Then Tremaine did the unexpected. His fingers stopped their groping. Releasing his hold he sprang up and threw himself toward the boy. Little Montana managed to elude him and run outside into the night. Tremaine started after him.
Montana lurched to his feet. As the big fellow went by, a huge, hulking form in the darkness, he put all his strength behind a blow. Smokey went crashing against the wall. But the pain that raced through his arm was too much for Montana. He could feel the warm blood spurting from the wound, from which the bandage had been torn. His knees suddenly became tallow. He fought desperately against the ebon mantle that agony was throwing down over his eyes. He reeled across the room. The door suddenly had vanished. Things were spinning crazily about him.
A scream from Little Montana brought him back to his senses. Blindly he located the door, staggered into the night. Directly ahead he could make out the figure of Tremaine struggling with the boy. Instinct warned him that once Smokey got hold of the forty-five the battle would be ended in a twinkling.
Montana never knew how he reached the pair. When he was next conscious of the things about him the boy was nowhere to be seen and he was slugging Tremaine in the face with all his might. And his blows were telling. No longer were the great arms trying to encircle him. They were too busy warding off the savage attack. Montana lost all record of time. The passion that had held him in its relentless sway blinded him. Vaguely he realized that the Diamond A foreman was retreating, step by step, under his blows.
They passed his horse, which snorted and reared back on the bridle reins. Then they were at the head of the trail. In the wan light he could see the rim of the rocky ledge. He sensed that Tremaine, too, had recognized the danger of their position, for he was trying frantically to change his course. Almost on the brink of the precipice, he lunged. For all Montana could do the big arms closed about him. In them was the strength of a beast at bay.
Montana fought with his last breath to break that bone-crushing grip. To no avail. Slowly the life was being squeezed from his body. He stumbled, went to his knees in the narrow passageway scratched in the ledge. He got one swift look below. The yawning chasm was black and horrible.
He wrapped himself about Tremaine’s legs; hung on with bulldog tenacity while the foreman kicked, rained blows down upon his head, strove frenziedly to topple him backward. For seconds that seemed like hours they fought, their muscles strained to the limit, their breath rasping in their throats, their blows landing with deadly accuracy, each knowing that one false move meant a plunge into the Stygian depths below.
“Let go, Tremaine, or I’ll shoot!” came Little Montana’s voice from directly behind them.
Tremaine’s hold relaxed. He spun about, slipped, hovered for an instant on the precipice, then with a hoarse cry went over the brink.
Montana lurched up.
“You came just in the nick of time, Button,” he panted when he could catch his breath. “Another minute and I’d have been a goner.”
“I—I—couldn’t tell who was on top,” Little Montana cried. “I—I—” Words failed him. He reeled dizzily.
Leaping to him, Montana dropped an arm about his shoulders.
“Good old Button,” he said huskily.
“Where—did—he—go?” the boy faltered.
“Over the ledge, I reckon,” Montana replied. “And we can’t find him till morning.”
“Is—he—dead?”
“I hope not. But it was one or the other of us. I was all in. He’d have killed me in another minute. And you too.”
“I didn’t mean to—to kill him,” Little Montana sobbed. “I only wanted to help you.” It was apparent that his emotions were sweeping beyond control. Montana patted his sagging shoulders awkwardly in an attempt to quiet him. Presently he had him soothed, although the dry sobs that racked the youngster filled him with apprehension.
“Where did you come from?” Little Montana gasped. “I thought—”
“We can talk about that in the morning,” Montana said. “You’re going to rest now. You’ve had too much excitement already. You—”
He got no farther. With a little cry the boy pitched into his arms. Weak and spent though he was, he took the gun from the limp fingers, lifted him and carried him toward the cabin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TEMPORARY TRUCE
Half dead with fatigue and pain, Montana finally succeeded in reaching the cabin with the boy. Entering, he groped about in the darkness until he located the bed, where he laid him down. Then recovering the lantern—the chimney to which had been broken and from which most of the oil had leaked—he lighted it, righted the table, and set it down.
He turned to surprise the eyes of Little Montana upon him. There was something in the way the boy looked at him that brought him quickly to his side.
“What is it, Button?” he asked anxiously. “Are you hurt or sick or something?”
“I’m scared,” the lad faltered through chattering teeth. “Scared clean out of my socks.”
“And it isn’t any wonder,” Montana said sympathetically. “Tremaine didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No. He found me during the storm. He put me on his horse and he walked. Said he was taking me back to the ranch. I didn’t know any different till he came to this cabin. We’d just got here when you came.”
“What in the hell did that jasper have on his mind?” Montana blurted out blankly. “What did he bring you up here for? What—”
“I don’t know,” Little Montana put in, “but I do know I’m a hoodoo. You’ve had trouble ever since you tied up with me. First at Elbar, then at the rodeo. And now this. I’m a fine pard to have, I am.”
“Shucks. You aren’t in nowise to blame,” Montana said sharply. “It’s just one of those streaks every jasper bucks up against at some time or another. If I could figure Tremaine out I’d feel a heap better. But we’ll auger the thing in the morning. You get quiet now.”
“I can’t,” Little Montana said, arising. “I’m too danged scared. Besides you were shot. Your arm—” He broke off in affright at sight of the blood covering Montana’s sleeve. “Is that where—”
“Never mind me,” Montana said. “You get quiet or the boss of this here Two Montana gang is going to raise particular hell.” He crossed the room to set about kindling a fire with wood from a box near a small camp stove. “As soon as the fire burns up you skin out of those wet duds of yours. Hang them up to dry. Then you can bed down.”
“Why can’t we go back to the Diamond A?” the boy asked. “I’m able. Please, Montana, let’s go back.”
“We can’t,” Montana replied shortly. “The river is up and rising rapid. And—”
“And what?” the boy demanded when he hesitated.
“We’ll probably have to do something for Tremaine come daylight.”
A wild, hunted look flared into Little Montana’s eyes at mention of Smokey, but he recovered himself.
“All right,” he said resignedly. “But I’m sorry you ever tied up with me; you wouldn’t have had all this trouble.”
“And there would only have been one Montana instead of two.” Montana grinned. “You aren’t to blame, I tell you. I might have run up against Smokey Tremaine if I’d never seen you. And hell would have popped just the same. But I’ll figure out that jasper’s game somehow, Button. And if I ever get a chance I’ll give this danged letter to Cousins and find out what’s in it, too.”
“I don’t care what is in it,” the boy blurted out. “All I want to do is get away from this range. Where—where you going, Montana?” as the cowboy moved over toward the door. “Aren’t you going to sleep in here with me?”
“I’m going to sit right outside,” Montana answered. “Or mebbeso roll up in my saddle blanket and smoke and look down yonder toward the world and the folks who claim to be civilized. Shucks, I’m like a cow,
Button. I don’t need much sleep. But I figure it would be safer to keep an eye peeled while you get some. If you want me for anything, holler.”
“Good night, Montana,” the boy whispered.
“Good night, Button. Sleep tight. And don’t let me hear any more talk about you being a hoodoo. Pards don’t figure thataway. Now I’ll be right outside. Could spot somebody moving in on us a sight quicker from the dark than we could from inside here. Don’t be afraid.” With that he was gone into the darkness, leaving the boy alone.
For a long time Little Montana sat staring about the cabin, which apparently was a line camp. Save for the disorder caused by the grim battle between Montana and Smokey, it was neat and clean, although it had the musty smell of unused places. A bedstead with tarp bedroll, the camp stove, a small cupboard, a table and one chair made up the furnishings. At least it was a refuge for the night. Yet, thought of remaining filled him with terror. In the gloomy corners he seemed to see the leering face of Tremaine.
Arising hastily, he walked over to the fire, which now was roaring in the stove, and huddled in a chair. In a short time the heat began to make him drowsy. Getting up again, he fell to pacing around the room, fighting against the sleep that was numbing his senses, fearful to lie down lest some other harrowing incident occur.
Coming to the shattered window, through which the chill night air was whining, he peered out. A short distance away he could see the glowing point of a cigarette and make out the form of Montana. Reassured by his friend’s nearness, he undressed, wrung the water from his soaked clothing, hung them up to dry, blew out the light and slipped between the blankets of the bedroll, there to lie, trembling and staring into the blackness. Finally he fell into a fitful, dream-disturbed sleep.
It was broad daylight when Little Montana awoke. He started up, unable, for a moment, to recall where he was. Then he remembered. Springing out of bed, he hastened to the window. A brilliant sun was flooding the mountains. Clouds hung on the peaks above him. Raindrops, like diamonds, sprinkled the needles of the pine. The grass was bowed under its weight of moisture. He took a deep breath. The air was sweet and cool and seemed to sparkle like the water that gurgled in a small stream beside the cabin.
Fagged out in mind and body, but at least feeling more secure in the light of day, he crossed over to the stove. During the night his clothing had dried. He dressed quickly and stepped outside into the sunshine.
Wondering at the whereabouts of Montana, he made his way through the drenched grass to the stream where he washed himself. Then he started walking around. Presently he came to the ledge of rock that dropped away precipitately from the head of the trail.
Below, the vast plains stretched to the verge of sight, a vivid panorama of color, the reds and blues and oranges of clay banks blending in perfect harmony with the buff of flats, grays and browns of cutbanks and stream beds and the greens of foliage. Thrilled in spite of an uneasy fear that haunted him he sat down on the rim of the ledge and fell to staring off across the limitless expanse.
With his eyes he traced the cottonwood-fringed course of the river. Even at that great height he could tell that it was on a rampage. Great pieces of driftwood still were pitching along with the current. Trees and brush were matted with debris. Lowlands were flooded.
Suddenly to the left, nestled in a grove of pine, he caught sight of a cluster of buildings that he took to be the Diamond A, although they were but pygmy structures set in a gleaming fairyland of green and white.
Tiring of this survey presently, he arose to look for Montana. Not until then did he recognize the ledge which he had seen before only in the darkness. He experienced a moment of panic. It was the ledge over which Tremaine had plunged!
The sound of voices put an end to the wild tumult that started in his mind. They seemed to come from directly below. Summoning his courage, he fell to his hands and knees, crawled to the edge of the precipice and peered over. He drew back to lie flat down until his head quit spinning. His glance had revealed a dizzy drop. And at the bottom he had caught a glimpse of two figures. Montana! And—his heart seemed to skip a beat—Smokey Tremaine!
For an infinity of time he lay, too frightened to move. The memory of the fight came rushing back to him with startling vividness. The terror of the day and night before crashed down upon him. His nerves suddenly went to jumping. The blood became a sluicing roar in his ears.
Then the voices of the two were coming nearer—up the trail.
“Shot Cousins?” Smokey snarled. “Hell, I didn’t even know Cousins was shot.”
“Where did you go after I told you at the dance hall he wanted to see you?” Montana flashed.
“You aren’t riding herd on me,” Smokey retorted defiantly. “I don’t have to account to you for anything. You’re locoed. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ll find out plenty quick when we get back to the Diamond A,” Montana snapped. “And let me tell you something else. The next time you pull anything you want to do a damned sight better shooting than you’ve done so far, because we won’t both have game arms and I’ll be loaded for bear. And I’m saying that you are going to spill your guts,” he heard Montana’s angry growl. “From the start you’ve had it in for us Two Montanas. I don’t know who you figure we are but, damn you, you thought you knew us. You tried to tromp that kid at the rodeo. And now you’ve brought him clean up here in the mountains, claiming you were taking him back to the Diamond A. Just what is your game?”
“I didn’t try to tromp the brat,” Smokey snarled. “And I did try to take him back to the Diamond A but got twisted in the storm.”
“You’re a fine foreman to get twisted this way on your own range,” Montana snorted. “There is something behind all this. What the hell did you shoot me for?”
“I didn’t shoot you,” Tremaine denied sullenly.
From his perch on the rimrock, Little Montana watched the two coming up the steep trail. Tremaine was staggering and covered with blood. His right arm dangled sickeningly at his side. And behind him came Montana, the forty-five he had retrieved during the fight clutched in his good hand.
Breathlessly the boy waited for them to pass. At the creek beside the cabin, Montana halted Tremaine. After he had washed the blood from the fellow’s bruised face, he tore his own shirt to ribbons and bandaged Smokey’s broken arm.
“Now, damn you,” Montana said, “lay there till I rout my buddy out. Then we’re going back.”
“You can’t cross the river,” Smokey snarled. “Leastwise I’m not going to try with a busted arm and all stove up.”
“I’ve got a bad arm, too,” Montana retorted. “And it isn’t your fault it ain’t busted. You’ve got a better chance of crossing safe than I have because I’ve got to help the boy. Thought from the first you didn’t have any guts. Now I know it.”
“What’s your rush?” Smokey sneered.
“I want to get back and get this arm tended to and healed in time for the rodeo finals,” Montana flashed. “I’m going to stick around now just to buck you down—I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he bargained suddenly. “We’ll bury the hatchet until after the finals. If you win, I’ll quit the flats. If I win, you travel. But meantime I want you to understand if that boy is harmed or molested there isn’t going to be room enough in hell for you and me.” Wheeling abruptly he strode to the cabin. “Button!” he shouted. “We’re—” then he noticed the open door. He spun about. “Button!” he yelled at the top of his voice.
Little Montana attempted to answer. But sight of Tremaine’s evil face seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He crowded farther behind his refuge. His foot dislodged a stone that went crashing over the precipice. Montana heard it. He came on the run. The boy strove to rise, only to huddle fearfully on the ledge.
Then once again Montana had lifted him in his arms and was carrying him back toward the cabin. But now he laid
him down beside the creek while Tremaine looked on, a sneer twisting his lips.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOWNSTREAM TO DEATH?
Little Montana forced open his heavy eyelids to stare about dully. Above him were trees. He was lying on his back in the grass. When he could gain possession of his faculties, he twisted on his side. A cold rag came away from his throbbing forehead. Montana knelt beside him, bathing his temples. Behind was the swarthy face of Smokey Tremaine.
“Shucks, I’m glad you come to,” Montana breathed with relief. “I was scared for a while my little pard wasn’t going to.” He followed the boy’s terrified gaze that was fixed on Tremaine. “He won’t bother you any more, buddy,” Montana said grimly. “Him and me understand each other now. Lay still till you’re able to ride. Then we’ll try to cross the river and get back to the Diamond A.”
“Much obliged, pard,” the boy choked. “I reckon I’m not worth—”
“Shut up!” Montana commanded sharply. He rose quickly and walked over to his horse to tighten the cinch with his good hand until the brute snorted and snapped at him.
When he felt stronger, Little Montana got up and joined him, the while watching Tremaine fearfully. But Smokey ignored him and, despite the pain in his helpless and crudely bandaged arm, swung into his saddle.
Without a word, Montana helped the boy aboard, picked up the bridle reins, jerked his thumb over his shoulder to motion Tremaine ahead and started down the trail, leading the horse.
After an endless period of dangerous slipping and breath-taking jolts they finally reached the foot of the mountains. There they paused only long enough to let the ponies blow and went on to the bank of the flooded river.
“It can be made,” Montana observed, after studying the turbulent stream for a few minutes. “But it will take some tall riding.”
“Got cold feet, huh?” Smokey sneered, breaking a long silence.
“Shucks, the Two Montanas don’t know what cold feet are,” Montana snorted. “But I reckon we’ll wait a while. She’s going down. Another hour we’ll make it plumb safe.”
The 7th Western Novel Page 20
