ON THE LITTLE BLUFF RIVER
Away to the west, where the plains cease and the hills begin, where
the Little Bluff River debouches upon the plains from its secret path
through cañon and crevasse, Jim Thorpe was standing beside a low scrub
bush, gazing ruefully at his distressed horse. The poor brute was too
tired to move from where he stood, nipping at the rich prairie grass
about his feet. He still had the strength and necessary appetite to do
this, but that was about all.
In his anxiety to serve the woman he loved Jim had done what years ago
he had vowed never to do. He had ridden his willing servant to a
standstill.
The saddle had been removed for more than an hour and was lying beside
the bush, and the man, all impatience and anxiety, was considering his
position and the possibility of fulfilling his mission. The outlook
was pretty hopeless. He judged that he had at least ten miles to go,
with no other means of making the distance than his own two legs.
And then, what would be the use? Doc Crombie was probably on the road.
He had heard the men preparing for the start before he left the
village. True, they had not overtaken him, but that was nothing. There
were other ways of reaching the rustlers' hollow. He knew of at least
three trails, and the difference in the distance between them was
infinitesimal.
For all he knew the other men might have already reached their
destination. Yes, they probably had. He had been out of the saddle
more than an hour. It was rotten luck. What would Eve think? He had
failed her in her extremity. At least his horse had. And it was much
the same thing. He realized now the folly of his attempt on a tired
horse. But then there had been no time to get a fresh one. No
possibility of getting one without rousing suspicion. Truly his luck
was devilish.
He sat down, his back propped against the stump of a dead sapling. And
from beneath the wide brim of his hat, pressed low down upon his
forehead, he gazed steadily out over the greensward at the southern
sky-line. His face was moody. His feelings were depressed. What could
he do? In profound thought he sat clasping one knee, which was drawn
up almost to his chin.
The beauty and peace of the morning had no part in his thoughts just
now. Bitter and depressed feelings alone occupied him. Behind him the
noisy little river sped upon its tumultuous way, just below sharp,
high banks, and entirely screened from where he sat. There was a
gossipy, companionable suggestion in the bustling of the noisy waters.
But the feeling was lost upon him. He prayed for inspiration, for
help. It was not for himself. It was for a woman. And the bitterness
of it all was that he, he with all his longing, was denied the power
to help her.
He turned from the hills with a feeling of irritation. Away to his
left the prairie rolled upward, a steady rise to a false sky-line
something less than a mile away. There was sign of neither man, nor
beast, nor habitation of any sort in the prospect. There was just the
river bank on which he sat to break up the uniformity of the plain.
Here was bush, here were trees, but they were few and scattered.
Presently he rose from his seat and moved over to his horse. The
animal lifted its head and looked wistfully into his face. The man
interpreted the appeal in his own fashion. And the look hurt him. It
was as if the poor beast were asking to be allowed to go on feeding a
little longer. Jim was soft-hearted for all dumb animals, and he
quietly and softly swore at his luck. However, he resaddled the animal
to protect its back from the sun and turned back again to the bush.
But he never reached his seat. At that instant the quiet was suddenly
and harshly broken. The stillness of the plain seemed literally split
with the crack of firearms. Two shots rang out in rapid succession,
and the faintest of echoes from the distant hills suggested an
opposing fire at long range. But the first two shots were near,
startlingly near.
All was still again. The man stood staring out in the direction whence
came those ominous sounds. No, all was not quite still again. His
quick ears detected a faint pounding of hoofs, and a racing thought
flew through his brain. His movements became swift, yet deliberate. He
crossed over to his horse and replaced the bit in its mouth. Then he
faced round at the rising ground and watched the sky-line. It was
thence that the reports had come, and his practiced ears had warned
him that they were pistol shots.
Now he shaded his eyes gazing at one particular spot on the sky-line.
For his horse, too, was gazing thither, with its ears sharply pricked.
And, in consequence, he knew that the man, or men who had fired those
shots were there, beyond the rise.
[Illustration: Also he was gripping a heavy revolver in his hand.]
He waited. Suddenly a moving speck broke the sky-line. Momentarily it
grew larger. Now it was sufficiently silhouetted for him to recognize
it. A horseman was coming toward him, racing as hard as spurs could
drive the beast under him.
Just for a moment he wondered. Then he glanced swiftly round at the
river behind him. Yes, the river. This man was riding from the hills.
And he understood in a flash. He was pursued. The hounds had him out
in the open. The only shelter for miles around was the sparse bush at
the riverside, and--the river itself. His interest became excitement,
and a sudden wild hope. He now searched the horizon behind the man.
There was not a soul in sight--and yet--those two shots.
But the situation suddenly became critical for himself. He realized
that the fugitive had seen him. From a low bending attitude over his
horse's neck the man had suddenly sat erect. Also he was gripping a
heavy revolver in his hand.
Suddenly a further excitement stirred the waiting man. As the fugitive
sat up he recognized him. It was Will Henderson.
He was still a hundred yards away, but the distance was rapidly
narrowing. At fifty yards he, Jim, would be well within range, and the
memory of those two shots warned him that the revolver in the
horseman's hand was no sort of bluff. It meant business, sure enough,
and his own identity was not in the least likely to add to his safety.
He must convey his peaceful intentions at once.
It was difficult. He dared not shout. He knew how the voice traveled
over the plains. Suddenly he remembered. He was one of the few prairie
men who still clung to the white handkerchief of civilization. He drew
one out of his pocket. It was anything but clean, but it would serve.
Throwing up both arms he waved it furiously at the man. This he did
three times. Then, dropping it to the ground, he held up both hands in
the manner of a prairie surrender.
There was a moment of anxious waiting, then, to his relief, he saw
Will head his hard blowing horse in his direction. But still retaining
his hold of his pistol, he came on. And in those few moments before he
reached him Jim had an opportunity of close observation.
First he saw that the horse was nearly done. Evidently the chase had
been, if short, at least a hard one, and if the hunters were close
behind, there was little enough chance of escape for him. The man's
eyes were alight and staring with the suspicious look of the hunted.
His young mouth was set desperately, and the watching man read in his
face a determination to sell his life at the highest price he could
demand. And somehow, in spite of all that had gone, he felt a great
pity for him.
Then, in a moment, his pity fled. It was the color of the man's shirt
that first caught his attention. It was identical with his own. From
this he examined the rest of his clothing. Will Henderson was clad as
much like himself as possible. And the meaning of it was quite plain
to him.
The horseman came up. He flung himself back in the saddle and reined
his horse up with a jerk.
"What's your game?" he demanded fiercely, still gripping the
threatening revolver, as Jim dropped his hands.
"I came to warn you--but my horse foundered. See."
Jim pointed at the dejected beast. "I came because she asked me to
come," he added.
Will glanced back up the hill. It needed little enough imagination to
guess what he was looking for.
"Well, the game's up, and--I'm hunted. They're about three miles
behind--all except one." He laughed harshly. Then he caught Jim's
eyes. "You came because she sent you? That means you're goin' to help
me, I guess, but only--because she sent you. Are you goin' to?" He
edged his gun forward so that the other could not miss seeing it.
But Jim had no fear. He was thinking with all the power of his brain.
Time was everything. He doubted they had more than five minutes. He
knew this patch of country by heart, which was one of the reasons he
had taken the northern trail. Now his knowledge served him.
He answered instantly, utterly ignoring the threatening gun.
"Yes. Now get this quickly. Your only chance is to drop down into that
river. It's shallow, though swift--about two feet to possibly two and
a half. Ride down stream for two miles. It winds tremendously, so the
others won't see you. You'll come to a thick patch of woods on either
bank. Take the left bank, and make through the woods, north. Then keep
right on to some foot-hills about ten miles due north. Once there you
can dodge 'em, sure. Anyway it's up to you. Leave 'em to me, when
they come up. I'll do my best to put 'em off."
Jim's voice was cold enough, but he spoke rapidly. Will, who had
turned again to scan the sky-line, now looked down at him suspiciously.
"Is this bluff--or straight business?" he demanded harshly.
Jim shrugged.
"You best get on--if you're going to clear. You said they were three
miles off," he reminded him, in the same cold manner.
Will looked back. He was still doubtful, but--he realized he must take
the advice. He had delayed too long now for anything else.
"She sent you, eh?" he asked, sharply. "It's not your own doin'?"
"I've no sympathy with--cattle-thieves," Jim retorted. "Git, quick!"
His eyes were on the horizon now. And it was his alert look that
finally decided the doubting man. He swung his horse round, and rode
for the river.
"So long," he called back. But there was no word of thanks. Neither
had the other any response to his farewell.
Jim watched him till he disappeared, then he turned again to the
rising grassland and watched for the coming of the hunters. And as he
watched his thoughts reverted to the doctrine of the one-way trail.
Will was traveling it hard. For him there was certainly no turning
back now.
But his horse had ceased grazing again, and once more stood with ears
pricked, gazing up the slope. Its master understood. This was no
moment to consider abstract problems, however they might interest him.
Stern reality lay ahead of him, and he knew he was in for an
unpleasant time. He linked his arm through his horse's reins, and,
with head bent, trailed slowly up the incline, pausing and stooping to
examine the hoof-prints of Will Henderson's horse, as though it were a
trail he had just discovered, and was anxious to learn its meaning. He
was thinking hard the while, and calculating his chances when the
hunters should come up.
While he appeared to be studying the track so closely, he yet was
watching the hill-crest ahead. He knew the men were rapidly
approaching, for the rumble of galloping horses was quite distinct to
his well-trained ears. He wanted his intentness to be at its closest
when the gang first discovered him.
He had his wish. As the men topped the ridge he was on one knee
studying a clearer imprint than usual. Doc Crombie and Smallbones,
riding at the head of a party of five men, saw him, and the latter
shouted his joy.
"Gee! we've got him! Say----" He broke off, staring hard at the
kneeling figure. The outline was familiar. Suddenly Jim stood up, and
the little man instantly recognized him. "Guess you lost that
three-year-old 'driver,' Doc," he cried, his face alight with malice.
"Ther's our man, an'--it's Jim Thorpe. I thought I rec'nized him from
the first, when he broke cover. This is bully!"
But the stern-faced doctor had no answer for him. His eyes were fixed
on the man, who now stood calmly waiting for him to approach.
Experienced in such matters as he was, he looked for the threatening
gun in Jim Thorpe's hand. There was none. On the contrary, the man
seemed to be waiting for them in the friendliest spirit. There was his
horse, too; why was he on foot? It struck him that the riddle wanted
more reading than Smallbones had given it. He was not so sure he had
yet lost that three-year-old "driver."
Jim made no change of position as they clattered up. Smallbones was
ahead, with a gun leveled as he came.
"Hands up! Hands up, you dogone skunk, or I'll blow your roof off!" he
cried fiercely.
But Jim only grinned. It was not a pleasant grin, either, for the
hardware dealer's epithet infuriated him.
"Don't be a blamed fool, Smallbones," he said sharply. "You're
rattled."
"Put your darned hands up, or----!"
But Doc Crombie knocked the little man's gun up.
"Say, push that back in its kennel," he cried, harshly. "You sure
ain't safe with a gun."
Then, after seeing that his comrade obeyed him, and permitting himself
a shadowy grin at the man's crestfallen air, he turned to Jim Thorpe.
"Wal?" he drawled questioningly.
"Thanks, Doc," said Jim, with a cheery smile. "I guess you saved my
life. Smallbones shouldn't be out without his nurse." Then he glanced
swiftly down at the track he had been examining. "Say, I've hit a
trail right here. It goes on down to the river, an' I can't locate
it further. I was just going back on it a piece. Guess you've come
along in the same direction. See, here it is. A horse galloping
hell-for-leather. Guess it's not a lope. By the splashing of sand, I'd
say he was racing." He looked fearlessly into the doctor's eyes, but
his heart was beating hard with guilty consciousness. He was trying to
estimate the man's possible attitude.
"That's the trail we're on," the doctor said sharply. "Say, how long
you been here?" he inquired, glancing at Jim's horse.
"Well, round about here, getting on for two hours."
"What are you out here for, anyway?"
Jim glanced from the doctor to Smallbones, and then on at the rest of
the men. They were all cattlemen, none of them were villagers. He
laughed suddenly.
"Say, is this an--er--inquisition?"
"Sure." The doctor's reply rapped out tartly.
"Well, that being the way of things, guess I'd best tell you first as
last. You see, I got back to the village yesterday afternoon. As maybe
you know, I've been out nearly two days on the trail. Well, late last
night, Elia Marsham came to me with a yarn about a hollow in the
hills, where he said he'd seen the rustlers at work. He told me how to
find it, an'--well, I hit the trail. I hoped to head you, and get 'em
myself, but," with a shrug, "I guess I was a fool some. My plug
petered out two hours back, and I had to quit. You see he was stale at
the start."
"An' this trail?" snapped the doctor.
"I was way back there down the river a goodish piece, getting a sleep
by the bush, and easing my plug, when I woke up quick. Seemed to me I
heard a gunshot. Maybe I was dreaming. Anyway I sat up and took
notice, but didn't see a thing. So, after a while, I got dozing again.
Then my plug started to neigh, and kept whinnying. I got around then,
guessing something was doing. So I started to chase up the river.
Then I found this trail. It's new, fresh done this morning, sure.
Guess it must have been some feller passing that worried my horse. You
say you're on this trail? Whose? It isn't--eh?" as the doctor nodded.
"Then come right on down to the river. We're losing time."
Jim turned to lead his horse away, but Smallbones laughed. There was
no mistaking the derision, the challenge of that laugh. Jim turned
again, and the look he favored the hardware dealer with was one that
did not escape the doctor, who promptly interposed.
"If you're right an' he's wrong, you've got time in plenty to correct
him later, Jim," he said, in his stern fashion. "Meanwhiles you'll
keep your face closed, Smallbones, or--light right out." Then he
turned back to Jim. "Ther' ain't a heap o' hurry now, boy, fer that
feller. His horse was nigh done," he went on, glancing at the dejected
creature Jim was leading. "Done jest about as bad as yours. An' his
plug was the same color, and he was rigged out much as you are." Then
his tone became doubly harsh. "Say, the feller we're chasin' was your
build. He was so like you in cut, and his plug so like yours, that if
I put it right here to the vote I'm guessin' you'd hang so quick you'd
wonder how it was done. But then, you see, I've got two eyes, an' some
elegant savvee, which some folks ain't blessed with," with an eye in
Smallbones' direction. "An' I tell you right here ther's just the fact
your plug is stone cold between you an' a rawhide rope. You jest
couldn't be the man we're chasin' 'less you're capable o' miracles.
Get me? But I'm goin' to do some straight talk. Not more than ten
minutes gone the feller we're after shot down one o' the boys back
ther' over the rise. That boy was on a fast hoss, an' was close on
that all-fired Dago's heels. Wal, he got it plenty, an' we're goin'
back to bury that honest citizen later. Meanwhiles, ten minutes gone
that rustler got down here, an' as you say, made that river, an'
you--you didn't see him. Get me? You're jest goin' to show me wher'
you sat."
For a second Jim's heart seemed to stand still. He was not used to
lying. However, he realized only too well how the least hesitation
would surely hang him, and he promptly nodded his head.
"Sure I will. Come right along." And he led the way diagonally from
the horseman's tracks, so as to strike the river obliquely.
It was a silent procession, and the air was charged with possible
disaster. Jim walked ahead, his horse hanging back and being urged
forward by no very gentle kicks from Smallbones.
And as he walked he thought hard. He was struggling to remember a
likely spot. He dare not choose one where grass lay under foot. These
men had eyes like hawks for a spot on such ground. There was only one
underlay where their eyes could be fooled, and that was under the
shelter of a pine tree, where the pine-needles prevented impress and
yielded no trace of footsteps. Was there such a spot near by? He
vaguely remembered a small cluster of such trees beside his track, but
he couldn't remember how far away it lay. He knew he must take a big
risk.
He did not hesitate, and, though slowly, he walked deliberately in a
definite direction, winding in and out the bush. Then to his intense
relief, after about five minutes' walking, he saw the trees he was
looking for. Yes, they were right in his track, and he remembered now
skirting them as he came along. But he was not yet clear of trouble by
any means. What was the underlay like?
He avoided giving any sign of his destination. That was most
important. And he was fearful lest he should be questioned. He knew
the shrewdness of the redoubtable doctor, and he feared it. He was on
his own track now, which showed plain enough in the grass. And as he
came to the clump of pines he still kept on until he had practically
passed it. He did this purposely. It was necessary to satisfy himself
that the ground under the trees was bare except for a thick carpet of
pine-needles. Fortune was with him for once, and he suddenly turned
and led his horse in among the trees. As he walked he disturbed the
carpet as much as he could without attracting attention, and having
come to a halt, he quickly turned his horse about the further to
disturb the underlay. Then he flung himself into a sitting posture at
the foot of one of the trees, at the same time deliberately raising a
dust with his feet.
"This is the spot," he said, looking frankly up into the doctor's
face. "I s'pose I must have been here somewhere around two hours. How
far have we come? A matter of two hundred yards? Look out there. It's
more or less a blank outlook of trees."
But Doc Crombie was studying the ground. Jim sprang up and began to
move round his horse, feeling the cinchas of his saddle. He felt he
could reasonably do this, and further disturb the underlay without
exciting suspicion. It was a dreadful moment for him, for he noted
that all eyes were closely scrutinizing the ground.
Suddenly the doctor fixed an eagle glance on his face. Jim met it. He
believed it to be the final question. But the man gave him no
satisfaction. He left him with the uncertainty as to whether he had
wholly fooled him or not. His words were peremptory.
"We'll git back an' finish the hunt," he declared. Then, "Will that
durned plug carry you now?"
Jim shrugged.
"Maybe at a walk."
"Wal, git right on."
Jim obeyed. It would have been madness to refuse. But his brain was
desperately busy.
They rode back to the river bank at the point where the fugitive had
taken to the water. Most of the men dismounted, and, with noses to the
ground, they studied the tracks. Two or three moved along the bank
vainly endeavoring to discover the man's further direction; and two of
them rode across to the opposite side. But the banks told them
nothing. Their quarry had obviously not crossed the water. A quarter
of an hour was spent thus, Jim helping all he knew; then finally Doc
Crombie called his men together.
"We'll git right on," he declared authoritatively.
"Which way?" inquired Smallbones. He was angry, but looked depressed.
The doctor considered a moment, and the men stood round waiting.
"We'll head up-stream for the hills," he said at last. "Guess he'll
make that way. We'll divide up on either side of the river. Guess you
best take three men, Smallbones, an' cross over. You, Thorpe, 'll stop
with me."
But Thorpe shook his head. He saw an opportunity to play a big hand
for Eve, and, win or lose, he meant to play it. He would not have
attempted it on a man less keen than the doctor.
"You're wrong, Doc," he said coolly, and all eyes were at once turned
upon him. Every man in the party was at once agog with interest, for
not one of them but shared Smallbones' suspicion in some degree,
however little it might be.
"See here," Jim went on, with a great show of enthusiasm, "do you know
this river? Well," as the doctor shook his head, "I do. That's why I
came this trail. I guessed if any of the rustlers were liable to hit
the trail, it 'ud be somewhere around this river. You figger he's gone
up-stream. I'd gamble he's gone down. There's a heavy timber two miles
or so down-stream, and that timber is a sheer cover right up to the
hills farther north. D'you get me? Well, personally, I don't think
he's gone up-stream--so I hunt down."
He was relying on the independence of his manner and the truth of his
arguments for success, and he achieved it even beyond his hopes. Doc
Crombie's eyes blazed.
"You'll hunt with me, Jim Thorpe," he cried sharply.
But Jim was ready. This was what he was looking for.
"See here, Doc, I'm not out for foolishness, neither are you. Oh, yes,
I know I'm suspected, and there's folks, especially our friend
Smallbones, would like to hang me right off. Well, get busy and do the
hanging, I shan't resist, and you'll all live to regret it; that is,
except Smallbones. However, this is my point. This suspicion is on me,
and I've got to clear it. I'm a sight more interested than any of you
fellows. I believe that fellow has headed down-stream, and I claim
the right, in my own self-defense, to follow him as far as my horse
will let me. I want to hit his trail, and I'll run him to earth if I
have to do it on foot. And I tell you right here you've no authority
to stop me. I'm not a vigilante, and you're not a sheriff, nor even a
'deputy.' I tell you you have neither moral nor legal right to prevent
me clearing myself in my own way."
"Want to get rid of us," snarled Smallbones.
Jim turned on him like a knife.
"I've a score to settle with you, and, small as you are, you're going
to get all that's coming to you--later."
"You'll have to get busy quick, or you won't have time," grinned the
little man, making a hideous motion of hanging.
But further bickering was prevented by the doctor. At this moment he
rose almost to the greatness which his associates claimed for him.
Bitter as his feelings were at thus openly being defied and flouted,
he refused to blind himself to the justness of the other's plea. He
even acquiesced with a decent grace, although he refused--as Jim knew
he would--to change his own opinions.
"Hit your trail, boy," he cried, in his large, harsh voice. "Guess you
sure got the rights of a free citizen, an'--good luck."
He rode off; and Smallbones, with a venomous glance back at the
triumphant Jim, started across the river. Jim remounted his horse and
rode off down the river. He glanced back at the retreating party with
the doctor, and sighed his relief. He felt as though he had been
passing through a lifetime of crime, and ahead lay safety.
He did not attempt to push his tired horse faster than a walk, but
continued on until he came to the woods, where he knew Will had sought
shelter; then he off-saddled. He had no intention of proceeding
farther until sundown.
He thanked his stars that he had read Doc Crombie aright. He would
never have dared to bluff a lesser man than he.
And then, having seated himself for rest under a bush, his last waking
thoughts were black with the despair of an honest man who has finally
and voluntarily made it impossible to prove his own innocence.