TELLTALE BULLETS
De Launay headed up into the hills, making for the spot he and others
familiar with the region knew as The Crater. Back about half a mile
from the rim of Shoestring Canyon, which, itself, had originally been
cut out of lava from extinct volcanoes of the range, rose a vast
basalt peak, smooth and precipitous on the side toward the canyon. Its
lower slopes had once been terraced down to the flat bench land which
rimmed the canyon, but, unnumbered ages ago, the subterranean forces
had burst their way through and formed a crater whose sides fell
steeply away to the flats on three sides. The fourth was backed by the
basalt cliff.
Although long extinct, the volcano had left reminders in the shape of
warm springs which had an appreciable effect on the temperature within
the basin of the ancient crater. The atmosphere in the place was, even
in winter, quite moderate compared with that of the rest of the range.
There was, in the center of the crater, a small pond or lake, of which
the somewhat lukewarm water was quite potable.
This spot, once a common enough rendezvous for the riders on rodeo,
was his objective and toward it he climbed, with mademoiselle's warm
body in his arms. Behind him straggled the pack horses.
Solange lay quiet, but under his arm he felt her shiver from time to
time. His downward glance at her fell only on her hat and a casual
wisp of glistening hair which escaped from it. He felt for and found
one of her hands. It clutched his with a hot, dry clasp.
Somewhat alarmed, he raised his hand to her face. That she had fever
was no longer to be doubted.
She was talking low to herself, but she spoke in Basque which he did
not understand. He spoke to her in French.
"I knew you would come; that I should find you," she answered at once.
"That terrible man! He could not frighten me. It is certain that
through you I shall find this Louisiana!"
"Yes," he answered. "You'll find Louisiana."
He wondered what she knew of Louisiana and why she wished to find him,
concluding, casually, that she had heard of him as one who might know
something of her father's death. Well, if she sought Louisiana, she
had not far to look: merely to raise her head.
"I thought I heard him singing," said Solange.
"I reckon you did," he answered. "Are you riding easy?"
"Yes--but I am cold, and then hot again. The man hurt me."
De Launay swore under his breath and awkwardly began to twist from his
Mackinaw, which, when it was free, he wrapped around her. Then,
holding her closer, he urged his horse to greater speed.
But, once upon the bench and free to look about him toward the steep
slope of the crater's outer walls, he was dismayed at the unexpected
change in the landscape.
On the rocky slopes there had once stood a dense thicket of lodgepole
pine, slender and close, through which a trail had been cut. But,
years ago, a fire had swept the forest, leaving the gaunt stems and
bare spikes to stand like a plantation of cane or bamboo on the
crumbling lava. Then a windstorm had rushed across the mountains,
leveling the dead trees to the ground, throwing them in wild, heaping
chaos of jagged spikes and tangled branches. The tough cones, opened
by the fire, had germinated and seedlings had sprung up amidst the
riot of logs, growing as thick as grass. They were now about the
height of a tall man's head, forming, with the tangled abatis of spiky
trunks, a seemingly impenetrable jungle.
There might be a practicable way through, but to search for it would
take more time than the man had to spare. He must get the girl to rest
and shelter before her illness gained much further headway, and he
knew that a search for a passage might well take days instead of the
hours he had at his command. He wished that he had remained in the
canyon where he might have pitched camp in spite of the danger from the
prospector. But a return meant a further waste of time and he decided
to risk an attempt to force his way through the tangle.
Carefully he headed into it. The going was not very hard at first as
the trees lay scattered on the edge of the windfall. But, as he wormed
into the labyrinth, the heaped up logs gave more and more resistance
to progress, and it soon became apparent that he could never win
through to the higher slopes which were free of the tangle.
If he had been afoot and unencumbered, the task would have been hard
enough but not insuperable. Mounted, with pack horses carrying loads
projecting far on the sides, to catch and entangle with spiky
branches, the task became impossible. Yet he persisted, with a feeling
that his best chance lay in pressing onward.
The lurching horse, scrambling over the timber, jolted and shook his
burden and Solange began again to talk in Basque. Behind them the pack
horses straggled, leaping and crashing clumsily in the jungle of
impeding tree trunks. De Launay came to a stop and looked despairingly
about him.
About thirty yards away, among the green saplings and gray down
timber, stood a bluish shape, antlered, with long ears standing
erect. The black-tailed deer watched him curiously, and without any
apparent fear. De Launay knew at once that the animal was unaccustomed
to man and had not been hunted. He stared at it, wondering that it did
not run.
Now it moved, but not in the stiff leaps of its kind when in flight.
He had expected this, but not what happened. There was no particular
mystery in the presence of the agile animal among the down logs. But
when it started off at a leisurely and smooth trot, winding in and out
and upward, he leaped joyously to the only conclusion possible. The
deer was following a passable trail through the jungle and a trail
which led upward.
He marked the spot where he had seen it and urged his horse toward it.
It was difficult going, but he made it and found there, as he had
hoped, a beaten game trail, narrow, but fairly clear.
It took time and effort to gather the horses, caught and snared
everywhere among the logs, but it was finally done. Then he pushed on.
It was not easy going. The trail was narrow for packs, and snags
continually caught in ropes and tarpaulins, but De Launay took an ax
from his pack and cut away the worst of the obstacles. Finally they
won through to the higher slopes where the trees no longer lay on the
ground.
But it was growing late and the gray sky threatened more snow. He
pressed on up to the rim of the crater and lost no time in the descent
on the other side. The willing horses slid down behind him and, before
darkness caught them, he had reached the floor of the little valley,
almost free from snow, grass-grown and mildly pleasant in contrast to
the biting wind of the outer world.
Jingling and jogging, the train of horses broke into a trot across the
meadow and toward the grove of trees that marked the bank of the pond.
Here there was an old cabin, formerly used by the riders, but long
since abandoned. Deer trotted out of their way and stood at a distance
to look curiously. A sleepy bear waddled out of the trees, eyed them
superciliously and then trotted clumsily away. The place seemed to be
swarming with game. Their utter unconcern showed that this haven had
not been entered for years.
Snow lay on the surrounding walls in patches, but there was hardly a
trace of it on the valley floor. Steaming springs here and there
explained the reason for the unseasonable warmth of the place. The
grass grew lush and rich on the rotten lava soil.
"The Vale of Avalon, Morgan _la fée_," said De Launay with a smile.
Solange murmured and twisted restlessly in his arms.
He dismounted before the cabin, which seemed to be in fair condition.
It was cumbered somewhat with débris, left by mountain rats which
haunted the place, but there were two good rooms, a fairly tight
roof, and a bunk built in the wall of the larger chamber. There was a
rusty iron stove and the bunk room boasted a rough stone fireplace.
De Launay's first act was to carry the girl in. His second was to
throw off several packs and drag them to the room. He then took the ax
and made all haste to gather an armful of dry pitch pine, with which
he soon had a roaring fire going in the ancient fireplace. Then, with
a pine branch, he swept out the place, cleaned the bunk thoroughly and
cleared the litter from the floors. Solange reclined against a pile of
bedding and canvas and fairly drank in the heat from the fire.
He found a clump of spruce and hacked branches from it, with which he
filled the bunk, making a thick, springy mattress. On this he spread a
tarpaulin, and then heaped it with blankets. Solange, flushed and half
comatose, he carried to the bed.
The damp leather of her outer garments oppressed him. He knew they
must come off. Hard soldier as he was, the girl, lying there with
half-closed eyes and flushed face, awed him. Although he had never
supposed himself oppressed with scruples, it seemed a sacrilege to
touch her. Although she could not realize what he was doing, his hands
trembled and his face was flushed as he forced himself to the task of
disrobing her. But, at last, he had the cumbering, slimy outer
garments free and her body warmly wrapped in the coverings.
Food came next. She wanted broth and he had no fresh meat. Her rifle
rendered that problem simple, however. He had hardly to step from the
grove before game presented itself. He shot a young buck, feeling like
a criminal in violating the animal's calm confidence. Working
feverishly he cleaned the carcass, cut off the saddle and a hind
quarter, hung the rest and set to work to make broth in the Dutch
oven.
The light had long since failed, but the fire gave a ruddy light.
Solange supped the broth out of a tin cup, raised on his arm, and
immediately after fell back and went to sleep. Feeling her cheek, he
found that it was damp with moisture and cool.
He bound up her head with a dampened bandage and left her to sleep.
Then he began the postponed toil of arranging the camp.
After her things had been brought in and placed in her room, he at
last came to his own packs. He ate his supper and then spread his
bedding on the ground just outside the door of the cabin. As he
unrolled the tarpaulin, he noted a jagged rent in it which he at first
thought had been caused by a snag in passing through the down timber.
But when the bed had been spread out he found that the blankets were
also pierced. Searching, he found a hard object, which on being
examined, turned out to be a bullet, smashed and mushroomed.
De Launay smiled grimly as he turned this over in his hand. He readily
surmised that it was the ball that Banker had fired at him and which,
missing him as he ducked, had struck the pack on the horse behind him.
Something about it, however, roused a queer impression in him. It was,
apparently, an ordinary thirty-caliber bullet, yet he sensed some
subtle difference in size and weight, some vague resemblance to
another bullet he had felt and weighed in his hand.
Taking his camp lantern he went into the cabin and sat down before a
rude table of slabs in the room where the stove was. He took from his
pocket the darkened, jagged bullet that Solange had given him and
compared it with the ball he had taken from his pack. The first was
split and mushroomed much more than the other, but the butts of both
were intact. They seemed to be of the same size when held together.
Yet they were both of ordinary caliber. Probably nine out of ten men
who carried rifles used those of thirty-thirty caliber. Bullets
differed only in jacketing and the shape of the nose. A Winchester was
round, with little of the softer metal projecting from the jacket,
while a U. M. C. was flatter and more of the lead showed. But the
bases were the same.
Still, De Launay was vaguely dissatisfied. It seemed to him that
there was something in these two misshapen bullets that should be
investigated. He took one of Solange's cartridges from his pocket and
looked at it. Then, with strong teeth, he jerked the ball from the
shell and compared the bullet with those he held in his hand. To all
seeming they were much the same.
Still, the feeling of dissatisfaction persisted. In some subtle way
the two mushroomed bullets were the same and yet were different to the
unused one. De Launay tried to force Solange's bullet back into the
shell, finding that it went in after some force was applied. Then,
withdrawing it, he took the other two and tried to do the same with
them.
The difference became apparent at once. The two used bullets were
larger than the 30-30; almost imperceptibly so, but enough greater in
diameter to make it clear that they did not fit the shell.
De Launay weighed the bullets in his hand and his face was grim. After
a while he put the two in his pocket, threw the one he had pulled from
the shell into the stove and rose to look at Solange. He held the
lantern above her and stood for a moment, the light on her hair
glinting back with flashes of red and blue and orange. He stooped and
raised a lock of it on his hand, marveling at its fine texture and its
spun-glass appearance. His hand touched her face, finding it damp and
cool.
The iron lines of his face relaxed and softened. He stooped and
brushed her forehead with his lips. Solange murmured in her sleep and
he caught his own nickname, "Louisiana."
He saw that the fire was banked and then went out and turned in to his
blankets, regardless of the drizzle of snow that was falling and
melting in the warm atmosphere.