by Zane Grey
King made the shore fifty feet above his former landing, but he had to be helped in climbing the steep bank. Rollie landed safely behind, to be hauled up. Friday chose a less steep place to get up.
“My daughter?” asked Dann, almost voiceless.
“Safe,” replied Sterl, not looking at him and leaping to the ground. He waved his sombrero to Red and Larry, still on the other side of the river. They returned the wave, then waded in.
Sterl untied his lasso. “Get your rope ready,” he said to Rollie. “We might need it.”
Sterl had been aware of Leslie’s presence close beside him and a little back. Once she touched him with a timid hand, as if to see if he were really back in the flesh. They were all talking except Leslie. Finally she spoke in her deep contralto: “Sterl! Sterl?”
Then he looked around and down upon her, meaning to be kind, trying to smile as he said—“Hello, Kid!”—but she instinctively recoiled from his face. Sterl did not marvel at that. It had happened before to girls who approached him after a hard job. But how could he help it? Men had to kill other men. The wonder in him was that it made any difference in his face and look.
Sterl turned to watch the swimming horses as they entered the current. Sorrel, and Leslie’s other horses, hesitated but finally followed.
“Rollie, go below me. Everybody get back so I can swing this rope.”
Red and Larry were ten feet apart, heading evenly into the current. On account of Beryl, the crossing was more frightening than productive of thrills. If Red suddenly collapsed, which was unlikely, he would get Beryl to Larry in time. Sterl’s common sense asserted there really was no peril. Still accidents so often frustrated well-laid plans. It was just as well that the four riderless horses were far back.
They hit the current. All save the rider’s heads and that of the horses disappeared under the frothy upflinging waves. Duke, being a heavier horse, carrying a heavier burden, was swept downstream right upon Larry’s mount. For a moment it looked bad. But the lean noses came on abreast, and the shoulders of the riders rose higher—into plain sight. The onlookers watched another moment, tense and breathless, while the horses swept down with the current, at last to forge out of it, and again come straight for the bank. A cheer of released emotions rent the air. Duke, as powerful as if he had not performed miracles that day, waded out in King’s tracks. To make sure, Sterl roped Duke and hauled lustily to help him pound up the bank. Rollie helped Larry. No one thought of Leslie’s four horses, now making for shore.
Sterl held the heaving horse’s head and swiftly loosened the lasso noose. Stanley Dann crowded close, his eyes streaming tears, his bearded jaw wobbling, his great arms outstretched. With one shaking hand Red unfolded the dripping slicker and let it fall away from Beryl’s white face. If her eyes had not been wide open, wonderfully awake to that moment, she would have looked like a drowned girl.
Red lifted her form in front of him and bent down to yield her to her father’s eager arms.
“Dann, heah’s yore girl…safe…an’ sound,” Red said in a queer voice Sterl had never heard before. “An’ thet lets me out.”
What did the fool cowboy mean by that speech? wondered Sterl. Red had settled some strict deal to himself, not to anyone else there.
“Ormiston?” boomed the drover.
“Wal, the last we seen of thet bush-ranger, he was dancin’.”
Dann evinced an incredulity he did not voice, but all the others were audible and curious enough.
“Yep, dancin’ on thin air!” hissed the cowboy, and, with that, passion appeared to have spent its force, as well as his strength. “Where the hell air…you…pard?” he went on, in a strangely altered tone. “I…cain’t…see you. It’s…all dark! Aw, I…get it. Heah’s where…I cash!”
His staring blue eyes, as blank as dead furnaces, his tortured lean, gray face under the dripping bloody bandages told their tragic story as well as his words. He swayed and fell into Sterl’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-one
Larry helped Sterl carry Red across to Slyter’s camp and into their tent. For Sterl all this slow walk was fraught with icy panic. He forgot even a word to Rollie and Friday who followed with the horses. It might well be that Red had been more severely wounded than a superficial examination had shown. Absolutely he had overtaxed his strength. How like Red Krehl to have such a finish. It was wonderful. The fool cowboy would have died at Beryl’s feet to give the vain beauty everlasting remorse and grief. But Sterl suffered anguish at the mere thought of losing his more than brother, no matter how noble that end. Both of them had entered upon this ghastly trek with eyes wide open, boldly aware of a hundred desperate perils; they were young and supremely confident in powers that had brought them through the hard tests of the Texas frontier. Notwithstanding this, when Sterl faced his friend, lying so pale, so still, scarcely breathing, the moment was one of heart-wrenching torment.
“Get hot water…Larry,” faltered Sterl, flinging off some of his wet and bedraggled garments. Then he got out his kit from a grip. Larry returned, with Bill peering anxiously over his shoulder. They undressed Red, finding no more than the two wounds. They rubbed him dry, soaked his cold extremities in hot water, forced whiskey between his teeth. Then Sterl unbound the wounds, washed them thoroughly, and ruthlessly cut open the one on his back, and extracted the heavy bullet. It had gone under his collar bone, to spend its force, and stop just beneath the surface. No wound to bother Red Krehl! But the one Beryl Dann had done to his soul—to his intense and vivid love of life and her—that might be the serious one. Sterl dressed the shoulder injury, bandaged it, and went on with steadying hands to that bullet groove in Red’s scalp. Sterl could not be fearful over this, either. He had seen the cowboy laugh at scratches like this. But Sterl found evidence that Red had bled freely all during the ride back to the river. The water had washed him clean. But one of Red’s boots, however, had been half full of blood, very little diluted with water. There lay the danger. Drained of half his life’s current, that intrepid and vain-glorious and love-struck cowboy had worked a miracle. Too glorious for that heartless little flirt.
“Larry, I reckon we…can’t do more,” panted Sterl. “Give these wet things to Bill to dry out, and change yourself. It’s been a day.”
“The most terrible and wonderful of my life!” exclaimed Larry.
Sterl took a long pull at the flask Larry offered. It burned the coldness out of his vitals. Then he rubbed himself thoroughly and got into dry clothes.
“I’d feel all right, if only Red…,” he choked over the hope. But again his intelligence, his experience told him Red would live. He went out. It was almost dark, and the rain fell steadily. Under Bill’s shelter a bright blue blaze gleamed with shining rays through the rain. Bill had steaming vessels upon the gridiron.
“Eat and drink, lad,” said Slyter. “We have to go on, you know. How is Red?”
“Bad. Bled almost to death. But I hope…I…I believe he’ll recover.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m jake. Tired, though, I guess. Where’s Leslie, and the wife?”
“They’re still with Beryl. But they should be back any minute now.”
“How did the kid take the return of her horses?”
“Sterl, you wouldn’t believe it…the way that girl went over them. But it was a breakdown, from all this day’s strain, and the tremendous relief of your return.”
“Of course, that accounts for any violence. Leslie is deep…not one to crack easily.”
“My son, I very much fear Leslie is in love with you.”
“Slyter, I fear that, too,” Sterl replied ponderingly, a little bitterly. “I hope, though, that isn’t quite so bad as what happened to Beryl.”
“My wife says it’s good. Ormiston was after Leslie. So were the drover boys. We have trusted you, Hazelton.”
“Thanks, my friend. That’ll help some.”
The return of Slyter’s womenfolk put an end to that intimate talk, mu
ch to Sterl’s relief. Yet, still Slyter’s kindness had touched him. They threw off wet coats and stood before the fire, Leslie with her back turned and her head down. Mrs. Slyter appeared cheerful as she asked Bill if supper was ready. “Come, Leslie, you haven’t had anything but a cup of tea all day. Look at Sterl. If he can eat and drink!”
“I assure you it’s an effort,” said Sterl. Leslie turned then to flash a wholly inscrutable look upon Sterl from eyes wonderful and deep. “Leslie, how is Beryl?”
“I don’t know. She…she scared me,” replied the girl strangely.
“Shock and exposure, Sterl,” interposed Mrs. Slyter. “There didn’t appear to be any injury. She comes of good healthy stock. She’ll stand it. How is your friend Red? He looked terribly the worse for this day’s work.”
Sterl briefly told them his hopes for Red, omitting his fears. But that sharp-eyed psychic, Leslie, did not believe him. When Sterl looked at her, she averted her piercing gaze. Then Larry and Rollie came, with Benson, to stand back of the fire to await their turn.
“Leslie and I will take turns tonight, sitting up with Beryl,” said Mrs. Slyter.
“I’ll look after Red,” rejoined Sterl. “Reckon I can’t stay awake long. But I’d hear him. He never moved after we laid him flat.”
“Who shot him?” Leslie rang out suddenly.
“Les, you’ll have to be told, I suppose,” returned Sterl, in sober thoughtfulness. “Bedford shot Red first in the shoulder…and then Ormiston shot him in the head. Not serious wounds for a cowboy. But Red lost so much blood.”
“I heard Red say to Mister Dann…that about Ormiston dancing on thin air. I know…but Bedford?”
Slyter interposed: “Leslie, wait until tomorrow. Sterl is worn to a frazzle.”
Sterl wanted to get part of it over with, and he bluntly told Leslie that Red had killed Bedford.
“What did you do?” queried this incorrigible young woman unflinchingly.
“Well, I was there when it happened.”
That seemed to be all the satisfaction Sterl could accord the girl at that time.
“Thanks, Sterl. Please forgive my curiosity. But I must tell you that I asked Friday.”
“Oh, no. Leslie!” Sterl exclaimed, taken aback.
“Yes. I asked him what happened to Ormiston. He said…‘Friday spearum. Red shootum. Me alonga Red hangum neck. Ormiston kick like hellum. Then imm die!’”
It was not so much Friday’s graphic and raw words that shocked Sterl as the girl’s betrayal of the elemental. For once her parents did not reprimand her for indecorum, or what ever they might have deemed it. They were obviously too shocked themselves.
“Retribution,” Mrs. Slyter added in a moment. “That bastard stole Beryl from her bed. I’ll never forgive myself for believing she ran off with him.”
“Neither will I, Missus Slyter,” said Sterl, in poignant regret.
“I was afraid of it. Beryl was sweet again on him, lately,” replied the girl frankly.
“Sterl, Dann will want to see you. Let us go now, before Les and Mum loosen up,” suggested Slyter.
Glad to escape, although with a feeling for Leslie that he did not wish to analyze, Sterl accompanied the drover through the dark and rain. They found Dann at his table under a lighted shelter. Before him lay papers, watches, guns, money, and money belts.
“Hazelton, do I need to thank you?” queried Dann, his rich voice thick.
“Indeed, no, boss. I’m too happy to care for praise or reward. All I pray for is Red’s recovery.” And he told Dann of the cowboy’s wounds and condition.
“Please God, that wonderful cowboy lives! Slyter, our erstwhile partner, had thousands of pounds, some of which I recognize had belonged to Woolcott and Hathaway and are now put aside for their heirs. I appropriated what I consider fair for my loss. Do you agree that the balance should go to the cowboys, and Larry and Roland?”
“I do, most heartily,” rang out Slyter.
“Not any for me, friends,” interposed Sterl, as the leader held out Ormiston’s still bulky money belt. “But I’ll take it for Red. He deserves it. He uncovered this bush-ranger. He made our plan today, saved Beryl…and hanged Ormiston.”
“Terrible, yet…yet…. I’ll want your story presently. I’ve heard that of Larry and Roland. But they, of course, did not see your fight. Poor Drake! Too brave, too rash! Too…what shall I call it? You may not know that Drake was friendly with both Anderson and Henley. That may account…what a pity he had to find them unworthy…to see them seduced by a notorious bush-ranger, as I, too, was seduced…and kill them! Yet how magnificent!”
“It was, indeed,” replied Sterl, suddenly seeing Drake’s strange recklessness stand out illumined.
“Take this belt, Sterl, and give it to Red,” went on the leader. “Not as a reward, but as wages earned. Slyter, divide the rest of that with Larry and Roland.”
“Boss, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have Ormiston’s gun,” said Sterl restrainedly.
“You’re welcome to it. Now for your story, Sterl.”
Sterl told it as briefly as possible, but not slighting one single detail, even at the end. But Dann surprised him by the way he took the raw narrative. He flinched at Sterl’s graphic portrayal of the moment Friday’s spear sped through Ormiston’s bull neck, surely saving Red’s life, and perhaps the girl’s. And when Sterl told of the hanging of the bush-ranger—that brought the cold, clammy sweat to Dann’s brow and a convulsion to his huge frame. Otherwise, he took the narrative as one who had at last recognized the villainy of evil men and the righteous and terrible wrath of hard avengers whom he understood.
“I’m not one to rail at the dispensation of Providence,” said the leader at length. “How singularly fortunate we have been! I’ve a mind to let well enough alone, except to try to save the mob that rushed to its old grazing ground across the river.”
“That can be done, Dann, as soon as the river drops. But I think you’re wise not to attempt mustering the cattle that stampeded by us up there. Those two drovers, Herdman and Smith, will get away with one wagon, no doubt Ormiston’s, although we hid the harness, and some of Ormiston’s horses. If that herd bunches again and keeps along with the wagon, which is possible, those drovers might control them, a part of them anyhow. Let them go, Dann. We have more cattle now than we can handle. And seven less drovers.”
“Right-o, Hazelton. But I’ll send Larry and four men up there tomorrow to fetch back two of the wagons, if possible, and any horses available. Later, as you say, we’ll cross that mob which obligingly rushed back to us. They won’t leave that fine grazing over there.”
Sterl and Slyter left the chief, to return to their camp.
“He was hit below the belt, Hazelton,” said Slyter, “but never a word!”
“He took it fine, for a big cattleman who trusted friends and enemies alike, and never had any experience with thieves and murderers. But that sort of men are common on our frontier. Outside of Beryl’s abduction, I think Dann was hurt most by his own drovers double-crossing him.”
“Yes. I wonder what will happen next?” Slyter rejoined morosely.
“All our troubles are not over, boss, you can swear to that. Red would say…‘Wal, the wust is yet to come!’ By the way, how is Eric Dann?”
“Bunged up pretty badly, but he’ll be around in a few days. Wonder if he will be cured?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Good night, Sterl. It has been a day. Never mind guard duty while Krehl needs attention. I hope to heaven he pulls through.”
“Amen, boss.”
Friday loomed up in the dark, evidently thoughtful of Red during Sterl’s absence.
“Has he been quiet, Friday?”
“All same imm like dead. But imm strong, like black fella. No die.”
“Bless your heart, my aborigine pard,” returned Sterl gratefully. “You ought to be tired. Get some rest.”
Sterl struck a match in the darkness of his tent and lighte
d his candle. Red looked like a corpse, but he was breathing, and his heart beat faintly. “If he only hangs on till tomorrow,” Sterl whispered fervently, and that was a prayer, indeed. Sterl undressed, which was a luxury that had been difficult of late, and, when he stretched out, he felt as if he would never move again. His last act was to reach for the candle and blow it out.
Stress of emotion, no doubt, had more to do with his prostration than the sleepless night and strenuous day. He caught himself listening for Red’s breathing, and he could not hear it. The rain pattered ceaselessly on the tent, and the river roared sullenly. Dingoes barked dismally. Sleepy as he was, he could not arrive at the point of oblivion. Despite his confidence in Red’s recuperative powers, he suffered from dread. That speech of the cowboy’s when he delivered Beryl into her father’s arms—that haunted Sterl. He mulled it over and over in his mind. It meant, he deduced, that Red had withstood love and shame and insult and humiliation and torture for willful and vain Beryl Dann; in the face of opposition and antagonism he had uncovered Ormiston’s villainy, and had killed him to save the girl. And that had let Red out. If Sterl knew Red Krehl, that retort Beryl had goaded him to, weeks past—“Someday you’ll go on yore knees to me for thet!”—would never be enough to reconcile the cowboy. Yet Red was tender-hearted to a fault, and never had Sterl, in their twelve years of trail driving, seen him so terribly in love before. But then they had never had such a terrible experience before.
The rain lulled to patter on the canvas and then swelled to pelting force. The river roared on, sullen and menacing. Above the tent a swish of wattle branches and a moan of night wind in the gums helped keep Sterl awake. But outworn nature conquered at last, and he felt himself fading perceptibly into sleep.
When Sterl awakened, he heard the ring of Bill’s axe. The blackness of the tent had turned to gray. Day had broken, and the rain had ceased temporarily. In the gloom he saw Red lying exactly as he had seen him hours past. But so pale, so silent. It was impossible for Sterl to stand the torture of uncertainty. Yet it was equally a torture to crawl out of bed to bend over his friend. Sterl’s acute sensibilities registered a perceptibly stronger heartbeat. That drove Sterl’s sluggish blood gushing through him. He dared to believe that Red would live. But was that love and hope? Fever must be reckoned with, and pneumonia, diseases likely to fasten upon a man so wounded and exposed.