THE PHANTOM RIDER
In the daytime the willows along the wide, level river bottom seemed
an unnatural growth, for they made a streak of yellow-green across
the mountain-desert when all other verdure withered and died. After
nightfall they became still more dreary. Even when the air was calm
there was apt to be a sound as of wind, for the tenuous, trailing
branches brushed lightly together, making a guarded whispering like
ghosts.
In a small clearing among these willows sat Silent and his companions.
A fifth member had just arrived at this rendezvous, answered the quiet
greeting with a wave of his hand, and was now busy caring for his
horse. Bill Kilduff, who had a natural inclination and talent for
cookery, raked up the deft dying coals of the fire over which he had
cooked the supper, and set about preparing bacon and coffee for the
newcomer. The latter came forward, and squatted close to the cook,
watching the process with a careful eye. He made a sharp contrast with
the rest of the group. From one side his profile showed the face of
a good-natured boy, but when he turned his head the flicker of the
firelight ran down a scar which gleamed in a jagged semi-circle from
his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. This whole side of his
countenance was drawn by the cut, the mouth stretching to a perpetual
grimace. When he spoke it was as if he were attempting secrecy. The
rest of the men waited in patience until he finished eating. Then
Silent asked: "What news, Jordan?"
Jordan kept his regretful eyes a moment longer on his empty coffee
cup.
"There ain't a pile to tell," he answered at last. "I suppose you
heard about what happened to the chap you beat up at Morgan's place
the other day?"
"Who knows that _I_ beat him up?" asked Silent sharply.
"Nobody," said Jordan, "but when I heard the description of the man
that hit Whistling Dan with the chair, I knew it was Jim Silent."
"What about Barry?" asked Haines, but Jordan still kept his eyes upon
the chief.
"They was sayin' pretty general," he went on, "that you _needed_ that
chair, Jim. Is that right?"
The other three glanced covertly to each other. Silent's hand bunched
into a great fist.
"He went loco. I had to slam him. Was he hurt bad?"
"The cut on his head wasn't much, but he was left lyin' in the saloon
that night, an' the next mornin' old Joe Cumberland, not knowin' that
Whistlin' Dan was in there, come down an' touched a match to the old
joint. She went up in smoke an' took Dan along."
No one spoke for a moment. Then Silent cried out: "Then what was that
whistlin' I've heard down the road behind us?"
Bill Kilduff broke into rolling bass laughter, and Hal Purvis chimed
in with a squeaking tenor.
"We told you all along, Jim," said Purvis, as soon as he could control
his voice, "that there wasn't any whistlin' behind us. We know you
got powerful good hearin', Jim, but we all figger you been makin'
somethin' out of nothin'. Am I right, boys?"
"You sure are," said Kilduff, "I ain't heard a thing."
Silent rolled his eyes angrily from face to face.
"I'm kind of sorry the lad got his in the fire. I was hopin' maybe
we'd meet agin. There's nothin' I'd rather do than be alone five
minutes with Whistlin' Dan."
His eyes dared any one to smile. The men merely exchanged glances.
When he turned away they grinned broadly. Hal Purvis turned and caught
Bill Kilduff by the shoulder.
"Bill," he said excitedly, "if Whistlin' Dan is dead there ain't any
master for that dog!"
"What about him?" growled Kilduff.
"I'd like to try my hand with him," said Purvis, and he moistened his
tight lips. "Did you see the black devil when he snarled at me in
front of Morgan's place?"
"He sure didn't look too pleasant."
"Right. Maybe if I had him on a chain I could change his manners some,
eh?"
"How?"
"A whip every day, damn him--a whip every time he showed his teeth at
me. No eats till he whined and licked my hand."
"He'd die first. I know that kind of a dog--or a wolf."
"Maybe he'd die. Anyway I'd like to try my hand with him. Bill, I'm
goin' to get hold of him some of these days if I have to ride a
hundred miles an' swim a river!"
Kilduff grunted.
"Let the damn wolf be. You c'n have him, I say. What I'm thinkin'
about is the hoss. Hal, do you remember the way he settled to his
stride when he lighted out after Red Pete?"
Purvis shrugged his shoulders.
"You're a fool, Bill. Which no man but Barry could ever ride that
hoss. I seen it in his eye. He'd cash in buckin'. He'd fight you like
a man."
Kilduff sighed. A great yearning was in his eyes.
"Hal," he said softly, "they's some men go around for years an'
huntin' for a girl whose picture is in their bean, cached away
somewhere. When they see her they jest nacherally goes nutty. Hal, I
don't give a damn for women folk, but I've travelled around a long
time with a picture of a hoss in my brain, an' Satan is the hoss."
He closed his eyes.
"I c'n see him now. I c'n see them shoulders--an' that head--an', my
God! them eyes--them fire eatin' eyes! Hal, if a man was to win the
heart of that hoss he'd lay down his life for you--he'd run himself
plumb to death! I won't never sleep tight till I get the feel of them
satin sides of his between my knees."
Lee Haines heard them speak, but he said nothing. His heart also
leaped when he heard of Whistling Dan's death, but he thought neither
of the horse nor the dog. He was seeing the yellow hair and the blue
eyes of Kate Cumberland. He approached Jordan and took a place beside
him.
"Tell me some more about it, Terry," he asked.
"Some more about what?"
"About Whistling Dan's death--about the burning of the saloon," said
Haines.
"What the hell! Are you still thinkin' about that?"
"I certainly am."
"Then I'll trade you news," said Terry Jordan, lowering his voice so
that it would not reach the suspicious ear of Jim Silent. "I'll tell
you about the burnin' if you'll tell me something about Barry's fight
with Silent!"
"It's a trade," answered Haines.
"All right. Seems old Joe Cumberland had a hunch to clean up the
landscape--old fool! so he jest up in the mornin' an' without sayin' a
word to any one he downs to the saloon and touches a match to it. When
he come back to his house he tells his girl, Kate, what he done. With
that she lets out a holler an' drops in a faint."
Haines muttered.
"What's the matter?" asked Terry, a little anxiously.
"Nothin," said Haines. "She fainted, eh? Well, good!"
"Yep. She fainted an' when she come to, she told Cumberland that Dan
was in the saloon, an' probably too weak to get out of the fire. They
started for the place on the run. When they got there all they found
was a pile of red hot coals. So everyone figures that he went up in
the flames. That's all I know. Now what about the fight?"
Lee Haines sat with fixed eyes.
"There isn't much to say about the fight," he said at last.
"The hell there isn't," scoffed Terry Jordan. "From what I heard, this
Whistling Dan simply cut loose and raised the devil more general than
a dozen mavericks corralled with a bunch of yearlings."
"Cutting loose is right," said Haines. "It wasn't a pleasant thing to
watch. One moment he was about as dangerous as an eighteen-year-old
girl. The next second he was like a panther that's tasted blood.
That's all there was to it, Terry. After the first blow, he was all
over the chief. You know Silent's a bad man with his hands?"
"I guess we all know that," said Jordan, with a significant smile.
"Well," said Haines, "he was like a baby in the hands of Barry. I
don't like to talk about it--none of us do. It makes the flesh creep."
There was a loud crackling among the underbrush several hundred yards
away. It drew closer and louder.
"Start up your works agin, will you, Bill?" called Silent. "Here comes
Shorty Rhinehart, an' he's overdue."
In a moment Shorty swung from his horse and joined the group. He
gained his nickname from his excessive length, being taller by an inch
or two than Jim Silent himself, but what he gained in height he lost
in width. Even his face was monstrously long, and marked with such sad
lines that the favourite name of "Shorty" was affectionately varied to
"Sour-face" or "Calamity." Silent went to him at once.
"You seen Hardy?" he asked.
"I sure did," said Rhinehart, "an' it's the last time I'll make that
trip to him, you can lay to that."
"Did he give you the dope?"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
"I jest want you to know that this here's my last trip to Elkhead--on
_any_ business."
"Why?"
"I passed three marshals on the street, an' I knew them all. They was
my friends, formerly. One of them was--"
"What did they do?"
"I waved my hand to them, glad an' familiar. They jest grunted. One of
them, he looked up an' down the street, an' seein' that no one was in
sight, he come up to me an' without shakin' hands he says: 'I'm some
surprised to see you in Elkhead, Shorty.' 'Why,' says I, 'the town's
all right, ain't it?' 'It's all right,' he says, 'but you'd find it a
pile more healthier out on the range.'"
"What in hell did he mean by that?" growled Silent.
"He simply meant that they're beginnin' to think a lot more about
us than they used to. We've been pullin' too many jobs the last six
months."
"You've said all that before, Shorty. I'm runnin' this gang. Tell me
about Hardy."
"I'm comin' to that. I went into the Wells Fargo office down by the
railroad, an' the clerk sent me back to find Hardy in the back room,
where he generally is. When he seen me he changed colour. I'd jest
popped my head through the door an' sung out: 'Hello, Hardy, how's the
boy?' He jumped up from the desk an' sung out so's his clerk in the
outside room could hear: 'How are you, lad?' an' he pulled me quick
into the room an' locked the door behind me.
"'Now what in hell have you come to Elkhead for?' says he.
"'For a drink' says I, never battin' an eye.
"'You've come a damn long ways,' says he.
"'Sure,' says I, 'that's one reason I'm so dry. Will you liquor, pal?'
"He looked like he needed a drink, all right. He begun loosening his
shirt collar.
"'Thanks, but I ain't drinkin', says he. 'Look here, Shorty, are you
loco to come ridin' into Elkhead this way?'
"'I'm jest beginnin' to think maybe I am,' says I.
"'Shorty,' he says in a whisper, 'they're beginnin' to get wise to the
whole gang--includin' me.'
"'Take a brace,' says I. 'They ain't got a thing on you, Hardy.'
"'That don't keep 'em from thinkin' a hell of a pile,' says he, 'an'
I tell you, Shorty, I'm jest about through with the whole works. It
ain't worth it--not if there was a million in it. Everybody is gettin'
wise to Silent, an' the rest of you. Pretty soon hell's goin' to bust
loose.'
"'You've been sayin' that for two years,' says I.
"He stopped an' looked at me sort of thoughtful an' pityin'. Then he
steps up close to me an' whispers in that voice: 'D'you know who's on
Silent's trail now? Eh?'
"'No, an' I don't give a damn,' says I, free an' careless.
"'Tex Calder!' says he."
Silent started violently, and his hand moved instinctively to his
six-gun.
"Did he say Tex Calder?"
"He said no less," answered Shorty Rhinehart, and waited to see his
news take effect. Silent stood with head bowed, scowling.
"Tex Calder's a fool," he said at last. "He ought to know better'n to
take to _my_ trail."
"He's fast with his gun," suggested Shorty.
"Don't I know that?" said Silent. "If Alvarez, an' Bradley, an'
Hunter, an' God knows how many more could come up out of their graves,
they'd tell jest how quick he _is_ with a six-gun. But I'm the one man
on the range that's faster."
Shorty was eloquently mute.
"I ain't askin' you to take my word for it," said Jim Silent. "Now
that he's after me, I'm glad of it. It had to come some day. The
mountains ain't big enough for both of us to go rangin' forever. We
had to lock horns some day. An' I say, God help Tex Calder!"
He turned abruptly to the rest of the men.
"Boys, I got somethin' to tell you that Shorty jest heard. Tex Calder
is after us."
There came a fluent outburst of cursing.
Silent went on: "I know jest how slick Calder is. I'm bettin' on
my draw to be jest the necessary half a hair quicker. He may die
shootin'. I don't lay no bets that I c'n nail him before he gets his
iron out of its leather, but I say he'll be shootin' blind when he
dies. Is there any one takin' that bet?"
His eyes challenged them one after another. Their glances travelled
past Silent as if they were telling over and over to themselves the
stories of those many men to whom Tex Calder had played the part of
Fate. The leader turned back to Shorty Rhinehart.
"Now tell me what he had to say about the coin."
"Hardy says the shipment's delayed. He don't know how long."
"How'd it come to be delayed?"
"He figures that Wells Fargo got a hunch that Silent was layin' for
the train that was to carry it."
"Will he let us know when it _does_ come through?"
"I asked him, an' he jest hedged. He's quitting on us cold."
"I was a fool to send you, Shorty. I'm goin' myself, an' if Hardy
don't come through to me--"
He broke off and announced to the rest of his gang that he intended to
make the journey to Elkhead. He told Haines, who in such cases usually
acted as lieutenant, to take charge of the camp. Then he saddled his
roan.
In the very act of pulling up the cinch of his saddle, Silent stopped
short, turned, and raised a hand for quiet. The rest were instantly
still. Hal Purvis leaned his weazened face towards the ground. In this
manner it was sometimes possible to detect far-off sounds which to one
erect would be inaudible. In a moment, however, he straightened up,
shaking his head.
"What is it?" whispered Haines.
"Shut up," muttered Silent, and the words were formed by the motion of
his lips rather than through any sound. "That damned whistling again."
Every face changed. At a rustling in a near-by willow, Terry Jordan
started and then cursed softly to himself. That broke the spell.
"It's the whisperin' of the willows," said Purvis.
"You lie," said Silent hoarsely. "I hear the sound growing closer."
"Barry is dead," said Haines.
Silent whipped out his revolver--and then shoved it back into the
holster.
"Stand by me, boys," he pleaded. "It's his ghost come to haunt me! You
can't hear it, because he ain't come for you."
They stared at him with a fascinated horror.
"How do you know it's him?" asked Shorty Rhinehart.
"There ain't no sound in the whole world like it. It's a sort of cross
between the singing of a bird an' the wailin' of the wind. It's the
ghost of Whistlin' Dan."
The tall roan raised his head and whinnied softly. It was an unearthly
effect--as if the animal heard the sound which was inaudible to all
but his master. It changed big Jim Silent into a quavering coward.
Here were five practised fighters who feared nothing between heaven
and hell, but what could they avail him against a bodiless spirit? The
whistling stopped. He breathed again, but only for a moment.
It began again, and this time much louder and nearer. Surely the
others must hear it now, or else it was certainly a ghost. The men sat
with dilated eyes for an instant, and then Hal Purvis cried, "I heard
it, chief! If it's a ghost, it's hauntin' me too!"
Silent cursed loudly in his relief.
"It ain't a ghost. It's Whistlin' Dan himself. An' Terry Jordan has
been carryin' us lies! What in hell do you mean by it?"
"I ain't been carryin' you lies," said Jordan, hotly. "I told you
what I heard. I didn't never say that there was any one seen his dead
body!"
The whistling began to die out. A babble of conjecture and exclamation
broke out, but Jim Silent, still sickly white around the mouth, swung
up into the saddle.
"That Whistlin' Dan I'm leavin' to you, Haines," he called. "I've had
his blood onct, an' if I meet him agin there's goin' to be another
notch filed into my shootin' iron."