STILL MONDAY NIGHT
The little river wound its silvery way through the heart of the
valley. The broken summer clouds strove to shut out the brilliant
light of the moon, and signally failed. The swift-moving currents of
air kept them stirring, and breaking. So the tattered breaks through
which peeped the radiant lamp of night, illuminated each fringe of
mist with the sheen of burnished steel.
In spite of the high wind above, the night was still in the heart of
the valley. So still. High up above, the racing wind kept up the
constant movement, but not a breath below disturbed one single
sun-scorched leaf. It was warm. The night air was heavy with the
fragrance of ripening vegetation, and the busy droning sounds of
stirring insect life chorused joyously and seductively with the
murmuring of speeding waters.
The very stillness thrilled. It was the hush of portent, the hush of
watchfulness, the hush of a threatening tension.
In the wide heart of the valley the waters of the river laughed, and
sang, and frollicked on their way, while under cover of the deep
night-shadows lurking figures waited, with nerves set, and weapons of
destruction ready to fulfill their deadly mission. Strife loomed heavy
amid the reigning peace, the ruthless, savage strife which seems ever
to center the purpose of all sentient life.
So the moments passed. Minutes grew. With every passing minute the
threat weighed heavier and heavier, until it seemed, at last, that
only the smallest spark was needed to fire the train.
The racing clouds melted. They gathered again. Again and again the
changes came and went. It was like one great, prolonged conflict
wherein the darkening veil strove to hide the criminal secrets upon
the earth below from the searching gaze.
For awhile the moon held sway. The river lit, a perfect mirror. Only
the shadowed banks remained. Round the bend came a trifling object,
small, uncertain in its outline. A sigh of relief went up from many
lips. The tension was relaxed.
Caught in the dazzling light the object shot across the water to the
sheltering bank. Then the clouds obscured the moonlight, and eyes
strove vainly to penetrate the shadow.
The moments passed. Again the moon shone out. Again was the object
caught in the revealing light. Now it was closer, and as it raced once
more for the wood-lined bank the watching eyes made out a deep-laden
canoe, low in the water, with a solitary figure plying a skillful
paddle.
It crept on under the bank. With a wonderful dexterity the man at the
paddle steered his course beneath the green of drooping foliage, while
now and then his narrow, evil, humorous eyes surveyed the heavy cargo
at his feet with a smile of satisfaction.
But the shadows could not claim him for long. The full stream lay
beyond in the middle of the river. His cargo was heavy, and the
sluggish water under the bank made his progress slow and arduous.
Again he sought the stream, and the lesser effort, and the little
craft raced on.
Then, of a sudden, the peace of the night was broken. A chorus of
night cries awoke to the sharp crack of a carbine. A voice shouted a
swift command, and the canoe was turned head on to the hither bank. In
a moment a ring of metal was thrust into the face of the man with the
paddle, and the hard voice of Sergeant McBain bade him throw up his
hands.
The boatman glanced swiftly about him. His evil eyes lit with a smile
of appreciation as he dropped his paddle and thrust his hands high
above his head. There were ten or twelve police troopers upon the
bank--and he was only one.
"Haul him out o' that, boys, and yank the boat up out o' water. We're
needin' his cargo bad."
The man was dragged unceremoniously from the boat, and stood before
the hard-faced sergeant.
"Name?" he snapped.
"Holy Dick," chuckled the prisoner.
The sergeant peered into his face. At the moment the clouds had
obscured the moon.
Was this the man they were waiting for? He made out the gray hair, the
smiling, evil eyes. He knew and recognized the features.
The officer struggled with himself for a moment. Then his authority
returned.
"You're under arrest for--running this cargo of liquor," he said
sharply.
Holy Dick's smile broadened.
"But----"
"If you're going to make a statement I'm here to listen, but--it'll be
used against you."
Sergeant McBain rapped out his formula without regard for the letter
of it. Then, while one of the troopers placed handcuffs upon the
prisoner's wrists, he turned to those at the canoe.
"How many kegs?" he demanded.
For a moment there was no reply. Holy Dick sniggered. McBain glared
furiously, and his impatience rose.
"How many?" he cried again, more sharply.
One of the troopers approached him and spoke in a low voice.
"None, sergeant," he said, vainly striving to avoid the sharp ears of
their prisoner. "The boat's loaded heavy with loose rocks. It's----"
A cunning laugh interrupted him. Holy Dick was holding out his
manacled arms.
"Guess you'd best grab these off, Sergeant; maybe you'll need 'em for
someone else."
But the policeman's reply became lost. A rattle of firearms far off on
the other side of the river left it unspoken. Something was happening
away over there, something they had not calculated upon. The rest of
the patrol, with Fyles, was divided between the other bank and the
more distant trail. He turned to his men.
"Loose him and get into the saddle sharp!" he cried. "They've fooled
us. By God, they've fooled us--again!"
* * * * *
The uncertain moonlight revealed to Stanley Fyles a movement on the
distant rise of ground where the trail first mounted, and, beyond,
finally disappeared. His night glasses made out a rapidly oncoming
vehicle, accompanied by a small band of horsemen.
The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had
not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pass him. He would take
these men as part of the gang, working in conjunction with the boat.
All was well, and his spirits rose. A sharp order was passed back to
his men, ambushed in the bluff where he had taken up his position. The
thing would be simple as daylight. There would be no bloodshed. A few
shots fired to hold the gang up. Then the arrest.
He waited. Then he backed into the ambush out of sight. The wagon came
on. Through his leafy screen he watched for the details of the
vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant's wagon; that he
knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance
which did not belong to the village.
Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than
one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed
leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He
wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men's
carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses' hoofs were almost
abreast. A few seconds more, then----
Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of
the wagon, and above the horses' heads. The teamster reined up,
throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell
headlong from his driving seat.
Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal
carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry
went up from the wagon's escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the
ambush.
In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses,
with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.
Then the fight waged furiously.
It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been
goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the
fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the
troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been
certain--certain as death itself.
But, after that first furious assault, these untamed prairie souls
realized the inevitable result of their action. They broke and fled,
scattering across country, vanishing like shadows in the night. The
next moment, acting on a sharp command, the police were in red-hot
pursuit, like hounds breaking from leash. Only Fyles and three men
stayed behind with the fallen teamster and his one other dead comrade.
But at the moment of the flight and pursuit, the sound of racing
wheels some distance away caught the officer's ears. In a moment he
was at the wagon side. His men were close upon his heels. The wagon
was empty. It was the blind he had anticipated, but--that sound of
speeding wheels.
He shouted to his men and set off across country in the direction.
Nothing must be left to chance. There was no doubt about the peculiar
rattle which sounded so plainly. It was a buckboard being driven at a
racing speed. Why?
* * * * *
As his horse ploughed through the low scrub his men followed hard upon
his heels. Farther on the country was open, and a wide stretch of
prairie grass spread out without cover of any sort. It was over this
the buckboard was racing.
He strove to estimate its distance away, the start it had of him,
by the sound. It could not be much over a mile. A light buckboard
and team could travel very fast under the hands of a skilful
teamster. It would take a distance of five miles to overhaul it. The
direction--yes, it was the direction of the village. The buckboard
might get there ahead of them.
Fyles rammed both spurs into the flanks of the faithful Peter, and, as
he did so, he saw a party of horsemen converging on him from the left.
They drew on, and, in a moment, he recognized McBain and his men.
He called out to the Scot as they came together.
"You get the boat?"
McBain shouted his reply.
"Sure, but--there was nothing doing. It was loaded down with rocks."
Just for one brief instant a bitter imprecation hovered on the
officer's lips. Then, in a wave of inspiration, he shouted his
conviction.
"By God, then we're on the right trail now. It's the buckboard ahead.
We must get it. That's the cargo, sure as fate. Come on!"
* * * * *
A light buckboard was moving leisurely over the open prairie. It was
just an ordinary, spidery buckboard drawn by an unusually fine team of
horses, and driven by a slightish man clad in a dark jacket and cord
riding-breeches, with a wide prairie hat drawn firmly down upon his
dark head, its brim deeply shading his boyish, good-looking face.
Running beside his team, tied to the neck yoke of the near-side
driver, was a saddle horse. It was a fine beast, with racehorse
quarters, and a shoulder laid back for speed.
The buckboard was well loaded. Nor was its load disguised. It
consisted of a number of the small wooden kegs adopted for the purpose
of transporting contraband liquor.
But though the vehicle moved over the rough grass in such a leisurely
fashion, the man's eyes were alert and watchful. His ears, too, were
sharply set, and lost no sound, as his eyes lost no sight, in the
distant prospect of the country through which he was traveling.
His gait was by no means the result of any reposeful sense. It was the
well-calculated result of caution. There was caution in his whole
poise. In the quick turn of the head at any predominating sound. In
the sharp glance of his dark eyes at any of the more fantastic shadows
cast by the searching moonlight. Then, too, a tight hand was upon the
reins, and there was an alert searching for those badger and gopher
holes so perilous for horses in the uncertain light of the moon.
He was traveling in a parallel, a mile to the south of the river
trail, and, far ahead, to the right, he could see the bush which
marked the winding course of the river.
Now he was listening to the faint rumble of a wagon moving along the
trail, and, with which, though so far away, he was carefully keeping
pace. This was his whole object--to keep pace, almost step for step,
with the rumbling movement of the distant wagon.
At his present gait his wheels gave out practically no sound. They
gently, almost silently, crushed their way over the tufted grass, and
the sound of his horses' hoofs suggested a muffling.
So he made his way, stealthily, secretly. His was the brain which had
planned, and this vital work of convoying his smuggled liquor could be
entrusted to no other hand. The work he demanded of others was simple;
it was the background to his central purpose. He had no desire to risk
his helpers. His must be the risk, as, too, his must be the chief
profit.
With all his caution he yet had time to think of those other things
which frequently brought a smile to his dark eyes. Why not? There was
a wild exhilaration in this work. He reveled in the thought of his
risk. He reveled in laying plans which could beat all the best brains
among the law officers. The excitement of the chances was as the
breath of life to him, and the cargo once safely secreted he could
feel that he had not lived in vain.
He knew full well that the penitentiary doors were wide open waiting
to greet him, but he meant them to remain open, and spend their whole
time in a yearning which he vowed should never be fulfilled. Five
years. He smiled. Five years--wearing a striped----
What was that?
A shot! One single shot! Far away, there, by the river. Ah, yes. That
big bluff. Holy Dick was probably busy. Holy Dick in his boat. He
smiled. But all unconsciously he eased his hand upon the lines, and
his horses quickened their gait. It was just the slight, nervous
quickening as the critical moment of his effort drew near.
The buckboard was less silent. The wheels began to rattle over the
hummocky surface of the prairie grass. He listened even more acutely
for the rumble of the wagon on the trail. He must definitely assure
himself he was still abreast of it. That was all important.
He could plainly hear it. Was he abreast? For the moment he was not
quite sure. Therefore, he further permitted his horses to quicken
their pace. It was better to----
He sat up, and a look of alarm peered out from under the brim of his
hat. The sound of a volley being fired over there on the trail
suddenly disconcerted him. This was something he had not reckoned on.
This was something he had wished to----
Hark! Again! An answering volley! The first was the heavier. The
latter was the familiar note of revolvers. A definite alarm took hold
of him. What was the meaning of it? An attack? Were the men on the
trail resisting the police? He had warned them. He----. Listen! The
shouting! Now he could distinctly hear the sound of galloping horses.
He leaned forward and grabbed the whip from its socket on the
dashboard, and brought it smartly down upon his horses' backs.
In an instant they leaped into a gallop, and he was racing over the
rough grass at a perilous pace.
The fools. The mad, idiotic fools. Resisting the police. An armed
attack on the police. If they killed any of them----. Great God, was
there ever such a pack of fools and madmen? It was no longer simple
contraband. It was no longer playing up a ridiculous law. It was----
Again he brought his whip down upon his horses. He must get through
now. He must get to the cache with the liquor, and trust to the luck
of the reckless to get away. Further concealment was out of the
question.
Hark, what was that?
Horsemen coming his way. Yes--horsemen. There could be no doubt of it.
The racing hoof-beats were unmistakable. Down came the whip again, and
the great team, with the saddle horse beside them, raced with bellies
low to the ground.
Now he had no thought but for getting away. His mind ran over the
possibilities. If only he could get clear with the liquor there might
yet be a chance of his comrades' and his own escape. He had no
knowledge of what had happened to the others, except that there was
shooting and pursuit. The only comfort to be drawn was from the
certainty in his mind that the first shooting he had heard was the
heavy firing of police carbines.
Hark! Yes, there was no doubt of the pursuit. Furthermore, the pursuit
was hard behind him. Why? The police must have heard the buckboard. He
flogged his horses to a greater effort. They were the speediest team
in the country, and he had only three miles to go. They----
"Hold up, you beast," he cried, his deep voice hoarse with excitement.
One of the horses lunged forward, stumbling in a badger hole. The
buckboard jolted terrifically. The driver was nearly thrown from his
seat. Under his firm hands, however, the beast managed to recover
itself. Then, as though he saw the gates of the penitentiary closing
upon him, a feeling of unutterable horror shivered through the man's
body and settled upon his heart. The horse was dead lame.
But there was no time now for feeling, no time for regrets. The
pursuers had found his trail, and were hard upon his heels. The cargo
must go. Everything must go. Personal safety was the only thing to be
considered. From the confidence of victory now he had fallen to the
zero of certain failure.
He pulled his sweating team up and sprang to the ground. He ran up to
the saddle horse, and, casting the neck-rope loose from the neck yoke,
looped it over the horn of the saddle. The next moment he was in the
saddle and racing over the grassland in the direction of the village.