by Max Brand
CHAPTER 28
It was, indeed, a grave moment, yet the chances were large that even ifhe met someone on the road he would not be recognized, for it had beenmany days since the death of Andrew Lanning was announced through thecountryside. He gritted his teeth when he thought that this single burstof childish carelessness might have imperiled all that he and Jud andPop had worked for so long and so earnestly--the time when he could takethe bay mare and start the ride across the mountains to the comparativesafety on the other side.
That time, he made up his mind, would be the next evening. He was well;Sally was thoroughly mastered; and, with a horse beneath him which, hefelt, could give even the gray stallion of Hal Dozier hard work, andtherefore show her heels to any other animal on the mountain desert, helooked forward to the crossing of the mountains as an accomplished fact.Always supposing that he could pass Twin Falls and the fringe of townsin the hills, without being recognized and the alarm sent out.
Going back up the road toward the ravine at a brisk canter, he pursuedthe illuminating comparison between Sally and Dozier's famous GrayPeter. Of course, nothing but a downright test of speed andweight-carrying power, horse to horse, could decide which was thesuperior, but Andrew had ridden Gray Peter many times when he and UncleJasper went out to the Dozier place, and he felt that he could sum upthe differences between the two beautiful animals. Sally was the smallerof the two, for instance. She could not stand more than fifteen hands,or fifteen-one at the most. Gray Peter was a full sixteen hands ofstrong bone and fine muscle, a big animal--almost too big for somepurposes. Among these rocks, now, he would stand no chance with Sally.Gray Peter was a picture horse. When one looked at him one felt that hewas a standard by which other animals should be measured. He carried hishead loftily, and there was a lordly flaunt to his tail. On the otherhand, Sally was rather long and low. Furthermore, her neck, which was byno means the heavy neck of the gray stallion, she was apt to carrystretched rather straight out and not curled proudly up as Gray Petercarried his. Neither did she bear her tail so proudly. Some of this, ofcourse, was due to the difference between a mare and a stallion, butstill more came from the differing natures of the two animals. In thehead lay the greatest variation. The head of Gray Peter was close toperfection, light, compact, heavy of jowl; his eye at all times wasfilled with an intolerable brightness, a keen flame of courage andeagerness. But one could find a fault with Sally's head. In general, itwas very well shaped, with the wide forehead and all the other goodpoints which invariably go with that feature; but her face was just atrifle dished. Moreover, her eye was apt to be a bit dull. She had beena pet all her life, and, like most pets, her eye partook of the humanquality. It had a conversational way of brightening and growing dull. Onthe whole, the head of Sally had a whimsical, inquisitive expression,and by her whole carriage she seemed to be perpetually putting her noseinto other business than her own.
But the gait was the main difference. Riding Gray Peter, one felt anenormous force urging at the bit and ready and willing to expend itselfto the very last ounce, with tremendous courage and good heart; therewas always a touch of fear that Gray Peter, plunging unabated over roughand smooth, might be running himself out. But Sally would not maintainone pace. She was apt to shorten her stride for choppy going, and shewould lengthen it like a witch on the level. She kept changing theelevation of her head. She ran freely, looking about her and taking noteof what she saw, so that she gave an indescribable effect of enjoyingthe gallop just as much as her rider, but in a different way. All inall, Gray Peter was a glorious machine; Sally was a tricky intelligence.Gray Peter's heart was never in doubt, but what would Sally's courage bein a pinch?
Full of these comparisons, studying Sally as one would study a friend,Andrew forgot again all around him, and so he came suddenly, around abend in the road, upon a buckboard with two men in it. He went by thebuckboard with a wave of greeting and a side glance, and it was notuntil he was quite around the elbow turn that he remembered that one ofthe men in the wagon had looked at him with a strange intentness. It wasa big man with a great blond beard, parted as though with a comb bythe wind.
He rode back around the bend, and there, down the road, he saw thebuckboard bouncing, with the two horses pulling it at a dead gallop andthe driver leaning back in the seat.
But the other man, the big man with the beard, had picked a rifle out ofthe bed of the wagon, and now he sat turned in the seat, with his blondbeard blown sidewise as he looked back. Beyond a doubt Andrew had beenrecognized, and now the two were speeding to Tomo to give their reportand raise the alarm a second time. Andrew, with a groan, shot his handto the long holster of the rifle which Pop had insisted that he takewith him if he rode out. There was still plenty of time for a long shot.He saw the rifle jerk up to the shoulder of the big man; somethinghummed by him, and then the report came barking up the ravine.
But Andrew turned Sally and went around the bend; that old desire torush on the men and shoot them down, that same cold tingling of thenerves, which he had felt when he faced the posse after the fall of BillDozier, was on him again, and he had to fight it down. He mastered it,and galloped with a heavy heart up the ravine and to the house of Pop.The old man saw him; he called to Jud, and the two stood in front of thedoor to admire the horseman and his horse. But Andrew flung himself outof the saddle and came to them sadly. He told them what had happened,the meeting, the recognition. There was only one thing to do--make upthe pack as soon as possible and leave the place. For they would knowwhere he had been hiding. Sally was famous all through the mountains;she was known as Pop's outlaw horse, and the searchers would comestraight to his house.
Pop took the news philosophically, but Jud became a pitiful figure ofstone in his grief. He came to life again to help in the packing. Theyworked swiftly, and Andrew began to ask the final questions about thebest and least-known trails over the mountains. Pop discouragedthe attempt.
"You seen what happened before," he said. "They'll have learned theirlesson from Hal Dozier. They'll take the telephone and rouse the townsall along the mountains. In two hours, Andy, two hundred men will beblocking every trail and closin' in on you."
And Andrew reluctantly admitted the truth of what he said. He resignedhimself gloomily to turning back onto the mountain desert, and now heremembered the warning of failure which Henry Allister had given him. Hefelt, indeed, that the great outlaw had simply allowed him to run on along rope, knowing that he must travel in a circle and eventually comeback to the band.
Now the pack was made--he saw Jud covertly tuck some little mementoesinto it--and he drew Pop aside and dropped a weight of gold coins intohis pocket.
"You tarnation scoundrel!" began Pop huskily.
"Hush," said Andrew, "or Jud will hear you and know that I've tried toleave some money. You don't want to ruin me with Jud, do you?"
Pop was uneasy and uncertain.
"I've had your food these weeks and your care, Pop," said Andrew, "andnow I walk off with a saddle and a horse and an outfit all yours. It'stoo much. I can't take charity. But suppose I accept it as a gift; Ileave you an exchange--a present for Jud that you can give him later on.Is that fair?"
"Andy," said the old man, "you've double-crossed me, and you've got mewhere I can't talk out before Jud. But I'll get even yet. Good-by, lad,and put this one thing under your hat: It's the loneliness that's goin'to be the hardest thing to fight, Andy. You'll get so tired of bein' byyourself that you'll risk murder for the sake of a talk. But then holdhard. Stay by yourself. Don't trust to nobody. And keep clear of towns.Will you do that?"
"That's plain common sense, Pop."
"Aye, lad, and the plain things are always the hardest things to do."
Next came Jud. He was very white, but he approached Andrew with acareless swagger and shook hands firmly.
"When you bump into that Dozier, Andy," he said, "get him, will you?S'long!"
He turned sharply and sauntered toward the open door of the house. Butbefore he was halfway to i
t they heard a choking sound; Jud broke into arun, and, once past the door, slammed it behind him.
"Don't mind him," said Pop, clearing his throat violently. "He'll crythe sick feelin' out of his insides. God bless you, Andy! And rememberwhat I say: The loneliness is the hard thing to fight, but keep clear ofmen, and after a time they'll forget about you. You can settle down andnobody'll rake up old scores. I know."
"D'you think it can be done?"
There was a faint, cold twinkle in the eyes of Pop. "I'll tell a man itcan be done," he said slowly. "When you come back here I may be able totell you a little story, Andy. Now climb on Sally and don't hit nothin'but the high spots."
