THE LONG RIDE
A cheer of triumph came from the lynchers. In fifty yards the
fugitives learned the reason, for they glimpsed a high set of bars
blocking the lane. Dan pulled back beside Haines.
"Can the bay make it?" he called.
"No. I'm done for."
For answer Dan caught the bridle of Lee's horse close to the bit. They
were almost to the bars. A dark shadow slid up and over them. It was
Black Bart, with his head turned to look back even as he jumped, as if
he were setting an example which he bid them follow. Appallingly high
the bars rose directly in front of them.
"Now!" called Dan to the tall bay, and jerked up on the bit.
Satan rose like a swallow to the leap. The bay followed in gallant
imitation. For an instant they hung poised in air. Then Satan pitched
to the ground, landing safely and lightly on four cat-like feet. A
click and a rattle behind them--the bay was also over, but his hind
hoofs had knocked down the top bar. He staggered, reeled far to
one side, but recovering, swept on after Satan and Dan. A yell of
disappointment rang far behind.
Glancing back Haines saw the foremost of the pursuers try to imitate
the feat of the fugitives, but even with the top bar down he failed.
Man and horse pitched to the ground.
For almost a mile the lane held straight on, and beyond stretched
the open country. They were in that free sweep of hills before the
pursuers remounted beyond the bars. In daytime a mile would have been
a small handicap, but with the night and the hills to cover their
flight, and with such mounts as Satan and the tall bay, they were
safe. In half an hour all sound of them died out, and Haines,
following Dan's example, slowed his horse to an easy gallop.
The long rider was puzzled by his companion's horsemanship, for Dan
rode leaning far to the right of his saddle, with his head bowed.
Several times Haines was on the verge of speaking, but he refrained.
He commenced to sing in the exultation of freedom. An hour before he
had been in the "rat-trap" with a circle of lynchers around him, and
only two terror-stricken guards to save him from the most horrible of
deaths. Then came Fate and tore him away and gave him to the liberty
of the boundless hills. Fate in the person of this slender, sombre
man. He stared at Dan with awe.
At the top of a hill his companion drew rein, reeling in the saddle
with the suddenness of the halt. However, in such a horseman, this
could not be. It must be merely a freak feature of his riding.
"Move," said Dan, his breath coming in pants. "Line out and get to
her."
"To who?" said Haines, utterly bewildered.
"Delilah!"
"What?"
"Damn you, she's waitin' for you."
"In the name of God, Barry, why do you talk like this after you've
saved me from hell?"
He stretched out his hand eagerly, but Dan reined Satan back.
"Keep your hand. I hate you worse'n hell. There ain't room enough in
the world for us both. If you want to thank me do it by keepin' out of
my path. Because the next time we meet you're goin' to die, Haines.
It's writ in a book. Now feed your hoss the spur and run for Kate
Cumberland. But remember--I'm goin' to get you again if I can."
"Kate--" began Haines. "She sent you for me?"
Only the yellow blazing eyes made answer and the wail of a coyote far
away on the shadowy hill.
"Kate!" cried Haines again, but now there was a world of new meaning
in his voice. He swung his horse and spurred down the slope.
At the next hill-crest he turned in the saddle, saw the motionless
rider still outlined against the sky, and brought the bay to a halt.
He was greatly troubled. For a reason mysterious and far beyond the
horizon of his knowledge, Dan was surrendering Kate Cumberland to him.
"He's doing it while he still loves her," muttered Haines, "and am I
cur enough to take her from him after he has saved me from God knows
what?"
He turned his horse to ride back, but at that moment he caught
the weird, the unearthly note of Dan's whistling. There was both
melancholy and gladness in it. The storm wind running on the hills and
exulting in the blind terror of the night had such a song as this to
sing.
"If he was a man," Haines argued briefly with himself, "I'd do it. But
he isn't a man. He's a devil. He has no more heart than the wolf which
owns him as master. Shall I give a girl like Kate Cumberland to that
wild panther? She's mine--all mine!"
Once more he turned his horse and this time galloped steadily on into
the night.
When Haines dropped out of sight, Dan's whistling stopped. He looked
up to the pitiless glitter of the stars. He looked down to the sombre
sweep of black hills. The wind was like a voice saying over and over
again: "Failure." Everything was lost.
He slipped from the saddle and took off his coat. From his left
shoulder the blood welled slowly, steadily. He tore a strip from his
shirt and attempted to make a bandage, but he could not manage it with
one hand.
The world thronged with hostile forces eager to hunt him to the death.
He needed all his strength, and now that was ebbing from a wound which
a child could have staunched for him, but where could he find even a
friendly child? Truly all was lost! The satyr or the black panther
once had less need of man's help than had Dan, but now he was hurt in
body and soul. That matchless co-ordination of eye with hand and foot
was gone. He saw Kate smiling into the eyes of Haines; he imagined
Bill Kilduff sitting on the back of Satan, controlling all that
glorious force and speed; he saw Hal Purvis fighting venomously with
Bart for the mastery which eventually must belong to the man.
He turned to the wild pair. Vaguely they sensed a danger threatening
their master, and their eyes mourned for his hurt. He buried his face
on the strong, smooth shoulder of Satan, and groaned. There came the
answering whinny and the hot breath of the horse against the side of
his face. There was the whine of Black Bart behind him, then the rough
tongue of the wolf touched the dripping fingers. Then he felt a hot
gust of the wolf's breath against his hand.
Too late he realized what that meant. He whirled with a cry of
command, but the snarl of Black Bart cut it short. The wolf stood
bristling, trembling with eagerness for the kill, his great white
fangs gleaming, his snarl shrill and guttural with the frenzy of his
desire, for he had tasted blood. Dan understood as he stared into the
yellow green fury of the wolf's eyes, yet he felt no fear, only a
glory in the fierce, silent conflict. He could not move the fingers of
his left hand, but those of his right curved, stiffened. He desired
nothing more in the world than the contact with that great, bristling
black body, to leap aside from those ominous teeth, to set his fingers
in the wolf's throat. Reason might have told him the folly of such a
strife, but all that remained in his mind was the love of combat--a
blind passion. His eyes glowed like those of the wolf, yellow fire
against the green. Black Bart crouched still lower, gathering himself
for the spring, but he was held by the man's yellow gleaming eyes.
They invited the battle. Fear set its icy hand on the soul of the
wolf.
The man seemed to tower up thrice his normal height. His voice rang,
harsh, sudden, unlike the utterance of man or beast: "_Down!_"
Fear conquered Black Bart. The fire died from his eyes. His body sank
as if from exhaustion. He crawled on his belly to the feet of his
master and whined an unutterable submission.
And then that hand, warm and wet with the thing whose taste set the
wolf's heart on fire with the lust to kill, was thrust against his
nose. He leaped back with bared teeth, growling horribly. The eyes
commanded him back, commanded him relentlessly. He howled dismally to
the senseless stars, yet he came; and once more that hand was thrust
against his nose. He licked the fingers.
That blood-lust came hotter than before, but his fear was greater.
He licked the strange hand again, whining. Then the master kneeled.
Another hand, clean, and free from that horrible warm, wet sign of
death, fell upon his shaggy back. The voice which he knew of old came
to him, blew away the red mist from his soul, comforted him.
"Poor Bart!" said the voice, and the hand went slowly over his head.
"It weren't your fault."
The stallion whinnied softly. A deep growl formed in the throat of the
wolf, a mighty effort at speech. And now, like a gleam of light in a
dark room, Dan remembered the house of Buck Daniels. There, at least,
they could not refuse him aid. He drew on his coat, though the
effort set him sweating with agony, got his foot in the stirrup with
difficulty, and dragged himself to the saddle. Satan started at a
swift gallop.
"Faster, Satan! Faster, partner!"
What a response! The strong body settled a little closer to the
earth as the stride increased. The rhythm of the pace grew quicker,
smoother. There was no adequate phrase to describe the matchless
motion. And in front--always just a little in front with the plunging
forefeet of the horse seeming to threaten him at every stride, ran
Black Bart with his head turned as if he were the guard and guide of
the fugitive.
Dan called and Black Bart yelped in answer. Satan tossed up his
head and neighed as he raced along. The two replies were like human
assurances that there was still a fighting chance.
The steady loss of blood was telling rapidly now. He clutched the
pommel, set his teeth, and felt oblivion settle slowly and surely upon
him. As his senses left him he noted the black outlines of the next
high range of hills, a full ten miles away.
He only knew the pace of Satan never slackened. There seemed no effort
in it. He was like one of those fabled horses, the offspring of the
wind, and like the wind, tireless, eternal of motion.
A longer oblivion fell upon Dan. As he roused from it he found
himself slipping in the saddle. He struggled desperately to grasp the
saddlehorn and managed to draw himself up again; but the warning was
sufficient to make him hunt about for some means of making himself
more secure in the saddle. It was a difficult task to do anything
with only one hand, but he managed to tie his left arm to the
bucking-strap. If the end came, at least he was sure to die in the
saddle. Vaguely he was aware as he looked around that the black hills
were no longer in the distance. He was among them.
On went Satan. His breath was coming more and more laboured. It seemed
to Dan's dim consciousness that some of the spring was gone from that
glorious stride which swept on and on with the slightest undulation,
like a swallow skimming before the wind; but so long as strength
remained he knew that Satan would never falter in his pace. As the
delirium swept once more shadow-like on his brain, he allowed himself
to fall forward, and wound his fingers as closely as possible in the
thick mane. His left arm jerked horribly against the bonds. Black
night swallowed him once more.
Only his invincible heart kept Satan going throughout that last
stretch. His ears lay flat on his neck, lifting only when the master
muttered and raved in his fever. Foam flew back against his throat
and breast. His breath came shorter, harder, with a rasp; but the
gibbering voice of his rider urged him on, faster, and faster. They
topped a small hill, and a little to the left and a mile away, rose
a group of cottonwoods, and Dan, recovering consciousness, knew the
house of Buck. He also knew that his last moment of consciousness was
come. Surges of sleepy weakness swept over his brain. He could never
guide Satan to the house.
"Bart!" he called feebly.
The wolf whining, dropped back beside him. Dan pointed his right arm
straight ahead. Black Bart leaped high into the air and his shrill
yelp told that he had seen the cottonwoods and the house.
Dan summoned the last of his power and threw the reins over the head
of Satan.
"Take us in, Bart," he said, and twisting his fingers into Satan's
mane fell across the saddlehorn.
Satan, understanding the throwing of the reins as an order to halt,
came to a sharp stop, and the body of the senseless rider sagged to
one side. Black Bart caught the reins. They were bitter and salt with
blood of the master.
He tugged hard. Satan whinnied his doubt, and the growl of Black Bart
answered, half a threat. In a moment more they were picking their way
through the brush towards the house of Buck Daniels.
Satan was far gone with exhaustion. His head drooped; his legs
sprawled with every step; his eyes were glazed. Yet he staggered on
with the great black wolf pulling at the reins. There was the salt
taste of blood in the mouth of Black Bart; so he stalked on, saliva
dripping from his mouth, and his eyes glazed with the lust to kill.
His furious snarling was the threat which urged on the stallion.