THE MAN IN THE MASK
As Bud Larkin jogged along on Pinte, apparently one of the group of men
with whom he was riding, he wondered mechanically why his captors insisted
on traveling ten miles to a tree sufficiently stout to bear his weight.
"I should think they'd stand me up and do the business with a bullet," he
thought.
But a moment's reflection furnished the answer to this query. These men
were cattle-rustlers and horse-thieves, than which no more hazardous
existence ever was since the gentle days of West Indian piracy, and to
them merely a single pistol shot might mean betrayal of their whereabouts,
capture and death.
The character of the country through which they rode gave sufficient
evidence of their care in all details, for it was a rough, wild,
uninhabitable section that boasted, on its craggy heights and rough
coulees, barely enough vegetation to support a wild mustang.
It was three o'clock of the afternoon and behind them the party could
still see the place where they had camped. Joe Parker, fearful of stirring
about much until the thoughts of range-riders were turning homeward like
their ponies' steps, had delayed the departure beyond the hour first
intended.
The rustlers really did not want to dispose of Larkin. Being plainsmen,
their acute sense of justice told them that this man was absolutely
guiltless of any crime deserving of death. Untoward circumstances had
forced him into their hands, and, like the boy with the fly-paper, they
were unable to get rid of him peaceably. Their abuse of his insane folly
was colorful and vivid.
But Larkin had reasons for his stubborn attitude. With the arrogance of
youth and the inexperience of real danger, he had resolved that as soon as
his sheep should be safely up the range he would devote some time, money,
and effort to the running down of these rustlers. Some of their faces were
unforgetably stamped on his memory now, and he had no doubt that he could
be of great service to Wyoming Territory, which was just at this time
petitioning for the dignity of Statehood.
He had known the losses and insolence of rustlers on his own sheep ranch
in Montana, and, like every sympathizer with justice and order, had sworn
to himself many times that all of them should be run to earth.
The longer Bud remained with the rustlers the more nervous some of them
became. Since morning a number had been wearing masks made of their
neckerchiefs, and one man had not shown his face since the moment he rode
into camp after the all-night drive. This man's peculiar actions piqued
Bud's curiosity, and he tried a number of times to draw him into
conversation. But the rustler refused to speak and moved away whenever he
found himself in the prisoner's vicinity.
About five o'clock the cavalcade arrived at a point where, ahead of them,
through the barren buttes and hogbacks, they could see the long, level
expanse of the range; and, about half-way to the horizon, a line of trees
that indicated the snake-like progress of a river. Here Joe called a halt
and gave orders that the party should lie concealed until after dark, as
the remainder of their business could then be conducted with less danger
to themselves.
Accordingly the horsemen turned away from the trail they had been
following and after fifteen minutes of tortuous riding, made camp on the
other side of a particularly uninviting wall of rock.
After eating supper prepared around the little fires Larkin saw the
rustlers all gather into a circle and start drawing lots. He shivered a
little at the thought that this was his execution party being made up.
Four men had been designated as the number to see Larkin off on his long
journey, and when at last the drawing was finished it was found that Joe
Parker, the masked rider, and two others had been selected.
As darkness drew on Parker began to lose his patience with Bud.
"Look-a-here, Larkin," he drawled, "I don't love no sheepmen, noways, an'
I never did, but you ain't no ordinary 'walker' an' I ain't ashamed to
talk with y'u. Now the boys want to meet y'u half-way on this business,
an' you won't do it. All you got to say is that you won't appear agin any
of us in any court, an' won't ever say anythin' agin any of us. Now what
in blazes you're actin' like a mule balkin' at a shadder for, I dunno. Be
sensible."
But to all such entreaties Larkin remained unmoved.
"If you hang me," he said, "you'll only hang yourselves, for all the
sheepmen in Wyoming as well as the men from my own ranch will come down
here, join with the cattlemen, and clean you fellows out. And if my Basque
herders start in on you don't imagine you will have the luxury of hanging.
They'll take their skinning knives and work from the neck down. No, I'd
advise you to let me go and take your chances rather than kill me and
wait."
Such talk as this made a great impression on some of the rustlers and
again opened up the subject of letting Larkin off. But the majority held
firm and the sentence stood.
It was perhaps eight o'clock when the party of four approached Larkin and
roused him up. This time his hands were bound behind his back and he
noticed that the masked rustler was fastening them tightly but with a
rotten rawhide. This peculiar circumstance caused a wild thrill to flash
all through Larkin's being. Perhaps, after all, here was the weak link in
the rustler's chain. The surmise became a certainty when the man,
unobserved by his companions, sawed Bud's arms back and forth, showing him
the quickest and easiest way to work them loose.
Then came the greatest surprise of all. The man, who had spoken no word
the whole time, thrust a heavy .45 revolver into his trouser-pocket. To
permit this being done the eight-inch barrel had been sawed off five
inches short, ruining the gun for ordinary use, but making it particularly
handy and light for close work.
This action convinced Larkin that the man in the mask was not only willing
that he should escape, but was actually determined that the event should
occur. He also knew that he could count on the support of this ally in the
final moment when the four men must fight it out two and two.
Whether this sudden change of aspect was the result of a determination by
a minority of the rustlers not to let the execution take place, or whether
by some miraculous means one of his own friends had succeeded in joining
the organization, he could not determine, although he tried to sound the
man in the mask when the others were busy with their horses. His only
reply was a low hiss commanding silence.
A quarter past the hour found them on their way, the ponies picking their
path gingerly over the bad ground until they reached the range. Here the
three rustlers drew up short, for in the distance could be seen the
twinkling of a camp-fire.
"One of the Bar T punchers," said Joe; "but I reckon he won't hear us."
For half a mile further they walked their horses, and then urged them to a
trot in the direction of the river whose tree-lined banks they had seen
late in the afternoon. They paused only once in this place, and then to
cross a small stream that lay in their path.
As he rode Larkin worked his arms cautiously back and forth until he felt
the rotten rawhide give, and knew that a single violent motion would free
him entirely. But he refrained from making that motion, feeling certain
that the man in the mask would give the signal when the time was ripe.
At last they discerned the loom of the trees against the low northern sky
and pulled their horses to a walk, until they arrived directly underneath
a big cottonwood, which stood in sinister readiness.
"Here's your last chance," said Parker in a low voice. "If you swear as we
have told you, you can go free now. We take a man's word out here."
"Never," replied Larkin firmly. "Don't waste time talking."
"Shore not," rejoined the other. "We always grant a man's last request.
Come on, boys, let's finish this thing quick."
He had hardly spoken when from the distance came the sound of rapid
revolver firing, mingled with the wild shouts of men. For a few moments
the drama beneath the cottonwood came to an abrupt halt.
"By gum!" cried Joe, "the Bar T punchers have found the boys and there's
the devil to pay back there. Lively, now."
One of the others took his lariat from the throng at the side of his
saddle and heaved the coil over an outstretched limb of the cottonwood. He
had hardly done so when another sound reached them, a low, menacing rumble
that grew momentarily louder until it reached a dull roar.
"A stampede!" bawled one of the men; "and it's heading this way."
Joe and the man in the mask still on their horses led Pinte directly
beneath the limb of the cottonwood, and the former reached down to take
the noose of the rope from the one who had arranged it. Suddenly Larkin
felt a hand fumbling with the rawhide about his arms, and a low voice in
his ear whispered: "Now."
With the same motion Bud wrenched his hands free and dug his spurs into
the sides of his horse. Pinte, startled, leaped forward just as Larkin
drew the revolver from his pocket.
Joe, though caught by surprise, did not let go of the bridle that was
wound about his right hand, but a blinding shot from the gun of the man in
the mask did the work. With a groan Parker pitched forward out of his
saddle and fell to the ground just as Larkin fired pointblank at the third
man who appeared before him, still on foot.
The fellow went down, but not until a yellow stab of light flashed up from
where he had been and Bud felt the wind of a bullet as it sped past his
cheek. The fourth man was nowhere to be seen.
The stranger in the mask and the man he had rescued were now alone, but
their thoughts were fully occupied. The sound of the distant stampede had
become a veritable rumbling roar that told of its nearing proximity. Aside
from this drumming of many feet, there was no sound, for the animals of
the range when in the grip of panic are silent.
With glazed eyes and muscles strained to the utmost they thundered into
the dark, unconscious and heedless of the sure destruction in their path.
It was as though thousands of creatures, with their brains removed, had
been turned loose to run at will.
"To the river!" cried the masked man, suddenly panic-stricken, spurring
his horse in the direction of the stream.
But Larkin was at his heels, and in a moment had seized the other's bridle
and thrown the horse back on his haunches.
"No!" bawled he at the top of his voice. "The bank here is twenty feet
high, and at the bottom are rocks."
"Better a jump and a chance than sure death in the stampede," yelled the
stranger, but Bud would not yield and drew the horse back.
"We can divide the herd," he cried. "Come, we haven't a moment to lose!"
They wheeled as one and dashed out of the brush into the open of the
range. The earth was now trembling beneath them and the pounding feet
sounded a low, steady note, ominous with warning. Occasionally there was a
revolver shot, but this was the only other sound.
Straight toward the oncoming living avalanche the two men rode until they
had left an open space a hundred yards wide behind them. Then they pulled
up short and dismounted.
Now out of the threatening thunder sounded a single individual note, the
rapid beating of a horse's feet--some horse that was bearing a desperate
rider ahead of the stampede but powerless to avoid it.
Instantly Larkin saw the picture of the yawning precipice toward which the
frantic rider was hurrying at breakneck speed. He raised his revolver and
fired into the air. The signal was instantly acted on, for in another
moment a lathering, heaving pony dashed up to them, and the rider leaped
to the ground.
"Oh, what shall I do? Hello! Who are you?" cried a female voice, and
Larkin's heart leaped as though it had turned over in its place.
"Juliet!" he cried, seizing the girl with one arm and drawing her close.
"Bud!" For an instant she clung to him.
"Lead the horses together and shoot them!" he ordered, although the others
could scarcely hear him.
Every instant was priceless now, for dimly at the edge of their vision the
front wave of the living, leaping tide could be seen.
Larkin swung the girl's horse alongside Pinte, and without a thought or a
pang shot them both. They fell one on top of the other. Then the stranger
in the mask led his animal in front of the two that had fallen and put a
bullet through its brain. All now leaped behind this still throbbing
barricade.
"Got a gun, Julie?" demanded Bud.
"Yes."
"Give it to me and load mine from your belt." They exchanged weapons and
the girl with practiced hand slipped the cartridges into their chambers.
The unknown had drawn two guns from some place in his equipment, and now
the three peered over their shelter.
The advance line of animals was scarcely twenty-five yards away, and, with
a clutch of horror at his heart, Bud recognized that they were not cattle
as he had supposed, but sheep--his own two thousand.
In the instant that remained he remembered the shots and shouting of a
quarter-hour before, and realized that the animals had been stampeded
deliberately.
"Let 'er go," he screamed above the tumult, "and yell like blazes!"
On the word yellow fire streamed out from the four guns and, accompanying
it, a perfect bedlam of shrieks and cries. The sheep were now upon them,
and the hail of bullets dropped some in their headlong career, piling
them up against the horses and adding to the barricade. But it could not
stop all, and a stream of the animals made its way over the bodies up to
the very mouths of the spitting guns.
Now others stumbled and fell, to be instantly engulfed by the swirling
flood behind; small, sharp feet were caught between the limbs of the
struggling mass that eddied about the dead horses. Still the yellow fire
stabbed out into the faces of the middlers--for now the leaders were
already piling up mangled and dying in the rocky river-bed--but, past each
side of this island of expiring creatures, thundered a vast, heaving
stream, turbulent, silent, irrevocable.
The man in the mask with a revolver in each hand was firing steadily, and
Larkin, thrilled at the sight of his apparent coolness, turned to look at
him.
To his amazement he found that the mask had fallen or been snatched away.
Again the man fired, and Bud Larkin's jaw fell as he gazed on the queer,
unmistakable features of the man who had saved his life that night.
It was Smithy Caldwell.
The sheep mind has the power of tenacity, but not that of change. There
was scarcely a shot left in the guns, and still the fear-blinded animals
battered at the growing wall of dead and dying that divided them. But at
last they began to push to each side, and gradually the idea of splitting
took full hold.
Then the prisoners behind the dead horses sank down in almost hysterical
relief, for there was no danger that any more would attempt to mount the
barricade. In fact, had the obstacle to their progress been suddenly
removed, the stampeded herds would have continued to split for an
indefinite period.
Now, listening, Larkin could hear the crash of the animals through the
underbrush and the horrid, sickening sounds of the writhing, half-dead
mass in the river-bed as more and more, following their predecessors
blindly, took the leap.
At last the stream on each side thinned, the rumbling thunder of pounding
feet grew less, and the tail of the flock passed, leaving behind it a
sudden, deathly silence. In the distance a faint murmur was heard, and
Larkin found later that this was made by the two or three hundred which
escaped death in the river.
As a matter of fact, the great number of the animals had filled the narrow
gully, and the last few charged across the bodies of their fallen
comrades to solid ground and safety beyond.
Now that the danger had passed, Larkin felt a certain miserable nausea in
the pit of his stomach, and fought it down with all his might. Caldwell
was not so successful, however, and stumbled from the shelter and his
companions, furiously sick. Juliet began to weep softly, the tears of
nervous reaction coming freely when neither pain nor fear could have
brought them.
Bud passed his arm gently about her shoulders, and patted her with soft
encouragement and praise for her bravery. Nor did the girl resent his
action. Rather it seemed to steady her, and after a few minutes she looked
up with an unsteady laugh.
"Isn't it funny for that other man to get seasick out here where we can't
get enough water to drink?" she asked, with a sudden tangent of humor that
made Bud laugh uproariously, and seemed to relieve the strain that
oppressed them.
"Brave little girl!" he said, getting up. "That reminds me. I wonder where
our friend is?"
He walked out in the direction Caldwell had taken and expected to find the
other recovering from his attack. But he could see or hear nothing to
indicate that the man was within a dozen miles. He called, and his voice
sounded puny and hollow against the vastness of the sky. He heard no hails
in answer, except the long, shrill one which the coyotes gave from a
neighboring rise of ground.
Smithy Caldwell had disappeared.
Larkin returned to Juliet Bissell perplexed, mystified, and disturbed.
What possible reason could there be for the quixotic actions of the man he
hated more than any other in the world? How did he happen to be received
and at perfect ease among a band of desperate rustlers?
How and why? Caldwell presented so many variations on those two themes
that Larkin's head fairly swam, and he turned gladly to relieve the
situation in which Juliet Bissell now found herself.