AN OUTLAW, BUT A MAN
The news brought by the Indian lad changed for Cameron all his plans.
This cattle-raid was evidently a part of and preparation for the bigger
thing, a general uprising and war of extermination on the part of the
Indians. From his recent visit to the reserves he was convinced that the
loyalty of even the great Chiefs was becoming somewhat brittle and would
not bear any sudden strain put upon it. A successful raid of cattle such
as was being proposed escaping the notice of the Police, or in the teeth
of the Police, would have a disastrous effect upon the prestige of the
whole Force, already shaken by the Duck Lake reverse. The effect of
that skirmish was beyond belief. The victory of the half-breeds was
exaggerated in the wildest degree. He must act and act quickly. His home
and his family and those of his neighbors were in danger of the most
horrible fate that could befall any human being. If the cattle-raid were
carried through by the Piegan Indians its sweep would certainly include
the Big Horn Ranch, and there was every likelihood that his home might
be destroyed, for he was an object of special hate to Eagle Feather and
to Little Thunder; and if Copperhead were in the business he had even
greater cause for anxiety.
But what was to be done? The Indian boy had taken three days to bring
the news. It would take a day and a night of hard riding to reach his
home. Quickly he made his plans. He passed into the hotel, found the
room of Billy the hostler and roused him up.
“Billy,” he said, “get my horse out quick and hitch him up to the
post where I can get him. And Billy, if you love me,” he implored, “be
quick!”
Billy sprang from his bed.
“Don't know what's eatin' you, boss,” he said, “but quick's the word.”
In another minute Cameron was pounding at Dr. Martin's door upstairs.
Happily the doctor was in.
“Martin, old man,” cried Cameron, gripping him hard by the shoulder.
“Wake up and listen hard! That Indian boy you and Mandy pulled through
has just come all the way from the Piegan Reserve to tell me of a
proposed cattle-raid and a possible uprising of the Piegans in that
South country. The cattle-raid is coming on at once. The uprising
depends upon news from the Crees. Listen! I have promised Superintendent
Strong to spend the next two days recruiting for his new troop. Explain
to him why I cannot do this. He will understand. Then ride like blazes
to Macleod and tell the Inspector all that I have told you and get him
to send what men he can spare along with you. You can't get a man here.
The raid starts from the Piegan Reserve. It will likely finish where the
old Porcupine Trail joins the Sun Dance. At least so I judge. Ride by
the ranch and get some of them there to show you the shortest trail.
Both Mandy and Moira know it well.”
“Hold on, Cameron! Let me get this clear,” cried the doctor, holding him
fast by the arm. “Two things I have gathered,” said the doctor, speaking
rapidly, “first, a cattle-raid, then a general uprising, the uprising
dependent upon the news from the North. You want to block the
cattle-raid? Is that right?”
“Right,” said Cameron.
“Then you want me to settle with Superintendent Storm, ride to Macleod
for men, then by your ranch and have them show me the shortest trail to
the junction of the Porcupine and the Sun Dance?”
“You are right, Martin, old boy. It is a great thing to have a head like
yours. I shall meet you somewhere at that point. I have been thinking
this thing over and I believe they mean to make pemmican in preparation
for their uprising, and if so they will make it somewhere on the Sun
Dance Trail. Now I am off. Let me go, Martin.”
“Tell me your own movements now.”
“First, the ranch,” said Cameron. “Then straight for the Sun Dance.”
“All right, old boy. By-by and good-luck!”
Cameron found Billy waiting with Ginger at the door of the hotel.
“Thank you, Billy,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “Hang it, I can't
find my purse.”
“You go hang yourself!” said Billy. “Never mind your purse.”
“All right, then,” said Cameron, giving him his hand. “Good-by. You are
a trump, Billy.” He caught Ginger by the mane and threw himself on the
saddle.
“Now, then, Ginger, you must not fail me this trip, if it is your last.
A hundred and twenty miles, old boy, and you are none too fresh either.
But, Ginger, we must beat them this time. A hundred and twenty miles
to the Big Horn and twenty miles farther to the Sun Dance, that makes
a hundred and forty, Ginger, and you are just in from a hard two days'
ride. Steady, boy! Not too hard at the first.” For Ginger was showing
signs of eagerness beyond his wont. “At all costs this raid must be
stopped,” continued Cameron, speaking, after his manner, to his horse,
“not for the sake of a few cattle--we could all stand that loss--but to
balk at its beginning this scheme of old Copperhead's, for I believe
in my soul he is at the bottom of it. Steady, old boy! We need every
minute, but we cannot afford to make any miscalculations. The last
quarter of an hour is likely to be the worst.”
So on they went through the starry night. Steadily Ginger pounded the
trail, knocking off the miles hour after hour. There was no pause for
rest or for food. A few mouthfuls of water in the fording of a running
stream, a pause to recover breath before plunging into an icy river, or
on the taking of a steep coulee side, but no more. Hour after hour they
pressed forward toward the Big Horn Ranch. The night passed into morning
and the morning into the day, but still they pressed the trail.
Toward the close of the day Cameron found himself within an hour's ride
of his own ranch with Ginger showing every sign of leg weariness and
almost of collapse.
“Good old chap!” cried Cameron, leaning over him and patting his neck.
“We must make it. We cannot let up, you know. Stick to it, old boy, a
little longer.”
A little snort and a little extra spurt of speed was the gallant
Ginger's reply, but soon he was forced to sink back again into his
stumbling stride.
“One hour more, Ginger, that is all--one hour only.”
As he spoke he leapt from his saddle to ease his horse in climbing a
long and lofty hill. As he surmounted the hill he stopped and swiftly
backed his horse down the hill. Upon the distant skyline his eye had
detected what he judged to be a horseman. His horse safely disposed of,
he once more crawled to the top of the hill.
“An Indian, by Jove!” he cried. “I wonder if he has seen me.”
Carefully his eye swept the intervening valley and the hillside beyond,
but only this solitary figure could he see. As his eye rested on him the
Indian began to move toward the west. Cameron lay watching him for some
minutes. From his movements it was evident that the Indian's pace was
being determined by some one on the other side of the hill, for he
advanced now swiftly, now slowly. At times he halted and turned back
upon his track, then went forward again.
“What the deuce is he doing?” said Cameron to himself. “By Jove! I have
got it! The drive is begun. I am too late.”
Swiftly he considered the whole situation. He was too late now to be of
any service at his ranch. The raid had already swept past it. He wrung
his hands in agony to think of what might have happened. He was torn
with anxiety for his family--and yet here was the raid passing onward
before his eyes. One hour would bring him to the ranch, but if this were
the outside edge of the big cattle raid the loss of an hour would mean
the loss of everything.
“Oh, my God! What shall I do?” he cried.
With his eyes still upon the Indian he forced himself to think more
quietly. The secrecy with which the raid was planned made it altogether
likely that the homes of the settlers would not at this time be
interfered with. This consideration finally determined him. At all costs
he must do what he could to head off the raid or to break the herd
in some way. But that meant in the first place a ride of twenty or
twenty-five miles over rough country. Could Ginger do it?
He crawled back to his horse and found him with his head close to the
ground and trembling in every limb.
“If he goes this twenty miles,” he said, “he will go no more. But it
looks like our only hope, old boy. We must make for our old beat, the
Sun Dance Trail.”
He mounted his horse and set off toward the west, taking care never to
appear above the skyline and riding as rapidly as the uncertain footing
of the untrodden prairie would allow. At short intervals he would
dismount and crawl to the top of the hill in order to keep in touch
with the Indian, who was heading in pretty much the same direction as
himself. A little further on his screening hill began to flatten
itself out and finally it ran down into a wide valley which crossed
his direction at right angles. He made his horse lie down, still in the
shelter of the hill, and with most painful care he crawled on hands and
knees out to the open and secured a point of vantage from which he could
command the valley which ran southward for some miles till it, in turn,
was shut in by a further range of hills.
He was rewarded for his patience and care. Far down before him at the
bottom of the valley a line of cattle was visible and hurrying them
along a couple of Indian horsemen. As he lay watching these Indians he
observed that a little farther on this line was augmented by a similar
line from the east driven by the Indian he had first observed, and by
two others who emerged from a cross valley still further on. Prone upon
his face he lay, with his eyes on that double line of cattle and its
hustling drivers. The raid was surely on. What could one man do to check
it? Similar lines of cattle were coming down the different valleys and
would all mass upon the old Porcupine Trail and finally pour into the
Sun Dance with its many caves and canyons. There was much that was
mysterious in this movement still to Cameron. What could these Indians
do with this herd of cattle? The mere killing of them was in itself a
vast undertaking. He was perfectly familiar with the Indian's method of
turning buffalo meat, and later beef, into pemmican, but the killing,
and the dressing, and the rendering of the fat, and the preparing of the
bags, all this was an elaborate and laborious process. But one thing
was clear to his mind. At all costs he must get around the head of these
converging lines.
He waited there till the valley was clear of cattle and Indians, then,
mounting his horse, he pushed hard across the valley and struck a
parallel trail upon the farther side of the hills. Pursuing this trail
for some miles, he crossed still another range of hills farther to the
west and so proceeded till he came within touch of the broken country
that marks the division between the Foothills and the Mountains. He had
not many miles before him now, but his horse was failing fast and he
himself was half dazed with weariness and exhaustion. Night, too, was
falling and the going was rough and even dangerous; for now hillsides
suddenly broke off into sharp cut-banks, twenty, thirty, forty feet
high.
It was one of these cut-banks that was his undoing, for in the dim
light he failed to note that the sheep track he was following ended thus
abruptly till it was too late. Had his horse been fresh he could easily
have recovered himself, but, spent as he was, Ginger stumbled, slid and
finally rolled headlong down the steep hillside and over the bank on
to the rocks below. Cameron had just strength to throw himself from the
saddle and, scrambling on his knees, to keep himself from following his
horse. Around the cut-bank he painfully made his way to where his horse
lay with his leg broken, groaning like a human being in his pain.
“Poor old boy! You are done at last,” he said.
But there was no time to indulge regrets. Those lines of cattle were
swiftly and steadily converging upon the Sun Dance. He had before him an
almost impossible achievement. Well he knew that a man on foot could do
little with the wild range cattle. They would speedily trample him into
the ground. But he must go on. He must make the attempt.
But first there was a task that it wrung his heart to perform. His
horse must be put out of pain. He took off his coat, rolled it over his
horse's head, inserted his gun under its folds to deaden the sound and
to hide those luminous eyes turned so entreatingly upon him.
“Old boy, you have done your duty, and so must I. Good-by, old chap!” He
pulled the fatal trigger and Ginger's work was done.
He took up his coat and set off once more upon the winding sheep trail
that he guessed would bring him to the Sun Dance. Dazed, half asleep,
numbed with weariness and faint with hunger, he stumbled on, while the
stars came out overhead and with their mild radiance lit up his rugged
way.
Suddenly he found himself vividly awake. Diagonally across the face of
the hill in front of him, a few score yards away and moving nearer, a
horse came cantering. Quickly Cameron dropped behind a jutting rock.
Easily, daintily, with never a slip or slide came the horse till he
became clearly visible in the starlight. There was no mistaking that
horse or that rider. No other horse in all the territories could take
that slippery, slithery hill with a tread so light and sure, and no
other rider in the Western country could handle his horse with such
easy, steady grace among the rugged rocks of that treacherous hillside.
It was Nighthawk and his master.
“Raven!” breathed Cameron to himself. “Raven! Is it possible? By Jove!
I would not have believed it. The Superintendent was right after all. He
is a villain, a black-hearted villain too. So, HE is the brains behind
this thing. I ought to have known it. Fool that I was! He pulled the
wool over my eyes all right.”
The rage that surged up through his heart stimulated his dormant
energies into new life. With a deep oath Cameron pulled out both his
guns and set off up the hill on the trail of the disappearing horseman.
His weariness fell from him like a coat, the spring came back to his
muscles, clearness to his brain. He was ready for his best fight and he
knew it lay before him. Swiftly, lightly he ran up the hillside. At the
top he paused amazed. Before him lay a large Indian encampment with rows
upon rows of tents and camp fires with kettles swinging, and everywhere
Indians and squaws moving about. Skirting the camp and still keeping
to the side of the hill, he came upon a stout new-built fence that ran
straight down an incline to a steep cut-bank with a sheer drop of thirty
feet or more. Like a flash the meaning of it came upon him. This was to
be the end of the drive. Here the cattle were to meet their death. Here
it was that the pemmican was to be made. On the hillside opposite there
was doubtless a similar fence and these two would constitute the fatal
funnel down which the cattle were to be stampeded over the cut-bank to
their destruction. This was the nefarious scheme planned by Raven and
his treacherous allies.
Swiftly Cameron turned and followed the fence up the incline some three
or four hundred yards from the cut-bank. At its upper end the fence
curved outward for some distance upon a wide upland valley, then ceased
altogether. Such was the slope of the hill that no living man could turn
a herd of cattle once entered upon that steep incline.
Down the hill, across the valley and up the other side ran Cameron,
keeping low and carefully picking his way among the loose stones till he
came to the other fence which, curving similarly outward, made with its
fellow a perfectly completed funnel. Once between the curving lips of
this funnel nothing could save the rushing, crowding cattle from the
deadly cut-bank below.
“Oh, if I only had my horse,” groaned Cameron, “I might have a chance to
turn them off just here.”
At the point at which he stood the slope of the hillside fell somewhat
toward the left and away slightly from the mouth of the funnel. A
skilled cowboy with sufficient nerve, on a first-class horse, might turn
the herd away from the cut-bank into the little coulee that led down
from the end of the fence, but for a man on foot the thing was quite
impossible. He determined, however, to make the effort. No man can
certainly tell how cattle will behave when excited and at night.
As he stood there rapidly planning how to divert the rush of cattle from
that deadly funnel, there rose on the still night air a soft rumbling
sound like low and distant thunder. That sound Cameron knew only too
well. It was the pounding of two hundred steers upon the resounding
prairie. He rushed back again to the right side of the fenced runway,
and then forward to meet the coming herd. A half moon rising over the
round top of the hill revealed the black surging mass of steers, their
hoofs pounding like distant artillery, their horns rattling like a
continuous crash of riflery. Before them at a distance of a hundred
yards or more a mounted Indian rode toward the farther side of the
funnel and took his stand at the very spot at which there was some hope
of diverting the rushing herd from the cut-bank down the side coulee to
safety.
“That man has got to go,” said Cameron to himself, drawing his gun. But
before he could level it there shot out from the dim light behind the
Indian a man on horseback. Like a lion on its prey the horse leaped with
a wicked scream at the Indian pony. Before that furious leap both man
and pony went down and rolled over and over in front of the pounding
herd. Over the prostrate pony leaped the horse and up the hillside fair
in the face of that rushing mass of maddened steers. Straight across
their face sped the horse and his rider, galloping lightly, with never
a swerve or hesitation, then swiftly wheeling as the steers drew almost
level with him he darted furiously on their flank and rode close at
their noses. “Crack! Crack!” rang the rider's revolver, and two steers
in the far flank dropped to the earth while over them surged the
following herd. Again the revolver rang out, once, twice, thrice, and
at each crack a leader on the flank farthest away plunged down and was
submerged by the rushing tide behind. For an instant the column faltered
on its left and slowly began to swerve in that direction. Then upon the
leaders of the right flank the black horse charged furiously, biting,
kicking, plunging like a thing possessed of ten thousand devils.
Steadily, surely the line continued to swerve.
“My God!” cried Cameron, unable to believe his eyes. “They are turning!
They are turned!”
With wild cries and discharging his revolver fair in the face of the
leaders, Cameron rushed out into the open and crossed the mouth of the
funnel.
“Go back, you fool! Go back!” yelled the man on horseback. “Go back! I
have them!” He was right. Cameron's sudden appearance gave the final and
necessary touch to the swerving movement. Across the mouth of the funnel
with its yawning deadly cut-bank, and down the side coulee, carrying
part of the fence with them, the herd crashed onward, with the black
horse hanging on their flank still biting and kicking with a kind of
joyous fury.
“Raven! Raven!” cried Cameron in glad accents. “It is Raven! Thank God,
he is straight after all!” A great tide of gratitude and admiration
for the outlaw was welling up in his heart. But even as he ran there
thundered past him an Indian on horseback, the reins flying loose and a
rifle in his hands. As he flashed past a gleam of moonlight caught his
face, the face of a demon.
“Little Thunder!” cried Cameron, whipping out his gun and firing, but
with no apparent effect, at the flying figure.
With his gun still in his hand, Cameron ran on down the coulee in the
wake of Little Thunder. Far away could be heard the roar of the rushing
herd, but nothing could be seen of Raven. Running as he had never run in
his life, Cameron followed hard upon the Indian's track, who was by this
time some hundred yards in advance. Suddenly in the moonlight, and far
down the coulee, Raven could be seen upon his black horse cantering
easily up the slope and toward the swiftly approaching Indian.
“Raven! Raven!” shouted Cameron, firing his gun. “On guard! On guard!”
Raven heard, looked up and saw the Indian bearing down upon him. His
horse, too, saw the approaching foe and, gathering himself, in two short
leaps rushed like a whirlwind at him, but, swerving aside, the Indian
avoided the charging stallion. Cameron saw his rifle go up to his
shoulder, a shot reverberated through the coulee, Raven swayed in his
saddle. A second shot and the black horse was fair upon the Indian pony,
hurling him to the ground and falling himself upon him. As the Indian
sprang to his feet Raven was upon him. He gripped him by the throat and
shook him as a dog shakes a rat. Once, twice, his pistol fell upon the
snarling face and the Indian crumpled up and lay still, battered to
death.
“Thank God!” cried Cameron, as he came up, struggling with his sobbing
breath. “You have got the beast.”
“Yes, I have got him,” said Raven, with his hand to his side, “but I
guess he has got me too. And--” he paused. His eye fell upon his horse
lying upon his side and feebly kicking--“ah, I fear he has got you as
well, Nighthawk, old boy.” As he staggered over toward his horse the
sound of galloping hoofs was heard coming down the coulee.
“Here are some more of them!” cried Cameron, drawing out his guns.
“All right, Cameron, my boy, just back up here beside me,” said Raven,
as he coolly loaded his empty revolver. “We can send a few more of these
devils to hell. You are a good sport, old chap, and I want to go out in
no better company.”
“Hold up!” cried Cameron. “There is a woman. Why, there is a Policeman.
They are friends, Raven. It is the doctor and Moira. Hurrah! Here you
are, Martin. Quick! Quick! Oh, my God! He is dying!”
Raven had sunk to his knees beside his horse. They gathered round him, a
Mounted Police patrol picked up on the way by Dr. Martin, Moira who had
come to show them the trail, and Smith.
“Nighthawk, old boy,” they heard Raven say, his hand patting the
shoulder of the noble animal, “he has done for you, I fear.” His voice
came in broken sobs. The great horse lifted his beautiful head and
looked round toward his master. “Ah, my boy, we have done many a journey
together!” cried Raven as he threw his arm around the glossy neck, “and
on this last one too we shall not be far apart.” The horse gave a slight
whinny, nosed into his master's hand and laid his head down again. A
slight quiver of the limbs and he was still for ever. “Ah, he has gone!”
cried Raven, “my best, my only friend.”
“No, no,” cried Cameron, “you are with friends now, Raven, old man.” He
offered his hand. Raven took it wonderingly.
“You mean it, Cameron?”
“Yes, with all my heart. You are a true man, if God ever made one, and
you have shown it to-night.”
“Ah!” said Raven, with a kind of sigh as he sank back and leaned up
against his horse. “That is good to hear. It is long since I have had a
friend.”
“Quick, Martin!” said Cameron. “He is wounded.”
“What? Where?” said the doctor, kneeling down beside him and tearing
open his coat and vest. “Oh, my God!” cried the doctor. “He is--” The
doctor paused abruptly.
“What do you say? Oh, Dr. Martin, he is not badly wounded?” Moira threw
herself on her knees beside the wounded man and caught his hand. “Oh, it
is cold, cold,” she cried through rushing tears. “Can you not help him?
Oh, you must not let him die.”
“Surely he is not dying?” said Cameron.
The doctor was silently and swiftly working with his syringe.
“How long, Doctor?” inquired Raven in a quiet voice.
“Half an hour, perhaps less,” said the doctor brokenly. “Have you any
pain?”
“No, very little. It is quite easy. Cameron,” he said, his voice
beginning to fail, “I want you to send a letter which you will find in
my pocket addressed to my brother. Tell no one the name. And add this,
that I forgive him. It was really not worth while,” he added wearily,
“to hate him so. And say to the Superintendent I was on the straight
with him, with you all, with my country in this rebellion business. I
heard about this raid; and I fancy I have rather spoiled their pemmican.
I have run some cattle in my time, but you know, Cameron, a fellow who
has worn the uniform could not mix in with these beastly breeds against
the Queen, God bless her!”
“Oh, Dr. Martin,” cried the girl piteously, shaking him by the arm, “do
not tell me you can do nothing. Try--try something.” She began again to
chafe the cold hand, her tears falling upon it.
Raven looked up quickly at her.
“You are weeping for me, Miss Moira?” he said, surprise and wonder in
his face. “For me? A horse-thief, an outlaw, for me? I thank you. And
forgive me--may I kiss your hand?” He tried feebly to lift her hand to
his lips.
“No, no,” cried the girl. “Not my hand!” and leaning over him she kissed
him on the brow. His eyes were still upon her.
“Thank you,” he said feebly, a rare, beautiful smile lighting up the
white face. “You make me believe in God's mercy.”
There was a quick movement in the group and Smith was kneeling beside
the dying man.
“God's mercy, Mr. Raven,” he said in an eager voice, “is infinite. Why
should you not believe in it?”
Raven looked at him curiously.
“Oh, yes,” he said with a quaintly humorous smile, “you are the chap
that chucked Jerry away from the door?”
Smith nodded, then said earnestly:
“Mr. Raven, you must believe in God's mercy.”
“God's mercy,” said the dying man slowly. “Yes, God's mercy. What is it
again? 'God--be--merciful--to me--a sinner.'” Once more he opened his
eyes and let them rest upon the face of the girl bending over him.
“Yes,” he said, “you helped me to believe in God's mercy.” With a sigh
as of content he settled himself quietly against the shoulders of his
dead horse.
“Good old comrade,” he said, “good-by!” He closed his eyes and drew a
deep breath. They waited for another, but there was no more.
“He is gone,” said the doctor.
“Gone?” cried Moira. “Gone? Ochone, but he was the gallant gentleman!”
she wailed, lapsing into her Highland speech. “Oh, but he had the brave
heart and the true heart. Ochone! Ochone!” She swayed back and forth
upon her knees with hands clasped and tears running down her cheeks,
bending over the white face that lay so still in the moonlight and
touched with the majesty of death.
“Come, Moira! Come, Moira!” said her brother surprised at her unwonted
display of emotion. “You must control yourself.”
“Leave her alone. Let her cry. She is in a hard spot,” said Dr. Martin
in a sharp voice in which grief and despair were mingled.
Cameron glanced at his friend's face. It was the face of a haggard old
man.
“You are used up, old boy,” he said kindly, putting his hand on the
doctor's arm. “You need rest.”
“Rest?” said the doctor. “Rest? Not I. But you do. And you too, Miss
Moira,” he added gently. “Come,” giving her his hand, “you must get
home.” There was in his voice a tone of command that made the girl look
up quickly and obey.
“And you?” she said. “You must be done.”
“Done? Yes, but what matter? Take her home, Cameron.”
“And what about you?” inquired Cameron.
“Smith, the constable and I will look after--him--and the horse. Send a
wagon to-morrow morning.”
Without further word the brother and sister mounted their horses.
“Good-by, old man. See you to-morrow,” said Cameron.
“Good-night,” said the doctor shortly.
The girl gave him her hand.
“Good-night,” she said simply, her eyes full of a dumb pain.
“Good-by, Miss Moira,” said the doctor, who held her hand for just a
moment as if to speak again, then abruptly he turned his back on her
without further word and so stood with never a glance more after her.
It was for him a final farewell to hopes that had lived with him and had
warmed his heart for the past three years. Now they were dead, dead as
the dead man upon whose white still face he stood looking down.
“Thief, murderer, outlaw,” he muttered to himself. “Sure enough--sure
enough. And yet you could not help it, nor could she.” But he was not
thinking of the dead man's record in the books of the Mounted Police.