BATTLE!
Jane found herself on the pinto racing through the night, ducking under
cedars until she was clear of the timber, crashing through brush,
leaping washes and at her side, silent, close, protecting her, an arm
ready to grasp her body should her horse fall, rode Tom Beck.
They made straight across the flat toward the foot of the trail. To
their right was shooting and behind them a sharp volley rattled. A
stray bullet _zinged_ angrily, close over their heads.
"You've got to get out of this, ma'am," Beck cried. "There'll be hell
to pay before mornin'. There's nothing they won't do now."
"Tom! You came!"
Her eyes were blinded by tears as she turned her face to him, trying to
put into words the forgiveness which she deemed unnecessary and which
she knew was the one essential to Tom Beck, which she knew would be
almost impossible to convey convincingly. But through the tears she saw
the flash of a gun before them and an answering flash. A lengthy
flicker of lightning showed two figures. One, Dick Hilton, horse drawn
back on his hocks, revolver lifted. They saw him shoot again and they
saw that other figure, Baldy Bowen, who was there to block the trail,
crumple in his saddle and sag forward, struggle heavily to regain his
position and then, as his frightened horse moved quickly, plunge in an
ungainly mass to the ground.
Beck raised his gun as Hilton's horse leaped for the trail. He shot but
the instant of light had passed, making the world darker by contrast.
They saw fire shoot from scrambling hoofs.
The burst of rain had ceased, the interval of fury broken; the storm
still swirled, roaring, above them, but it was dry and black,
threatening, holding in reserve its strength....
The sound of another horse, cutting in before them, running
frantically, and Beck's gun hand went up only to poise arrested as a
voice came to them with the singing of a rope end that flayed the
animal's flanks.
"Go; go! Take me after him!"
It was Bobby Cole's cry. She had seen. She was riding on the trail of
the man who would have been her betrayer.
They dismounted hastily and stooped over the figure that lay quiet on
the rocks. Jane stilled her sobbing as Beck rolled the body over and
felt and listened.
"Dead," he said huskily.
"Dead!" echoed Jane. "Dick killed him! Oh ... beastly!"
Fresh firing behind them. The shout of a man and an answer. More shots,
coming closer.
"You've got to get out," Beck said lowly, lifting her from her knees
beside the dead rider. "There'll be hell here to-night and it's no
place for you. You bring the law!"
"I feel as though I should stay. There'll be others killed and it's my
fight!"
Hers was a cry of anguish, but he replied:
"You'll save lives by bringin' help. And hurry, ma'am, hurry!"
His only thought was to get her to safety.
A rifle crashed twice not a hundred yards from them and they heard a
running horse grunt as spurs raked his sides.
"Get up and get out!" he cried hoarsely, fearful that she might insist
on lingering in this place which, this night, was well named Devil's
Hole.
"There's only one of 'em ahead of you. He's bound only to make his
get-away.... An' the Catamount, she'll clear your way if he does turn
back!"
He lifted her bodily to her horse.
"It seems my place to stay!" she cried as shots peppered the storm. "To
stay with you, Tom!"
"It's your place to get out! Ride!"
He swung his hat across the pinto's hind quarters and the animal leaped
into the trail. He heard Jane cry out to him to stop.
"Go on!" he shouted. "Go on! It's your job to bring help!"
And he heard her go on, the horse floundering up the steep rise, and
knew that she obeyed. Then he turned and looked out across the flat.
Far down toward Cole's cabin was a shot. A riderless horse went past
him, blowing with excitement. He crouched behind a boulder, gun in his
hands, peering into the darkness. Others would not travel that trail
that night so long as he was on guard....
The fight had been carried in both directions, further up into the
Hole, on down toward the Gap. HC riders, partially assembled and
identified, had closed on the outlaws, cut them off from the trail and
for the space of many minutes there was no revealed action, each
waiting for the others to show themselves.
Again in the distance was the mutter of thunder and a brilliant,
prolonged flash of lightning. The wind had subsided to breathless
silence as if the heavens marshaled their forces for fresh outbursts.
Beck started up as the clouds flared, looking quickly about. He saw a
horse with an empty saddle. He saw a man standing waist deep in brush,
a rifle at his hip, ready to fire. He could not recognize the man.
Darkness; again, a silent lighting of the skies, and with that the
stillness was broken. There was the sharp crack of a rifle far to his
left, up toward the head of the Hole. None replied to the shot. A
moment later the clouds sent out their flare again ... and this time
two shots echoed.
Beck started up with a low cry. Above on the trail he had seen Jane
Hunter's pinto, making for the high country, and those two stabs of
yellow flame had been aimed upward and toward the wall to which her
path clung.
It seemed to the man an age until lightning again revealed the earth.
He had an impression of a horseman far toward the top of the trail and
behind him another, riding hard; and lastly, Jane's pinto toiling
bravely up the sharp climb.
And as darkness cut in again two more fangs of flame darted toward her!
Jane Hunter, without protection, wholly revealed by the lightning, was
a target for merciless men, for men who had nothing to lose and at
least a fighting chance to gain by stopping her!
He had believed that she was going to safety; he had underestimated the
maliciousness of those men she had driven into the open that afternoon.
He had neglected to consider the fact that on the trail she was without
protection of any sort and that lightning would make her stand out like
a cameo! He forgot his mental stress, he relegated his duty as sentinel
to inconsequence, for she was in great danger and needed help! It was a
joy to know that the life in his body, the blood in his flesh, might be
the one thing she needed, for only by offering those possessions could
he atone for his faithlessness. He had no idea that he could regain
that desire to possess her. He only wanted her to know that what he had
to give was hers; that was all!
Then another rider was on the trail: Tom Beck, roweling his horse,
fanning his shoulders with the rein ends, crying aloud to him for
speed, his gun in his holster, a useless thing.
He rode with abandon in the darkness, urging the horse to a speed that
mocked safety. Stones were scattered by the animal's spurning feet and
he heard them strike below, the sounds becoming fainter as he mounted
the steep rise. Lightning again and the viper spits down there in the
flat licked out for the woman ahead. Beck swore aloud and beat his
horse's flanks with his hat.
The darkness, though it handicapped speed and enhanced the danger of
his race, was relief. When it was dark they could not fire....
And he knew they were waiting down there, rifles ready, straining to
see in the next burst of light....
He begged of the Almighty to send rain, to hold back the lightning, but
no rain came; the flares continued. He heard another shot, closer, from
behind, and knew it was the rifleman he had seen standing in the brush
firing at those who menaced Jane Hunter's safety.
He was gaining on the pinto, slowly, with agonizing slowness. His big
brown horse drove on, but, when in darkness and without perspective, it
seemed as though his hoofs beat upon a treadmill. The animal's excited
breathing became more clearly defined.... The pinto ahead crawled
slowly and awkwardly like a dying animal, many minutes from shelter....
One of those spurts of flame stung toward Beck. He heard, almost as he
saw it, the spatter of a bullet on the rock behind him. He lay low on
his horse's mane.
The glimmer of lightning, unaccompanied now by thunder, became almost
continuous. Against the white face of the mountain the riders were like
silhouette targets. Below there were stabs of fire from a dozen places,
like fire-flies on a summer night, but carrying death.
Two bullets, close together, snarled past him, one above, the other
just ahead, perhaps in a line behind his horse's ears. He hoped wildly
that they were directing all their fire at him, that he was drawing it
from the girl above but even as this hope mounted the skies coruscated
again and he saw that the pinto was stopped, saw that Jane was slipping
to the narrow trail, her body wedged between the cliff and the body of
the horse.
For an interminable time blackness seemed to hold. The big brown, whose
breath was now laboring with exhaustion as well as with excitement,
gasped scarcely a dozen breaths before the greeny light came again but
to his rider it was an aeon of time. Tom Beck passed through the
veriest depths of torment in that interval and unconsciously he shouted
into the night incoherent cries of suffering. He had been too late! He
had sent her to physical suffering, to her death, perhaps, and before
he could make her understand that he blamed himself as only a just man
who has been unjust can crush himself with execration!
But light came and he saw her, still alive, still safe!
The pinto was down, hind feet over the trail. Wounded, he had tried to
turn back, tail to the abyss as a mountain bred animal will turn. He
had moved on unsteady limbs, his hind feet slipped over the edge and
moaning, head back, eyes bulging, he clawed with his fore hoofs to stay
his fall. Clinging to the reins, calling aloud her encouragement, the
girl helped with voice and limbs.
For an interval she balanced the pull of the animal's own weight....
And when Tom Beck could see again she was alone on the trail, one arm
raised to her face as she cringed from the bullets that spattered all
about!
He cursed his horse, lashing furiously, spurring in the shoulders
without mercy. He came up to her and she faced him, lips tight and in
the dance of cloud fire he saw her eyes wide, nostrils distended.
"Get up here!" he muttered and lifted her to his saddle horn, winding
his arms about her, bowing his head and shoulders over hers to take the
missiles in his own body first.
She clutched him frantically, her warm arms around his neck, her
trembling limbs across his thigh with his hand hooked beneath the
knees, her soft breast cleaving to his and, slipping through his opened
shirt the little gold locket that was at her throat pressed against his
heart.... It was cold from the night and he felt it send a tingle
through his body. Even then he wondered, with the strange sharpness
which stressed thought will give to irrelevant matters, what it
contained!
"Tom! It's good to have you!"
Good to have him! With death singing all about her it was good to have
him; it was her first thought!
"It would be good to die for you!" he said.
"No, no!"--sharply. "Not that, Tom! Live for me ... live for me!"
She felt him start and shudder and sway and a moan broke from his lips
as a searching, tearing thing ripped at the small of his back,
burrowing devilishly into his very vitals. She clutched him closer, not
understanding.
"It's all I've got to give you," he muttered unnaturally. "My life's
all I've got, ma'am. I'd be proud to give it.... It's a little thing to
give to pay ... a debt like I owe you....
"You keep your body behind mine ... always ... until we get to the
top...."
"Tom!"--in alarm. "You're hit.... Oh, Tom!" She shook him, hitching
herself about that she might see his face. "Tom!"
"A scratch," he said. "Just a--"
The horse threw up his head and recoiled as a bullet sang past.
"A--scratch," he finished.
The girl looked about wildly. She knew there was no shelter there, not
a ledge behind which they could hide, not a tree that would screen
them. The wall rose straight on one side, fell sheer on the other.
There was no place to go but up; they could not turn there and go down
for there was no room ... the pinto, shot through the belly, had tried
that!
The firing below grew more rapid. It did not wait for the lightning
flashes now. Those spats of yellow fire struck upward continuously; in
darkness, blindly; in light searching intelligently as the riders moved
upward, nearer safety. HC men closed in on those who shot at the
figures on the trail, aiming at the flurries of viper light, meeting
counter fire as they drew nearer the murderous group of men.
"Fireflies!" Beck muttered as he looked down again. "Lightnin' bugs let
loose from hell!"
When there was no fire in the clouds those light points looked so
harmless, down there in the soft, velvet darkness! Well they might have
been insects, bedecking a summer night ... but from them came the
whining, droning, searching projectiles that flew to find his life and
Jane Hunter's life!
Fifty yards further was the first rise of rock that would protect them
from below. Fifty yards, and the horse, under added burden, was sobbing
as he staggered.
Beck swayed forward and regained his balance with an effort that cost
him a groan, but his arms, tight about Jane Hunter's body did not relax
a trifle; they held like tough, green wood. The girl cried out to him
again, that he was hurt....
"It's nothin', ... my life," he replied. "It's all I could do ... for
doubtin' you. I couldn't ask you to ... love me.... I could die for you
... that's all, ma'am...."
"Tom, Tom! Keep your head; keep your head one minute longer; we'll be
safe.... Safe, then...."
Thirty yards to the place where the trail ran between uprising walls of
rock; thirty yards to that shelter; thirty yards to safety....
But she looked down at those deadly fireflies playing on the flat, and
did not see a hatless man, crouched forward, run down the trail toward
them, pistol in his hand....
Dick Hilton, who had escaped the Hole only to realize that there was no
escape, was waiting to vent the last drop of poison in his heart....
Nor did Jane see, nor did Hilton suspect, that waiting there for him
was another stalker, who had followed and lost him, who had turned
back, who had seen the travelers up the trail and who waited their
approach screened by timber....
Bobby Cole's heart leaped as she saw him run crouching to meet Tom
Beck, and her gun leaped to position ... and she waited there in the
darkness for the next flash of light ... as men waited below ... as
Jane Hunter waited, with her heart racing in despair; as Dick Hilton,
gibbering under his breath, waited....
The big brown horse stumbled and Tom Beck cried aloud in fear and pain,
cried drunkenly, as his blood drenched the saddle. Twenty yards to the
shelter of solid rock ... ten ... five....
And a scarecrow figure leaped from it at them, revealed by a long,
green glimmer.
"Damn you, Beck! Damn you, you've ruined me; you drove me to this....
Now, take th--"
His gun had whipped up even as the gun of the girl they saw behind him
whipped up.
Neither fired.
Down below had come those winking fangs again and Hilton's voice
trailed into a rising, rasping gasp as missiles from his compatriots
drilled his body.
His pistol dropped to the rock. He put his hands to his stomach.
"Damn your--"
He choked on the word, and as he choked he took one blind step forward,
over the brink. As he fell he threw up his hands and sailed downward
into the depths, into the coming darkness....
The brown horse had halted, but as Jane Hunter slipped to the ground,
holding Beck's sagging body with all her strength, he stepped forward,
in behind the rocks: their haven....
"Oh, they got him!" Bobby sobbed. "They got him...."
She might have meant Hilton, but if so the pity, the regret in her
voice was a mourning of her dead love, not the dead lover; or she might
have meant Tom Beck and the tone might have been sympathy for the woman
she had come to understand, the woman who had respect for her and who
she could respect....
They let Tom's body to the trail. The horse moved off. Hastily Bobby
ripped open his shirt....
"Through the hips," she whispered. "Through the hips....
"Look!"--starting up. "He's movin' his foot. It didn't get his spine;
it didn't get his spine...."
She tore open her shirt and tugged at the undergarment beneath it. She
stuffed it into the wound deftly, staying the blood while Jane Hunter,
Beck's head in her lap, cried aloud.
"Listen!" Bobby knelt beside the other woman, hands on her shoulders,
peering into her face.... "You're safe here. They've got 'em cut off
from this trail below....
"My horse is fresh. I'm goin' to your ranch for help. He ain't goin' to
die, ma'am.... I promise you that.... He ain't goin' to die!"
She was gone and Jane Hunter, half faint, clinging to that promise as
the last, the only thing in life, lowered her lips to her lover's eyes.