by Max Brand
Lew preferred to keep to a steady gait well within the powers of the roan, and trust to bulldog persistence to bring him up with the quarry. He kept on with the hills moving by him like waves chopped by a storm wind. When the sunset reds were dying out, and the gloom of early evening beginning to pool in blues and purples along the gulches, he caught the first sign of life near him. It was a glint of silver far to his left, and it moved.
The ravine down which Carney rode was merely a flat plateau out of which mountaintops went up irregularly, and the glint of moving silver that he had caught to his left was not in the same ravine, or even in the same bottom, but far beyond in a similar rough and shallow valley. Between two hills he had caught this glimpse into the next gulch, and he rode thoughtfully for a moment.
Once more he passed a gap through which he could look into the next valley but this time he saw nothing. It occurred to him then that the flash of silver had been moving at a rate close to that of a horse galloping swiftly, and, setting his teeth, Lew Carney spurred the gelding to top speed. Weaving through the boulders furiously, he reached the next gap after a half-mile sprint, and here he pulled the gelding, panting heavily, to a halt.
Fast as he had traveled over the past furlongs, he had not long to wait before the silver flashed once more out of the thickening gloom of the early night, and this time he saw clearly that it was a gray horse that was being ridden at full gallop through the hills.
But the color of the animal meant a great deal to Lew. He had seen a tall gray, muscled to bear weight, in the stables behind Bud Lockhart’s saloon, and he had been told that this was Bud’s horse. Moreover, a long train of thought flashed back upon the mind of Lew, with this as the conclusion: he remembered the manner in which Bud had laughed at the story of the phantom wagon, the eagerness with which he had persuaded Lew to drop the tale, his strangely friendly endeavors to keep Lew inside the saloon when the man of the brown mustache was about to leave the room. Bud Lockhart was in some manner implicated. It was he who had posted Glory to keep the gambler in the saloon. It was he who had lamed the roan. And now, finding that his quarry had escaped in spite of all precautions, it was he who mounted his fine gray horse and rode furiously through the hills to carry warning.
VIII
Lust of murder filled the brain of Lew Carney when he thought of the fat face and its pseudoamiability, the big, fat hand, and the fat cordiality. And yet he saw a way in which he could use the saloonkeeper. He could cut across to the next valley and, at a distance, follow the gray horse through the night, and so reach his destination. The warning of his coming would go before him but he felt that his gain would be equal to his loss.
He swung the gelding across through the gap and a little later sped into the second cañon. The turning to one side brought him out far behind Bud Lockhart and the speeding gray, but for this he cared little. The fat man had apparently assured himself of reaching his destination in time, and he had brought his horse back to a hard gallop that the slow roan could easily match, and, keeping carefully within eye range and out of hearing, Lew wove down the valley, putting an occasional rise of ground between him and his leader, and doing all that was in his power to trail unsuspected. One great advantage remained with him in this game. The roan’s color blended easily with the ground tones and the gloom of evening, whereas the gray literally shone through the half-light.
But in spite of this handicap in his favor Lew presently discovered that his presence to the rear was known. For the gap between him and the gray suddenly increased. Coming up a rise of ground only a short distance to the rear, when he reached the top, he discovered the gray gleaming far off, and he knew with a great falling of the heart that his trailing had been at fault.
One hope remained. One bitter chance to take. He could never catch the gray with the roan in a journey that would probably end before the morning. Only one power could overtake the fugitive and that was lead sped by powder. He counted the chances back and forth through the tenth part of a second. His bullet might strike down Bud Lockhart instead of Bud Lockhart’s horse, but Bud had played the part of a sneak, and his life to Lew Carney meant no more than the life of a dog. He jerked his rifle to his shoulder, caught the bull’s-eye, and fired. As he watched for the effect of the shot he saw the gray horse pause, stop, and lean slowly to one side.
Before the animal fell, the rider had leaped to the ground, looking huge even at that distance. A gun gleamed in his hand but that was only the rash first impulse. A moment later Bud Lockhart’s fat arms were heaved above his head and, with his rifle held ready, Lew cantered down to meet his prisoner.
As he came close so that his face could be more clearly seen, there was a roar of mingled relief and fury from the saloonkeeper.
“Lew Carney! What d’you mean by this?” And he lowered his arms.
“Put ’em up and keep ’em starched. Quick!”
For the saloonkeeper, attempting to smile at the first of this remark, had slipped his hands upon his hips, but the last word sent his arms snapping into the air.
“It ain’t possible,” stammered Bud Lockhart. Even in the half-light it was easy to see that his face was gray. “After what I’ve done for you, it ain’t possible that you’ve double-crossed me, Lew.” He allowed a nasal complaint to creep into his voice. “Look here, son, when a man’s broke, he’ll do queer things. If you’re busted, say the word, and I’ll stake you to all that you want. But you come within an inch of killin’ me with that shot! And that’s the best horse that I ever sat on!”
For answer, Lew replaced his rifle in its case and drew a revolver as a handier weapon for quick use. Then he spoke. “Yep,” he said, “I figured on trimming you pretty close. But I’m sorry about the horse. The only way I could help you, though.”
“There’s an unwritten law about gents that kill horses,” said Bud Lockhart, his voice hardening as he noted this apparent weakening on the part of Lew Carney.
“Sure there is,” said the younger man. “That’s why I’m going to remove the witness. Your time’s short, Bud, because I’m considerable hurried.”
The vast arms of the saloonkeeper wavered.
“You can put your arms down now,” Lew said kindly. “I’d rather that you tried a gunplay. I’ll give you a clean break.” And he restored his own weapon to its holster.
The arms of the other lowered by inches, and all the time his eyes fought against those of Lew. But when finally the hands hung by his sides, he was limp and helpless. He had admitted defeat, and he was clay ready for the molding.
“I won’t raise a hand,” Bud protested with perverse stubbornness. “It’s murder, that’s all. You spend your life with guns, and then you go out and murder. And murder’ll out, Lew, as sure as there’s a God in heaven.”
“Truest thing you ever said. That’s why I’m here.”
“Eh?”
“I’m here because a murder is coming out.”
“What in thunder d’you mean, Lew? D’you suspect me of something?”
“The man they brought out of Silver Cañon, Bud. That’s the one.”
There was a start and a gasp. “Lew, you are nutty. A hundred gents will swear I ain’t never left Cayuse for ten days.”
“You didn’t hold the gun. You haven’t got nerve enough for that. But you were behind it.”
The fat coward was shaking from head to foot. “I swear …” he began.
“Curse you.” Lew recoiled with sudden horror. “You’re a rotten skunk!”
A silence fell between them.
“You haven’t left Cayuse for ten days,” Lew said when he could speak again. “Where were you bound for now?”
“For Sliver Hennessey’s place.”
“Good,” he said. “You lie well. But here’s the end of your trail. You can see Sliver in hell later on.”
The craven fear of the other cast a chill through Lew’s own
blood. He felt shamed for all men, seeing this shaken sample of it, tried and found wanting.
“Lew,” said the other in a horrible whisper. “Lew, you and me … friends … other night when you was drunk … I …” He sank to his knees.
“You got the right attitude,” Lew said. “Keep on talking. I’ll wait till you say amen.”
“You ain’t goin’ to do it, Lew … partner.”
Lew Carney allowed his voice to weaken. “I ought to. You’re as guilty as Judas, Bud.”
“I was dragged into it. I swear I was dragged into it! Lew, name what you want, and I’ll give it to you. If I ain’t got it, I’ll find it for you. Name what you want!”
“Where have Doyle and the girl gone?”
The other stumbled to his feet. His little eyes under their fat lids began to twinkle at Lew with the remaining hope of life, but his face was still ashes.
“They’re goin’ to Miller’s shack over to … to Dry Creek.”
“Miller’s shack?” echoed Lew, noting the faltering.
“Yes.”
“On your honor?”
“So help me, God.”
“One thing more … you told Glory to keep me inside the saloon even if he had to fill me full of lead to anchor me.”
“He … he lied. He wanted to turn you ag’in’ me, Lew!”
“You hound!” snarled Lew.
The other fell back a step. “You gave me your promise,” he retorted shrilly, “if I told you where they was goin’!”
“I gave you no promise. And you lamed the roan for me, Bud, eh?”
There was a groan from the tortured man. “Lew, I was made to do it. I tell you straight … you’d’ve been deader than the gent you found in Silver Cañon if it wasn’t for me. I headed ’em off. When they got a hunch you was after Doyle, they wanted to finish you. I saved you, son.”
“Because you thought the job might be a bit tough, eh? I know you, Bud. But who are they?”
The big man blinked as though a powerful light had been cast into his eyes. He began to speak. He stopped. Lew raised the forefinger of his right hand and pointed it like a gun at the breast of the other.
“Out with it,” he commanded.
Once more the lips of Bud Lockhart stirred, but no words came. And a chill of surprise ran through Lew. Was it possible that this fellow valued that one secret more than his own life?
“Out with it!” Lew repeated harshly.
The knees of Bud Lockhart sagged. He closed his eyes. He clenched his hands. But still he did not speak. Lew Carney drew his gun slowly, raised it, leveled it, and then put the spurs to his horse. Swiftly down the cañon he galloped. For he had found the one thing Bud Lockhart feared more than death.
IX
It was this thought that made him go back more carefully over the words of the big saloonkeeper. For it was strange that if he would not name the men, he dared confess where they were to be found. Now he remembered how Bud had hesitated in mentioning the place. There had been a pause between “Miller’s shack” and “Dry Creek,” and the pause was the hesitation of a liar. No doubt it was Miller’s shack but there were two such shacks in the hills—one at Dry Creek, and the other at Coyote Springs.
It needed only an instant of reflection to convince Lew Carney that the place he wanted was at Coyote Springs. In former days the spring had run full and free, and there had been a fine scattering of houses, almost a village, around it. But of late years the spring had fallen away to a wretched trickle of water, completely disappearing in certain seasons of the year. A fire had swept the village, and then old Miller had constructed his shanty out of the half-burned fragments. Once before Lew had been at the place, and he knew it and its approaches well.
Yet he did not swing directly toward this destination, but struck out down the valley toward Dry Creek. He kept steadily toward this goal until he was more than past the spring to his left. Having gone so far he turned again, and now rode hard straight upon Miller’s place.
It was broad moonlight now and, topping the last ridge, he saw the big basin in which the village of Coyote Springs had once lain. To the west, a drift of narrow evergreens went up the slope, dark and slender points. The basin of the spring water was a spot of shining silver with the shack near it, and on the bank of the pool six men sat around a fire. Sometimes when the fire leaped, the long red tongue licked across the still surface of the water, and the murmur of men’s voices went up the slope to Lew Carney.
Under these circumstances it was comparatively a simple matter to approach the shack without attracting the attention of the men about the fire. He took the roan to a point behind the ridge that lay on the line of projection through the fire and the shack, and tethered him to one of the young pines. Then he went again over the ridge and ran swiftly down to the rear of the shack.
There were eight men for whom he wished to account, if not for more, and only six were around the fire. It stood to reason that they must be in the cabin, and in the rear room, for that room alone was lit. The girl, too, would be where the light was. How he would be able to communicate with her, once he was beside the wall of the house, he had not guessed. That was a bridge to be crossed later on. But he had chosen the lit end of the shack because the light within would effectively darken the moonlit night outside.
He was halfway down the slope when the boom of a man’s laughter from the shack struck him. Someone of the eight watching him, perhaps, and mocking this futile attack by one man? But once started it was more dangerous to turn back than it was to keep straight on. He stooped closer to the ground and sped on, swerving a little from side to side, so as to disturb aim, if anyone were drawing a bead on him.
But he reached the cover of the side of the shack without either a shot fired or a repetition of any human sound in the little house. But outside, from the fire by the pool, a chorus of mirth had risen. As though the six had heard of his coming and were in turn mocking his powers. He set his teeth at the mere thought, for now that he was actually under the wall of the house, the advantage, man for man, was really with him, and skirting down the wall, he came to a great crack from which he could reconnoiter. It was indeed one of those generous loopholes that occur where a board has loosened at the base, and bulged out. Through it Lew Carney could see the interior of the rear room of the shack as plainly as though he were looking at his ease through a window.
And the first thing on which his eyes fell was the face of the girl. She had apparently paused in her preparations for sleep. Her hair, formed into a great, loose braid, glided over her shoulder and slipped in a bright line of light down to her lap. She had taken off her boots and sat on the floor with her knees bunched high, one foot crosswise on top of the other. On her knees she supported a tattered magazine and, even as Lew glanced in, she began to read in a voice that was subdued to a murmur. The old, old pain that he had first felt when he looked at her was thrust home again in Lew’s heart. For the first time he surmised what he might have guessed long before, that the reason she hoped for his interference, and yet dreaded it, was that one of the crew was her husband. Why not? Some gay young chap with a hidden wildness who she had married before he went wrong; he knew of stranger things than that in the mountain desert. There is a peculiar satisfaction in some forms of self-torture. Lew Carney crouched outside the house and suffered wretchedly for a time before he decided to lean farther to one side, to look at the person to whom she was reading. He saw a middle-aged man lying on a bed of boughs and blankets, a bald-headed man who now hitched himself with painful care a little to one side. It was plain that he was wounded. At the movement the girl turned from her reading and touched his forehead with her hand and murmured a few words of sympathy. What the rest of the words were Lew did not try to understand but he made out plainly the monosyllable—“Dad”—and a burden dropped from him.
Besides had she not spoken of “us” when she cri
ed out to him for help in that first impulse that she had regretted? Two of them had needed help but what had kept her from continuing her appeal was a mystery to Lew Carney. Perhaps the gang had contemplated moving away and leaving this wounded member helpless behind them. In that case she would at once want help for her father, and dread the course that the law might take with him after his wound was healed. At any rate, Lew must speak with her at once. He stood up and went boldly to the window, and when his eyes fell on her, she looked up.
There was a moment when he thought that she would cry out, but she mastered herself and ran swiftly across the room to the window. Two small, strong hands closed on his hand that lay on the edge of the window. “You,” whispered the girl. “You. Dad, he’s come after me. He’s found us.”
“Thank God,” murmured the wounded man. “How many men?”
“None,” said Lew Carney.
There was a faint groan. Then, “Go back again. You’re worse than useless. One man ag’in’ this crew?”
“We’ll talk that over when I’m inside,” Lew said, and he was instantly through the window and on the rotten floor of the room.
“Mary …” warned her father. “Get to the front of the shack and keep an eye on ’em. Now you, what’s your name?”
“Lew Carney.”
“All right, Carney, what’s your plan? Where are your men? When are they coming? Are you going to try to four-flush half a dozen gunfighters? Talk sharp and act quick or they may find you here.”
“I’ll tell you the whole thing in a nutshell,” Lew said calmly. “I followed a hunch and I’m here. And here I stay until we’re all three cut loose of ’em or all three go under. Is that clear?”