The Heart of the Range

by William Patterson White

  CHAPTER XXIX

  HUE AND CRY

  "Did you hit him?"

  "I don't think so," replied Racey without turning his head. "Keepdown."

  "I am down."

  "How you feel?"

  "Pretty good--considering."

  "Close squeak--considerin'."

  "Yes," said she in a small voice, "it was a close squeak. You--yousaved my life, Racey."

  "Shucks," he said, much embarrassed, "that wasn't anythin'--Imean--you--you know what I mean."

  "Surely, I know what you mean. All the same, you saved my life. Tellme, was that man shooting at us all the time after I fainted until yougot me under cover?"

  "Not all the time, no."

  "But most of the time. Oh, you can make small of it, but you were verybrave. It isn't everybody would have stuck the way you did."

  Smack! Tchuck! A bullet struck a rock two feet below where Racey layon his stomach, his rifle-barrel poked out between two shrubs ofsmooth sumac--another bored the hole of a gray stub at his back.

  He fired quickly at the first puff of smoke, then sent two bullets alittle to the left of the centre of the second puff.

  "Not much chance of hittin' the first feller," he said to Molly. "He'sbehind a log, but that second sport is behind a bush same as me....Huh? Oh, I'm all right. I got the ground in front of me. Hehasn't. Alla same, we ain't stayin' here any longer. I think I sawhalf-a-dozen gents cuttin' across the end of the slide. Give 'em timeand they'll cut in behind us, which ain't part of my plans a-tall.Let's go."

  He crawfished backward on his hands and knees. Molly followed hisexample. When they were sufficiently far back to be able to standupright with safety they scrambled to their feet and hurried to thehorse.

  "I'll lead him for a while," said Racey, giving Molly a leg up, forthe horse was a tall one. "He won't have to carry double just yet."

  So, with Racey walking ahead, they resumed their retreat.

  The ridge of rock cutting across the burned-over area could notproperly be called rimrock. It was a different formation. Set at anangle it climbed steadily upward to the very top of the mountain.In places weatherworn to a slippery smoothness; in others jagged,fragment-strewn; where the rain had washed an earth-covering upon therock the cheerful kinnikinick spread its mantle of shining green.

  The man and the girl and the horse made good time. Racey's feet beganto hurt before he had gone a mile, but he knew that something besidesa pair of feet would be irreparably damaged if he did not keep going.If they caught him he would be lynched, that's what he would be. If heweren't shot first. And the girl--well, she would get at the least tenyears at Piegan City, _if_ they were caught. But "if" is the longestand tallest word in the dictionary. It is indeed a mighty barrierbefore the Lord.

  "Did you ever stop to think they may come up through this brush?" saidMolly, on whom the silence and the sad gray stubs on either hand werebeginning to tell.

  "No," he answered, "I didn't, because they can't. The farther down yougo the worse it gets. They'd never get through. Not with hosses. We'reall right."

  "Are we?" She stood up in her stirrups, and looked down through avista between the stubs.

  They had reached the top of the mountain. It was a saddle-backedmountain, and they were at the outer edge of the eastern hump. Farbelow was a narrow valley running north and south. It was a valleywithout trees or stream and through it a string of dots were slippingto the north.

  "Are we all right?" she persisted. "Look down there."

  At this he turned his head and craned his neck.

  "I guess," he said, stepping out, "we'd better boil this kettle a li'lfaster."

  She made no comment, but always she looked down the mountain side andwatched, when the stubs gave her the opportunity, that ominous stringof dots. She had never been hunted before.

  They crossed the top of the mountain, keeping to the ridge of rock,and started down the northern slope. Here they passed out of theburned-over area of underbrush and stubs and scuffed through brushlessgroves of fir and spruce where no grass grew and not a ray of sunshinestruck the ground and the wind soughed always mournfully.

  But here and there were comparatively open spaces, grassy, drenchedwith sunshine, and sparsely sprinkled with lovely mountain maples andsolitary yellow pines. In the wider open spaces they could see overthe tops of the trees below them and catch glimpses of the way theymust go.

  A deep notch, almost a canon, grown up in spruce divided the mountainthey were descending from the next one to the north. This next onethrust a rocky shoulder easterly. The valley where the horsemen rodebent round this shoulder in a curve measured in miles. They could notsee the riders now.

  "There's a trail just over the hill," said Racey, nodding toward themountain across the notch. "It ain't been regularly used since theDaisy petered out in '73, but I guess the bridge is all right."

  "And suppose it ain't all right?"

  "We'll have to grow wings in a hurry," he said, soberly, thinkingof the deep cleft spanned by the bridge. "Does this trail lead toFarewell?"

  "Same thing--it'll take us to the Farewell trail if we wanted to gothere, but we don't. We ain't got time. We'll stick to this trail tillwe get out of the Frying-Pans and then we'll head northeast for theCross-in-a-box. That's the nearest place where I got friends. And Idon't mind saying we'll be needing friends bad, me and you both."

  "Suppose that posse reaches the trail and the bridge before we do?"

  "Oh, I guess they won't. They have to go alla way round and we gostraight mostly. Don't you worry. We'll make the riffle yet."

  His voice was more confident than his brain. It was touch and gowhether they would reach the trail and the bridge first. The posse inthe valley--that was what would stack the cards against them. And ifthey should pass the bridge first, what then? It was at least thirtymiles from the bridge to the Cross-in-a-box ranch-house. And there wasonly one horse. Indeed, the close squeak was still squeaking.

  "Racey, you're limping!"

  "Not me," he lied. "Stubbed my toe, thassall."

  "Nothing of the kind. It's those tight boots. Here, you ride, and letme walk." So saying, she slipped to the ground.

  As was natural the horse stopped with a jerk. So did Racey.

  "You get into that saddle," he directed, sternly. "We ain't got timefor any foolishness."

  Foolishness! And she was only trying to be thoughtful. Foolishness!She turned and climbed back into the saddle, and sat up straight, herbackbone as stiff as a ramrod, and looked over his head and far away.For the moment she was so hopping mad she forgot the danger they werein. They made their way down into the heavy growth of Engelmann sprucethat filled the notch, crossed the floor of the notch, and began againto climb.

  An hour later they crossed the top of the second mountain and saw farbelow them a long saddle back split in the middle by a narrow cleft.At that distance it looked very narrow. In reality, it was forty feetwide. Racey stopped and swept with squinting eyes the place where heknew the bridge to be.

  "See," he said, suddenly, pointing for Molly's benefit. "There's theDaisy trail. I can see her plain--to the left of that arrowhead bunchof trees. And the bridge is behind the trees."

  "But I don't see any trail."

  "Grown up in grass. That's why. It's behind the trees mostly, anyhow.But she's there, the trail is. You can bet on it."

  "I don't want to bet on it." Shortly. She was still mad at him. He hadsaved her life, he had succeeded in saving the family ranch, he hadput her under eternal obligations, but he had called her thought forhim foolishness. It was too much.

  Yet all the time she was ashamed of herself. She knew that she wassmall and mean and narrow and deserved a spanking if any girl did. Shewanted to cuff Racey, cuff him till his ears turned red and his headrang. For that is the way a woman feels when she loves a man and hehas hurt her feelings. But she feels almost precisely the same waywhen she hates one who has. Truth it is that Love and Hate are closeakin.

  Down,
down they dropped two thousand feet, and when they came out uponthe fairly level top of the saddle back Racey mounted behind Molly.

  "He'll have to carry double now," he explained. "She's two mile to thebridge, and my wind ain't good enough to run me two mile."

  It was not his wind that was weak, it was his feet--his tortured,blistered feet that were two flaming aches. Later they would becomenumb. He wished they were numb now, and cursed silently the man whofirst invented cowboy boots. Every jog of the trotting horse whoseback he bestrode was a twitching torture.

  "We'll be at the bridge in another mile," he told her.

  "Thank Heaven!"

  Silent and grass-grown lay the Daisy trail when they came out upon itwinding through a meagre plantation of cedars.

  "No one's come along yet," vouchsafed Racey, turning into the trailafter a swift glance at its trackless, undisturbed surface.

  He tickled the horse with both spurs and stirred him into a gallop.There was not much spring in that gallop. Racey weighed fully onehundred and seventy pounds without his clothes, Molly a hundred andtwenty with all of hers, and the saddle, blanket, sack, rifle, andcartridges weighed a good sixty. On top of this weight pile many wearymiles the horse had travelled since its last meal and you have what itwas carrying. No wonder the gallop lacked spring.

  "Bridge is just beyond those trees," said Racey in Molly's ear.

  "The horse is nearly run out," was her comment.

  "He ain't dead yet."

  They rocked around the arrowhead grove of trees and saw the bridgebefore them--one stringer. There had been two stringers and adequateflooring when Racey had seen it last. The snows of the previous wintermust have been heavy in the Frying-Pan Mountains.

  Molly shivered at the sight of that lone stringer.

  "The horse is done, and so are we," she muttered.

  "Nothing like that," he told her, cheerfully. "There's one stringerleft. Good enough for a squirrel, let alone two white folks."

  "I--I couldn't," shuddered Molly.

  They had stopped at the bridge head, Racey had dismounted, and she,was looking down into the dark mouth of the cleft with frightenedeyes.

  "It must be five hundred feet to the bottom," she whispered, her chinwobbling.

  "Not more than four hundred," he said, reassuringly. "And that logis a good strong four-foot log, and she's been shaved off with thebroadaxe for layin' the flooring so we got a nice smooth path almosttwo feet wide."

  In reality, that smooth path retained not a few of the spikes that hadonce held the flooring and it was no more than eighteen inches wide.Racey gabbled on regardless. If chatter would do it, he'd get her mindoff that four-hundred-foot drop.

  "I cue-can't!" breathed Molly. "I cue-can't walk across on thatlul-log! I'd fall off! I know I would!"

  "You ain't gonna walk across the log," he told her with a broad grin."I'll carry you pickaback. C'mon, Molly, slide off. That's right. Nowwhen I stoop put yore arms round my neck. I'll stick my arms underyore legs. See, like this. Now yo're all right. Don't worry. I won'tdrop you. Close yore eyes and sit still, and you'll never know what'shappening. Close 'em now while I walk round with you a li'l bit so'sto get the hang of carryin' you."

  She closed her eyes, and he began to walk about carrying her. At leastshe thought he was walking about. But when he stopped and she openedher eyes, she discovered that the horse was standing on the other sideof the cleft. At first she did not understand.

  "How on earth did the horse get over?" she asked in wonder.

  "He didn't," Racey said, quietly, setting her down, "but we did. Icarried you across while you had yore eyes shut. I told you you'dnever know what was happenin'."

  She sat down limply on the ground. Racey started back across thestringer to get the horse. He hurried, too. That posse they had seenin the valley! There was no telling where it was. It might be fourmiles away, or four hundred yards.

  "C'mon, feller," said Racey, picking up the reins of the tired horse."And for Gawd's sake pick up yore feet! If you don't that dynamite isgonna make one awful mess at the bottom of the canon."

  Dynamite! Mess! There was an idea. Although in order to spare Mollyan extra worry for the time being, he had told her they would push ontogether, it had been his intention to hold the bridge with his riflewhile Molly rode alone to the Cross-in-a-box for help. But thosesix sticks of dynamite would simplify the complex situation withoutdifficulty.

  He did not hurry the horse. He merely walked in front holding thebridle slackly. The horse followed him as good as gold--and picked uphis feet at nearly every spike. Once or twice a hind hoof grazed aspike-head with a rasping sound that sent Racey's heart bouncing upinto his throat. Lord, so much depended on a safe passage!

  For the first time in his eventful life Racey Dawson realized that hepossessed a full and working set of nerves.

  When they reached firm ground Racey flung the reins to Molly.

  "Unpack the dynamite," he cried. "It's in the slicker."

  With his bowie he began furiously to dig under the end of the stringerwhere it lay embedded in the earth. Within ten minutes he had a holelarge enough and long enough to thrust in the whole of his arm. Hemade it a little longer and a little wider, and at the end he drove anoffset. This last that there might be no risk of the charge blowingout through the hole.

  When the hole was to his liking, he sat back on his haunches andgrabbed the dynamite sticks Molly held out to him. With strings cutfrom his saddle, he tied the sticks into a bundle. Then he preparedhis fuse and cap. In one of the sticks he made a hole. In this hole hefirmly inserted the copper cap. Above the cap he tied the fuse to thebundle with several lappings of a saddle-string.

  "There!" he exclaimed. "I guess that cap will stay put. You and thehoss get out of here, Molly. Go along the trail a couple of hundredyards or so. G'on. Get a move on. I'll be with you in a minute. Betterleave my rifle."

  Molly laid the Winchester on the grass beside him, mounted the horse,and departed reluctantly. She did not like to leave Racey now. Shehad burned out her "mad". She rode away chin on shoulder. The cedarsswallowed her up.

  Racey with careful caution stuffed the dynamite down the hole and intothe offset. Then he shovelled in the earth with his hands and tampedit down with a rock.

  Was that the clack of a hoof on stone? Faint and far away anotherhoof clacked. He reached up to his hatband for a match. There wereno matches in his hatband. Feverishly he searched his pockets. Not amatch--not a match anywhere!

  He whipped out his sixshooter, held the muzzle close to the end of thefuse and fired. He had to fire three times before the fuse began tosparkle and spit.

  Clearly it came to his ears, the unmistakable thudding of gallopinghoofs on turf. The posse was riding for the bridge full tilt. Hepicked up his rifle and dodged in among the trees along the trail.Forty yards from the mined stringer he met Molly riding back with ascared face.

  "What is it?" she cried to him. "I heard shots! Oh, what is it?"

  "Go back! Go back!" he bawled. "I only cut that fuse for threeminutes."

  Molly wheeled the horse and fled. Racey ran to where a windfall laynear the edge of the cleft and some forty yards from the stringer.Behind the windfall he lay down, levered a cartridge into the chamber,and trained his rifle on the bridge head.

  The galloping horsemen were not a hundred paces from the stringer whenthe dynamite let go with a soul-satisfying roar. Rocks, earth, chunksand splinters of wood flew up in advance of a rolling cloud of smokethat obscured the cleft from rim to rim.

  A crash at the bottom of the narrow canon told Racey what had happenedto that part of the stringer the dynamite had not destroyed.

  Racey lowered the hammer of his rifle to the safety notch just asthe posse began to approach the spot where the bridge had been. Itapproached on foot by ones and twos and from tree to tree. Racey couldnot see any one, but he could see the tree branches move here andthere.

  "I guess," muttered Racey, as he crawfished away from the windfal
l, "Iguess that settles the cat-hop."

  * * * * *

  The sun was near its rising the following day when Racey and Molly,their one horse staggering with fatigue, reached the Cross-in-a-box.Racey had walked all the distance he was humanly able to walk, buteven so the horse had carried double the better part of twenty miles.It had earned a rest.

  So had Racey's feet.

  * * * * *

  "My Gawd, what a relief!" Racey muttered, and sat back and gingerlywiggled his toes.

  "Damn shame you had to cut 'em up thataway," said Jack Richie,glancing at Racey's slit boots. "They look like new boots."

  "It is and they are, but I couldn't get 'em off any other way, andI'll bet I won't be able to get another pair on inside a month. Lordy,man, did you ever think natural-born feet would swell like that?"

  "You better soak them awhile," said Jack Richie. "C'mon out to thekitchen."

  "Shore feels good," said Racey, when his swelled feet were immersed ina dishpan half full of tepid water. "Lookit, Jack, let Miss Dale haveher sleep out, and to-morrow sometime send a couple of boys with herover to Moccasin Spring."

  "Whatsa matter with you and one of the boys doing it?"

  "Because I have to go to Piegan City."

  "Huh?"

  "Yep--Piegan City. I'm coming back, though, so you needn't worry aboutlosing the hoss yo're gonna lend me."

  "That's good. But--"

  "And if any gents on hossback _should_ drop in on you and askquestions just remember that what they dunno won't hurt 'em."

  Jack Richie nodded understandingly. "Trust me," he said. "As I see it,Miss Dale and you come in from the north, and--"

  "Only me--you ain't seen any Miss Dale--and I only stopped long enoughto borrow a fresh hoss and then rode away south."

  "I know it all by heart," nodded Jack Richie.

  "In about a week or ten days, maybe less," said Racey Dawson, "you'llknow more than that. And so will a good many other folks."