CHAPTER XVII
A RUNNING FIGHT
A rifle-shot forced instant action. Jim whirled away from the camp-fireand saddle-bags and sprang toward the horses, while Johnson, leaping upwith the agile twist of an athlete, gained his feet running. Jim headedgrimly for Pat, but Johnson reached him a breath in advance. Snatchingup the reins and mounting, he dug Pat viciously with his huge rowels. Atthat Pat balked. The man swore and cursed and spurred again; but thehorse remained obdurate. Seeing this, Johnson stopped spurring.Thereupon Pat flung forward, dragging his tether clear of its stake, andcrowded close beside the gray. Jim was mounted on the gray, bending lowin the saddle, racing in frantic pursuit of Glover. Mounted on thesorrel, Glover was well in the lead, speeding straight into the west,riding at right angles to the ridge, galloping hard for the open desert.The echo of the shot reverberated again faintly, and around them closeda tense silence.
Others were making for the open. Out of the underbrush, riding easily,burst a handful of rangers. Stephen was one of them. As they swept intothe clear country, well-armed, well-mounted, the look on their strong,bronzed faces told of their purpose, which was to get the thieves alive,if possible. Down the long slope they galloped, hats low against thesunlight, elbows winging slightly, heads and backs slanting to thewinds, speeding like a group of centaurs. Other than Stephen, there werefour of these range police. Men of insight, of experience, keen in theways of the lawless, knowing best of all the type ahead, they rodewithout strain, without urging, knowing that this was a long race, amatter of endurance, a test, not for themselves so much as for thehorses, those of the pursued as well as their own. Loosely scattered,they rode, eyes not upon the thieves, but upon the horses carrying thethieves, as if hopeful for another break like that shown at the start bythe magnificent black.
Thus rode the rangers. Not so Stephen. Stephen knew no such laws. All heknew was that after long weeks of futile riding, here at last wasHelen's Pat galloping madly away from him. Lashing and spurring his ownbay mare, resolute and determined, he gradually began to pull away fromthe others.
Ahead, Johnson began slowly to gather in his trailing tether-rope.Almost without visible effort he wound it around his saddle-horn.Whereupon Jim, evidently aroused to like danger of tripping, set to workat the loop around the little gray's neck. The knot was tight, and hisposition cramped, but he persisted, and, with it loose, tossed the ropeaway. Glover already was free from his trailing rope, having taken thetime at the outset hurriedly to cast it off. And he was still in thelead, the sorrel carrying him without seeming effort, and movingsteadily away from the others, each long stride gaining half as muchground again as the swinging gait of Pat or the quick and nervousreaching of the little gray. But all were moving at top speed, racingdesperately across the desert, leaping sand-dunes, dipping into hollows,mounting eagerly over larger dunes, on and on like the wind, sending upwith each fling of hoof swirling clouds of dust and gravel. It was agrim effort.
Such a time comes to but few men. And such a crisis tests the mettle ofmen and shows the differences. Gripped in a primal emotion, fear forlife, weak men show strength, and strong men weakness. Harmless menmurder, murderous men weep, blasphemous men pray, praying men curse. Yetunder such a stress strong men often reveal greater strength, rising tophysical and spiritual heights of reserve that mock a following fate,even as praying men often pray harder and more fervently than ever theyprayed in times of calm. Individual in peace, mankind is individual inwar. It is the way of man.
And thus it was with these three hurtling forward in the shadow of doom.Glover, ever weak, ever apprehensive, yet always considerate of others,now revealed unexpected strength and appeared considerate only ofhimself. Crouching in his saddle, apparently mindful of but a singlething--escape--he lashed his horse brutally, swinging his quirtrhythmically, now and again darting cold eyes backward. Johnson, givenby nature to bravado and bluster, was even more defiant in this suprememoment. He rode with a plug of tobacco in hand, biting off huge piecesfrequently, more frequently squirting brown juices between lips white asthe telltale ring around his mouth--a ring as expressive as the hollowsbeneath his glittering eyes. And Jim, ever worried, ever conscious ofhimself, sat in his saddle easily, now that he was about to reap theharvest of his ill-sown seeds, riding with eyes on the horsealongside--Pat--studying with coolly critical gaze the animal'ssmoothness of gait, wonderful carriage of head, unusual and beautifullifting of forelegs. Thus, in this valley of the shadow, each was histrue self and something more, or less, as the chaotic spirit withinviewed the immediate future or scanned the distant past.
Another shot from the posse--a screaming bullet high overhead--a commandto stop! But they did not stop. Instead, Johnson, rising in hisstirrups, unholstered a huge revolver and fired point-blank at therangers. It was the wrong thing to do, and instantly Jim drew away fromthe leader. This left a clear gap between, and exposed the speedingGlover ahead to fire from the rear. And suddenly it came, a volley ofrifle-shots, and Glover, stiffening suddenly, was seen to clutch at hissaddle-horn. Also, he turned his head and shoulders as if to cry out.But he uttered not a sound. Evidently the jostling of his sorrelforbade. He turned his head to the front again, and, slumping low in hissaddle, began frantic use of spur and quirt. But the sorrel had lost hisstride, and before he could regain it Jim and Johnson had dashedalongside. Jim swung close and looked at Glover. Glover returned thegaze, and again appeared about to speak. But now the sorrel flungforward into his stride, and the movement seemed to decide Gloveragainst all utterance.
But Jim understood. He held close to Glover, but turned his eyes afterJohnson. Instantly he scowled and his mouth drew grimly down. ForJohnson was swinging off at a tangent, riding out of the set direction,rapidly pulling away from them. For one sullen moment Jim regarded him;then turned his head to the rear. One of the rangers, a young manmounted on a graceful bay--with the rangers, yet apparently not one ofthem--was riding well forward out of the group. Understanding Johnson'smove now, comprehending his utter selfishness in thus swinging away fromthem, Jim gazed pityingly at Glover. But Glover did not notice him. Hehimself was following the swift-riding Johnson with blazing eyes, andsuddenly he exploded in vindictive anger.
"Put a hole in him!" he cried, hoarsely. "Shoot him! Shoot him, Jim!I--I can't!"
But neither could Jim. It was not his nature. Yet there was one thing hecould do. And this he did. He took fresh hold on the reins, and, grimand deliberate and vengeful, swung about after Johnson. Further, inswinging his horse about he purposely crowded the sorrel over also. Thisbrought both in direct pursuit of Johnson, and soon they overtook him.But not because of their greater speed.
Suffering from an unwonted raking of spurs, Pat had taken to suddenrebellion--balking at first, then beginning to buck, flinging about inall directions except the way desired by the fugitive on his back.Riding close and noting this, Jim felt glad beyond all decency. He evenchuckled with satisfaction, conscious almost of a desire to dismount andhug the black. Then his feeling changed. He regretted his glee, becamefearful for the man, and called sharply to the horse. And now Pat cameto a stand. This for a moment only. Then of his own accord he sprangforward again, speeding as eagerly now as but a moment before he hadrebelled, and soon he was galloping alongside the gray. Eminentlypleased with the whole performance, Jim again chuckled in delight andburst forward at top speed.
Nor was this rebellion lost on Stephen. Riding well forward of theothers, when he saw Pat offering resistance he whipped and spurred hismount in the hope that Pat would hold out. But Pat did not hold out,though Stephen knew that he would have, had he but understood. Also,there was his handicap--handicap of the others also. Neither he nor theydared to fire lest they should shoot the black. Occasionally the thievesspread apart, thus giving a chance for a shot with safe regard for Pat.But these openings were infrequent. All they could do was ride in thehope that the thieves might be seized with panic at last and givethemselves up.
But no such thought came to the fugi
tives. Johnson, after his gallingexperience with Pat, looked more grimly determined than ever to getaway. Presently he struck back again. He drew a revolver, rose in hisstirrups, and fired twice to the rear. It was not without result. Upfrom the rangers swept a chorus of yells, and Jim, turning his head, sawthe foremost pursuer, the young man who was evidently not a ranger,circle headlong over his tumbling horse. He turned to the front again,and, understanding what would follow, whipped and spurred furiously.Suddenly the answer came. The desert awoke in a fusillade of shots, andJim saw Glover, who once more was in the lead, drift out of his saddle,slip down much as a child descends from its high-chair, and fall toearth in a crumpled heap. He swerved and dashed alongside. For aninstant he drew rein and studied the still face. Then he lifted hiseyes, gazing off absently toward the distant skyline, the mellow haze inthe hills, the shimmering of heat-waves above the dunes, the glisteningreflections of light off myriads of tiny sand cubes. Glover--poorGlover--had paid the price, and had paid it in silence.
He wheeled his horse and sped after Johnson. He overtook him swinging upover a slight elevation. Dead ahead, not more than two miles distant, hesaw a long grove of trees. It gave him hope. Here was a chance foreffective resistance. Here both he and Johnson could dismount, drive thehorses into shelter, seek shelter themselves, and open fire upon theposse. His spirits kindled. He would shoot to kill, as he knew Johnsonwould shoot to kill, and then, with the rangers helplessly disabled, hewould mount Pat, mount the black this time, and if Johnson became uglyhe would shoot him. Then he would ride to the east, ride out of thislife, and with the horse take up a decent existence somewhere,abandoning crime forever. He would--
More shots from the rear interrupted him. Evidently the rangers,mounting over the rise themselves, had also caught sight of the grove.Evidently, too, they were taking no chances against such a stand as hewas contemplating. At any rate, the firing became rapid and continuous,and it was deadly, for suddenly he saw Johnson wilt in the saddle, drophis revolver, drop the reins, and clutch at his left arm. Also he hearda cry--heard it sharp and clear above the pounding of the gray's hoofsand the creak and crunch of his own saddle-leather.
"I'm hit! I'm hit, boy! They--they've got me!" Pat himself heard theoutcry and felt the loosened rein. It puzzled him. He did not knowwhether to keep going or to slacken down. But he kept on going--goinghard. Yet he would have welcomed a halt. He was weak and faint. He couldnot remember the time, save that memorable day on the mesa, when he hadrun so hard and so continuously. Yet ahead lay trees, and instinctivelyhe accepted them as his destination. In that grove perhaps was water, anopportunity for rest, and abundance of food. So he continued forward,grimly conscious of his burning ankles, his pounding and flutteringheart and heaving and clamoring lungs--plunging forward under the weakurging of his heavy master, responding now through force ofhabit--feeling that because he was in motion he must continue in motion.It was a numb, mechanical effort, involuntary and apart from him, asmuch apart from his control as was the beating of his heart.
Another volley came from the rear, and with it another violent change inhis master. The man cried out and loosened his feet in the stirrups. YetPat continued to gallop until he felt the weight slowly leaving him,felt it go altogether, felt it dangling from one stirrup. Then he cameto a stop. As he did so the little gray dashed past--his friend. And nowgreat loneliness gripped him. He started forward. But the weight in hisstirrup checked him. He came to a stop again. Then he wanted to nickerin protest, but he found that he could not. He was too weak to uttersound. So he stood there, his eyes upon the little gray and her rider,watching them hurtling toward the grove. Then the thudding of hoofs cameto his ears from the rear, and, slowly turning, he saw a group ofhorsemen riding wearily--one hatless; another with flaying quirt; athird with smoking carbine; a fourth, a large man, smooth and red offace, riding heavily--all galloping toward him.
But they did not hold his interest. His heart and soul lay with thelittle gray mare, and, turning to the front again, he saw mare and riderswinging out of sight around the end of the grove. Confidently hewatched for their appearance beyond. Presently he saw them sweep intoview again--moving at a gallop, swinging across a wide plain that heldthem clear to his straining eyes--saw them grow faint and fainter, smalland ever smaller--become a hazy speck on the horizon--finally disappearfrom view in the engulfing dunes and vales of the surrounding desert.And now, weakened as he was, he sounded a forlorn, protracted nicker ofprotest.
The rangers pulled up, breathless. They dismounted stiffly, released theweight from Pat's stirrup, and carried it off a little ways. He watchedthem a moment, noting their ease of movement and business-like air, andthen turned his gaze to the horses. All were strange to him, and helooked them over frankly, resting his eyes finally upon a chunky white.Instinctively he knew that this horse was mean, and he hated mean horsesas he hated mean men. Observing that this one showed his teeth freely athim, the while holding his small ears almost constantly flat, hemeasured him for difficulties in the future, if the association were tocontinue. Then he turned his eyes back to the men.
As he did so, out of the silence rode a single horseman. He was mountedupon the sorrel, and Pat wondered at this. But as the man drew near andPat saw a blood-smeared, ghastly face, he wondered still more. For therewas something familiar about this lone rider, and he took a step towardhim. Presently he saw him gain the outer edge of the circle, and then astrange thing happened. He saw the young man begin to weave in hissaddle, saw two of the others suddenly leap for him--saw them reach himjust in time to save him from tumbling limply to the ground. Then henoted another queer thing. He saw the young man's left arm dangle oddlyfrom the shoulder; saw the young man himself grasp it, wincing withexcruciating pain, and saw him turn wide eyes suddenly toward him. Thenhe heard the man speak.
"Look--look him over!" he cried, and his voice was a curious mixture ofdistress and restrained excitement. "I--I don't want him--him to goback--to go back--hurt--hurt in--in--"
And now Pat saw the strangest thing of all. He saw the young man slowlyclose his eyes and sink back into the arms of the others as one dead. Hesaw the others exchange troubled glances and lay the insensible formdown tenderly on the sand. It was all very unusual, something new in hislife; and, not knowing what else to do, yet somehow feeling that heshould do something, be it never so little, he lowered his head andsounded a trembling nicker into the silence.
Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance Page 17