THE RED AVENGER
Many miles beyond the head waters of Copper Creek four men rode along
the crest of a sparsely timbered summit. Their horses were weary,
gaunted with scant, frost-burnt feed. The riders were unkempt, unshaven,
their eyes reddened by much staring into distances and the ceaseless
pour of the mountain winds. The wind was now blowing strongly. It was
very cold, and they bent against it, their hats pulled low, their
collars high. Along the summit on which they rode and even along its
flanks lay thin snow, the first of the coming winter. But above, on the
higher ranges, it lay thickly white on the peaks and in the great
gulches, promise of the twenty or thirty or forty feet of it which would
fall before Spring, as it had fallen on that high roof of the world for
ages.
On the second day on the Copper the fugitives had discovered that they
had not shaken off pursuit. It clung to them doggedly, tenaciously. Once
through binoculars they had seen their pursuers across the width of a
mountain valley. Little figures, seven of them, had ridden across the
field of the lens focused on a barren patch of hillside. They could make
a very fair guess at the identity of some of the men. With the discovery
they had made extra speed.
Then they had got off the trail, which was ancient, faint, overgrown.
Left to himself Gavin, who was the pilot, would likely have steered a
correct course, for he had much of that intuition which for lack of a
better term may be called sense of direction, and an eye for the
general configuration of country. But he was in a hurry and his brothers
obtruded advice. And so Gavin went astray. Half a day's travel converted
suspicion of this to certainty. The only thing to do was to angle
forward in the general direction in which the old trail might be
supposed to lie.
It is one thing to travel following the line of least resistance; but it
is quite another to hold for any definite objective point. Immediately,
obstacles interposed. All of a sudden, as it seemed, things went wrong.
Their way was barred by swift creeks, rocks, tangled wind-falls piled
high. These had to be circumnavigated. One pack pony was drowned in a
sudden dip of what looked like a fordable stream. The other slipped,
sprained his shoulder and could not travel. They shot him, and took his
load between them. At last they regained what was presumably the old
trail. The one redeeming feature was that in their wanderings, they
might have shaken off pursuit. But the next morning, looking back,
behind and below them but on their line of travel, they saw smoke. The
pursuit had even gained.
Now the old trail grew better, clearer, so that they did not have to
worry about that; but they did worry about the way their pursuers hung
on. Of what profit was it to traverse this sea of mountains and emerge
with these hunters at their heels? As they rode, bending against the
keen wind that swept the great ridge, this problem lay in the mind of
each.
But Blake viewed it from an angle of his own. He had thrown in his lot
with his brothers in panic, relying on them, feeling the safety of
numbers. But the pursuit that dogged was primarily of them and not of
him. Then he had made a mistake in joining them. Garland was a wise bird
in striking off by himself. That was what he should have done. He should
have known it would be assumed that he had gone with his brothers. He
had been a fool.
And there was another consideration. He knew very well that the boys did
not intend to be taken. If he stayed with them he would have to fight.
Angus or Turkey, or even Rennie would shoot him on sight, and in all
probability one or more of them was with the bunch behind. Obviously the
thing to do was to quit his brothers and let them draw the pursuit. But
the devil of it was he had no money. They, however, had what they had
taken from Braden. He did not know how much, but it must be a lot. They
ought to share up with him. He considered that he had a grievance
against them.
Toward evening they came to the end of the ridge and began a long
descent into a high valley. They struck timber and shelter from the
wind, and water. There they camped. But though feed was short and
frost-burnt, they dared not let their horses range, keeping them on
ropes.
Supper over they sat close to the fire, smoking, following their own
thoughts. Gerald regarded the blaze through half-closed eyes; Gavin,
motionless his chin in his hand stared straight ahead; but young Larry,
on one elbow, frowning, impatient, jerked cones and bits of stick at the
fire with vicious flips of the wrist. Finally he sat upright.
"Oh, what the _hell_!" he said, in tones of nervous irritation.
Gerald's half-veiled eyes shifted to him; Gavin turned his head.
"Well?" the latter asked.
"What's the use of this?" the young man demanded. "How long are we going
to be chased all over these hills? I wouldn't kick if we were making a
get-away--but we aren't. This bunch is right on our heels. What good
does it do us to keep going? Not a damned bit! Wherever we come out
they'll be right on top of us."
"The kid's right," Gerald observed.
"Well?" said Gavin again.
"Why not let it come to a show-down now?" Larry asked. "Let's make a
stand. There's only seven of them, near as we can tell." He laughed
recklessly. "Whoever loses out stays in these damned hills for keeps."
"Larry's right," said Gerald again.
"He may be," Gavin admitted. "Make a stand, hey?" He stretched his great
arms slowly. "Four of us, seven of them. Well, I'm game, if you are.
They're apt to have some pretty good men. Some of us are due to stay in
these hills, as Larry says."
"Sure," Gerald agreed. "But the hills are better than the pen. We're all
in the same boat."
"I don't know about that," Blake put in.
"Since you mention it," said Gerald, "maybe we're not. If young Turkey
or Rennie is with that bunch they're out to get you." Blake shifted
uneasily, and Gerald sneered. "I'll bet a hundred they _do_ get you,
too."
"You want the big end," said young Larry.
"You talk about being in the same boat," said Blake. "Well, I didn't
shoot Braden, nor get any of his money. You held out on me. You thought
you could get it yourselves. You wouldn't let me in on it."
"Well?"
"Well, why the devil should I help you stand off that bunch, then?
They're after you, not me."
"Has anybody asked you to?" Gerald retorted. "And nobody asked you to
come with us, if it comes to that."
"You had the fear of God in your heart and you begged to come," Larry
told him. "You say you shot up Mackay, but you wouldn't tell why. And
now, when things are getting hot, you want to quit and sneak off by
yourself. I know what you're thinking. Quit and be damned, then! You
never were any good. You never had the sand of a white rabbit."
Blake blustered, cursing his younger brother. The latter leaped to his
feet. But Gavin interposed.
"Sit down, Larry. Blake, do you want to quit us? If you do, say so.
There are no strings on you."
"If I did want to, I couldn't," Blake growled. "You know blame' well I
haven't got any money."
Gavin eyed him in silence for a moment.
"I'll fix the money part," he said. Reaching into his warbag he drew
forth a package of bills. He split it in half without counting, tossing
one half to Blake as he would have tossed a bone to a dog. "There you
are! Anything else?"
"Well, I don't want--" Blake began, but Gavin cut him short.
"You needn't lie. I've seen this in the back of your mind for days.
You'll go now, whether you want to or not! Our trails fork in the
morning, and you play your own hand. But if you try to save your hide by
helping that bunch back there, I'll kill you. And that's cold!"
Blake could not meet the cold blue eyes that bored into his.
"You held out on me in the first place," he said. "This is your show,
not mine."
"You--" Larry began.
"Shut up!" said Gavin. "Let him alone. Take what grub you want in the
morning, Blake, and go your own way. And now I'm going to sleep."
He rolled his blanket around him and lay down. Gerald and Larry followed
his example. Blake, to show his indifference, set by the fire for a
time, smoking sullenly; but soon he too turned in.
It was dark when he awoke, but Gavin was already cooking breakfast,
Larry and Gerald rolling blankets. He shared the meal, but nobody spoke
to him. Larry brought in three horses, but Blake had to go for his own.
Fresh snow, fallen in the night, lay on the ground, but it was merely a
skift which would go with the sun.
The east was rose and gold when they mounted. High to the westward the
sun, as yet invisible, struck the eastern face of a great snow-wrapped
peak, playing on it dazzlingly. The cold of the high altitudes nipped;
the breath of the gaunt horses hung in steam.
At the head of the little cavalcade Gavin led the way down a sloping
shoulder into the valley. Blake followed, uncertain what to do. When the
valley opened Gavin pulled up.
"Here's where we break, Blake."
"All right," he replied sullenly. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."
"I said we broke here."
"I've got to get out of these mountains, haven't I? This is the only
way."
"You wanted to quit us," said Gavin, "and now you have to."
"All right," Blake replied. "I'll quit you, if you want it that way."
Without a word of farewell his brothers rode on. Blake watched them go.
Their wordless contempt had stung him, and he hated them. He hoped
sincerely that they would be caught.
His own immediate plans were simple. He would ride a few miles off the
trail till Bush and his posse went by. Then he would make up his mind
just what to do. He might take the back trail when they had gone on. He
would see.
He took care to leave the trail on rocky ground. The thin snow which
still lay was unfortunate, but did not greatly matter once he was off
the trail. In an hour or two it would be gone. He rode for a mile, which
for his purpose was as good as five or ten, and dismounting let his
horse feed. He found a place where the sun struck warmly, filled his
pipe and lay down, his back against a rock.
He counted the money which Gavin had thrown him. It amounted to more
than two thousand dollars. That would help some. He was better off than
if he had stayed with his brothers. Lord, yes! He was safe as a church.
His eyes half-closed, he enjoyed his pipe, thinking things over. He made
a mess of that Mackay business. When you came right down to it, he
should not have laid hands on Faith. But he would have had the deeds out
of her if Garland had not weakened. But for Garland there would have
been no necessity for this get-away. Garland had got him into the thing.
Damn Garland! And damn women! They were all fools. Take that klootch.
How the devil could she expect a white man to marry her? She wasn't bad
for a klootch, but as a wife--good night!
The pipe had lost its flavor. Blake tapped it out, rose, and started
back with an involuntary cry. Just back of the rock against which he
had been leaning stood Paul Sam.
The old Indian raised his rifle.
"S'pose you move," he said, "you go mimaloos." Blake froze into
immobility. "You go mimaloos, anyway," the old man added; "but first me
talk to you."
A great fear laid hold upon Blake. The old Indian's features were
impassive, but his eyes were bleak and hard. He lowered the rifle to the
level of his waist, but its muzzle still dominated. Blake's rifle leaned
against the rock, out of reach. His six-shooter was in his belt, but he
knew better than to try for it. He stood motionless, staring at the
seamed features of the Indian.
"Me talk to you," Paul Sam repeated in soft, clucking gutterals. "Ole
man, me; young man, you. You white man; me Injun. Very ole man, me. All
the men that were young with me go mimaloos many years ago. My wife she
go mimaloos. My son and his wife they go mimaloos. Only one of my blood
is left, my son's daughter--Mary!"
He paused for a moment.
"There is no one else of my blood. Me raise hiyu kuitan, hiyu moos-moos,
all for her when me die. One time this country all Injun. Pretty soon no
more Injun. All white. Injun way no good now. All white man's way. So me
send her to school to learn the white man's way.
"She come back to my house. When me look at her me think of many things,
of many people who go mimaloos many years ago. It is good for an ole man
to have the young of his blood in his house, for in them his youth
lives.
"There comes a time when this girl who is the last of my blood, is sad.
No more laugh; no more sing. Me not know why. Me ole man. Mebbe-so me
blind ole fool. Me never think of--that! When she is dead--then me hear
of _you_!"
The Indian paused. Blake spoke, moistening dry lips.
"I hadn't anything to do with Mary."
"You lie!" the old man returned. "You bring shame on her and on me. So
me kill you."
There was no passion in his voice; but there was finality, judgment
inexorable. It was the logical conclusion, worked out, demonstrated
according to his rules.
Blake's face blanched. In fancy, as he stared at it, he could see the
red stab of flame leap and feel the shock of lead. Was there no way of
escape? He glanced around. There was nothing save the mountain
wilderness, the serene heights of the peaks, the blue autumn sky, a
soaring golden eagle. His eyes came back to the rifle muzzle. His mouth
opened, but words would not come.
"Mebbe-so you like pray?" Paul Sam suggested calmly. Blake found his
voice.
"I have money," he said. "Look! lots of money. Take it. For God's sake,
don't kill me. I didn't mean--I didn't know--"
For the first time a glint of bitter anger leaped into the old man's
eyes.
"Money!" he said. "You think I take money for a dead woman of my blood
and for my shame. Now me kill you all same wolf!"
The rifle rose, steadied, pointed at Blake's heart. The old finger
crooked on the trigger. The hammer fell with a click. For some
reason--worn firing pin, weak spring, or defective cartridge--the weapon
failed to explode.
Paul Sam's hand jerked down with the lever to throw another shell into
place. But Blake in that instant of reprieve took his chance. With a
leap he hurled himself forward and caught the barrel, throwing it aside,
feeling the flame of the explosion heat the metal beneath his fingers.
The report smashed out in the stillness of the valley, racketing and
rolling against the hills.
Blake wrenched the rifle from the old man's hands and threw it far. His
fear was gone, his face contorted with passion. He reached for his
revolver. As he did so Paul Sam drew a nine-inch knife from its beaded
scabbard and struck as a snake strikes.
With a screaming oath Blake shoved the muzzle of the six-shooter against
him and pulled the trigger. The blunt report was muffled by the body.
But again the knife, now red to the hilt, rose and fell, and again the
gun barked like a kenneled dog. And then Blake reeled backward, his eyes
wide, the gun escaping from his hand, and fell on his back horribly
asprawl. With him fell Paul Sam. But the old Indian's fingers were
locked around the haft of the knife, and the haft stood out of Blake's
breast. And so they lay together as the rolling echoes died and the
stillness of the great hills came again.