THE TRAIL OF THE RUSTLERS
The blackness of night begins to stir. Ahead and above roll vague
shadows, darkening, threatening, in the immensity of their wave-like
shapes. Away behind the stars shine pitifully, for a dim gray light in
the east heralds the coming of day. Slowly the shadows change from
black to a faint gray, and their rolling becomes more pronounced. Now,
with each passing moment, the eastern light grows, and the darkness of
the west responds; now, too, the shadows show themselves for what they
are. They stir and seethe like the churning of water nearly boiling,
under the rising zephyrs of mountain air. They are the dense morning
mists, a hazy curtain shutting out the mountain splendor beyond.
In less than half an hour a wonderful metamorphosis. A tinted fringe
of cloud appears on the mists high up, and gives the impression of a
beam of sunlight amidst the shadows. But no sun has broken the eastern
sky-line, nor will it for another half-hour. Yet the light increases,
and the swirling mists become a rosy cloudland, deep, ruddy, and
exquisitely beautiful. The living fog rolls up, lifting, lifting, and
every moment the picture grows in beauty and in its wonders of
changing colors.
Eastward the horizon lights a glowing yellow, shot with feathery
dashes of ruddy orange; yellow to green, and then the gray of the high
starlit vault. But the stars are dimming, whimpering under their loss
of power. Their archenemy of day is approaching, and they must shrink
away and hide till the fiery path of the monarch of the universe
cools, and they are left again to their own.
Doc Crombie was riding at the head of his men when the sun cleared the
horizon. He was staring ahead at the still hazy foot-hills, the
hiding-place of the criminal he sought. The light of battle was in his
keen, quick, luminous eyes. His face was set and stern. There was no
mercy in the set of his jaws, in the drawn shaggy brows. He was out to
rid the country, his country, of a scourge, a pestilence neither he
nor his fellow townsmen would tolerate.
The rest of the vigilantes rode behind him, no less stern-faced than
their leader. With fresh horses they had traveled long and hard that
night. The journey had been chilly, and the trail rough. Their tempers
were at a low ebb, and the condition only added to their determination
to hang the man as soon as he was in their power.
Doc drew rein suddenly and called Smallbones to his side. The trail,
which had now faded into something little better than a cattle track,
was leading into the mouth of a narrow valley, bordered on either side
by towering, forest-clad hills. He pointed ahead.
"That blamed kid said we'd keep right on down this cuttin' to the
third hill on the left," he said. "It's nigh four miles. Then we'd
find a clump of scrub with two lone pines standin' separate. Here we'd
get a track of cattle marked plenty. Then we'd follow that for nigh
two miles, and we'd drop into the rustlers' hollow."
"Sure. Don't sound a heap o' trouble," said Smallbones, cheerfully.
"Say, I'm not figgerin' the trouble. But we've traveled slow. We won't
make it for an hour an' more, an' we're well past sun-up now. It was
waitin' for the boys to git in. I sort o' wish I'd brought that kid
along."
They were moving on again at a rapid canter, and Smallbones was riding
at his side. The little man, like the rest, was armed liberally. But
whereas the others were, for the most part, content with two guns, he
had four. It would not be for lack of desire on his part if somebody
did not die before noon.
"We couldn't help startin' late," grumbled the little man. "An' as fer
that kid, I'd sure 'a' kep' him with us. Who's to say he ain't handed
us a fool game? He's a crank, anyways, an' orter be looked after by
State. He guessed he see the rustlers at work, but didn't rec'nize
'em. I said right then he was bluffin'. D'you think he wouldn't know
Jim Thorpe?"
"Barkin' that yet, eh!" retorted Doc, sharply. "Say, boy," he went on
with a great contempt, "you're dirty. Jim Thorpe ain't the man we're
after. Leastways I won't believe it till we git him red-handed. I
wouldn't be out to-night if I thought it was Jim Thorpe. We left him
back ther' in the village. He's been out two days chasin' for
rustlers. See here, you're mean on him 'bout this thing, because
things are queer his way. An' you ain't got savvee to see that it's
'cos things is queer his way is just the reason he ain't the dogone
rustler we're chasin'. You need to think a sight more. Mebbe it hurts
some, but it's a heap good."
Smallbones shot a swift, sidelong glance at the doctor, in which there
was little enough friendliness. He probably had no friendliness for
anybody.
"I'll hand you a noo buggy to a three-year-old driver he's our man,"
he snapped.
"Done," grinned the sporting doctor promptly. And Smallbones was the
least bit sorry he had laid so generous odds.
By this time day was in its full early-morning glory, but they were
passing from the dazzling light of the plains into the more sheltered
atmosphere of the valley. Everywhere the hills rose about them, on
either side and ahead. The gloomy woods on the vast slopes threw a
marked shadow over the prospect. Ahead lay a wide vista of tremendous
mountains, with their crowning, snow-bound peaks lost in a world of
gray, fleecy cloud. In the heart of one distant rift lay the steely
bed of a glacier, hoary with age and immovable as the very bedrocks of
the mountains themselves. It sloped away into the distance, and lost
itself in the heart of a mighty cañon. Even to these men on their
trail of death, living, as they did, so adjacent to these mysterious
wilds, the scene was not without its awe.
The doctor was watching the hills to the left. The first one seemed
endless, and he sought a break in it in every shadowed indentation
upon its face. He was feeling more anxious than his own words
suggested. He was a shrewd man who had understood the ring of truth in
Elia's story at once, but now, in face of this stupendous world, he
was wondering if he had been well advised in leaving the boy behind.
He had only done so on the score of his crippled condition being a
nuisance to them. However, his doubt found no further expression now,
and his keen eyes watched for the landmarks in a way that left him
little chance of missing them.
At last the first hill came to a distinct end, and the second rose
higher and more rough. Its face was torn and barren, and what timber
there was grew low down almost at its foot. The valley was narrowing,
and the rich prairie grass was changing to a lank tangle of weedy
tufts. There was a suspicion of moisture, too, in the spongy tread.
The sun further lost power here, between these narrowing crags, and,
although summer was well advanced, the ground still bore the moist
traces of the mountain spring.
The second hill was passed quickly. It was merely a split of the
original mountain, the result, no doubt, of a great volcanic upheaval
in the early days of the world. And now, as they rode on, the third
and last landmark before the two lone pines rapidly slipped away
behind them.
The leader bustled his horse. His nervous force was at a great tension
of impatience. He, like the rest of the merciless band, was yearning
for his goal.
At last the two lone pines loomed up. The eyes of the men brightened
with eagerness, and their leader felt certain of the faith he had
placed in Elia's story. Now for the cattle tracks.
As they came abreast of the low bush, the doctor scattered his men in
various directions to hunt for the trail. Nor did the matter take
long. In less than five minutes two of the ranch hands lit on the
tracks simultaneously. A great broad track of hoof-marks deeply
indented in the soft ground stretched away up over the shoulder of the
hill. So plain were they that the horsemen were able to follow them at
a gallop.
Away up the hillside they sped. The way was a sharp incline, but
smooth and wide, and free from obstruction. And in ten minutes they
were pausing to breathe their hard-blowing horses on the shoulder of
the hill, with a wide view and a level track ahead of them.
The doctor turned to order a careful redistribution. They were near
the rustlers' hollow now, he believed, and it was his intention to
leave nothing to chance. Each man received his instructions for the
moment when the hollow should be reached, for Elia had given him full
details of its locality, and the possibilities of approach.
He knew it to be a mere cup, with, apparently, no entrance or exit,
except the way they were now approaching it. It had appeared to Elia
to be surrounded by towering hills, densely clad in forests of spruce
and pine. He had described the corral as being on the left front from
the entrance, and that a hut, backing into the flanking woods,
occupied the distance on the right.
The doctor's disposition, in consequence, was simple. The whole party
were to race at a gallop into the hollow. The eight leaders were to
ride straight for the hut, no matter what fire might be opposed to
them. The six men immediately in their rear were to open out and ride
for the encompassing fringe of woods, lest any of the rustlers should
make for escape that way. While the rest of the party were to ride for
the corral, and round up everything that looked like a saddle horse;
this last with a view to preventing any chances of ultimate escape.
These matters settled they continued their journey without loss of
time. For every man of them was sternly eager to come to clinches with
their quarry. The excited interest was running high as they neared
their goal. Then all at once Smallbones suddenly threw the whole party
into confusion by flinging his horse abruptly upon its haunches, and
wildly pointing up the hillside on their immediate left.
"Gee!" he cried, furiously. "Look at that. There! There! There he
goes!"
But there was no need for his added explanation. Two hundred yards
away to their left a horseman was racing headlong in a parallel
direction. It needed no imagination to tell them that he was a scout
carrying the alarm to his comrades in the hollow beyond.
But his course was a different one to that which might have been
expected, for it showed no signs of converging with the track below,
and was significant of an unsuspected, possibly secret entrance to the
hiding-place.
But the doctor was a man for emergency. Four of the men carried
rifles, and these he warned to be ready to fire on the fugitive when
he gave the word.
Then he led his men at a race down the track.
* * * * *
It was an inspiring spot for the imaginative.
A little cup of perfect emerald green set within the darker border of
the soft pinewoods. Above, the brilliant sky poured down a dazzling
light through the funnel-like opening walled by an almost complete
circle of hills. But the circle was not quite complete. There were
three distinct, but narrow rifts, and they opened out in three widely
opposite directions. The cup rim was almost equally divided into
three.
In a spacious corral of raw timbers a number of cattle were moving
restlessly about, vainly searching for something with which to satisfy
their voracious morning appetites. Close beside the corral was a small
branding forge, its fire smouldering dismally in the chill air. Round
about this, strewn upon the trampled grass, lay a number of branding
irons, coiled ropes, and all the paraphernalia of a cattle-thief's
trade, while beside the corral itself were three telltale saddle
horses, waiting ready for their riders on the first sound of alarm.
Fifty yards away stood a log hut. It was solid and practical, and
comparatively capacious. A couple of yards away a trench fire was
burning cheerfully. And over it, on an iron hook-stanchion, was
suspended a prairie cooking "billy," from which a steaming aroma, most
appetizing at that hour of the morning, was issuing. Various camping
utensils were scattered carelessly about, and a perfect atmosphere of
the most innocent homeliness prevailed.
On the sill of the hut door Will Henderson was seated smoking, with
his elbows planted on his knees, and his two hands supporting the bowl
of his pipe. His eyes were as calmly contemplative as those of the
stolen cattle in the corral.
To judge by his expression, he had no thought of danger, and his
affairs were prospering to his keenest satisfaction. His handsome
boyish face had lost all signs of dissipation. His eyes, if sullen,
were clear, with the perfect health of his outdoor, mountain life. Nor
was there anything of the vicious cattle-rustler about him. His whole
expression suggested the hard-working youngster of the West, virile,
strong, and bursting with the love of life.
But here, again, appearances were all wrong. Will's mood at that
moment was dissatisfied, suspicious. He was yearning for the
flesh-pots of town, as exampled by the bad whiskey and poker in Silas
Rocket's saloon.
Lying on the ground, close against the hut wall, two low-looking
half-breeds in gaudy shirts, and wearing their black hair long and
unkempt, were filling in the time waiting for breakfast, shooting
"crap dice." The only words spoken between them were the filthy
epithets and slang they addressed to the dice as they threw them, and
the deep-throated curses as money passed between them.
No, there was little enough to suggest the traffic in which these men
were engaged. Yet each knew well enough that the shadow of the rope
was hanging over him, and that, at any moment, he might have to face a
life and death struggle, which would add the crime of murder to the
list of his transgressions.
Will slowly removed his pipe from his mouth.
"Say, ain't that grub ready?" he growled. "Hi, you, Pete, quit those
dice an' see to it. You're 'chores' to-day. We've got to make forty
miles with those damned steers before sun-up to-morrow."
"Ho, you. Git a look at the grub yourself. Say----"
He broke off listening. Then he dropped the dice he was preparing to
throw, and a look of alarm leaped to his eyes. "I tink I hear hoofs.
Hush!"
Will was on his feet in a second. The sullen light had vanished from
his eyes and a startled look of apprehension replaced it.
"Those plugs cinched up?" he demanded sharply. And mechanically his
hand fell on the butt of one of the guns at his waist.
"Sure," nodded the other half-breed.
All three listened acutely. Yes, the sound of galloping was plain to
their trained hearing. The mountains carried a tremendous echo.
Without further words all three men set off at a run for the corral.
Will was the fleetest and reached his horse first. In a second he was
in the saddle and sat waiting, and listening for the next alarming
sound.
"It's Ganly, sure," he muttered, turning one ear in the direction of
the rapidly approaching sound.
"Sounds like dogone 'get out,'" cried Pete, sharply. The shadow of the
rope was very near him at that moment.
The other half-breed nodded.
"Hist!" A sudden fear leaped into Will's eyes. "There's others," he
cried. "Come on, and bad luck to the hindmost! Joe's safe. He can get
clear by the south trail. They can't follow that way. I'm for the
northeast. You best follow. Gee!"
His final exclamation burst from him at the echoing reports of several
rifles. And now the sound of galloping hoofs was very near. The men
waited no longer. Will set spurs into his horse, and the half-breeds,
following him, raced for the northeast exit from the hollow.
But they had waited just a second or two longer than was safe. For, as
they reached the forest path, and were vanishing beneath the shadowy
trees, a fierce yell went up behind them. Pete, looking back over his
shoulder, hissed his alarm to his speeding comrades.
"Ho, boy, it's Doc Crombie, an' a whole gang. An' dey see us, too,
sure. But dey never catch us!"
Spurs went into their horses' flanks and the race began. For the noose
of the rope was looming large and ominous before their terrified
eyes.
A quarter of a mile from the hollow they divided and went their ways
in three different directions.