Almost instantly, she heard a man’s voice:
“My cayuse is gettin’ tired of loafin’, I reckon.” Ruth held her breath. The voice seemed to come from beneath her feet—she judged that it really had come from beneath the rock that projected from the wall of the cut below her. And it was Chavis’ voice!
Of course, he would not be talking to himself, and therefore there must be another man with him. At the risk of detection, and filled with an overwhelming curiosity to hear more she kneeled at the edge of the cut and listened intently, first making sure that the horse she had seen could not see her.
“I reckon Linton didn’t pull it off—or them Flyin’ W guys are stickin’ close to the herd,” said another voice. “He ought to have been here an hour ago.”
“Linton ain’t no rusher,” said Chavis. “We’ll wait.”
There was a silence. Then Chavis spoke again:
“Flyin’ W stock is particular easy to run off. Did I tell you? B—— told me”—Ruth did not catch the name, she thought it might have been Bennet, or Ben—“that the girl had give orders that anyone ketched runnin’ off Flyin’ W stock wasn’t to be hung!” Ruth heard him chuckle. “Easy boss, eh, Kester?” He sneered. “Ketch that damned Flyin’ W outfit hangin’ anybody!”
Kester was one of the men who had quit the day that Ruth had met Randerson, when the latter had been riding in for the money due them. It did not surprise Ruth to discover that Kester was with Chavis, for Randerson had told her what might be expected of him. Linton was the other man.
Nor did it surprise Ruth to hear Chavis talking of stealing the Flying W stock. But it angered her to discover that her humane principles were being ridiculed; she was so incensed at Chavis that she felt she could remain to hear him no longer, and she got up, her face red, her eyes flashing, to go to her pony.
But the pony was nowhere in sight. She remembered now, her heart sinking with a sudden, vague fear, that she had neglected to trail the reins over the animal’s head, as she had been instructed to do by the puncher who had gentled the pony for her; he had told her that no western horse, broken by an experienced rider, would stray with a dragging rein.
She gave a quick, frightened glance around. She could see clearly to the broken section of country through which she had passed some time before, and her glance went to the open miles of grass land that stretched south of her. The pony had not gone that way, either. Trembling from a sudden weakness, but driven by the urge of stern necessity, she advanced cautiously to the edge of the cut again and looked over.
Her pony was standing on the level below her, almost in front of the rock under which had been Chavis and Kester! It had evidently just gone down there, for at the instant she looked over the edge of the cut she saw Chavis and Kester running toward it, muttering with surprise.
For one wild, awful instant, Ruth felt that she would faint, for the world reeled around her in dizzying circles. A cold dread that seized her senses helped her to regain control of herself presently, however, and scarcely breathing she stole behind some dense weeds at the edge of the cut, murmuring a prayer of thankfulness for their presence.
What Chavis and Kester had said upon seeing the pony, she had not heard. But now she saw crafty smiles on their faces; Chavis’ was transfigured by an expression that almost drew a cry of horror from her. Through the weeds she could see their forms, and even hear the subdued exclamation from Chavis:
“It’s the girl’s cayuse, sure. I’d know it if I saw it in the Cannibal islands. I reckon she’s been snoopin’ around here somewheres, an’ it’s sloped! Why, Kester!” he cried, standing erect and drawing great, long breaths, his eyes blazing with passion as for an instant she saw them as they swept along the edge of the cut, “I’d swing for a kiss from them lips of hers!”
“You’re a fool!” declared Kester. “Let the women alone! I never knowed a man to monkey with one yet, that he didn’t get the worst of it.”
Chavis paid no attention to this remonstrance. He seized Ruth’s pony by the bridle and began to lead it up the slope toward the plateau. Kester laid a restraining hand on his arm. He spoke rapidly; he seemed to have become, in a measure, imbued with the same passion that had taken possession of Chavis.
“Leave the cayuse here; she’ll be huntin’ for it, directly; she’ll come right down here. Give her time.”
Chavis, however, while he obeyed the suggestion about leaving the pony where it was, did not follow Kester’s suggestion about waiting, but began to run up the slope toward the plateau, scrambling and muttering. And Kester, after a short instant of silent contemplation, followed him.
Ruth no longer trembled. She knew that if she was to escape from the two men she would have to depend entirely upon her own wit and courage, and in this crisis she was cool and self-possessed. She waited until she saw the two men vanish behind the shoulder of the cut where she had seen the horse’s head, and then she clambered over the edge of the wall, grasping some gnarled branches, and letting herself slide quickly down. In an instant she felt her feet come in contact with the flat rock under which the men had been when she had first heard them talking. It seemed a great distance to the ground from the rock, but she took the jump bravely, not even shutting her eyes. She landed on all fours and pitched headlong, face down, in the dust, but was up instantly and running toward her pony.
Seizing the bridle, she looped it through her arm, and then, pulling at the animal, she ran to where the horses of the two men stood, watching her, and snorting with astonishment and fright. With hands that trembled more than a little, she threw the reins over their heads, so that they might not drag, and then, using the quirt, dangling from her wrist by a rawhide thong, she turned their heads toward the declivity and lashed them furiously. She watched them as they went helter-skelter, down into the valley, and then with a smile that might have been grim if it had not been so quavering, she mounted her own animal and rode it cautiously up the slope toward the plateau.
As she reached the plateau, her head rising above its edge, she saw that Chavis and Kester were a good quarter of a mile from her and running toward some timber a few hundred yards beyond them.
With a laugh that was almost derisive, Ruth whipped her pony and sent it flying over the plateau at an angle that took her almost directly away from the running men. She had been riding only a minute or two, however, when she heard a shout, and saw that the men had stopped and were facing in her direction, waving their hands at her. They looked grotesque—like jumping jacks—in the sudden twilight that had fallen, and she could not withhold a smile of triumph. It did not last long, for she saw the men begin to run again, this time toward the cut, and she urged her pony to additional effort, fearful that the men might gain their ponies and overtake her.
And now that the men were behind her, she squared her pony toward the trail over which she had ridden to come here, determined to follow it, for she felt that she knew it better than any other.
The pony ran well, covering the ground with long, agile jumps. For about two miles she held it to its rapid pace, and then, looking backward for the first time she saw the plateau, vast, dark and vacant, behind her, and she drew the pony down, for she had come to the stretch of broken country and realized that she must be careful.
She shuddered as she looked at the darkening world in front of her. Never had it seemed so dismal, so empty, and at the same time so full of lurking danger. The time which precedes the onrush of darkness is always a solemn one; it was doubly solemn to Ruth, alone, miles from home, with a known danger behind her and unknown dangers awaiting her.
Fifteen miles! She drew a long breath as the pony scampered along; anxiously she scanned the plains to the south and in front of her for signs of Flying W cattle or men. The cattle and horseman that she had previously seen, far over on the slope, had vanished, and it looked so dismal and empty over there that she turned her head and shivered.
There seemed to be nothing in front of her but space and darkness. She wondered,
gulping, whether Uncle Jepson and Aunt Martha were worried about her. They would be, of course, for she had never stayed like this before. But, she thought, with a pulse of joy, they would be lighting the lamps presently, and when she got to the big level beyond the ford, she would be able to see the lights, and the sight of them would make her feel better. She had never realized before how companionable a horse felt, and as her pony ran on, she began to give some attention to his work, noting how his muscles rippled and contracted, how his sides heaved, with what regularity his legs moved. Involuntarily, she felt of his shoulder—it was moist, and the muscles under the smooth hair writhed like living things. She laughed, almost hysterically, for the touch made her feel that she was not alone—she was with the most faithful of man’s friends, and she knew that the little animal under her would do his best for her—would run himself to death in her service, if she insisted.
She had a glorious start over her pursuers. They would never catch her. Twice, after she entered the broken stretch she looked back, but could see no sign of them. She did not know that at that moment Chavis and Kester, enraged and disgusted over the trick she had played on them, were riding slowly through the valley toward their shack.
She was almost through the broken stretch when the pony stumbled. She pulled quickly on the reins, and the pony straightened. But instantly she felt its forelegs stiffen, felt it slide; the thought came to her that it must have slid on a flat rock or a treacherous stretch of lava. It struggled like a cat, to recover its balance, grunting and heaving with the effort, but went down, finally, sideways, throwing her out of the saddle.
She had anticipated the fall and had got her feet out of the stirrups, and she alighted standing, braced for the shock. Her left foot struck the top of a jagged rock, slipped, doubled under her, and she felt a sharp, agonizing pain in the ankle. For a moment she paid no attention to it, however, being more concerned for the pony, but when she noted that the animal had got up, seemingly none the worse for the fall, she suddenly realized that the ankle pained her terribly, and she hopped over to a flat rock and sat on it, to examine the injury. She worked the ankle rapidly back and forth, each movement bringing tears to her eyes. She had almost forgotten about her pursuers, and when she thought of them she got up and limped toward the pony, which had wandered a little away from where it had fallen.
And now the pony, which had performed so nobly for her during the miles she had ridden to reach this spot, suddenly seemed determined to undo all his service by yielding to a whim to avoid capture.
She tried threats, flattery, cajolery. Twice more she hobbled painfully near him, and each time he unconcernedly walked away. The third time, he allowed her to come very close, and just when she felt that success was very near, he snorted with pretended fright, wheeled, and slashed out with both hoofs at her and galloped off a full quarter of a mile. She could see him standing and looking at her, his ears erect, before the darkness blotted him from view altogether.
She tried again, groping her way painfully over rocks, slipping, stumbling, holding her breath from fear of snakes—but she could not find the pony. And then, white, shaking, clammy from her dread of the darkness, the awesome silence, and the possibility of Chavis and Kester finding her here, she groped blindly until she found a big rock rising high above its fellows, and after a struggle during which she tore the skin from her hands and knees, she climbed to its top and crouched on it, shuddering and crying. And she thought of Randerson; of his seriousness and his earnestness when he had said:
“I reckon you don’t know hate or fear or desperation.... Out here things run loose, an’ if you stay here long enough, some day you’ll meet them an’ recognize them for your own—an’ you’ll wonder how you ever got along without them.”
Well, she hated now; she hated everything—the country included—with a bitterness that, she felt, would never die. And she had felt fear, too, and desperation. She felt them now, and more, she felt a deep humility, and she felt a genuine respect for Randerson—a respect which more than counterbalanced her former repugnance toward him for the killing of Pickett. For she knew that a while ago, if she had had a pistol with her, she would have killed Chavis and Kester without hesitation.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIGHT
At about the time that Chavis and Kester had discovered Ruth’s pony and had clambered up the slope in search of the girl, the two figures on the timber-fringed level near the break in the canyon wall were making grotesque shadows as they danced about in the dying sunlight.
Masten’s science had served him well. He had been able, so far, to evade many of Randerson’s heavy blows, but some of them had landed. They had hurt, too, and had taken some of the vigor out of their target, though Masten was still elusive as he circled, with feet that dragged a little, feinting and probing for openings through which he might drive his fists.
A great many of his blows had reached their mark also. Randerson’s face was covered with livid lumps and welts. But he seemed not to mind them, to be unconscious of them, for on his lips was still the dogged smile that had reached them soon after the fight had started, and in his eyes was the same look of cold deliberation and unrelenting purpose.
He had spoken no word since the fight began; he had taken Masten’s heaviest punches without sign or sound to indicate that they had landed, always crowding forward, carrying the battle to his adversary, refusing to yield a step when to yield meant to evade punishment. Passion, deep and gripping, had made him for the moment an insensate automaton; he was devoid of any feeling except a consuming desire to punish the despoiler of his “kid.”
But he was holding this passion in check; he was its master—it had not mastered him; he had made it a vassal to his deliberation. To have unleashed it all at once would have made him too eager, would have weakened him. He had chosen this punishment for Masten, and he would see that it was sufficient.
But, as Randerson had well known, Masten was no mean opponent. He stepped in and out rapidly, his blows lacking something in force through his inability to set himself. But he landed more often than Randerson; he blocked and covered cleverly; he ducked blows that would have ended the fight had they struck him with their full force.
Masten had been full of confidence when the fight started. Some of that confidence had gone now. He was beginning to realize that he could not beat Randerson with jabs and stinging counters that hurt without deadening the flesh where they struck; nor could he hope to wear the Westerner down and finally finish him. And with this realization came a pulse of fear. He began to take more risks, to set himself more firmly on his feet in order to give his blows greater force when they landed. For he felt his own strength waning, and he knew what the end would be, should he no longer be able to hold Randerson off.
He went in now with a left jab, and instead of dancing back to avoid Randerson’s counter, he covered with the left, swiftly drawn back from the jab, and hooked his right to Randerson’s face. The blow landed heavily on Randerson’s jaw, shaking him from head to foot. But he shook his head as though to dissipate the effect of it, and came after Masten grimly. Again Masten tried the maneuver, and the jab went home accurately, with force. But when he essayed to drive in the right, it was blocked, and Randerson’s right, crooked, rigid, sent with the force of a battering ram, landed fairly on Masten’s mouth, with deadening, crushing effect.
It staggered Masten, sent him back several feet, and his legs shook under him, sagging limply. His lips, where the blow had landed, were smashed, gaping hideously, red-stained. Randerson was after him relentlessly. Masten dared not clinch, for no rules of boxing governed this fight, and he knew that if he accepted rough and tumble tactics he would be beaten quickly. So he trusted to his agility, which, though waning, answered well until he recovered from the effects of the blow.
And then, with the realization that he was weakening, that the last blow had hurt him badly, came to Masten the sickening knowledge that Randerson was fi
ghting harder than ever. He paid no attention to Masten’s blows, not even attempting to fend them off, but bored in, swinging viciously. His blows were landing now; they left deadened flesh and paralyzed muscles as marks of their force.
Masten began to give way. Half a dozen times he broke ground, or slipped to one side or the other. It was unavailing. Blows were coming at him now from all angles, ripping, tearing, crashing blows that seemed to increase in force as the fight went on. One of them caught Masten just below the ear on the right side. He reeled and went to his haunches, and dizzy, nauseated, he sat for an instant, trying to fix the world correctly in his vision, for it was all awry—trees, the plains, himself—all were dancing. Dimly he sensed the form of Randerson looming over him. He still was able to grasp the danger that menaced him, and reeling, he threw himself headlong, to escape Randerson, landing on his side on the ground, and with an inarticulate shriek of fury, he pulled the small caliber pistol from his hip pocket, aimed it at the shadowy form of his adversary and pressed the trigger.
And then it seemed that an avalanche had struck him; that he was whirled along by it, then buried under it.
Evidently he had been buried for a long time, for when he opened his eyes the dense blackness of the Western night had descended. He felt a dull, heavy pain in his right wrist, and he raised it—it seemed to have been crushed. He laid the hand down again, with a groan, and then he heard a voice. Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure of his conqueror standing over him.
“I reckon I’ve handed it to you pretty bad,” said Randerson. “But you had it comin’ to you. If you hadn’t tried to play the skunk at the last minute, you’d have got off easier. I reckon your hand ain’t so active as it’s been—I had to pretty near stamp it off of you—you would keep pullin’ the trigger of that pop-gun. Do you reckon you c’n get up now, an’ get on your horse?”
The Range Boss Page 10