The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  She ran blindly toward the house where her room was. On the way she passed at a little distance Dunc Boone and did not see him. His hungry eyes followed her--a slender creature of white and russet and gold, vivid as a hillside poppy, compact of life and fire and grace. He, too, was a miscreant and a villain, lost to honor and truth, but just now she held his heart in the hollow of her tightly clenched little fist. Good men and bad, at bottom we are all made of the same stuff, once we are down to the primal emotions that go deeper than civilization's veneer.

  CHAPTER VII

  "TRAPPED!"

  Black MacQueen rolled a cigarette and sauntered toward the other outlaw.

  "I reckon you better saddle up and take a look over the Flattops, Dunc. The way I figure it Lee's posse must be somewhere over there. Swing around toward the Elkhorns and get back to report by to-morrow evening, say."

  Boone looked at him in an ugly manner. "Nothin' doing, MacQueen."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm no greaser, my friend. Orders don't go with me."

  "They don't, eh? Who's major domo of this outfit?"

  "I'm going to stay right here in this valley to-night. See?"

  "What's eatin' you, man?"

  "And every night so long as Melissy Lee stays."

  MacQueen watched him with steady, hostile eyes. "So it's the girl, is it? Want to cut in, do you? Oh, no, my friend. Two's company; three's a crowd. She's mine."

  "No."

  "Yes. And another thing, Mr. Boone. I don't stand for any interference in my plans. Make a break at it and you'll take a hurry up journey to kingdom come."

  "Or you will."

  "Don't bank on that off chance. The boys are with me. You're alone. If I give the word they'll bump you off. Don't make a mistake, Boone."

  The Arkansan hesitated. What MacQueen said was true enough. His overbearing disposition had made him unpopular. He knew the others would side against him and that if it came to a showdown they would snuff out his life as a man does the flame of a candle. The rage died out of his eyes and gave place to a look of cunning.

  "It's your say-so, Black. But there will be a day when it ain't. Don't forget that."

  "And in the meantime you'll ride the Flattops when I give the word?"

  Boone nodded sulkily. "I said you had the call, didn't I?"

  "Then ride 'em now, damn you. And don't show up in the Cache till to-morrow night."

  MacQueen turned on his heel and strutted away. He was elated at his easy victory. If he had seen the look that followed him he might not have been so quiet in his mind.

  But on the surface he had cinched his leadership. Boone saddled and rode out of the Cache without another word to anybody. Sullen and vindictive he might be, but cowed he certainly seemed. MacQueen celebrated by frequent trips to his sleeping quarters, where each time he resorted to a bottle and a glass. No man had ever seen him intoxicated, but there were times when he drank a good deal for a few days at a stretch. His dissipation would be followed by months of total abstinence.

  All day the man persecuted Melissy with his attentions. His passion was veiled under a manner of mock deference, of insolent assurance, but as the hours passed the fears of the girl grew upon her. There were moments when she turned sick with waves of dread. In the sunshine, under the open sky, she could hold her own, but under cover of the night's blackness ghastly horrors would creep toward her to destroy.

  Nor was there anybody to whom she might turn for help. Lane and Jackson were tools of their leader. The Mexican woman could do nothing even if she would. Boone alone might have helped her, and he had ridden away to save his own skin. So MacQueen told her to emphasize his triumph and her helplessness.

  To her fancy dusk fell over the valley like a pall. It brought with it the terrible night, under cover of which unthinkable things might be done. With no appetite, she sat down to supper opposite her captor. To see him gloat over her made her heart sink. Her courage was of no avail against the thing that threatened.

  Supper over, he made her sit with him on the porch for an hour to listen to his boasts of former conquests. And when he let her take her way to her room it was not "Good-night" but a mocking "Au revoir" he murmured as he bent to kiss her hand.

  Melissy found Rosario waiting for her, crouched in the darkness of the room that had been given the young woman. The Mexican spoke in her own language, softly, with many glances of alarm to make sure they were alone.

  "Hist, señorita. Here is a note. Read it. Destroy it. Swear not to betray Rosario."

  By the light of a match Melissy read:

  "Behind the big rocks. In half an hour.

  "A Friend." What could it mean? Who could have sent it? Rosario would answer no questions. She snatched the note, tore it into fragments, chewed them into a pulp. Then, still shaking her head obstinately, hurriedly left the room.

  But at least it meant hope. Her mind flew from her father to Jack Flatray, Bellamy, young Yarnell. It might be any of them. Or it might be O'Connor, who, perhaps, had by some miracle escaped.

  The minutes were hours to her. Interminably they dragged. The fear rose in her that MacQueen might come in time to cut off her escape. At last, in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand, she stole into the hall, out to the porch, and from it to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

  It was a night of both moon and stars. She had to cross a space washed in silvery light, taking the chance that nobody would see her. But first she stooped in the shadows to slip the shoes upon her feet. Her heart beat against her side as she had once seen that of a frightened mouse do. It seemed impossible for her to cover all that moonlit open unseen. Every moment she expected an alarm to ring out in the silent night. But none came.

  Safely she reached the big rocks. A voice called to her softly. She answered, and came face to face with Boone. A drawn revolver was in his hand.

  "You made it," he panted, as a man might who had been running hard.

  "Yes," she whispered. "But they'll soon know. Let us get away."

  "If you hadn't come I was going in to kill him."

  She noticed the hard glitter in his eyes as he spoke, the crouched look of the padding tiger ready for its kill. The man was torn with hatred and jealousy.

  Already they were moving back through the rocks to a dry wash that ran through the valley. The bed of this they followed for nearly a mile. Deflecting from it they pushed across the valley toward what appeared to be a sheer rock wall. With a twist to the left they swung back of a face of rock, turned sharply to the right, and found themselves in a fissure Melissy had not at all expected. Here ran a little cañon known only to those few who rode up and down it on the nefarious business of their unwholesome lives.

  Boone spoke harshly, breaking for the first time in half an hour his moody silence.

  "Safe at last. By God, I've evened my score with Black MacQueen."

  And from the cliff above came the answer--a laugh full of mocking deviltry and malice.

  The Arkansan turned upon Melissy a startled face of agony, in which despair and hate stood out of a yellow pallor.

  "Trapped."

  It was his last word to her. He swept the girl back against the shelter of the wall and ran crouching toward the entrance.

  A bullet zipped--a second--a third. He stumbled, but did not fall. Turning, he came back, dodging like a hunted fox. As he passed her, Melissy saw that his face was ghastly. He ran with a limp.

  A second time she heard the cackle of laughter. Guns cracked. Still the doomed man pushed forward. He went down, struck in the body, but dragged himself to his feet and staggered on.

  All this time he had seen nobody at whom he could fire. Not a shot had come from his revolver. He sank behind a rock for shelter. The ping of a bullet on the shale beside him brought the tortured man to his feet. He looked wildly about him, the moon shining on his bare head, and plunged up the cañon.

  And now it appeared his unseen tormentors were afraid he might escape them. Half a dozen s
hots came close together. Boone sank to the ground, writhed like a crushed worm, and twisted over so that his face was to the moonlight.

  Melissy ran forward and knelt beside him.

  "They've got me ... in half a dozen places.... I'm going fast."

  "Oh, no ... no," the girl protested.

  "Yep.... Surest thing you know.... I did you dirt onct, girl. And I've been a bad lot--a wolf, a killer."

  "Never mind that now. You died to save me. Always I'll remember that."

  "Onct you 'most loved me.... But it wouldn't have done. I'm a wolf and you're a little white lamb. Is Flatray the man?"

  "Yes."

  "Thought so. Well, he's square. I rigged it up on him about the rustling. I was the man you liked to 'a' caught that day years ago."

  "You!"

  "Yep." He broke off abruptly. "I'm going, girl.... It's gittin' black. Hold my hand till--till----"

  He gave a shudder and seemed to fall together. He was dead.

  Melissy heard the sound of rubble slipping. Some one was lowering himself cautiously down the side of the cañon. A man dropped to the wash and strutted toward her. He kept his eyes fixed on the lifeless form, rifle ready for action at an instant's notice. When he reached his victim he pushed the body with his foot, made sure of no trap, and relaxed his alertness.

  "Dead as a hammer."

  The man was MacQueen. He turned to Melissy and nodded jauntily.

  "Good evening, my dear. Just taking a little stroll?" he asked ironically.

  The girl leaned against the cold wall and covered her face with her arm. She was sobbing hysterically.

  The outlaw seized her by the shoulders and swung her round. "Cut that out, girl," he ordered roughly.

  Melissy caught at her sobs and tried to check them.

  "He got what was coming to him, what he's been playing for a long time. I warned him, but the fool wouldn't see it."

  "How did you know?" she asked, getting out her question a word at a time.

  "Knew it all the time. Rosario brought his note to me. I told her to take it to you and keep her mouth shut."

  "You planned his death."

  "If you like to put it that way. Now we'll go home and forget this foolishness. Jeff, bring the horses round to the mouth of the gulch."

  Melissy felt suddenly very, very tired and old. Her feet dragged like those of an Indian squaw following her master. It was as though heavy irons weighted her ankles.

  MacQueen helped her to one of the horses Jackson brought to the lip of the gulch. Weariness rode on her shoulders all the way back. The soul of her was crushed beneath the misfortunes that oppressed her.

  Long before they reached the ranch houses Rosario came running to meet them. Plainly she was in great excitement.

  "The prisoners have escaped," she cried to MacQueen.

  "Escaped. How?" demanded Black.

  "Some one must have helped them. I heard a window smash and ran out. The young ranger and another man were coming out of the last cabin with the old man. I could do nothing. They ran."

  They had been talking in her own language. MacQueen jabbed another question at her.

  "Which way?"

  "Toward the Pass."

  The outlaw ripped out an oath. "We've got 'em. They can't reach it without horses as quick as we can with them." He whirled upon Melissy. "March into the house, girl. Don't you dare make a move. I'm leaving Buck here to watch you." Sharply he swung to the man Lane. "Buck, if she makes a break to get away, riddle her full of holes. You hear me."

  A minute later, from the place where she lay face down on the bed, Melissy heard him and his men gallop away.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AN ESCAPE AND A CAPTURE

  Far up in the mountains, in that section where head the Roaring Fork, One Horse Creek, and the Del Oro, is a vast tract of wild, untraveled country known vaguely as the Bad Lands. Somewhere among the thousand and one cañons which cleft the huddled hills lay hidden Dead Man's Cache. Here Black MacQueen retreated on those rare occasions when the pursuit grew hot on his tracks. So the current report ran.

  Whether the abductors of Simon West were to be found in the Cache or at some other nest in the almost inaccessible ridges Jack Flatray had no means of knowing. His plan was to follow the Roaring Fork almost to its headquarters, and there establish a base for his hunt. It might take him a week to flush his game. It might take a month. He clamped his bulldog jaw to see the thing out to a finish.

  Jack did not make the mistake of underestimating his job. He had followed the trail of bad men often enough to know that, in a frontier country, no hunt is so desperate as the man-hunt. Such men are never easily taken, even if they do not have all the advantage in the deadly game of hide and seek that is played in the timber and the pockets of the hills.

  And here the odds all lay with the hunted. They knew every ravine and gulch. Day by day their scout looked down from mountain ledges to watch the progress of the posse.

  Moreover, Flatray could never tell at what moment his covey might be startled from its run. The greatest vigilance was necessary to make sure his own party would not be ambushed. Yet slowly he combed the arroyos and the ridges, drawing always closer to that net of gulches in which he knew Dead Man's Cache must be located.

  During the day the sheriff split his party into couples. Bellamy and Alan McKinstra, Farnum and Charlie Hymer, young Yarnell and the sheriff. So Jack had divided his posse, thus leaving at the head of each detail one old and wise head. Each night the parties met at the rendezvous appointed for the wranglers with the pack horses. From sunrise to sunset often no face was seen other than those of their own outfit. Sometimes a solitary sheep herder was discovered at his post. Always the work was hard, discouraging, and apparently futile. But the young sheriff never thought of quitting.

  The provisions gave out. Jack sent back Hal Yarnell and Hegler, the wrangler, to bring in a fresh supply. Meanwhile the young sheriff took a big chance and scouted alone. He parted from the young Arkansan at the head of a gulch which twisted snakelike into the mountains; Yarnell and the pack outfit to ride to Mammoth, Flatray to dive still deeper into the mesh of hills. He had the instinct of the scout to stick to the high places as much as he could. Whenever it was possible he followed ridges, so that no spy could look down upon him as he traveled. Sometimes the contour of the country drove him into the open or down into hollows. But in such places he advanced with the swift stealth of an Indian.

  It was on one of these occasions, when he had been driven into a dark and narrow cañon, that he came to a sudden halt. He was looking at an empty tomato can. Swinging down from his saddle, he picked it up without dismounting. A little juice dripped from the can to the ground.

  Flatray needed no explanation. In Arizona men on the range often carry a can of tomatoes instead of a water canteen. Nothing alleviates thirst like the juice of this acid fruit. Some one had opened this can within two hours. Otherwise the sun would have dried the moisture.

  Jack took his rifle from its place beneath his legs and set it across the saddle in front of him. Very carefully he continued on his way, watching every rock and bush ahead of him. Here and there in the sand were printed the signs of a horse going in the same direction as his.

  Up and down, in and out of a maze of crooked paths, working by ever so devious a way higher into the chain of mountains, Jack followed his leader. Now he would lose the hoofmarks; now he would pick them up again. And, at the last, they brought him to the rim of a basin, a bowl of wooded ravines, of twisted ridges, of bleak spurs jutting into late pastures almost green. It was now past sunset. Dusk was filtering down from the blue peaks. As he looked a star peeped out low on the horizon.

  But was it a star? He glimpsed it between trees. The conviction grew on him that what he saw was the light of a lamp. A tangle of rough country lay between him and that beacon, but there before him lay his destination. At last he had found his way into Dead Man's Cache.

  The sheriff lost no time, for he
knew that if he should get lost in the darkness on one of these forest slopes he might wander all night. A rough trail led him down into the basin. Now he would lose sight of the light. Half an hour later, pushing to the summit of a hill, he might find it. After a time there twinkled a second beside the first. He was getting close to a settlement of some kind.

  Below him in the darkness lay a stretch of open meadow rising to the wooded foothills. Behind these a wall of rugged mountains encircled the valley like a gigantic crooked arm. Already he could make out faintly the outlines of the huddled buildings.

  Slipping from his horse, Jack went forward cautiously on foot. He was still a hundred yards from the nearest hut when dogs bayed warning of his approach. He waited, rifle in hand. No sign of human life showed except the two lights shining from as many windows. Flatray counted four other cabins as dark as Egypt.