THE MAN-HUNT
When Jim Yeager separated from Phil after their discovery of Keller's
hat and the deductions they drew from it, the former turned his pony
toward the Frying Pan. Daylight had already broken before he came in
sight of it, but sounds of revelry still issued boisterously from the
house.
As he drew near there came to him the squeal of sawing riddles, the
high-pitched voice of the dance caller in sing-song drawl, the shuffling
of feet keeping time to the rhythm of the music. For though a new day
was at hand, the quadrilles continued with unflagging vigor, one
succeeding another as soon as the floor was cleared.
The cow country takes its amusements seriously. A dance is infrequent
enough to be an event. Men and women do not ride or drive from thirty to
fifty miles without expecting to drink the last drop of pleasure there
may be in the occasion.
As Jim swung from the saddle, a slim figure in white glided from the
shadow of the wild cucumber vines that rioted over one end of the porch.
"Well, Jim?"
The man came to the point with characteristic directness. "He has been
waylaid, Phyl. We found his hat and the place where they ambushed him."
"Is he----" Her voice died at the word, but her meaning was clear.
"I don't think it. Looks like they were aiming to take him prisoner
without hurting him. They might easily have shot him down, but the
ground shows there was a struggle."
"And you came back without rescuing him?" she reproached.
"Phil and I were unarmed. I came back to get guns and help."
"And Phil?"
"He's following the trail. I wanted him to let me while he came back.
But he wouldn't hear to it. Said he had to square his debt to Larry."
"Good for Phil!" his sister cried, eyes like stars.
"Is Brill still here?" he asked.
"No. He rode away about an hour ago. He was very bitter at me because I
wouldn't dance with him. Said I'd curse myself for it before twenty-four
hours had passed. He must have Larry in his power, Jim."
"Looks like," he nodded, and added grimly: "If you do any regretting
there will be others that will, too."
She caught the lapels of his coat and looked into his face with
extraordinary intensity. "I'm going back with you, Jim. You'll let me,
won't you? I've waited--and waited. You can't think what an awful night
it has been. I can't stand it any longer! I'll go mad! Oh, Jim, you'll
take me, I know!" Her hands slipped down to his and clung to them with
passionate entreaty.
"Why, honey, I cayn't. This is likely to be war before we finish. It
ain't any place for girls."
"I'll stay back, Jim. I'll do whatever you say, if you'll only let me
go."
He shook his head resolutely. "Cayn't be done, girl. I'm sorry, but you
see yourself it won't do."
Nor could all her beseechings move him. Though his heart was very tender
toward her he was granite to her pleadings. At last he put her aside
gently and stepped into the house.
Going at once to the fiddlers, he stopped the music and stood on the
little rostrum where they were seated. Surprised faces turned toward
him.
"What's up, Jim?" demanded Slim, his arm still about the waist of Bess
Purdy.
"A man was waylaid while coming to this dance and taken prisoner by his
enemies. They mean to do him a mischief. I want volunteers to rescue
him."
"Who is it?" several voices cried at once.
"The man I mean is Larrabie Keller."
A pronounced silence followed before Slim drawled an answer:
"Cayn't speak for the other boys, but I reckon I haven't lost any
Kellers, Jim."
"Why not? What have you got against him?"
"You know well enough. He's under a cloud. We don't say he's a rustler
and a bank robber, but then we don't say he ain't."
"I say he isn't! Boys, it has come to a show-down. Keller is a member of
the Rangers, sent here by Bucky O'Connor to run down the rustlers."
Questions poured upon him.
"How do you know?"
"How long have you known?"
"Who told you?"
"Why didn't he tell us so himself, then?"
Jim waited till they were quiet. "I've seen letters from the governor to
him. He didn't come here declaring his intentions because he knew there
would be nothing doing if the rustlers knew he was in the neighborhood.
He has about done his work now, and it's up to us to save him before
they bump him off. Who will ride with me to rescue him?"
There was no hesitation now.
Every man pushed forward to have a hand in it.
"Good enough," nodded Yeager. "We'll want rifles, boys. Looks to me like
hell might be a-popping before mo'ning grows very ancient. We'll set out
from Turkey Creek Crossroads two hours from now. Any man not on hand
then will get left behind.
"And remember--this is a man hunt! No talking, boys. We don't want the
news that we're coming spread all over the hills before we arrive."
As Jim descended from the rostrum, his roving gaze fell on Phyl
Sanderson standing in the doorway. Her fears had stolen the color even
from her lips, but the girl's beauty had never struck him more
poignantly.
Misery stared at him out of her fine eyes, yet the unconscious courage
of her graceful poise--erect, with head thrown back so that he could
even see the pulse beat in the brown throat--suggested anything but
supine surrender to her terror. Before he could reach her she had
slipped into the night, and he could not find her.
Men dribbled in to the Turkey Creek Crossroads along as many trails as
the ribs of a fan running to a common centre. Jim waited, watch open,
and when it said that seven o'clock had come he snapped it shut and gave
the word to set out.
It was a grim, business-like posse, composed of good men and true who
had been sifted in the impartial sieve of life on the turbid frontier.
Moreover, they were well led. A certain hard metallic quality showed in
the voice and eye of Jim Yeager that boded no good for the man who faced
him in combat to-day. He rode with his gaze straight to the front,
toward that cleft in the hills where lay Gregory's Pass. The others fell
in behind, a silent, hard-bitten outfit as ever took the trail for that
most dangerous of all big game--the hidden outlaw.
The little bunch of riders had not gone far before Purdy, who was
riding in the rear, called to Yeager.
"Somebody coming hell-to-split after us, Jim."
It turned out to be Buck Weaver, who had been notified by telephone of
what was taking place. A girl had called him up out of his sleep, and he
had pounded the road hard to get in at the finish.
Jim explained the situation in a few words and offered to yield command
to the owner of the Twin Star ranch. But Buck declined.
"You're the boss of this _rodeo_, Yeager. I'm riding in the ranks
to-day."
"How did you hear we were rounding-up to-day?" Jim asked.
"Some one called me up," Buck answered briefly, but he did not think it
necessary to say that it was Phyllis.
Behind them, unnoticed by any, sometimes hidden from sight by the rise
and fall of the rough ground, sometimes silhouetted against the sky
line, rode a slim, supple figure on a white-faced cow pony. Once, when
the fresh morning wind swept down a gulch at an oblique angle, it lifted
for an instant from the stirrup leather what might have been a gray
flag. But the flag was only a skirt, and it signalled nothing more
definite than the courage and devotion of a girl who knew that the men
she loved best on earth were in danger.