Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER XIII

  A SHOT IN THE DARK

  Winter, long delayed, came at last in earnest. On the morning of theseventeenth of January--the ranchers did not soon forget the date--awarm snow, soft with moisture, drove tumbling in from the east. All themorning it came, thicker and thicker, until on the level, several incheshad fallen; then, so rapidly that one could almost discern the change,the temperature began lowering, the wind shifting from the east to thenorth, from north to west, and steadily rising. The surface of the snowfroze to ice, the snowflakes turned to sleet, and went bounding andgrinding, forming drifts but to disperse again, journeying aimlessly on,cutting viciously at the chance animal who came in their path like amyriad of tiny knives.

  All that day the force of the Box R ranch labored in the increasingstorm to get the home herds safely behind the shelter of the corral. Itwas impossible for cattle long to face such a storm; but with this veryemergency in mind, Rankin had always in Winter kept the scatteredbunches to the north and west, and under these conditions the feat wasaccomplished by dusk, and the half-frozen cowboys tumbled into theirbunks, to fall asleep almost before they assumed the horizontal. Theother ranchers wondered why it was that Rankin was so prosperous and whyhis herd seldom diminished in Winter. Had they been observant, theycould have learned one reason that day.

  All the following night the storm moaned and raged, and the cold becamemore and more intense. It came in through the walls of houses andthrough bunk coverings, and bit at one like a living thing. Nothingcould stop it, nothing unprotected could withstand it. In the greatcorral behind the windbreak, the cattle, all headed east, were jammedtogether for warmth, a conglomerate mass of brown heads and bodies fromwhich projected a wilderness of horns.

  The next morning broke with a clear sky but with the thermometer markingmany degrees below zero. Out of doors, when the sun had arisen, thelight was dazzling. As far as eye could reach not a spot of brownrelieved the white. The layer of frozen snow lay like a vast carpetstretched tight from horizon to horizon. Although it was only snow, yetso far as the herds of the ranchers were concerned it might have been aprotecting armor of steel. Well did the tired cowboys, stiff from theprevious day's struggle, know what was before them, when at daylightGraham routed them out. Food the helpless multitude must have. If theycould not find it for themselves it must be found for them; and instolid disapproval the men ate a hasty breakfast by the light of akerosene lamp and went forth to the inevitable.

  Rankin and Ben and Graham were already astir, and under theirsupervision the campaign was rapidly begun. For a few days the stockmust be fed on hay, and seven of the available fifteen men of the ranchforce were detailed to keep full the great racks in the cattlestockade--a task in itself, with the myriad hungry mouths swarming onevery hand, all but Herculean. The others, Rankin himself among thenumber, undertook the greater feat of in a measure opening the range forthe future.

  The device which the big man had evolved for this purpose, and had usedon previous similar occasions, was a simple triangular snow-ploughseveral feet in width, with guiding handles behind. Comparatively narrowas was the ribbon path cleared by this appliance, its length was onlylimited by the endurance of the horses and the driver, and in the courseof the day many an acre could be uncovered. Half an hour after sunrise,the eight outfits thus equipped were lined up side by side and headeddue northwest to a range which had been but little pastured.

  For five miles straight as a taut line they went, leaving behind themeight brown stripes alternating with bands of white between. Then backand forth, back and forth, for the distance of another mile theyvibrated until it was noon, when eight more connecting brown ribbonswere stretched beside their predecessors back to the ranch-house. In theafternoon the labor was repeated, until by night the clearing, agigantic mottled fan with an abnormally long handle, lay in vividcontrast against the surrounding white.

  The second day was the same, except that but seven bands stretched outbehind the moving squad. Rankin, game as he was, could scarcely put onefoot ahead of the other, and in consequence, changing his tactics, hemounted the old buckboard and departed on a tour of inspection towardthe north range. He was late in returning, and, as usual, very taciturn;but after supper, as he and Ben were smoking in friendly silence by thekitchen fire, he turned to the younger man.

  "Someone stayed at the north range last night," he announced abruptly."He slept there and had a fire."

  Ben showed no surprise. "I thought so, probably," he replied. "Late thisafternoon I ran across a trail leading in from the west along ourclearing, and headed that way. It was one lone chain of footprints."

  Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire. His long drive had chilledhim through and through.

  "I suppose you have an idea who made that trail?" he said.

  Though each knew that the other had heard the details of Pete's death,neither had mentioned the incident. To do so had seemed superfluous.Now, however, each realized the thought in the other's mind, and chosenot to avoid it.

  "Yes," answered Ben, simply. "I suppose it was made by Tom Blair."

  Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak that name. Hestretched back heavily in his chair and lit his pipe afresh.

  "Ben," he said, "I'm getting old. I never began to realize the factuntil this Winter; but I sha'n't last many more years." Puff, puff wenttwo twin clouds of smoke toward the ceiling. "Civilization has someadvantages over the frontier, and this is one of them: it's kinder tothe old."

  Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the other understood thestrength of his conviction.

  "You work too hard," he said soberly, though he felt the inadequacy ofthe trite remark. "It's unnecessary. I wish you wouldn't do it."

  Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful hand. "Yes, I know; butwhen I quit moving I want to die. I know I could get a steam-heated backroom in a quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself intoa good many years yet; but it isn't worth the price. I love this bigfree life too well ever to leave it. Most of the people one meets hereare rough, but in time that will all change. It's changing now; andmeantime nature compensates for everything."

  There was a moment's silence, and then, as though there had been nodigression, Rankin went back to the former subject. "Yes," he saidslowly, "I think you're right about those being Tom Blair's tracks." Heturned and faced the younger man squarely. "If it is, Ben, it means he'sbeen frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that is, and he's crazydesperate. He'd do anything now. He wouldn't ever come back hereotherwise."

  Ben Blair's blue eyes tightened until the lashes were all but parallel.

  "Yes," Rankin repeated, "he's crazy desperate to come here atall--especially so now." A pause, but the eyes did not shift. "God knowsI'm sorry he ever came back. I was glad we found that trail too late tofollow it to-day; but it's only postponing the end. I believe he'll behere at the ranch to-night. He's got to get a horse--he's got to dosomething right away; and I'm going to watch. If he don't come I'll takeup the old trail in the morning."

  Once more the pause, more intense than words. "He can't escape again,unless--unless he gets me first--He must be desperate crazy."

  Rankin arose heavily and knocked the ashes out of his pipe preparatoryto bed.

  "There are a lot of things I might say now, Ben, but I won't say them.We're not living in a land of law. We haven't someone always at hand toshift our responsibility onto. In self-protection, we've got to takejustice more or less into our own hands. One thing I will say, though,and I hope you'll never forget it. Think twice before you ever take thelife of another human being, Ben; think twice. Be sure your reasons aremighty good--and then think again. Don't ever act in hot blood, or aslong as you live you'll know remorse." The speaker paused and his breathcame fast. Something more--who knew how much?--trembled on the end ofhis tongue. He roused himself with an effort and turned toward his bunk."Good-night, Ben. I trust you as I'd trust my own son."

  The younger man watche
d the departing figure and felt the irony of theseparation that keeps us silent even when we wish to be nearest and mosthelpful to our friends and makes our words a mockery.

  "Thank you, sir, I shall not forget. Good-night," he said.

  When a few minutes later the young man sauntered out to the barns,everything was peaceful as usual. From the horse-stalls came the steadymonotonous grind of the animals at feed. In the cattle-yards was heardthe sleepy breathing of the multitude of cattle. Perfect contentment andoblivion was the keynote of the place, and the watcher looked at thelethargic mass thoughtfully. He had always responded instinctively tothe moods of dumb animals. He did so now. The passive trustfulness ofthe great herd affected him deeply. Twice he made the circuit of thebuildings, but finding nothing amiss returned to his place. The sound ofthe horses feeding had long since ceased. The sleepy murmur of thecattle was lower and more regular. In the increasing coldness the vaporof their breath, even though the night was dark and moonless, arose inan indistinct cloud, like the smoke of smouldering camp-fires over thetents of a sleeping army. For two days the man had been doing theheaviest kind of work. Gradually, amid much opening and closing ofeyelids, consciousness lapsed into semi-consciousness, and he dozed.

  Suddenly--whether it was an hour or a minute afterwards, he did notknow--he awoke and sat up listening. Some sound had caught and held hissub-conscious attention. He waited a moment, intent, scarcely breathing,and then sprang swiftly to his feet. The sound now came definitely fromthe sheds at the left. It was the deep chesty groan of a horse in pain.

  Once upon his feet, Ben Blair ran toward the barn, not cautiously butprecipitately. He had not grown to maturity amid animals withoutlearning something of their language; but even if such had been thecase, he could scarcely have mistaken that sound. Mortal pain and mortalterror vibrated in those tones. No human being could have cried for helpmore distinctly. The frozen snow squeaked under the rancher's feet as heran. "Stop there!" he shouted. "Stop there!" and throwing open thenearest door, unmindful of danger, he dashed into the interior darkness.

  The barn was eighty odd feet in length, and as Ben swung open the doorat the east corner there was a flash of fire from the extreme west end,and a bullet splintered the wood just back of his head. His precipitateentry had been his salvation. He groped his way ahead, the groans of thehorses in his ears--for now he detected more than one voice. A growingrealization of what he would find was in his mind, and then a dark formshot through the west door, and he was alone. Impulse told him tofollow, but the sound of pain and struggle kept him back. He struck amatch, held it like a torch above him, moved ahead, stopped. The flameburned down the dry pine until it reached his fingers, blackened them,went out; but he did not stir. He had expected the thing he saw,expected it at the first cry he heard; yet infinitely more horrible thana picture of imagination was the reality. He did not light anothermatch, he did not wish to see. To hear was bad enough--to hear and toknow. He started for the door; and behind him three great horses,hopelessly maimed and crippled, struggled to rise, and failing, groanedanew.

  It seemed Ben's fate this night to be just too late for service. Beforehe reached the exit there sounded, spattering and intermittent, like thefirst popping kernels of corn in a pan, a succession of pistol-shotsfrom the ranch-house. There was no answer, and as he stepped out intothe air the sound ceased. As he did so, the kitchen of the house sprangalight from a lamp within. There was a moment of apparent inactivity,and then, the door swinging open, fair against the lighted background,shading his eyes to look into the outer darkness, stood Rankin.Instantly a wave of premonition flooded the watching Benjamin.

  "Go back!" he shouted. "Go back! Back, quick!" and careless of personaldanger, he started running for the ranch-house as before he had racedfor the barn.

  The warning might as well have been ungiven. Almost before the lastwords were spoken there came from the darkness at Ben's right the soundhe had been expecting--a single vicious rifle report; and as though amighty invisible weight were crushing him down, Rankin sank to thefloor.

  Then for the first time in his history Ben Blair lost self-control.Quick as thought he changed his course from the house to the directionfrom which the shot had come. The great veins of his throat swelleduntil it seemed he could scarcely breathe. Curses, horrible, blightingcurses, combinations of malediction which had never even in thoughtentered his mind before, rolled from his lips. His brain seemed afire.But one idea possessed him--to lay hands upon this intruding being whohad in cold blood done that fiendish deed in the barn, and now had shothis best friend on earth. The rage of primitive man who knew not steelor gunpowder was his; the ferocity of the great monkey, the aborigine'spredecessor, whose means of offence were teeth and nails. Straight aheadthe man rushed, seeming not to run, but fairly to bound, turned suddenlythe angle at the corner of the machinery shed, stumbled over asnow-plough drawn up carelessly by one of the men, fell, regained hisfeet, and heard in his ears the thundering hoof-beats of a horse urgedaway at full speed.

  For a moment Ben Blair stood as he had risen, gazing westward where theother had departed, but seeing nothing, not even a shadow. Clouds hadformed over the sky, and the night was of intense darkness. To attemptto follow a trail now was waste of time; and gradually, as he stoodthere, the unevolved fury of the man transformed. His tongue becamesilent; not a human being had heard the outburst. The physical paroxysmrelaxed. As he returned to the ranch-house no observer would havedetected in him other than the usual matter-of-fact rancher; yet beneaththat calm was a purpose infinitely more terrible than the animal blazeof a few minutes before, a tenacity more relentless than a tiger on thetrail of its quarry, than an Indian stalking his enemy; a formulatedpurpose which could patiently wait, but eventually and inevitably wouldgrind its object to powder.

  Meanwhile, back at the scene of the tragedy, there had been feverishaction. Many of the cowboys were already about the barns, and lanternsgleamed in the horse corral. Within the house, in the nearest bunk wherethey had laid him, stretched the proprietor of the ranch. About himwere grouped Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham. The latter was weepinghysterically--her head buried in her big checked apron, the great massof her body vibrating with the effort. As Ben approached, her husbandglanced up. Upon his face was the dull unreasoning indecision of a steerwhich had lost its leader; an animal passivity which awaited command.

  "Rankin's dead," he announced dully. "He's hit here." A withered handindicated a spot on the left breast. "He went quick."

  Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped beside the bunk.He took a long look at the kindly heavy face of the only man he had evercalled friend; but not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a musclequivered. Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fascination.Gray-haired gambler and man of fortune that he was, he realized asGraham could never do the emotions which so often lie just back of thelocked countenance of a human being; realized it, and with the grimcarelessness of a frontiersman admired it.

  Of a sudden there was a grinding of frosty snow in the outer yard, aconfused medley of human voices, a snorting of horses; and, turning, Benwent to the door. One glance told him the meaning of the cluster ofcowboys. He walked out toward them deliberately.

  "Boys," he said steadily, "put up your horses. You couldn't find amountain in the darkness to-night." A pause. "Besides," slowly, "this ismy affair. Put them up and go to bed."

  For a moment there was silence. The hearers could scarcely believe theirears.

  "You mean we're to let him go?" queried a hesitating voice at last.

  Blair folded up the broad brim of his hat and looked from face to faceas it was revealed by the uncertain light from the window.

  "I mean what I said," he repeated evenly. "I'll attend to this mattermyself."

  For a moment again there was silence, but only for a moment.

  "No you won't!" blazed a voice suddenly. "Rankin was the whitest manthat ever owned a brand. Just because the kyote that shot him lived withyour mother won't sav
e him. I'm going--and now."

  Quicker than a cat, so swiftly that the other cowboys scarcely realizedwhat was happening, the long gaunt Benjamin was at the speaker's side.With a leap he had him by the throat, had dragged him from the back ofthe horse, and held him at arm's length.

  "Freeman,"--the voice was neither raised nor lowered, but steady as thedrip of falling water,--"Freeman, you know better than that, and youknow you know better." The grip of the long left hand on the throattightened. The fingers of the right locked. "Say so--quick!"

  Face to face, looking fair into each other's eyes, stood the two men,while the spectators watched breathlessly as they would have done at aclimax in a play. It was a case of will against will, elemental managainst his brother.

  "I'm waiting," suggested Blair, and even in the dim light Freeman sawthe blue eyes beneath the long lashes darken. Instinctively the victim'shand went to his hip and lingered there; but he could no more havewithdrawn the weapon which he felt there than he could have struck hisown mother. He started to speak; but his lips were dry, and he moistenedthem with his tongue.

  "Yes, I know better," he admitted low.

  Ben Blair dropped his hand and turned to the spectators. "Men," he saidslowly and distinctly, "for the present at least I'm master of thisranch, and when I give an order I expect to be obeyed." Again his eyewent from face to face fearlessly, dominantly. "Does any other man doubtme?"

  Not a voice broke the stillness of the night. Only the restless movementof the impatient mustangs answered.

  "Very well, then, you heard what I said. Go to bed, and to-morrow go onwith your work as usual. Grannis will be in charge while I'm gone," andwithout a backward glance the long figure returned to the ranch-house.

  The weazened foreman and the tall adventurer had been watching himimpassively from the doorway. In silence they made room for him to pass.

  "Grannis," he asked directly, "have those horses been taken care of?"

  "No, sir."

  "See to it at once then."

  "Yes, sir."

  The blue eyes rested for a moment on the other's face.

  "You heard who I said would be in charge while I'm away?"

  "Yes, sir," again.

  Ben moved over to the bunk opposite to that in which lay the dead manand took off his hat and coat.

  "Graham!"

  The foreman came close, stood at attention.

  "Keep awake and call me before daylight, will you?"

  "I will."

  "And, Graham!"

  "Yes."

  "I may be gone several days. You and Ma attend to the--burial. Dig thegrave out under the big maple." A pause. "I think," steadily, "he wouldhave liked it there."

  The foreman nodded silently.

  Benjamin Blair dropped into the bunk, drew the blankets over him andclosed his eyes. As he did so, from the direction of the barn there camea succession of pistol shots--one, two, three. Then again silence fell.