THE END OF THE VIGIL
Benny Lynch was at work in the face of the Sunset's lower tunnel. He
swung his singlejack swiftly, surely, regularly, and each time it struck
the drill, his breath whistled through his lips in the manner of mine
workers. His candle, its stick secure in a crack above him, lighted the
small chamber and under its uncertain, inefficient rays, his face seemed
drawn and hard and old.
A fortnight ago, when he rode to the Circle A ranch to share with Bayard
the secret that harassed him his countenance had been merely sober,
troubled; but now it gave evidence of a severe strain that had endured
long enough to wear down his stolidity--the tension that would naturally
come to a man who is normally kind and gentle and who, by those same
qualities, is driven to hunt a fellow human as he would plot to take the
life of a dangerous animal. Through those two weeks he had been waiting
alone in the mining camp, working eight hours each day, doing his
cooking and housework methodically, regularly, telling himself that he
had settled down to the routine of industriously developing property
that was rightfully his, when that occupation was only a ruse, a blind,
when he was waiting there solely for the opportunity to kill! His
watching had not been patient; it was outwardly deliberate, true, but
inwardly it kept him in a continual state of ferment; witness the lines
about his mouth, the pallor of his skin, the feverish, expectant look in
his eyes.
On a spike in the timbering hung an alarm clock ... and a gun belt,
weighted with revolver and ammunition. At regular, frequent intervals,
the blows of his jack were checked and he sat crouched there, head
forward and a trifle to one side, as though he were listening. When no
sound save the singing of his candle wick reached his ears, he went on,
regularly, evenly, purposeful. Possibly the tension that showed about
his mouth became more noticeable after each of these brief periods when
he strained to catch sounds.
With a final blow Benny left off the rhythmic swing, wiped his forehead
with a wrist, poured water from a small tin bucket into the hole on
which he was at work and picked up his jack to resume the swinging. He
glanced at the clock.
"It's time," he said aloud, his voice reverberating hollowly in the
place.
He put down his hammer quickly and rose from his squatting position as
though he had neglected to perform some important duty. He took down the
gun belt, slung it about his waist, and, making a reflector of his
hollowed hand for the candle, started out along the tunnel, walking
swiftly, intent on a definite end. When he reached the point where the
darkness of the drift was dissipated by the white sunlight, he
extinguished his feeble torch, jabbed the candlestick into the
hanging-wall and reached for a pair of binoculars that, in their worn
and battered case, hung from the timbering.
"This is 'n elegant day," he said aloud, as he walked out on to the
dump, manipulating the focusing screw of the glass and looking
cautiously around at the pine clad mountains which stretched away to
right, left and behind him.
Evidently his mind was not on his words or on the idea; he was merely
keeping up his game of pretense, while beneath the surface he was alert,
expectant. Near the foot of the pile of waste rock was the log cabin
with its red, iron roof and protruding stove pipe. Far below him and
running outward like a great tinted carpet spread Manzanita Valley.
Close in to the base of the hills on which he stood a range of bald,
flat-topped, miniature buttes made, from his eminence, a low welt in its
contour, but beyond that and except for an occasional island of
knee-high oak brush it seemed to be without mar or blemish. Here and
there patches of deeper color showed and the experienced eye knew that
there the country swelled or was cut by washes, but, otherwise, it all
seemed to be flat, unbroken.
On this immense stretch of country Benny trained the glass. His manner
was intent, resolute. Each hour during daylight he had been making that
observation for a fortnight; every time he had anticipated reward,
action. Aided by the lenses he picked out the low buttes, saw a spot
that he knew was a grazing horse, a distant shimmering blotch of mellow
white canopied by a golden aura that meant sheep, turned his body from
left to right in swift, sweeping inspection.
And stopped all movement with a jerk, while an inarticulate exclamation
came from him.
For the first time his sight had encountered that for which he had been
seeking. He was motionless an instant, then lowered the glass to his
chest-level and stared hard with naked eyes. He wet his lips with his
tongue and strained forward, used the glasses again, shifted his
footing, looking about with a show of bright nervousness, and rubbed the
lenses on his shirt briskly.
"He ain't even waitin' to take th' road," he said aloud. "He's in a
powerful hurry!"
Once more the instrument picked out the moving dot under that vast dome
of brilliant blue sky and, for a lengthy interval Benny held his aided
gaze upon it, watching it disappear and come into sight again, ever
holding toward him through wash and over swells, maintaining its steady
crawling. He moved further out on the dump to obtain a better view and
leaned against the rusty ore car on its track that he might be steadier;
for sight of that purposeful life down yonder had started ever so slight
tremors through his stalwart limbs.
He muttered to himself, and again looked alertly about, right and left
and behind. His eye was brighter, harder. When he looked into the
valley again, sweeping its expanse to find the horseman who had
momentarily disappeared, he stood with gaze fixed in quite another
direction and, when he had suppressed his breath an instant to make
absolutely certain, he cried excitedly:
"In bunches! They're comin' in droves!"
He put down the binocular, took the six-gun from its holster, twirled
the cylinder briskly and caressed the trigger with an eager finger. His
mouth had become a tight, straight line and his brows were gathered
slightly, as in perplexity. He breathed audibly as he watched those
indications of human life on the valley. He knew then the greatest
torment of suspense....
Ten minutes later, when the near dot had become easily discernible to
the naked eye, when the figure of horse and rider was in sharp detail
through the glass, the ominous quality about the man gave way to frank
mystification. He flung one leg over the corner of the ore car, and his
face ceased to reflect his great determination, became puzzled, half
alarmed.
"That's Bruce's stallion, if I ever seen him!" he thought, "An' he's
been run to th' last breath."
The horse went out of sight, entered the timber below Benny and the
clicking of stones, the sounds of shod hoofs floundering over bare rocks
gave evidence that he would be at the mine level in another five
minutes. The man hitched his gun belt about, took one more anxious,
puzzled look down into the valley where other figures moved, and walked
down the trail toward the cabin slowly, watching through the pines for
sight of the climbing animal.
A man came first, bent over that he might climb faster up the steep
trail. He was leading a horse that was drenched from ear to ankle,
lathered about neck and shoulder and flank, who breathed in short, low
sobs, and stepped with the uneven awkwardness of utter fatigue. Benny
stopped as he recognized Bayard and Abe and his right hand which had
rested lightly on the gun butt at his hip dropped to his thigh. He stood
still, waiting for them to come nearer, wondering anxiously what this
might mean, for he knew that the owner of the sorrel stallion would
never have ridden him to that condition without cause.
Bayard looked up, saw the man waiting for him and halted between
strides, the one foot far advanced before the other. His face was white
and he stared hard at the miner, studying him closely, dreading to ask
the question that was at his lips. But after that momentary pause he
blurted out,
"Is everything all right, Benny?"
And Lynch, shaken by Bruce's appearance, the manner of his arrival,
countered:
"What's wrong? What is it?"--walking swiftly down the trail toward the
newcomer.
"Has anybody been here before me, to-day?"
"Nobody, Bruce. What is it?"--anxiously, feeling somehow that they were
both in danger.
"Thank God for that!" Bayard muttered, some of the intensity going from
him, and turned to loose the cinch. "We weren't too late, Abe, we
weren't." He dragged the saddle from the stallion's dripping back, flung
it on the rocks behind him, pulled off the bridle and with hands that
were not steady, stroked the lathered withers as the horse stood with
head hung and let the breath sob and wheeze down his long throat while
his limbs trembled under his weight. "We've come from town in th' most
awful ride a horse ever made on this valley, Benny. Look at him! I had
to ask him, I had to ask him to do this, to run his heart out for me; I
had to do it!"
He stood looking at his horse and for the moment seemed to be wholly
absorbed in contemplating the animal's condition; his voice had been
uncertain as he pleaded the vague necessity for such a run.
"What is it, Bruce? Why was you in such a hurry?" Lynch asked, taking
the cowman gently by the arm, turning him so that they confronted one
another, an uneasy connection forming in his mind between his friend's
dramatic arrival and his own purpose at the mine.
"Ned Lytton an' his wife are comin' here to-day, Benny,"--bluntly. "I
had to get here before them to stop you ... doin' what you've come here
an' waited to do."
The other's hand dropped from Bruce's arm; in Benny's face the look of
fear, of doubt, gave way to a return of the strained, tense expression
with its dogged determination. That was it! The woman, identified as
such through his glass, was Lytton's wife! He felt the nerves tightening
at the back of his neck.
"What do you mean by that ... to stop me?" he asked, spreading his feet,
arms akimbo, a growing defiance about him.
"What I said, Benny. I've come to stop a killin' here to-day. I thank
God I was in time!"
His old assurance, his poise, which had been missing on his arrival, had
returned and he stepped forward, reaching out a hand to rest on Benny's
shoulder, gripping through the flannel shirt with his long, stout
fingers.
"You told me your trouble with Lytton in confidence. I thought once this
mornin' maybe I'd have to break that confidence. I thought when I
started up this trail that I must be too late to do any good, but now
I'm here I know you'll understand, old timer, I know you'll understand!"
He shook Lynch gently with his hand and smiled, but no responsive light
came from the miner's eyes in return; hostility was there, along with
the fever of waiting.
"No, I don't understand," he said, sharply. "I don't understand why
you're throwin' in with that scum."
"Don't think that! It's not for him I'm doin' this. I wouldn't ask my
Abe to run himself sick for _him_! It's for my own peace of mind an'
yours, Benny."
"My mind'll be at peace when I've squared my dad's account with Lytton
an' not before!"--with a significant gesture toward his gun.
"But mine won't, an' neither will yours when you know that by comin' to
me with your story you tied me hand an' foot! Hand an' foot, Benny,
that's what! I've never been helpless before, but I am this time; if
Lytton comes to any harm from you here to-day, his blood'll be on my
hands. I know he's a snake, I know he knifed your daddy in th'
back,"--growing more intense, talking faster, "But he's wrong, Benny,
wrong in th' head. A man can't get so lowdown as he is an' not be wrong.
"Oh, I know him. I know him better than you or anybody else does! I've
been nursin' him for weeks. He's been at my ranch--"
"At your--"
"Yes, at my ranch. I took him there a month ago, Benny, to make a man of
him for his wife, the sweetest woman that God ever made live to make us
men better. I've been groomin' him up for her, workin' with him, hatin'
him, but doin' my best to make a man of him. Now, he's bringin' her here
by force because of me, an' she sent back for me ... asked me to help
her. She knows there's danger here. I didn't tell her why, but I told
her that much, told her never to let him come back. Now he's forcin' her
to come with him an' she sent for me.
"Don't you see? I can't let you shoot him down! Can't you see that,
Benny?"
He shook him again and leaned forward, face close to face.
"No, I don't see that it makes any difference," Lynch said slowly, a
hard calm covering his roused emotions.
Bayard drew back a step and a quick flush swept into his cheeks.
"But I sent him here, Benny; knowin' you were waitin'. It's my fault if
he--"
"You sent him?"
"Yes, I drove him out here! He might never have come back, if it hadn't
been for me. I ... Nobody else knows this, Benny; maybe nobody ever will
but you, but I've got to make you understand. He ... She ... His wife's
been in town a month. She come out here to throw herself away on that
rat, when she don't ... when she hates him.
"I can't tell you all of it, but yesterday he saw her for th' first
time.
"He must have raised hell with her ... because of me, because I've known
she was out here and didn't tell him. He took her away an' she ... sent
for me....
"Don't you see that I'm to blame? Hell, it's no use hidin' it; he took
her off to get her away from me! He's bringin' her here, th' nearest
place to a home he's got. If 't wasn't for me, he wouldn't have started
for this place; he'd stayed there. Don't you see, Benny, that I'm
drivin' him into your hands. You may be justified in killin', but I
ain't justified ... in helpin' you!"
"If it's that way ... between she an' you ... you'd ought to be
glad....'
"Not that way!" Bayard exclaimed. "Not that, Benny! He's everything
you've called him, but I can't foul him. I've got to be more'n square
with him because he is ... her husband an' because she did ... send for
me!"
For a moment the miner seemed to waver; a different look appeared in his
eyes, an appreciation for the absolute openness of this man before him,
his great sense of fair play, his honesty, his sincerity. Then, he
remembered that minutes had been consumed, that his game was drawing to
a climax.
"I can't help it," he said, doggedly, drawing back, "We understand each
other now, Bruce, an' my advice to you is to clear out. Things'll happen
right soon."
"What do you mean?" slowly, with incredulity.
"Don't you know they wasn't a mile behind you, on th' other side of them
low bluffs?"
Bayard half turned, sharply, as though he expected to find Ann and
Lytton directly behind him on the trail.
"God, no!" he answered in a hushed tone. "Rough country, that's why I
didn't see 'em."
"Well, that's them ... a man an' woman. They ought to be here any
minute."
Lynch's voice sank to a whisper on the last and he drew the gun from its
scabbard, peering down the trail, listening. On sight of the colt, a
flicker came into Bayard's eyes, his jaw tightened, his shoulders
squared themselves.
"I'll go down an' meet him," the miner said quite calmly, though the
color had gone even from his lips. "It's ..."
With a drive of his hand, Bayard's fingers fastened on the gun and the
jerk he gave the weapon tore Lynch from his footing.
"You'll not, Benny!"--in a whisper, securing the gun, and flinging it
into the brush behind him, gripping the other man by his shirt front,
"You won't, by God, if I have to choke you black in the face!"
Lynch drew back against the cabin wall, struggling to free himself.
"It's my fight, Bruce!" ... breathing in gasps, eyes wide, voice
strained almost to the point of sobbing.
"I'll let go when you promise me to go into your house an' sit there an'
keep quiet until I finish my work ... or, until you're molested."
"Not after two years! Not after my dad...."
Tears stood in the miner's eyes and he struck out viciously with his
fists; then Bayard, thrusting his head forward, flung out his arms in a
clinging, binding embrace and they went down on the trail, a tangle of
limbs. Benny was no match in such a combat and in a trice he was on his
face, arms held behind him and Bayard was lashing his wrists together
with his bridle reins.
"Stand up!" he said, sharply, when he had finished.
He picked up the revolver and, with a hand under one of the bound arms,
helped Benny to his feet.
"I'll apologize later. I'll do anything. I came out here to prevent a
killin', Benny, an' my work ain't done yet."
The miner cursed him in a strained voice and the come and go of his
breath was swift and irregular. He trembled violently. All the brooding
he had experienced in the last months, all the strain of waiting he had
known in the recent days, the conviction that his hour of accomplishment
was at hand, and the sudden, overwhelming sense of physical helplessness
that was now on him combined to render his anger that of a child. He
attempted to hold back, but Bayard jerked him forward and, half dragged,
half carried, he entered the kitchen of the cabin he had helped build,
which had been stolen from him and which was now to be his prison at the
moment when he had planned to make his title to the property good by
killing....
Bayard, too, trembled, and his gray eyes glittered. He breathed through
his lips and was conscious that his mouth was very dry. His movements
were feverish and he handled Lynch as though he were so much insensate
matter.
Benny protested volubly, shouting and screaming and kicking, trying to
resist with all his bodily force, but Bruce did not seem to hear him. He
handled his captive with a peculiar abstraction in spite of the fact
that they struggled constantly.
Bayard kicked a chair away from the table, forced Lynch into it and
holding him fast with one arm, drew the dangling bridle reins through
the spindles of the back and lashed the miner's bound wrists there
securely.
"I can't help it, Benny," he said, hurriedly and earnestly, as he
straightened. "You and I ... we'll have this out afterwards.... Your
gun ... I'll leave it here,"--putting the weapon on top of a battered
cupboard that stood against the wall behind Benny.
"I'm goin' down to turn him back towards town, Benny.... I won't give
you away; he won't know you're here, but I've got to do it myself. I
can't let you kill him to-day.... I can't, because I'm to blame for his
comin' here!"
He was gone then, with a thudding of boots and a ringing of spurs as he
ran from the room, struck into the trail and went down among the pines
at a pace which threatened a nasty fall at every stride. And Benny, left
alone, whimpered aloud and tugged ineffectually at the knots which held
him captive in his chair. After a short interval, he stopped the
struggling and strained forward to listen. No sound reached his ears
except the low, sweet, throaty tweeting of quail as they ran swiftly
over the rocks, under a clump of brush and disappeared. The world was
very quiet and peaceful ... only in the man's heart was storm....
Bayard ran on down the trail toward the edge of the timber where he
might look out on the valley and see those two riders he had followed
and passed without seeing. He had no plan. He would tell Lytton to go
back, would _make_ him go back, with nothing but his will and his naked
hands. He wanted to laugh as he ran, for his relief was great; there was
to be no killing that day, no blood was to be on his conscience, no
tragedy was to stand between him and the woman who had called for aid.
His pace became reckless, for the descent was steep and, when he emerged
from the timber, his whole attention was centered on keeping himself
upright and overcoming his momentum. When he could stop, he lifted his
eyes to the country below him, searched quickly for the figures of Ned
and his wife and swore in perplexity. He did not see sign of a moving
creature. He knew that there was no depression in that part of the
valley deep enough to hide them from him as he stood on that vantage
point. Had Lynch been mistaken? Had he deceived him artfully?
He looked about bewildered, wholly at a loss to explain the situation.
Then ran on, searching the trail for indication of passing horses. They
could not have turned back and ridden from sight in the short time that
had elapsed since Benny saw them ... if he had seen them. Where could
they go, but on to the mine?
The worn trail still led him down grade, though the pitch was not so
severe as it had been higher up; however, he did not realize the
distance he was from timber when he came upon fresh horse tracks. They
had ridden up to that point at a walk; they had stopped there, and when
they went on they had swerved to the right and ridden for the hills with
horses at a gallop.
Bayard read the tell-tale signs in an instant, wheeled, looked up at the
abrupt slopes above him and cried,
"He's gone around for some reason ... in a hurry.... To come into camp
from behind!"
And trembling at thought of what might be happening back there in the
cabin, he started up the trail, running laboriously against the steep
rise of the hill.