There was, as Andrew had understood for a long time, a sort of
underground world of criminals even here on the mountain desert.
Otherwise the criminals could not have existed for even a moment in the
face of the organized strength of lawful society. Several times in the
course of his wanderings Andrew had come in contact with links of the
underground chain, and he learned what every fugitive learns--the safe
stopping points in the great circuit of his flight.
Three elements went into the making of that hidden society. There was
first of all the circulating and active part, and this was composed of
men actually known to be under the ban of the law and openly defying it.
Beneath this active group lay a stratum much larger which served as a
base for the operating criminals. This stratum was built entirely of men
who had at one time been incriminated in shady dealings of one sort and
another. It included lawbreakers from every part of the world, men who
had fled first of all to the shelter of the mountain desert and who had
lived there until their past was even forgotten in the lands from which
they came. But they had never lost the inevitable sympathy for their
more active fellows, and in this class there was included a meaner
element--men who had in the past committed crimes in the mountain desert
itself and who, from time to time, when they saw an absolutely safe
opportunity, were perfectly ready and willing to sin again.
The third and largest of all the elements in the criminal world of the
desert was a shifting and changing class of men who might be called the
paid adherents of the active order. The "long riders," acting in groups
or singly, fled after the commission of a crime and were forced to find
places of rest and concealment along their journey. Under this grave
necessity they quickly learned what people on their way could be hired
as hosts and whose silence and passive aid could be bought. Such men
were secured in the first place by handsome bribes. And very often they
joined the ranks unwillingly. But when some peaceful householder was
confronted by a desperate man, armed, on a weary horse--perhaps stained
from a wound--the householder was by no means ready to challenge the
man's right to hospitality. He never knew when the stranger would take
by force what was refused to him freely, and, if the lawbreaker took by
force, he was apt to cover his trail by a fresh killing.
Of course, such killings took place only when the "long rider" was a
desperate brute rather than a man, but enough of them had occurred to
call up vivid examples to every householder who was accosted. As a rule
he submitted to receive the unwelcome guest. Also, as a rule, he was
weak enough to accept a gift when the stranger parted. Once such a gift
was taken, he was lost. His name was instantly passed on by the fugitive
to his fellows as a "safe" man. Before long he became, against or with
his will, a depository of secrets--banned faces became known to him. And
if he suddenly decided to withdraw from that criminal world his case was
most precarious.
The "long riders" admitted no neutrals. If a man had once been with them
he could only leave them to become an enemy. He became open prey. His
name was published abroad. Then his cattle were apt to disappear. His
stacks of hay might catch fire unexpectedly at night. His house itself
might be plundered, and, in not infrequent cases, the man himself was
brutally murdered. It was part of a code no less binding because it was
unwritten.
All of this Andrew was more or less aware of, and scores of names had
been mentioned to him by chance acquaintances of the road. Such names he
stored away, for he had always felt that time impending of which Henry
Allister had warned him, the time when he must openly forget his
scruples and take to a career of crime. That time, he now knew, was
come upon him.
It would be misrepresenting Andrew to say that he shrank from the
future. Rather he accepted everything that lay before him
wholeheartedly, and, with the laying aside of his scruples, there was an
instant lightening of the heart, a fierce keenness of mind, a contempt
for society, a disregard for life beginning with his own. One could have
noted it in the recklessness with which he sent Sally up the slope away
from the ranch house this night.
He had made up his mind immediately to hunt out a "safe" man, recently
mentioned to him by that unconscionable scapegrace Harry Woods, crooked
gambler, thief of small and large, and whilom murderer. The man's name
was Garry Baldwin, a small rancher, some half day's ride above
Sullivan's place in the valley. He was recommended as a man of silence.
In that direction Andrew took his way, but, coming in the hills to a
dished-out place on a hillside, where there was a natural shelter from
both wind and rain, he stopped there for the rest of the night, cooked a
meal, rolled himself in his blankets, and slept into the gray of
the morning.
No sooner was the first light streaking the horizon to the east than
Andrew wakened. He saddled Sally and, after a leisurely breakfast,
started at a jog trot through the hills, taking the upslope with the
utmost care. For nothing so ruins a horse as hard work uphill at the
very beginning of the day. He gave Sally her head, and by letting her go
as she pleased she topped the divide, breathing as easily as if she had
been walking on the flat. She gave one toss of her head as she saw the
long, smooth slope ahead of her, and then, without a word from Andrew or
a touch of his heels, she gave herself up to the long, rocking canter
which she could maintain so tirelessly for hour on hour.
A clear, cold morning came on. Indeed, it was rarely chill for the
mountain desert, with a feel of coming snow in the wind. Sally pricked
one ear as she looked into the north, and Andrew knew that that was a
sign of trouble coming.
He came in the middle of the morning to the house of Garry Baldwin. It
was a wretched shack, the roof sagged in the middle, and the building
had been held from literally falling apart by bolting an iron rod
through the length of it.
A woman who fitted well into such a background kicked open the door and
looked up to Andrew with the dishwater still dripping from her red
hands. He asked for her husband. He was gone from the house. Where, she
did not know. Somewhere yonder, and her gesture included half the width
of the horizon to the west. There was his trail, if Andrew wished to
follow it. For her part, she was busy and could not spare time to
gossip. At that she stepped back and kicked the door shut with a slam
that set the whole side of the shack shivering.
At that moment Andrew wondered what he would have done when he lived in
Martindale if he had been treated in such a manner. He would have
crimsoned to the eyes, no doubt, and fled from the virago. But now he
felt neither embarrassment nor fear nor anger. He drew his revolver, and
with the heavy butt banged loudly on the door. It left three deep dents
in the wood, and the door was kicked open again. But this time he saw
only the foot of the woman clad in a man's boot. The door remained open,
but the hostess kept out of view.
"You be ridin' on, friend," she called in her harsh voice. "Bud, keep
out'n the kitchen. Stranger, you be ridin' on. I don't know you and I
don't want to know you. A man that beats on doors with his gun!"
Andrew laughed, and the sound brought her into view, a furious face, but
a curious face as well. She carried a long rifle slung easily under her
stout arm.
"What d'you want with Garry?" she asked.
And he replied with a voice equally hard: "I want direction for finding
Scar-faced Allister."
He watched that shot shake her.
"You do? You got a hell of a nerve askin' around here for Allister!
Slope, kid, slope. You're on a cold trail."
"Wait a minute," protested Andrew. "You need another look at me."
"I can see all there is to you the first glance," said the woman calmly.
"Why should I look again?"
"To see the reward," said Andrew bitterly. He laughed again. "I'm Andrew
Lanning. Ever hear of me?"
It was obvious that she had. She blinked and winced as though the name
stunned her. "Lanning!" she said. "Why, you ain't much more'n a kid.
Lanning! And you're him?"
All at once she melted.
"Slide off your hoss and come in, Andy," she said. "Dogged if I knew you
at all!"
"Thanks. I want to find Allister and I'm in a hurry."
"So you and him are goin' to team it? That'll be high times! Come here,
Bud. Look at Andy Lanning. That's him on the horse right before you."
A scared, round face peered out at Andrew from behind his mother. "All
right, partner. I'll tell you where to find him pretty close. He'll be
up the gulch along about now. You know the old shack up there? You can
get to him inside three hours--with that hoss." She stopped and eyed
Sally. "Is that the one that run Gray Peter to death? She don't look the
part, but them long, low hosses is deceivin'. Can't you stay, Andy?
Well, s'long. And give Allister a good word from Bess Baldwin. Luck!"
He waved, and was gone at a brisk gallop.