All that night coyotes howled dismally upon the hills; and Ramsay,
stretched out beside Sagebrush near the “hole in the wall,” wakened
from time to time at their almost human cries.
The scheme proposed by the old desert rat was simple and promised to
be highly effective. It had only one drawback, common to all human
propositions—it failed to take into account the dispensations of
Providence, not anticipating the unexpected.
The misty gray darkness that precedes dawn was over everything when
Ramsay, on watch, awakened Sagebrush, and the desert rat sat up,
shivering.
“Gosh, it’s cold!” he observed, throwing off his blankets and
pulling on his boots. Thus finishing dressing operations, he rose.
Their camp was just outside the rock crevice which gave access to
the inner cañon. “Might’s well git us some hot coffee while we’re
makin’ that fire. I’ll rustle up some bresh along the slopes while
you’re gittin’ the grub. Little skillet layin’ in my pack for the
side-meat. We got lots o’ time—they wont disciver our smoke until
after sunup.”
He shuffled off toward the slopes on the right, and disappeared in
the darkness. Ramsay went to work at breakfast, preparing the coffee
with the last of their water and slicing up some bacon.
Getting some dry and dead twigs together, Ramsay heaped them in
readiness to build a fire. As he rose, a voice suddenly impinged
sharply on his consciousness.
“Up with ’em, stranger—reach high and quick!”
He put up his hands, and turned. There, standing at the rock opening
through which he must have come unobserved, stood the tall, stooped
figure of Gentleman Jimson, his pistol covering Ramsay.
“What you doing here?” demanded Jimson. “Who you looking for?”
His rifle out of reach, Ramsay knew himself caught. His brain worked
swiftly.
“I’m looking for Tom Emery,” he said, raising his voice in order to
warn Sagebrush, whose proximity was evidently unsuspected.
“Oh, looking for Tom, are you?” Jimson sneered. “On what business?”
“That’s for him to hear,” returned Ramsay. “Sidewinder told me to
camp here until morning. You’re Jimson, I s’pose?” The other was
momentarily astonished. “What! Sidewinder sent you here, did he?
Where’s Mesquite?”
“Gone to jail in Meteorite, I guess. That greaser with him was
killed.”
“What!” Jimson looked startled; then he frowned. “You’re a cussed
liar! What’s this you’re pulling off, anyhow? Sidewinder would never
have told you to wait out here before telling us all this. March
over here—leave that rifle where it lays! Quick, now, or I’ll drill
you!”
The voices had risen shrill and distinct on the quiet air of the
dawn, and had quite accomplished the purpose for which Ramsay hoped.
Jimson caught a movement on the hillside from the corner of his eye,
and turned—but his pistol did not swing quickly enough. The roar of
a forty-five crashed out, then again. Gentleman Jimson, with a look
of frightful astonishment, dropped his automatic, took two
staggering steps, then slumped face down.
Sagebrush, standing on the hillside to the right, emitted a whoop of
exultation.
“Ye will crowd me and my pardner, will ye? Reckon that’s one reward
I’ll collect.” Suddenly his voice rose shrill. “Hey, Per-fesser!
Look out—hosses comin’!”
Ramsay, already scrambling for his rifle, heard the pounding of many
hoofs and sprang up, wildly startled by that shrill cry. He saw,
coming in upon him from the desert, a mass of horses. One glance at
Sagebrush, and he caught sight of the latter staggering out of
sight—then rifles cracked. A bullet sang past his head.
With a leap, Ramsay darted toward his only protection, the hole in
the wall. He jumped the motionless body of Jimson, turned, and began
firing. The scream of a frantic horse answered his first shot; then
bullets began to whang on the rock around him. He saw that a dozen
or more horses were charging in, had a vision of two men firing;
then he slipped back into the ten-foot passage, with the rush of
animals at his very heels.
As he ran for the other side, a curse broke from his lips. Sagebrush
was shot down, and their whole scheme of action was disrupted. It
was plain enough that two of the gang were returning with stolen
horses—
They were upon him, and nothing saved him from trampling but a hasty
shot from under his arm. At the report, a horse leaped high and then
came down kicking. Something struck Ramsay as he gained the inner
opening of the passage, struck him and sent him headlong to one
side. He crashed down, rolled over, picked himself up. A rifle
roared above him; the bullet sang by his face; and as he himself
fired, he had a swift vision of a bearded rider flinging out arms
and pitching forward. Then he was working the bolt, looking for the
other horsethief, as the rush of animals swept past and went
pounding up the grassy cañon. No other appeared.
Ramsay stood panting, waiting, rifle ready. Twenty feet away lay the
outlaw he had shot from the saddle—but where was the other? From the
other end of the cañon lifted faint shouts of men; the gang there
were alarmed, but it was still too dark for them to make out
anything.
Something flickered from the black depths of the passage. Before
Ramsay could comprehend its import, a lariat settled over his
shoulders and was jerked taut. He was fighting it instantly, trying
to whip around his rifle—fighting it furiously, fiercely, vainly. A
hoarse laugh made answer; then he was drawn off his feet and hurled
sprawling. Next instant, a horse came leaping through the opening
and started away, the rider holding the rope with Ramsay dragging
behind.
In the space of a few seconds terrible things can come to pass. Arms
caught just above his elbows and fast bound to his body with the
rope cutting into the flesh, Ramsay was dragged along for half a
minute, jerking and helpless, clothes ripped away, death threatening
with every rock that loomed in his path; he came to the grass, slid
over it more easily, heard the outlaw yelling at his mount to
increase its speed—and all the while held on to his rifle, though it
was nearly torn from his hand.
And then came a merciful relaxation. The horse stumbled suddenly,
was reined sharply in—the lariat slackened. Ramsay rolled over on
his side, gained his feet with a leap, cocked and fired the rifle
from his hip. It was a chance shot, but a good one. The poor horse
sank forward. Its outlaw rider, leaping from the saddle, turned and
threw up a pistol. But Ramsay, working up the lariat, had ejected
the shell and now fired again. The outlaw pitched forward on his
face, shot through the brain.
All this took place with incredible rapidity. Indeed, it must have
passed swiftly, for no man can long survive the dragging at a
lariat’s end. As it was, Ramsay knew himself bruised and hurt, torn
and scratched—but in essentials undamaged. He was not thirty yards
from the passage, and turned to it. As he did so, that dark cleft in
the rock wall vomited a spat of flame, and to the smashing report of
a pistol, a bullet whined past him.
Instantly Ramsay whirled, threw himself at the dead horse, gained
it, and took shelter. Another report, and another bullet went
screaming over him. He answered it with a blind shot. Panting, he
realized his intolerable position. He was out here in the open,
trapped, and from the shouts at the other end of the cañon, he knew
the three men there would soon be sweeping down on him. Swiftly he
weighed the chances for a dash toward one of the side slopes—and
then he saw a grim thing, yet one which spelled his salvation.
He had supposed that these shots from the passage must have come
from a third horsethief. Now he perceived a figure take shape in the
grayness, and was about to fire when he saw it staggering forward,
and checked himself. It was the tall figure of Jimson, mortally
wounded and yet still alive, blindly reeling on, pistol in hand. As
Ramsay waited, the pistol dropped. For a moment Jimson stood there,
swaying, then dropped slowly to his knees and fell in a limp heap.
In a flash, Ramsay visualized what was now sure to take place. It
was his one chance, and a sure chance. None of those three outlaws
at the head of the cañon would know what had happened here. He
leaped up, and imagined that he could see riders coming from the
gray background of the cañon. That he was unseen, he knew well
enough. Next instant he was running for the heaped-up rocks near the
passage. As he went by Jimson, he saw the dying man was still alive
and trying to rise, but kept on, and a moment later threw himself
down in cover of the boulders.
“No time to ask after Sagebrush now—here’s the great chance to clean
up the whole gang!” he thought, as he reloaded his rifle and drew
long deep breaths to calm himself. “By glory, we haven’t done so
badly so far, either! Three of them done for now. They came asking
for it, and they got it. If things work right, I’ll get these last
three scoundrels alive—ah! They’re coming, all right.”
He waited, eyes glittering, bloody and bruised figure tense, rifle
ready. Now the gray darkness was clearing off, and the clearer light
of day was breaking through. Coming across the grassy cañon at a
breakneck gallop were three riders, impeded at first by the mass of
frightened and rushing horses. Now, free of the remuda, the three
were plunging toward the passage and the three outstretched figures
lying there in the open; one of those figures was moving, slowly
crawling upward. Jimson, dying hard, got to one knee and remained
thus, swaying.
The three outlaws swept on, straight for the figure of Jimson, and
the man in the lead was Tom Emery, his mass of flaming whiskers
marking him clearly. All three had rifles and were girded with
gun-belts. Ramsay grinned excitedly as he waited, out of sight.
“They don’t know what’s happened!” he thought in exultation. “Jimson
is baiting them right into the trap—”
Jimson was not forty feet away from him, and the three outlaws came
thundering down with shouted queries and wild oaths of rage. As they
drew closer, Ramsay could see them looking from Jimson to the
girdling masses of rock, and knew that he was out of their sight.
Tom Emery was in the lead, riding like a Centaur, his face like a
red blur; behind him were the sullen, scowling Ximines and the more
dapper halfbreed Cholo Bill, eyes glittering like dots of jet.
They came hurtling down upon Jimson, threw themselves from the
saddle and gathered around him with a burst of excited speech. But
they came too late; for Jimson, swaying, toppled over as they
reached him, and lay quiet—this time forever. The three stared one
at another, but only for an instant.
“Stick ’em up—_pronto_!” commanded Ramsay’s voice. “Drop the
rifles.”
A raging oath burst from Emery. All three turned, facing the rock
wall and the passage; dismounted, caught in the open, their three
dead comrades to serve as warning, they comprehended instantly that
they were trapped, snared mercilessly. In silence they obeyed the
mandate, but their faces were eloquent as they dropped the rifles
and elevated their arms.
“Tom Emery,” continued Ramsay, his voice cool and deadly in its
slight drawl, “you and Cholo Bill are wanted for the murder of Alec
Ramsay last year. Ximines, you can come along on general principles.
You take your own pistol and drop it overboard, then relieve your
two friends of their weapons. Leave ’em all in a pile. I don’t need
much of an excuse to put a bullet into you, so watch out you don’t
give it to me.”
The scowling Mexican deposited his own pistol and those of the
others in the dust.
“Now step forward!” Ramsay rose, rifle at his shoulder. “Step
forward, please! All three—that’s right. Walk right through the hole
in the wall, and don’t walk too fast. The hand is quicker than the
foot, gentlemen. Now into the hole—you first, señor Ximines, then
Cholo Bill, and Mr. Emery last. Close together, and slowly.”
He strode forward as the three came to the passage that gave on to
the outer cañon. Their eyes glittered on him with unspeakable rage,
but they said not a word. In the order assigned, they entered the
cleft, and Ramsay brought up the rear with the muzzle of his rifle
thrust against the back of the gigantic Emery, whose red whiskers
were bristling with suppressed fury. Ramsay chuckled, as he marched
them forward.
“I expect you’re due for a shave before long, Mr. Emery, and a free
haircut to boot. Keep right ahead of each other, gentlemen, and walk
straight out into the daylight. When you are safely taken care of,
well all start out and have a nice little walk over to town, and
interview Mr. Crowfoot. Now, everybody, four steps forward, then
halt and about-face.”
By this time the full morning light was spreading over everything,
and the three captives left the rock-cleft and marched forward as
directed. Ramsay, not daring to take his eyes from them, followed
for a pace or two and then halted as they turned and faced his
rifle. For a moment he met the savage gaze of Emery—then the latter
suddenly looked up, behind Ramsay, and his eyes widened in surprise.
Ramsay cast one startled glance over his shoulder. He saw, to his
utter consternation, a horse close pressed against the rock wall to
the left of the opening; and holding the reins in one hand, and in
the other a leveled pistol—Sidewinder Crowfoot. For an instant those
glittery gray eyes held Ramsay paralyzed.
“Careful with that gun!” warned Sidewinder, a deadly whine to his
voice. “Grab it, Tom. Then grab this gent—and do it careful. He’s
got to do some talkin’ real soon. Tie him up and leave him be.”
Ramsay knew better than to resist. Utterly dismayed, dumbfounded by
the simple manner in which he had been trapped in the very moment of
victory, he let himself be seized, hurled to the ground, and then
none too gently be bound hand and foot. A swift search, and he was
disarmed.
A flood of curses burst loose, and for a moment he thought the
Mexican would stamp on him in rage, but Sidewinder interfered and
quieted the noise.
“What’s happened here?” he snapped. Emery made profane response.
“Dunno! The boys come in with them hosses they went after, but they
come dead. Jimson come out to meet ’em, and he’s dead. This feller
jumps us. Says we’re wanted for killin’ Ramsay last year. What is
he—sheriff or detective?”
“That’s what we’ll find out,” said Sidewinder. “He sure played hell
around here, didn’t he? Well, I’m dead for something to eat. Any of
his friends around?”
“Nope. I reckon he done played a lone hand,” said Emery, not without
a trace of admiration. “You aint seen no one out here?”
“No,” said Sidewinder. “Nary a sign. This hoss of mine is clear done
up and staggering. I seen what happened from the passage, and come
back to lay for him—and got him. Tom, take charge of him and walk
him in. I’ll take your hoss and ride over to camp. This gent has
played hell in town as well as here. I been on my way since
yesterday noon—had to come all the way on hossback. Leave the hoss
here—he’ll wander in after he comes around. All ready, boys—let’s
go!”
Emery jerked Ramsay to his feet, cast loose his ankles, and
propelled him forward into the passage; he went dumbly, unresisting,
appalled by the disaster which had overwhelmed him.
Behind them, the outer cañon was empty of life save for the horse
which Sidewinder had ridden, and which stood with legs wide apart,
head drooping, exhausted and spent. Red and gold streaked across the
sky, as the first fingers of sunrise reached up to the zenith.
Presently the horse, still saddled and bridled, made a convulsive
movement and came out from among the rocks, and stood, white with
lather. He was still standing there twenty minutes later, when the
first rays of sunlight struck down from the hilltops and smote all
the desert spaces into gold and purple, and up on the hillside
stirred something that presently took definite shape. This was
Sagebrush Beam.
The desert rat painfully gained his feet, staggered forward, lost
his balance and came sprawling down among the rocks. He lay quiet
for a while, blood spreading across the grizzled expanse of his
tangled beard. Then, warmed by the sun, he lifted himself again,
feebly gained his feet, and came tottering across the sand to where
the horse stood watching him. For a little he clung to the saddle,
helpless. After a time he made an effort to draw himself up, cursed
vividly if weakly, and at the second effort made shift to mount.
The exhausted horse submitted to its fate and started out into the
desert, with Sagebrush limp and clinging to the pommel.