The jail at Las Plumas was a spreading, one-story adobe building, with
a large, high-walled court at the back. This wall was also of adobe,
some ten feet high and three feet thick, without an opening, and
crowned with a luxuriant growth of prickly-pear cactus. At certain
hours of the day the prisoners were allowed the freedom of this court,
while a guard kept on them an occasional eye. Behind the court, and
coming up to its very walls, was a small tract of land planted with
vegetables, flowers and fruit trees and worked by an old Mexican who
lived alone in a tiny hut at the farther end of the enclosure.
For two days after the night of Emerson Mead's arrest his friends
tried every device known to the law to get him free of the prison
walls. But each attempt was cleverly met and defeated by the opposing
party, and he was still behind the bars. Then Nick Ellhorn and Thomson
Tuttle held a conference, and agreed that Mead must get back to his
ranch at once in order to save his affairs from further injury.
"That's what they are doin' this thing for," said Nick, "so they
can get a good chance to steal all his cattle. And what they don't
steal they'll scatter over the plains till it will be more than
they're worth to get 'em together again. They think they can just
everlastingly do him up by keepin' him in jail for a month."
Tuttle broke out with an indignant oath. "It's the meanest,
low-downest, dirtiest, measliest trick they've ever tried to do, and
that's sayin' a whole heap! But they'll find out they've got more to
buck against than they're a-lookin' for now!"
"You bet they will! They've got to travel mighty fast if they keep up
with this procession! Talk about measly tricks! Tom, that Fillmore
outfit's the biggest cattle thief in the southwest. It's just plum'
ridiculous to hear them talk about Emerson stealin' their cattle! Why,
if he'd stayed up nights to steal from them he couldn't have got even
for what they've taken from him."
They talked over the plan Ellhorn had proposed and when it was all
arranged Tuttle asked, "Shall we tell the judge?"
"Tell nothin' to nobody!" Nick exclaimed. "The judge will find it out
soon enough, and if we don't tell him he won't bother us with advice
to give it up. We've got some horse sense, Tommy, and I reckon we-all
can run this here excursion without help from any darn fool lawyer in
the territory. If they'd left it to us in the first place, we'd have
had Emerson at home long before this."
"I guess we-all can play our part of this game if Emerson can play
his."
"Don't you worry about Emerson. He's ready to ride the devil through
hell to get back to his round-up."
The next morning Nick Ellhorn hunted up the Mexican who worked the
garden behind the jail and talked through the enclosure with the old
man, who was crippled and half blind. Ellhorn talked with him about
the garden and finally said he would like to eat some onions. The
Mexican pulled a bunch of young green ones for him, and he sat down on
a bench under a peach tree near the wall of the jail-court to eat
them. He sent the Mexican back to his hut for some salt, and at once
began whistling loudly the air of "Bonnie Dundee." Presently he broke
into the words of the song and woke the echoes round about, as he and
Emerson Mead had done on many a night around the camp-fire on the
range:
"Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle my horse and call out my men."
There he stopped and waited, and in a moment a baritone voice on the
other side of the wall took up the song:
"Come ope the west port and let us go free
To follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!"
Ellhorn went on singing as he threw one of his onions, then another,
over the wall. One of them came sailing back and fell beside the
peach tree. Then he took a slip of folded paper from his pocket, tied
it to another onion and sent it over the cactus-crowned adobe. The
Mexican returned with the salt and they sat down together under the
tree, chatting sociably. Presently Mead's voice came floating out from
behind the wall in the stirring first lines of the old Scotch ballad:
"To the lords of convention, 'twas Claverhouse spoke:
'If there are heads to be crowned, there are heads to be broke!'"
Nick chuckled, winked at the old Mexican, and hurried off to find
Tuttle.
That evening, soon after the full darkness of night had mantled the
earth, Nick Ellhorn and Tommy Tuttle rode toward the jail, leading an
extra horse. Ellhorn gave Tuttle a lariat.
"You'd better manage this part," he said in a low tone. "My arm's not
strong enough yet to be depended on in such ticklish matters. I tried
it to-day with my gun, and it's mighty near as steady as ever for
shooting, but I won't risk it on this."
They rode into the Mexican's garden and Ellhorn stood with the extra
horse under the drooping branches of the peach tree. They listened and
heard the sound of a soft whistling in the _patio_, as if some one
were idly walking to and fro.
"That's him!" Ellhorn whispered excitedly. "That's what I told him to
be doing at just this time! He's listening for us!" Ellhorn whistled
softly several bars of the same air, which were at once repeated from
within. Tuttle rode beside the wall and threw over it the end of his
lariat. He waited until the whistling ceased, and then, winding the
rope around the pommel, he struck home the spurs and the horse leaped
forward, straining to the work. It was a trained cow-pony, Mead's own
favorite "cutting-out" horse, and it answered with perfect will and
knowledge the urging of Tuttle's spurs. With a soft "f-s-s-t" the rope
wore over the top of the wall and Mead's tall form stood dimly
outlined behind the battlement of cactus. He untied the rope from his
waist, threw it to the ground, and with foot and fist thrust aside the
bristling, sharp-spined masses, dropped over the outer edge, hung at
full length by his hands for an instant, and landed in the soft earth
at the bottom.
They heard his name called inside the _patio_. It was the guard, who
had just missed him. As they quickly mounted there came over the wall
the sound of hurrying feet and the rapid conference of excited voices.
Mead shot his revolver into the air and Ellhorn, lifting his voice to
its loudest and fullest, sang:
"Come ope the west port and let us go free
To follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!"
"Whoo-oo-oo-ee-ee!"
Spur met with flank and the three horses bounded forward, over the
fence of the Mexican's garden, and up the street at a breakneck
gallop. They clattered across the _acequia_ bridge and past Delarue's
place, where Mead, eagerly sweeping the house with a sidewise glance,
had a brief glimpse of a brightly lighted room. Instantly his memory
went back, as it had done a thousand times, to that day, more than a
year before, when he had stood at the door of that room and had first
seen Marguerite Delarue. As they galloped up the street the vision of
the room and of the girl came vividly back--the inviting, homelike
room, with its easy-chairs, its pictures and shaded lamps, its tables
with their tidy litter of papers and fancy work, its pillowed lounges,
and deep cushioned window-seats, and the tall, anxious-eyed girl with
the sick child in her arms, held close to her breast. Unconsciously he
turned his head, possessed for the moment by the vision, and looked
back at the dark mass of the house and trees, lighted by the one
gleaming window.
"Think they'll follow us?" asked Tuttle, noticing the movement.
"Who? Oh! No, I guess not."
Beyond the town, in the edge of the rising plain, they drew rein and
listened for the sound of pursuing hoof-beats. Facing their horses
roundabout, they bent forward, their hands hollowed behind their ears.
Out of the darkness, where it was gemmed by the lights of the town,
came the sound of galloping horses.
"They're after us!" cried Nick. "Three of 'em!"
Mead took off his sombrero and as his left hand sent it twirling
through the air, a vague, black shape in the darkness, his right drew
his revolver from its holster and three quick, sharp explosions
flashed through the night. A pressure of his heels, and he was leaning
far over from his darting horse and snatching the hat as it barely
touched the gray earth. He held it up toward the sky and in the
starlight three bullet holes showed dimly through the crown, inside
the space a silver dollar could cover. Ellhorn waved his hat and sent
his peculiar "Whoo-oo-ee-e!" back through the darkness toward the
town. They listened again and heard the pursuing horsemen clattering
over the _acequia_ bridge and into the street through which they had
come.
"I reckon we could keep ahead of 'em if we wanted to," said Mead, "but
we'll make the pass, and then if they are still following we'll teach
them some manners."
Ellhorn shouted out again his yell of defiance and clicked the trigger
of his gun to follow it with a challenging volley of bullets, but Mead
stopped him with a cautioning word that they might need all their
cartridges.
They spurred their horses forward again and galloped over the rolling
foothills, neck to neck and heel to heel. The cool, dry night air
streamed into their faces, braced their nerves and filled their hearts
with exultation. Behind them they could hear the hoof-beats of their
pursuers, now gaining on them and again falling behind. On and on they
went, sometimes sending back a defiant yell, but for the most part
riding silently. They reached the steep grade leading to the mountain
pass and eased their horses, letting them walk slowly up the incline.
But the others took it at a furious pace, and presently, at the
entrance to the pass, a voice shouted Mead's name and ordered him to
halt. Mead, laughing aloud, sent a pistol ball whizzing back through
the darkness. Ellhorn and Tuttle followed his example, and their three
pursuers discharged a volley in concert. The fugitives put spurs to
their horses, and, turning in their saddles, fired rapidly back at the
vague, moving shapes they could barely see in the darkness. Ellhorn
heard an angry oath and guessed that somebody had been injured. The
bullets whistled past their ears, and now and then they heard the dull
ping of lead against the rocky walls of the narrow pass. Their horses
had kept their wind through the slow walk up the hill and sprang
forward with fresh, willing speed. But the others had been exhausted
by the fierce gallop up the steep ascent, and could not hold the pace
that Mead and his friends set for them. Slowly the officers fell back,
until they were so far in the rear that they ceased shooting. Mead,
Tuttle and Ellhorn put away their revolvers and galloped on in
silence for some distance before they stopped to listen. Far back in
the darkness they could hear the faint footfalls of the three horses.
"They blowed their horses so bad comin' up the hill," said Mead, "that
they'll never catch up with us again. I reckon they won't try now.
They'll stay in Muletown to-night and go on to the Fillmore ranch
to-morrow."
"If they don't turn round and go back," said Ellhorn. "I don't believe
they'll want to try this thing on at the ranch."
"We'll sure be ready for 'em if they show up there," said Tuttle, the
grim note of battle in his voice.
Ellhorn laughed joyously. "I guess we're just goin' to everlastingly
get even with that Fillmore outfit!"
"Well, it will keep us busy, but we'll do our best," Mead cheerfully
assented.
They galloped down the long eastern declivity of the mountain,
stopping once at a miner's camp, a little way off the road, to water
and breathe their horses. A little later they stopped to listen again,
but they could not catch the faintest sound of hoof-beats from the
mountain side. They did not know whether their pursuers had turned
about and gone back to Las Plumas, or were taking the road leisurely,
intending to stop at Muletown until morning.
On again they galloped, neck to neck and heel to heel, with the
starry sky above and the long level of the plain before them. Mead
glanced to the north, where the Big Dipper, pivoted on the twinkling
pole star, was swinging its mighty course through the blue spaces of
the sky, and said, "It's about midnight, boys." The dim, faintly
gleaming, dusty gray of the road contracted to a lance-like point in
front of them and sped onward, seeming to cleave the wall of darkness
and open the way through which they galloped. The three tall,
broad-shouldered, straight-backed figures sat their horses with
constant grace, galloping abreast, neck to neck and heel to heel,
without pause or slackened pace. The rhythmical, resounding hoof-beats
made exhilarating music for their ears, and now and again Ellhorn's
yell went calling across the empty darkness or the sound of Mead's or
Tuttle's gun cleft the air. On and on through the night they went,
their wiry ponies with ears closely laid and muscles strained in
willing compliance, the starry sky above and the long level of the
plain behind them.
At Muletown they stopped to water their horses at the brimming
pump-trough in the plaza and, as the thirsty creatures drank, Ellhorn
glanced at the swinging starry Dipper in the northern sky again and
said, "I reckon it's three o'clock, boys." Then on they went,
clattering down the long adobe street, flanked by dim houses, dark and
silent; and out into the rising edge of the plain, where it lifted
itself into the uplands. The black silence was unbroken now save as a
distant coyote filled the night with its yelping bark, or a low word
from one or another of the riders told of human presence. On and on
they galloped, neck to neck and heel to heel, without pause or
slackened pace. At last they swerved to the right and began mounting
the low, rolling foothills of the Fernandez mountains. The cold night
air, dry and sharp, stung their faces and cooled the sweating flanks
of their horses. The creatures' ears were bent forward, as if they
recognized their surroundings, and their springing muscles were still
strong and willing. Over the hills they galloped, the lance-like point
of the road cleaving the black wall in front and the hoof-beats
volleying into the silence and darkness behind them.
The gray walls of an adobe house took dim shape in the darkness, and
beyond it a mass of trees, their leaves rustling in the night wind,
told of running water. The three men halted and with lowered bridles
allowed their horses to drink.
"Is this old Juan Garcia's ranch?" Tuttle asked.
"Yes," Mead replied, "old Juan still lives here. And a very good old
fellow he is, too. He isn't any lazier than he has to be, considering
he's a Mexican. He keeps his ranch in pretty good order, and he raises
all the corn and _chili_ and wheat and _frijoles_ that he needs
himself and has some to sell, which is a very good record for a
Mexican."
"What's become of his pretty daughter?" asked Ellhorn. "Is she married
yet?"
"Amada? She's still here, and she's about the prettiest Mexican girl I
ever saw. She's a great belle among all the Mexicans from Muletown to
the other side of the Fernandez mountains, and with some of the
Americans, too. Will Whittaker used to hang around here a good deal,
and Amada seemed to be pretty well stuck on him."
Again the horses sprang to the pace they had kept so gallantly, and on
and on their hoofs flew over the low, rolling hills. The riders sat
their horses as if they were part and parcel of the beasts, horse and
rider with one will and one motion, and all galloping on with rhythmic
hoof-beats, neck to neck and heel to heel, without pause or slackened
pace, while the cold, dry night wind whistled past their ears and the
stars measured their courses through the violet blue of the bending
vault above. On they went over the slowly rising hills, and the
slender, silver sickle of the old moon shone brightly in the graying
east. Soon the mountains ranged themselves against the brightening
sky, and as they galloped, on and on, the stars vanished, and from out
the black void below the plain emerged, gray-green and grim, spreading
itself out, miles and miles into the distance, to the rimming mass of
mountains in the west. Still the hoof-beats rang out as the sky
blushed with the dawn and the cloud-flecks flamed crimson and the
peaks of the distant mountain range glittered with the first golden
rays.
Neck to neck and heel to heel they galloped on over the faint track
of the road, which now they could see, winding over the hills in front
of them. The men spoke cheerily to the horses and patted their wet
sides, and the spirited beasts still bent willingly to their task. The
three riders sat erect, straight-shouldered, graceful in their saddles
and the gentle morning breeze bathed their faces as on they rode over
the hills, while the sun mounted above the Fernandez range and flooded
all the plain with its soft, early light.
They swept around the curving bend in the road, where it half-circled
the corrals, and Ellhorn's lusty "Whoo-oo-oo-ee-ee" rang out as they
drew rein at Mead's door; Las Plumas, the night and ninety miles
behind them. Ellhorn's yell brought the cook to the door, coffee-pot
in hand, with two _vaqueros_ following close behind. One of these took
the horses to the stables and the three friends stood up against the
wall in the sunshine, stretching themselves. Mead took out his
pocket-knife and began cutting the cactus spines from his swollen
hands.
"I'm glad to have a chance to get rid of these things," he said.
"They've been stinging like hornets all night."