The moment Vic Gregg stood in the open air, with the last appeal of
Betty ringing still at his ear, he felt a profound conviction that he
was about to die and he stood a moment breathing deeply, taking the
faint alkali scent of the dust and looking up to the stars. It was that
moment when night blends with day and there is no sign of light in the
sky except that the stars burn more and more bright as the darkness
thickens, and Vic Gregg watched the stars draw down more closely
and believed that he was seeing this for the last time. Alder seemed
inexpressibly dear to him as he stood there through a little space, and
the vaguely discernible outlines of the shacks along the street were
like the faces of friends. In that house behind him was Betty Neal,
waiting, praying for him, and indeed, had it not been for shame, he
would have weakened now and turned back. For he hardly knew which way
to turn. He wanted to save Ronicky and the other two from the attack
of Barry, yet he would not lay a trap for Dan. To Barry he owed a vast
debt; his debt to the three was that which any human being owes to
another. He had to save them from the wolf which ran through the night
in the body of a man.
That thought sent him at a run for Captain Lorrimer's saloon. It was
lighted brilliantly by the gasoline lamp within, but a short distance
away from it he heard no sound and his imagination drew a terrible
picture of the big, empty room, with three dead men lying in the center
of it where the destroyer had reached them one by one. That was what
took the blood from his face and made him a white mask of tragedy when
he stepped into the door of the saloon. It was quiet, but half a dozen
men sat at the tables in the corner, and among them were Ronicky and the
other two. Sliver Waldron was in the very act of pulling back his chair,
and perhaps all three had just come in. Perhaps Barry had come here to
look for his quarry and found them not yet arrived; perhaps he was
now hunting in other places through the town; perhaps he was even now
crouched in the shadow near at hand and ready to attack.
It made the hand of Vic Gregg contract with a cruel pressure when it
fell on the shoulder of Sliver Waldron.
“Now, what in hell!” grunted that hardened warrior.
He had no love for Vic Gregg since that day when the posse rode through
the hills after him; neither had Ronicky or Gus Reeve, who rose from
their chairs as if at a signal. “Come with me, gents,” said Vic. “An'
come quick!”
They asked no questions and did not stay to argue the point for he had
that in his face which meant action. He led them outside, and behind the
horse shed of the saloon.
“We're alone?” he asked.
“Nothin' in sight.”
“Look sharp.”
They peered about them through the night, and a wan moon only helped to
make the darkness visible.
“Gents, we may be alone now, but we ain't goin' to be alone long. Get
your hosses and ride like hell. Barry is in town!”
“Vic, you're drunk.”
“I tell you, he's been seen--”
“Then by God,” growled Sliver Waldron, “lead me to him. I need to have a
little talk with that gent.”
“Lead you to him?” echoed Vic Gregg. “Sliver, are you hungerin' to push
daisies?”
“Look here, Bud,” answered the older man, and he laid a hand on the
shoulder of Vic. “You been with this Barry, gent, and you've lived in
his house. D'you mean to say you're one of the lot that talks about him
like he was a ghost bullets couldn't harm? I tell you, son, they's been
so much chatter about him that folks forget he's human. I'm goin' to
remind 'em of that little fact.”
Vic Gregg groaned. Even while he talked he was glancing over his
shoulder as if he feared the shadows under the moon. His voice was half
gasp, half whisper.
“Sliver--Ronicky--don't ask me how I know--jest believe me when I say
Dan Barry'll never die by the hand of any man. I tell you--he can see in
the dark!”
A soft oath from Gus Reeve; a twitching of Ronicky's head told that this
last had taken effect. Sliver Waldron suddenly altered his manner.
“All right, Vic. Trot back into town, or come with us. We're going to
move out.”
“The wisest thing you ever done, Sliver.”
“I'm feelin' the same way,” breathed Gus Reeve.
“S'long,” whispered Vic Gregg, and faded into the night, running.
The others, without a word among themselves, gathered their horses and
struck down the valley out of Alder. The padding and swish of the sand
about the feet of their mounts; the very creaking of the saddle leather
seemed to alarm them, and they were continually turning and looking
back. That is, Gus Reeve and Ronicky Joe manifested these signs of
trouble, but Sliver Waldron, riding in the center of the trio, never
moved his head. They were hardly well out of the town when a swift rush
of hoof beats swept up from behind, and a horseman darted into the pale
mist of the valley bending low over his pommel to cut the wind of his
riding.
“Who is it?”
“Vic Gregg!” muttered Gus Reeve. “Stir, along, Sliver. Vic ain't
lingerin' any!”
But Sliver Waldron drew rein, and let his horse go on at a walk.
“Hearin' you talk, Ronicky,” he said, “you'd think you was really scared
of Dan Barry.”
Ronicky Joe stiffened in his saddle and peered through the uncertain
light to make out if Sliver were jesting. But the latter seemed
perfectly grave.
“A gent would almost think,” went on Sliver, “that we three was runnin'
away from Barry, instead of goin' out to set a trap for him.”
There was something nearly akin to a grunt from Gus Reeve, but Ronicky
merely continued to stare at the leader.
“'S a matter of fact,” said Sliver, “when Vic was talkin' I sort of felt
the chills go up my back. How about you, Ronicky?”
“I'll tell a man,” sighed Ronicky. “While Vic was talkin' I seen that
devil comin' on his hoss like he done when he broke out of the cabin
that night. I'll tell you straight, Sliver. I had my gun drilled on him.
I couldn't of missed; but after I fired he kept straight on. It was like
puncturin' a shadow!”
“Sure,” nodded Sliver. “Shootin' by night ain't ever a sure thing.”
Ronicky wiped his heated brow.
“So I sent Vic away before he had a chance to get real nervous. But when
he comes back--well, boys, it'll be kind of amusin' to watch Vic's face
when he saunters into town tomorrow and sees Dan Barry--maybe dead,
maybe in the irons. Eh?”
Only a deep silence answered him, but in the interest which his words
excited the terror seemed to have left Ronicky and Gus. They rode close,
their heads toward Sliver alone.
“There goes Vic,” mused Sliver. “There he goes--go on. Mac, you old
fool!--scared to death, ridin' for his life. And why? Because he
believes some ghost stories he's heard about Dan Barry!”
“Ghost stories?” echoed Reeve. “Some of 'em ain't fairy tales, Sliver.”
“Jest name one that ain't!”
“Well, the way he trailed Jim Silent. We've all heard of Silent, and
Barry--was too good for him.”
“Bah,” sneered Sliver. “Too good for Silent? Ye lied readily enough:
booze done for Silent long before Barry come along.”
“That right?”
“I'll tell a man it is. Mind you, I don't say Barry ain't handy with his
gun; but he's done a little and the gents have furnished the trimmin's.
Look here, if Barry is the man-eater they say, why did he pick a time
for comin' down when the sheriff was out of town?”
“By God!” exclaimed Ronicky. “I never thought of that!”
“Sure you didn't,” chuckled Sliver. “But this sucker figures that you
and Gus and me will be easy pickin's. He figures we'll do what Vic
did--hit for the tall pines. Then he'll blow around how he ran the four
of us out of Alder. Be pleasant comin' back to talk like that, eh?”
There was a volley of rapid curses from the other two.
“We'll get this cheap skate, Sliver,” suggested Ronicky. “We'll get this
ghost and tie him up and take him back to Alder and make a show of him.”
“We will,” nodded Sliver. “Have you figured how?”
“Lie out here in the bush. He'll hunt around Alder all night and when
the mornin' comes he'll leave and he'll come out this way. We'll be
ready for him where the valley's narrow down there. They say his hoss
and his dog is as bad as any two ordinary men. Well, that's three of
them and here's three of us. It's an even break, eh?”
“Ronicky,” murmured Sliver, “I always knowed you had the brains. We'll
take this gent and tame him, and run him back to Alder on the end of a
rope.”
Gus Reeve whooped and waved his hat at the thought.
So the three reached the point where the shadowy walls of the valley
narrowed, drew almost together. There they placed the horses in a hollow
near the southern cliff, and they returned to take post. There was
only one bridle path which wound through the gulch here, and the three
concealed themselves behind a thicket of sagebrush to wait.
They laid their plan carefully. Each man was to have his peculiar duty:
Gus Reeve, an adept with the rope, would wait until the black stallion
was cantering past and then toss his noose and throw the horse. At the
same instant, Ronicky Joe would shoot the wolf-dog, and Sliver Waldron
would perforate Dan Barry while the latter rolled in the dust, unless,
indeed, he was pinioned by the fall of his horse, in which case they
would have the added glory of taking him alive.
By the time all these details were settled the pale moonlight was shot
through with the rose of dawn. Then, rapidly, the mountains lifted into
view, range beyond range, all their gullies deep blue and purple, and
here and there sharp triangles of snow. There was not a cloud, not a
trace of mist, and through the crisp, thin air the vision carried as if
through a telescope. They could count the trees on the upper ridges;
and that while the floor of the valley was still in shadow. This in turn
grew brilliant, and everywhere the sage brush glittered like foliage
carved in gray-green quartz.
It was then that they saw Dan Barry, while the dawn was still around
them, and before the sun pushed up in the east above the mountains. He
came winding down the bridle path with the dawn glittering on the side
of Satan, and a dark, swift form spiriting on ahead.
“Look at him!” muttered Sliver Waldron. “The damned wolf is a scout.
See him nose around that hummock? Watch him smell behind that bush. The
black devil!”
Bart, in fact, wove a loose course before his master, running here and
there to all points of vantage, as if he knew that danger lurked ahead,
but where he came close, with only the narrow passage between the
cliffs, he seemed to make up his animal brain that there could be no
trouble in so constricted a place, and darted straight ahead.
“They're ours,” whispered Waldron. “Steady, boys. Gus, get your rope,
get ready!”
Gus tossed the noose a little wider, and gathered himself for the throw,
but it seemed as if the wolf saw or heard the movement. He stopped
suddenly and stood with his head high; behind him the rider checked the
black horse; all three waited.
“He's tryin' to get the wind,” chuckled Waldron, “but the wind is ag'in'
our faces!”
It was only a slight breeze, but it came directly against the lurking
three; and moreover the scent of the sage was particularly keen at this
time of the day, and quite sufficient to blur the scent of man even in
the keen nostrils of Black Bart. Only for a second or so he stood there
sniffing the wind, a huge animal, larger than any wolf the three had
ever seen; his face wise in a certain bear-like fashion from the three
gray marks in the center of his forehead. Now he trotted ahead, and the
stallion broke into a gallop behind.
“My God,” whispered Sliver to Gus, “don't spoil that hoss when you daub
the rope on him! Look at that action; like runnin' water!”
They came more rapidly. As if the rider knew that a point of danger was
there to be passed, he spoke to his mount, and Satan lengthened into a
racing gait that blew the brim of the rider's hat straight up. On they
came. The wolf-dog darted past. Then as the horse swept by, Gus Reeve
rose from behind his bush and the rope darted snakelike from his hand.
The forefeet of Satan landed in the noose, and the next instant the
back-flung weight of Gus tightened the rope, and Satan shot over upon
his side, flinging the master clear of the saddle.
It sent him rolling over and over in the dust, and Sliver Waldron was on
his feet with both guns in action, sending bullet after bullet towards
the tumbling body. Gus Reeve was running towards the stallion, his rope
in action to entangle one of the hindfeet and make sure of his prey;
Ronicky Joe had leaped up with a yell and blazed away at Black Bart.
It was no easy mark to strike, for the moment the rope shot out from the
hand of Gus, the wolf-dog whirled in his tracks and darted straight for
the scene of action. It was that, perhaps, which troubled the aim of
Ronicky more than anything else, for wild animals do not whirl in
this fashion and run for an assailant. He had expected to find himself
plugging away at a flying target in the distance; instead, the black
monster was rushing straight for him, silently. Indeed, all that
followed was in silence after that first wild Indian yell from Ronicky
Joe. His gun barked, but Black Bart was running like a football player
down a broken field, swerving here and there with uncanny speed. Again,
again, Joe missed, and then flung up his arm toward the flying danger.
But Black Bart shot from the ground to make his kill. He could bring
down the strongest bull in the herd. What was the arm of a man to him?
His snake-like head shot through that futile guard; his teeth cut off
the screams of Ronicky Joe. Down they went. The gun flew from the hand
of Ronicky; for an instant he struggled with hands and writhing legs,
and then the murderous teeth of Bart sank deeper, found the life. The
dead body was limp, but Bart, shaking his hold deeper to make sure,
glared across to the fallen master.
The third man had died for Grey Molly.
All this had happened in a second, and the body of Barry was still
rolling when a gun flashed in his hand, drawn while he tumbled. It spat
fire, and Sliver Waldron staggered forward drunkenly, waved both his
armed hands as if he were trying to talk by signal, and pitched on his
face into the dust.
The fourth man had died for Grey Molly.
No gun was destined for Gus Reeve, however. Black Bart had left the
lifeless body of his victim and was darting towards the third man; the
master was on his knee, raising his gun for the last shot; but Gus Reeve
was blind to all that had happened. He saw only the black stallion,
the matchless prize of horseflesh. He tossed a loop in the taut rope
to entangle a bind foot, but that slackening of the line gave Satan his
instant's purchase, and a moment later he was on his feet, whirled, and
two iron-hard hoofs crushed the whole framework of the man's chest like
an egg-shell. The impact lifted him from his feet, but before that body
struck the ground the life was fled from it. The fifth man had died for
Grey Molly.