by Max Brand
It was well after sunset when he started on again, and the red had faded to a faint stain along the horizon, and the stars were beginning to wink in the black upper arch of the sky before he came to the mouth of Salisbury Canon. It was like a gate to a ruined city. The wide, flat entrance was like a great avenue whose paving had been worn away by centuries; on either hand were huge towers of red stone, curiously sculptured by the wind; and after these sheer walls stretched away like ramparts with broken battlements. What lay within those gates he could not make out beyond a thick pool of the evening gloom broken by the shrill, wavering yelp of a coyote far away in the canon.
He had been told to reconnoiter that entrance before he attempted to pass through it, but just how he could maneuver he could not tell. And there was no scheme in his laboring brain to tell him what might be done. So, shrugging his shoulders, he rode slowly forward, very slowly. Coming in such a casual manner, it would be hard if he were recognized as an enemy. And, brutes though they might be, the men of Ramsay could hardly shoot him down before they had recognized him as one of the men of Harry Christopher.
He had passed within the outer line between the two natural turrets when he was hailed. He looked to the right and made out very clearly the long, faintly glimmering barrel of a rifle which peered out at him from among a cluster of rocks. That sight made his whole body quiver with the thundering of his heart. He checked a foolish impulse to spur his horse and dash on through the gap. Instead, he brought his mount to a halt and waited for an instant until he could speak with some control.
“Hello!” called Allan. “What’s up?”
“What’re you?” growled out the other.
“Tom Smith,” said Allan, “from the Circle Z Bar Ranch.”
He had seen some of the cattle with that brand on them wandering through the hills and Jim had explained the brand to him. For all he knew, this sentinel might know all about the Circle Z Bar outfit. If he did, there would be a rifle bullet through his body in short order.
“What’re you doin’ up here, Tom Smith?” asked the watcher behind the rifle.
“We missed some cows. I started out to find what I could. Thought that I’d camp in Salisbury Canon tonight. It’s too far to ride back to the ranch, and my horse is tired.”
“He looks tolerable rested to me.”
For something had stirred in the shadows, and Allan’s horse began to dance. He bit his lip and quieted the animal with a crushing pressure of his knees and a strong pull on the reins. He wished, for the moment, that he had not been given such a picked horse for the trip.
“He’s a nervous fool,” said Allan with some heat. “He can prance a long time after he’s played out.”
“I know them kind,” said the other more amiably. “I had a dog-gone red-eyed Roman-nosed fool once that used to act like he was on fire to go till you give him the reins and the spur, and then he backed up and done most of his travelin’ at a walk. But what made you pick out Salisbury Canon for a place to camp in?”
“There’s an old shack up the canon where I can get water, and I have enough chuck with me to cook supper and breakfast.”
“Since when did old Jeff start in sendin’ the boys out from the Circle Z Bar with chow in the saddle bag?”
“It’s a habit of my own. Jeff doesn’t do it.”
“You got a long eye for chances, then. I got to say that!”
“A man never can tell what may happen. One may ride into a canon, for instance, and be held up with a rifle and a man behind the rifle. What’s the trouble, partner?”
The other chuckled. “I’m here to tell folks that there ain’t no good campin’ in Salisbury these days.”
“Something wrong in the canon?”
“I’ll tell a man! Mighty queer thing, too. There’s a sort of a fever that catches gents in Salisbury Canon if they ask too many questions. I’ve knowed some that never got over it.” He enjoyed the obliquity of his own wit so greatly that he laughed aloud.
“Well,” said Allan with the utmost good nature, “I’m not going to try to get in if your gun says no.”
“It sure does! I see that fightin’ ain’t your middle name, Tom Smith.”
“I carry a gun for the look of it. That’s all.”
The hidden man snorted; perhaps in amusement, perhaps in contempt.
“How’s old Carey up to the ranch?” asked he.
“Fairly well,” said Allan.
“That’s so? I thought that the doctor had give him up.”
“Doctors make mistakes,” said Allan.
“They sure do. A doc give me up for a lunger, once. Look at me now!”
He rose, a shadow among shadows — tall, wide shouldered, a giant among men.
“You are big,” said Allan mildly.
He added, fumbling at his pockets: “I’ve dropped my Bull Durham. Got the makings, partner?”
The other hesitated. Plainly he did not wish to take any chances, but the good nature which had taken possession of him on account of the easy manners of Allan seemed to persuade him that there could be no danger here. He tucked the rifle under his right arm, with the muzzle still pointed at Allan and his finger on the trigger. Then he advanced with the “makings” held out before him.
When Allan came near enough to take them, he made out a face as formidable as the body of the stranger, a broad face, set off with a short, curling beard. And little, bright, agile eyes played over Allan and over his horse.
In the meantime, it was the first cigarette which Allan had ever attempted to roll, and after he had torn out the fluttering little filament of brown paper and sifted the tobacco into it as he had seen the cow-punchers often do, he went slowly on with the rolling. He had only seconds in which to act, now. In another moment his slowness would awaken the suspicions of the guard. And the rifle was still leveled squarely at him from under the arm of the big man.
“Your hoss ain’t sweated up much,” said the sentinel.
“I stopped a ways back while I was wondering whether I’d ride in or camp out. That gave him a chance to cool off,” said Allan.
“But they ain’t much sweat dried on him, neither. How come that?”
“These buckskins don’t sweat a great deal — any of them!”
“That’s true. When they begin to sweat they’re apt to be ready to drop. What’s the matter with your pill?”
“I tore the paper,” said Allan. And he allowed the makings to flutter to the ground.
“Well,” said the other, “darned if you ain’t unhandy! I ain’t tore a paper in the makin’ since I was a kid!”
“You haven’t?”
“I’m tellin’ you, no!”
“The trouble is in my hand,” said Allan. “Look at this.”
He held out his right hand toward the other and at the same time he loosened his foot in the stirrup on the farther side of his horse.
“What’s wrong with the hand?” asked the sentinel. “Don’t seem nothin’ queer about it to me. What’s wrong with it?”
“Nerves,” said Allan, and since that hand was now only inches from the face of the other, he thrust it suddenly forward, drove the fingers through that short, curling beard of black, and buried them in the thick, muscular throat beneath.
The other dropped the rifle and, gasping, reached up his right hand and tore away the tearing grip of Allan. But the latter was already lurching out of the saddle and as he fell he struck with a swinging left fist. It landed squarely upon the mouth of the stranger and smashed to nothing the cry which was beginning to form on the lips of the watcher. The force of the blow drove him staggering back. And then Allan was at him like a tiger, sparing no atom of his strength.
There might be, there probably were, other watchers near the mouth of the canon. They must not hear this struggle. Neither must the big man have an opportunity to cry out.
He cast his fist into the face of the big fellow again. It was like striking a rock, and now, with a snarl, the latter tore a revolver from
the holster at his hip. Under the swinging gun Allan dove. His shoulder bit against the hip of the stranger and both went down among the rocks. Then he felt the other’s body relax suddenly as though he had fallen into a sleep.
He got to his knees, panting.
The big man lay with closed eyes and crimson running from a gash in his head where the sharp edge of a rock had torn a furrow. Was he dead?
Allan had no time to stay to make sure, but, sick with horror, he swung back into the saddle and started through the entrance gate at a gallop. Once on the inside, he saw the glistening sands stretched far before him in the starlight. The black faces of the cliffs walled in Salisbury Canon on either side. All between them was plainly visible, and he knew, now, that there would be no obscurity on this night sufficient to shelter him. If only he could slip through the enemy unobserved —
That thought had hardly formed before a thick, heavy voice boomed behind him, and then the air was split by the ringing explosions of a rifle, fired rapidly.
28. TO THE STARVING
THROUGH THAT CLEAR mountain air the noises of the gun must pass from one end of Salisbury Canon to the other, with a thousand echoes clearly speaking back from the tall faces of the cliffs. There was no hope that he could escape unobserved, but at least he would not be foolish enough to remain in the center of the narrow little valley. He swung sharply to the right and brought his horse back to a jog. For he knew that a fast-moving object is far more easily caught by the eye of the watchful than the motionless or the slowly moving. Under the very shadow of the cliff he continued, and had hardly reached that position when he saw a flight of five horsemen spurring at full speed straight for the mouth of the canon. They swept past him not a hundred yards away, furiously bent on their goal.
That was the charge which he would have met had he not changed his course. They had not far to go, however, before there met them from the starlit gleam a shouting, ragmg, raving form on a great horse. Allan, glancing back, could see the figure dimly and hear the distant thunder of his voice. He saw, too, that the whole group instantly turned. In another instant, with a wild chorus of yells, they headed straight toward him. Even the screening shadows beneath the cliff had not been able to shield him from their hawk eyes. He loosed the reins, punished the buckskin with the spurs, and raced ahead.
It was a chosen horse, that buckskin, famous among the men of Harry Christopher. And it had been recently rested so that it could give of its best to Allan in this time of need. But though he urged it forward, the yelling behind him continued to gain, as though the strength of their fighting fury added power to the animals which they bestrode.
There was another purpose served by that clamor of theirs, however. It would serve as a warning to the men who waited up the canon, and who must already have been alarmed by the firing of the sentinel’s gun. Yes, even as the thought entered Allan’s mind he saw them come before him — a man here and another there — two more in the distance, stretched out in a thin, powerful line to sweep him back from the vicinity of the shack.
He saw that, and he looked back and watched the pursuers gaining. He decided, logically, that his case was hopeless, and then he went suddenly berserker. Another being poured into his body as it had come on the night when he hunted the watcher on the plateau after the robbery. Out of his lips came a cry that tore his throat and which yet gave him a thrill of the most exquisite pleasure.
The horse beneath him started, as though that cry meant more to it than quirt or digging spurs. It flashed ahead with redoubled speed, and the voices behind jerked away and grew smaller.
The four horsemen in front now converged, reining back their horses as they saw that they could focus on the point toward which he was driving. He saw them clearly, clearly in the starlight and even caught the glimmer of the weapons in their hands.
He swung the buckskin to one side. He turned again, and now he whipped the good horse straight at the enemy.
They sat their horses in a loose semicircle, emptying their revolvers. His own gun was out. No one could take careful aim when a horse was racing at such a speed. But he fired as he had been taught to fire — a mere gesture, pointing with the forefinger while the middle finger drew the trigger. He fired; the four still sat their horses unharmed. He chose the central form just ahead of him and fired again, while the horse, as the gun spoke close to its head, snorted with fear and ran faster than ever.
That central man no longer sat still in the saddle. He had cast out his arms wildly, as though he were attempting to run through darkness and feel his way. Then he toppled to the side and poured out of the saddle like a fluid thing. There he lay flat.on the ground, while his horse reared, wheeled, and shot off into the gloom.
Three men sat before him in a loose semicircle, in the midst of which there was now a gap. They sat calmly, taking good aim, firing fast. Then something like a clenched fist struck Allan on the side of the head and swayed him far across the saddle. It was like a fist blow, but it was also like the running of a red-hot point of steel across his scalp. Something warm began to run down his face, and he knew that a glancing bullet had struck him. Life had been spared him by a fraction of an inch!
He fired again; there were still three before him. He fired again; still three guns were spitting fire out of the darkness and a knife edge now slashed him across the right shoulder. There was a twitch and his hat was off; there was another jerk at his coat, where it bellied out at his side in the wind of his galloping. He fired again. Only two men sat their horses, and between the two, on the tips of the horns of the semicircle, he galloped the buckskin.
Allan saw, on either hand, how their guns flashed up and then hung in mid air, suspended like charmed things. They had found one another exactly in line with the fugitive, and they dared not fire for that instant. However, one stride more and, as he shot past them, their guns spat. He felt the good gelding stagger beneath him, but still the gallant horse kept on, and just in front, a scant three hundred yards away, was the shack where he would gain shelter and to which he would bring food for the famished!
He rode with a tight rein. Jim had told him that that was the manner to hold up a stumbling horse, and the buckskin was beginning to falter and to fail. But still, though it staggered, it kept valiantly on, and every stride meant yards and yards nearer to the shack.
From before him he heard a wild carnival of yelling — shrieking voices which he could hardly recognize as human. Why did they not fire to drive off the pursuers? Simply because they feared to kill him who brought them rescue, perhaps.
The saddlebag with its thirty pounds of provisions he loosed and tossed over his left arm. In case the good horse dropped, he would himself attempt to carry the thing on foot. A hundred yards was wiped away. Two hundred remained, and then the buckskin tossed up its head and fell with a human groan. Allan pitched into thinnest air and landed with a shock that tossed flame points of red across his mind.
It was only for an instant. Then he pushed himself slowly up on his hands. He was no longer pursued. The instant horse and man had fallen rifles were chattering from the shack, and that humming flight of lead drove back the men of Ramsay. The rifles were still barking, but when Allan raised his arm the firing ceased — a, wail of unhuman joy went shrilling up from the squat little hut while three of the garrison leaped out to his help. He needed no aid to rise and run in, with his precious burden over his arm. He cast one backward glance where the gallant buckskin lay dead. Chance alone had determined that the horse must die instead of the man, and here on his head, his shoulder, his side, were the hot needle stings which told him how near death had come to him.
If they could not carry him in, at least those lean-bellied, hollow-eyed, starving men surrounded him, beat his back, shouted, and danced with their joy. They swept him within doors.
“I have brought word from Christopher—” he began.
Let it have been word from heaven, they would not have paid attention to him. Their eyes were on the fat canv
as bag which hung over his arm, and their nostrils, keen with famine, seemed to have scented the bacon which was in it. After that, the half-starved men, wild with their fast of days, swept him into a corner with his tidings untold, and they fell to work at preparing the food. A fire roared in a trice, the bacon was sliced, the flour was stirred with salt and baking powder to make pone, and the exquisite aroma of coffee was floating in the air. They danced and they sang as they worked. They smote one another on the back, yelled and laughed like madmen. Half mad, indeed, they were.
Allan, in his corner, tended to himself. A bit of cracked mirror served him to dress the wound along his head. It was the merest scratch saving for a place near the back of the head where the flying bullet had bitten into the bone and delivered the blow which had so nearly stunned him. When the blood was now washed away, and a rag tied around the place, he became comfortable enough. The scratch on the shoulder was literally no more. It had caked the sleeve of his shirt with crimson. Otherwise it was nothing. He had various small bruises from the fall from the horse and particularly a swelling on the top of his head. But what are small things to one who has seen the very face of death and yet escaped to tell the story?
In the meantime, the food had been half cooked and the meal began, but it seemed to Allan that if these men were all off guard, now was the very time for so enterprising a ruffian as Ramsay to try a rushing attack, for surely he must know that food had been brought to the starving, and that they would forget danger in order to eat. So he took up a rifle and posted himself at the door, which swung half ajar. Behind him were the warm odors of the cookery, the joyous voices of the men. Before him was the quiet of the night and the soft gleaming of the star.
Who could have connected such a landscape with tragedy? Yonder something stirred in the shrubbery — perhaps that very prowling coyote which he had heard singing up the canon earlier in the evening. Another shadow stirred among shadows. And Allan brought the gun to his shoulder just as a human form crept out and began to move stealthily toward the shack. He took aim with unsteady hands, for all his nerves were twitching with excitement. He had been right, after all, in reading the mind of the bandit leader. Here they came, two, three, and four of them. Perhaps others were stealing up from other directions. If he paused to call for help, they might be at the shack in a rush. So he steadied the weapon as well as he could, and then pulled the trigger.