THE OUTLAW’S LAST STAND
In the morning the sheriff went to the island. He reported the place
deserted. He made many other trips. Sometimes he took a deputy with him;
more often he rode unaccompanied. Richard Gordon lay helpless in a
burning fever, with Paul Langford in constant and untiring attendance
upon him. George Williston was a sadly shattered man.
“I met Black on the corner west of Gordon’s office,” he explained, when
he could talk. “I had not been able to sleep, and had been walking to
tire my nerves into quiet. I was coming back to the hotel when I heard
Black’s shot and then Mary’s. I ran forward and met Black on the corner,
running. He stopped, cried out, ‘You, too, damn you,’ and that’s the
last I knew until the boys picked me up.”
These were the most interested—Langford, Gordon, Williston. Had they
been in the count, things might have been different. It is very probable
a posse would have been formed for immediate pursuit. But others must do
what had been better done had it not been for those shots in the dark.
There was blood outside Gordon’s window; yet Black had not crawled home
to die. He had not gone home at all,—at least, that is what the sheriff
said. No one had seen the convicted man after his desperate and
spectacular exit from the courtroom—no one at least but Louise, Mary,
and her father. Mary’s shot had not killed him, but it had saved Richard
Gordon’s life, which was a far better thing. It was impossible to track
him out of town, for the cattle had trampled the snow in every
direction.
The authorities could gather no outside information. The outlying claims
and ranches refuted indignantly any hint of their having given aid or
shelter to the fugitive, or of having any cognizance whatsoever
regarding his possible whereabouts. So the pursuit, at first hot and
excited, gradually wearied of following false leads,—contented itself
with desultory journeys when prodded thereto by the compelling power of
public opinion,—finally ceased altogether even as a pretence.
One of the first things done following the dramatic day in court had
been to send the officers out to the little shanty in the valley where
the half-breed lay dead across the threshold. A watch was also set upon
this place; but no one ever came there.
August had come again, and Judge Dale was in Kemah to hear a court case.
Langford had ridden in from the ranch on purpose to see Judge Dale. His
clothes were spattered with mud. There had been a succession of storms,
lasting for several days; last night a cloud had burst out west
somewhere. All the creeks were swollen.
“Judge, I believe Jesse Black has been on that island of his all the
time.”
“What makes you think so, Langford?”
“Because our sheriff is four-flushing—he always was in sympathy with the
gang, you know. Besides, where else can Black be?”
Dale puckered his lips thoughtfully.
“What have you heard?” he asked.
“Rumors are getting pretty thick that he has been seen in that
neighborhood on several occasions. It is my honest belief he has never
left it.”
“What did you think of doing about it, Langford?”
“I want you to give me a bench warrant, Judge. I am confident that I can
get him. It is the shame of the county that he is still at large.”
“You have to deal with one of the worst and most desperate outlaws in
the United States. You must know it will be a very hazardous
undertaking, granting your surmises to be correct, and fraught with
grave peril for some one.”
“I understand that fully.”
“This duty is another’s, not yours.”
“But that other is incompetent.”
“My dear fellow,” said the Judge, rising and laying his hand on
Langford’s big shoulder, “do you really want to undertake this?”
“I certainly do.”
“Then I will give you the warrant, gladly. You are the one man in the
State to do it—unless I except the gallant little deputy marshal. You
know the danger. I admire your grit, my boy. Get him if you can; but
take care of yourself. Your life is worth so much more than his. Who
will you take with you?”
“Munson, of course. He will go in spite of the devil, and he’s the best
man I know for anything like this. Then I thought of taking the deputy
sheriff. He’s been true blue all along, and has done the very best
possible under the conditions.”
“Very good. Take Johnson, too. He’ll be glad to go. He’s the pluckiest
little fighter in the world,—not a cowardly hair in his head.”
So it was agreed, and the next morning, bright and early, the little
posse, reinforced by others who had earnestly solicited the privilege of
going along, started out on its journey. The rains were over, but the
roads were heavy. In many places, they were forced to walk their mounts.
No one but the initiated know what gumbo mud means. Until they took to
the hills, the horses could scarcely lift their feet, so great would be
the weight of the sticky black earth which clung in immense chunks to
their hoofs. When they struck the hills, it was better and they pressed
forward rapidly. Once only the sheriff had asserted that he had run
across the famous outlaw. Black had resisted savagely and had escaped,
sending back the bold taunt that he would never be taken alive. Such a
message might mean death to some of the plucky posse now making for the
old-time haunts of the desperado.
The sun struggled from behind rain-exhausted clouds, and a rollicking
wind blew up. The clouds skurried away toward the horizon.
At White River ford, the men looked at each other in mute inquiry. The
stream was a raging torrent. It was swollen until it was half again its
ordinary width. The usually placid waters were rushing and twisting into
whirlpool-like rapids.
“What now?” asked Baker, the deputy-sheriff.
“I’m thinkin’ this here little pleasure party’ll have to be postponed,”
vouchsafed one of the volunteers, nodding his head wisely.
“We’ll sure have to wait for the cloud-bust to run out,” agreed another.
“Why, we can swim that all right,” put in Langford, rallying from his
momentary set-back and riding his mount to the very edge of the swirling
water.
“Hold on a minute there, Boss,” cried Jim. “Don’t be rash now. What’s
the census of ’pinion o’ this here company? Shall we resk the ford or
shall we not?”
“Why, Jim,” said Paul, a laugh in his blue eyes, “are you afraid? What’s
come over you?”
“Nothin’. I ain’t no coward neither, and ef you wasn’t the Boss I’d show
you. I was just a thinkin’ o’—somebody who’d care—that’s all.”
Just for a moment a far away look came into the young ranchman’s eyes.
Then he straightened himself in his saddle.
“I, for one, am going to see this thing through,” he said, tersely.
“What do you say, Johnson?”
“I never for one minute calculated on doing a thing else,” replied the
deputy marshal, who had been standing somewhat apart awaiting the end of
the controversy, with a good humored smile in his twinkling blue eyes.
“Good for you! Then come on!”
Paul urged Sade into the water. He was followed unhesitatingly by
Munson, Johnson, and Baker. The others held back, and finally, after a
short consultation, wheeled and retraced their steps.
“I ain’t no coward, neither,” muttered one, as he rode away, “but I
plumb don’t see no sense in bein’ drownded. I’d ruther be killed a
roundin’ up Jesse.”
The horses which had made the initial plunge were already in water up to
their breasts. The current had an ominous rush to it.
“I don’t care. I didn’t mean to hold over and let our quarry get wind of
this affair,” cried Langford, over his shoulder. “Keep your rifles dry,
boys!”
Suddenly, without warning, Sade stepped into a hole and lost her balance
for a moment. She struggled gallantly and recovered herself, yet it
weakened her. It was not long before all the horses were compelled to
swim, and the force of the current immediately began driving them down
stream. Sade fought bravely against the pressure. She was a plucky
little cow pony and loved her master, but it was about all she could do
to keep from going under, let alone making much headway against the
tremendous pressure of the current. Langford’s danger was grave.
“Steady, my girl!” he encouraged. He flung his feet free of the stirrups
so that, if she went under, he would be ready to try it alone. Poor
Sade! He should hate to lose her. If he released her now and struck off
by himself, she might make it. He had never known White River to run so
sullenly and strongly; it would be almost impossible for a man to breast
it. And there was Mary—he could never go back to her and claim her for
his own until he could bring Black back, too, to suffer for her father’s
wrongs.
At that moment, Sade gave a little convulsive shudder, and the water
rolled over her head. Langford slipped from the saddle, but in the
instant of contact with the pushing current, his rifle was jerked
violently from his hand and sank out of sight. With no time for vain
regrets, he struck out for the shore. The struggle was tremendous. He
was buffeted and beaten, and borne farther and farther down the stream.
More than once in the endeavor to strike too squarely across, his head
went under; but he was a strong swimmer, and soon scrambling up the bank
some distance below the ford, he turned and sent a resonant hail to his
comrades. They responded lustily. He had been the only one unhorsed. He
threw himself face downward to cough up some of the water he had been
compelled to swallow, and Munson, running up, began slapping him
vigorously upon the back. He desisted only to run swiftly along the
bank.
“Good for you,” Jim cried, approvingly, assisting Langford’s spent horse
up the bank. Coming up to the party where Langford still lay stretched
out full length, Sade rubbed her nose inquiringly over the big shoulders
lying so low, and whinnied softly.
“Hello there!” cried Paul, springing excitedly to his feet. “Where’d you
come from? Thought you had crossed the bar. Now I’ll just borrow a gun
from one of you fellows and we’ll be getting along. Better my rifle than
my horse at this stage of the game, anyway.”
The little party pushed on. The longer half of their journey was still
before them. On the whole, perhaps, it was better the crowd had split.
There was more unity of purpose among those who were left. The sun was
getting hot, and Langford’s clothes dried rapidly.
Arrived at the entrance of the cross ravine which Williston had once
sought out, the four men rode their horses safely through its length.
The waters of the June rise had receded, and the outlaw’s presumably
deserted holding was once more a peninsula. The wooded section in the
near distance lay green, cool, and innocent looking in the late summer
sun. The sands between stretched out hot in the white glare. From the
gulch covert, the wiry marshal rode first. His face bore its wonted
expression of good-humored alertness, but there was an inscrutable glint
in his eyes that might have found place there because of a sure
realization of the hazard of the situation and of his accepting it.
Langford followed him quickly, and Munson and Baker were not far behind.
They trotted breezily across the open in a bunch, without words. Where
the indistinct trail to the house slipped into the wooded enclosure,
they paused. Was the desperado at last really rounded up so that he must
either submit quietly or turn at bay? It was so still. Spots of sunlight
had filtered through the foliage and flecked the pathway. Insects
flitted about. Bumble bees droned. Butterflies hovered over the
snow-on-the-mountain. A turtle dove mourned. A snake glided sinuously
through the grass. Peering down the warm, shaded interior, one might
almost imagine one was in the heart of an ancient wood. The drowsy
suggestions of solitude crept in upon the sensibilities of all the men
and filled them with vague doubts. If this was the haunt of a man, a
careless, sordid man, would this place which knew him breathe forth so
sweet, still, and undisturbed a peace?
Langford first shook himself free of the haunting fear of a deserted
hearthstone.
“I’d stake my all on my belief that he’s there,” he said, in a low
voice. “Now listen, boys. Johnson and I will ride to the house and make
the arrest, providing he doesn’t give us the slip. Baker, you and Jim
will remain here in ambush in case he does. He’s bound to come this way
to reach the mainland. Ready, Johnson?”
Jim interposed. His face was flinty with purpose.
“Not ef the court knows herself, and I think she do. Me and Johnson will
do that there little arrestin’ job and the Boss he’ll stay here in the
ambush. Ef anybody’s a countin’ on my totin’ the Boss’s openwork body
back to Mary Williston, it’s high time he was a losin’ the count, for I
ain’t goin’ to do it.”
He guided his horse straight into the path.
“But, Jim,” expostulated Langford, laying a detaining hand on the
cowboy’s shoulder, “as for danger, there’s every bit as much—and
more—here. Do you think Jesse Black will tamely sit down and wait for us
to come up and nab him? I think he’ll run.”
“Then why are you a shirkin’, ef this is the worst spot o’ all? You
ain’t no coward, Boss, leastways you never was. Why don’t you stay by
it? That’s what I’d like to know.”
Johnson grinned appreciatively.
“Well, there’s always the supposition that he may not see us until we
ride into his clearing,” admitted Langford. “Of course, then—it’s too
late.”
Jim blocked the way.
“I’m an ornery, no-’count cowboy with no one in this hull world to know
or care what becomes o’ me. There ain’t no one to care but me, and I
can’t say I’m a hurtin’ myself any a carin’! You just wait till I
screech, will you?”
“Jim,” said Langford, huskily, “you go back and behave yourself. I’m the
Boss not you. You’ve got to obey orders. You’ve sassed me long enough.
You get back, now!”
“Tell Mary, ef I come back a deader,” said Jim, “that women are
s’perfluous critters, but I forgive her. She can’t help bein’ a woman.”
He gave his horse a dig with his knee and the animal bounded briskly
forward.
“Jim! You fool boy! Come back!” cried Langford, plunging after him.
Johnson shrugged his shoulders, and wheeled his horse into clever
concealment on one side of the path.
“Let the fool kids go,” he advised, dryly. “I’m a lookin’ for Jess to
run, anyway.”
The two men rode boldly up toward the house. It seemed deserted. Weeds
were growing around the door stoop, and crowding thickly up to the front
windows. A spider’s silver web gleamed from casing to panel of the
warped and weather stained door. The windows were blurred with the
tricklings of rain through seasons of dust. Everything appeared unkempt,
forlorn, desolate.
There was a sound from the rear. It carried a stealthy significance. A
man leaped from the protection of the cabin and was seen running toward
the barn. He was heavily armed.
“Stop that, Black!” yelled Langford, authoritatively. “We are going to
take you, dead or alive—you’d better give yourself up! It will be better
for you!”
The man answered nothing.
“Wing him with your rifle, Jim, before he gets to the barn,” said Paul,
quickly.
The shot went wild. Black wrenched the door open, sprang upon the
already bridled horse, and made a bold dash for the farther woods—and
not in the direction where determined men waited in ambush. What did it
mean? As his horse cleared the stable, he turned and shot a vindictive
challenge to meet his pursuers.
“You won’t take me alive—and dead, I won’t go alone!”
He plunged forward in a northerly direction. Dimly he could be seen
through the underbrush; but plainly could be heard the crackling of
branches and the snapping of twigs as his horse whipped through the low
lying foliage. Was there, then, another way to the mainland—other than
the one over which Johnson and Baker kept guard? How could it be? How
Langford longed for his good rifle and its carrying power. But he knew
how to use a pistol, too. Both men sent menacing shots after the
fugitive. Langford could not account for the strange direction. The only
solution was that Black was leading his pursuers a chase through the
woods, hoping to decoy them so deeply into the interior that he might,
turning suddenly and straightly, gain time for his desperate sprint
across the exposed stretch of sand. If this were true, Baker and Johnson
would take care of him there.
Black returned the fire vengefully. A bullet scraped his horse’s flank.
His hat was shot from his head. He turned savagely in his saddle with a
yell of defiance.
“You’ll never take me alive!”
The fusillade was furious, but the trees and branches proved Black’s
friends. It was impossible to judge one’s aim aright. His horse
staggered. Another bullet sang and purred through the foliage, and the
horse fell.
“My God, Jim!” cried Langford. “My cartridges are out! Give me your
gun!”
For answer, Jim sent another bullet whistling forward. Black, rising
from his fallen horse, fell back.
“I got him!” yelled Jim, exultantly. He spurred forward.
“Careful, Jim!” warned Langford. “He may be ‘playing possum,’ you know.”
“You stay where you are,” cried Jim. “You ain’t got no gun. Stay back,
you fool Boss!”
Langford laughed a little.
“You’re the fool boy, Jim,” he said. “I’ll go without a gun if you won’t
give me yours.”
They rode cautiously up to the prostrate figure. It was lying face
downward, one arm outstretched on the body of the dead horse, the other
crumpled under the man’s breast. Blood oozed from under his shoulder.
“He’s done for,” said Jim, in a low voice. In the presence of death, all
hatred had gone from him. The man apparently had paid all he could of
his debts on earth. The body lying there so low was the body of a real
man. Whatever his crimes, he had been a fine type of physical manhood.
He had never cringed. He had died like a man, fighting to the last.
Jim slowly and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into its holster and
dismounted. Langford, too, sprang lightly from his saddle.
Black had been waiting for this. His trained ear had no sooner caught
the soft rubbing sound of the pistol slipping into its leathern case
than he leaped to his feet and stretched out the crumpled arm with its
deadly weapon pointing straight at the heart of Langford of the Three
Bars.
“Now, damn you, we’re quits!” he cried, hoarsely.
There was not time for Jim to draw, but, agile as a cat, he threw
himself against Black’s arm and the bullet went wild. For a moment the
advantage was his, and he wrested the weapon from Black’s hand. It fell
to the ground. The two men grappled. The struggle was short and fierce.
Each strove with all the strength of his concentrated hate to keep the
other’s hand from his belt.
When the feet of the wrestlers left the fallen weapon free, Langford,
who had been waiting for this opportunity, sprang forward and seized it
with a thrill of satisfaction. Command of the situation was once more
his. But the revolver was empty, and he turned to throw himself into the
struggle empty-handed. Jim would thus be given a chance to draw.
At that moment, Black twisted his arm free and his hand dropped
like a flash to his belt, where there was a revolver that was loaded.
Jim hugged him closely, but it was of no use now. The bullet tore
its cruel way through his side. His arms relaxed their hold—he
slipped—slowly—down—down. Black shook himself free of him impatiently
and wheeled to meet his great enemy.
“Quits at last!” he said, with an ugly smile.
Quits indeed! For Jim, raising himself slightly, was able to draw at
last; and even as he spoke, the outlaw fell.
“Jim, my boy,” said Langford, huskily. He was kneeling, Jim’s head in
his arms.
“Well, Boss,” said Jim, trying to smile. His eyes were clear.
“It was my affair, Jim, you ought not to have done it,” said Langford,
brokenly.
“It’s all right—Boss—don’t you worry—I saw you—in the hall that night.
You are—the Boss. Tell Mary so. Tell her I was—glad—to go—so you could
go to her—and it would be—all right. She—loves you—Boss—you needn’t
be afraid.”
“Jim, I cannot bear it; I must go in your stead.”
“To Mary—yes.” His voice sank lower and lower. An added paleness stole
over his face, but his eyes looked into Langford’s serenely, almost
happily.
“Go—to Mary in my stead—Boss,” he whispered. “Tell her Jim gave his
Boss—to her—when he had to go—tell her he was glad to go—I used to
think it was ‘Mouse-hair’—I am glad it is—Mary—tell her good-bye—tell
her the Three Bars wouldn’t be the same to Jim with a woman in it
anyway—tell her—”
And with a sigh Jim died.