THE BATTLE
A shout of fury. A wild chorus of meaningless blasphemy. A thundering
of hoofs. A shriek of pain--an appalling death-cry. The fight has
begun--such a fight, in its wanton savagery, as might shame even the
forest beasts. In a moment the human lusting for the blood of its
fellows is let loose, than which there is no more terrible madness on
earth.
Yet there was a difference. There was a difference of motive widely
separating the combatants; and it was a difference that left the
balance of offense doubtful.
To analyze the mental attitude of these people adequately would be
well-nigh impossible. Their outlook possessed distortions which
changed with chameleon-like rapidity. On the one hand was a band of
lawless ruffians, steeped to their very souls in every sort of crime,
in whose minds all law was anathema, in whose understanding all
possession was a deliberate challenge, in whose hearts was no pity, no
mercy, no feeling which belongs to the gentler side of human life; to
whose comprehension death has no meaning until its relentless grip is
fixed, and they feel the last spark of life crushing out of their own
bodies. Then--But the analysis becomes hopelessly chaotic.
On the other hand motive is perhaps even more difficult still, though
a shade less hopeless. The gambler was a man of strong thought, of
strong forces. Nor was he devoid of the gentler feelings of life. Yet
here lies the difficulty of associating the various sides of his
character with his actions. He had set out for this encounter. He had
yearned for it, as a child might yearn for a plaything. The
contemplation of it gave him ecstasy. With an inhuman joy he desired
the lives of these men. Not one, but all; and one even more than all.
Then, too, his purpose was in face of overwhelming odds--in face of
almost a certainty of death for himself. Such actions have been
performed before in noble cases, but here--?
Was it simply his purpose to yield himself a martyr to the public
welfare? Was it that he truly desired to avenge a wronged man? Was he
setting himself up as the avenger of Sid Morton's cruel death, a man
in whom he had no interest whatever? No. It would be absurd to believe
that these things were the promptings responsible for his present
actions. Some hideous psychological twist was driving him. Some
passion swayed him over which he had no control whatever. Some
degeneracy was upsetting his mental balance, and forcing him against
his better instincts. But, even so, his whole attitude was that of a
man of clear, alert mind, of iron purpose, of a courage invincible.
Calm and cold Wild Bill crouched while, in the first rush of battle,
the shots hailed about him. He reserved his fire, too, waiting for the
effective moment with the patience of a skillful general. His every
shot must tell, and tell desperately.
Three times he was hit in as many seconds, but beyond hugging his
flimsy shelter more closely he gave no sign. His purpose rose above
all physical hurt or sense of pain. He was watching the movements of
one man--of one man only. His gleaming eyes pursued the figure of the
outlaw leader to the exclusion of all else. James was his quarry. The
rest--well, the rest were merely incidental.
And, emboldened by his intended victim's silence, James suddenly
changed his tactics. A long-ranged battle was little enough to his
savage taste. He ceased the ineffective fire of his men and brought
them together. Then in a moment, with the reckless abandon of his
class, he headed them and charged. They came, as before, with a brazen
shout, and the air was hideous with a fresh outburst of blasphemy,
while a rush of lead searched the fragile cart in every direction.
But the din of voices, the crash of woodwork as the panels of the cart
were riddled by the wildly flung shots, was powerless to draw the
defender. His guns were ready. He was ready for the purpose in his
mind. That was all. His fierce eyes lit with a murderous intent as he
calculated with certainty and exactness.
On they came. They drove their maddened horses with savage spurs right
up to the cart. It was the moment the gambler awaited. He leapt, and
in a flash his tall figure was confronting the leader of the attack.
And as he rose his arms were outstretched and his great guns belched
their murderous fire. Two men rolled from their saddles with a
death-scream that died down to a hideous gurgle, as the racing hoofs
trod the last atom of life out of their bodies. His guns belched a
second time, and James' throat was plowed open, and the rich red blood
spurted in a ghastly tide. Another shot and another man fell forward,
clutching his horse's mane while he was borne from the battle-field to
the dim recesses of the forest by his uncontrolled and affrighted
beast.
But the gambler paid a high price for these successes--far higher
than he could really afford. Four times more he was badly hit. Four
times the hot slither of burning lead plowed its way amidst the
life-channels of his body. And his retreat to cover was something
almost in the nature of collapse.
But the spirit of the man admitted of no weakening. It rose dominant
over all physical sensation. He thrust aside the cognizance of his
hurts, and abandoned himself solely to his purpose. James was still
in the saddle, and the sight of his hated personality consumed him
with rage and disgust at the failure of his first attempt.
"Still around. Still around," he muttered. And in a moment the battle
was surging once more.
No longer was the leader of the attack moved by the irresponsible
bravado of his first attack. He was a raging savage, goaded by the
desperate wounds he had received, and the knowledge that he and all
his force were being held at bay by one man. So he charged again, a
headlong rush, howling as he came at the head of his four remaining
supporters.
They came like an avalanche, their voices making hideous the rapidly
falling night, while the wounded defender waited, waited, all his
purpose concentrated, husbanding his ebbing strength as a starving man
might husband the last crumbs of food. He knew that not only his
strength, but his very life was slowly ebbing in the red tide that was
fast saturating every shred of his clothing.
Again they reached the cart. Again the maddened horses were driven
head on to the dreaded fortress. And instantly their quarry rose to
his full height, a grim specter thrilling with a murderous purpose,
his arms outstretched, his guns held low, that there should be no
mistake this time.
The crash of battle was appalling. The scene was almost lost in the
smoke cloud which hung over it. There was fire and cross-fire. There
were exultant shouts and cries of pain. And through it all the
scuttling of rushing hoofs and champing bits. A moment and the
defender dropped. But instantly he rose again, gripping in his nervous
hands the butts of a pair of fresh guns snatched from his foot-box.
Nor did he stir foot again, nor relax a muscle, till every one of the
twelve chambers was emptied.
Then, with an oath that carried with it all the pent-up hatred of a
bitter heart, he flung both weapons in the direction whither his last
shot had gone, and, staggering back, dropped helplessly into the
driving-seat behind him.
The smoke hung heavily and drifted slowly away upon the still air. The
sound of rushing hoofs receded and died away in the distance, and in a
while a profound quiet settled upon the scene. The man lolled heavily
in his seat, and his eyes closed. His face was a ghastly gray, his
eyes were sunken and his blackened lips hung agape. His arms hung
helplessly at his side, and his legs were stretched out in a pitiable
attitude of uselessness.
The moments passed drearily. For a long time there was no movement of
any sort but the restless fidgeting of the horses. They had stood
through all the turmoil as their master had long since trained them to
stand. But now that it was over their eager spirits were demanding the
joy of the trail again. It almost seemed as though, in their equine
minds, they had a full realization of the meaning of that battle in
the wild, as though sympathy between master and beast had held them
during that fierce ten minutes still and passive, lest through any act
of theirs they should cross the will of the one being whom they
acknowledged their lord. And now that it was over and the crisis
passed, it seemed as if they understood that victory had been
achieved, and their duty once more lay upon the trail ahead of them.
At last the eyes of the man opened. The chafing of his horses had
penetrated to his numbing brain. Their fierce depths were dull and
lusterless as they rolled vaguely around. Yet there was intelligence
in them, although it was the intelligence of a weary, fainting mind.
They closed again, as though the will behind them lacked in its
support. And then followed a sigh, a deep, long sigh of exhaustion.
There was another pause, and presently there came a bodily movement.
The man stirred uneasily, in the manner of one gathering his weakening
forces for a supreme effort from which his whole body shrank. Again
his eyes opened, and this time their depths were full of purpose.
Suddenly his legs gathered under him and his arms drew up, and in a
moment he staggered to his feet, his hands clutching support upon the
back of the seat.
He stared about him doubtfully, and his uncertainty was pitiful to
behold. His eyes were only half open, as though the effort of
sustaining their lids was too great for his failing powers. They
wandered on over the scene, however, until they suddenly fixed
themselves upon a spot where two figures were stretched upon the
ground. One was lying upon its side with its knees drawn up as though
asleep; the other was stretched upon its back, its arms flung out and
its legs lying across the other's body. The dead eyes were staring up
at the darkened sky, glazed and motionless.
He stared down upon these figures for some time, and the sight seemed
to put fresh strength into him; and at last, when he turned away, a
pitiful attempt at triumph shone in his dull eyes, and a ghostly smile
flitted about the corners of his sagging lips.
He had seen all he wanted to see. His work was done. James was dead.
He knew death when he saw it, and he had seen it shining in those
staring eyes. James had passed over the one-way trail, and his had
been the hand that had sped him upon his journey.
Now he took a deep breath and stood swaying. Then he glanced with
measuring eye at the foot-box at his feet. He changed his support,
and, bending slowly, dragged a rawhide rope from inside it. The next
moment he fell back upon the seat. But his work had only begun. For
some time he fumbled with the rope, passing it about his body and the
iron stanchions of the back of the seat, and after awhile had
succeeded in knotting it securely. Then, after a moment of hard
breathing, he reached out and untied the reins from the rail of the
cart and gathered them into his hands. And as he did so his lips moved
and his voice croaked brokenly.
"Come on, Gyp," he mumbled hoarsely. "Come, gal. Hey--you, Pete. You,
too--Maisie. Come on. Get on."
It was the word his faithful friends had awaited.
Chilled and eager, they leapt at their bits, and the traces snapped
taut. They were off; and in their eager rush the reins were almost
torn from the driver's numbing fingers. Again he spoke, and in his
halting words was a world of affection and encouragement.
"Easy, children," he said. "Easy, boys an' gals. Ther' sure ain't no
hurry now. They're dead--all--dead. Dead as--mutton."
He clawed full possession of the reins again. And in a moment the cart
was speeding down the long gradient that was to bear them on the
prairie world beyond.
The man was lolling forward, straining on the rope that held his
helpless body to the seat, and his eyes closed wearily. The speed of
the team, the direction, these things meant nothing to him now. The
trail was well marked right in to Spawn City. There were no turnings.
That was all that mattered. These children of his would faithfully
keep on their way to the end. He knew these things without thinking,
and the knowledge left him indifferent. His only concern now was the
gold. It was in the cart, and it must reach Spawn City. To that his
honor was pledged.
The reins slipped through his fingers. He stirred uneasily. Then his
eyes opened again. For a moment his sagging lips closed. He was
summoning all his failing strength. He clutched the reins in one hand,
and with the other knotted them about his wrist. Then, with a gasp,
his left hand dropped from his task, while his right arm was held
outstretched by the strain of the pulling horses upon the reins.
There was now no longer any demand for further effort, and the
drooping body lolled over against the side of the cart as though the
man were seeking his rest. His head hung away at a helpless angle,
and his legs straggled. And thus the speeding team raced clear of the
mountain world and plunged through the darkness to the prairie
beyond.
* * * * *
The moon rose in all its cold splendor. The stars dimmed before its
frigid smile. The black vault of the heavens lit with a silvery sheen,
embracing the prairie world beneath its bejeweled pall.
The sea of grass lay shadowed in the moonlit dusk. But, in sharp
relief, a white ribbon-like trail split it from end to end, like
some forlorn creature with white outspread arms yearning in
desolation--yearning for the bustle and rush of busy life which it is
denied, yearning to be relieved from so desperate a solitude.
The vastness and silence dwarfs even thought. The things which are
great, which have significance, which have meaning to the human mind
are lost in such a world. Life itself becomes infinitesimal.
There is something moving in a tiny ebullition of dust along the white
trail. It looks so small. It moves so slowly, crawling, seemingly, at
a snail's pace. It is almost microscopical in the vastness.
Yet it is only these things by comparison. It is neither small, nor is
it traveling at a snail's pace. It is a cart drawn by six horses,
racing as though pursued by all the demons of the nether world.
And in the driving-seat is a curious, stiffly swaying figure. It is
strangely inanimate. Yet it suggests something that no ordinary human
figure could suggest. It is in its huddled attitude, its ghastly face,
its staring, unseeing eyes, which gaze out in every direction, as the
jolting of the cart turns and twists the body from side to side. There
is something colossal, something strangely stirring in the suggestion
of purpose in the figure. There is something to inspire wonder in the
most sluggish mind. It tells a story of some sort of heroism. It
tells a story of a master mind triumphing over bodily weakness and
suffering. It tells a story of superlative defiance--the defiance of
death.
* * * * *
The early risers of Spawn City were gathered in a stupefied crowd
outside the principal hotel in the place. Six jaded horses, drawing a
light spring-cart, had just pulled up. The poor creatures were utterly
spent, and stood with drooping heads and distended nostrils, gasping
and steaming, their weary legs tottering beneath them. Their great
eyes were yearning and sunken, and their small ears lay back,
indifferent to every sound or movement about them. Their last buoyancy
has been expended. They have run their mad race till their hearts are
nigh bursting.
But the horses were of the least interest to the onlookers. It was the
dusty spring-cart that interested their curious minds--the cart, and
the still and silent driver, who made no attempt to leave his seat.
They stood gaping, not daring to disturb the ghastly figure, not
daring even to approach it too closely. Their minds were thrilling
with a morbid horror which held them silent.
But at last there came a diversion. A burly, rough-clad man pushed his
way through the crowd, and his keen eyes flashed a quick look over the
whole outfit. He was the sheriff, and had been hurriedly summoned.
"Wild Bill!" he muttered. "Them's sure his plugs, too," he added, as
though seeking corroboration.
There was certainly doubt in his tone, and surprise, too; and he came
to the side of the cart and gazed up into the awful face drooping
forward over the outstretched arm to further convince himself. What he
beheld caused him to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
It was his only means of giving expression to the wave of horror that
swept over him.
With a leap he sprang into the seat, and began releasing the knotted
reins from the stiffened arm. So tight had the knots been drawn that
it took some moments. Then he turned, and with difficulty removed the
rawhide from about the middle of the huddled figure. Then he hailed
some of the onlookers.
"Ho, you, Joe! You, too, Lalor, an' Ned! Stand by, lads, an' bear a
hand," he cried authoritatively. "Guess I'll pass it out."
Then he stood up, staring down at the stiffened body; and wonder
looked out of his puzzled eyes.
"Gee! if it ain't Wild Bill the gambler, an'--an' he must ha' bin dead
nigh six hours."