THE PURSUIT OF RED MASK
A mile start; it would seem an impossible advantage. Even with a far
better horse in pursuit, how many miles must be covered before that
distance could be made up? Could the lost ground be regained in eight
miles? It looked to be out of the question even to Tresler, hopeful of
his mare as he was, and knowing her remarkable turn of speed. Yet such
proved to be the case. Eight miles saw him so close on the heels of
the raider that there was nothing left for the fugitive but to keep
on.
He felt no surprise that they were traversing the river trail. He even
thought he knew how he could head his man off by a short cut. But this
would not serve his purpose. He wanted to get him red-handed, and to
leave him now would be to give him a chance that he was confident
would be taken advantage of at once. The river trail led to the ranch.
And the only branches anywhere along its route were those running
north and south at the ford.
Steadily he closed up, foot by foot, yard by yard. Sometimes he saw
his quarry, sometimes he was only guided by the beat of the speeding
hoofs. Now that he was urging her, the Lady Jezebel had relinquished
the bit, not only willing, but bursting to do better than her best.
No rider could resist such an appeal. And as they went Tresler found
himself talking to her with an affection that would have sounded
ridiculous to any but a horseman. It made him smile to see her ears
laid back, not in the manner of a horse putting forth its last
efforts, but with that vicious air she always had, as though she were
running open-mouthed at Jacob Smith, as he had seen her do in the
corral on his introduction to her.
When they came to the river ford he was a bare hundred yards in the
wake of his man. Here the road turned off for the ranch, and the trees
met overhead and shut out the light of the moon. It was pitch black,
and he was only guided by the sound of the other horse in front.
Abreast of the ford he became aware that this sound had abruptly died
out, and at the bend of the trail he pulled up and listened acutely.
They stood thus, the mare's great body heaving under him, until her
rider caught the faint sound of breaking bush somewhere directly ahead
of them.
Instantly recollection came to his help, and he laughed as he turned
the mare off the trail and plunged into the scrub. It was the spot
where, once before, he had taken, unwillingly, to the bush. There was
no hesitation, no uncertainty. They raced through the tangle, and
threaded their way on to the disused trail they had both traveled
before.
The fugitive had gained considerably now, and Tresler, for the first
time since the race had begun, asked his mare for more pace. She
simply shook her head, snorted, and swished her tail, as though
protesting that the blow was unnecessary. She could not do the
impossible, and that he was asking of her. But his forcible request
was the nervous result of his knowledge that the last lap of the race
had been entered upon and the home stretch was not far off. It must be
now or never.
He soon realized that the remaining distance was all too short. As he
came to the place where the forest abruptly terminated, he saw that
day had broken. The gray light showed him to be still thirty yards or
so behind.
They had reached the broken lands he remembered so well. Before him
stretched the plateau leading to the convergence of the river and the
cliff. It was the sight of this which gave him an inspiration. He
remembered the branching trail to the bridge, also the wide sweep it
took, as compared with the way he had first come. To leap the river
would gain him fifty yards. But in that light it was a risk--a grave
risk. He hesitated. Annoyed at his own indecision, he determined to
risk everything on one throw. The other horse was distinctly lagging.
He reached down and patted his mare's neck. And that simple action
restored his confidence; he felt that she was still on top of her
work. The river would have no terrors for her.
He saw the masked man turn off for the bridge, but he held straight
on. He gave another anxious look at the sky. The dull gray was still
unbroken by any flush of sunrise, but it was lighter, certainly. The
mask of clouds was breaking, though it still contrived to keep
daylight in abeyance. He had no option but to settle himself in the
saddle for the great effort. Light or no light, he could not turn back
now.
And for the while he forgot the fugitive. His mind centred on the
river ahead, and the moment when his hand must lend the mare that aid,
without which he could not hope, after her great journey, to win the
far bank. His nerve was steady, and his eyes never more alert.
Everything was distinct enough about him. The bushes flying by were
clearly outlined now, and he fancied he could already see the river's
line of demarkation. On they raced, he leaning well forward, she with
her ears pricked, attentive to the murmurs of the water already so
near. Unconsciously his knees gripped the leggaderos of his saddle
with all the power he could put into the pressure, and his body was
bent crouching, as though he were about to make the spring himself.
And the moment came. He spurred and lifted; and the game beast shot
forward like a rocket. A moment, and she landed. But the half lights
must have deceived her. She had jumped further than before, and,
crashing into a boulder with her two fore feet, she turned a complete
somersault, and fell headlong to the ground, hurling her rider yards
out of the saddle into the soft loose sand of the trail beyond.
Quite unhurt, Tresler was on his feet in an instant. But the mare lay
still where she had fallen. A hopeless feeling of regret swept over
the man as he turned and beheld her. He saw the masked rider dash at
the hillside on his weary horse, not twenty yards from him, but he
gave him no heed.
It needed no look into the mare's glazing eyes to tell him what he had
done. He had killed her. The first really honest act of her life had
led to the unfortunate creature's own undoing. Her lean ewe neck was
broken, as were both her forelegs.
The moment he had ascertained the truth he left her, and, looking up
at the hill, saw that it was high time. The rider had vanished, but
his jaded horse was standing half-way up the hillside in the mire of
loose sand. It was either too frightened or too weary to move, and
stood there knee-deep, a picture of dejection.
The task of mounting to the ledge was no light one, but Tresler faced
it without a second thought. The other had only something less than a
minute's start of him, and as there was only one other exit to the
place--and that, he remembered, of a very unpromising nature--he had
few fears of the man's ultimate escape. No, there was no escape for
him; and besides--a smile lit up the hard set of his features at the
thought--daylight had really come. The clouds had at last given way
before the rosy herald of sunrise.
The last of the ascent was accomplished, and, breathing hard, Tresler
stepped on to the gravel-strewn plateau, gun in hand. He felt glad of
his five-chambered companion. Those rough friends of his on the ranch
were right. There was nothing so compelling, nothing so arbitrary, nor
so reassuring to the possessor and confounding to his enemies, as a
gun well handled.
The ledge was empty. He looked at the towering cliff, but there was no
sign of his man in that direction. He moved toward the hut, but at the
first step the door of the dugout was flung wide, and Julian Marbolt,
gun in hand, dashed out.
He came with a rush, without hesitation, confidently; but as the door
was thrown open, and the flood of daylight shone down upon him, he
fell back with a bitter cry of despair, and Tresler knew that he had
not reckoned on the change from comparative darkness to daylight. He
needed no further proof of what he had come to suspect. The rancher
was only blind in the presence of strong light!
For a second only he stood cowering back, then, feeling his way, he
darted with miraculous rapidity round the side of the building, and
scrambled toward the dizzy staircase in the rock.
Tresler challenged him at once, but he paid no heed. He had reached
the foot of the stairway, and was climbing for life and liberty. The
other knew that he ought to have opened fire on him, but the old
desire to trust to his hands and bodily strength overcame his better
judgment, and he ran at him. His impulse was humane but futile, for
the man was ascending with marvelous rapidity, and by the time he had
reached the foot of the ladder, was beyond his reach.
There was nothing left now but to use his gun or to follow. One look
at the terrific ascent, however, left him no choice.
"Go on, and I'll drop you, Julian Marbolt!" he shouted. "I've five
chambers loaded in each gun."
For response, the blind man increased his exertions. On he went, up,
up, till it made the man below dizzy to watch him. Tresler raised his
gun and fired wide, letting the bullet strike the rock close to the
man's right hand to convince him of his intentions. He saw the
limestone splinter as the bullet hit it, while the clutching, groping
hand slid higher for a fresh hold; but it had no other effect.
He was at a loss. If the man reached the top, he knew that somewhere
over the brink lay a road to safety. And he was nearing it; nearing it
foot by foot with his crawling, clinging clutch upon the face of rock.
He shuddered as he watched, fascinated even against himself. Deprived
of sight, the man's whole body seemed alert with an instinct that
served him in its stead. His movements were like those of some
cuttlefish, reaching out blindly with its long feelers and drawing
itself up by the power of its tentacles.
He shouted a last warning. "Your last chance!" he cried; and now his
aim was true, and his purpose inflexible.
The only answer was a hurried movement on the part of the climbing
man.
Tresler's finger was on the trigger, while his eyes were fixed on his
mark. But the hammer did not fall; the final compression of the hand
was stayed, while horror leapt into the eyes so keenly looking over
the sight. Something had happened up there on the face of the cliff.
The man had slipped! One foot shot out helplessly, as the frantic
climber struggled for those last few steps before the shot came. He
wildly sought to recover himself, but the fatal jolt carried the
weight of his body with it, and wrenched the other foot from its hold.
For the fraction of a second the man below became aware of the
clinging hands, as they desperately held to the rock, and then he
dropped his gun and clapped his hands over his ears as a piercing
shriek rang out. He could not witness any more. He only heard, in
spite of his stopped ears, the lumping of a soft body falling; he saw,
though his eyes were closed almost on the instant, a huddled figure
pitch dully upon the edge of the plateau and disappear below. It all
passed in a flash.
Then silence reigned. And when he opened his eyes there was no
horrible sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. It had gone; no
trace was left, not a tatter of cloth, not a spot of blood, nothing.
He knew. His imaginary vision of the old-time trapper had been enacted
before his very eyes. All that remained of Julian Marbolt was
lying--down there.
* * * * *
Fyles and Tresler were standing in the valley below. They were gazing
on the mangled remains of the rancher. Fyles had removed the piece of
red blanket from the dead man's face, and held it up for inspection.
"Um!" he grunted. "The game's played out."
"There's more of that up there in the hut," said Tresler.
"Breed blanket," commented Fyles, folding it up and carefully
bestowing it in his pocket. Then he turned and gazed down the yawning
valley. It was a wonderful place, a mighty rift extending for miles
into the heart of the mountains. "A nice game, too," he went on
presently. "Ever seen this place before?"
"Once," Tresler replied. Then he told the officer of his runaway ride.
Fyles listened with interest. At the conclusion he said, "Pity you
didn't tell me of this before. However, you missed the chief interest.
Look away down there in the shelter of the cliff. See--about a mile
down. Corrals enough to shepherd ten thousand head. And they are
cunningly disposed."
Tresler now became aware of a scattered array of corrals, stretching
away out into the distance, but so arranged at the foot of the
towering walls of the valley that they needed looking for closely.
Then he looked up at the ledge which had been the scene of the
disaster, and the ladder of hewn steps above, and he pointed at them.
"I wonder what's on the other side?"
"That's an easy one," replied his companion promptly. "Half-breeds."
"A settlement?"
"That's about it. You remember the Breeds cleared away from their old
settlement lately. We've never found them. Once they take to the
hills, it's like a needle in a haystack. Maybe friend Anton is in
hiding there."
"I doubt it. 'Tough' McCulloch didn't belong to them, as I told you.
He comes from over the border. No; he's getting away as fast as his
horse can carry him. And Arizona isn't far off his trail, if I'm any
judge."
Fyles's great round face was turned contemplatively on his companion.
"Well, that's for the future, anyhow," he observed, and moved to a
bush some yards away. "Let's take it easy. Money, one of my deputies,
has gone in for a wagon. I don't expect him for a couple of hours or
so. We must keep it company," he added, nodding his head in the
direction of the dead man.
They sat down and silently lit their pipes. Fyles was the first to
speak.
"Guess I've got to thank you," he said, as though that sort of thing
was quite out of his province.
Tresler shook his head. "Not me," he said. "Thank my poor mare." Then
he added, with a bitter laugh, "Why, but for the accident of his fall,
I'm not sure he wouldn't have escaped. I'm pretty weak-kneed when it
comes to dropping a man in cold blood."
The other shook his head.
"No; he wouldn't have escaped. You underestimate yourself. But even if
you had missed I had him covered with my carbine. I was watching the
whole thing down here. You see, Money and I came on behind. I don't
suppose we were more than a few minutes after you. That mare you were
riding was a dandy. I see she's done."
"Yes," Tresler said sorrowfully. "And I'm not ashamed to say it's hit
me hard. She did us a good turn."
"And she owed it to us."
"You mean when she upset everything during the fight?"
"Yes."
"Well, she's more than made amends. In spite of her temper, that mare
of mine was the finest thing on the ranch."
"Yours?" Fyles raised his eyebrows.
"Well--Marbolt's."
But the officer shook his head. "Nor Marbolt's. She belonged to me.
Three years ago I turned her out to graze at Whitewater with a bunch
of others, as an incorrigible rogue and vagabond. The whole lot were
stolen and one of the guard shot. Her name was 'Strike 'em.'"
"Strike 'em?"
"Yes. Ever have her come at you with both front feet, and her mouth
open?"
Tresler nodded.
"That's it. 'Strike 'em.' Fine mare--half blood."
"But Marbolt told Jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit."
"Dare say he did."
Fyles relit his pipe for about the twentieth time, which caused
Tresler to hand him his pouch.
"Try tobacco," he said, with a smile.
The sheriff accepted the invitation with unruffled composure. The
gentle sarcasm passed quite unheeded. Probably the man was too intent
on the business of the moment, for he went on as though no
interruption had occurred.
"After seeing you on that mare I found the ranch interesting. But the
man's blindness fooled me right along. I had no trouble in
ascertaining that Jake had nothing to do with things. Also I was
assured that none of the 'hands' were playing the game. Anton was the
man for me. But soon I discovered that he was not the actual leader.
So far, good. There was only Marbolt left; but he was blind. Last
night, when you came for me, and told me what had happened at the
ranch, and about the lighted lamp, I tumbled. But even so I still
failed to understand all. The man was blind in daylight, and could see
in darkness or half-light. Now, what the deuce sort of blind disease
is that? And he seems to have kept the secret, acting the blind man at
all times. It was clever--devilish clever."
Tresler nodded. "Yes; he fooled us all, even his daughter."
The other shot a quick glance from out of the corners of his eyes.
"I suppose so," he observed, and waited.
They smoked in silence.
"What are you going to do next?" asked Tresler, as the other showed no
disposition to speak.
The man shrugged. "Take possession of the ranch. Just keep the hands
to run it. The lady had better go into Forks if she has any friends
there. You might see to that. I understand that you are--gossip, you
know."
"Yes."
"There'll be inquiries and formalities. The property I don't know
about. That will be settled by the government."
Tresler became thoughtful. Suddenly he turned to his companion.
"Sheriff," he said earnestly, "I hope you'll spare Miss Marbolt all
you can. She has lived a terribly unhappy life with him. I can assure
you she has known nothing of this--nothing of the strange blindness. I
would swear it with my last breath."
"I don't doubt you, my boy," the other said heartily. "We owe you too
much to doubt you. She shall not be bothered more than can be helped.
But she had some knowledge of that blindness, or she would not have
acted as she did with that lamp. I tell you candidly she will have to
make a statement."
"Have no doubt; she will explain."
"Sure--ah! I think I hear the wheels of the wagon." Fyles looked
round. Then he settled himself down again. "Jake," he went on, "was
smartest of us all. I can't believe he was ever told of his patron's
curious blindness. He must have discovered it. He was playing a big
game. And all for a woman! Well, well."
"No doubt he thought she was worth it," said Tresler, with some
asperity.
The officer smiled at the tone. "No doubt, no doubt. Still, he wasn't
young. He fooled you when he concurred with your suspicions of
Anton--that is, he knew you were off the true scent, and meant keeping
you off it. I can understand, too, why you were sent to Willow Bluff.
You knew too much, you were too inquiring. Besides, from your own
showing to Jake--which he carried on to the blind man for his own
ends--you wanted too much. You had to be got rid of, as others have
been got rid of before. Yes, it was all very clever. And he never
spared his own stock. Robbed himself by transferring a bunch of
steers to these corrals, and, later on, I suppose, letting them drift
back to his own pastures. I only wonder why, with a ranch like his, he
ran the risk."
"Perhaps it was old-time associations. He was a slave-trader once, and
no doubt he stocked his ranch originally by raiding the Indians'
cattle. Then, when white people came around, and the Indians
disappeared, he continued his depredations on less open lines."
"Ah! slave-trader, was he? Who said?"
"Miss Marbolt innocently told me he once traded in the Indies in
'black ivory.' She did not understand."
"Just so--ah, here is the wagon."
Fyles rose leisurely to his feet. And Money drove up.
"The best of news, sheriff," the latter cried at once. "Captured the
lot. Some of the boys are badly damaged, but we've got 'em all."
"Well, we'll get back with this," the officer replied quietly.
The dead man was lifted into the wagon, and, in a few minutes, the
little party was on its way back to the ranch.