THE NIGHT TRAIL
Yeager rode into Los Robles an hour after Harrison and Ruth had left. He
turned in at the Lunar stables the pony Pasquale had so kindly donated
to his use and walked across town to the Seymour bungalow. Passing
through the garden and round the house, he disappeared without being
seen into the remodeled barn where he lodged.
He felt bully. After an adventure that had been a close call he was back
home among friends who would be glad to see him. As he took his bath and
shaved and dressed he broke occasionally into a whistle of sheer
exuberant joy of life. He intended to surprise the folks by walking down
and taking his place with the others when the dinner bell rang. Daisy
Ellington would clap her hands and sparkle in her enthusiastic way.
Shorty would begin to poke fun at him. Mrs. Seymour would probably just
smile in her slow, motherly fashion and see that he got one of the
choice steaks. And Ruth--would she flash at him her swift dimpled smile
of pleasure? Or would she still be harboring malice toward him for
having warned her against Harrison?
Steve waited until he thought they would be seated before he opened the
door and stepped into the dining-room. The effect was not at all what he
had expected. Daisy was the first to see him. She dropped her knife on
the plate with a clatter and gave a little scream. Shorty stopped a
spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth, as if he were waiting to have a
still picture of himself taken. His eyes stared and his jaw fell. Mrs.
Seymour, who was bringing a platter from the kitchen, stood stock-still
in the doorway. The expression, on her face arrested Yeager's smile.
"What's the matter with you all? Looks like you were seeing a ghost," he
said.
"Where did you come from, Steve Yeager?" demanded Mrs. Seymour.
"Me? Why, I came from my room--reached town an hour or so ago."
Something cold clutched at the heart of the mother. "Where from? Weren't
you in Sonora?"
"Sure I was. At Noche Buena. And I want to tell you that I've had enough
of that burg for quite some time."
Daisy broke in. "Isn't it true that you were shot?"
He turned to her, surprised. "How did you hear that story already. No,
it ain't true. I was to have been shot this mawnin', but I broke jail
and made a getaway."
"But--your letter said you had shot yourself and couldn't live long. I
read it myself. Mr. Threewit showed it to me before he left."
"And Mr. Harrison told us it was true," corroborated Mrs. Seymour. She
knew something was wrong, but as yet she could not guess what.
"Harrison! Has he been here?" asked Yeager sharply.
"He and Ruth left this afternoon for Noche Buena. He said you wanted to
see her before you died and he showed us the letter you had written."
The range-rider stood paralyzed. The truth flashed numbingly over his
brain.
"Ruth--gone with Harrison--to Noche Buena," was all he could say.
Again Daisy cut in, this time sharply. "Tell us your story, Steve. What
is it that's wrong?"
In a dozen sentences he told it. They listened tensely. The mother was
the first to break the silence after he had finished. She began to sob.
Steve put an arm across her shoulder awkwardly.
"Now, don't you, Mrs. Seymour. Don't you take on. We'll get right on his
trail." He turned abruptly to Orman. "Get horses saddled. We'll hit the
road right away. Daisy, call up Threewit and let him know. I'll take
your gat, Shorty."
The edge of decision was in his voice. Nobody disputed the orders of
this lean, brown, sunbaked youth with the alert, quiet, masterful eyes.
In his manner was something more deadly than threats. More than one of
those present thought he would not like to be Harrison.
"Mr. Threewit has gone. He and Frank started for Noche Buena almost an
hour ago. They went because of your letter," explained Miss Ellington.
"Good. We'll probably catch them. Jackson, find out if they went armed
and see that we all have rifles as well as six-guns. Get a move on you.
We'll start in ten minutes from the hotel."
Within the stipulated time they were in the saddle. Steve looked his
posse over with an eye competent and vigilant. "Orman, you and Bob ride
straight to the Lazy B. Harrison gave it out he was going to stop there
for the night. Me, I think he was lying. If he hasn't been there, cut
acrost to Gila Creek and follow the bed. Jackson and Dan, you go
straight south for the old Pima water-hole and sweep along below the
edge of the mesa. I'll have a try more to the east. Mind, no slip-up,
boys. And don't forget Harrison wears his guns low. If you have to
shoot, aim to kill."
Phil Seymour came running down the road. "What's this they're telling
about Ruth and Harrison?" he demanded.
Yeager had no time for explanations. He turned the boy over to one of
the others. "Tell him about it, Jackson. If he wants to go along, take
him with you and Dan. We'll all meet to-morrow noon at Sieber's Pass."
He shot down the road at a gallop, leaving behind him a cloud of gray
dust. The others followed at a canter. Their horses had to cover many
miles before morning and there was no use in running them off their legs
at the start.
Jackson, waiting for Phil to rope and saddle a pony, yelled a caution to
the others.
"Keep yore shirts on, boys. This ain't no hundred-yard dash. Steve's
burnin' the wind because he's got to haid off Harrison from Pasquale's
camp. All we got to do is to drive him up to Steve."
Phil cut out and roped a pony, then slapped on a saddle. Presently he
and Jackson were following the others down the dust-filled road.
The boy spoke his fears aloud, endeavoring to reassure himself.
"Chad won't hurt Ruth any. He wouldn't dare. This country won't stand
for that kind of a play with a girl. Arizona would hang him to the first
telegraph pole that was handy."
The cowpuncher looked at him and spoke dryly. "I reckon the skunk's been
out of Arizona quite some time. He's in greaser land now, and I never
heard tell that Pasquale was so darned particular what his men did. Just
tie a knot in this: if Harrison reaches the insurrecto camp with yore
sister, she'll come back as his wife--or not at all."
"By God! I'll kill Harrison at sight if he hurts a hair of her head,"
the boy cried, a lump in his throat.
"Mebbe you will, mebbe you won't. Chad ain't just what you'd call a
white man. He'll shoot out of the chaparral if he's pressed. Someone's
going to git hurt if we bump into Mr. Harrison. It won't be no picnic
a-tall to take him. He's liable to be more hos-tile than a nest of
yellow jackets."
"Leave him to me if we come up with him. I'll shoot it out with him,"
the boy cried wildly.
Jackson grinned. "You're crazy with the heat, boy. What do you reckon I
bought chips in this game for? I want a crack at the coyote myself."
Phil and Jackson caught up with old Dan a mile or so beyond the point
where the road to the Lazy B left the main traveled trail.
"The other boys hitting the dust for the ranch?" asked Jackson.
"Yep."
"Yeager's got it right. They won't find Harrison there. He'll go through
with his play. Chad's no quitter."
Dan nodded. He was a reticent man of about fifty-five with a bald head
and a face of wrinkled leather.
"We'll git him sure," Phil spoke up, announcing his hope rather than his
conviction. "Steve knows what he's doing, you bet."
Yeager himself was not so sure. Doubts tortured him as to the
destination of Harrison. Perhaps, after all, he might be making for some
refuge in the hills and not for Pasquale's headquarters. He knew that as
soon as word reached them the Lazy B riders would begin to comb the
desert in pursuit. But what were a dozen riders among these thousand
hill pockets of the desert? The best chance was to catch the man at some
one of the few water-holes. But if he pushed on at full speed the
chances were all in his favor considering the long start he had.
The range-rider was astride the fastest horse in the Lunar stables.
Steve had taken his pick of the mounts, for his work was cut out for
him. Hitherto the luck had all been with Harrison. If Yeager had not met
one of the old Lone Star boys, now riding for the Hashknife outfit, and
stopped to join him in a long talk over their cigarettes, Steve would
have reached Los Robles in time to spoil the man's plan. Or if he had
gone direct to Mrs. Seymour instead of fooling away a good hour and a
half in his room, he would have cut down his enemy's start by so much
golden time.
Now all he could do was to get every foot of speed from his horse that
could be coaxed. He rode like a Centaur, giving with his lithe, supple
body to every motion of the animal. But though he took steep hillsides
of shale on the run, the pony slithering down in a slide of rubble like
a cat, the rider's alert eyes watched the footing keenly. He could
afford if necessary to break a leg himself, but he could not afford to
have the horse suffer such an accident. Not for nothing had he ridden on
the roundup for many years. Few men even in Arizona could have
negotiated safely such a bit of daredevil travel as he was doing this
night.
His brains were busy, too, on the problem before him. Times and
distances he figured, took into account the animals Harrison and Ruth
were riding, estimated her strength and her companion's feverish haste
to reach safety with her. They would have to stop at a water-hole
somewhere, either on Gila Creek, or the old Pima camping-ground, or else
at Lone Tree Spring. The most direct route to Noche Buena was by Lone
Tree. Harrison was in a deuce of a hurry. Therefore he would choose the
shortest way. So Yeager guessed and hoped.
His watch told him it was an hour past midnight when Steve drew close
to Lone Tree Spring. He was following a sandy wash into the soft bed of
which the hoofs of his horse sank without noise. They were perhaps two
hundred yards from the spring when the ears of his pony lifted. That was
enough for Yeager. He dismounted and trailed the reins, guessing that
the wind had brought the scent of other horses to his own. Quietly he
moved forward, rifle in hand ready for action.
The heart of him jumped when he caught sight of two picketed horses
grazing on the bench above. He worked forward with infinite care along
the bank of the wash till he reached the first of the cottonwoods. From
here he could catch a glimpse of something huddled lying under the
live-oak. This no doubt was the sleeping girl. The figure of a heavy-set
man stood with his back to Yeager in silhouette against the skyline.
Yeager crawled forward another fifteen yards. A twig snapped under his
knee. The figure in silhouette whirled. Steve rose at the same instant,
rifle raised to his shoulder.
"Don't move," he advised quietly.