THE MOUTH OF SAGE CREEK.
With that opposing force behind us, we bore away across the shrouded
benches, straight for the mouth of Sage Creek. What method we would
pursue when we got there was not altogether clear to me, and the same
thing evidently bothered Piegan, for, after a long interval, he
addressed himself pointedly to MacRae.
"We ought t' hit the river in an hour or so," he said. "It's time we
figured on how we're goin' t' work, eh? I wish t' the Lord it was
daylight."
"So do I," MacRae moodily responded. "For that matter, it won't be long.
I've been thinking that the best way would be to get down on the flat at
the north of the creek and _cache_ our horses in the timber. Then we can
sneak around without making any noise. If they're not camped on the
flat, we'll find them somewhere up the gorge. Of course, there's a
chance that they have crossed the river--but if they didn't get there
in daylight, and the river is still high, I hardly think they'd risk
fording in the dark."
"That's about the way I had sized it up," Piegan replied. "The flat
ain't bigger'n a good-sized flapjack, nohow, an' if they're on that or
up in Sage Creek canyon, we're bound t' locate 'em; kain't help hearin'
their hosses snort or cough or make some sort uh noise, if we go
careful. The worst of it is, we kain't start the ball a-rollin' till we
get that girl spotted--that's the hell of it! Like as not she'd be the
first one t' get hurt. An' if we get rambunctious an' stir 'em up in the
dark, an' _don't_ put the finishin' to 'em right then an' there--why,
they got all the show in the world t' make a hot-foot getaway. _Sabe?_
While I ain't lookin' for a chance t' sidestep the game, for I know how
yuh feel, I'd say locate 'em if we can, an' then back up a little and
wait for day."
"Oh, I know, I know!" Mac burst out. "That's sense. But it gives me the
creeps to think--to think----"
"Sure; we know it," Piegan answered softly. "We kain't tell till we get
there, anyway. Maybe we'll get 'em dead t' rights. No tellin' what'll
come up when we get into that canyon. When we get 'em spotted we c'n
make up our minds what t' do--if we have any time t' talk about it," he
finished, in an undertone.
As we rode, the crimson-yellow reflection of burning prairies began to
tint the eastern sky; once, from the crest of a hill, we saw the
wavering line of flame, rising and falling in beautiful undulations. And
presently we galloped across a mile or two of level grassland and pulled
up on the very brink of Sage Creek canyon.
"Easy, easy, from here on," Piegan whispered caution. "We may be right
above 'em, for all we know. We hit it a little too high up. How far
d'yuh reckon it is t' the mouth, Mac?"
"Not more than half a mile," MacRae returned. "We're not far out. I know
where there's a good place to get down."
We turned sharply to the right, coming out on a narrow point. Without
mishap we reached the foot of the steep hill. At the bottom the wind was
almost wholly shut off, so that sounds were easier to distinguish. The
moon had passed its zenith long since, and half of the flat lay in dense
shadow. Beyond the shadow a pall of smoke lay over everything, a
shifting haze that made objects near at hand indefinite of outline,
impossible to classify at a glance. A horse or a tree or a clump of
brush loomed up grotesquely in the vaporous blur.
Mac, to whom the topography of that gloomy place was perfectly familiar,
led the way. A black, menacing wall that rose before us suddenly
resolved itself into a grove of trees, great four-foot cottonwoods. He
stole into the heart of the grove and satisfied himself that our game
had not appropriated it as a camping-place. That assured, we followed
with our horses and tied them securely, removing saddles and bridles,
lest the clank of steel or creaking of leather betray our presence to
listening ears. On any noise our horses might make we had no choice but
to take a chance. Then we looked to our guns and set out on a stealthy
search.
A complete circle of that tiny bottom--it was only a shelf of sage-brown
land lying between the river and the steep bank--profited us nothing,
and Piegan whispered that now we must seek for them in the gorge.
Cautiously we retraced our steps from the lower end of the flat, and
turned into the narrow mouth of the canyon. We had no more than got
fairly between the straight-up-and-down walls of it than Piegan halted
us with a warning hand. We squatted in the sage-brush and listened.
Behind us, from the river, came a gentle plashing.
"Beaver," I hazarded.
"Too loud," Piegan murmured. "Let's go back an' see."
We reached the river-edge just in time to hear the splashing die away;
and though we strained our eyes looking, we could make out no movement
on the surface of the river or in the dimly-outlined scrub that fringed
the opposite bank. Piegan turned on the instant and ran to where we had
tied our horses; but they stood quietly as we had left them.
"I got a hunch they'd got onto us, an' maybe set us afoot for a
starter," Piegan explained. "I reckon that must 'a' been a deer or some
other wild critter."
Once more we turned into the canyon, and this time followed its narrow,
scrub-patched floor some three hundred yards up from the river. It was
dark enough for any kind of deviltry in that four-hundred foot gash in
the earth; the sinking moon lightened only a strip along the east wall,
near the top; lower down, smoke mingling with the natural gloom cast an
impenetrable veil from bank to bank; not a breath of air stirred the
tomblike stillness. Directly in front of us a horse coughed. We dropped
on all fours, listened a moment, then crept forward. Without warning, we
found ourselves foul of a picket-line, and the vague forms of grazing
horses loomed close by. Piegan halted us with a touch, and we lay flat;
then with our heads together he whispered softly:
"We must be right on top uh them. It's a cinch their camp ain't far from
their livestock. I wonder----"
To the left of us a horse snorted nervously; we heard him trot with
high, springy strides to the end of his rope, and snort again. Then a
voice cut the stillness that followed: "Here, you fool, what's the
matter with you?"
We hugged the ground like frightened rabbits. It hardly seemed possible
that we could be within speaking-distance of them--yet that was
Gregory's clear enunciation; I would know his speech in a jabberfest of
several nations.
"What's the matter?" That, by the curt inflection, the autocratic
peremptoriness, was Lessard. I had one hand on MacRae's shoulder, and I
felt a tremor run through his body, like the rising of a cat's fur at
sight of an adversary.
"Oh, nothing much," Gregory answered carelessly. "I was just speaking to
one of these fool horses. They seem to be as nervous as you are." And
we could hear him chuckle over this last remark.
After that there was nothing but the muffled tr-_up_, tr-_up_ of grazing
horses. Piegan or MacRae, I could not tell which, tugged gently at my
arm, and the three of us retreated slowly, crawling both literally and
figuratively. When we were well away from the camp of that ungodly
combination, Piegan rose to his feet and we proceeded a little faster
until we reached a distance that permitted of low-toned conversation.
"Now," Piegan declared, "we have 'em located. An' I'm here t' declare
that it's plumb foolish t' mix things with that layout till we can see
t' shoot tolerable straight. If we go against 'em now, it'll be all same
goin' blindfolded into a barn t' pick out the best hoss. The first gun
that pops they'll raise up an' quit the earth like a bunch uh antelope.
_They_ ain't got nothin' t' win in a fight--unless they're cornered. I
did think uh tryin' t' get off with their hosses, but I figured it
wouldn't pay with that sharp-eared cuss on the watch. Whenever it comes
day, we got all the best uh things--though I don't reckon we'll have a
walkaway. We want t' make a clean job once we start in, an' we kain't do
that in the dark. Furthermore, as I said before, if we go t' throwin'
lead when we kain't see ten feet in front of us, we'd just about hit
that girl first rattle out uh the box. She ain't comin' t' no harm just
now, or it wouldn't be so blamed peaceful around there. It's only a
matter of a couple uh hours t' daylight, anyhow. What d'yuh think?"
"Under the circumstances, the only thing we can do is to wait," MacRae
assented, and I fancied that there was a reluctant quiver in his usually
steady voice. "It's going to be smoky at daybreak, but we can see their
camp from this first point, I think. There's a big rock over here--I'll
show you--you and Sarge can get under cover there. I'll lie up on the
opposite side, so they'll have to come between us. Let them pack and get
started. When they get nearly abreast, cut loose. Shoot their
saddle-horses first, then we can fight it out. Come on, I'll show you
that rock."
MacRae's bump of location was nearly as well developed as Piegan's. He
picked his way through the sage-brush to the other side of the canyon,
bringing us in the deepest gloom to a great slab of sandstone that had
fallen from above, and lay a few feet from the base of the sheer wall.
It was a natural breastwork, all ready to our hand. There, without
another word, he left us. Crouching in the shelter of that rock, not
daring to speak above a whisper, denied the comforts of tobacco, it
seemed as if we were never to be released from the dusky embrace of
night. In reality it was less than two hours till daybreak, but they
were slow-footed ones to me. Then dawn flung itself impetuously across
the hills, and the naked rim of the canyon took form in a shifting whirl
of smoke. Down in the depths gloom and shadows vanished together, and
Piegan Smith and I peered over the top of our rock and saw the outlaw
camp--men and horses dim figures in the growing light. We scanned the
opposite side for sight of MacRae, but saw nothing of him; he kept close
under cover.
"They're packin' up," Piegan murmured, with a dry chuckle. "I reckon
things won't tighten nor nothin' in a few minutes, eh? But say, damn if
I see anything among that layout that resembles a female. Do you?"
I did not, even when I focused the field-glasses on that bunch at that
short distance. Certainly she was not there--at least she was not to be
seen, and I could almost read the expression on each man's features, so
close did the glasses draw them up. And failing to see her started me
thinking that after all she might have given them the slip. I hoped it
might be so. Lyn was no chicken-hearted weakling, to sit down and weep
unavailingly in time of peril. Bred on the range, on speaking-terms with
the turbulent frontier life, her wits weren't likely to forsake her in a
situation of that kind.
While the light of day grew stronger and the smoke eddied in heavier
wreaths above, one of them swung up on a horse and came down the bottom
at a fast lope. We had no means of knowing what his mission might be,
but I did know that the square shoulders, the lean eagle face, could
only belong to one man; and I dropped the glasses and drew a bead on his
breast. I hesitated a second, squinting along the barrel of the carbine;
I wanted him to round the point that jutted out from the other side of
the canyon, so that his partners could not see his finish. If they did
not see him go down, nor observe the puff of smoke from behind the rock,
they might think he had fired a shot himself. And while I waited,
grumbling at the combination of circumstances that made it necessary to
shoot down even a cold-blooded brute like him in such a way, Mac took
the matter out of my hands in his own characteristic fashion.
Lessard turned the point, and as the carbine-hammer clicked back under
the pull of my thumb, MacRae sprang to his feet from behind a squatty
clump of sage, right in Lessard's path. Nervy as men are made, MacRae
worshiped at the shrine of an even break, a square deal for friend or
foe. And Lessard got it. There among the sage-brush he got a fair chance
for his life, according to the code of men who settle their differences
at the business end of a six-shooter. But it wasn't Lessard's hour.
Piegan Smith and I saw his hand flash to his pistol, saw it come to a
level, heard the single report of MacRae's gun. It was a square
deal--which Lessard had not given us. He crumpled in the saddle;
sprawled a moment on the neck of his horse, and dropped to the ground.
MacRae sank behind the sage again, and we waited for the others.