FAIRLY benumbed by the shock of the discovery that a battle for the
possession of the “Little Jean” was actually in progress, Philip
pointed to the right up a steep ravine.
“We can c-cross at the head of this draw,” he stammered, and it made
him furious to find that he could not better control his voice.
“Let’s be moggin’ along, then,” said the man of action, immediately
setting a pace up the wooded ravine that left Philip a stumbling
straggler at his heels. “They’ve got that pardner o’ yourn holed up
somewheres--in yer cabin, most likely. Reckon he’s got sand enough to
hang on?”
“Harry?--he--he’ll hang on till they kill him!” Philip panted.
“What-all’s he got for fightin’ tools?”
“Two Winchesters.”
“Good a-plenty. How much furder do we keep to this here draw?”
“Another hundred yards or so; then bear sharp to the left.”
Following directions, the big man presently turned short into the
ravine-side forest and began to climb, pulling himself from tree to
tree up the steep acclivity with an agility that seemed to take no
account of his great size and weight. Breathlessly Philip struggled
after him, marvelling at the reserves of energy Garth was able to
draw upon after a long day and night of steady tramping and mountain
climbing. For himself, he was nearly at the collapsing point when they
reached the easier going on the summit of the spur. As they pressed
on, the spattering crackle of rifle fire came intermittently from the
gulch, and at each fresh outblaze he started nervously and quickened
his pace.
“For God’s sake, hurry!” he gasped. “They’ll murder Harry before we get
there--if they haven’t already done it!”
But Garth read the story of the ragged firing with shrewder
intelligence.
“That there powder-burnin’s a good sign,” he commented calmly. “Hit
shows they ain’t got him yet, and ain’t rushin’ him. Keep me steered
right. You know the lay o’ the land, and I don’t.”
“To your left again, now,” Philip directed. “There’s a little side
gully along here somewhere ... if we can find it in the dark----”
As capably as if the darkness were interposing no obstacle, Garth found
the head of the dry arroyo and the descent into the gulch of the mine
was begun.
“Right careful, now,” he cautioned; “no slippin’ ’r slidin’ to make a
fuss! Got to work Injun medicine on that crowd.”
Silently, the snow serving to deaden their footfalls, they worked their
way to the gulch bottom and along its windings until Philip whispered:
“Around the next turn ahead ... if there’s light enough, you’ll see our
dump and the cabin.”
“Kee-rect,” Garth mumbled. “Stick to the shadders and keep that old
hoss-pistol handy. Yuh ain’t no ways back’ard about aimin’ it straight,
are yuh?”
“No,” said Philip; but he was promising for the intention rather than
for the ability. He was trembling like a leaf in the wind. It was one
thing to go into battle on the crest of a wave of berserker rage, and
quite another to face the hazards deliberately and in cold blood.
With caution redoubled they turned the last of the jutting promontories
obstructing a view of the lower reaches of the gulch. The young moon
had long since dropped behind the western ranges, but the reflection of
the starlight upon the white mantling of snow made the dump of broken
rock and ore marking the tunnel site, and beyond it the larger bulking
of the cabin, dimly discernible. Garth thrust a hand backward to signal
a halt, and as he did so, a jet of flame shot from a thick graving of
young firs on the right-hand slope of the gulch opposite the cabin,
and, preceding the jarring report by a fraction of a second, they heard
the smack of the bullet as it struck its target.
“Reckon I called the turn,” Garth whispered. “Yer pardner’s holdin’ the
cabin ag’in ’em. Ain’t no back door to that shack, is there?”
“No.”
“Well, there ain’t a ghost of a show for us to make a run for the front
door; they’ve got that plum’ sewed up. We got to work it some other
way. We’d ort to have one o’ them Winchesters o’ youm and a belt o’
ca’tridges. That old hoss-pistol won’t spit far enough to do much good.”
“But if we had the rifle?” Philip queried.
“Then we might work a li’l’ trick that’d be better than breakin’ into
the cabin: might make them cusses think the whole U.S. army was after
’em.”
Philip’s heart rose into his throat and threatened to choke him. On the
hurried race across the spur his teeth had been chattering, and it was
only by the supremest effort that he could keep them from rattling like
castanets now. If the extra rifle was to be secured, it was his part
to stalk the cabin and get it: Garth couldn’t do it; Bromley wouldn’t
surrender the gun to a stranger--if he were still alive it was more
than likely that he would mistake Garth for one of the outlaws and kill
him if he could find a convenient loophole through which to shoot.
Philip felt a cold sweat starting out all over his body. If he could
only summon the flaming rage fit that had possessed him on the night
when he had flung himself upon the drink-crazed prospector in the
bar-room of the Leadville hotel ... he prayed for its return, but it
wouldn’t come. By a curious telepathic prickling he knew that the
big man crouching beside him sensed his condition, and his shame was
complete.
“You skeered?” queried Garth in a hoarse whisper.
“As scared as hell!” was the gritting reply. “Just the same, I’m going
after that extra gun. What shall I do after I get it?”
“First off, you tell yer pardner to hold his hand till he hears the big
racket beginnin’, and then to blaze away like sin at anything in sight.
Next, you keep right on down the gulch and make a round and get on the
hill behind that bunch o’ saplin’s. When you’re all set and ready,
blaze away, and I’ll whale at ’em from up here, and yer pardner’ll
chip in from the cabin. If that don’t stampede them cusses, nothin’
will.”
Philip tightened his belt. “I’ll probably get killed trying, but
here’s f-for it,” he stammered; and in a chilling frenzy of the
teeth-chattering he began to worm his way down the gulch toward the
dump and the cabin.
How he contrived to drag himself over the short three hundred yards,
with every nerve and muscle straining to turn the advance into a
shameful retreat, he never knew. Every time another gunshot crashed
upon the night silence he fancied he was the target and flattened
himself with the blood slowly congealing in his veins. None the less he
kept on, hugging the shadows and taking advantage of every inequality
of the ground that would afford even the scantiest cover.
At last, after what seemed like an endless eternity of the creeping,
dodging progress, he found himself behind the cabin and sheltered by
it from the desultory gunfire which still kept up from the opposite
slope of the gulch. With his pocket knife he dug the clay chinking
from between two of the logs and listened. There was no sound from
within, and again his blood ran cold. Had one of the random bullets
found its mark and killed Bromley? He remembered, with a tingling shock
of terror, that all of the later firing had been on the part of the
outlaws; there had been no replies from the cabin.
Hastily enlarging the hole in the chinking, he put an eye to the
orifice. The interior was not wholly dark, as he had expected to find
it. There was a handful of embers on the hearth, and the glow made a
murky twilight in the cabin. Presently he made out the slender figure
of the play-boy stretched flat upon the earth floor, face downward, and
the blood-chilling shock came again. Then he looked more closely and
saw that the prone figure was not that of a dead man. Bromley was alive
and alert; he was lying behind a low breastwork built of the provision
sacks, and he had one of the rifles at his shoulder with the muzzle
thrust through a crack between the logs. Philip gulped and shut his
eyes. The sudden revulsion from horrified despair to relief made him
blind and dizzy.
Another shot from without steadied him and he called softly through the
opening he had made. Bromley heard, and recognized his voice.
“You, Philip? How the mischief ... where are you?”
“At the back--where the chinking is out. Don’t you see?”
“Coming,” said the one-man garrison, and as he crawled slowly across
the floor Philip could see that one leg was useless; it was bound with
a clumsy handkerchief tourniquet above the knee and was dragging.
“Damn them!” he whispered fiercely. “How badly are you hurt, Harry?”
“Can’t say; haven’t had time to look at it. But the honors are easy, so
far: I got one of them to pay for the leg, and got him good--I saw ’em
carrying him off. Where the devil did you drop from?--out of the blue?”
“Never mind that part of it now. I want one of the rifles and a belt of
ammunition. Hook ’em over here while I dig this hole big enough to take
them through!”
The transfer was quickly made, and with the gun in his hands, Philip
delayed only long enough to get a briefed story of the attack. Bromley
had been routed out of his bunk about an hour earlier by somebody
hammering on the door. When he opened in answer to the knocking there
was a short and brittle parley. Neighbors had made a blunt demand for
a surrender of the mining claim, asserting that it was his discovery,
made early in the summer.
“Naturally, I told him to go chase himself,” said the play-boy. “Then
the five of ’em started to rush little Harry, and one of them got me
in the leg with a pistol shot before I could slam the door and drop
the bar. I punched a hole in the chinking, and a few rounds from the
Winchester drove ’em back into the woods for cover. They’ve been
there--or four of ’em have--ever since, taking pot shots at the cabin.
Now tell me what happened to make you turn back.”
“Just a piece of good luck--the story will keep till we’re out of this
mess. You’re not fighting alone any more; there are two of us on the
outside. Keep down and don’t let them get you through the door. Those
slabs won’t stop a rifle bullet.”
“Haven’t I found that out?” said Bromley, with a grim chuckle. “But
tell me--what’s the plan of campaign?”
“This: I’m going to try to circle around and get behind that bunch
of trees where they’ve taken cover. I’ve picked up a helper--an old
prospector and mountain man that I met last spring. He has his own
rifle, and when the circus begins, you turn loose through your loophole
and pump lead just as fast as you can. In that way we’ll get ’em from
three directions at once. Will that hurt leg let you do your part?”
The grim little chuckle came again. “I don’t shoot with my legs. Wave
your little baton and I’ll come in on the fortissimo passages.”
“That’s all, then. Take care of yourself, and don’t unbar the door
until you are sure we are on the other side of it. I’m gone.”
While he had the shelter afforded by the cabin there was some little
sense of security. But as soon as he got beyond this bulwark the
shaking fit seized him again. For the first few yards there was little
or no cover save a few stumps and a pile of firewood, and behind these
he crept, hardly daring to breathe. He had buckled the filled cartridge
belt around him, but the rifle was an impediment that could not be
disposed of so easily. So long as he must crawl, he had to drag the
weapon along as best he could; and remembering that he had heard that
even a plug of snow will cause a gun barrel to burst when it is fired,
he halted behind the woodpile and stopped the muzzle of the rifle with
a rag torn from his handkerchief.
From the woodpile to the nearest forest cover on that side was only a
matter of a few rods, but the interval was bare, and he had to have
another fight with himself before he could drum up the courage to
cross it. Once among the trees, however, he felt safer; and after he
had emerged from the mouth of the gulch and could take shelter in the
groving of aspens that lined the valley stream, he told himself that
the worst was over.
In the fringe of quaking aspens he stumbled upon the horses and jacks
of the invaders, the burros still standing with their packs on. It was
not until he was fairly among the tethered animals that he remembered
the man that Bromley had shot, and reflected that if the outlaw was
only wounded, he would be somewhere near the horses. The thought had
barely flashed upon him before he saw the wounded man. He was sitting
with his back to a tree and mumbling curses. Philip slipped aside
cautiously and pushed on, again with cold chills racing up and down his
spine. The wounded man was evidently only half conscious.... If he had
been fully conscious....
Philip broke into a nervous run, following the stream for possibly an
eighth of a mile before he ventured to turn aside to climb the slope
which should lead to the outlying position above the thicket in the
gulch where the outlaws were in hiding.
Toiling upward breathlessly, it seemed to take him a frightfully long
time to gain the proper elevation. Unlike the spur on the western
side of the gulch, this one was thinly wooded and was besprent with
a scattering of boulders; he was in constant fear of dislodging one
of these and thus giving a premature alarm. With the occasional crack
of a rifle in the depths below to guide him, he finally reached a
height from which he could look down upon the clump of young firs; and
squeezing himself between two of the surface boulders he pumped the
loading lever of the Winchester and prepared to give the firing signal
agreed upon.
It was while he was steadying the rifle over the rock in front of him
that he felt something giving way and realized that the slight push
of his wedged-in body was tipping the bulwark boulder over to set it
in motion down the slope. In a frenzy of excitement at this discovery
his only thought was that with the boulder gone he would lose his
sheltering breastwork and be naked to rifle fire from below. Dropping
the gun, he clung to the tilting rock with both hands and tried to
hold it--to drag it back upon its balancing pinnacle. When his puny
effort failed, and the great rock turned slowly over to go bounding
down the declivity straight for the sapling grove and carrying a small
avalanche of lesser stones with it, he lost his head completely,
snatching up the rifle and firing it wildly again and again, and with
no attempt at taking aim, until he had pumped the last cartridge from
its magazine. It was this final shot that did for him. In his mad haste
he failed to hold the gunstock firmly against his shoulder, and at the
trigger-pulling the kick of the weapon slewed him around with a jerk
that snapped his head against the rock behind him. For a brief instant
the black bowl of the heavens was illuminated by a burst of fiery
stars, and after that he knew nothing more until he opened his aching
eyes upon a graying dawn to find Garth kneeling beside him, unbuttoning
his shirt to search for the presumptive effacing wound.
At the touch of the big man’s cold hands he sat up, with the buzzing of
many bees in his brain.
“It isn’t there,” he said; “it’s the back of my head. The gun kicked me
against the rock. How long have I been gone?”
“A hour ’r so. I allowed yuh was scoutin’ round to see what’d come o’
the jumpers; was why I didn’t come a-huntin’ for yuh. Besides, that
there game li’l’ pardner o’ yourn was needin’ to have his laig fixed
up.”
“What _has_ become of the jumpers?” Philip asked, holding his head in
his hands in a vain endeavor to quiet the bees.
Garth sat back on his heels and his wide-mouthed smile made him look
like a grinning ogre.
“Skedaddled; gone where the woodbine twineth an’ the whangdoodle
mourneth for her fust-borned, I reckon. Cattle o’ that sort ain’t
makin’ no stand-up fight, less’n they got the odds _all_ their way. And
what with this here mount’in tumblin’ down on ’em, and guns a-poppin’
three ways from the ace, they wasn’t stayin’ to wait for daylight--not
any.” Then: “That was a mighty fly li’l’ trick o’ yourn--shovin’ a rock
slide down at ’em.”
Philip was honest enough not to take credit for a sheer accident.
“I didn’t,” he denied. “I had jammed myself in between two rocks to get
cover, and I was scared stiff when I found the front one rolling away
from me; I was even silly enough to grab it and try to hold it back.”
“Ne’m mind; hit done the business, all the same.” A pause, and then:
“I took a li’l’ squint at yer strike afore I clim up here. You two
boys’ve sure had a chunk o’ tenderfoot luck! You’ve got the world by
the horns if that streak o’ pay rock don’t play out on yuh too soon.
Hit’s richer’n Billy-be-damn, right from grass-roots. Time she’s had a
winter’s work put in on ’er, there’ll be money enough on the dump to
buy yuh a whole raft o’ farms in God’s country. Reckon that bumped
head’ll let yuh drill down to the cabin? Or shall I h’ist yuh onto my
back and tote yuh?”
“I can walk,” said Philip, struggling to his feet. And after the
descent was begun, with Garth’s arm to steady him: “Harry’s leg--how
badly is he hurt?”
“Clean hole, and no bones broke. It’ll lay him out for a spell, but
that’s all.” Then, with the approving chuckle that Philip was learning
to anticipate: “Lordy-goodness! you couldn’t kill that nervy li’l’
pardner o’ yourn with a axe! And a while back I was foolish enough in
my head to ask yuh if he had sand enough to hold them pirates till we
got to him! Why, say; he’s all sand--that li’l’ rat is! Just laughed
like I was ticklin’ him when I was diggin’ in that hole in his laig to
clean it out--he did, for a fact! Yuh needn’t never worry yore head a
minute about _that_ boy.”