BY SINGLE STRAND.
After anchoring the severed trunk of the hemlock upon the shelf with
such bowlders as he could move, to prevent, if possible, its turning,
Sergeant Childress sat down on the brink, his legs dangling. He
gripped the hemlock tightly, then lowered his body overside. That
end of the tree, at least, supported his weight. With six-inch
reaches, he began to move out from the ledge.
He dared not hurry; nor could he ease his progress by wriggling--the
hold upon the fir of the hemlock was too uncertain. His body hung as
a dead weight, the strain upon his arms, hands, and fingers
increasing with every slow move.
One stout, out-flung branch, depending from the lower trunkside, soon
impeded his progress; indeed, threatened the success of his venture.
Fear of dislodging the frailer end of his support prohibited his
trying to swing his body around it.
In an almost insupportable pause he decided on a way. With Jack
Childress, thus far, there always had been a way.
Linking his left elbow around the diminishing hemlock to relieve his
tortured fingers and the more surely support his weight, he slipped
the blazer from his belt and performed an amputation upon the limb.
Having difficulty in returning the ax to its sheath, he dropped it.
The clank of its fall upon the rocks sent a shiver through his racked
frame.
Reminded thus of the alternative fate, he returned to his
hand-over-hand performance, receiving in the effort an unexpected
scalp wound from the stump of the branch he had removed.
The remaining yards entailed mental and physical torture, for his
bridge began to bend. But at last he felt the needles of the fir
brush his face; soon his body pressed gratefully in among the
branches. One last reach, and he gained hold upon the main trunk.
The ordeal was ended.
As down a shaky flight of stairs, he descended the older tree and
with caution other than for his footing. Although it was highly
probable that the skinner was by now far away and going farther, the
fact was not established. Having overcome so many teeth of the trap,
he did not wish to be caught by a last one. Seeing and hearing
nothing, however, he took the short jump to the ground from the
lowest branch.
For several minutes he lay upon a bed of fir needles at the foot of
the tree which had formed his stairway, listening for sound of his
quarry. Scarcely did he expect to hear any such, but he was taking
no chances. Judging from the fact that no shots had been fired at
him while he was overhanding the hemlock, during every moment of
which ordeal he had presented a fair target, it was reasonable to
assume that the unknown, red or white, was on his way.
A stranger to the region, Childress was at loss which way to turn for
the easiest crossing of the ridge. They had crossed from north to
south, so his choice must lay to east or west. As a matter of fact,
he had no choice, at least nothing tangible on which to base one. He
tossed a coin, heads west, tails east, and followed its dictation
away from the sun that was sinking discouragingly low in the west.
As he traveled along the base of the ridge, thrown up by some
prehistoric convulsion of nature and remindful of a scar, his tread
was soft as any Indian's. His eyes were ever watchful for sign of
the enemy, but his mind was elsewhere.
His thoughts were most of all upon the Gallegher girl of colorful
wonder. What a spirited nymph of the ranch she was! Probably she
had found no one either suspicious or alarming on the course he had
sent her, and by now she was riding homeward. He was glad that she
had not come with him, for she probably would have insisted on
entering the brush and climbing the ridge. What could he have done
with her had she followed him down to that trap of a ledge? How
could he have brought her to safety on the forest floor? Supple as
she was and undoubtedly strong from her life in the open, it was
incredible that she could have overhanded on the hemlock bridge. And
had he crossed to safety, leaving her on the ledge? While one man
could throw down the improvised tree-trunk ladder, only a Sampson,
singly, could have replaced it.
Presently he began to wonder at himself that he thought so much about
her. That he had kept her out of trouble, as was his duty both as a
man and a "Mountie" should have been sufficient. What was the use of
speculating on the might-have-beens? Was it possible that---- He
laughed at himself. Of course it wasn't possible that a hard-boiled
sergeant of the Royal had developed a sentimental interest in a ranch
or any other sort of girl.
Then he came to a gap in the ridge and upon a clearly blazed trail to
the other side. He speeded his pace, one that was tireless from long
mushing practice behind the dog teams of the Frozen North. An hour
before the sun went out he was back at the starting point, where he
found Silver and the skinner's cayuse on terms of grazing amity.
Evidently his quarry had not cared to return even for his horse,
perhaps fearing that his pursuer had a rear guard.
Mounting the silver beast, but leaving the flea-bitten cayuse with
reins dropped, in the hope of inviting its rider's return, Childress
rode slowly over the immediate back trail. His search trail-side for
the torture-taken hide was eventually rewarded. He found it in a
gunny sack where the pursued had tossed it into a clump of alders.
He rode back toward the outlaw's deserted mount.
Night was falling rapidly and what to do became something of a
problem. Even if the cayuse would lead at the end of a rope, the
strange back trail would prove a problem. It would be midnight
before he could hope to reach the Lazy G home ranch, even could he
find it in the dark. An arrival at such time must cause a commotion
that would not further his purpose of getting an exact grasp of the
Fire Weed rustling situation. Moreover, and quite important, there
was still the chance that the skinner would regain his nerve and
return for the abandoned cayuse.
Changing the hiding place of the sacked hide, he led Silver back to
within gun range of the grazing clump that the ugly cayuse seemed to
fancy. There he found a cover for both his beast and himself,
determined on a night's vigil and a daylight ride to the Gallegher
ranch in case nothing developed.
There were a couple of emergency rations in his saddle bag, and he
made quite a meal under the circumstances of a camp fire's
inadvisability. There was a bare fragment of moon that night, not
enough to see with any accuracy. But he knew the keenness of
Silver's ears, and that he could depend upon them. If any human
approached, the horse would give warning, by snort or by tug upon the
rope by which he attached the horse to himself.
"Nothing like a real horse for an alarm clock," he murmured sleepily.
"Hope that Flame had sense enough to ride home whatsoever!"
He was more tired than he had realized before throwing himself down
upon his improvised couch of brush. Every muscle of his body from
gun-belt up ached from the strain of that hemlock crossing. After
covering himself with the slicker, carried rolled on the cantle of
his saddle, he soon slept.
Next morning, after a night of no alarms, he remembered that he had
dreamed. Most unusual for him to remember dreams! These that now
came to mind were mixed--of a flame girl and a siren widow. He was
not exactly clear about them. He could not be sure just where they
had taken him and he possessed no dream-book for their
interpretation. But the fact that he had dreamed at all was
troubling. He must needs watch his step.
Childress decided that the skinner did not mean to return, either for
his cayuse or his cruel booty. He would take both to Galleghers and
let the old ranchman do with them as he thought best. They should
serve as something of an introduction for his uninvited visit.
Without difficulty he caught the small horse which seemed willing
enough to come along. Packing with him the sack-covered hide was a
different matter. The blood scent, so distasteful to animals, had
grown stronger over night. But finally he succeeded in calming the
beasts, and they were off for his destination of yesterday.
Once packed the cayuse led easily enough and good progress was made
after they got beyond the "rough." They had passed the scene of
yesterday's bovine tragedy, when he saw three horsemen ride out of a
draw some distance ahead and quarter in his direction. Without
increasing his speed, he held his course, knowing that unless the
trio changed their direction they would meet within half a mile.
Considering the compass point from which they appeared, it was
reasonable to suppose that they were Lazy G riders. While they
likely would be curious and ask questions, they scarcely would make
trouble for a stranger headed toward their home ranch in the full
light of a brilliant prairie morning.
As he neared the point of convergence it did not surprise him to hear
a loud whoop from the ranchmen. Nor was he alarmed when they
separated, urging their horses into a run, and drove up on either
side of him, their ropes swirling in long loops, which hung just
clear of the ground. This was not an unusual performance when a
group of punchers met a stranger riding alone over their own range.
Nine times out of ten the demonstration meant nothing but the outlet
of excess spirit. He laughed to himself when he thought of the
chance they had of frightening him.
Yet the next moment two of the loops spread and hissed out in twin
circles, curving above the punchers' heads. One fell with the swoop
of a hawk down over Childress' shoulders. The other whipped over
Silver's head, and settled around the beast's arched neck. In a
flash both ropes came taut with a jerk that almost pulled the
sergeant from his saddle, and nearly overbalanced his horse.
For the first time in years Jack Childress was genuinely surprised;
he was also indignant, but as yet not alarmed. These horse wranglers
had gone further than was usual in the rough play of the range, but
he had no idea that they would follow up their advantage. At the
moment he did not think of the warning that Flame had carried to his
little ranch in the cup of Open A--that the Gallegher gang were going
to get him. He expected that any moment the pressure which held the
ropes taut would cease, and that they would ride up, grinning at his
discomfiture, and insolently demand his tribute to their roping
accuracy.
He strained his powerful arms against the clutch which bound them to
his sides, but the jerk had come just at the right moment to pinion
him securely. He could get no leverage against the rope, and was
helpless.
Silver, excited by the undreamed of indignity of being roped when he
already carried a rider, began to plunge, but quieted down at a word
from the man in the saddle.
Childress called out angrily to the punchers, getting a derisive
laugh for his trouble. Once more he realized the potency of the
uniform of the Royal and the handicap of operating in mufti. This
outrage never would have been thought of had he worn the scarlet. He
tried to reach his revolver, but his fingers would not carry to its
butt, and his arm was powerless to lend any assistance. By a single
strand he was held. Bitterly he condemned in his mind the confidence
which had led him into this sisal trap.
Then began a performance which at first he did not understand. The
wrangler whose rope was around his body began to ride a wide circle,
while the one who had caught the stallion held hard. In no time
there was a second circle of rope around his body.
It came to him that they meant to make him prisoner by winding him up
in the rope. To checkmate this he endeavored to make his horse wheel
with the circle of the puncher, but the second rope interfered and he
only succeeded in delaying the winding operation. Meantime the third
puncher was busying himself capturing the led cayuse which had broken
away in the excitement.
In spite of his extremity, he was forced to admire the skill of his
captors. More artistic handling of sixty-foot ropes he had never
seen. Not for an instant was the original grip around his arms and
body loosened, and rapidly the circlets increased in number until he
would be bound up like a mummy. Finally he gave up the struggle
against the strands, and ceased his effort to throw off the
successive loops.
"Got yuh nice and clean and gentle this time, hawse thief," was the
greeting of the puncher who handled the body rope, as he made the
final circle.
"You seem to have me this time," returned the sergeant, swallowing
his rage.
"Yea-bo," chortled the second puncher, who had dismounted to permit
the circling and who still held the silver horse. "It'll be the last
time on this here range."
"Nice little weapon this," remarked the mounted puncher, whipping
Childress' revolver from its holster. He broke the weapon, emptying
the cartridges onto the prairie floor. Then he returned the "empty"
to its holster, and busied himself tying the helpless non-com to
pommel and stirrups.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Childress demanded.
"This ain't no outrage; it's a party, ain't it, Roper?" advised the
dismounted wrangler. "Didn't yuh get yuhr invite? Anyway yuh come
along pretty enough an' just at the right time to save us going over
into the cup after yuh."
The two settled back into their saddles to await the return of their
companion, who was having trouble, not only with the outlaw's cayuse,
but also with his own mount, which Childress recognized as one of the
famous Black Hawks, a breed in which Sam Gallegher specialized. The
two men who stood guard over him were typical punchers, one a
ruddy-cheeked youth, the other a grizzled veteran wearing a drooping
mustache which he worried when his fingers were not otherwise
engaged. They were not so well mounted as the third of the party,
which led the captive to believe that this third was either range
boss or foreman. He awaited the leader's return with patience, and
he held no further converse with the frolicsome pair.
Even to a natural-born optimist, one who had come through a
needle's-eye of danger many a time because of undaunted hopefulness,
the situation was far from cheerful. He did not fear for his life.
Lynching, even of suspected horse thieves, long since ceased to be an
outdoor sport of the Canadian ranges. About the worst that would
happen to him was the indignity of being dragged into the Gallegher
home ranch "all wound 'round" with a puncher's string. But that
would be a little bit of too much, he thought, when he considered
Flame Gallegher on hand to view his humiliation. Just why he cared
so much, when, whatever befell, would be in the line of duty, he
hated to admit. But he did care, and the Flame of Fire Weed, whose
smile started with a reappearing dimple, was the reason. Again he
cautioned himself to "watch his step."