THE END OF THE TRAIL
"How are we going to find them?" asked the girl, as the two drew their
mounts to a stand on the top of a low ridge and gazed out over the sea
of similar ridges that rolled and spread before them as far as the eye
could reach in three directions--bare coulees, and barer ridges, with
here and there a low bare hill, all black and red and grey, with
studdings of mica flashing in the rays of the afternoon sun.
"We'll find them. We've got to. I have just been thinking: Living on
the edge of the bad lands the way this man does he must occasionally
cross them. Tex said that the Split Rock water-hole was the only one
between the river and the mountains. We'll start the horses out and
give them their heads, and the chances are they will take us to the
water-hole. In all probability Tex and Bat will be there. If they are
not we will have to find them."
"Of course!" assented the girl. "Oh, Win, I'm so proud of you! I
couldn't be any prouder if you were a--a real cowboy!" Endicott
laughed heartily, and urged his horse forward. The animals crossed
several low ridges and struck into a coulee which they followed
unhesitatingly. When it petered out in a wide basin, they struck into
another coulee, and continued their course, covering the miles at a
long, swinging trot. At sundown Endicott reined in sharply and pointed
to the northward. "It's the ridge of the Split Rock!" he cried; "and
look, there is the soda hill!" There it was only a mile or two
away--the long black ridge with the huge rock fragment at its end, and
almost touching it, the high round hill that the Texan had described.
The horses pressed eagerly forward, seeming to know that rest and water
were soon to be theirs. "I wonder if they are there," breathed the
girl, "and I wonder if they are--all right."
A few minutes later the horses swung around the base of the hill and,
with an exclamation of relief, Endicott saw two figures seated beside
the detached fragment of rock that lay near the end of the ridge.
The Texan arose slowly and advanced toward them, smiling: "Good
evenin'," he greeted, casually, as he eyed the pair with evident
approval. "You sure come a-runnin'. We didn't expect you 'til along
about noon tomorrow. And we didn't expect you at all," he said to the
girl. "We figured you'd shove on to Timber City, an' then Win would
get a guide an' come back in the mornin'."
Endicott laughed: "When I learned there was such a place as Timber
City, I intended to leave her there and return alone--only I was not
going to wait 'til morning to do it. But she wouldn't hear of it, so
we compromised--and she came with me."
Tex smiled: "It's a great thing to learn how to compromise." He stared
for a few moments toward the west, where the setting sun left the sky
ablaze with fiery light. Then, still smiling, he advanced toward them
with both hands extended: "I wish you luck," he said, softly. "I cared
for you a mighty lot, Miss Alice, but I'm a good loser. I reckon,
maybe it's better things worked out the way they did." Endicott
pressed the outstretched hand with a mighty grip and turned swiftly
away to fumble at his latigo strap. And there were tears in the girl's
eyes as her fingers lingered for a moment in the Texan's grasp: "Oh,
I--I'm sorry. I----"
"You don't need to be," the man whispered. "You chose the best of the
two." He indicated Endicott with a slight jerk of the head. "You've
got a real man there--an' they're oncommon hard to find. An' now, if
you've got some grub along suppose we tie into it. I'm hungry enough
to gnaw horn!"
As Alice proceeded to set out the food, the Texan's eyes for the first
time strayed to the horses. "How much did Long Bill Kearney soak you
for the loan of his saddle-horses?"
"Nothing," answered Endicott, "and he supplied us with the grub, too."
"He, what?"
"Fact," smiled the other, "he demurred a little, but----"
"Long Bill's the hardest character in Choteau County."
Endicott glanced at his swollen knuckles: "He is hard, all right."
Tex eyed him in amazement, "Win, you didn't--punch his head for him!"
"I did--and his stomach, too. We were nearly starved, and he refused
us food. Told us to go back where we came from. So I reached for him
and he dozed off."
"But where was his guns?"
"I took them away from him before I tied him up."
"Where is he now?"
"Tied up. He called me a lot of names because I turned the horses into
his alfalfa. They were hungry and they enjoyed it, but Bill nearly
blew up. Then we got dinner and took the horses and came away."
"You're the luckiest man out of hell! You doggoned pilgrim, you!" Tex
roared with laughter: "Why accordin' to dope, he'd ought to just et you
up."
"He whined like a puppy, when we left him, for fear we would get lost
and he would starve to death. He is yellow."
"His kind always is--way down in their guts. Only no one ever made him
show it before."
"How far did we miss the water-hole last night?" asked Endicott, as he
and Tex sat talking after the others had sought their blankets.
"About two miles. The wind drifted us to the east. Bat didn't get far
'til his horse went down, so he bled him like we did, and holed up 'til
the storm quit. Then, after things cleared up, we got here about the
same time. The water ain't much--but it sure did taste good." For a
long time the two lay close together looking up at the million winking
stars. Tex tossed the butt of a cigarette into the grey dust. "She's
a great girl, Win. Game plumb to her boot heels."
"She is, that. I've loved her for a long time--since way back in my
college days--but she wouldn't have me."
"You hadn't earnt her. Life's like that--it's ups an' downs. But, in
the long run, a man gets about what's comin' to him. It's like
poker--in the long run the best player is bound to win. There's times
when luck is against him, maybe for months at a stretch. He'll lose
every time he plays, but if he stays with it, an' keeps on playin' the
best he knows how, an' don't go tryin' to force his luck by drawin'
four cards, an' fillin' three-card flushes, why, some day luck will
change an' he wins back all he's lost an' a lot more with it, because
there's always someone in the game that's throwin' their money away
drawin' to a Judson."
"What is a Judson?"
"Bill Judson was a major, an' next to playin' poker, he liked other
things. Every time he'd get three cards of a suit in a row, he'd draw
to 'em, hopin' for a straight flush. That hope cost him, I reckon,
hundreds of dollars, an' at last he filled one--but, hell! Everyone
laid down, an' he gathered the ante." The Texan rolled another
cigarette. "An' that's the way it is with me--I tried to force my
luck. I might as well own up to it right here an' get it over with.
You've be'n square, straight through, an' I haven't. I was stringin'
you with all that bunk about politics, an' you bein' sure to get hung
for shootin' Purdy. Fact is, the grand jury would have turned you
loose as soon as your case come up. But, from the first minute I laid
eyes on that girl, I wanted her. I'm bad enough, but not like Purdy.
I figured if she'd go half-way, I'd go the other half. So I planned
the raid on the wool-warehouse, an' the fake lynchin', purpose to get
her out of town. I didn't care a damn about you--you was just an
excuse to get her away. I figured on losing you after we hit the
mountains. The first jolt I got was in the warehouse, when we didn't
have to drag you out. Then I got another hell of a one in the coulee
under the cottonwoods. Then they got to comin' so thick I lost track
of 'em. An' the first thing I knew I would have killed any man that
would look crossways at _her_. It come over me all of a sudden that I
loved her. I tried to get out of it, but I was hooked. I watched
close, an' I saw that she liked me--maybe not altogether for what she
thought I'd done for you. But you was in the road. I knew she liked
you, too, though she wouldn't show it. 'Everything's fair in love or
war,' I kept sayin' over an' over to myself when I'd lay thinkin' it
over of nights. But, I knew it was a damned lie when I was sayin' it.
If you'd be'n milk-gutted, an' louse-hearted, like pilgrims are
supposed to be, there'd be'n a different story to tell, because you
wouldn't have be'n fit for her. But I liked you most as hard as I
loved her. 'From now on it's a square game,' I says, so I made Old Man
Johnson cough up that outfit of raiment, an' made you shave, so she
wouldn't have to take you lookin' like a sheep-herdin' greaser, if she
was a-goin' to take you instead of me. After that I come right out an'
told her just where I stood, an' from then on I've played the game
square. The women ain't divided up right in this world. There ought
to have be'n two of her, but they ain't another in the whole world, I
reckon, like her; so one of us had to lose. An', now, seein' how I've
lied you into all this misery, you ought to just naturally up an' knock
hell out of me. We'll still keep the game fair an' square. I'll throw
away my gun an' you can sail in as quick as you get your sleeves rolled
up. But, I doubt if you can get away with it, at that."
Endicott laughed happily, and in the darkness his hand stole across and
gripped the hand of the Texan in a mighty grip: "I wish to God there
was some way I could thank you," he said. "Had it not been for you, I
never could have won her. Why, man, I never got acquainted with myself
until the past three days!"
"There ain't any posses out," grinned Tex. "The fellow I met in the
coulee there by Antelope Butte told me. They think you were lynched.
He told me somethin' else, too--but that'll keep."
As they were saddling up, the following morning, the Texan grinned:
"I'll bet old Long Bill Kearney's in a pleasin' frame of mind."
"He's had time to meditate a little on his sins," answered Alice.
"No--not Long Bill ain't. If he started in meditatin' on them, he'd
starve to death before he'd got meditated much past sixteen--an' he's
fifty, if he's a day."
"There are four of us and only three horses," exclaimed Endicott, as he
tightened his cinch.
"That's all right. The horses are fresh. I'm light built, an' we'll
change off makin' 'em carry double. It ain't so far."
The morning sun was high when the horses turned into the coulee that
led to Long Bill's ranch. Bat, who had scouted ahead to make sure that
he had not succeeded in slipping his bonds and had plotted mischief,
sat grinning beside the corral fence as he listened, unobserved, to the
whimpering and wailing of the man who lay bound beside the cabin door.
"What's the matter, Willie?" smiled Tex, as he slipped from his seat
behind Endicott's saddle. "Didn't your breakfast set right?"
The man rolled to face them at the sound of the voice, and such a
stream of obscene blasphemy poured from his lips as to cause even the
Texan to wince. Without a word the cowboy reached for a bar of soap
that lay awash in the filthy water of a basin upon a bench beside the
door, and jammed it down the man's throat. The sounds changed to a
sputtering, choking gurgle. "Maybe that'll learn you not to talk vile
when there's ladies around."
"Water!" the man managed to gasp.
"Will you quit your damn swearin'?"
Long Bill nodded, and Tex held a dipper to his lips.
"Go catch up the horses, Bat, an' we'll be gettin' out of here. They's
some reptiles so mean that even their breath is poison."
As Bat started for the alfalfa field the man fairly writhed with fury:
"I'll hev the law on ye, ye--" he stopped abruptly as Tex reached for
the soap.
"You won't have the law on no one, you lizard! You don't dare to get
within hollerin' distance of the law."
"I will pay you a reasonable amount for any damage to your field, and
for the food, and the use of your horses," offered Endicott, reaching
for his pocket.
"Keep your money, Win," grinned the Texan. "Let me pay for this. This
coyote owes me twenty dollars he borrowed from me when I first hit the
country an' didn't know him. He's always be'n anxious to pay it, ain't
you, Bill? Well, it's paid now, an' you don't need to go worryin' your
heart out about that debt no longer."
Again the man opened his lips, but closed them hurriedly as Tex reached
for the soap.
"I'll have to borrow your horse an' saddle for my friend, here," said
the Texan, "an' Bat, he'll have to borrow one, too. We'll leave 'em in
Timber City."
"_Non_!" cried the half-breed, who had paused in the process of
changing Alice's saddle to her own horse. "Me--I ain' gon' for bor' no
hoss. Am tak' dis hoss an' giv' heem back to Judge Carson. Him b'long
over on Sage Creek."
"Whad'ye mean, ye red scum!" screamed the man, his face growing purple.
"That Circle 12 brand is----"
"Ha! Circle 12! De mos' dat Circle 12 she hair-bran'." He stepped
into the cabin and reappeared a moment later with some coal-oil in a
cup. This he poured into his hand and rubbed over the brand on the
horse's shoulder. And when he had pressed the hair flat, the Circle 12
resolved itself into a V 2.
The Texan laughed: "I suppose I ought to take you into Timber City, but
I won't. I imagine, though, when the Judge hears about this, you'd
better be hittin' the high spots. He's right ugly with horse thieves."
"Hey, hain't ye goin' to ontie me?" squealed the man, as the four
started down the bank with the horses.
"You don't suppose I'd go off an' leave a good rope where you could get
your claws on it, do you? Wait 'til we get these horses onto the
flat-boat, and all the guns around here collected so you can't peck at
us from the brush, an' I'll be back."
"You gon' on to Timbaire City," said Bat, "an' I'm com' long bye-m-bye.
A'm tak' dis hoss an' ride back an' git ma saddle an' bridle." He
advanced and removed his hat; "_Adieu, ma'mselle_, mebbe-so I ain' git
dere 'til you gon'. Ol' Bat, he lak' you fine. You need de help,
som'tam', you mak' de write to ol' Bat an', ba Goss, A'm com' lak'
hell--you bet you dam' life!" Tears blinded the girl's eyes as she
held out her hand, and as a cavalier of old France, the half-breed bent
and brushed it with his lips. He shook the hand of Endicott: "Som'tam'
mebbe-so you com' back, we tak' de hont. Me--A'm know where de elk an'
de bear liv' plenty." Endicott detected a twinkle in his eye as he
turned to ascend the bank: "You mak' Tex ke'p de strong lookout for de
posse. A'm no lak' I seen you git hang."
"Beat it! You old reprobate!" called the Texan as he followed him up
the slope.
"How'm I goin' to git my boat back?" whined Long Bill, as the Texan
coiled his rope.
"Swim acrost. Or, maybe you'd better go 'round--it's some little
further that way, but it's safer if you can't swim. I'll leave your
guns in the boat. So long, an' be sure to remember not to furget
sometime an' pay me back that twenty."
The ride to Timber City was made almost in silence. Only once did the
Texan speak. It was when they passed a band of sheep grazing beside
the road: "They're minin' the country," he said, thoughtfully. "The
time ain't far off when we'll have to turn nester--or move on."
"Where?" asked Alice.
The cowboy shrugged, and the girl detected a note of unconscious
sadness in his tone: "I don't know. I reckon there ain't any place for
me. The whole country's about wired in."
Timber City, since abandoned to the bats and the coyotes, but then in
her glory, consisted of two stores, five saloons, a half-dozen less
reputable places of entertainment, a steepleless board church, a
schoolhouse, also of boards, a hotel, a post office, a feed stable,
fifty or more board shacks of miners, and a few flimsy buildings at the
mouths of shafts. It was nearly noon when the three drew up before the
hotel.
"Will you dine with us in an hour?" asked Endicott.
The Texan nodded. "Thanks," he said, formally, "I'll be here." And as
the two disappeared through the door, he gathered up the reins, crossed
to the feed barn where he turned the animals over to the proprietor,
and passing on to the rear, proceeded to take a bath in the watering
trough.
Punctually on the minute he entered the hotel. The meal was a solemn
affair, almost as silent as the ride from the river. Several attempts
at conversation fell flat, and the effort was abandoned. At no time,
however, did the Texan appear embarrassed, and Alice noted that he
handled his knife and fork with the ease of early training.
At the conclusion he arose, abruptly: "I thank you. Will you excuse
me, now?"
Alice nodded, and both watched as he crossed the room, his spurs
trailing noisily upon the wooden floor.
"Poor devil," said Endicott, "this has hit him pretty hard."
The girl swallowed the rising lump in her throat: "Oh, why can't he
meet some nice girl, and----"
"Women--his kind--are mighty scarce out here, I imagine."
The girl placed her elbows upon the table, rested her chin upon her
knuckles, and glanced eagerly into Endicott's face:
"Win, you've just got to buy a ranch," she announced, the words fairly
tumbling over each other in her excitement. "Then we can come out here
part of the time and live, and we can invite a lot of girls out for the
summer--I just know oodles of nice girls--and Tex can manage the ranch,
and----"
"Match-making already!" laughed Endicott. "Why buy a ranch? Why not
move into Wolf River, or Timber City, and start a regular matrimonial
agency--satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back. It would be more
prac----"
"Winthrop Adams Endicott!"
"Oh, I forgot! I'm not practical. I'm romantic, and red-blooded,
and--" they had the little dining-room to themselves; he rose swiftly
from his chair and, crossing to her side, stooped and kissed her, not
once, but twice, and thrice,--"I'm glad of it! And that reminds me, I
have a couple of errands to attend to, so you will have to manage to
worry along without me for fifteen minutes or so."
She laughed up into his face: "How can I ever stand it? I've worried
along without you all my life. I guess I'll survive."
"You won't have to much longer," he smiled, and hastened from the room.
A half-hour later he returned to find her waiting in the hotel
"parlour." She saw that his eyes were shining as he crossed eagerly,
seated himself upon the haircloth sofa beside her, and whispered in her
ear.
"Winthrop! Indeed we won't do anything of the kind! Why
it's--it's----"
"It's impractical, and it's romantic," he finished for her. "Also,
it's unconventional. Now, refuse if you dare! The stage leaves for
Lewiston and the railroad at five. He seems to be a regular chap--the
parson. Both he and his wife insisted that the event take place in
their house. Said it would be much pleasanter than the hotel--and I
heartily agreed with them. We figured that half-past four would give
us just about time."
"Well, of all things!" blushed the girl. "You two arranged the whole
affair, and of course, as I'm only the bride, it wasn't necessary to
consult me at all!"
"Exactly," smiled Endicott; "I'm red-blooded, you know, and
romantic--and when I go in for little things like unconventionality,
and romance, I go the limit. And you don't dare refuse!"
She looked up into his eyes, shining with boyish enthusiasm: "I don't
dare," she whispered. "I don't want to dare. Oh, Win, I--I'm just
crazy about it!"
A few moments later she drew away from him and smoothed her hair.
"You must go right this minute and find Tex. And, oh, I hope Bat will
be here in time! I just love old Bat!" She ceased speaking and looked
questioningly into his eyes which had suddenly become grave.
"I have been looking for Tex, and I couldn't find him anywhere. Then I
went to the stable across the street. His horse is gone."
For some moments both were silent. "He never even said good-bye,"
faltered the girl, and in her voice was a note of real hurt.
"No," answered Endicott, softly, "he should have said good-bye."
Alice rose and put on her hat: "Come on, let's get out of this hateful
stuffy little room. Let's walk and enjoy this wonderful air while we
can. And besides, we must find some flowers--wild flowers they must be
for our wedding, mustn't they, dear? Wild flowers, right from God's
own gardens--wild, and free, and uncultivated--untouched by human
hands. I saw some lovely ones, blue and white, and some wild-cherry
blossoms, too, down beside that little creek that crosses the trail
almost at the edge of the town." Together they walked to the creek
that burbled over its rocky bed in the shadow of the bull-pine forest
from which Timber City derived its name. Deeper and deeper into the
pines they went, stopping here and there to gather the tiny white and
blue blossoms, or to break the bloom-laden twigs from the low cherry
bushes. As they rounded a huge upstanding rock, both paused and
involuntarily drew back. There, in the centre of a tiny glade that
gave a wide view of the vast sweep of the plains, with their background
of distant mountains, stood the Texan, one arm thrown across the neck
of his horse, and his cheek resting close against the animal's glossy
neck. For a moment they watched as he stood with his eyes fixed on the
far horizon.
"Go back a little way," whispered Endicott. "I want to speak with
him." The girl obeyed, and he stepped boldly into the open.
"Tex!"
The man whirled. "What you doin' here?" his face flushed red, then,
with an effort, he smiled, as his eyes rested upon the blossoms.
"Pickin' posies?"
"Yes," answered Endicott, striving to speak lightly, "for a very
special occasion. We are to be married at half-past four, and we want
you to be there--just you, and Bat, and the parson. I hunted the town
for you and when I found your horse gone I--we thought you had ridden
away without even saying good-bye."
"No," answered the cowboy slowly, "I didn't do that. I was goin'
back--just for a minute--at stage time. But, it's better this way. In
rooms--like at dinner, I ain't at home, any more. It's better out here
in the open. I won't go to your weddin'. Damn it, man, I _can't_!
I'm more than half-savage, I reckon. By the savage half of me, I ought
to kill you. I ought to hate you--but I can't. About a lot of things
you're green as hell. You can't shoot, nor ride, nor rope, nor do
hardly any other damn thing a man ought to do. But, at that, you whirl
a bigger loop than I do. You've got the nerve, an' the head, an' the
heart. You're a man. The girl loves you. An' I love her. My God,
man! More than all the world, I love the woman who is to be your
wife--an' I have no right to! I tell you I'm half-savage! Take her,
an' go! Go fast, an' go a long time! I never want to hear of you
again. But--I can still say--good luck!" he extended his hand and
Endicott seized it.
"I shall be sorry to think that we are never to meet again," he said
simply.
The shadow of a smile flickered on the Texan's lips: "After a while,
maybe--but not soon. I've got to lick a savage, first--and they die
hard."
Endicott turned to go, when the other called to him: "Oh, Win!" He
turned. "Is she here--anywhere around? I must tell her good-bye."
"Yes, she is down the creek a way. I'll send her to you."
The Texan advanced to meet her, Stetson in hand: "Good-bye," he said,
"an' good luck. I can't give you no regular weddin' present--there's
nothin' in the town that's fit. But, I'll give you this--I'll give you
your man clean-handed. He ain't wanted. There's no one wants him--but
you. He didn't kill Purdy that night. It's too bad he didn't--but he
didn't. We all thought he did, but he only creased him. He came to,
after we'd pulled out. I heard it from the puncher I had the fight
with in the coulee--an' it's straight goods." He paused abruptly, and
the girl stared wide-eyed into his face. The wild flowers dropped from
her hands, and she laid trembling fingers upon his arm.
"What are you saying?" she cried, fiercely. "That Purdy is not dead?
That Win didn't kill him? That----"
"No. Win didn't kill him," interrupted the Texan, with a smile.
"Have you told Win?"
"No. Weddin' presents are for the bride. I saved it for you."
Tears were streaming from the girl's eyes: "It's the most wonderful
wedding present anybody ever had," she sobbed. "I know Win did it for
me, and if he had killed him it would have been justifiable--right.
But, always, we would have had that thing to think of. It would have
been like some hideous nightmare. We could have put it away, but it
would have come again--always. I pretended I didn't care. I wouldn't
let him see that it was worrying me, even more than it worried him."
The cowboy stooped and recovered the flowers from the ground. As Alice
took them from him, her hand met his: "Good-bye," she faltered,
"and--may God bless you!"
At the rock she turned and saw him still standing, hat in hand, as she
had left him. Then she passed around the rock, and down the creek,
where her lover waited with his arms laden with blossoms.
AN EPILOGUE
At exactly half-past four the Texan galloped to the door of the Red
Front Saloon, and swinging from his horse, entered. Some men were
playing cards at a table in the rear, but he paid them no heed. Very
deliberately he squared himself to the bar and placed his foot upon the
brass rail: "Give me some red liquor," he ordered. And when the
bartender set out the bottle and the glass the cowboy poured it full
and drank it at a gulp. He poured out another, and then a third, and a
fourth. The bartender eyed him narrowly: "Ain't you goin' it a little
strong, pardner?" he asked. The Texan stared at him as if he had not
heard, and answered nothing. A smile bent the white aproned one's lips
as he glanced into his customer's eyes still black from the blow Curt
had dealt him in the coulee.
"Them lamps of yourn was turned up too high, wasn't they?" he asked.
The cowboy nodded, thoughtfully: "Yes, that's it. They was turned up
too high--a damn sight too high for me, I reckon."
"Git bucked off?"
The blackened eyes narrowed ever so slightly: "No. A guard done that."
"A guard?"
"Yes, a guard." The Texan poured out his fifth drink. "In the pen, it
was."
"In the pen!" The bartender was itching with curiosity. "You don't
look like a jail-bird. They musta got the wrong guy?" he suggested.
"No. I killed him, all right. I shot his ears off first, an' then
plugged him between the eyes before he could draw. It was fun. I can
shoot straight as hell--an' quick! See that mouse over by the wall?"
Before the words were out of his mouth his Colt roared. The bartender
stared wide-eyed at the ragged bit of fur and blood that was plastered
against the base-board where a moment before a small mouse had been
nibbling a bit of cheese. The men at the card table paused, looked up,
and resumed their game.
"Man, that's shootin'!" he exclaimed. "Have one on me! This geezer
that you bumped off--self defence, I s'pose?"
"No. He was a bar-keep over on the Marias. He made the mistake of
takin' ondue notice of a pair of black eyes I'd got--somehow they
looked mirthful to him, an'--" The Texan paused and gazed
reproachfully toward a flick of a white apron as the loquacious one
disappeared through the back door.
A loud shouting and a rattling of wheels sounded from without. The
card game broke up, and the players slouched out the door. Through the
window the Texan watched the stage pull up at the hotel, watched the
express box swung off, and the barn-dogs change the horses; saw the
exchange of pouches at the post office; saw the stage pull out slowly
and stop before a little white cottage next door to the steepleless
church. Then he reached for the bottle, poured another drink, and
drank it very slowly. Through the open door came the far-away rattle
of wheels. He tossed some money onto the bar, walked to the door, and
stood gazing down the trail toward the cloud of grey dust that grew
dimmer and dimmer in the distance. At last, it disappeared altogether,
and only the trail remained, winding like a great grey serpent toward
the distant black buttes of the Judith Range. He started to re-enter
the saloon, paused with his foot on the threshold and stared down the
empty trail, then facing abruptly about he swung into the saddle,
turned his horse's head northward, and rode slowly out of town. At the
little creek he paused and stared into the piney woods. A tiny white
flower lay, where it had been dropped in the trail, at the feet of his
horse, and he swung low and recovered it. For a long time he sat
holding the little blossom in his hand. Gently he drew it across his
cheek. He remembered--and the memory hurt--that the last time he had
reached from the saddle had been to snatch _her_ handkerchief from the
ground, and he had been just the fraction of a second too late.
"My luck's runnin' mighty low," he muttered softly, and threw back his
shoulders, as his teeth gritted hard, "but I'm still in the game, an'
maybe this will change it." Very carefully, very tenderly, he placed
the blossom beneath the band inside his hat. "I must go an' hunt for
Bat, the old renegade! If anything's happened to him--if that damned
Long Bill has laid for him--I will kill a man, sure enough." He
gathered up his reins and rode on up the trail, and as he rode the
shadows lengthened. Only once he paused and looked backward at the
little ugly white town. Before him the trail dipped into a wide valley
and he rode on. And, as the feet of his horse thudded softly in the
grey dust of the trail, the sound blended with the low, wailing chant
of the mournful dirge of the plains:
"O bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me,
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the crow flies free,
O bury me not on the lone prairie."