Wilding was discouraged, but he thought there might still be a chance in another direction, although the prospects appeared slim. Leaving the coroner he sought out the sheriff"s office and encountered a burly individual who welcomed him as some one to relieve the monotony of his days. This man was also a newcomer, or comparatively so. He had fifteen years of residence behind him. But he, too, knew nothing of French Pete"s murder.
"To be sure," he said, after reflecting, "I"ve heard something about it and I have a slight recollection that I"ve run onto it at some time. There used to be considerable talk about the mine this here Basco had found and many a man has hunted all over the map after it.
But it ain"t never been found. I"ve heard that he was shot from ambush by a gunman, and his name might have been Louisiana. Seems to me that whoever shot him must have done it because he had found the mine, and since the mine ain"t ever been discovered it looks like the murderer must have wanted its secret to remain hidden. That looks reasonable, don"t it?"
"There might be something in it," admitted Wilding.
"Well, if that"s the case, it"s just as reasonable to figure that, if it was a white man that shot him, he"d come back in time to locate the mine. But he ain"t ever done it. Then I"d say that proves one of two things: either it wasn"t no white man that shot him or if it was the man was himself killed before he could return. Ain"t that right?"
"But if not a white man who would have done it?"
"Indians," said the sheriff, solemnly. "Them Indians don"t want white men ringing in here and digging up the country where they hunt. Back in those days I reckon there was heaps of Indians round here and most likely one of them shot him. But, come to think of it, the files may have a record of it in "em. We"ll go and look."
Wilding followed him, still further convinced that he was on a hopeless search. The sheriff went into the office and led the way up to an unlighted second-story room, hardly more than an attic where, in the dust and gloom, slightly dissipated by the rays of a flashlight, he disclosed several boxes and transfer cases over which he stooped.
"Nineteen hundred. It wouldn"t be in one of these transfer cases because I know they didn"t have no such traps in those days. One of these old boxes might have something. Lend a hand while I haul them out."
The two of them hauled out and opened two or three boxes before they found one the papers in which seemed to be dated in the years before and after nineteen hundred. This they carried downstairs and soon were busy in pawing over the dusty, faded doc.u.ments. The search produced only one thing. The sheriff came upon it and held it up just as they were giving up hope. Then, with Wilding eagerly leaning over his shoulder, he read it slowly.
REWARD!
The sheriff of Esmeralda County, State of Nevada, hereby offers a reward of FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS for the capture, dead or alive, and evidence leading to the conviction of Lewis Delaney, alias Louisiana Lou, alias Louisiana, who is wanted for the murder, on October 18, 1900, of Peter Dalbray, commonly known as French Pete, at a point near the entrance of Shoestring Canyon in Township 42 N., Range 5 East. This reward is guaranteed and authorized by Isaac Brandon, of Twin Forks, Nevada.
DESCRIPTION!
Just short of six feet, slim, quick, regular features, age about nineteen or twenty years, smooth face, brown hair, gray eyes. Dressed when last seen in open flap chaps, silver conchas, blue shirt. Boss of the Range Stetson, wearing wide belt with conchas and holster stamped with sunflowers. Carried a black rubber-handled Colt .41-caliber gun with which he is very expert. Has probably picked up a 30-30 rifle, Winchester or Marlin, since last seen, with which he committed the crime. Speaks with slight Southern accent.
Police of all cities notified.
"That," said the sheriff, reluctantly, "seems to dispose of my Indian theory. They wouldn"t have offered any such reward if they hadn"t been pretty sure they had the right man. But it"s equally sure that they never caught him or we"d have some record of it. On my second theory then, he"s either dead, or else he"d have come back to locate that mine, or else he"s been taken up for some other crime and has been serving time somewhere."
Wilding took the faded, yellow handbill with its crude printing. "It looks that way," he said. "Evidently they couldn"t get a photograph of him, and the description seems to be vague except as to his weapons and accouterments."
"That"s the way with them old-timers. They didn"t pay so much attention to a man"s looks as to his saddle and horse and gun. But if it"ll do you any good take it along. It"s outlawed as far as the reward"s concerned, so I don"t reckon I"ll go hunting this fellow. The county wouldn"t pay me, and old Brandon"s been dead a year or more."
The lawyer had to be satisfied with this, and, indeed, it seemed to settle the matter fairly conclusively. His business having been completed, he got out his automobile and once more headed back for Sulphur Falls.
That evening he drew up at Wallace"s ranch and there found Solange about to start into the mountains. He stayed the night, and delivered to her the handbill after telling her what he had done regarding the divorce and the search for the murderer. Solange listened to the first part of it with slight interest. Her desire to be free of De Launay had lost its force lately and she found herself somewhat indifferent.
As Wilding formally laid down the procedure she would have to go through she even found herself vaguely regretting that she had moved so promptly in that matter. Somehow, in this land of strangers, kind and sympathetic as they had been, she felt that her search was hopeless without some more intimate help. The tall soldier, broken and desperate as he seemed to be, was closer to her than any one else and she felt that, if she should lose him, her plight would be forlorn. As she had last seen him standing in his cell, making his quiet promise of service to her, he appeared to be a rock on which she could lean.
To her mind came back the stories she had heard of him, the wild and stormy tale of his rise from an outcast of the Legion des Etrangers to a high and honored place in the French army. He had done wonderful things and had overcome tremendous obstacles. Such a man could still do marvels, and it was marvels that one must do to help her in her search.
Some inborn superst.i.tion of her native mountains worked upon her. In his absence the things which had prejudiced her against him faded while the smooth efficiency and ease of her journey to this distant land was recalled, with the realization that that comfort and speed must have been due entirely to him whom she had thought spending his time in drunken carouses. He had brought her so far, to the very threshold of what she sought, and, if he should now abandon her, that threshold must remain uncrossed. De Launay had taken on some of the attributes of a guardian angel, a jinni who alone could guide her to the goal she sought. And she was about to divorce him, to cut the slight tie that bound him to her.
This was her feeling when Wilding showed her the handbill, and the ancient, faded poster carried instant conviction to her that she was at last on the trail of the murderer. When the lawyer repeated the sheriff"s deductions as to Louisiana"s death or detention, she merely shook her head. Although the description carried little meaning to her she seemed to envision a figure, sinister and evil, something to seek and something to find. Or something that De Launay would surely find!
She went out to where the two young men were working with the pack outfit and horses which had been brought in for their journey.
"My friends," she said soberly, "we must hurry and be gone to-morrow.
I have a feeling that we shall find this man. But it will be with Monsieur de Launay"s help. I do not know why but I feel that he will bring us to the man. We must rejoin him as soon as possible."
"All right," said Sucatash, shortly. Dave muttered, "d.a.m.n De Launay!"
But they both turned back to their work and hastened their preparations.
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE SOLITUDES OF THE CANYON
The great wall of the Esmeraldas is split at one point by a ragged chasm opening out into the foothills and the gra.s.s plains to the north. This was the outlet of Shoestring Creek, a small stream of water which flowed out into the plain and was finally lost in the sands. It ran back into the range almost to the top of the main divide, forming a sort of natural pathway through the rugged mountains, a pathway much followed by the sheep-herders in driving their flocks from winter to summer range.
There was no road, properly speaking. In fact, when one had penetrated a few miles into the canyon pa.s.sage was rendered arduous and difficult by a series of rocky terraces down which the stream tumbled. At many points the sheep trails winding along the slopes of the canyon walls formed the only practical thoroughfare.
Farther up, the canyon became more level, but no one had ever built a road through it. A good trail ran along it, generally at the level of the stream. Once past the terraced and rough part, there were no difficulties worthy of mention, at least in other seasons than winter.
It was into this entrance to the Esmeraldas that Solange and her cavaliers rode, pushing on steadily so as to be able to make camp above the obstructions. Sucatash and Dave, finding that the girl was a capable horsewoman and apparently able to bear any reasonable amount of fatigue, had pushed their first day"s travel relentlessly, covering the twenty miles between the ranch and the mountains, and aiming to penetrate another ten miles into the hills on the first day.
There had been little conversation. The two boys had the habit of their kind and kept silence for the most part while on the trail. As for Solange, though interested in the strange and wild country, she was engrossed in her own thoughts, aloof from all about her, wondering ceaselessly what her search would eventually develop.
There had been many times, even after starting on her pilgrimage, when the whole adventure had appealed to her as one that was no better than a weird, senseless obsession, one that she would do well to turn back from and forget. Probably, at first, she had only been kept to the task by a certain spirit of adventure, a youthful and long-repressed urge for romance, fortified by inherited traditions of the sacredness of vengeance. It is even probable that, had it not been for the fortuitous advent of De Launay and the wild impulse which had led her to enlist him in the affair, she would have remained at home and settled down to--what?
It was that memory of what her fate must be at home that had always furnished the final p.r.i.c.k to her faltering resolution. Better to wander, lonely and helpless, fighting and struggling to achieve some measure of independence, than remain to what her existence must be in France, whether it was the drab life of a seamstress or shopgirl, the gray existence of a convent, the sluggish grind of a sordid marriage--provided she could find a man to marry--or the feverish degradation of the _demi-monde_.
But now, as she rode under the frowning, yellow-brown, black-patched rocks of the Esmeraldas, or looked backward over the drab plain behind her, she felt an ever-increasing exaltation and tingling sense of expectation. She could not guess what was going to happen. She had no idea of what awaited her among those mountains, but she had a strong and distinct impression that fate was leading her on to a final accounting.
Why De Launay should be inextricably entangled in that settlement she could not imagine but he was always there. Her recollections of him were those of disgust and contempt. To her he was merely a fallen, weak, dissipated man, criminally neglectful of opportunities, criminally indifferent to his obligations. She recalled him as he had stood in the cell of the jail, unkempt, shattered of nerve, and she shivered to think that he had been a man who was once considered great. The fact that she was bound to him, even though the affair was one purely of form, should have affected her as something degrading.
Peculiarly, however, it did not. Most of the time she never considered the marriage at all. When she did it was with a feeling of mingled security and comfort. It was convenient and, somehow, she felt that, in De Launay, she had the one husband who would not have been a nuisance or have endeavored to take advantage of the circ.u.mstances.
The marriage being a matter of form, a divorce was inevitable and simple, yet, when she considered that matter of divorce, she felt a queer sort of reluctance and distaste, as though it were best to shove consideration of that point into the future as far as possible.
The gaunt, bare canyon thrilled her. She felt as though she were breaking into some mysterious, Bluebeard region where danger, adventure and intrigue awaited her. The mine, indeed, remained a mere vague possibility, hoped for but hardly expected. But her father"s slayer and the vengeance that she had nursed so long became realities.
The rocks that blocked the way might hide him and, somewhere in those hills, rode De Launay, who would lead her to that evil beast who had blighted her life.
Again, why De Launay? She did not know, except that she felt that the drunken soldier held the key to the search. Probably he was to be the instrument of vengeance; the slayer of the criminal; the settler of the blood feud. He was hers by marriage, and in marrying her had wedded the vendetta. Besides, he was the type. A legionnaire, probably a criminal, and certainly one who had killed without compunction in his time. The instrument of Providence, in fact!
Ahead of her rode Sucatash, ahead of him the long string of laden pack horses and ahead of them the silent Dave. The two cow-punchers had jogged throughout the day with silent indifference to their surroundings, but after they had entered the foothills and were creeping into the shadow of the canyon they evinced more animation.
Every now and then Solange observed that one or the other cast a glance up into the air and ahead of them, toward the interior of the range. She was riding closer to Sucatash who motioned toward the distant crest of the range which showed through the gap of the canyon.
She nodded. She was mountain born and bred and recognized the signs.
"There will be a storm, monsieur."
Sucatash rewarded her with an admiring glance. "Afraid we"re headed into it," he said. "Better turn back?"
"It will take more than storms to turn me back," she answered.
Sucatash nodded and turned again to look at the sky turning gray and gradually blackening above the dim line of the ridge. Even as they watched it, the sky seemed to descend upon the crest and to melt it.
The outlines became vague, broken up, changed.