IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS
The afternoon of the third day out from the Moonstone Ranch, Collie
picketed the roan pony Yuma near a water-hole in the desert. He spread
his saddle-blankets, rolled a cigarette, and smoked. Presently he rose
and took some food from a saddle-pocket.
The pony, unused to the desert, fretted and sniffed at the sagebrush
with evident disgust. Collie had given her water, but there was no
grazing.
After he had eaten he studied the rough map that Overland had given him.
There, to the south, was the desert town. He had passed that, as
directed, skirting it widely. There to the east were the hills.
Somewhere behind them was the hidden cañon and Overland Red.
Stiff and tired from his long ride, he stretched himself for a short
rest. He dozed. Something touched his foot. It was the riata with which
he had picketed the pony. He meant to travel again that night. He would
sleep a little while. The horse, circling the picket, would be sure to
awaken him again.
He slept heavily. The Yuma colt stood with rounded nostrils sniffing the
night air. The pony faced in the direction of the distant town. She knew
that another horse and rider were coming toward her through the
darkness. They were far off, but coming.
For a long time she stood stamping impatiently at intervals. Finally she
grew restive. The oncoming horse had stopped. That other animal, the
man, had dismounted and was coming toward her on foot. She could not see
through the starlit blanket of night, but she knew.
The man-thing drew a little nearer. The pony swerved as if about to run,
but hesitated, ears flattened, curious, half-belligerent.
* * * * *
That afternoon Silent Saunders, riding along the border of the desert
town, had seen a strange horse and rider far out--away from the road and
evidently heading for the water-hole. Saunders rode into town, borrowed
a pair of field-glasses, and rode out again. He at once recognized the
roan pony as the Oro outlaw, but the rider? He was not so sure. He would
investigate.
The fact that he saw no glimmer of fire as he now approached the
water-hole made him doubly cautious. Nearer, he crouched behind a bush.
He threw a pebble at the pony. She circled the picket, awakening Collie,
who spoke to her sleepily. Saunders crept back toward his horse. He
knew _that_ voice. He would track the young rider to the range and
beyond--to the gold. He rode back to town through the night, entered the
saloon, and beckoned to a belated lounger.
Shivering in the morning starlight, Collie arose and saddled the pony.
He rode in the general direction of the range. The blurred shadow of the
foothills seemed stationary. His horse was not moving forward--simply
walking a gigantic treadmill of black space that revolved beneath him.
The hills drew no nearer than did the constellations above them.
Suddenly the shadows of the hills pushed back. Almost instantly he faced
the quick rise of the range. Out of the silence came the slithering step
of some one walking in the sand. The darkness seemed to expand.
Overland Red stood before him, silent, alert, anxious. "You, Chico?" he
asked.
"Sure. Hello, Red."
"Anybody see you come across yesterday?"
"Not that I know of. I kept away from the town."
"Your hoss shod?"
"Yes. All around. Why?"
"Nothin'. I'm sufferin' glad to see you again. When we get on top of the
hills, you take the left trail and keep on down. You can't miss the
cañon. I'll leave you here. I got to stay here a spell to see that
nothin' else comes up but the sun this mornin'."
"All right, Red. Your pardner down there?"
"Yep. Whistle when you get up to the meadow in the cañon. Billy'll be
lookin' for you."
"Any trouble lately?"
"Nope. But Billy's got a hunch, though. He says he feels it in the air."
At the crest Collie rode on down the winding trail, or rather way, for
no regular trail existed. At the foot of the range he turned to the
right and entered the narrow cañon, following the stream until he came
to the meadow, where he picketed the pony.
He continued on up the cañon on foot. When he arrived at the camp,
Overland was there waiting. Winthrop and he greeted Collie cordially.
"Short cut," explained Overland, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"No hoss trail, though. Too steep."
Faint dawn lights were shifting along the cañon walls as they had
breakfast. As the morning sunlight spread to their camp Collie's natural
curiosity in regard to Overland's pardner was satisfied. He saw a
straight, slender figure, in flannel shirt and khaki. The gray eyes were
peculiarly keen and humorous. Winthrop was not a little like his sister
Anne in poise and coloring. The hands were nervously slender and
aristocratic, albeit roughened and scarred by toil. There was a
suggestion of dash and go about Winthrop that appealed to Collie. Even
in repose the Easterner seemed to be alert. Undoubtedly he would make a
good companion in any circumstance.
"There's spare blankets in the tent. Roll in for a snooze, Collie. Billy
and me'll pack your saddle and stuff up here later."
"I guess I will. You might sponge Yuma's back a little, Red. She's
brought me close to two hundred miles in the last three days."
"Sure, Bo! I'll brush her teeth and manicure her toe-nails if you say
the word. I guess that hoss has kind of made a hit with you."
Collie yawned. "Mebby. But it isn't in it with the hit she'll make with
you if you try to take up her feet. She's half-sister to a shot of
dynamite. I'm only telling you so she won't kick your fool head off."
"You talk like most a full-size man," said Overland.
Down at the meadow, Overland looked at the colt and shook his head. "He
is correct," he said succinctly. "That hoss don't welcome handlin' worth
a bean."
Winthrop's silence rather stirred Overland's sensitive pride in his
horsemanship. "'Course I broke and rode hundreds like her, down in Mex.
But then I was paid for doin' it. It was my business then. Now, minin'
and educatin' Collie is my business, and a busted neck wouldn't help
any."
Winthrop realized for the first time that Overland's supreme interest in
life was Collie's welfare. Heretofore the paternal note had not been
evident. Winthrop had imagined them chums, friends, tramps together.
They were more than that. Overland considered Collie an adopted son.
The Easterner glanced at Overland's broad shoulders stooped beneath the
weight of the heavy stock saddle. Something in the man's humorous
simplicity, his entire willingness to serve those whom he liked and his
stiff indifference to all others, appealed to Winthrop. So this flotsam
of the range, this erstwhile tramp, this paradox of coarseness and
sentiment, had an object in life? A laudable object: that of serving
with his sincerest effort the boy friend he had picked up on the desert,
a castaway.
As they toiled up the stream toward the camp, Winthrop recalled their
former chats by the night-fire. Now he began to see the drift of
Overland's then frequent references to Collie. And there was a
girl,--mentioned by Overland almost reverently,--the Rose Girl, Louise
Lacharme, of whom Anne Marshall had written much in eulogy to him. And
Winthrop himself?
His swift introspection left him aware that of them all he alone seemed
to lack a definite aim. Making money--mining--was still to him a game,
interesting and healthful, but play. To Overland it was life. Winthrop
saw himself as he was. His improved health scoffed at the idea of
becoming sentimental about it. He laughed, and Overland, turning,
regarded him with bushy, interrogative brows.
"Nothing," said Winthrop.
"Ain't you feelin' good lately, Billy?"
"I'm all right."
"Glad of that. It's good to forget you got such a thing as health if you
want to keep it. If you get to lookin' for it, like as not you'll find
it's gone."
"I'm looking for something entirely different. Something you
have--something that I never possessed."
"I don't know anything I got that you haven't 'less it's that new
Stetson I got in Los. You can have her, Billy, and welcome. Your lid
_is_ gettin' on the bum."
"Not that," laughed Winthrop. "Something you keep under it."
"'T ain't me hair. I'm plumb sure of that."
"No."
"Mebby you're jealous of some of me highbrow ideas?"
"Add an 'l' and you have it."
"I-d-e-a-l-s. Oh, ideals, eh? Never owned none except that little
electric do-diddle-um of the Guzzuh what makes the spark to keep the
machinery goin'. That's called the 'Ideal.'"
"The spark to keep the machinery going--that's it," said Winthrop.
At the camp he prepared to make his trip to the Moonstone Ranch. He read
his sister's letter over and over again. Finally he sauntered up the
cañon to where Overland was at work. "I'll lend a hand," he said, in
answer to Overland's questioning face. "I don't believe I'll go before
to-morrow night. It is hardly right to leave the minute my new pardner
arrives. I want to talk with him."
Overland nodded. "Guess you're right. It won't hurt to keep in the
shadow of the hills for a day or two. Can't tell who might 'a' spotted
Collie ridin' out this way."
* * * * *
That afternoon, toward evening, Collie arose, refreshed, and eager to
inspect the claim. He could hear the faint click of pick and shovel up
the cañon. He stretched himself, drank from the stream, and sauntered
toward the meadow. He would see to his pony first.
He found the horse had been picketed afresh by Overland when he had come
for the saddle. He was returning toward camp when he heard a slight
noise behind him--the noise a man's boot makes stepping on a pebble that
turns beneath his weight.
Collie wheeled quickly, saw nothing unusual, and turned again toward the
camp. Then he hesitated. He would look down the cañon. He realized that
he was unarmed. Then he grew ashamed of his hesitancy. He picked his way
down the stream. A buzzard circled far above the cliffs. The air hummed
with invisible bees in the rank wild clover. He peered past the next
bend. A short distance below stood a riderless horse. The bridle was
trailing. For an instant Collie did not realize the significance of the
animal waiting patiently for its rider. Then, like the flash of a
speeding film, he saw it all--his pony's tracks up the cañon--the rider
who had undoubtedly seen him crossing to the water-hole, and who had
waited until daylight to follow the tracks; who had dismounted, and was
probably in ambush watching him. He summoned all his reserve courage.
Turning away, he remarked, distinctly, naturally, casually, "Thought I
heard something. Must have been the water."
He walked slowly back to the notch in the cañon walls. Stepping through
it, he continued on up the stream. A few paces beyond the notch, and a
face appeared in the cleft rock, watching him. The watcher seemed in
doubt. Collie's action had been natural enough. Had he seen the horse?
The hidden face grew crafty. The eyes grew cold. The watcher tapped the
side of the cliff with his revolver butt. The noise was slight, but in
that place of sensitive echoes, loud enough to be heard a long way up
the cañon. Then it was that Collie made a courageous but terrible
mistake. He heard the sound, and seemed to realize that it was made
intentionally--to attract his attention. Yet he was not sure. He kept
on, ignoring the sound. Had he not suspected some one was in the cañon,
to have glanced back would have been the most natural thing in the
world. The watcher realized this. He knew that the other had heard
him--suspected his presence, and was making a daring bluff.
"Got to stop that," muttered the watcher, and he raised his hand.
The imprisoned report rolled and reëchoed like mountain thunder. Collie
threw up his arms and lurched forward.
Below in the cañon clattered the hoofs of the speeding horse. The rider,
still holding his six-gun, muzzle up, glanced back. "I didn't care
partic'lar about gettin' _him_, but gettin' the kid hits the red-head
between the eyes. I guess I'm about even now." And Silent Saunders
holstered his gun, swung out of the cañon, and spurred down the
mountain, not toward the desert town, but toward Gophertown, some thirty
miles to the north. He had found the claim. The desert town folk he had
used to good advantage. They had paid his expenses while he trailed
Overland and Collie. They had even guaranteed him protection from the
law--such as it was on the Mojave. He had every reason to be grateful to
them, but he was just a step or two above them in criminal artistry. He
had been a "killer." Like the lone wolf that calls the pack to the hunt,
he turned instinctively to Gophertown, a settlement in the hills not
unknown to a few of the authorities, but unmolested by them. The
atmosphere of Gophertown was not conducive to long life.