IN PURSUIT
The four men, heavily armed, and equipped for winter service, rode up
the bank of the ravine to the irregularity of plain beyond. The trail,
leading directly south into the solitudes, was easily followed, and
Wasson, slightly in advance of the others, made no attempt to check his
horse, content to lean forward, his keen eyes marking every sign.
Scarcely a word was exchanged, since Hamlin had explained what had
occurred as they crossed the river. Hardly less interested than the
Sergeant, the sober-faced scout concentrated every energy on the
pursuit, both men realizing the necessity of haste. Not only would the
trail be difficult to follow after they attained the sand belt, but, if
snow fell, would be utterly blotted out. And the dull, murky sky
threatened snow, the sharp wind having already veered to the northwest.
All about stretched a dull, dead picture of desolation, a dun-colored
plain, unrelieved by vegetation, matching the skies above, extending in
every direction through weary leagues of dismal loneliness. The
searching eye caught no relief from desolate sameness, drear monotony.
Nowhere was there movement, or, any semblance of life. Behind, the
land was broken by ravines, but in every other direction it stretched
level to the horizon, except that far off southward arose irregular
ridges of sand, barren, ugly blotches, colorless, and forever changing
formation under the beating of a ceaseless wind. It was desert, across
which not even a snake crawled, and no wing of migrating bird beat the
leaden sky above.
The marks of their horses' hoofs cutting sharply into the soil, told
accurately the fugitives' rate of progress, and the pursuers swept
forward with caution, anxious to spare their mounts and to keep out of
vision themselves until nightfall. Their success depended largely on
surprise, and the confidence of those ahead that they were unpursued.
Wasson expressed the situation exactly, as the four halted a moment at
an unexpectedly-discovered water-hole.
"I 'd think this yere plain trail was some Injun trick, boys, if I did
n't know the reason fur it. 'T ain't Injun nature, but thar 's a white
man ahead o' that outfit, an' he 's cock-sure that nobody 's chasin'
him yet. He 's figurin' on two or three days' get-a-way, and so don't
care a tinker's dam 'bout these yere marks. Once in the sand, an' thar
won't be no trail anyhow. It's some kintry out thar, an' it would be
like huntin' a needle in a haystack to try an' find them fellars after
ter-night. This is my idea--we'll just mosey along slow, savin' the
hosses an' keeping back out o' sight till dark. Them fellars ain't
many hours ahead, an' are likely ter make camp furst part o' ther night
anyhow. They 'll feel safe onct hid in them sand-hills, an' if they
don't git no sight of us, most likely they won't even post no guard.
Thet 's when we want ter dig in the spurs. Ain't that about the right
program, Sergeant?"
Burning with impatience as Hamlin was, fearful that every additional
moment of delay might increase the girl's danger, he was yet soldier
and plainsman enough to realize the wisdom of the old scout. There
were at least four men in the party pursued, two of them Indian
warriors, the two whites, desperate characters. Without doubt they
would put up a fierce fight, or, if warned in time, could easily
scatter and disappear.
"Of course you are right, Sam," he replied promptly. "Only I am so
afraid of what may happen to Miss Molly."
"Forget it. Thar's nuthin' goin' ter happen to her while the bunch is
on the move. If that outfit was all Injun, or all white, maybe thar
might. But the way it is they'll never agree on nuthin', 'cept how to
git away. 'T ain't likely they ever meant ter kill the Major, 'er take
the girl erlong. Them things just naturally happened, an' now they 're
scared stiff. It 'll take a day er two for 'em to make up their minds
what to do."
"What do you imagine they will decide, Sam?"
"Wall, thet 's all guesswork. But I reckon I know what I 'd do if I
was in thet sort o' fix an' bein' chased fer murder an' robbery. I 'd
take the easy way; make fer the nearest Injun village, an' leave the
girl thar."
"You mean Black Kettle's camp?"
"I reckon; he 's down thar on the Canadian somewhar. You kin bet those
fellars know whar, an' thet's whut they 're aimin' for, unless this
yere Dupont has some hidin' out scheme of his own. Whar did you say he
ranched?"
"Buffalo Creek."
"Thet's the same neighborhood; must've been in cahoots with those red
devils to have ever run cattle in thar. We 've got to head 'em off
afore they git down into that kintry, er we won't have no scalps to go
back home with. Let's mosey erlong, boys."
The day grew dark and murky as they moved steadily forward, the wind
blew cold from out the northwest, the heavy canopy of cloud settled
lower in a frosty fog, which gradually obscured the landscape. This
mist became so thick that the men could scarcely see a hundred yards in
any direction, and Hamlin placed a pocket compass on his saddle-pommel.
The trail was less distinct as they traversed a wide streak of alkali,
but what few signs remained convinced Wasson that the fugitives were
still together, and riding southward. Under concealment of the fog his
previous caution relaxed, and he led the way at a steady trot, only
occasionally drawing rein to make certain there was no division of the
party ahead. The alkali powdered them from head to foot, clinging to
the horses' hides, reddening and blinding the eyes, poisoning the lips
dry and parched with thirst. The two troopers swore grimly, but the
Sergeant and scout rode in silence, bent low over their pommels, eyes
strained into the mist ahead. It was not yet dark when they rode in
between the first sand-dunes, and Wasson, pulling his horse up short,
checked the others with uplifted hand.
"Thar 'll be a camp here soon," he said, swinging down from the saddle,
and studying the ground. "The wind has 'bout blotted it all out, but
you kin see yere back o' this ridge whar they turned in, an' they was
walkin' their horses. Gittin' pretty tired, I reckon. We might as
well stop yere too, Sergeant, an' eat some cold grub. You two men
spread her out, an' rub down the hosses, while Hamlin an' I poke about
a bit. Better find out all we kin, 'Brick,' 'fore it gits dark."
He started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his
arm, and the Sergeant ranged up beside him. The sand was to their
ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into
their faces.
"What's comin', Sam; a storm?"
"Snow," answered the scout shortly, "a blizzard of it, er I lose my
guess. 'Fore midnight yer won't be able ter see yer hand afore yer
face. I 've ben out yere in them things a fore, an' they're sure hell.
If we don't git sight o' thet outfit mighty soon, 't ain't likely we
ever will. I 've been expectin' that wind to shift nor'east all
day--then we'll get it." He got down on his knees, endeavoring to
decipher some faint marks on the sand. "Two of 'em dismounted yere, an
Injun an' a white--a big feller by his hoof prints--an' they went on
leadin' their hosses. Goin' into camp, I reckon--sure, here's the spot
now. Well, I 'll be damned!"
Both men stood staring--under protection of a sand ridge was a little
blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all
about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had
outstretched themselves. Almost at Wasson's feet fluttered a pink
ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to
the sky. It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one
cheek caked black with blood. The Sergeant sprang across, and bent
over the motionless form.
"Pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back. "The poor devil!"
"Had quite a row here," returned the scout. "That stain over thar is
blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell. Most
likely he shot furst, er used a knife. The girl's with 'em anyhow; I
reckon this yere was her ribbon; that footprint is sure."
He stirred up the scattered ashes, and then passed over and looked at
the dead man.
"What do yer think, Sergeant?"
"They stopped here to eat, maybe five hours ago," pushing the ashes
about with his toe. "The fire has been out that long. Then they got
into a quarrel--Connors and Dupont--for he was shot with a Colt '45';
no Indian ever did that. Then they struck out again with two led
horses. I should say they were three or four hours ahead, travelling
slow."
"Good enough," and Wasson patted his arm. "You 're a plainsman all
right, 'Brick.' You kin sure read signs. Thet 's just 'bout the whole
story, as I make it. Nuthin' fer us to do but snatch a bite an' go on.
Our hosses 're fresher 'n theirs. No sense our stoppin' to bury
Connors; he ain't worth it, an' the birds 'll take care o' him. The
outfit was still a headin' south--see!"
There could be no doubt of this, as the shelter of the sand ridge had
preserved a plain trail, although a few yards beyond, the sweeping wind
had already almost obliterated every sign of passage. The four men ate
heartily of their cold provender, discussing the situation in a few
brief sentences. Wasson argued that Dupont was heading for some Indian
winter encampment, thinking to shift responsibility for the crime upon
the savages, thus permitting him to return once more to civilization,
but Hamlin clung to his original theory of a hide-out upon Dupont's old
cattle-range, and that a purpose other than the mere robbery of
McDonald was in view. All alike, however, were convinced that the
fugitives were seeking the wild bluffs of the Canadian River for
concealment.
It was not yet dark when they again picked up the trail, rode around
the dead body of Connors, and pushed forward into the maze of sand.
For an hour the advance was without incident, the scout in the lead not
even dismounting, his keen eyes picking up the faint "sign" unerringly.
Then darkness shut down, the lowering bank of clouds completely
blotting the stars, although the white glisten of the sand under foot
yielded a slight guidance. Up to this time there had been no deviation
in direction, and now when the trail could be no longer distinguished,
the little party decided on riding straight southward until they struck
the Cimarron. An hour or two later the moon arose, hardly visible and
yet brightening the cloud canopy, so that the riders could see each
other and proceed more rapidly. Suddenly Wasson lifted his hand, and
turned his face up to the sky.
"Snow," he announced soberly. "Thought I felt it afore, and the wind
's changed."
Hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow
pellets on his face. Before he could even answer the air was full of
whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against
them. In another instant they were in the very heart of the storm,
almost hurled forward by the force of the wind, and blinded by the icy
deluge. The pelting of the hail startled the horses, and in spite of
every effort of the riders, they drifted to the right, tails to the
storm. The swift change was magical. The sharp particles of icy snow
seemed to swirl upon them from every direction, sucking their very
breath, bewildering them, robbing them of all sense of direction.
Within two minutes the men found it impossible to penetrate the wintry
shroud except for a few feet ahead of them.
The Sergeant knew what it meant, for he had had experience of these
plains storms before.
"Halt!" he cried, his voice barely audible in the blast. "Close up,
men; come here to me--lively now? That you, Wade? Wasson; oh, all
right, Sam. Here, pass that lariat back; now get a grip on it, every
one of you, and hold to it for your lives. Let me take the lead, Sam;
we 'll have to run by compass. Now then, are you ready?"
The lariat rope, tied to Hamlin's pommel, straightened out and was
grasped desperately by the gloved hands of the men behind. The
Sergeant, shading his eyes, half smothered in the blast, could see
merely ill-defined shadows.
"All caught?"
The answers were inaudible.
"For the Lord's sake, speak up; answer now--Wasson."
"Here."
"Wade."
"Here."
"Carroll."
"Here."
"Good; now come on after me."
He drove his horse forward, head bent low over the compass, one arm
flung up across his mouth to prevent inhaling the icy air. He felt the
tug of the line; heard the labored breathing of the next horse behind,
but saw nothing except that wall of swirling snow pellets hurled
against him by a pitiless wind, fairly lacerating the flesh. It was
freezing cold; already he felt numb, exhausted, heavy-eyed. The air
seemed to penetrate his clothing, and prick the skin as with a thousand
needles. The thought came that if he remained in the saddle he would
freeze stiff. Again he turned, and sent the voice of command down the
struggling line:
"Dismount; wind the rope around your pommels. Sam. How far is it to
the Cimarron?"
"More 'n twenty miles."
"All right! We 've got to make it, boys," forcing a note of
cheerfulness into his voice. "Hang on to the bit even if you drop. I
may drift to the west, but that won't lose us much. Come on, now."
"Hamlin, let me break trail."
"We 'll take it turn about, Sam. It 'll be worse in an hour than it is
now. All ready, boys."
Blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind,
yet clinging desperately to his horse's bit, the Sergeant struggled
forward in the swirl of the storm.