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Meadowlark Basin

<h2>CHAPTER FIVE</h2> <h3>THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN ARROW</h3> Still, clear moonlight lay upon the land, with the far hills like a painted back drop against the stars when Bud, having ridden far and fast, jogged wearily into town and dropped reins before the bank, where a light shone faintly through the curtained windows and figures were to be seen moving occasionally behind the green shades. He knocked, and after a hushed minute Delkin himself admitted him. Bud walked from force of habit to the grilled window and leaned his fore-arms heavily upon the shelf, his cameo-pinned hat pushed back on his head as he pressed his forehead against the bronze rods of the barrier. "Well, I rode the high lines," he announced huskily because of the dryness in his throat. "I saw the bunch from town go fogging along the trail across the river, but I was back on the bench, following a mess of horse tracks that took off toward the hills. "There's something darn funny about this deal, Mr. Delkin." Delkin had retreated again behind the partition as if that was what his office required of him. "Here's how she lies, but I don't pretend to understand it. I got my horse and rode back up here and out behind the bank, so as to pick up any trail they had left. The only horses that had stood for any length of time near the bank was a pack outfit that had been on the vacant lot back here all afternoon, by the sign. It was Bat Johnson had it—he works for Palmer. He rode away just as I came around the corner of the bank, thinking I could get in at the side door, and I overhauled him at the ford. He'd taken that stock trail through the willows, back here, and he told me he'd got a glimpse of three or four horses loping down through the draw to the ford ahead of him. He hadn't seen any one leave the bank by the side door, he said, for he was over to the blacksmith shop for a while and came and got his horses just as I came in sight around the corner. He hadn't seen any one that acted suspicious, but he hadn't been paying any attention, he said. "I rode back up the draw and picked up the trail of four horses, shod all around. Your town posse crossed the river while I was in the draw, and I followed the four horses across. The riders ahead of me didn't pay any attention to the tracks. I suppose," he added scornfully, "they were looking for masked men with white sacks full of money in their arms! They just loped down the road, all in a bunch, as if they were headed for a dance." Bud cleared his throat; this painstaking report was dry work. "Well, Mr. Delkin, those four horses—shod all around—took straight across the bench beyond the Smoky, heading for the hills. Here's the funny part, though: They didn't hunt the draws where they could keep out of sight, but sifted right along in a beeline, across ridges and into hollows and out again, until the tracks were lost where they joined a bunch of range stock that's running back there on the bench about eight miles. From there on I couldn't get a line on anything at all. I tried to ride up on the bunch, but my horse was tired and they're pretty wild, and they broke for the hills. There were shod horses among them, and I'm sure that no one had time to catch up fresh horses out of that band and leave the four—and, Mr. Delkin, those four horses didn't travel as if they had riders. I'd swear they were running loose, and beat it straight from town to join their own bunch of range horses." "And that's all you found out?" Delkin's voice was flat and old and hopeless. "That's the extent of it. It was a blind trail, I believe, and your holdups went some other way. Perhaps that posse will pick up some sign, though if they do it will be an accident." The other men there asked a few questions, their manner as hopeless as Delkin's. They were the directors and other officers of the bank, and Bud sensed their feeling of helplessness before this calamity. The body of the cashier had been removed, and these were staying on the scene simply because they did not know what else to do. "How's the bank? Cleaned out?" Bud was still conscious of his own personal responsibilities. "Everything." Delkin waved an apathetic hand. "We're so far from other banks, and Charlie slept right here—so in spite of the fact that we sometimes didn't have more than a dozen customers in here all day, we kept more cash on hand than was safe. At least we had more on hand right now than usual. With the bookkeeper sick, Charlie was alone here part of the time. Near closing time especially. So few people came in, along in the afternoon. We did most of our business during the forenoons." He moistened his lips and looked away. "It looks as if Charlie had just set the time lock and was getting ready to close the vault when—it happened. Another half hour, perhaps, and they'd have had to blow open the vault, and some one would have heard. Maybe five minutes before you came—I can't see how they got away without being seen." "Well, I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Delkin. My horse and I are both about all in. Of course you 'phoned for the sheriff." "Right after it happened. He'll be here with a posse of his own before morning." Outside Bud almost collided with young Brunelle, who caught him by the arm with an impulsive gesture. "I recognized your horse. Come over to our cabin, won't you, Mr. Larkin? You see I've discovered what your name is. I've been watching for you to come back, for I knew you'd be hungry; and Marge—my sister Margaret—has supper all ready for you. We're pretty lonely," he added wistfully. "People here seem to be very clannish and cool toward strangers." "That's because they're roughnecks and know it," said Bud, and picked up the reins of his horse. "If you'll wait until I put my horse in the stable I'll be right with you. Only I'm liable to clean you out of grub if I once start eating. There's over six feet of me, Lightfoot, and I'm all hollow." "That'll be all right," smiled the other. "It's yours while it lasts—and that may not be long if the bank is really closed for good. We haven't any money to buy more." Delkin's hostler took charge of the Meadowlark horse and the two men walked on to where a light shone through a cabin window, set back from the main street in an open space that gave a close view of the bluff. Bud very likely did not grasp the imminent poverty of his host, probably because he was not paying much attention to his last sentence; and that his ready acceptance of the invitation to supper was caused chiefly by a too intimate knowledge of the hotel cuisine. "My sister," Brunelle explained on the way, "is an author of short stories. She has had one printed in the paper back home, and the editors of several Eastern magazines have given her quite a good many puffs on the stories she sent them. They were very sorry they couldn't use them and said it wasn't because there was anything wrong with the stories. I know all our friends at home are very anxious that she should make that her life work. But back in our home town there never seemed to be anything to write about, and Marge felt the need of going where there would be interesting subjects. So when mother died we decided to come right out West and write up some cowboy stories, and I could illustrate them with pictures drawn from life. Western stories are all the go now, and these ought to take pretty well with the editors, I should think—though of course one needs to have a pull to get right in. Still, these will be done right on the spot with pictures of the real characters, and that will make a hit with the editors, I should think. "So that's the real reason why we came to Smoky Ford. We aren't telling every one, because we don't want to make people self-conscious in our presence. We want to win the confidence of the people. That's why I danced in the saloon when they asked me to. "We let it be known that my sister is out here for her health. That isn't so far off, either, because she was all worn out with taking care of mother, and the doctor advised her to go away somewhere for a while. So we sold the property—and every dollar we have we put in the bank here. We thought it would show our confidence in the town and help us get in with the right people." "There aren't any right people to get in with; not to amount to anything," Bud told him bluntly. "Not in Smoky Ford. Delkin and—well, there are four or five pretty nice men, but I don't know what kind of wives they've got. Gossipy old hens, most of them, I suppose. I'd drift to some other range, I believe, if I wanted to feel confidence in my neighbors." Budlike, he wondered if the sister was pretty and young. Tired as he was, interest picked up his feet and pulled the sag out of his shoulders when they neared the open doorway and he caught a glimpse of the girl called Marge. He took off his hat and held it so that the cameo brooch was hidden within the palm of his left hand, and gave his rumpled brown hair a hasty rub with the other as he entered—silent, positive proof that the young woman had already caught his roving young masculine attention. He ought to be hurrying on to the ranch that night. He told them so, and then permitted himself to be persuaded into staying all night and sharing the bed of his host, whom he persisted in calling Lightfoot in spite of one or two corrections. "Oh, I know why you call Lawrie that," cried Marge, who had been studying closely this young cowboy, the very first one she had met on friendly footing. "It's a custom of cowboys to give names to strangers, just as the Indians do. You know, Lawrie, Indians name their young and also strangers after the first thing that strikes their notice, the names for adults usually being suggested by some mark or trait in the individual that sets him apart from his fellows. Lawrie told me how he danced in the saloon while you played for him, and of course your custom demanded that you name him after his dancing. Don't you see, Lawrie? He has already given you your tribal, cowboy name—Lightfoot. I rather like it, I believe. So now you, at least, are initiated into the tribe—made a member of the tribe of cowboys!" She had a pretty, eager way of speaking, and her eyes were the sparkly kind when she talked, yet Bud looked at her with a smoldering indignation in his eyes. Living next door to the Belknap reservation, he did not think much of Indians—less of their customs; he having known them long and too well. Nor did he approve of any one calling cowboys a tribe. He had barked knuckles on a man's cheek for less cause before now, and he set his teeth into his lower lip to hold in a retort discourteous. But Marge was a pretty girl, as has been plainly intimated; her gray eyes sparkled like stars on a frosty night, her skin was soft and whiter than any range girl could ever hope to attain, and her mouth was red and provocative, daring male lips to kisses. "Well, then, what are you going to call me?" she challenged fearlessly, as girls do who have been fed with flattery all their lives. "I think perhaps I'll call you—Early," drawled Bud, a faint twitching at the corners of his mouth. A range girl would have taken warning and let well enough alone after that. But Marge was not a range girl. "But you aren't sure, so I can't accept that as final. And now, there's something I've been dying to ask you, Mr. Larkin. Just why do cowboys wear their sombreros pinned back like that? You know, I'm gathering local color of the cattle ranges, and I like to get right at the meaning of things." And with that, she pulled a notebook from her pocket and held pencil point to her lips. "Is it some special mark—an insignia of something? An insignia is a mark showing some certain rank," she explained kindly. "Well, I guess it's an insignia, then," Bud confessed. "But it's a secret and I can't exactly explain. You won't see many wearing this particular badge—insignia." He rolled the word as if it were a new one and he liked the sound. "Can't you even tell the name of the society or order?" "Well—I can't go into details," said Bud gravely. "All I can say is it's the range sign of the golden arrow." (He thought she must surely see through that; she must certainly have read about that terrible young god, Cupid, who shot arrows of gold for love and arrows tipped with lead for hate. Surely she would remember that!) But she didn't. "The Golden Arrow? I don't—did you ever hear of that secret order, Lawrie?" "No," said Lawrie indifferently, "not that I remember. But Mr. Larkin and I were going over to see if that posse has caught those bandits, Marge. If the bank doesn't get that money back, and has to close its doors, we're in a fix!" "I know—but I want to find out about this secret society among the cowboys, Lawrie. It's important that I study cowboys when I get the chance, or how can I write about them realistically? And this Golden Arrow stuff is something no author of Western stories has ever mentioned. Can't you tell me a tiny bit more about it, Mr. Larkin?" "Well, I know it's about the oldest society on earth," Bud elucidated gravely. "I believe the very first savage—" "Why, of course! How stupid of me not to see at once that the Golden Arrow must be pure Indian!" "Well, I dunno how pure it is, but I guess—" "And you're a member! But what I can't understand, Mr. Larkin, is why that cameo pin should be an emblem of the Golden Arrow." "Why," said Bud, looking at her with soft, dark eyes that simply couldn't lie, "the cameo pin is recognized everywhere as the paleface sign." "Of course!" cried Marge, and wrote it down in her book. Bud went out, holding his lips carefully rigid and unsmiling, though he made strange gulping sounds in his throat all the way down town. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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