AT WIDOW DANGLEY'S
Inside the hut, where Jake had so long been master, the boys were
grouped round the bunk on which their old oppressor was laid out; the
strong, rough fellows were awed with the magnitude of the outrage.
Jake, Jake Harnach, the terror of the ranch, "done up." The thought
was amazing. Tresler was quietly stripping clothes from the dead man's
upper body to free the wounds for the doctor's inspection, and Raw
Harris was close beside him. It was while in the midst of this
operation that the former came upon another wound. Raw Harris also saw
it, and at once drew his attention.
"Guess I heerd four shots," he said. "Say, that feller Anton was a
daddy. Four of 'em, an' all found their mark. I 'lows this one's on'y
a graze. Might 'a' bin done wi' a knife, et's so clean. Yes, sirree,
he was a daddy, sure."
As no one seemed inclined to contradict the statement that Anton was a
"daddy," and as the question of four shots or three was of no vital
interest to the onlookers, the matter passed unheeded. Only Tresler
found food for reflection. That fourth wound he knew had not been
inflicted by the half-breed. He remembered the rancher's knife and
its dripping point, and he remembered Jake's cry, "You would, would
you!" He needed no other explanation.
While the two men were still bending over their task there was a
slight stir at the open door. The silent onlookers parted, leaving a
sort of aisle to the bedside, and Julian Marbolt came shuffling his
way through them, heralded by the regular tap, tap, of his guiding
stick.
It was with many conflicting emotions that Tresler looked round when
he heard the familiar sound. He stared at the man as he might stare at
some horrid beast of prey, fascinated even against himself. It would
have been hard to say what feeling was uppermost with him at the
moment. Astonishment, loathing, expectation, and even some dread, all
struggled for place, and the combination held him silent, waiting for
what that hateful presence was to bring forth. He could have found it
in his heart to denounce him then and there, only it would have served
no purpose, and would probably have done much harm. Therefore he
contented himself with gazing into the inflamed depths of the man's
mysterious eyes with an intentness he had never yet bestowed upon
them, and while he looked all the horror of the scene in the office
stole over him again and made him shudder.
"Where is he--where is Jake?" the blind man asked, halting accurately
at the bedside.
The question was directed at no one in particular, but Tresler took it
upon himself to answer.
"Lying on the bed before you," he said coldly.
The man turned on him swiftly. "Ah--Tresler," he said.
Then he bent over the bed, and his hands groped over the dead man's
body till they came into contact with the congealing blood round the
wound in his stomach.
With a movement of repulsion he drew back sharply. "He's not dead?" he
questioned, with a queer eagerness, turning round to those about him.
"Yes, he is dead," replied Tresler, with unintentional solemnity.
"Who--who did it?"
The question came in a tense voice, sharper and more eagerly than the
preceding one.
"Anton," chorused the men, as though finding relief from their long
silence in the announcement. The crime was even secondary to the
personality of the culprit with them. Anton's name was uppermost in
their minds, and so they spoke it readily.
"Anton? And where is he? Have you got him?"
The rancher had turned about, and addressed himself generally.
"Anton has made off with one of your horses," said Tresler. "I tried
to get him, but he had too much start for me. I was on foot."
"Well, why are you all here? Have none of you sense enough to get
after him?"
"Arizona is after him, and, until the sheriff comes, he is sufficient.
He will never leave his trail."
There was no mistaking the significance Tresler conveyed in his last
remark. The rancher took him up sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"Arizona has no love for Anton."
"Ah! And Jake. Who found him? Who was there when he died?"
Marbolt's eyes had fixed themselves on Tresler's face. And the latter
had no hesitation in suiting his reply to his own purpose.
"I found him--dead; quite dead. His death must have been
instantaneous."
"So."
Marbolt turned back to the bed.
The rancher stood over the dead man in silence for some minutes. Then,
to Tresler's horror, he broke out into a low-voiced lamentation, the
hypocrisy of which made him want to seize him by the throat and choke
the words ere they were uttered.
"My poor old Jake!" he said, with infinite pity. "Poor old Jake!" he
repeated, addressing the dead man sorrowfully. "I wish now I'd taken
your advice about that rascal and got rid of him. And to think that
you should be the man on whom he was to wreak his treachery. I wonder
how it came about. It must have been that rough temper of yours.
Tresler," he cried, pointing to the still form on the bed, "there lies
the truest, the only friend I ever had. That man has stood by me when
all others left me. Yes, we've fought side by side in the Indian days;
ay, and further back still. I remember when he would have defended me
with his life; poor Jake! I suppose he had his faults, the same as
most of us have. Yes, and I wager his temper took him foul of Anton.
Poor old Jake! I suppose we shall never know the truth of this." He
paused. Then he cried fiercely, "Damn it! Men, every one of you, I'll
give a thousand dollars to the one who brings Anton back, dead or
alive. Dead from preference, then he won't escape us. A thousand
dollars. Now, who?"
But Tresler could stand it no longer. "Don't trouble, Mr. Marbolt," he
said icily. "It is no use your offering rewards. The man who has gone
after Anton will find him. And you can rest satisfied he'll take
nothing from you on that score. You may not know Arizona; I do."
"You are confident," the other retorted, resentful at once.
"I have reason to be," came the decided answer.
Marbolt shook his close-cropped head. His resentment had gone from his
manner again. He had few moods which he was unable to control at will.
That was how it seemed to Tresler.
"I hope truly it may be as you say. But I must still doubt. However,"
he went on, in a lighter tone, "in the meantime there is work to be
done. The doctor must be summoned. Send some one for doctor and
sheriff first thing to-morrow morning, Tresler. It is no use worrying
them to-night. The sheriff has his night work to do, and wouldn't
thank us for routing him out now. Besides, nothing can be done until
daylight! And the doctor is only needed to certify. Poor old Jake!"
He turned away with something very like a sigh. Half-way to the door
he paused.
"Tresler, you take charge of things to-night. Have this door locked.
And," he added, with redoubled earnestness, "are you sure Arizona will
hunt that man down?"
"Perfectly."
Tresler smiled grimly. He fancied he understood the persistence.
There was a moment's silence. Then the stick tapped, and the rancher
passed out under the curious gaze of his men. Tresler, too, looked
after him. Nor was there any doubt of his feelings now. He knew that
his presence in the house during Marbolt's murderous assault on Jake
was unsuspected. And Marbolt, villainous hypocrite that he was, was
covering his tracks. He loathed the blind villain as he never thought
to have loathed anybody. And all through his thoughts there was a
cold, hard vein of triumph which was utterly foreign to his nature,
but which was quite in keeping with his feelings toward the man with
whom he was dealing.
As Julian Marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the
distant tapping of his stick had died away. Tresler looked round him
at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his
eyes. Joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. The
faithful little fellow was at his post to care for Diane. Now he
turned to Harris.
"Raw," he said, "will you ride in for the doctor?"
"He said t'-morrer," the man objected.
"I know. But if you'd care to do me a favor you'll ride in and warn
the doctor to-night, and then--ride out to Widow Dangley's and meet
us all there, _cached_ in the neighborhood."
The man stared; every man in that room was instantly agog with
interest. Something in Tresler's tone had brought a light to their
eyes which he was glad to see.
"What is 't?" asked Jacob, eagerly.
"Ay," protested Raw; "no bluffin'."
"There's no bluffing about me," Tresler said quickly. "I'm dead in
earnest. Here, listen, boys. I want you all to go out quietly, one by
one. It's eight miles to Widow Dangley's. Arrange to get there by
half-past one in the morning--and don't forget your guns. There's a
big bluff adjoining the house," he suggested significantly. "I shall
be along, and so will the sheriff and all his men. I think there'll be
a racket, and we may--there, I can tell you no more. I refrained from
asking Marbolt's permission; you remember what he said once before.
We'll not risk saying anything to him."
"I'm in to the limit," said Raw, with decision.
"Guess we don't want no limit to this racket. We'll jest get right
along," said Jacob, quietly.
And after that the men filed out one by one. And when the last had
gone, Tresler put the lamp out and locked the door. Then he quietly
stole up to the kitchen and peered in at the window. Diane was there,
so was Joe, with two guns hanging to his belt. He had little
difficulty in drawing their attention. There was no dalliance about
his visit this time. He waived aside the eager questions with which
the girl assailed him, and merely gave her a quiet warning.
"Stay up all night, dear," he said, "but do not let your father know
it."
To Joe he said: "Joe, if you sleep a wink this night I'll never
forgive you."
Then he hurried away, satisfied that neither would fail him, and went
to the barn. Without a word, almost without a sound, he saddled the
Lady Jezebel.
His mare ready, he went and gazed long and earnestly up at the
rancher's house. He was speculating in his mind as to the risk he was
running. Not the general risk, but the risk of success or failure in
his enterprise.
He waited until the last of the lights had gone out, and the house
stood out a mere black outline in the moonlight, then he disappeared
within the barn again, and presently reappeared leading his fractious
mare. A few moments later he rode quietly off. And the manner of his
going brought a grim smile to his lips, for he thought of the ghostly
movements of the night-riders as he had witnessed them. His way lay in
a different direction from that of his comrades. Instead of taking the
trail, as they had done, he skirted the upper corral and pastures, and
plunged into the black pinewoods behind the house.
* * * * *
The Widow Dangley's homestead looked much more extensive in the
moonlight than it really was. Everything was shown up, endowed with a
curious silvery burnish which dazzled the eyes till shadows became
magnified into buildings, and the buildings themselves distorted out
of all proportion. Hers was simply a comfortable place and quite
unpretentious.
The ranch stood in a narrow valley, in the midst of which a small
brook gurgled its way on to the Mosquito River, about four miles
distant. The valley was one of those sharp cuttings in which the
prairie abounds, quite hidden and unmarked from the land above, lying
unsuspected until one chances directly upon it. It was much like a
furrow of Nature's ploughing, cut out to serve as a drainage for the
surrounding plains. It wound its irregular course away east and west,
a maze of undergrowth, larger bluff, low red-sand cut-banks and
crumbling gravel cliffs, all scattered by a prodigal hand, with a
profusion that seemed wanton amidst the surrounding wastes of
grass-land.
The house stood on the northern slope, surrounded on three sides by a
protecting bluff of pinewoods. Then to the right of it came the
outbuildings, and last, at least one hundred and fifty yards from the
rest, came the corrals, well hidden in the bluff, instead, as is
usual, of being overlooked by the house. Certainly Widow Dangley was a
confiding person.
And so Tresler, comparatively inexperienced as he was, thought, as he
surveyed the prospect in the moonlight from the back of his mare. He
was accompanied by Sheriff Fyles, and the two men were estimating the
chances they were likely to have against possible invaders.
"How goes the time?" asked the sheriff, after a few moments' silent
contemplation of the scene.
"You've half an hour in which to dispose your forces. Ah! there's one
of your fellows riding down the opposite bank." Tresler pointed across
the valley.
"Yes, and there's another lower down," Fyles observed quietly. "And
here's one dropping down to your right. All on time. What of your
men?"
"They should be in yonder bluff, backing the corrals."
"How many?"
"Four, including the cook."
"Four, and sixteen of mine--twenty. Our two selves--twenty-two. Good;
come on."
The man led the way to the bluff. The cowboys were all there. They
received instructions to hold the position at the corrals; to defend
them, or to act as reinforcements if the struggle should take place
elsewhere. Then the two leaders passed on down into the valley. It was
an awkward descent, steep, and of a loose surface that shelved under
their horses' feet. For the moment a cloud had obscured the moon, and
Fyles looked up. A southwesterly breeze had sprung up, and there was a
watery look about the sky.
"Good," he said again, in his abrupt manner. "There won't be too much
moon. Moonlight is not altogether an advantage in a matter of this
sort. We must depend chiefly on a surprise. We don't want too many
empty saddles."
At the bottom of the valley they found the rest of the men gathered
together in the shelter of the scattered undergrowth. It was Fyles's
whole command. He proceeded at once to divide them up into two
parties. One he stationed east of the ranch, split into a sort of
skirmishing order, to act under Tresler's charge. The other party he
took for his own command, selecting an advantageous position to the
west. He had also established a code of signals to be used on the
approach of the enemy; these took the form of the cry of the
screech-owl. Thus, within a quarter of an hour after their arrival,
all was in readiness for the raiders, and the valley once more
returned to its native quiet.
And how quiet and still it all was! The time crept on toward the
appointed hour. The moon was still high in the heavens, but its light
had grown more and more uncertain. The clouds had become dense to a
stormy extent. Now and then the rippling waters of the brook caught
and reflected for a moment a passing shaft of light, like a silvery
rift in the midst of the valley, but otherwise all was shadow. And in
the occasional moonlight every tree and bush and boulder was magnified
into some weird, spectral shape, distorting it from plain truth into
some grotesque fiction, turning the humblest growth into anything from
a grazing steer to a moving vehicle; from a prowling coyote to a log
hut. The music of the waking night-world droned on the scented air,
emphasizing the calm, the delicious peace. It was like some fairy
kingdom swept by strains of undefined music which haunted the ear
without monotony, and peopled with shadows which the imagination could
mould at its pleasure.
But in the eagerness of the moment all this was lost to the waiting
men. To them it was a possible battleground; with a view to cover, it
was a strategic position, and they were satisfied with it. The cattle,
turned loose from the corrals, must pass up or down the valley;
similarly, any number of men must approach from one of these two
directions, which meant that the ambush could not be avoided.
At last the warning signal came. An owl hooted from somewhere up the
valley, the cry rising in weird cadence and dying away lingeringly.
And, at the same time, there came the sound of a distant rumble, like
the steady drone of machinery at some far-off point. Tresler at once
gave up his watch on the east and centred all attention upon the west.
One of his own men had answered the owl's cry, and a third screech
came from the guard at the corrals.
The rumble grew louder. There were no moving objects visible yet, but
the growing sound was less of a murmur; it was more detached, and the
straining ears distinctly made out the clatter of hoofs evidently
traveling fast down the valley trail. On they came, steadily hammering
out their measure with crisp precision. It was a moment of tense
excitement for those awaiting the approach. But only a moment,
although the sensation lasted longer. The moon suddenly brought the
whole thing into reality. Suspense was banished with its revealing
light, and each man, steady at his post, gripped his carbine or
revolver, ready to pour in a deadly fire the moment the word should be
given. A troop of about eighteen horsemen dashed round a bend of the
valley and plunged into the ambush.
Instantly Fyles's voice rang out. "Halt, or we fire!" he cried.
The horsemen drew rein at once, but the reply was a pistol-shot in
the direction whence his voice had sounded. The defiance was Tresler's
signal. He passed the word to his men, and a volley of carbine-fire
rang out at once, and confusion in the ranks of the horsemen followed
immediately.
Then the battle began in deadly earnest. The sheriff's men leapt into
their saddles, and advanced both in front and in rear of the trapped
raiders. And the cowpunchers came racing down from the corrals to hurl
themselves into the _melee_ whooping and yelling, as only men of their
craft can.
The fight waxed furious, but the odds were in favor of the ambush. The
clouded sky lent neither side much assistance. Now and again the
peeping moon looked down upon the scene as though half afraid to show
itself, and it was by those fleeting rays that the sheriff's men
leveled their carbines and poured in their deadly fire. But the
raiders were no mean foe. They fought desperately, and were masters in
the use of their weapons. Their confusion of the first moment passed
instantly, and they rode straight at Tresler's line of defense with a
determination that threatened to overwhelm it and force a passage. But
the coming of the cowpunchers stemmed the tide and hurled them back on
Fyles's force in their rear. Several riderless horses escaped in the
_melee_; nor were they only belonging to the raiders. One of the
"deputies" had dropped from his saddle right beside Tresler, and there
was no telling, in the darkness, how many others had met with a
similar fate. Red Mask's gang had been fairly trapped, and both sides
meant to fight to a finish.
All this time both Tresler and Fyles were looking out for the leader,
the man of all whom they desired to capture. But the darkness, which
had favored the ambuscade, now defeated their object. In the mob of
struggling humanity it was difficult enough to distinguish friend from
foe, let alone to discover any one person. The ranks of the "deputies"
had closed right in and a desperate hand-to-hand struggle was going
on.
Tresler was caught in the midst of the tide, his crazy mare had
carried him there whether he would or no; but if she had carried him
thus into deadly peril, she was also ready to fight for him. She laid
about her royally, swept on, and reared plunging at every obstruction
to her progress, her master thus escaping many a shot, if it left him
able to do little better than fire at random himself. In this frantic
fashion the maddened creature tore her way through the thick of the
fight, and her rider was borne clear to the further outskirts. Then
she tried to get away with him, but in the nick of time, before her
strong teeth had fixed themselves on the bit, he managed to head her
once again for the struggling mass.
With furious recklessness she charged forward, and, as bad luck would
have it, her wild career brought about the worst thing possible. She
cannoned violently into the sheriff's charger, while its rider was in
the act of leveling his revolver at the head of a man wearing a red
mask. The impact was within an ace of bringing both horses and riders
to the ground. The mare was flung on her haunches, while Fyles,
cursing bitterly, clung desperately to his saddle to retain his seat.
But his aim was lost, and his shot narrowly missed his horse's head;
and, before either he or Tresler had recovered himself, the red masked
man had vanished into the darkness, heading for the perilous ascent of
the valley side.
Terrified out of her life the Lady Jezebel turned swinging round on
her haunches, and charged down the valley; and as she went Tresler had
the questionable satisfaction of seeing the sheriff detach himself
from the mob and gallop in pursuit of the raider.
His own blood was up now, and though the mare had got the bit in her
teeth he fought her with a fury equal to her own. He knew she was
mistress of the situation, but he simply would not give in. He would
kill her rather than she should get away with him this time. And so,
as nothing else had any effect on her, he snatched a pistol from its
holster and leant over and pounded the side of her head with the butt
of it in a wild attempt to turn her. At first she gave not the
smallest heed to his blows; such was her madness. But presently she
flinched under them and turned her head away, and her body responded
to the movement. In another moment he had her round, and as she faced
the side of the valley where the raider had disappeared, he slashed
her cruelly with his spurs. In a moment the noise of the battle was
left behind him, and the mare, with cat-like leaps, was breasting the
ascent.
And Tresler only thought of the man he was in pursuit of. His own
neck or the neck of his mare mattered nothing to him then. Through
him, or through the mare, they had lost Red Mask. He must rectify
the fault. He had no idea how. His brain was capable of only one
thought--pursuit; and he thanked his stars for the sure-footed beast
under him. Nothing stopped her; she lifted to every obstruction. A
cut-bank had no terrors for her, she simply charged it with her great,
strong hoofs till the gravel and sand poured away under them and left
her a foothold. Bushes were trampled down or plunged through. Blindly
she raced for the top, at an angle that made her rider cling to the
horn of his saddle to keep himself from sliding off over the cantle.
They passed Fyles struggling laboriously to reach the top. The Lady
Jezebel seemed to shoot past him and leave him standing. And as he
went Tresler called out--
"How much start has he?"
"He's topping it now," the sheriff replied.
And the answer fired Tresler's excitement so that he again rammed both
spurs into the mare's flanks. The top of the hill loomed up against
the sky. A thick fringe of bush confronted them. Head down, nose
almost touching the ground, the mad animal plunged into it. Her rider
barely had time to lie down in his saddle and cling to her neck. His
thoughts were in a sort of mental whirlpool and he hardly realized
what had happened, when, the next moment, the frenzied demon under him
plunged out on to the open prairie.
She made no pause or hesitation, but like a shot from a gun swept on
straight as the crow flies, her nose alone guiding her. She still held
the bit in her jaws; her frolic had only just begun. Tresler looked
ahead and scanned the sky-line, but the darkness obscured all signs
of his quarry.
He had just made up his mind to trust to chance and the captious mood
of his mare when the moon, crossing a rift in the clouds, gave him a
sort of flashlight view of the horizon. It only lasted a few seconds,
but it lasted long enough for him to detect a horseman heading for the
Mosquito River, away to the right, with a start that looked like
something over a mile. His heart sank at the prospect. But the next
instant hope bounded within him, for the mare swung round of her own
accord and stretched herself for the race.
He understood. She had recognized the possibility of company; and few
horses, whatever their temper, can resist that.
He leaned over and patted her shoulder, easing her of his weight like
a jockey.
"Now, you she-devil," he murmured affectionately, "behave yourself for
once, and go--go like the fiend you are!"