Chapter XVII
_Down the Wind_
Waring, several miles out from the home shack, on the new range, sat hishorse Dexter, watching his men string fence. They ran the barbed wirewith a tackle, stringing it taut down the long line of bare posts thattwinkled away to dots in the west. Occasionally Waring rode up andtested the wire with his hand. The men worked fast. Waring and Pat hadpicked their men; three husky boys of the high country who consideredstringing fence rather pleasant exercise. There was no recognizedforeman. Each knew his work, and Waring had added a foreman's pay totheir salaries, dividing it equally among them. Later they would lookafter the ranch and the cattle.
Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty of water, would take careof eight hundred or a thousand head of cattle. And as a provisionagainst a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine in at the easternend of the range, where the bunch-grass was heavy enough to cut. Itwould be necessary to winter-feed. Four hundred white-faced Herefordsgrazed in the autumn sunshine. Riding round and among them leisurely wasthe Mexican youth, Ramon.
Backed against a butte near the middle of the range was the broad,low-roofed ranch-house. A windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean,flickering shadow aslant the corrals. The buildings looked new and rawin contrast to the huge pile of grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedargathered from the clearing round them.
In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed and harrowed to a deadlevel. This was to be Pat's garden, wherein he had planned to grow allsorts of green things, including cucumbers. At the moment Pat wasstanding under the veranda roof, gazing out across the ranch. The olddays of petty warfare, long night rides, and untold hardships were past.Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green tendrils would swell tosturdy vines. Corn-leaves would broaden to waving green blades shot withthe rich brown of the ripening ears. Although he had never spoken of it,Pat had dreamed of blue flowers nodding along the garden fence;old-fashioned bachelor's-buttons that would spring up as though byaccident. But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not tomistake them for weeds.
"Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sureknows how to say those things."
The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As hebit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering inthe distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand.
"'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncherlookin' for a job, most likely."
He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt andoveralls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen.
"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat.
"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figuresthey're getting too far out to ride in every noon."
"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at thoseditches. How are the supplies holding out?"
"We're short on flour. Got enough to last over till Monday. Plenty baconand beans and lard."
"All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive in."
Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan. Pat watched himfor a moment. Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and,strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden.
Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had beenbrought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry hadreshaped the tramp to something like a man. Both Pat and Waring knewthat the hobo was wanted in Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing aboutthe tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful aboutthe ranch. They would give him a chance. But, familiar with his kind,they were mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. If he tookto drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have togo. Meanwhile, he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good cook,no matter where or where from, is a power in the land.
As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. Pat stepped to theveranda. A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around.
"I can take your message," said Pat.
"Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck Hardy."
"Yes, it's for me," said Pat. "Who sent you?"
"Hardy. Said something about you had a man down here he wanted."
"All right. Stay for chuck?"
"I got to git back. How's things down this way?"
"Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over right soon."
"To-day?"
Pat's gray eyes hardened. "Buck tell you to ask me that?"
"Well--no. I was just wonderin'."
"Then keep right on wondering," said Pat. "You got your answer."
The cowboy swung up and rode off. "To hell with him!" he said. "Thinkshe can throw a scare into me because he's got a name for killin'. Tohell him!"
Pat climbed the hill back of the house and surveyed the glimmeringlevels.
"Wish Jim would ride in. Funny thing--Hardy sending a Starr boy withword for me. But perhaps the kid was riding this way, anyhow."
Pat shook his head, and climbed slowly down to the house. Waco was busyin the kitchen when he came in.
After the noon meal, Pat again climbed the hill. He seemed worried aboutsomething. When he returned he told Waco to hitch the pintos to thebuckboard.
"Get your coat," he told Waco. "We're going over to Stacey."
Waco's hands trembled. "Say, boss, if you don't mind--"
"Get your coat. I'll talk to Buck. You needn't to worry. I'll square youwith Buck. We can use you here."
Waco did as he was told. They drove out of the yard. Waco leaped downand closed the gate.
The pintos shook themselves into the harness and trotted down thefaintly marked new road. The buckboard swayed and jolted. Somethingrubbed against Waco's hip. He glanced down and saw Pat's gun on the seatbetween them. Pat said nothing. He was thinking hard. The cowboymessenger's manner had not been natural. The note bore the printedheading of the sheriff's office. Perhaps it was all right. And if itwere not, Pat was not the man to back down from a bluff.
Several miles out from the ranch ran the naked posts of the line fence.Pat reined in the ponies and gazed up and down the line. A mile beyond,the ranch road merged with the main-traveled highway running east andwest. He spoke to the horses. They broke into a fast trot. Waco,gripping the seat, stared straight ahead. Why had Pat laid that gun onthe seat?
A thin, gray veil drifted across the sun. From the northwest a lightwind sprang up and ran across the mesa, whipping the bunch-grass. Thewind grew heavier, and with it came a fine, dun-colored dust. An hourand the air was thick with a shifting red haze of sand. The sun gloweddimly through the murk.
Waco turned up his coat-collar and shivered. The air was keen. Theponies fought the bit, occasionally breaking into a gallop. Pat bracedhis feet and held them to a trot. A weird buzzing came down the wind.The ponies reared and took to the ditch as a machine flicked past anddrummed away in the distance.
To Waco, rigid and staring, the air seemed filled with a kind ofhovering terror, a whining threat of danger that came in bursts ofdriving sand and dwindled away to harsh whisperings. He stood it aslong as he could. Pat had not spoken.
A huddled shape near a boulder]
Waco touched his arm. "I got a hunch," he said hoarsely,--"I got a hunchwe oughta go back."
Pat nodded. But the ponies swept on down the road, their manes and tailswhipping in the wind. Another mile and they slowed down in heavy sand.The buckboard tilted forward as they descended the sharp pitch of anarroyo. Unnoticed, Pat's gun slipped to the floor of the wagon.
In the arroyo the wind seemed to have died away, leaving a startledquietness. It still hung above them, and an occasional gust filled theireyes with grit. Waco drew a deep breath. The ponies tugged through theheavy sand.
Without a sound to warn them a rider appeared close to the front wheelof the buckboard. Waco shrank down in sodden terror. It was the Starrforeman, High-Chin Bob. Waco saw Pat's hand flash to his side, thenfumble on the seat.
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"I'm payin' the Kid's debt," said High Chin, and, laughing, he threwshot after shot into the defenseless body of his old enemy.
Waco saw Pat slump forward, catch himself, and finally topple from theseat. As the reins slipped from his fingers the ponies lunged up thearroyo. Waco crouched, clutching the foot-rail. A bullet hummed over hishead. Gaining the level, the ponies broke into a wild run. The red windwhined as it drove across the mesa. The buckboard lurched sickeningly.A scream of terror wailed down the wind as the buckboard struck atelegraph pole. A blind shock--and for Waco the droning of the wind hadceased.
Dragging the broken traces, the ponies circled the mesa and set off at agallop toward home. At the side of the road lay the splinteredbuckboard, wheels up. And Waco, hovering on the edge of the black abyss,dreamed strange dreams.
* * * * *
Waring, riding in with the crew, found the ranch-house deserted and thepinto ponies dragging the shreds of a broken harness, grazing along thefence. Waring sent a man to catch up the team. Ramon cooked supper. Themen ate in silence.
After supper Waring changed his clothes, saddled Dex, and packed somefood in the saddle-pockets. "I am going out to look for Pat," he toldone of his men. "If Waco shows up, keep him here till I get back. Thosehorses didn't get away from Pat. Here's a signed check. Get what youneed and keep on with the work. You're foreman till I get back."
"If there's anything doing--" began the cowboy.
"I don't know. Some one rode in here to-day. It was along about noonthat Pat and Waco left. The bread was baked. I'd say they drove to townfor grub; only Pat took his gun--without the holster. It looks bad tome. If anything happens to me, just send for Lorry Adams at the RangerStation."
Waring rode out, looking for tracks. His men watched him until he haddisappeared behind a rise. Bender, the new foreman, turned to hisfellows.
"I'd hate to be the man that the boss is lookin' for," he said, shakinghis head.
"Why, he's lookin' for Pat, ain't he?" queried one of the men.
"That ain't what I mean," said the foreman.
* * * * *
The wind died down suddenly. The sun, just above the horizon, glowedlike a disk of burnished copper. The wagon ruts were filled with finesand. Waring read the trail. The buckboard had traveled briskly. It hadstopped at the line. The tracks of the fretting ponies showed thatclearly. Alongside the tracks of the ponies were the half-hidden tracksof a single horse. Waring glanced back at the sun, and put Dex to alope. He swung into the main road, his gaze following thehalf-obliterated trail of the single horseman. Suddenly he reined up.The horseman had angled away from the road and had ridden north acrossthe open country. He had not gone to Stacey. Waring knew that thehorseman had been riding hard. Straight north from where Waring hadstopped was the Starr Ranch.
He rode on, his heart heavy with a black premonition. The glowingcopper disk was now half-hidden by the western hills.
At the brink of the arroyo he dismounted. He could see nothingdistinctly in the gloom of its depths. Stooping, he noted the wagontracks as he worked on down. His foot struck against something hard. Hefumbled and picked Pat's gun from the sand. Every chamber was loaded.
"He didn't have a chance." Waring was startled by his own voice. Hethrust the gun in his waistband. The twilight deepened rapidly. Rocksand ridges in the arroyo assumed peculiar shapes like those of mencrouching; men prone; men with heads up, listening, watching, waiting.Yet Waring's instinct for hidden danger told him that there was noliving thing in the arroyo--unless--Suddenly he sprang forward anddropped to his knees beside a huddled shape near a boulder.
"Pat!" he whispered.
Then he knew; saw it all as clearly as though he had witnessed it--theambushment in the blinding sandstorm; the terror-stricken Waco; thefrightened ponies; the lunging and swaying buckboard. And Pat, left fordead, but who had dragged himself from the roadway in dumb agony.
The dole of light from the sinking sun was gone. Waring's hands cameaway from the opened shirt shudderingly. He wiped his hands on the sand,and, rising, ran back to Dex. He returned with a whiskey flask. Pat wasof tough fiber and tremendous vitality. If the spark were stillunquenched, if it could be called back even for a breath, that whichWaring knew, yet wanted to confirm beyond all doubt, might be given in aword. He raised Pat's head, and barely tilted the flask. The spirit ofthe mortally stricken man, perchance loath to leave such a bravehermitage, winged slowly back from the far shore of dreams. In the blackpit of the arroyo, where death crouched, waiting, life flamed for aninstant.
Waring felt the limp body stir. He took Pat's big, bony hand in his.
"Pat!" he whispered.
A word breathed heavily from the motionless lips. "You, Jim?"
"Yes! For God's sake, Pat, who did this thing?"
"Brewster--Bob. Letter--in my coat."
"I'll get _him_!" said Waring.
"Shake!" exclaimed the dying man, and the grip of his hand was likeiron. Waring thought he had gone, and leaned closer. "I'm--kind oftired--Jim. Reckon--I'll--rest."
Waring felt the other's grip relax. He drew his hand from the stiffeningfingers. A dull pain burned in his throat. He lighted a match, and foundthe message that had lured Pat to his death in the other's coat-pocket.He rose and stumbled up the arroyo to his horse.
Halfway back to the ranch, and he met Ramon riding hard. "Ride back,"said Waring. "Hook up to the wagon and come to the arroyo."
"Have you found the Senor Pat?"
"Yes. He is dead."
Ramon whirled his pony and pounded away in the darkness.
Out on the highway two long, slender shafts of light slid across themesa, dipped into an arroyo, and climbed skyward as a machine buzzed upthe opposite pitch. The lights straightened again and shot on down theroad, swinging stiffly from side to side. Presently they came to a stop.In the soft glow of their double radiance lay a yellow-wheeledbuckboard, shattered and twisted round a telegraph pole. The lightsmoved up slowly and stopped again.
A man jumped from the machine and walked round the buckboard. Beneath itlay a crumpled figure. The driver of the machine ran a quick hand overthe neck and arms of Waco, who groaned. The driver lifted him andcarried him to the car. Stacey lay some twenty miles behind him. He wasbound south. The first town on his way was thirty miles distant. But theroads were good. He glanced back at the huddled figure in the tonneau.The car purred on down the night. The long shafts of light lifted over arise and disappeared.
In about an hour the car stopped at the town of Grant. Waco was carriedfrom the machine to a room in the hotel, and a doctor was summoned.Waco lay unconscious throughout the night.
In the morning he was questioned briefly. He gave a fictitious name, andmentioned a town he had heard of, but had never been in. His horses hadrun away with him.
The man who had picked him up drove away next morning. Later the doctortold Waco that through a miracle there were no bones broken, but that hewould have to keep to his bed for at least a week. Otherwise he wouldnever recover from the severe shock to his nervous system.
And Waco, recalling the horror of the preceding day, twisted his headround at every footstep in the hall, fearing that Waring had come toquestion him. He knew that he had done no wrong; in fact, he had toldPat that they had better drive back home. But a sense of shame at hiscowardice, and the realization that his word was as water in evidence,that he was but a wastrel, a tramp, burdened him with an aching desireto get away--to hide himself from Waring's eyes, from the eyes of allmen.
He kept telling himself that he had done nothing wrong, yet fear shookhim until his teeth chattered. What could he have done even had he beencourageous? Pat had had no chance.
He suffered with the misery of indecision. Habit inclined him to fleefrom the scene of the murder. Fear of the law urged him. Three nightsafter he had been brought to Grant, he dressed and crept down the backstairs, and made his way to the railroad station. Twice he had heard th
emidnight freight stop and cut out cars on the siding. He hid in theshadows until the freight arrived. He climbed to an empty box-car andwaited. Trainmen crunched past on the cinders. A jolt and he was sweptaway toward the west. He sank into a half sleep as the iron wheelsroared and droned beneath him.
Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life Page 17