The glory ended when he entered the fog. All about him the wet, black pine trees were dripping. The burro found a way more readily than the man, and Wayland followed the little animal rather blindly, as he often had followed it before, since he began his strange pilgrimage.
Presently the fog was above their heads. It changed into breaking clouds that blew apart. In the mid-morning Wayland walked through a pleasant country of big groves, interspersed by green meadows, and the cheerful sound of running water was always in his ears. He wondered now at the years he had spent in the bank at Elkdale. He wondered at all men who live in cities, where space is rented by the cubic foot. Out here on the lower slopes of Iron Mountain, every living creature seemed to have a right to the ground it stepped on, and to some part of the blue sky overhead.
He looked upon himself and on his past life, and saw nothing but hollow failure. His boyhood ambition had been better—to get a patch of land and a few cows, and then watch the herd grow while he made pasture room for it, buying here and there in small parcels. That was a life that meant slow and patient work, but it meant days of free riding, also, and good air, and nights of sound sleeping. It meant filling the hands with something better than an accountant's pen.
He was thinking of these things, of the futility of all his life, of the emptiness, the hopelessness of this quest of his, when May Rucker rode a roan mustang toward him out of a thicket of pine trees. She came on him as suddenly as a thought. He let the burro go wandering on, bobbing its head a little with every step, and he did not recover his wits enough to drag off his hat before she had dismounted before him.
He could hardly realize that she was May Rucker, the banker's daughter. She was brown and rosy. It was hard for her to remain calm and sober, because smiling was sure to begin in a moment.
He had no idea how he should act, but she showed him. When he attempted to shake hands, she put up her face and made him kiss her. And she kept close to him, with her head bent back, smiling.
"You give up this silly business and come home with me," she said.
"What silly business?" asked he.
"Chasing a will-o'-the-wisp and half a million dollars. Let the money go hang. Father has paid every penny to the depositors. And he still has the old ranch left, over and above. He's lost ten pounds, and learned how to swear at a mustang all over again. He says that squirrels are the only good bankers, because they can eat their own accounts. Now you come back home with me and go to work."
He stared at her, as though he were trying to swallow i her words with his eyes.
"I can't go home with you," he said.
"Why not?"
"I've got to stay out here." He indicated the mountains with a vague gesture. "I can't go in. I've got to stay out here."
"You're going to lose your wits, like a sheep-herder,'* she said, shaking her head and frowning a little. "Wake up, Oliver."
"It shook up my wits a little, seemg you suddenly like this," said Wayland.
"How would it shake them up if you happened to whang into the thief you're hunting for?" she asked.
"I don't know," said honest Oliver Wayland. "I'm no great fighting man."
"Have you even got a gmi?"
"Yes."
"Let's see it."
He pulled it out.
"Sink a bullet in that blazed pine over there," she commanded again.
He raised the gun, took careful aim, and fired. There was no result.
"I pulled a little to the right," said Wayland, shaking his head. "But now I'll allow for "
She dragged the gun out of his hand. "Look!" she said, and fired carelessly, with hardly a glance at her target. But Wayland saw the bark fly.
"You can't shoot at all," she said to Wayland. "If you meet your man, he'll murder you—and that's that! Oliver, will you try to have some sense?"
"I'm trying to have it," he said, taking back the gun ruefully.
"Then give up this nonsense and come home with me, because you can see for yourself what would happen if you met your robber!"
He began to breathe hard. He squinted at the distance, not because he was trying to see anything there, but because he wanted to get the pretty face of the girl out of his eyes and out of his mind.
"Father wants you," she said. "He says the one bad thing he ever did in his life was blaming you for a thing you couldn't help—you and a wooden-legged man against three thugs! He's ashamed, and he wants you back. He says you'll make a better ranch foreman than you ever made a cashier. He says he wants to have you hear him swear at his pmto mustang. I can't stand listening, but perhaps you can. Oliver, come home with me this minute."
He smiled. The kindness, the bluffness, the real tenderness of old Rucker touched him. He was glad he was looking at the distance, because he knew that there were tears in his eyes.
"How did you happen to come here?" he asked.
"Dad's ranch is only a few miles away. And I knew you were somewhere up in this direction. I've ridden up toward Iron Mountain every day for a week. Lew Ransome saw you down in Limber Gulch some time back. To-day I had all the luck in a bunch. Here, grab that silly burro and we'll start back, Oliver."
He managed to swing his eyes around and look at her.
"I can't do it. May," said he.
"Can't do it? Why can't you do it?'*
"I've told myself about the other job. I've got to try to finish it."
"Finish it? You might spend ten years."
"Yes, I might," said he.
All the smiling and the color were struck out of her face in an instant.
"Look at me, Oliver!" she pleaded.
"I'm looking at you," he said.
"No, you're staring right through me and past me. You're seeing the day when you came to our front door and wanted to speak to me, and I came into the hall and wouldn't talk to you. I was afraid of dad. I went off to my room afterward. I cried. And then I beat the pillow to death and hated myself."
"I'm not thinking about that," said he.
"You are. And you're telling yourself that you'll find the robber and get back the money, and give it to dad, and tell him and me that you never want to see either of us again."
"I'm not thinking that," said Oliver Wayland huskily.
"But all that will happen," said she, her voice shrill, "is that you'll keep on the trail till you find your man, and then he'll shoot you deader than that dead tree over there. Oliver! Will you try to talk and make some sense? Look at me, Oliver!"
"I've got to stay on the job," said Wayland.
Afterward it seemed to him that he had been torn in two with pain. She had not talked a great deal more before she got on the roan and fled away on the horse swiftly, her head down.
She had begun to cry before she remoxmted. He told himself that he was a fool, that he always had been a fool, and that nothing could come of any attempt that he made in this life of his.
And then, striding forward, he began to follow the little burro down the slope, halting whenever the animal stopped to pluck at a good bit of grass.
They came to more woods, passed through them, and as they came toward the farther side, through a gap in the trees he saw a man riding a horse at full speed across the open ground beyond.
The rider was rushing away from him, crouched low over the pommel of the saddle, and into the dreaming, unhappy mind of Wayland came the thought that he had seen this picture before, of just such a rounded stoop of the shoulders as a man fled for his life.
Then he remembered. It was when he had stood before the bank in Elkdale and watched the four fugitives; it was when he had led the posse up the mountain trail and identified the three men who had entered the bank—and the fourth man who slunk so low when he tried to get speed out of his horse.
And yonder—he knew it perfecdy—was the man that he pursued!
XIV—HAND TO HAND
Wayland got out his revolver. He found his fingers gripping it so hard that the whole gun shook in his grasp.
&nb
sp; First he grabbed the burro and pulled it back a little farther inside the trees, for through them he could see that the stranger was amusing himself by putting his mustang through its paces, racing it back and forth, taking the air, and riding cruelly with whip and spur to get the most out of the gelding.
When Wayland saw the face of the man, he was sure that the stranger could not have been a member of the bank-robbing gang. He looked too much like a little rat; all the features ran out to a point. The eyes were set in close to the long nose. Those eyes glittered and shone uneasily. To be sure, the fellow looked like a beast of prey, but he seemed too small, too weak, too sneaking to have associated with such a man as Phil Bray.
So Wayland held his hand and watched the other put the mustang through figure eights, and every time the man rode toward him, Wayland was sure that it was not the fellow he wanted, and every time the back of the man was turned, Wayland was confident that this was the fugitive he had followed before.
In the midst of the evolutions of the horse, a rabbit jumped up from a big tuft of grass and started kiting across the green open ground. At this, the stranger jerked his mustang to a halt so suddenly that it almost squatted on the ground, and, while it was stiU down, before it could rise, the man snatched out a revolver and fired.
The rabbit landed against the stump of a tree with a heavy thump and fell back to the ground, dead, and blurred over with red.
The mind of Wayland changed again. He had thought the little man too inoffensive to be a bank robber; now he felt that the stranger was certainly too formidable with guns to be tackled by a novice like himself.
He watched his quarry dismount and pick up the rabbit in one hand. Wayland, in the meantime, slipped down the edge of the woods and came suddenly out behind the other. He was not five yards away as he said:
"Hands up!"
The bleeding rabbit dropped out of the hand of the stranger. His whole body wilted. He sagged at the knees. Then, by degrees, his head jerked around until he could look over his shoulder at Wayland.
"Up with them!" shouted Wayland, relief at his first step of success putting strength into his voice, strength into his body and his spirit. "I don't want to shoot you through the back, but—get those hands up!"
He came slowly closer as he spoke. He was not two strides away by this time, and now the hands of the stranger rose gradually, unevenly, to a level with his head.
At the same time he turned little by little, until he was facing Wayland.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Wayland. What's yours?"
The stranger blinked rapidly. Then he said: "Ralph Smith."
"What's your name?" repeated Wayland savagely.
The stranger was silent.
"It doesn't matter," said Wayland. "Tell me what you're doing out here."
"Seeing a friend of mine."
"What's his name?"
"Jim Silver."
"Great thunder!" exclaimed Wayland. "Jim Silver?"
Jimmy Lovell sneered at him. "That's his name," he agreed.
"Well," said Wayland, "maybe I'm wrong—maybe I'm all wrong, and I'll apologize afterward if I am. But in the meantime, I've got to search you!"
"You try to fan me," said Lovell, "and you'll wish you hadn't."
"Maybe I shall," answered Wayland. "But I've got to go through you and your saddle pack there."
He saw the nostrils of Lovell quiver and expand. The little black eyes shone brighter than ever.
"I'm going to fan you," said Wayland. "I'm sorry, but Tve got to do it"
"What's your reason?" demanded Lovell. "Who you think I am?"
"I may have half a million reasons," said Wayland grimly. "Keep your hands up and turn your back to me again."
Lovell trembled like a leaf with his rage, but, seeming to realize that struggling was useless, he began to turn his body slowly. Wayland stepped closer. For one moment he was thinking about the future, not about his captive, and in that instant Lovell, still keeping his hands stretched high above his head, kicked straight for Wayland's gun.
He got it and the hand that held it. The blow tore the heavy Colt out of Wayland's grasp, battered his fingers to numbness, and Lovell dived at him, jerking at his own gun as he came in.
They struck together and went down, rolling. But Lovell was a cat. He had the cowardice of a cat and the fighting passion. He was much smaller than Wayland, but he knew how to handle himself. His gun stuck in its holster, so he snatched out a knife instead. He liked a knife better, when all was said and done, than any number of revolvers, when it came to hand-to-hand fighting.
Wayland, clumsily struggling, found his wind gone, and had a chance to curse the years in the bank that had softened his muscles and made him less than half a man.
Small as Lovell was, the little wild cat akeady was on top, and Wayland saw the flash of a knife.
That flash would have been enough to make most men yell for mercy. It merely made Wayland forget his weakness and fear. He set his jaw hard and gripped at the wrist of Lovell's knife hand. His lean fingers got hold and kept their grip. The face of Lovell, as he twisted and raged to tear the knife hand free, was an utterly detestable and hideous mask of murder. He frothed at the mouth in his vehement desire to drive the knife into this long, lanky fellow. Wayland chopped his fist against Lovell's temple.
Lovell stopped spitting and cursing like a mad cat. He stopped tugging to get at the knife. Wayland struck again and saw a far-away look in the eyes of the other.
A convulsive twist and heave of the body did the rest. Then he found himself sitting on top of the smaller man, with the knife safely in his own grip. He reached down and pulled the Colt from the holster, where it had stuck to resist Lovell's impatience.
Lovell had gone limp. He lay like a rag on the ground, staring at Wayland with a passive hate, while the fingers of Wayland probed the clothes, the pockets of his captive.
A wave of helpless rage came over Lovell.
"I had you down. I could have split your wishbone."
"You could," said Wayland. "You would have done it in another minute. But I'll give you a better break than that. If you haven't got what I want, I'll do you no harm."
He took a length of twine that he had found in the pocket of Lovell and tied the wrists of the man behind his back. Then he stood up. Lovell struggled to his feet and stood swaying, gasping, cursing under his breath.
"Jim Silver—what'll he do to you?" breathed Lovell. "What'll Jim do to you when he gets his big hands on you?"
"Nothing," said Wayland. "Not if I'm right and you're wrong."
He went to the mustang and opened the two saddlebags. There was nothing of importance but odds and ends in one of them. The other was stuffed tight with paper, and that paper consisted of packets of greenbacks.
Wayland untied the saddlebag and took it under his arm.
Then he turned back to Lovell. He could not hate the man as much as he wanted to.
"You're the fourth man, then," said Wayland.
"I deny everything," snarled Lovell. "I ain't going to talk. You lie—that's all you do. I found—the saddlebag. I found it—lying on the ground. I found it, and that's all."
"You're the fourth man," said Wayland calmly. "I ought to take you back to Elkdale and let the sherifi get you. It's my duty to do that. You're the sneak who cut adrift from your partners after they'd saved your life and put the loot in your hands. You deserve hanging a lot more than the rest of 'em, but I don't want any man to die on account of me. And I'm going to turn you loose. I know that I'm a fool, but I'm going to turn you loose."
The bandit batted his little bright eyes rapidly. He began to breathe more deeply, also.
"Listen to me, partner, will you?" he said.
"What's on your mind?" asked Wayland.
"If you get that loot—and you've got it—you can't use it—not while I'm adrift. But listen to me. We'll make a split. Fifty-fifty, and we both keep our mouths shut. I'll be your friend; I'll
stand behind you and—"
Wayland lifted his hand.
"Not fifty-fifty," whined Lovell. "Two for you and one for me. That's fair, ain't it? I got hold of the stuff. I've kept it with three murdering devils on my trail. Listen to me, Wayland. Gimme a break, will you? There's more money there than any gent needs. There's—there's—half a million!"
Wayland waved his hand toward the distance.
"Get out!" he commanded.
Lovell pulled in a great breath, but the foul outburst of language that was choking him, he swallowed. He knew that life was more than he deserved to keep out of this adventure. So he managed to hold his tongue. He only glared at Wayland for another moment, and then jerked himself about and went up the slope.
He got to his mustang. Without the use of his hands, he could not mount the little horse or ride it, once in the saddle. So he took the reins and went on, leading the broncho behind him.
Wayland watched him go. He saw the man turn on the verge of the trees and look back at him with a convulsed face. He felt as a man feels when he has escaped from the toils of a monster of the sea. Lovell did not seem a mere human peril. There was a poisonous darkness about him that exceeded ordinary malice.
Wayland turned quickly away. He saw the spot where the grass had been trampled by his fight with Lovell. He saw the bloodstained body of the rabbit near by. A sudden fear came over him and dimmed the brightness of his happiness, for he realized that he had half a million dollars under his arm—and he was still a long distance from the vault of a safe bank!
XV—A BIT OF PAPER
The best way seemed the straightest way. Oliver Wayland sighted the first two main landmarks on his course and headed for them. His way took him over the foot of Iron Mountain and finally through a long ravine that was as straight as the barrel of a rifle. The rocks came down in great jags on either side. The sun of the early afternoon filled the canyon with a mass of tremblmg flames, as it were. The brain was stunned, and the eye burned with the heat.
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