ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL
Wild Bill's lean hands clawed the reins with muscles of steel. For the
moment his six horses occupied his every thought. They were pulling
with the madness of high-bred racehorses. The trail lay before them,
their master sat behind. What more could they want, but that liberty
to stretch their willing bodies?
Down the hill and along the wood-lined trail that ran parallel to the
sluggish creek they raced. The dust rose under their feet, and the
wheels of the cart left a fog behind them. It rose in swirling clouds
as though to shut off all retreat. Presently the road narrowed to a
mere track, and the dark woods closed in. But there was no slackening
under the hand of the gambler. Nor had the horses any desire to
slacken their headlong rush. The woods broke and gave to a low bush,
and in a moment the track opened upon Scipio's claim.
Now, for the first time since the start as they swept across it, Bill
permitted his gaze to wander from his charges. He looked away at the
mouth of the tunnel Sandy had spent so much labor and such bitter
cursing in the process of constructing; and a half-smile flitted
across his hard face as he beheld the oozy debris, the idle tools, the
winch and buckets. The sight seemed to afford him amusement. There was
a softening, too, in his hard face. Maybe it was the result of his
amusement. Maybe it was due to some thought of the little man with
whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim
passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the
black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the
racing creatures down with voice and hand.
"Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!"
The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures
that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even
dearer.
And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy
trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached.
Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the
turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the
opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.
At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who
opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His
narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded,
and his thin lips were tightly shut.
The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay
ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him
of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were
still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him
from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for
the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of
inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler's
craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old
days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to
all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might
choose to thrust in his way.
The man's spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body
felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his
own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his
own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could
diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him
was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid
himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would
die.
The trail rose with the upland. It rose with that gradation which so
wears down the ardor of almost any horse. But the creatures Wild Bill
was driving were made of unusual mettle. Their courage was the courage
of the man behind them. And only when his courage failed him would
their spirit falter. They swept up the long stretch as though the
effort were a pastime. With ears pricked forward, nostrils gushing,
their veins standing out like whipcord through their satin coats, they
moved as though every stride were an expression of the joy of living.
And the man's steel muscles were held at tension to keep their gait
within the bounds of reason.
As they neared the hill-top he turned and glanced back over his
shoulder. There lay the camp nestling on the far side of the creek.
There stood Minky's store, lording it over its lesser fellows with the
arrogance of successful commerce. He could see a small patch of
figures standing about its veranda, and he knew that many eyes were
watching for a final sight of him at the moment when he should vanish
over the hill.
They were friendly eyes, too, he knew. They were the eyes of men who
wished him well. But he doubted if those good wishes were for his own
sake. He knew he was not a man whom men loved. And he smiled grimly as
he glanced down at the chest of gold in the body of the cart.
In a moment his eyes were looking out ahead again, and all thought of
those he was leaving behind left his mind.
The hill-top passed, the horses swung down into a deep, long valley.
It was in this valley, some six or seven miles farther on, he had
encountered Scipio in Minky's buckboard. He thought of that meeting
now, and remembered many things; and as recollection stirred his teeth
shut tight till his jaw muscles stood out like walnuts through his
lean cheeks. He had promised Scipio that day. Well, his mind was
easier than his feelings. He was confident. But he was stirred to a
nervous desire to be doing.
Nothing escaped his watchful eyes. Every tree, every bush, every rise
and hollow passed under his closest scrutiny. But this was simply his
way, a way that had long since been forced into a habit. He did not
anticipate any developments yet. The battle-cry was yet to be sounded.
He knew the men he was likely to deal with better than any other
class. He knew their ways, their subtleties. Who should know them
better? Had not years of his life been spent--?
He laughed aloud, but his laughter rang without mirth. And his horses,
taking the sound to be a command, broke suddenly into a gallop. It was
the sympathy between man and beast asserting itself. They, too,
possessed that nervous desire to be doing. Something of the
significance of the journey was theirs, and their nerves were braced
with the temper of fine steel.
He steadied them down with the patience of a devoted father for a pack
of boisterous children. No harsh words disturbed their sensitive ears.
The certainty of their obedience made it unnecessary to exert any
display of violence. They promptly fell again into their racing trot,
and the cart once more ran smoothly over the hard beaten trail.
The higher reaches of the creek cut into the valley from the right,
and the trail deviated to a rise of sandy ground. He had reached the
point of his meeting with Scipio. Nor did he slacken his pace over the
dust-laden patch. It was passed in a choking cloud, and in a moment
the rise was topped and a wild, broken country spread out before him.
Five miles farther on he halted beside a small mountain stream and
breathed his horses.
But his halt was of the briefest. He simply let the horses stand in
their harness. It was not time to feed, but he removed their bits and
let them nip up the bunches of sweet grass about their feet. And as he
did so he paused a moment at the head of each animal, muttering words
of encouragement, and administering caresses with a hand which bore in
its touch an affection that no words of his could have conveyed.
Then he went back to the cart and made a few simple dispositions. One
was to securely lash the gold-chest in its place; but its place he
changed to the front of the cart. Another was to leave the lid of the
foot-box, built against the dashboard, wide open, and to so secure it
that it could not close again. Another was to adjust the lowered hood
of the cart in a certain way that it was raised head-high as he sat in
his driving-seat.
Then, with a grim satisfaction in his small eyes as he glanced over
his simple preparations, he jumped to the ground and replaced the bits
in his horses' mouths. In two minutes he was again rushing over the
trail, but this time through a world of crag and forest as primitive
and rugged as was his own savage soul.
So the journey went on, over mountainous hills, and deep down into
valleys as dark as only mountain forests of spruce and pine could make
them. Over a broken road that set the light cart perilously bumping,
speeding along the edges of precipices, with little more than inches
to spare, at a pace that might well set the nerves jangling with every
jolt. Later a halt for feed and water, and on again, the willing
horses taking their rest only as the difficulties of the trail reduced
their pace to a laborious walk.
The man sat alert through it all. There was no question in his mind.
He knew what lay ahead of him somewhere in those vast depths. He knew
that what he looked for was coming just as surely as the Day of Doom.
He did not ask when or where. That was not his way. It might come when
it chose, for his part. He was ready and even yearning for the moment
of its coming.
So his eyes never rested for a moment. Scarce a glance or thought did
he give to his horses. Theirs it was to keep to the trail. Theirs it
was to keep their pace. His was all other responsibility.
The sun was leaning towards the western crags, where, in the distance,
they raised their snow-crowned heads towards the heavens. The ruddy
daylight was deepening to that warmth of color which belongs to day's
old age. The forest shadows appeared to deepen, those dark forests so
far below him in the valleys. Here, where he was racing along at a
high level, all was bright, the air was joyous. Below him lay the
brooding stillness where lurked a hundred unknown dangers. There were
only about fifteen more miles of this broken solitude, and beyond that
stretched a world of waving, gracious grassland right on to the
prairie city whither he was bound.
He stirred; his roving eyes abruptly concentrated. One distant spot on
the rugged landscape held him. He craned forward. The movement caused
him to ease his hand upon the reins. Instantly the horses sprang into
a gallop. So intent was he that for the moment the change passed
unnoticed. He seemed only to have eyes and thought for that distant
hill-top. Then of a sudden he realized the dangerous breakneck speed,
and turned his attention upon his team.
The animals once more reduced to a sober pace, he turned again to the
spot which held his interest; and his eyes grew bright with a smile
that had nothing pleasant in it. He was grinning with a savage joy
more fierce, more threatening, than the cruellest frown. The next time
he bestirred himself it was to swing his gun-holsters more handy to
the front of his body.
Later on his interest seemed to lessen. No longer was there that
watchfulness in his eyes. Perhaps it was he deemed there was no longer
the necessity for it. Perhaps what he had seen had satisfied his
restless searching. Anyway, he now sat contemplating the shining backs
of his horses as they sped down the hill, and his eyes were friendly
as he watched the rolls of muscle writhing under their satin coats.
But when next he looked up his moment of gentleness had passed. His
easier moods were never of long duration. One swift glance again at
the distant hill, and then he turned from it and sat gazing at the
dank, oozy prospect of the low-lying flat he was just entering with no
sort of friendliness. The sharp hoofs of his team were flinging mud in
every direction, and the rattle of the wheels had deadened to a thick
sucking as they sank into the black mud. It was a heavy pull, but the
speed was not checked. It only needed an extra effort, and this the
willing team readily applied. He knew the spot well; and he knew that
beyond lay the hill, the crest of which had so held his attention a
few minutes before.
His thoughts traveled no farther than that hill. For the time at least
there was nothing beyond. Later it would be for him to consider that.
Just ahead of him lay the chances and changes which went to make up
such a life as his. This he knew. And somehow the thought stimulated
his pulses to a fuller appreciation of things.
In a few moments he was nearing the far boundary of the flat, and the
ascent of the hill was about to commence. He smiled. Yes, it was well
calculated. The hill would have to be taken at a walk. It was by far
the steepest of the journey. He remembered, too, that the crest of it
was reached by a final climb that became almost precipitous. He
remembered, too, that the black woods that crowded its sides at the
crest gave place to the skeleton trunks left by some long-forgotten
forest fire. Yes, it was the one spot on the whole journey best
calculated for what was to come.
The team no longer labored in the ooze. The ascent was begun. With
heads held high, with ears pricked and nostrils distended they faced
the big effort unflinchingly.
And the driver's mind was calculating many things. It was moving with
the swiftness of an able general's in the midst of a big action. He
glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hidden behind the western
hills. Already the shadows were lengthening and the gray of evening
was falling. The profound woods, dense and ghostly, had closed in. The
trail was so narrow that the dreary, weeping foliage often swept the
sides of the cart. But these things did not occur to him. His mind was
ahead, amongst those aged skeletons left by the raging fire-fiend.
Progress was slow. It was almost too slow for the man's eager nerves.
He wanted to reach his goal. His lean body thrilled with a profound
joy. He lusted for the battle which he knew to lie ahead of him. But,
even so, he gave no outward sign. His face was set and harsh. His
small eyes bored through the gloom, thrusting to penetrate beyond
every bend in the winding road. Nothing escaped them. Each small fur
that fled in terror at his approach was carefully noted, for they told
him things he wanted to know.
Now the final steep was reached. It was truly precipitous. The sharp
hoofs of the team clawed their way up. Such was the struggle that even
the man found himself leaning forward, instinctively desiring to help
the laboring animals. The bends in the trail were sudden and at brief
intervals. It was as though those responsible for the original
clearing of the road had realized the impossibility of a direct
ascent, and had chosen the zigzag path as the only means of
surmounting the hill.
The moments passed. Bend followed bend. The man in the cart found
himself mechanically counting them. Two more. One more. The summit was
almost reached. And beyond? He sighed. Maybe it was the sigh of a man
whose nerves are relieved from their tension, knowing that beyond this
last bend lay his goal. Maybe it was inspired by sympathy for his
struggling horses. Anyway, his whole manner underwent a change. The
watchfulness seemed to have gone from his eyes, his muscles to have
relaxed. He leant back in his seat like a man full of weariness, and
securely fastened his reins to an iron rail on the side of the cart.
He was at the bend now. The leaders were abreast of it. They were past
it. He--
There was a sharp rattle of firearms, and half-a-dozen bullets swept
pinging their way over his head. A hoarse voice shouted a command to
halt. His horses plunged forward. But, quick as lightning, his hands
flew to the reins, and he drew them up to a standstill in the open.
"Hands up!" shouted the same voice; and a horseman appeared on each
side of the team.
Then came an exhibition of the gambler as he was, as in the old days
he had always been known. It was all done in the fraction of a second.
Simultaneously his two guns leapt from his holsters and two shots rang
out. There was an ominous echo from the woods. One horseman reeled in
his saddle, and the horse of the other man stumbled and finally fell.
The next moment the man in the cart was crouching down, all but the
crown of his head and his gleaming eyes well sheltered by the
loose-hanging canvas hood.
"I'm 'most allus ready to put my hands up!" he snarled. "Come on!"