Whitey Allen painfully raised his head and looked at the figure huddled
at a tiny fire just beyond the mouth of the short cave. Beyond he could
see that twinkle of stars. He sank back and gazed up at the rock roof,
as he tried to connect up the events of the day. He knew he was in a
cave, but he had no idea where that cave was located.
He remembered that old Indian Jim had returned to the cabin, coming in
softly, like a hunting animal. Whitey was powerless for a minute. He
felt that Bud had killed the old Indian, but after the shock of seeing
him had passed he realized that the bullet had only shocked.
Old Jim was a horrible object. The bullet had struck him almost between
the eyes and had plowed its way around the side of his skull. The
Indian’s face and upper body was clotted with blood, his clothes nearly
all gone. Whitey spoke to him, but the Indian did not hear him. His eyes
were wild and he mouthed a language which Whitey had never heard.
He appeared to be hunting for some one. He would go to the door, look
out, and come back, searching the room. Suddenly he saw Whitey and
pounced upon him like a wild beast. Whitey was weak, but fought
desperately to break the clutch of the Indian. They crashed into the
wall, knocking down the cupboard and falling into the stove. Whitey
remembered little after this.
The Indian had taken him to a cave—but for what? Whitey realized that
his wound had broken open again and that he was much weaker than before
his fight in the cabin. He called to the Indian, who did not lift his
head. Whitey crawled painfully to the mouth of the cave and tried to get
to his feet.
“_Kopet!_” hissed the Indian. Whitey knew that kopet meant “stop!”
“What’s the matter with yuh, Jim?” asked Whitey.
“_Mesika_ sick—_Nika kloshe nanitsh._”
“I’m sick, eh?” muttered Whitey. “You take care of me?”
“_Kloshe!_” grunted the old Indian.
Whitey studied the silent figure for a while. He felt sure that old Jim
was crazy from the shock of the bullet. He had known old Jim slightly,
but Bud had known him for years. Bud had told him that old Jim never
broke his word. Bud had told old Jim to take care of Whitey—told him to
stay with him all the time.
Now, the old fellow had been knocked silly from the pistol shot, and the
only remaining instinct in his brain was to guard Whitey. This did not
please Whitey, who had no desire to live in a cave with a crazy
aborigine. He was too weak to stand, so he tried to crawl out and see
where he was.
Old Jim pounced upon him like a flash and dragged him back into the
cave.
“_Kopet!_” hissed the old buck.
Whitey was willing to stop. Old Jim was far from gentle in his handling.
He went back to hump over his fire, while Whitey sprawled on the floor
of the cave and watched the tiny flicker of the fire on the rocky points
of the cave roof.
Whitey had gotten to a point where he hardly cared what happened to him.
Many things he had forgotten. It took him some time to remember where
that money had been hid, and he wondered if it was still there. Somehow,
he did not care so much. He was glad that Bud, instead of himself, had
killed the fireman. Whitey did not want to die a murderer.
While Whitey dozed and the Old Indian sat humped up over his tiny fire,
Jimmy Devlin came across the hills toward the Devil’s Pulpit. It was his
intention to cut across into Silverbend County, probably to Cottonwood.
He followed the route taken by Pat and himself and came out to the edge
of the coulée almost at the place where they had remained concealed. For
a long time he sat on his horse, living over the events of the day. Just
a short distance to his left was the hiding-place of enough money to
enable him to live comfortably, but he did not want it.
He knew that Pat would see that it was returned to its rightful owners.
The Devil’s Pulpit loomed blackly against the stars. Suddenly there came
a tiny gleam of light against the side of the cliff, like the light of a
candle. Several times it flared up, only to die down again, leaving the
side of the cliff a wall of darkness.
“It’s that old Injun’s light,” muttered Jimmy aloud. “I wonder what he’s
doin’ up there.”
Whistler moved uneasily, trying to look back. Jimmy turned in his
saddle. Between him and the brush a pair of eyes seemed to glow like
yellow fire. Jimmy stared at them for quite a while, but they did not
move.
“Klooch!” breathed Jimmy softly, and the shape of the wolf-dog trotted
out of the dark and up beside the horse, where it stood and peered
across the coulée.
“Klooch, why did ye come?” asked Jimmy. “Will I have to take ye back, I
wonder?”
He dismounted and sat down on a rock beside Klooch, running his hand
through her ruff and over her muzzle.
“I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep ye, Klooch. They’ve no use for you back there.
We’ll be a fine three, I’m thinkin’. A wild horse, a wolf-dog and a
paroled thief.”
Klooch pulled away from him and looked at the Pulpit, where the light
sparkled again. She growled deep in her throat and lay down beside him.
“Ye don’t like it, eh?” grunted Jimmy. “Well, we’ll wait for mornin’ and
see about it. None of us three are in any hurry, ’cause we ain’t goin’
no place.”
He loosened the saddle-cinch, tied the Whistler to a scrub snag and sat
down to wait for daylight.
At intervals the light flared, as old Jim placed fresh fuel on the
flames. When the first hint of dawn came he looked at Whitey, sprawled
on the rocks, and slipped silently away.
Whitey had been waiting his chance and as soon as the Indian disappeared
he crept to the ledge. He realized that he was over half-way up the
Pulpit. Apparently the rock broke sheer below him, and there was no way
of going up to the top of the Pulpit. Beyond him, to the left, was a
narrow ledge.
He crawled out on this and peered down. Suddenly the old Indian appeared
at the foot of the cliff and shambled away into the brush. Whitey
crawled around this ledge and in behind a spire of rock, where he found
another cavelike place—a sort of chimney, angling downward. It was a
place of easy descent for a normal person, but Whitey was far from
normal. Every move was torture.
There was a strong possibility that he would fall and perhaps kill
himself; but he reasoned that even that was better than being cooped up
in a cave with a crazy Indian. He slid his legs over the opening and
started down.
It seemed hours until he came to the lower opening, where he came out
into daylight. A series of ledges, like giant steps, seemed to lead down
a wide crevice, masked with brush and scrubs. Utterly exhausted, he
dragged himself over the slide-rock and into the brush just before the
old Indian came through the small opening and back up the route to the
cave.
Whitey saw old Jim disappear into the crevice, and he knew it would only
be a short time until he would be hunted. Whitey’s one idea was to
escape the Indian, but he also wanted to take that money—or at least his
half of it.
Dragging himself as a wounded animal might, he got to the point of the
rock, where Bud had told him the money had been cached. The place was
there, as described, but the money was gone. Whitey turned, his back to
the rock, and huddled down while the insane Indian, like a hunting-dog,
followed him unerringly.
Whitey made no effort to escape. He was half-conscious when the Indian
picked him up, as a man might pick up a child, and started back to the
cave with him.
* * * * *
Jimmy had seen the Indian leave the cave and go the length of the narrow
ledge, where he disappeared. Later he had seen him appear at the foot of
the cliff and go into the brush. He had not seen Whitey, because Whitey
had crawled instead of walking.
Jimmy was curious to know why the Indian was living up there and keeping
a fire burning through the night. He rode down the hill and into the
coulée with Klooch leading the way. The cloudburst had swept the coulée
clean of down-timber, and not a stick was left of the little cabin. The
brush was flattened and mud-filled, which made it look like the bed of a
river.
Jimmy rode to the edge of the slide-rock and tied the Whistler to a
tree. He climbed up to the clearing where he had seen the Indian. Klooch
cast about with her nose to the rocks and growled deep in her throat.
The Indian scent was strong, and Klooch hated Indians. Straight to the
foot of the broken ledges led the wolf-dog, with Jimmy sliding and
slipping behind her.
Klooch stopped only long enough to see Jimmy was coming and started on
up the rock. Where an ordinary dog would have balked, Klooch sprang and
clawed her way up. She stopped at the mouth of the chimney and sniffed
inside, hackles erect. Jimmy panted up to her and they both investigated
the thing.
“Sure, we’ve got to play Santa Claus,” grinned Jimmy. “Can ye climb a
stovepipe, Klooch?”
Jimmy made a move to go inside, but Klooch sprang in ahead and began
clawing her way upward. Jimmy helped her at times, but she needed little
help. Twisting and turning they came to the opening behind the spire and
beheld the ledge, which extended around the corner. An odor of fire and
roasting meat came to their nostrils.
Jimmy tried to make Klooch follow him, but she moved out ahead, where he
could not pass her.
“Then take it easy,” whispered Jimmy. “Go slow.”
Klooch seemed to sense the need of caution, for she crept lower along
the ledge, ears back as if ready for a rush.
“You’re a he-man’s dog, so ye are,” reflected Jimmy, loosening the gun
in his holster. “I’d rather be backed by the likes of you than by many
men I know.”
Straight ahead they went, slowly. Klooch fairly crawled on her belly
now, and Jimmy hugged the narrow ledge. He could look straight down into
the big coulée and it seemed a mile down to the tips of the trees. The
circling eagle cast a shadow across the ledge, and Jimmy glanced up at
it, high above him.
Suddenly the ledge widened a trifle and Jimmy turned his back from the
wall. Just in front of him was the wider part of the ledge in front of
the cave, and standing almost within reach of him was the insane Indian.
He was looking at Jimmy, and apparently oblivious of the wolf-dog
between them. He had a heavy hunting-knife in his hand, with which he
had been cutting up a rabbit, which was sizzling on the small fire.
There was little about the old Indian to make any one believe he was
even part human, except his shape. His face seemed entirely animal, and
had not been washed since Bud had shot him. The upper part of his body
was nude and was streaked with dried blood and yellow dirt from the
muddy coulée. His hair seemed to stick out like a roach, except where it
was plastered tight to his head.
Only for a moment did he stare at Jimmy, and then, with a grunt, like an
enraged animal, he sprang toward him. As the Indian leaped Klooch shot
straight into him, fangs bared and without a sound. They seemed to meet
in mid-air and lock together. Into them came Jimmy with a rush, grasping
the Indian’s knife-hand in time to save the dog, and the three of them
went down in a heap, almost off the edge.
The Indian’s head struck the rock and fairly rebounded; but it took all
of Jimmy’s strength to hold him down, even after he was knocked
half-unconscious. Jimmy managed to turn him over on his face and to tie
his hands with the short rope that the Indian used in place of a belt.
Klooch watched the operation closely and only moved back when the Indian
was rolled over on his back, helpless. Jimmy stood up and wiped the
perspiration from his brow. Klooch was moving into the cave, growling
deep in her throat, and Jimmy followed her in to where Whitey lay on his
back, looking blankly up at him.
“Whitey!” exclaimed Jimmy wonderingly. “Whitey, I thought ye was dead!”
Whitey’s eyes told him that he was not dead, but his lips barely moved
and an unintelligible mumble came from his throat. Jimmy picked him up
and carried him to the ledge, where he laid him down near the old
Indian.
Whitey revived enough to turn his head and look at the Indian, and a
sigh of relief came when he could see that the old man was a captive.
Jimmy sat down and rolled a smoke, which he lighted and gave to Whitey,
who thanked him with his eyes as he puffed slowly.
The Indian glared at Jimmy like a trapped animal as he strained at his
bonds. Klooch watched the Indian closely, ready to throttle him if he
attempted to get up. Whitey shifted to an easier position and looked at
Jimmy.
“How did yuh find me?” he whispered weakly.
“Trailin’ the Injun,” smiled Jimmy.
“Oh, that —— Injun!” Whitey’s voice seemed thin and querulous, as if he
had suffered much. “Jimmy, he’s as crazy as a loon. Picks me up and
slams me all around. He carried me up here.”
“How do ye feel, Whitey?”
“I’m all through, Jimmy. Blood poison, I think.”
“Blood poison?” echoed Jimmy. “Did ye get cut?”
“Shot,” whispered Whitey. “Shot in the lungs.”
“The divil ye are! Well, now ye need a doctor, old-timer; but how am I
to——”
Whitey shook his head.
“No use, Jimmy. I’m numb all over and I wouldn’t last that long. I want
to see the sheriff, though.”
Whitey’s jaw set and he tried to shift his body, but the pain was too
great.
“Jimmy, I’ve been double-crossed, and I want to save a man who was awful
good to me. I’m afraid—I—can’t—make—it—though.”
“Whitey, I—I want ye to square me with the world, if ye can. It can’t
harm ye to let the world know that I did not hold up that train, and it
will do me a lot of good.”
“God knows I want to, Jimmy,” whispered Whitey eagerly. “You’re the
squarest man I ever knowed. You gave me a chance, pardner—a chance that
a saint would never have given me, and—and I lied to you. Jimmy, I
lied!”
“Lied to me?”
“Yes. I wasn’t dying from consumption, Jimmy. I lied to yuh, because I
knowed you’d help me. You always helped others. I went to work for the
Box M outfit, while you was in jail.
“I was afraid to touch that money I had hid under the floor of the old
cabin. I heard that you had died in prison, and it almost drove me crazy
thinkin’ about it. I—I got drunk and bragged about finding money under
the cabin floor.”
Whitey’s voice croaked to a stop and he shut his eyes. Jimmy thought for
a moment that Whitey had passed on, but he recovered.
“Wild Moore got the money, Jimmy. He didn’t know who it belonged to. He
went to Cottonwood, where he made a killin’ at roulette. I knew he got
it, and I told him so. Wild was square about it, and gave me back the
original money. It’s cached under the bunk-house floor at the Box M.”
Whitey’s voice drifted to a weak whisper again. “Bud Deal and I stole
the cattle that Wild was arrested for. We knew they couldn’t cinch him.
Bud Deal shot the Injun and cached the body, but I reckon the bullet was
too soft or the old buck’s head was too hard. Gawd, I wish he’d let me
alone, Jimmy.”
“Who double-crossed ye, Whitey?” asked Jimmy.
“Bud Deal. We—” Whitey seemed to be groping for words. “We robbed a
train. I—I got shot—Bud—shot—fireman. I—I—Jimmy, Bud lifted the
cache, —— his sneakin’ soul! Have yuh got a pencil and paper, Jimmy? I—I
can’t live long and I—want—to—write—it—out.”
Jimmy searched his pockets, but he knew it was useless. He had paper,
but no pencil.
“Have ye no pencil, Whitey?”
Whitey shook his head weakly.
“No, Jimmy.”
He seemed to slide lower in the rocks and his eyes closed wearily. Jimmy
shook him, but there was no response. Klooch sniffed at him and turned
away.
Jimmy sat down on his heels and considered his next move. Whitey was
dying, and with his death would go all hope of clearing the Devlin name.
He realized that he could not carry Whitey around that cliff and down to
the horse. The old Indian had twisted on his side and was staring at
Jimmy, with flat, lack-luster eyes.
“What you talk?” asked Jimmy. “_Sabe_ English?”
The Indian did not even blink. Jimmy was not familiar with the different
Indian tongues, but he did know a little of Chinook, the trade-language.
“_Kumtuks Chinook?_” he asked.