THE CABIN IN THE FLAT
It was the day appointed by Ferguson for his presence at the Two
Diamond ranch, and he was going to keep his word. Three hours out of
Dry Bottom he had struck the Ute trail and was loping his pony through
a cottonwood that skirted the river. It was an enchanted country
through which he rode; a land of vast distances, of white sunlight,
blue skies, and clear, pure air. Mountains rose in the distances,
their snowcapped peaks showing above the clouds like bald rock spires
above the calm level of the sea. Over the mountains swam the sun, its
lower rim slowly disappearing behind the peaks, throwing off broad
white shafts of light that soon began to dim as vari-colors, rising in
a slumberous haze like a gauze veil, mingled with them.
Ferguson's gaze wandered from the trail to the red buttes that fringed
the river. He knew this world; there was no novelty here for him. He
knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he
knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious
past. Nature had not altered her face. On the broad levels were the
yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark
lines that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the
little guillies. Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches
where the sage-brush and the cactus grew. Snaky octilla dotted the
space; the crabbed yucca had not lost its ugliness.
Ferguson looked upon the world with unseeing eyes. He had lived here
long and the country had not changed. It would never change. Nothing
ever changed here but the people.
But he himself had not changed. Twenty-seven years in this country was
a long time, for here life was not measured by age, but by experience.
Looking back over the years he could see that he was living to-day as
he had lived last year, as he had lived during the last decade--a hard
life, but having its compensations.
His coming to the Two Diamond ranch was merely another of those
incidents that, during the past year, had broken the monotony of range
life for him. He had had some success in breaking up a band of cattle
thieves which had made existence miserable for Sid Tucker, his
employer, and the latter had recommended him to Stafford. The promise
of high wages had been attractive, and so he had come. He had not
expected to surprise any one. When during his conversation with the
tall man in Dry Bottom he had discovered that the latter was the man
for whom he was to work he had been surprised himself. But he had not
revealed his surprise. Experience and association with men who kept
their emotions pretty much to themselves had taught him the value of
repression when in the presence of others.
But alone he allowed his emotions full play. There was no one to see,
no one to hear, and the silence and the distances, and the great,
swimming blue sky would not tell.
Stafford's action in coming to Dry Bottom for a gunfighter had puzzled
him not a little. Apparently the Two Diamond manager was intent upon
the death of the rustler he had mentioned. He had been searching for a
man who could "shoot," he had said. Ferguson had interpreted this to
mean that he desired to employ a gunfighter who would not scruple to
kill any man he pointed out, whether innocent or guilty. He had had
some experience with unscrupulous ranch managers, and he had admired
them very little. Therefore, during the ride today, his lips had
curled sarcastically many times.
Riding through a wide clearing in the cottonwood, he spoke a thought
that had troubled him not a little since he had entered Stafford's
employ.
"Why," he said, as he rode along, sitting carelessly in the saddle,
"he's wantin' to make a gunfighter out of me. But I reckon I ain't
goin' to shoot no man unless I'm pretty sure he's gunnin' for me." His
lips curled ironically. "I wonder what the boys of the Lazy J would
think if they knowed that a guy was tryin' to make a gunfighter out of
their old straw boss. I reckon they'd think that guy was loco--or a
heap mistaken in his man. But I'm seein' this thing through. I ain't
ridin' a hundred miles just to take a look at the man who's hirin' me.
It'll be a change. An' when I go back to the Lazy J----"
It was not the pony's fault. Neither was it Ferguson's. The pony was
experienced; behind his slant eyes was stored a world of horse-wisdom
that had pulled him and his rider through many tight places. And
Ferguson had ridden horses all his life; he would not have known what
to do without one.
But the pony stumbled. The cause was a prairie-dog hole, concealed
under a clump of matted mesquite. Ferguson lunged forward, caught at
the saddle horn, missed it, and pitched head-foremost out of the
saddle, turning completely over and alighting upon his feet. He stood
erect for an instant, but the momentum had been too great. He went
down, and when he tried to rise a twinge of pain in his right ankle
brought a grimace to his face. He arose and hopped over to a flat
rock, near where his pony now stood grazing as though nothing had
happened.
Drawing off his boot, Ferguson made a rapid examination of the ankle.
It was inflamed and painful, but not broken. He believed he could see
it swelling. He rubbed it, hoping to assuage the pain. The woolen
sock interfered with the rubbing, and he drew it off.
For a few minutes he worked with the ankle, but to little purpose. He
finally became convinced that it was a bad sprain, and he looked up,
scowling. The pony turned an inquiring eye upon him, and he grinned,
suddenly smitten with the humor of the situation.
"You ain't got no call to look so doggoned innocent about it," he said.
"If you'd been tendin' to your business, you wouldn't have stepped into
no damned gopher hole."
The pony moved slowly away, and he looked whimsically after it,
remarking: "Mebbe if I'd been tendin' to my business it wouldn't have
happened, either." He spoke again to the pony. "I reckon you know
that too, Mustard. You're some wise."
The animal was now at some little distance from the rock upon which he
was sitting. He arose, hobbling on one foot toward it, carrying the
discarded boot in his hand. He thought of riding with the foot bare.
At the Two Diamond he was sure to find some sort of liniment which,
with the help of a bandage, would materially assist nature in----
He was passing a filmy mesquite clump--the bare foot swinging wide.
There was a warning rattle; a sharp thrust of a flat, brown head.
Ferguson halted in astonishment, almost knocked off his balance with
the suddenness of the attack. He still held the boot, his fingers
gripping it tightly. He raised it, with a purely involuntary motion,
as though to hurl it at his insidious enemy. But he did not. The arm
fell to his side, and his face slowly whitened. He stared dully and
uncomprehendingly at the sinuous shape that was slipping noiselessly
away through the matted grass.
Somehow, he had never thought of being bitten by a rattler. He had
seen so many of them that he had come to look upon them only as targets
at which he might shoot when he thought he needed practice. And now he
was bitten. The unreality of the incident surprised him. He looked
around at the silent hills, at the sun that swam above the mountain
peaks, at the great, vast arc of sky that yawned above him. Hills,
sky, and sun seemed also unreal. It was as though he had been suddenly
thrust into a land of dreams.
But presently the danger of the situation burst upon him, and he lived
once more in the reality. He looked down at his foot. A livid,
pin-point wound showed in the flesh beside the arch. A tiny stream of
blood was oozing from it. He forgot the pain of the sprained ankle and
stood upon both feet, his body suddenly rigid, his face red with a
sudden, consuming anger, shaking a tense fist at the disappearing
rattler.
"You damned sneak!" he shouted shrilly.
In the same instant he had drawn one of his heavy guns and swung it
over his head. Its crashing report brought a sudden swishing from
beneath the grass, and he hopped over closer and sent three more
bullets into the threshing brown body. He stood over it for a moment,
his teeth showing in a savage snarl.
"You won't bite any one else, damn you!" he shouted.
The impotence of this conduct struck him immediately. He flushed and
drooped his head, a grim smile slowly wearing down his expression of
panic. Seldom did he allow his emotions to reveal themselves so
plainly. But the swiftness of the rattler's attack, the surprise when
he had not been thinking of such a thing, the fact that he was far from
help and that his life was in danger--all had a damaging effect upon
his self-control. And yet the smile showed that he was still master of
himself.
Very deliberately he returned to the rock upon which he had been
sitting, ripping off his coat and tearing away the sleeve of his
woollen shirt. Twisting the sleeve into the form of a rude rope, he
tied it loosely around his leg, just above the ankle. Then he thrust
his knife between the improvised rope and the leg, forming a crude
tourniquet. He twisted the knife until tears of pain formed in his
eyes. Then he fastened the knife by tucking the haft under the rope.
His movements had been very deliberate, but sure, and in a few minutes
he hobbled to his pony and swung into the saddle.
He had seen men who had been bitten by rattlers--had seen them die.
And he knew that if he did not get help within half an hour there would
be little use of doing anything further. In half an hour the virus
would have so great a grip upon him that it would be practically
useless to apply any of the antidotes commonly known to the inhabitants
of the country.
Inquiries that he had made at Dry Bottom had resulted in the discovery
that the Two Diamond ranch was nearly thirty miles from the town. If
he had averaged eight miles an hour he had covered about twenty-four
miles of the distance. That would still leave about six. And he could
not hope to ride those six miles in time to get any benefit from an
antidote.
His lips straightened, he stared grimly at a ridge of somber hills that
fringed the skyline. They had told him back in Dry Bottom that the Two
Diamond ranch was somewhere in a big basin below those hills.
"I reckon I won't get there, after all," he said, commenting aloud.
Thereafter he rode grimly on, keeping a good grip upon himself--for he
had seen men bitten by rattlers who had lost their self-control--and
they had not been good to look upon. Much depended upon coolness;
somewhere he had heard that it was a mistake for a bitten man to exert
himself in the first few minutes following a bite; exertion caused the
virus to circulate more rapidly through the system. And so he rode at
an even pace, carefully avoiding the rough spots, though keeping as
closely to the trail as possible.
"If it hadn't been a diamond-back--an' a five-foot one--this rope that
I've got around my leg might be enough to fool him," he said once,
aloud. "But I reckon he's got me." His eyes lighted savagely for an
instant. "But I got him, too. Had the nerve to think that he could
get away after throwin' his hooks into me."
Presently his eyes caught the saffron light that glowed in the western
sky. He laughed with a grim humor. "I've heard tell that a snake
don't die till sundown--much as you hurt him. If that's so, an' I
don't get to where I c'n get some help, I reckon it'll be a stand off
between him an' me as to who's goin' first."
A little later he drew Mustard to a halt, sitting very erect in the
saddle and fixing his gaze upon a tall cottonwood tree that rose near
the trail. His heart was racing madly, and in spite of his efforts, he
felt himself swaying from side to side. He had often seen a rattler
doing that--flat, ugly head raised above his coiled body, forked tongue
shooting out, his venomous eyes glittering, the head and the part of
the body rising above the coils swaying gracefully back and forth.
Yes, gracefully, for in spite of his hideous aspect, there was a
certain horrible ease of movement about a rattler--a slippery, sinuous
motion that partly revealed reserve strength, and hinted at
repressed energy.
Many times, while watching them, he had been fascinated by their grace,
and now, sitting in the saddle, he caught himself wondering if the
influence of a bite were great enough to cause the person bitten to
imitate the snake. He laughed when this thought struck him and drove
his spurs sharply against Mustard's flanks, riding forward past the
cottonwood at which he had been staring.
"Hell!" he ejaculated, as he passed the tree, "what a fool notion."
But he could not banish the "notion" from his mind, and five minutes
later, when he tried again to sit steadily, he found the swaying more
pronounced. The saddle seemed to rock with him, and even by jamming
his uninjured foot tightly into the ox-bow stirrup he could not stop
swaying.
"Mebbe I won't get very far," he said, realizing that the poison had
entered his system, and that presently it would riot in his veins, "but
I'm goin' on until I stop. I wouldn't want that damned rattler to know
that he'd made me quit so soon."
He urged Mustard to a faster pace, even while realizing that speed was
hopeless. He could never reach the Two Diamond. Convinced of this, he
halted the pony again, swaying in the saddle and holding, for the first
time, to the pommel in an effort to steady himself. But he still
swayed. He laughed mockingly.
"Now, what do you think of that?" he said, addressing the silence.
"You might think I was plum tenderfoot an' didn't know how to ride a
horse proper."
He urged the pony onward again, and for some little time rode with
bowed head, trying to keep himself steady by watching the trail. He
rode through a little clearing, where the grass was matted and some
naked rocks reared aloft. Near a clump of sage-brush he saw a sudden
movement--a rattler trying to slip away unnoticed. But the snake slid
into Ferguson's vision and with a sneer of hate he drew one of his
weapons and whipped it over his head, its roar awakening echoes in the
wood. Twice, three times, the crashing report sounded. But the
rattler whisked away and disappeared into the grass--apparently
uninjured.
For an instant Ferguson scowled. Then a grin of mockery reached his
flushed face.
"I reckon I'm done," he said. "Can't even hit a rattler no more, an'
him a brother or sister of that other one." A delirious light flashed
suddenly in his eyes, and he seemed on the point of dismounting. "I'll
cert'nly smash you some!" he said, speaking to the snake--which he
could no longer see. "I ain't goin' to let no snake bite me an' get
away with it!"
But he now smiled guiltily, embarrassment shining in his eyes. "I
reckon that wasn't the snake that bit you, Ferguson," he said. "The
one that bit you is back on the trail. He ain't goin' to die till
sundown. Not till sundown," he repeated mechanically, grimly;
"Ferguson ain't goin' to die till sundown."
He rode on, giving no attention to the pony whatever, but letting the
reins fall and holding to the pommel of the saddle. His face was
burning now, his hands were twitching, and an unnatural gleam had come
into his eyes.
"Ferguson got hooked by a rattler!" he suddenly exclaimed, hilarity in
his voice. "He run plum into that reptile; tried to walk on him with a
bare foot." The laugh was checked as suddenly as it had come, and a
grim quality entered his voice. "But Ferguson wasn't no tenderfoot--he
didn't scare none. He went right on, not sayin' anything. You see, he
was reckonin' to be man's size."
He rode on a little way, and as he entered another clearing a rational
gleam came into his eyes. "I'm still a-goin' it," he muttered.
A shadow darkened the trail; he heard Mustard whinny. He became aware
of a cabin in front of him; heard an exclamation; saw dimly the slight
figure of a woman, sitting on a small porch; as through a mist, he saw
her rise and approach him, standing on the edge of the porch, looking
at him.
He smiled, bowing low to her over his pony's mane.
"I shot him, ma'am," he said gravely, "but he ain't goin' to die till
sundown."
As from some great distance a voice seemed to come to him. "Mercy!" it
said. "What is wrong? Who is shot?"
"Why, the snake, ma'am," he returned thickly. He slid down from his
pony and staggered to the edge of the porch, leaning against one of the
slender posts and hanging dizzily on. "You see, ma'am, that damned
rattler got Ferguson. But Ferguson ain't reckonin' on dyin' till
sundown. He couldn't let no snake get the best of him."
He saw the woman start toward him, felt her hands on his arms, helping
him upon the porch. Then he felt her hands on his shoulders, felt them
pressing him down. He felt dimly that there was a chair under him, and
he sank into it, leaning back and stretching himself out full length.
A figure flitted before him and presently there was a sharp pain in his
foot. He started out of the chair, and was abruptly shoved back into
it, Then the figure leaned over him, prying his jaws apart with some
metal like object and pouring something down his throat. He clicked as
he swallowed, vainly trying to brush away the object.
"You're a hell of a snake," he said savagely. Then the world blurred
dizzily, and he drifted into oblivion.