A ROPE BREAKS
The lantern, turned down, dimly illumined the tent and revealed the
figures of three men seated about some sort of rough table. The flap was
drawn and fastened. Occasionally a figure moved slightly. No passer-by
would have guessed that the three partners were ensconced in the black
mouth of the tunnel, ramparted by the dump heap, watching for
developments they were fairly sure would start with darkness. Every
little while Sandy twitched a line that was attached to a clumsy but
effective rocker he had contrived beneath one of the dummies they had
built from the stuff that Plimsoll had not reclaimed.
"Don't want to work the blamed thing too much," he said. "Might bu'st
it. It's on'y the one figger but I'll be derned if it don't look
natcherul."
After which they all relapsed into silence, restrained from smoking for
fear of a telltale spark or casual fragrance carried by the wind. It was
a dark night, the hillsides stood blurry against a blue-black sky in
which the stars glittered like metal points but failed to shed much
light. Later, much later, toward morning, a moon would rise.
Here and there on the slopes bright spots or glows of fire marked the
occupied claim-sites. From the camp itself there came a murmur that
sometimes swelled louder under the dull flare that hung over the lower
end of the valley; reflection and diffusion from the gasoline lights and
acetylene flares used by the owners of the eating-houses, the bars and
gambling shacks, all open for business during miners' hours, which meant
two shifts, of night and day.
From the mouth of the tunnel the three watched the march of the stars,
the wheel of the Big Dipper around its pivot, the North Star; marking
time by the sidereal clock of the heavens, each with a variant emotion.
Mormon shifted his position more frequently than the others. None of
them was especially comfortable, but Mormon wanted to keep as limber as
possible, he was afraid of stiffening up, thinking always of his
challenge to Roaring Russell. Slow to anger, Mormon, when his rage
mounted was slow of statement. What he said he meant. The insult to
Miranda Bailey while under his escort chafed him as a saddle chafes a
galled horse. It had to be wiped out at the earliest moment and,
singularly enough, the spinster was not particularly prominent in the
matter. It was not a personal question; the insult had been offered to
womanhood, and Mormon was ever its champion and its victim.
Sam, cut off from tobacco and melody, bunkered down with his back
against a frame timber and looked at the tall lean figure of Sandy
silhouetted against the stars, wondering why Sandy had stopped so
abruptly when the names of Westlake and Molly Casey had been coupled. It
wasn't like Sandy to move or halt without definite purpose, Sam
reasoned. "I suppose he figgers Molly too much of a kid," he told
himself. "If these claims pan out she'll be rich. Likewise, so will we."
His thoughts shifted to dreams of what he would do when they were
wealthy. Very far beyond the purchase of an elaborate saddle and outfit,
a horse or two he coveted, the finest harmonica to be bought, he did not
go. That Sandy might have felt a tinge of jealousy toward young Westlake
was furthest from his conjectures.
As for Sandy, he had lost his mental orientation. Something had
happened, something was happening within him and he could not tell the
process nor name it. He was as a man who goes out into the darkness amid
rooms and passages with which he considers himself familiar and
suddenly--there comes a door where should be space, or space where there
should be a window--and he is lost, his senses betray him, for the
moment he is completely fogged, all bearings lost, possessed with the
blankness that accompanies the flight of self-confidence.
He could see very plainly in mental vision the picture that Molly had
sent to the Three Star, now framed and given the place of honor on the
table of the ranch-house living-room. The picture of a girl in whose
eyes the fleeting look of womanhood, that Sandy had now and then seen
there and which had thrilled him so strangely, had become permanent.
That she was something so vital she could not be dismissed from the life
of the Three Star, from his own life, by sending her to school whence
she would return almost a stranger, by making her an heiress, Sandy
recognized. He had deliberately given her his hand to help her out of
the rut in which he had found her and now, with the swift series of
tableaux conjured up by Sam's suggestion of her and Westlake together,
lovers, Sandy realized the gap that was widening between Molly and him.
If she was out of the rut would she not now regard him as in another of
his own from which there was no up-lifting?
To Sandy, Westlake seemed little more than a likable lad, placing him at
about twenty-three or four. He felt immeasurably older, harder, though
there were not more than six years between them--seven at the most. Even
that made him almost twice the age of Molly. With this twist of his
reverie he realized that Molly was no longer to be considered as a girl.
Toward the little maid he had poured out protectiveness, affection and,
while his vials were emptying, she had crossed the brook. Into what had
his affection shifted with the changing of Molly to womanhood?
Sandy Bourke, knight of the roving heel, had never attempted to find
solution for his attitude toward women. It was neither wariness nor
antipathy. His life, drifting from rancho to rancho, sometimes
consorting with the rougher side of men careless of conventions, had
been, in the main, not unlike the life of a hermit, with long periods
when he rode alone under sun and stars with only his horse for company.
There were months of this and then came swiftly moving periods of
relaxation in a cattle town where men unleashed the repressions and let
pent-up energies and appetites have full sway. Sandy loved card chances
where his own skill might back what luck the pasteboards brought him in
the deal. Drinking bouts, the company of the women with whom many of his
fellows consorted, never appealed to him. His reservations found outlet
in gambling or in the acceptance of some job where the danger risks ran
high, where success and self-safety hung upon his coolness, his keen
sense, his courage and his skill with horse and lariat and gun. A life
as apart as a sailor's, more lonely, for he was often companionless for
months.
So far he had never felt lack of anything, least of all lately, with the
two men he liked best in active partnership with him, with a maturing
interest in the development of his ranch and his grade of cattle by
modern methods. But, to have Molly not come back, or, returning, to have
her wooed and won, entirely absorbed by some one like Westlake, struck
him with a sense of impending loss that amounted to a real pain,
difficult of self-diagnosis. Westlake was worthy enough. A good mate for
Molly, climbing up the ladder of education and culture to stand where
the engineer, well-bred, well-mannered, now stood, the two of them to go
on together....
"Shucks!" muttered Sandy. "And he ain't even seen her picture. I must
have been chewin' loco weed."
"What say?" asked Sam.
"I'm goin' to take a li'l' look-see," said Sandy. "I reckon they're
tryin' to git warmed up an' decide on what they'll do round here. No
tellin' how long they may take or what kind of deviltry that camp booze
may work 'em up to. I'm pritty certain no one saw us sneak out of the
tent afteh dahk."
If they had been seen no attempt might be made to dislodge them from the
claims. Sandy did not believe such effort would turn out to be a
shooting match,--unless the defenders started it,--but something more
underhanded. The flinging of a dynamite stick, if the throwers felt
certain of not being caught, was a possibility if enough crude whisky
had been absorbed. In all probability the crowd of ousted men were
making themselves conspicuous in the camp during the earlier hours of
the evening in view of a needed alibi. Nothing might happen until
midnight and the long vigil was not comfortable. Sandy vanished from the
tunnel mouth, sinking to the ground, instantly indistinguishable even to
Sam and Mormon. There was nothing to tell whether he had gone up-hill or
down. The momentary cessation of the cicadas' chorus was the only
warning that a human was abroad.
"Have a chaw?" Mormon whispered presently, after he had changed his
pose.
Sam took the plug tobacco and bit into it gratefully.
"I sure hate stickin' around, waitin'," he said under his breath. "Allus
makes me plumb nerv'us."
"Same here," answered Mormon. "Reckon it's that way with most men. Sandy
don't show it, 'cept by goin' out on a snoop."
"He can see, smell an' hear where we'd be deef, dumb an' blind," said
Sam. "Wonder what time it is? We've been here all of two hours already
'cordin' to them stars."
"What time does the moon rise?" asked Mormon.
"'Bout half past three or so. You figgerin' on wrastlin' Roarin' Russell
by moonlight, after we git through down here?"
"I've got a hunch this is goin' to be a busy night, plumb through till
sun-up," said Mormon. "An', when I meet up with Roarin' Russell it ain't
goin' to be jest a wrastlin match, believe me. It's goin' to be a
free-fo'-all exhibition of ground an' lofty tumblin', 'thout rounds,
seconds or referee. When one of us hits the ground it'll likely be fo'
keeps."
"I ain't seen you so riled up in a long time, old-timer. An' I'm backin'
you fo' winner, at that. Jest the same, me an' Sandy'll do a li'l'
refereein' fo' the sake of fair play."
"I can hear you two gossipin' old wimmin gabbin' clear up to the top of
the hill an' down to the crick," added a third voice as Sandy glided in,
materializing from the darkness.
"Anythin' doin'?" asked Sam.
"No, an' there won't be long as you air yo' voices. You play like an
angel on that mouth harp of yores, Sam, but you talk like a rasp. Mormon
booms like a bull frawg."
They settled down again to their watch. The Great Bear constellation
dipped down, scooping into the darkness beyond the opposing hill.
"Pritty close to midnight," said Sam at last. "What's the ..."
Sandy's grip on his arm checked him, all senses centering into
listening.
The three stared blankly into the night, while their hands sought gun
butts and loosened the weapons in their holsters. Out of the blackness
came little foreign sounds that they interpreted according to their
powers. The tiny clink of metal, the faint thud of horses' hoofs, an
exclamation that had barely been above the speaker's breath floated up
to them through the stillness. The glow of the lantern showed through
the tent wall.
"Two riders," mouthed Sandy so softly that Mormon and Sam swung heads to
catch his words. "Came up the valley t'other side of the crick. Both
crossed it above the tent. Reckon they're visitin' us. One of 'em's
comin' this way."
They crouched, breathless now, listening to the soft padded sounds that
told of the approach of man and horse. These ceased. Still they could
see nothing. Then there came a sharp shrill whistle, answered from the
levels. Followed instantly the thud of galloping ponies going at top
speed, parallel, one between the watchers and the tent as they saw the
swift shadow shade the glow for an instant, the other between the tent
and the creek. There was a sharp swishing as of something whipping
brush.
"Yi-yi-yippy!" The cries rang out exultant as the horses dashed by the
tunnel. The light in the tent wavered, went out. There was a shout of
surprise and dismay, a _twang_ like the snapping of a mighty bowstring
and then came the whoops of the trio from the Three Star as they
realized what the attempt had been and how it had failed.
Two riders, trailing a rope, had raced down the valley hoping to sweep
away the tent, to send its occupant sprawling, its contents scattered in
a confusion of which advantage would be taken to chase the three off
their claims, taken by surprise, made ridiculous.
Sandy and Sam, searching for a convenient tent site, had happened upon a
mass of outcrop, overgrown by brush. Over this they had pitched the
tent, using the rock for table, propping their dummies about it. If
dynamite was flung it would find something to work against. They had not
anticipated the use of the rope to demolish the canvas any more than the
two riders had expected to bring up against a boulder. The impact, with
their ponies spurred, urged on by their shouts to their limit, tore the
cinches of one saddle loose, jerked it from the horse and catapulted the
unprepared rider over its head, flying through the air to land heavily,
while his mount, unencumbered, frightened, went careering off leaving
its breathless master stunned amid the sage.
As the cinches had given way at one end, the line itself had parted at
the other. The second pony had stumbled sidewise, rolling before the man
was free from the saddle. They could hear it thrashing in the willows,
the rider cursing as he tried to remount while Sandy ran cat-footed down
the hill, leaving Mormon and Sam to handle the other. If there had been
assistants to the raid they had melted away, willing enough to join in a
drive against men yanked from their tent, defenseless, but not at all
eager to face the guns of those same men on the alert, the aggressive.
Mormon and Sam found their man groaning and limp.
"Don't believe he's bu'sted anything," announced Sam, "'less he's druv
his neck inter his shoulders. Got his saddle, Mormon?"
"Yep. Want the rope?"
They trussed their captive with the lariat still snubbed to his
saddle-horn. Down in the willows there was a flash, a report, a
scurrying flight punctuated by an oath almost as vivid as the shot.
Sandy came up the hill toward them.
"Miss him?" asked Mormon.
"It was sure dahk," said Sandy, "and I hated to plug the hawss. So I
only took one shot to cheer him on his way. He was mountin' at the time
an' it was a snapshot. I aimed at the seat of his pants. I w'udn't be
surprised but what he's ridin' so't of one-sided. Who you got here? Tote
him down-hill. I don't believe they bu'sted the lantern. We'll take a
look at him."
Sandy retrieved the lantern from the collapsed canvas and lit it. Mormon
and Sam took the senseless man down to the creek where they attempted to
revive him by pouring hatfuls of the icy water on his head. He was a
black-haired chap, sallow of face, clean-shaven. His clothes were those
of a cowman.
"Looks a heap like a drowned rat," said Mormon. "It's Sol Wyatt, one of
Plim's riders oveh to his hawss ranch. He got fired from the
Two-Bar-Circle fo' leavin' his ridin' iron to home an' usin' anotheh
brand. Leastwise, that's what they suspected. Old Man Penny giv' him the
benefit of the doubt an' jest kicked him out of the corral. If he'd had
the goods on him he'd have skinned him alive an' put his pelt on the
bahn do' fo' a warnin'."
"The damn fool rode a single-fire saddle fo' a job like that," said Sam.
"No wonder it bu'sted. He's sniffin', Sandy; what we goin' to do with
him?"
"Take him up inter camp, soon's he's able to walk an' hand him over to
Plimsoll with our compliments. They figgered they'd make us all look
plumb ridiculous with bein' flipped out of the tent. Then they'd have
had the crowd on their side erlong with the la'f, way it usually goes.
Don't drown him, Mormon, he don't look oveh used to water, to me."
Wyatt opened a pair of shifty black eyes to consciousness and the light
of the lantern and immediately closed them again, playing opossum. Sam
prodded him gently in the ribs.
"Wake up, Sol," he said. "Come back to earth, you sky-salutin'
circus-rider. You sure looped the loops 'fore you lit. Serves you right
fo' usin' a one-cinch saddle. Git up!"
Wyatt gasped and sat up, grinning foolishly.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothin'," answered Sandy. "Jest nothin'. Who was your buckaroo friend
on the otheh end of the rope?"
"I dunno. Never saw him before to-night."
"Pal of Jim Plimsoll?"
"I dunno. Nobuddy I know. Nobuddy you know, I reckon."
"I'll know him likely next time I run across him," said Sandy. "He's
packin' a saddle brand I put on him." His voice was grimly humorous, he
recognized Wyatt's obstinacy as something not without merit. "How's yore
haid?"
"Some tender."
"It ain't in first-rate condition or you w'udn't be drawin' pay from
Plimsoll. Yore saddle's here, yore hawss went west. Ef you want to leave
the saddle till you locate the hawss, you can git it 'thout any trouble
any time you come fo' it. Or you can pack it with you now. We're goin'
up to camp."
"Figger it's safe to leave yore claims now?" asked Wyatt cheerfully.
"I don't figger we'll be jumped ag'in befo' mornin'," replied Sandy. "Ef
we are, why, we'll have to start the arguments all over."
"I w'udn't be surprised," said the philosophic Wyatt, gingerly pressing
his head with his fingertips, "but what there is a gen'ral impression
'stablished by this time that you three hombres from the Three Star are
right obstinate about considerin' this yore property."
"You leavin' camp with Plimsoll in the mornin'?" Mormon asked casually.
"I heard some rumor about his hittin' the sunrise trail," said Wyatt.
"Ef he goes, I stay. I'm a li'l' fed up on Jim Plimsoll lately. He pulls
too much on his picket line to suit me. Ef he's got a yeller stripe on
his belly, I'm quittin'. Some day he's goin' to git inter a hole that'll
sure test his standard. Me, I may be a bit of a wolf, but I'm damned ef
I trail with coyotes. I'll leave my saddle. Any of you got the makin's?
I seem to have lost most everything but my clothes. I shed a gun round
here somewheres."
"You can have it when you come back fo' yore saddle, Wyatt," said Sandy.
"Where was you an' yore unknown pal goin' to repo't back to Plimsoll?"
Wyatt grinned in the lantern light.
"Ef we trailed inter his place an' made a bet on the red over to the
faro table he'd sabe everything went off fine an' dandy. He w'udn't
figger we'd show at all if it didn't come off. An' we w'udn't have."
"There was one or two mo' staked out in the brush, 'less my hearin's
gone back on me," said Sandy. "Seemed to me I heard 'em makin' their
getaway. I suppose you don't know their names, either?"
"No, sir, I sure don't. An' I don't imagine they'll be showin' up at
Plimsoll's right off. It was a win-or-lose job. Pay if it was pulled
off. Otherwise, nothin' doin'. You hombres treated me white. There's a
lot who'd have plugged me full of lead an' death. I was on yore land. Ef
you force me to walk into Plimsoll's Place ahead of you I ain't
resistin' none, an' I shall sure admire to watch Plim's face when he
sees you-all back of me."
He took the trail ahead of them, hands in his pockets, his cigarette
glowing. Behind him walked Sandy. Wyatt finished his smoke and started
to hum a tune.
"Oh, I'm wild an' woolly an' full of fleas,
I'm hard to curry below the knees.
I'm a wild he-wolf from Cripple Crick,
An' this is my night to howl.
"I ain't got a friend but my hawss an' gun,
The last kin shoot an' the first kin run,
An' I'm a rovin' son-of-a-gun,
An' this is my night to howl."
"He's a cool sort of a cuss," said Sam to Mormon. "I reckon he's a bad
actor, but there's sure somethin' erbout the galoot I like. He ain't
over fond of Plimsoll, that's a sure thing, if he is workin' fo' him.
Wonder why?"
"They tell me," replied Mormon, "thet Plimsoll's apt to be fond of the
other feller's gal. He ain't satisfied with what he can pick for
himself. T'otheh feller's apple allus has a sweeter core. I w'udn't
wondeh but what that was the trouble. Plim ain't got any mo' respect fo'
wimmen than hell has fo' fryin' souls."
"Uh-huh! He w'udn't go round pickin' a scrap with Roarin' Russell on
their account, fer instance?"
Mormon paid no attention to the friendly gibe. As they entered the
street of the camp, largely deserted, though there was every evidence of
crowds forgetting time in the drinking and gambling shacks, Sandy moved
up even with Wyatt and locked arms with him.
"I ain't goin' ter make no break," said Wyatt. "Here's Plim's. Jest you
let me go in ahead through the door. I've seen you use your guns. I
ain't suicidin'."
They allowed him to go in first, unescorted. Their plans held no further
reprisal against Wyatt.