THE INEXORABLE TRAIL
Once more, westward across the prairie country, there moved a tall and
sinewy youth astride a vicious looking buckskin. This time, however, it
was very early in the morning. The rider moved slowly, his eyes on the
ground. His outfit was more elaborate than on the former journey. A
heavy blanket and a light camp kit were strapped behind his saddle, and
so attached that they could be quickly transferred to his back. A big
rifle was stretched across his right knee and the saddle-horn. At either
hip rode a great holster. The air, despite the cloudiness, was bitter
cold; and he wore a heavy sheepskin coat with the wool turned in, and
long gauntlets reaching half-way to his elbows. A broad leather belt
held the heavy coat in place, and attached to it was a thin sheath from
which protruded the stout handle of a hunting-knife. He also wore
another belt, fitted with many loops, each holding a gleaming little
brass cylinder. No one seeing the man this morning could have made the
mistake of considering him, as before, on a journey to see a lady.
Slowly day advanced. The east resolved itself from flaming red into the
neutral tint of the remainder of the sky. The sun shone through the
clouds, dissipated them, was obscured, and shone again. The something
which the man had been watching so intently gradually grew clearer. It
was the trail of another horse--a galloping horse. It was easy to
follow, and the rider looked about him. After a few miles, when the
mustang had warmed to his second wind, a gauntleted hand dropped to the
yellow neck and stroked it gently.
"Let 'em out a bit, Buck," said a voice, "let 'em out!" and with a flick
of the dainty ears, almost as if he understood, the little beast fell
into the steady swinging lope which was his natural gait, and which he
could follow if need be without a break from sun to sun.
On they went, the trail they were following unwinding like a great tape
steadily before them, the crunch of the frozen snow in their ears, tiny
particles of it flying to the side and behind like spray. But, bravely
as they were going, the horse ahead which had unwound that band of
tracks had moved more swiftly. Not within inches did the best efforts of
the buckskin approach those giant strides. It had been a desperate rider
who had urged such a pace; and the grim face of the tall youth grew
grimmer at the thought.
Not another sound than of their own making did they hear. Not an object
uncovered of white did they see, until, thirteen miles out, they passed
near the deserted Baker ranch; but the trail did not stop, nor did they,
and ere long it faded again from view. The course was dipping well to
the north now, and Ben realized that not again on his journey would he
pass in sight of a human habitation.
All that mortal day the buckskin pounded monotonously ahead. The sun
rose to the meridian, gazed warmly down upon them, softened the surface
of the frozen snow until the crunch sounded mellower, and slowly
descended to their left. The dainty ears of the pony, as the day waned,
flattened close to his head. Foam gathered beneath the saddle and
between the animal's legs; but doggedly relentless as his rider, he
forged ahead. Much in common had these two beings; more closely than
ever was their comradery cemented that day. Many times, with the same
motion as at first, the man had leaned over and patted that muscular
neck, dark and soiled now with perspiration. "Good old Buck," he said as
to a fellow, "good old Buck!" and each time the set ears had flicked
intelligently in response.
It was nearing sunset when they came in sight of the hills bordering the
river, and the last mile Ben drew the buckskin to a walk. The chain of
hoof-tracks had changed much since the morning. The buckskin could equal
the strides of the other now, and the follower was content. The evenings
were very short at this season of the year, and they would not attempt
to go farther to-night. At the margin of the stream Ben rode along until
he found a spot where the full strength of the current ate into the
bank. There on the thinner ice he hammered with the butt of his heavy
rifle until he broke a hole; then, the dumb one first, the two friends
drank their fill. After that, side by side, they walked back until in
the shelter of a high knoll the man found a space of perhaps half an
acre where the grass, thick and unpastured, was practically bare of
snow. Here he removed saddle and bridle, and without lariat or
hobble--for they knew each other now, these two--he turned the pony
loose to graze. He himself, with the kit and blanket and a handful of
dead wood, went to the hill-top, where he could see for miles around,
built a tiny fire, an Indian's fire, made a can of strong black coffee,
and ate of the jerked beef he had brought. Later, he cleared a spot the
size of a man's grave, and with grass and the blanket built a shallow
nest, in which he stretched himself, his elbow on the earth, his face in
his hand, thinking, thinking.
The night came on. As the eastern sky had done in the morning, so now
the west crimsoned gloriously, became the color of blood, then gradually
shaded back until it was neutral again, and the stars from a few
scattering dots increased in numbers and filled the dome as scattered
sand-grains cover a floor. Darkness came, and with it the slight wind of
the day died down until the air was perfectly still. The cold, which had
retreated for a time, returned, augmented. As though it were a live
thing moving about, its coming could be heard in the almost
indistinguishable crackling of the snow-crust. As beneath a crushing
weight, the ice of the great river boomed and crackled from its touch.
Wide-eyed but impassive, the man watched and listened. Scarcely a muscle
of his body moved. Not once, as the hours slipped by, did he drowse; not
for an instant was he off his guard. With the first trace of morning in
the east, he was astir. As on the night before, he made his Indian's
fire, ate his handful of beef, and drank of the strong black coffee.
The pony, sleepy as a child, was aroused and saddled. The ice which had
frozen during the night over their drinking-hole was broken. Then, both
man and horse stiff and sore from the exposure and the previous
exertion, the trail was taken up anew.
For five miles, until both were warmed to their work, the man and beast
trotted along side by side. "Now, Buck, old boy!" said Ben, and
mounting, they were off in earnest. At first the trail they were
following was that of a horse that walked; but later it stretched out
into the old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of quirt
and spur which had forced the change.
Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the rider calculated
the distance, he came to the first break in the seemingly endless trail
of hoofprints he was following. A heap of snow scraped aside and two
brown spots on the earth told the story of where the pursued man and
horse had paused to rest and sleep. No water was near. Neither the human
nor the beast had strayed from the direct line; they had merely halted
and dropped almost within their tracks. Just beyond was the spot where
the man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and again a tale lay
written on the surface of the snow. The prints of the horse's feet were
now unsteady and irregular. Within a few rods there was on the right a
red splash of blood; then others, a drop at a time. Very hard it had
been to put life into the beast at starting; deep the rowels of the
great spur had been dug. Ben Blair lightly touched the neck of his
buckskin and gave the word to go.
"They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, old chap," he said,
"and very tired. We'll gain on them fast to-day."
But though they gained--the record of the tracks told that--they did not
gain fast. Notwithstanding he still galloped doggedly ahead, the gallant
little buckskin was plainly weakening. The eternal pounding through the
snow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was indomitable
the end of his endurance was in sight. No longer would the dainty ears
respond to a touch on the neck. With head lowered he moved forward like
a machine. While the sun was yet above the horizon, the lope diminished
to a trot, the trot to a walk--a game walk, but only a walk.
Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted. Silently he removed
saddle and bridle, transferred the blanket and kit to his own back, and
then, the rifle under his arm, stopped a moment by the pony's side and
laid the dainty muzzle against his face.
"Buck, old boy," he said, "you've done mighty well--but I can beat you
now. Maybe some day we'll meet again. I hope we shall. Anyway, we're
better for having known each other. Good-bye."
A moment longer his face lay so, as his hand would have lain in a
friend's hand at parting; then, with a last pat to the silken nose, he
started on ahead.
At first the man walked steadily; then, warming to the work, he broke
into the swinging jog-trot of the frontiersman, the hunter who travels
afoot. Many Indians the youth had known in his day, and from them he had
learned much; one thing was that in walking or running to step
straight-footed instead of partially sideways, as the white man plants
his sole, was to gain inches at every motion, besides making it easier
to retrace his steps should he wish to do so. This habit had become a
part of him, and now the marks of his own trail were like the
alternately broken line which represents a railroad on a map.
As long as he could see to read from the white page of the snow-blanket,
Ben Blair jogged ahead. Hot anger, that he could not repress, was with
him constantly now, for the trail before him was very fresh, and,
distinct beside it, more and more frequent were the red marks of an
animal's suffering. He knew what horse it was the other had stolen. It
was "Lady," one of Scotty's prize thoroughbred mares, the one Florence
had ridden so many times. Often during those last hours the man wondered
at the endurance of the mare. None but a thoroughbred would have stood
up this long; and even she, if she ever stopped,--but the man ahead
doubtless knew this also, for he would not let her stop, not so long as
life remained and spur and quirt had power to torture.
Thus night came on, folding within its concealing arms alike the hunter
and the pursued. Ben did not build a fire this night. First of all,
though during the day at different times he had been able to see the
bordering trees of the White River at his left and the Bad River at his
right, the trail hung to the comparatively level land of the great
divide between, and not a scrap of wood was within miles. Again,
although he did not actually know, he could not believe he was far
behind, and he would run no risk of giving a warning sign to eyes which
must be watching the backward trail. The fierce hunger of a healthy
animal was his; but his supply of beef was limited, and he ate a meagre
allowance, washing it down with a draught of river water from his
canteen. Rolled up in the blanket, through which the stinging cold
pierced as though it were gossamer, shivering, beating his hands and
feet to prevent their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolf
or a buffalo, keeping constant watch about him as does a great prairie
owl, the interminably long hours of his second night dragged by.
"The beginning of the end," he soliloquized, when once more it was light
enough so that standing he could see the earth at his feet. Well he knew
that ere this the other horse was eliminated from the chase--that it was
now man against man. God! how his joints ached when he stretched
them!--how his muscles pained at the slightest motion! He ground his
teeth when he first began to walk, and hobbled like a rheumatic cripple;
but within a half-hour tenacity had won, and the relentless jog-trot of
the interrupted line was measuring off the miles anew.
The chase was nearing an end. Long ere noon, in the distance toward
which he was heading, Blair detected a brown dot against the white.
Steadily, as he advanced, it resolved itself into the thing he had
expected, and stood revealed before him, the centre of a horribly
legible page, the last page in the biography of a noble horse. Let us
pass it by: Ben did, looking the other way. But a new and terrible
vitality possessed him. His weariness left him, as pain passes under an
opiate. He did not pause to eat, to drink. Tireless as a waterfall,
watchful as a hawk, he jogged on, on, a mile--two miles--five--came to a
rise in the great roll of the lands--stopped, his heart suddenly
pounding the walls of his chest. Before him, not half a mile away,
moving slowly westward, was the diminutive black shape of a man
travelling afoot!
Instantly the primal hunting instinct of the Anglo-Saxon awoke in the
lank Benjamin. The incomparable fascination which makes man-hunting the
sport supreme of all ages gripped him tight. The stealthy cunning of a
savage became on the moment his. A plan of ambush, one which could
scarcely fail, flashed into his mind. The trail of the divide narrowing
now, stretched for miles and miles straight before them. That black
figure would scarcely leave it. The pursuer had but to make a great
detour, get far in advance, find a point of concealment, and wait.
Swift as thought was action. Back on his trail until he was out of sight
went Ben Blair; then, turning to his right, he made straight for the
concealing bed of Bad River. Once there, he turned west again, following
the winding course of the stream toward its source. Faster than ever he
moved, the pat-pat of his feet on the deadening snow drowning the sound
of the great breaths he drew into his lungs and sent whistling out again
through his nostrils. As with the horse, the sweat oozed at every pore.
Collecting on his brow and face, it dripped slowly from his great chin.
Dampening, his clothes clung binding-tight to his body; but he never
noticed. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor behind
him; but, like a sprinter approaching the wire, only straight ahead.
Under him the miles flowed past like water. Five, ten, a dozen he
covered; then of a sudden he turned again to the south, quitting his
shelter of the river-bed. For a time the country was very rough, but he
scarcely slackened his pace. Once he fell through the crust of a drift,
and went down nearly to his neck; but he crowded his way through by
sheer strength, emerging a powdered figure from the snow which clung to
his damp clothes. The sun was down now, and he knew darkness would come
very quickly and he must reach the divide, the probable trail, before it
fell, and there select his point of waiting.
As he moved on, he saw some miles ahead that which decided him. A low
chain of hills, stretching to the north and south, crossed the great
divide as a fallen log spans a path. In these hills, appreciable even at
this distance, there was a dip, an almost level pass. A small diversity
it was on the face of nature, but to a weary man, fleeing afoot, seen in
the distance it would irresistibly appeal. Almost as certain as though
he saw the black figure already heading for it, the hunter felt it would
be utilized. Anyway, he would take the chance; and with a last spurt of
speed he put himself fairly in its way. To clear a narrow strip of
ground the length of his body, and build around it like a breastwork a
border of snow, was the work of but a few minutes; then, wrapped in his
blanket, too deadly tired to even attempt to eat, he dropped behind the
cover like a log. At first the rest was that of Paradise; but swiftly
came the reaction, the chill. To lie there in his present condition
meant but one thing, that never would he arise again; and with an effort
the man got to his feet and started walking. It was dark again now, and
the sky was becoming rapidly overcast. Within an hour it began to snow,
a steady big-flaked snow that fairly filled the air and lay where it
fell. The night grew slightly warmer, and, rolling in the blanket once
more, Ben lay down; but the warning chill soon had him again upon his
feet, walking back and forth in the one beaten path.
Very long the two previous nights had been. Interminable seemed this
third. As long as the sun or moon or stars were shining, the man never
felt completely alone; but in this utter darkness the hours seemed like
days. The steadily falling snowflakes added to the impression of
loneliness and isolation. They were like the falling clods of earth in a
grave: something crowding between him and life, burying and suffocating
him where he stood. Try as he might, the man could not shake off the
weird impression, and at last he ceased the effort. Grimly stolid, he
lit his pipe, and, his damp clothing having dried at last, cleared a
fresh spot and lay down, the horrible loneliness still tugging at his
heart.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the morning came. With it the
storm ceased and the sun shone brightly. Behind the barricade, Ben Blair
ate the last of his beef and drank the few remaining swallows of water
from his canteen. His muscles were stiff from the inaction, and, not
wishing to show himself, he kicked vigorously into space as he lay. At
intervals he made inspection of the east, looking out over the glitter
of white; but not a living thing was in sight. An hour he watched, two
hours, while the sun, beating down obliquely, warmed him back into
activity; then of a sudden his eyes became fixed, the grip upon his
rifle tightened. Far to the southeast, something dark against the snow
was moving,--was coming toward him.
Rapidly the figure approached, while lower behind the barricade dropped
the body of Benjamin Blair. The sun was in his eyes, so that as yet he
could not make out whether it was man or beast. Not until the object was
within three hundred yards, until it passed by to the north, did Ben
make out that it was a great gray wolf headed straight for the bed of
Bad River.
Again two hours of unbroken monotony passed. The sun had almost reached
the meridian, and the man behind the barricade had all but decided he
must have miscalculated somehow, when in the dim distance as before
there appeared a tiny dark object, but this time directly from the east.
For five minutes Ben watched it fixedly, his hand shading his eyes;
then, slowly as moves the second-hand of a great clock, a change
indescribable came over his face. No need was there now to ask whether
it was a human being that was approaching. There was no mistaking that
slow, swinging man-motion. At last the moment was approaching for which
the youth had been striving so madly for the last few days, the moment
he had for years been conscious would some day come. It would soon be
his; and with the thought his teeth set firmer, and a fierce joy tugged
at his heart.
Five minutes, ten minutes dragged by; yet no observer, however close,
could have seen a muscle stir in the long body of the waiting man. Like
a great panther cat he lay there, the blue eyes peering just over the
surface of the ambush. Not ten paces away could an observer have told
the tip of that motionless sombrero from the protruding top of a
boulder. Gradually the approaching figure grew more distinct. A red
handkerchief showed clearly about the man's neck. Then a slight limp in
the left leg intruded itself, and a droop of the shoulders that spoke
weariness. He was very near by this time, so near that the black beard
which covered his face became discernible, likewise the bizarre breadth
of the Mexican belt above the baggy chaperejos. The crunch of the
snow-crust marked his every foot-fall.
And still Ben Blair had not stirred. Slowly, as the other had
approached, the big blue eyes had darkened until they seemed almost
brown. Involuntarily the massive chin had moved forward; but that was
all. On the surface he was as calm as a lake on a windless night; but
beneath,--God! what a tempest was raging! Each one of those minutes he
waited so impassively marked the rush of a year's memories. Human hate,
primal instinct all but uncontrollable, throbbed in his accelerated
pulse-beats. Like the continuous shifting scenes in a panorama, the
incidents of his life in which this man had played a part appeared
mockingly before his mind's eye. Plainly, as though in his physical ear,
he heard the shuffle of an uncertain hand upon a latch; he saw a figure
with bloodshot eyes lurch into a rude floorless room, saw it approach a
bunk whereon lay a sick woman, his mother; heard the swift passage of
angry words, words which had branded themselves into his memory forever.
Once more he was on all fours, scurrying for his life toward the dark
opening of a protecting kennel. As plainly as though the memory were of
yesterday, he gazed into the blazing mouth of a furnace, felt its
scorching breath on his cheek. Swiftly the changing scenes danced before
his eyes. A rifle-shot, real almost as though he could smell the burning
powder, sounded in his brain. Within the circle of light from a kerosene
lamp a great figure sank in a heap to a ranch house floor. Against a
background of unbroken white a trail of red blotches ended in the mutely
pathetic figure of a prostrate dying horse--a noble thoroughbred. What
varied horrors seethed in the watcher's brain, crowded each other,
recurred and again recurred! How the long sinewy fingers itched to
clutch that throat above the red neckerchief! He could see the man's
face now, as, ignorant of danger so close, he was passing by fifty feet
to the left, looking to neither side, doggedly heading toward the pass.
With the first motion since the figure had appeared, the hand of the
watcher tightened on the rifle, raised it until its black muzzle peeped
over the elevation of snow. A pair of steady blue eyes gazed down the
long barrel, brought the sights in line with a spot between the
shoulders and the waist of the unsuspecting man, the trigger-finger
tightened, almost--
A preventing something, something not primal in the youth, gripped him,
held him for a second motionless. To kill a man from an ambush, even
such a one as this without giving him a chance--no, he could not quite
do that. But to take him by the throat with his bare hands, and then
slowly, slowly--
As noiselessly as the rifle had raised, it dropped again. The muscles of
the long legs tightened as do those of a sprinter awaiting the starting
pistol. Then over the barricade, straight as a tiger leaps, shot a tall
youth with steel-blue eyes, hatless, free of hand, straight for that
listless, moving figure; the scattered snow flying to either side, the
impact of the bounding feet breaking the previous stillness. Tom Blair,
the outlaw, could not but hear the rush. Instinctively he turned, and in
the fleeting second of that first glance Ben could see the face above
the beard-line blanch. As one might feel should the Angel of Death
appear suddenly before him, Tom Blair must have felt then. As though
fallen from the sky, this avenging demon was upon him. He had not time
to draw a revolver, a knife; barely to swing the rifle in his hand
upward to strike, to brace himself a little for the oncoming rush.
With a crash the two bodies came together. Simultaneously the rifle
descended, but for all its effectiveness it might have been a dead
weed-stalk in the hands of a child. It was not a time for artificial
weapons, but only for nature's own; a war of gripping, strangling hands,
of tooth and nail. Nearly of a size were the two men. Both alike were
hardened of muscle; both realized the battle was for life or death. For
a moment they remained upright, clutching, parrying for an advantage;
then, locked each with each, they went to the ground. Beneath and about
them the fresh snow flew, filling their eyes, their mouths. Squirming,
straining, over and over they rolled; first the beardless man on top,
then the bearded. The sound of their straining breath was continuous,
the ripping of coarse cloth an occasional interruption; but from the
first, a spectator could not but have foreseen the end. The elder man
was fighting in self-defence: the younger, he of the massive protruding
jaw--a jaw now so prominent as to be a positive disfigurement--in
unappeasable ferocity. Against him in that hour a very giant could not
have held his own. Merely a glimpse of his face inspired terror. Again
and again as they struggled his hand had clutched at the other's throat,
but only to have his hold broken. At last, however, his adversary was
weakening under the strain. Blind terror began to grip Tom Blair. At
first a mere suggestion, then a horrible certainty, possessed him as to
the identity of the relentless being who opposed him. Again the other's
hand, like the creeping tentacle of an octopus, sought his throat, would
not be stayed. He struggled with all his might against it, until it
seemed the blood-vessels of his neck would burst, but still the hold
tightened. He clutched at the long fingers desperately, bit at them,
felt his breath coming hard. Freeing his own hand, he smashed with his
fist again and again into that long thin face so near his own, knew that
another tentacle had joined with the first, felt the impossibility of
drawing air into his lungs, realized that consciousness was deserting
him, saw the sun over him like a mocking face--then knew no more.