: The voice at Johnnywater by Bower B M Schuyler Remington Illustrator - Western stories; Ranches Fiction

@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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her own. He was willing to swear that he had covered every foot of that hillside, and probably he had, very nearly. And he had found no trace of any man, living or dead.

He slid off the bowlder and went picking his way down the steep bluff to the cabin. A humane impulse had sent him out as soon as he opened his eyes that morning. He was half-starved and more nearly exhausted than he had ever been after a hard day's work doing "stunts" for the movies.

Now and then he looked up the ca?on to where Pat's alfalfa field lay, a sumptuous patch of deep green, like an emerald set deep in some dull metal. Nearer the cabin were the rows of potato plants which Monty had mentioned. There was a corral, too, just beyond a clump of trees behind the cabin. And from the head of the ca?on to the mouth he could glimpse here and there the twisted thread of Johnnywater Creek.

"Drunk, maybe," Gary finally dismissed the subject from his mind. "He sure as heck couldn't be hurt so bad, if he was able to get out of the ca?on in the dark. It'll be something to tell about when I get back. I'll ask Monty what he thinks about it, to-morrow."

But he didn't ask Monty. He rather expected that Monty would be along rather early in the forenoon, and he was ready by nine o'clock. He had filled the feed box for the chickens, had given the cat a farewell talk, and locked his pyjamas into his suit case. The rest of the day he spent in waiting.

But when the third day and the fourth and the fifth had gone, Gary began to register impatience and concern. He walked down the ca?on and out upon the trail as far as was practical, half hoping that he might see some chance traveler. But the whole world seemed to be empty and waiting, with a still patience that placed no limit upon its quiescent expectancy.

Steeped in that desert magic which makes beautiful all distances, the big land shamed him somehow and sent him back into the ca?on in a better frame of mind. Any trivial thing could have delayed Monty Girard. It was slightly comforting to know that the big world out there was smiling under the sky.

He was sitting at supper just after sundown that evening when a strange thing happened. The spotted cat--Gary by this time was calling her Faith because of her trustful disposition--was squatted on all fours beside the table, industriously lapping a saucer of condensed milk. For the want of more human companionship, Gary was joking with the cat, which responded now and then with a slight wave of her tail.

"You're the only thing I like about the whole darn outfit," Gary was saying. "I don't remember your being mentioned in the deed, so I think I'll just swipe you when I go. As a souvenir. Only I don't know what the heck I'll do with you--give you to Pat, I reckon."

Faith looked up with an amiable mew, but she did not look at Gary. Had a person been standing near the foot of the bunk six feet or so away, she would have been looking up into his face. She went back to lapping her milk, but Gary eyed her curiously. There was something odd about that look and that friendly little remark of hers, but for the life of him he could not explain just what was wrong.

Once again, while Gary watched her, the cat looked up at that invisible point the height of a man from the floor. She finished her milk, licked her lips satisfiedly and got up. She glanced at Gary, glanced again toward the bunk, arched her back, walked deliberately over and curved her body against nothing at all, purring her contented best.

Gary watched her with a contraction of the scalp on the back of his head. Faith stood there for a moment rubbing her side against empty air, looked up inquiringly, came over and jumped upon Gary's knee. There she tucked her feet under her, folded her tail close to her curiously mottled fur and settled herself for a good, purry little nap. Now and then she opened her eyes to look toward the bunk, her manner indifferent.

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