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

by Unknown

  Ruth had returned with Steve's pony. Her heart beat fast with excitement. An instinct told her they were about to come to grips in epic struggle.

  "You're mighty high-heeled now when you got a gun thrown on me. Put it in the discard and I'll beat the life out o' you," threatened the prizefighter.

  Not releasing the other man with his eyes, Yeager lent one hand to help Ruth mount. He gave clear, curt instructions in a level voice.

  "Take all three horses and ride to the edge of the mesa. Wait there. One of us--either him or me--will come up there after a while. If it's him, take all the horses and light out. Keep the moon on your left and ride straight forward till daybreak. You'll see a gash in the hills about where the sun rises. That's Sieber's Pass. The boys will be waiting for you. Understand?"

  "Yes, but--What are you going to do, Steve?" she cried almost in a whisper.

  "That's my business--and I'm going to attend to it. Keep your mind on the directions I've given. If it's Harrison that comes up over the hill, get right out with all the horses. Gimme your promise on that."

  Trembling, she gave it to him.

  "Don't you be afraid. No need of that. It won't be him. It'll be me that comes. But if it should be him, don't let him get close. Shoot him first. It will be to save you from worse than death. Have you got the nerve to do it?"

  Something in his manner, in his voice, rang a bell in her heart. She nodded, her throat too dry for speech.

  "All right. Go now. And don't make any mistake whatever you do. Follow out exactly what I've told you."

  Again she promised. He handed to her the rifle. She rode away, taking the other horses with her.

  When she was out of sight in a dip of the draw, Harrison spoke.

  "Well, what is it to be? I see you got your gats yet. Going to shoot me down like a coyote?"

  "That's what you deserve. That's what you'd get if the Lazy B boys got hold of you. But I'm going to kill you with my bare hands, you wolf."

  With what seemed a single motion of his hands he unbuckled the revolver belt from his waist and flung it from him. Crouched like a tiger, he moved slowly forward, the flow of his muscles rhythmic and graceful.

  The prizefighter could scarce believe his luck. He threw out his salient chin and laughed triumphantly. "You damned fool! I've got you at last. I've got you."

  Light as a panther, Yeager lashed out with his left and caught flush the point of that protruding chin. The grinning head went back as if it had been on hinges. Shoulders, buttocks, and heels hit the ground together. The range-rider was on him as a terrier lights on a rat. Jarred though his brains were, the instinct of self-preservation served the man underneath. He half turned, flung an arm around the neck of his foe, and clung tightly even while he covered up. Steve's fist hammered at the back of the close-cropped head. The prizefighter swung over, face down, rose to his hands and knees by sheer strength, then reached for his neck grip again.

  Yeager eluded him, throwing all his weight forward to force his opponent down again. Harrison gave suddenly. They rolled over and over, fighting and clawing like wild cats, two bipeds in a death struggle as fierce and ruthless as that between wolves or grizzlies. No words were spoken. They were back in the primitive Stone Age before speech was invented. Snarling and growling, they fought with an appalling fury.

  Presently they were back on their feet again. Toe to toe they stood, rocking each other with sledgehammer blows. Blood poured from the beaten faces of both. Harrison clinched. They staggered to and fro before they went down heavily, Yeager underneath. The prizefighter thrust his right forearm under the chin of his enemy and with his left thumb and middle finger gouged at the eyes of the man beneath him. Steve's legs moved up, encircled those of the rustler, and swiftly straightened. With a bellow of pain Harrison flung himself free and clambered to his feet. The legs of his trousers had been ripped open for a foot. Blood streamed from his calves where the sharp rowels of the range-rider's spurs had torn the flesh.

  They quartered over the ground many times as they fought. Sometimes they were on their feet slogging hard. Once, at least, they crouched knee to knee. Lying on the ground, they struck no less furiously and desperately. All sense of fair play, of sportsmanship, was gone. They struggled to kill and not be killed.

  Their lungs labored heavily. They began to stagger as they moved. The muscles of their arms lost their resilience. Their legs dragged as though weighted. Harrison was, if a choice might be made, in worse case. He was the stronger man, but he lacked the tireless endurance of the other. Watching him with animal wariness, Yeager knew that the man who went down first would stay down. His enemy was sagging at the knees. He could with difficulty lift his arms. He fought only in spurts. All this was true of himself, too. But somewhere in him was that dynamic will not to be beaten that counted heavily as a reserve.

  The prizefighter called on himself for the last attack. He stumbled forward, head down, in a charge. An aimless blow flung Steve against the trunk of the live-oak. His arms thrashing wildly, Harrison plunged forward to finish him. The cowpuncher ducked, lurched to one side. Against the bark of the tree crashed the fist of the other, swinging him half round.

  Yeager flung himself on the back of his foe. Human bone and flesh and muscle could do no more. The knees of Harrison gave and he sank to the ground, his head falling in the spring. His opponent, breathless and exhausted, lay motionless on top of him. For a time both lay without stirring. The first to move was Steve. He noticed that the nose and mouth of the senseless man lay beneath the water. By exerting all his strength he pulled the battered head almost out of the water. Very slowly and painfully he got to his feet. Leaning against the tree for support, he looked down at the helpless white face of the man he had hated so furiously only a few minutes earlier. That emotion had entirely vanished. It was impossible to feel any resentment against that bruised and bleeding piece of clay. Steve was conscious only of a tremendous desire to lie down and go to sleep.

  He laved his face with water as best he could, picked up the belt he had thrown away, and drunkenly climbed the hill toward Ruth.

  She cried out at sight of him with a heart of joy, but as he lurched nearer she slid from the horse and ran toward him. Could this be the man she had left but half an hour since so full of vital strength and youth? His vest and shirt were torn to ribbons so that they did not cover the mauled and bruised flesh at all. Every exposed inch of his head and body had its wounds to show. He was drenched with blood. The sight of his face wrung her heart.

  "What did he do to you?" she cried with a sob, slipping an arm round his waist to support him.

  "I said I'd be the one to come," he told her as he leaned against the neck of his pony.

  "Oh, why did you do it?" And swiftly on the heels of that cry came the thought of relief for him. "I'll get you water. I'll bathe your wounds."

  "No. We've got to get out of here. Any time some of Pasquale's men may come. His camp is not far."

  "But you can't go like that. You're hurt."

  "That's all right. Nothing the matter with me. Can you get on alone?"

  "Can you?" she asked in turn, after she had swung to the saddle.

  He had to try it three times before he succeeded in getting into the seat. So weak was he that as the horse moved he had to cling with both hands to the pommel of the saddle to steady himself. Ruth rode close beside him, all solicitude and anxiety.

  "You ought not to be riding. I know your wounds hurt you cruelly," she urged in a grave and troubled voice.

  "I reckon I can stand the grief. When I've had a bath and a good sleep I'll be good as new."

  She asked timidly the question that filled her mind. "Did you--What about him?"

  "Did I kill him? Is that what you mean?"

  "Yes," she murmured.

  "No, I reckon not. He was lying senseless when I left, but I expect he'll come to."

  "Oh, I hope so ... I do hope so."

  He looked at her, asking no questions. Some men w
ould have broken into denunciation of the scoundrel, would have defended the course they had followed. This man did neither the one nor the other. She might think what she pleased. He had fought from an inner compulsion, not to win her applause. No matter how she saw it he could offer no explanations or apologies.

  "I hope so because--because of you," she continued. "Now I know him for what he is. I'm through with him for always." Then, in a sudden burst of frankness: "I never did trust him, really."

  "You've had good luck. Some women find out things too late," he commented simply.

  After that they rode in silence, except at long intervals when she asked him if he was in pain or too tired to travel. The lightening of the sky for the coming dawn found them still in the saddle with the jagged mountain line rising vaguely before them in the darkness like a long shadow. Presently they could make out the gash in the range that was Sieber's Pass.

  "Some of the boys will be waiting there for us, I reckon," Steve said. "They'll be glad to see you safe."

  "If I'm safe, they'll know who brought it about." Her voice trembled as she hurried on: "I can't thank you. All I can say is that I understand from what you saved me."

  He looked away at the distant hills. "That's all right. I had the good luck to be in the right place. Any of the boys would have been glad of the chance."

  After a time they saw smoke rising from a hollow in the hills. They were climbing steadily now by way of a gulch trail. This opened into a draw. A little back from the stream a man was bending over a camp-fire. He turned his head to call to a second man and caught sight of them. It was Orman. He let out a whoop of gladness when he recognized Ruth. Others came running from a little clump of timber.

  Phil lifted his sister from the saddle and kissed her. He said nothing, since he could not speak without breaking down.

  Jackson looked at Steve in amazement. "You been wrastling with a circular saw?" he asked.

  It hurt Yeager's broken face to smile, but he attempted it. "Had a little difference of opinion with Chad. We kind o' talked things over."

  Nobody asked anything further. It is the way of outdoor Arizona to take a good deal for granted. This man was torn and tattered and bruised. His face was cut open in a dozen places. Purple weals and discolorations showed how badly his body had been punished. He looked a fit subject for a hospital. But every one who looked into his quiet, unconquered eyes knew that he had come off victor.

  "First off, a bath in the creek to get rid of these souvenirs Chad sent to my address. Then it's me for the hay," he announced.

  Ruth watched him go, lean, sinewy, and wide-shouldered. His stride was once more light and strong, for with the passing hours power had flowed back into his veins. She sighed. He was a man that would go the limit for his friends. He was gentle, kindly, full of genial and cheerful courage. But she knew now there was another side to him, a quality that was tigerish, that snarled like a wolf in battle. Why was it that men must be so?

  Old Dan chuckled. "Ain't he the lad? Stove up to beat all get-out. But I'd give a dollar Mex to see the other man. He's sure a pippin to see this glad mawnin'."

  Something of what was groping in her mind broke from Ruth into words. "Why do men fight like that? It's dreadful."

  Dan scratched his shiny bald head. "It straightens out a heap of things in this little old world. My old man used to say to me when I was a kid, 'Son, don't start trouble, but when it's going, play yore hand out.' That's how it is with Steve. He ain't huntin' trouble anywhere, but he ce'tainly plays his hand out."

  Phil took charge of his sister. He gave her coffee and breakfast, then arranged blankets so that she could get a few hours' sleep in comfort. Orman rode back to Los Robles to carry the word to Mrs. Seymour that Ruth had been rescued and was all right. The others lounged about camp while Yeager and the girl slept.

  At noon they were wakened. Coffee was served again, after which they rode down from the pass and started home. Before supper-time they were back in Los Robles.

  CHAPTER XV

  STEVE WINS A HAM SANDWICH

  Yeager was roused from sleep next morning by a knock at the door. His visitor was Fleming Lennox, leading man of the company.

  "Say, Steve, what about Threewit and Farrar? I just telephoned to the Lazy B Ranch and the foreman says his boys did not run across them. You know what that means. They've reached old Pasquale's camp."

  Yeager sat up in bed and whistled softly to himself. This was a contingency he had not foreseen. What would the Mexican chief do to two of the range-rider's friends who delivered themselves into his hands so opportunely? Steve did not think he would kill them offhand, but he was very sure they would not be at liberty to return home. Moreover, Harrison would be on the ground, eager for revenge. The prizefighter never had liked Farrar. He had sworn to get even with Threewit. An added incentive to this course was the fact that he knew them both to be on very good terms with his chief enemy. Without doubt Chad would do his best to stimulate the insurgent leader to impulsive violence.

  The man in bed concealed his apprehension under a comical grin. "This life's just one damned thing after another, looks like," he commented. "I didn't figure on that. I thought sure the boys would bump into Threewit. That slip-up surely spills the beans."

  "You don't think even Pasquale would dare hurt them, do you?" asked Lennox anxiously.

  "Search me. Pasquale's boiled in p'ison, especially when he is drunk. He'd do whatever he had a mind to do."

  "What's the matter with us sending a messenger down there with a fake wire from the old man to Threewit telling him to hustle up and get busy right away on a feature film? Pasquale would have to show his hand, anyhow. We'd know where we were at."

  Yeager assented. "He'd have to turn them loose or hold them. But even if he turned them loose, he might arrange to have them accidentally killed by bandits before they reached home. Still, it would put one thing right up to him--that their friends know where they are and are ready to sick Uncle Sam on him if he don't act proper."

  Manderson, Miss Winters, and Daisy Ellington were called into council after breakfast. The situation was canvassed from all sides, but in the end they stood where they had been at the beginning. Nobody felt sure what Pasquale would do or knew whether the visitors at his camp would be detained as prisoners. The original suggestion of Lennox seemed the best under the circumstances.

  Old Juan Yuste was brought in from the stables and given the telegram. He was told nothing except that it was urgent that Threewit get the message as soon as possible. The five-dollar gold-piece which Lennox tossed to the Mexican drew a grin that exposed a mouth half empty of teeth.

  In the absence of both Threewit and Farrar the business of producing films was at a standstill. The members of the company took an enforced holiday. Manderson read a novel. Daisy wrote letters. Lennox and Miss Winters went for a long stroll. Steve helped Baldy Cummings mend broken saddles and other property stuff. The extras played poker.

  Juan returned late in the evening on the second day. He brought with him a letter addressed to Lennox. It was from Pasquale. The message was written in English. It said:--

  Greetings, señor. Your friends are the guests of General Pasquale. They came to Noche Buena to find one Señor Yeager. They are resolved to stay here until he is found by them, even though they remain till the day of their death.

  The note was signed, "Siempre, Gabriel Pasquale."

  After reading, it, Yeager handed the note back to Lennox and spoke quietly.

  "Pasquale passes the buck up to me. I've been thinking he might do that."

  "You mean--?"

  "--That he serves notice he's going to kill our friends if I don't give myself up to him."

  "But would he? Dare he?"

  Yeager shrugged. "It will happen in the usual Mexican way--killed by accident while trying to escape, or else ambushed by Federals on the desert while coming home, according to the story that will be dished up to the papers. He will be full of regrets and apologi
es to our Government, but that won't help Threewit or Frank any."

  "Don't you think he's bluffing? Pasquale hasn't a thing against either of them. He surely wouldn't murder them in cold blood."

  "I don't know whether he is or not. But it's up to me to sit in and take cards. They went down to Noche Buena on my account. I'm going down on theirs."

  Lennox stared incredulously at him. "You don't mean you're going to give yourself up. Pasquale would hang up your hide to dry."

  "That's just what he would do, after he had boiled me in oil or given me some other pleasant diversion. No, I reckon I'll not give myself up. I'll join his army again."

  "I give it up, Steve. Tell me the answer."

  "As a private this time."

  "Fat chance you'll have, with Friend Harrison there to spot you, not to mention the old boy himself and Culvera."