Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens,
having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town
of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move.
“Buck, as we're lookin' fer grub, an' not trouble, I reckon you'd better
hang up out here,” Stevens was saying, as he mounted. “You see, towns
an' sheriffs an' rangers are always lookin' fer new fellers gone bad.
They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumb
bad. Now, nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there's been
a thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours
truly. You jest wait here an' be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my besettin'
sin will go operatin' in spite of my good intentions. In which case
there'll be--”
His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a
kind of wild humor.
“Stevens, have you got any money?” asked Duane.
“Money!” exclaimed Luke, blankly. “Say, I haven't owned a two-bit piece
since--wal, fer some time.”
“I'll furnish money for grub,” returned Duane. “And for whisky, too,
providing you hurry back here--without making trouble.”
“Shore you're a downright good pard,” declared Stevens, in admiration,
as he took the money. “I give my word, Buck, an' I'm here to say I never
broke it yet. Lay low, an' look fer me back quick.”
With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites toward the
town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile, Mercer appeared to be
a cluster of low adobe houses set in a grove of cottonwoods. Pastures
of alfalfa were dotted by horses and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herder
driving in a meager flock.
Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane waited, hoping
the outlaw would make good his word. Probably not a quarter of an hour
had elapsed when Duane heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle,
the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to mean
danger for a man like Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the
mesquites.
He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running fast.
Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the shots, for he had
a steady seat in his saddle and his riding, even at that moment, struck
Duane as admirable. He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he kept
looking back. The shots had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane saw
several men running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and
got into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him. Presently the
outlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning, but there was now no
fun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil that danced in them. His face
seemed a shade paler.
“Was jest comin' out of the store,” yelled Stevens. “Run plumb into a
rancher--who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they'll chase
us.”
They covered several miles before there were any signs of pursuit, and
when horsemen did move into sight out of the cottonwoods Duane and his
companion steadily drew farther away.
“No hosses in thet bunch to worry us,” called out Stevens.
Duane had the same conviction, and he did not look back again. He rode
somewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the rapid thudding of
hoofs behind, as Stevens kept close to him. At sunset they reached the
willow brakes and the river. Duane's horse was winded and lashed with
sweat and lather. It was not until the crossing had been accomplished
that Duane halted to rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low,
sandy bank. He reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surprise
Duane leaped off and ran to the outlaw's side.
Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front of
his shirt was soaked with blood.
“You're shot!” cried Duane.
“Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a lift--on
this here pack?”
Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to dismount.
The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was spitting blood.
“Oh, why didn't you say so!” cried Duane. “I never thought. You seemed
all right.”
“Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but sometimes he
doesn't say anythin'. It wouldn't have done no good.”
Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the blood from
his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly low
down, and the bullet had gone clear through him. His ride, holding
himself and that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feat little short
of marvelous. Duane did not see how it had been possible, and he felt no
hope for the outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.
“Feller's name was Brown,” Stevens said. “Me an' him fell out over a
hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a shootin'-scrape then.
Wal, as I was straddlin' my hoss back there in Mercer I seen this Brown,
an' seen him before he seen me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn't
breakin' my word to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But he
did--an' fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?”
“It's pretty bad,” replied Duane; and he could not look the cheerful
outlaw in the eyes.
“I reckon it is. Wal, I've had some bad wounds I lived over. Guess mebbe
I can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place in the brakes, leave
me some grub an' water at my hand, an' then you clear out.”
“Leave you here alone?” asked Duane, sharply.
“Shore. You see, I can't keep up with you. Brown an' his friends will
foller us across the river a ways. You've got to think of number one in
this game.”
“What would you do in my case?” asked Duane, curiously.
“Wal, I reckon I'd clear out an' save my hide,” replied Stevens.
Duane felt inclined to doubt the outlaw's assertion. For his own part he
decided his conduct without further speech. First he watered the horses,
filled canteens and water bag, and then tied the pack upon his own
horse. That done, he lifted Stevens upon his horse, and, holding him in
the saddle, turned into the brakes, being careful to pick out hard or
grassy ground that left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ran
across a trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wild
country.
“Reckon we'd better keep right on in the dark--till I drop,” concluded
Stevens, with a laugh.
All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the wounded
outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tired
then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was still
spirited and cheerful. Duane made camp. The outlaw refused food, but
asked for both whisky and water. Then he stretched out.
“Buck, will you take off my boots?” he asked, with a faint smile on his
pallid face.
Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he did
not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind.
“Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But I
wasn't--an' dyin' with your boots on is the next wust way to croak.”
“You've a chance to-to get over this,” said Duane.
“Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots--an' say, pard, if I do
go over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin' of your kindness.”
Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundance
of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done he
prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when he
lay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevens
was still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All
was quiet except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile,
then rose and went for the horses.
When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful
as usual, and apparently stronger.
“Wal, Buck, I'm still with you an' good fer another night's ride,” he
said. “Guess about all I need now is a big pull on thet bottle. Help
me, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain't swallowin' my blood this
evenin'. Mebbe I've bled all there was in me.”
While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit,
and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in a
hurry to tell Duane all about the country. Another night ride would put
them beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grande
and the hiding-places of the outlaws.
When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, “Reckon you
can pull on my boots once more.” In spite of the laugh accompanying the
words Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw's spirit.
On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail was
broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride while
upholding Stevens in the saddle.
The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. They
were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not do for Stevens.
The red died out of the west; a pale afterglow prevailed for a while;
darkness set in; then the broad expanse of blue darkened and the stars
brightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking and drooped in his
saddle. Duane kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore
away. Duane thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, that
there was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length a
grayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite and
cactus.
Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank of a rocky
little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Duane's arms, and one
look at the haggard face showed Duane that the outlaw had taken his last
ride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed.
“Buck, my feet are orful tired packin' them heavy boots,” he said, and
seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them.
This matter of the outlaw's boots was strange, Duane thought. He made
Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs. And
the outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he had left off
the night before.
“This trail splits up a ways from here, an' every branch of it leads
to a hole where you'll find men--a few, mebbe, like yourself--some like
me--an' gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an' such. It's easy
livin', Buck. I reckon, though, that you'll not find it easy. You'll
never mix in. You'll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if
a man can stand the loneliness, an' if he's quick on the draw, mebbe
lone-wolfin' it is the best. Shore I don't know. But these fellers in
here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance
they'll kill you.”
Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not
want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
“Be quiet,” said Duane. “Talking uses up your strength.”
“Aw, I'll talk till--I'm done,” he replied, doggedly. “See here, pard,
you can gamble on what I'm tellin' you. An' it'll be useful. From this
camp we'll--you'll meet men right along. An' none of them will be honest
men. All the same, some are better'n others. I've lived along the river
fer twelve years. There's three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher--you
know him, I reckon, fer he's half the time livin' among respectable
folks. King is a pretty good feller. It'll do to tie up with him ant his
gang. Now, there's Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way up
the river. He's an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once
right in his camp. Late years he's got rich an' keeps back pretty well
hid. But Bland--I knowed Bland fer years. An' I haven't any use fer him.
Bland has the biggest gang. You ain't likely to miss strikin' his place
sometime or other. He's got a regular town, I might say. Shore there's
some gamblin' an' gun-fightin' goin' on at Bland's camp all the time.
Bland has killed some twenty men, an' thet's not countin' greasers.”
Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
“You ain't likely to get on with Bland,” he resumed, presently. “You're
too strappin' big an' good-lookin' to please the chief. Fer he's got
women in his camp. Then he'd be jealous of your possibilities with a
gun. Shore I reckon he'd be careful, though. Bland's no fool, an' he
loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you
when you ain't goin' it alone.”
Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had
been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes.
Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds
came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable
seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but
with a changed tone.
“Feller's name--was Brown,” he rambled. “We fell out--over a hoss I
stole from him--in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown's one of them
sneaks--afraid of the open--he steals an' pretends to be honest. Say,
Buck, mebbe you'll meet Brown some day--You an' me are pards now.”
“I'll remember, if I ever meet him,” said Duane.
That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his
head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the
bronzed rough face.
“My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?”
Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them.
The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell
asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane
watching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed
clearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would
surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted
anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane
realized what it meant.
“Pard, you--stuck--to me!” the outlaw whispered.
Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise
in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he
could not understand.
Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones
to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade's horse, hung the
weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the
trail in the gathering twilight.