THE AMBUSH
If Calumet had any regret over the outcome of his adventure in the Red
Dog, it was that Neal Taggart had given him no opportunity to square
the account between them. Calumet had lingered in town until dusk, for
he had given his word and would not break it, and then, it being
certain that his enemy had decided not to accept the challenge, he
hitched his horses and just after dusk pulled out for the Lazy Y.
Something had been added to the debt of hatred which he owed the
Taggarts.
As he drove through the darkening land he yielded to a deep
satisfaction. He had struck one blow, a sudden and decisive one, and,
though it had not landed on either of the Taggarts, it had at least
shown them what they might expect. He intended to deliver other blows,
and he was rather glad now that he had not been so weak as to allow
Betty's dictatorial attitude to drive him from the ranch, for in that
case he would never have discovered the plot to cheat him of his
heritage--would not have been in a position to bring discomfiture and
confusion upon them all. That was what he was determined to do. There
was no plan in his mind; he was merely going to keep his eyes open, and
when opportunity came he was going to take advantage of it.
The darkness deepened as he drove. When he reached the crest of the
slope from which that morning he had looked down upon Lazette, the
wagon entered a stretch of broken country through which the horses made
slow progress. After traversing this section he encountered a flat,
dull plain of sand, hard and smooth, which the horses appreciated, for
they traveled rapidly, straining willingly in the harness.
It was about nine o'clock when the moon rose, a pale yellow disk above
the hills that rimmed the valley of the Lazy Y, and Calumet welcomed it
with a smile, lighting a cigarette and leaning back comfortably in the
seat, with the reins held between his knees.
He presently thought of his weapons, drawing them out and reloading
them. They recalled the incident of the Red Dog, and for a long time
his thoughts dwelt on it, straight, grim lines in his face.
He wondered what Betty would say when she heard of it. Would it affect
her future relations with Taggart? His thoughts were still of Betty
when the wagon careened out of the level and began to crawl up a slope
that led through some hills. The trail grew hazardous, and the horses
were forced to proceed slowly. It was near midnight when the wagon
dipped into a little gully about a mile and a half from the ranchhouse.
Calumet halted the horses at the bottom of the gully, allowing them to
drink from the shallow stream that trickled on its way to meet the
river which passed through the wood near the ranchhouse.
After the animals had drunk their fill he urged them on again, for he
was weary of the ride and anxious to have it over with. It was a long
pull, however, and the horses made hard work of it, so that when they
reached the crest of the rise they halted of their own accord and stood
with their legs braced, breathing heavily.
Calumet waited patiently. He was anxious to get to the Lazy Y, but his
sympathy was with the horses. He rolled and lighted another cigarette,
holding the match concealed in the palm of his hand so that the breeze
might not extinguish it.
Sitting thus, a premonition of danger oppressed him with such force and
suddenness that it caused him to throw himself quickly backward. At
the exact instant that his back struck the lumber piled behind him he
heard the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle, and a bullet thudded dully
into one of the wooden stanchions of the wagon frame at the edge of the
seat. Another report followed it quickly, and Calumet flung himself
headlong toward the rear of the wagon, where he lay for a brief
instant, alert, rigid, too full of rage for utterance.
But he was not too angry to think. The shots, he knew, had come from
the left of the wagon. They had been too close for comfort, and
whoever had shot at him was a good enough marksman, although, he
thought, with a bitter grin, a trifle too slow of movement to do any
damage to him.
His present position was precarious and he did not stay long in it.
Close to the side of the wagon--the side opposite that from which the
shots had come--was a shallow gully, deep enough to conceal himself in
and fringed at the rear by several big boulders. It was an ideal
position and Calumet did not hesitate to take advantage of it.
Dropping from the rear of the wagon, he made a leap for the gully,
landing in its bottom upon all fours. He heard a crash, and a bullet
flattened itself against one of the rocks above his head.
"He ain't so slow, after all," he admitted grudgingly, referring to the
concealed marksman.
He kneeled in the gully and looked cautiously over its edge. The wagon
was directly in front of him; part of one of the rear wheels was in his
line of vision. The horses were standing quietly, undisturbed by the
shots. He resolved to keep them where they were, and, exercising the
greatest care, he found a good-sized rock and stuck it under the front
of the rear wheel nearest him, thus blocking the wagon against them
should they become restless.
The moon was at his back, and he grinned with satisfaction as he noted
that the rocks behind him threw a deep shadow into the gully. He could
not help thinking that his enemy, whoever he was, had not made a happy
selection of a spot for an ambuscade, for the moonlight's glare
revealed every rock on the other side of the wagon, and the few trees
in the wood behind the rocks were far too slender to provide shelter
for a man of ordinary size. Calumet chuckled grimly as, with his head
slightly above the edge of the gully and concealed behind the felloes
of the wagon wheel, he made an examination of the rocks beyond the
wagon.
There were four of the rocks which were of sufficient size to afford
concealment for a man. They varied in size and were ranged along the
side of the trail in an irregular line. All were about a hundred feet
distant.
The smaller one, he decided, was not to be considered, though he looked
suspiciously at it before making his decision. Its neighbor was
larger, though he reasoned that if he were to make a selection for an
ambuscade he would not choose that one either. The other two rocks
were almost the same size and he watched them warily. To the right and
left of these rocks was a clear space, flat and open, with not a tree
or a bush large enough to conceal danger such as he was in search of.
The slope up which he had just driven the horses was likewise free from
obstruction, so that if his enemy was behind any of the rocks he was
doomed to stay there or offer himself as a target for Calumet's pistol.
"Wise, I reckon," he sneered. "Figgered to plug me while the horses
was restin', knowin' I'd have to breathe them about here. Thought one
shot would get me. Missed his reckonin'. Must be a mite peeved by
this time."
His gaze became intent again, but this time it was directed to some
underbrush about two hundred yards distant, back of the rocks. With
some difficulty he could make out the shape of a horse standing well
back in the brush, and again he grinned.
"That's why he took that side," he said. "There's no place on this
side where he could hide his horse. It's plumb simple."
From where he kneeled began another slope that descended to the Lazy Y
valley. It dipped gently down into the wood in front of the house,
where he had hitched his horse on the night of his home-coming, and
between the trees he could see a light flickering. The light came from
the kitchen window of the ranch-house; Betty had left it burning for
him, expecting him to return shortly after dusk. The house was not
more than a mile distant and he wondered at the hardihood of his enemy
in planning to ambush him so close to his home. He reflected, though,
that it was not likely that the shots could be heard from the house,
for the spot on which the wagon stood was several hundred feet above
the level of the valley, and then there was the intervening wood, which
would dull whatever sound might float in that direction.
Who could his assailant be? Why, it was Taggart, of course. Taggart
had left town hours before him, he was a coward, and shooting from
ambush is a coward's game.
Calumet's blood leaped a little faster in his veins. He would settle
for good with Neal Taggart. But he did not move except to draw one of
his six-shooters and push its muzzle over the edge of the gully. He
shoved his arm slowly forward so that it lay extended along the ground
the barrel of the pistol resting on the felloes of the wheel.
In this position he remained for half an hour. No sound broke the
strained stillness of the place. The horses had sagged forward, their
heads hanging, their legs braced. There was no cloud in the sky and
the clear light of the moon poured down in a yellow flood. Calumet's
task would have been easier if he could have told which of the four
rocks concealed his enemy. As it was he was compelled to watch them
all.
But presently, at the edge of one of the two larger rocks, the one
nearest the slope, he detected movement. A round object a foot in
diameter, came slowly into view from behind the rock, propelled by an
unseen force. It was shoved out about three quarters of its width, so
that it overlapped the big rock beside it, leaving an aperture between
the two of perhaps three or four inches. While Calumet watched a rifle
barrel was stuck into this aperture. Calumet waited until the muzzle
of the rifle became steady and then he took quick aim at the spot and
pulled the trigger of his six-shooter, ducking his head below the edge
of the gully as his weapon crashed.
He heard a laugh, mocking, discordant, followed by a voice--Taggart's
voice.
"Clean miss," it said. "You're nervous."
"Like you was in town today," jeered Calumet.
"Then you know me?" returned Taggart. "I ain't admittin' that I was
any nervous."
"Scared of the dark, then," said Calumet. "You left town a whole lot
punctual."
"Well," sneered Taggart; "mebbe I ain't much on the shoot. I don't
play any man's game but my own."
"You're right," mocked Calumet; "you don't play no man's game. A man's
game--"
He raised his head a trifle and a bullet sang past it, flattened itself
against the rock behind him, cutting short his speech and his humor at
the same instant. The gully was fully fifty feet long and he dropped
on his hands and knees and crawled to the upper end of it, away from
the slope. He saw one of Taggart's feet projecting from behind the
rock and he brought his six-shooter to a poise. The foot moved and
disappeared. Catching a glimpse of the rifle barrel coming into view
around the edge of the rock, Calumet sank back into the gully. Fifteen
minutes later when he again cautiously raised his head above the level
there was no sign of Taggart. He dropped down into the gully again and
scrambled to the other end of it, raising his head again. He saw
Taggart, twenty-five feet behind the rock, backing away toward the wood
where his horse stood, crouching, watchful, endeavoring to keep the
rock between him and Calumet while he retreated. Altogether, he was
fully a hundred and twenty-five feet away at the moment Calumet caught
sight of him, and he was looking toward the end of the gully that
Calumet had just vacated. Calumet stood erect and snapped a shot at
him, though the distance was so great that he had little expectation of
doing any damage.
But Taggart staggered, dropped his rifle and dove headlong toward the
rock. In an instant he had resumed his position behind it, and Calumet
could tell from the rapidity of his movements that he had not been hit.
He saw the rifle lying where it had fallen, and he was meditating a
quick rush toward the rock when he saw Taggart's hand come out and
grasp the stock of the weapon, dragging it back to him. Calumet
whipped a bullet at the hand, but the only result was a small dust
cloud beside it.
"In a hurry, Taggart?" he jeered. "Aw, don't be. This is the most fun
I've had since I've been back in the valley. An' you want to spoil it
by hittin' the breeze. Hang around a while till I get my hand in. I
reckon you ain't hurt?" he added, putting a little anxiety into his
voice.
"Hurt nothin'," growled Taggart. "You hit the stock of the rifle."
"I reckon that wouldn't be accounted bad shootin' at a hundred an'
twenty-five feet," said Calumet. "If you hadn't had the rifle in the
way you'd have got it plumb in your bread-basket. But don't be
down-hearted; that ain't nothin' to what I can do when I get my hand
in. I ain't had no practice."
He had an immense advantage over Taggart. The latter was compelled to
remain concealed behind his rock, while Calumet had the freedom of the
gully. He did not anticipate that Taggart would again attempt to
retreat in the same way, nor did he think that he would risk charging
him, for he would not be certain at what point in the gully he would be
likely to find his enemy and thus a charge would probably result
disastrously for him.
Taggart was apparently satisfied of the watchfulness of Calumet, for he
stayed discreetly behind his rock. Twice during the next hour his
rifle cracked when he caught a glimpse of Calumet's head, and each time
he knew he had missed, for Calumet's laugh followed the reports. Once,
after a long interval of silence, thinking that Calumet was at the
other end of the gully, he moved the small rock which he had pushed
beyond the edge of the large one, using his rifle barrel as a prod. A
bullet from Calumet's pistol struck the rock, glanced from it and
seared the back of his hand, bringing a curse to his lips.
"Told you so," came Calumet's voice. "I hope it ain't nothin' serious.
But I'm gettin' my hand in."
This odd duel continued with long lapses of silence while the moon grew
to a disk of pale, liquid silver in the west, enduring through the
bleak, chill time preceding the end of night, finally fading and
disappearing as the far eastern distance began to glow with the gray
light of dawn.
Calumet's cold humor had not survived the night. He patrolled the
gully during the slow-dragging hours of the early morning with a
growing caution and determination, his lips setting always into harder
lines, his eyes beginning to blaze with a ferocity that promised ill
for Taggart.
Shortly after dawn, kneeling in the gully at the end toward the
ranchhouse, he heard the wagon move. He looked up to see that the
horses had started, evidently with the intention of completing their
delayed journey to the stable, where they would find the food and water
which they no doubt craved. As the wagon bumped over the obstruction
which Calumet had placed in front of the rear wheel, he was on the
verge of shouting to the horses to halt, but thought better of it,
watching them in silence as they made their way slowly down the slope.
It took them a long time to reach the level of the valley, and then
they passed slowly through the wood, going as steadily as though there
was a driver on the seat behind them, and finally they turned into the
ranchhouse yard and came to a halt near the kitchen door.
Calumet watched them until they came to a stop and then he went to the
opposite end of the gully, peeping above it in order to learn of the
whereabouts of Taggart. He saw no signs of him and returned to the
other end of the gully.
Taggart, he suspected, could not see where the wagon had gone and no
doubt was filled with curiosity. Neither could Taggart see the
ranchhouse, for there were intervening hills and the slope itself was a
ridge which effectually shut off Taggart's view. But neither hills or
ridge were in Calumet's line of vision. Kneeling in the gully he
watched the wagon. Presently he saw Betty come out and stand on the
porch. She looked at the wagon for a moment and then went toward
it--Calumet could see her peer around the canvas side at the seat.
After a moment she left the wagon and walked to the stable, looking
within. Then she took a turn around the ranchhouse yard, stopping at
the bunkhouse and looking over the corral fence. She returned to the
wagon and stood beside it as though pondering. Calumet grinned in
amusement. She was wondering what had become of him. His grin was cut
short by the crash of Taggart's rifle and he dodged down, realizing
that in his curiosity to see what Betty was doing he had inadvertently
exposed himself. A hole in his shirt sleeve near the shoulder
testified to his narrow escape.
His rage against Taggart was furious and with a grimace at him he
turned again to the ranchhouse. Betty had left the wagon and had
walked several steps toward him, standing rigid, shading her eyes with
her hands. Apparently she had heard the report of the rifle and was
wondering what it meant. At that instant Calumet looked over the edge
of the gully to see Taggart shoving the muzzle of his rifle around the
side of the rock. Its report mingled with the roar of Calumet's pistol.
Taggart yelled with pain and rage and flopped back out of sight, while
Calumet laid an investigating hand on his left shoulder, which felt as
though it had been seared by a red-hot iron.
He kneeled in the gully and tore the cloth away. The wound was a
slight one and he sneered at it. He made his way to the other end of
the gully, expecting that Taggart, if injured only slightly, might
again attempt a retreat, but he did not see him and came back to the
end nearest the ranchhouse. Then he saw Betty running toward him,
carrying a rifle.
At this evidence of meditated interference in his affairs a new rage
afflicted Calumet. He motioned violently for her to keep away, and
when he saw Dade run out of the house after her, also with a rifle in
hand, he motioned again. But it was evident that they took his motions
to mean that they were not to approach him in that direction, for they
changed their course and swung around toward the rocks at his rear.
Furious at their obstinacy, or lack of perception, Calumet watched
their approach with glowering glances. When they came near enough for
him to make himself heard he yelled savagely at them.
"Get out of here, you damned fools!" he said; "do you want to get hurt?"
They continued to come on in spite of this warning, but when they
reached the foot of the little slope that led to the ridge at the edge
of which was Calumet's gully, they halted, looking up at Calumet
inquiringly. The ridge towered above their heads, and so they were in
no danger, but Betty halted only for a moment and then continued to
approach until she stood on the ridge, exposed to Taggart's fire. But,
of course, Taggart would not fire at her.
"What's wrong?" she demanded of Calumet; "what were you shooting at?"
"Friend of yours," he said brusquely.
"Who?"
"Neal Taggart. We've been picnicin' all night."
Her face flooded with color, but paled instantly. Calumet thought
there was reproach in the glance she threw at him, but he did not have
time to make certain, for at the instant she looked at him she darted
toward a rock about ten feet distant, no doubt intending to conceal
herself behind it.
Calumet watched her. When she gained the shelter of the rock she was
about to kneel in some fringing mesquite at its base when she heard
Calumet yell at her. She turned, hesitating in the act of kneeling,
and looked at Calumet. His face was ashen. His heavy pistol pointed
in her direction; it seemed that its muzzle menaced her. She
straightened, anger in her eyes, as the weapon crashed.
Her knees shook, she covered her face with her hands to shut out the
reeling world, for she thought that in his rage he was shooting at her.
But in the next instant she felt his arms around her; she was squeezed
until she thought her bones were being crushed, and in the same instant
she was lifted, swung clear of the ground and set suddenly down again.
She opened her eyes, her whole body trembling with wrath, to look at
Calumet, within a foot of her. But he was not looking at her; his gaze
was fixed with sardonic satisfaction upon a huge rattler which was
writhing in the throes of death at the base of the rock where she had
been about to kneel. Its head had been partly severed from its body
and while she looked Calumet's pistol roared again and its destruction
was completed.
She was suddenly faint; the world reeled again. But the sensation
passed quickly and she saw Calumet standing close to her, looking at
her with grim disapprobation. Apparently he had forgotten his danger
in his excitement over hers.
"I told you not to come here," he said.
But a startled light leaped into her eyes at the words. Calumet swung
around as he saw her rifle swing to her shoulder. He saw Taggart near
the edge of the wood, two hundred yards away, kneeling, his rifle
leveled at them. He yelled to Betty but she did not heed him.
Taggart's bullet sang over his head as the gun in Betty's hands
crashed. Taggart stood quickly erect, his rifle dropped from his hands
as he ran, staggering from side to side, to his horse. He mounted and
fled, his pony running desperately, accompanied by the music of a rifle
that suddenly began popping on the other side of Calumet--Dade's. But
the distance was great, the target elusive, and Dade's bullets sang
futilely.
They watched Taggart until he vanished, his pony running steadily along
a far level, and then Betty turned to see Calumet looking at her with a
twisted, puzzled smile.
"You plugged him, I reckon," he said, nodding toward the vast distance
into which his enemy was disappearing. "Why, it's plumb ridiculous.
If my girl would plug me that way, I'd sure feel--"
His meaning was plain, though he did not finish. She looked at him
straight in the eyes though her face was crimson and her lips trembled
a little.
"You are a brute!" she said. Turning swiftly she began to descend the
slope toward the ranchhouse.
Calumet stood looking after her for a moment, his face working with
various emotions that struggled for expression. Then, ignoring Dade,
who stood near him, plainly puzzled over this enigma, he walked over to
the edge of the wood where Taggart's rifle lay, picked it up and made
his way to the ranchhouse.