THE COHORTS OF JUDGE LYNCH
Hampton staggered blindly to his feet, looking down on the motionless
body. He was yet dazed from the sudden cessation of struggle, dazed
still more by something he had seen in the instant that deadly knife
flashed past him. For a moment the room appeared to swim before his
eyes, and he clutched at the overturned table for support, Then, as his
senses returned, he perceived the figures of a number of men jamming
the narrow doorway, and became aware of their loud, excited voices.
Back to his benumbed brain there came with a rush the whole scene, the
desperation of his present situation. He had been found alone with the
dead man. Those men, when they came surging in attracted by the noise
of strife, had found him lying on Slavin, his hand clutching the
knife-hilt. He ran his eyes over their horrified faces, and knew
instantly they held him the murderer.
The shock of this discovery steadied him. He realized the meaning, the
dread, terrible meaning, for he knew the West, its fierce, implacable
spirit of vengeance, its merciless code of lynch-law. The vigilantes
of the mining camps were to him an old story; more than once he had
witnessed their work, been cognizant of their power. This was no time
to parley or to hesitate. He had seen and heard in that room that
which left him eager to live, to be free, to open a long-closed door
hiding the mystery of years. The key, at last, had fallen almost
within reach of his fingers, and he would never consent to be robbed of
it by the wild rage of a mob. He grabbed the loaded revolver lying
upon the floor, and swung Slavin's discarded belt across his shoulder.
If it was to be a fight, he would be found there to the death, and God
have mercy on the man who stopped him!
"Stand aside, gentlemen," he commanded. "Step back, and let me pass!"
They obeyed. He swept them with watchful eyes, stepped past, and
slammed the door behind him. In his heart he held them as curs, but
curs could snap, and enough of them might dare to pull him down. Men
were already beginning to pour into the saloon, uncertain yet of the
facts, and shouting questions to each other. Totally ignoring these,
Hampton thrust himself recklessly through the crowd. Half-way down the
broad steps Buck Mason faced him, in shirt sleeves, his head uncovered,
an ugly "45" in his up-lifted hand. Just an instant the eyes of the
two men met, and neither doubted the grim purpose of the other.
"You've got ter do it, Bob," announced the marshal, shortly, "dead er
alive."
Hampton never hesitated. "I 'm sorry I met you. I don't want to get
anybody else mixed up in this fuss. If you'll promise me a chance for
my life, Buck, I 'll throw up my hands. But I prefer a bullet to a
mob."
The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve. He
cast one quick glance to left and right. The crowd jammed within the
Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the
hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down the street a throng of men
was pouring forth from the Miners' Retreat, yelling fiercely, while
hurrying figures could be distinguished here and there among the
scattered buildings, all headed in their direction. Hampton knew from
long experience what this meant; these were the quickly inflamed
cohorts of Judge Lynch--they would act first, and reflect later. His
square jaws set like a trap.
"All right, Bob," said the marshal. "You're my prisoner, and there 'll
be one hell of a fight afore them lads git ye. There's a chance
left--leg it after me."
Just as the mob surged out of the Occidental, cursing and struggling,
the two sprang forward and dashed into the narrow space between the
livery-stable and the hotel. Moffat chanced to be in the passage-way,
and pausing to ask no questions, Mason promptly landed that gentleman
on the back of his head in a pile of discarded tin cans, and kicked
viciously at a yellow dog which ventured to snap at them as they swept
past. Behind arose a volley of curses, the thud of feet, an occasional
voice roaring out orders, and a sharp spat of revolver shots. One ball
plugged into the siding of the hotel, and a second threw a spit of sand
into their lowered faces, but neither man glanced back. They were
running for their lives now, racing for a fair chance to turn at bay
and fight, their sole hope the steep, rugged hill in their front.
Hampton began to understand the purpose of his companion, the quick,
unerring instinct which had led him to select the one suitable spot
where the successful waging of battle against such odds was
possible--the deserted dump of the old Shasta mine.
With every nerve strained to the uttermost, the two men raced side by
side down the steep slope, ploughed through the tangled underbrush, and
toiled up the sharp ascent beyond. Already their pursuers were
crowding the more open spaces below, incited by that fierce craze for
swift vengeance which at times sweeps even the law-abiding off their
feet. Little better than brutes they came howling on, caring only in
this moment to strike and slay. The whole affair had been like a flash
of fire, neither pursuers nor pursued realizing the half of the story
in those first rapid seconds of breathless action. But back yonder lay
a dead man, and every instinct of the border demanded a victim in
return.
At the summit of the ore dump the two men flung themselves panting
down, for the first time able now to realize what it all meant. They
could perceive the figures of their pursuers among the shadows of the
bushes below, but these were not venturing out into the open--the first
mad, heedless rush had evidently ended. There were some cool heads
among the mob leaders, and it was highly probable that negotiations
would be tried before that crowd hurled itself against two desperate
men, armed and entrenched. Both fugitives realized this, and lay there
coolly watchful, their breath growing more regular, their eyes
softening.
"Whut is all this fuss about, anyhow?" questioned the marshal,
evidently somewhat aggrieved. "I wus just eatin' dinner when a feller
stuck his head in an' yelled ye'd killed somebody over at the
Occidental."
Hampton turned his face gravely toward him. "Buck, I don't know
whether you'll believe me or not, but I guess you never heard me tell a
lie, or knew of my trying to dodge out of a bad scrape. Besides, I
have n't anything to gain now, for I reckon you 're planning to stay
with me, guilty or not guilty, but I did not kill that fellow. I don't
exactly see how I can prove it, the way it all happened, but I give you
my word as a man, I did not kill him."
Mason looked him squarely in the eyes, his teeth showing behind his
stiff, closely clipped mustache. Then he deliberately extended his
hand, and gripped Hampton's. "Of course I believe ye. Not that you
're any too blame good, Bob, but you ain't the kind what pleads the
baby act. Who was the feller?"
"Red Slavin."
"No!" and the hand grip perceptibly tightened. "Holy Moses, what
ingratitude! Why, the camp ought to get together and give ye a vote of
thanks, and instead, here they are trying their level best to hang you.
Cussedest sorter thing a mob is, anyhow; goes like a flock o' sheep
after a leader, an' I bet I could name the fellers who are a-runnin'
that crowd. How did the thing happen?"
Both men were intently observing the ingathering of their scattered
pursuers, but Hampton answered gravely, telling his brief story with
careful detail, appreciating the importance of reposing full confidence
in this quiet, resourceful companion. The little marshal was all grit,
nerve, faithfulness to duty, from his head to his heels.
"All I really saw of the fellow," he concluded, "was a hand and arm as
they drove in the knife. You can see there where it ripped me, and the
unexpected blow of the man's body knocked me forward, and of course I
fell on Slavin. It may be I drove the point farther in when I came
down, but that was an accident. The fact is, Buck, I had every reason
to wish Slavin to live. I was just getting out of him some information
I needed."
Mason nodded, his eyes wandering from Hampton's expressive face to the
crowd beginning to collect beneath the shade of a huge oak a hundred
yards below.
"Never carry a knife, do ye?"
"No."
"Thought not; always heard you fought with a gun. Caught no sight of
the feller after ye got up?"
"All I saw then was the crowd blocking the door-way. I knew they had
caught me lying on Slavin, with my hand grasping the knife-hilt, and,
someway, I couldn't think of anything just then but how to get out of
there into the open. I 've seen vigilantes turn loose before, and knew
what was likely to happen!"
"Sure. Recognize anybody in that first bunch?"
"Big Jim, the bartender, was the only one I knew; he had a bung-starter
in his hand."
Mason nodded thoughtfully, his mouth puckered. "It's him, and half a
dozen other fellers of the same stripe, who are kickin' up all this
fracas. The most of 'em are yonder now, an' if it wus n't fer leavin'
a prisoner unprotected, darn me if I wud n't like to mosey right down
thar an' pound a little hoss sense into thet bunch o' cattle. Thet's
'bout the only thing ye kin do fer a plum fool, so long as the law
won't let ye kill him."
They lapsed into contemplative silence, each man busied with his own
thought, and neither perceiving clearly any probable way out of the
difficulty. Hampton spoke first.
"I 'm really sorry that you got mixed up in this, Buck, for it looks to
me about nine chances out of ten against either of us getting away from
here unhurt."
"Oh, I don't know. It's bin my experience thet there's allers chances
if you only keep yer eyes skinned. Of course them fellers has got the
bulge; they kin starve us out, maybe they kin smoke us out, and they
kin sure make things onpleasant whenever they git their long-range guns
to throwin' lead permiscous. Thet's their side of the fun. Then, on
the other hand, if we kin only manage to hold 'em back till after dark
we maybe might creep away through the bush to take a hand in this
little game. Anyhow, it 's up to us to play it out to the limit.
Bless my eyes, if those lads ain't a-comin' up right now!"
A half-dozen men were starting to climb the hillside, following a dim
trail through the tangled underbrush. Looking down upon them, it was
impossible to distinguish their faces, but two among them, at least,
carried firearms. Mason stepped up on to the ore-dump where he could
see better, and watched their movements closely.
"Hi, there!" he called, his voice harsh and strident. "You fellers are
not invited to this picnic, an' there'll be somethin' doin' if you push
along any higher."
The little bunch halted instantly just without the edge of the heavy
timber, turning their faces up toward the speaker. Evidently they
expected to be hailed, but not quite so soon.
"Now, see here, Buck," answered one, taking a single step ahead of the
others, and hollowing his hand as a trumpet to speak through, "it don't
look to us fellers as if this affair was any of your funeral, nohow,
and we 've come 'long ahead of the others just on purpose to give you a
fair show to pull out of it afore the real trouble begins. _Sabe_?"
"Is thet so?"
The little marshal was too far away for them to perceive how his teeth
set beneath the bristly mustache.
"You bet! The boys don't consider thet it's hardly the square deal
your takin' up agin 'em in this way. They 'lected you marshal of this
yere camp, but it war n't expected you'd ever take no sides 'long with
murderers. Thet's too stiff fer us to abide by. So come on down,
Buck, an' leave us to attend to the cuss."
"If you mean Hampton, he's my prisoner. Will you promise to let me
take him down to Cheyenne fer trial?"
"Wal, I reckon not, old man. We kin give him a trial well 'nough right
here in Glencaid," roared another voice from out the group, which was
apparently growing restless over the delay. "But we ain't inclined to
do you no harm onless ye ram in too far. So come on down, Buck, throw
up yer cards; we've got all the aces, an' ye can't bluff this whole
darn camp."
Mason spat into the dump contemptuously, his hands thrust into his
pockets. "You 're a fine-lookin' lot o' law-abidin' citizens, you are!
Blamed if you ain't. Why, I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers fer the
whole kit and caboodle of ye, you low-down, sneakin' parcel o' thieves.
Ye say it wus yer votes whut made me marshal o' this camp. Well, I
reckon they did, an' I reckon likewise I know 'bout whut my duty under
the law is, an' I'm a-goin' to do it. If you fellers thought ye
'lected a chump, this is the time you git left. This yere man, Bob
Hampton, is my prisoner, an' I'll take him to Cheyenne, if I have ter
brain every tough in Glencaid to do it. Thet's me, gents."
"Oh, come off; you can't run your notions agin the whole blame moral
sentiment of this camp."
"Moral sentiment! I 'm backin' up the law, not moral sentiment, ye
cross-eyed beer-slinger, an' if ye try edgin' up ther another step I
'll plug you with this '45.'"
There was a minute of hesitancy while the men below conferred, the
marshal looking contemptuously down upon them, his revolver gleaming
ominously in the light. Evidently the group hated to go back without
the prisoner.
"Oh, come on, Buck, show a little hoss sense," the leader sang out.
"We 've got every feller in camp along with us, an' there ain't no show
fer the two o' ye to hold out against that sort of an outfit."
Mason smiled and patted the barrel of his Colt.
"Oh, go to blazes! When I want any advice, Jimmie, I'll send fer ye."
Some one fired, the ball digging up the soft earth at the marshal's
feet, and flinging it in a blinding cloud into Hampton's eyes. Mason's
answer was a sudden fusilade, which sent the crowd flying
helter-skelter into the underbrush. One among them staggered and half
fell, yet succeeded in dragging himself out of sight.
"Great Scott, if I don't believe I winged James!" the shooter remarked
cheerfully, reaching back into his pocket for more cartridges. "Maybe
them boys will be a bit more keerful if they once onderstand they 're
up agin the real thing. Well, perhaps I better skin down, fer I reckon
it's liable ter be rifles next."
It was rifles next, and the "winging" of Big Jim, however it may have
inspired caution, also developed fresh animosity in the hearts of his
followers, and brought forth evidences of discipline in their approach.
Peering across the sheltering dump pile, the besieged were able to
perceive the dark figures cautiously advancing through the protecting
brush; they spread out widely until their two flanks were close in
against the wall of rock, and then the deadly rifles began to spit
spitefully, the balls casting up the soft dirt in clouds or flattening
against the stones. The two men crouched lower, hugging their pile of
slag, unable to perceive even a stray assailant within range of their
ready revolvers. Hampton remained cool, alert, and motionless,
striving in vain to discover some means of escape, but the little
marshal kept grimly cheerful, creeping constantly from point to point
in the endeavor to get a return shot at his tormentors.
"This whole blame country is full of discharged sojers," he growled,
"an' they know their biz all right. I reckon them fellers is pretty
sure to git one of us yit; anyhow, they 've got us cooped. Say, Bob,
thet lad crawling yonder ought to be in reach, an' it's our bounden
duty not to let the boys git too gay."
Hampton tried the shot suggested, elevating considerable to overcome
distance. There was a yell, and a swift skurrying backward which
caused Mason to laugh, although neither knew whether this result arose
from fright or wound.
"'Bliged ter teach 'em manners onct in a while, or they 'll imbibe a
fool notion they kin come right 'long up yere without no invite. 'T
ain't fer long, no how, 'less all them guys are ijuts."
Hampton turned his head and looked soberly into the freckled face,
impressed by the speaker's grave tone.
"Why?"
"Fire, my boy, fire. The wind's dead right fer it; thet brush will
burn like so much tinder, an' with this big wall o' rock back of us, it
will be hell here, all right. Some of 'em are bound to think of it
pretty blame soon, an' then, Bob, I reckon you an' I will hev' to take
to the open on the jump."
Hampton's eyes hardened. God, how he desired to live just then, to
uncover that fleeing Murphy and wring from him the whole truth which
had been eluding him all these years! Surely it was not justice that
all should be lost now. The smoke puffs rose from the encircling
rifles, and the hunted men cowered still lower, the whistling of the
bullets in their ears.