Stagecoach

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Stagecoach Page 22

by Max Brand


  “Matter of fact, I dumped a couple of revolver loads of shots after them rascals myself, but I’m free to say that the sight of that there big Furness sort of shook up my nerve, and, though I did some shootin’, it was just the same as though somebody had hold of my elbow and was shakin’ it a little all of the time. Y’understand? I was plain scared, and so was most of the rest of that town, and so would you boys’ve been if you’d been with me there. And maybe so you’ll be if you ever do have the bad luck to fall in with big Furness and his gang. Which I’m hopin’ that you don’t. For your own sakes, I’m hopin’ that you don’t.”

  “Go on,” said Cumnor. “Then you come riding right on to us?”

  “I only waited about ten minutes in town to get all the news and find out how many thugs there had been along, and, when I found out what I wanted to know, I just slithered out of Chadwick City as fast as I could come and hit the beeline for your camp . . . or where I thought your camp was . . . which was about a mile north of this here. I did some pretty steady pluggin’ along, because the pinto horse, yonder, is sure a good fast stepper and he don’t wear out much easier than iron. I rode along for about five hours. It was right along in the afternoon, and then I pulled up to give the horse a mouthful of water and rinse him off a little and loosen the cinches and let him have a couple of free breaths. And while I was waterin’ him at a little creek that I come across, I heard some horses down the road, and through the branches of the trees I seen seven riders come slatin’ down the road.

  “Well, you can say for yourselves how mighty sick I was. I seen that there wasn’t any chance for me to scatter out, because I was in easy range of a rifle, and there wasn’t no doubt about what them rapscallions would do if they seen a gent tryin’ to ride away from them. Besides, the horse ain’t been foaled in these mountains that could ever keep up with that gray galloper of big Furness. He would’ve rode up and put me in his pocket, and then they would’ve took me apart to see what made me tick.

  “So I waited there in the shadow of them trees, mostly hopin’ that I wouldn’t be bothered . . . but mostly guessin’ that I would. Dog-gone my heart, though, if they didn’t come right up to the edge of the creek. I thought they was gonna cross over, and then I would’ve been a goner. But they just rode into the water and begun to let their horses have a mouthful or two.

  “I slid out of the saddle and shoved my hand into the mouth of the pinto horse, yonder, so’s he wouldn’t let out no neigh. And while I stood there, the wind parted the leaves, some right in front of my face, so that I could look out and spot every one of them gents, as clear as day. And they sure could’ve looked right through the leaves and seen me and my horse because the leaves wasn’t much thicker than enough to make a sort of a veil. Y’understand? It was a mighty naked feelin’. And every minute I expected to hear a gun and feel a bullet come smashin’ right through me, by way of sayin’ that they had spotted me.

  “I dunno what kept them from it, neither . . . unless it was that I was so dog-gone’ close and that they didn’t expect to see me. If they’d had any idea that there might’ve been a gent within ten miles of them, they’d’ve spotted me that quick and I would’ve been dead before I knowed it, you might say. But somehow, a gent’s eyes is made so that they’re apt to see nothin’ except what they expect to see. Know what I mean when I say that? You walk right on top of a deer and don’t know it till it throws up its tail and runs for it. But you never do that when you’re huntin’ for it.

  “Well, there I stood, as I was sayin’. And them not twenty yards away from me, and them laughin’ and me sweatin’ blood, you bet.”

  “What were they talkin’ about?” asked one of the posse.

  “You’d think they would talk pretty serious. Well, they didn’t. I knowed five out of the six gents that was with Furness. There was Goodall and Sloan, and that good-for-nothin’ gent, Thompson, all from Crumbock. And there was Lewis and little Reimer . . . you know him? . . . right out of Chadwick City, where they’d just been tryin’ to murder the gents so scandalous. What did they talk about? Why, they talked foolish. ‘Have you got a chaw of that nacheral leaf?’ says Thompson to Lewis. ‘I have,’ says Lewis, ‘and what’s more, I’m gonna keep it.’ ‘Aw,’ says Thompson, ‘don’t be so dog-gone’ unfriendly.’ ‘I ain’t unfriendly . . . I’m just usin’ sense,’ says Lewis. ‘I’m kind of tired of bein’ the goat for you and your chewin’. I’m glad that you got enough money now to buy your own chewin’ for a week or two.’ ‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Thompson. ‘I would pay twenty dollars for the half of what you got left of that plug.’ ‘D’you mean that?’ says Lewis. ‘I cross my heart to die.’ ‘All right, and that’s a bargain and here you are.’

  “He pulls out a plug of tobacco, and dog-gone me if there was much more of it left than the size of half of your thumb . . . and the boys all let out a whoop and a holler and Lewis cut the plug of tobacco in two and Thompson, he had to pay twenty dollars for his half. He put it right smack into his mouth . . . the whole thing. And it wasn’t more’n a good-size chew, at that. ‘How does it taste, Thompson?’ says one of them. ‘It tastes right smart like there was more gold to it than there was tobacco,’ says Thompson, and everybody haw-hawed.

  “That was the way they talked, like nothin’ in particular until one of their horses begins to nicker. My pinto horse, here, he starts in quiverin’ and shakin’, he wanted so mighty hard to nicker back. ‘Looks like that horse of yours has smelled something nigh here,’ says one of the boys. ‘Naw,’ says another, ‘the dog-gone’ old fool, he don’t smell nothin’ nor he don’t see nothin’. He’s jest blame ignorant, that horse is.’

  “Well, sir, there I was, listenin’ and sweatin’ mighty bad. But there wasn’t any lookin’ behind the leaves of the trees along that creek, and in another minute the whole seven of them was ridin’ down the road ag’in, as sassy as you please. I just waited until they was over the hump of the next hill, and then I up and rode here for the camp as fast as the pinto could leg it along. And you take my word for it, that unless they camped mighty early . . . which they ain’t no ways likely to do, they ain’t more’n three or four miles away from you right now. For they was headed right along this here trail.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Counting the messenger, there were now nineteen men in the party. And though Sammy Gregg was considered hardly of much force as a fighting man, his counsel on the way might be worth as much as any of them.

  Cumnor, however, gave all of the directions for the hunt. He decided to start moving at once, and he selected from his party seven men on the best horses who were to ride well ahead of the main group. They were to scatter out, each man a full hundred yards from his nearest neighbor on either hand. In this fashion they would sweep with their eyes an expanse of about half a mile, searching that ground thoroughly. The moment any one of these advance men found any traces of the quarry, he was to turn about and ride at full speed to carry the tidings to those who were in the rear.

  There was only one difficulty with the plan, and that was that, if they searched at night and covered on a half-mile swathe across the mountains, they might miss the outlaws altogether if these had turned aside ever so little from the main trail. Whereas, if they waited for the daylight, they would have ten times greater chances of spotting the outlaws.

  But against that chance there was to be posted the great probability that Furness would keep his men riding in short stages all through that night so as to reach the inaccessible fastnesses of the upper mountains in the first long and quite tiresome march from Chadwick City.

  There was at least one aid to the searchers. There was a clear half moon that had arisen while the sun was still filling the west with crimson. Now, as the day died, there followed a short time when neither sun nor moon seemed strong enough to do more than confuse the eyes. It was at this time that the search began. But with every moment, as the west darkened and the moon rose higher, it was more and more possible to see to advanta
ge wherever the mountainside was at all clear. Where the forest hung in clouds along the slope, to be sure, nothing could be made out that stirred inside of its shadow.

  But they pushed west at a brisk pace, with the advance riders as a rule just beyond sight of the main body, or only occasionally seen as moving blurs in the distance. But still the moon brightened and brightened, or their eyes began to grow more accustomed to the light and to their work. Confidence increased, and the very manner in which they held their guns had altered.

  They had not continued a single hour, however, and there was still a faint, faint rim of light to the west, when a rider slid out to them from the front with hurriedly gasped tidings.

  “I seen the whole gang of ’em . . . all ridin’ in single file. I could’ve drilled Furness clean as a whistle. Boys, we’re gonna snag the whole lot of ’em . . . come on with me.”

  Sammy Gregg felt his blood turn cold and rush back upon his heart—which was like ice in turn. And it seemed as though Cumnor must have known what was passing through the mind of the tenderfoot, for his first word was for him: “You’ve shown sand enough in sticking with us this far. The gun work ain’t your work, Gregg. You keep back, will you, and tend the horses? Because we’re gonna go ahead, here, on foot.”

  “Let someone else mind the horses, or else turn them loose. I’ve come too far to miss the fun, Cumnor,” Sammy said. “I have that much coming to me.”

  “Then keep along with me, kid. And try to do what I do. Which’ll be only common sense, and nothing rash, I can promise you. Get off your horses, boys, and throw them reins. And if there’s any of you that have horses so poor trained that they won’t stand when the reins are thrown, let ’em stay behind with their horses. Because we got to have men with free hands. Now strike away, partner, and we’ll trail you. Mind you, boys, not a word spoke on the trail. Not even in a whisper. If there’s any talking that must be done, I’ll leave it to myself to do it. Y’understand? I don’t have to tell you to remember to shoot low when you see ’em. Remember that everybody that gets excited shoots too high. There was nothing ever killed by a shot that was too high, but there’s been plenty hurt by bullets that come ricocheting off the ground. That’s all I got to say. But run silent on this trail.”

  Then they started off, striking at once into a long-swinging trot that began to cut into Sammy Gregg’s wind in bad fashion. However, he stuck manfully to his work, keeping his place just behind big Cumnor. They traveled not more than a half mile in this fashion when the leader threw his arm up to stop the others and dropped instantly upon his face.

  The rest followed that example and they learned the reason for it instantly. Out of the moon haze before them they heard the steady jingling of horsemen—the clicking of hoofs upon the rocks, the rattle of bits and curbs and chains and spurs, and then the occasional grunting of a laboring, weary horse.

  The posse began to crawl softly forward toward the crest of the hummock that separated them from the view of the riders in the hollow beyond.

  Then: “What’s that moving over yonder?” called a clear voice.

  To Sammy, it sounded very like the voice of big Furness, and the chill returned upon his blood, even though it had been so heated by the run up the slope.

  “Nothing moving.”

  “Use your eyes, you fool . . . and back there to the right . . . they’re on top of us! Cut for the trees, boys!”

  A gun rang from the hollow. And there was a hoarse, distant shout. Plainly one of the unlucky forward scouts of the posse had been sighted by chance and dropped by a long-range shot. But there was vengeance coming behind the men of Furness at last. To the top of the hill lunged the followers of Cumnor, and they had before them a clear, short-range view of seven riders plunging toward the trees that were just beside them. The dozen rifles steadied for a brief instant on their targets. They crashed. And three of the seven horses that reached the woods were riderless.

  Four were gone, however. Aye, and as the line of riflemen surged forward, they were encountered by a spiteful crackling of guns among the rocks on this side of the wood. One of the fallen men was either stunned or had gone to his long account. But two of them were determined to make the power of the law pay more dearly for their capture.

  Sammy felt a cut, as of a hot-bladed knife, across his cheek, and a shower of crimson covered his shoulder at once. Someone else in the posse spun around and took a staggering step or two, and then went down. The rest dropped upon their bellies and began to worm their way forward.

  “Who’s up there on the left?” Cumnor called out as calmly as you please, while he sheltered himself behind an outthrust of rock.

  “It’s Jem Partridge.”

  “Partridge, damn it, what’s the matter with you? Can’t you angle some bullets down at them from where you are and roll them over for us?”

  The side of the hill sloped sharply up, in this place, and with such an angle of fire it was most probable that Jem Partridge could send a few slugs of lead into the foes.

  Presently a spark of fire glowed where Jem, without a word of reply, had opened fire.

  And then: “Oh . . . damn it! Boys I got enough . . . lend a hand here . . . before I bleed to death . . . will you?”

  “Tell your pal to stop firing, then!” called one of the hold-up gang.

  “I’ll see you damned first!” called another.

  “Good Lord,” whined the injured fellow, “you ain’t gonna leave poor Thompson to lie here and bleed to death, are you?”

  “You yaller-livered rat, Thompson. You was never no good. You was always a quitter. I dunno how the chief ever happened to bring you along for a job like this. No, you die there and be damned . . . but I ain’t gonna . . .”

  The voice was cut short by the crash of the terrible rifle in the hand of Jem Partridge higher up the slope. And then they heard Jem say: “I guess that finished that sucker. You boys don’t have to be afraid to go in and keep that there Thompson from bleedin’ to death.”

  “Hurry up, boys!” cried Thompson. “I got news that you’ll be mighty glad to have, I tell you. But I’m goin’ fast. Oh . . . ain’t none of you gonna come here and gimme a hand?”

  But how dark and how open was that hillside. And who could tell if two of the three were really dead, or merely holding their fire in reserve to make it count the more effectively as soon as some one of the posse showed?

  And then little Sammy Gregg thought to himself: What good could I ever be with a gun in my hand for the shooting? But I can serve as well as the next fellow to stand out here and pull their fire . . . they can’t know that it’s only me. So thought Sammy, with his knees turned very weak beneath him and barely strength enough to force himself to his feet and stand up in the brightness of the moonshine. But he made his way forward. He came safely through the perilous land between up to the rock behind which Thompson lay twisting.

  “God bless you, partner,” Thompson murmured, half gasp and half whine. “You’re a brave man. You’ll have your share of heaven for doin’ this. It’s right here . . . look how I’m bleedin’!” His voice was raising to an hysteria of terror.

  But here were other men now coming hastily after Sammy—ashamed of themselves that they had let the little tenderfoot take the brunt of this danger. Cumnor and another were quickly at work bandaging the bleeding wound. And three of the men were sent back in haste to bring up the horses. The others bandaged their own badly hurt man, or examined the dead bodies of the two whom they had brought down out of the outlaw party.

  The division of the spoils had already been made among the seven. And from each of the three captives, $32,000 was taken in fresh, well-crisped paper money—$32,000 for a single raid, a single half day’s work.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  They had learned from Thompson, in the meantime, what the probable plans of the leader of the bandits would be. He had intended to push straight in among the mountains, but, if there were any danger on the road and he were diverted from that pur
pose, he would turn straight about and take his men down toward the south, and past Munson, and so on until they were lost in the burning flats of the desert. This Thompson was sure of, because he had heard the chief speak of the thing several times.

  “South is the trail, then,” Cumnor announced. “He’s had his check here. We’ll ride south.”

  But Sammy, remembering something of the big, confident nature of Furness, broke in on this decision. “Go on toward the higher mountains, Cumnor,” he begged. “You’ll find him there. He’ll never turn back from his way after a little defeat like this. He has himself and three good men with him. Besides, he probably knows that one of the three men he left behind may give away the news of the intended southern trail.”

  No doubt there was excellent good sense in this. Cumnor decided that it must be acted upon. The horses were by this time brought up. And the sound of the firing had brought in the vanguard. They carried with them the man who had been wounded by the first fire from the outlaws. So the wounded and the guard left behind were four members out of the party. Fifteen in all pushed on along the trail in the pursuit of the four fugitives. The odds were greatly altered. And on behalf of the pursuit the freshness of their horses spoke eloquently. Those of big Furness and his men had received a hard pounding during the course of this day and it would be very odd if they would be able to creep out of the range of the posse.

  Indeed, they could not. With the silver clarity of the moon covering the mountains and showing them the way, Cumnor’s party came momently upon fresher sign until they reached a point at which the trail turned off into four points, each followed by a single rider. It was the last desperate remedy to try to elude the pursuers by simply scattering—the usual vain attempt that children make when the constable takes after them in the orchard where they are enjoying stolen fruit. Cumnor instantly split his band into four sections. Three were of four each. With himself he kept only Sammy Gregg and another named Sid Lannister. And then each party hurried on its way.

 

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