THE GREAT SHOW-DOWN
Down the slope from the wind-swept summit into the valley rode the posse
of Jake Bush. Their horses, too, were gaunted with scant feed and hard
work. Like the men who had preceded them these were unkempt, strained of
eye. Rennie rode in the lead, his eyes on the trail. The eyes of the
others prodded and tested the valley into which they were descending.
By various signs they knew they were closing the gap which separated
them from their quarry. When they reached the abandoned camp they
dismounted and Rennie and Bush tested the ashes.
"Warm where they ain't wet," said Bush. "This is the earliest we've ever
struck their camp yet. They made slow time yesterday. Can't be many
hours ahead."
"Looks to me like their horses is playin' out," Rennie agreed. "Well,
let's get goin'."
They rode on down the valley. The trail was plain, and the tracks of
horses in the vanishing light snow. They strung along at a steady jog.
From the left, clean and sharp came the vibrant crash of a rifle shot.
Instantly the hills took it up, flinging it in echoes back and forth.
But with the echoes came other shots, not clear but blunt, muffled,
multiplying the riot of sound. They jerked their horses to a standstill.
"Not more 'n a mile away," said Rennie. "Them boys is further ahead. It
can't be them."
"We'll darn soon see," said Bush.
They turned in the direction of the shots, spreading out riding slowly.
And presently they came upon a pony standing with dropped reins.
"Why," Turkey exclaimed, "it's Paul Sam's! I'd know that cayuse
anywhere."
There was no mistaking the calico pony. Angus, too recognized it. If
Paul Sam were there it could be but for one purpose.
"Ride slow," Bush advised. "We don't want to overlook anything."
But in less than five hundred yards they came upon tragedy. Paul Sam and
Blake lay as they had fallen. In the background a gaunt horse raised his
head for a moment from his browsing.
They dismounted, ringing the prostrate figures around. Bush removed his
hat, not out of respect for the dead, but to scratch his head.
"Gosh!" he observed inadequately. Rennie loosened the old fingers from
the knife haft and made a swift examination. He picked up a rifle
cartridge, unexploded, with the cap faintly dinted.
"Missed fire!" he said. "Then Blake took the gun away from him and went
for his six-shooter and the old man went for his knife. Lord!"
Angus said nothing. He felt he had been defrauded, hardly used. By day
and by night one vision had haunted him--Faith's soft throat, bruised
and discolored. Just so he had made up his mind to kill Blake, with his
hands, repaying him measure for measure. His disappointment was bitter.
"The old man beat you to it," said Rennie, "but I guess he had the right
to, if he could."
Angus nodded. It was true enough. But Turkey was picking up the
scattered money which Blake had let fall. It opened a field for
speculation. No doubt this was some of Braden's money, and the brothers
had divided with Blake. But why had Blake quit them? Bush made a shrewd
guess.
"Blake wasn't no game bird," he said. "He'd quit any time rather than go
to a show-down. Mabbe that was what he was tryin' to do."
"And bumped into one," said Rennie. "But I wonder! We're gettin' close,
and it ain't so far to the Cache now. It wouldn't do 'em no good to get
there with us right behind. They might make a stand and take a chance."
"Or bushwhack us," the deputy suggested. "Us ridin' along single file in
some bad place and them shootin' from cover--hell! we'd be down and
kickin' before we could draw a gun."
"That's so," Rennie replied thoughtfully. "We'd better go careful. Well,
I s'pose we better try to bury these dead folks while we're here."
"The Injun, anyway," said Bush. "Give him the best of it."
They did the best they could, and built above with stones. Then they
went back and took up the pursuit, holding on till darkness hid the
trail. By daylight they were away, and even earlier than before they
came upon the deserted camp.
And now the old trail began to ascend. It led into a country wild and
rugged, the jagged vertebrae of a mountain range seamed and scarred with
gulch and canon. It was very bad for horses and very hard work for
everybody. But signs showed that they were very near their quarry.
"We're darn near on top of 'em," said Rennie, and thereafter he rode
with gun in hand.
But it was late in the afternoon when they got their first glimpse of
the fugitives, who were rounding a bare shoulder ahead and above them.
Two were riding and one was leading his horse. They themselves were not
seen for a growth of brush at that point of the trail intervened. They
looked to Bush for instructions.
"There ain't much sun left and they'll be goin' into camp soon," the
deputy said. "We'll leave the horses here with one man, and the rest of
us go ahead. While they're makin' camp we'll stand 'em up. What say,
Dave?"
"Who stays with the horses?"
"Turkey," Bush decided. "He's the youngest."
"I'm damned if I do," Turkey rebelled. "Stay yourself. You're the
oldest."
Bush grinned. "Can't, sonny, though I'd love to." He drew a dilapidated
pack of cards from his pocket and spread them fanwise. "Draw one. Low
stays. Deuce is low."
Drury drew low, cursed his luck. McClintock on one knee lacing a
shoepack grinned at him.
"I wisht you'd sponge off my cayuse's back, Joe. He's gettin' sore.
While you're about it, with nothin' else to do, you might go over the
whole lot."
Drury's retort put his first outburst in the shade. Laughter stirred him
to fresh efforts.
"Now, boys!" said Bush.
He took the lead, Rennie behind him, then Angus.
Angus was glad to be out of the saddle, and glad, too, that the end of
the chase was at hand. With the death of Blake much of his interest in
it had vanished. There was still Gavin, who if Braden's dying
declaration was to be believed had killed his father. But strangely
enough he felt little or no enmity toward him. He thought he should
feel more. Turkey, behind him, spoke.
"I guess this is the finish of that bunch. If they start anything, we
want to get Gavin--if he killed father."
Angus was silent for a moment. There was the possibility that it would
not be a one-sided affair. He was not troubled for himself, but Turkey
was rash.
"Don't take any chances, kid, if there is trouble."
"Not a chance," Turkey replied cheerfully. "Anybody that beats me to the
trigger will have to go some."
"That wasn't what I meant. Look after yourself. Don't get hurt."
"Are you trying to tell me to play it safe?" Turkey demanded with
virtuous indignation. "Why I ought to report you to Bush. Look after
yourself. You're married. Play it safe! Huh! You bet I will--with a fast
gun."
But the sun was going down. Unless the fugitives suspected something
they would soon be making camp. Now and then Bush stopped to listen.
None now spoke above a whisper. It was like the last hundred yards of a
long, hard stalk of big game. In this case the game was big enough, and
dangerous. Mistakes could not be afforded.
Bush stopped suddenly. Distinct in the stillness came the quick
"lick-lock" of an ax. The deputy nodded.
They came upon the camp. It was on a little flat at the mouth of a wild
draw, a little glade fringed with brush, through which ran a trickle of
a spring creek. At one side the horses, unsaddled, grazed. Gavin, at the
other side, was dragging in a dry pole for firewood. Gerald knelt beside
a freshly kindled fire. Larry was getting food from a sack.
It was Larry who saw them almost at the instant they saw him. He cried a
warning. Gerald rose swiftly. Gavin dropped his pole. Bush stepped
forward and held up his hand.
"I want you boys," he said.
"You can't have us," Gerald replied. "That's cold, Bush."
"Don't be foolish," Bush advised. "I want you, and I'm going to get you.
And that's cold, too."
"Then fly at it!" Gerald cried, and with the words jerked his gun and
fired.
Bush staggered, twisted and went down; but he drew his gun as he did so
and began to shoot from the ground. The lonely mountain camp became an
inferno of shattering, rolling sound.
Angus felt his hat lift as in a sudden squall. At the same moment Turkey
spun half around and against him, destroying his aim.
"I'm all right!" the youngster gasped, and in proof of his assertion
fired.
Bustede, his right arm hanging, had dropped his rifle and was struggling
to draw his six-shooter with his left hand. McClintock, on one knee, was
working the lever of his rifle like a saw. Rennie, a gun in either hand,
unhooked them in a rattling roar.
Suddenly Gerald pitched forward on his face. Larry doubled up and went
down. But Gavin was apparently unhurt. He saw his brothers fall. For an
instant he stood looking at them. Then he turned and bounded for the
sheltering brush. With the rush of a bull moose he crashed into it while
a sleet of lead cut twigs around him, and disappeared.
"Git him!" Bush croaked from the ground. "Git him, somebody. Oh, sink my
soul for all rotten shootin'! Six guns-and he makes the timber! Agh-r!"
Angus stooped for an instant over Turkey. The youngster, very white of
face, was sitting on the ground; but he was outcursing Bush.
"Are you hurt much? Where?"
"Not much. My shoulder. Get him, damn him! Get him for father!"
Angus found Rennie running beside him. It was impossible to trail the
fugitive. All they could do was to keep on up the draw and trust to
luck. But the pace and the rough ground soon told on Rennie.
"I can't travel no more," he gasped. "Too old. You go ahead."
"Go back and help the boys," Angus said. "There's a moon to-night and I
may not be back. If I don't find him I'll come in in the morning."
"Be darn sure you do come in. Don't take no chances."
Angus ran on up the draw. Now that he was alone he began to put forth
his strength and speed while the light should last. He was sure that
Gavin would make for the higher ground. He would cross the summit of
that range, and go ahead for the Cache. Though he had neither food nor
outfit he had his six-shooter and presumably ammunition and matches.
Angus knew that he himself would suffer little more than inconvenience
if he were in Gavin's place.
The draw narrowed, and steep hills closed in on either hand. He turned
to the right and began to climb. Darkness overtook him and he stopped.
The cold chilled his sweating body with the cessation of motion, but
Gavin was as badly off. When the moon rose he went on again, but it was
slow work. Objects were distorted. Shadows lay where he would have had
light. Once he slipped and fell, slithering twenty feet and barely
saving himself from an almost perpendicular drop of a hundred. He
crawled back with difficulty, but his rifle was gone. He had heard it
clang far below him. However, he had his belt gun, and so was on a par
with Gavin.
His objective was what seemed to be a notch in the summit. It was what
he would make for were he in Gavin's place. He toiled upward
methodically, without hurry now, for there might be a long trail ahead.
If Gavin could go to the Cache so could he. The timber began to thin
out, to stunt. Trees were dwarfed, twisted by the mountain winds, mere
miniatures. Presently they ceased altogether. He was above timberline.
There the thin snow partially covered the ground, increasing the
difficulty of travel. But its actinic qualities gave more light. It was
past midnight, and the moon was well up. He had been traveling for more
than seven hours.
For a moment he paused to rest, his lungs feeding greedily on the thin,
cold air, and surveyed the scene below. It was a black fur of tree-tops,
rolling, undulating, cleft with lines of greater darkness indicating
greater depths. He could look over the tops of lesser mountains. Above
were the peaks of the range, whitened spires against the sky.
In those far heights of the mountain wilderness one seemed to touch the
rim of space itself. The moon, the night, the height produced an effect
of unspeakable vastness. It seemed to press in, to enfold the tiny atom
crawling upon and clinging to the surface of the earth. There finite and
infinite made contact. It was like the world's end, the _Ultima Thule_
of ancient man.
Some such thoughts, vague, scarcely formed, passed through his mind.
The ranch, ploughed land, houses, seemed to belong to another world.
Once more he began to climb, and now that he was close to the summit the
going was easier. Suddenly he stopped. There, clear in the moonlight,
was the track of a moccasin-clad foot.
There was no doubt that it was Gavin's. Knowing his own pace Angus knew
that the big man could not be far ahead. No doubt he would keep going,
over the summit and down the other side, for timber. Once in the timber,
with a fire, he would rest. His trail across would be covered by the
first wind. He would not suspect that any one would or could follow him
by night.
Angus followed the trail easily by the bright moonlight, noting grimly
that the length of the stride was almost identical with his own. The
prints were clean, showing that the feet had been cleanly lifted and set
down, token of energy unimpaired.
When he reached the summit he took a careful survey. It was a desolate
plateau, swept and scoured by the winds and rains and snow of unnumbered
centuries. On it nothing grew. Here and there bowlders loomed blackly.
But nothing moved. Apparently, it was as bare of life as the dead
mountains of the moon. The trail led straight on.
Satisfied of this, Angus followed the trail at speed. Now and then it
turned out to avoid a bowlder, but otherwise it went straight ahead, as
though no doubt of direction existed in its maker's mind. Presently it
swung around a huge rock and then turned north. Angus glanced casually
at the bowlder and passed by; but he had taken no more than three
strides in the new direction when a voice behind him commanded:
"Stop! Put up your hands!"