IV
THE RACE
This story is most blood-and-thundery, but, then, it is true. It is oneof the stories of Alfred; but Alfred is not the hero of it at all--quiteanother man, not nearly so interesting in himself as Alfred.
At the time, Alfred and this other man, whose name was Tom, wereconvoying a band of Mexican vaqueros over to the Circle-X outfit. TheCircle-X was in the heat of a big round-up, and had run short of men. SoTom and Alfred had gone over to Tucson and picked up the best they couldfind, which best was enough to bring tears to the eyes of anold-fashioned, straight-riding, swift-roping Texas cowman. The gang wasan ugly one: it was sullen, black-browed, sinister. But it, one and all,could throw a rope and cut out stock, which was not only the mainthing--it was the whole thing.
Still, the game was not pleasant. Either Alfred or Tom usually rodenight-herd on the ponies--merely as a matter of precaution--and theyfelt just a trifle more shut off by themselves and alone than if theyhad ridden solitary over the limitless alkali of the Arizona plains.This feeling struck in the deeper because Tom had just entered one ofhis brooding spells. Tom and Alfred had been chums now for close on twoyears, so Alfred knew enough to leave him entirely alone until he shouldrecover.
The primary cause of Tom's abstraction was an open-air preacher, and thesecondary cause was, of course, a love affair. These two things did notconnect themselves consciously in Tom's mind, but they blended subtly toproduce a ruminative dissatisfaction.
When Tom was quite young he had fallen in love with a girl back in theDakota country. Shortly after a military-post had been established nearby, and Anne Bingham had ceased to be spoken of by mayors' daughters andofficers' wives. Tom, being young, had never quite gotten over it. Itwas still part of his nature, and went with a certain sort of sunset, orthat kind of star-lit evening in which an imperceptible haze dims thebrightness of the heavens.
The open-air preacher had chosen as his text the words, "passing thelove of woman," and Tom, wandering idly by, had caught the text. Somehowever since the words had run in his mind. They did not mean anything tohim, but merely repeated themselves over and over, just as so manydelicious syllables which tickled the ear and rolled succulently underthe tongue. For, you see, Tom was only an ordinary battered Arizonacow-puncher, and so, of course, according to the fireside moralists,quite incapable of the higher feelings. But the words reacted to arousememories of black-eyed Anne, and the memories in turn brought one of hismoods.
Tom, and Alfred, and the ponies, and the cook-wagon, and the cook, andthe Mexican vaqueros had done the alkali for three days. Underfoot hadbeen an exceedingly irregular plain; overhead an exceedingly bright andtrying polished sky; around about an exceedingly monotonous horizon-lineand dense clouds of white dust. At the end of the third day everybodywas feeling just a bit choked up and tired, and, to crown a series ofpetty misfortunes, the fire failed to respond to Black Sam's endeavours.This made supper late.
Now at one time in this particular locality Arizona had not been dry andfull of alkali. A mighty river, so mighty that in its rolling flood noanimal that lives to-day would have had the slightest chance, surgeddown from the sharp-pointed mountains on the north, pushed fiercely itsway through the southern plains, and finally seethed and boiled ineddies of foam out into a southern sea which has long since disappeared.On its banks grew strange, bulbous plants. Across its waters swamuncouth monsters with snake-like necks. Over it alternated storms sosavage that they seemed to rend the world, and sunshine so hot that itseemed that were it not for the bulbous plants all living things wouldperish as in an oven.
In the course of time conditions changed, and the change brought theArizona of to-day. There are now no turbid waters, no bulbous plants, nouncouth beasts, and, above all, no storms. Only the sun and one otherthing remain: that other thing is the bed of the ancient stream.
On one side--the concave of the curve--is a long easy slope, so gradualthat one hardly realises where it shades into the river-bottom itself.On the other--the convex of the curve--where the swift waters wereturned aside to a new direction, is a high, perpendicular cliff runningin an almost unbroken breastwork for a great many miles, and baked ashard as iron in this sunny and almost rainless climate. Occasionalshowers have here and there started to eat out little transversegullies, but with a few exceptions have only gone so far as slightly tonick the crest. The exceptions, reaching to the plain, afford steep andperilous ascents to the level above. Anyone who wishes to pass thebarrier made by the primeval river must hunt out for himself one ofthese narrow passages.
On the evening in question the cowmen had made camp in the hollow beyondthe easy slope. On the rise, sharply silhouetted against the west,Alfred rode wrangler to the little herd of ponies. Still fartherwestward across the plain was the clay-cliff barrier, looking under thesunset like a narrow black ribbon. In the hollow itself was the camp,giving impression in the background of a scattering of ghostly mules, ahalf-circle of wagons, ill-defined forms of recumbent vaqueros, and thenin the foreground of Sam with his gleaming semicircle of utensils, andhis pathetic little pile of fuel which would not be induced to gleam atall.
For, as has been said, Black Sam was having great trouble with his fire.It went out at least six times, and yet each time it hung on in aflickering fashion so long that he had felt encouraged to arrange hisutensils and distribute his provisions. Then it had expired, and poorSam had to begin all over again. The Mexicans smoked yellow-papercigarettes and watched his off-and-on movements with sullen distrust;they were firmly convinced that he was indulging in some sort of apractical joke. So they hated him fervently and wrapped themselves intheir serapes. Tom sat on a wagon-tongue swinging a foot and repeatingvaguely to himself in a singsong inner voice, "passing the love ofwoman, passing the love of woman," over and over again. His mind was adull blank of grayness. From time to time he glanced at Sam, but with noimpatience: he was used to going without. Sam was to him a matter ofutter indifference.
As to the cook himself, he had a perplexed droop in every curve of hisrounded shoulders. His kinky gray wool was tousled from perpetualundecided scratching, and his eyes had something of the dumb sadness ofthe dog as he rolled them up in despair. Life was not a matter ofindifference to him. Quite the contrary. The problem of _damp wood_ +_matches_ = _cooking-fire_ was the whole tangle of existence. There wassomething pitiable in it. Perhaps this was because there is somethingmore pathetic in a comical face grown solemn than in the most melancholycountenance in the world.
At last the moon rose and the fire decided to burn. With the seventhattempt it flared energetically; then settled to a steady glow ofpossible flap-jacks.
But its smoke was bitter, and the evening wind fitful. Bitter smoke onan empty stomach might be appropriately substituted for the last strawof the proverb--when the proverb has to do with hungry Mexicans. Most ofthe recumbent vaqueros merely cursed a little deeper and drew theirserapes closer, but Jose Guiterrez grunted, threw off his blanket, andapproached the fire.
Sam rolled the whites of his eyes up at him for a moment, grinned in ahalf-perplexed fashion, and turned again to his pots and pans. Jose,being sulky and childish, wanted to do something to somebody, so heinsolently flicked the end of his long quirt through a mess of choicebut still chaotic flap-jacks. The quirt left a narrow streak across thebatter. Sam looked up quickly.
"Doan you done do dat!" he said, with indignation.
He looked upon the turkey-like Jose for a heavy moment, and then turnedback to the cooking. In rescuing an unstable coffee-pot a moment later,he accidentally jostled against Jose's leg. Jose promptly and fiercelykicked the whole outfit into space. The frying-pan crowned a sage-brush;the coffee-pot rolled into a hollow, where it spouted coffee-grounds andwater in a diminishing stream; the kettle rolled gently on its side;flap-jacks distributed themselves impartially and moistly; and, worst ofall, the fire was drowned out altogether.
Black Sam began stiffly to arise. The next instant he sank back with agurgle in his throat an
d a knife thrust in his side.
The murderer stood looking down at his victim. The other Mexicansstared. The cowboy jumped up from the tongue of the wagon, drew hisweapon from the holster at his side, took deliberate aim, and firedtwice. Then he turned and began to run toward Alfred on the hill.
A cowboy cannot run so very rapidly. He carries such a quantity ofdunnage below in the shape of high boots, spurs, chaps, andcartridge-belts that his gait is a waddling single-foot. Still, Tommanaged to get across the little stony ravine before the Mexicansrecovered from their surprise and became disentangled from theirponchos. Then he glanced over his shoulder. He saw that some of thevaqueros were running toward the arroya, that some were busilyunhobbling the mules, and that one or two had kneeled and were preparingto shoot. At the sight of these last, he began to jump from side to sideas he ran. This decreased his speed. Half-way up the hill he was met byAlfred on his way to get in the game, whatever it might prove to be. Thelittle man reached over and grasped Tom's hand. Tom braced his footagainst the stirrup, and in an instant was astride behind the saddle.Alfred turned up the hill again, and without a word began applying hisquirt vigorously to the wiry shoulders of his horse. At the top of thehill, as they passed the grazing ponies, Tom turned and emptied theremaining four chambers of his revolver into the herd. Two ponies fellkicking; the rest scattered in every direction. Alfred gruntedapprovingly, for this made pursuit more difficult, and so gained them alittle more time.
Now both Alfred and Tom knew well enough that a horse carrying two mencannot run away from a horse carrying one man, but they also knew thecountry, and this knowledge taught them that if they could reach thenarrow passage through the old clay bluff, they might be able to escapeto Peterson's, which was situated a number of miles beyond. This wouldbe possible, because men climb faster when danger is behind them thanwhen it is in front. Besides, a brisk defence could render even an angryMexican a little doubtful as to just when he should begin to climb.Accordingly, Alfred urged the pony across the flat plain of the ancientriverbed toward the nearest and only break in the cliff. Fifteen milesbelow was the regular passage. Otherwise the upper mesa was asimpregnable as an ancient fortress. The Mexicans had by this timesucceeded in roping some of the scattered animals, and were streamingover the brow of the hill, shouting wildly. Alfred looked back andgrinned. Tom waved his wide sombrero mockingly.
When they approached the ravine, they found the sides almostperpendicular and nearly bare. Its bed was V-shaped, and so cut up withminiature gullies, fantastic turrets and spires, and so undermined byformer rains as to be almost impassable. It sloped gently at first, butafterward more rapidly, and near the top was straight up and down fortwo feet or more. As the men reached it, they threw themselves from thehorse and commenced to scramble up, leading the animal by thebridle-rein. From riding against the sunset their eyes were dazzled, sothis was not easy. The horse followed gingerly, his nose close to theground.
It is well known that quick, short rains followed by a burning sun tendto undermine the clay surface of the ground and to leave it with a hardupper shell, beneath which are cavities of various depths. Alfred andTom, as experienced men, should have foreseen this, but they did not.Soon after entering the ravine the horse broke through into one of theunderground cavities and fell heavily on his side. When he had scrambledsomehow to his feet, he stood feebly panting, his nostrils expanded.
"How is it, Tom?" called Alfred, who was ahead.
"Shoulder out," said Tom, briefly.
Alfred turned back without another word, and putting the muzzle of hispistol against the pony's forehead just above the line of the eyes hepulled the trigger. With the body the two men improvised a breastworkacross a little hummock. Just as they dropped behind it the Mexicansclattered up, riding bareback. Tom coolly reloaded his pistol.
The Mexicans, too, were dazzled from riding against the glow in thewest, and halted a moment in a confused mass at the mouth of the ravine.The two cowboys within rose and shot rapidly. Three Mexicans and twoponies fell. The rest in wild confusion slipped rapidly to the right andleft beyond the Americans' line of sight. Three armed with Winchestersmade a long detour and dropped quietly into the sage-brush just beyondaccurate pistol-range. There they lay concealed, watching. Then uttersilence fell.
The rising moon shone full and square into the ravine, illuminatingevery inch of the ascent. A very poor shot could hardly miss in such alight and with such a background. The two cowmen realised this andsettled down more comfortably behind their breastwork. Tom cautiouslyraised the pony's head with a little chunk of rock, thus making aloophole through which to keep tab on the enemy, after which he rolledon his belly and began whittling in the hard clay, for Tom had thecarving habit--like many a younger boy. Alfred carefully extracted ashort pipe from beneath his chaparajos, pushed down with his bluntforefinger the charge with which it was already loaded, and struck amatch. He poised this for a moment above the bowl of the pipe.
"What's the row anyway?" he inquired, with pardonable curiosity.
"Now, it's jest fifteen mile to th' cut," said Tom, disregardingAlfred's question entirely, "an' of co'se they's goin' to send a possedown thar on th' keen jump. That'll take clost onto three hours in thislight. Then they'll jest pot us a lot from on top."
Alfred puffed three times toward the moonlight, and looked as though thething were sufficiently obvious without wasting so much breath over it.
"We've jest _got_ to git out!" concluded Tom, earnestly.
Alfred grunted.
"An' how are we goin' to do it?"
Alfred paused in the act of blowing a cloud.
"Because, if we makes a break, those Greasers jest nat'rally plugs usfrom behind th' minute we begins to climb."
Alfred condescended to nod. Tom suspended his whittling for a reply.
"Well," said Alfred, taking his pipe from his mouth--Tom contentedlytook up whittling again--"there's only one way to do it, and that's tokeep them so damn busy in front that they _can't_ plug us."
Tom looked perplexed.
"We just _got_ to take our chances on the climbing. Of course, there'sbound to be th' risk of accident. But when I give th' word, _you mosey_,and if one of them pots you, it'll be because my six-shooter's empty."
"But you can't expec' t' shoot _an'_ climb!" objected Tom.
"Course not," replied Alfred, calmly. "Division of labour: you climb; Ishoot."
A light dawned in Tom's eyes, and he shut his jaws with a snap.
"I guess not!" said he, quietly.
"Yo' laigs is longer," Alfred urged, in his gentle voice, "and yo'll getto Peterson's quicker;" and then he looked in Tom's eyes and changed histone. "All right!" he said, in a business-like manner. "I'll toss youfor it."
For reply, Tom fished out an old pack of cards.
"I tell you," he proposed, triumphantly, "I'll turn you fer it. Firstman that gits a jack in th' hand-out stays."
He began to manipulate the cards, lying cramped on his side, and indoing so dropped two or three. Alfred turned to pick them up. Tom deftlyslipped the jack of diamonds to the bottom of the pack. He inserted inthe centre those Alfred handed him, and began at once to deal.
"Thar's yore's," he said, laying out the four of clubs, "an' yere'smine," he concluded, producing the jack of diamonds. "Luck's ag'in meearly in th' game," was his cheerful comment.
For a minute Alfred was silent, and a decided objection appeared in hiseyes. Then his instinct of fair play in the game took the ascendant. Hekicked off his chaps in the most business-like manner, unbuckled hissix-shooter and gave it to Tom, and perched his hat on the end of hisquirt, which he then raised slowly above the pony's side for the purposeof drawing the enemy's fire. He did these things quickly and withoutheroics, because he was a plainsman. Hardly had the bullets from threeWinchesters spatted against the clay before he was up and climbing fordear life.
The Mexicans rushed to the opening from either side, fully expecting tobe able either to take wing-shots at close range, o
r to climb so fast asto close in before the cowboys would have time to make a stand at thetop. In this they shut off their most effective fire--that of the threemen with the Winchesters--and, instead of getting wing-shots themselves,they received an enthusiastic battering from Tom at the range of sixyards. Even a tenderfoot cannot over-shoot at six yards. What was leftof the Mexicans disappeared quicker than they had come, and the three ofthe Winchesters scuttled back to cover like a spent covey of quail.
Tom then lit Alfred's pipe, and continued his excellent sculpture in thebed of hard clay. He knew nothing more would happen until the possecame. The game had passed out of his hands. It had become a race betweena short-legged man on foot and a band of hard riders on the backs ofvery good horses. Viewing the matter dispassionately, Tom would not havecared to bet on the chances.
As has been stated, Alfred was a small man and his legs were short--andnot only short, but unused to exertion of any kind, for Alfred'sdaylight hours were spent on a horse. At the end of said legs were tightboots with high French heels, which most Easterners would haveconsidered a silly affectation, but which all Westerners knew to bepurposeful in the extreme--they kept his feet from slipping forwardthrough the wide stirrups. In other respects, too, Alfred washandicapped. His shoulders were narrow and sloping and his chest wasflat. Indoors and back East he would probably have been a consumptive;out here, he was merely short-winded.
So it happened that Alfred lost the race.
The wonder was not that he lost, but that he succeeded in finishing atPeterson's at all. He did it somehow, and even made a good effort toride back with the rescuing party, but fell like a log when he tried topick up his hat. So someone took off his boots, also, and put him tobed.
As to the rescuing party, it disbanded less than an hour later.Immediately afterward it reorganized into a hunting party--and its gamewas men. The hunt was a long one, and the game was bagged even unto thelast, but that is neither here nor there.
Poor Tom was found stripped to the hide, and hacked to pieces. Mexicansare impulsive, especially after a few of them have been killed. Hisequipment had been stolen. The naked horse and the naked man, bathed inthe light of a gray dawn, that was all--except that here and therefluttered bits of paper that had once been a pack of cards. The clayslab was carved deeply--a man can do much of that sort of thing with twohours to waste. Most of the decorative effects were arrows, or hearts,or brands, but in one corner were the words, "passing the love ofwoman," which was a little impressive after all, even though Tom hadnot meant them, being, as I said, only an ordinary battered Arizonacow-puncher incapable of the higher feelings.
How do I know he played the jack of diamonds on purpose? Why, I knewTom, and that's enough.
Blazed Trail Stories, and Stories of the Wild Life Page 10