Outcasts of Picture Rocks

by Cherry Wilson

  “He’s playin’ with us!” swore the sheriff, furious. “That cub’s made a fool of me long enough.”

  He drove in his spurs with such suddenness and force that Goblin shot ahead in a terrific burst of speed, regaining the distance lost, but unable to better it, unable to hold it. And, sure of this, Dolan raised his gun and, heedless of the hoarse protests of Chartres, fired at the fugitive—fired again, and again—emptied his gun, reloading at a gallop. There was no result that he could make out, save to increase Black Wing’s pace, and he felt, as Chartres had said, further pursuit was useless.

  Yet, doggedly, he clung to the trail. The sleek coats of the racers gleamed wet. Their jaws dropped foam but, with the staunch courage of thoroughbreds, they strained their lungs on the steep pitches that the wild-bred Black Wing took like a bird. In a long mountain run, Dolan would have wished for a good, deep-winded cow pony under him. But he anticipated nothing like this. The chase was leading into the broken canyon country, miles north of the Picture Rocks. His one hope of catching Zion Jore was to do it before he could hole up there. Steadily, that hope grew less.

  But, just as he despaired altogether, he saw that Zion wasn’t riding as he had been. He was riding like a drunken man, crazily weaving.

  “Hurt, by heaven!” he screamed. “One of my bullets landed, all right!” Wildly triumphant, as Zion slumped to the stallion’s neck, he shouted: “We’ve got him, Luke!”

  But not if Black Wing could help it, for, strain as Mate and Goblin did, as they never had, they couldn’t gain on him. They could only keep even. That was something, something they couldn’t have done if things hadn’t been going wrong with Zion. Fatally wrong, it looked, for he was hanging on the side of his horse. Falling? Not yet, for he managed to pull himself back in the saddle. But every instant they thought he must drop. Yet still he clung, and Black Wing ran.

  They were in the foothills now. The rest of the posse was far behind, too far to be of any service in this crisis. It was up to the sheriff and Chartres. And Black Wing was running straight for the rock-ribbed, brush-choked canyon before him.

  “If he makes it,” shouted Chartres, his eyes on the reeling figure, “he’ll take terrible toll, as long as he’s able to pull a trigger! Don’t be foolhardy, Pat! A Jore with his back to the wall …”

  “He won’t make it!” Dolan predicted hoarsely.

  And he did not! Within a few yards of the canyon’s mouth, they saw him again hanging on the side of his horse, making a desperate attempt to regain his balance, but slowly, surely slipping. Then, losing his hold altogether, he fell to the trail. Black Wing raced on a few yards and stopped, whirling to look back.

  With an effort that wrung a groan from Chartres and aroused pity in Pat Dolan’s breast, Zion got to hands and knees and dragged himself toward the canyon. But when safety was all but won, he collapsed and lay still.

  “Rode his last trail.” Dolan was sure. “Waal, alive or dead, I said. I’d rather it had been the other, but it would have been all the same to him in the long run.”

  Needing both hands to bring his strung horse under control, he put up his gun, convinced he had no more use for it. With Chartres he yanked to a stop not more than ten feet from the motionless form that lay, face up in a patch of sun, long lashes peacefully locked on restless eyes, nerveless fingers resting just on the butt of the gun at his waist.

  “Tried to draw with his dyin’ breath,” the sheriff commented grimly, leaping down beside Chartres. “Deadly to the last. Well, he’s harmless enough.” The rest died stillborn, and a mighty tremor shot through him.

  For, so suddenly they never knew how it came about, they were looking into a gun in a Jore’s hands. And a Jore was ordering them in a cold, steely drawl: “Hold up your hands!”

  Stunned, they obeyed him. They wouldn’t have dared to do otherwise. For there was a flash in the blue eyes, on that wild face a madness of purpose that told them death hovered close, so close they felt its chill above their heads, while Zion, never taking his eyes from them, the black gun unwavering, sprang up unhurt and approached Pat Dolan.

  So maneuvering that at all times his weapon covered both men, he jerked the sheriff’s gun from his holster and thrust it in his belt. Then he explored his person for other weapons, extracting a .45 from a shoulder holster under his vest. As cautiously, then, he disarmed Chartres. Each movement as swift and deft as though often rehearsed. If he gave a thought to the rest of the posse coming at a gallop, he showed no sign of it, coolly surveying his captives.

  His weird eyes flicked from Dolan’s star to his face. He said simply: “You’re the sheriff.”

  “I am,” said Dolan, certain that death lay in the admission. The Jores had it in for him—with reason. Now a Jore had him—the most dangerous Jore in the clan. He expected no mercy.

  He was even surprised at the few seconds of life that were his, as Zion pointed to Chartres, so strangely regarding him: “Who’s he?”

  With some far-flung hope that the name might overawe him, instill in the mad brain a glimmer of reason, Dolan said: “That’s Luke Chartres.”

  “Is he helpin’ you hunt Jores?”

  “No!” denied Dolan emphatically. “He’s nothin’ to do with me. He is …”

  “I know! He’s after Black Wing.” And Zion laughed, a sound to freeze the blood in their veins. “You thought you had got him. You thought he couldn’t run. That’s what I wanted you to think. I let you catch up a-purpose. So I could play ’possum on you. So I could catch you, see?”

  Dolan’s heart gave a mighty bound as he caught the faint ring of hoofs far below them, and to keep Zion from hearing, fighting for time, he suggested: “And now that you caught us?”

  A cunning light broke upon Zion’s face. He pointed to Chartres again: “That’s up to him.” Addressing the man directly, “If I give you a chance to save the sheriff,” demanded Zion, “will you do what I ask?”

  “Anything,” swore Luke Chartres.

  “Then,” Zion ordered swiftly, connectedly, as though this was something he’d learned by heart, “go down and stop them men! Tell ’em if they come afoot after you stop ’em, I’ll kill the sheriff! Tell ’em if they come back to hunt for you … after they do what I want ’em to … I’ll kill the sheriff! Tell ’em to go back to Big Sandy and turn my uncles out of jail! But not till sunup tomorrow. Remember that! Tomorrow … just as the sun comes up. And tell ’em to tell my uncles I said to go straight to the Picture Rocks, or I’ll kill the sheriff!”

  Wrenching his eyes from that wild face, Chartres looked at Pat Dolan, ashen with understanding. Hoofbeats rang loud on the hush.

  “Go!” Dangerously, the blue eyes flashed. “I’ll do what I say I will! I’m Zion Jore!”

  Hesitating no longer, Chartres caught up his horse, over the sheriff’s agonized protest. “Don’t, Luke! Better let him kill me than free them outlaws!”

  Never had Chartres admired a man so much. However high Pat Dolan’s ambition, he was worthy of it. He said huskily: “I’ve got to, Pat. Can’t you see? He will do it! I can’t be a party to it.” He sprang on Goblin and swung away.

  Zion stopped him. “You’ll come right back,” he warned, “when you tell ’em that.”

  Looking straight in that upturned face, so heartrendingly weary and young, Chartres said in a strangled voice: “I, too, do what I say I will, Zion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AT A JORE’S MERCY

  In the quaint vernacular of old Dad Peppin, Zion Jore might not have all his buttons, but he had more of what he did have than most men—more imagination to conceive a plot, more daring to carry it out, no fear to hamper him, no restraining doubts. His was the genius of madness.

  This genius had enabled him to accomplish the all but impossible feat of capturing the sheriff, that he might hold him as hostage and force the release of his uncles. It had been easier than
he expected. He had anticipated trouble in separating the sheriff from his men and had planned to lead them on and on, trusting to some fortunate chance of place and circumstance to accomplish that night what the two fast horses of Chartres had done the first hour.

  Now, in that wild, wild canyon, with lilac dusk falling, he was holding the sheriff and Chartres. Cross-legged in the grass, Winchester across his knees, a few yards from where they sat, bound hand and foot, in uncomfortable postures against a boulder, he watched them, as tirelessly as a wild thing watched its intended prey. There was no doubt in his mind of ultimate success. He had done his part, and, being what he was, the posse, now thundering back to Big Sandy to electrify the whole country with news of the capture, would do the rest.

  But there was grave doubt in the harassed brain of Sheriff Dolan, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the oven, helplessly writhing, as if already suffering the roasting that would be his, if he survived this. He’d get the horselaugh from the Jore sympathizers, from everyone, for letting a crazy kid put a trick like this over on him. Better never to leave this spot—nobody laughed at a man that died for a cause. No. His fighting blood spoke—better to live, to do it all over again. He prayed the posse would do as Chartres had told them, feared they would not, feared they would bring a force back to rescue him, and forfeit his life. For he wanted to live—to rid the world of this young menace, if nothing else.

  He looked over at Luke Chartres. What was he thinking, there, in the dusk, which brought that haunted look to his face? Not fear—that, he would swear. Luke had proven his courage in coming back here, after his talk with the posse, submitting himself to other whims of this mad young fellow, when he could have gone with them and saved his own skin. In more ways than one, Luke Chartres was a mighty big man.

  Now in the dusk, strainedly, Dolan burst out: “Kid, can’t you ease these ropes on my legs … give me some freedom? You needn’t be afraid I’ll run … you, with that gun.”

  Zion’s eyes blazed with a gleam so fierce that Dolan was forced to lower his. “How much freedom do you give Jores?”

  Death hovered close then.

  “How free is my dad?” Zion fiercely demanded. “You got to take your own medicine. It won’t be very long. Not your whole life … like my father.”

  “See here, young man,” Dolan cried earnestly, “you can’t compare us thataway! It’s my duty to put people in jail, if they break laws. They needn’t break laws.”

  “You’re holdin’ Jores,” Zion summed it up, “and I’m holdin’ you.”

  Groaning with the same helplessness René had felt in argument with Zion, Dolan fell silent, rather then risk further antagonizing.

  Still as the grave, that deep, dark, narrow vault, where the young fellow sat with his captives. The thoroughbreds grazed, but the stallion, golden skin glimmering in the dusk, never strayed far from where Zion was. Now the men saw him come up and, thrusting his nose beneath Zion’s arm, nudge him, nickering.

  And naturally, as he’d answer a human, they heard Zion say: “Not yet, Black Wing. I told you three things.”

  Out of the hush that fell again, Chartres asked softly: “Son, what did you mean … three things?”

  “Why,” Zion answered readily, “I got to do three things before I go home. This is the first one.”

  “And the second?” quietly prompted Chartres.

  “Get Dad out of prison!”

  Pat Dolan, leaning to listen, saw the face of Chartres flash with that look of hate Race had wondered at. That, he now remembered, the man had shown at any mention of the clan, particularly of Joel Jore. What could he have against Zion’s father? This intrigued Dolan more even than Zion’s calm intention to release his father from state prison. He would lose quick enough if he tried that, unless—a superstitious shiver ran through the sheriff—he was in league with the powers of darkness.

  “And the third thing?” quizzed the Val Verde rancher.

  “Kill Shang Haman!” hissed Zion. At their gasp of horror at this frank declaration of murder, the more awful for being spoken in this wild spot, at this dark hour, by one who had them absolutely in his power, Zion said tensely: “Shang squealed on us. But that ain’t why. He killed Dave!”

  “Dave?” Dolan’s professional instincts were roused. A Jore he hadn’t heard of? An unreported killing. “Tell us about it.”

  As though hungry to talk, but not relaxing his vigilance one jot, Zion told them about his cousin, Dave Jore, Abel’s son, who had “growed up” in the basin with him and Eden, told it with so much feeling and circumstance, that they followed Dave’s brief, blameless life, and brought up with shock at his grave with the cross. For Shang had killed him.

  “They don’t believe me.” Deep that rankled in Zion’s heart. “They believe Shang. He told ’em that you done it, Dolan. But … you didn’t.”

  “No” stated the sheriff with some emotion, “I didn’t, Zion.”

  “I know that. It was Shang. Dave was goin’ out of the basin. I went with him to Sentry Crags. I said good-bye, and was goin’ back. Shang was on watch. I heard the shot, and I found Dave … dead.” The rifle gleamed under the fierce clutch of his hands. “Anyhow,” he went on, “I’d have to kill him. He pesters Eden. If it wasn’t for the men … Since they got caught, I ain’t slept good for thinkin’ what might happen if Shang went back.”

  “Zion”—Luke Chartres strained at his bonds, his face singularly white in the gloom—“Shang’s gone back. He went this morning. He’s been wanting to go ever since your uncles were jailed. But I kept him here till … Wait!”—frantically as Zion sprang up, half-whirling toward Black Wing. “Don’t leave us tied up like this … helpless!

  But already Zion had changed his mind and was actually smiling as he sat down again. “I forgot,” he confided, pushing his black hair back, “my pard’s up there. René can handle Shang all right. He won’t let him in.”

  But Zion didn’t know that René had left the basin to hunt him. Nor did Chartres and the sheriff know it. And they felt a curious relief at the thought that René Rand was on watch at Sentry Crags, even found a curious comfort in remembering his vigilance that had discouraged the sheriff about getting in. For they hated to think of a girl—and such a girl as rumor depicted Eden Jore—at the mercy of Shang. They despised him, using him only as men must use rotten tools if no better can be obtained. Dolan had planned to get him off, if he turned state’s evidence. But this talk of a killing gave a new aspect to the situation.

  “And if he’s there when my uncles get home,” Zion said, “they will sure handle him!”

  Yes. If the Jores were freed, they would handle Shang. Seizing this opening, Dolan put the question that had kept him in dire suspense ever since Chartres had sent the posse racing for town: “How will you know if they are freed, Zion?”

  Zion’s laugh was crafty. “My eyes will tell me. I won’t believe nothin’ but my own eyes. When it gets good and dark, we’re goin’ to ride down to Sentry Crags where we can watch. We’ll be there in the mornin’ and watch ’em ride in.”

  Suppose they didn’t come? Suppose the posse didn’t release them? Suppose the Jores, once released, did not go to the Picture Rocks? Zion had sent them word that, if they didn’t, he’d kill the sheriff. Well, the sheriff thought, the Jores weren’t likely to be concerned about that—a solemn thought for Pat Dolan, then, that his life depended on the very men he had prosecuted so relentlessly.

  Night descended on the Montezumas with silver trappings. The wind, accompanying it, played taps on the canyon’s ribs of rock. A prowling coyote filled it with mad, mocking song. Chartres sat with his nameless thoughts. And Zion watched.

  “Zion,” suddenly the Val Verde rancher spoke, “when the sheriff told you my name, I had the impression you’d heard it before.”

  “Sure,” Zion owned.

  “Where?”

  “At
home.”

  “You mean in the basin?”

  “What other home do you think I got? It’s the only place I ever was, till I come out to see things. It’s the only place I ever want to see again.” His voice throbbed with longing.

  The man sat silent for a long time. Then: “Tell me when you heard my name.”

  Moved by the kindness of his tone, something he hadn’t known since he left home, Zion said: “I heard it twice. Once, when Dad run Sahra and Black Wing in. Long ago, that was. He said Luke Chartres would raise a howl to heaven about those two horses. And Mother said …” His voice broke on her name.

  “Your mother said …?” The man’s voice broke, too, doubtless in sympathy.

  “She said Sahra was hers. She said a lot more was. But Sahra and the colt was the only things she’d ever ask of Luke Chartres. She said she wouldn’t ask that for herself … but for her children. Meanin’ me and Eden. So Dad and her could take us out of the basin and give us things. That’s what she was always sayin’. I ain’t sure what she wanted to give us. Things we could not get in there, I guess. We couldn’t get much … after we lived honest.”

  “Honest!” cried Chartres.

  “Yes. So Dad could take us away where folks wouldn’t know we was Jores. But”—his eyes flashed the old hostility—“they took him away!”

  “And then?” pressed the man, in a low, trembling tone.

  “Then Mother didn’t care what come. She used to learn us things. To be tellin’ us just to have patience, and God would answer her prayers. Now she don’t pray. And she don’t laugh or sing. That’s why I’m bringin’ Dad home, so she’ll be happy again.”

  “She loves him yet?” Luke Chartres murmured, as one repeats an astounding fact to one’s self.

  Amazed at the question, “Bars don’t make no difference with love!” Zion shouted. “Or bein’ apart or dyin’, she says. She says …” he couldn’t go on, his thin shoulders were shaking.