Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he heard the sound of falling water. This animated him. A falls might mean some sort of gorge, a tiny cave perhaps, in which a man might hide until his wounds were healed. By resting frequently, the wounded man kept going longer than he thought possible. At length he reached the falls.
The water dropped a scant four feet from a ledge. With his one good hand, the wounded Ranger pulled himself up on the ledge, and there his strength abandoned him. He slumped half in the stream, half out of it, and sank, completely spent, into a dense void of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER III
THE CAVE
When he awakened, the wounded Texas Ranger realized that it was well past daybreak; the sun was high in the cloudless sky and beating down on the ledge. It must have been the sun, shining directly into the man’s eyes, that had roused him. When he moved he felt a new torment of pain in every fiber of his being. His wounds had stiffened. His right foot and leg, and left shoulder and arm, were utterly useless. Movement of these limbs made stabbing pains shoot the entire length of his body. He lay quietly for some time, experimenting with the slightest movements until he had managed to turn so that he could look about him.
The ledge that had served as a resting place at night was a dangerous refuge in the daytime. A discovery buoyed his hope. He saw that the water came from an opening a few yards back on the ledge. The opening was large enough for a man to enter standing up, with room to spare. Inside he would be sure of concealment and a plentiful supply of water. Unless someone actually entered the cave, he would be comparatively secure. His only considerations would be hunger, weakness, and complications that might set in from the wounds.
Food would be the problem. Even with a good horse it would take more riding than he could do in his present state to reach the nearest food. Without weapons of any sort, he could scarcely hunt, even if there were game to be found in the barren sun-baked Gap. Food therefore was out of the question. He must content himself with water until he was strong enough to travel far on foot.
He crawled painfully toward the cave and stopped just beyond the entrance. Inside, it widened out surprisingly. Torrents of water in some ages past must have churned furiously, seeking exit through the portal, to carve away the heavy stone in such a manner. The stream came from somewhere in the deep, dim recesses of the cave. Gravel and shale lined the water’s edge. This hard ground would serve the Texas Ranger as a rough couch, perhaps for many days to come.
The outlook was desperate, yet the man felt that there must be some reason why his life had been spared thus far. It wasn’t that he was afraid to die. At any time during the past few hours death would have been a welcome relief to the pain of living. Some voice deep within him kept telling him that he must live, must fight for life so that he might see justice done. And so he fought. None of the events seemed logical to him, yet he sensed that in some manner everything would dovetail into a finished pattern in which he himself would play a prominent part.
Every element of his life during the past day and night had been a new experience. Even the Gap and the cave were new to him. Strange, random thoughts kept intruding on his efforts to make plans for the future. Thoughts of his life in the past; the silver mine inherited from his father, but never worked because he had never wanted riches.
He was tired, despite the recent sleep. He lay back, right hand beneath his head. Perhaps he dozed; he couldn’t tell afterward whether he had slept or not. His senses played such pranks that his thoughts might have been dreams or mere hallucinations. At any rate those thoughts were vivid and oddly assorted. Against the roaring background of the water in the cavern, he seemed to hear a voice. First it was the voice of a boy, an Indian boy whom the wounded man had known long years ago. He too had been a boy at that time. The Indian was alone, a child who was the sole survivor of a furious Indian war. The son of a chief, the lad had remained, sorely wounded, at the side of his dead parents. It was there that the white boy found him, and took him as a friend. The two traveled together for some time until their trails separated. Now he heard the voice of this boy again. Against the blackness of the cavern’s depths he seemed to see a re-enactment of the past, in rapidly changing kaleidoscopic scenes.
He saw himself as a hunter, riding in pursuit of bison, to feed starving white folks in a village and Indians on the plains. He saw himself riding through the hills in preference to gathering wealth as the operator of a silver mine. And then a reunion with the Indian he’d known as a boy. Together the two rode for a time, and Tonto helped the Ranger capture his white horse.
The day he joined the Texas Rangers was a vivid recollection. His pride in wearing the Ranger badge was tempered by the loss of Tonto’s companionship.
Somewhere in the background of his visions there was a vague memory of a night bird’s call.
He wondered at the scenes in a detached sort of way. Was this what dying was like? He’d heard that one’s past went by in review as a man’s soul departed. He no longer felt the wounds. The rumbling stream became a distant murmur that finally resolved itself into the call of a night bird. Odd, how the night bird’s call continued to intrude. He fumbled with his right hand at the pocket of what was left of his shirt. He could feel the small square object there, and wished that he had the strength to take it out. He would have liked to read the little inscription in the book that had been his mother’s gift.
Now even the last of sounds had ceased, and once more the tall man slept. His breathing was labored, and his hand upon his breast rose and fell as fingers that had been so strong and capable clutched the little black book in his pocket.
* * * *
The afternoon was well advanced. The sun barely peeped over the rim of the Gap, but the last rays slanted at an acute angle beyond the mouth of the cave and brushed the shoulder of the sleeping man. He wakened in surprise. He felt himself surrounded by almost unbearable heat. His mouth was dry, his throat burning with thirst again. He was barely able to raise one arm to brush a hand across his forehead. He found this dry and hot. He felt giddy. His mind whirled as he tried to comprehend this new condition. He must have tossed restlessly while he slept. His shirt was more ragged than ever. One pocket was ripped entirely off and the little black book that had reposed there was beside him where it must have fallen from his hand.
He felt his shoulder, wondering vaguely at the neatness of the bandage. He knew from the ugly swelling that the wound had become infected. Against the weakness there was only water and rest, and he’d already found that rest seemed only to weaken him further. His plight was critical.
Water might help. It was all that he had. He rolled over painfully and stretched his length, face down, against the stream.
It was then that he saw the shadow. No sound had reached his ears above the water’s clamor, but someone had found his hideout and at that moment stood at the cavern’s mouth.
His first impulse was to turn quickly. He started to reach for his guns, forgetting that they were not in their usual places. Then he remembered that he was unarmed—completely at the mercy of whoever stood behind him. For a brief instant he felt an odd prickling sensation move along his spine. He inwardly shrank from the impact of the bullet he was sure would come at any instant. He felt that all he had to do was turn, face the man or men who had already killed his five companions, and his life too would be snuffed out. But did it matter? His life, at best, was measured in hours. Starvation, fever, and infection of an ugly wound were all potential killers. It was simply a case of which of these would deliver the coup de grâce. His endurance and strength had carried him far beyond the limits of most men, but his own far limit had almost been reached. He had a revulsion to a bullet in the back, but after all it didn’t matter greatly. This intruder, he thought, is a friend, not an enemy. A friend, perhaps unwittingly, who will put an end to pain.
The man at the entrance watched in silence and, as the dying man turne
d, saw his face, suffused with the glow of fever and etched with pain. He saw the glazed eyes that had once been so steely and deep; saw them rise slowly to meet his own dark, deep-set eyes. The wounded man looked up and met the gaze of an Indian.
His lips parted slightly; his first attempt at speech was a failure. Then he breathed the name of the friend he’d made long years ago.
“Tonto!”
The Indian nodded slowly.
“Me here,” he said.
CHAPTER IV
GRAY DAWN
Penelope was thundered from sleep a little before daybreak. She stretched lazily, yawned deeply, then blinked her eyes wide open as jagged lightning flooded her bedroom with white light. She leaped from bed as thunder cracked again, and hurried to the open window. Wind whipped her brown hair and dashed cool rain against her tanned face. Her nightgown of flimsy stuff was blown tightly about her slender form.
Penny watched the storm and loved it. She hoped it would continue after daybreak, when she planned a ride—her first since returning from the East—on her favorite horse. She was radiant, vital, filled with a zest for living. She was happiest when alone in the saddle, wind and rain in her face and hair, matching her endurance against the fury of the elements.
She had often mused that perhaps her reason for loving the thunder was that it was the one thing that her Uncle Bryant could not argue with, or dictate to.
Thunder Mountain! She hadn’t ridden there for years. If she could slip away from relatives this morning, she was going to seek the trail she’d known so long ago. The fact that this was forbidden territory merely added to the fun of riding there. It made her feel quite daring to defy a mandate of her uncle.
She lighted a lamp and glanced at a clock on the dresser. It was far too early for anyone to be stirring in the house, but at least she could dress and be ready for a quick breakfast.
She looked longingly at the trim riding habit she had brought back from the East. “Fancy doo-dads” Uncle Bryant had called the clothes. “No use starting the day with a row,” she mused, and she dressed to conform with her stern old uncle’s tastes. Plain clothes, made for good, hard wear. Her hair was brushed back tight and would remain so until she was out of Uncle Bryant’s view, when it would be loosed to blow, and breathe cool, wet air.
It was still dark outside when she finished dressing and glanced at herself in the mirror. She was amused at the unattractive outfit. It would have been quite suitable, she reflected, for Mort’s wife, Rebecca, to wear, if Rebecca ever rode a horse. She blew out the lamp, and sat by the window to watch the storm and wait for the sounds of people moving in other parts of the house. The rain fell steadily, with a promise to continue for quite some time.
The sound of water on the roof was pleasant to Penny, but the steady rhythm was broken by a man’s voice. The voice was a blending of bass and discord, the voice of her cousin, Vince.
Vince Cavendish was the runt of the family. About one hundred pounds of concentrated ill will; a small package of frustrated manhood, who tried to make himself heard and observed by the mere power of his bellow. His jet-black, wiry hair was usually cropped short, so it bristled on his small head like stubble in a hayfield when the mowers have passed. His face when shaved was blue in cast, but it was more often unshaved and bristling. Vince was puny, with narrow shoulders and a narrower mind. As usual, he was arguing. Penny guessed from the outline of the men that it was Mort to whom Vince talked. Lightning, a moment later, proved her guess correct. The two were right beneath her window, sheltered from the rain by overhanging eaves.
Mort was the sort of man who would have liked to bear the weight of the world on shoulders unsuited to support the burden of a household. Much larger than Vince, he listened to his brother in the detached sort of way one waits for a kettle to boil. More accurately, in this case, Mort was waiting for Vince to stop boiling.
Penny was accustomed to arguments between the brothers, her cousins. “I’d give my favorite eyetooth,” she thought, “to see Mort knock the runt down, but that’s too much to hope for.” She didn’t know what the row was all about, she didn’t especially care. Vince could pick a fight over the most trivial of subjects. She did, however, wonder why those two were out so early in the morning.
“Yuh gotta keep her in hand, I tell yuh,” bellowed Vince.
“Might be a mare or a cow he’s talking about,” mused Penny, “or even a sow.”
“They ain’t none of us can handle her, if you can’t, an’ so it’s up tuh you. I said all I aim tuh say on the subject, an’ I’ll act the next time that damn wife of yores breaks bounds, Mort!”
“Gosh!” said Penny to herself. “I was wrong on all counts; it’s Mort’s wife he’s talking about. I wonder why Mort doesn’t spank the little weasel.”
Penny could think of nothing more incongruous than poor, mouselike, negative Rebecca breaking bounds, especially with so many small hands on her apron strings. Equally incongruous was the idea of Mort’s being unable to handle Becky. Becky was a living example of a woman who had failed miserably to live up to the heroic name given her by romantic parents.
Yet, Vince had made flat statements, and there was Mort agreeing with them. “I’ll see that she don’t pull no more stunts like that last,” he promised. “I was pretty sore about that, an’ I let her know it. I reckon after what I said an’ done she’ll think a good many times before she tries tuh interfere with my affairs again.”
“And mine!” snarled Vince. “If it was only yore affairs I wouldn’t give a damn, but when she starts mixin’ intuh my affairs I won’t stand fer it.”
“She won’t no more. She’s had a lesson she won’t fergit.”
Penny couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought of the punishment probably inflicted upon Mort’s wife. A bully who dared not defy another man, Mort was almost sadistic in the way he treated Rebecca.
“Now that that’s settled,” said Mort, “how soon is Rangoon due here?”
“Any time now,” Vince replied.
Rangoon was one of several cowhands who had come to the Basin during Penny’s absence to replace the men she had known. All the newcomers seemed to have a common surliness of manner, an unwholesome look about them, a furtiveness that Penny didn’t like. She could think of no reason why her cousins should be out in the rain before daybreak to meet one of the hired hands.
She drew a chair to the window and sat down to eavesdrop without the slightest feeling of compunction. She rested her arms on the windowsill and her head on her forearms. Her stockinged feet were boyishly wide apart.
Mort and Vince grumbled in low tones about the weather while they waited for Rangoon. Presently the dark-faced cowhand appeared in the gathering dawn.
“Have any trouble?” asked Mort.
“Naw,” replied Rangoon, “we didn’t have no trouble, but it took time tuh git back here in the dark an’ the rain.”
“You might’ve come back last night,” said Vince.
“Better this way,” said Rangoon. “Everything’s fixed. Six men come an’ we got all six. That’s that. We’ll have tuh keep a close check an’ see that there ain’t others comin’ tuh learn what’s happened when them six don’t return.”
“If any others come,” Mort stated softly, “we’ll know about it an’ take care of them.”
Rangoon gazed steadily at Mort. “You,” he said, after a pause, “better give that wife of yores a lesson.”
“He’s goin’ tuh!” promised Vince. Then the three men moved away, and Penny saw them disappear beyond the corner of a building.
For some time she sat at the window with her thoughts. Ever since her return, she had been bothered by an unexplainable apprehension. The Basin, which had been her home for many years, had always been a happy place despite her surly uncle and her cousins. Now the air of the place was changed. Bryant’s surliness had trebled. On several occasio
ns he had spoken sharply, even to Penny—a thing he’d never done before. At times the girl felt quite unwelcome in the only home she knew.
She pulled on her boots, still wondering what the three men were talking about. Her thoughts were punctuated by a period in the form of a soft rap on her bedroom door. Soft as it was, the rap was so unexpected that it startled Penny.
Whoever had rapped had tried to do so as silently, as secretly perhaps, as possible, and Penny opened the door in the same cautious manner. Rebecca Cavendish, the wife of Mort and mother of too many children, made her appearance, stepping into the room nervously, quickly, with birdlike motions, and closing the door behind her.
Penny had always felt sorry for Rebecca. She understood the woman better than did any of the men. Becky always reminded Penny of a scarecrow in faded calico. What curves and grace Rebecca might have had were mental. Penny felt sure that her mind, in spite of years of hard treatment, had retained a womanly softness and a wistful desire for gracious living. She was a woman who, in the midst of plenty, lived like a slave; a woman whose mate turned to her only in passion, whose children looked to her only in hunger. Her eyes were jet, but dulled. They reminded Penny of the sharp eyes of an eagle, grown discouraged by long years of beating strong wings against the stronger bars of a cage. Rebecca’s hair was black, without a trace of gray to complement the many wrinkles on her thin, high-cheekboned face.
Rebecca opened the door again, glanced quickly into the hall, then stepped back.
“Wasn’t seen, I guess,” she said.
“Is something wrong, Becky?” asked Penny.
It was the first time Becky had been in her room, and one of the few times she’d been in Uncle Bryant’s big house.
“I’ve got tuh be special careful,” whispered the woman in a husky voice. “Bryant never did get over me marryin’ Mort, an’ Mort’d beat me tuh within a inch of my life if he was tuh catch me here.”
At a loss, Penny said, “Sit down, won’t you, Becky?”
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