CHAPTER XXI
THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL
The quiet was profound. All the world seemed so still. There was nosign of life, yet the warm air was thrilling with the unseen life ofan insect world. The heat haze rose from the soft, deep surface sandof the trail, and the grass-lined edges looked parched beneath theglare of the summer sun. There was no breath from the mountains downhere, where the forest trees crowded in on either side, forming agreat screen against the cooling breezes, and holding the heat likethe sides of an oven.
A startled bird fluttered amongst the branches of a tree with thatrestless movement which so surely indicates the alarm of some subtlesense which no other creature possesses in so keen a degree. Ananswering rustle came from near by. And in a moment this was followedby a bustling rush among the leaves as two winged mates fled fartherinto the forest. Yet the sudden flight seemed quite unnecessary.
Again the stillness was broken. This time it was by the harsh voice ofa black carrion. This too was followed by movement, only the movementhad no haste or suggestion of fear. It was simply the heavy flappingof slow-moving wings. Two enormous crows launched themselves upon theair from the topmost branches of a distant tree, and perched on thecrest of another at the trail-side.
They sat there in solemn, unmoving silence, but with eyes alert andwatchful, and who might tell the thought passing through theirunwholesome minds!
But now a further sound broke the stillness--a sound which perhapsaccounted for the movements of the birds. A soft patter grew out ofthe distance like the pad of muffled feet. But it was faint andseemingly far off. The sharp eyes of the feathered watchers werescanning the horizon from their lofty perches. The sound grew. And asit grew the waiting carrion turned to view both distances of thetrail. It was evident that the growing sound had a double source.
The padding feet became more distinct. Yes, the sounds were sharper.The softness had gone, developing into the rhythmic beat of hard hoofsspeeding from either direction. Two horses were galloping down thetrail at a rapid pace, and quickly it became evident that theirmeeting must occur somewhere almost directly beneath the watchful eyesof the waiting birds.
Nearer and nearer came the hoof-beats. The birds were plucking attheir feathers with an unconcern all too apparent. They ruffled theirwings and preened their plumage, a sure indication of satisfaction.One of the galloping horses slackened its gait. Perhaps its rider hadheard the approach of that other, and, with the curious instinctivesuspicion of the western trail, prepared to pass him under the bestconditions for defensiveness. Perhaps it was simply the natural actionof a horseman on the trail.
But the horse from the other direction had slackened speed too. Hisrider, too, had reduced his gait to a walk.
The birds overhead ceased their preening and looked below for thepossible development they seem to be ever awaiting. It makes nodifference, they follow the trail of all animal life, waiting,waiting, with a patience inexhaustible, for the moment of stillnesswhich tells them that life has passed and the banquet awaits them.
One of the horsemen came into full view from the height above. Thesecond horseman appeared round a bend. Both men were mounted on thelean, hard-muscled horses of prairie breeding. They were spare offlesh and uncared for, but their muscles were hard and their legsclean. Between them a bend in the trail still intervened, but witheach moment they were drawing nearer to each other.
Right under the tree upon which the crows were perched Pete drew reinand sat listening to the shuffling gait of the oncoming horse. Theman's lean face was dark with a brooding hatred. His eyes werefiercely alight with expectancy. A revolver lay across his thigh, thebutt of it firmly grasped in a hand clutching it with desperatepurpose.
The trail was the trail to the farm. Ike had gone to the farm. Ahorseman was returning along that trail from the direction of thefarm. Such was the argument behind his aggressive action. It was asimple argument which in his sober senses might have needed support tourge him to the course he now contemplated. But he was not sober;Beasley had seen to that. He was no more sober than was Ike.
Ike's horse was moving slowly--much slower than its usual walking gaitThe man was craning forward. Who, he wondered, was riding toward thefarm, and for what purpose? His right hand was on the butt of hisrevolver, but his weapon was still in its holster, for his action waspurely precautionary in a country where, when a man has enemies, orhas done those things which he knows his fellows resent, it isadvisable to look for no support outside his own ability to defendhimself.
He remembered the screams of Joan, and he knew how the hills echoed.He wondered, and wondering he regretted something of what he had done.But he regretted it only for possible consequences to himself. Inreality he reveled in the warm memory of the feel of the girl's softcheek.
His horse reached the bend. He could no longer hear the hoof-beats ofthe other. He drew up with a sudden, nervous movement, and his gunleft its holster. But his nerves passed, and, with a foul oath, heurged his horse forward. He rounded the bend and came face to facewith the figure of Blue Grass Pete.
"Wher' you bin?" demanded the latter in a manner that was a deliberateinsult.
Ike did the only thing his wit could prompt. He laughed. It was aharsh, mirthless laugh, which was equally an insult.
"Quit it!" roared Pete in a blind fury. "Wher' you bin, I say?"
Ike abandoned his laugh, but his face was furiously grinning.
"Bin?" he echoed. "I bin wher' you needn't to go--wher' it ain't nouse your goin'," he cried, his love of boast prompting him. "I bin tofix things up. She's goin' to mar----"
A shot rang out. Ike's face blanched, but like lightning his pistolbit out its retort. Pete reeled and recovered himself, and again hefired. Ike leant forward as though seeking support from the horn ofhis saddle. Pete had fallen forward on to his horse's neck. Ike raisedhis gun and fired again, but there had really been no need for theshot. Even as his gun spoke the other man fell to the ground androlled over. His dark face was turned upward, so that the waitingcrows had a full view of it.
After that Ike remained quite still. His pale face, turning to agreenish hue in contrast to his ginger hair, was staring down at theresult of his handiwork. But his eyes were almost unseeing. He wasfaint and weary, and in great pain.
The moments passed. At last he stirred. But his movement was merely toclutch with feeble fingers at the mane of his horse. Vainly his lefthand clawed amongst the lank hair, while the fingers of his rightreleased their grip upon his pistol and let it clatter to the ground.
He crouched there breathing heavily, while a harsh croak from abovesplit the air. Again he moved as though the sound had awakened him. Hestrove to sit up, to lift the reins, and to urge his horse forward.The beast moved in response to his effort. But the movement was allthat was needed. The man reeled, lost his balance, and fell heavily tothe ground. He too had rolled on to his back--he too was gazing upwith unseeing eyes at the dark-hued carrion whose patience wasinexhaustible.
For a moment all was still. Then the horses moved as by commonconsent. They drew near to each other, and their noses met in thatinquiring equine fashion which suggests friendly overtures. They stoodthus for a while. Then both moved to the side of the trail and beganto graze upon the parching grass after the unconcerned manner oftheir kind.
The heavy flapping of wings told of a fresh movement in the treesabove. Two great black bodies swung out upon the air. They circledround as though assuring themselves that all was as they could wishit. Then they settled again. But this time it was on the boughs of alow bush less than six feet above the staring faces of their intendedvictims.
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