by Zane Grey
“Thet must hev been a hell of a minnit fer Kate Bland. If ever I seen death in a man’s eye I seen it in Bland’s. He loves her. Thet’s the strange part of it.
“‘Has Duane been comin’ here to see my wife?’ Bland asked, fierce-like.
“‘No,’ said Jennie.
“‘He’s been after you?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet.’
“‘I—I’m not—I don’t know—he hasn’t told me.’
“‘But you’re in love with him?’
“‘Yes,’ she said; an’, Buck, if you only could have seen her! She throwed up her head, an’ her eyes were full of fire. Bland seemed dazed at sight of her. An’ Alloway, why, thet little skunk of an outlaw cried right out. He was hit plumb center. He’s in love with Jen. An’ the look of her then was enough to make any feller quit. He jest slunk out of the room. I told you, mebbe, thet he’d been tryin’ to git Bland to marry Jen to him. So even a tough like Alloway can love a woman!
“Bland stamped up an’ down the room. He sure was dyin’ hard.
“‘Jennie,’ he said, once more turnin’ to her. ‘You swear in fear of your life thet you’re tellin’ truth. Kate’s not in love with Duane? She’s let him come to see you? There’s been nuthin’ between them?’
“‘No. I swear,’ answered Jennie; an’ Bland sat down like a man licked.
“‘Go to bed, you white-faced—’ Bland choked on some word or other—a bad one, I reckon—an’ he positively shook in his chair.
“Jennie went then, an’ Kate began to have hysterics. An’ your uncle Euchre ducked his nut out of the door an’ come home.”
Duane did not have a word to say at the end of Euchre’s long harangue. He experienced relief. As a matter of fact, he had expected a good deal worse. He thrilled at the thought of Jennie perjuring herself to save that abandoned woman. What mysteries these feminine creatures were!
“Wal, there’s where our little deal stands now,” resumed Euchre, meditatively. “You know, Buck, as well as me thet if you’d been some feller who hadn’t shown he was a wonder with a gun you’d now be full of lead. If you’d happen to kill Bland an’ Alloway, I reckon you’d be as safe on this here border as you would in Santone. Such is gun fame in this land of the draw.”
CHAPTER 9
Both men were awake early, silent with the premonition of trouble ahead, thoughtful of the fact that the time for the long-planned action was at hand. It was remarkable that a man as loquacious as Euchre could hold his tongue so long; and this was significant of the deadly nature of the intended deed. During breakfast he said a few words customary in the service of food. At the conclusion of the meal he seemed to come to an end of deliberation.
“Buck, the sooner the better now,” he declared, with a glint in his eye. “The more time we use up now the less surprised Bland ’ll be.”
“I’m ready when you are,” replied Duane, quietly, and he rose from the table.
“Wal, saddle up, then,” went on Euchre, gruffly. “Tie on them two packs I made, one fer each saddle. You can’t tell—mebbe either hoss will be carryin’ double. It’s good they’re both big, strong hosses. Guess thet wasn’t a wise move of your uncle Euchre’s—bringin’ in your hosses an’ havin’ them ready?”
“Euchre, I hope you’re not going to get in bad here. I’m afraid you are. Let me do the rest now,” said Duane.
The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically.
“Thet ’d be turrible now, wouldn’t it? If you want to know, why, I’m in bad already. I didn’t tell you thet Alloway called me last night. He’s gettin’ wise pretty quick.”
“Euchre, you’re going with me?” queried Duane, suddenly divining the truth.
“Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I wisht I was a gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin’ a peg at Jackrabbit Benson. Now, Buck, you do some hard figgerin’ while I go nosin’ round. It’s pretty early, which ’s all the better.”
Euchre put on his sombrero, and as he went out Duane saw that he wore a gun-and-cartridge belt. It was the first time Duane had ever seen the outlaw armed.
Duane packed his few belongings into his saddle-bags, and then carried the saddles out to the corral. An abundance of alfalfa in the corral showed that the horses had fared well. They had gotten almost fat during his stay in the valley. He watered them, put on the saddles loosely cinched, and then the bridles. His next move was to fill the two canvas water-bottles. That done, he returned to the cabin to wait.
At the moment he felt no excitement or agitation of any kind. There was no more thinking and planning to do. The hour had arrived, and he was ready. He understood perfectly the desperate chances he must take. His thoughts became confined to Euchre and the surprising loyalty and goodness in the hardened old outlaw. Time passed slowly. Duane kept glancing at his watch. He hoped to start the thing and get away before the outlaws were out of their beds. Finally he heard the shuffle of Euchre’s boots on the hard path. The sound was quicker than usual.
When Euchre came around the corner of the cabin Duane was not so astounded as he was concerned to see the outlaw white and shaking. Sweat dripped from him. He had a wild look.
“Luck ours—so—fur, Buck!” he panted.
“You don’t look it,” replied Duane.
“I’m turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!”
“Who?” asked Duane, startled.
“Jackrabbit Benson. An’ sick as I am, I’m gloryin’ in it. I went nosin’ round up the road. Saw Alloway goin’ into Deger’s. He’s thick with the Degers. Reckon he’s askin’ questions. Anyway, I was sure glad to see him away from Bland’s. An’ he didn’t see me. When I dropped into Benson’s there wasn’t nobody there but Jackrabbit an’ some Mexicans he was startin’ to work. Benson never had no use fer me. An’ he up an’ said he wouldn’t give a two-bit piece fer my life. I asked him why.
“‘You’re double-crossin’ the boss an’ Chess,’ he said.
“‘Jack, what ’d you give fer your own life?’ I asked him.
“He straightened up surprised an’ mean-lookin’. An’ I let him have it, plumb center! He wilted, an’ the Mexicans run. I reckon I’ll never sleep again. But I had to do it.”
Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside.
“I didn’t see anybody but the Mexicans, an’ I sure looked sharp. Comin’ back I cut across through the cottonwoods past Bland’s cabin. I meant to keep out of sight, but somehow I had an idee I might find out if Bland was awake yet. Sure enough I run plumb into Beppo, the boy who tends Bland’s hosses. Beppo likes me. An’ when I inquired of his boss he said Bland had been up all night fightin’ with the señora. An’, Buck, here’s how I figger. Bland couldn’t let up last night. He was sore, an’ he went after Kate again, tryin’ to wear her down. Jest as likely he might have went after Jennie, with wuss intentions. Anyway, he an’ Kate must have had it hot an’ heavy. We’re pretty lucky.”
“It seems so. Well, I’m going,” said Duane, tersely.
“Lucky! I should smile! Bland’s been up all night after a most draggin’ ride home. He’ll be fagged out this mornin’, sleepy, sore, an’ he won’t be expectin’ hell before breakfast. Now, you walk over to his house. Meet him how you like. Thet’s your game. But I’m suggestin’, if he comes out an’ you want to parley, you can jest say you’d thought over his proposition an’ was ready to join his band, or you ain’t. You’ll have to kill him, an’ it ’d save time to go fer your gun on sight. Might be wise, too, fer it’s likely he’ll do thet same.”
“How about the horses?”
“I’ll fetch them an’ come along about two minnits behind you. ’Pears to me you ought to have the job done an’ Jennie outside by the time I git there. Once on them hosses, we can ride out of camp before Alloway or anybody else gits into action. Jennie ain’t much heavier ’n a rabbit. Thet big black will carry you both.”
; “All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay—not to mix any more in this,” said Duane, earnestly.
“Nope. I’m goin’. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway wouldn’t give me the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last word—look out fer thet Bland woman!”
Duane merely nodded, and then, saying that the horses were ready, he strode away through the grove. Accounting for the short cut across grove and field, it was about five minutes’ walk up to Bland’s house. To Duane it seemed long in time and distance, and he had difficulty in restraining his pace. As he walked there came a gradual and subtle change in his feelings. Again he was going out to meet a man in conflict. He could have avoided this meeting. But despite the fact of his courting the encounter he had not as yet felt that hot, inexplicable rush of blood. The motive of this deadly action was not personal, and somehow that made a difference.
No outlaws were in sight. He saw several Mexican herders with cattle. Blue columns of smoke curled up over some of the cabins. The fragrant smell of it reminded Duane of his home and cutting wood for the stove. He noted a cloud of creamy mist rising above the river, dissolving in the sunlight.
Then he entered Bland’s lane.
While yet some distance from the cabin he heard loud, angry voices of man and woman. Bland and Kate still quarreling! He took a quick survey of the surroundings. There was now not even a Mexican in sight. Then he hurried a little. Half-way down the lane he turned his head to peer through the cottonwoods. This time he saw Euchre coming with the horses. There was no indication that the old outlaw might lose his nerve at the end. Duane had feared this.
Duane now changed his walk to a leisurely saunter. He reached the porch and then distinguished what was said inside the cabin.
“If you do, Bland, by Heaven I’ll fix you and her!” That was panted out in Kate Bland’s full voice.
“Let me loose! I’m going in there, I tell you!” replied Bland, hoarsely.
“What for?”
“I want to make a little love to her. Ha! ha! It ’ll be fun to have the laugh on her new lover.”
“You lie!” cried Kate Bland.
“I’m not saying what I’ll do to her afterward!” His voice grew hoarser with passion. “Let me go now!”
“No! no! I won’t let you go. You’ll choke the—the truth out of her—you’ll kill her.”
“The truth!” hissed Bland.
“Yes. I lied. Jen lied. But she lied to save me. You needn’t—murder her—for that.”
Bland cursed horribly. Then followed a wrestling sound of bodies in violent straining contact—the scrape of feet—the jangle of spurs—a crash of sliding table or chair, and then the cry of a woman in pain.
Duane stepped into the open door, inside the room. Kate Bland lay half across a table where she had been flung, and she was trying to get to her feet. Bland’s back was turned. He had opened the door into Jennie’s room and had one foot across the threshold. Duane caught the girl’s low, shuddering cry. Then he called out loud and clear.
With cat-like swiftness Bland wheeled, then froze on the threshold. His sight, quick as his action, caught Duane’s menacing, unmistakable position.
Bland’s big frame filled the door. He was in a bad place to reach for his gun. But he would not have time for a step. Duane read in his eyes the desperate calculation of chances. For a fleeting instant Bland shifted his glance to his wife. Then his whole body seemed to vibrate with the swing of his arm.
Duane shot him. He fell forward, his gun exploding as it hit into the floor, and dropped loose from stretching fingers. Duane stood over him, stooped to turn him on his back. Bland looked up with clouded gaze, then gasped his last.
“Duane, you’ve killed him!” cried Kate Bland, huskily. “I knew you’d have to!”
She staggered against the wall, her eyes dilating, her strong hands clenching, her face slowly whitening. She appeared shocked, half stunned, but showed no grief.
“Jennie!” called Duane, sharply.
“Oh—Duane!” came a halting reply.
“Yes. Come out. Hurry!”
She came out with uneven steps, seeing only him, and she stumbled over Bland’s body. Duane caught her arm, swung her behind him. He feared the woman when she realized how she had been duped. His action was protective, and his movement toward the door equally as significant.
“Duane!” cried Mrs. Bland.
It was no time for talk. Duane edged on, keeping Jennie behind him. At that moment there was a pounding of iron-shod hoofs out in the lane. Kate Bland bounded to the door. When she turned back her amazement was changing to realization.
“Where ’re you taking Jen?” she cried, her voice like a man’s.
“Get out of my way,” replied Duane. His look perhaps, without speech, was enough for her. In an instant she was transformed into a fury.
“You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to me! You let me believe—you swore you loved me! Now I see what was odd about you. All for that girl! But you can’t have her. You’ll never leave here alive. Give me that girl! Let me—get at her! She’ll never win any more men in this camp.”
She was a powerful woman, and it took all Duane’s strength to ward off her onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie over his upheld arm. Every second her fury increased.
“Help! help! help!” she shrieked, in a voice that must have penetrated to the remotest cabin in the valley.
“Let go! Let go!” cried Duane, low and sharp. He still held his gun in his right hand, and it began to be hard for him to ward the woman off. His coolness had gone with her shriek for help. “Let go!” he repeated, and he shoved her fiercely.
Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the wall and backed away, her strong hands fumbling at the lever. As she jerked it down, throwing a shell into the chamber and cocking the weapon, Duane leaped upon her. He struck up the rifle as it went off, the powder burning his face.
“Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!” he said.
Jennie flashed out of the door.
With an iron grasp Duane held to the rifle-barrel. He had grasped it with his left hand, and he gave such a pull that he swung the crazed woman off the floor. But he could not loose her grip. She was as strong as he.
“Kate! Let go!”
He tried to intimidate her. She did not see his gun thrust in her face, or reason had given way to such an extent to passion that she did not care. She cursed. Her husband had used the same curses, and from her lips they seemed strange, unsexed, more deadly. Like a tigress she fought him; her face no longer resembled a woman’s. The evil of that outlaw life, the wildness and rage, the meaning to kill, was even in such a moment terribly impressed upon Duane.
He heard a cry from outside—a man’s cry, hoarse and alarming.
It made him think of loss of time. This demon of a woman might yet block his plan.
“Let go!” he whispered, and felt his lips stiff. In the grimness of that instant he relaxed his hold on the rifle-barrel.
With sudden, redoubled, irresistible strength she wrenched the rifle down and discharged it. Duane felt a blow—a shock—a burning agony tearing through his breast. Then in a frenzy he jerked so powerfully upon the rifle that he threw the woman against the wall. She fell and seemed stunned.
Duane leaped back, whirled, flew out of the door to the porch. The sharp cracking of a gun halted him. He saw Jennie holding to the bridle of his bay horse. Euchre was astride the other, and he had a Colt leveled, and he was firing down the lane. Then came a single shot, heavier, and Euchre’s ceased. He fell from the horse.
A swift glance back showed to Duane a man coming down the lane. Chess Alloway! His gun was smoking. He broke into a run. Then in an instant he saw Duane, and tried to check his pace as he swung up his arm. But that slight pause was fatal. Duane shot, and Alloway was falling when his gun went off. His bullet whistled close to Duane and thudded into the cabin.
Duane bounded down to the horses. Jennie was trying to hold the plunging bay. Eu
chre lay flat on his back, dead, a bullet-hole in his shirt, his face set hard, and his hands twisted round gun and bridle.
“Jennie, you’ve nerve, all right!” cried Duane, as he dragged down the horse she was holding. “Up with you now! There! Never mind—long stirrups! Hang on somehow!”
He caught his bridle out of Euchre’s clutching grip and leaped astride. The frightened horses jumped into a run and thundered down the lane into the road. Duane saw men running from cabins. He heard shouts. But there were no shots fired. Jennie seemed able to stay on her horse, but without stirrups she was thrown about so much that Duane rode closer and reached out to grasp her arm.
Thus they rode through the valley to the trail that led up over the steep and broken Rim Rock. As they began to climb Duane looked back. No pursuers were in sight.
“Jennie, we’re going to get away!” he cried, exultation for her in his voice.
She was gazing horror-stricken at his breast, as in turning to look back he faced her.
“Oh, Duane, your shirt’s all bloody!” she faltered, pointing with trembling fingers.
With her words Duane became aware of two things—the hand he instinctively placed to his breast still held his gun, and he had sustained a terrible wound.
Duane had been shot through the breast far enough down to give him grave apprehension of his life. The clean-cut hole made by the bullet bled freely both at its entrance and where it had come out, but with no signs of hemorrhage. He did not bleed at the mouth; however, he began to cough up a reddish-tinged foam.
As they rode on, Jennie, with pale face and mute lips, looked at him.
“I’m badly hurt, Jennie,” he said, “but I guess I’ll stick it out.”
“The woman—did she shoot you?”
“Yes. She was a devil. Euchre told me to look out for her. I wasn’t quick enough.”
“You didn’t have to—to—” shivered the girl.
“No! no!” he replied.
They did not stop climbing while Duane tore a scarf and made compresses, which he bound tightly over his wounds. The fresh horses made fast time up the rough trail. From open places Duane looked down. When they surmounted the steep ascent and stood on top of the Rim Rock, with no signs of pursuit down in the valley, and with the wild, broken fastnesses before them, Duane turned to the girl and assured her that they now had every chance of escape.