by Zane Grey
“All right then. You get nothin’,” retorted the robber chief.
Smith’s reply was to draw his gun. “Bell, you’ll divvy or—” he rasped.
Holden deliberated a moment, divining the instant for his interference. Simm Bell laughed. He had been in such situations before.
“So you throw your gun on me?” he jeered.
“I shore do.”
“What’s your idee?”
“You agree to a square divvy.”
“Simm Bell never goes back on his word.”
“You’ll go back on it now—or I’ll kill you an’ take all this gold!” rang out Smith, beginning to quiver.
Holden flashed into action. His shot clubbed Smith down bloody-faced and limp. His second, delivered while Hazlitt was drawing, took that worthy in the middle and cut short a curse of rage. Hazlitt’s weapon exploded and went spinning while he fell over the log and began to flop all over the grass. Bell drew his gun and deliberately put a stop to both ghastly sounds and struggles.
“Once more, boy,” he said, grimly. “I reckon I’ll be owin’ you considerable one of these days.”
Blue had reacted surprisingly to this scene. He was white of face, clammy of skin, wholly unnerved; and it was at the younger man that he stared. Holden stepped over the dead Smith to shove his gun into Blue’s abdomen.
“Blue, you’ve double-crossed the chief,” he declared hard as ice. “I saw you talking to Pell. I guessed that deal. You planned with the rangers to trap Bell—betray him into their hands.”
“Yes—yes, I did,” cried Blue, hoarsely. “They had me. They put the job up to me. . . . I listened—I consented. But I—I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Liar!”
Bell pushed Wade back and faced his friend. “My Gawd, Rand, you didn’t plot with rangers to trap me?”
“What could I do? Pell had me dead to rights on that unco raid,” cried the man, huskily, realizing how near death he was. “I was recognized. None of the rangers have ever seen you. Pell asked what you looked like. And I lied. . . . They made me choose between arrest and agreeing to—to a plan to trap you. I had to do it, Simm—but I swear to God I meant to double-cross them, not you.”
“Blue, you’re lying again,” thundered Holden. “You wired Pell we’d planned to rob the Mercer bank.”
“No, I didn’t,” shouted Blue, livid of face, plausible, perhaps convincing to Bell, but not to Holden.
“If you deny it again, I’ll bore you.”
“Simm, he hates me. He’s jealous of your friendship for me,” protested Blue gaining strength. “I do deny it. I swear—”
Bell knocked Holden’s gun up in the nick of time. It boomed and the powder blackened Blue’s face.
“Hold, you blood-spillin’ young devil,” yelled Bell, evidently wrought up between the opposing forces. But his dark visage was ashen and his brow clammy. His trust died hard. “This man has befriended me. I can’t let you kill him on suspicion.” Then he pushed Holden back and confronted Blue. “Rand, it looks bad. Fork your hoss and slope. I’m givin’ you the benefit of a doubt. But if you have double-crossed me you’d better ride to the end of the earth. Because I’ll track you down and kill you!”
Randall Blue leaped astride his horse and spurred it into the brush with a crashing disregard of his person, to disappear at once in the spring foliage. Bell kept listening to the swish of branch and crack of twig until these sounds ceased.
In a cold sweat Wade sat on the log, reloading his gun, his damp hair falling over his furrowed brow. Bell placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks, son. I reckon you saved my life again,” he said, with feeling. “But I couldn’t let you shoot Blue.”
“Man alive! Didn’t you see his face?” expostulated Holden.
“Yes. It worries me. But I don’t see through things quick. . . . Let me think. What to do now?” He sank on the log to lean his head on his hands. After a moment of concentration he looked up, his old forceful self again.
“I’ll walk over to this farmer friend—forget his name—and fetch some grub. I’ll make a deal with him to hide our hosses and let us have a buggy or spring wagon. We can make as good time with that. And be less likely to excite suspicion. That little raid will fly over Texas. Won’t Mahaffey and Pell roar? Ha! Ha! . . . Boy, I told you I’d get you some easy money.”
“Simm, I reckon my package holds bills instead of double eagles,” said Holden.
“You don’t say. Good! I’ll give you some of the gold, too.”
“What’ll we do with these?” queried Wade, indicating the two dead men without looking at them.
“Search the greedy hombres and cut some green brush to throw over them. . . . I’ll be back pronto.”
Two days later Bell and Holden were approaching the hamlet of Belknap, Denton County, Texas, in an old spring wagon drawn by a scrawny team of horses.
They looked like two uncouth farmers. The wagon appeared to contain camp utensils, bedding, food supplies and hay. No observer would have suspected that under the seat hidden by tools and old canvas reposed a fortune in gold and currency.
At a crossroad the travelers were overtaken by a party of horsemen.
“Ahuh. Rangers. I’ll do the talkin’,” whispered Bell.
There were ten men in the group that halted Bell, lean, hawkeyed riders, heavily armed and superbly mounted. The foremost, evidently the leader, leaned from his saddle to scrutinize Bell and Holden. He was not young. Robust of build, thin-lipped and square-jawed, bronzed so darkly that the hair of his temples looked white, he was a man to remember.
“I’m Captain Mahaffey of Company Eight, Texas Rangers,” he announced in a sonorous authoritative voice that matched his frame. “Have you seen anything of a bunch of horsemen, five in number, riding south on this road?”
“No sir, we haven’t,” drawled Bell. “We seed a niggah on a mule about—”
“How long have you been on this road?” interrupted the bronzed ranger, impatiently.
“Wal, lemme see. We dropped in on this heah road sometime this mawnin’, comin’ from Yorkville, where we stayed all night. I reckon about midmawnin’.”
“Where are you going?”
“Me an’ my brother air bound for Denton County to homestead some land over there. We ain’t shore jest where.”
“I see you’ve got a Winchester behind you on the seat. What’s that for?”
“Nothin’ pertickler. We jest fetched it along with what we owned.”
The officer seemed baffled. “Boys, it looks like that gang of train robbers rode through last night or yesterday. They’re in the breaks by this time. We’re stuck. Pell’s tip came too late.”
“Mister Ranger, has there been a train holdup?” asked Bell, wonderingly.
“Yes. Three nights ago. A Texas Central express car was robbed at Hailey. The robbers made off with thirty thousand dollars. Looks like a Simm Bell job. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Simm Bell?” mused the robber chief, reflectively. “I reckon I’ve heerd thet name somewhere.”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed the captain. “If you’re a Texan you must have lived on the Staked Plain. Thanks, homesteaders, and good luck.”
“Same to you, Cap. Hope you ketch thet Simm Bell,” replied Bell, jocularly, and whipping the reins he clucked to the team and started on. Holden’s keen ears were attuned to catch any more from the rangers.
“Beaten again!” rolled out the captain, his deep voice ringing. “That robber Bell has too many friends in Central Texas. But if it’s the last ranger job I ever do, I’ll ride the man down!”
“Simm, did you hear that?” whispered Wade, glancing over his shoulder to see the rangers turn east on the crossroad.
“Hear it? Hell yes! . . . And that was old hawk-eyed Cap Mahaffey himself!” ejaculated the robber. Then he grew gleeful. He chuckled. He laughed outright. “Fooled him good! By gum, that was worth somethin’. What’d ole Cap have said if he’d found out we got that thirty
thousand under this here seat?”
“He’d have said a lot and done more,” replied Wade, seriously. “It was a ticklish place for us. And for them! If they’d started to search this wagon, I’d have killed Mahaffey. They’d have filled us full of lead. . . . I’m darn glad you fooled Mahaffey. Kind of like his face. I’ll never forget it.”
“Huh! I’ll never forget what he said,” growled Bell. “Ride the man down! . . . Sounds like he meant that. Aw hell! Talk takes no skin off my back. Talk is cheap. And I’ve sure got friends in this country.”
“Enemies too, Simm. Don’t overlook that.”
“He said Pell’s tip was too late. What’d he mean, Wade?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Blue wired Pell.”
“Aw no. . . no! Rand wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that.”
“We’ll see. But at least we’ve got a hunch to lay off on that Mercer bank job.”
“Lay off nothin’,” returned Bell, with an impatient snarl.
“Simm, we’ve got plenty of money for a while. We can hide up in Smoky till all this blows over.”
“After we bust that Mercer bank. Them rangers took some other hosses’ tracks for ours. Makin’ for the breaks east. They’re off our tracks. It’ll be just the right time. Lawd, won’t ole Cap roar!”
“I’m leery of it,” replied Wade, gravely.
“Well, you can keep camp in the Hollow and wait,” said Bell, sarcastically.
“Chief, did I ever Ml you?” queried Wade, poignantly.
“No. And that’s what surprises me—your turnin’ yellow now.”
“I’m not yellow. . . . It’s for your sake. I tell you I feel sort of queer lately. You’re gettin’ too reckless. It’s not for myself, Simm. What do I care for myself? My folks are dead, except my sister, Lil, as you remember. She’s married now. She knows I went to the bad.”
“You been with me since you were sixteen. And now you’re grown up. What’ll become of you when I get bored? . . . Makes me think I’ve given you a tough deal, Wade. But I never thought about it that way.”
“Don’t mind me. I’ll be all right if you only use some sense. . . . Simm, you’ve been more to me than my own Dad. I—I’d hate to see you killed.”
“Well, son, then you’d better ride away from Texas ’cause 1’U probably stop lead sooner or later. I’ll never hang, that’s sure.”
“Don’t talk to me about riding away,” rejoined Wade, bitterly. “Where’d I go? What’d I do? . . . Here’s the village. Are you going to stop?”
“Yes, long enough to buy some more grub and likker for the gang. Look sharp to see if the rangers doubled back.”
CHAPTER TWO
SMOKY HOLLOW was the favorite hiding place of Simm Bell after one of his raids.
It lay in western Denton County which was sparsely settled over that rough country, and was a deep wide gorge at the headwaters of Clear Creek and so densely wooded that it made an almost impenetrable jungle.
No posse of Texans or company of rangers had ever trailed Bell within many miles of that covert. The reason was that the few inhabitants of the region had a great deal to lose and nothing to gain by informing on the robber’s whereabouts. Bell was kindly and generous. His friends profited by steering inquisitive strangers or officers of the law away from the wilderness of western Denton County.
By driving unremittingly all next day Bell and Holden had arrived at the wooded rim of the gorge late in the afternoon. They unhitched the wagon and hid it in a clump of tamaracks.
“It might come in handy,” remarked Bell. “But the hosses we’ll give away. Not a bad idee. The rest of the outfit we’ll pack down the trail.”
“Like hob we will. Not in one trip or two.”
“That’s so. I’m not very smart. How much can you pack?”
Holden was buckling on his heavy gun belt. “Reckon my saddle, my rifle—and my package of bills, if it is bills.”
“By gum, we haven’t opened that yet. Make sure now, boy.”
Wade drew his knife and slit the heavy wrapper, tore open a corner to expose the neatly tied end of a packet of greenbacks.
“Fifties! . . . And I gave you that bundle! Well, son, I’ll not go back on it. . . . Now I’ll go down after the gang. Reckon two of them packs of coin are all I can carry. You stay here. Better hide your share. I’ll give you a handful of gold pieces so you can jingle them in your pocket.”
With grunts of satisfaction and effort Bell started down the trail burdened with all he could carry. Wade took his saddlebags, his coat and his share of the loot back into the woods a little way, and sat down to examine his prize and decide what to do with it. The operation of opening the package, which he performed with rude hands, was naturally exciting, but Wade did not gloat over the many neat bundles of greenbacks. Singularly enough, money did not mean much to Wade Holden. Here lay more cash than he had ever seen at one time in his life. Its first effect on him was to revive a once cherished boyhood dream of a cattle ranch, but a dream that had gradually faded as he drifted into outlawry with Simm Bell. He smiled bitterly at the ghost of that dream. Too late! But what to do with all this money? He hated drink and he was a poor gambler.
Wade mechanically began to count the money. There were two packs of fifty-dollar bills aggregating five thousand dollars. Then he found two bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills, the sum of which made ten thousand. Here he began to sweat, and his fingers trembled. Besides these, there were packages of twenties, tens and fives, which he did not take the time to count and add. The twenties he hid in the lining of his coat, where money had secretly reposed before. The smaller bills he stowed away in his saddlebags. The packets of large bills fitted in the inside pockets of his loose leather vest and there he determined to sew them securely. This done, Wade repaired to the trail and sat down to wait.
The sun was sinking in the west and a cool breeze stirred the treetops. Spring had come to the breaks and the foliage was almost full-leafed. A dreamy murmur of running water arose from the green depths. Wade heard wild turkeys clucking. He was glad to get back to Smoky Hollow. He could rest and fish and hunt once more, and wander by himself without eternal vigilance. It struck him suddenly how good—how wonderful to be free forever of that need to listen, to watch, to be ready to ride, ride, ride. But what a foolish thought!
At length voices disrupted this strange mood that had of late obsessed him. Soon a low whistle wafted up. Holden replied with the same birdcall. It was not long then until he saw Arkansas’ lanky figure and red bewhiskered visage ascending the trail. After him plodded the thickset swarthy Bill Morgan and last came Pony Heston, the blond giant of the gang. They climbed with unusual eagerness though saving their breath. Arkansas’ grin made a wide gap in his red face.
“Howdy, son,” he panted. “Where’s all—thet yaller coin—the boss raved about?”
“Ark, did Simm tell you about that fool holdup?” asked Wade.
“He did. An’ I—shore cussed him. But all the rest—of the gang —took it like pie.”
“Here. You rustle these two packs. . . . Pony, you take this one and what else you can carry. . . . Bill, you lug the rest.”
They all talked at once, husky-voiced, gleeful, like boys who had broken into a watermelon patch. Wade got them started down, then followed, so burdened with his load that he fell behind.
Bell, like a fox, had more than one hole to his burrow. There were several trails leading down into Smoky Hollow. But all of them were dim, and no ironshod hoof had ever cut into them. Hunted men learned to be careful how and where to step. Wade had never been on this particular trail, or any of the others that zigzagged into it.
From the surrounding hills above, this deep hollow appeared to be full of blue haze, which gave it the name Smoky. It was miles long, and its branches were endless in number.
Gradually the eager robbers ahead of Wade descended out of hearing. He deposited his burden in a likely place and sat down to rest. The dreamy sweetness of this wilderness stole
over Wade anew. He could see the tunnels in the green foliage—deer and bear trails—leading down. A glimpse of sunset gold through an aperture in the canopy overhead reminded him that the day was closing. He started down again. A flock of wild turkeys had been scratching under the oaks. A whirr of wings and a crash of brush attested to heavy birds in flight. The murmur of the stream increased in volume. And as he descended, the slope grew less precipitous and the timber larger. Nevertheless the underbrush was so dense that he had to crawl in places, an ardous task with his burden. He rested in another pleasant spot and became conscious of a boding labored discontent with his lot. It was only when he returned to the tranquillity and security of this hiding place that such a mood assailed him. This time it seemed stronger. He could not understand it, unless his keen intuition foretold a tragic end to Simm Bell, and that dread haunted him.
Golden twilight fell before him, augmenting the beauty and mystery of the gorge. He saw the level floor before he descended to it. Great oaks, walnuts, elms stood in stately confusion, marking the center of the hollow where the creek wound its alternately swift and eddying way.
At the brink, where the clear stream flowed shallowly over flat stone, Holden deposited his burden again to kneel and drink. How cold, how sweet this water!
He went across, and before twilight had yielded to darkness he espied the light of a campfire through the trees.
When Wade arrived at camp to drop his burden it was none too soon for him. “Howdy, men,” he replied in answer to greetings, and he threw off his coat and wiped the sweat from his hot brow.
If Wade had expected to find a hilarious company he missed his guess. Gilchrist, the red-shirted cook, was busy at his campfire, upon which pots and kettles steamed. Oberney, a weazened little Texan with a visage like a rat was laboriously and greedily counting gold coins. Tex Corning stood tall and slim in the firelight, his sallow face and drooping sandy mustache giving him an appearance of solemnity. Morgan, Pony Heston, and Muddy Ackers stood expectantly before Bell, who had a bottle of whisky in his hand. Nick Allen, the cowman of the gang, was lifting a cup to his bearded lips.