CHAPTER XXX
THE FIGHT IN THE CACHE
A clear night and a good moon made a long ride possible, and theCrawling Stone contingent, headed by Stormy Gorman, began coming intothe railroad camp by three o'clock the next morning. With them rodethe two Youngs, who had lost the trail they followed across GooseRiver and joined the cowboys on the road to the north.
The party divided under Kennedy and Smith, who rode through the Doorinto the Cache just before daybreak.
"I don't know what I am steering you against this morning, Farrell,"said Whispering Smith. "Certainly I should hate to run you into DuSang, but we can't tell where we shall strike him. If we have laid outthe work right I ought to see him as soon as anybody does. Accidentsdo happen, but remember he will never be any more dangerous than he isat the first moment. Get him to talk. He gets nervous if he can'tshoot right away. When you pull, get a bullet into his stomach at thestart, if you possibly can, to spoil his aim. We mustn't make themistake of underestimating him. Rebstock is right: he is a fright witha revolver, and Sinclair and Seagrue are the only men in the mountainsthat can handle a rifle with him. Now we split here; and good luck!"
"Don't you want to take Brill Young with you?"
"You take both the Youngs, Farrell. We shall be among rocks, and if hetries to rush us there is cover."
Stormy Gorman with four Crawling Stone cowboys followed WhisperingSmith. Every rider on the range had a grievance against WilliamsCache, and any of them would have been glad to undertake reprisalsagainst the rustlers under the wing of Whispering Smith.
Just how in the mountains--without telegraph, newspapers, and allordinary means of publicity--news travels so fast may not certainly besaid. The scattered lines of telephone wires help, but news outstripsthe wires. Moreover, there are no telephones in the Mission Mountains.But on the morning that the round-up party rode into the Cache it wasknown in the streets of Medicine Bend that the Tower W men had beentracked into the north country; that some, if not all, of them were inWilliams Cache; that an ultimatum had been given, and that WhisperingSmith and Kennedy had already ridden in with their men to make itgood.
Whispering Smith, with the cowboys, took the rough country to theleft, and Kennedy and his party took the south prong of the CacheCreek. The instructions were to make a clean sweep as the lineadvanced. Behind the centre rode three men to take stock driven infrom the wings. Word that was brief but reasonable had been senteverywhere ahead. Every man, it was promised, that could proveproperty should have a chance to do so at the Door that day and thenext; but any brands that showed stolen cattle, or that had beenskinned or tampered with in any way, were to be turned over to theStock Association for the benefit of owners.
The very first pocket raided started a row and uncovered eighty headof five-year-old steers bearing a mutilated Duck Bar brand. It waslike poking at rattlesnakes to undertake to clean out the grassyretreats of the Cache, but the work was pushed on in spite ofprotests, threats, and resistance. Every man that rode out openly tomake a protest was referred calmly to Rebstock, and before very longRebstock's cabin had more men around it than had been seen together inthe Cache for years. The impression that the whole jig was up, andthat the refugees had been sold out by their own boss, was one that norailroad man undertook to discourage. The cowboys insisted on thecattle, with the assurance that Rebstock could explain everything. Bynoon the Cache was in an uproar. The cowboys were riding carefully,and their guards, rifles in hand, were watching the corners. Ahead ofthe slowly moving line with the growing bunch of cattle behind it,flourished as it were rather conspicuously, fugitive riders dashedback and forth with curses and yells across the narrow valley. If ithad been Whispering Smith's intention to raise a large-sized row itwas apparent that he had been successful. Rebstock, driven todesperation, held council after council to determine what to do.Sorties were discussed, ambushes considered, and a pitched battle wasplanned. But, while ideas were plentiful, no one aspired to lead anattack on Whispering Smith.
Moreover, Williams Cache, it was conceded, would in the end be worstedif the company and the cowmen together seriously undertook with menand unlimited money to clean it out. Whispering Smith's party had noexplanation to offer for the round-up, but when Rebstock made it knownthat the fight was over sending out Du Sang, the rage of the rustlersturned on Du Sang. Again, however, no man wanted to take up personallywith Du Sang the question of the reasonableness of Whispering Smith'sdemand. Instead of doing so, they fell on Rebstock and demanded thatif he were boss he make good and send Du Sang out.
Of all this commotion the railroad men saw only the outwardindications. As the excitement grew on both sides there was perhaps alittle more of display in the way the cattle were run in, especiallywhen some long-lost bunch was brought to light and welcomed with yellsfrom the centre. A steer was killed at noon, everybody fed, and theline moved forward. The wind, which had slept in the sunshine of themorning, rose in the afternoon, and the dust whirled in little cloudswhere men or animals moved. From the centre two men had gone back withthe cattle gathered up to that time, and Bill Dancing, with Smith,Stormy Gorman, and two of the cowboys, were heading a draw to cross tothe north side of the Cache, when three men rode out into the roadfive hundred yards ahead, and halted.
Whispering Smith spoke: "There come our men; stop here. This ground infront of us looks good to me; they may have chosen something overthere that suits them better. Feel your guns and we'll start forwardslowly; don't take your eyes off the bunch, whatever you do. Bill, yougo back and help the men with the cattle; there will be four of usagainst three then."
"Not for mine!" said Bill Dancing bluntly. "You may need help from anold fool yet. I'll see you through this and look after the cattleafterward."
"Then, Stormy, one or two of you go back," urged Whispering Smith,speaking to the cowboy foreman without turning his eyes. "There's noneed of five of us in this."
But Stormy swore violently. "You go back yourself," exclaimed Stormy,when he could control his feelings. "We'll bring them fellows in foryou in ten minutes with their hands in the air."
"I know you would; I know it. But I'm paid for this sort of thing andyou are not, and I advise no man to take unnecessary chances. If youall want to stay, why, stay; but don't ride ahead of the line, and letme do all the talking. See that your guns are loose--you'll never havebut one chance to pull, and don't pull till you're ready. The albinois riding in the middle now, isn't he? And a little back, playing fora quick drop. Watch him. Who is that on the right? Can it be GeorgeSeagrue? Well, this is a bunch. And I guess Karg is with them."
Holding their horses to a slow walk, the two parties gingerlyapproached each other. When the Cache riders halted the railroadriders halted; and when the three rode the five rode: but the threerode with absolute alignment and acted as one, while Whispering Smithhad trouble in holding his men back until the two lines were fiftyfeet apart.
By this time the youngest of the cowboys had steadied and was thinkinghard. Whispering Smith halted. In perfect order and sitting theirhorses as if they were riding parade, the horses ambling at a snail'space, the Cache riders advanced in the sunshine like one man. When DuSang and his companions reined up, less than twelve feet separated thetwo lines.
In his tan shirt, Du Sang, with his yellow hair, his white eyelashes,and his narrow face, was the least impressive of the three men.The Norwegian, Seagrue, rode on the right, his florid blood showingunder the tan on his neck and arms. He spoke to the cowboys from theranch, and on the left the young fellow Karg, with the brokennose, black-eyed and alert, looked the men over in front of him andnodded to Dancing. Du Sang and his companions wore short-armed shirts;rifles were slung at their pommels, and revolvers stuck in theirhip-scabbards. Whispering Smith, in his dusty suit of khaki, was theonly man in either line who showed no revolver, but a hammerless ormuley Savage rifle hung beside his pommel.
Du Sang, blinking, spoke first: "Which of you fellows is heading thisround-up?"
"I am heading
the round-up," said Whispering Smith. "Why? Have we gotsome of your cattle?"
The two men spoke as quietly as school-teachers. Whispering Smith'sexpression in no way changed, except that as he spoke he lifted hiseyebrows a little more than usual.
Du Sang looked at him closely as he went on: "What kind of a way isthis to treat anybody? To ride into a valley like this and drive aman's cows away from his door without notice or papers? Is your nameSmith?"
"My name is Smith; yours is Du Sang. Yes, I'll tell you, Du Sang. Icarry an inspector's card from the Mountain Stock Association--do youwant to see it? When we get these cattle to the Door, any man in theCache may come forward and prove his property. I shall leaveinstructions to that effect when we go, for I want you to go toMedicine Bend with me, Du Sang, as soon as convenient, and the menthat are with me will finish the round-up."
"What do you want me for? There's no papers out against me, isthere?"
"No, but I'm an officer, Du Sang. I'll see to the papers; I want youfor murder."
"So they tell me. Well, you're after the wrong man. But I'll go withyou; I don't care about that."
"Neither do I, Du Sang; and as you have some friends along, I won'tbreak up the party. They may come, too."
"What for?"
"For stopping a train at Tower W Saturday night."
The three men looked at one another and laughed.
Du Sang with an oath spoke again: "The men you want are in Canada bythis time. I can't speak for my friends; I don't know whether theywant to go or not. As far as I am concerned, I haven't killed anybodythat I know of. I suppose you'll pay my expenses back?"
"Why, yes, Du Sang, if you were coming back I would pay your expenses;but you are not coming back. You are riding down Williams Cache forthe last time; you've ridden down it too many times already. Thisround-up is especially for you. Don't deceive yourself; when you ridewith me this time out of the Cache, you won't come back."
Du Sang laughed, but his blinking eyes were as steady as a cat's. Itdid not escape Whispering Smith's notice that the mettlesome horsesridden by the outlaws were continually working around to the right ofhis party. He spoke amiably to Karg: "If you can't manage that horse,Karg, I can. Play fair. It looks to me as if you and Du Sang weregetting ready to run for it, and leave George Seagrue to shoot his waythrough alone."
Du Sang, with some annoyance, intervened: "That's all right; I'll gowith you. I'd rather see your papers, but if you're Whispering Smithit's all right. I'm due to shoot out a little game sometime with youat Medicine Bend, anyway."
"Any time, Du Sang; only don't let your hand wabble next time. It'stoo close to your gun now to pull right."
"Well, I told you I was going to come, didn't I? And I'm coming--now!"
With the last word he whipped out his gun. There was a crash ofbullets. Questioned once by McCloud and reproached for taking chances,Whispering Smith answered simply. "I have to take chances," he said."All I ask is an even break."
But Kennedy had said there was no such thing as an even break withWhispering Smith. A few men in a generation amuse, baffle, and mystifyother men with an art based on the principle that the action of thehand is quicker than the action of the eye. With Whispering Smith thedrawing of a revolver and the art of throwing his shots instantly fromwherever his hand rested was pure sleight-of-hand. To a dexterity sofatal he added a judgment that had not failed when confronted withdeceit. From the moment that Du Sang first spoke, Smith, convincedthat he meant to shoot his way through the line, waited only for themoment to come. When Du Sang's hand moved like a flash of light,Whispering Smith, who was holding his coat lapels in his hands, struckhis pistol from the scabbard over his heart and threw a bullet at himbefore he could fire, as a conjurer throws a vanishing coin into theair. Spurring his horse fearfully as he did so, he dashed at Du Sangand Karg, leaped his horse through their line and, wheeling at arm'slength, shot again. Bill Dancing jumped in his saddle, swayed, andtoppled to the ground. Stormy Gorman gave a single whoop at thespectacle and, with his two cowboys at his heels, fled for life.
Wheeling at arm's length, shot again.]
More serious than all, Smith found himself among three fast revolvers,working from an unmanageable horse. The beast tried to follow thefleeing cowboys, and when faced sharply about showed temper. Thetrained horses of the outlaws stood like statues, but Smith had tofight with his horse bucking at every shot. He threw his bullets asbest he could first over one shoulder and then over the other, andused the last cartridge in his revolver with Du Sang, Seagrue, andKarg shooting at him every time they could fire without hitting oneanother.
It was not the first time the Williams Cache gang had sworn to get himand had worked together to do it, but for the first time it looked asif they might do it. A single chance was left to Whispering Smith forhis life, and with his coat slashed with bullets, he took it. For aninstant his life hung on the success of a trick so appallingly awkwardthat a cleverer man might have failed in turning it. If his rifleshould play free in the scabbard as he reached for it, he could fallto the ground, releasing it as he plunged from the saddle, and make afight on his feet. If the rifle failed to release he was a dead man.To so narrow an issue are the cleverest combinations sometimes broughtby chance. He dropped his empty revolver, ducked like a mud-hen on hishorse's neck, threw back his leg, and, with all the precision he couldsummon, caught the grip of his muley in both hands. He made his fallheavily to the ground, landing on his shoulder. But as he keeled fromthe saddle the last thing that rolled over the saddle, like the flashof a porpoise fin, was the barrel of the rifle, secure in his hands.Karg, on horseback, was already bending over him, revolver in hand,but the shot was never fired. A thirty-thirty bullet from the groundknocked the gun into the air and tore every knuckle from Karg's hand.Du Sang spurred in from the right. A rifle-slug like an axe at theroot caught him through the middle. His fingers stiffened. Hissix-shooter fell to the ground and he clutched his side. Seagrue,ducking low, put spurs to his horse, and Whispering Smith, coveredwith dust, rose on the battle-field alone.
Hats, revolvers, and coats lay about him. Face downward, the huge bulkof Bill Dancing was stretched motionless in the road. Karg, crouchingbeside his fallen horse, held up the bloody stump of his gun hand, andDu Sang, fifty yards away, reeling like a drunken man in his saddle,spurred his horse in an aimless circle. Whispering Smith, runningsoftly to the side of his own trembling animal, threw himself into thesaddle, and, adjusting his rifle sights as the beast plunged down thedraw, gave chase to Seagrue.
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