# The Trail Rider/Chapter 16

TEXAS HARTWELL rode back to Cottonwood the next afternoon, a disappointed and humiliated man. Malcolm Duncan had listened to his charges involving Henry Stott with surprise which grew into incredulity, and at last broke in a storm of open scorn.
It was impossible that Stott could have had a hand in running the Texas cattle, Duncan said. He had known Stott for years, and had done business with him long enough to know that he was a square man, and above any such double-handed dealing as that charged.
"We'll let this go no further," said Duncan, as if doing Hartwell a great favor in burying the charges in his breast. "I wouldn't want to stand in your shoes if Henry ever hears of this."
Duncan went farther; he advised Hartwell to take the first train out of Cottonwood, no matter which way it was going. He was still giving Texas the benefit of the doubt that he held in his case, according to the basic justness of his mind.
Hartwell appreciated this half fairness, even ​though he saw that his case was hopeless with the cattlemen. Fannie Goodnight's testimony, even though he might be able to bring her forward to speak in his behalf, would have no weight against the word of a man like Stott.
Fannie appeared to have dropped out of that part of the world. Since his return to Cottonwood Hartwell had kept a vain lookout for her. Of Stott's complicity he had not the faintest doubt. The banker was not only involved, but was the leading power in the venture of the Texas herd. But Hartwell was sick of the hopelessness of ever proving it, heavy with the depression that had been added to his already gloomy load.
Stott was bound to hear of his charge to Duncan, in spite of the cow-man's apparent generosity. When it came to the banker's ears he would be hot to silence the source of it. More gun-slingers would be set after Texas; awake and asleep he would strain and listen for their feet behind him. Truly, Duncan's advice to quit the country was kind counsel, but his going would be his conviction in the minds of the few who still believed in him there. He would not go under a cloud, not if all the gun-slingers on the Arkansas Valley range put his name down in their books of doom.
Uncle Boley was not working when Texas went to the shop to report on his absence and the cause ​of it. The old man was sitting behind the counter in his chair, his empty bench before him, his tools lying where he had put them down, a partly finished boot standing on the floor. The only indication that Uncle Boley had any interest at all left in his business was the waxed-end which he held in his mouth, dark-trailing over his white beard.
"Well, Texas, you're back, and hell's to pay—hel-l's to pay!"
Uncle Boley was disturbed beyond anything in his carriage that Texas ever had witnessed. He got up, rather hurriedly, chewing on the thread as if he would bite it in two, shook his head, sighed. Texas was alarmed. He felt a coldness as of some approaching dread come over him as he hurried forward.
"What's the matter, Uncle Boley? What's happened, sir?"
"Hell's to pay and no pitch hot!" said Uncle Boley gloomily. "They've fired Sallie."
"Fired her? You don't tell me, sir! What reason in this world could they—"
"For bein' seen walkin' along the street with a feller called Texas Hartwell, the most suspicioned feller this side of No Man's Land."
"Can it be possible that I have brought this calamity to Miss Sallie, sir?"
Texas stood before the old man, his face blood​less, his nostrils flaring as if he breathed acid. He was struck rigid by the news, a cold, deep fury in him that seemed to clog his blood.
"It's a fact, to the shame and disgrace of this town. She's fired, turned out like she was a strumpet in the street, and her the cleanest, purest little flower that ever kissed the wind."
"I've brought that on her! It was a woeful day, Uncle Boley, that I ever struck this town!"
"You ain't to blame, Texas; I know you're clean."
"But what will she think about me, sir?"
"I was to blame, more than either of you two—I sent you off together to pick them flow's. Stroud—he's at the bottom of it—he's been tryin' to marry Sallie two or three years, and him old enough to be her daddy twice."
"We saw the scoun'rel; he slunk away before we could speak to him, right at the schoolhouse door."
"Stroud must 'a' done it for revenge on Sallie. He took it up with Henry Stott, chairman of the board, and the other two members follered Stott's lead. Stott thought firin' her on your account would make him a little soldier with the cow-men."
"Let me tell you something about Stott, sir," Texas requested, his hand earnestly on the old man's shoulder. And there he told him of his discovery the night past, of his ride to Duncan's, and ​of Duncan's angry refusal to entertain the charge.
Uncle Boley nodded now and then as Hartwell proceeded to the end.
"Stott's workin' to blacken you so deep nobody'll believe you. He don't want you to have any standin' at all in case you ever suspicion him and tell it. Firin' Sallie helps. It shows you up as a man with a curse ag'in' him that passes on to whosomever he touches."
Texas stood, shoulders up, his body stiff as iron, his eyes fixed in frowning glare on the street through the open door as the old man spoke. Now he turned suddenly, holding out his hand as if in farewell.
Lifting wondering eyes, Uncle Boley took it, and felt that it was as cold as the flesh of the dead.
"Uncle Boley, you've been a powerful good friend to me; you've stood by me when I was a kicked dog in the corner, and I'll carry the gratitude for it in the warmest place in my heart, sir, the longest day I live. If I don't happen to see you no more, sir, I want you to know that I wish you well, now and hereafter, for evermore."
"Why, in God's name, boy—why, Texas—what—what're you goin' to do?"
The old man clung to his hand, stroking it with his grease-black fingers, looking up at his young friend with frightened, appealing eyes.
​"I'm a goin' to call that scoun'rel out, sir, and give him the chance for his life he doesn't deserve. I'm either a goin' to kill him or he'll kill me!"
"Stroud—do you mean Stroud?"
"I mean that polecat Stott, Uncle Boley. Him and me can't breathe together in this world one hour more."
"Wait a minute—wait a minute or two, Texas. Let me think this over—let me think it over, son."
Uncle Boley was pathetic in his perplexity. Tears came wandering down his beard; his hand shook as he clung to Hartwell to hold him back from the execution of his desperate resolution.
"Sir—"
"It wouldn't do any good to kill him—if you kill him you'll shut up the last mouth that can clear you, Texas—don't you see you will?"
"Uncle Boley, I'll make him sign a statement. There ain't no argument and no pleadin' under the sun can stop me in what I've set out to do."
Texas was gone before more could be said to delay him. Uncle Boley went to the door and looked after him, a score of wild schemes rising in his mind to hurry after him and prevent the tragedy, but each of them he dropped as quickly as it came to him, and stood silent and impotent while Texas rushed along the street toward the bank. The wrath of a patient man had broken its re​straint; Uncle Boley knew that if he met Stott he would kill him, with no thought of future consequences to himself.
It was easy to follow Hartwell's progress along the street, for people fell out of his way as if he came carrying the contamination of a fatal disease. Those who did not know him, and had no reason to fear him for his notoriety, read in his face something that made them give him a wide road, and stand gazing after him to see where his wrath would fall. Uncle Boley groaned, believing that this was indeed the great day of trouble, as Hartwell disappeared in the bank.
Uncle Boley could not remain in the door any longer. He feared to see what was to follow; feared that he might be called upon to give testimony against Texas in the dread hour of his trial. There would be enough to do that without him, for people were pressing toward the bank, craning necks, crowding upon each other's heels, to see what this desperate man was about to do.
Uncle Boley could read in their excitement that they believed Texas was going to rob the bank, for some of them were running as if to summon help or arm themselves for the protection of their money in Henry Stott's safe. Uncle Boley turned from the door.
Back behind his counter he sat huddled, an old, ​old man for the first time in his life, fearing to hear what he listened for, afraid of the rush in the street that would tell him the thing was done. A long time he listened, and grew dumb in his sickening anxiety. At last there came a step that he knew on the walk before his door, and a form in the frame of it that was dearer to him than he would have owned an hour ago. Texas was back, heavy of foot and weary.
"He went to Kansas City last night," he said.
Uncle Boley clasped his hands to his temples and bowed his head.
"Thank God!" he said.
So he sat, his white head bent, his calloused hands clasping his temples. Texas stood beside the counter, panting. His face was white as if only the ashes of his soul remained out of the fire of his anger.
"I can wait," he said.
Uncle Boley slowly lifted his head. There were tears on his beard again; a look of age such as he never had worn before made his face softly sad and gentle. He got up, reaching out his hand with the groping slowness of a blind man, touched Texas on the shoulder, ran his fingers down his arm as if to satisfy himself that Hartwell had indeed returned.
"Thank God!" he said again.
​"He'll come back in a day or two, they said. I can wait."
"Yes, we can all wait," Uncle Boley said. "We can wait the Almighty's time to make straight the crooked paths and lead every man to his punishment and reward. I thank God that Henry Stott was gone! There was more than chance in it. Go and pump a fresh bucket of water, son, and take a good drink, and come back here and set down and cool off and take possession of your mind."
Texas did as the old man bade him. He put his hat down on the floor beside his heel when he came back and sat near Uncle Boley, his long black hair wild on his forehead, his face as gaunt as a man who had but one desire in him, and that a desire hot in his heart as molten iron.
Uncle Boley thought of ten reasons to base an argument on against killing Henry Stott, but he saw that none of them would be effective in Hartwell's present high state of strain and anger. Let him cool a night, and then reason it with him; that would be the plan. So Uncle Boley took up his work, making a show of being composed, and sewed on quite a spell with never a word.
"Have you seen Miss Sallie since this trouble happened to her, Uncle Boley?"
Texas appeared to be cooling off already. His ​voice was steady, and it sounded like it came out of a reasonable man. But Uncle Boley saw that the fire of destruction still raged in his soul, for the reflection of it was glowing in his eyes.
"She stopped in here on her way home this morning, as broke up over it as a young bird that's been blowed out of its nest in a storm."
"Did she have much blame to lay on me, sir?"
"She didn't have one word of blame for you, Texas."
"But don't you reckon she must feel I'm a scoun'rel, Uncle Boley?"
"I don't recollect that she said any such a word."
"Everybody's down on me so in this country; all but you and one or two others, that I couldn't blame her. I've bungled things since I came to this place—I've stumbled around like a blind horse."
"Well, don't muss 'em up any worse from now on than you can help, son. You wasn't to blame for what's happened, only for lettin' that girl rope you in down there on the line that night, and I reckon I'd 'a' done the same thing if I'd 'a' been in your place, or most any man would."
"Yes, that was my one mistake," Texas admitted regretfully. "And I suspicioned something, all the time, too. But it's done now, sir, and regrets won't never set it straight. They come too late to do any good, just like that girl tryin' to warn me after them ​fellers was standin' around me with their ropes in their hands."
"I want you to cool off on this business of Henry Stott, Texas, and in the morning we'll talk it over, ca'm and reasonable. No, don't up and tell me now what you're goin' to do when he comes back. A night makes a mighty big difference in a feller's plans sometimes—a difference as wide as the State of Kansas. You go along up and see Sallie after a while, and talk it over with her and her ma, and see what they think about it."
"Do you think Miss Sallie would care to see me, sir, after this disgrace I've fetched on her?"
"I'd run the resk if I was in your place."
Texas took up his hat, a look of eagerness in his eyes, a flush of color driving the pallor of his dying anger out of his face.
"I'll go right on up, sir; I've got a whole lot I want to say to her and explain. I aim to tell her what I've found out about Stott."
"I believe I'd wait till after supper," Uncle Boley suggested kindly, to cover the humiliation that lay in the caution, "till along after dark a little while."
Texas dropped his hat, the eager light flickered out of his eyes.
"Yes, I don't want to take any more trouble and disgrace to her door. I'll wait till after dark."