15 Western Short Stories — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE GIRL IN THE JAIL in their countenances, see if they could meet her direct gaze without flinching. Bess blamed them for her Uncle Mart being a declared outlaw on the run, every man’s hand lifted against him. She blamed them for the fact that Frank Hepler, the man she'd loved and planned to marry, had been buried two days before, with two bul- Jets still in his breast. The riders on the brow of the hill moved, stretching out like a line of skirmishing cavalry. Sheriff Sam Lu- cas remained at the head of the trail which led down the slope to the clus- ter of ranch buildings. Those of the posse on either side of him began an advance. She knew they intended to surround the ranch buildings at a considerable distance, then gradually move forward and tighten the net. But they would not find her uncle, Mart Treddy. They would find her alone, ready to face them and play the part she had decided to play. They would find a woman of twenty-four, half frozen by shock and sorrow, and at the same time half burning with rage and a thirst for vengeance, but revealing none of the latter in her face or manner. When the riders on either side of Sheriff Sam Lucas had begun their enveloping movement, he started straight down the trail at an easy lope. Bess realized that the sheriff was giving his men time to get into position. She went into the kitchen then and picked up the basket of wet wash and the bag of clothespins. She opened the door and carried the basket out, going to the clothesline at the side of the house, and began hanging wash on the line. A red kitchen apron—tnat meant the sheriff. The number of sheets, pillowcases, or towels would indicate the number of possemen. A blue table- cloth was to mean “They have come, and I’ll do as I promised.” Bess worked slowly, wiping her brow with the back of her hand at times, and looking frequently up at the hills. Her uncle might be watch- ing from somewhere up there. Or he could be following a trail that ran 25 over the hills toward a distant town— if he had found the trail. shew SHERIFF finally loped his sorrel through the gap where a gate once had been, and Bess looked up as if surprised to find a visitor approaching. She noticed that the sheriff rested his right hand on his holster, and kept glancing at the house. The possemen had reached their positions, and were commencing to close in and form their cordon. They moved slowly toward the barn, the extra stable, storage shed and the house itself, acting like men who ex- pected to face a murderous gunfire at any instant. The sheriff stopped his horse a few feet from her. “Good mornin’, Bess,” he greeted. “Morning, Sheriff.” Her voice was lifeless, little more than a murmur. “I s’pose you know why I’m here with my men, Bess. We’re lookin’ for your Uncle Mart.” “Uncle Mart isn’t here.” “When did you see him last, Bess?” “Three days ago, about this time of day. He saddle up and rode off.” “Did he say where he was goin’?” “He said he was going trailing.” She stood erect, her fists against her hips, her sunbonnet hanging by the strings down her back, the stiff morn- ing breeze whipping her worn calico dress around her legs. © “Who'd he be trailin’?” the sheriff asked her. “I s’pose you mean he was hittin’ the trail away from this part of the country. Is that it? Because he shot and killed Frank Hepler.” “My uncle didn’t kill Frank.” Sup- pressed vehemence was in her voice. “He's trailing the man who did.” “Which direction did he travel?” “I know where he meant to go and what he meant to do. But I’m not telling.” The sheriff glanced around, to see his men approaching the rambling outbuildings cautiously. “Bess, if your uncle didn’t kill Frank Hepler, why did he run away?” “Because he knew if he didn’t, men would lie him to-the hanging gal- lows,” she replied. “He went trailing to get evidence and catch the killer, COniclooo SS (CO