A RUNNING FIGHT
A rifle-shot forced instant action. Jim whirled away from the camp-fire
and saddle-bags and sprang toward the horses, while Johnson, leaping up
with the agile twist of an athlete, gained his feet running. Jim headed
grimly for Pat, but Johnson reached him a breath in advance. Snatching
up the reins and mounting, he dug Pat viciously with his huge rowels. At
that Pat balked. The man swore and cursed and spurred again; but the
horse remained obdurate. Seeing this, Johnson stopped spurring.
Thereupon Pat flung forward, dragging his tether clear of its stake, and
crowded close beside the gray. Jim was mounted on the gray, bending low
in the saddle, racing in frantic pursuit of Glover. Mounted on the
sorrel, Glover was well in the lead, speeding straight into the west,
riding at right angles to the ridge, galloping hard for the open desert.
The echo of the shot reverberated again faintly, and around them closed
a tense silence.
Others were making for the open. Out of the underbrush, riding easily,
burst a handful of rangers. Stephen was one of them. As they swept into
the clear country, well-armed, well-mounted, the look on their strong,
bronzed faces told of their purpose, which was to get the thieves alive,
if possible. Down the long slope they galloped, hats low against the
sunlight, elbows winging slightly, heads and backs slanting to the
winds, speeding like a group of centaurs. Other than Stephen, there were
four of these range police. Men of insight, of experience, keen in the
ways of the lawless, knowing best of all the type ahead, they rode
without strain, without urging, knowing that this was a long race, a
matter of endurance, a test, not for themselves so much as for the
horses, those of the pursued as well as their own. Loosely scattered,
they rode, eyes not upon the thieves, but upon the horses carrying the
thieves, as if hopeful for another break like that shown at the start by
the magnificent black.
Thus rode the rangers. Not so Stephen. Stephen knew no such laws. All he
knew was that after long weeks of futile riding, here at last was
Helen's Pat galloping madly away from him. Lashing and spurring his own
bay mare, resolute and determined, he gradually began to pull away from
the others.
Ahead, Johnson began slowly to gather in his trailing tether-rope.
Almost without visible effort he wound it around his saddle-horn.
Whereupon Jim, evidently aroused to like danger of tripping, set to work
at the loop around the little gray's neck. The knot was tight, and his
position cramped, but he persisted, and, with it loose, tossed the rope
away. Glover already was free from his trailing rope, having taken the
time at the outset hurriedly to cast it off. And he was still in the
lead, the sorrel carrying him without seeming effort, and moving
steadily away from the others, each long stride gaining half as much
ground again as the swinging gait of Pat or the quick and nervous
reaching of the little gray. But all were moving at top speed, racing
desperately across the desert, leaping sand-dunes, dipping into hollows,
mounting eagerly over larger dunes, on and on like the wind, sending up
with each fling of hoof swirling clouds of dust and gravel. It was a
grim effort.
Such a time comes to but few men. And such a crisis tests the mettle of
men and shows the differences. Gripped in a primal emotion, fear for
life, weak men show strength, and strong men weakness. Harmless men
murder, murderous men weep, blasphemous men pray, praying men curse. Yet
under such a stress strong men often reveal greater strength, rising to
physical and spiritual heights of reserve that mock a following fate,
even as praying men often pray harder and more fervently than ever they
prayed in times of calm. Individual in peace, mankind is individual in
war. It is the way of man.
And thus it was with these three hurtling forward in the shadow of doom.
Glover, ever weak, ever apprehensive, yet always considerate of others,
now revealed unexpected strength and appeared considerate only of
himself. Crouching in his saddle, apparently mindful of but a single
thing--escape--he lashed his horse brutally, swinging his quirt
rhythmically, now and again darting cold eyes backward. Johnson, given
by nature to bravado and bluster, was even more defiant in this supreme
moment. He rode with a plug of tobacco in hand, biting off huge pieces
frequently, more frequently squirting brown juices between lips white as
the telltale ring around his mouth--a ring as expressive as the hollows
beneath his glittering eyes. And Jim, ever worried, ever conscious of
himself, sat in his saddle easily, now that he was about to reap the
harvest of his ill-sown seeds, riding with eyes on the horse
alongside--Pat--studying with coolly critical gaze the animal's
smoothness of gait, wonderful carriage of head, unusual and beautiful
lifting of forelegs. Thus, in this valley of the shadow, each was his
true self and something more, or less, as the chaotic spirit within
viewed the immediate future or scanned the distant past.
Another shot from the posse--a screaming bullet high overhead--a command
to stop! But they did not stop. Instead, Johnson, rising in his
stirrups, unholstered a huge revolver and fired point-blank at the
rangers. It was the wrong thing to do, and instantly Jim drew away from
the leader. This left a clear gap between, and exposed the speeding
Glover ahead to fire from the rear. And suddenly it came, a volley of
rifle-shots, and Glover, stiffening suddenly, was seen to clutch at his
saddle-horn. Also, he turned his head and shoulders as if to cry out.
But he uttered not a sound. Evidently the jostling of his sorrel
forbade. He turned his head to the front again, and, slumping low in his
saddle, began frantic use of spur and quirt. But the sorrel had lost his
stride, and before he could regain it Jim and Johnson had dashed
alongside. Jim swung close and looked at Glover. Glover returned the
gaze, and again appeared about to speak. But now the sorrel flung
forward into his stride, and the movement seemed to decide Glover
against all utterance.
But Jim understood. He held close to Glover, but turned his eyes after
Johnson. Instantly he scowled and his mouth drew grimly down. For
Johnson was swinging off at a tangent, riding out of the set direction,
rapidly pulling away from them. For one sullen moment Jim regarded him;
then turned his head to the rear. One of the rangers, a young man
mounted on a graceful bay--with the rangers, yet apparently not one of
them--was riding well forward out of the group. Understanding Johnson's
move now, comprehending his utter selfishness in thus swinging away from
them, Jim gazed pityingly at Glover. But Glover did not notice him. He
himself was following the swift-riding Johnson with blazing eyes, and
suddenly he exploded in vindictive anger.
"Put a hole in him!" he cried, hoarsely. "Shoot him! Shoot him, Jim!
I--I can't!"
But neither could Jim. It was not his nature. Yet there was one thing he
could do. And this he did. He took fresh hold on the reins, and, grim
and deliberate and vengeful, swung about after Johnson. Further, in
swinging his horse about he purposely crowded the sorrel over also. This
brought both in direct pursuit of Johnson, and soon they overtook him.
But not because of their greater speed.
Suffering from an unwonted raking of spurs, Pat had taken to sudden
rebellion--balking at first, then beginning to buck, flinging about in
all directions except the way desired by the fugitive on his back.
Riding close and noting this, Jim felt glad beyond all decency. He even
chuckled with satisfaction, conscious almost of a desire to dismount and
hug the black. Then his feeling changed. He regretted his glee, became
fearful for the man, and called sharply to the horse. And now Pat came
to a stand. This for a moment only. Then of his own accord he sprang
forward again, speeding as eagerly now as but a moment before he had
rebelled, and soon he was galloping alongside the gray. Eminently
pleased with the whole performance, Jim again chuckled in delight and
burst forward at top speed.
Nor was this rebellion lost on Stephen. Riding well forward of the
others, when he saw Pat offering resistance he whipped and spurred his
mount in the hope that Pat would hold out. But Pat did not hold out,
though Stephen knew that he would have, had he but understood. Also,
there was his handicap--handicap of the others also. Neither he nor they
dared to fire lest they should shoot the black. Occasionally the thieves
spread apart, thus giving a chance for a shot with safe regard for Pat.
But these openings were infrequent. All they could do was ride in the
hope that the thieves might be seized with panic at last and give
themselves up.
But no such thought came to the fugitives. Johnson, after his galling
experience with Pat, looked more grimly determined than ever to get
away. Presently he struck back again. He drew a revolver, rose in his
stirrups, and fired twice to the rear. It was not without result. Up
from the rangers swept a chorus of yells, and Jim, turning his head, saw
the foremost pursuer, the young man who was evidently not a ranger,
circle headlong over his tumbling horse. He turned to the front again,
and, understanding what would follow, whipped and spurred furiously.
Suddenly the answer came. The desert awoke in a fusillade of shots, and
Jim saw Glover, who once more was in the lead, drift out of his saddle,
slip down much as a child descends from its high-chair, and fall to
earth in a crumpled heap. He swerved and dashed alongside. For an
instant he drew rein and studied the still face. Then he lifted his
eyes, gazing off absently toward the distant skyline, the mellow haze in
the hills, the shimmering of heat-waves above the dunes, the glistening
reflections of light off myriads of tiny sand cubes. Glover--poor
Glover--had paid the price, and had paid it in silence.
He wheeled his horse and sped after Johnson. He overtook him swinging up
over a slight elevation. Dead ahead, not more than two miles distant, he
saw a long grove of trees. It gave him hope. Here was a chance for
effective resistance. Here both he and Johnson could dismount, drive the
horses into shelter, seek shelter themselves, and open fire upon the
posse. His spirits kindled. He would shoot to kill, as he knew Johnson
would shoot to kill, and then, with the rangers helplessly disabled, he
would mount Pat, mount the black this time, and if Johnson became ugly
he would shoot him. Then he would ride to the east, ride out of this
life, and with the horse take up a decent existence somewhere,
abandoning crime forever. He would--
More shots from the rear interrupted him. Evidently the rangers,
mounting over the rise themselves, had also caught sight of the grove.
Evidently, too, they were taking no chances against such a stand as he
was contemplating. At any rate, the firing became rapid and continuous,
and it was deadly, for suddenly he saw Johnson wilt in the saddle, drop
his revolver, drop the reins, and clutch at his left arm. Also he heard
a cry--heard it sharp and clear above the pounding of the gray's hoofs
and the creak and crunch of his own saddle-leather.
"I'm hit! I'm hit, boy! They--they've got me!" Pat himself heard the
outcry and felt the loosened rein. It puzzled him. He did not know
whether to keep going or to slacken down. But he kept on going--going
hard. Yet he would have welcomed a halt. He was weak and faint. He could
not remember the time, save that memorable day on the mesa, when he had
run so hard and so continuously. Yet ahead lay trees, and instinctively
he accepted them as his destination. In that grove perhaps was water, an
opportunity for rest, and abundance of food. So he continued forward,
grimly conscious of his burning ankles, his pounding and fluttering
heart and heaving and clamoring lungs--plunging forward under the weak
urging of his heavy master, responding now through force of
habit--feeling that because he was in motion he must continue in motion.
It was a numb, mechanical effort, involuntary and apart from him, as
much apart from his control as was the beating of his heart.
Another volley came from the rear, and with it another violent change in
his master. The man cried out and loosened his feet in the stirrups. Yet
Pat continued to gallop until he felt the weight slowly leaving him,
felt it go altogether, felt it dangling from one stirrup. Then he came
to a stop. As he did so the little gray dashed past--his friend. And now
great loneliness gripped him. He started forward. But the weight in his
stirrup checked him. He came to a stop again. Then he wanted to nicker
in protest, but he found that he could not. He was too weak to utter
sound. So he stood there, his eyes upon the little gray and her rider,
watching them hurtling toward the grove. Then the thudding of hoofs came
to his ears from the rear, and, slowly turning, he saw a group of
horsemen riding wearily--one hatless; another with flaying quirt; a
third with smoking carbine; a fourth, a large man, smooth and red of
face, riding heavily--all galloping toward him.
But they did not hold his interest. His heart and soul lay with the
little gray mare, and, turning to the front again, he saw mare and rider
swinging out of sight around the end of the grove. Confidently he
watched for their appearance beyond. Presently he saw them sweep into
view again--moving at a gallop, swinging across a wide plain that held
them clear to his straining eyes--saw them grow faint and fainter, small
and ever smaller--become a hazy speck on the horizon--finally disappear
from view in the engulfing dunes and vales of the surrounding desert.
And now, weakened as he was, he sounded a forlorn, protracted nicker of
protest.
The rangers pulled up, breathless. They dismounted stiffly, released the
weight from Pat's stirrup, and carried it off a little ways. He watched
them a moment, noting their ease of movement and business-like air, and
then turned his gaze to the horses. All were strange to him, and he
looked them over frankly, resting his eyes finally upon a chunky white.
Instinctively he knew that this horse was mean, and he hated mean horses
as he hated mean men. Observing that this one showed his teeth freely at
him, the while holding his small ears almost constantly flat, he
measured him for difficulties in the future, if the association were to
continue. Then he turned his eyes back to the men.
As he did so, out of the silence rode a single horseman. He was mounted
upon the sorrel, and Pat wondered at this. But as the man drew near and
Pat saw a blood-smeared, ghastly face, he wondered still more. For there
was something familiar about this lone rider, and he took a step toward
him. Presently he saw him gain the outer edge of the circle, and then a
strange thing happened. He saw the young man begin to weave in his
saddle, saw two of the others suddenly leap for him--saw them reach him
just in time to save him from tumbling limply to the ground. Then he
noted another queer thing. He saw the young man's left arm dangle oddly
from the shoulder; saw the young man himself grasp it, wincing with
excruciating pain, and saw him turn wide eyes suddenly toward him. Then
he heard the man speak.
"Look--look him over!" he cried, and his voice was a curious mixture of
distress and restrained excitement. "I--I don't want him--him to go
back--to go back--hurt--hurt in--in--"
And now Pat saw the strangest thing of all. He saw the young man slowly
close his eyes and sink back into the arms of the others as one dead. He
saw the others exchange troubled glances and lay the insensible form
down tenderly on the sand. It was all very unusual, something new in his
life; and, not knowing what else to do, yet somehow feeling that he
should do something, be it never so little, he lowered his head and
sounded a trembling nicker into the silence.