BIRDS OF PREY.
Once clear of the buffalo-hunters' camp, MacRae and I paired off and
speedily began to compare notes, where we had been, what we had done,
how the world had used us in the five years since we had seen each other
last. And although we gabbled freely enough, MacRae avoided all mention
of the persons of whom I most wished to hear. I didn't press him, for I
knew that something out of the common must have happened, else he would
not have been wearing the Queen's scarlet, and I didn't care to bring up
a subject that might prove a sore one with him. But men we had known and
trails we had followed furnished us plenty of grist for the
conversational mill. Our talk ranged from the Panhandle to the Canada
line, while our horses jogged steadily southward.
Dark came down on the four of us as we topped Manyberries Ridge, and
seven or eight miles of rolling prairie still lay between us and
Pend d' Oreille. If Mac had been alone he would have made the post by
sundown, for the Mounted Police rode picked horses, the best money could
buy. But it was a long jaunt to Benton, and the rest of us were inclined
to an easier pace, that we might husband the full strength of our
grass-fed mounts for any emergency that should arise on the way.
With the coming of night a pall of clouds blew out of the west,
blanketing the stars and shutting off their hazy light completely, and
when the sky was banked full from horizon to horizon, the dark enveloped
us like a black sea-mist. Once or twice we startled a little bunch of
buffalo, and listened to the thud of their hoofs as they fled through
the sultry, velvet gloom; but for the most our ride was attended by no
sounds save the night song of frogs in the upland sloughs and the hollow
clank of steel bits keeping time to the creak of saddle-leather.
Halfway down the long slope MacRae and I, riding in the lead, pulled up
to make a cigarette on the brink of a straight-walled coulée that we
could sense but not see. As I waited for Mac to strike a match my eyes
roved about, seeking to pierce the unnatural blackness that wrapped
itself about us, and while my gaze was for an instant fixed on the
night-enshrouded canyon, a red tongue of flame flashed out for a moment
in the inky shadow below. MacRae saw it also, and held the match
unstruck.
"Must be somebody camped down there," I hazarded.
"A camp-fire would hardly flash and die out like that, Sarge," he
answered thoughtfully. "At least, not an ordinary one. There are some
folk in this country, you know, who manifest a very retiring disposition
at times. That looks to me like a blind fire or a signal. Let's wait a
minute."
We sat there on our horses, grouped close together, a minute that
lengthened to five; then MacRae broke off in the middle of a sentence as
the flare leaped up, flickered an instant, and was blotted out again. I
could have sworn I heard a cry, and one of my men spoke in a tone that
assured me my imagination had not been playing a trick.
"Hear that?" he asked eagerly. "Somebody hollered down there."
"I don't much like that," MacRae said, in a low tone. "I have a hunch
that something crooked is going on, and I reckon I'll go down and see
what that fire means. You fellows better go a little farther and wait
for me."
"Not on your life," I protested. "You might run into most any kind of
formation. We'll go in a bunch, if we go at all."
"Might be Injuns," Bruce Haggin put in. "An', anyhow, whatever play
comes up, four men's a heap better'n one. If you're bound t' mix in,
why, lead the way. I'm kinda curious about what's down there m'self."
So near to the post it was that MacRae almost knew the feel of the
ground underfoot. He led us a hundred yards along the rim of the bank
and stopped again.
"This is as good a place as any, but you'll have to get down and lead
your horses," he warned. "It's a devil of a scramble from here to the
bottom."
We dismounted, and speedily found that MacRae hadn't exaggerated the
evil qualities of that descent. If there had been boulders on that
hillside the noise of our coming would have alarmed a deaf man; but the
soft dirt and slippery grass gave out no sound, though we slid and
tumbled and dug in our heels for a foothold till the sweat streamed down
our cheeks.
At the bottom we mounted again and followed MacRae in a cautious file
around clumps of willow and rustling quaking-asp to the place where the
blaze should have shown. But no glint of fire appeared in any direction;
the coulée-bottom lay more dark and silent, if that were possible, than
the gloomy hills above. Perplexed, MacRae halted, and we bunched
together, whispering, each of us straining his eyes and ears to catch
some sight or sound of life in that black, ghostly quiet. We might have
concluded that our senses had been playing pranks at our expense, that
the flame we had seen from the ridge was purely an imaginary thing, but
for the rank, unmistakable odor of burning wood--a smell no man bred in
a land of camp-fires can mistake. We were near it, wherever it was, but
how near we had no means of knowing.
After a bit of waiting, Mac decided that the smoke was floating from a
certain direction, and we began to edge carefully that way. Presently we
circled a clump of brush, to come near riding right into a banked fire,
barely visible, even at short range, under its covering of earth. A
dimly outlined bulk lay beside it, and leaning over in our saddles, the
faint glow of the coals revealed a man's body, half stripped of its
clothing, and--oh, well, such things are so utterly devilish you
wouldn't credit it. It's bad enough to kill, even when it's necessary;
but I never could understand how a white man could take a leaf out of
the Indian's torture-book.
The fire had been heaped over with earth--to screen it from prying eyes,
I suppose, while the good work went on. We got off our horses and
stooped over the man, forgetting for the moment that danger might lurk
in the surrounding thicket. Mac swore under his breath when he bent and
peered keenly at the man's face; then he straightened up and kicked a
part of the clay covering from the smoldering embers. As the bright glow
of a little cascade of sparks pierced the darkness, a voice in our rear
called sharply: "Hands up!" and we swung round to behold two masked
faces regarding us from behind steadily held Winchesters.
The very suddenness of the hold-up made it a complete success. Apart,
and moving, we might have scattered in the brush like young quail, and
so have been able to give the gentlemen a hard run for the money. But we
were bunched together, shocked out of all caution, staring at the
pitiful figure at our feet when MacRae unmasked the fire, and the flare
of it surrounded us with a yellow nimbus that made us fair marks for a
gun. With that dazzling light in our eyes and those ugly-looking
customers at the business end of the guns, it would have been out and
out suicide to reach for a six-shooter. For at that period in
Northwestern history, when a man had the drop on you under such
conditions, there was absolutely no question of what would happen if you
made a suspicious move. We were fairly caught, and there was nothing to
do but elevate our digits and paw the air as commanded.
It took one of those Western Turpins about a minute to relieve us of our
artillery, after which he silently proceeded to lead our horses out of
sight. When he did that I began to hope the horses were all they wanted,
that they had no knowledge of the money I carried; but my hopes died an
early death, for he was back in a moment, and the man behind the gun
indicated me with a motion of the Winchester.
"That long, stoop-shouldered gazabo's got the stuff on him," he growled.
There was half a second when I entertained a wild notion of getting
fractious. A fellow hates to make a bungle of the first decent trust
he's had in a long time; but I was in a tight place, and I couldn't
figure where I'd delay giving up beyond the length of time it would take
the gentleman with the Winchester to drill me. Under the circumstances
it didn't take long to decide that it was a heap better all around to be
robbed alive than dead--they'd get the money anyway, and if I got myself
shot up to no purpose that would spoil all chance of getting back at
them later.
The silent partner wasted no time in fruitless search of my person. He
seemed to know right where to look, which was another feature of the
play that I didn't _sabe_ at the time. He reached down inside my shirt,
with a none too gentle hand, and relieved me of the belt that held the
money. Then the pair of them backed up, still covering us, and faded
away in the gloom.