CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN
For more than a month, the sheriff lay sick. Armstrong feared concussion
of the brain, but his diagnosis proved incorrect. And Hetty nursed him
as never a man was nursed before, in that country of rough methods.
Indeed, her devotion was so pronounced that the entire sentiment of
Badger underwent a change. The married ladies came to the tardy
conclusion that Miss Ferrier belonged to the sisterhood of good women;
none of the males had ever doubted it; the whole town paid tribute to
her conduct, and their indignation against the sheriff's assailant waxed
correspondingly.
At the beginning of the first week of convalescence, the Floyds arrived
in Badger from the Lazy L. Mrs. Floyd was hampered by no scruples on the
score of false modesty; if her husband did not object--if her Tom
understood--what mattered it about the rest of the world? So, straight
to Lafe's bedside she went.
"Lafe! Dear old Lafe," she exclaimed, when she saw the unnatural pallor
of his face.
Hetty was standing at the other side of the bed. She tried bravely not
to stiffen towards their visitor when she saw her kneel and take Lafe's
hand, but some subtle sense of divination--or perhaps it was that Mrs.
Floyd was so pretty--made her reception frigid. Mrs. Floyd glanced
quickly into her face, then seized her impetuously, crying: "Don't. Oh,
please don't. Lafe and I were babies together."
Whereupon the amazed patient beheld Hetty clasp the smaller woman in her
arms, and the two took to weeping.
This must have been excellent for his complaint, because the sheriff
mended rapidly from that date. It was not long before he went about as
usual, although a long strip of plaster adorned one ear. His first care
was to talk with the proprietor of the Fashion, who said: "The hammer
was on the wrong chamber? Why, Lafe, surely you don't think--"
That was exactly what the sheriff thought. It ended in the saloonkeeper
leaving town in haste. Then the sheriff set quietly to work to ascertain
whither Moffatt had flown for refuge. It would be so warm for him along
the Border now, that a haven would be difficult.
"We'd best to wait a mite yet, Hetty," he told his fiancee again.
"Supposing he was to get me? No, no. It's either me or him. So let's
just keep the wedding off a while, hon, and then this'll all be
straightened out."
"Oh--all right."
"You see, hon, I want to have a clean slate," he went on rather lamely.
"Don't you understand? Before we get married, I aim to throw up this job
of sheriff and take to running cattle with ol' Horne."
"Huh-huh."
"Don't look that way, hon. Steve, he's the last. I'll go get him and
then I'll have done what they put me in for."
"Oh, of course, if you think more of the people who elected you than you
do of me," said Hetty.
For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his face cleared and he swept
Hetty into his arms.
He did not have long to wait for news of the outlaw. A telegram came
from Floyd of the Lazy L.
Steve Moffatt in Lost Springs mountains. Heading for the Jug.
Killed Pablo Jiminez to-day while running off bunch of horses.
Horne and I offer five hundred reward for him.
It was because of this wire that the sheriff rode up a canon in Lost
Springs on a cool October afternoon. The wind played through the
live-oaks and scrub-cedar and went whistling upward to be lost among the
solemn peaks. Some cattle were watering at a shallow hole. A ground
squirrel scurried across his front. From all about came the soft,
mournful cooing of wild doves.
All morning he had been climbing. Sometimes he traveled three miles to
gain a mile of distance; winding upward to high mesas, skirting them and
descending into another canon nearer the summits toward which Moffatt
was heading.
Presently he was confronted by a wall of rock. It was a sheer thirty
feet in height and water oozed down its face into a small pool. There
seemed no way out and Lafe scanned the cliffs in search of the trail.
While he lolled thus in the saddle, there came a shot from above his
head and his horse winced. Without hesitation he fell to the ground and
scrambled on hands and knees to the shelter of a tree.
"I near got you that time, Johnson," a clear voice called to him.
It came from behind the crags above the pool. Then he thought he heard
the ring of a horse's shoe on stone, but he was too cautious to expose
himself at once. For fully an hour he waited, listening for evidence of
his enemy and occasionally sighting along the barrel of his 30-30. Then,
persuaded Moffatt had seized the chance to increase his lead, he
remounted and continued the pursuit. A wale along his mount's shoulder
was the only injury.
"He's scared, or he could have got me then," said Lafe, examining this
with much satisfaction.
In late afternoon he threaded a broad canon and entered on a stretch of
brakes, perhaps six miles in length and one in width. The top of its
numberless bald hills overlooked the canon's sides. The track he
followed ran along a narrow plateau. At intervals, chalky cliffs dropped
sheer away on his right hand to a depth of two hundred feet, and there
were gaping cavities into which a mountain could have been dumped,
resembling in their formation the craters of extinct volcanoes. Giant
fissures showed in the mounds of salmon-colored clay, and, close beside
him, a yawning void threatened, whence a hundred thousand tons of shale
had slid. Of vegetation there was none here, save a tangle of
prickly-pear at the mouth of a gulch.
"There he goes now," said the sheriff, pricking his horse.
Moffatt was nearly a mile ahead and moving leisurely, as though he had
no fear. He topped a rise and waved his hand at Johnson before dipping
out of sight.
This confidence was partially explained when the sheriff eased his horse
down the declivity that had shut him from view and discovered a break in
the trail. At this point it ended at a huge rock, and split. One part
ran along the base of the rock and then turned back in the direction he
had come. At least it so looked, but he could not see its ultimate
destination because of the broken nature of the country. The other path
made a slight detour and went on, past the rock.
"Huh-huh," said Johnson, pulling up. "Sure. He's back of me again, the
rascal."
In spite of an effort by Moffatt to disguise his imprint at the
junction, the trail lay plain to Lafe. It was too old a game for him to
be deceived; had he not once, on a previous hunt, detected Moffatt's
ruse in changing his horse's shoes so that the corks were in front?
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and got down in the dust on his
hands and knees. There was a second trail, and it was following
Moffatt's.
It came from beyond the rock, and then changed direction and now
overlapped the outlaw's. Had the two met? It was probable that Moffatt
had come upon a confederate, for this was the region of the Jug, the
rendezvous for fugitives. But why, then, had the two not come to meet
him?
"That ain't Steve's way," Johnson reflected. "It's like they're laying
for me up the trail a piece."
Neither did this solution satisfy him. One thing alone about the look of
the two tracks seemed to make the notion of two confederates riding
peacefully in single file untenable. The last rider was going faster
than the other. Then he must be in pursuit.
Debating these possibilities, the sheriff advanced with caution.
Limestone cliffs soon hemmed him in. He came upon a steer as he crossed
a tiny mountain stream. The animal dashed away, wild as an antelope.
Just before he made the next turn, Johnson glanced back. The steer had
stopped to gaze after him. It would not willingly leave the vicinity of
the water it had come six miles to get.
The going became so rough that his horse faltered and the sheriff feared
that he might maim himself any moment on the rocks. The way was nothing
but a succession of narrow gorges, leading one into the other and
cluttered with bowlders; ever ascending, the light became more subdued
as the canon's walls grew steeper and higher. He calculated that he
must be nearing the summits of Lost Springs.
A shot reverberated among the cliffs in front of him; then another. The
echoes rolled and multiplied. The abrupt detonations startled his mount,
which sprang under the quick, nervous grasp of the knee. A stone gave
under foot, and down came horse and rider with a jolt like a trunk being
dumped from a baggage car.
The sheriff instantly cheeked his horse, holding his head down by main
strength lest the beast rise and trample him. His foot hung in the
stirrup and the spur was caught in the blanket. There was no need for
this precaution. The poor brute lay where he fell, nostrils quivering
and his breath coming in tearing gasps. Instantly realizing that he was
seriously hurt, Lafe began to extricate himself. He slowly drew his leg
from the boot; free, leaped upward and pinned the horse's head with his
knee. One look at the right foreleg was sufficient. Johnson stuck his
gun to the white star on its forehead and pulled the trigger.
He was now thoroughly angry.
"Doggone that scoundrel. I'll go get him if I have to walk barefoot from
here to the Jug," he declared wrathfully.
A good horse gone, and Moffatt still ahead! Yet he had much to be
thankful for. He was unhurt except for a severe shaking, and a bruise to
his ankle. The sheriff wasted no time on his predicament, but removed
saddle, bridle and blanket from the body and hid them in a hole high up
among rocks.
The boot came with the saddle, and having tied his handkerchief about
the injured ankle, he went forward again, carrying the rifle in one
hand, the boot in the other.
He entered a wider gorge, well wooded with post-oak. The ground rose
steeply and the canon narrowed half a mile ahead to an oval opening
between cliffs. Beyond this towered a solid peak. This was the Jug, the
fastness to which the Border bandits retreated in times of stress. Lafe
peered hard up the canon and halted to spy out surroundings. From behind
that opening, one determined man could hold off a regiment.
"I swan," he ejaculated.
A dead horse, saddled, lay near a fallen tree not twenty yards distant.
It was still bleeding from a wound in the neck. The trappings were old
and patched and repaired with rope, after the fashion of the natives.
This, then, accounted for one of the shots. The sheriff gazed, and
stepped hastily behind a post-oak.
Something had risen from the ground about a hundred yards beyond.
Peeping round his shelter, he saw that it was another horse, whose
forequarters flopped helplessly as it strove to rise. Instantly he
recognized the markings of the "paint" on which Moffatt had fled.
"Somebody has beaten me to him," he muttered; then sprang from behind
his tree with ready gun and yelled: "Hi!"
Close to the far horse two men were struggling on the ground. As he
looked, one rolled uppermost and, wrenching a hand loose, struck with a
knife. A stifled cry came from the man underneath, and the sheriff ran
forward at top speed.
A Mexican was straddling Moffatt, one hand about his throat. The outlaw
was vainly endeavoring to break the grip with his fingers. The knife was
raised for a second blow, when the native heard the crunch of the
sheriff's boot and turned his head. His expression of raging hate
changed to a look of such absolute amazement that it was almost
ludicrous. Next instant he released Moffatt and scurried away like a
cottontail, zigzagging among the trees as he headed for the Jug. It
would have been an easy matter to bring him down, and for the fraction
of a second Johnson was so inclined. Then: "Pshaw, I ain't looking for
him," he said, and hurried to Moffatt's side.
"Hello," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes.
"Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?"
"Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here."
He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up,
which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnson
unfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but the
Mexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward the
shoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or that
there was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle,
found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and bound
the wound.
Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink."
Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk.
The outlaw seemed grateful.
"You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired.
"I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?"
Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully.
"Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked.
Lafe pointed to the Jug and opined that they would have to leave him
there. The Jug was too formidable for assault, unless they had urgent
need of him.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Moffatt. "He ain't there now. I'll bet he's sneaked
out the back way and is drifting right now. His gun went wrong, or it's
like he'd have got me. No, sir, ol' Jiminez has beat it while the going
was good, you can bet."
"Jiminez?" the sheriff repeated. "Pablo Jiminez?"
"His brother," answered Moffatt, and became sullen.
Johnson said nothing more just then. All was now explained. The Mexican
had cut across country over unfrequented trails to intercept Moffatt at
the Jug, as soon as he had learned of the killing of his brother. They
had been companions on more than one ranch raid for horses, and he had
guessed where Moffatt would seek refuge.
"Whose horse was shot first?" Lafe demanded, after an interval of
silence, during which he gathered wood for a fire.
"Mine. Then I got his before he could shoot again. And when he done
fell, he smashed his ol' gun. That was sure some luck."
"But why," Johnson said, much amazed, "why didn't you get him then? It
ought to have been easy."
"No kattridges," said Moffatt briefly.
Shortly afterwards, night coming on, he proposed that Lafe go ahead into
the Jug and make certain Jiminez was not there. If the place were empty,
they could find shelter therein for the night; likewise flour and bacon
and beans, and pots to cook them in. Save for weakness, part of which
was the result of hunger, the outlaw did not appear greatly distressed
from his wound, which had stopped bleeding.
Accordingly the sheriff approached the oval opening, exercising nice
circumspection. It looked sufficiently peaceful. An acute, carefully
developed instinct for danger told Johnson that none lurked there.
"Go on," Moffatt called after him. "He can't shoot, anyhow. No gun.
We'll take a chance."
"_We_ will? This is me. Not you," answered Johnson.
Then he cried in Mexican a friendly greeting, to be on the safe side in
the event of Jiminez being in hiding, and strode into the Jug. The
opening led into a high and deep cave. It was deserted. In front was a
shallow open space, and here were the ashes of fires and some empty
bottles and old cans. In a remote corner of the cave, under some dirty
sacks, were flour and bacon.
"Come on," he said, returning. "Let's go. It'll be dark in a minute."
Propping Moffatt with his shoulder, and an arm about his waist, Lafe
reentered the Jug. There they spent the night.
Before the early coyotes had got into full swing in their morning songs,
they were astir and made what breakfast they could. The sheriff was
eager to be gone. Who could say at what moment a pair of desperadoes,
with prior claims on the Jug, might not ride up the trail? In that
event, he knew that Moffatt might be relied upon to act against him, and
Johnson was feeling in no humor for further combat. His prisoner's
shoulder was very stiff and caused him exquisite pain when he moved;
also, he had a slight fever; but these things are borne as visitations
of their profession by such men, and Moffatt never questioned the
sheriff's demand that they start at once. He pursed his lips and
whistled when the darting pains in his shoulder began, but went readily
enough.
There was a slender ribbon of trail leading from the mouth of the Jug
around the mountain peak and down the other side into a wide draw. By
following it, said Moffatt, they could hit a road which ran south.
"It's eleven miles to it, though, and--wow--what a country. Say, Lafe,
what're you going to do with me?"
"You're coming to Badger," replied the sheriff.
The outlaw gave him a sidelong look. "Oh, well," he said, "if you're set
on it, all right."
When they had entered the draw after a terrible, sliding descent of the
back trail--during which Lafe often bore his prisoner's entire
weight--Moffatt spoke up again.
"Got any bread?" said he.
"You bet. Why?"
"Well, there's a big ol' mule we turned out here. I done found him last
year down in Zacaton Bottom. He was like to of died, that mule. But I
fixed him up good and packed some bedding and chuck on him way up here.
He's sure been useful, too. You keep your eye skinned and if you see
him, just give him bread. Ridin's cheaper'n walkin'."
"It sure is. Let's go--easy--that's it."
The two had covered another mile of the draw, when, behind a tangle of
mesquite, sounded a snort of suspicion.
"Good boy. Good ol' boy," said Johnson soothingly, advancing with the
bread extended.
The mule jumped sidewise, hampered by a hobble. He sniffed and the
sheriff followed, with endearing words and blandishments. Would he never
stand still? It was a gaunt animal, with an especially large head.
Probably it smelled the delicacy so rarely enjoyed, because it came
blowing at Lafe's hand. Whilst it munched on the crust, Johnson removed
the hobble and tied the rope around its neck. Then, with a fervent
prayer that the evil latent in every mule might be appeased, he hoisted
Moffatt to his back and clambered up behind him. They headed out of the
draw.
The sun was three hours high when they struck the road and paused at a
wallow to give their mount a sip of water. Outside the draw he had
obstinately refused to proceed faster than a walk and Lafe's sense of
security was not sufficient to dispute the pace with him. As he lifted
his massive head from drinking, a pair of mules shoved their noses above
a rise and a wagon came into view. A white man was driving. Johnson
waved his hat and shouted a frantic greeting.
The stage was already descending and the driver could not stop it,
although he laid himself back on the reins in the attempt. The sheriff
regarded him in amazement. Was he gone crazy? When almost opposite, he
let out a whoop and, running out on the pole, cut at the team with his
whip. They went by at a gallop in a cloud of sand. Lafe caught a
fleeting glimpse of the driver's white face and wavering eyes. Then
their mount was seized of the devil; down went his head and he pitched
as only a mule can. Moffatt went off at the first jump; at the third,
Lafe scattered the waters of the wallow.
The opposite ascent was of soft sand, and before they reached the top,
fatigue compelled the stage team to drop to a walk. The driver looked
back, apprehension showing even in the bend of his neck. The gray mule
had disappeared. Seeing Johnson on foot, helping Moffatt from the
ground, the man threw on the brake and the stage came to a halt. The
sheriff toiled painfully up the hill, holding the suffering outlaw
around the waist.
"Here," said the driver in a dry voice. "Get in. Get in."
Together they lifted Steve in. The driver released the brakes and
whipped his mules to a gallop.
"I swan. I swan," he kept repeating.
"Why the hell didn't you stop? Hey? What do you mean by running by that
way?" said the sheriff angrily.
"Runnin' by? Runnin'--why, man alive," croaked the driver, "that doggone
ol' mule you rode used to pull this stage. And he's been daid over a
year."