A MAN'S CURIOSITY
By the time Sanderson urged the brown horse up the crest of the slope,
the men he had determined to follow were far out in the desert.
Sanderson could see them, though the distance was considerable, riding
the crest of a ridge, directly northeastward. As that was following
the general direction in which Sanderson wanted to travel he was highly
pleased.
"They're company," he told himself as he rode; "an' I've been a heap
lonesome."
The men were not traveling fast. At times, when the first rider was
compelled to traverse high ground, Sanderson could see him--horse and
rider faintly outlined against the sky. Sanderson would note the
figure of the first rider, then watch the point at which the first
rider appeared until the others reached that point. Then, noting the
elapsed time, he could estimate the distance at which the pursuers
followed.
"I reckon they're gainin' on him," was Sanderson's mental comment when
an hour later he saw the first rider appear for a moment on the sky
line, vanish, reappear for an instant, only to be followed within a few
minutes by the figures of the other men.
Sanderson was closing up the space that separated him from the two men,
and by that medium he knew they were not traveling rapidly, for the
brown horse was loping slowly. Thus he knew that the first man was not
yet aware that he was being followed.
But some time later to Sanderson's ears was borne the faint, muffled
report of a firearm, and he smiled solemnly.
"That first guy will know, now," he told himself. Sanderson kept
steadily on. In half an hour he heard half a dozen rifle reports in
quick succession, He could see the smoke puffs of the weapons, and he
knew the pursuit was over.
The second riders had brought the first to bay in a section of broken
country featured by small, rock-strewn hills. By watching the smoke
balloon upward, Sanderson could determine the location of the men.
It seemed to Sanderson that the two had separated, one swinging
westward and the other eastward, in an endeavor to render hazardous any
concealment the other might find. It was the old game of getting an
enemy between two fires, and Sanderson's lips curved with an
appreciative grin as he noted the fact.
"Old-timers," he said.
It was not Sanderson's affair. He told himself that many times as he
rode slowly forward. To his knowledge the country was cursed with too
many men of the type the two appeared to be; and as he had no doubt
that the other man was of that type also, they would be doing the
country a service were they to annihilate one another.
Sanderson, though, despite his conviction, felt a pulse of sympathy for
the first rider. It was that emotion which impelled him to keep going
cautiously forward when, by all the rules of life in that country, he
should have stood at a distance to allow the men to fight it out among
themselves.
Sanderson's interest grew as the fight progressed. When he had
approached as far as he safely could without endangering his own life
and that of Streak, he dismounted at the bottom of a small hill,
trailed the reins over Streak's head and, carrying his rifle, made his
way stealthily to the crest of the hill. There, concealed behind an
irregularly shaped boulder, he peered at the combatants.
He had heard several reports while dismounting and ascending the hill,
and by the time he looked over the crest he saw that the battle was
over. He saw the three men grouped about a cluster of rocks on a hill
not more than a hundred yards distant. Two of the men were bending
over the third, who was stretched out on his back, motionless. It
appeared to Sanderson that the two men were searching the pockets of
the other, for they were fumbling at the other's clothing and,
seemingly, putting something into their own pockets.
Sanderson scowled. Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to
investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid
that--though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.
Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.
"What's bitin' you guys?" he said.
The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson. The latter's answer came in the
shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the
men--a snapshot.
Sanderson had observed the movement almost as soon as it had begun, and
he threw himself head-long behind the shelter of the rock at his side
as the bullet droned over his head.
If Sanderson had entertained any thought of the two men being
representatives of the law, trailing a wrongdoer, that thought would
have been dispelled by the action of the men in shooting at him. He
was now certain the men were what he had taken them to be, and he
grinned felinely as he squirmed around until he got into a position
from which he could see them. But when he did get into position the
men had vanished.
However, Sanderson was not misled. He knew they had secreted
themselves behind some of the rocks in the vicinity, no doubt to wait a
reasonable time before endeavoring to discover whether the bullet had
accomplished its sinister object.
Sanderson's grin grew broader. He had the men at a disadvantage.
Their horses, he had observed before calling to them, were in a little
depression at the right--and entirely out of reach of the men.
To get to them they would have to expose themselves on an open stretch
between the spot where the horses were concealed and the hill on which
they were secreted, and on the open stretch they would be fair targets
for Sanderson.
The men had brought Sanderson into the fight, and he no longer had any
scruples. He was grimly enjoying himself, and he laid for an hour,
flat on his stomach behind the rock, his rifle muzzle projecting
between two medium-sized stones near the base of the large rock, his
eye trained along the barrel, watching the crest of the hill on which
the men were concealed.
The first man was dead. Sanderson could see him, prone, motionless,
rigid.
Evidently the two men were doubtful. Certainly they were cautious.
But at the end of an hour their curiosity must have conquered them, for
Sanderson, still alert and watchful, saw a dark blot slowly appear from
around the bulging side of a rock.
The blot grew slowly larger, until Sanderson saw that it appeared to be
the crown of a hat. That it was a hat he made certain after a few
seconds of intent scrutiny; and that it was a hat without any head in
it he was also convinced, for he held his fire. An instant later the
hat was withdrawn. Then it came out again, and was held there for
several seconds.
Sanderson grinned. "I reckon they think I'm a yearlin'," was his
mental comment.
There was another long wait. Sanderson could picture the two men
arguing the question that must deeply concern them: "Which shall be the
first to show himself?"
"I'd bet a million they're drawin' straws," grinned Sanderson.
Whether that method decided the question Sanderson never knew. He
knew, however, that a hat was slowly coming into view around a side of
the rock, and he was positive that this time there was a head in the
hat. He could not have told now he knew there was a head in the hat,
but that was his conviction.
The hat appeared slowly, gradually taking on definite shape in
Sanderson's eyes, until, with a cold grin, he noted some brown flesh
beneath it, and a section of dark beard.
Sanderson did not fire, then. The full head followed the hat, then
came a man's shoulders. Nothing happened. The man stepped from behind
the rock and stood out in full view. Still nothing happened.
The man grinned.
"I reckon we got him, Cal," he said. His voice was gloating. "I
reckoned I'd got him; he tumbled sorta offish--like it had got him in
the guts. That's what I aimed for, anyway. I reckon he done suffered
some, eh?" He guffawed, loudly.
Then the other man appeared. He, too, was grinning.
"I reckon we'll go see. If you got him where you said you got him, I
reckon he done a lot of squirmin'. Been followin' us--you reckon?"
They descended the slope of the hill, still talking. Evidently,
Sanderson's silence had completely convinced them that they had killed
him.
But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near
Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson's rifle projecting
from between the two rocks.
For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the
man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he
missed the target.
Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fell
without a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an
instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson's
bullet had come, he raised his rifle.
Sanderson's weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spun
violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.
Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knew
where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged
from his hiding place and approached the men.
"That's all, for you, I reckon," he said.
Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other
man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told
eloquently of the manner of his death.
The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There
were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of
dissipation.
"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said
Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down.
Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for."
Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's
coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read
much. There was another letter--a more recent one, undoubtedly, for
the paper was in much better condition.
Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most
soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents
and read:
MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,
Tucson, Arizona.
DEAR BROTHER WILL: The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson.
That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time. I suppose it
is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which
is making me write this letter.
Will, father is dead. He died yesterday, right after I got here. He
asked for you. Do you know what that means? It means he wanted you to
come back, Will. Poor father, he didn't really mean to be obstinate,
you know.
I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you will ever read
it. But if you do read it, you'll come back, won't you--or write?
Please.
Your loving sister,
MARY BRANSFORD.
The Double A Ranch.
Union County, New Mexico.
Sanderson finished reading the letter. Then folding it, he shoved it
back into the envelope and gravely drew out the other letter. It bore
a later date and was in the same handwriting:
MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,
Tucson, Arizona.
DEAR BROTHER WILL: I was so delighted to get your letter. And I am so
eager to see you. It has been such a long, long time, hasn't it?
Fifteen years, isn't it? And ten years since I even got a letter from
you!
I won't remember you, I am sure, for I am only nineteen now, and you
were only fifteen when you left home. And I suppose you have grown big
and strong, and have a deep, booming voice and a fierce-looking
mustache. Well, I shall love you, anyway. So hurry and come home.
I am sending you a telegraph money order for one thousand dollars, for
from the tone of your letter it seems things are not going right with
you. Hurry home, won't you?
With love,
Your sister,
MARY.
Sanderson finished reading the letter. He meditated silently, turning
it over and over in his hands. The last letter was dated a month
before. Evidently Bransford had not hurried.
Sanderson searched all the other pockets, and discovered nothing of
further interest. Then he stood for a long time, looking down at the
man's face, studying it, his own face expressing disapproval.
"Mebbe it's just as well that he didn't get to the Double A," he
thought, noting the coarse, brutal features of the other.
"If a girl's got ideals it's sometimes a mighty good thing the real guy
don't come along to disabuse them. William ain't never goin' to get to
the Double A."
He buried the body in a gully, then he returned to the other men.
Upon their persons he found about nine hundred dollars in bills of
small denomination. It made a bulky package, and Sanderson stored it
in his slicker. Then he mounted Streak, turned the animal's head
toward the northeast, and rode into the glaring sunshine of the morning.