PARTNERS
If Drew had done hard things in his life, few were more remorseless than
the ride on the great bay horse that day. Starting out, he reckoned
coldly the total strength of the gallant animal, the distance to his old
house, and figured that it was just within possibilities that he might
reach the place before evening. From that moment it was certain that the
horse would not survive the ride.
It was merely a question as to whether or not the master had so gaged
his strength that the bay would not collapse before even the summit of
the range had been reached. As the miles went by the horse loosened and
extended finely to his work; sweat darkened and polished his flanks;
flecks of foam whirled back and spattered his chest and the legs of his
rider; he kept on; almost to the last the rein had to be drawn taut; to
the very last his heart was even greater than his body.
Up the steep slopes Drew let the horse walk; every other inch of the
way it was either the fast trot or a swinging gallop, not the
mechanical, easy pace of the cattle-pony, but a driving, lunging speed.
The big hoofs literally smashed at the rocks, and the ringing of it
echoed hollowly along the rock face of the ravine.
At the summit, for a single moment, like a bird of prey pausing in mid
circle to note the position of the field mouse before it closes wings
and bolts down out of the blue, Drew sat his horse motionless and stared
down into the valleys below until he noted the exact location of his
house--the lake glittered back and up to him in the slant light of the
late afternoon. The bay, such was the violence of its panting, literally
rocked beneath him.
Then he started the last downward course, sweeping along the treacherous
trail with reckless speed, the rocks scattering before him. When they
straightened out on the level going beneath, the bay was staggering;
there was no longer any of the lilt and ease of the strong horse
running; it was a succession of jerks and jars, and the panting was a
sharper sound than the thunder of the hoofs. His shoulders, his flanks,
his neck--all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell,
reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep
up the restraining pressure.
Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with
each heavy stride it made. Then he let the reins hang limp. It was sad
to see the answer of the bay--a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of
the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift
to the head.
Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the
right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing. He
groaned and drove home the spurs. And still, by some miracle, there was
something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly
that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it
with its fine blood by gentle care for generations. The going was
heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace. The crackle
of the rifles grew more and more distinct. A fallen trunk blocked the
way.
With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last
glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.
Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the
horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran
on among the trees. Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted
terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder
which commanded the approach to the old house.
He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire
on the house. McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty
bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted
tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring
stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.
But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew
wondered what casualties lay on the other side.
At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four
turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash
knocked down the boy's arm.
"We've done talkin'; it's our time to listen; understand?"
Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed. He was at that age between youth and manhood
when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before
the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before
fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism has possessed the brain.
He looked about to the others for his cue. What he saw disturbed him.
Shorty Kilrain, like a boy caught playing truant, edged little by little
back against the rock; Butch Conklin, his eyes staring, had grown waxy
pale; Steve Nash himself was sullen and gloomy rather than defiant.
And all this because of a grey man far past the prime of life who ran
stumbling, panting, toward them. At his nearer approach a flash of
understanding touched Ufert. Perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the
newcomer; perhaps, more than this, it was something of stern dignity
that oppressed the boy with awe. He fought against the feeling, but he
was uneasy; he wanted to be far away from that place.
Straight upon them the big grey man strode and halted in front of Nash.
He said, his voice harsh and broken by his running: "I ordered you to
bring him to me unharmed. What does this mean, Nash?"
The cowpuncher answered sulkily: "Glendin sent us out."
"Don't lie. You sent yourself and took these men. I've seen Glendin."
His wrath was tempered with a sneer.
"But here you are four against one. Go down and bring him out to me
alive!"
There was no answer.
"You said you wanted no odds against any one man."
"When a man and a woman stand together," answered Nash, "they're worse
than a hundred. That devil, Sally Fortune, is down there with him."
A gun cracked from the house; the bullet chipped the rock with an evil
clang, and the flake of stone whirled through the air and landed at the
feet of Drew.
"There's your answer," said Nash. "But we've got the rat cornered."
"Wrong again. Calamity Ben is going to live--"
A cry of joy came from Shorty Kilrain.
"Duffy says that he gave his horse away to Bard. Glendin has called back
your posse. Ride, Nash! Or else go down there unarmed and bring Bard up
to me."
The shadow of a smile crossed the lips of Nash.
"If the law's done with him, I'm not. I won't ride, and I won't go down
to him. I've got the upper hand and I'm going to hold it."
"If you're afraid to go down, I will."
Drew unbuckled his cartridge belt and tossed it with his gun against the
rocks. He drew out a white handkerchief, and holding it above him, at a
full arm's length, he stepped out from the shelter. The others,
gathering at their places of vantage, watched his progress toward the
house. Steve Nash described it to the wounded men, who had dragged
themselves half erect.
"He's walkin' right toward the house, wavin' the white rag. They ain't
goin' to shoot. He's goin' around the side of the house. He's stopped
there under the trees."
"Where?"
"At that grave of his wife under the two trees. He waits there like he
expected Bard to come out to him. And, by God, there goes Bard to meet
him--right out into the open."
"Steady, Steve! Drop that gun! If you shoot now you'll have Drew on your
head afterward."
"Don't I know it? But God, wouldn't it be easy? I got him square inside
the sights. Jest press the trigger and Anthony Bard is done for. He
walks up to Drew. He's got no gun on. He's empty-handed jest like Drew.
He's said something short and quick and starts to step across the grave.
"Drew points down to it and makes an answer. Bard steps back like he'd
been hit across the face and stands there lookin' at the mound. What did
Drew say? I'd give ten years of life to hear that talk!
"Bard looks sort of stunned; he stands there with a hand shadin' his
eyes, but the sun ain't that bright. Well, I knew nobody could ever
stand up to Drew.
"The chief is talkin' fast and hard. The young feller shakes his head.
Drew begins talkin' again. You'd think he was pleadin' for his life in
front of a jury that meant him wrong. His hands go out like he was
makin' an election speech. He holds one hand down like he was measurin'
the height of a kid. He throws up his arms again like he'd lost
everything in the world.
"And now Bard has dropped the hand from his face. He looks sort of
interested. He steps closer to the grave again. Drew holds out both his
arms. By God, boys, he's pleadin' with Bard.
"And the head of Bard is dropped. How's it goin' to turn out? Drew wins,
of course. There goes Bard's hand out as if it was pulled ag'in' his
will. Drew catches it in both his own. Boys, here's where we grab our
hosses and beat it."
He turned from the rocks in haste.
"What d'you mean?" cried Conklin. "Steve, are you goin' to leave us here
to finish the job you started?"
"Finish it? You fools! Don't you see that Drew and Bard is pals now? If
we couldn't finish Bard alone, how'd we make out ag'in' the two of them?
The game's up, boys; the thing that's left is for us to save our
hides--if we can--before them two start after us. If they do start, then
God help us all!"
He was already in the saddle.
"Wait!" called Conklin. "One of 'em's a tenderfoot. The other has left
his gun here. What we got to fear from 'em?"
And Nash snarled in return: "If there was a chance, don't you think I'd
take it? Don't you see I'm givin' up everythin' that amounts to a damn
with me? Tenderfoot? He may act Eastern and he may talk Eastern, but
he's got Western blood. There ain't no other way of explainin' it. And
Drew? He didn't have no gun when he busted the back of old Piotto. I
say, there's two men, armed or not, and between 'em they can do more'n
all of us could dream of. Boys, are you comin'?"
They went. The wounded were dragged to their feet and hoisted to their
horses, groaning. At a slow walk they started down through the trees.
Evening fell; the shadows slanted about them. They moved faster--at a
trot--at a gallop. They were like men flying from a certain ruin. Beyond
the margin of the bright lake they fled and lost themselves in the vast,
secret heart of the mountain-desert.