by Max Brand
Here he paused and looked back.
“If you yell out,” he said, “or start kicking to make a noise, I’ll turn and kill you before I start on the rest of ’em!”
Lifting the stolen revolver significantly, he scowled with murderous intent upon the poor sheriff. Then he was gone beyond the range of the sheriff’s vision. He passed the door, behind which the six brave guards were waiting for the sheriff to finish his interview before they brought in the prisoner’s lunch. He went on to the main door of the jail and looked out.
At the hitching post outside stood the beautiful black horse on which he had ridden into his captivity. Idling upon the steps, were no less than half a dozen more men, rolling cigarettes, laughing and talking to one another.
Worst of all, in case he wished to make a sudden break, the beautiful black horse was tied fast by the reins.
“We’d better go in and see how the sheriff is coming on,” said someone from the guard room. “He seems to be pretty quiet by his talk!”
There were only half a dozen seconds left, perhaps. The Whisperer straightway used them. Upon his head he jammed the broad hat of the sheriff himself. Around his neck he jerked up the flaring bandanna which he wore. In this way the red of his hair was concealed. He now pulled the jail door wide open.
“All right, sheriff,” he called, and waved back into the interior.
At this, every eye was turned upward. Not at The Whisperer, but into the yawning void of the big jail door where they expected the famous figure of the sheriff to appear at once. And, being so close, it might be said that The Whisperer was made invisible by the blinding light which surrounded him. He, being The Whisperer, it was impossible that he should be walking out of the jail door, calling to the sheriff. It was impossible, and therefore their eyes would not see what was happening.
He walked calmly down, making his steps draggingly slow. Very deliberately he unknotted the reins of the sheriff’s horse. Very calmly he put his foot into the stirrup. Oh, murderous, slow seconds! How many deaths his agonized nerves made him die!
Then he knew by the sudden silence on the steps that they had finally centered all their attention upon him.
There came a whisper. He swung into the saddle.
“Hey, there!” called a strong voice. “Stop a minute!”
He turned deliberately upon them, at the same time jogging the black toward the corner of the building.
“So long, boys,” he said genially. “I hope that I’ll see you all soon!”
Just as he neared the corner, the blinding truth flashed upon every mind at once. There was a yell from half a dozen throats; half a dozen hands reached for guns. But at the sharp dig of the spurs the black had leaped past the corner of the jail, at the same time that the revolvers roared.
XXXI. SURMOUNTING OBSTACLES
AT THE SAME time that this cry broke out from the men outside the jail, there was a similar frantic roar from within it. It was at exactly this moment that the guards, entering the main room of the cells to learn why the sheriff’s talk with the prisoner was of such a silent nature, found, instead of two figures in The Whisperer’s cell, no one at all. They plunged down the aisle between the cells, and there they beheld an awful sight. For they saw the fat body of the sheriff lying prostrate upon the floor.
Half a dozen hands readily lifted him up. But how could they immediately free him from his irons? For the malicious criminal had carried the precious keys of the jail away with him, and with him, also, were the only keys within five hundred miles that could unlock those fetters.
But, in the meantime, while the guards realized what had happened, they raised a terrible whoop of fury. Their minds flashed far forward. They saw the entire town discredited forever on account of this jail break. They saw their pride dragged in the dust.
At this instant, even louder than their own, rang the yells of the startled cow-punchers outside the jail, and half a dozen Colts, barking as rapidly as agile fingers could press the triggers, poured currents of lead after the fugitive. Neither was the latter at once cut down, as could be inferred from the fact that the uproar at once turned the corner of the building and now wakened echoes up and down the entire length of the street. There began the hasty tattoo of horses getting underway, as riders flung themselves into saddles and began spurring, with one heel, before the other foot had reached its stirrup.
In the meantime, they had torn the gag from the mouth of the sheriff. He could only puff and gasp for a time, but then, regaining his breath, he roared: “Twenty thousand dollars for him, dead or alive!”
They did not wait to hear more. One and all, they turned and sprinted for the front door of the jail thinking only how much of a start the criminal and the lucky fellows outside the jail had upon them.
As for the sheriff, he had scoured the jail so effectually that there was not a soul to help him out. To increase his misery, the last man through the cell door had slammed it heavily behind him and left him doubly secured, both with bars and with fetters. The sheriff recalled that the miscreant outlaw had carried the keys away with him, and he considered the massive lock and wondered how long it would take to send to the nearest large town for a locksmith, and how long that locksmith would have to work before he could get the door open.
While all of this was going on, how many of the curious would assemble to stare through the bars at him? At this thought, the sheriff slumped down upon the cot with the cold perspiration running down his forehead. He felt that he was years and years older than he had been a brief five minutes before. He had lived longer in these briefly running seconds than in all his life before, multiplied many times. How completely was he shamed! He could remember only one thing, and that was the faint grin upon the face of Stephen Rankin as the latter stood upon the sidewalk and watched the triumph of the sheriff pass by him. Had Rankin guessed what was coming to pass so soon?
In the meantime, down the street whirled the cyclonic black horse with the rider flattened on his back, the reins gathered in one hand, a long Colt poised in the other, and the glitter of the sun upon the steel. Men said it was far less bright than the gleaming of his eyes, with the black mane of the horse sometimes blown across it.
Stephen Rankin had heard a noise in a distance. He had run out from his quiet little game of poker, and, by great good chance, he saw the fugitive speeding near, and he heard the thundered name from the crowd of mounted men who roared along in the rear of the black horse. He heard the name, too, shrilled by the tongues of women and children, sharper of ear than the men.
“The Whisperer!”
Rankin jerked out his gun. It was not a revolver. He had the highest contempt for such arms as a Colt. What he preferred was a burst of seven shots which followed one another in a thick stream at one pressure of the finger. He would probably kill both the man and the horse, but — why should such scruples make him hold his fire? He shrugged his thick, powerful shoulders. He remembered the evening in the forest, and the sudden, catlike speed of attack which had brought him down and made him foolishly helpless. So he picked up the automatic and drew a careful bead.
Then the muzzle of the Colt which The Whisperer carried jerked up, and vapor spurted from its mouth. A hammer-like blow struck Rankin on the right thigh, and caved in his leg. He went down with a roar of rage, and his automatic roared at the same time and pumped seven holes in the harmless surface of the earth.
Before so much as another thought could pass through his head, the gleaming body of the black horse had slipped away down the street past him. The Whisperer had passed another danger, but not his last. The whole town had been alarmed as by magic. The exploding guns; the beginning thunder of many racing horses; the yells of the chase, the shouts of commands — all of these had echoed far and wide along the single street of the village, and every man was up and roused and ready for action.
They turned, naturally, to the street. Had it been straight, the whole course of the action must have been clear to them, and The Whisp
erer would have been lost. But what they heard was a wild tumult of shouting and guns. Then a single figure upon a beautiful black horse appeared, riding at top speed. Whether he was the pursuer or the pursued was not quite plain. It was only certain that he rode like mad.
By the time each would-be aider of the law knew how to act and saw the streaming mob behind the fugitive, by the time, perhaps, he had recognized the celebrated features of the outlaw shooting past him, The Whisperer was gone and away, and the dust cloud was whipping up in his rear.
Such was the confusion of each man. But there was no confusion in the mind of Tony Caponi, the poor Italian who worked at his truck gardens in the early morning and half the night, so that he might have vegetables to peddle through the streets of the town during the day.
The instant he heard the noise he simply seized the bridle of his mule and wheeled the massive cart across the roadway. No matter what came, the ample dimensions and the Herculean woodwork of that cart guaranteed that it would give more damage than it received. So Tony Caponi stood to one side and folded his arms and waited. He was too weary to be excited. But he was at least mildly interested.
At once the flying black horse appeared. The rider straightened in the saddle when he saw the sudden obstacle before him. There was no way to get around it. For it was placed as though by the most dexterous design, just where the corner of the blacksmith shop jutted out on the one side, while the head of the mule reached to the front gate of Bill Sawyer’s place. The road, in fact, was completely blockaded, and the black horse threw up its head, as though to inquire what was next to be done.
The outlaw looked over his shoulder. Behind him came three distinctly seen riders, slender, jockey-like figures perched upon blooded horses. For there was much good horseflesh upon this range. Many and many a cattleman had crossed thoroughbred stock upon the mustang breed, and produced a longer-legged, fast racer; and these in turn had been crossed again upon the thoroughbred until at last there was hot blood indeed in the veins of the progeny. It was not hard to tell that the fore-runners of the mob were so mounted. So was The Whisperer, himself, upon the black. But his mount was at least equaled by those behind him, and the weight of the three leading riders was less than his own. Speed of foot could never save him, then. Speed of brain must serve his steed.
He made his estimate quickly. Then he aimed the black at the lowest and narrowest point in the obstacle before him. In a word, he aimed at the mule. The black had never jumped in its life; at least, it had never jumped with a man on its back, but there was no hesitation in his heart. It gathered speed again as the spurs went home. It shook its valiant head, then gathered for the effort, and shot into the air.
For all its courage, that untrained power would not have succeeded had not the mule, seeing the flying danger approach, suddenly crouched. So he gave the black a few vitally needed inches. Even as it was, the heels of the good horse tapped on the backbone of the mule. Then the fugitive was over and struck the dust of the street beyond, floundered, regained balance, and darted away.
So the obstacle was surmounted, and now the worthy Italian was blocking the course of justice instead of helping it with a net to catch the prisoner. He saw his error at once, but before he could begin to swing the mule straight down the road, the dammed-up pursuit was boiling on the leeward side of his cart. Out of that press of horses, no one dared to attempt to jump.
One or two, giving up the effort to overtake the fugitive, and saying aloud that the devilish luck of the fellow would save his skin for this hundredth time as it had saved him before, rode to the head and back of the cart and pitched their rifle butts into the hollows of their shoulders as in the hope of taking a snapshot at the rider of the black. But the street curved in and out like a snake’s track, and they took their aim only at the end of the black’s tail, as horse and rider snapped out of view!
Now, however, the mule and the cart began to swing around. The instant there was room at head and foot, the cursing riders began to slip through, their spurs fastened in the quivering flanks of their steeds, and their resolution at the boiling point after this reverse at the hands of luck.
Instantly they straightened out on the street beyond. They rode like mad around the next curve, but alas, when they gained that commanding position, it was only to see that The Whisperer had indeed seized upon a most vital handicap. He was far ahead of them, riding the black smoothly and faultlessly, not needlessly exciting the strong runner with whip or spur, but talking to him cheerfully, and so lifting him gayly over the miles.
Their hearts failed them; but, just when they were despairing, they saw that The Whisperer was not omniscient, and that he had ridden into a most fatal error. For he had turned into that lane which ran through the orchard of Bob Meany; and half the men among the pursuers knew well enough that this orchard had been flooded only the day before, that the lane was deep with mud, that the orchard ground itself was simply an impassable bog, and that they could choose their own footing on a safe lane to the left of the orchard.
XXXII. THE HIDDEN MARKSMAN
THESE WISE ONES veered to the left, accordingly, as they came opposite the mouth of the chosen lane, lay forward along the necks of their horses, and gave them both whip and spur to reinforce their spirits. Down the lane they fled, their horses grunting with the effort of every stride.
In the meantime, the rest of the posse shot ahead to the entrance of the orchard lane, unknowing of the muddy fate which awaited them there. But, around the first turn, they were in the midst of it. Of the first three horses, two skidded twice their own length, and then crashed to the ground and lay buried half the thickness of their bodies in the slush and the dobe. The others hastily reined in their mounts, and the hasty checking of speed proved even more fatal to balance and footing. In an instant the tangle of horses and men became terrific. It was here, in this famous pursuit of The Whisperer, of which all the range was to talk soon after, that Craig and Peters received broken legs each, and that a dozen others were put out of commission for active work by their injuries. This was a serious matter.
The remnant of the men who had taken this course picked themselves and their horses out of the muck as best they might, and pushed ahead without staying to succor the groaning men who lay around them. They gathered headway just in time to see The Whisperer’s black shake the last of the mud from his feet on the farther side of the orchard, and come onto the dry land at a gallop.
But alas, poor Whisperer! How vitally the spirits of the black were spent by that struggle through the mud, and here upon the left came the better mounted half of the posse, as far behind as ever, to be sure, but upon mounts which had not had their powers vitiated by that struggle through the dobe, far worse than a climb up the steepest of hills.
He himself saw the mischief which had been done as soon as the gallant black straightened away. For the stride of the gelding was neither as long nor as springy as before. Then he heard the roar of hoofs stamping up on his left, and, veering in the saddle, he thought they must be phantoms whom he saw coming so freshly, gaining at every stride. Then he understood; there had been another way through. There had been another and dry-footed way to come through the orchard, and the wiser half of the posse had taken that way!
From that moment he began to confess himself beaten. Not that he would surrender. Ah, no! He had resolved fully to die before surrender could be pressed upon him. He began to lighten his good horse. Behind the saddle there was a small pack strapped there for the sheriff. He cut it away. He went through the holsters.
There was an extra revolver in its heavy holster on the left side of the saddle as well as the one in his right hand. With a touch of his knife he cut that holster away. He slashed through the one on the right-hand side, for he carried that gun in his hand. He found the little hamper of cartridges for the sheriff’s Colts. This he threw away without hesitation, for there remained five shots in the cylinder of his gun — four shots for defense and one shot to finish himself, he
vowed. Then he went on through his own pockets. But there was nothing of weight there. Presently, however, he slipped out of his coat and threw that fluttering behind him.
Now, having lightened the burden of the black as much as he could, he took stock of the pursuit. They were coming hard and fast. The thick ranks were now thinned out. He would have been far happier to see a dense mob, crowding one another from the way, choking one another with the dust they raised, confusing each mind with their clamor and their disputes, wearing away nerves with their uproar and their excitement. But out of all the original mob, there remained only eight men.
These were chosen mettle, both man and beast; stupidity or faulty riding, or weaker horseflesh had been weeded out long before. They were all the more formidable by the smallness of their numbers, for there were not enough of them to hamper one another. Instead, each man looked upon his fellows, saw in them approved and distinguished men of action, and felt himself heartened for the work which lay ahead. That it would be stern work, and attended by some loss of life, not one of them doubted. Yet they hung resolutely to the trail, and danger would never throw them back.
These things The Whisperer judged perfectly, by swinging around in his saddle and surveying each rider in turn. He also saw that they were gaining steadily, not forcing their horses and burning them out in a sudden effort to run down the prey, but letting superior wind show itself over a course of time.
He began to jockey his own horse as well as he could, throwing his weight farther forward, so that it would fall more over the withers, and then swinging his body with the swing of the brave horse. But all would not serve, for behind him the pursuit still gained. They were riding as he was riding. Their horsemanship was fully as good, their horses were on a par with him, and in addition some of them were lighter weights and not one of them had put his mount through the mud of the orchard.