At the foot of Little Thumb Butte a lengthening semicircle of fire
flared through the night. John Wesley Pringle swung far out on the
plain to circle round it.
"This takes time," he muttered to himself, "but at least I know where
not to go. That old rip-snorter sure put a spoke in my wheel! Looks
like Foy might see them lights and drift out away from this. But he
won't, I guess--they said his hidey-hole was right on top, and the
shoulder of the hill will hide the fires from him. Probably asleep,
anyhow, thinkin' he's safe. I slep' three hours this morning at the
Major's; but Foy he didn't sleep any. Even if he did leave, they'd
track him up in the morning and get him--and he knows it. Somebody's
goin' to be awfully annoyed when he misses this horse."
He could see the riders, dim-flitting as they passed between him and
the flames. Once he stopped to listen; he heard the remaining half
of the man-hunt leaving the ranch. They were riding hard. Thereafter
Pringle had no mercy on his horse. Ride as he might, those who
followed had the inner circle; when he rounded the fires and struck
the hill his start was perilously slight. While the footing was soft
he urged the wearied horse up the slope; at the first rocky space he
abandoned the poor beast lest the floundering of shod hoofs should
betray him. He took off saddle and bridle; he hung the canteen over
his shoulder and pressed on afoot.
A light breeze had overcast the stars with thin and fleecy clouds.
This made for Pringle's safety; it also made the going harder--and it
would have been hard going by daylight.
The slope became steeper; ledges of rock, little at first, became
larger and more frequent; he came to bluffs that barred his progress,
slow and painful at best; he was forced to search to left or right
for broken places where he could climb. Bits of rock, dislodged by his
feet, fell clattering despite his utmost care; he heard the like from
below, to the left, to the right. The short night wore swiftly on.
With equal fortune John Wesley should have maintained his lead. But
he found more than his share of no-thoroughfares. Before long his
ears told him that men were almost abreast of him on each side. He
was handicapped now, because he must shun any chance meeting. His
immediate neighbors, however, had no such fear; they edged closer
and closer together as they climbed. At last, stopped against a
perpendicular wall ten feet high, he heard them creeping toward him
from both sides, with a guarded "Coo-ee!" each to the other; John
Wesley slipped down the hill to the nearest bush. His neighbors came
together and held a whispered discourse. They viewed the barrier with
marked patience, it seemed; they sat down in friendly fashion and
smoked cigarette after cigarette; the hum of their hushed voices
reached Pringle, murmuring and indistinct. It might almost be thought
that they were willing for others to precede them in the place of
honor. A faint glow showed in the east; the moon had thoughts of
rising.
After an interminable half-hour the two worthies passed on to the
right. Pringle took to the left, more swiftly. Time for caution
had passed; moonlight might betray him. When he found a way up that
unlucky wall others of the search party farther to the left were well
beyond him.
Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the last sheer cliff, the Thumb
which gave the hill its name, frowned above him, a hundred feet from
base to crest. Pringle bore obliquely up to the right. Speed was his
best safety now; he pushed on boldly, cheered by the thought that
if seen by any of the posse he would be taken for one of their own
number. But Foy, seeing him, would make the same mistake! It was an
uncomfortable reflection.
The pitch was less abrupt now, and there were no more ledges; instead,
bowlders were strewn along the rounded slope, with bush and stunted
tree between. Through these Pringle breasted his way, seeking even
more to protect himself from above than from below, forced at times to
crawl through an open space exposed to possible fire from both sides;
so came at last to the masses of splintered and broken rock at the
foot of the cliff, where he sank breathless and panting.
The tethered constellations paled in the sky; the moon rose and lit
the cliff with silver fire. The worst was yet to come. Foy would ask
no questions of any prowler, that was sure; he would reason that a
friend would call out boldly. And John Wesley had no idea where Foy or
his cave might be. Yet he must be found.
With a hearty swig at the canteen Pringle crept off to the right. The
moonlight beat full upon the cliff. He had little trouble in that ruin
of broken stone to find cover from foes below; but at each turn he
confidently looked forward to a bullet from his friend.
"Foy! Foy!" he called softly as he crawled. "It's Pringle! Don't
shoot!"
After a space he came to an angle where the cliff turned abruptly
west and dwindled sharply in height. He remembered what the Major had
said--the upper entrance of the cave came out on the highest crest of
the hill. He turned back to retrace his painful way. The smell of dawn
was in the air; the east sparkled. No sound came from the ambush all
around. The end was near.
He passed by his starting-point; he crept on by slide and bush and
stone. The moon magic faded and paled, mingled with the swift gray of
dawn. He held his perilous way. Cold sweat stood on his brow. If Foy
or a foe of Foy were on the cliff now, how easy to topple down a stone
upon him! The absolute stillness was painful. A thought came to him of
Stella Vorhis--her laughing eyes, her misty hair, the little hand that
had lingered upon his own. Such a little, little hand!
Before him a narrow slit opened in the wall--such a crevice as the
Major had described.
"Foy! Oh, Foy!" he called. No answer came. He raised his voice a
little louder. "Foy! Speak if you're there! It's Pringle!"
A gentle voice answered from the cleft:
"Let us hope, for your sake, that you are not mistaken about that. I
should be dreadfully vexed if you were deceiving me. The voice is the
voice of Pringle, but how about the face? I can only see your back."
"I would raise my head, so you could take a nice look by the
well-known cold gray light of the justly celebrated dawn," rejoined
Pringle, "if I wasn't reasonably sure that a rifle shot would promptly
mar the classic outlines of my face. They're all around you, Foy.
Hargis, he gave you away. Don't show a finger nail of yourself. Let me
crawl up behind that big rock ahead and then you can identify me."
"It's you, all right," said Foy when Pringle reached the rock and
straightened himself up.
"I told you so," said Pringle, peering into the shadows of the cleft.
"I can't see you. And how am I going to get to you? There are twenty
men with point-blank range. I'm muddy, scratched, bruised, tired and
hungry, sleepy and cross--and there's thirty feet in the open between
here and you, and it nearly broad daylight. If I try to cross that
I'll run twenty-five hundred pounds to the ton, pure lead. Well, we
can put up a pretty nifty fight, even so. You go back to the other
outlet of your cave and I'll stay here. I'm kinder lonesome, too....
Toss me some cartridges first. I only got five. I left in a hurry. You
got forty-fives?"
"Plenty. But you can't stay there. They'll pot you from the top of the
bluff, first off. Besides, you got a canteen, I see. You back up to
that mountain mahogany bush, slip under it, and worm down through
the rocks till you come to a little scrub-oak tree and a big granite
bowlder. They'll give you shelter to cross the ridge into a deep
ravine that leads here where I am. You'll be out of sight all the way
up once you hit the ravine. I'd--I'd worm along pretty spry if I was
you, going down as far as the scrub oak--say, about as swift as
a rattlesnake strikes--and pray any little prayers you happen to
remember. And say, Pringle, before you go ... I'm rather obliged to
you for coming up here; risking taking cold and all. If it'll cheer
you up any I'll undertake that anyone getting you on the trip will
think there's one gosh-awful echo here."
"S'long!" said Pringle.
He wriggled backward and disappeared.
Ten minutes later he writhed under the bush at Foy's feet.
"Never saw me!" he said. "But I'll always sleep in coils after
this--always supposing we got any after this coming to us."
"One more crawl," said Foy, leading the way. "We'll go up on top.
Regular fort up there. If we've got to die we'll die in the sun."
He stooped at what seemed the end of the passage and crawled out of
sight under the low branches of a stunted cedar. Pringle followed and
found himself in the pitch dark.
"Grab hold of my coat tail. I know my way, feeling the wall. Watch
your step or you'll bark your shins."
The cave floor was smooth underfoot, except for scattered rocks; it
rose and dipped, but the general trend was sharply upward.
"You're quite an institution, Pringle. You've made good Stella's word
of you--the best ever!" said Foy as they mounted. "But you can't do
me any good, really. I'll enjoy your company, but I wish you hadn't come."
"That's all right. I always like to finish what I begin."
"Well," remarked Foy cheerfully, "I reckon we've reached the big
finish, both of us. I don't see any way out. All they've got to do
is to sit tight till we starve out for water. Wish you was out of it.
It's going to be tough on Stella, losing her friend and--and me, both
at once. How's she making out? Full of fight and hope to the last,
I'll bet."
"They had me under herd; but she was wishing for the Bar Cross buddies
to butt in, I believe. Reckon your sheriff-man guessed it. He had her
under guard, too."
"Nice man, the sheriff! How'd you get away from your herder?"
"He don't just remember," said Pringle.
"Who was it?"
"Applegate. Dreadful absent-minded, Applegate is. Ouch! There went my
other shin. Had any sleep?"
"Most all night. Something woke me up about two hours ago, and I kept
on the look-out ever since."
"That was me, I guess. I had to step lively. They was crowding me."
"If the Bar Cross happened to get word," observed Foy thoughtfully,
"we might stand some hack. But they won't. It's good-by, vain world,
for ours! Say, in case a miracle happens for you, just make a memo
about the sheriff being a nuisance, will you?"
"I'll tie a string on my finger. Anything else?"
"You might stick around and cheer Stella up a little. I'll do as much
for you sometime. I'm thinking she'll feel pretty bad at first. Here
we are!"
A faint glimmer showed ahead. They crawled under low bushes and
stumbled out, in what seemed at first a dazzle of light; into a
small saucer-shaped plat of earth a few feet across, enclosed by
an irregular oval made by great blocks of stone, man-high. Below, a
succession of little cliffs fell away, stair fashion, to an exceeding
high and narrow gap which separated Little Thumb Butte from its
greater neighbor, Big Thumb Butte.
"Castle Craney Crow," smiled Foy with a proprietary wave of his hand.
"Just right for our business, isn't it? Make yourself at home, while
I take a peep around about." He bent to peer through bush and crack.
"Nothing stirring," he announced. He leaned his rifle against a
walling rock. "Let's have a look at that water."
He raised the canteen to his lips. Pringle struck swift and hard to
the tilted chin. Foy dropped like a poled bullock; his head struck
heavily against the sharp corner of a rock. Pringle pounced on the
stricken man. He threw Foy's sixshooter aside; he pulled Foy's wrists
behind him and tied them tightly with a handkerchief. Then he rolled
his captive over.
Foy's eyes opened; they rolled back till only the whites were visible;
his lips twitched. Pringle hastily bound his handkerchief to the gash
the stone had made; he sprinkled the blood-streaked face with water;
he spilled drops of water between the parted lips. Foy did not revive.
Pringle stuck his hat on the rifle muzzle and waved it over the
parapet of rock.
"Hello!" he shouted. "Bring on your reward! I've got Foy! It's
me--Pringle! Come get him; and be quick--he's bleeding mighty bad."
"Come out, you! Hands up and no monkey business!" answered a startled
voice not fifty yards away.
"Who's that? That you, Nueces? Give me your word and I'll lug him out.
No time to lose--he's hurt, and hurt bad."
"You play fair and we will. I give my word!" shouted Nueces.
"Here goes!" Pringle pitched the rifle over. A moment later he
staggered out between the rocks, bearing Foy's heavy weight in his
arms. The head hung helpless, blood-spattered; the body was limp and
slack; the legs dragged sprawling; the dreaded hands were bound.
Pringle laid his burden on the grass.
"Here he is, you hyenas! His hands are tied--are you still afraid of
him? Damn you! The man's bleeding to death!"