Just before utter blackness shut down on the land, Sandy McCrae
dismounted and stripped saddle and pack from his horses. He looked up
at the sky, shook his head, and, taking a light axe, cut two picket
pins; after which he staked the horses out in the abundant pasture at
the bottom of the draw, driving the pins in solidly beyond the
possibility of pulling. Then he set about making a hasty camp.
Beside him a little spring bubbled out of the bottom of the draw and
seeped away under tangled roots and fallen brush. A thirst-parched
stranger might have ridden past twenty times on the bench above without
suspecting its presence. The faint cattle trail leading to it entered
the draw a quarter of a mile away, and led along under low but almost
perpendicular banks.
Sandy's camp preparations were simple, but much more elaborate than if
the night had been clear. Then he would have made his fire, boiled
coffee, spread his bed, and gone to sleep beneath the stars; but
because of the ominous storm cloud he constructed a lean-to by driving
two forked stakes and joining them with a crosspiece. From these he
slanted two poles to the ground, and on the poles laid a tarp, lashing
it in place. The mouth of the lean-to faced away from the cloud bank.
In addition it had the partial shelter of cottonwoods in full leaf. In
this lean-to he collected his outfit. Next he made a fire and cooked
supper. Afterward he smoked, squatting in the mouth of his shelter,
staring silently at the dying embers, listening to the rising wind
sighing above him sweeping across the bare grasslands, but scarcely
fanning the coals in his protected camp.
He felt no loneliness whatever. Solitary camps and the love of them
were his by right of inheritance. He neither required nor desired
companionship. Fire, food, tobacco, and solitude satisfied his inmost
soul. This was the life he loved. The fact that he was a fugitive from
the law did not trouble him at all; it merely gave an added zest to the
situation. Just once he chuckled grimly as he recalled the faces of
Glass and Pugh when he had whirled on them, gun in hand. Glass had
interpreted his intentions very correctly; he would have shot either or
both on the slightest provocation. He was of the breed of the wolf,
accustomed from childhood to deadly weapons, brought up in tradition of
their use, and, like many outlaws who have bulked large in the history
of the West, young enough to act on impulse without counting the
ultimate cost.
As his little fire burned down he stepped out and regarded the darkened
heavens. A heavy drop of rain struck his face and a flash of lightning
ripped the black curtain, outlining bare banks, trees, and grazing
horses for a brief instant. Sandy shrugged his shoulders
philosophically. His shelter was good enough. He unrolled his bed, and,
by the simple process of removing moccasins and gun belt, was ready to
retire. He got into his blankets, taking his gun with him, and rolled
them around him, leaving his face exposed until the last.
"Now, darn you rain!" he muttered. With which "now-I-lay-me" he drew
the blanket completely over his head as a protection against
mosquitoes, and, heedless of the smothering effect of it, which would
have been unsupportable to a city youth, was asleep in ten seconds.
He slept for, perhaps, an hour. At the end of that time he suddenly
became wide awake. He could not have told what had aroused him, but he
was sure something had. He threw back the smothering blanket from his
head and lay listening.
Overhead the wind threshed the tops of the trees, and roared hollowly
as it rebounded from the farther side of the gulch. Rain, driven by the
wind, slashed through the foliage and pattered against his primitive
shelter. Thunder rolled in an endless fusillade, punctuated by flashes
of lightning. But Sandy, without considering the matter, was quite sure
that none of these things had awakened him. In a momentary lull of the
storm, as he lay with his ear close to the ground, he thought he could
hear the sound of hoofs coming up the draw, along the hard-beaten
cattle trail.
It was barely possible that some wandering stock, drifting with the
storm, were seeking the shelter of it; but it was more likely that
range stock would have found cover to suit them before dark, and would
stay in it till morning. Now, there is a difference between the tread
of ridden and riderless animals, and Sandy thought that he had heard
the former. Also, they were coming as he had come.
His route led from the settlements back to the hills where there was
nobody and nothing. There was no road, no trail. Few people went there,
not even Indians, and they not until the fall hunt, after the first
snow. Therefore, it was suspicious that, on such a night, a rider or
riders should be in his vicinity. His mind leaped to the conclusion
that Glass had been released, had secured the services of somebody who
knew the country, and had somehow made a good guess at the location of
his first night's camp, for which they were now searching in the
darkness, hoping that the remains of his fire would betray him.
As he reached this conclusion, Sandy rolled out of his blankets,
buckled his belt around his lean waist, slipped on his moccasins, and
stepped out into the darkness.
Not a red spark showed where his fire had been, and Sandy smiled
grimly. He would do all the surprising himself. He did not intend to be
taken. Once more he heard the sound of hoofs, nearer. They seemed to
approach a few yards, then to stop. He heard the sound of a breath
blown from a horse's nostrils.
The storm, which had lulled momentarily, began again. The wind hit
the draw viciously, with spatters of rain. Other sounds were
indistinguishable. Sandy, crouching low to get any advancing object
against what sky line there was, made out the shape of a mounted man.
Horse and man stood like an equestrian statue, barely distinguishable,
though but a few yards away.
The rider disappeared from the saddle. Sandy heard his feet crashing in
the low bushes, heard him stumble and swear.
"Ought to be about here," words came faintly to Sandy's ears. "If ever
I try to find ... on a night like this...."
"Looking for me, sure," thought Sandy. "Maybe it's Glass; maybe it
isn't. Wonder how many there are. Anyway, I'll fix this one."
Soft-footed as a great cat, he crept toward the voice. The man loomed
in front of him; his back was turned. Sandy rose soundlessly behind
him. With a sudden vicious sweep his left arm shot across the
stranger's left shoulder and around his throat. His right hand shoved
the muzzle of his gun beneath the man's right ear.
"Don't move or let one yip out of you!" he hissed tensely.
After one convulsive start the stranger stood motionless. "Nary move
nor yip," he whispered confidentially into the night. "And if that
gun's a light pull, be mighty careful of the trigger!"
"Talk and talk quiet," said Sandy. "How many are there of you?"
"Be mighty careful of that gun if you're seein' double that way!" the
stranger admonished again nervously. "Was you expectin' twins or
somethin'?"
"You alone?"
"Yep."
"What's your name?"
"Smith."
"What you doing here?"
"Lookin' for the spring to camp by."
"Where you heading for?"
"Into the hills, prospectin'."
"Where's Glass?" Sandy asked suddenly.
"Search me. I got nothin' to do with that durn fool."
The tone and the words gave Sandy the surprise of his life. His arm
dropped away from the stranger's throat, and his gun ceased to threaten
the base of his skull.
"Tom McHale!" he cried.
"You sound some like a _cultus_ young devil named McCrae," said McHale,
peering at him in the dark. "Say, what in the flarin' blazes you doin'
here?"
"Take some yourself," Sandy responded. "Are they after you, too?"
McHale shook his head sadly. "Sonny," said he, "you're too young to be
havin' them cute little visions of things bein' after you. I reckon
maybe we're pullin' two ways on one rope. Also, we ain't gettin' no
drier standin' here chewin' about it. Maybe you got a camp somewheres.
S'pose you find the latchstring. Then we'll have a talk."
Thus admonished, Sandy led the way to his lean-to, rekindled the fire,
helped picket McHale's horses, and set the coffee-pot to boil. They
drank coffee and smoked, going into details of their experiences of the
preceding day. McHale was amazed to hear of Sandy's arrest by Glass,
whom he had held in contempt. Sandy was jubilant over the shooting of
Cross, regretful that he had not had a hand in it.
"You won't be so durn stuck on a gun fight after you've been in one or
two," said McHale grimly. "Now let's see how she stacks up. I'm goin'
to hide out for a spell, but if I was you I'd go back and stand the
racket."
"I guess _not_," said Sandy positively. "I don't want to do time if
they've got me with the goods. And then some darn lawyer might make me
give somebody else away by accident. You can't tell. I'll stay out with
you. Where are you heading for?"
"I was aimin' to hit Bull's Pass, drop over the summit into the valley
of the Klimminchuck, and camp somewheres. There was two trappers in
there winter before last, and they told me they built them a right good
cabin."
"That suits me."
"This will fix us up with water for the next two weeks," said McHale as
he listened to the rain. "I'll bet Casey's got a grin on him a yard
wide." He yawned. "Well, kid, we've got all that's comin' to us out of
this one day. Let's hit them blankets. We better make an early start."
They were up in the early dawn, breakfasted, saddled, and packed, and
headed for the hills. At noon they reached the foot of the pass. A
narrow trail, often choked by fallen timber and small landslides, led
them upward, winding in and out, sometimes near the bottom of an always
ascending gorge, sometimes forsaking it for broad, flat benches
parklike with stately trees, sometimes clinging precariously to
shoulders of bare rock where a slip would have been fatal.
They camped that night near the summit, and next day dropped down into
a valley, narrow, wooded, picturesque, where the Klimminchuck raced
southward; and, following its course, camped at the edge of a beaver
meadow, feasting on trout fresh caught from a deep pool beneath a short
fall. And in the morning, still following the stream, they came to the
trappers' cabin, set in a grove of young spruce.
It was built of small logs chinked with moss and clay, and most of the
chinking had fallen out. Its roof was of poles covered with earth. A
two-man bunk occupied much of the interior. The remainder was taken up
by a rough table, a bench, and a rusty wreck of a little sheet-iron
stove. There was room to get in and stay in, and that was all. And yet
two men had lived in that pen all winter, and emerged healthy and
fairly good-tempered in the spring.
The companions peered through the door at the uninviting interior. The
floor was a litter of rubbish, old clothes in a state of decomposition,
leaves, bones, and rusty cans and pans. Young McCrae wrinkled an
outraged nose.
"Pfaugh!" he snorted. "The shack's filthy. We can't use it."
"The smell _is_ some obvious," McHale agreed. "Which bein' so, I reckon
we build us a wickiup several nose lengths off."
They found a suitable spot, and there they built an elaborate lean-to.
Having established themselves, they rested, smoked, and slept. In the
evening they caught trout for supper and breakfast. There was
absolutely nothing to do unless they created employment for themselves.
At the end of another day Sandy became restless; his capacity for
loafing was exhausted.
"Let's go get a bear," he proposed.
"Deer's better meat," said McHale; "also easier to get. I won't climb
after no bear."
Nevertheless, he accompanied Sandy down the valley. They saw no bear;
but they shot a young buck, and returned to camp with the carcass
lashed behind Sandy's saddle. Although it was closed season, they
needed the meat, and game wardens were not likely to intrude.
But when they came in sight of their camp they saw old Simon reclining
in grandeur on their blankets, smoking.
"The nerve of that buck!" snorted McHale. "Get off of that bed, you old
copperskin. Think I want to wash them blankets?"
Simon obeyed, but he drew a letter from his pocket.
"Papah," said he. "Casey."
McHale read Casey's warning as to Dade, and whistled softly, passing
the letter to Sandy.
"So this here Dade makes it a feud, does he?" he said meditatively.
"All right, he can have it that way. Same time, I'm goin' to keep out
of trouble long as I can. I'll stay cached mighty close, and I'll run
like blazes before I'll fight. Simon, how'd you find this camp?"
"Find um easy," said Simon scornfully. He pointed to the carcass of the
deer. "S'pose you _mamook_ cook um."