So it was that when he had lighted the torch in the cave he held it high above his head and approached the stallion with rather cautious steps. The large brute lifted its fine head and turned towards him with distended nostrils. In his very ear it trumpeted a greeting, a challenge, perhaps. For there was little of welcome in its aspect. The small ears were flat back on the neck and the big eyes gave back the light of the torch with a greenish-yellow gleam. Perhaps it was the lack of water which had maddened the horse.
But when Kirk came closer, the stallion bared its teeth and lunged at him like a biting dog. He shouted and jumped back. The display of temper did not irritate him; rather it roused in him a fierce desire to master the brute and a feeling of joy in the combat. He drew his revolver and poised it for the shot, aiming squarely between the eyes of the horse. Yet his hand lowered. For a picture came to him of how he had ridden on the black down the canyon on that night when he had met and slain Charlie Morgan, and how the stallion had galloped like a swift and noiseless shadow. Also, the anger of the dumb brute was like the anger of a man who knows that he is about to be shot down for no crime. It became as difficult for Kirk to press the trigger as it would have been for him to murder a defenseless human being.
He cursed, and raised the revolver again, but once more his hand faltered and fell. He thought now of riding the stallion down one of the riding-paths in the Park, and how all eyes would go over to him. There was not a mount in the Riding Academy to compare with this one! To be sure, there was some danger of appearing near Kirby Creek with a black stallion, for the Night Hawk was known to have ridden a mount such as this. But he could prove with a thousand alibis that he was not the Night Hawk. He had been still in the far north in the very height of the outlaw's career. He made a sudden resolution to take the black away with him. The silver Virgin and all the jewels of plunder could remain here in the eternal night of the cave, but he would carry away the gun, the horse, and the poniard of Spenser.
Having made up his mind to the thing, he set about leading the stallion to water. It was no easy task, for the horse still acted as if in a frenzy. He had to take a half hitch with a rope around the nose of the brute, and when the horse reared and struck at him with its forefeet, he bore down heavily on the rope, shutting off the stallion's wind and nearly choking it. He kept up the pressure until the stallion staggered with glazing eyes. Then he released the grip of the rope a little and led the horse to the pool of water.
Yet all the way he had to keep half turned towards the animal, for the minute his back was turned he felt that the ears of the stallion would lower and the fire come back in its eyes. At the pool the black plunged its nose whole inches into the water and drank, but before it had finished the draught Kirk pulled up its head again. There was another furious display of temper, but Kirk knew too much about horses to let the half-famished brute take its fill of water. He pulled the stallion back into the cave, tied its head short to the stall, and taking off his saddle from his horse at the mouth of the tunnel, he carried it back and placed it on the black.
Then he placed the torch in a crevice of the rock near the silver Virgin and looked his last upon the image, and as he led the horse into the mouth of the passage it seemed to Kirk that the black diamond eyes of the Virgin turned and followed his leaving.
It was no easy task to lead the big horse down the tunnel, and again and again the stallion lunged forward against the rope in its desire to reach the man. He choked the black down, and kept him a safe distance until they reached the mouth. There, as before, the stallion crouched like a dog and wriggled its way out to the open. Kirk put his other horse on a rope and started back up the ravine.
It was a difficult progress. When his own horse approached too close, the black lashed out with vicious heels and even when the led horse lagged behind to the end of the rope the stallion kept sidling and flashing grim glances back to the other animal, as if it waited for the opportunity to jerk away from the controlling hand of the master and make an attack. Kirk enjoyed the very ferocity of the animal. It filled him with a rather foolish pride to think that this wild charger was his, submissive perforce to his superior strength and cunning; and in the strong, supple movement of the animal beneath him, the elastic and easy spring of the legs, he felt that he had at his command a speed which no other beast on the Southwestern desert could rival.
Prancing and side-stepping like a dancer the black made its way up the ravine, and in front of their cabin Kirk hallooed. The voice of Sampson answered faintly from within, and then the financier appeared in the doorway.
"Bring out a lantern and take a look at a piece of real horse-flesh/' suggested Kirk, and when Sampson came out again carrying a lantern, Kirk tossed him the rope of the led horse and put the black through a few paces, making him rear and plunge, and finally sidling him up to Sampson with high, prancing steps. He had to twist the head of the black clear to its shoulder before he could bring him to stand before the financier. Sampson grunted his admiration.
"A horse that is," he agreed, and he stepped about to view the stallion from every angle with a horse-lover's appreciative eye. "I'd pay you a cool couple of thousand for that horse — if I could ride him; but taking all things into consideration, I think you'd better take out a heavy life insurance if you intend to keep the brute."
"That," said Kirk, "is the reason I want him. When we're up in the peaceful north, Sampson, the black will give me a touch of Southwestern excitement now and then."
"Southwestern devilry," added Sampson. "But where did you pick him up?"
"From a poor devil who was broke and drunk. He would have sold the black for the price of a drink just then, but I paid him five hundred and he nearly wept for joy. They'll stare when they see this horse in the Park, Sampson."
"They will, and they'll also run to get out of the way. Look out, there! He'll have a piece out of your knee in a moment!"
"Not a bit," grinned Kirk. "I can read his mind. I tell you; this horse is after my own heart."
"After your new heart, perhaps.” said Sampson, "but in the old days, Kirk, you'd have rather signed your death-warrant than climb into that saddle on that horse. I wish the air of Kirby Creek affected me in this way, Kirk," he added a bit wistfully, "and I'd think I'd found the fountain of youth. Put up your nag and let's go in and talk to Winifred. She's in a bad humor, Kirk, and sits there daring me with her eyes to ask questions about what happened to her last night."
"And what did happen?" asked Kirk.
"The devil!" broke out Sampson, and pointed down the ravine.
A tongue of yellow flame like a waving hand of fire soared above the roofs of Kirby Creek.
Chapter 45
"Winifred!" he called. "Fire in Kirby Creek!" She came to the door at once. And the three stood watching in wonder the growing flare of light. It mounted higher until all of Kirby Creek was bathed in yellow light.
"What about it, Winifred?”
"The fire's already dying down,” she said, "and it will be almost out by the time we arrive. Besides, it's not spreading.”
"What's the matter, Winifred?” asked Kirk maliciously. "You're not keen for anything these days.”
"For nothing except to leave this dropping off point of the world,” she answered wearily.
And as she was turning back into the house her father said in a low voice: "Gad, I think it's the place of Cl— of Yo Chai!"
Winifred stopped short at the door.
"The place of Yo Chai?" she echoed sharply.
"Look!" answered John Sampson.
Their place on the side of the ravine was at a considerable elevation above the town of Kirby Creek, and as the fire lighted the roofs of the town they were able to see with perfect distinctness that it was from the broad roof of the gambling house that the fire was belching.
"Poor devil!" muttered Sampson. "Poor Yo Chai!"
"What difference does it make?" said the girl coldly.
"Perhaps he's in the flames — he probabl
y is to save his gold. But what difference does it make?"
"But burned to death!" said Sampson. "Gad, how horrible!"
"Bah!" snorted Kirk, "let him go. After all, a gambler takes his chances even with fire! Let him go!"
"Burned to death!" repeated the girl, and she turned with a muffled cry and ran into the house.
"What's up with her?" asked Kirk suspiciously.
"Someday I’ll tell you, lad," said Sampson, deeply moved. "But now let's go in to her."
They found her huddled on her bed weeping hysterically. And when her father tried to comfort her she fought him away.
"Keep your head high, Winifred!" he pleaded. "There's not one chance in twenty that he's caught in the fire!"
"You don't know!" she said, and suddenly she was clinging to her father, still weeping. "You don't know, but I do! I can almost see him start that fire with his own hand. Oh, Dad, oh, Dad!"
"Hush!" he said, patting her back with clumsy tenderness. "Hush, my dear, for it will all turn out all right in the end!"
"How can it for him?" she said almost fiercely. "I tell you, it's the end of — of
Yo Chai! Dad, yellow or white, there's not his like left in the world. And I'm alone, oh God, how utterly alone, Dad!"
"Hush," he said again with a shaking voice, "or Kirk will hear!"
"Yes, Kirk!" she sat bolt upright, the tears gone. "If it had not been for Kirk —"
"Well?"
"I hate the ground he walks!"
"Do you still hold that old slip against him?"
"Dad," she said suddenly, "what a fool, what a weak and cruel and selfish fool a woman can be!"
She broke away from Sampson and stood erect.
"We leave in the morning," she said, "and we have to get our things together."
He said, alarmed: "But wait till you've quieted down, Winifred. You're half hysterical now."
And she laughed in such a way as he had never heard before.
"Do you think that anything matters now?" she said. "I was never calmer in my life!"
She proved it, it seemed, by the absolute quiet in which she set about packing the few belongings which they had taken into the mining camp and Kirk and Sampson sat in utter silence watching her with a sort of awe.
Through the window they saw the fire had passed its height and now the flames fell, and there was only a red glow over the town and a faint red spot in the sky of the night above Kirby Creek, like a grim sign.
And while that red sign of wrath was still plainly visible in the sky above the town, a voice called from the night, "William Kirk!"
They were silent in the room; the girl turned strange eyes upon the door.
"William Kirk!” called the voice again, not loud but with peculiar carrying power.
And Winifred sank into a chair and cowered.
"Clung!” she said in a faint voice. "The ghost of Clung!”
"Clung?” cried Kirk, and he sprang up, his face terrible. "Who said Clung?”
"William Kirk!” called the voice again.
"My God!” said the big man, "it is Clung!”
"For God’s sake, Kirk!” pleaded Sampson, "don't go out! It's murder if you do!”
"Murder?” growled Kirk, and he flung Sampson away with the slightest motion of his hand. "What does an old fool like you know about murder?”
"William Kirk!” called the voice.
"Don't go!”
"Damnation!” thundered Kirk. "Am I to stay here like a whipped puppy because a dog of a half-breed Chink yells outside the door? I'm coming!"
And following the roar of his voice, he threw open the door. In the night he made out a slender figure on a grey horse, holding the black stallion by the reins.
"Who's there?" he shouted.
"Clung. Your horse is ready. Are you ready, Kirk?"
"Damn you, yes! Ready for anything! What d'ye want?"
"To ride with you, Kirk."
"Where?"
"A long distance for one of us and a short time to ride it in!"
And Kirk, bareheaded as he was, strode through the door. He was trembling, but it was the hunting dog's tremble of eagerness.
"Close the door!" said Clung.
And Kirk obeyed automatically; he wondered why he obeyed, and also he wondered why he hated that quiet voice so profoundly.
Now, outside the house, away from the glare of the lamps within, the light of the newly-risen moon was sufficiently clear for him to make out distinctly the face of him he had known as Clung. Thinner, perhaps, and marvelously pale; a single glance, even by that dim light, was sufficient to show that there was no trace of Chinese blood in this man. For his face seemed to actually shine, so profound was its pallor. Kirk halted.
"Why do you want me?" he asked again, to make sure.
And he found himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver which had been conjured out of thin air, and behind it was the well-known, musing smile of Clung.
"I have the horse of the Night Hawk," said Clung, "and now I want to see his gun!"
"Damn you!" said Kirk, after a little pause.
"Move slowly," said Clung calmly, "and pull out the gun with the butt towards me. That is good."
He took the revolver and slipped his forefinger under the barrel. Then he turned to Kirk again, and with a smile of positively womany brightness.
"It is true," said Clung. "Now take your horse and ride on with me — ahead. I will give you your gun when the time comes!"
And he slipped the weapon into the holster on the side of his saddle.
Chapter 46
"Which way?" said Kirk shortly, as he obediently reined the black stallion in front.
"It makes no difference,”said Clung calmly. "No matter what way you go, the end is the same."
And Kirk understood. As soon as they reached some deserted place in the ravine Clung would restore the weapon to him and they would fight it out on equal grounds. That was good. One last battle before he left the Southwest and returned to the chained life of the north. And in that battle he could wipe out the one spot against him, remove the one thing he had feared — Clung!
He cursed with a savage satisfaction and urged the stallion to a gallop; but with the first few swinging strides a change came over him; his heart grew light, his brain half dizzy. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that Clung was not even then growing larger in his saddle. No, he was at a little distance and still as small as before. Yet the dizziness persisted, and Kirk knew that he was afraid. If it had not been that he was galloping in front, he kept saying to himself, all would have been well, but now he seemed to be fleeing, and the very act of flight filled him with a foolish panic.
Moreover, he was beginning to think. He hated Clung for the very sufficient reason that he had once wronged him. And he dreaded Clung for many other reasons. He remembered how Clung had dropped out of that chair and had suddenly had two revolvers leveled upon him. He remembered with surpassing vividness how Marshal Clau-son, famous gun-fighter though he was, had approached the disarmed Clung with caution and manifest fear, even at a time when Clung was surrounded by enemies with leveled guns. If Clauson feared, there must be some superhuman power about the fellow.
Clung! The very sound of the name was like a promise of death. It went through him like a knife. Clung!
And now the speed of the black stallion was bearing him swiftly and smoothly to his death. It suddenly came to him that he might use that speed for another purpose — escape! Certainly the grey of Clung would never be able to catch them. From that instant he bided his time. Finally, as they reached a boulder-strewn portion of the valley, he began to pick an extremely zig-zag course, twisting here and there among the monstrous rocks.
And Clung, at times, fell out of sight. The third time that happened, seeing a clear lane between the rocks ahead of him, Kirk buried his spurs in the flanks of the stallion. The startled animal sprang ahead at racing speed. Instantly behind him came the halloo of Clung, but he leaned over t
he saddlebow and plied the spurs again and again. There came no following shot, but a louder rattle of hoofs behind him. He looked back and made out in the clear moonlight that Clung was losing ground at every jump. At that distance there was hardly a chance of one in ten that even as great a magician with the gun as Clung could strike him with a bullet by that uncertain light and from a racing horse.
So he spurred the black stallion again and yelled back his defiance at Clung; in the space of a few minutes the outlines of Clung were blurred to indistinctness behind him.
And it was then that he noted a change in the gait of the black. His stride began to grow less smoothly elastic. It jolted and jarred the rider. And now the big stallion tossed his head high and to one side and neighed as if to give direction to the pursuer. Kirk cursed and struck the horse between the ears with his closed fist.
In response, the stallion reared at a full halt, and came down bucking. By the time
Kirk could straighten him out and start him running again, Clung was once more upon him, and now gaining. He spurred the black again and again, but still the stallion journeyed at a labored pace, coming down hard. And his ears were flattening against his neck. The spirit of an obstinate devil seemed to be in the animal. And now the distance between them grew perilously short, and shorter. The stallion was traveling at hardly more than a hard gallop. Kirk accepted the inevitable. His rage at the horse had raised his courage again, or something to take the place of courage. He pulled the willing horse to a stop and swung from the saddle; Clung was on the ground at the same instant and only a few paces away. He tossed the gun to Kirk and it flashed in the moonlight and then rattled on the rocks at his feet.
Brand, Max - 1924 Page 20