THE MEETINGS OF TWO STRONG MEN
Matt Barger, riding in the night, intent upon nothing save the chance
to deal out his vengeance to Van Buren, had camped beside the river, at
the turn where Van and Beth had skirted the bank to the regular fording
below. The convict's horse, which Beth had lost, was tethered where
the water-way had encouraged a meager growth of grass. Barger himself
had eaten a snake and returned to a narrow defile in the range, where
his ambush could be made.
To insure himself against all misadventure he rolled a mass of boulders
down the hill, to block the trail. His barrier was crude but
efficient. Neither man nor horse could have scaled it readily, and the
slopes on either side were not only well-nigh perpendicular, they were
also built of crumbling stone that broke beneath the smallest weight.
He labored doggedly, persistently, despite his half-starved condition,
and when he had finished he looked to his gun, proceeded down the trail
some fifty yards or more, climbed the slope, and there in the rocks,
where the walls gave way to a sandy acclivity, concealed himself to
wait.
The sun at noon found Van a mark for punishment. The day was the
hottest of the season. The earth and rocks irradiated heat that danced
in the air before him. All the world was vibrant, the atmosphere a
shimmer, as if in very mockery of the thoughts that similarly rose and
gyrated in his brain. His horse was suffering for water. The river
was still an hour away, so steep was the climb through the range.
The trail he would gladly have avoided, had such a course been
practical. He had ridden here with Beth, and therefore the mockery was
all the more intense. His inward heat and the outward heat combined to
make him savage. There was nothing, however, on which to vent his
feelings. Suvy he loved. Perhaps, he reflected, the horse was his one
faithful friend. Certainly the broncho toiled most willingly across
the zone of lifelessness to bear him on his way.
Up through the narrowing walls of sand and adamant they slowly
ascended. Barger saw them once, far down the trail, then lost them
again as they rounded a spur of the shimmering hillside, coming nearer
where he lay. He was up the slope a considerable distance--farther
than he meant to risk a shot. His breath came hard as he presently
beheld Van Buren fairly entering the trap.
Van's head had fallen forward on his breast. He looked at nothing.
His face was set and hard. Barger raised his pistol, sighted down the
barrel--and repressed the impulse to fire as the horseman came onward,
unsuspiciously.
No sooner was Van around the turn, where in less than a minute he would
find his progress blocked, than Barger arose and ran with all his might
down the slope.
He let out a yell of exultation as he came to the trail. Van turned in
his saddle instantly, beholding the man in the pass. He knew that
sinister form.
His pony had bounded forward, frightened by the cry. Down went Van's
hand to his own revolver, and the gun came up cocked for action.
One glance he cast up the trail ahead--and saw through Barger's trick.
The _cul de sac_ was perfect, and the convict had halted to fire.
It made a singular picture on Van Buren's retina--that gaunt, savage
being, hairy, wild of eye, instinct with hatred and malice, posing
awkwardly, and the sun-lit barrel of polished steel, just before its
yawning muzzle belched lead and a cloud and a roaring detonation.
The bullet went wide, and Barger fired again, quickly, but more
steadily. That one landed. It got Van just along the arm, burning in
a long, shallow wound that barely brought the blood.
Van's gun was down, despite Suvy's panic of cavortings. He pulled the
trigger. The hammer leaped two ways, up and back--but the gun made no
report, no buck, no cloud to answer Barger's. The cartridges,
subjected to all that water of the day before, were worthless.
The third of Barger's shots was fired from a closer range, as the eager
creature closed in upon his enemy. It let the daylight enter Van's
hat, near the top.
Van had snapped every shell in his weapon, with amazing rapidity--to no
avail. The cylinder had flung around like a wheel, but the sounds were
those of a toy.
Barger was steadied in his tracks for better marksmanship. He had
heard that succession of metallic snaps; he knew he had Van Buren at
his mercy. Three of his shots remained unfired, and a second, unused
pistol in his belt, with more ammunition. The fellow even smiled as he
was aiming.
There was one thing to do--and Van did it. He leaped his broncho clean
against the wall, then spurred him straight for Barger. The shot that
split the air again was splattered on the rocks. Before the convict
could make ready to avoid the charge, Suvy was almost upon him. He
partially fell and partially leaped a little from the broncho's path,
but was struck as the pony bounded by.
He yelled, for his leg was trampled and hurt by the pressure of Suvy's
shoe, nevertheless he scrambled to his feet at once, and fired wildly
at his man.
He emptied his gun, drew the other, and ran, too eager for his deed of
revenge to halt and take a steady aim. A bullet punctured the
broncho's ear, and the blood flew back upon Van.
They were past the walls in the briefest time, and Van attacked the
slope. Barger came after, yelling in rage. He tripped, and his hurt
leg dropped him down.
Already wearied, and famished for drink, Suvy nevertheless rose to the
needs of the moment with a strength incredible. He scaled that sandy,
treacherous slope like an engine built for the purpose. It was love,
pure love for the master on his back, that steeled the mighty sinews in
his body.
Two shots and two bullets from below proclaimed renewed activities
where Barger was once more on his feet. But the man had lost too much
ground to recover his advantage. He knew that Van Buren, with a horse
like that, could win the high ridge and escape.
He raged; he cursed himself and his God, for this second failure of his
deed. Then once again he abruptly thought of a chance whereby to
redeem his galling failures. His man on the horse would be more than
an hour in reaching the river by the slopes. A man on foot could beat
him there, and beat him across to the farther side, from which to
attack with surer aim--from the cover of the willows by the ford. The
flood had subsided. This Barger knew. The water was hardly knee high
on a man, and better than all, Van Buren would scarcely dream of such a
plan as within the range of possibilities.
Laboriously, in a fever of impatience, Barger made shift, after
strenuous work, to climb his barrier of rock. Then up to the summit of
the trail he sped, and down on the farther side.
Meantime Van, disgusted with himself for riding away from a fight,
could only revile his useless gun and excuse himself a trifle because
of his defenselessness. The skirmish had served to arouse him,
however, and for that he was thankful to the convict who had waited in
the pass.
Then he wondered how it came at all that Matt should have thus been
lying there in wait. The fellow must have been informed, to prepare so
elaborate a trap. It hardly seemed as if a plot against his life could
explain this trip that Beth had desired him to take. He could scarcely
credit a thing so utterly despicable, so murderous, to her, yet for
what earthly reasons had she sent him on the trip with a letter the
stage could have carried?
The thing was preposterous! No woman on earth could have sanctioned an
alliance with Barger. But--what of Bostwick--the man who had spent a
portion of his time with the liberated convicts? A revenge like this
would appeal to him, would seem to him singularly appropriate. Beth
could have lent her assistance to the plan without guilty knowledge of
an outcome such as this, and Bostwick--Beth knew that Barger was Van's
enemy. He had told her so himself. Facts were facts. Her letter to
Glen revealed her state of mind--and here was this attack, a planned
attack, proving conclusively that Barger had been prepared beforehand
with knowledge of the trip.
From having been depressed before, Van was made thoroughly angry. The
whole thing was infamous, dastardly--and Beth could not be acquitted.
Strangely enough, against the convict, Barger, the horseman felt no
wrath. Barger had a grievance, howsoever mistaken, that was adequate.
He was following his bent consistently. He had made his threat in the
open; he must plan out his work according to his wits. He was simply a
hunted beast, who turned upon his hunters.
It was Bostwick on whom Van concentrated a rising heat--and he promised
the man would find things warm in camp, and the fight only well under
way.
Even when the summit was achieved, the broncho slacked off nothing of
his pace. Sweat glistened wetly upon him. His bleeding ear was going
backward and forward tremulously, as he listened for any word from Van,
and for anything suspicious before them. Van noted a certain
wistfulness in the pony's demeanor.
"Take it easy, boy," he urged in a voice of affection that the broncho
understood. "Take it easy." He dismounted to lead the animal down the
slope, since a steep descent is far more trying on a ridden horse than
climbing up the grade. He halted to pat the pony on the neck, and give
his nose a rough caress, then on they went, the shadow they cast the
only shade upon the burning hill.
It was fully an hour after leaving the pass, where Barger had piled in
the rock, before the horseman and his broncho dropped again in the
trail that led onward to the river. Van was again in the saddle.
Alert for possible surprises, but assured that his man could find no
adequate cover hereabouts, he emerged from behind the last of the turns
all eagerness to give his horse a drink.
A yell broke suddenly, terribly, on the desert stillness. It came from
Barger, out in the river, on the bar--strangely anchored where he stood.
Van saw him instantly, saw a human fantastic, struggling, writhing,
twisting with maniacal might, the while the horrible quicksand held him
by the legs, and swallowed him, inch by inch.
"Fer Christ's sake--help!" the creature shrilled in his plight. He had
flung away revolvers, cartridges, even his coat, reducing his weight
when the stuff only gripped him by the ankles. He was half to his
thighs. He was sinking to his waist, and with all of his furious
efforts, the frightful sand was shuddering, as if in animal
ecstacy--some abominable ecstacy of hunger, voracious from long denial,
as it sucked him further down.
"Fer Christ's sake, Van Buren--fer Christ's sake, man! I'm a human
being," shrieked the victim of the sand. "_I'm a human being_, man!"
Van had not hesitated by so much as a moment as to what he meant to do.
He was off his horse in a leap. He paused for a second to looked about
for any accidental means of assistance the place might afford. It
afforded none. The man in the quicksand continued to yell, to struggle
hopelessly, to sink in that shivering pool of life-engulfing stuff.
Then the horseman thought of his rope, the raw-hide lasso, always
secured upon his saddle. He snatched at the knots to tear it loose.
"Don't move--don't struggle!" he shouted at the man, and down toward
the edge he came running, the rope-noose running out as he sped.
He dared not step beyond the bank, and so involve himself. Barger was
well out from the edge. The throw at best was long and difficult.
"Hold up your hands, above your head!" he called. "Don't thrash
around!"
The convict obeyed. His haggard, bearded face was turned to Van like a
mask of horror. The eyes were blazing fearfully. The fellow's
attitude, as he held his hands above his head, and continued to sink,
was a terrible pose of supplication--an awful eloquence of prayer.
Van threw--and the cast fell short.
Barger groaned. He had ceased to yell. He remained mutely holding up
his hands, while the cold abyss crept upward to his waist--the wet lips
swallowing, swallowing in silence.
Van jerked in the rope with one impatient gesture. He coiled it
swiftly, but with nicety. Then round and round he swung the gaping
loop--and threw with all his strength.
For a second the loop hung snake-like in the air, above the convict's
head. Then it fell about him, splashed the curdled sand, and was
pulled up taut, embracing Barger's waist.
"Hoist it up under your arms!" called Van. "Try to move your legs when
I pull!"
He wasted no time in attempting to haul the convict out himself. He
led his pony quickly to the edge, took two half hitches of the rope
about the pommel of the saddle, then shouted once more to his man.
"Ready, Barger. Try to kick your feet." To the horse he said: "Now,
Suvy, a strong, steady pull." And taking the pony's bit in hand he
urged him slowly forward,
It was wonderful, the comprehension in the broncho's mind. But the
pull was an awful thing. The rope came taut--and began to be strained,
and Suvy was sweating as he labored. Out on the end of it, bitten by
the loop, that slipped ever tighter about him, the human figure was
bent over sharply, between the two contending forces.
He let out one yell, for the pain about his chest--then made no further
sound. The rawhide rope was like a fiddle-string. It seemed absurd
that an anchor so small, so limber, in the sand, could hold so hard
against the horse. Van urged a greater strain. He knew that the rope
would hold. He did not know how much the man could bear before
something awful might occur. There was nothing else to do.
It seemed a time interminable. No one made a sound. The queer,
distorted figure out in the stream could have uttered no sound to save
his life. The silence was beginning to be hideous.
Then an inch of the rope came landward, as the broncho strained upon
it. The anchor had started from its hold.
"Now! now!" said Van, and with quick, skillful urging he caught at the
slight advantage.
Like an old, half-buried pile, reluctant to budge from its bed in sand
and ooze, the human form was slowly dragged from the place. No corpse,
rudely snatched from its grave, could have been more helplessly
inert--more stretched out of all living semblance to a man.
[Illustration: No corpse snatched from its grave could have been more
helplessly inert.]
Across the firmer sand, and through a lagoon of water, Barger was
hurriedly drawn. The pony was halted when the man was at the bank, and
back to the convict Van went running, to loosen the bite of the noose.
Barger lay prostrate on the earth, his eyes dully blinking in the sun.
His feet were bare. They had slipped from his boots, which were buried
beyond in the sand. His face had taken on a hue of death. From hair
to his ankles he was shockingly emaciated--a gaunt, wasted figure,
motionless as clay.
Van fetched a pint of water in his hat. He sprinkled it roughly in the
convict's face, and, propping up his head, helped him to take a drink.
Barger could not lift a hand, or utter a word. Van recoiled the rope,
secured it on the saddle, then sat down to await the man's recovery.
It was slow. Barger's speech was the first returning function. It was
faint, and weak, and blasphemous.
"It's hell," he said, "when God Almighty turns agin a man. Ain't the
sheriff's enough--_without a thing like that_?" His thumb made a
gesture towards the river, which he cursed abominably--cursing it for a
trap, a seeming benefit, here in the desert, ready to eat a man alive.
Van made no reply. He rather felt the man was justified--at least in
some opinions. Towards Barger he felt no anger, but rather a pity
instead.
After a time the convict moved sufficiently to prop himself up against
the bank. He looked at Van dully. This was the man who had "sent him
up"--and saved him from the sand. There was much that lay between
them, much that must always lie. He had no issues to dodge. There was
nothing cowardly in Barger, despite his ways.
"I nearly got you, up yonder," he said, and he jerked his thumb towards
the mountains, to indicate the pass where he and Van had met an hour
before.
Van nodded. "You sure did. Who told you to look for me here?"
Barger closed his eyes. "Nothing doing." He could not have been
forced to tell.
Van smiled. "That's all right." There was no resentment in the tone.
Barger looked at him curiously.
"What for did you pull me out?"
"Don't know," Van confessed. "Perhaps I hated to have the quicksand
cheat the pen."
"Must have had some good reason," agreed the prostrate man. He was
silent for a moment, and then he added: "I s'pose I'm your meat."
As before, Van nodded: "I reckon you are."
Barger spat. It was his first vigorous indication of returning
strength.
"Someways," he said, "I'd rather you'd shoot me here, right now, than
send me back to the pen. But I couldn't stand fer that!" He made his
characteristic gesture towards the river. As Van made no comment the
fellow concluded: "I s'pose you need the reward."
Van was aware there was ten thousand dollars as a price on the
convict's head, a fact which he someway resented. To-day, more than at
any time within his life, he felt out of sympathy with law--with man's
law, made against man.
He began to pull off his boots.
"No," he said, "I don't want any State's reward, much less express
company money. Maybe if it wasn't for those rewards I'd take you into
camp." He inverted his boots and shook out a few grains of sand.
Barger glanced at him suspiciously.
"What are you goin' to do with me, then, now you've got me to rights?"
"Nothing," said Van, "nothing this afternoon." He stood up. "You and
I break even, Barger, understand? Don't take me wrong. I'm not
turning you loose entirely. You belong to me. Whenever I call for the
joker, Matt, I want you to come."
He would never call, and he knew it. He merely left the matter thus to
establish a species of ownership that Barger must acknowledge. There
is law of the State, and law of God, and law of man to man. The latter
it was that concerned Van Buren now, and upon it he was acting.
Laboriously, weakly, Barger arose to his feet. He looked at Van
peculiarly, with a strange light dully firing in his eyes.
"I agree to that," he answered slowly. "I agree to that."
He put out his hand to shake--to bind his agreement. It was almost
like offering his oath.
Van took it, and gave it his usual grip.
"So long, Barger," he said. "I reckon you need these boots."
He waved his hand loosely at the boots that lay upon the ground, went
at once to his horse, and mounted to his seat.
"The regular ford of this river's down below," he added to the
speechless convict, standing there gaunt and wondering upon the marge.
"So long."
Barger said nothing. Van rode away on the trail by the stream, and was
presently gone, around the bend.