AT WILLOW BLUFF
Tresler would have liked to see Diane before going out to Willow
Bluff, but reflection showed him how impossible that would be; at
least, how much unnecessary risk it would involve for her. After what
he had just witnessed of her father, it behooved him to do nothing
rashly as far as she was concerned, so he turned his whole attention
to his preparations for departure.
He had made up his mind as to his comrade without a second thought.
Arizona was his man, and he sent the diplomatic Joe out to bring him
in from Pine Creek sloughs, where he was cutting late hay for winter
stores.
In about half an hour the American came in, all curiosity and
eagerness; nor would he be satisfied until he had been told the whole
details of the matter that had led up to the appointment. Tresler kept
back nothing but his private affairs relating to Diane. At the
conclusion of the recital, Arizona's rising temper culminated in an
explosion.
"Say, that feller Jake's a meaner pirate an' cus as 'ud thieve the
supper from a blind dawg an' then lick hell out o' him 'cos he can't
see." Which outburst of feeling having satisfied the necessity of the
moment, he became practical. "An' you're goin', you an' me?" he asked
incredulously.
"That's the idea, Arizona; but of course you're quite free to please
yourself. I chose you; Marbolt gave me the privilege of selection."
"Wal, guess we'd best git goin'. Willow Bluff station's fair to
decent, so we'll only need our blankets an' grub--an' a tidy bunch of
ammunition. Guess I'll go an' see Teddy fer the rations."
He went off in a hurry. Tresler looked after him. It was good to be
dealing with such a man after those others, Jake and the rancher.
Arizona's manner of accepting his selection pleased him. There was no
"yes" or "no" about it: no argument. A silent acceptance and ready
thought for their needs. A thorough old campaigner. A man to be relied
on in emergency--a man to be appreciated.
In two hours everything was in readiness, Tresler contenting himself
with a reassuring message to Diane through the medium of Joe.
They rode off. Jezebel was on her good behavior, and Arizona's mount
kept up with her fast walk by means of his cowhorse amble. As they
came to the ford, Tresler drew up and dismounted, and the other
watched him while he produced a wicker-covered glass flask from his
pocket.
"What's that?" he asked. "Rye?"
Tresler shook his head, and tried the metal screw cap.
"No," he replied shortly.
Then he leant over the water and carefully set the bottle floating,
pushing it out as far as possible with his foot while he supported
himself by the overhanging bough of a tree. Then he stood watching it
carried slowly amid-stream. Presently the improvised craft darted out
with a rush into the current, and swept onward with the main flow of
the water. Then he returned and remounted his impatient mare.
"That," he said, as they rode on, "is a message. Fyles's men are down
the river spying out the land, and, incidentally, waiting to hear from
me. The message I've sent them is a request for assistance at Willow
Bluff. I have given them sound reason, which Fyles will understand."
Arizona displayed considerable astonishment, which found expression in
a deprecating avowal.
"Say, I guess I'm too much o' the old hand. I didn't jest think o'
that."
It was all he vouchsafed, but it said a great deal. And the thin face
and wild eyes said more.
Now they rode on in silence, while they followed the wood-lined trail
along the river. The shade was delightful, and the trail sufficiently
sandy to muffle the sound of the horses' hoofs and so leave the
silence unbroken. There was a faint hum from the insects that haunted
the river, but it was drowsy, soft, and only emphasized the perfect
sylvan solitude. After a while the trail left the river and gently
inclined up to the prairie level. Then the bush broke and became
scattered into small bluffs, and a sniff of the bracing air of the
plains brushed away the last odor of the redolent glades they were
leaving.
It was here that Arizona roused himself. He was of the prairie,
belonging to the prairie. The woodlands depressed him, but the prairie
made him expansive.
"Seems to me, Tresler, you're kind o' takin' a heap o' chances--mostly
onnes'ary. Meanin' ther' ain't no more reason to it than whistlin'
Methody hymns to a deaf mule. Can't see why you're mussin' y'self up
wi' these all-fired hoss thieves. You're askin' fer a sight more'n you
ken eat."
"And, like all men of such condition, I shall probably eat to
repletion, I suppose you mean."
Arizona turned a doubtful eye on the speaker, and quietly spat over
his horse's shoulder.
"Guess your langwidge ain't mine," he said thoughtfully; "but if
you're meanin' you're goin' to git your belly full, I calc'late you're
li'ble to git like a crop-bound rooster wi' the moult 'fore you're
through. An' I sez, why?"
Tresler shrugged. "Why does a man do anything?" he asked
indifferently.
"Gener'ly fer one of two reasons. Guess it's drink or wimmin." Again
he shot a speculating glance at his friend, and, as Tresler displayed
more interest in the distant view than in his remarks, he went on. "I
ain't heerd tell as you wus death on the bottle."
The object of his solicitude smiled round on him.
"Perhaps you think me a fool. But I just can't stand by seeing things
going wrong in a way that threatens to swamp one poor, lonely girl,
whose only protection is her blind father."
"Then it is wimmin?"
"If you like."
"But I don't jest see wher' them hoss thieves figger."
"Perhaps you don't, but believe me they do--indirectly." Tresler
paused. Then he went on briskly. "There's no need to go into details
about it, but--but I want to run into this gang. Do you know why?
Because I want to find out who this Red Mask is. It is on his
personality depends the possibility of my helping the one soul on this
ranch who deserves nothing but tender kindness at the hands of those
about her."
"A-men," Arizona added in the manner he had acquired in his "religion"
days.
"I must set her free of Jake--somehow."
Arizona's eyes flashed round on him quickly. "Jest so," he observed
complainingly. "That's how I wanted to do last night."
"And you'd have upset everything."
"Wrong--plumb wrong."
"Perhaps so," Tresler smiled confidently. "We are all liable to
mistakes."
Arizona's dissatisfied grunt was unmistakable. "Thet's jest how that
sassafras-colored, bull-beef Joe Nelson got argyfyin' when Jake come
around an' located him sleepin' off the night before in the hog-pen.
But it don't go no more'n his did, I guess. Howsum, it's wimmin. Say,
Tresler," the lean figure leant over toward him, and the wild eyes
looked earnestly into his--"it's right, then--dead right?"
"When I've settled with her father--and Jake."
Arizona held out his horny, claw-like hand. "Shake," he said. "I'm
glad, real glad."
They gripped for a moment, then the cowpuncher turned away, and sat
staring out over the prairie. Tresler, watching him, wondered at that
long abstraction. The man's face had a softened look.
"We all fall victims to it sooner or later, Arizona," he ventured
presently. "It comes once in a man's lifetime, and it comes for good
or ill."
"Twice--me."
The hard fact nipped Tresler's sentimental mood in the bud.
"Ah!"
The other continued his study of the sky-line. "Yup," he said at last.
"One died, an' t'other didn't hatch out."
"I see."
It was no use attempting sympathy. When Arizona spoke of himself, when
he chose to confide his life's troubles to any one, he had a way of
stating simple facts merely as facts; he spoke of them because it
suited his pessimistic mood.
"Yup. The first was kind o' fady, anyways--sort o' limp in the
backbone. Guess I'd got fixed wi' her 'fore I knew a heap. Must 'a'
bin. Yup, she wus fancy in her notions. Hated sharin' a pannikin o'
tea wi' a friend; guess I see her scrape out a fry-pan oncet. I 'lows
she had cranks. Guess she hadn't a pile o' brain, neither. She never
could locate a hog from a sow, an' as fer stridin' a hoss, hell itself
couldn't 'a' per-suaded her. She'd a notion fer settin' sideways, an'
allus got muleish when you guessed she wus wrong. Yup, she wus red-hot
on the mission sociables an' eatin' off'n chiny, an' wa'n't satisfied
wi' noospaper on the table; an' took the notion she'd got pimples, an'
worried hell out o' her old man till he bo't a razor an' turned his
features into a patch o' fall ploughin', an' kind o' bulldozed her
mother into lashin' her stummick wi' some noofangled fixin' as
wouldn't meet round her nowheres noways. An' she wus kind o' finnicky
wi' her own feedin', too. Guess some wall-eyed cuss had took her into
Sacramento an' give her a feed at one of them Dago joints, wher' they
disguise most everythin' wi' langwidge, an' ile, an' garlic, till you
hate yourself. Wal, she died. Mebbe she's got all them things handy
now. But I ain't sayin' nothin' mean about her; she jest had her
notions. Guess it come from her mother. I 'lows she wus kind o' struck
on fool things an' fixin's. Can't blame her noways. Guess I wus mostly
sudden them days. Luv ut fust sight is a real good thing when it comes
to savin' labor, but like all labor-savin' fixin's, it's liable to git
rattled some, an' then ther' ain't no calc'latin' what's goin' to
bust."
Arizona's manner was very hopeless, but presently he cheered up
visibly and renewed his wad of chewing.
"T'other wus kind o' slower in comin' along," he went on, in his
reflective drawl. "But when it got around it wus good an' strong,
sure. Y' see, ther' wus a deal 'tween us like to make us friendly. She
made hash fer the round-up, which I 'lows, when the lady's young,
she's most gener'ly an objec' of 'fection fer the boys. Guess she wus
most every kind of a gal, wi' her ha'r the color of a field of wheat
ready fer the binder, an' her figger as del'cate as one o' them crazy
egg-bilers, an' her pretty face all sparklin' wi' smiles an'
hoss-soap, an' her eye! Gee! but she had an eye. Guess she would 'a'
made a prairie-rose hate itself. But that wus 'fore we hooked up in a
team. I 'lows marryin's a mighty bad finish to courtin'."
"You were married?"
"Am."
A silence fell. The horses ambled on in the fresh noonday air.
Arizona's look was forbidding. Suddenly he turned and gazed fiercely
into his friend's face.
"Yes, sirree. An' it's my 'pinion, in spite of wot some folks sez,
gettin' married's most like makin' butter. Courtin's the cream, good
an' thick an' juicy, an' you ken lay it on thick, an' you kind o'
wonder how them buzzocky old cows got the savee to perduce sech a
daisy liquid. But after the turnin'-point, which is marryin', it's
diff'rent some. 'Tain't cream no longer. It's butter, an' you need to
use it sort o' mean. That's how I found, I guess."
"I suppose you settled down, and things went all right, though?"
suggested Tresler.
"Wal, maybe that's so. Guess if anythin' wus wrong it wus me. Yer see,
ther' ain't a heap o' fellers rightly understands females. I'm most
gener'ly patient. Knowin' their weakness, I sez, 'Arizona, you're mud
when wimmin gits around. You bein' married, it's your dooty to boost
the gal along.' So I jest let her set around an' shovel orders as
though I wus the hired man. Say, guess you never had a gal shovelin'
orders. It's real sweet to hear 'em, an' I figger they knows their
bizness mostly. It makes you feel as though you'd ha'f a dozen hands
an' they wus all gropin' to git to work. That's how I felt, anyways.
Every mornin' she'd per-suade me gentle out o' bed 'fore daylight, an'
I'd feel like a hog fer sleepin' late. Then she'd shovel the orders
hansum, in a voice that 'ud shame molasses. It wus allus 'dear' or
'darlin'.' Fust haul water, then buck wood, light the stove, feed the
hogs an' chick'ns, dung out the ol' cow, fill the lamp, rub down the
mare, pick up the kitchen, set the clothes bilin', cook the vittles,
an' do a bit o' washin' while she turned over fer five minits. Then
she'd git around, mostly 'bout noon, wi' her shower o' ha'r trailin'
like a rain o' gold-dust, an' a natty sort o' silk fixin' which she
called a 'dressin'-gown,' an' she'd sot right down an' eat the
vittles, tellin' me o' things she wanted done as she'd fergot. Ther'
wus the hen-roost wanted limin', she was sure the chick'ns had the
bugs, an' the ol' mare's harness wanted fixin', so she could drive
into town; an' the buckboard wanted washin', an' the wheels greasin'.
An' the seat wus kind o' hard an' wanted packin' wi' a pillar. Then
ther' wus the p'tater patch wanted hoein', an' the cabb'ges. An' the
hay-mower wus to be got ready fer hayin'. She mostly drove that
herself, an' I 'lows I wus glad."
Arizona paused and took a fresh chew. Then he went on.
"Guess you ain't never got hitched?"
Tresler denied the impeachment. "Not yet," he said.
"Hah! Guess it makes a heap o' diff'rence."
"Yes, I suppose so. Sobers a fellow. Makes him feel like settling
down."
"Wal, maybe."
"And where's your wife living now?" Tresler asked, after another
pause.
"Can't rightly say." There was a nasty sharpness in the manner Arizona
jerked his answer out. "Y' see, it's this a-ways. I guess I didn't
amount to a deal as a married man. Leastways, that's how she got
figgerin' after a whiles. Guess I'd sp'iled her life some. I 'lows I
wus allus a mean cuss. An' she wus real happy bakin' hash. Guess I
druv her to drinkin' at the s'loon, too, which made me hate myself
wuss. Wal, I jest did wot I could to smooth things an' kep goin'. I
got punchin' cows agin, an' give her every cent o' my wages; but it
wa'n't to be." The man's voice was husky, and he paused to recover
himself. And then hurried on as though to get the story over as soon
as possible. "Guess I wus out on the 'round-up' some weeks, an' then I
come back to find her gone--plumb gone. Mebbe she'd got lonesome; I
can't say. Yup, the shack wus empty, an' the buckboard gone, an' the
blankets, an' most o' the cookin' fixin's. It wus the neighbors put me
wise. Neighbors mostly puts you wise. They acted friendly. Ther'd bin
a feller come 'long from Alberta, a pretty tough Breed feller. He went
by the name o' 'Tough' McCulloch."
Tresler started. But Arizona was still staring out at the distant
prairie, and the movement escaped him.
"Guess he'd bin around the shack a heap," he went on, "an' the day
'fore I got back the two of 'em had drove out wi' the buckboard
loaded, takin' the trail fer the hills. I put after 'em, but never
found a trace. I 'lows the feller had guts. He left a message on the
table. It wus one o' his guns--loaded. Likely you won't understan',
but I kep' that message. I ain't see her sence. I did hear tell she
wus bakin' hash agin. I 'lows she could bake hash. Say, Tresler, I've
lost hogs, an' I've lost cows, but I'm guessin' ther' ain't nothin' in
the world meaner than losin' yer wife."
Tresler made no reply. What could he say? "Tough" McCulloch! the name
rang in his ears. It was the name Anton had been known by in Canada.
He tried to think what he ought to do. Should he tell Arizona? No. He
dared not. Murder would promptly be done, if he knew anything of the
American. No doubt the Breed deserved anything, but there was enough
savagery at Mosquito Bend without adding to it. Suddenly another
thought occurred to him.
"Did you know the man?" he asked.
"Never set eyes on him. But I guess I shall some day." And Tresler's
decision was irrevocably confirmed.
"And the 'gun' message?"
"Wal, it's a way they have in Texas," replied Arizona. "A loaded gun
is a mean sort o' challenge. It's a challenge which ain't fer the
present zacly. Guess it holds good fer life. Et means 'on sight.'"
"I understand."
And the rest of the journey to Willow Bluff was made almost in
silence.
The wonderful extent of the blind man's domain now became apparent.
They had traveled twenty miles almost as the crow flies, and yet they
had not reached its confines. As Arizona said, in response to a
remark from his companion, "The sky-line ain't no limit fer the blind
hulk's land."
Willow Bluff was, as its name described, just a big bluff of woodland
standing at the confluence of two rivers. To the south and west it was
open prairie. The place consisted of a small shack, and a group of
large pine-log corrals capable of housing a thousand head of stock.
And as the men came up they saw, scattered over the adjacent prairie,
the peacefully grazing beeves which were to be their charge.
"A pretty bunch," observed Arizona.
"Yes, and a pretty place for a raid."
At that moment the doings of the raiders were uppermost in Tresler's
mind.
Then they proceeded to take possession. They found Jim Henderson, a
mean looking Breed boy, in the shack, and promptly set him to work to
clean it out. It was not a bad place, but the boys had let it get into
a filthy condition, in the customary manner of all half-breeds.
However, this they quickly remedied, and Tresler saw quite a decent
prospect of comfort for their stay there.
Arizona said very little while there was work to be done. And his
companion was astonished, even though he knew him so well, at his
capacity and forethought. Evening was the most important time, and
here the cattleman stood out a master of his craft. The beeves had to
be corralled every night. There must be no chance of straying, since
they were sold, and liable for transport at any moment. This work, and
the task of counting, demanded all the cattleman's skill. Bands of
fifty were rounded up, cut out from the rest, and quietly brought in.
When each corral was filled, and the whole herd accommodated for the
night, a supply of fresh young hay was thrown to them to keep them
occupied during their few remaining hours of waking. Arizona was a
giant at the work; and to see his lithe, lean body swaying this way
and that, as he swung his well-trained pony around the ambling herd,
his arms and "rope" and voice at work, was to understand something of
the wild life that claimed him, and the wild, untrained nature which
was his.
The last corral was fastened up, and then, but not until then, the two
friends took leisure.
"Wal," said Arizona, as they stood leaning against the bars of the
biggest corral, "guess ther's goin' to be a night-guard?"
"Yes. These boys are smart enough lads, it seems. We'll let them take
two hours about up to midnight You and I will do the rest."
"An' the hull lot of us'll sleep round the corrals?"
"That's it."
"An' the hosses?"
"We'll keep them saddled."
"An' the sheriff's fellers?"
"That I can't say. We're not likely to see them, anyway."
And so the plans were arranged, simple, even hopeless in construction.
Two men, for they could not depend on the half-breeds, to face
possibly any odds should the raider choose this spot for attack. But
however inadequate the guard, there was something morally strong in
the calm, natural manner of its arranging. These two knew that in case
of trouble they had only themselves to depend on. Yet neither
hesitated, or balked at the undertaking. Possibilities never entered
into their calculations.
The first and second night produced no alarm. Nor did they receive any
news of a disturbing nature. On the third day Jacob Smith rode into
their camp. He was a patrol guard, on a visiting tour of the outlying
stations. His news was peaceful enough.
"I don't care a cuss how long the old man keeps the funks," he said,
with a cheery laugh. "I give it you right here, this job's a snap. I
ride around like a gen'l spyin' fer enemies. Guess Red Mask has his
uses."
"So's most folk," responded Arizona, "but 'tain't allus easy to
locate."
"Wal, I guess I ken locate his jest about now. I'm sort o' lyin'
fallow, which ain't usual on Skitter Bend."
"Guess not. He's servin' us diff'rent."
"Ah! Doin' night-guard? Say, I'd see blind hulk roastin' 'fore I'd
hang on to them beasties. But it's like you, Arizona. You hate him
wuss'n hell, an' Jake too, yet you'd--pshaw! So long. Guess I'd best
get on. I've got nigh forty miles to do 'fore I git back."
And he rode away, careless, thoughtless, in the midst of a very real
danger. And it was the life they all led. They asked for a wage, a
bunk, and grub; nothing else mattered.
Tresler had developed a feeling that the whole thing was a matter of
form rather than dead earnest, that he had been precipitate in sending
his message to the sheriff. He wanted to get back to the ranch. He
understood only too well how he had furthered Jake's projects, and
cursed himself bitterly for having been so easily duped. He was
comfortably out of the way, and the foreman would take particularly
good care that he should remain so as long as possible. Arizona, too,
had become anything but enlivening. He went about morosely and snapped
villainously at the boys. There was no word in answer to the message
to the sheriff. They daily searched the bluff for some sign, but
without result, and Tresler was rather glad than disappointed, while
Arizona seemed utterly without opinion on the matter.
The third night produced a slight shock for Tresler. It was midnight,
and one of the boys roused him for his watch. He sat up, and, to his
astonishment, found Arizona sitting on a log beside him. He waited
until the boy had gone to turn in, then he looked at his friend
inquiringly.
"What's up?"
And Arizona's reply fairly staggered him. "Say, Tresler," he said, in
a tired voice, utterly unlike his usual forceful manner, "I jest
wanted to ast you to change 'watches' wi' me. I've kind o' lost my
grip on sleep. Mebbe I'm weak'nin' some. I 'lows I'm li'ble to git
sleepy later on, an' I tho't, mebbe, ef I wus to do the fust
watch--wal, y' see, I guess that plug in my chest ain't done me a heap
o' good."
Tresler was on his feet in an instant. It had suddenly dawned on him
that this queer son of the prairie was ill.
"Rot, man!" he exclaimed. His tone in no way hid his alarm. They were
at the gate of the big corral, hidden in the shadow cast by the high
wall of lateral logs. "You go and turn in. I'm going to watch till
daylight."
"Say, that's real friendly," observed the other, imperturbably. "But
it ain't no use. Guess I couldn't sleep yet."
"Well, please yourself. I'm going to watch till daylight." Tresler's
manner was quietly decided, and Arizona seemed to accept it.
"Wal, ef it hits you that a-ways I'll jest set around till I git
sleepy."
Tresler's alarm was very real, but he shrugged with a great assumption
of indifference and moved off to make a round of the corrals,
carefully hugging the shadow of the walls as he went. After a while he
returned to his post. Arizona was still sitting where he had left him.
There was a silence for a few minutes. Then the American quietly drew
his revolver and spun the chambers round. Tresler watched him, and the
other, looking up, caught his eye.
"Guess these things is kind o' tricksy," he observed, in explanation,
"I got it jammed oncet. It's a decent weapon but noo, an' I ain't fer
noo fixin's. This hyar," he went on, drawing a second one from its
holster, "is a 'six' an' 'ud drop an ox at fifty. Ha'r trigger too.
It's a dandy. Guess it wus 'Tough' McCulloch's. Guess you ain't got
yours on your hip?"
Tresler shook his head. "No, I use the belt for my breeches, and keep
the guns loose in my pockets when I'm not riding."
"Wrong. Say, fix 'em right. You take a sight too many chances."
Tresler laughingly complied "I'm not likely to need them, but
still----"
"Nope." Arizona returned his guns to their resting-place. Then he
looked up. "Say, guess I kind o' fixed the hosses diff'rent. Our
hosses. Bro't 'em up an' stood 'em in the angle wher' this corral
joins the next one. Seems better; more handy-like. It's sheltered, an'
ther's a bit of a sharp breeze. One o' them early frosts." He looked
up at the sky. "Guess ther' didn't ought. Ther' ain't no moon till
nigh on daylight. Howsum, ther' ain't no argyfyin' the weather."
Tresler was watching his comrade closely. There was something peculiar
in his manner. He seemed almost fanciful, yet there was a wonderful
alertness in the rapidity of his talk. He remained silent, and,
presently, the other went on again, but he had switched off to a fresh
topic.
"Say, I never ast you how you figgered to settle wi' Jake," he said.
"I guess it'll be all"--he broke off, and glanced out prairieward, but
went on almost immediately,--"a settlin'. I've seen you kind o' riled.
And I've seen Jake." He stood up and peered into the darkness while he
talked in his even monotone. "Yup," he went on, "ther's ways o'
dealin' wi' men--an' ways. Guess, now, ef you wus dealin' wi' an
honest citizen you'd jest talk him fair. Mind, I figger to know you a
heap." His eyes suddenly turned on the man he was addressing, but
returned almost at once to their earnest contemplation of the black
vista of grass-land. "You'd argyfy the point reas'nable, an' leave the
gal to settle for you. But wi' Jake it's diff'rent." His hand slowly
went round to his right hip, and suddenly he turned on his friend with
a look of desperate meaning. "D'you know what it'll be 'tween you two?
This is what it means;" and he whipped out the heavy six that had once
been "Tough" McCulloch's, and leveled it at arm's length out
prairieward. Tresler thought it was coming at him, and sprang back,
while Arizona laughed. "This is what it'll be. You'll take a careful
aim, an' if you've friends around they'll see fair play, sure. I guess
they'll count 'three' for you, so. Jest one, two, an' you'll both fire
on the last, so. Three!"
There was a flash, and a sharp report, and then a cry split the still
night air. Tresler sprang at the man whom he now believed was mad, but
the cry stayed him, and the next moment he felt the grip of Arizona's
sinewy hand on his arm, and was being dragged round the corral as the
sound of horses' hoofs came thundering toward him.
"It's them!"
It was the only explanation Arizona vouchsafed. They reached the
horses and both sprang into the saddle, and the American's voice
whispered hoarsely--
"Bend low. Guess these walls'll save us, an' we've got a sheer sight
o' all the corral gates. Savee? Shoot careful, an' aim true. An' watch
out on the bluff. The sheriff's around."
And now the inexperienced Tresler saw the whole scheme. The masterly
generalship of his comrade filled him with admiration. And he had
thought him ill, his brain turned! For some reason he believed the
raiders were approaching, but not being absolutely sure, he had found
an excuse for not turning in as usual, and cloaked all his suspicions
for fear of giving a false alarm. And their present position was one
of carefully considered strategy; the only possible one from which
they could hope to achieve any advantage, for, sheltered, they yet had
every gate of the corrals within gunshot.
But there was little time for reflection or speculation. If the
sheriff's men came, well and good. In the meantime a crowd of a dozen
men had charged down upon the corrals, a silent, ghostly band; the
only noise they made was the clatter of their horses' hoofs.
Both men, watching, were lying over their horses' necks. Arizona was
the first to shoot. Again his gun belched a death-dealing shot.
Tresler saw one figure reel and fall with a groan. Then his own gun
was heard. His aim was less effective, and only brought a volley in
reply from the raiders. That volley was the signal for the real battle
to begin. The ambush of the two defenders was located, and the
rustlers divided, and came sweeping round to the attack.
But Arizona was ready. Both horses wheeled round and raced out of
their improvised fort, and Tresler, following the keen-witted man,
appreciated his resource as he darted into another angle between two
other corrals. The darkness favored them, and the rustlers swept by.
Arizona only waited long enough for them to get well clear, then his
gun rang out again, and Tresler's too. But the game was played out. A
straggler sighted them and gave the alarm, and instantly the rest took
up the chase.
"Round the corrals!"
As he spoke Arizona turned in his saddle and fired into the mob. A
perfect hail of shots replied, and the bullets came singing all round
them. He was as cool and deliberate as though he were hunting
jack-rabbits. Tresler joined him in a fresh fusillade, and two more
saddles were emptied, but the next moment a gasp told Arizona that his
comrade was hit, and he turned only just in time to prevent him
reeling out of the saddle.
"Hold up, boy!" he cried. "Kep your saddle if hell's let loose. I'll
kep 'em busy."
And the wounded man, actuated by a similar spirit, sat bolt upright,
while the two horses sped on. They were round at the front again. But
though Arizona was as good as his word, and his gun was emptied and
reloaded and emptied again, it was a hopeless contest--hopeless from
the beginning. Tresler was bleeding seriously from a wound in his
neck, and his aim was becoming more and more uncertain. But his will
was fighting hard for mastery over his bodily weakness. Just as they
headed again toward the bluff, Arizona gave a great yank at his reins
and his pony was thrown upon its haunches. The Lady Jezebel, too, as
though working in concert with her mate, suddenly stopped dead.
The cause of the cowpuncher's action was a solitary horseman standing
right ahead of them gazing out at the bluff. The plainsman's gun was
up in an instant, in spite of the pursuers behind. Death was in his
eye as he took aim, but at that instant there was a shout from the
bluff, and the cry was taken up behind him--"Sheriff's posse!" That
cry lost him his chance of fetching Red Mask down. Before he could let
the hammer of his gun fall, the horseman had wheeled about and
vanished in the darkness.
Simultaneously the pursuers swung out, turned, and the next moment
were in full retreat under a perfect hail of carbine-fire from the
sheriff's men.
And as the latter followed in hot pursuit, Arizona hailed them--
"You've missed him; he's taken the river-bank for it. It's Red Mask! I
see him."
But now Tresler needed all his friend's attention. Arizona saw him
fall forward and lie clinging to his saddle-horn. He sprang to his
aid, and, dismounting, lifted him gently to the ground. Then he turned
his own horse loose, leading the Lady Jezebel while he supported the
sick man up to the shack.
Here his patient fainted dead away, but he was equal to the emergency.
He examined the wound, and found an ugly rent in the neck, whence the
blood was pumping slowly. He saw at once that a small artery had been
severed, and its adjacency to the jugular made it a matter of extreme
danger. His medical skill was small, but he contrived to wash and bind
the wound roughly. Then he quietly reloaded his guns, and, with the
aid of a stiff horn of whisky, roused some life in his patient. He
knew it would only be a feeble flicker, but while it lasted he wanted
to get him on to the Lady Jezebel's back.
This he contrived after considerable difficulty. The mare resented the
double burden, as was only to be expected. But the cowpuncher was
desperate and knew how to handle her.
None but Arizona would have attempted such a feat with a horse of her
description; but he must have speed if he was going to save his
friend's life, and he knew she could give it.