IN THE TWILIGHT
It required but one look at these two men to cause Westy devoutly to
hope that they had not seen him. They were rough characters and of an
altogether unpromising appearance.
One preceded the other and the leader was tall and lank and wore a
mackinaw jacket and a large brimmed felt hat. But for the mackinaw
jacket he might have suggested the adventurous western outlaw. But for
the romantic hat with flowing brim he might have suggested an eastern
thug. The man who followed him wore a sweater and a peaked cap, that
dubious outfit which the movies have taught us to associate with prize
fighters and metropolitan thugs.
But a more subtle difference distinguished these strangers from each
other. The leader walked with a fine swinging stride, the other with
that mean carriage effected by short strides and a certain tough swing
of the arms. He had a street-corner demeanor about him and a way of
looking behind him as if he were continually apprehending the proximity
of “cops.” He had an East-Side, police-court, thirty-days-on-the-island
look. His companion seemed far above all that.
[Illustration: WESTY MOVED NOT A MUSCLE, SCARCELY BREATHED.]
Westy moved not a muscle, scarcely breathed. The tree was evidently the
destination of these strangers for they approached with a kind of weary
satisfaction, which in the smaller man bespoke a certain finality of
exhaustion. The leader evidently sensed this without looking behind him,
for he referred to it with a suggestion of disgust.
“Yer tired?”
“I ain’t used ter chasin’ aroun’ the world ter duck, pal,” said the
other.
“Jes’ roun’ the corner; some cellar or other I reckon?” said the leader.
“Dat’s me,” replied the other.
By this time Westy was satisfied that they had not seen him before or
during his ascent, and it seemed to him a miracle that they had not.
Ludicrously enough he was conscious of a sort of disappointment that the
taller man had not seen him, and this together with the deepest
thankfulness for the fact.
There was something inscrutable about this stranger, a suggestion of
efficiency and assured power. If Westy could have believed, without
peril to himself, that his presence could not escape this man’s eagle
vision it would have rounded out the aspect of lawless heroism which the
man seemed to have. It was rather jarring to see the fellow fail in a
matter in which he should have scored. And this, particularly in view of
his subsequent conversation. But Westy’s dominant feeling was one of
ineffable relief.
“There ain’t no trail up here?” the smaller man asked, as he looked
doubtfully about him.
“I never hide ’long no trails,” the taller man drawled, as he seated
himself on the rocky mound which was the roof of the little cave. “I
telled yer that, pardner. I ony use trails ter foller others. Long’s I
can’t fly I have ter make prints, but yer seen how I started. Prints is
no use till yer find ’em. But ready-made trails ’n sech like I never
use—got no use fer ’em. Nobody ever tracked me; same’s I never failed
ter track any one I set out ter track. When yer see me a-follerin’ a
reg’lar trail yer’ll know I’m pursuin’, not pursued, as the feller says.
Matter, pardner? Yer sceered?”
“A dog could track us all right,” said the other. “He could scent us
along the rails, couldn’t he? Walkin’ the rails for a mile might kid the
bulls all right, but not no dog.”
“Nobody never catched me, pardner, an’ nobody never got away from me,”
drawled the other man grimly.
“They put dogs on, don’t they?” the smaller man asked. He seemed unable
to remove this peril from his mind.
“Yere, an’ they take ’em off again.”
“Well, I guess you know,” the smaller man doubtingly conceded.
“I reckon I do,” drawled the other.
“I ain’t scared o’ nobody gettin’ up here,” said the one who was
evidently a pupil and novice at the sort of enterprise they had been
engaged in. “But you said about dogs; sheriff’s posse has dogs, yer
says.”
“They sure do,” drawled the other, lighting a pipe, “an’ they knows
more’n the sheriffs, them hound dogs.”
“Well, yer didn’ cut the scent, did yer? Yer says ’bout cuttin’ scents,
but yer didn’ do it, now did yer?”
For a few moments the master disdained to answer, only smoked his pipe
as Westy could just make out through the leaves. The familiar odor of
tobacco ascended and reached him, diluted in the evening air. It was
only an infrequent faint whiff, but it had an odd effect on Westy; it
seemed out of keeping with the surroundings.
“I walked the rail,” said the smoker very slowly and deliberately, “till
I come ter whar a wolf crossed the tracks. You must have seed me stoop
an’ look at a bush, didn’t yer? Or ain’t yer got no eyes?”
“I got eyes all right.”
“Didn’t yer see me kinder studyin’ sumthin’? That was three four gray
hairs. Then I left the rail ’n cut up through this way. It’s that thar
wolf’s got ter worry, not me ’n you.”
“Well, we done a pretty neat job, I’ll tell ’em,” said the smaller man,
apparently relieved.
“Well, I reckon I knowed what I was sayin’ when I telled yer it was
easy; jes’ like doin’ sums, that’s all; as easy as divvyin’ up this here
swag. Ten men that’s a-sceered ain’t as strong as one man that ain’t
a-sceered. All yer gotter do is git ’em rattled. Ony yer gotter know yer
way when it’s over.”
“Yer know yer way all right,” said the other, with a note of tribute in
his voice.
“Yer ain’t looked inside yet,” said the master. “Neat little bunk fer a
lay-over, I reckon. Ony kinder close. ’Tain’t fer layin’ low I likes it
’cause I like it best outside, ’n we’re as safe here. Ony in case o’
sumthin’ gone wrong we got a hole ter shoot from. With me inside o’ that
nobody’d ever git inside of three hundred feet from it. I could turn
this here hill inter a graveyard, I sure reckon. Yer hungry?”
“Supposin’ any one was to find this here place?” the other asked. “You
said ’bout sumthin’ goin’ wrong maybe.”
“Well, he wouldn’ hev the trouble o’ walkin’ back,” said the tall man
grimly.
Just then Westy, who had scarce dared to breathe, took advantage of the
stirring of the strangers to glance toward his friends in the cleft. The
little camping site looked very cosy and inviting. But even as he looked
his blood ran cold and he was struck with panic terror. For standing at
the brink of the rivulet was Warde Hollister, his hands curved into a
funnel around his mouth, ready to call aloud to him.
Westy held his breath. His heart thumped. Every nerve was tense. Then he
heard the screeching of one of those great birds flying toward the crags
in the twilight. He waited, cold with terror. . . .