WOLVES OF THE RANGE
Lambert left his horse at the saloon hitching-rack while he went to the
store. Business was brisk in that place, also, requiring a wait of half
an hour before his turn came. In a short time thereafter he completed
his purchases, tied his package to his saddle, and was ready to go home.
The sound of revelry was going forward again in the saloon, the
mechanical banjo plugging away on its tiresome tune. There was a gap
here and there at the rack where horses had been taken away, but most of
them seemed to be anchored there for the night, standing dejectedly with
drooping heads.
The tinkle of Alta's guitar sounded through the open window of the hotel
parlor as he passed, indicating that Taterleg was still in that harbor.
It would be selfish to call him, making the most as he was of a clear
field. Lambert smiled as he recalled the three-cornered rivalry for
Alta's bony hand.
There was a lemon-rind slice of new moon low in the southwest, giving a
dusky light, the huddling sage clumps at the roadside blotches of
deepest shadow. Lambert ruminated on the trouble that had been laid out
for him that night as he rode away from town, going slowly, in no hurry
to put walls between him and the soft, pleasant night.
He was confronted by the disadvantage of an unsought notoriety, or
reputation, or whatever his local fame might be called. A man with a
fighting name must live up to it, however distasteful the strife and
turmoil, or move beyond the circle of his fame. Move he would not, could
not, although it seemed a foolish thing, on reflection, to hang on there
in the lure of Grace Kerr's dark eyes.
What could a man reasonably expect of a girl with such people as Sim
Hargus as her daily associates? Surely she had been schooled in their
warped view of justice, as her act that day proved. No matter for Omaha
and its refinements, she must be a savage under the skin. But gentle or
savage, he had a tender regard for her, a feeling of romantic sympathy
that had been groping out to find her as a plant in a pit strains toward
the light. Now, in the sunshine of her presence, would it flourish and
grow green, or wither in its mistaken worship and die?
Vesta had warned him, not knowing anything of the peculiar circumstances
which brought him to that place, or of his discovery, which seemed a
revelation of fate, the conjunction of events shaped before his entry
upon the stage, indeed. She had warned him, but in the face of things as
they had taken place, what would it avail a man to turn his back on the
arrangements of destiny? As it was written, so it must be lived. It was
not in his hand or his heart to change it.
Turning these things in his mind, flavoring the bitter in the prospect
with the sweet of romance, he was drawn out of his wanderings by the
sudden starting of his horse. It was not a shying start, but a
stiffening of attitude, a leap out of laxity into alertness, with a
lifting of the head, a fixing of the ears as if on some object ahead,
of which it was at once curious and afraid.
Lambert was all tension in a breath. Ahead a little way the road
branched at the point of the hill leading to the Philbrook house. His
road lay to the right of the jutting plowshare of hill which seemed
shaped for the mere purpose of splitting the highway. The other branch
led to Kerr's ranch, and beyond. The horse was plainly scenting
something in this latter branch of the road, still hidden by the bushes
which grew as tall there as the head of a man on horseback.
As the horse trotted on, Lambert made out something lying in the road
which looked, at that distance, like the body of a man. Closer approach
proved this to be the case, indeed. Whether the man was alive or dead,
it was impossible to determine from the saddle, but he lay in a huddled
heap as if he had been thrown from a horse, his hat in the road some
feet beyond.
Whetstone would not approach nearer than ten or twelve feet. There he
stood, swelling his sides with long-drawn breaths, snorting his
warning, it seemed, expressing his suspicion in the best manner that he
could command. Lambert spoke to him, but could not quiet his fear. He
could feel the sensitive creature tremble under him, and took it as
certain that the man must be dead.
Dismounting, he led the horse and bent over the man in the road. He
could see the fellow's shoulder move as he breathed, and straightened up
with a creeping of apprehension that this might be a trap to draw him
into just such a situation as he found himself that moment. The
nervousness of his horse rather increased than quieted, also, adding
color to his fear.
His foot was in the stirrup when a quick rush sounded behind him. He saw
the man on the ground spring to his feet, and quick on the consciousness
of that fact there came a blow that stretched him as stiff as a dead
man.
Lambert came to himself with a half-drowned sense of suffocation. Water
was falling on his head, pouring over his face, and there was the
confused sound of human voices around him. As he cleared he realized
that somebody was standing over him, pouring water on his head. He
struggled to get from under the drowning stream. A man laughed, shook
him, cursed him vilely close to his ear.
"Wake up, little feller, somebody's a-cuttin' your fence!" said another,
taking hold of him from the other side.
"Don't hurt him, boys," admonished a third voice, which he knew for
Berry Kerr's--"this is the young man who has come to the Bad Lands with
a mission. He's going to teach people to take off their hats to
barbed-wire fences. I wouldn't have him hurt for a keg of nails."
He came near Lambert now, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked him with
a gentle kindness how he felt.
Lambert did not answer him, for he had no words adequate to describe his
feelings at that moment to a friend, much less an enemy whose intentions
were unknown. He sat, fallen forward, in a limp and miserable heap,
drenched with water, clusters of fire gathering and breaking like
showers of a rocket before his eyes. His head throbbed and ached in
maddening pain. This was so great that it seemed to submerge every
faculty save that of hearing, to paralyze him so entirely that he could
not lift a hand. That blow had all but killed him.
"Let him alone--he'll be all right in a minute," said Kerr's voice,
sounding close to his ear as if he stooped to examine him.
One was standing behind Lambert, knees against his back to prevent his
entire collapse. The others drew off a little way. There followed the
sound of horses, as if they prepared to ride. It seemed as if the great
pain in Lambert's head attended the return of consciousness, as it
attends the return of circulation. It soon began to grow easier,
settling down to a throb with each heartbeat, as if all his life forces
rushed to that spot and clamored against his skull to be released. He
stiffened, and sat straight.
"I guess you can stick on your horse now," said the man behind him.
The fellow left him at that. Lambert could see the heads and shoulders
of men, the heads of horses, against the sky, as if they were below the
river bank. He felt for his gun. No surprise was in store for him there;
it was gone.
He was unable to mount when they brought his horse. He attempted it, in
confusion of senses that made it seem the struggle of somebody whom he
watched and wanted to help, but could not. They lifted him, tied his
feet under the horse, his hands to the saddle-horn. In this fashion they
started away with him, one riding ahead, one on either hand. He believed
that one or more came following, but of this he was not sure.
He knew it would be useless to make inquiry of their intentions. That
would bring down on him derision, after their savage way. Stolidly as an
Indian he rode among them to what end he could not imagine; but at the
worst, he believed they would not go beyond some further torture of him
to give him an initiation into what he must expect unless he accepted
their decree that he quit the country forthwith.
As his senses cleared Lambert recognized the men beside him as Sim
Hargus and the half-Indian, Tom. Behind him he believed Nick Hargus
rode, making it a family party. In such hands, with such preliminary
usage, it began to look very grave for him.
When they saw there was no danger of his collapse, they began to
increase their pace. Bound as he was, every step of the horse was
increased torture to Lambert. He appealed to Sim Hargus to release his
hands.
"You can tie them behind me if you're afraid," he suggested.
Hargus cursed him, refusing to ease his situation. Kerr turned on
hearing this outburst and inquired what it meant. Hargus repeated the
prisoner's request with obscene embellishment. They made no secret of
each other's identity, speaking familiarly, as if in the presence of one
who would make no future charges. Kerr found the request reasonable, and
ordered Hargus to tie Lambert's hands at his back.
"I guess you might as well take your last ride comfortable, kid," Hargus
commented, as he shifted the bonds.
They proceeded at a trot, keeping it up for two hours or more. Lambert
knew it was about ten o'clock when he stopped to investigate the man in
the road. There was a feel in the air now that told him it was far past
the turn of night. He knew about where they were in relation to the
ranch by this time, for a man who lives in the open places develops his
sense of direction until it serves him as a mole's in its underground
tunneling.
There was no talking among his conductors, no sound but the tramp of the
horses in unceasing trot, the scraping of the bushes on the stirrups as
they passed. Lambert's legs were drawn close to his horse's belly, his
feet not in the stirrups, and tied so tightly that he rode in painful
rigidity. The brush caught the loose stirrups and flung them against
Whetstone's sides, treatment that he resented with all the indignation
of a genuine range horse. The twisting and jumping made Lambert's
situation doubly uncomfortable. He longed for the end of the journey, no
matter what awaited him at its conclusion.
For some time Lambert had noticed a glow as of a fire directly ahead of
them. It grew and sank as if being fed irregularly, or as if smoke blew
before it from time to time. Presently they rounded the base of a hill
and came suddenly upon the fire, burning in a gulch, as it seemed,
covering a large area, sending up a vast volume of smoke.
Lambert had seen smoke in this direction many times while riding fence,
but could not account for it then any more than he could now for a
little while as he stood facing its origin. Then he understood that this
was a burning vein of lignite, such as he had seen traces of in the
gorgeously colored soil in other parts of the Bad Lands where the fires
had died out and cooled long ago.
These fires are peculiar to the Bad Lands, and not uncommon there, owing
their origin to forest or prairie blazes which spread to the exposed
veins of coal. As these broad, deep deposits of lignite lie near the
surface, the fire can be seen through crevasses and fallen sections of
crust. Sometimes they burn for years.
At the foot of the steep bank on which Lambert and his captors stood the
crust had caved, giving the fire air to hasten its ravages. The mass of
slow-moving fire glowed red and intense, covered in places by its own
ashes, now sending up sudden clouds of smoke as an indraft of air
livened the combustion, now smoldering in sullen dullness, throwing off
a heat that made the horses draw back.
Kerr drew aside on arriving at the fire, and sat his horse looking at
it, the light on his face. Sim Hargus pointed to the glowing pit.
"That's our little private hell. What do you think of it, kid?" he said,
with his grunting, insulting sneer.
The fire was visible only in front of them, in a jagged, irregular strip
marking the cave-in of the crust. It ranged from a yard to ten yards
across, and appeared to extend on either hand a long distance. The bank
on which Lambert's horse stood formed one shore of this fiery stream,
which he estimated to be four yards or more across at that point. On the
other side a recent settling of earth had exposed the coal, which was
burning brightly in a fringe of red flame. Whether the fire underlay the
ground beyond that point Lambert could not tell.
"Quite a sight by night, isn't it?" said Kerr. "It covers several
acres," he explained, as if answering the speculation that rose,
irrelevantly in the face of his pain, humiliation and anxiety, in
Lambert's mind. What did it matter to him how much ground it covered, or
when it began, or when it would die, when his own life was as uncertain
that minute as a match-flame in the wind.
Why had they brought him there to show him that burning coal-pit? Not
out of any desire to display the natural wonders of the land. The answer
was in the fact itself. Only the diabolism of a savage mind could
contrive or countenance such barbarity as they had come to submit him
to.
"I lost several head of stock down below here a little way last winter,"
said Kerr. "They crowded out over the fire in a blizzard and broke
through. If a man was to ride in there through ignorance I doubt if he'd
ever be able to get out."
Kerr sat looking speculatively into the glowing pit below, the firelight
red over him in strong contrast of gleam and shadow. Sim Hargus leaned
to look Lambert in the face.
"You said I was to consider the two days I give you was up," said he.
"You understood it right," Lambert told him.
Hargus drew back his fist. Kerr interposed, speaking sharply.
"You'll not hit a man with his arms tied while I'm around, Sim," he
said.
"Let him loose, then--put him down before me on his feet!"
"Leave the kid alone," said Kerr, in his even, provoking voice. "I think
he's the kind of a boy that will take friendly advice if you come up on
the right side of him."
"Don't be all night about it," said Nick Hargus from his place behind
Lambert, breaking silence in sullen voice.
Kerr rode up to Lambert and took hold of his reins, stroking old
Whetstone's neck as if he didn't harbor an unkind thought for either man
or beast.
"It's this way, Duke," he said. "You're a stranger here; the customs of
this country are not the customs you're familiar with, and it's foolish,
very foolish, and maybe dangerous, for you to try to change things
around single-handed and alone. We've used you a little rougher than I
intended the boys to handle you, but you'll get over it in a little
while, and we're going to let you go this time.
"But we're going to turn you loose with the warning once more to clear
out of this country in as straight a line as you can draw, starting
right now, and keeping on till you're out of the state. You'll excuse us
if we keep your gun; you can send me your address when you land, and
I'll ship it to you. We'll have to start you off tied up, too, much as I
hate to do it. You'll find some way to get loose in a little while, I
guess, a man that's as resourceful and original as you."
Tom Hargus had not said a word since they left the river. Now he leaned
over and peered into Lambert's face with an expression of excited
malevolence, his eyes glittering in the firelight, his nostrils flaring
as if he drew exhilaration with every breath. He betrayed more of their
intentions than Kerr had discovered in his words; so much, indeed, that
Lambert's heart seemed to gush its blood and fall empty and cold.
Lambert forgot his throbbing head and tortured feet, and hands gorged
with blood to the strain of bursting below his tight-drawn bonds. The
realization of his hopeless situation rushed on him; he looked round him
to seize even the most doubtful opening that might lead him out of
their hands.
There was no chance. He could not wheel his horse without hand on rein,
no matter how well the willing beast obeyed the pressure of his knees
while galloping in the open field.
He believed they intended to kill him and throw his body in the fire.
Old Nick Hargus and his son had it in their power at last to take
satisfaction for the humiliation to which he had bent them. A thousand
regrets for his simplicity in falling into their trap came prickling him
with their momentary torture, succeeded by wild gropings, frantic
seekings, for some plan to get away.
He had no thought of making an appeal to them, no consideration of a
surrender of his manhood by giving his promise to leave the country if
they would set him free. He was afraid, as any healthy human is afraid
when he stands before a danger that he can neither defend against nor
assail. Sweat burst out on him; his heart labored and heaved in heavy
strokes.
Whatever was passing in his mind, no trace of it was betrayed in his
bearing. He sat stiff and erect, the red glow of the intense fire on his
face. His hat-brim was pressed back as the wind had held it in his ride,
the scar of Jim Wilder's knife a shadow adding to the grim strength of
his lean face. His bound arms drew his shoulders back, giving him a
defiant pose.
"Take him out there and head him the right way, boys," Kerr directed.
Tom Hargus rode ahead, leading Whetstone by the reins. Kerr was not
following. At Lambert's last sight of him he was still looking into the
fire, as if fascinated by the sight of it.
A hundred yards or less from the fire they stopped. Tom Hargus turned
Whetstone to face back the way they had come, threw the reins over the
saddle-horn, rode up so close Lambert could feel his breath in his face.
"You made me brush off a nigger's hat when you had the drop on me, and
carry a post five miles. That's the shoulder I carried it on!"
He drove his knife into Lambert's right shoulder with the words. The
steel grated on bone.
"I brushed a nigger off under your gun one time," said old Nick Hargus,
spurring up on the other side. "Now I'll brush you a little!"
Lambert felt the hot streak of a knife-blade in the thick muscle of his
back. Almost at the same moment his horse leaped forward so suddenly
that it wrenched every joint in his bound, stiff body, squealing in
pain. He knew that one of them had plunged a knife in the animal's
haunch. There was loud laughter, the sudden rushing of hooves, yells,
and curses as they came after him.
But no shots. For a moment Lambert hoped that they were to content
themselves with the tortures already inflicted and let him go, to find
his way out to help or perish in his bonds, as it might fall. For a
moment only, this hope. They came pressing after him, heading his horse
directly toward the fire. He struggled to bring pressure to old
Whetstone's ribs in the signal that he had answered a thousand times,
but he was bound so rigidly that his muscles only twitched on the bone.
Whetstone galloped on, mad in the pain of his wound, heading straight
toward the fire.
Lambert believed, as those who urged him on toward it believed, that no
horseman ever rode could jump that fiery gorge. On the brink of it his
pursuers would stop, while he, powerless to check or turn his horse,
would plunge over to perish in his bonds, smothered under his struggling
beast, pierced by the transcendent agonies of fire.
This was the last thought that rose coherently out of the turmoil of his
senses as the firepit opened before his eyes. He heard his horse squeal
again in the pain of another knife thrust to madden it to its
destructive leap. Then a swirl of the confused senses as of released
waters, the lift of his horse as it sprang, the heat of the fire in his
face.
The healthy human mind recoils from death, and there is no agency among
the destructive forces of nature which threatens with so much terror as
fire. The senses disband in panic before it, reason flees, the voice
appeals in its distress with a note that vibrates horror. In the threat
of death by fire, man descends to his primal levels; his tongue speaks
again the universal language, its note lending its horrified thrill to
the lowest thing that moves by the divine force of life.
As Lambert hung over the fire in that mighty leap, his soul recoiled.
His strength rushed into one great cry, which still tore at his throat
as his horse struck, racking him with a force that seemed to tear him
joint from joint.
The shock of this landing gathered his dispersed faculties. There was
fire around him, there was smoke in his nostrils, but he was alive. His
horse was on its feet, struggling to scramble up the bank on which it
had landed, the earth breaking under its hinder hoofs, threatening to
precipitate it back into the fire that its tremendous leap had cleared.