Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER XII

  A DEFERRED RECKONING

  Time had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick Kennedy. A hundredelectric storms had left it unscathed. Prairie fires had passed it by.Only the relentless sun and rain had fastened the mark of theirhandiwork upon it and stained it until it was the color of the earthitself. Within, man had performed a similar office. The same oldcottonwood bar stretched across the side of the room, taking up a thirdof the available space; but no stranger would have called it cottonwoodnow. It had become brown like oak from continuous saturation withvarious colored liquids; and upon its surface, indelible record of theyears, were innumerable bruises and dents where heavy bottles andglasses had made their impress under impulse of heavier hands. Thecontinuous deposit of tobacco smoke had darkened the ceiling, modulatingto a lighter tone on the walls. The place was even gloomier than before,and immeasurably filthier under the accumulated grime of a dozen years.Once in their history the battered tables had been recovered, but no onewould have guessed it now. The gritty decks of cards had been oftenreplaced, but from their appearance they might have been those withwhich Tom Blair long ago bartered away his honor.

  Time had left its impress also on bartender Mick. A generous sprinklingof gray was in his hair; the single eye was redder and fiercer, seemingby its blaze to have consumed the very lashes surrounding it; the cheekswere sunken, the great jaw and chin prominent from the loss of teeth.Otherwise Mick was not much changed. The hand which dealt out his wares,which insisted on their payment to the last nickel, was as steady as ofyore. His words were as few, his control of the reckless and oftendrunken frequenters was as perfect. He was the personified spirit of theplace--crafty, designing, relentless.

  Bob Hoyt, the foreman, shambled into Mick's lair at the time of day whenthe lights were burning and smoking on the circling shelf. He peeredthrough the haze of tobacco smoke at the patrons already present,received a word from one and a stare from another, but from none aninvitation to join the circle.

  Bob sidled up to the bar where Kennedy was impassively waiting. "Warmerout," he advanced.

  Mick made no comment. "Something?" he suggested.

  Bob's colorless eyes blinked involuntarily. "Yes, a bit of rye."

  Mick poured a very small drink into a whiskey glass, set it with anotherof water before the customer, on a big card tacked upon the wall added afresh line to those already succeeding the other's name, and leaned hiselbows once more upon the bar.

  Upon the floor of his mouth Bob Hoyt laid a foundation of water, overthis sent down the fiery liquor with a gulp, and followed the retreatwith the last of the water, unconsciously making a wry face.

  Kennedy whisked the empty glasses through the doubtful contents of aconvenient pail, and set them dripping upon a perforated shelf. "Foundthe horses yet?" he queried, in an undertone.

  Bob shifted uncomfortably and searched for a place for his hands, butfinding none he let them hang awkwardly over the rail of the bar.

  "No, not even a trail."

  "Looked, have you?" The single searchlight turned unwinkingly upon theother's face.

  "Yes, I've been out all day. Made a circle of the places within fortymiles--Russel's of the Circle R, Stetson's of the 'XI,' Frazier's,Rankin's--none of them have seen a sign of a stray."

  "That settles it, then. Those horses were stolen." The red face with itsbristle of buff and gray came closer. "I didn't think they'd strayed.The two best horses on a ranch don't wander off by chance; if they'dbeen broncos it might have been different. It's the same thing as threeyears ago; pretty nearly the same date too--early in January it was, youremember!"

  Bob's long head nodded confirmation. "Yes. We thought then they'd comearound all right in the next round up, but they didn't, and never have."

  Kennedy stepped back, spread his hands palm down upon the bar, leanedhis full weight upon them, and gazed meditatively at the other occupantsof the room. A question was in his mind. Should he take these men intohis confidence and trust to their well-known method of dealing withrustlers--a method very effective when successful in catching theoffender, but infinitely deficient in finesse--or depend wholly upon hisown ingenuity? He decided that in this instance the latter offeredlittle hope. His province was in dealing with people at close range.

  "Boys,"--his voice was normal, but not a man in the room failed to giveattention,--"boys, line up! It's on the house."

  Promptly the card games ceased. In one, the pot lay as it was, itsownership undecided, in the centre of the table. The loungers' feetdropped to the floor. An inebriate, half dozing in the corner, awoke.Well they knew it was for no small reason that Mick interrupted theirdiversions. Up they came--Grover of the far-away "XXX" ranch, who hadbeen here for two days now, and had lost the price of a small herd;Gilbert of the "Lost Range," whose brand was a circle within a circle;Stetson of the "XI," a short heavy-set man, with an immovable pugilist'sface, to-night, as usual, ahead of the game; Thompson, one-armed butformidable, who drove the stage and kept the postoffice and inadequategeneral store just across to the north of the saloon; McFadden, a wirylittle Scotchman with sandy whiskers, Rankin's nearest neighbor to thesouth; a half-dozen lesser lights, in distinction from the big rancherscalled by their first names, "Buck" or "Pete" or "Bill" as the casemight be, mere cowmen employed at a salary. Elbow to elbow they leanedupon the supporting bar, awaiting with interest the something they knewKennedy had to say.

  Kennedy did not ask a single man what he would have. It was needless.Silently he placed a glass before each, and starting a bottle of redliquor at one end of the line, he watched it, as, steadily emptying, itpassed on down to the end.

  "I never use it, you know," he explained, as, the preparation complete,they looked at him expectantly.

  "Take something else, then," pressed McFadden.

  Mick poured out a glass of water and set it on the bar before him; butnot an observer smiled. They knew the man they were dealing with.

  "All right, boys,"--McFadden's glass went up on a level with his eye,and one and all the others followed the motion,--"all right, boys!Here's to you, Kennedy!"--mouthing the last word as though it were a hotpebble, and in unison the dozen odd hands led the way to theirrespective owners' mouths. There was a momentary pause; then a musicalclinking, as the empty glasses returned to the board. Silence, expectantsilence, returned.

  "Boys,"--Mick looked from face to face intimately,--"we've got workahead. Hoyt here reported this morning that two of the best horses onthe Big B were missing. He's made a forty-mile circuit to-day, and noone has seen anything of them. You all know what that means."

  Stetson turned to the foreman. "What time did you see them last, Hoyt?"

  "About nine last evening."

  "Sure?"

  Bob's long head nodded emphatically. "Yes, one of the boys had the teamout mending fence in the afternoon, and when he was through he turnedthem into the corral with the broncos. I'm sure they were there."

  "I'm not surprised," commented Thompson, swinging on his single elbow toface the others. "It's been some time now since we've had a necktieparty and it's bound to come. The wonder is it hasn't come before."

  Gilbert and Grover, comparatively elderly men, said nothing, lookednothing; but upon the faces of the half-dozen cowboys there appeareddistinct anticipation. The hunt of a "rustler" appealed to them as acircus does to a small boy, as the prospect of a football game does to acollege student.

  Meanwhile, McFadden had been thinking. One could always tell when thisprocess was taking place with the Scotchman, from his habit of tappinghis chest with his middle finger as though beating time to the movementof his mental machinery.

  "Got any plan, Kennedy?" he queried. "Whoever's done you has got a goodstart by this time; but if we're going to do anything, there's no use ingiving him longer. How about it?"

  Mick's single eye shifted as before, and went from face to face. "No, Ihaven't; but I've got an idea." A pause. "How many of you boys remembersTom Blair?" he digressed.


  "I do," said Grover.

  "Same here." It was Gilbert of the Lost Range who spoke.

  "I've heard of him," commented one of the cowboys.

  "I guess we all have," added another.

  Again Mick's eye, like a flashlight, passed from man to man.

  "Well," he announced, "I may be wrong, but I've got reason to believe itwas Tom Blair who did the job last night, and that he's somewhere thisside the river right now."

  For a moment there was silence, while the idea took root.

  "I supposed he was dead long ago," remarked Stetson at last.

  "So did I, until a month ago--until the last time I was in town stockingup. I met a fellow there then from the country west of the river, and itall came out. Blair's been stampin' that range for a year, and they'resuspicious of him. He disappears every now and then, and they think hekeeps in with a gang of rustlers who have their headquarters over in theJohnson's Hole country in Wyoming. The fellow said he kept upappearances by claiming he owned a ranch on this side--the Big B. That'show we came to speak of him."

  "Queer," commented Stetson, "that if it's Blair, he hasn't been aroundbefore. It's been ten years now since he disappeared, hasn't it?"

  "More than that," corrected Mick. "That's another reason I believe it'shim; that, and the fact that I didn't do nothin' the last time I washeld up. It must be one lone rustler who's operating or there'd bemore'n a couple of hosses missing. Then it must be some feller thatknows the Big B, and has a particular grudge against it, or why wouldthey have passed the Broken Kettle or the Lone Buffalo on the west?Morris has a whole herd, and his main hoss sheds are in an old creek-beda mile away from the ranch-house. I tell you it's some feller who knowsthis country and knows me."

  "I believe you're right about him being this side of the river," brokein Thompson. "When I was over after the mail two days ago there waswater running on the ice; and it's been warmer since. It must be wideopen in spots now. A man who knows the crossings might make it afoot,but he couldn't take a hoss over."

  Mick's lone eye burned more ominously than before. "Of course he can't.He's run into a trap, and all we've got to do is to make a spread andround him up. I'll bet a hundred to one we find him somewhere this side,waiting for a freeze." Again the half-emptied bottle came from the shelfand passed to the end of the line. "Have another whiskey on me, boys."

  They silently drank. Then grim Stetson suggested that they drinkagain--"to our success"; and cowboy Buck, not to be outdone, proposedanother toast--"to the necktie party--after." The big bottle, empty now,dinned on the surface of the bar.

  "By God! I hope we get him," flamed Grover. "He ought to be hung,anyway. He killed his wife and burned up the body, they say, before heleft!"

  "Someone must call for Rankin and Ben," suggested another, "Benparticularly. He ought to be there at the finish. Lord knows he's gotgrudge enough."

  "We'll let him pull the trap," broke in Stetson grimly.

  Of a sudden above the confusion there sounded a snarl, almost like thecry of an animal. Surprised, for the moment silenced, the men turned inthe direction whence it had come.

  "Rankin!" It was Mick Kennedy who spoke, but it was Mick transformed."Rankin!" The great veins of the bartender's neck swelled; the red facecongested until it became all but purple. "No! We won't go near him!He'd put a stop to the whole thing. What we want is men, not cowards!"

  A moment only the silence lasted. "All right," agreed Stetson. "Haveanother, boys! We'll drop Rankin!"

  Anew, louder than before, broke forth the confusion. The games of ashort time ago were forgotten. A heap of coin lay on the shelf behindthe bar where Mick, the banker, had placed it; but winner and loseralike ignored its existence. The savage, ever so near the surface ofthese rough frontiersmen, had taken complete possession of them. DropRankin--forget civilization--ignore the slow practices of law and order!

  "Come on!" someone yelled. "We're enough to do the business. To theriver!"

  Instantly the crowd burst through the single front door. Momentarilythere followed a lull, while in the half darkness each rider found hismount. Then sounded an "All ready!" from cowboy Buck, first in motion, astraining of leather, a swish of quirts, a grunting of ponies as thespurs dug into their flanks, a rush of leaping feet, a wild medley ofyells, and westward across the prairie, beneath the stars, there passeda swiftly moving black shadow that grew momentarily lighter, and backfrom which came a patter, patter, patter, that grew softer and softer;until at last over the old saloon and its companion store fell silenceabsolute.

  It was 10:28 when they left Kennedy's place. It was 12:36 when, withouthaving for a moment stopped their long swinging gallop, they pulled upat the "Lone Buffalo" ranch, twenty-five miles away, and the last ranchbefore they reached the river. The house was dark and silent as thegrave at their approach; but it did not remain so long. The display offireworks with which they illumined the night would have done credit toan Independence Day celebration. The yells which accompanied it werehair-raising as the shrieks from a band of maniacs. Instantly lightsbegan to burn, and the proprietor himself, Grey--a long Southerner withan imperial--came rushing to the door, a revolver in either hand.

  But the visitors had not waited for him. With one impulse they hadridden straight into the horse corral, had thrown off saddles andbridles from their steaming mounts, and, every man for himself, hadchosen afresh from the ranch herd. Passing out in single-file throughthe gate, they came upon Grey; but still they did not stop. The one word"rustler" was sufficient password, and not five minutes from the timethey arrived they were again on the way, headed straight southwest fortheir long ride to the river.

  Hour after hour they forged ahead. The mustangs had long since puffedthemselves into their second wind, and, falling instinctively into theirsteady swinging lope, they moved ahead like machines. The country grewmore and more rolling, even hilly. From between the tufts of buffalograss now and then protruded the white face of a rock. Over one such,all but concealed in the darkness, Grover's horse stumbled, and with agroan, the rancher beneath, fell flat to earth. By a seeming miracle theman arose, but the horse did not, and an examination showed the jaggededge of a fractured bone protruding through the hide at the shoulder.There was but one thing to do. A revolver spoke its message of relief, ahastily-cast lot fell to McFadden, and without a word he faced his ownmount back the way they had come, assisted Grover to a place behind him,turned to wish the others good luck, and found himself already too late.Where a minute ago they had been standing there was now but vacancy. Thenight and the rolling ground had swallowed the avengers up as completelyas though they had never existed; and the Scotchman rode slowly back.

  It was yet dark, but the eastern sky was reddening, when they reachedthe chain of bluffs bordering the great river. They had made their plansbefore, so that now without hesitating they split as though upon theedge of a mighty wedge, half to the right, half to the left, eachdivision separating again into its individual members, until the whole,like two giant hands whereof the cowboys, half a mile apart from eachother, were the fingers, moved forward until the end finger all buttouched the river itself.

  Still there was no pause. The details had been worked out to a nicety.They had bent far to the south, miles farther than any man aiming at theWyoming border would have gone, and now, having arrived at the barrier,they wheeled north again. It was getting daylight, and cowboy Pete,--inour simile the left little finger,--first to catch sight of the surfaceof the stream, waved in triumph to the nearest rider on his right.

  "We've got him, sure!" he yelled. "She's open in spots"; and though theothers could not hear, they understood the meaning, and the message wenton down the line.

  On, on, more swiftly now, at a stiff gallop, for it was day, the ridersadvanced. As they moved, first one rider and then another woulddisappear, as a depression in the uneven country temporarily swallowedthem up--but only to reappear again over a prominent rise, stillgalloping on. They watched each other closely now, searching thesurroun
ding country. They were nearing a region where they might expectaction at any moment,--the remains of a camp-fire, a clue to him theysought,--for it was on a line directly west of the Big B ranch.

  And they were not to be disappointed. Observing closely, Stetson, whowas nearest to Pete, saw the latter suddenly draw up his horse and cometo a full stop. At last the end had arrived--at last; and the rancherturned to motion to his right. Only a moment the action took, but whenhe shifted back he saw a sight which, stolid gambler as he was, sent athrill through his nerves, a mumbling curse to his lips. Coming towardhim, crazy-scared, bounding like an antelope, mane flying, stirrupsflapping, was the pony Pete had ridden, but now riderless. Of the cowboyhimself there was not a sign. Stetson had not heard a sound or caught amotion. Nevertheless, he understood. Somewhere near, just to the west,lay death, death in ambush; but he did not hesitate. Whatever hisfaults, the man was no coward. A revolver in either hand, the reins inhis teeth, he spurred straight for the river.

  It took him but a minute to cover the distance--a minute until, almostby the rivers bank, he saw ahead on the brown earth the sprawling formof a dead man. With a jerk he drew up alongside, and, the muzzles of bigrevolvers following his eye, sent swiftly about him a sweeping glance.Of a sudden, three hundred yards out, seemingly from the surface of theriver itself, he caught a tiny rising puff of smoke, heardsimultaneously a sound he knew so well,--the dull spattering impact of abullet,--realized that the pony beneath him was sinking, felt the shockas his own body came to earth, and heard just over his head the singingpassage of a rifle-ball.

  Unconscious profanity flowed from the rancher's lips in a stream; butmeanwhile his brain worked swiftly, and, freeing himself, he crawledback hand over hand until a wave in the ground covered the river fromview; then springing to his feet he ran toward the others, approachingnow as fast as spurs would bring them, waving, shouting a warning as hewent. Within a minute they were all together listening to his story.Within another, the rifles from off their saddles in their hands, theponies left in charge of lank Bob Hoyt, the eight others now remainingmoved back as Stetson had come: at first upright, then, crawling, handover hand until, peeping over the intervening ridge, they saw lyingbefore them the mingled ice patches and open running water of thelow-lying Missouri. Beside them at their left, very near, was the bodyof Pete; but after a first glance and an added invective no man for thepresent gave attention. He was dead, dead in his tracks, and theiraffair was not with such, but with the quick.

  At first they could see nothing which explained the mystery of death,only the forbidding face of the great river; then gradually to one afteranother there appeared tell-tale marks which linked together into clues.

  "Ain't that a hoss-carcass?" It was cowboy Buck who spoke. "Look, ahundred yards out, down stream."

  Gilbert's swift glance caught the indicated object.

  "Yes, and another beyond--farther down--amongst that ice-pack! Do yousee?"

  "Where?" Mick Kennedy trained his one eye like a fieldpiece upon thelocality suggested. "Where? Yes! I see them now--both of them. Blair'sown horse, if he had one, is probably in there too, somewhere."

  Meanwhile Stetson had been scrutinizing the spot on the river's facefrom which had come the puff of smoke.

  "Say, boys!" a ring as near excitement as was possible to one of histemperament was in his voice. "Ain't that an island, that brown patchout there, pretty well over to the other side? I believe it is."

  The others followed his glance. Near the farther bank was a longlow-lying object, like a jam of broken ice-cakes, between which and themthe open water was flowing. At first they thought it was ice; then underlonger observation they knew better. They had seen too many otherformations of the kind in this shifting treacherous stream to be longdeceived. A flat sandy island it was, sure enough; and what they thoughtwas ice was driftwood.

  Almost simultaneously from the eight there burst forth an exclamation, arumbling curse of comprehension. They understood it all now as plainlyas though their own eyes had seen the tragedy. Blair had reached theriver and, despite its rotten ice, had tried to cross. One by one thehorses had broken through, had been abandoned to their fate. He alone,somehow, had managed to reach this sandy island, and he was there now,intrenched behind the driftwood, waiting and watching.

  In the brain of every cowboy there formed an unuttered curse. Theirimpotence to go farther, to mete out retribution to this murderer oftheir companion, came over them in a blind wave of fury. The sun, nowwell above the horizon, shone warmly down upon them. They were in themidst of an infrequent Winter thaw. The full current of the river wasbetween them and the desperado. It might be days, a week, before icewould again form; yet, connecting the island with the western bank, itwas even now in place. Blair had but to wait until cover of night, anddepart in peace--on foot, to be sure, but in the course of days a mancould travel far afoot. Doubtless he realized all this. Doubtless he waslaughing at them now. The curses redoubled.

  Stetson had been taking off his coat. He now draped it about hisrifle-stock, and placed his sombrero on top. "All ready, boys," hecautioned, and raised it slowly into view.

  Instantly from the centre of the driftwood heap there arose a tracing ofblue smoke. Simultaneously, irregular in outline as though punched by adull instrument, a jagged hole appeared in the felt of the hat.

  As instantly, eight rifles on the bank began to play. The crackling oftheir reports was like infantry, the sliding click of the ejectingmechanism as continuous and regular as the stamp-stamp of many presses.The smoke rose over their heads in a blue cloud. Far out on the river,under impact of the bullets, splinters of the rotted driftwood leapedhigh into the air. Now and then the open water in front splashed intospray as a ball went amiss. Not until the rifle magazines were empty didthey cease, and then only to reload. Again and once again they repeatedthe onslaught, until it would seem no object the size of a human beingupon the place where they aimed could by any possibility remain alive.Then, and not until then, did silence return, did the dummy uponStetson's rifle again raise its head.

  But this time there was no response. They waited a minute, twominutes--tried the ruse again, and it was as before. Had they really hitthe man out there, as they hoped, or was he, conscious of a trick,merely lying low? Who could tell? The uncertainty, the inaction, goadedall that was reckless in cowboy Buck's nature, and he sprang to hisfeet.

  "I'm going out there if I have to walk on the bottom of the river!" heblazed.

  Instantly Stetson's hands were on his legs, pulling him, prostrate.

  "Down, you fool!" he growled. "At the bottom of the river is where you'dbe quick enough." The speaker turned to the others. "One of us is donefor already. There's no use for the rest to risk our lives without ashow. We've either potted Blair or we haven't. There's nothing more tobe done now, anyway. We may as well go back."

  For a moment there was a murmur of dissent, but it was short-lived. Oneand all realized that what the rancher said was true. For the present atleast, nature was against them, on the side of the outlaw; and to combatnature was useless. Another time--yes, there would surely be anothertime; and grim faces grew grimmer at the thought. Another time it wouldbe different.

  "Yes, we may as well go." It was Mick Kennedy who spoke. "We can't stayhere long, that's sure." He tossed his rifle over to Stetson. "Carrythat, will you?" and rising, regardless of danger, he walked over tocowboy Pete, took the dead body in his arms, without a glance behindhim, stalked back to where the horses were waiting, laid his burdenalmost tenderly across the shoulder of his own mustang, and mountedbehind. Coming up, the others, likewise in silence, got into theirsaddles, not as at starting, with one bound, but heavily, by aid ofstirrups. Still in silence, Mick leading, the legs of dead Pete danglingat the pony's shoulder, they faced east, and started moving slowly alongthe backward trail.