THE TEST
When Ridley heard the faint _plop_ of the Ranger's body as it dropped
into the water, his heart died under the fifth rib. He was alone--alone
with a wounded man in his care, and five hundred fiends ravenous for his
blood. For a moment the temptation was strong in him to follow Roberts
into the water. Why should he stay to let these devils torture him?
Dinsmore had betrayed him, to the ruination of his life. He owed the
fellow nothing but ill-will. And the man was a triple-notch murderer. It
would be a good riddance to the country if he should be killed.
But the arguments of the young fellow did not convince him. He had
showed the white feather once on impulse, without a chance to reason out
the thing. But if he deserted this wounded man now he would be a yellow
coyote--and he knew it. There was something in him stronger than fear
that took him back to the helpless outlaw babbling disjointed ravings.
He bathed the man's fevered body with cold water from the river and
changed the bandages on the wound. He listened, in an agony of
apprehension, for the sound of a shot. None came, but this did not bring
certainty that the Ranger had escaped. He had left behind all his arms,
and it was quite possible that they had captured him without first
wounding him.
Arthur reasoned with himself about his terror. Of what use was it? Why
fear, since he had to face the danger anyhow? But when he thought of the
morning and what it would bring forth he was sick with the dread he
could not crush.
The hours lagged endlessly. He had his watch out a thousand times trying
to read its face. Occasionally he crept around the island to make sure
the Kiowas were not trying to surprise him. Hope began to grow in him as
the night grew old, and this alternated with terror; for he knew that
with the coming of dawn, the redskins would begin an attack.
His mind followed the Ranger on his journey. By this time he must surely
be halfway to Tascosa if he had escaped the Kiowas.... Now he might have
reached the cottonwood clump beyond Big Ford.... Perhaps he might jump
up a camp outfit with horses. If so, that would cut down the time needed
to reach town.
Five o'clock by Ridley's watch! He made another circuit of his little
island, and at the head of it stopped to peer into the lessening
darkness. A log, traveling down the river from some point near its
headwaters in New Mexico, was drifting toward the island. His attention
was arrested by the way it traveled. A log in a stream follows the line
of least resistance. It floats in such a way as to offer the smallest
surface to the force of the current. But this log was going down at a
right angle to the bank instead of parallel to it. Was it being
propelled by the current alone, or by some living power behind it?
Ridley posted himself behind a cottonwood, his repeater ready for
action. In another moment he would know, because if the log was adrift
in the river, it would miss the point of the island and keep on its way.
Straight to the point of land the log came. There it stuck against the
nose of the island. A head followed by a naked body drew itself from
behind the log and climbed across it to the bank above. A second head
and body appeared, a third and a fourth.
Ridley's fear was gone. He had a job to do, and he went at it in a
workmanlike manner. His first shot dropped the brave on the bank. His
second missed, his third went hissing up the river. But the fourth
caught full in the throat one of the Kiowas on the log. The painted
warrior shot headfirst into the water and dropped as though he had been
a stone. Before Arthur could fire again, the passengers astride the dead
tree dived into the stream. Slowly the log swung around and was sucked
into the current. Here and there a feathered head bobbed up. The boy
fired at them from a sense of duty, but he did not flatter himself that
he had scored another hit.
But the immediate danger of being rushed was past. Ridley circled the
island again to make sure that the attack at the head had not been a
feint to cover one in the rear.
During the night Arthur had not been idle. Behind a large rock he had
scooped out a small cave in which he and the wounded man might lie
protected. Now the Indians, in the full light of day, were spraying the
spot with bullets. Fortunately they were notoriously poor shots, and
their guns were the worst ever made. For hours the fusillade continued.
Occasionally the defender answered with a shot or two to discourage any
further attempt at storming his position.
The most welcome sound in Ridley's life was a scattering volley of shots
that came from back of the Kiowa camp. There was a sudden rush for
horses by the braves and the scurry of pounding hoofs as they fled
across the prairie. A moment later came the whoop of the cowboys in the
rescue party.
Arthur, in an ecstasy of relief, ran to the edge of the water and waved
his hat. Across the river came in answer the "Yip-yip, yippy-yip-yip" of
the line-riders in the company. Several of them plunged into the stream
and swam their horses across to the island. Among these were Jumbo
Wilkins and Tex Roberts.
"I see you done held the fort, son," said the fat man. "Fine and dandy!
How's Dinsmore?"
"Quieter. He slept a good deal in the night. How are we going to get him
across the river?"
The Ranger joined them. He nodded a friendly greeting at Ridley.
"Our luck held up all right. I see you been doin' some fancy shootin'."
Arthur looked at him. The eyes of the Easterner were full of timid
doubt. What did this game Texan think of him who had proposed to leave a
wounded man to his fate? The Ranger beamed a kindly comradeship, but the
other young fellow wondered what was passing in the back of his mind.
They held a committee on ways and means about Dinsmore.
"We can't stay here--got to get him to town where he can be fixed up,"
Jumbo said.
"We'll take him over to the other bank and send for a buckboard,"
decided Jack.
The wounded man was carried to the head of the island, and strapped to
the back of a horse. Jumbo, Roberts, and Ridley guided the horse into
the current and helped it fight through to the shallow water beyond.
Twenty-four hours later Dinsmore was in bed in Tascosa. Dr. Bridgman
said, with the usual qualification about complications, that the man
probably would get well. The bullet had not punctured his lungs.