by Zane Grey
“If you see sumthin’ move, shoot quick as lightnin’,” said the old plainsman. “It might be a gopher or a cottontail, but take no chances. It’s likely to be a two-legged varmint.”
Intense concentration, and a spirit evolving from the hour, enabled Tom to make considerable progress toward the plains-man’s idea of fighting Comanches. Tom fired again and again, at the flip of a bird across a narrow space, at the flash of gun, or gleam of a feather. But he could never see whether or not he hit an Indian. Strange to note, however, was the fact that these fleeting movements of something were never repeated in the same place. Concentration brought to Tom the certainty that he was seeing a faint glimpse now and then of these illusive Comanches. This, with the crack of Winchesters and hum of a bullet, in time worked him into some semblance of the spirit of the old plainsman. It was indeed a fight. He had his part to perform. Life was here, and an inch away sped death. Grim, terrible, but exalting, and strangely memorable of a vague past! Tom Doan realized the inheritance he had in common with man, white or red.
The hours passed swiftly for the fighters. Another wounded man joined Roberts and Ory Jacks, and the ordeal must have been frightful for them. Tom forgot them; so did all the defenders of that position. The glaring hot sun poured down its heat. Stones and guns were so hot they burned. No breeze stirred. And the fight went on, favorably for the buffalo hunters because of their fortifications, unfavorably in regard to time. They were all parching for thirst. By chance or blunder the canteens had been left on the saddles, and water had come to be almost as precious as powder. The old plainsman cursed the Staked Plains. Tom’s mouth appeared full of cotton paste. He had kept pebbles in his mouth till he was sick of them.
Noon went by. Afternoon came. The sun, hotter than ever, began to slope to the west. And the fight went on, narrowing down as to distance, intensifying as to spirit, magnifying peril to both sides. The Creedmoors from the Starwell and Hark-away forces kept up the bulk of the shooting. They were directing most of their fire down into the encampment, no doubt to keep the Comanches there from joining their comrades on the slope. Mustangs showed on the farther points, and evidently had strayed.
Presently Pilchuck came crawling on hands and knees, without his rifle or coat. A bloody patch showed on his shoulder.
“Tom, reckon I got punctuated a little,” he said. “It ain’t bad, but it’s bleedin’ like hell. Tear my shirt sleeve off an’ tie it around under my arm over my shoulder tight.”
An ugly bullet hole showed angrily in the upper part of the scout’s shoulder, apparently just through the flesh.
“Notice that bullet came from behind,” said Pilchuck. “There was shore a mean redskin on your side. He hit two of us before I plugged him. There . . . good. . . . Now how’s the rest of your hospital?”
“I don’t know. Afraid I forgot,” replied Tom, aghast.
He crawled over to the wounded men and spoke. Tom heard Roberts answer, but Ory Jacks was silent. That disturbed Tom. Then the scout came back to him.
“Roberts sufferin’ some, but he’s OK. . . . The young fellar, though, is dyin’, I’m afraid. Shot in the groin. Mebbe. . . .”
“Pilchuck! Ory didn’t seem bad hurt. . . .”
“Wal, he is, an’, if we don’t get some water, he’ll go,” declared the scout empathetically. “Fact is, we’re all bad off for water. It’s shore hot. What a dumbhead I was to forget the canteens!”
“I’ll go after them,” returned Tom, like a flash.
“It’s not a bad idee,” said Pilchuck, after a moment’s reflection. “Reckon it’d be no riskier than stayin’ here.”
“Direct me. Where’d we leave the horses?”
The scout faced south, at right angles with the crossfire from the Comanches, and presently extended his long arm. “See that low bluff . . . not far . . . the last one reachin’ down into this basin. In behind there. You can’t miss it. Lucky the rocks from here on are thick as cabbages.”
“I can make it,” declared Tom doggedly. “But to get back. That stumps me.”
“Easy. You’ve got to go slow . . . pickin’ the best cover. Just lay a line of little stones as you crawl along. Reckon the Comanches are all on these two sides of us, but there might be some tryin’ to surround us.”
“Anything more?” queried Tom briefly.
The scout apparently had no thought of the tremendousness of this enterprise to Tom; it was as if he had naturally expected of Tom what he would do himself, if he had not been partially incapacitated. Yet Tom realized he had never in his life received such a compliment. It swelled his heart. He felt light, hard, tense, vibrating to a strange excitation.
“Wal, I can’t think of anythin’,” replied the scout. “Comin’ back be slower’n molasses, an’ get the drift of the fight. We’re holdin’ these redskins off. But I reckon Starwell an’ Harkaway have been doin’ more. If I don’t miss my guess, they’ve spilled blood down in the cañon. Comanches are great on hossback, but they can’t stick out a fight like this. If they rush us, we’re goners. If they don’t, they’ll quit before sunset.”
* * * * *
Tom raised himself as high as he dared, and studied what he could see of the field in the direction of the bluff. A man might trust himself boldly to that jumble of rocks. Accordingly he crawled on hands and knees to the end of this stone-like corral, and there, stretching on his left side, with left hand extended and right dragging his rifle, he crawled as swiftly and noiselessly as possible. He peered only ahead of him. There was no use to look at the aisles between rocks at the right and left, because he had to pass these openings, and looking was not going to help him. Trusting to luck and daring he went on, somehow conscious of a grim exultation in the moment. Fear had left him. At the outset he had a few thoughts of himself—that he could only die once, and if he had to do so now, it would be for his comrades. Molly Fayre’s dark haunting eyes crossed his memory, a stabbing regretful pain, and for her he would have embraced any peril. Some way those Comanches had been the cause of Molly’s flight, if they had not caught her. To them he owed loss of her. And he wanted to kill some of them. But all he asked was luck and strength enough to get back with the water.
After those few flashing thoughts all his senses were fixed on the physical task ahead of him. He had to go swiftly and noiselessly, without rest. His efforts were supreme, sustained. Coming back he would adhere to Pilchuck’s advice, but on the way out he could not take it, except in the matter of laying a line of small stones as he progressed.
After the first ten or a dozen rods were behind him, there came an easing of a terrible strain. His comrades behind him were shooting now something like a volley, which action he knew was Pilchuck’s way of diverting possible discovery of him. The Indians were shooting more, too, and he began to draw considerably away from the crossfire. He heard no more bullets whizz over his head. As it was impossible to crawl in a straight line, owing to rocks impeding his progress, he deviated from the course set by Pilchuck. This entailed a necessity of lifting himself every few moments so that he could peep over the rocks to keep the direction of the bluff. These wary brief actions were fraught with suspense. They exposed him perilously, but were absolutely imperative.
Bolder he grew. He was going to succeed in this venture. The sustained exertion threatened collapse, yet he still had strength to go on. A few more rods might safely earn rest! The burning sun beat down pitilessly. Tom’s tongue hung out, dripping a white froth. His breast expanded as if trying to burst bands of steel. Despite the sternest passion of will he could not help the low gasping intake of air or the panting expulsion. A listening Indian within fifty yards could have heard him. But he kept on. His wet hand and wrist gathered a grimy covering of dust. His rifle grew slippery from sweat of his other hand. Rocks obstructing his advance, the narrow defiles he had to squeeze through, the hard sharp edges tearing at his shirt, the smell of the hot earth, the glaring sun—all seemed obstacles that put the fact of Indians in the background.
Again Tom lost his direction. He was coming to a zone more open, and surely not far from the bluff that was his objective point. Usually he had chosen a high and large stone from which to peep. At this juncture not one of such size was available. Low down along the side of a flat stone he peered out. All he could see was a rather wide space, not thickly studded with rocks. But from that angle, the bluff was not in sight.
Almost spent from his long crawl, with both muscle and will about played out, he raised himself to locate the bluff. Not on the right side! Dropping down, he crawled the few feet to the left end of this rock, and, kneeling sidewise, he raised again to look over.
Something like a sharp puff of wind whipped by. He heard a hiss. Then he felt a shock, solid, terrific, followed by a tearing burning pain across his back. Almost at the same instant came the bursting crack of a rifle. Swift as light Tom’s sight took in the open ahead. A half-naked Indian, red-skinned, snake-like, stood with smoking rifle, a wild and savage expectation on his dark face.
Tom fell flat behind the rock, all the power of his mind in supreme and flooding conflict against the stunning surprise. It galvanized him. One second he gripped his rifle hard, cocked it, while his muscles gathered and strung for a mighty effort.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly Fayre rode out of Sprague’s Post on the front of a freighter’s wagon, sitting between Jett and his wife. The rest of Jett’s outfit followed close behind. Follonsbee and Pruitt in the second wagon, and Catlee driving the last.
For as long as Molly could see the Hudnalls she waved her red scarf in farewell. Then when her friends passed out of sight, Molly turned slowly to face the boundless prairie, barren of life, suddenly fearful in its meaning, and she sank down, stricken in heart. What she had dreaded was now an actuality. The courage that had inspired her when she wrote the letter to Tom Doan, leaving it with Mrs. Hudnall, was a courage inspired by love, not by hope. So it seemed now.
“Molly, you ain’t actin’ much like a boy, ’spite them boy’s clothes,” said Jett, with attempt at levity. “Pile over in the back of the wagon an’ lay down.”
Kindness from Jett was astounding and gratefully received by Molly. Doing as she was bidden, she found a comfortable place on the unrolled packs of bedding, with her head in a shade of the wagon seat. It developed then that Jett’s apparent kindness had been only a ruse to get her away so he could converse with his wife in low earnest tones. Molly might have heard all or part of that conversation, but she was not interested and did not listen.
Dejectedly she lay there while the steady trot of the horses carried her back toward the distant buffalo range. To be torn from her kind and loving friends at the post and drawn back into the raw hard life led by her stepfather was a bitter and sickening blow. Her sufferings were acute, and as she had become used to hope and happiness, she was now ill fitted to cope with misery and dread. She did not think of the future or plan to meet it; she lived in the present, and felt the encroaching of an old morbid and fatalistic mood, long a stranger to her.
The hours passed, and Jett’s deep low voice appeared never to rest or cease. He did not make a noon stop, as was customary among the buffalo hunters. And he drove until sunset.
“Forty miles, bedam!” he said, with satisfaction, as he threw the reins.
Whether Molly would have it so or not, she dropped at once back into the old camp life, with its tasks. How well she remembered! The smoke of the campfire made her eyes smart and brought tingling as well as hateful memories.
The other wagons drove up rather late, and once more Molly found herself under the hawk eyes of Follonsbee, and the half-veiled, hidden eyes of the crooked-faced Pruitt. Her masculine garb, emphasizing her shapely slenderness, manifestly drew the gaze of these men. They seemed fascinated by it, as if they both had discovered something. Neither of them spoke to her. Catlee, however, gave her a kindly nod. He seemed more plodding in mind than she remembered him.
One by one the old associations returned to her, and presently her fleeting happiness with the Hudnalls had the remoteness and unreality of a dream, and she was again Jett’s stepdaughter, quick to start at his harsh voice. Was that harshness the same? She seemed to have a vague impression of a difference in his voice, in him, in all of his outfit, in the atmosphere around them.
Camp had been chosen at one of the stream crossings where hundreds of buffalo hunters had camped that year, a fact Jett growled about, complaining of the lack of grass and wood. Water was plentiful, and it was cold, a welcome and well-known thing to the travelers of this road. Jett had an inordinate thirst, probably owing to his addiction to rum at Sprague’s.
“Fetch some more drinkin’ water,” he said to Molly.
She took the pail and went down the bank under the big, rustling, green cottonwoods. Catlee was at the stream, watering the horses.
“I seen you comin’ an’ I says who’s that boy?” he said, with a grin. “I forgot.”
“I forget, too,” she replied dubiously. “I don’t like these . . . these pants. But I’ve made a discovery, Catlee. I’m more comfortable around camp.”
“Don’t wonder. You used to drag your skirts around. . . . Gimme your bucket. I’ll fill it where the water’s clear.” He waded in beyond where the horses were drinking and dipped the pail. “Nothin’ like good cold water after a day’s hot ride.”
“Jett drank nearly all I got before and sent me for more.”
“He’s burnin’ up inside with red liquor,” returned Catlee bluntly.
Molly did not have any reply to make to that, and, taking the pail from Catlee, she poured out a little water, so she would not spill it as she walked.
“Molly, I’m sorry you had to come back with Jett,” said Catlee.
She paused, turning to look at him, surprised at his tone. His bronzed face lacked the heat, the dissolute shades common to Jett and the other men. Molly remembered then that Catlee in her opinion had not seemed like the rest of Jett’s outfit.
“Sorry. Why?” she asked.
“I know Sprague. He’s from Missouri. He told me about you, an’ your friend, Tom Doan.”
“Sprague told you . . . about . . . about Tom?” faltered Molly, suddenly blushing. “Why, who told him?”
“Missus Hudnall, he said. Sprague took interest in you, it ’pears. An’ his wife is thick with the Hudnall women. Anyway, he was sorry Jett took you away . . . an’ so’m I.”
Molly’s confusion and pain, at the mention of Tom, did not quite render her blind to this man’s sympathy. She forced away the wave of emotion. Her mind quickened to the actuality of her being once more in Jett’s power and that she had only her wits and courage to rely upon. This hard-faced, apparently dull and somber man might not be utterly wicked, like his companions. Molly suddenly conceived the inspiration to win him to her cause.
“So am I sorry, Catlee,” she said sadly, and her quick tears were genuine. Indeed they had started to flow at mention of Tom’s name. “I . . . I’m engaged to Tom Doan. . . . I was . . . so . . . so happy. And I’d never had . . . any . . . happy times before. . . . Now I’ve been dragged away. Jett’s my stepfather. I’m not of age. I had to come. . . . And I’m terribly afraid of him.”
“I reckon,” rejoined Catlee darkly. “You’ve reason to be. He an’ the woman quarreled at Sprague’s. He wanted to leave her behind. For that matter, the four of them drank a good deal, an’ fought over the hide money.”
“For pity’s sake, be my friend?” appealed Molly.
The man stared at her, as if uncomprehending, yet somehow stirred.
“Catlee,” she said, seeing her advantage and stepping back to lay a hand softly on his arm, “did you ever have a sister or a sweetheart?”
“I reckon not or I’d been another kind of man,” he returned, with something of pathos.
“But you’re not bad,” she went on swiftly.
“Me not bad! Child, you’re crazy. I never was anythin’ else. . . . An’ now I’m a hide thief.”
“Oh, it’s true, then? Jett is a hide thief. I knew something was terribly wrong.”
“Girl, don’t you tell Jett I said that,” replied Catlee almost harshly.
“No . . . I won’t. I promise. You can trust me,” she returned hurriedly. “And I could trust you. I don’t think you’re really bad. Jett had led you into this. He’s bad. . . . I hate him.”
“Yes, Jett’s bad all right, an’ he means bad by you. I reckon I thought you knowed an’ didn’t care.”
“Care! If he harms me, I’ll kill him and myself,” she whispered passionately.
The man seemed as if confronted with something new in his experience, and it was dissipating a dull apathy to all that concerned others.
“So that’s how a good girl feels,” he muttered.
“Yes. And I ask you . . . beg you to be a man . . . a friend. . . .”
“There comes Pruitt,” interrupted Catlee, turning to his horses. “Don’t let him or any of them see you talkin’ to me.”
Molly bent over the heavy bucket, and, avoiding the dust raised by Pruitt with his horses, she hurried back to camp. Her return manifestly checked hard words between Jett and his wife. Molly took up her tasks where they had been interrupted, but with this difference, that she had become alive to the situation among these hide thieves. Jett’s status had been defined, and the woman was no doubt culpable with him. Catlee’s blunt corroboration of Molly’s fears had awakened her spirit, and the possibility of winning this hardened man to help her in her extremity had inspired courage and resolve. All in a flash then, it seemed she was the girl who had written that brave letter to Tom Doan.
Supper was cooked and eaten. The men, except Catlee, were not as hungry as usual, and appeared to be wearing off the effects of hard drinking. They spoke but seldom, and then only to ask for something out of reach on the spread canvas. Darkness settled down while Molly dried the pans and cups. Catlee came up with a huge armload of wood, which he dropped with a crash a little too near Pruitt to suit his irascible mood.