A SHOT IN THE DARK
Winter, long delayed, came at last in earnest. On the morning of the
seventeenth of January--the ranchers did not soon forget the date--a
warm snow, soft with moisture, drove tumbling in from the east. All the
morning it came, thicker and thicker, until on the level, several inches
had fallen; then, so rapidly that one could almost discern the change,
the temperature began lowering, the wind shifting from the east to the
north, from north to west, and steadily rising. The surface of the snow
froze to ice, the snowflakes turned to sleet, and went bounding and
grinding, forming drifts but to disperse again, journeying aimlessly on,
cutting viciously at the chance animal who came in their path like a
myriad of tiny knives.
All that day the force of the Box R ranch labored in the increasing
storm to get the home herds safely behind the shelter of the corral. It
was impossible for cattle long to face such a storm; but with this very
emergency in mind, Rankin had always in Winter kept the scattered
bunches to the north and west, and under these conditions the feat was
accomplished by dusk, and the half-frozen cowboys tumbled into their
bunks, to fall asleep almost before they assumed the horizontal. The
other ranchers wondered why it was that Rankin was so prosperous and why
his herd seldom diminished in Winter. Had they been observant, they
could have learned one reason that day.
All the following night the storm moaned and raged, and the cold became
more and more intense. It came in through the walls of houses and
through bunk coverings, and bit at one like a living thing. Nothing
could stop it, nothing unprotected could withstand it. In the great
corral behind the windbreak, the cattle, all headed east, were jammed
together for warmth, a conglomerate mass of brown heads and bodies from
which projected a wilderness of horns.
The next morning broke with a clear sky but with the thermometer marking
many degrees below zero. Out of doors, when the sun had arisen, the
light was dazzling. As far as eye could reach not a spot of brown
relieved the white. The layer of frozen snow lay like a vast carpet
stretched tight from horizon to horizon. Although it was only snow, yet
so far as the herds of the ranchers were concerned it might have been a
protecting armor of steel. Well did the tired cowboys, stiff from the
previous day's struggle, know what was before them, when at daylight
Graham routed them out. Food the helpless multitude must have. If they
could not find it for themselves it must be found for them; and in
stolid disapproval the men ate a hasty breakfast by the light of a
kerosene lamp and went forth to the inevitable.
Rankin and Ben and Graham were already astir, and under their
supervision the campaign was rapidly begun. For a few days the stock
must be fed on hay, and seven of the available fifteen men of the ranch
force were detailed to keep full the great racks in the cattle
stockade--a task in itself, with the myriad hungry mouths swarming on
every hand, all but Herculean. The others, Rankin himself among the
number, undertook the greater feat of in a measure opening the range for
the future.
The device which the big man had evolved for this purpose, and had used
on previous similar occasions, was a simple triangular snow-plough
several feet in width, with guiding handles behind. Comparatively narrow
as was the ribbon path cleared by this appliance, its length was only
limited by the endurance of the horses and the driver, and in the course
of the day many an acre could be uncovered. Half an hour after sunrise,
the eight outfits thus equipped were lined up side by side and headed
due northwest to a range which had been but little pastured.
For five miles straight as a taut line they went, leaving behind them
eight brown stripes alternating with bands of white between. Then back
and forth, back and forth, for the distance of another mile they
vibrated until it was noon, when eight more connecting brown ribbons
were stretched beside their predecessors back to the ranch-house. In the
afternoon the labor was repeated, until by night the clearing, a
gigantic mottled fan with an abnormally long handle, lay in vivid
contrast against the surrounding white.
The second day was the same, except that but seven bands stretched out
behind the moving squad. Rankin, game as he was, could scarcely put one
foot ahead of the other, and in consequence, changing his tactics, he
mounted the old buckboard and departed on a tour of inspection toward
the north range. He was late in returning, and, as usual, very taciturn;
but after supper, as he and Ben were smoking in friendly silence by the
kitchen fire, he turned to the younger man.
"Someone stayed at the north range last night," he announced abruptly.
"He slept there and had a fire."
Ben showed no surprise. "I thought so, probably," he replied. "Late this
afternoon I ran across a trail leading in from the west along our
clearing, and headed that way. It was one lone chain of footprints."
Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire. His long drive had chilled
him through and through.
"I suppose you have an idea who made that trail?" he said.
Though each knew that the other had heard the details of Pete's death,
neither had mentioned the incident. To do so had seemed superfluous.
Now, however, each realized the thought in the other's mind, and chose
not to avoid it.
"Yes," answered Ben, simply. "I suppose it was made by Tom Blair."
Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak that name. He
stretched back heavily in his chair and lit his pipe afresh.
"Ben," he said, "I'm getting old. I never began to realize the fact
until this Winter; but I sha'n't last many more years." Puff, puff went
two twin clouds of smoke toward the ceiling. "Civilization has some
advantages over the frontier, and this is one of them: it's kinder to
the old."
Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the other understood the
strength of his conviction.
"You work too hard," he said soberly, though he felt the inadequacy of
the trite remark. "It's unnecessary. I wish you wouldn't do it."
Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful hand. "Yes, I know; but
when I quit moving I want to die. I know I could get a steam-heated back
room in a quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself into
a good many years yet; but it isn't worth the price. I love this big
free life too well ever to leave it. Most of the people one meets here
are rough, but in time that will all change. It's changing now; and
meantime nature compensates for everything."
There was a moment's silence, and then, as though there had been no
digression, Rankin went back to the former subject. "Yes," he said
slowly, "I think you're right about those being Tom Blair's tracks." He
turned and faced the younger man squarely. "If it is, Ben, it means he's
been frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that is, and he's crazy
desperate. He'd do anything now. He wouldn't ever come back here
otherwise."
Ben Blair's blue eyes tightened until the lashes were all but parallel.
"Yes," Rankin repeated, "he's crazy desperate to come here at
all--especially so now." A pause, but the eyes did not shift. "God knows
I'm sorry he ever came back. I was glad we found that trail too late to
follow it to-day; but it's only postponing the end. I believe he'll be
here at the ranch to-night. He's got to get a horse--he's got to do
something right away; and I'm going to watch. If he don't come I'll take
up the old trail in the morning."
Once more the pause, more intense than words. "He can't escape again,
unless--unless he gets me first--He must be desperate crazy."
Rankin arose heavily and knocked the ashes out of his pipe preparatory
to bed.
"There are a lot of things I might say now, Ben, but I won't say them.
We're not living in a land of law. We haven't someone always at hand to
shift our responsibility onto. In self-protection, we've got to take
justice more or less into our own hands. One thing I will say, though,
and I hope you'll never forget it. Think twice before you ever take the
life of another human being, Ben; think twice. Be sure your reasons are
mighty good--and then think again. Don't ever act in hot blood, or as
long as you live you'll know remorse." The speaker paused and his breath
came fast. Something more--who knew how much?--trembled on the end of
his tongue. He roused himself with an effort and turned toward his bunk.
"Good-night, Ben. I trust you as I'd trust my own son."
The younger man watched the departing figure and felt the irony of the
separation that keeps us silent even when we wish to be nearest and most
helpful to our friends and makes our words a mockery.
"Thank you, sir, I shall not forget. Good-night," he said.
When a few minutes later the young man sauntered out to the barns,
everything was peaceful as usual. From the horse-stalls came the steady
monotonous grind of the animals at feed. In the cattle-yards was heard
the sleepy breathing of the multitude of cattle. Perfect contentment and
oblivion was the keynote of the place, and the watcher looked at the
lethargic mass thoughtfully. He had always responded instinctively to
the moods of dumb animals. He did so now. The passive trustfulness of
the great herd affected him deeply. Twice he made the circuit of the
buildings, but finding nothing amiss returned to his place. The sound of
the horses feeding had long since ceased. The sleepy murmur of the
cattle was lower and more regular. In the increasing coldness the vapor
of their breath, even though the night was dark and moonless, arose in
an indistinct cloud, like the smoke of smouldering camp-fires over the
tents of a sleeping army. For two days the man had been doing the
heaviest kind of work. Gradually, amid much opening and closing of
eyelids, consciousness lapsed into semi-consciousness, and he dozed.
Suddenly--whether it was an hour or a minute afterwards, he did not
know--he awoke and sat up listening. Some sound had caught and held his
sub-conscious attention. He waited a moment, intent, scarcely breathing,
and then sprang swiftly to his feet. The sound now came definitely from
the sheds at the left. It was the deep chesty groan of a horse in pain.
Once upon his feet, Ben Blair ran toward the barn, not cautiously but
precipitately. He had not grown to maturity amid animals without
learning something of their language; but even if such had been the
case, he could scarcely have mistaken that sound. Mortal pain and mortal
terror vibrated in those tones. No human being could have cried for help
more distinctly. The frozen snow squeaked under the rancher's feet as he
ran. "Stop there!" he shouted. "Stop there!" and throwing open the
nearest door, unmindful of danger, he dashed into the interior darkness.
The barn was eighty odd feet in length, and as Ben swung open the door
at the east corner there was a flash of fire from the extreme west end,
and a bullet splintered the wood just back of his head. His precipitate
entry had been his salvation. He groped his way ahead, the groans of the
horses in his ears--for now he detected more than one voice. A growing
realization of what he would find was in his mind, and then a dark form
shot through the west door, and he was alone. Impulse told him to
follow, but the sound of pain and struggle kept him back. He struck a
match, held it like a torch above him, moved ahead, stopped. The flame
burned down the dry pine until it reached his fingers, blackened them,
went out; but he did not stir. He had expected the thing he saw,
expected it at the first cry he heard; yet infinitely more horrible than
a picture of imagination was the reality. He did not light another
match, he did not wish to see. To hear was bad enough--to hear and to
know. He started for the door; and behind him three great horses,
hopelessly maimed and crippled, struggled to rise, and failing, groaned
anew.
It seemed Ben's fate this night to be just too late for service. Before
he reached the exit there sounded, spattering and intermittent, like the
first popping kernels of corn in a pan, a succession of pistol-shots
from the ranch-house. There was no answer, and as he stepped out into
the air the sound ceased. As he did so, the kitchen of the house sprang
alight from a lamp within. There was a moment of apparent inactivity,
and then, the door swinging open, fair against the lighted background,
shading his eyes to look into the outer darkness, stood Rankin.
Instantly a wave of premonition flooded the watching Benjamin.
"Go back!" he shouted. "Go back! Back, quick!" and careless of personal
danger, he started running for the ranch-house as before he had raced
for the barn.
The warning might as well have been ungiven. Almost before the last
words were spoken there came from the darkness at Ben's right the sound
he had been expecting--a single vicious rifle report; and as though a
mighty invisible weight were crushing him down, Rankin sank to the
floor.
Then for the first time in his history Ben Blair lost self-control.
Quick as thought he changed his course from the house to the direction
from which the shot had come. The great veins of his throat swelled
until it seemed he could scarcely breathe. Curses, horrible, blighting
curses, combinations of malediction which had never even in thought
entered his mind before, rolled from his lips. His brain seemed afire.
But one idea possessed him--to lay hands upon this intruding being who
had in cold blood done that fiendish deed in the barn, and now had shot
his best friend on earth. The rage of primitive man who knew not steel
or gunpowder was his; the ferocity of the great monkey, the aborigine's
predecessor, whose means of offence were teeth and nails. Straight ahead
the man rushed, seeming not to run, but fairly to bound, turned suddenly
the angle at the corner of the machinery shed, stumbled over a
snow-plough drawn up carelessly by one of the men, fell, regained his
feet, and heard in his ears the thundering hoof-beats of a horse urged
away at full speed.
For a moment Ben Blair stood as he had risen, gazing westward where the
other had departed, but seeing nothing, not even a shadow. Clouds had
formed over the sky, and the night was of intense darkness. To attempt
to follow a trail now was waste of time; and gradually, as he stood
there, the unevolved fury of the man transformed. His tongue became
silent; not a human being had heard the outburst. The physical paroxysm
relaxed. As he returned to the ranch-house no observer would have
detected in him other than the usual matter-of-fact rancher; yet beneath
that calm was a purpose infinitely more terrible than the animal blaze
of a few minutes before, a tenacity more relentless than a tiger on the
trail of its quarry, than an Indian stalking his enemy; a formulated
purpose which could patiently wait, but eventually and inevitably would
grind its object to powder.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of the tragedy, there had been feverish
action. Many of the cowboys were already about the barns, and lanterns
gleamed in the horse corral. Within the house, in the nearest bunk where
they had laid him, stretched the proprietor of the ranch. About him
were grouped Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham. The latter was weeping
hysterically--her head buried in her big checked apron, the great mass
of her body vibrating with the effort. As Ben approached, her husband
glanced up. Upon his face was the dull unreasoning indecision of a steer
which had lost its leader; an animal passivity which awaited command.
"Rankin's dead," he announced dully. "He's hit here." A withered hand
indicated a spot on the left breast. "He went quick."
Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped beside the bunk.
He took a long look at the kindly heavy face of the only man he had ever
called friend; but not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a muscle
quivered. Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fascination.
Gray-haired gambler and man of fortune that he was, he realized as
Graham could never do the emotions which so often lie just back of the
locked countenance of a human being; realized it, and with the grim
carelessness of a frontiersman admired it.
Of a sudden there was a grinding of frosty snow in the outer yard, a
confused medley of human voices, a snorting of horses; and, turning, Ben
went to the door. One glance told him the meaning of the cluster of
cowboys. He walked out toward them deliberately.
"Boys," he said steadily, "put up your horses. You couldn't find a
mountain in the darkness to-night." A pause. "Besides," slowly, "this is
my affair. Put them up and go to bed."
For a moment there was silence. The hearers could scarcely believe their
ears.
"You mean we're to let him go?" queried a hesitating voice at last.
Blair folded up the broad brim of his hat and looked from face to face
as it was revealed by the uncertain light from the window.
"I mean what I said," he repeated evenly. "I'll attend to this matter
myself."
For a moment again there was silence, but only for a moment.
"No you won't!" blazed a voice suddenly. "Rankin was the whitest man
that ever owned a brand. Just because the kyote that shot him lived with
your mother won't save him. I'm going--and now."
Quicker than a cat, so swiftly that the other cowboys scarcely realized
what was happening, the long gaunt Benjamin was at the speaker's side.
With a leap he had him by the throat, had dragged him from the back of
the horse, and held him at arm's length.
"Freeman,"--the voice was neither raised nor lowered, but steady as the
drip of falling water,--"Freeman, you know better than that, and you
know you know better." The grip of the long left hand on the throat
tightened. The fingers of the right locked. "Say so--quick!"
Face to face, looking fair into each other's eyes, stood the two men,
while the spectators watched breathlessly as they would have done at a
climax in a play. It was a case of will against will, elemental man
against his brother.
"I'm waiting," suggested Blair, and even in the dim light Freeman saw
the blue eyes beneath the long lashes darken. Instinctively the victim's
hand went to his hip and lingered there; but he could no more have
withdrawn the weapon which he felt there than he could have struck his
own mother. He started to speak; but his lips were dry, and he moistened
them with his tongue.
"Yes, I know better," he admitted low.
Ben Blair dropped his hand and turned to the spectators. "Men," he said
slowly and distinctly, "for the present at least I'm master of this
ranch, and when I give an order I expect to be obeyed." Again his eye
went from face to face fearlessly, dominantly. "Does any other man doubt
me?"
Not a voice broke the stillness of the night. Only the restless movement
of the impatient mustangs answered.
"Very well, then, you heard what I said. Go to bed, and to-morrow go on
with your work as usual. Grannis will be in charge while I'm gone," and
without a backward glance the long figure returned to the ranch-house.
The weazened foreman and the tall adventurer had been watching him
impassively from the doorway. In silence they made room for him to pass.
"Grannis," he asked directly, "have those horses been taken care of?"
"No, sir."
"See to it at once then."
"Yes, sir."
The blue eyes rested for a moment on the other's face.
"You heard who I said would be in charge while I'm away?"
"Yes, sir," again.
Ben moved over to the bunk opposite to that in which lay the dead man
and took off his hat and coat.
"Graham!"
The foreman came close, stood at attention.
"Keep awake and call me before daylight, will you?"
"I will."
"And, Graham!"
"Yes."
"I may be gone several days. You and Ma attend to the--burial. Dig the
grave out under the big maple." A pause. "I think," steadily, "he would
have liked it there."
The foreman nodded silently.
Benjamin Blair dropped into the bunk, drew the blankets over him and
closed his eyes. As he did so, from the direction of the barn there came
a succession of pistol shots--one, two, three. Then again silence fell.