DOC TRAILS
Doc had not gone far into the chaparral before he realized that his
work was going to be hard. The trail was much fainter than it would
have been if the Mexican were mounted; the moonlight failed to
penetrate the chaparral except in irregular patches which made the
surrounding shadows all the deeper by contrast; what little he saw of
the trail led through places far too small and turning too sharply to
permit being followed by a man on horseback, and lastly, he expected
every minute to be fired upon, and at close range. He paused and
thought a while--Antonio would head for Eagle, that being the only
place where he could get assistance, and there he would find friends.
Doc picked his way out of the labyrinth of tortuous alleys and finally
came to a comparatively wide lane leading southeast. He rode at a
canter now and planned how he would strike the fugitive's trail
further down, and after he had ridden a few miles he was struck by a
thought that stopped him at once.
"Hang it all, he might 'a headed for them construction camps or for
one of th' north ranches, to steal a cayuse," he muttered. "Th' only
safe thing for me to do is to jump his trail an' stop guessing, an'
even then mebby he'll get me before I get him. That's a clean gamble,
an' so here goes," wheeling and retracing his course. When he again
found the trail at the place he had quit it, he dismounted and crawled
along on his hands and knees in order to follow the foot-prints among
the shadows. Then some animal bounded up in front of him and leaped
away, and as he turned to look after it he caught sight of his horse
standing on its hind legs, and the next instant it was crashing
through the chaparral. Drawing his Colt and cursing he ran back in
time to see the horse gain an alleyway and gallop off. Angered
thoroughly he sent a shot after it and then followed it, finally
capturing it in a blind alley. Roundly cursing the frightened beast he
led it back to where he had left the trail and, keeping one hand on
the reins, continued to follow the foot-prints. Day broke when he had
reached the edge of the chaparral and he mounted with a sigh of relief
and rode forward along the now plainly marked trail.
As he cantered along he kept his eyes searching every possible cover
ahead of and on both sides of him, watching the trail as far ahead as
he could see it, for the Mexican might have doubled back to get a
pursuer as he rode past. After an hour of this caution he slapped his
thigh and grinned at his foolishness.
"Now ain't I a cussed fool!" he exclaimed. "A regular, old-woman of a
cow-puncher! That Greaser won't do no doubling back or ambushing.
He'll shore reckon on being trailed by a bunch an' not by a locoed,
prize-winning idiot. Why, he's making th' best time he can, an' that's
a-plenty, too. Besides he ain't got no rifle. Lift yore feet, you
four-legged sage hen," he cried, spurring his horse into a lope. He
mechanically felt at the long rifle holster at the saddle flap and
then looked at it quickly. "An' no rifle for _me_, neither! Oh, well,
that's all right, too. I don't need any better gun than he's got, th'
coyote. Canteen full of water an' saddle flaps stuffed with grub. Why,
old cayuse, if you can do without drinking till we get back to th'
mesa we'll be plumb happy. Wonder when you was watered last?"
The trail had been swinging to the north more and more and when Doc
noted this fact he grinned again.
"Nice fool I'd 'a been hunting for these tracks down towards Eagle,
wouldn't I? But I wonder where he reckons he's going, anyhow?"
Sometime later he had his answer, for he found himself riding towards
a water hole and then he knew the reason for the trail swinging north.
He let his mount drink its fill and while he waited he noticed a torn
sombrero, then a spur, and further away the skeleton of a horse.
Looking further he saw the skeleton of a man, all that the coyotes had
left of the body of Dick Archer, the man killed by Red on the day when
he and Hopalong had discovered that Thunder Mesa was inhabited. He
pushed around the water hole and then caught sight of something in the
sand. Edging his mount over to it he leaned down from the saddle and
picked up a Colt's revolver, fully loaded and as good as the day
Archer died. That air contained no moisture. As he slipped it in a
saddle bag he spurred forward at top speed, for on the other side of a
hummock he saw the head and then the full figure of a man plodding
away from him, and it was Antonio.
The fugitive, hearing hoofbeats, looked back and then dropped to one
knee, his rifle going to his shoulder with the movement.
"Where in h--l did _he_ get a rifle?" ejaculated Doc, forcing his
horse to buck-jump and pitch so as to be an erratic target. "He didn't
have none when _I_ grabbed him! Th' devil! That cussed skeleton back
there gave _me_ a six-shooter, an' _him_ a rifle!"
There was a dull smothered report and he saw the Mexican drop the gun
and rock back and forth, apparently in agony, and he rode forward at
top speed. Jerking his horse to its haunches he leaped off it just as
Antonio wiped the blood from his eyes and jerked loose his Remington
six-shooter. But his first shot missed and before he could fire again
Doc grappled with him.
This time it was nearly an even break and Doc found that the slim
figure of his enemy was made up of muscles of steel, that the lazy
Greaser of the H2 ranch was, when necessary, quick as a cat and filled
with the courage of desperation. It required all of Doc's attention
and skill to keep himself from being shot by the other's gun and when
he finally managed to wrest the weapon loose he was forced to drop it
quickly and grab the same hand, which by some miracle of speed and
dexterity now held a knife, a weapon far more deadly in hand-to-hand
fighting. Once when believing himself to be gone the buckle of his
belt stayed the slashing thrust and he again fought until the knife
was above his head. Then, suddenly, two fingers flashed at his eyes
and missed by so close a margin that Doc's eyebrows were torn open and
his eyes blinded with blood. Instinct stronger than the effect of the
disconcerting blindness made him hold his grip on the knife hand, else
he would have been missing when his foreman looked for him at the
mesa. He dug the fingers of his left hand, that had gripped around the
Mexican's waist, into his enemy's side and squeezed the writhing man
tighter to him, wiping the blood from his eyes on the shirt of the
other. As he did so he felt Antonio's teeth sink into his shoulder and
a sudden great burst of rage swept over him and turned a man already
desperate into a berserker, a mad man.
The grip tightened and then the brawny, bandaged left arm quickly
slipped up and around the Mexican's neck, pressing against the back of
it with all the power of the swelling, knotted muscles. A smothered
cry sobbed into his chest and he bent the knife hand back until the
muscles were handicapped by their unnatural position and then,
suddenly releasing both neck and hand, leaped back a step and the next
instant his heavy boot thudded into the Mexican's stomach and he
watched the gasping, ghastly-faced rustler sink down in a nerveless
heap, fighting desperately for the breath that almost refused to
return.
Doc wiped his eyes free of blood and hastily bound his neck-kerchief
around the bleeding eyebrows. As he knotted the bandage he stepped
forward and picked up both the revolver and knife and threw them far
from him. Glancing at the rifle he saw that it had burst and knew that
the greased, dirty barrel had been choked with sand. He remembered how
Curley's rifle had been leaded by the same cause and fierce joy surged
through him at this act of retributive justice. He waited patiently,
sneering at the groaning Mexican and taunting him until the desperate
man had gained his feet.
Doc stepped back a pace, tossing the burst rifle from him, and grinned
malignantly. "Take yore own time, Greaser. Get all yore wind an'
strength. _I_ ain't no murderer--I don't ride circles around a man an'
pot-shoot him. I'm going to kill you fair, with my hands, like I said.
Th' stronger you are th' better I'll feel when I leave you. An' if you
should leave me out here on th' sand, all right--but it's got to be
fair."
When fully recovered Antonio began the struggle by leaping forward,
thinking his enemy unprepared. Doc faced him like a flash and bent
low, barely escaping the other's kick. They clinched and swayed to and
fro, panting, straining, every ounce of strength called into play.
Then Doc got the throat hold again and took a shower of blows
unflinchingly. His eyebrows, bleeding again, blinded him, but he could
feel if he could not see. Slowly the resistance weakened and finally
Doc wrestled Antonio to his knees, bending over the Mexican and slowly
tightening his grip; and the man who had murdered Curley went through
all he had felt at the base of the mesa wall, at last paying with his
life for his career of murder, theft, fear, and hypocrisy.
Doc arose and went to his horse. Leading the animal back to the scene
of the struggle he stood a while, quietly watching the Mexican for any
sign of life, although he knew there would be none.
"Well, bronc, Curley's squared," he muttered, swinging into the saddle
and turning the animal's head. "Come on, get out of this!" he
exclaimed, quirting hard. As he passed the water hole he bowed to the
broken skeleton. "Much obliged, stranger, whoever you was. Yore last
play was a good one."