CHAPTER XXXIII—RETRIBUTION

Twice descending the long slope leading to the basin, Martha’s horse

stumbled. The first time the negro woman lifted him to his feet by

jerking sharply on the reins, but when he stumbled the second time,

Martha was not alert and the horse went to his knees. Unprepared,

Martha was jolted out of the saddle and she fell awkwardly, landing on

her right shoulder with a force that knocked the breath out of her.

She lay for a short time, gasping, her body racked with pain, and at

last, when she succeeded in getting to her feet, the horse had strayed

some little distance from her and was quietly browsing the tops of

some saccaton.

It was several minutes before Martha caught the animal—several minutes

during which she loosed some picturesque and original profanity that

caused the experienced range horse to raise his ears inquiringly.

Then, when she caught the horse, she had some trouble getting into the

saddle, though she succeeded after a while, groaning, and grunting,

and whimpering.

But Martha forgot her pains and misery once she was in the saddle

again, and she rode fast, trembling with eagerness, her sympathies and

her concern solely for the white girl who, she supposed, was a

prisoner in the hands of the ruthless and unprincipled man that

Martha, with her limited vocabulary, had termed many times a

“rapscallion.”

Martha headed her horse straight for the Mullarky cabin, guided by a

faint shaft of light that issued from one of its windows.

When she reached the cabin she found no one there but Mrs. Mullarky.

Ben, Mrs. Mullarky told Martha, had gone to Dawes—in fact, he had been

in Dawes all day, she supposed, for he had left home early that

morning.

Martha gasped out her news, and Mrs. Mullarky’s face whitened. While

Martha watched her in astonishment, she tore off the gingham apron

that adorned her, threw it into a corner, and ran into another room,

from which she emerged an instant later carrying a rifle.

The Irishwoman’s face was pale and set, and the light of a great wrath

gleamed in her eyes. Martha, awed by the woman’s belligerent

appearance, could only stand and blink at her, her mouth gaping with

astonishment.

“You go right on to the Arrow!” she commanded Martha, as she went out

of the door; “mebbe you’ll find somebody there by this time, an’ if

you do, send them to the big house. I’m goin’ over there right this

minute to take that dear little girl away from that big brute!”

She started while Martha was again painfully mounting her horse, and

the two women rode away in opposite directions—Martha whimpering with

pain, and Mrs. Mullarky silent, grim, with a wild rage gripping her

heart.

* * * * *

Taylor, on Spotted Tail, was approaching the Arrow ranchhouse at a

speed slightly greater than that into which the big horse had fallen

shortly after he had left the gorge. The spirited animal was just

warming to his work, and he was doing his best when he flashed past

the big cattle corral, going with the noise of rushing wind. In an

instant he was at the long stretch of fence which formed the ranchyard

side of the horse corral, and in another instant he was sliding to a

halt near the edge of the front porch of the ranchhouse itself. There

he drew a deep breath and looked inquiringly at his master, while the

latter slid off his back, leaped upon the porch, and with a bound

crossed the porch floor, knocking chairs helter-skelter as he went.

The house was dark, but Taylor ran through the rooms, calling sharply

for Parsons and Marion, but receiving no reply. When he emerged from

the house his face, in the light of the moon that had climbed above

the horizon some time before, was like that of a man who has just

looked upon the dead face of his best friend.

For Taylor was convinced that he had looked upon death in the

ranchhouse—upon the death of his hopes. He stood for an instant on the

porch, while his passions raged through him, and then with a laugh of

bitter humor he leaped on Spotted Tail.

Half-way to the Mullarky cabin, with the big horse running like the

wind, Taylor saw a shape looming out of the darkness ahead of him. He

pulled Spotted Tail down, and loosed one of his pistols, and

approached the shape warily, his muscles stiff and taut and ready for

action.

But it was only Martha who rode up to him. Her fortitude gone, her

pains convulsing her, she wailed to Taylor the story of the night’s

tragic adventure.

“An’ Carrington’s got missy in the big house!” she concluded. “She fit

him powerful hard, but it was no use—that rapscallion too much fo’

her!”

She shouted the last words at Taylor, for Spotted Tail had received a

jab in the sides with the rowels that hurt him cruelly, and, angered,

he ran like a deer with the hungry cry of a wolf-pack in his ears.

Like a black streak they rushed by Mrs. Mullarky, who breathed a

fervent, “Oh, thank the Lord, it’s Taylor!” and before the good woman

could catch her breath again, Spotted Tail and his rider had opened a

huge, yawning space between himself and the laboring horse the woman

rode.

Riding with all his muscles taut as bowstrings, and a terrible,

constricting pressure across his chest—so mighty were the savage

passions that rioted within him—Taylor reached the foot of the long

slope that led to the big house, and sent Spotted Tail tearing upward

with rapid, desperate leaps.

* * * * *

When Carrington reached the big house soon after he had unknowingly

passed Marion Harlan and Parsons on the river trail, he was in a

sullen, impatient mood.

For no word concerning Keats’s movements had reached Dawes, and

Carrington was afflicted with a gloomy presentiment that something had

happened to the man—that he had not been able to locate Taylor, or

that he had found him and Taylor had succeeded in escaping him.

Carrington did not go at once into the house, for captive though she

was, and completely within his power, he did not want the girl to see

him in his present mood. Lighting a cigar, and chewing it viciously,

he walked to the stable. There, standing in the shadow of the

building, he came upon the guard Martha had routed. He spoke sharply

to the man, asking him why he was not inside guarding the “nigger.”

The man brazenly announced that Martha had escaped him, omitting

certain details and substituting others from his imagination.

“If she hadn’t been a woman, now,” added the man in self-extenuation.

Carrington laughed lowly. “We didn’t need _her_, anyway,” he said, and

the other laughed with him.

The laugh restored Carrington’s good-nature, and he left the man and

went into the front room of the house. Had he paused on the porch to

listen, or had he glanced toward the big slope that dropped to the

basin, he would not have entered the house just then. And he _would_

have paused on the porch had it not been that the intensity of his

desires drove him to concentrate all his senses upon Marion.

He crossed the porch and entered the room, and then halted, staring

downward with startled eyes at the body of the guard huddled on the

floor, a thin stream of blood staining the carpet beneath his head.

Cursing, Carrington stepped into the other room—the room in which he

had fought with Taylor—the room in which he had left Marion Harlan

bound and sitting on a chair. The lamp on the shelf was still burning,

and in its light Carrington saw the rope he had used to bind the

girl’s hands.

A bitter rage seized him as he looked at the rope, and he threw it

from him, cursing. In an instant he was outside the house and had

leaped upon his horse. He headed the animal toward the long slope

leading to the Arrow trail, for he suspected the girl would go

straight back there, despite any conviction she might have of Taylor’s

guilt—for there she would find Parsons, who would give her what

comfort he could. Or she might stop at the Mullarky cabin. Certainly

she would not go to Dawes, for she must know that _he_ ruled

Dawes—Parsons must have told her that—and that if she went to Dawes,

she would be merely postponing her surrender to him.

He had plenty of time, even if she were in Dawes, he meditated as he

sent his horse over the crest of the slope, for there were no trains

out of the town during the night, and if she were not at the Arrow or

Mullarky’s, he was sure to catch her later.

He was half-way down the slope, his horse making slow work of

threading its way through the gnarled chaparral growth, when, looking

downward, he saw another horse leaping up the slope toward him.

In the glare of the moon that was behind Carrington, he could see

horse and rider distinctly, and he jerked his own horse to a halt,

cursing horribly. For the horse that was leaping toward him like a

black demon out of the night was Spotted Tail. And Spotted Tail’s

rider was Taylor. Carrington could see the man’s face, with the

terrible passion that distorted it, and Carrington wheeled his horse,

making frenzied efforts to escape up the slope.

Carrington was not more than a hundred feet from the big black horse

and its indomitable rider when he wheeled his own animal, and he had

not traveled more than a few feet when he realized that Spotted Tail

was gaining rapidly.

Cursing again, though his face was ghastly with the fear that had

seized him, Carrington slipped from his horse, and, running around so

that the animal was between him and Taylor, he drew a heavy pistol

from a hip-pocket. And when the oncoming horse and rider were within

twenty-five or thirty feet of him, Carrington took deliberate aim and

fired.

He grinned vindictively as he saw Taylor reel in the saddle, and he

fired again, and saw Taylor drop to the ground beside Spotted Tail.

Carrington could not tell whether his second shot had struck Taylor,

and before he could shoot again, Taylor dove headlong toward a jagged

rock that thrust a bulging shoulder upward. Carrington threw a

snapshot at him as he leaped, but again he could not have told whether

the bullet had gone home.

Keeping the horse between himself and the rock behind which Taylor had

thrown himself, Carrington leaped behind another that stood near the

edge of the chaparral clump through which he had been riding when he

had seen Taylor coming up the slope. Seeming to sense their danger,

both horses slowly moved off out of the line of fire and proceeded

unconcernedly to browse the clumps of grass that dotted the side of

the slope.

And now began a long, strained silence. Carrington could see Taylor’s

rock, but it was at the edge of the chaparral, and Taylor might easily

slip into the chaparral and begin a circling movement that would bring

him behind Carrington. The thought brought a damp sweat out upon

Carrington’s forehead, and he began to cast fearing glances toward the

chaparral at his side. He watched it long, and the longer he watched,

the greater grew his fear. And at last, at the end of half an hour,

the fear grew to a conviction that Taylor was stalking him in the

chaparral. No longer able to endure the suspense, Carrington left the

shelter of his rock and began to work his way around the edge of the

chaparral clump.

Taylor had felt the heat and the shock of Carrington’s first bullet,

and he knew it had gone into his left arm. The second bullet had

missed him cleanly, and he landed behind the rock, with all his senses

alert, paying no attention to his wound.

He had recognized Carrington, and with the cold calm that comes with

implacable determination, Taylor instantly began to take an inventory

of the hazards and the advantages of his position. And after his

examination was concluded, he dropped to his hands and knees and began

to work his way into the chaparral.

He moved cautiously, for he knew that should he disturb the rank

growth he would disclose his whereabouts to Carrington, should the

latter have gained a vantageous point from where he could watch the

thicket for just such signs of Taylor’s presence.

But Taylor made no such signs; he had not spent the greater part of

his life in the open to be outdone in this grim strategy by an eastern

man. He grinned wickedly at the thought.

He suspected that Carrington might try the very trick he himself was

trying, and that thought made him wary.

Working his way into the thicket, he at last reached a point near its

center, upon a slight mound surrounded by stunt oak and quivering

aspen. There, concealed and alert, he waited for Carrington to show

himself.

Carrington, though, did not betray his presence in the thicket. For

Carrington was not in the thicket when Taylor reached its center.

Carrington had started into the thicket, but he had not proceeded very

far when he began to be afflicted with a dread premonition of Taylor’s

presence somewhere in the vicinity.

A clammy sweat broke out on the big man; a panic of fear seized him,

and he began to creep backward, out of the thicket. And by the time

Taylor reached his vantagepoint, Carrington was crouching at the

thicket’s edge, near the rock where he had been concealed, oppressed

with a conviction that Taylor was working his way toward him through

the thicket.

The big man waited, his nerves taut, his muscles quivering and

cringing at the thought that any instant a bullet sent at him by

Taylor might strike him. For he knew that Taylor had come for him; he

was now convinced that Marion Harlan _had_ gone to the Arrow, that she

had told Taylor what had happened to her, and that Taylor had come

straight to the big house to punish him for his misdeeds.

And Carrington had a dread of the sort of punishment Taylor had dealt

him upon a former occasion, and he wanted no more of it. That was why

he had used his pistol instantly upon recognizing Taylor. He wished,

now, that he had not been so hasty; for he had taken the initiative,

and Taylor would not scruple to imitate him.

In fact, he was so certain that at that moment Taylor was creeping

upon him from some point with the fury of murder in his heart, that he

got to his feet and, looking over the top of the rock, searched with

wild eyes for his horse. And when he saw the animal not more than

twenty or thirty feet from him, he could not longer resist the panic

that had seized him. Crouching, he ran for several yards on his hands

and feet and then, nearing his horse, he stood upright and ran for it.

As he ran he cringed, for he expected a pistol-shot to greet his

appearance at the side of his horse. But no report came, and he

reached the horse, threw himself into the saddle and raced the animal

down the slope.

He was conscious of a pulse of elation, for he thought he had eluded

Taylor, but just as his horse struck the edge of the big level

Carrington looked back, to see Spotted Tail slipping down the slope

with a smooth swiftness that terrified the big man.

He turned then and began to ride as he had never ridden before. The

animal under him was strong, courageous, and speedy; but Carrington

knew he would have need of all those sterling qualities if he hoped to

escape the iron-hearted horse Taylor bestrode. And so Carrington

leaned forward, trying to lighten the load, slapping the beast’s neck

with the palm of his hand, urging him with his voice—coaxing him to

the best endeavors. For Carrington knew that somewhere in the vast

expanse of grass land and spread before him Keats and his men must be.

And his only hope lay in reaching them before the avenger, astride the

big horse that was speeding on his trail like a black thunderbolt,

could bring his rider within pistol-shot distance of him.

But Carrington had not gone more than half a mile when he realized

that the race was to be a short one. Twice after leaving the edge of

the slope Carrington looked back. The first time Spotted Tail seemed

to be far away; and the next time the big, black animal was so close

that Carrington cried out hoarsely.

And then as Carrington felt the distance being shortened—as he felt

the presence of the black horse almost at the withers of his own

animal—heard the breathing of the big pursuing beast, he knew that he

was not to be shot.

Before he could swing his own horse to escape, the big, black horse

was beside his own, and one of Taylor’s arms shot out, the fingers

gripping the collar of the big man’s coat. Then with a vicious pull,

swinging the black horse wide, Taylor jerked Carrington out of the

saddle, so that he fell sidewise into the deep grass—while the black

horse, eager for a run, and not immediately responding to Taylor’s

pull on the reins, ran some feet before he halted and wheeled.

And when he did finally face toward the spot where the big man had

been jerked from the saddle, it was to face a succession of

flame-streaks that shot from the spot where Carrington stood trying

his best to send into Taylor a bullet that would put an end to the

horrible presentiment of death that now filled the big man’s heart.

He emptied his pistol and saw the black horse coming steadily toward

him, its rider erect in the saddle, seeming not to heed the savagely

barking weapon. And when the gun was empty, Carrington threw it from

him and began to run. He ran, and with grim mockery, Taylor followed

him a little distance—followed him until Carrington, exhausted, his

breath coming in great coughing gasps, could run no farther. And then

Taylor brought the big black to a halt near him, slid easily out of

the saddle, and stepped forward to look into Carrington’s face, his

own stiff and set, his eyes gleaming with a passion that made the

other man groan hopelessly.

“Now, you miserable whelp!” said Taylor.

He lunged forward and the bodies of the two men made a swaying blot

out of which came the sounds of blows, bitter and savage.

* * * * *

The little broken-nosed man laughed a little in recollection of

Carrington’s words about Martha. The big man had let him off easily,

and he was properly grateful. And yet his gratitude did not prevent

him from betraying curiosity; and he watched the front of the house

for Carrington’s reappearance, wondering what he meant to do with the

white girl, now that he had her.

Still watching the front porch, he saw Carrington run for his horse,

leap upon it and sink down the side of the slope.

The little man then ran to the front of the house and, concealed among

the trees, watched the duel that was waged in the moonlight. He saw

Carrington break from the thicket, mount his horse and race out into

the plain; he saw Taylor—for he had recognized him—send Spotted Tail

after Carrington. But he did not see the finish of the race, nor did

he see what followed. But some minutes later he saw a big, black horse

tearing toward him from the spot where the race had ended. He muttered

gutturally and profanely, leaped on his horse and sent it plunging

down the trail toward Dawes, his face ghastly with fear.