THE VICTOR
Ten miles the two men had gone when Sorenson's horse began to fail.
The rider's weight was proving too much for the sturdy little animal
and though he strove to maintain his speed the strain told on lungs
and legs. Weir had reduced the distance first to three hundred yards,
then to two hundred, and at last but a hundred separated him from the
man and horse ahead.
The hard chase indeed was beginning to tell on his own mount. Flecks
of foam flew from its lips; its neck was wet with sweat; the whistle
of its breath was audible to the engineer at every stride. For as both
men had realized that now the end could not be far off, they had
pushed their horses to faster and faster galloping.
On a sudden Sorenson swung his animal into a dim trail leading from
the main road skirting the mountain range to the base of the mountains
themselves. The first slopes were but a mile away, covered with a
scattering growth of pinyon pines. Just in front, too, for which the
trail seemed pointing, was a dark ravine filled with brush that rose
to the denser timber above. This was the fugitive's goal. Once he
could fling himself from the saddle and plunge into the undergrowth he
would be safe from his pursuer.
The two ponies struggled on with exhausted leaps. Weir had reduced the
interval to seventy-five yards by the time half the distance was
covered and to fifty as they drew near the mouth of the ravine. He
measured his gain and the remaining two hundred yards or so with
savage eyes, then drew his revolver. He desired to take Sorenson
unharmed. But rather than that the man should escape he would kill
him.
Sorenson's horse stumbled, but a jerk of the reins saved him and kept
him moving on. The engineer struck his own pony fiercely on the flank,
which produced a tremendous effort in the striving beast that brought
it within thirty paces or so of Sorenson. That, however, was the best
it could do, labor as it would. Its knees were trembling at every
stride, its head swinging heavily.
Sorenson's horse suddenly went to its knees. But the man leaping clear
took the ground on his feet and instantly set off at a run for the
line of brush in the draw some seventy or eighty paces away. A last
spurt Weir's pony made, bringing his rider to within thirty yards of
the cattleman, who glancing over his shoulder halted, swung about,
fired a shot and again started to run.
The pony under Weir came to an abrupt stop, shaking. He was done,
whether from exhaustion or the bullet the engineer did not wait to
see. Flinging himself out the saddle he raced after his man, taking
the rough trail leading up the slope in swift strides. On foot
Sorenson was no match for him. But the latter had the start; he was
now almost within reach of the thick screen of bushes; and he bent
every energy to make the ambuscade.
Still running, Weir flung up his gun and fired. Close the shot must
have gone to Sorenson, so close as to inject into the man's mind
recollection of his pursuer's accuracy and a fear of a bullet in his
back, for when within twenty feet of the bushes he dropped behind a
small bowlder, whence he fired twice at Weir but without striking his
mark.
Neither man after the furious ride and the concluding run on foot was
fit for sure marksmanship. This Weir realized, so stopped where he was
some forty feet off from Sorenson's stone in order to regain his
breath and calm his nerves. Of the cattleman he could see nothing; the
man crouched low out of sight, perhaps reloading his weapon, perhaps
steeling himself for a dash across that small moonlit space that
separated him from safety, or perhaps preparing for a quick upward
spring and a fresh volley directed at his foe.
It may be questioned if in his heart Sorenson was not almost disposed
to fight the matter out. He was no coward; his original hatred for the
engineer had by recent events been swelled to a diabolical desire to
kill; and now even if he, Sorenson, succeeded in slipping away, his
whereabouts would be known unless he destroyed the man. Safety
demanded that he not only escape but escape without this witness.
Weir had not sought cover. He stood upright, his revolver ready,
trusting to have an advantage in his speed when it came to an exchange
of shots. Then he began an advance, a slow noiseless circling advance
that at the same time of taking him closer to his enemy brought him
round on his flank.
Sorenson's hand and pistol appeared and half his face while three
shots rattled from his gun, two at the spot where Weir had been and
one at him in his new position, which the hiding man had immediately
located. The last shot ticked the engineer's sleeve. In return Weir
fired twice, the first bullet striking the rock and ricocheting off
with a loud whine, while the second struck the pistol from Sorenson's
hand.
Instantly Weir sprang forward.
"Show yourself," he ordered. And the kneeling fugitive, disarmed,
gripping his bleeding hand, sullenly arose to his feet. "You've led me
a chase, but I have you at last," the engineer continued. "Now you're
going back to San Mateo and jail. Walk towards the horses."
Sorenson cast one bitter glance at the thicket in the ravine; by only
the little matter of a few yards he had failed to gain liberty. For
Weir his visage when he looked around again was never more hard,
hostile, full of undying hatred. Though balked, he was not submissive,
and was the kind who kept his animosity to the end. Then he started
off towards the horses, his own which had staggered to its feet again
and Weir's, both standing with hanging heads and heaving, quivering
sides.
All at once the cattleman halted and faced about.
"Most men have a price, and I suppose you have yours," he said, with
forced calmness. "I'm ready to pay it."
"You're going to pay it," was the answer.
"How much will you ask to let me go?"
"If you offered me ten million, which you haven't got, I wouldn't
accept it," Weir said, harshly. "There isn't enough money in the world
to buy your liberty. You're going back to San Mateo, and from there to
the penitentiary or to the gallows, one or the other."
"It will be neither," Sorenson stated.
"You're mistaken, but I shall not argue the matter with you. Keep
walking towards the horses."
Sorenson's lips became compressed. He glanced down at his bleeding
hand, shook the blood from his fingers.
"I stay here," said he.
Weir went a step nearer and thrust his face forward, jaw set, eyes
smoldering.
"Go on, I say," he exclaimed.
But the other did not retreat before him or indeed move at all. A
sneer lifted his gray mustache.
"You have a gun; you're a killer; here I am unarmed and in your
power," he said. "You intend to take me in; I propose to stay here. If
I go to San Mateo, it will be as a dead man. I'll see whether you have
the nerve to shoot me down where I now stand. If you have, go to it.
You can then take my body to town, but I'll not have paid the price
you name and I'll have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you at the
last--in that, at least. Your bragging will be empty. Start your
shooting any time you please." The tone spoke complete contempt.
Weir said nothing. The defiance, the supreme audacity of this
assertion, coming so unexpectedly, surprised him and left him at a
loss. He would not kill an unresisting man, even Sorenson, his worst
enemy. Sorenson in his place probably would not have hesitated to do
so, for he had no fine scruples in such matters; but for Steele Weir
the thing was no more possible than striking a woman or a child.
It was not a question of nerve, as the other had stated. It was a test
of brutality and consciencelessness. To shoot a man while escaping is
one thing; to kill him while a prisoner, however contemptuous and
brazen, was another. But there are means other than bullets for
handling obstinate prisoners.
Weir shifted his weapon so as to grasp the barrel and have the butt
free.
"I'll leave your execution to the proper officials, if an execution
is what you want," he said. "Now will you go?" he demanded,
threateningly.
His foe gazed at the clubbed pistol and turned as if to yield. Next
instant he whirled, lunging at Weir and flinging his arms about his
captor. An exultant exclamation slipped from his lips; his hot breath
fell on the engineer's cheek; his eyes glared into those of the man
his arms encircled. He had tricked Weir by his pretense of obstinacy,
led him to weaken his guard and had him in his grasp.
Weir braced himself to resist the man's effort to force him down.
Strong arms the other had, now doubly strengthened by hate and a
belief in victory. All the power of Sorenson's great body was exerted
to lift him off his feet, crush him in a terrific bear-hug, put him on
his back and render him helpless; and Weir in his turn was tensing his
muscles and arching his frame with every ounce of his lean, iron-like
frame.
Thus they swayed and struggled in the moonlight, without witnesses. A
sinister silent fight, marked only by their fierce breathing and
fiercer heart-beats. The pistol had dropped from Steele Weir's hand;
instead of attempting to break the other's hold he had yielded to it
and pushing his own arms forward had clasped his hands behind
Sorenson's back in the wrestler's true defense to such an attack.
Once Sorenson almost had him on his knees, but by a quick powerful
upthrust of his legs he regained his upright position. However, it had
been a close shave for Weir, for he well knew that his opponent would
use any tactics, fair or foul, to kill him if he once lay on his
back.
"You hound from hell!" Sorenson snarled. "You crippled my boy, and you
shall die for that. You've ruined me in San Mateo, and you shall die
for that. You jailed Burkhardt and poisoned Gordon and shot Vorse, and
you shall die for that. I'm going to choke the life out of you, and
grind your dead head into the dust, and then spit on you. That's how
I treat snakes. Say your prayers, if you know any, for you'll never
get another chance. Your friends won't recognize your remains when I'm
done with you."
Venomous and impassioned, all the hate in the man's heart flowed forth
in a fuming stream. For hate and murderous desire was all that was
left him in the wreck of life caused by the engineer. If he could no
longer rule, he could at least destroy.
Weir had made no response to the fierce imprecations. He was working
his hands upward, straining his arms so as to reach Sorenson's head.
"When the coyotes are gnawing your skull," Sorenson went on, raging,
"when the worms are feeding on you----"
The words died in a gurgle of pain. Weir's hands had closed about his
temples, a finger sunk in each eye, forcing his head back. Sorenson
shook himself frantically to break the torturing hold. His head went
farther and farther back as if it seemed his neck would snap; his
mouth opened to gasp, "Oh, God!" and all at once his hug slipped
apart.
Instantly Weir tripped him, falling on top. Reaching out like a flash
he seized his pistol lying on the ground and brought it down on the
head of his enemy, who momentarily blinded and suffering could not
resist. Sorenson went limp. From the savage beast of a minute before
he had been changed to a huge, motionless, sprawling figure, with face
upturned to the moon.
And on that face the victor of the life and death struggle could still
behold, through the contorted lines stamped by pain, the man's brutal
passion and fixed malevolence.
Weir arose.
"You felt the hound of hell's teeth," he muttered.
With thongs from one of the saddles he bound Sorenson's hands, pulling
the knots tight and hard. The prostrate man moaned, opened his eyes.
Weir jerked him dazed and staggering to his feet.
"Up into the saddle with you if you don't want another rap on the
head," Steele ordered, bruskly. "And go straight this time. From now
on I'll take you at your word and put a hole through your black heart
if you try any more tricks."
When his prisoner was mounted, he fastened his ankles together by
another thong under the belly of the pony. Weir was taking no chances.
Up into his own saddle then he swung himself.
No exultant curses now came from his captive's lips.