by Max Brand
“He has an educated sense of humor, then,” said Themis, who was irritated in soul and body by a badly sun-scorched neck. “He has a sense of humor that makes me want to force him to laugh on the other side of his face.”
“I admit”—and Gloria chuckled—“that you weren’t exactly an heroic figure when you tumbled in behind that boulder.”
“Confound it, Glory,” he protested, “you’ll never forget that! If I ever talk of hunting between this and my death day, you’ll trot out the story of how I ran for cover. This bit of work had been laid out, and it has to be competed.”
“But he has made fools of all of us,” said Gloria.
“He has had luck,” admitted her father grudgingly, “but it’s nonsense to think that one man, no matter how well he may know these mountains, can dodge such a crew as I have brought together . . . at least for any length of time.”
“And when he’s cornered, what crime will he be tried for?”
“Horse stealing.”
“A horse he paid for?”
“Ask Hank Jeffries if he agreed to take any payment. No, my dear, a man can’t go ahead taking what he pleases and paying what he pleases. And how will he account to the man whose dogs he killed?”
“But I say,” said Gloria, summing up in a woman’s fashion, “that he’s done nothing wrong. I pity him.”
Themis did not care to argue. Two hours later, they ran into another trail problem that had been neatly constructed around a creek, and, even though they had already had a symptom of the tactics of the fugitive, it took another hour to unravel the difficulty.
Yet they struck into the trail again through the late afternoon, and, when they camped at sunset, it was a disgruntled, weary party. Gloria, however, had enjoyed the day thoroughly, for she rode carelessly along, with no thought of the fugitive in her brain, with no desire to overtake him. Her mind was simply filled with the beauty of the mountains through which they were traveling. Those rough-headed peaks against the tender blue of the sky, those thickly forested little valleys, with the white crash of a waterfall streaking the mountainside, and the pure sapphire of a still lake below—these were the things that filled up her eyes so that sometimes she broke into song. As they climbed closer to the huge, naked region above timberline, with a colder and a purer air, and with the horses laboring more heavily, her spirits rose.
To be happy is a wearying thing. When she fell asleep that night, it was to fall into a profound slumber. Yet even that slumber was stirred with dreams, and they were dreams of the purest delight—of walking through meadows where strange and delicately scented flowers bloomed, flowers whose names she could not tell—of listening to the liquid voices of streams—of breathing an air that was an intoxication of enjoyment.
She wakened to find that one part of her dream lingered into the daylight to a truth. Yonder was the tall form of Dude Wesson booming out his call to rise for the work of the day. But her blanket and the ground around her head were covered with flowers from the summits—forget-me-nots and daisies and goldenrod and silver and blue columbine and other flowers of delicate colorings and exquisite fragrances that were new to her. She swept up an armful of them. They were already slightly withered where they had laid on the dry blanket, but where they had been placed on the ground about her head there was first a layer of damp moss so that they might be preserved. She gazed in wonder and delight.
Which of the men could have done this thing? Which of the strange and apparently hard-hearted fellows could have been capable of that dainty tribute? Which of them, apparently all fast asleep before she closed her eyes, could have risen and worked for an hour or even more to collect these prizes? For there was no sign of a blossom near the camp.
There was only one possibility—Dick Walker. But, even as her glance fastened upon Dick, she saw him tilting a flask to his lips. He was taking his regular morning bracer before he could gain the strength to open his eyes and begin the day’s work. No, such a man as Walker could not have done it.
But who else was there? The sunburned neck and the hard ride certainly removed her father from the list of possibilities, even if he could ever have been suspected. She sat amazed while the deep voice of the cook suddenly thundered: “Those dogs, Jeffries . . . you got to watch ’em, or I quit as a cook. They’ve swiped a whole side of bacon . . . or pretty near a whole side!”
That announcement brought the other men in a cluster about him. Furiously he pointed out where the meat was taken.
“But look here, Wesson,” said Themis at last, “is it like a hungry pack of dogs to steal one piece of meat out of a hamper and leave another behind? Do dogs ordinarily close a cover they had lifted?”
All stood aghast. The girl drew the flowers closer, breathless with a wild surmise.
“A man stole it? But what use would any of us have for bacon?” began Si Bartlett. Suddenly he cried in a shrill voice: “Good Lord, you don’t mean to say that the Indian came right down to our camp last night? That he was here among us?”
“However,” said Themis, “we’ll find out. Start the hounds, Hank.”
Jeffries loosed the bloodhounds. They nosed the old trail carelessly, circled away, and suddenly struck a fresh one that darted straight up a steep slope covered with shrubs.
“By the gods!” roared Red Norton, who had gone to explore. “Here’s where the hound came, and looked us over, right behind the boulder near where Miss Themis was sleeping. And . . . how come all these flowers?”
“I found them all around me when I woke up,” said the girl. “And . . . oh, Dad, what a strange and beautiful thing it was for him to do.”
“Strange and beautiful nonsense!” exclaimed her father. “Indian foolishness is what I’d call it.
But, good heavens, how did he get into camp among all these dogs? Did he turn himself into a ghost?”
One by one, the men came and took up the flowers. Hank Jeffries was away whistling in the hounds.
“When I get him,” said Dick Walker softly, “I’ll take these flowers out of his back.”
He darted at the girl a keen side glance—no more. Yet it was eloquent of the truth that poor Dick was a victim where many another man had fallen before him, and where many a one would fall in the time to come. Gloria saw and knew and understood. What girl, innocent as she may be, does not? She was more interested, however, in the black frown that had overclouded the brow of her father. He stared at her with a sort of terror.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll stay by this trail if it leads down to Hades. This nonsense has to be stopped. After this we’ll keep a watch around our camp.”
But the others said nothing at all. Breakfast was eaten in silence, for this last trick had been too much for the hardiest of them. They had been made fools of the day before. But to have their camp visited in the middle of the night, to have food stolen from under their noses, to have a sort of silent flirtation started with a girl who was under their protection, and all this by the very man whose life they were hunting—that, indeed, was too much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE BREAKING POINT
Compared to this third day, the work of the preceding days was a mere nothing. In the first place, the trail led straight to a cliff, or what was almost a sheer rise of rock. The dogs could make it easily enough, and so could the men, but it was folly to attempt to get the horses up that murderous ascent. Yet up that very place Peter had been brought. Themis and Si Bartlett climbed far enough up the rocks to make sure. They saw the marks that the hoofs of the big horse had made as, with a daring and nimbleness unaccountable in a horse, he had worked to the top. He had made use of ledges and small footholds, which even a mountain sheep might have considered twice before using.
There was nothing for it but to marvel at the prowess of Peter and to take their own horses around a four-mile trail in order to come to the top of the summit. There, to their consummate fury, they found that the daring fugitive had waited until they were well committed to the roun
dabout way, and then he had traveled down the edge of the cliff and taken another and easier course to the ground. Even so, it was incredible that a horse should have made the descent. It had been done at considerable risk. Thrice they saw marks that proved that he had slid into the danger of death in getting down to the bottom of the gorge beneath. But down he had gone, while the saddle and the pack, perhaps—since nothing seemed impossible to this miraculous trainer of wild beasts—had been carried by the grizzly.
But, no matter how the riddle was explained, it remained necessary for them to retrace their steps and to take the roundabout way down to level going once more. Two precious hours had been consumed by the climb and the descent and the unraveling of that trail problem before the bloodhounds struck onto the trail again.
But now they followed it with utter indifference. Indeed, ever since the morning they had done their work as though weary of it, and, as for the mongrels and the big, fighting hounds, they lagged in the rear or coursed rabbits and would not pay the slightest attention to the work in hand.
Hank Jeffries had the only possible explanation. He declared that when the Indian came into camp the preceding night, he had managed to make friends with the entire pack. That explained the silence in which they had permitted him to come and go. That explained their negligence on the trail.
“Because,” said Hank, “a dog is like any other critter. It works a pile better when it figures that it’s after something it would like to chew or tree. But these dogs, they ain’t got no interest in the Indian. They’ve seen him, they’ve nosed him, and they’ve been patted by him, most like. Maybe he brought in something for them to eat. I dunno how he done it. The Lord only knows. I’d’ve figured that Simpkins dog to chew up any man that tried to come near him. Look at me. I been with him ’most a week, now, but I can’t put a hand on him. He’s a regular killer. We ain’t handling ordinary things with this Indian. He’s got a sort of bad medicine. But I’ll do the best I can to get the hounds worked up to the trail.”
He lived up to his word. He was indefatigable in his efforts. But he could not make them run a hundred feet ahead of him on the trail before their heads would come up and they would start idling and playing with one another, and looking back to their master as though they wondered what on earth was the purpose in continuing on that course.
Such trailing meant slow work. By noon they had traveled hardly ten miles from their starting point. Si Bartlett summed up the result of their combined efforts: “We ain’t done enough to keep that Peter hoss warm.”
In the afternoon they tried to rush the trail, relying simply upon their ability as trailers by the eye, but after an hour they gave up the effort. Before that time was ended they struck a neat problem in the midst of some granite and shrubs, a tangle of which they could not make a head until the dogs had been persuaded to unravel it.
Just as they were heading along at a brisk gait for the first time in the day, they struck another murderous slope. This time they managed to go up it, but it was slow, slow work, and they had to take a horse at a time, which meant two trips for the entire party. They found themselves in a sort of badlands at the top of the rise. Worst of all, night was coming on, horse and man were weary, and there was no water.
Bartlett and Jeffries made a short excursion on two sides, ranging ahead, and reported that they had come on no sign of water in any direction. So there was nothing for it but to accept the discomfort of a dry camp. They had water enough in their canteens for themselves and their cookery, but there was nothing for the horses, and the poor creatures, bone-dry from their labors of the afternoon, soon lost interest in the few blades of grass that they could find among the rocks. They stood around with their heads down and their eyes dull.
What talk there was that night around the camp-fire consisted of monosyllables and grunts. Every man was so thoroughly disgusted with himself that he wanted to take out his grievance on his neighbors. Themis was momently in fear that a fight would be started. But a natural reserve, and the fact that every man present was known to be an expert with a gun, deterred them.
So, finally, that wretched evening was closed by sleep. Only Si Bartlett was left awake to stand guard over them and prevent a visitation such as that which they had received the preceding night. He was to keep the watch until midnight, and then Red Norton would relieve him.
Silence dropped over the camp; even the dogs did not so much as whimper, so great was their weariness. But it was not an unbroken night of sleep. A wild shout wakened them, and then there was a rush of hoofs, snorting, and shrill neighing.
The campers jumped to their feet in time to see their entire herd of horses, with one exception, disappearing around the shoulder of a hill, and behind them was a wild figure of a man with long hair blown out behind his head and riding a beautiful stallion. Before a single shot could be fired, he had disappeared in the moonshine behind the hills, and the roar of hoofs tore away into distance, striking up loud echoes that slowly died away.
No man stirred to follow. To pursue such a flight on foot would be like attempting to climb a rainbow to the heart of heaven or putting a saddle on a snowslide. The horses were gone with the single exception of Mary Anne, and even she was working to follow as fast as her hobble would permit her.
Gloria caught her and brought the good mare back. On her return, she found that the rest of the men were gathered around Red Norton. He had been found thrown behind a rock, tied hand and foot with his own lariat so that he could not stir a muscle, and so thoroughly gagged that he had almost choked before he was delivered. He was still gasping and choking and clearing his throat. When he stood up, his face was purple with rage, his voice husky, and his wild eyes roved around in search of a victim.
But not a word of explanation would he offer. Only when Hank Jeffries rashly asked him if he had fallen asleep, a torrent of abuse broke forth.
“You hound!” thundered Red Norton. “D’you think I’m a fool? Fall asleep? I was as wide awake as I am now, wider awake than you could ever get. But when he. . . . I’ll trail him if it takes me the rest of my life. But I’ll trail him alone. I don’t want no square-heads and half-wits along with me. I work better alone!”
It was too much for Hank Jeffries. His answer was like a flash of fire. But Themis stepped between them and struck down Norton’s drawn gun. He stepped between them at a vital risk of his own life. It was something Gloria would never forget, that picture of her father, perfectly calm, his voice low and controlled.
“There’s no use quarreling because we’re beaten,” he said. “There’s no point in you being ashamed for what’s happened, Norton. Any man in the world may be surprised by a fellow who seems to be able to turn himself into a shadow. If any one has cause to regret this night, I am he, I think. I’m going to pay every one of you his own price for the horse he has lost. You understand? And I’ll do it without regret. I’m not dissatisfied with the men who have made this trip with me. The trouble has been that we’ve tried to follow a most extraordinary man as though he were a common mountaineer, whereas he’s a genius in his own way. The next time we take the trail, we’ll start out with just the same company. I wouldn’t replace a single man who has made the trip. And I intend to start again, I assure you. If we are beaten a second time, I’ll start a third. My patience is endless.
I’m going to see this mysterious fellow face to face . . . unless the rest of you want to give up?”
The answer was a veritable roar of dissent. They would stay with him. They would stay with such a generous and open-minded employer to the end of time. And they would sooner keep on the trail at their own expense than give it up, for their honor was pledged to find the Indian and hang him to a tree in proof that they had found him.
So much for the enthusiasm of the moment. But as the day began, the rising of the sun showed them the full extent of the catastrophe. Scores of weary miles lay between them and the village of Turnbull. They certainly could not carry with them a tithe of the equipment.
It was agreed that Mary Anne, since Gloria resolutely refused to ride while the rest of the party walked, should be packed with enough provisions to last them for a quick, two-day march. Then the party should strike off, leaving one man behind to guard the saddles, the ammunition, and all the rest of the stores. But first he must be moved to water. They spent the day, until noon, sweating under heavy loads and carting their equipment five miles away to a small spring. There they left Dick Walker, who volunteered for the duty, and then started back for Turnbull village.
But there was one face in the party from which the eyes of Gloria never turned so long as she could watch him covertly, and that was big Red Norton. All the left side of his face was purple and swollen. Had he been struck with a club, or had that blow been delivered with the fist by a man of incredible strength? Surely strength so great could scarcely be coupled with. . . . She tried to combine the picture that was raised in her mind with the picture of the flowers that had been scattered around her two nights before. But here her imagination failed Gloria for the first time in her life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“HERE LIES—”
Bad news has wings. But never did bad news travel more swiftly than on this occasion. Halfway to Turnbull, Themis and his following were met by a mounted party of a score of eager horsemen headed by the sheriff. From them, they learned that the entire herd of their horses had been found, in the evening of the day before, driven from the hills into the cañon near Hank Jeffries’s house. At once there had sprung into the minds of the good men of Turnbull a picture of the entire Themis party murdered by the Indian, and they had struck swiftly into the mountains to bring vengeance, or to rescue if there were any survivors.
On the way back to Turnbull they heard the strange story of the pursuit of the man of mystery, and its conclusion. But should Dick Walker be permitted to stay alone in the hills, guarding what supplies remained, in the face of so terrible an enemy? The sheriff was assured that Dick Walker had made only one request—that he be permitted to stay where he was, alone. All that he wanted was an opportunity to meet the Indian face to face.