It took less than five minutes for the deputy sheriff to mount his men;
he himself had the pick of the corral, a dusty roan, and, as he drew the
cinch taut, he turned to find Charles Merchant at his side.
"Bill," said the young fellow, "what sort of a man is this Lanning?"
"He's been a covered card, partner," said Bill Dozier. "He's been a
covered card that seemed pretty good. Now he's in the game, and he looks
like the rest of the Lannings--a good lump of daring and defiance. Why
d'you ask?"
"Are you keen to get him, Bill?" continued Charlie Merchant eagerly.
"I could stand it. Again, why?"
"You'd like a little gun play with that fellow?"
"I wouldn't complain none."
"Ah? One more thing. Could you use a bit of ready cash?"
"I ain't pressed," said Bill Dozier. "On the other hand, I ain't of a
savin' nature."
Then he added: "Get it out, Charlie. I think I follow your drift. And
you can go as far as you like." He put out his jaw in an ugly way as
he said it.
"It would be worth a lot to me to have this cur done for, Bill. You
understand?"
"My time's short. Talk terms, Charlie."
"A thousand."
"The price of a fair hoss."
"Two thousand, old man."
"Hoss and trimmin's."
"Three thousand." "Charlie, you seem to forget that we're talkin' about
a man and a gun."
"Bill, it's worth five thousand to me."
"That's turkey. Let me have your hand."
They shook hands.
"And if you kill the horses," said Charles Merchant, "you won't hurt my
feelings. But get him!"
"I've got nothing much on him," said Bill Dozier, "but some fools resist
arrest."
He smiled in a manner that made the other shudder. And a moment later
the deputy led his men out on the trail.
They were a weary lot by this time, but they had beneath the belt
several shots of the Merchant whisky which Charles had distributed. And
they had that still greater stimulus--fresh horses running smooth and
strong beneath them. Another thing had changed. They saw their leader,
Bill Dozier, working at his revolver and his rifle as he rode, looking
to the charges, trying the pressure of the triggers, getting the balance
of the weapons with a peculiar anxiety, and they knew, without a word
being spoken, that there was small chance of that trail ending at
anything short of a red mark in the dust.
It made some of them shrug their shoulders, but here again it was proved
that Bill Dozier knew the men of Martindale, and had picked his posse
well. They were the common, hard-working variety of cow-puncher, and
presently the word went among them from the man riding nearest to Bill
that if young Lanning were taken it would be worth a hundred dollars to
each of them. Two months' pay for two days' work. That was fair enough.
They also began to look to their guns. It was not that a single one of
them could have been bought for a mankilling at that or any other price,
perhaps, but this was simply a bonus to carry them along toward what
they considered an honest duty.
Nevertheless, it was a different crew that rode over the hills away
from the Merchant place. They had begun for the sake of the excitement.
Now they were working carefully, riding with less abandon, jockeying
their horses, for each man was laboring to be in on the kill.
They had against them a good horse and a stanch horseman. Never had the
pinto dodged his share of honest running, and this day was no exception.
He gave himself whole-heartedly to his task, and he stretched the legs
of the ponies behind him. Yet he had a great handicap. He was tough, but
the ranch horses of John Merchant came out from a night of rest. Their
legs were full of running. And the pinto, for all his courage, could not
meet that handicap and beat it.
That truth slowly sank in upon the mind of the fugitive as he put the
game little cattle pony into his best stride. He tried the pinto in the
level going. He tried him in the rough. And in both conditions the posse
gained slowly and steadily, until it became apparent to Andrew Lanning
that the deputy held him in the hollow of his hand, and in half an hour
of stiff galloping could run his quarry into the ground whenever
he chose.
Andy turned in the saddle and grinned back at the followers. He could
distinguish Bill Dozier most distinctly. The broad brim of Bill's hat
was blown up stiffly. And the sun glinted now and again on those
melancholy mustaches of his. Andy was puzzled. Bill had horses which
could outrun the fugitive, and why did he not use them?
Almost at once Andy received his answer.
The deputy sheriff sent his horse into a hard run, and then brought him
suddenly to a standstill. Looking back, Andy saw a rifle pitch to the
shoulder of the deputy. It was a flashing line of light which focused
suddenly in a single, glinting dot. That instant something hummed evilly
beside the ear of Andy. A moment later the report came barking and
echoing in his ear with the little metallic ring in it which tells of
the shiver of a gun barrel.
That was the beginning of a running fusillade. Technically these were
shots fired to warn the fugitive that he was wanted by the law, and to
tell him that if he did not halt he would be shot at to be killed. But
the deputy did not waste warnings. He began to shoot to kill. And so did
the rest of the posse. They saw the deputy's plan at once, and then
grinned at it. If they rode down in a mob the boy would no doubt
surrender. But if they goaded him in this manner from a distance he
would probably attempt to return the fire. And if he fired one shot in
reply, unwritten law and strong public opinion would be on the side of
Bill Dozier in killing this criminal without quarter. In a word, the
whisky and the little promise of money were each taking effect on
the posse.
They spurted ahead in pairs, halted, and delivered their fire; then the
next pair spurted ahead and fired. Every moment or so two bullets winged
through the air nearer and nearer Andy. It was really a wonder that he
was not cleanly drilled by a bullet long before that fusillade had
continued for ten minutes. But it is no easy thing to hit a man on a
galloping horse when one sits on the back of another horse, and that
horse heaving from a hard run. Moreover, Andy watched, and when the
pairs halted he made the pinto weave.
At the first bullet he felt his heart come into his throat. At the
second he merely raised his head. At the next he smiled, and thereafter
he greeted each volley with a yell and with a wave of his hat. It was
like dancing, but greater fun. The cold, still terror was in his heart
every moment, but yet he felt like laughing, and when the posse heard
him their own hearts went cold.
It disturbed their aim. They began to snarl at each other, and they also
pressed their horses closer and closer before they even attempted to
fire. And the result was that Andy, waving his hat, felt it twitch
sharply in his hand, and then he saw a neat little hole clipped out of
the very edge of the brim. It was a pretty trick to see, until Andy
remembered that the thing which had nicked that hole would also cut its
way through him, body and bone. He leaned over the saddle and spurred
the pinto into his racing gait.
"I nicked him!" yelled the deputy. "Come on, boys! Close in!"
But within five minutes of racing, Andy drew the pinto to a sudden halt
and raised his rifle. The posse laughed. They had been shooting for some
time, and always for a distance even less than Andy's; yet not one of
their bullets had gone home. So they waved their hats recklessly and
continued to ride to be in at the death. And every one knew that the end
of the trail was not far off when the fugitive had once begun to turn
at bay.
Andy knew it as well as the rest, and his hand shook like a nervous
girl's, while the rifle barrel tilted up and up, the blue barrel
shimmering wickedly. In a frenzy of eagerness he tried to line up the
sights. It was in vain. The circle through which he squinted wobbled
crazily. He saw two of the pursuers spurt ahead, take their posts, raise
their rifles for a fire which would at least disturb his. For the first
time they had a stationary target.
And then, by chance, the circle of Andy's sight embraced the body of a
horseman. Instantly the left arm, stretching out to support his rifle,
became a rock; the forefinger of his right hand was as steady as the
trigger it pressed. It was like shooting at a target. He found himself
breathing easily.
It was very strange. Find a man with his sights? He could follow his
target as though a magnetic power attracted his rifle. The weapon seemed
to have a volition of its own. It drifted along with the canter of Bill
Dozier. With incredible precision the little finger of iron inside the
circle dwelt in turn on the hat of Bill Dozier, on his sandy mustaches,
on his fluttering shirt. And Andy knew that he had the life of a man
under the command of his forefinger.
And why not? He had killed one. Why not a hundred?
The punishment would be no greater. And to tempt him there was this new
mystery, this knowledge that he could not miss. It had been vaguely
present in his mind when he faced the crowd at Martindale, he remembered
now. And the same merciless coldness had been in his hand when he
pressed his gun into the throat of Charles Merchant.
He turned his eyes and looked down the guns of the two men who had
halted. Then, hardly looking at his target, he snapped his rifle back to
his shoulder and fired. He saw Bill Dozier throw up his hands, saw his
head rock stupidly back and forth, and then the long figure toppled to
one side. One of the posse rushed alongside to catch his leader, but he
missed, and Bill, slumping to the ground, was trampled underfoot.