Cabin Gulch

by Zane Grey

  “We’re wastin’ a lot of time,” put in Beard, anxiously. “Don’t fergit there’s somethin’ comin’ off down in camp, an’ we ain’t sure what.”

  “Bah! Haven’t we heard whispers of vigilantes for a week?” queried Gulden.

  Then one of the men looked out the door and suddenly whistled. “Who’s thet on a hoss?”

  Gulden’s gang crowded to the door.

  “Thet’s Handy Oliver.”

  “No!”

  “Shore is. I know him. But it ain’t his hoss. Say, he’s hurryin’!”

  Low exclamations of surprise and curiosity followed. Kells and his men looked attentively, but no one spoke. The clatter of hoofs on the stony road told of a horse swiftly approaching—pounding to a halt before the cabin.

  “Handy! Air you chased? What in hell’s wrong? You shore look pale around the gills.”

  These and other remarks were flung out the door.

  “Where’s Kells? Let me in,” replied Oliver hoarsely.

  The crowd jostled and split to admit the long lean Oliver. He stalked straight toward Kells, till the table alone stood between them. He was gray of face—breathing hard—resolute and stern.

  “Kells, I throwed . . . you . . . down!” he said with out-stretched hand. It was a gesture of self-condemnation and remorse.

  “What of that?” demanded Kells with his head leaping, like the strike of an eagle.

  “I’m takin’ it back!”

  Kells met the outstretched hand with his own and wrung it.

  “Handy, I never knew you to right-about-face. But I’m glad. What’s changed you so quickly?”

  “Vigilantes!”

  Kells’s animation and eagerness suddenly froze. “Vigilantes!” he ground out.

  “No rumor, Kells, this time. I’ve sure some news. Come close, all you fellows. You, Gulden, come an’ listen. Here’s where we git together closer’n ever.”

  Gulden surged forward with his group. Handy Oliver was surrounded by pale tight faces, darkbrowed and hard-eyed. He gazed around at them, preparing them for a startling revelation.

  “Men, of all the white-livered traitors as ever was, Red Pearce was the worst!” he declared hoarsely.

  No one moved or spoke.

  “An’ he was a vigilante!”

  A low strange sound, almost a roar, breathed through the group.

  “Listen now, an’ don’t interrupt. We ain’t got a hell of a lot of time. So never mind now how I happened to find out about Pearce. It was all accident an’ jest because I put two an’ two together. Pearce was approached by one of this secret vigilante band, an’ he planned to sell the Border Legion outright. There was to be a big stake in it for him. He held off day after day, only tippin’ off some of the gang. There’s Dartt an’ Singleton an’ Frenchy an’ Texas, all caught red-handed at jobs. Pearce put the vigilantes to watchin’ them jest to prove his claim. Aw, I’ve got the proofs! Jest wait. Listen to me! You all never in your lives seen a snake like Red Pearce. An’ the job he had put up on us was grand. Today he was to squeal on the whole gang. You know how he began on Kells . . . an’ how with his own tongue he asked a guarantee of no gun play. But he figgered Kells wrong for once. He accused Kells’s girl an’ got killed for his pains. Mebbe it was part of his plan to git the girl himself. Anyway, he had agreed to betray the Border Legion today. An’ if he hadn’t been killed, by this time we’d all be tied up, ready for the noose! Mebbe that wasn’t a lucky shot of the boss’. Men, I was the first to declare myself against Kells, an’ I’m here now to say that I was a fool. So you’ve all been fools who’ve bucked against him. If this ain’t provin’ it, what can?

  “But I must hustle with my story. They was havin’ a trial down at the big hall, an’ that place was sure packed. No diggin’ gold today! Think what thet means for Alder Creek. I got inside where I could stand on a barrel an’ see. Dartt an’ Singleton an’ Frenchy an’ Texas was bein’ tried by a masked court. A man near me said two of them had been proved guilty. It didn’t take long to make out a case against Texas and Frenchy. Miners there recognized them an’ identified them. They was convicted an sentenced to be hung! Then the offer was made to let them go free if they’d turn state’s evidence an’ give away the leader an’ men of the Border Legion. Thet was put up to each prisoner. Dartt, he never answered at all. An’ Singleton told them to go to hell. An’ Texas, he swore he was only a common an’ honest road agent, an’ never heard of the legion. But that Frenchman showed a yellow streak. He might have taken the offer. But Texas cussed him turrible, an’ made him ashamed to talk. But if they git Frenchy away from Texas, they’ll make him blab. He’s like a greaser. Then there was a delay. The big crowd of miners yelled for ropes. But the vigilantes are waitin’, an’ it’s my hunch they’re waitin’ for Pearce.”

  “So! And where do we stand?” cried Kells, clear and cold.

  “We’re not spotted yet, thet’s certain,” replied Oliver. “Else them masked vigilantes would have been on the job before now. But it’s not sense to figger we can risk another day. I reckon it’s hit the trail back to Cabin Gulch.”

  “Gulden, what do you say?” queried Kells sharply.

  “I’ll go or stay . . . whatever you want,” replied the giant. In this crisis he seemed to be glad to have Kells decide the issue. And his followers resembled sheep ready to plunge after the leader.

  But although Kells, by a strange stroke, had been made wholly master of the legion, he did not show the old elation or radiance. Perhaps he saw more clearly than ever before. Still he was quick, decisive, strong, equal to the occasion.

  “Listen . . . all of you,” he said. “Our horses and outfits are hidden in a gulch several miles below camp. We’ve got to go that way. We can’t pack any grub or stuff from here. We’ll risk going through camp. Now, leave here two or three at a time, and wait down there on the edge of the crowd for me. When I come, we’ll stick together. Then all do as I do.”

  Gulden put the nugget under his coat, and strode out accompanied by Budd and Jones. They hurried away. The others went in couples. Soon only Bate Wood and Handy Oliver were left with Kells.

  “Now you fellows go,” said Kells. “Be sure to round up the gang down there and wait for me.”

  When they had gone, he called for Jim and Joan to come out.

  All this time Joan’s hand had been gripped in Jim’s, and Joan had been so absorbed that she had forgotten the fact. He released her and faced her, silent, pale. Then he went out. Joan swiftly followed.

  Kells was buckling on his spurs.

  “You heard?” he said the moment he saw Jim’s face.

  “Yes,” replied Jim.

  “So much the better. We’ve got to rustle. Joan, put on that long coat of Cleve’s. Take off your mask. Jim, get what gold you have, and hurry. If we’re gone when you come back, hurry down the road. I want you with me.”

  Cleve stalked out. Joan ran into her room and put on the long coat. She had little time to choose what possessions she could take, and that choice fell upon the little saddlebag into which she hurriedly stuffed comb and brush and soap—all it would hold. Then she returned to the larger room.

  Kells had lifted a plank of the floor, and was now in the act of putting small buckskin sacks of gold into his pockets. They made his coat bulge at the sides.

  “Joan, stick some meat and biscuits in your pockets,” he said. “I’d never get hungry with my pockets full of gold . . . but you might.”

  Joan rummaged around in Bate Wood’s rude cupboard.

  “These biscuits are as heavy as gold . . . and harder,” she said.

  Kells flashed a glance at her that held pride, admiration, and sadness. “You are the gamest girl I ever knew. My God, I wish I’d . . . but that’s too late. Joan, if anything happens to me, stick close to Cleve. I believe you can trust him. Come on now.”

  Then he strode out of the cabin. Joan had almost to run to keep up with him. There were no other men now in sight. She knew that Jim would f
ollow soon, because his gold dust was hidden in the cavern back of her room, and he would not need much time to get it. Nevertheless, she anxiously looked back. She and Kells had gone perhaps a couple of hundred yards before Jim appeared, and then he came on the run. At a point about opposite the first tents he joined Kells.

  “Jim, how about guns?” asked the bandit.

  “I’ve got two, and fifty shells,” replied Cleve.

  “Good! There’s no telling. . . . Jim, I’m afraid of the gang. They’re crazy. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hard proposition.”

  “We’ll get away, all right. Don’t worry about that. But the gang will never come together again.” This singular man spoke with melancholy. “Slow up a little now,” he added. “We don’t want to attract attention. But where is there anyone to see us? Jim, did I have you figured right about the Creede job?”

  “You sure did. I just lost my nerve.”

  “Well, no matter.”

  Then Kells appeared to forget that. He stalked on with keen glances searching everywhere, until suddenly, when he saw around a bend of the road, he halted with grating teeth. That road was empty all the way to the other end of camp, but there surged a dark mob of men. Kells stalked forward again. The Last Nugget appeared like an empty barn. How vacant and significant the whole center of camp! Kells did not speak another word.

  Joan hurried on between Kells and Cleve. She was trying to fortify herself to meet what lay at the end of the road. A strange hoarse roar of men and an upflinging of arms made her shudder. She kept her eyes lowered and clung to the arms of her companions.

  Finally they halted. She felt the crowd before she saw it. A motley assemblage with what seemed craned necks and intent backs. They were all looking forward and upward. But she forced her glance down.

  Kells stood still. Jim’s grip was hard upon her arm. Presently men grouped around Kells. She heard whispers. They began to walk slowly, and she was pushed and led along. More men joined the group. Soon she and Kells and Jim were hemmed in a circle. Then she saw the huge form of Gulden, the towering Oliver, and Smith and Blicky, Beard, Jones, Williams, Budd, and others. The circle they formed appeared to be only one of many groups, all moving, whispering, facing from her. Suddenly a sound like the roar of a man agitated that mass of men. But it was harsh, piercing, unnatural, yet had a note of wild exultation. Then came the stamp and surge, and then the upflinging of arms, and then the abrupt strange silence, broken only by a hiss or an escaping breath, like a sob. Beyond all Joan’s power to resist was a deep, a primitive desire to look.

  There over the heads of the mob—from the bench of the slope—rose grotesque structures of new-hewn lumber. On a platform stood black motionless men in awful contrast with a dangling object that doubled up and curled upon itself in terrible convulsions. It lengthened while it swayed; it slowed its action while it stretched. It took on the form of a man. He swung by a rope around his neck. His head hung back. His hands beat. A long tremor shook the body, then it was still, and swayed to and fro, a dark, limp thing.

  Joan’s gaze was riveted in horror. A dim red haze made her vision imperfect. There was a sickening riot within her.

  There were masked men all around the platform—a solid phalanx of them on the slope above. They were heavily armed. Other masked men stood on the platform. They seemed rigid figures—stiff, jerky when they moved. How different from the two forms swaying below.

  The structure was a rude scaffold and the vigilantes had already hanged two bandits. Two others with hands bound behind their backs stood farther along the platform under guard. Before each dangled a noose. Joan recognized Texas and Frenchy. In the instant the great crowd let out a hard breath that ended in silence.

  The masked leader of the vigilantes was addressing Texas: “We’ll spare your life if you confess. Who’s the head of this Border Legion?”

  “Shore it’s Red Pearce! Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  “We’ll give you one more chance,” came the curt reply.

  Texas appeared to become serious and somber. “I swear to God it’s Pearce!” he declared.

  “A lie won’t save you. Come, the truth. We think we know, but we want proof! Hurry!”

  “You can go to hell!” responded Texas.

  The leader moved his hand, and two other masked men stepped forward.

  “Have you any message to send anyone . . . anything to say?” asked the masked leader.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you any request to make?” “Hang that damned Frenchman before me? I want to see him kick.”

  Nothing more was said. The two men adjusted the noose around the doomed man’s neck. Texas refused the black cap, and he did not wait for the drop to be sprung. He walked off the platform into space as Joan closed her eyes.

  Again that strange full angry and unnatural roar waved through the throng of watchers. It was terrible to hear. Joan felt the violent action of that crowd, although the men close around her were immovable as stones. She imagined she could never open her eyes to see Texas hanging there. Yet she did—and something about his form told her that he had died instantly. He had been brave and loyal, even in dishonor. He had more than once spoken a kind word to her. Who could tell what had made him an outcast? She breathed a prayer for his soul.

  The vigilantes were bolstering up the craven Frenchy. He could not stand alone. They put the rope around his neck and lifted him off the platform—then let him down. He screamed in his terror. They cut short his cries by lifting him again. This time they held him up several seconds. His face turned black. His eyes bulged. His breast heaved. His legs worked with the regularity of a jumping-jack. They let him down and loosened the noose. They were merely torturing him to wring a confession from him. He had been choked severely and needed a moment to recover. When he did, it was to shrink back in abject terror from that loop of rope dangling before his eyes.

  The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the swaying forms of the dead bandits.

  Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.

  The vast crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a strained silence.

  “Talk English!” ordered the vigilante leader.

  “I’ll tell! I’ll tell!”

  Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells’s arm, which she still clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then the bellow of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek. She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on the platform.

  For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse uproar and the stamp of many boots. All in another instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve’s strong arm around her—felt herself borne in a resistless tide of yelling, stamping, wrestling men. She had a glimpse of Kells’s dark face drawing away from her, another of Gulden’s giant form in Herculean action, tossing men aside like ninepins, another of weapons aloft. Savage, wild-eyed men fought to get into the circle whence that shot had come. They broke into it, but did not know then who to attack or what to do, and the rushing of the frenzied miners all around soon disintegrated Kells’s band and bore its several groups in every direction. There was not another shot fired.

  Joan was dragged and crushed in the mêlée. Not for rods did her feet touch the ground. But in the clouds of dust and confusion of struggling forms she knew Jim still held her. She clasped him with all her strength. Presently her feet touched the earth; she was not jostled and pressed. She felt free to walk, and, with Jim urging her, they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin impeded further progress. But they had escaped the stream.

  Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded in dust clouds—a band of bewildered vigilantes with weapons drawn, waiting, for they knew not what—three swinging ghastly forms and a dead man on the platform—and all below, a horde of
men trying to escape from one another. That shot of Kells’s had precipitated a rush. No miner knew who the vigilantes were or the members of the Border Legion. Every man there expected a bloody battle—distrusted the man next to him—and had given way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd together for defense and all the others had tried to escape. It was a wild scene, borne of wild justice and blood at fever heat, the climax of a disordered time where gold and violence had reigned supreme. It could only happen once, but it was terrible while it lasted. It showed the craven in men; it proved the baneful influence of gold; it brought, in its fruition, the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it must have been that the really brave and honest men in vast majority retraced their steps while the vicious kept running. So it seemed to Joan.

  She huddled against Jim there in the shadow of the cabin wall, and not for long did either speak. They watched and listened. The streams of miners turned back toward the space around the scaffold where the vigilantes stood grouped. There rose a subdued roar of excited voices. Many small groups of men conversed together, until the vigilante leader brought all to attention by addressing the populace in general. Joan could not hear what he said and had no wish to hear.

  “Joan, it all happened so quickly, didn’t it?” whispered Jim, shaking his head as if he was not convinced of reality.

  “Wasn’t he . . . terrible?” whispered Joan in reply.

  “He . . . who?”

  “Kells.” In her mind the bandit leader dominated all that wild scene.

  “Terrible, if you like. But I’d say great! The nerve of him! In the face of a hundred vigilantes and a thousand miners! But he knew what that shot would do.”

  “Never. He never thought of that,” declared Joan earnestly. “I felt him tremble. I had a glimpse of his face. Oh, first in his mind was his downfall, and, second, the treachery of Frenchy. I think that shot showed Kells as utterly desperate, but weak. He couldn’t have helped it . . . if that had been the last shell in his gun.”

  Jim Cleve looked strangely at Joan, as if her eloquence was both persuasive and incomprehensible.