along, an' wouldn't have had time to

fool with it if I'd been packin' a whole drug-store."



"Where's your whisky?"



"I ain't got any."



"Where's your jug? Surely there must be some in it--enough to wash out

this wound."



The man shook his head. "No, the jug's plumb empty an' dry. I ain't

be'n to town for 'most a week."



Patty was fumbling at her saddle for the little "first aid" kit that

she faithfully carried, and until this moment, had never found use

for. "Probably the only time in the world it would ever do you any

good, you haven't got it!" she exclaimed, disgustedly, as she unrolled

a strip of gauze from about a tiny box of salve.



"I'm sorry there ain't any whisky in the jug. I never thought of

keepin' it for accident."



The girl smeared the wound full of salve and adjusted the bandage,

"Now," she said, authoritatively, "you're going to eat your breakfast

and then we're going to ride straight to Samuelson's ranch. The doctor

will be there and he can dress this wound right."



"It's all right, just the way it is," said Holland. "I've seen fellows

done up in bandages, one way an' another, but not any that was better

'tended to than that." He glanced approvingly at the neatly bandaged

arm. "Anyhow, this is nothin' but a scratch an' it'll be all healed

up, chances are, before we could get to Samuelson's."



"No, it won't be all healed up before you get to Samuelson's either!

Run along, now, and I'll stay here while you finish dressing, and when

you're through, you call me. I've had breakfast but I can drink a cup

of coffee, if you'll ask me."



"You're asked," the man replied, gravely, "and while I go to the tent,

you might take that outfit an' jerk a couple more trout out of the

creek." He pointed to a light fishing pole with hook and line attached

that leaned against a tree. "It ain't as fancy as the outfit Len

Christie packs, but it works just as good, an' ain't any bother to

take care of."



A few minutes later Vil Holland emerged from the tent. "Sorry I ain't

got a table," he apologized, "but a fryin' pan outfit's always suited

me best--makes a fellow feel kind of free to pull stakes an' drift

when the notion hits him."



"But, you've camped here for a long time."



The man glanced about him: "Yes, a long time. I guess I know every

place in the hills for a hundred miles round an' this is the pick of

'em all, accordin' to my notions. Plenty of natural pasture, plenty of

timber, an' this little creek's the coldest, an' it always seems to

me, its water is the sparklin'est of 'em all. An' then, away off there

towards the big mountains, early in the mornin' an' late in the

evenin', when it's all kind of dim down here, you can see the sunlight

on the snow--purple, an' pink, an' sometimes it shines like silver an'

gold. It lays fine for a ranch. Sometime, maybe, I'm goin' to

homestead it. I'll build the cabin right there, close by the big rock,

an' I'll build a porch on it so in the evenin's we could watch the

lights way up there on the snow."



Patty smiled: "Who is 'we'?" she asked, mischievously.



The man regarded her gravely: "Things like that works themselves out.

If there ain't any 'we', there won't be any cabin--so there's nothin'

to worry about."



"Did you catch the horse-thieves?"



Vil Holland's face clouded. "Part of 'em. Not the main ones, though."



Patty shuddered. "I saw one of them lying back there by the trail. It

was horrible."



"Yes, an' a couple of more went the same way, further on. We'd rather

have got 'em alive, but they'd had their orders, an' they took their

medicine. We got the horses, though."



"I suppose you're wondering how I came to be in among those horses?"



"I figured you'd got mixed up in it at Samuelson's, somehow. The boys

didn't know nothin' about it--except Pierce--an' he guessed wrong."



Patty laughed. "He accused me of being one of the gang, and even

threatened to lock me in his cellar."



"He won't again," announced the man, dryly.



"I rode down there to get him to go for the doctor. Mr. Samuelson was

worse, and there was no one else to go. And when I started on for

town, the horses swept down on me and carried me along with them."



"Was the doctor got?" asked Holland with sudden interest.



"Yes, I rode on down to Thompson's, and Mr. Thompson sent a man to

town. He was provoked with you for not letting him in on the raid."



"He'll get over it. You see, I didn't want to call out the married

men. I surmised there'd be gun-play an' there wasn't any use takin'

chances with men that was needed, when there's plenty of us around the

hills that it don't make any difference to anyone if we come back or

not. I didn't figure on lettin' Pierce in."



When they had finished washing the dishes the girl glanced toward the

buckskin that was snipping grass in the clearing: "It's time we were

going. The doctor may start for town this morning and we'll meet him

on the trail."



"This ain't a doctor's job," protested the man. "My arm feels fine."



"It's so stiff you can hardly use it. It must feel fine. But it

doesn't make a particle of difference how fine it feels. It needs

attention. And, surely you won't refuse to do this for me, after I

bandaged it all up? Because, if anything should go wrong it would be

my fault."



Without a word the man picked up his bridle and walking to the

buckskin, slipped it over his head and led him in. He saddled the

horse with one hand, and as he turned toward the girl she held out the

glove.



"Isn't this yours? I found it last evening--out in the hills."



Holland thrust his hand into it: "Yes, it's mine. I'm sure obliged to

you. I lost it a couple of days ago. I hate to break in new gloves.

These have got a feel to 'em."



"Do you know where I found it?"



"No. Couldn't guess within twenty miles or so."



Patty looked him squarely in the eyes: "I found it over where Monk

Bethune has just staked a claim. And he staked that particular claim

because it was the spot I had indicated on a map that I prepared

especially for the benefit of the man who has been searching my cabin

all summer."



Holland nodded gravely, without showing the slightest trace of

surprise. "Oh, that's where I dropped it, eh? I figured Monk thought

he'd found somethin', the way he come out of your cabin the last time

he searched it, so I followed him to the place you'd salted for him."

He paused, and for the first time since she had known him, Patty

thought she detected a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "He didn't

waste much time there--just clawed around a few minutes where you'd

pecked up the dirt, an' then sunk his stakes, an' wrote out his

notice, an' high-tailed for the register's office. That was a pretty

smart trick of yours but it wouldn't have fooled anyone that knows

rock. Bethune's no prospector. He's a Canada crook--whisky runner, an'

cattle rustler, an' gambler. Somehow, he'd got a suspicion that your

father made a strike he'd never filed, an' he's been tryin' to get

holt of it ever since. I looked your plant over after he'd hit for

town to file, an' when I tumbled to the game, I let him go ahead."



"But, suppose the rock had been right? Suppose, it had really been

daddy's claim?"



"Buck can run rings around that cayuse of his any old day. I expect,

if the rock had be'n right, Monk Bethune would of met up with an

adventure of some sort a long ways before he hit town."



"You knew he was searching my cabin all the time?"



"Yes, I knew that. But, I saw you was a match for 'em--him an' the

fake Lord, too."



"Is that the reason you threw Lord Clendenning into the creek, that

day?"



"Yes, that was the reason. I come along an' caught him at it. Comical,

wasn't it? I 'most laughed. I saw you slip back into the brush, but

I'd got so far along with it I couldn't help finishin'. You thought

the wrong man got throw'd in."



"You knew I thought that of you--and you didn't hate me?"



"Yes, I knew what you thought. You thought it was me that was

searchin' your cabin, too. An' of course I didn't hate you because you

couldn't hardly help figurin' that way after you'd run onto the place

in the rim-rocks where I watched from. If it wasn't for the trees I

could have strung along in a different place each time, but that's the

only spot that your cabin shows up from."



"And you knew that they always followed me through the hills?"



"Yes, an' they wasn't the only ones that followed. Clendenning ain't

as bad as Bethune, for all he's throw'd in with him. The days Bethune

followed you, I followed Bethune. An' when Clendenning followed you, I

prospected, mostly."



"You thought Bethune might have--have attacked me?"



"I wasn't takin' any chances--not with him, I wasn't. One day, I

thought for a minute he was goin' to try it. It was the day you an'

him et lunch together--when he pretended to be so surprised at runnin'

onto you. I laid behind a rock with a bead draw'd on him. He stopped

just exactly one step this side of hell, that day."



Patty regarded the cowboy thoughtfully: "And Bethune told me he had to

go over onto the east slope to see about some horses. It was after we

had met Pierce, and Bethune asked about Mr. Samuelson and Pierce

snubbed him. I believe Bethune planned that raid. And seeing us

together that day, Pierce jumped to the conclusion that I was in with

him."



"Yes, it was Monk's raid, all right, an' him an' Clendenning got away.

He doped it all out that day. I followed him when he quit you there on

the trail, an' watched him plan out the route they'd take with the

horses. Then I done some plannin' of my own. That's why we was able to

head 'em off so handy. We didn't get Bethune an' Clendenning but I'll

get 'em yet."



They had mounted and were riding toward Samuelson's. "Maybe he's made

his escape across the line," ventured the girl, after a long silence.



Holland shook his head: "No, he ain't across the line. He don't think

we savvy he was in on the raid, an' he'll stick around the hills an'

prob'ly put a crew to work on his claim." He relapsed into silence,

and as they rode side by side, under the cover of her hat brim, Patty

found opportunity to study the lean brown face.



"Where's your gun?" The man asked the question abruptly, without

removing his eyes from the fore-trail.



"I left it home. I only carried it once or twice. It's heavy, and

anyway it was silly to carry it, I don't even know how to fire it, let

alone hit anything."



"If it's too heavy on your belt you can carry it on your saddle horn.

I'll show you how to use it--an' how to shoot where you hold it, too.

Mrs. Samuelson ain't as husky as you are, an' she can wipe a gnat's

eye with a six-gun, either handed. Practice is all it takes, an'----"



"But, why should I carry it? Bethune would hardly dare harm me, and

anyway, now that he thinks he has stolen my secret, he wouldn't have

any object in doing so."



"You're goin' to keep on huntin' your dad's claim, ain't you?"



"Of course I am! And I'll find it, too."



"An', in the meantime, what if Bethune finds out he's been tricked?

These French breeds go crazy when they're mad--an' he'll either lay

for you just to get even, or he'll see that he gets the right dope

next time--an' maybe you know what that means, an' maybe you

don't--but I do."



The girl nodded, and as the horses scrambled up the steep slope of a

low divide, her eyes sought the hundred and one hiding places among

the loose rocks and scrub that might easily conceal a lurking enemy,

and she shuddered. As they topped the divide, both reined in and sat

gazing silently down the little valley before them. It was the place

of their first meeting, when the girl, tired, and lost and

discouraged, had dismounted upon that very spot and watched the

unknown horseman with his six-shooter, and his brown leather jug

slowly ascend the slope. She glanced at him now, as he sat, rugged and

lean, with his eyes on the little valley. He was just the same, grave

and unsmiling, as upon the occasion of their first meeting. She

noticed that he held his Stetson in his hand, and that the wind

rippled his hair. "Just the same," she thought--and yet--. She was

aware that her heart was pounding strangely, and that instead of a

fear of this man, she was conscious of a wild desire to throw herself

into his arms and cry with her face against the bandage that bulged

the shirt sleeve just below the shoulder.



"I call this Lost Creek," said Holland, without turning his head. "I

come here often--" and added, confusedly, "It's a short cut from my

camp to the trail."



Patty felt an overpowering desire to laugh. She tried to think of

something to say: "I--I thought you were a desperado," she murmured,

and giggled nervously.



"An' I thought you was a schoolma'am. I guess I was the first to

change my mind, at that."



Patty felt herself blushing furiously for no reason at all: "But--I

have changed my mind--or I wouldn't be here, now."



Vil Holland nodded: "I expect I'll ride to town from Samuelson's. My

jug's empty, an' I guess I might's well file that homestead 'fore

someone else beats me to it. I've got a hunch maybe I'll be rollin' up

that cabin--before snow flies."