by Max Brand
“But he’s an honest man, Dad. He pays for all that he takes.”
“You can’t take things and then pay for them as you please,” said her father. “Ask the man whose dogs were killed what he would do if he could get a chance to send a bullet into this Indian. Ask Hank, for instance, what he would do. And, above all, ask the poor sheriff, whose life has been hounded because he can’t make the capture. The man who held the office when the Indian began these excursions into Turnbull Valley was fairly laughed out of office. The second man stood the gaff his whole four years, and when he ran again he received exactly twelve votes! And the poor devil who has the job now is more to be pitied than despised. Every one of those sheriffs has been a capable man, but they can’t follow a fellow who seems to be able to make his trail disappear at will.”
“Yes, but what of the trails of the horse and the bear?”
“People around here declare that he can make the trails of all three disappear like magic when he pleases. I suppose a hundred hunting parties have gone out to get him, equipped with dogs and fast horses and men who are expert riflemen. But they have always failed. Think of it! They have failed so miserably that they haven’t laid eyes on the Indian either by night or day, save for Hank and one halfwit, if he may be believed!”
“Well,” said Gloria, “everything that you say convinces me more and more. I’m going to ride with you when you hunt him. I only hope one thing, that you won’t hunt to kill!”
“Tush,” said her father, shrugging his shoulders, “when a man defies society, he has to take the consequences. But this time I’m going to run him down. It won’t be a matter of a day or two or a week or two of running. I’m going to stay after this mystery until I have run it to the ground if it takes me all the summer. I have the best dogs, the best horses, the best guides that money can hire, and I have employed them all indefinitely.”
“Then,” said Gloria, “it is plain that you could take me along. I won’t be a burden.”
“Stuff!” said Themis. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
But, nevertheless, he stared at his daughter with a species of dread. He foresaw trouble ahead.
CHAPTER XX
ONLY A RICH man could have provided for such a summer. Only a genius could have selected so skilfully those who were to ride with him. But, in the entire range of the mountains, Themis could not have found five men better fitted to follow a long trail, an arduous trail, a trail which might come to a dangerous ending. In the first place, he made sure that every man was known for hardihood and skill as a mountaineer, familiar with the Turnbull valley and all the mountains of the region surrounding the valley, an expert trailer, and, above all, capable of using rifle or revolver with deadly effect. Not only that, but he made sure that all his men had shot before at human targets. There hardly existed unhung a blacker crew of rascals than the five he weeded out of many applicants - for the wages were large and the food would be good, and, given those conditions to prevail, he could pick whom he would.
Every man of the five had a record, though some of them had not been in a penitentiary. There was Si Bartlett, a little, smiling, inoffensive man very fond of talk, with great, mild, brown eyes. Of his forty-five years no less than fifteen had been spent in prison in two terms, both for manslaughter; and in each instance he had been pardoned before his term was up for the simple reason that no warden could believe that a man with such a face, such a voice, such a pair of eyes, such gentle manners, could be a murderer except by accident. But those who knew declared him to be a matchless and malignant fighter, one of those who love danger for its own sake, and bloodshed for the same reason. Yet he was appointed second in command by Themis. Character had nothing to do with his selections. Results were what he wanted.
Next came Red Norton, save that Red could hardly be put second to any man. He, also, had felt the shadow of a prison close over him. But with nine lives, men freely declared outside of courtrooms, he could not have paid for all his victims. He was a contrast to Si Bartlett, though just as dangerous. What made him less terrible was that his appearance advertised his true nature in advance. His huge body, the rank growth of red hair which bristled on his face and head, his bold, staring, blue eyes, his blunt manner - all announced the professional warrior.
The third of that noble crew was Dick Walker. Dick was the boy of the party. He was apparently just a big, laughing, good-natured child of twenty. But, when the pinch came, Dick was cold as ice and cutting as a steel edge. Older men who were apt to know predicted a long career and a black one for Dick. He had not seen the inside of a prison for the simple reason that no jury could pronounce a man with such a face and such ability to laugh guilty of murder. For the rest, he was a genius on the trail, as all men admitted, and he possessed an uncanny dexterity of hand which made him equally at home with a cowpuncher’s rope or a cowpuncher’s gun.
Dude Wesson was the cook. His nickname described him. He was a tall, lean man, with a starved face. His apparel ever showed signs of consummate care. Polish was never missing from his kit, and his boots were shined morning and even at noon, to the amazement of those who did not know him. He was none of those who allow the face to become covered with a bristle of hairs which is shaved only every third day. It was said that he would rather have water for shaving than for drinking, even on a desert. His clothes, also, were never allowed to fall into disrepair, and a spot upon the trousers meant half an hour’s work to this fastidious gentleman.
Naturally, such a man was self-indulgent in the matter of food. His fleshless face belied an appetite which was omnivorous. He began early at the table, he ate with terrible velocity, and he kept at it long after the others were through. And yet, no signs of that voracious gourmandizing appeared in his starved body. No one could cook to suit him. Therefore, he cooked for himself and the rest. He was self-appointed to the task, and he was forgiven his other faults, for the sake of his skill over a camp fire and his genius with venison and coffee. Those faults were taciturnity, a temper as uneasy as a hair trigger, and a sullen dislike of everyone. He, too, had escaped the prison for the reason that he always forced the other man to make the first move, trusting to his superior speed of hand, his superior steadiness in aiming, to kill his victim at the last instant. And in all his fights he had accumulated not a scar. Such was Dude Wesson.
The fifth and last of the party was no other than Hank Jeffries. He was the least famous of the lot, but he was taken along partly because he knew the mountains better than the student knows his book, and partly because he was inspired by a prodigious hatred for the Indian. He had never forgiven that night assault. He had never forgiven the theft of the stallion. It mattered not that he had been on the verge of killing the animal. It was only more of a rankling wound in his malevolent soul that another should have been able to use that which he himself had not been able to master. And, day and night, he dreamed of the battle which must at last take place between himself and the Indian.
To that end, he kept himself in constant fettle. He had begun a soberer life, because he did not wish to be taken unawares if the opportunity came. Day by day he practiced with his guns to make sure that he could make the best of the first opening. He had invested the last money he could borrow on his ruined ranch to buy two fast horses which should be ready for the pursuit. And, when he learned of the purpose for which John Hampton Themis was organizing the posse, he had come to the great man and begged with tears in his eyes to be granted the privilege of accompanying the party. At least he could make himself useful on account of his skill in the handling of dogs.
And Themis took him for the last reason as well as for the others which have been mentioned. Even if Hank was not cast according to the heroic mold of the others, he was a man of talent, and the party could not get on without his skill. He had “learned” dogs in his childhood, and he had never forgotten the lessons. Not that he particularly loved them, but he knew their ways, and he could handle them in the field.
This was the
more important to Themis because not the least important part of his posse consisted of the dogs. He had even sent to a distance and waited a week to secure a set of bloodhounds, and four of these long, low-geared, soft- eyed beasts were finally brought to him. Their noses were to be the first agency through which the trail would be unwound and the riddle solved.
But they were not the major portion of the dog pack. In addition, there were half a dozen mongrels of all sizes, shapes, and colors, but all valuable dogs on a bear trail where intelligence is needed. And it is an old tale that the nameless cur is the one with the peerless set of brains. Furthermore, the dog pack had its fighting, swift-running portion, consisting of eight big hounds with a strong strain of greyhound mixed with heavier and more powerful breeds. Two of them could pull down a timber wolf, for they were trained to fighting tactics. Four of them could worry a bear to death if they caught it in open country, and the eight could destroy any animal that walked if given a fair opportunity. Their noses were not altogether trustworthy, but when the trail was hot they could follow it well enough, and, the moment they had sight of the quarry and could get their heads up, they were off like eight streaks of murder bent on business.
There was another purpose for which those dogs could be used. While the bloodhounds were dawdling along the trail, untangling it slowly, but with the surety of death, these swift hounds would kill enough food for the entire pack. So long as there were rabbits in the mountains through which they trailed, there would be no need of worrying about the food of the pack.
Such was the pack with which Themis stood prepared to start on his journey. As for horses, there were two of the finest sort for each man. Hank Jeffries had his own mounts, and each of the other four had a fast horse. Their auxiliary mounts alone had to be furnished by Themis, and he bought them regardless of expense. Altogether, he had invested a pretty penny in that expedition before the news came which started it on the trail.
That news came suddenly by night. Into the very town of Turnbull itself the marauder had come, opened the store, and taken out a new and fine saddle. And, on this occasion, he left no payment of furs. It might be that he had run short in his supply. It might be that he had decided that it was nonsense to pay for what he could take without making an exchange. The probability was that, before the year was out, he would bring down something in payment. The storekeeper was willing to wait. He had already done profitable business with this strangely generous being. But the community was not willing to wait. These dips out of the mountains by the Indian, so often repeated, had made the town a laughingstock. And the next morning three distinct parties started on the trail.
The sheriff and his posse made up one. There was another, consisting of independent, irate citizens who had nothing better to do. And the third party was that of Themis himself. On the floor of the store was found a crudely made pair of moccasins which had been discarded in favor of a shopmade brand. Those discarded moccasins were given to the dogs to establish the scent, and straightway the bloodhounds raised their mellow call and started away. They wound around behind the village where the prints showed the marauder had walked leisurely. They came to the open, where he had begun to run with an amazingly long and regular stride. From that point he had darted across to the hills behind the Jeffries place. And in the trees there they found the spot where he had left his horse. Through the steep hills the three parties worked in unison, these grim and silent men. But presently the fugitive had descended into the more open and rolling country and had fled north.
And on that section of the trail the better horses of the Themis party quickly told the tale of their worth. All day they raced north, and long before nightfall, as the trail veered sharply to the left and entered the mountains again, the sheriff’s posse and the group of townsmen were left far out of sight to the rear.
CHAPTER XXI
AT THE FIRST steep hillside they noticed a peculiarity. The man had dismounted from the horse and had struggled up the ascent on foot. Among those ragged rocks, he had evidently figured that he could climb far better than his horse, and he took the burden of his weight out of the saddle. Themis gave his order instantly, and his men came grumbling out of the saddle. They were fellows who lived in the stirrups, every one of them. But, when they had struggled to the top of the incline, they appreciated the value of that order, for their horses were in good condition, not half so winded as if they had been under the pull of reins with a weight in the saddle during the labor.
It was a comparatively freshened lot of horses which now took up the journey across a rough, broken, upper plateau. But here another trail joined that of the horse. Hitherto, the bloodhounds had run steadily in the lead. But now the entire pack surged into the lead and left the bloodhounds far behind,
“Bear!” cried Hank Jeffries. “They’ve picked up a bear trail.”
And, sure enough, as they crossed a damp place near a natural spring which welled out of the ground, they saw the huge prints of a grizzly, the largest prints which Themis had ever seen. And his heart leaped. All the story rushed back upon his brain, and here was the proof of it. Horse tracks and bear tracks went side by side.
But now the twilight was beginning, and he ordered a halt. It might well be that with a single drive tomorrow they could run down the fugitive, but for that purpose it was far better that they should be rested, man and beast. So they camped beside a brook.
Hank Jeffries took the hounds, hardly touched with fatigue by the day’s work, to run down what he could in the hills near by. For the rest of the men, Dude Wesson took command and began giving orders sharply as soon as their horses had been hobbled and turned out to graze. With brief, sharp words he ordered one to arrange stones for the fire, he commissioned two to cut wood, and another was directed to help with the preparation of the food. And all obeyed without a murmur, for who does not stand in terror of the cook?
Themis himself made a point of taking up his share of the work, though it was long since he had spent such a day in the saddle, and he was thoroughly fagged. And, in a few moments, the fire was blazing, and food began to steam. Suddenly, Dude Wesson straightened beside the fire and pointed a stiff arm down the slope, then turned to his work again without a word. And Themis, looking in the designated direction, saw Gloria come riding toward them.
He was mute with wonder and anger. On she came! And, where the up-pitch began, she dismounted, just as he had made his men dismount. Up the slope she climbed as briskly as any youth could have done. On the edge of the plateau she mounted and came to them at a swinging canter. She dismounted at a little distance, unstrapped a pack behind her saddle, and unsaddled and hobbled her horse and turned it to graze with the rest. Then she came in, carrying the pack slung over her shoulder, the heavy saddle on the other arm.
“Glory!” cried her father, finding his tongue at last. “What on earth has come into your head? Have you gone mad?”
“Never used better headwork,” said Gloria mildly. “If I’d started out with you from town, you’d have sent me back by force, so I simply trailed you at a distance. It was very easy and perfectly safe. Not one of your entire gang looked behind during the trip. If the Indian had wanted to, he could have come in behind you and traveled along in perfect safety. I was in plain view twenty times. And, now that I’m this far away from civilization, Dad, you certainly can’t send me back through mountains infested with wild men!”
Themis groaned as the truth of what she had said came home to him.
“Glory,” he said bitterly, “I’ve spoiled you all your life. And this is the reward of my labor. But - don’t you see? I hired these fellows for a man trail. Do you think they can be bothered taking care of a woman in the midst of their other work?”
She jerked up her chin.
“Have I asked to be cared for?” she said hotly. “Not by any means. I’ve made up my own pack. I haven’t taken a thousand pounds of tinned stuff along, as you’ve done, to kill your horses. I’ve cut myself down to essentials. I hav
e a rifle and matches and salt and flour. I’ll kill my own meat.”
As she spoke, she threw down a newly killed and cleaned rabbit.
“I’ll make my own living, and I’ll carry my own burdens. And if Mary Anne can’t hold up her end with my weight on her back, I’ll walk home!”
She turned and whistled to Mary Anne. The dainty-footed chestnut tossed up her head and whinnied a soft response.
“Heaven help me!” and Themis sighed. “The man was never born who could talk you down.”
“Besides,” said Gloria suddenly, “I don’t think the men are so disgusted with me. Are you, Mr. Wesson?”
The unexpected appellation of “Mister” was a shock to Dude Wesson. He looked up with a scowl from his cookery. He found Gloria walking straight toward him. He got up and removed his hat - to rub his head. And suddenly the scowl melted from his face. A smile trembled like a frightened stranger on his lips, and he nodded.
“I guess you ain’t going to be much in the way,” said Dude graciously and returned, with a slightly heightened color, to his work.
John Hampton Themis simply filled his pipe and sat down to think and to watch. He had become a great deal of a philosopher since Gloria reached young womanhood. He had even referred to her as a “boiled-down education, hard to swallow but good for the insides.” He thought of that now as he watched her go down the slope to join the wood gatherers. There she wasted no time in greetings but picked up a discarded ax and presently was swinging it with a fine and supple strength. Even the abysmal brute, Red Norton, paused to observe her workmanship. And he found no fault with her. She was like Si Bartlett. She made up in skill what she lacked in power of body. She could send the ax home within a hair’s-breadth of her aim. And Red grunted with approval. And fact, in sheer hand magic, there was only one member of the party who excelled her, and that was the smiling and amiable young man-killer, Dick Walker.