THE HIDEOUT
The row that had culminated at the Waterline Ranch, ending in the
trouble between Plimsoll and Wyatt, had brewed steadily. It had been a
reckless crowd at the horse ranch, practically outlaws by their actions
though not yet so adjudged, yet knowing their tenure of immunity was
growing short. There had collected, besides Plimsoll's riders, Butch
Parsons, Hahn's and others of Plimsoll's following who had been forced
from their livelihood as gamblers. They still hung together, waiting for
Plimsoll to make a clean-up of his horses and move to places where they
were less discredited.
Meantime they made their own crude liquors and drank them freely. They
gambled and caroused late. There were some women at the ranch. There was
little fellowship.
Plimsoll had lost caste as a leader. His moods were morose or bragging.
His ascendancy was gone. The crowd clung to him like so many leeches,
waiting for a split of the proceeds of the sale of horses that no one
appeared eager to buy in quantity. Ready cash was short. There were
frequent quarrels; through it all there worked the leaven of Wyatt's
jealousy, fermenting steadily. There were men among them who had fought
with gunplay and who had killed but, as they were cheats, so they were
cravens, at heart.
When the split came, after an all-night session with cards and liquor,
following the refusal of a dealer to buy the herd, it was not merely a
matter between Wyatt and Plimsoll. Sides were taken and the weaker
driven from the ranch. Preparations were made for departure. The
frightened women fled back to Hereford.
"It's a rotten mess," declared Butch Parsons. "Wyatt or one of the
others'll tell all they know. You ought to have shot straighter,
Plimsoll. Just like cuttin' our own throats to let 'em get away."
"You did some missing on your own account," retorted Plimsoll.
"It was the rotten booze. You started it. If you'd plugged Wyatt right
it would have ended it. Now we've got to clear out."
"There isn't two hundred dollars of real money in the crowd," said
Plimsoll. "If Taylor had taken the herd...."
"He was afraid to touch it. We'll go south. That's my plan. You can find
a buyer in Tucson. Put the horses in the Hideout. Leave one or two to
look out for 'em an' turn 'em over later. We can arrange for a delivery
if we make a sale."
"Who in hell's goin' to stay behind?" asked one of the men.
"We'll cut cards for it."
"Not me."
"What's the use of fighting among ourselves again?" suggested Hahn
smoothly. "We can settle who's to stay later. There's grub in the
Hideout and a safe place to lay low if anything goes wrong. They'll have
a fine time proving up the horses are stolen. We've got to take a
chance. Butch is right. We can't take them with us. There's a good
chance of a sale in Tucson. Meantime we've got to figure on Wyatt. He'll
likely try to get in touch with that Brandon outfit."
"Or that chap who said he was from Phoenix," put in Butch. "You made a
misplay, there, Plimsoll. That chap was a ringer."
"You talk like a fool," retorted Plimsoll. "He sold us the bunch cheap
enough. He never raised horses he'd let go at that price. He lifted 'em,
like he said."
"Just the same, he didn't act like a rustler."
"It was his first trick. Young vouched for him."
"This ain't getting us anywhere," said Hahn. "Let's make for the Hideout
and talk it out there. This place ain't safe."
Within an hour the herd, already corralled for the chance of a quick
sale, was being driven to the glen known as the Hideout, a little
mountain park with water and good feed where Plimsoll placed the horses
that his men drove off from far-away ranches, or Plimsoll bought from
other horse dealers of his own sort, keeping them there until their
brands were doctored and possible pursuit died down. There were two
entrances to the Hideout, one through a narrow gut almost blocked by a
fallen boulder, with only a passage wide enough to let through horse and
rider single file, a way that could be easily barricaded or masked so
that none would suspect any opening in the cliff. The second led by a
winding way through a desolate region, over rock that left no sign and
wound by twists and turns that none but the initiated could follow. The
place, accidentally discovered, was perfect for its purpose.
There were some horses now in the Hideout, the lot purchased from the
man from Phoenix, whom Butch suspected. But Parsons was of a suspicious
disposition and the rest had overruled him, though the purchase had
taken most of the cash at their disposal, until they could make the sale
that had fallen through at the last minute. There was feed enough for
the entire herd for a month. There was a cabin in a side gully of the
park, near the blocked entrance, the whole place was honeycombed with
caves, in the towering sidewalls and underground.
Five of the nine left of the Waterline outfit drove the herd. Hahn and
Parsons could both ride, but they were not experts at handling horses.
They chose to go with Plimsoll and the outfit-cook, while the rest took
the long way round to the other way in. The four lingered to give the
rest a start. There was some liquor left and this they started to
dispose of. At noon the cook got a farewell meal and they mounted.
"I hate leaving the country without evening up some way with the Bourke
outfit," said Plimsoll. "Damn him and the rest of them, they broke the
luck for us. As for the girl, if...?"
"Oh, quit throwing the bull con about that, Jim," said Parsons bluntly.
"Sandy Bourke's a damn good man for you to leave alone an' you know it.
Talk ain't goin' to hurt him."
"I'm coming back some time," said Plimsoll with a string of oaths. "Then
you'll see something besides talk."
Parsons jeered at him. Plimsoll was no longer the leader and he knew it.
But he hung on to the semblance of authority that an open quarrel with
Butch might shatter. Butch was a bully, but Plimsoll respected his
shooting. And Hahn sided with him. The cook did not count.
Plimsoll carried with him a fine pair of binoculars and, as they rode
leisurely on and reached a vantage-point, he swept the tumbled horizon
for signs of any strange riders. It was the caution of habit as much as
actual fear of a raid. There were no Hereford County horses in his herd
save those he had bred himself and he did not think Wyatt or the others
who had left the outfit would be able to stir up sentiment against him
in Hereford. It would take time to get in touch with Brandon. But they
made it a point to be sure that no casual rider noticed them on the way
to the Hideout, or coming from it.
At times Plimsoll rode aside from the trail to a ridge crest for wider
vision. At last, coming up the pass of Willow Creek, he sighted Molly
and Donald with Grit trotting beside them. It was the dog that confirmed
his first surmise. He had heard that Molly had returned, but he had not
dared a visit to the Three Star. Who the rider with her was he did not
care. That it was a tenderfoot was plain by his clothes and by his seat.
As he adjusted the powerful glasses to a better focus Plimsoll's face
twisted to an ugly smile. He had a flask in his hip pocket and he
swigged at it before he rode to catch up with Parsons and Hahn.
"I'll show you if I do nothing but talk," he said to Butch after he told
them of his discovery. "We'll wait for them along the trail. We'll send
the chap with her back afoot."
"And what'll you do with her?" asked Hahn. "We've had enough of skirts,
Plimsoll. This is no time to be mixed up with them."
"Isn't it?" The drink had given Plimsoll some of his old swagger, and
the prospect of hatching the revenge over which he had brooded so long
took possession of him. "Then you're a bigger fool than I thought you,
Hahn. That particular skirt, aside from my personal interest in her,
represents about a quarter of a million dollars--maybe more. She's got a
quarter interest and a little better in the Molly Mine. The Three Star
owns another quarter. How much will they give up to have her back?
Bourke's her guardian, remember. I think the chap with her may be young
Keith. We won't monkey with him. He'll do to tell what happened. But
we'll take the girl along and we'll send back word of how much we want
to let her go. After I'm through with her. She may not go back the same
as she came, but they won't know that and they'll pay enough to set us
up and to hell with the herd."
Parsons and Hahn looked at each other, greed rising in their eyes. They
had no love for the partners of the Three Star nor for Molly Casey. A
big ransom was possible if it was handled right.
"You'll have the whole county searching the range," objected Parsons.
"There's a lot know something about the Hideout and they'll use Wyatt to
show 'em the way. Bourke'll guess where she is."
"Let him. Wyatt don't know about the caves, does he? We can take her
some other place to-morrow. We won't say anything now to the kid about a
ransom. We'll mail a letter after we fix details. But we'll take the
girl into the Hideout now. That tenderfoot'll be lucky if he drifts back
to the Three Star by nightfall afoot. We'll be out of the place long
before that. And we'll put her where they can't find her till they come
through. I'm running this."
The cook had ridden on ahead. Now he was waiting for them, looking back.
Parsons shrugged his shoulders.
"How do we split?" asked Hahn.
"Three ways," said Plimsoll. "We'll take her to the cabin. The rest'll
be at the other end. We'll keep Cookie with us--for the present. No need
for the boys to know about it. We can manage that all right. Three
ways, and I handle the girl."
Butch Parson grinned at him.
"I thought you'd lost all your nerve, Jim, but I guess I was wrong. All
right, it goes as it lays. You handle the lady. You ought to know how.
Now then, how'll we bring it off?"
Plimsoll talked glibly, convincingly. Butch Parsons had no extra share
of brains, those he had had never been developed beyond the ordinary.
Hahn was a good faro dealer. There his intelligence specialized and
ended. Plimsoll was the master-mind of his crowd; they appreciated and
acknowledged his capacity for details. That he had been unsuccessful of
late they set down to his lack of nerve, dissipated in his encounter
with Sandy. Their present lack of cash, the doubtfulness of being able
to sell and deliver the horses, made ransom a glittering possibility.
Hahn had some objections, but Plimsoll overruled them plausibly enough.
"I don't see the sense of letting the kid go," questioned Hahn. "He's
good for a big split as well as the girl."
"You're a fool when it comes to looking ahead, Hahn. You always were,"
answered Plimsoll. What with the chance of revenge in sight over which
he had brooded until it became a part of his consciousness, and the
liquor still stirring potently within him, he felt that his ascendancy
had become reestablished, "Keith--the old man--is too big a fish to
monkey with. Got too many pulls and connections. He'd have the whole
country out and the trick played up big in every dinky newspaper. That's
part of his business--publicity. We've got one fish--or will have--no
sense straining the net. We don't want the kid. Let him string along
back best way he can. We'll get all the start we need. What else would
you do with him?"
"Stow him away somewhere and send a tip where they can find him in a day
or two."
Plimsoll shot a look of contempt at Butch, making the proposal.
"You and Hahn make a good team," he said. "No. One's enough. He may get
lost--we'll take his horse--and that won't be our fault. He may make
Three Star late this afternoon. I wish I could be with him when he tells
what he knows. Time they locate the Hideout, we'll be miles away through
the south end and they'll have one hell of a time trailing us over the
rocks. The boys weren't over-keen about staying with the herd and they
can vamose. We'll tell them it's best to scatter for a bit and name a
meeting-place. The horses can stay in the park. If we put this deal over
right we don't need to bother about horse-trading. We can get clean out
of the country with a big stake, go down to South America and start up a
place. There are live times and good plays down there, boys. All right,
Cookie, we're coming. I'm going to take another look. It's ten to one
they're making for Beaver Dam Lake--on a picnic."
He laughed and the two laughed with him as he went for his survey and
returned, announcing that the girl and her escort were entering the
ravine at the other end. They rode through the trees toward them. Molly
and Donald came on so leisurely that Plimsoll feared they might have
turned back and, with Butch, he risked a look down the trail, sighting
them.
"They didn't recognize us," he said. "We've got to take Cookie into
this. You and Butch ride on through the trees a ways, Hahn, till you get
back of them. Then we'll get 'em between us. I'll wise Cookie up to what
we are doing."
It was more than doubtful whether the three ever intended for a second
to allow Cookie to share in the ransom money, but Plimsoll easily
persuaded him that he would be a partner, adding that it would be
foolish to let all the riders into the pot.
"She's Molly Casey of the Casey Mine," he told him. "Sandy Bourke's her
guardian. We'll make him come through with twenty or thirty thousand,
sabe? But there ain't enough to go all round and make a showing."
Cookie was a willing rascal and a natural adept at the double-cross. He
raised no objections and the trap was set and sprung.
"You go ahead, Cookie, and open up the gate," said Plimsoll. Hahn and
Butch were speeding Donald Keith on his way with close-flung bullets.
"I'm going to have a little private talk with this lady. Go to the cabin
and get some grub ready. There's plenty there. Spread yourself. We'll
be along in a little while. That was a nice job of roping you did. I
won't forget it."
"Allus c'ud lass' fair to middlin'," grinned the man through yellow,
stumpy teeth. "That's why I tote a rope. An' I sure had a purty target."
Plimsoll scowled at him and he rode off. Molly, the lariat twisted about
her upper body from shoulders to waist, constricting her arms, fastened
where she could not reach it by a hitch, sat on Blaze, looking with
steady contempt at Plimsoll, who held her bridle rein. He regarded her
with sleek complacency and then his eyes slowly traveled over her
rounded figure, accented by her riding toggery.
"Grown to be quite a beauty, quite a woman, Molly, my dear," he said.
"Never should have suspected you'd turn out such a wonder. Clothes make
the woman, but it takes a proper figure to set them off. And you've got
all of that."
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.
"I'm not going to tell you--yet. It depends upon circumstances, my dear.
We'll all have a little chat after lunch. I'd take that rope off if I
wasn't afraid I might lose you. You are quite precious."
She looked through him as if he had been a sheet of glass. From her
first sight of him, back in childhood, she had known instinctively the
man was evil. But she was not afraid. The blood that ran in her veins
was pure and bore in its crimson flood the sturdy heritage of pioneers
who had outfaced dangers of death and torture and shame. She was all
westerner. The blood was fighting blood. She felt it urged in her pulses
while her brain bade her bide her time. Rage mounted as she faced the
possible issues of this capture, the flaunting dismissal of young Keith.
Plimsoll must be either very sure of his ground or desperate, she
fancied. Both, perhaps. Molly had come into contact with life in the raw
long before she went east. Education had not made a prude of her nor
tainted her clean purity. She faced the fact and, for the time, she
ignored the man. She had even time to think of young Donald turned
tenderfooted into the mountains, to wonder whether he would be able to
find his way back or get lost in the ranges. She heard the laughter that
followed the rifle-shots and surmised that they were having their idea
of a joke with the lad.
If he got back--then Sandy would come after her. She was very sure of
Sandy and that he would find her. Until he did she must use her wits.
And Grit, gallant Grit, wounded and lying in the chaparral!
Though she still gazed through Plimsoll rather than at him, the scorn
showed in her eyes and bit through his assumption of ease as acid bites
through skin, eating its way on. He burned to wipe out his own
trickeries, his cowardice, his failures, to wreak a vile satisfaction on
this girl who sat so disdainfully, with her chin lifted, her lips firm,
oblivious of him. She baffled him. A mind like Plimsoll's never had the
clarity of prevision to see the strength of character that had been in
the prospector's child, even as he had never suspected her unfolding to
beauty. It roused the vandal in him--he longed to break her, mar her.
The return of Butch and Hahn brought him back to the fact that he was
not playing this deal alone. While they might allow him some personal
license, to them the girl represented so much money. Plimsoll's
reprisals were only partly theirs, they would not permit him to balk
them of their share. There is Berserker madness latent in every one that
breaks out sometimes in the child that torments a kitten and ends by
torturing it, maiming--killing. There had been nothing in what stood for
Plimsoll's manhood to change such instinct, to restrain it where he held
the will and power. But here he had to go carefully.
He cut short Butch's boast of the way they had scared young Keith. Both
Hahn and Parsons felt a coil of embarrassment at the silence, almost the
serenity, of their captive. They had expected her to act far
differently, to rage, threaten, cry out. She almost abashed them.
"See if you can round up that damned dog, Butch," said Plimsoll. "I
plugged him but we want to be sure he don't get away. He might help
Keith's kid, for one thing. And he clamped my arm."
Parsons rode into the chaparral until he was barred by its thickness,
trying to stir out the dog, without success.
"Dead, I reckon," he reported. "Crawled in somewheres. You hit him
hard, Plim. Plenty blood on the leaves."
Molly bit her lips and paled a little, but turned away her head so that
they could not see. She winked back the tears that came to her thought
of Grit helpless, panting, bleeding.
They rode on up the rocky ravine that gradually closed in on either side
with the rock walls set with cactus here and there, carved into great
masses superimposed upon one another for a hundred feet. Presently they
turned aside from the stony trail that left no record of hooves, and,
Plimsoll in the lead, Molly next, walked their horses over a precarious
ledge that zigzagged back and forth up to where a notch in the cliff had
been nearly filled by a titanic boulder. To one side appeared a narrow
opening, unseen from below by the curve of the great rock, just wide
enough to admit horse and rider. A few feet in, they halted, and
Plimsoll turned in his saddle while the other three men dismounted and
carefully adjusted several rock fragments in the opening, piling them
with a swift care that showed familiarity with their task, so placing
them that they appeared as if a part of the wall. Butch clambered to the
top of the great boulder and viewed the job from the outside.
"First-class," he announced. "That's sure a great scheme, Plim."
"Go on up to the tree and take a look," said Plimsoll. "Hahn, hand him
my glasses."
Parson took them and climbed up to where a dead tree stood like a
skeleton in a crotch of the rocks. It screened him from observation
perfectly by outer approach.
"I can see Keith's kid," he said with a chuckle when he came down. "He's
through the creek and he don't know which way to start. Looks as if he
meant to follow down the creek."
"He'll not go far that way," commented Plimsoll. "Mount up. Cookie's
getting grub and I'm getting hungry. He'll have to cook for the boys
after we're through. They'll be showing up after a bit."
Below them, Molly saw the hidden park that lay so snugly back of the
barrier walls. It was an irregular oval that appeared to curve at the
far end. Gulches reached back, occasionally thick with timber that grew
in clumps among the rocks and on the ledges, dotting the green grass of
the floor. She caught the sparkle of a little cascade, the gleam of a
streamlet. The cliffs were terraced and battlemented in red and white
and gray. Their facades showed fantasies of weather sculpture that
looked like ruined castles and cathedrals with cave mouths for
entrances. Here and there a monolith of stone stood up out from the main
cliff, spiring for a hundred feet or more. The grass was starred with
flowers. Some horses were grazing a little distance away and stood at
gaze, to break and wheel and gallop away with flying manes and tails.
There was a good deal of underbush covering the talus.
The trail down was plainly marked. It forked after they reached the
general level and the branch they took led into a side gulch where a log
cabin stood, smoke coming from its chimney. Plimsoll took the rein of
Blaze again and they broke into a canter. At the cabin Plimsoll took
Molly from the saddle and carried her into the rude interior. There he
set her on a chair. Cookie was busy at a stove frying ham and eggs, with
coffee simmering.
"You'd better sit up and eat nicely, my dear," said Plimsoll as he
unbound her. "You'll have to sooner or later, you know. No sense in
being stubborn."
She said nothing but he saw a gleam in her eyes as she glanced toward
the table where Hahn was setting out plates and cutlery.
"You'll eat with a fork, Molly," said Plimsoll. "Those steel knives are
too handy for you. There's a nasty look in those blue eyes of yours that
will have to be tamed--have to be tamed," he repeated as he took a
demijohn from a corner and poured out a liquor that sent the reek of its
raw strength sickeningly through the cabin. "Here's to your health,
Molly--Molly Mine!"
The others laughed and drank their share before they ate the food that
Cookie placed before them, talking louder, growing flushed with the
crude whisky, while Molly sat facing the door, striving to catch
something that might help, might give some clue. But the talk was all of
the brawl at the Waterline with contemptuous mention of Wyatt and the
rest. They seemed by common consent to ignore her once she had refused
the food.
This attitude weakened her resistance though she strove against it. She
had nerved herself to meet action. Now she seemed to count for little
more than a bundle, of more or less value, that, having been secured,
could wait its time for utility. Yet, before she had telescoped her
vision to extend through and beyond Plimsoll, she had seen devils
looking from his eyes, smug devils, but none the less menacing, risen
from the man's own private hell pit.
Plimsoll looked at his watch.
"The horses should be showing up pretty soon," he said and rose, a
little unsteadily. The effects of the liquor were patent on all of them.
"Butch, you and Hahn go down with Cookie and keep 'em down at the south
end. Get 'em to turn the horses loose. And get them out of the place as
soon as you can after they've eaten. Better take what stuff you want,
Cookie."
"I suppose you'd be jealous if we stuck around," said Butch, leering now
at Molly. The whisky seemed to have been an acid test for his features,
dissolving all that was not brutal. Hahn's cold sneering face was none
the less evil.
"How long do you want us to give you, Plim?" asked the dealer. "No sense
in our sticking round here that I can see."
"We've got to get the boys out of the way, haven't we? Keep your eyes
peeled on Cookie," Plimsoll said in a lower voice as the ranch chef went
out of the door with his arms piled with provisions. "He might take a
notion to talk too much. We had to let him in, but he don't have to stay
in. Soon as the boys are away you come back and we'll go out again this
end, if all is clear."
"Where are you going to stow her?" asked Hahn "Leave her here in Split
Rock Cave?"
The callous reference to her as if she was something inanimate chilled
Molly. If only she had a gun! She had laughed at Donald's tenderfoot
insistence upon carrying the one he had brought west as a part of his
outfit and had never attempted to use. The cook's too well thrown rope
would have probably thwarted any move of hers if she had had a weapon.
Her fingers crept up toward her throat touching a slender chain upon
which, ever since she had returned to the Three Star, hung a gold disk,
the coin with which Sandy had gambled, the luck-piece. To Molly, even
now, it was a talisman that held promise. If they left her behind them,
somehow Sandy would unearth her. But that hope died.
"She'll stay in sight and touch," said Plimsoll. "Then we'll know she's
safe. We'll make Windy Gulch to-night and stay there. It's as good a
place as I know. One of us can ride over the mountain to Redding and
mail the letter."
Butch nodded. "Come on, Hahn," he said. "Let's leave 'em together."
Molly cast an involuntary glance at the opening door, watched it close
after the pair of blackguards and braced herself. The issue was at hand.
Plimsoll slid a bolt on the door, brought over one of the makeshift
chairs and placed it in front of Molly, seating himself. His
alcohol-laden breath reached her nauseatingly and she turned her head
aside. As if a trigger had been released Plimsoll's face became inflamed
with a passionate fury. The veins on face and neck swelled and writhed
like little blue snakes, his eyes congested.
"Damn you!" he said. "Don't you turn your head away from me. I'll train
you to better manners before I'm through with you. You'll be jumping to
do what you think I want you to before long. You'll be begging me for
favors. You may think you're too good for me now. You won't presently."
She saw that she had gone too far in her disdain; that she must try to
leash the devils that had broken loose in his brain.
"Just what do you want?" she asked, and her voice seemed not to belong
to her as she uttered the words that showed no tremor.
"You! Not for love, my beauty! Because you are good to look at--yes. But
I'll take my time. I'll sip at the dish, my dear. I've got a big score
to settle and I'll do it properly. We'll go over some of the items."
He got up and emptied a bottle that still held a generous measure. He
staggered slightly and fumbled the chair as he sat down again. Molly
watched him intently. If only he got sufficiently drunk. Before the rest
came back. Perhaps she could get his own gun? Plimsoll laid a familiar
finger on her knee and instantly loathing showed in her eyes. He
laughed.
"Using that busy li'l' brain of yours, eh? Figurin' I'll get drunk.
Want to play Delilah? Nothin' doin', m' dear. I made that booze and I
know just how it treats me, sabe? Now then.
"Your guardian angel Sandy chiseled me out of my share in the Molly Mine
belongin' to me 'count of grubstakin' your father."
"That's a lie."
"That's easy to say when it nets you a fortune. Easy to go back on a
dead man's agreement. Four-flushing Sandy Bourke...."
Molly suddenly slipped back into the primitive. Something seemed to
click and the refinement she had learned and used so far fell like a
cloak that is dropped for freedom in battle. With the malignment of
Sandy and her father she was Molly Casey, daughter of a Desert Rat, once
more.
"That's another damned lie," she said.
"Haven't forgotten how to swear, have you?"
"I've heard how Sandy Bourke chased your rotten-hearted jumpers out off
the claim and gave you until sun-up to sneak out of town. I've heard how
you were afraid to look at him through the smoke but went galloping off
while the whole camp laughed at you. Sandy a four-flusher! A coyote'll
fight when it's cornered, but you...."
She had heard the whole story from Keith. It was a favorite tale of the
promoter's. He used it as publicity across his dinner table. It gave the
right touch of adventure to Casey Town. Plimsoll grew slowly livid.
"Heard all about it, did you?" he said slowly. "Then you know some of
the score. And I can wipe off what I owe Sandy Bourke through you. And
there are more items. There was the first time we met. I haven't
forgotten that. There was the kiss you said you tried to bite out after
you'd burned the doll I gave you. You told about that the next time I
kissed you in the hammock at Three Star. You tried to rub out that kiss,
too. Maybe the next ones will stay put."
"That was the time Mormon manhandled you." She saw the blue snakes crawl
on his purpling skin, and she kept her eyes on them though her mental
vision was on the holster beneath his vest. She deliberately taunted him
to provoke him to an uncalculated move. Molly knew her own litheness,
her strength. If she could get inside his arms, if even to endure a
moment of his beastly embrace and could get a grip on the gun?
But there was something in Plimsoll that delighted in playing with a
victim he felt sure of. It soothed his broken vanity.
"So," he said, "I'm going to get even with Sandy and with Mormon and
that bow-legged fool Sam Manning who call you the Mascot of the Three
Star, all at once; while I get even with you. And get what should have
been mine at the same time. We'll have you tucked away while we mail the
letter that will bring your ransom. Never mind the details of handling
the money. I'll attend to that. But we'll bleed you dry. The price of
all your stock and that of the three suckers at the Three Star at
par--and all they can borrow on the ranch--that will be the price for
you, my lady. With three days to deliver in."
"You talk like a crazy man, or a drunken one. They can't sell the stock
in that time. And if you lay a finger on me they'll trail you to hell,
Jim Plimsoll, and the devil himself won't stop them from skinning you
alive."
Plimsoll shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes flickered and, for a
second, his cowardly soul shrank.
"I'll look out for that," he said. "If you are delivered back to them as
damaged goods they'll never know it till you tell them. Maybe you won't
be over-anxious to do that." His eyes grew moody, his manner sullen. He
was passing into another alcoholic phase. Molly sensed imminent danger.
"I'll take those kisses now," he cried and lunged for her, catching her
about the waist as she rose from the chair. "And more to boot," he added
thickly as he drew her to him, one hand at the back of her head, fingers
twining in her hair, twisting her face forward, upward. She had both
arms inside of his, her hands on his chest. With all her strength she
strained and pushed away, her right hand slid up to the holster,
groping.
The gun was not there. Plimsoll had reloaded it during the meal and left
it on the table. His breath sickened her. She got her arm clear and
struck him viciously on the mouth, breaking the lips against his teeth.
Fighting like a cave-woman, she scored his cheek with nails that dug
deep from the corner of his eyelid and brought the blood. As he shifted
his hold she wrenched loose, leaving strands of brown hair in his
fingers, and jumped for the door. In her spring she saw, too late, the
pistol on the table. She drew the bolt, half opening the door before he
caught her and dragged her back again.
"You wildcat," he panted. "I'll fix you."
Like a panther Molly fought, matching her young muscles against his,
striking, clawing, biting. Her riding coat ripped, the neck of her waist
was torn away. Maddened at her resistance he struck back. Once he got
her about the throat, but her fingers were at his face, tearing at his
eyes and he had to beat her off. The girl fought with all the sublimated
despair of attacked womanhood, the man like a gorilla. The struggle was
unequal, with more than forty pounds in favor of Plimsoll though, if
Molly had possessed the puniest of weapons, she might have won. He held
her at last, close to him, one arm wrapped about her, his right hand
forcing the heel of the palm under her tucked-in chin, slowly,
inexorably forcing it back while his bleeding, distorted face lowered.
This time her arms were locked in, bent double, useless. Her kicks were
futile, she had only her teeth left and she was going to try those. But
she knew her strength sapped, knew in another moment or two she would be
at the mercy of this brute who did not know the meaning of the word.
A shadow barred the half-open door, low down. A pointed head appeared
with blazing eyes, with a neck-ruff flaring high. White teeth showed as
red gums bared in hate and, forgetting the wounded leg that had held him
back, Grit hurled himself in a staggering but magnificent leap. He could
not reach Plimsoll's throat, he had lost much of his momentum through
the damaged leg, he lacked power from loss of blood, but fury gave him
strength for the spring that brought his teeth within reach of
Plimsoll's right wrist, exposed; the cuff half-way up the forearm.
Grit's teeth slashed like chisels, ripping through flesh, tendon and
artery, sending jets of blood spurting before Plimsoll, with a yell of
surprise and consternation, flung Molly into a corner, dazed and weak,
and threw up his left forearm to guard against the dog's second leap.
It fell short. Plimsoll's right hand, scattering blood, groped blindly
for the gun on the table behind him. He found the barrel and brought the
heavy butt down with a crash on Grit's head, back of the ear. The dog
dropped like a length of chain. Plimsoll kicked the body viciously,
taking the bandanna from his neck and tying it tight about his wrist,
fastening the knots with his teeth. With a look at Molly, crumpled
unconscious in the corner, he sought for more liquor, found it and
poured himself a big jorum, gulping it down while the blood dripped
heavily from the bandage. He was soggy with shock and fatigue, the
strong stuff half paralyzed his faculties and he dropped into a chair,
gazing stupidly at his wrist.
His imagination was a curse to him. He had seen Grit's slavering jaws as
they rose in the leap, the crimson glare in his eyes. To all intents the
dog was mad. It had been lying wounded in the sun. Only madness could
have given it strength to track so far. What if it meant
lockjaw--hydrophobia? Through his dulled brain ran like a black thread
the impression that he could feel the virus stealing through his veins,
stiffening his body. How long did the damned thing take. And the
horrible ending! He had seen a man die of it once, bitten by a mad
collie, the same breed as the brute under the table. He had done for
him, anyway.
Water--that was the test! There was water that Cookie had brought in for
coffee, half a bucket, by the stove. He felt a sudden repugnance toward
it. The slashed veins in his wrists burned and throbbed as if they were
oozing molten lead instead of blood. And he was growing weak. If he
didn't get a tourniquet fixed he might bleed to death. But what was the
use?
Grit, who had opened a way out for Molly, lay still beneath the table.
Molly, overtaxed, was in a swoon. Plimsoll sat in a stupor. The door
swung wide. Cookie rushed in, his face muddy with alarm.
"The show's gone wrong," he cried to Plimsoll, who stared at him
half-comprehending. "For Gawd's sake what's happened here? Gimme a
drink." He snatched at the bottle and swallowed from the neck. "Here,
you need a swig. We got to git out of here, pronto. Have you scragged
the gel?" He thrust the bottle at Plimsoll who drank, senses rallying
by the urge of danger that emanated from the cook like the sweaty stench
of a frightened animal.
"Brandon's gang has come back," said Cookie. "It's the damndest streak
of luck. They must have fell in with Wyatt or some of his pals. They
must have been to the ranch. They cut off the boys and the horses over
by Sand Crick! Reynolds got clear. He saw them comin' an' streaked it.
They were shootin' like hell, he said. But he got a start an' he fooled
'em. Lost 'em, if they tried to foller him."
"And led 'em straight here," said Plimsoll with a curse, getting to his
feet.
"Not him. He c'ud lose 'em twenty times between here an' Sand Crick.
They were throwin' lead hard an' fast an' too busy to trail him if they
saw him. He's gone out ag'in through the south end. Case they've got
some one who does know the way in, he'll side-track by Spur Rock an' git
through the pass at Nipple Peaks. It's hard goin', but we can make it
unless we can git out this end. Hahn an' Butch has gone up to the
lookout to.... Hear that?"
_That_ was a single rifle-shot, followed by two others, the last almost
as one.
"Hell!" cried Plimsoll, "they've got us this end. It's Wyatt. Just my
damned luck for him to meet up with Brandon."
"Butch says it was the deal with that chap from Phoenix. He allus
spotted him for a crooked one. They've planted hawsses on us to prove
up. And Wyatt has been in touch with Brandon ever sense you took his
gel away from him. Come on, I'm goin'."
He ran outside and Plimsoll followed to the door, lethargy leaving him
in the face of disaster though he could not think fast or clearly. Hahn
came clattering over the rocks on his horse, his face chalky white. He
was reeling in his saddle, the horse spraddling, wild-eyed, almost out
of control. Cookie jumped for its bridle as Hahn slumped sidewise in the
saddle, clutched for the horn, missed it and was falling when Plimsoll
caught him and helped him to the wall of the cabin where he leaned
weakly. A blotch of blood showed on his left shoulder.
"Go get him a slug of whisky," Plimsoll ordered Cookie.
But Cookie, his face twitching with fright, jumped for his own mount and
went galloping down the valley to the south.
Plimsoll sent curses after him, reaching for his own pistol before he
remembered it was inside, dragging Hahn's half out of its holster and
then quitting as the fleeing cook tangented and disappeared behind some
timber.
The handkerchief about Plimsoll's wounded wrist was now a sodden rag,
but the loss of blood had cleared his brain. He set his left arm about
Hahn and helped him into the cabin. Molly was stirring and Plimsoll
scowled blackly at her. He gave Hahn a drink.
"Brace up," he said, "what happened? I know about Reynolds. I mean at
the lookout."
Hahn finished his glass, pushed it out for another, gulped that.
"Got to make our getaway," he said. "Butch is done for. They got me here
under the collar-bone. I reckon they touched the lung. I never saw such
shooting. But Butch got Wyatt."
"Tell it straight," demanded Plimsoll. "How many of 'em? What did they
do?"
"We no more than made the lookout," said Hahn, "before six men came
riding along, heeled for trouble. One of them was the black-bearded guy
from California who was here with that Brandon, first time they came
nosing around. And another was Wyatt, God blast his rotten soul in hell
for a twisting hound! Wyatt was just starting to point 'em out the
entrance when Butch lets him have it. Hits him smack in the forehead.
Before he could show 'em the way in. He may have told 'em about it on
the way up. But Blackbeard must have caught the shine of Butch's barrel.
He fires back--they all had their rifles handy cross the pommel--the
bullet goes plumb through the tree and knocks Butch down. Went through
both hips. He falls against me and I show in the open, sliding on that
damned slippery boulder, sliding inside and out of range, but they got
me.
"They'll be through any minute, Plim. They'll go careful until they find
there's no one firing back at them, then it won't take 'em long to
figure out the way in. You can't tell how much Wyatt told 'em on the way
up. They've got me. I can't ride. My lungs are filling up. Butch is
paralyzed--if he ain't dead. A hell of a wind-up! You can make it out
the way Reynolds did. None of the gang that left with Wyatt knows about
the side-trail by Spur Rock. But you'd better beat it. Me, I've turned
my last card. The case is empty!"
His head fell forward on to his arms. A trickle of scarlet came from the
corner of his mouth. Plimsoll looked at him calculatingly. Hahn could
not ride. But he wouldn't die for a while. To leave him here where the
raiders would find him might mean a confession wrung from him that would
tell of the getaway trail by Spur Rock and Nipple Peaks. He shook Hahn
by the sound shoulder.
"Brace up," he said. "You can hide in Split Rock Cave. I'm going to put
the girl in there. Take another drink. Pick up some grub. There's water
in the cave. You can come out soon's the coast is clear."
"I'll not be coming out," said Hahn huskily. "But it's a good move." He
weakly collected the bottle, some scraps of food.
Plimsoll stooped over Molly, coming out of her faint, and gagged her
with her own scarf as her eyes opened and looked at him. He took off her
belt and strapped her arms behind her back. Then, despite his wounded
wrist, he lifted her easily enough and strode with her out of the door,
Hahn following.
Hahn's horse was standing there obediently with pendent reins anchoring
it! Blaze and Plimsoll's black were nipping grass in the little corral
where they had been placed. Blaze whinnied at the sight, or the scent,
of his mistress. Plimsoll passed the corral and went through a grove of
quaking asps close to the wall of the side-gulch, keeping to the rock as
much as possible. He turned into a cleft, stopping at a rock whose
almost flat surface was level with his feet, a great mass of granite
that some freak of weathering or convulsion of earthquake had split
almost in half. Into the crevice a wild grape-vine had twined, and died.
"Can you make it, Hahn?" he asked.
The dealer nodded and knelt, using his sound arm to aid himself by the
tough fibers, bracing with his knees. Down some ten feet in the crack he
looked up, his ghastly face pallid in the shadow, with an attempt at a
grin.
"Good-by, Plim," he said. "Good luck! What do I do with the girl?"
"Keep her from calling out. She's gagged but she might try it. Make her
nurse you. Do anything you damn please with her!"
Hahn dropped out of sight. Plimsoll did not wait but picked Molly up
from where he had deposited her, a helpless bundle, on the rock.
"The bottom's soft down there," he said. "Sand. It ain't more than
fifteen feet. Down you go, you hellcat! They'll have a fine time
locating you. And you've got a dying man for company. He'll be a dead
one before morning."
He lowered her, feet down, released her and watched her disappear. He
swung about and ran back to the corral, his hurt arm throbbing with his
exertion. He had entertained a brief thought of hiding in the cave
himself, but the fear of madness from the bite had not left him, the
suggestion of it coming on in an underground cavern sickened him with
horror. He craved the open. He flung himself into the saddle of the
black horse, once leader of a slick-ear herd of wild mustangs,
magnificent for speed and symmetry, worthy a better master, and galloped
out of the corral, out of the side-ravine, into the open park. The rough
towel about his arm was becoming soaked. Every jump of the black horse
seemed to increase the bleeding. The spurt of fictitious energy that had
carried him through since the arrival of Cookie was dying away. But he
was on a mount that none could match, he was going on a trail that was
hard to follow, practically unknown. Unless he was headed off, he could
break through. At Nipple Peaks he could rest, attend to his wound.
A shout, a bullet whistling past that nicked the stallion's ear and sent
him plunging and bucking, warned him that his enemies had found the way
in and were after him. He did not look back, but bent forward in his
saddle and sunk the spurs into the black's flanks. The half-tamed
mustang's indignant bounds spoiled the aim of the marksmen, and, though
the steel-nosed missiles hummed like bees about them, they gained the
shelter of the same trees that had covered Cookie. Belly almost to
ground, the black swept over the cropped turf at racing speed, the drum
of his hooves like distant thunder, crest high, crimson-satin nostrils
flaring, mad at the sting of the red notch in his ear.
Round the elbow of the Hideout, with Brandon's men distanced, into the
gorge at the south end. A wild scramble up a steep slope and the way to
Spur Rock was clear. Plimsoll smiled grimly. "Damn them, I'll beat them
yet!" For a second he was silhouetted against a skyline, then he plunged
down. Fresh droppings told him that Reynolds had won clear. He was safe
from pursuit. If the wound--he should have cauterized it. But....
He reined in for a moment. The sound of a shout rang in his ears. It was
an echo, he fancied, it must be an echo, flung back from the mountain
walls ahead. But it could mean nothing else than a view-halloo. Some one
had glimpsed him disappearing beyond the ridge.