Shadow on the Trail

by Zane Grey

  “How far does this canyon go?”

  “It opens right heah into the prairie.”

  “Could I climb the bank?”

  “No. Too high and steep.”

  Silence ensued while the girl continued to peer out. Wade watched her expressive profile and listened, trying to decide what his next move should be.

  “I’d better go back . . . climb out below somewhere,” he muttered, despondently. But hope resurged. He would elude these bloodhound rangers.

  “You stay heah. Dad’s men are watching. . . . Besides you’re wounded. You were staggering.”

  “Yes, I’m shot. My head burns. But I can’t feel the other. . . . Only I’m bleeding so.”

  She gave a slight start and whispered fearfully: “There! They are riding back. . . . Up to Dad and the men by the fire.”

  “Let me look.”

  “Oh, be careful. They’re so close.”

  Wade bent forward to peep between the flaps of the tent. Less than a hundred paces away sat the closest of the rangers—the lean rider on the buckskin. Mahaffey, his big face red in the fire-light, was in the center of the line. They had halted not far beyond the first canvas-covered wagon where the men of the caravan stood waiting.

  “Well, Cap, no luck, eh? We could have spared you the trouble. No man has come through our camp.”

  “Hell! I saw him get off his horse,” replied Mahaffey, in ringing impatience. “My ranger, Jim Thorne, saw him, too.”

  “Yes, an’ I got warm blood on my hand from his saddle,” vouchsafed the lean rider.

  “We’re wasting time. He’s hidden right in this camp,” declared Mahaffey. “Pen, you’re trail boss of this caravan?”

  “I am. Bound for New Mexico,” rejoined the leader.

  “All right, sorry I’ll have to search your camp.”

  “Go ahaid. But I reckon yo’re exceeding yore authority.”

  “A captain of Texas Rangers can search any place or arrest any one.”

  “I know all about you rangers,” replied Pencarrow, dryly. “I said go ahaid. But be careful. My wife and kids air in this outfit. And so air other families.”

  “Do you think we’re greasers?” demanded Mahaffey hotly.

  “No. I’m only giving you a hunch.”

  “Off, men!” ordered Mahaffey, peremptorily. “Search the camp. He’s crawled in somewhere. Search the tents—the wagons, in and out. Everywhere a jack rabbit could hide.”

  Wade sank back on his knees. The girl, still holding the tent flap aside, turned to see his tortured face.

  “Oh, they’re hounds!” she exclaimed. “I had another uncle once who wasn’t a ranger. . . . They shot him!”

  “Must make a break,” said Wade, desperately to himself, and he drew his gun and started to rise.

  She pushed him back. “Stay here. I’ll save you. . . . Get under the blanket. . . . Far over.” As Wade stretched out she covered him from foot to head. He lay still, his heart throbbing painfully, slowly awakening to the reality of the girl. She was good; she had nerve. He pushed down the edge of the blanket so he could see. She was watching again, breathless and intent. The curve of her full lips appeared contemptuous.

  With strained attention Wade listened for sounds outside. Only the continuous flow of talk came to him, not distinguishable. How slowly the seconds dragged! Mahaffey would make a thorough search. Wade shook under the blanket. Tremendous exertion and emotion had verged on panic. But he began to recover, to find himself. This girl herself was a Texan. She would outwit the rangers.

  “They’re coming,” she whispered, peering out. “Left our wagon to the last. Dad’s with them. . . . And if he’s not hopping mad I don’t know him.”

  Wade began to distinguish voices. “Pen, I do my duty as I see it,” Captain Mahaffey was saying, testily.

  “Mahaffey, there are other things in the world besides your damned ranger service,” returned Pencarrow, coldly. “For instance the feelings of honest people and their regard for personal property.”

  “Men, heah’s the last wagon. Look out now.” Mahaffey pounded on the iron-bound wheel with the butt of a gun. “Hey, young fellar, I’m gettin’ tired callin’ you to come oot. If you have any sense you’ll surrender.”

  A moment’s silence ensued fraught with suspense.

  “Not thet hombre, boss,” drawled one of the rangers. “He’ll die like Simm Bell died—with his guns bellerin’.”

  “He’s out of shells. Never shot once at us,” said another.

  “Thet shore stumped me,” declared Mahaffey, as if mystified. “Men, we cain’t overlook that. I saw him kill Wess Jenkins, the bartender who shot Bell off his hawse. We just found that rifle with only one shell exploded. Strange.”

  “Cap’n, I seen Holden standin’ by his hoss under the elm where Bell dropped. An’ he had thet rifle at his shoulder. He could have cleaned us.”

  “Holden, if you’re in there come out,” called Mahaffey, ringingly. “I’ll remember thet so far as we know you’ve never shot at a Texas Ranger.”

  Wade listened to all this with bated breath. The girl knelt at the aperture, strung and intent, singularly cool.

  “Go in, men, an’ dig about,” ordered Mahaffey in chagrin.

  There were forthcoming sundry sounds and voices that attested to a thorough search of the wagon.

  “No good, boss,” declared a ranger.

  “All right. Come out. . . . Heah’s another tent. Have a look in thet.”

  The girl slipped the flaps together and with deft hands tied the strings. That left the tent opaque and dim from the firelight outside. She crawled upon the bed, and getting to her knees she began to take off her blouse.

  “Mahaffey, thet’s my daughter’s tent,” said Pencarrow. “If she’s there no one opens it.”

  Thuds of boots and jingles of spurs told Wade of the approaching group of men. He covered his face with the blanket so that he could peep out with one eye.

  “I don’t care a damn whose tent it is,” declared the crabbed captain.

  “Wal, you will care if my lass is in it,” returned Pencarrow, coolly. “Jacqueline, air you heah?”

  “Yes, Dad. Is supper ready? What’s all the fuss about?” she replied, calmly.

  “Rangers heah, lass. Yore uncle Cap Mahaffey. They’re searchin’ our camp for an escaped outlaw. Can they see in yore tent?”

  “Texas Rangers! . . . My uncle? Indeed they cain’t. I’m undressed.”

  She had only removed her blouse which she was in the act of laying on the bed. Her white rounded arms and breast gleamed palely. Wade could see her on her knees, with her little dark head erect like that of a listening deer, her big eyes black as gulfs in the gloom of the tent.

  “Excuse me, Jackie,” spoke up Mahaffey, deferentially. “How long have you been in your tent?”

  “Only a little while. I built my fire—then came in to change for supper.”

  “Did you see a man slippin’ along?”

  “No.”

  “Did you heah any one runnin’?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you. . . . Well, men, we’re stuck for the thousandth time.”

  “Boss, he’s given us the slip,” said the ranger whose voice Wade now knew.

  “By gad, he has.”

  “Cap, who is this outlaw an’ why air you so set on catchin’ him?” asked Pencarrow, curiously.

  “I reckon it’s young Wade Holden, right-hand pard of the robber, Simm Bell. But some of my men don’t agree about thet. Holden is a gunman, a desperado, an’ the most dangerous of thet gang. One of them, Rand Blue, turned state’s evidence to save himself. He was in the robbin’ of the express car on the Central less than a week ago. An’ he wired Sergeant Pell thet the gang was due to rob the Mercer bank. We frustrated thet raid. In the fight we about cleaned up this gang. Only three got away, not countin’ this man we’re after. He was with Bell an’ two other robbers, when Wess Jenkins took to shootin’ too soon. At the
t he bored Bell. An’ got killed himself by young Holden. We tracked Bell an’ this fellar out of town—to a tree where evidently Bell fell off his hoss or had to give up. Holden—if it was him—rode off. An’ as we gave chase Bell opened up with two guns, killing Sergeant Pell an’ cripplin’ another ranger before he fell daid over his guns.”

  “Ah! So thet was Simm Bell’s finish!” ejaculated Pencarrow. “Reminds me of Wess Hardin an’ Buck Duane.”

  “Simm Bell was not in the class of those Texans,” rejoined Mahaffey. “He was an ordinary robber. He had a faculty of makin’ friends. Thet’s what kept us from gettin’ him long ago. But he died great, I’m bound to confess.”

  “I reckon this news will go good in Houston?” queried Pencarrow, with dry shrewdness.

  “It shore will,” declared the captain, emphatically. “Politics! One party has been advocatin’ a discontinuance of the ranger service. An’ they shore been raggin’ us.”

  “Ah, I see. Thet accounts.”

  “No, it doesn’t altogether,” retorted Mahaffey with temper. “A ranger is trained to ride down his man. But for thet, Pencarrow, Texas would still be unsafe to live in. Young Holden was the most dangerous of Bell’s gang. A marvelous shot with either a six or long gun. Cold nerve. Absolutely fearless. A mere boy in years. . . . I just cain’t understand why he didn’t use thet rifle on us. Probably this robber with Bell was not Holden at all. That’s my explanation. But I’ll ride him down if it takes all summer!”

  “Wal, you better have supper with us an’ take his trail again in the mawnin’,” drawled Pencarrow. “For my part I hope he gets away.”

  “So it appears,” returned Mahaffey, tersely. “But thanks for your invitation. We’re all in. Thet hombre shore gave us a run.”

  As their voices trailed away a clanking ring of iron against iron proclaimed suppertime for the caravan.

  “They’ve gone. He’s given up—the old devil,” said the girl, fervently, in a low voice. “That’s our supper gong. I must hurry.”

  “Don’t forget you were changing your dress,” returned Wade, with the shrewdness of the fugitive.

  “So I said. But I won’t. Dad will not notice. And the rangers haven’t seen me.” She was slipping on her blouse when suddenly she ceased. In the pale light he could see her bend over her hand. Then she started violently.

  “It’s all bloody!”

  “No wonder. I’ve bled all over your blankets. Be careful to wipe it off before going to supper.”

  “Will you stay right heah until I come back? It’s safest. Then I’ll bind up your wounds and—and we’ll see. . . .”

  “I’ll stay,” he replied, soberly.

  She rubbed her hands on something soft and completed the task of getting her blouse on; then she seemed struck by a thought.

  “Air you—Wade Holden?” she asked, with her quaint Texas accent.

  “I wish to God I could deny it,” returned Wade, bitterly.

  She made no further comment and opened the tent to go out, tying the flaps behind her.

  Wade was left alone, victim of contending tides of emotion and thought. Simm Bell—his father—had yielded to the fierce desire to check the ranger’s pursuit and he had chosen to kill Pell rather than Mahaffey. Indeed, at last the robber had died as he had always sworn he would die—with his boots on and guns in hands. Wade reveled in that. The loquacious robber chief had risen to the heights of battle in the end and his last act, his last thought had been for his boy. What a bloodhound Mahaffey was—a Texan with one set purpose! Wade felt that even if he escaped now he would never be safe. He must get away that night and leave no track and go far. This girl—what was her name?—Jacqueline Pencarrow—had saved his life. An unutterable gratitude—something that waxed against his somber bitterness—welled up in Wade’s heart. Girls had played no part in his life since he had taken to evil ways. Seven years! He could not remember with interest any girl except his sister Lil. And he recalled his mother. That she had loved Simm Bell instead of the wandering guerrilla rebel, Jim Holden, sank deep into Wade’s mind, there to be accepted.

  Presently Wade realized that despite a whirling of thought and feeling he was gradually sinking to faintness or slumber. Loss of blood had weakened him. He still felt the hot trickle down his sleeve. Sitting up he carefully put aside the blankets and removed his coat. There was a hole in the top of his shirt at the left shoulder. The wound was just a furrow in the flesh. He must bind it to stop the bleeding. Taking his scarf from his pocket he looked about for something to make a pad to place over the wound. He found a soft garment lying on top of the girl’s open box and, folding that inside his shirt, he bound it securely with the scarf.

  Then he waited for her, resisting the temptation to peer out. Apparently there was only one mess, for all the laughter and talk sounded from one direction. Members of the caravan with their ranger guests were making merry over the meal. Somehow they seemed heartless. Here he crouched, burning with wounds, starved and thirsty, a hunted man no better than a mad dog. Then he thought of the girl. She had a heart. She had saved him without a thought as to who or what he was. She represented the saving grace of woman, of which he had heard but with which he had had little contact until now. And she stood between Wade and utter hatred of the world.

  Light footsteps sounded outside. She had come back. Wade heard the crackle of fresh wood thrown upon the fire. A blaze lightened the interior of the tent. Then the flaps were untied and she slipped inside with a momentary flash of firelight. She carried a parcel which she deposited on the bed.

  “I thought I’d never get away,” she whispered. “The men are excited and the women fussing over the rangers. I fetched some pieces of meat, salt, matches, all the biscuits I could steal and an apple. You must be hungry.”

  “I haven’t had a bite since night before last. But I’ll wait. . . . I must tell you that I took some garment or other off your box and used it to bind this gunshot on my arm.”

  “Garment?—I—I wonder what,” she returned, and dropped on her knees to feel around the box. “Oh!” —

  “It was white and soft,” he said, seeing her confusion. I’m sorry. But I had to have something.”

  “You took my—my chemise.”

  “I didn’t look at the—the thing. It’s too late now.”

  “No matter. You can throw it away.”

  Wade did not make any reply. All at once the singular situation struck him, aside from the stark tragedy of what had crowded his mind—death, pitiless rangers and wild flight—imminent peril. A young girl, probably sixteen years of age, had taken him into the privacy and protection of her tent. He was only a hunted creature to her. But to him she loomed great as the influence he had lost since he left his mother—that spirit called woman—in this case kind and cool and clever to save.

  “Where’s your other hurt?” she asked, practically. “There’s blood on your face.”

  “On the top of my head,” he replied, bending it for her survey. Gently she parted his matted hair.

  “Ugh!—A long groove—clotted with blood.”

  “Run your finger along. See if it’s deep. Never mind if it hurts. I want to know.”

  After several attempts she succeeded in complying.

  “Pretty deep. But the bullet didn’t go in. It just cut,” she whispered, hopefully.

  “That’s good. I thought maybe the little brains I had were oozing out.”

  “You haven’t any to spare,” she said, with a hint of her father’s Texas drollery. That seemed a subtle imputation of how brainless it was for a young man of his evident attainments to be a robber—to put himself at the mercy of rangers. Wade had shame enough left to feel the shaft sink deep.

  “Your hair is all matted. And the blood has dried on your face,” she went on. “I’ll get some water. I can reach the pan.”

  Wade sat there with head bowed. Presently she began to bathe his face and then the wound. The cold water stung but it refreshed him. The combing out of hi
s matted lodes was an ordeal.

  “That’s all I can do. I haven’t anything to put on the cut. . . . Where’s your hat?”

  “Lost. The bullet that tagged me took it flying.”

  “I have a sombrero,” she whispered, and leaning back she reached over her pillow. “It’s too large for me. Let’s try it on.”

  “Just made for me!—Well. . . I won’t try to thank you, Miss Jacqueline Pencarrow. . . . And now I must go.”

  “Not yet. The fires are still bright. Wait!—Let’s make it a good job. You lie down and rest if you cain’t sleep. I’ll sit up and watch for the best time.”

  There was no denying her sagacity any more than her incredible generosity. Besides, Wade felt the need of rest and sleep. Since this girl wanted him to owe her more, he lay back without another word and closed his eyes. The marvel then was to feel himself go fading into oblivion despite the pangs of wounds and the aches and the whirl of his mind.

  Sometime in the night Wade felt sleep being shaken out of him. He was conscious of it without being able to awaken.

  “Wake! Wake!” came a whisper in his ear, from lips he felt. He stirred. He groaned and opened his eyes. Black shadows of foliage quivered on the moonlit tent. A pale light showed the girl kneeling beside him.

  “Oh, you were so hard to awaken!” she whispered. “I feared you were daid. . . . It’s mawning. They’re all asleep. You must go.”

  Wade sat up with difficulty. “Morning! You stayed awake all night?”

  “Yes. It was nothing. The hours flew. . . . This is the safe time. Go!”

  While she knelt to open the tent flaps Wade got into his coat to button it up. Then he found the sombrero and put that on.

  “Heah. Don’t forget your food and this canteen.”

  He received them from her, aware that her little hands were shaking. Then she moved to draw the tent flap in. A waning moon shone low over the ragged wall. All appeared gray and wan, and silent as the grave.

  “Go to the left,” she whispered. “Keep close to the wall. There are no wagons or tents. . . . Good luck, Wade Holden.”

  As Wade reached the tent door he could see her face clearly in the moonlight. It was small, oval, earnest and youthful, with the daring that went with youth. But the big deep eyes were unfathomable. All his life he would remember them.