THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
In less than an hour Buck and his party were assured that they had
nothing to fear from any trailing Circle Bar riders. They rode
through the hills and gained the farther slopes of the divide, with
the rolling river flat beyond.
Here Buck drew rein, pointing.
There was no need for words, although Jake Harper, with recovered
vocabulary, spilled pardonable curses upon the air. To the-north was
ascending a stream of heavy smoke that rose straight into the
windless sky.
“They done it,” said Sandy Davitt briefly.
“Two of you boys stay here with Jake,” ordered Buck to his five. “If
you don’t get no word from me by dark, turn Jake loose and make your
getaway. If I win, I’ll send word to ye ’fore dark.”
Nobody wanted to remain, so straws were pulled. The losers,
disgruntled, took over the prisoner’s bridle and sat their horses
while Buck, Sandy Davitt, and the remaining two men rode on.
“Good luck!” they called. Buck responded with a wave of his white
Stetson.
The four men who were left in company now pushed their horses ahead
at a good clip. Two miles away was the river trail, which Arnold and
Sam Fisher would follow, provided they did the expected thing.
“Gosh, she’s sure a-smoking!” observed Sandy Davitt, his squint gaze
flitting to the smoke in the north. “They done it, all right. Fired
everything in sight! I’ll bet Jake will curse over losin’ his first
cuttin’ of alfalfa. He only laid it in last week.”
Buck smiled weakly, but made no response. If he lost his stake, he
would lose more than alfalfa.
Knowing to what manner of work they rode, the four pressed on warily,
eyes searching the landscape ahead. They were unlikely to meet any
one here. The Lazy S and Circle Bar lands ran together at a short
distance, and the river road was only a trail used by the few riders
of the two ranches.
They came upon it at last, and simultaneously drew rein. The trail
told them a plain story; no one had passed this way within the past
few hours, at least.
“What you aim to do?” asked one of the punchers as they sat
motionless. “Rope him?”
“Rope him?” Buck spat a vicious oath. “We’d look fine ropin’ that
gent--and Arnold! What would we want to rope ’em for?”
Sandy Davitt laughed harshly. He swung up his arm to a bend in the
road fifty yards to their left.
“Stick right here, Buck, and drop ’em as they come around that bend.
Don’t need the rifles to do it. Better hobble the cayuses in this
bresh.”
Buck nodded assent. A better place for the ambush could not be found.
The four men dismounted. One of the punchers led off the animals.
The other three went to the river bank, here a scant hundred yards
distant, and slaked their thirst. Upon rising, Buck gave his orders.
“We’d better spread out jest far enough to keep an eye out in both
directions. I’ll watch the south for ’em, Sandy, attend to the
Circle Bar end; ain’t likely any one will come, but we’d better watch
that way, too.”
Sandy Davitt swung off, followed by his companion.
Buck sought a position whence he could obtain a fair view of the
valley in the direction of the Shumway ranch. He did not need to
have the winding road in view. Even this slightly used trail was
deep in dust, and any rider would leave a brown smudge that would
rise into a trailing wedge to be discerned afar.
The horses were hidden away from sight among the trees that fringed
the river. To the north the great splotch of smoke had lessened into
a thin trail; Harper’s place was burned out. It could not be long
now before Fisher would come--if he came at all.
“Hey, Buck!” rose the cautious voice of Davitt. “Rider from the
north!”
“Comin’,” responded Buck hastily, and ran to join his men.
The north trail was nearly hidden from them, but they could make out
a trail of dust, and presently the swiftly moving object which had
drawn the attention of Davitt. As this object came closer Davitt
uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Ain’t no rider at all! By gosh, it’s a hoss!”
“It’s Jake Harper’s hoss, Celestine,” added Buck, watching the
approaching beast.
“He got away from us when we nabbed Jake yestiddy,” said Sandy
Davitt. “Git a rope, boys----”
“Stop!” ordered Buck. “Git off the trail, quick; leave the brute go
through! It’ll fetch Sam Fisher jest that much quicker.”
They hastened to clear the way. A moment more and the pound of hoofs
came to them, and along the trail dashed the rawboned brute at a mad
gallop, his vicious eyes rolling wildly, panic driving him. He was
past them like a whirlwind, and went pounding away to the south.
“Fire scart him,” said Davitt, emerging into the road again. “Good
idee to let him go, Buck. Scatter out, everybody! Keep yer eyes
skinned!”
It was only a moment later that Buck’s voice rose warningly:
“Dust a-comin’, boys! Git together!”
Excitement spurred them as they ran in to the place of ambush. From
here they had a view of the road farther down the river; they stood
motionless, guns drawn, tense with expectation. Davitt and Buck were
together on one side of the road, the other two men opposite them.
Into the patch of road down the river crept a moving object, dust
trailing it. From Davitt broke one astounded oath.
“Look out thar, boys! It’s Stella Shumway comin’; out o’ sight,
quick! Duck, you devils, duck! Let her go through; likely they’ll
be behind her.”
Davitt and Buck plunged down into the brush, the others following
suit. Hoofs came pounding; around the bend just ahead plunged Stella
Shumway, wildly spurring her horse forward. The Circle Bar smoke had
drawn her as well as others. Her strained and drawn face showed the
girl’s inward anxiety.
“Hurry, boy, hurry!” she cried to her mount. “We’re ahead of them
yet; we’ve got to find Uncle Jake! Hurry, hurry----”
Her voice died into the distance. Almost before she had gone, Davitt
was out in the road, then swinging himself into a tree for a swifter
view of the lower valley.
“They’re comin’ behind her,” said Buck, his voice steady. “Now the
only question is--who’s a-comin’? If it’s a hull blamed crowd, we
got to lay low. If it’s them two----”
“Hey, Buck!” Davitt came sliding down, plunged into the dust, sprang
eagerly to his feet again. “Two comin’--no more that I can see.
Likely they stopped to halt Harper’s hoss, or try to, and the gal
went on ahead. Them two’ll be our meat; couldn’t be no others.
Watch the road now----”
The four craned forward, intent. Into the patch of road down the
river slid the forms of two horses, galloping neck and neck.
“Got ’em!” cried Buck triumphantly. “Git set, boys; let ’em have it
as they come around this here bend.”
They scurried to their places, eager with the trembling thrill of the
man hunt, fired out of themselves by the hot lust for blood, careless
of the thing they were about to do. Hidden, they waited, guns at the
level, bloodshot eyes trained on the bend of the trail.
Came a furious drive of hoofs pounding the dusty trail. Through it
lifted the voice of Steve Arnold gayly, boyishly:
“Whoop-ee! Out o’ my way, cowboy! I’m crowdin’ you for room; gimme
air! Go git a good hoss if ye want to ride with me----”
Buck’s lips curved cruelly; they were coming together, racing neck
and neck!
And then--they came. Plunging around the bend together, Sam Fisher
and Arnold, low in the saddle, driving their white-flecked horses,
racing to catch up with the girl ahead and reach the cause of that
smoke reek in the sky.
_Crack_! Pistols roared from either side the road. The two riders
caromed together, a horse sent up its horrible scream, men and beasts
went flinging down in a terrible crash.
Mad with the killing, Buck’s two punchers leaped into sight across
the road, ran forward. From the great cloud of dust cracked a shot,
and another. The foremost man fell on his face; the second coughed,
spun around, and dropped.
“Got you!” yelled Arnold.
At the same instant Buck shot, Davitt close behind him. Arnold,
dimly visible amid the dust, fell back and straightened out. But, as
though in echo to those two shots, came another from the dust.
Buck’s hat jerked from his head.
“By gosh, Fisher’s still klckin’!” cried Sandy Davitt in stark
amazement.
An oath burst from Buck. He fired into the dust again and again,
frenzied. One shot answered him, and one only; the bullet seared
across his face, sent him down into the grass wiping at his cheeks,
swearing, death frightened. Yet he was unhurt.
Both Davitt and Buck crouched low, peering forward, waiting for the
dust to settle. It seemed impossible that Fisher could have gone
down in that awful welter of death and yet have remained alive; but
he was not dead. The shot had shown that.
Little by little the dust subsided. Arnold’s horse, its shoulder
smashed by a bullet, raised a shaking head and emitted another
frightful scream, then fell back. The other horse lay behind,
kicking feebly, trying to grip the ground with its fore hoofs; the
poor beast’s back was broken.
Midway between the two animals lay the body of Steve Arnold, face to
the sky. But of Sam Fisher there was no sign.
“My gosh!” breathed Davitt incredulously. “He ain’t there. Ah,
behind his hoss, Buck! There he is!”
Buck fired, and swore at the miss as he ducked to escape an answering
shot. None came. Sandy Davitt, unable to bear the sight of what had
been done, deliberately leaned forward and shot the two horses. He,
too, ducked low, but no shot answered.
“The son of a gun!” muttered Buck hoarsely. “He’s playing possum,
Sandy. Watch out! He wants a good shot at us.”
“I’ll bet he does,” assented Davitt fervently.
For long moments the two men crouched there, peering forward, seeking
any sign of movement. None came. The sun beat down on the scene,
flooding with pitiless light each terrible detail on the shot-up
Steve Arnold, the two horses, the two Running Dog men who had paid
the price. And still Sam Fisher remained silent.
At last Buck, unable to stand the strain, went suddenly to his feet.
“All right, you can have your chance!” he cried, and flung himself
forward.
Davitt watched, ready to fire at Fisher’s shot. But, to his
amazement, he saw Buck check his rush, lower his pistol, and turn.
“All right, Sandy.” Buck’s voice was hoarse. “It’s all over. We
got ’em.”
Davitt slowly rose, still half fearful of a trap. Then he put up his
gun and stared at his work in silence.
“We win,” said Buck softly, and there was none to say him nay.