THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL
The quiet was profound. All the world seemed so still. There was no
sign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life of
an insect world. The heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sand
of the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath the
glare of the summer sun. There was no breath from the mountains down
here, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming a
great screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat like
the sides of an oven.
A startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with that
restless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtle
sense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. An
answering rustle came from near by. And in a moment this was followed
by a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates fled farther
into the forest. Yet the sudden flight seemed quite unnecessary.
Again the stillness was broken. This time it was by the harsh voice of
a black carrion. This too was followed by movement, only the movement
had no haste or suggestion of fear. It was simply the heavy flapping
of slow-moving wings. Two enormous crows launched themselves upon the
air from the topmost branches of a distant tree, and perched on the
crest of another at the trail-side.
They sat there in solemn, unmoving silence, but with eyes alert and
watchful, and who might tell the thought passing through their
unwholesome minds!
But now a further sound broke the stillness--a sound which perhaps
accounted for the movements of the birds. A soft patter grew out of
the distance like the pad of muffled feet. But it was faint and
seemingly far off. The sharp eyes of the feathered watchers were
scanning the horizon from their lofty perches. The sound grew. And as
it grew the waiting carrion turned to view both distances of the
trail. It was evident that the growing sound had a double source.
The padding feet became more distinct. Yes, the sounds were sharper.
The softness had gone, developing into the rhythmic beat of hard hoofs
speeding from either direction. Two horses were galloping down the
trail at a rapid pace, and quickly it became evident that their
meeting must occur somewhere almost directly beneath the watchful eyes
of the waiting birds.
Nearer and nearer came the hoof-beats. The birds were plucking at
their feathers with an unconcern all too apparent. They ruffled their
wings and preened their plumage, a sure indication of satisfaction.
One of the galloping horses slackened its gait. Perhaps its rider had
heard the approach of that other, and, with the curious instinctive
suspicion of the western trail, prepared to pass him under the best
conditions for defensiveness. Perhaps it was simply the natural action
of a horseman on the trail.
But the horse from the other direction had slackened speed too. His
rider, too, had reduced his gait to a walk.
The birds overhead ceased their preening and looked below for the
possible development they seem to be ever awaiting. It makes no
difference, they follow the trail of all animal life, waiting,
waiting, with a patience inexhaustible, for the moment of stillness
which tells them that life has passed and the banquet awaits them.
One of the horsemen came into full view from the height above. The
second horseman appeared round a bend. Both men were mounted on the
lean, hard-muscled horses of prairie breeding. They were spare of
flesh and uncared for, but their muscles were hard and their legs
clean. Between them a bend in the trail still intervened, but with
each moment they were drawing nearer to each other.
Right under the tree upon which the crows were perched Pete drew rein
and sat listening to the shuffling gait of the oncoming horse. The
man's lean face was dark with a brooding hatred. His eyes were
fiercely alight with expectancy. A revolver lay across his thigh, the
butt of it firmly grasped in a hand clutching it with desperate
purpose.
The trail was the trail to the farm. Ike had gone to the farm. A
horseman was returning along that trail from the direction of the
farm. Such was the argument behind his aggressive action. It was a
simple argument which in his sober senses might have needed support to
urge him to the course he now contemplated. But he was not sober;
Beasley had seen to that. He was no more sober than was Ike.
Ike's horse was moving slowly--much slower than its usual walking gait
The man was craning forward. Who, he wondered, was riding toward the
farm, and for what purpose? His right hand was on the butt of his
revolver, but his weapon was still in its holster, for his action was
purely precautionary in a country where, when a man has enemies, or
has done those things which he knows his fellows resent, it is
advisable to look for no support outside his own ability to defend
himself.
He remembered the screams of Joan, and he knew how the hills echoed.
He wondered, and wondering he regretted something of what he had done.
But he regretted it only for possible consequences to himself. In
reality he reveled in the warm memory of the feel of the girl's soft
cheek.
His horse reached the bend. He could no longer hear the hoof-beats of
the other. He drew up with a sudden, nervous movement, and his gun
left its holster. But his nerves passed, and, with a foul oath, he
urged his horse forward. He rounded the bend and came face to face
with the figure of Blue Grass Pete.
"Wher' you bin?" demanded the latter in a manner that was a deliberate
insult.
Ike did the only thing his wit could prompt. He laughed. It was a
harsh, mirthless laugh, which was equally an insult.
"Quit it!" roared Pete in a blind fury. "Wher' you bin, I say?"
Ike abandoned his laugh, but his face was furiously grinning.
"Bin?" he echoed. "I bin wher' you needn't to go--wher' it ain't no
use your goin'," he cried, his love of boast prompting him. "I bin to
fix things up. She's goin' to mar----"
A shot rang out. Ike's face blanched, but like lightning his pistol
bit out its retort. Pete reeled and recovered himself, and again he
fired. Ike leant forward as though seeking support from the horn of
his saddle. Pete had fallen forward on to his horse's neck. Ike raised
his gun and fired again, but there had really been no need for the
shot. Even as his gun spoke the other man fell to the ground and
rolled over. His dark face was turned upward, so that the waiting
crows had a full view of it.
After that Ike remained quite still. His pale face, turning to a
greenish hue in contrast to his ginger hair, was staring down at the
result of his handiwork. But his eyes were almost unseeing. He was
faint and weary, and in great pain.
The moments passed. At last he stirred. But his movement was merely to
clutch with feeble fingers at the mane of his horse. Vainly his left
hand clawed amongst the lank hair, while the fingers of his right
released their grip upon his pistol and let it clatter to the ground.
He crouched there breathing heavily, while a harsh croak from above
split the air. Again he moved as though the sound had awakened him. He
strove to sit up, to lift the reins, and to urge his horse forward.
The beast moved in response to his effort. But the movement was all
that was needed. The man reeled, lost his balance, and fell heavily to
the ground. He too had rolled on to his back--he too was gazing up
with unseeing eyes at the dark-hued carrion whose patience was
inexhaustible.
For a moment all was still. Then the horses moved as by common
consent. They drew near to each other, and their noses met in that
inquiring equine fashion which suggests friendly overtures. They stood
thus for a while. Then both moved to the side of the trail and began
to graze upon the parching grass after the unconcerned manner of
their kind.
The heavy flapping of wings told of a fresh movement in the trees
above. Two great black bodies swung out upon the air. They circled
round as though assuring themselves that all was as they could wish
it. Then they settled again. But this time it was on the boughs of a
low bush less than six feet above the staring faces of their intended
victims.