THE ROUND-UP
The Mimbres Pass narrows toward the southern exit where Point o' Rocks
juts into the cañon and commands it like a sentinel. Toward this column
of piled boulders slowly moved a cloud of white dust, at the base of
which crept a band of hard-driven cattle. Swollen tongues were out,
heads stretched forward in a bellow for water taken up by one as another
dropped it. The day was still hot, though the sun had slipped down over
the range, and the drove had been worked forward remorselessly. Every
inch that could be sweated out of them had been gained.
For those that pushed them along were in desperate hurry. Now and again
a rider would twist round in his saddle to sweep back a haggard glance.
Dust enshrouded them, lay heavy on every exposed inch; but through it
seams of anxiety crevassed their leathern faces. Iron men they were,
with one exception. Fight they could and would to the last ditch. But
behind the jaded, stony eyes lay a haunting fear, the never-ending dread
of a pursuit that might burst upon them at any moment. Driven to the
wall, they would have faced the enemy like tigers, with a fierce,
exultant hate. It was the never-ending possibility of disaster that lay
heavily upon them.
Just as they entered the pass, a man came spurring up the steep trail
behind them. The drag drivers shouted a warning to those in front and
waited alertly with weapons ready. The man trying to overtake them waved
a sombrero as a flag of truce.
"Keep an eye on him, Tom. If he makes a move that don't look good to
you, plug him!" ordered the keen-eyed man beside one of the drag
drivers.
"I'm bridle wise, boss." But though he spoke with bravado Dixon shook
like an aspen in a breeze.
The man he had called boss looked every inch a leader. He rode with the
loose seat and the straight back of the Westerner to the saddle born.
Just now he was looking back with impassive, reddened eyes at the
approaching figure.
"Hold on, Tom! Don't shoot! It's Brad," he decided. "And I wonder what
in Mexico he is doing here."
The leader of the outlaws was soon to learn. Irwin told the story of the
strategy that had changed him from jailer to prisoner and of the way he
had later freed himself from the rope that bound him.
Healy unloaded his sentiments with an emphasis that did the subject
justice. Nevertheless he could not see that their plans were seriously
affected.
"It's a leetle premature, but his getaway doesn't cut any ice. What we
want to do is to nail him, clamp the evidence home, and put him out of
business before his friends can say Jack Robinson. The story now is that
he was caught driving a little bunch of cows to met the big bunch his
pals were rustling, and that we left him in charge of Brad while we
tried to run down the other waddies. Understand, boys?"
They did, and admired the more the versatility of a leader who could
make plans on the spur of the moment to meet any emergency.
"We'll push right on, boys. Once we get through the pass it will trouble
anybody to find us. Before mo'ning you'll be across the line."
"And you, Brill?"
"I'm going back to settle accounts for good and all with Mr. Keller,"
answered Healy grimly between set teeth. "I've got a notion about him. I
believe he's a spy."
Just before Point o' Rocks a defile runs into the Mimbres Pass at right
angles. The leaders of the cattle, pushed forward by the pressure from
behind, stopped for a moment, and stood bawling at the junction. A rider
spurred forward to keep them from attempting the gulch. Suddenly he
dragged his pony to its haunches, so quickly did he stop it. For a clear
voice had called down a warning as if from the heavens:
"You can't go this way! The Pass is closed!"
The rider looked up in amazement, and beheld a man standing on the
ledge above with a rifle resting easily across his forearm.
"By Heaven, it's Keller!" the rustler muttered.
He wheeled as on a half dollar, pushed his way back along the edge of
the wall past the cattle, and shouted to his chief:
"We're trapped, Brill!"
None of the outlaws needed that notification. Five pair of eyes had
lifted to the ledge upon which Keller stood. The shock of the surprise
paralyzed them for an instant. For it occurred to none of the five that
this man would be standing there so quietly unless he were backed by a
posse sufficient to overpower them. He had not the manner of a man
taking a desperate chance. The situation was as dramatic as life and
death, but the voice that had come down to them had been as
matter-of-fact as if it had asked some one to pass him a cup of coffee
at the breakfast table.
The temper of the outlaws' metal showed instantly. Dixon dropped his
rifle, threw up his hands, and ran bleating to the cover of some large
rocks, imploring the imagined posse not to shoot. Others found silently
what shelter they could. Healy alone took reckless counsel of his hate.
Flinging his rifle to his shoulder, he blazed away at the figure on the
ledge--once, twice, three times. When the smoke cleared the ranger was
no longer to be seen. He was lying flat on his rock like a lizard, where
he had dropped just as his enemy whipped up his weapon to fire. Cold as
chilled steel, in spite of the fire of passion that blazed within him,
Healy slid to the ground on the far side of his horse and, without
exposing himself, slowly worked to the loose boulders bordering the edge
of the canon bed.
The bawling of the cattle and the faint whimpering of Dixon alone
disturbed the silence. Healy and his confederates were waiting for the
other side to show its hand. Meanwhile the leader of the outlaws was
thinking out the situation.
"I believe there's only two of them, Bart," he confided in a low voice
to the big fellow lying near. "Keller must have heard us when we talked
it over at the shack. I reckon he and Phil hit the trail for here
immediate. They hadn't time to go back and rustle help and still get
here before us.
"We'll make Mr. Keller table his cards. I'm going to try to rush the
cattle through. We'll see at once what's doing. If they are too many for
us to do that we'll break for the gulch and fight our way out--that is,
if we find we're hemmed in behind, too."
He called to the rest of the bandits and gave crisp instructions. At
sound of his sharp whistle four men leaped into sight, each making for
his horse. Dixon alone did not answer to the call. He lay white and
trembling behind the rock that sheltered him, physically unable to rise
and face the bullets that would rain down upon him.
Keller, watching alertly from above, guessed what they would be at. His
rifle cracked twice, and two of the horses staggered, one of them
collapsing slowly. He had to show himself, and for three heartbeats
stood exposed to the fire of four rifles. One bullet fanned his cheek, a
second plunged through his coat sleeve, a third struck the rock at his
feet. While the echoes were still crashing, he was flat on his rock
again, peering over the edge to see their next move.
"He's alone," cried Healy jubilantly. "Must have sent the kid back for
help. Bart, get Dixon's gun, steal up the ravine, and take him in the
rear. I'd go myself, but I can't leave the boys now."
Slowly the cattle felt the impetus from behind, and began to move
forward. The voice above shouted a second warning. Healy answered with a
derisive yell. Keller again stood exposed on the ledge.
Rifles cracked.
This time the cattle detective was firing at men and not at horses, and
they in turn were pumping at him fast as they could work the levers. One
man went down, torn through and through by a rifle slug in his vitals.
Healy's horse twitched and staggered, but the rider was unhurt. The
officer on the ledge, a perfect target, was the heart of a very hail of
lead, but when he sank again to cover he was by some miracle still
unhurt.
"They'll try a flank attack next time," Keller told himself.
Up to date the honors were easily his. He had put three horses out of
commission and disabled one of the outlaws so badly that he would prove
negligible in the attack. Peering down, he could see Healy, with superb
contempt for the marksman above, slowly and carefully carry his wounded
comrade to shelter. The other men were already driven back to cover. The
cattle, excited by the firing, were milling round and round uneasily.
Healy laid the wounded man down, knelt beside him, and gave him water
from his flask. The man was plainly hard hit, though he was not bleeding
much.
"Where is it, Duke? Can I do anything for you, old fellow?"
The dying man shook his head and whispered hoarsely: "I've got mine,
Brill. Shot to pieces. I'm dying right now. Get out while you can. Don't
mind me."
His chief swore softly. "We'll get him right, Duke. Brad's after him
now. Buck up, old pard. You'll worry through yet."
"Not this time, Brill. I've played rustler once too often."
Keller, far up on the precipice, became aware of approaching riders long
before the outlaws below could see them. He counted eight--nine--ten
men, still black dots in a cloud of dust. This he knew must be Phil's
posse.
If he could hold the rustlers for ten minutes more they would be caught
like rats in a trap. Once or twice he glanced behind him as a precaution
against some one of the enemy climbing Point o' Rocks from the defile,
but he gave this little consideration. He had not seen Brad when he
disappeared into the mesquite, and he supposed all of the rustlers were
still in the Pass five hundred feet below him.
What he had expected was that they would force their way up the defile
for a quarter of a mile and strike the easy trail that ran from the rear
to the top of the Point. He wondered that this had not occurred to
Healy.
In point of fact it had, but the outlaw leader knew that as they picked
their way among the broken boulders of the gulch bottom the enemy would
have them in the open for more than a hundred yards of slow going. He
had chosen the alternative of sending Brad quietly up the rough face of
the cliff. The other plan would do as a last resource if this failed.
Healy believed that his enemy had been delivered into his hands. After
Keller had been killed they would toss his body down into the Pass, and
while his companions continued the drive to Mexico, Healy would return
to get help for Duke and spread the story he wanted to get out. The main
features of that tale would be that he and Duke had cut their trail by
accident, suspected rustling, and followed as far as the Mimbres Pass,
where Keller had shot Duke and been in turn shot by Healy.
It was a neat plan, and one that would have been fairly sure of success
but for one unforeseen contingency--the approach of Yeager's posse a
half hour too soon. Healy heard them coming, knew he was trapped, and
attempted to force an escape through the narrows in front of Point o'
Rocks.
The milling cattle had jammed the gateway. Keller, shooting down one or
two of them, blocked the exit still more. Healy and his confederates
could not get through, and turned to try the defile just as the first of
the posse came flying down the Pass.
Young Sanderson was in the van, a hundred yards in front of Yeager,
dashing over the uneven ground in a reckless haste that Jim's slower
horse could not match. Loose shale was flying from his pony's hoofs as
it pounded forward. The outlaws just beat him to the mouth of the
intersecting gulch. Dragging his broncho to a slithering halt, he fired
twice at the retreating men. He had taken no time to aim, and his
bullets went wild.
Brill laughed in mockery, covered him deliberately with his rifle, and
just as deliberately raised the barrel and fired into the air. The
distance was scarce a hundred yards. Phil could not doubt that his
former friend had purposely spared his life. The boy's rifle dropped
from his shoulder.
"Brill wouldn't shoot at me! I couldn't kill him!" he shouted to
Weaver, as the latter rode up.
Buck nodded. "Let me have him!" And he plunged into the gorge after the
men that had disappeared.
Twice Keller's rifle spat at Healy and his companion as they plowed
forward across the boulder bed, but the difficulty of shooting from far
above at moving figures almost directly below saved the rustlers. They
reached a thick growth of aspens and disappeared. Healy parted company
with his ally at the place where the trail to the summit of Point o'
Rocks led up.
"Break south when you get out of the gulch, Sam. In half an hour it will
be night, and you'll be safe. So-long."
"Where you going, Brill?"
"I'm going to settle accounts with that dashed spy!" answered Healy,
with an epithet. "Inside of half an hour either Keller or I will be down
and out!"
The outlaw took the stiff incline leisurely, for he knew Keller could
come down only this way, and he had no mind to let himself get so
breathed as to disturb the sureness of his aim. The aspen grove ran like
a forked tongue up the ridge for a couple of hundred yards. As Healy
emerged from it he saw a rider just disappearing over the shoulder of
the hill in front of him. For an instant he had an amazed impression
that the figure was that of a woman, but he dismissed this as absurd.
He went the more cautiously, for he now knew that there would be two for
him to deal with on the Point instead of one--unless Brad reached the
scene in time to assist him.
The sound of a shot drifted down to him, followed presently by a far,
faint cry of terror. What had happened was this:
Keller, turning away from the overhanging ledge from which he had seen
the outlaws vanish into the grove, looked down the long slope
preliminary to descending. He was surprised to see a horse and rider
halfway between him and the aspen tongue. To him, too, there came a
swift impression that it was a woman, and almost at once something in
the poise of the gallant figure told him what woman. His heart leaped to
meet her. He waved a hand, and broke into a run.
But only for two strides. For there had come to him a warning. He swung
on his heel and waited. Again he heard the light rumble of shale, and
before that had died away a sinister click. Alert in every fiber, his
gaze swept the bluff--and stopped when it met a pair of beady eyes
peering at him over the edge of the precipice.
The two pair of eyes fastened for what seemed like an eternity, but
could have been no longer than four ticks of a clock. Neither of the men
spoke. The outlaw fired first--wildly, for the arm which held the rifle
was cramped for space. Keller's revolver flashed an answer which tore
through Irwin's teeth and went out beneath his ear. With a furious oath
the man dropped his weapon and flung himself upward and forward, landing
in a heap almost at the feet of the detective.
"Don't move!" ordered the latter.
Brad writhed forward awkwardly, knew the shock of another heavy bullet
in his shoulder, and catching his foe by the legs dragged him from his
feet. Keller's revolver was jerked over the edge of the precipice as he
let go of it to close with the burly ruffian.
Both of them were unarmed save for the weapons nature had given them.
The detailed purpose of the struggle defined itself at once. Irwin meant
by main strength to fling the detective into the gulf that descended
sheer for five hundred feet. The other fought desperately to save
himself by dragging his infuriated antagonist back from the edge.
They grappled in silence, save for the heavy panting that evidenced the
tension of their efforts. Each tried to bear the other to the ground, to
establish a grip against which his foe would be helpless. Now they were
on their knees, now on their sides. Over and over they rolled, first one
and then the other on top, shifting so fast that neither could clinch
any temporary advantage.
[Illustration: THEY GRAPPLED IN SILENCE SAVE FOR THE HEAVY PANTING THAT
EVIDENCED THE TENSION OF THEIR EFFORTS. _Page 340_]
Yet Keller, with a flying glance at the cliff, knew that he was being
forced nearer the gulf by sheer strength of muscle. Irwin, his jaw
shattered and his shoulder torn, was not fighting to win, but to
kill. He cared not whether he himself also went to death. He was
obsessed by the old primeval lust to crush the life out of this lusty
antagonist, and his whole gigantic force was concentrated to that end.
He scarce knew that he was wounded, and he cared not at all. Backward
and forward though the battle went, on the whole it moved jerkily toward
the chasm.
The end came with a suddenness of which Larrabie had but an instant's
warning in the swift flare of joy that lit the madman's face. His foot,
searching for a brace as he was borne back, found only empty space.
Plunged downward, the nester clung viselike to the man above, dragged
him after, and by the very fury of Irwin's assault flung him far out
into the gulf head-first.
It was Phyl Sanderson's cry of horror that Healy heard. She had put her
horse up the steep at a headlong gallop, had seen the whole furious
struggle and the tragic end of it that witnessed two men hurled over the
precipice into space. She slipped from the saddle, and sank dizzily to
the ground, not daring to look over the cliff at what she would see far
below. Waves of anguish shot through her and shook her very being.
A man bent over her, and gave a startled cry.
"My heaven, it's Phyl!" he cried.
"Yes." She spoke in a flat, lifeless voice he could not have recognized
as hers.
"Where is he? What's become of him?" Healy demanded.
She told him with a gesture, then flung herself on the turf, and broke
down helplessly. The outlaw went to the edge and looked over. The gulf
of air told no story except the obvious one. No wingless living creature
could make that descent without forfeiture of life. He stepped back to
the girl and touched her on the shoulder.
"Come."
She looked up, shuddering, and asked, "Where?"
"With me."
"With you? It was you that drove him to his death, and I loved him!"
"Never mind that now. Come."
"I hate you! I should kill you when I got a chance! Why should I go with
you?" she asked evenly.
He did not know why. He had no definite plan. All he knew was that his
old world lay in ruins at his feet, that he must fly through the night
like a hunted wolf, and that the girl he loved was beside him, forever
free from the rival who lay crushed and lifeless at the foot of the
cliff. He could not give her up now. He would not.
The old savage instinct of ownership rose strong in him. She was his. He
had won her by the fortune of war. He would keep her against all comers
so long as he had life to fight. Night was falling softly over the
hills. They would go forth into it together to a new heaven and a new
earth.
He lifted her to her feet and brought up her horse. She looked at him
in a silence that stripped him of his dreams.
"Come!" he said again, between clenched teeth.
"Not with you. I don't know you. Leave me alone. You killed him! You're
a murderer!"
He stretched hands toward her, but she shrank from him, still in the
dull stupor of horror that was on her spirit.
"Go away! Don't touch me! You and your miscreants killed him!" And with
that she flung herself down again, and buried her face from the sight of
him.
He waited doggedly, helpless against her grief and her hatred of him,
but none the less determined to take her with him. Across the border he
would not be a hunted man with a price on his head. They could be
married by a padre in Sonora, and perhaps some day he would make her
love him and forget this man that had come between them. At all events,
he would be her master and would tie her life inextricably to his. He
stooped and caught her shoulder. She had fainted.
A footfall set rolling a pebble. He looked up quickly, and almost of its
own volition, as it seemed, the rifle leaped to both of his hands. A man
stood looking at him across the plateau of the summit. He, too, held a
rifle ready for instant action.
"So it's you!" Healy cried with an oath.
"Have you killed him?"
The outlaw lied, with swift, unblazing passion: "Yes, Buck Weaver, and
tossed his body to the buzzards. Your turn now!"
"Then who is that with you there?"
"The woman you love, the woman that turned you and him down for me,"
taunted his rival. "After I've killed you we're going off to be
married."
"Only a coyote would stand behind a woman's skirts and lie. I can't kill
you there, and you know it."
Healy asked nothing better than an even break. He might have killed with
impunity from where he stood. Yet pantherlike, he swiftly padded six
paces to the left, never lifting his eyes from his antagonist.
Buck waited, motionless. "Are you ready?"
The outlaw's weapon flashed to the level and cracked. Almost
simultaneously the other answered. Weaver felt a bullet fan his cheek,
but he knew that his own had crashed home.
The shock of it swung Healy half round. The man hung in silhouette
against the sky line, then the body plunged to the turf at full length.
Buck moved forward cautiously, fearing a trick, his eyes fastened on the
other. But as he drew nearer he knew it was no ruse. The body lay supine
and inert, as lifeless as the clay upon which it rested.
Once sure of this Buck turned immediately to Phyllis. A faint crackling
of bushes stopped him. He waited, his eyes fixed on the edge of the
precipice from which the sound had come. Next there came to him the
slipping of displaced rubble. He was all eyes and ears, tense and alert
in every pulse.
From out of the gulf a hand appeared and groped for a hold. Weaver
stepped noiselessly to the edge and looked down. A torn and bleeding
face looked up into his.
"Good heavens, Keller!"
Buck was on his knees instantly. He caught the ranger's hand with both
of his and dragged him up. The rescued man sank breathless on the ground
and told his story in gasped fragments.
"--caught on a ledge--hung to some bushes growing there--climbed up--lay
still when Healy looked over--a near thing--makes me sick still!"
"It was a millionth chance that saved you--if it was a chance."
"Where's Healy?"
Weaver pointed to the body. "We fought it out. The luck was with me."
A faint, glad, terrified little cry startled them both. Phyllis was
staring with dilated eyes at the man restored to her from the dead. He
got up and walked across to her with outstretched hands.
"My little girl."
"Oh, Larry! I don't understand. I thought----"
He nodded. "I reckon God was good to us, sweetheart."
Her arms crept up and round his neck. "Oh, boy--boy--boy. I thought
you were--I thought you were----"
She broke down, but he understood. "Well, I'm not," he laughed happily.
Catching sight of Buck's grim, set face, Larrabie explained what scarce
needed an explanation. "You'll have to excuse us, I reckon. It's my day
for congratulations."
Phyllis freed herself and walked across to her other lover. "My friend,
I know the answer now," she told him.
"I see you do."
"Don't--please don't be hurt," she begged. "I have to care for him."
The hard, leathery face softened. "I lose, girl. But who told you I was
a bad loser? The best man wins. I've got no kick to register."
"Not the best man," Keller corrected, shaking hands with his rival.
Phyllis summed it up in woman fashion: "My man, whether he is the best
or not. It's just that a girl goes where her heart goes."
Weaver nodded. "Good enough. Well, I'll be going. I expect you'll not
miss me."
He turned and went down the hill alone. At the foot of it he met Jim
Yeager.
"What about Brill?" the younger man asked quickly.
"He'll never rustle another cow," Buck answered gravely. "I killed him
on the top of Point o' Rocks after an even break."
"Duke has cashed in. Game to the last. Wouldn't say a word to implicate
his pals. But Tom has confessed everything. The boys slipped a noose
over his head, and he came through right away.
"Says he and Duke and Irwin helped Healy rob the Noches Bank and do a
lot of other deviltry. It was just like Keller figured. The automobile
was waiting for the bunch with the showfer, and took them out the old
Fort Lincoln Road. Dixon knows where the gold is hidden, and is going to
show the boys."
"That clears up everything, then. I judge we've made a pretty thorough
gather."
Jim looked up and indistinctly saw the lovers coming slowly down through
the grove. Dusk had fallen and soon the cloak of night would be over the
mountains.
"Who is that?"
Buck did not look round. "I reckon it's Keller and his sweetheart. She
followed us here."
"I told her not to come."
"I expect she takes her telling from Mr. Keller." He changed the subject
abruptly. "We'll go on down to the boys and see what's doing. They'll be
some glad, I shouldn't wonder, at making a gather that cleans out the
worst bunch of cutthroats and rustlers in the Malpais. Don't you
reckon?"
"I reckon," answered Yeager briefly.
THE END