AFTER THE STORM
It was well along toward midnight of the same day when two horsemen,
after having ridden circumspectly around the outbuildings and corrals,
dismounted from their horses at some little distance from the door of
the Calabasas Inn. They shook out their legs as men do after a long
turn in the saddle and faced each other in a whispered colloquy. An
overcast sky, darkening the night, concealed the alkali crusting the
riders and their horses; but the hard breathing of the latter in the
darkness told of a pace forced for some hours.
"Find your feet before you go in, Pardaloe," suggested the heavier of
the two men guardedly to the taller one.
"Does this man know you?" muttered the man addressed as Pardaloe,
stamping in the soft dust and shifting slightly a gun harness on his
breast.
"Pedro knows me," returned Lefever, the other man, "but McAlpin says
there is a new man here, a half-wit. They all belong to the same
gang--coiners, I believe, every one of them. They work here and push
in Texas."
"Can you spot the room when you get up-stairs, where we saw that
streak of light a minute ago?" demanded Pardaloe, gazing at the black
front of the building.
"I can spot every foot of the place, up-stairs and down, in the dark,"
declared Lefever, peering through the inky night at the ruinous pile.
Instead of meeting de Spain, as appointed, Lefever had come in from
the Thief River stage with Scott three hours late only to learn of the
fight at the Inn and de Spain's disappearance. Jeffries had already
sent a party, of whom Pardaloe, a man of Farrell Kennedy's from
Medicine Bend, had been picked up as one, down from Sleepy Cat, to
look for the missing man, and for hours the search had gone forward.
"Suppose you go back to the barn," suggested Pardaloe, "and wait there
while I go in and have a little talk with the landlord."
"Why, yes, Pardaloe. That's an idea," assented Lefever feebly. Then he
laid the first two fingers of his fat right hand on the lapel of his
companion's coat: "Where should you like your body sent?" he asked in
feigned confidence. "Concerning these little details, it's just as
well to know your wishes now."
"You don't suppose this boob will try to fight, do you, when he knows
Jeffries will burn the shack over his head if another railroad man is
attacked in it?" demanded Pardaloe.
"The most ruinous habit I have had in life--and first and last I have
contracted many--has been, trusting other people," observed Lefever.
"A man shouldn't trust anybody--not even himself. We can burn the
boob's shack down--of course: but if you go in there alone the ensuing
blaze would be of no particular interest to you."
"All right. We go in together."
"Not exactly that, either. You go first. Few of these forty-four
bullets will go through two men at once."
Ignoring Lefever's pleasantry, Pardaloe, pulling his hat brim through
force of habit well over his eyes, shook himself loose and, like a big
cat walking in water, stepped toward the door. He could move his tall,
bony frame, seemingly covered only with muscles and sinews, so
silently that in the dark he made no more sound than a spectre. But
once before the door, with Lefever close at hand, he pounded the
cracked panels till the windows shook. Some time elapsed before there
was any response. The pounding continued till a flickering light
appeared at a window. There was an ill-natured colloquy, a delay, more
impatience, and at length the landlord reluctantly opened the door.
He held in his hand an oil-lamp. The chimney had been smoked in such a
way that the light of the flame was thrown forward and not back.
Lefever in the background, nothing disturbed, threw a flash-light back
at the half-dressed innkeeper. His hair was tumbled sleepily across
his forehead and his eyes--one showing a white scar across the
pupil--set deep in retreating orbits, blinked under heavy brows. "What
do you want?" he demanded. Pardaloe, without answering, pushed through
the half-open door into the room.
"We're staying here to-night," announced Pardaloe, as simply as
possible. Lefever had already edged into the doorway, pushing the
stubborn innkeeper aside by sheer bulk of weight and size.
The sleepy man gave ground stubbornly. "I've got no beds," he growled
surlily. "You can't stay here."
Lefever at once assumed the case for the intruders. "I could sleep
this minute standing on my head," he declared. "And as for staying
here, I can't stay anywhere else. What's your name, son?" he demanded,
buttonholing in his off-hand way the protesting man.
"My name is Philippi," answered the one-eyed defiantly.
"Regards to Brutus, my dear fellow," retorted Lefever, seizing the
man's hand as if happily surprised.
"You can't crowd in here, so you might as well move on," declared
Philippi gruffly. "This is no hotel."
Lefever laughed. "No offense, Philippi, but would it be indiscreet to
ask which side of your face hurts the most when you smile?"
"If you've got no beds, we won't bother you long," interposed
Pardaloe.
"I'd like a pitcher of ice-water, anyway," persisted Lefever. "Sit
down, noble Greek; we'll talk this over."
"Who are you fellows?" demanded Philippi, looking from one to the
other.
"I am a prospector from the Purgatoire," answered Pardaloe.
Philippi turned his keen eye on Lefever. "You a railroad man?"
"No, sir," declared Lefever, dusting the alkali vigorously from his
coat sleeve.
"What are you?"
John looked as modest as it was possible for him to look. "Few people
ask me that, but in matter of fact I am an _objet d'art_."
"What's that?"
"Different things at different times to different men, Philippi,"
answered Lefever simply, exploring, while he spoke, different corners
of the room with his flash-light. "At this moment--" he stopped
suddenly, then resumed reassuringly--"I want a drink."
"Nothing doing," muttered the landlord sulkily.
Lefever's flash-light focussed on a United States license hanging back
of the bar. "Is that a mere frame-up, Philippi?" he demanded, walking
significantly toward the vender's authority.
"Nothing in the house to-night."
"Then," announced Lefever calmly, "I arrest you."
Philippi started. "Arrest me?"
"For obtaining a thirst under false pretenses. Come, now, before we
slip the irons on, get us something to eat. I'll go up-stairs and pick
out a room to sleep in."
"I tell you," insisted Philippi profanely, "there are no rooms for you
to sleep in up-stairs."
"And I," retorted Lefever, "tell you there are. Anyway, I left a
sewing-machine up-stairs here three years ago, and promised to keep it
oiled for the lady. This is a good time to begin."
With Lefever making the old steps creak, ahead, and Pardaloe, with
his long, soft, pigeon-toed tread close behind, the unwilling
landlord was taken up the stairs, and the two men thoroughly searched
the house. Lefever lowered his voice when the hunt began through
the bedrooms--few of which contained even a bed--but he kept up a
running fire of talk that gave Philippi no respite from anxiety.
Outside the kitchen quarters, which likewise were rigorously searched,
not a soul could be found in the house. One room only, over the
kitchen, gave hope of uncovering something. The party reached the door
of this room through a narrow, tortuous passageway along an attic
gable. The door was locked. Philippi told them it belonged to a
sheep-herder who did not use it often. He protested he had no key.
Pardaloe knocked and, getting no response, tried unsuccessfully to
force the lock. Lefever motioned him aside and, after knocking loudly
on the door himself, laid his shoulder against it. The door creaked
and sprung in crazy protest. The panels cracked, the stubborn frame
gave, and with a violent crash Lefever pushed completely through the
locked barrier and threw his flash-light inside. Pardaloe, urging the
unwilling Philippi ahead, followed.
The room, unfinished under the rafters, was destitute of furnishings,
and bore traces of long disuse. Stretched on the floor toward the
middle of it, and side by side, lay two men. One of them was very
large, the other not more than half his companion's size. Lefever
kneeling over the man nearest the door listened for signs of
breathing, and laid his head to the man's heart. Having completed his
examination, he went around to the other--Pardaloe and Philippi
silently watching--and looked him over with equal care. When he had
done, he examined, superficially, the wounds of each man. Rising, he
turned toward Philippi. "Were these men dead when you brought them up
here?"
"I didn't bring 'em up," growled Philippi.
"You know them, Pardaloe?" asked Lefever. Pardaloe answered that he
did. Lefever turned sharply on Philippi. "Where were you when this
fight was going on?"
"Down at the stage barn."
"Getting your alibi ready. But, of course, you know that won't let you
out, Philippi. Your best chance is to tell the truth. There were two
others with this pair--where are Gale Morgan and Sassoon?"
"Satt Morgan was here with hay to-day. He took them over this evening
to Music Mountain."
"Where were they hit?"
"Morgan was hit in the shoulder, as far as I heard. Sassoon was hit in
the side, and in the neck."
"Where is de Spain?"
"Dead, I reckon, by this time."
"Where's his body?"
"I don't know."
"Why do you think he is dead?"
"Sassoon said he was hit in the head."
"Yet he got away on horseback!"
"I'm telling you what Sassoon said; I didn't see him."
Lefever and Pardaloe rode back to the stage barn. "Certainly looks
blue for Henry," muttered Lefever, after he had gone over with
Pardaloe and McAlpin all of the scant information that could be
gathered. "Bob Scott," he added gloomily, "may find him somewhere on
the Sinks."
At Sleepy Cat, Jeffries, wild with impatience, was on the telephone.
Lefever, with McAlpin and Pardaloe standing at his side, reported to
the superintendent all he could learn. "He rode away--without help, of
course," explained Lefever to Jeffries in conclusion. "What shape he
is in, it's pretty hard to say, Jeffries. Three more of the bunch,
Vance Morgan, Bull Page, and a lame man that works for Bill Morgan,
were waiting in the saddle at the head of the draw between the barn
and the hotel for him if he should get away from the inn. Somehow, he
went the other way and nobody saw hide nor hair of him, so far as I
can learn. If he was able to make it, Jeff, he would naturally try for
Sleepy Cat. But that's a pretty fair ride for a sound man, let alone a
man that's hit--and everybody claims he was hit. If he wasn't hit he
should have been in Sleepy Cat long before this. You say you've had
men out across the river?"
"Since dark," responded Jeffries. "But, John," he asked, "could a man
hit in the way de Spain was hit, climb into a saddle and make a
get-away?"
"Henry might," answered Lefever laconically.
Scott, with two men who had been helping him, rode in at two o'clock
after a fruitless search to wait for light. At daybreak they picked up
the trail. Studying carefully the room in which the fight had taken
place, they followed de Spain's jump through the broken sash into the
patio. Blood that had been roughly cleaned up marked the spot where he
had mounted the horse and dashed through an open corral gate down the
south trail toward Music Mountain. There was speculation as to why he
should have chosen a route leading directly into the enemy's country,
but there was no gainsaying the trail--occasional flecks of blood
blazed the direction of the fleeing hoofs. These led--not as the
trailers hoped they would, in a wide detour across easy-riding
country toward the north and the Sleepy Cat stage road--but farther
and farther south and west into extremely rough country, a no man's
land, where there was no forage, no water, and no habitation. Not this
alone disquieted his pursuers; the trail as they pursued it showed the
unsteady riding of a man badly wounded.
Lefever, walking his horse along the side of a ridge, shook his head
as he leaned over the pony's shoulder. Pardaloe and Scott rode abreast
of him. "It would take some hit, Bob, to bring de Spain to this kind
of riding."
Beyond the ridge they found where he had dismounted for the first
time. Here Scott picked up five empty shells ejected from de Spain's
revolver. They saw more than trace enough of how he had tried to
stanch the persistent flow from his wounds. He seemed to have worked a
long time with these and with some success, for his trail thereafter
was less marked by blood. It was, however, increasingly unsteady, and
after a time it reached a condition that led Scott to declare de Spain
was no longer guiding Sassoon's pony; it was wandering at will.
Confirmation, if it were needed, of the declaration could soon be read
in the trail by all of them. The horse, unrestrained by its rider, had
come almost completely about and headed again for Music Mountain.
Within a few miles of the snow-covered peak the hoof-prints ran
directly into the road from Calabasas to Morgan's Gap and were
practically lost in the dust of the wagon road.
"Here's a go," muttered Pardaloe at fault, after riding back and forth
for a mile in an effort to pick the horse up again.
"Remember," interposed Scott mildly, "he is riding Sassoon's
horse--the brute is naturally heading for home."
"Follow him home, then," said Lefever unhesitatingly.
Scott looked at his companion in surprise: "Near home, you mean,
John," he suggested inoffensively. "For three of us to ride into the
Gap this morning would be some excitement for the Morgans. I don't
think the excitement would last long--for us."
The three were agreed, however, to follow up to the mouth of the Gap
itself and did follow. Finding no trace of de Spain's movements in
this quest, they rode separately in wide circles to the north and
south, but without picking up a hoof-print that led anywhere or gave
them any clew to the whereabouts of the missing man.
"There is one consolation," muttered Lefever, as they held to what
each felt to be an almost hopeless search. "As long as Henry can
stick to a saddle he can shoot--and the Morgans after yesterday
afternoon will think twice before they close in on him, if they find
him."
Scott shook his head: "That brings us up against another proposition,
John. De Spain hasn't got any cartridges."
Lefever turned sharply: "What do you mean?"
"His belt is in the barn at Calabasas, hanging up with his coat."
"Why didn't you tell me that before," demanded Lefever indignantly.
"I've been hoping all the time we'd find Henry and I wouldn't have to
tell you."
In spite of the hope advanced by Lefever that de Spain might by some
chance have cartridges in his pocket, Scott's information was
disquieting. However, it meant for de Spain, they knew, only the
greater need of succor, and when the news of his plight was made known
later in the day to Jeffries, efforts to locate him were redoubled.
For a week the search continued day and night, but each day, even each
succeeding hour, reduced the expectation of ever seeing the hunted man
alive. Spies working at Calabasas, others sent in by Jeffries to Music
Mountain among the Morgans, and men from Medicine Bend haunting Sleepy
Cat could get no word of de Spain. Fairly accurate reports accounted
for Gale Morgan, nursing a wound at home, and for Sassoon, badly
wounded and under cover somewhere in the Gap. Beyond this, information
halted.
Toward the end of the week a Mexican sheep-herder brought word in to
Lefever that he had seen in Duke Morgan's stable, Sassoon's horse--the
one on which de Spain had escaped. He averred he had seen the
blood-stained Santa Fe saddle that had been taken off the horse when
the horse was found at daybreak of the day following the fight,
waiting at Sassoon's corral to be cared for. There could be, it was
fairly well ascertained, no mistake about the horse: the man knew the
animal; but his information threw no light on the fate of its missing
rider.
Though Scott had known first of de Spain's helpless condition in
his desperate flight, as regarded self-defense, the Indian was the
last to abandon hope of seeing him alive again. One night, in the
midst of a gloomy council at Jeffries's office, he was pressed for
an explanation of his confidence. It was always difficult for Scott
to explain his reasons for thinking anything. Men with the surest
instinct are usually poorest at reasoning a conviction out. But,
Bob, cross-examined and harried, managed to give some explanation
of the faith that was in him. "In the first place," he said, "I've
ridden a good deal with that man--pretty much all over the country
north of Medicine Bend. He is as full of tricks as a nut's full of
meat. Henry de Spain can hide out like an Indian and doctor himself.
Then, again, I know something about the way he fights; up here,
they don't. If those four fellows had ever seen him in action they
never would have expected to get out of a room alive, after a showdown
with Henry de Spain. As near as I can make out from all the talk
that's floating around, what fooled them was seeing him shoot at a
mark here one day in Sleepy Cat."
Jeffries didn't interrupt, but he slapped his knee sharply.
"You might just as well try to stand on a box of dynamite, and shoot
into it, and expect to live to tell it," continued Scott mildly, "as
to shoot into that fellow in a room with closed doors and expect to
get away with it. The only way the bunch can ever kill that man,
without getting killed themselves, is to get him from behind; and at
that, John, the man that fires the gun," murmured the scout, "ought to
be behind a tree.
"You say he is hit. I grant it," he concluded. "But I knew him once
when he was hit to lie out in the bush for a week. He got cut off once
from Whispering Smith and Kennedy after a scrimmage outside Williams
Cache two years ago."
"You don't believe, then, he's dead, Bob?" demanded Jeffries
impatiently.
"Not till I see him dead," persisted Scott unmoved.