ARIZONA
When winter comes in Canada it shuts down with no uncertainty. The
snow settles and remains. The sun shines, but without warmth. The
still air bites through any clothing but furs, moccasins, or
felt-lined overshoes. The farmers hug the shelter of their houses, and
only that work which is known as "doing the chores" receives attention
when once winter sets its seal upon the land. Little traffic passes
over the drifted trails now; a horseman upon a social visit bent, a
bobsleigh loaded with cord-wood for the wood-stoves at home, a cutter,
drawn by a rattling team of young bronchos, as rancher and wife seek
the alluring stores of some distant city to make their household
purchases, even an occasional "jumper," one of those low-built,
red-painted, one-horsed sleighs, which resemble nothing so much as a
packing-case with a pair of shafts attached. But these are all; for
work has practically ceased in the agricultural regions, and a period
of hibernation has begun, when, like the dormouse, rancher and farmer
alike pass their slack time in repose from the arduous labors of the
open season.
Even the most brilliant sunlight cannot cheer the mournful outlook to
any great extent. Out on the Edmonton trail, hundreds of miles to the
north of Forks, at the crossroads where the Battule trail branches to
the east, the cheerless prospect is intensified by the skeleton arms
of a snow-crowned bluff. The shelter of trees is no longer a shelter
against the wind, which now comes shrieking through the leafless
branches and drives out any benighted creature foolish enough to seek
its protection against the winter storm. But in winter the crossroads
are usually deserted.
Contrary to custom, however, it is evident that a horseman has
recently visited the bluff. For there are hoof-prints on one of the
crossing trails; on the trail which comes from somewhere in the south.
The marks are sharp indentations and look fresh, but they terminate as
the crossing is reached. Here they have turned off into the bush and
are lost to view. The matter is somewhat incomprehensible.
But there is something still more incomprehensible about the desolate
place. Just beyond where the hoof-prints turn off a lightning-stricken
pine tree stands alone, bare and blackened by the fiery ordeal through
which it has passed, and, resting in the fork of one of its shriveled
branches, about the height of a horseman's head, is a board--a black
board, black as is the tree-trunk which supports it.
As we draw nearer to ascertain the object of so strange a phenomenon
on a prairie trail we learn that some one has inscribed a message to
those who may arrive at the crossing. A message of strange meaning and
obscure. The characters are laboriously executed in chalk, and have
been emphasized with repeated markings and an attempt at block
capitals. Also there is a hand sketched roughly upon the board, with
an outstretched finger pointing vaguely somewhere in the direction of
the trail which leads to Battule.
"_This is the One-Way Trail_"
We read this and glance at the pointing finger which is so shaky of
outline, and our first inclination is to laugh. But somehow before the
laugh has well matured it dies away, leaving behind it a look of
wonder not unmixed with awe. For there is something sinister in the
message, which, though we do not understand it, still has power to
move us. If we are prairie folk we shall have no inclination to laugh
at all. Rather shall we frown and edge away from the ominous black
board; and it is more than probable we shall avoid the trail
indicated, and prefer to make a detour if our destination should
chance to be Battule.
Why is that board there? Who has set it up? And "the one-way trail" is
the trail over which there is no returning. The message is no jest.
The coldly gleaming sun has set, and at last a horse and rider enter
the bluff. They turn off into the bush and are seen no more. The long
night passes. Dawn comes again, and, as the daylight broadens, the
horseman reappears and rides off down the trail. At evening he returns
again; disappears into the bush again; and, with daylight, rides off
again. Day after day this curious coming and going continues without
any apparent object, unless it be that the man has no place but the
skeleton bush in which to rest. And with each coming and going the
man rides slower, he lounges wearily in his saddle, and before the end
of a week looks a mere spectre of the man who first rode into the
bluff. Starvation is in the emaciated features, the brilliant feverish
eyes. His horse, too, appears little better.
At length one evening he enters the bush, and the following dawn fails
to witness his departure. All that day there is the faint sound of a
horse moving about amongst the trees with that limping gait which
denotes the application of a knee-halter. But the man makes no sound.
As night comes on a solitary figure may be seen seated on a horse at a
point which is sheltered from the trail by a screen of bushes. The man
sits still, silent, but drooping. His tall gaunt frame is bent almost
double over the horn of his saddle in his weakness. The horse's head
is hanging heavy with sleep, but the man's great, wild eyes are wide
open and alight with burning eagerness. The horse sleeps and
frequently has to be awakened by its rider as it stumbles beneath its
burden; but the man is as wakeful as the night-owl seeking its prey,
and the grim set of his wasted face implies a purpose no less
ruthless.
At dawn the position is unchanged. The man still droops over his
saddle-horn, a little lower perhaps, but his general attitude is the
same. As the daylight shoots athwart the horizon and lightens the
darkness of the bush to a gray twilight the horse raises his head and
pricks up his ears. The man's eyes glance swiftly toward the south and
his alertness is intensified.
Now the soft rustle of flurrying snow becomes audible, and the muffled
pounding of a horse's hoofs can be heard upon the trail. The look that
leaps into the waiting man's eyes tells plainly that this is what he
has so patiently awaited, that here, at last, is the key to his lonely
vigil. He draws his horse back further into the bushes and his hand
moves swiftly to one of the holsters upon his hips. His thin, drawn
features are sternly set, and the sunken eyes are lit with a deep,
hard light.
Daylight broadens and reveals the barren surroundings; the sound draws
nearer. The silent horseman grips his gun and lays it across his lap
with his forefinger ready upon the trigger. His quick ears tell him
that the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking his
horse. The time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but his
patience is not exhausted by any means. For more than a week,
subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven him
to beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting.
Now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles down
the trail toward him. It is a slight fur-clad figure much like his
own, but, to judge by the grim smile that passes across his gaunt
features, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. He
notes the stranger's alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes,
the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over the
edge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close to
the saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. Nor does he fail to observe the
uneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that, in spite of the
solitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings.
The stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. His sidelong
glances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. His horse comes
to a dead stand opposite them, and the rider's eyes become fixed upon
the strange message. He reads; and while he reads his lips move like
one who spells out the words he sees.
"This is the One-Way Trail," he reads. And then his eyes turn in the
direction of the pointing finger.
He looks down the trail which leads to Battule, whither the finger is
pointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his dusky
features. Instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant for
him. And, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhere
out there. And yet he does not turn and flee. He simply sits looking
and thinking.
Again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon the
board and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. And all the
time he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. For his mind goes
back over many scenes that do him little credit. Even to his callous
nature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and its
effect he cannot shake off. And while he stares his dark features
change their hue, and he passes one mitted hand across his forehead.
There is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yards
of him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty he
retains his seat in the saddle; then he flashes a look in the
direction whence the noise proceeds, only to reel back as though to
ward off a blow. He is looking into the muzzle of a heavy "six" with
Arizona's blazing eyes running over the sight.
The silence of the bush remained unbroken as the two men looked into
each other's faces. The gun did not belch forth its death-dealing
pellet. It was simply there, leveled, to enforce its owner's will. Its
compelling presence was a power not easily to be defied in a country
where, in those days, the surest law was carried in the holster on the
hip. The man recovered and submitted. His hands, encased in mitts, had
placed him at a woeful disadvantage.
Arizona saw this and lowered his gun, but his eyes never lost sight of
the fur-clad hands before him. He straightened himself up in the
saddle, refusing to display any of his weakness to this man.
"Guess I've waited fer you, 'Tough' McCulloch, fer nigh on a week," he
said slowly, in a thin, strident voice. "I've coaxed you some too, I
guess. You wus hidden mighty tight, but not jest tight 'nuff. I 'lows
I located you, an' I wa'n't goin' to lose sight o' you. When you quit
Skitter Bend, like the whipped cur you wus, I wus right hot on your
trail. An' I ain't never left it. See? Say, in all the hundreds o'
miles you've traveled sence you quit the creek ther' ain't bin a move
as you've took I ain't looked on at. I've trailed you, headed you, bin
alongside you, an' located wher' you wus makin', an' come along an'
waited on you. Ther's a score 'tween you an' me as wants squarin'. I'm
right here fer to squar' that score."
Arizona's sombre face was unrelieved by any change of expression
while he was speaking. There was no anger in his tone; just cold, calm
purpose, and some contempt. And whatever feelings the half-breed may
have had he seemed incapable of showing them, except in the sickly hue
of his face.
The fascination of the message on the board still seemed to attract
him, for, without heeding the other's words, he glanced over at the
seared tree-trunk and nodded at it.
"See. Dat ting. It your work. Hah?"
"Yes; an' I take it the meanin's clear to you. You've struck the trail
we all stan' on some time, pardner, an' that trail is mostly called
the 'One-Way Trail.' It's a slick, broad trail, an' one as is that
smooth to the foot as you're like to find anywheres. It's so dead easy
you can't help goin' on, an' you on'y larn its cussedness when you
kind o' notion gittin' back. I 'lows as one o' them glacier things on
top o' yonder mountains is li'ble to be easier climbin' nor turnin'
back on that trail. The bed o' that trail is blood, blood that's
mostly shed in crime, an' its surface is dusted wi' all manner o'
wrong doin's sech as you an' me's bin up to. Say, it ain't a long
trail, I'm guessin', neither. It's dead short, in fac' the end comes
sudden-like, an' vi'lent. But I 'lows the end ain't allus jest the
same. Sometimes y'll find a rope hangin' in the air. Sometimes ther's
a knife jabbin' around; sometimes ther's a gun wi' a light pull
waitin' handy, same as mine. But I figger all them things mean jest
'bout the same. It's death, pardner; an' it ain't easy neither. Say,
you an' me's pretty nigh that end. You 'special. Guess you're goin' to
pass over fust. Mebbe I'll pass over when I'm ready. It ain't jest
ne'sary fer the likes o' us to yarn Gospel wi' one another, but I'm
goin' to tell you somethin' as mebbe you're worritin' over jest 'bout
now. It's 'bout a feller's gal--his wife--which the same that feller
never did you no harm. But fust y'll put up them mitts o' yours, I
sees as they're gettin' oneasy, worritin' around as though they'd a
notion to git a grip on suthin'."
The half-breed made no attempt to obey, but stared coldly into the
lean face before him.
"Hands up!" roared Arizona, with such a dreadful change of tone that
the man's hands were thrust above his head as though a shot had struck
him.
Arizona moved over to him and removed a heavy pistol from the man's
coat pocket, and then, having satisfied himself that he had no other
weapons concealed about him, dropped back to his original position.
"Ah, I wus jest sayin', 'bout that feller's wife," he went on quietly.
"Say, you acted the skunk t'ward that feller. An' that feller wus me.
I don't say I wus jest a daisy husband fer that gal, but that wa'n't
your consarn. Wot's troublin' wus your monkeyin' around, waitin' so
he's out o' the way an' then vamoosin' wi' the wench an' all. Guess
I'm goin' to kill you fer that sure. But ther' ain't none o' the skunk
to me. I'm goin' to treat you as you wouldn't treat me ef I wus
settin' wher' you are, which I ain't. You're goin' to hit the One-Way
Trail. But you ken hit it like what you ain't, an' that's a man."
Arizona's calm, judicial tone goaded his hearer. But "Tough"
McCulloch was not the man to shout. His was a deadlier composition
such as the open American hated and despised, and hardly understood.
He contented himself with a cynical remark which fired the other's
volcanic temper so that he could scarcely hold his hand.
"Me good to her," he said, with a shrug.
"You wus good to her, wus you? You who knew her man wus livin'! You,
as mebbe has ha'f a dozen wives livin'. You wus good to her! Wal,
you're goin' to pay now. Savee? You're goin' to pay fer your flutter
wi' chips, chips as drip wi' blood--your blood."
The half-breed shrugged again. He was outwardly unconcerned, but
inwardly he was cursing the luck that he had been wearing mitts upon
his hands when he entered the bluff. He watched Arizona as he climbed
out of his saddle. He beheld the signs of weakness which the other
could no longer disguise, but they meant nothing to him, at least,
nothing that could serve him. He knew he must wait the cowpuncher's
pleasure; and why? The ring of white metal which marks the muzzle of a
gun has the power to hold brave man and coward alike. He dared not
move, and he was wise enough not to attempt it.
Arizona drove his horse off into the bush, and stepped over to his
prisoner, who still remained mounted, halting abreast of the man's
stirrup and a few yards to one side of it. His features now wore the
shadow of a grim smile as he paused and looked into the face which
displayed so much assumed unconcern.
"See this gun," he said, drawing attention to the one he held in his
right hand; "it's a forty-fi', an' I'm guessin' it's loaded in two
chambers." Then he scraped the snow off a small patch of the road with
his foot. "That gun I lay right here," he went on, stooping to deposit
it, but still keeping his eyes fixed upon the horseman. "Then I step
back, so," moving backward with long regular strides, "an' I reckon I
count fifteen paces. Then I clear another space," he added grimly,
like some fiendish conjurer describing the process of his tricks, "and
stand ready. Now, 'Tough' McCulloch, or Anton, or wotever you notion
best, skunk as you are, you're goin' to die decent. You're goin' to
die as a gentleman in a square fought duel. You're goin' to die in a
slap-up way as is a sight too good fer you, but don't go fer to make
no mistake--you're goin' to die. Yes, you're goin' to get off'n that
plug o' yours an' stand on that patch, an' I'm goin' to count three,
nice an' steady, one-two-three! Just so. An' then we're goin' to grab
up them guns an' let rip. I 'lows you'll fall first 'cause I'm goin'
to kill you--sure. Say, you'll 'blige me by gittin' off'n that plug."
The half-breed made no move. His unconcern was leaving him under the
deliberate purpose of this man.
"Git off o' that plug!" Arizona roared out his command with all the
force of his suppressed passion.
The man obeyed instantly. And it was plain now that his courage was
deserting him. But in proportion his cunning rose. He made a pitiful
attempt at swagger as he walked up to his mark, and his fierce eyes
watched every movement of his opponent. And Arizona's evident
condition of starvation struck him forcibly, and the realization of
it suggested to his scheming brain a possible means of escape.
"You mighty fine givin' chances, mister," he said, between his teeth.
"Maybe you sing different later. Bah! you make me laff. Say, I ready."
"Yes, git right ahead an' laff," Arizona replied imperturbably. "An'
meanwhiles while you're laffin', I'll trouble you to git out o' that
sheep's hide. It ain't fit clothin' fer you noways. Howsum, it helps
to thicken your hide. Take it off."
The half-breed obeyed and the two men now stood motionless. Arizona
was an impressive figure in that world of snow. Never before had his
personality been so marked. It may have been the purpose that moved
him that raised him to something superior to the lean, volcanic cowboy
he had hitherto been. His old slouching gait, in spite of his evident
weakness, was quite gone; his shaggy head was held erect, and he gazed
upon his enemy with eyes which the other could not face. For the time,
at least, the indelible stamp of his disastrous life was disguised by
the fire of his eyes and the set of his features. And this moral
strength he conveyed in every action in a manner which no violence, no
extent of vocabulary could have done. This man before him had robbed
him of the woman he had loved. He should die.
His pistol was still in his hand.
"When I say 'three,' you'll jest grab for your gun--an' fire," he said
solemnly.
He relapsed into silence, and, after a moment's pause, slowly stooped
to deposit his weapon. His great roving eyes never relaxed their
vigilance, and all the while he watched the man before him.
Lower he bent, and the pistol touched the ground. He straightened up
swiftly and stood ready.
"One!"
The half-breed started as though a sharp spasm of pain had convulsed
his body. Then he stood as if about to spring.
"Two!"
McCulloch moved again. He stooped with almost incredible swiftness and
seized his gun, and the next moment two loud reports rang out, and he
threw his smoking weapon upon the ground.
Arizona had not moved, though his face had gone a shade paler. He knew
he was wounded.
"Three!"
The American bent and seized his gun as the other made a dash for his
horse. He stood up, and took deliberate aim. The half-breed was in the
act of swinging himself into his saddle. A shot rang out, and the
would-be fugitive's foot fell out of the stirrup, and his knees gave
under him. Another shot split the air, and, without so much as a
groan, the man fell in a heap upon the ground, while a thick red
stream flowed from a wound at his left temple.
Then silence reigned once more.
After a while the sound of a slouching gait disturbed the grim peace
of the lonely bluff. Arizona shuffled slowly off the road. He reached
the edge of the bush; but he went no further. For he reeled, and his
hands clasped his body somewhere about his chest. His eyes were half
closed, and his face looked ghastly in the wintry light. By a great
effort he steadied himself and abruptly sat down in the snow. He was
just off the track and his back was against a bush.
Leaning forward he drew his knees up and clasped his arms about them,
and remained rocking himself slowly to and fro. And, as he sat, he
felt something moist and warm saturating his clothes about his chest.
Several times he nodded and his lips moved, and his eyelids fell lower
and lower until he saw nothing of what was about him. He knew it was
over for him and he was satisfied.
He remained for some time in this attitude. Once he opened his eyes
and looked round, but, somehow, he drew no satisfaction from what he
beheld. The world about him seemed unsteady and strangely dark. The
snow was no longer white, but had turned gray, and momentarily it grew
darker. He thankfully reclosed his eyes and continued to nurse
himself. Now, too, his limbs began to grow cold, and to feel useless.
He had difficulty in keeping his hands fast about his knees, but he
felt easy, and even comfortable. There was something soothing to him
in that warm tide which he felt to be flowing from somewhere about his
chest.
The minutes slipped away and the man's lips continued their silent
movement. Was he praying for the soul which he knew to be passing from
his body? It may have been so. It may have been that he was praying
for a girl and a man whom he had learned to love in the old days of
Mosquito Bend, and whom he was leaving behind him. This latter was
more than likely, for his was not a selfish nature.
Again his eyes opened, and now they were quite unseeing; but the brain
behind them was still clear, for words, which were intelligible, came
slowly from his ashen lips.
"It's over, I guess," he muttered. "Maybe life ain't wi'out gold for
some. I 'lows I ain't jest struck color right. Wal, I'm ready for the
reckonin'."
His hands unclasped and his legs straightened themselves out. Like a
weary man seeking repose he turned over and lay with his face buried
in the snow. Nor did he move again. For Arizona had ended his journey
over the One-Way Trail.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.