BOUND FOR THE SOUTHERN TRAIL
Three uniformed men rode hard across the tawny plains. They rode
abreast. Their horses were a-lather; their lean sides tuckered, but
their gait remained unslackening. It was a gait they would keep as
long as daylight lasted.
Sergeant McBain's horse kept its nose just ahead of the others. It was
as though the big, rawboned animal appreciated its rider's rank.
Quite abruptly the non-commissioned officer raised an arm and pointed.
"Yon's the Cypress Hills, boys," he cried. "See, they're getting up
out of the heat haze on the skyline. We're heading too far south."
He spoke without for a moment withdrawing the steady gaze of his hard
blue eyes.
One of the troopers answered him.
"Sure, sergeant," he agreed. "We need to head away to the left."
The horses swung off the line, beating the sun-scorched grass with
their iron-shod hoofs with a vigor that felt good to the riders.
The bronzed faces of the men were eager. Their widely gazing eyes were
alert and watchful. They were trailing a hot scent, a pastime as well
as a work that was their life. They needed no greater incentive to put
forth the best efforts of bodily and mental energies.
The uniform of these riders of the western plains was unassuming.
Their brown canvas tunics, their prairie hats, their black, hard
serge breeches, with broad, yellow stripes down the thighs, possessed
a businesslike appearance not to be found in a modern soldier's
uniform. These things were for sheer hard service.
The life of these men was made up of hard service. It was demanded of
them by the Government; it was also demanded of them by the conditions
of the country. Lawlessness prevailed on these fair, sunlit plains;
lawlessness of man, lawlessness of Nature. Between the two they were
left with scarce a breathing space for those comforts which only found
existence in dreams that were all too brief and transitory.
Nominally, these men were military police, yet their methods were far
enough removed from all matters martial. Theirs it was to obey orders,
but all similarity ended there. Each man was left free to think and
act for himself. Brief orders, with little detail, were hurled at him.
For the rest his superiors demanded one result--achievement. A crime
was committed; a criminal was at large; information of a contemplated
breach of the peace was to hand. Then go--and see to it. Investigate
and arrest. The individual must plan and carry out, whatever the odds.
Success would meet with cool approval; failure would be promptly
rewarded with the utmost rigor of the penal code governing the force.
The work might take days, weeks, months. It mattered not. Nor did it
matter the expense, provided success crowned the effort. But with
failure resulting--ah, there must be no failure. The prestige of the
force could not stand failure, for its seven hundred men were required
to dominate and cleanse a territory in which half a dozen European
countries could be comfortably lost.
Presently Sergeant McBain spoke again. His steady eyes were still
fixed upon the horizon.
"Say, that's her," he said. "There she is. Coming right up like a mop
head. That's the pine at Rocky Springs. Further away to the left
still, boys."
He turned his horse, and the race against time was continued.
Somewhere ahead, on the southern trail, a gang of whisky smugglers
were plying their trade. Inspector Fyles had said, "Go, and--round
them up."
The odds were all against these men, yet no one considered the
matter. Each, with eyes and brain alert, was ready to do all of which
human effort was capable.
Now that definite direction over those wastes of grass had been
finally located, the sergeant, a rough, hard-faced Scot, relaxed his
vigilance. His mind drifted to the purpose in hand, and a dry humor
lit his eyes.
"Eh, man, but it's a shameful waste, spilling good spirit," he said,
addressing no one in particular. "Governments are always
prodigal--except with pay."
One of the troopers sniggered.
"Guess we could spill some of it, sergeant," he declared meaningly.
"Spill it!" The sergeant grinned. "That isn't the word, boy. Spill
don't describe the warm trickle of good liquor down a man's throat.
Say, I mind----"
The other trooper broke in.
"Fyles 'ud spill champagne," he cried in disgust. "A man like that
needs seeing to."
The sergeant shook his head.
"Fyles would spill anything or anybody that required spilling, so he
gets his nose to windward of the game. He's right, too, in this
God-forgotten land. If we didn't spill, we'd be right down and out,
and our lives wouldn't be worth a second's purchase. No, boys, it
breaks our hearts to spill--but we got to do it--or be spilt
ourselves."
The man shook his reins and bustled the great sorrel under him. The
animal's response was a lengthening of stride which left his
companions hard put to it to keep pace.
The brief talk was closed. It had been a moment of relaxed tension.
Now, once more, every eye was fixed on the shimmering skyline. They
were eagerly looking out for the southern trail.
Half an hour later its yellow, sandy surface lay beneath their feet,
an open book for the reading.
All three leaped from the saddle and began a close examination of it,
while their sweating horses promptly regaled themselves with the ripe,
tufty grass at the trail side.
Sergeant McBain narrowly scrutinized the wheel tracks, estimating the
speed at which the last vehicle to pass had been traveling. The
blurred hoofmarks of the horses warned him they had been driven hard.
"We're behind 'em, boys," he declared promptly, "an' their gait says
they're taking no chances."
Further down the trail one of the troopers answered him:
"There's four saddle horses with 'em," he said thoughtfully. "Two
shod, and two shod on the forefeet only. Guess, with the teamster,
that makes five men. Prairie toughs, I'd guess."
The sergeant concurred, while they continued their examination.
Then the third man exclaimed sharply--
"Here!" he cried, picking something up at the side of the trail.
The others joined him at once.
He was quietly tearing open a half-burned cigarette, the tobacco
inside of which was still moist.
"Prairie toughs don't smoke _made_ cigarettes around here. It's a
Caporal. Get it? That's bought in a town."
"Ay," said McBain quickly. "Rocky Springs, I'd say. It's the Rocky
Springs gang, sure as hell. It's the foulest hole of crime in the
northwest. Come on, boys. We need to get busy."
Two minutes later a moving cloud of dust marked their progress down
the trail in the direction of Rocky Springs. Presently, however, the
dust subsided. The astute riders of the plains were giving no chances
away; they had left the tell-tale trail and rode on over the grass at
its edge.
* * * * *
The westering sun was low on the horizon. The air was still. Not a
cloud was visible anywhere in the sky. The world was silent. The
drowsing birds, even, had finished their evensong.
Low bush-grown hills lined the trail where it entered the wide valley
of Leaping Creek, which, six miles further on, ran through the heart
of the hamlet of Rocky Springs.
It was a beauty spot of no mean order. The smaller hills were broken
and profuse, with dark woodland gorges splitting them in every
direction, crowded with such a density of foliage as to be almost
impassable. Farther on, as the valley widened and deepened, its aspect
became more rugged. The land rose to greater heights, the lighter
vegetation gave way to heavier growths of spruce and blue gum and
maple. These too, in turn, became sprinkled with the darker and
taller pines. Then, as the distance gained, a still further change met
the eye. Vast patches of virgin pine woods, with their mournful,
tattered crowns, toned the brighter greens to the somber grandeur of
more mountainous regions.
The breathless hush of evening lay upon the valley. There was even a
sense of awe in the silence. It was peace, a wonderful natural peace,
when all nature seems at rest, nor could the chastened atmosphere of a
cloister have conveyed more perfectly the sense of repose.
But the human contradiction lay in the heart of the valley. It was the
abiding place of the hamlet of Rocky Springs, and Rocky Springs was
accredited with being the very breeding ground of prairie crime.
Just now, however, the chastened atmosphere was perfect. Rocky
Springs, so far away, was powerless to affect it. Even the song of the
tumbling creek, which coursed through the heart of the valley, was
powerless to awaken discordant echoes. Its music was low and soft. It
was like the drone of the stirring insects, part of that which went to
make up the atmosphere of perfect peace.
The sun dropped lower in the western sky. A velvet twilight seemed to
rise out of the heart of the valley. Slowly the glowing light vanished
behind a bluff of woodland. In a few minutes the trees and undergrowth
were lit up as though a mighty conflagration were devouring them. Then
the fire died down, and the sun sank.
But as the sun sank, a low, deep note grew softly out of the distance.
For a time it blended musically with the murmuring of the bustling
creek and the wakeful insect life. Then it dominated both, and its
music lessened. Its note changed rapidly, so rapidly that its softer
tone was at once forgotten, and only the harshness it now assumed
remained in the mind. Louder and harsher it grew till from a mere
rumble it jumped to a rattle and clatter which suggested speed,
violence, and a dozen conflicting emotions.
Almost immediately came a further change, and one which left no doubt
remaining. The clatter broke up into distinct and separate sounds. The
swift beat of speeding hoofs mingled with the fierce rattle of light
wheels, racing over the surface of a hard road.
All sense of peace vanished from the valley. Almost it seemed as if
its very aspect had changed. A sense of human strife had suddenly
possessed it, and left its painful mark indelibly set upon the whole
scene.
The climax was reached as a hard driven team and wagon, escorted by
four mounted men, precipitated themselves into the picture. They came
over the shoulder of the valley and plunged headlong down the
dangerous slope, regardless of all consequences, regardless both of
life and limb. The teamster was leaning forward in his seat, his arms
outstretched, grasping a rein in each hand. He was urging his horses
to their utmost. In his face was that stern, desperate expression that
told of perfect cognizance of his position. It said as plainly as
possible, however great the danger he saw before him, it must be
chanced for the greater danger behind.
Two of the horsemen detached themselves from the escort and remained
hidden behind some bush at the shoulder of the hill. They were there
to watch the approach to the valley. The others kept pace with the
racing vehicle as the surefooted team tore down the slope.
Rocking and swaying and skidding, the vehicle seemed literally to
precipitate itself to the depths below, and, as the horses, with necks
outstretched and mouths beginning to gape, with ears flattened and
streaming flanks, reached the bottom, the desperate nature of the
journey became even more apparent. There was neither wavering nor
mercy in the eyes of the teamster and his escort as they pressed on
down the valley.
One of the escort called sharply to the teamster.
"Can we make it?" he shouted.
"Got to," came back the answer through clenched jaws. "If we got
twenty minutes on the gorl darned p'lice they won't see us for dust.
Heh!"
The man's final exclamation came as one of his horses stumbled. But he
kept the straining beast on its legs by the sheer physical strength of
his hands upon the reins. The check was barely an instant, but he
picked up the rawhide whip lying in the wagon and plied it
mercilessly.
The exhausted beasts responded and the vehicle flew down the trail,
swaying and yawing the whole breadth of the road. The dust in its wake
rose up in a dense cloud. Into this the escort plunged and quickly
became lost to view behind the bush which lined the sharply twisting
trail.
Faster and faster the horses sped under the iron hand of the teamster,
till distance took hold of the clatter and finally diminished it to a
rumble. In a few minutes even the rising cloud of dust, like smoke
above the tree tops, thinned and finally melted away, and so, once
more, peace returned to the twilit valley.
* * * * *
A wagon was lumbering slowly toward Rocky Springs. It was less than a
mile beyond the outskirts of the village, and already an occasional
flash of white paint through the trees revealed the sides of some
outlying house in the distance ahead.
The horses were dejected-looking creatures, and their flanks were
streaked with gray lines of caking sweat. They were walking, and the
teamster on the wagon sat huddled down in the driving seat, an
exquisite picture of unclean ease.
He was a hard-faced, unwashed creature, whose swarthy features were
ingrained with sweat and dirt. He was clad in typical prairie costume,
his loose cotton shirt well matching the unclean condition of his
face. One cheek was bulging with a big chew of tobacco, while the
other sank in over the hollows left by absent back teeth.
He certainly was unprepossessing. Even his contented smile only added
to the evil of his expression. His contentment, however, was by no
means his whole atmosphere. In fact, it was rather studied, for his
eyes were alight and watchful with the furtive watchfulness so easy to
detect in those of partial color. They suggested that his ears, too,
were no less alert, and now and again this suggestion received
confirmation in the quick turn of the head in a direction which said
plainly he was listening for any unusual sound from behind him.
One of these turns of the head remained longer than usual. Then, with
quite a sharp movement of the body, he swung one of the great pistols
hanging at his waist, so that its barrel rested across his thigh, and
its butt was ready to his hand. Then, with a malicious chuckle, he
took a firmer grip of his reins, and his jaded horses raised their
drooping heads.
The object of his change of attitude quickly became apparent, for, a
few moments later, the distant sound of hoof-beats, far behind him,
echoed through the still valley.
He checked his horses still more, and it became evident that he wished
those who were behind him to come up before he reached the village.
The smile on his evil face became more humorous, and he spat out a
stream of tobacco juice with great enjoyment.
The sounds grew louder, and he turned about and peered down the
darkening valley. There was nothing and no one in sight yet amid the
woodland shadows. Only the clatter of hoofs was growing with each
moment. He finally turned back and resettled himself. His attitude now
became one of even more studied indifference, but his gun remained
close to his hand.
The sounds behind him were drawing nearer. His tired horses pricked
their ears. They, too, seemed to become interested. The pursuers came
on. They were less than a hundred yards behind. In a few moments they
were directly behind. Then the man lazily turned his head. For some
moments he stared stupidly at the three uniformed figures who had
descended upon him. Then he suddenly sat up and brought his horses to
a standstill. The policemen were surrounding his wagon.
Sergeant McBain was abreast of him on one side, one trooper drew up
his horse at the other side, while the third came to a halt at the
rear of the wagon and peered into it.
"Evenin', sergeant," cried the teamster, with deliberate cheeriness.
"Makin' Rocky Springs?"
McBain's hard blue eyes looked straight into the half-breed's face. He
was endeavoring to fix and hold those dark, furtive eyes. But it was
not easy.
"Maybe," he said curtly.
Then he glanced swiftly over the outfit. The sweat-streaked horses
interested him. The nature of the wagon. Then, finally, the contents
of the wagon covered with a light canvas protection against the dust.
"Where you from?" he demanded peremptorily.
"Just got through from Myrtle," replied the man, quite undisturbed by
the other's manner.
"Fourteen miles," said McBain sharply. "Guess your plugs sweated
some. What's your name, and who do you work for?"
"Guess I'm Pete Clancy, an' I'm Kate Seton's 'hired' man. Been across
to Myrtle for fixin's for her."
"Fixings?"
The sergeant's eyes at last compelled the other's. There was something
like insolence in the way Pete Clancy returned his stare. There was
also humor.
"Sure," he returned easily. "Guess you'll find 'em in the wagon ef you
raise that cover. There's one of them fakes fer sewin' with. There's a
deal o' fancy canned truck, an' say, the leddy's death on notions. Get
a peek at the colors o' them silk duds. On'y keep dirty hands off'n
'em, or she'll cuss me to hell for a fust-class hog."
McBain signed to the trooper at the rear of the wagon and the man
stripped the cover off. The first thing the officer beheld was a
sewing machine in its shining walnut case. Beside this was an open
packing case filled with canned fruits and meats, and a large supply
of groceries. In another box, packed under layers of paper, were
materials for dressmaking, and a roll of white lawn for other articles
of a woman's apparel.
With obvious disgust he signed again to the trooper to replace the
cover. Then Clancy broke in.
"Say," he cried ironically, "ain't they dandy? I tell you, sergeant,
when it comes to fancy things, women ha' got us skinned to death.
Fancy us wearin' skirts an' things made o' them flimsies! We'd fall
right through 'em an' break our dirty necks. An' the colors, too.
Guess they'd shame a dago wench, an' set a three-year old stud bull
shakin' his sides with a puffic tempest of indignation. But when it
comes to canned truck, well, say, prairie hash ain't nothin' to it,
an' if I hadn't been raised in a Bible class, an' had the feel o' the
cold water o' righteousness in my bones, I'd never ha' hauled them all
this way without gettin' a peek into them cans. I----"
"Cut it out, man," cried the officer sharply. "I need a straight word
with you. Get me? Straight. Your bluff'll do for other folks. You
haven't been to Myrtle. You come from White Point, where you helped
hold up a freight. You ran a big cargo of liquor in this wagon, which
is why your plugs are tuckered out. You've cached that liquor in this
valley, at the place you gathered up this truck. I don't say you
aren't 'hired man' to Miss Seton in Rocky Springs, but you're playing
a double game. You fetched her goods and dumped 'em at the cache, only
to pick 'em up when you were through with your other game."
The man laughed insolently.
"Gee! I must be a ter'ble bad feller, sergeant," he cried. "Me, as was
raised in a Bible class." His eyes twinkled as he went on. "An' I done
all that? All that you sed, sergeant? Say, I'm a real bright feller.
Guess I'll get a drink o' that liquor, won't I? It 'ud be a bum
trick----"
The sergeant's eyes snapped.
"You'll get the penitentiary before we're through with you. You and
the boys with you. We've followed your trail all the way, and that
trail ends right here. We're wise to you----"
"But you ain't wise where the liquor's cached," retorted the man with
a chuckle.
Then he looked straight into the officer's eyes.
"Say," he cried with his big laugh. "You can talk penitentiary till
you're sick. Ther' ain't no liquor in my wagon, an' if there ever has
been any, as you kind o' fancy, it's right up to you to locate it, and
spill it, an' not set right there keepin' me from my work."
As he finished speaking, with elaborate display, he shook his reins
and shouted at his horses, which promptly moved on.
As the wagon rolled away he turned his head and spoke over his
shoulder.
"You can't spill canned truck an' sewin' machines, sergeant," he
called back derisively. "That penitentiary racket don't fizz nothin'.
Guess you best think again."
The officer's chagrin was complete. It was the start the outlaws had
had that had beaten him. This was the wagon; this was one of the men.
Of these things he was convinced. There were others in it, too, but
they----. He turned to his troopers.
"I'd give a month's pay to get bracelets on that feller," he said with
a grin that had no mirth in it. Then he added grimly, as he gazed
after the receding wagon: "And I'm a Scotchman."