He accepted this pain glady because he felt that it would be the final misery that he would have to endure. He was on the last road of his journey toward respectability, and therefore he lengthened his strides along the way.
He had gone for some time in this manner, regretting the need of whacking the burro before him until the little beast would shake its long ears and break into a trot that lasted never more than half a minute. He had tied to the badly built pack the saddlebag which contained the treasure. It bumped and thumped along the side of the burro as the burden bearer humped to escape the blows of the man. But finally the burro would break again into the trot and go impatiently forward, shaking its head, its tiny, polished hoofs twinkling rapidly. If Wayland looked down at its feet, it always seemed to be going briskly, but the steps were very small.
He wondered how many tens of thousands of men had steered their course through this wilderness, sighting the landmarks through the long ears of burros. He was still wondering this when it occurred to him that the state of the treasure needed some examination. Suppose, for instance, that the robber had removed a portion of it— might not Rucker blame the loss on Wayland?
So Wayland walked up beside the burror, pulled the mouth of the saddlebag ajar, and looked inside it. He saw, within, the jumbled mass of the money, the little packages wedged together without any order, and some of the brown paper bands that secured the parcels had broken and lay loosely on top of the load. He smiled when he saw his own handwriting on one. "$250." Fifty five-dollar bills in the bundle that wrapper had once surrounded.
Fifty fives. A good, tidy wad of money all in itself. How many months would a cow-puncher have to work in order to save that much clear? It suddenly seemed wonderful to Wayland that all the men of the world were not bandits. After all, is not our ordinary routine of living like that of a prison? Does not the demand of our labors
make us retire early and rise early? Are we not subject to taskmasters? Do we not feel the whip if we do wrong?
All slaves, all prisoners, it seemed to Wayland, were the men of this world, of whom he was one. And was it not better to take the great chance in order to win a fortune at a stroke?
He had never thought about money except as a tool in the hands of an ambitious, industrious man. But in the burning heat of this valley he thought of it as leisure, infinite, Ufelong leisure. A man with plenty of money could sit at ease and watch the world go by. He could visit far lands. He could follow the sun and make winter into summer. He could be as free as a bird from toil and trouble. Above all, he could command his own destinies, and no other human could bid him come or go!
Suppose, then, that he should change his course, and go, not to Elkdale to make a return of the hard cash, but to the nearest railroad station to board a train for liberty?
He had been honest all the days of his life, but now temptation made his eyes shine and his heart jump. Afterward he remembered May Rucker and the ranch to which he had been invited. Within us there is a voice that must be obeyed. And he resolutely shook his head and fastened his mind on duty and the right.
Absently he picked from the top of the saddlebag the loose brown wrapper that had "$250" written on the top of it in his own hand.
He shoved the crinkling paper into his coat pocket and walked on, pulling up the mouth of the saddlebag again. The burro, as he fell behind, once more took a straight road up the bottom of the hot ravine.
Sweat was running off the beast, showing in little black streaks through the tough, mouse-colored hair. Sweat was running on the forehead and cheek of Wayland. The sun scorched his shoulders; it hammered on his back. In more than one way, he felt that he was going through a trial by fire.
Then, turning a sharp comer of the ravine, he was gladdened by the sound of running water. It made the burro quicken its steps, almost to a run. Furthermore, there was something for Wayland to see other than the little stream that worked its way with faint murmurs into a big pool. The additional scenery was a group of three men, and his heart sank as he recognized Bray, Lister, and Mantry.
Bray and Lister hardly mattered so much, but that beautiful, sleek wild cat, Joe Mantry—he was the danger spot in the picture.
It was Mantry who spotted him now and sang out:
"Well, upon my word, here's honest Oliver, the cashier! What is he still doing on Iron Mountain?"
The three had been sitting on rocks near the pool, watching their horses drink. They stood up now, and looked gloomily at Wayland. For his own part, he waved at them and tried to be cheerful. It was far too late to try to retreat. The burro was already sticking its muzzle into the pool and switching its ridiculous tail with content as it started the water gurgling down its throat.
"Hello, boys," said Wayland. "Didn't expect to see you again to-day."
Phil Bray began to make a cigarette, staring down at his work. Wayland took that for a bad sign. It was Dave Lister who said:
"We told you to get off Iron Mountain. You're still here. What does that mean?"
"I'm off it—just about," said Wayland pleasantly. "I made up my mind that I'd been a fool long enough. I was starting home."
"What's home to you?" snapped Mantry.
"Elkdale, of course," answered Wayland.
"How come Elkdale?" asked Lister. "You ain't welcome in that town, I'd say. Not more'n a snake. The Elkdale folks know that you stood by while their bank was robbed. Fellows like that would be apt to call you a yellow dog, Wayland. So how does it come that Elkdale is still your home town?"
"When you've been long enough in a place," said Wayland, "it doesn't matter much how people treat you. You always expect to get back on the top level again."
"From newsboy to president," remarked Mantry, sneering. "Patient, honest, humble—that's what you are. Wayland."
Oliver Wayland took no heed of the deliberate insult. He had something more than his own dignity in his thoughts and in his charge at this moment.
"You're not heading back for Elkdale. You ain't given up your job," insisted Dave Lister.
"That's what I've done, though. I'm not hunting for the stolen cash any more," said Wayland.
"Then you've got it with you, is why," announced Lister.
The guess shocked Wayland to the heart.
"Aw, shut up and quit joking, Dave," said Mantry. "If he bumped into that hombre he'd get his heart ripped out of him."
"These simple birds do a lot of funny things sometimes," commented Dave Lister. "But how come that you didn't get off the mountain when we told you to get. Wayland? That's what we gotta talk about, I guess."
"I'm about off it," repeated Wayland. "Then I decided to quit the hunt, and I took a bee line for Elkdale."
"Where does Elkdale he, Dave?" asked Mantry.
"Straight ahead," said Lister. "He might be telling the truth. I dunno what else there is for him to tell. Listen, Phil, do we let him go through us again?"
Phil Bray jerked up his head and breathed out a cloud of smoke slowly.
"I don't care," he said. "I don't care what you do with him."
He turned his back and began to tighten the cinch of his horse, which he had loosened. Mantry and Lister exchanged gjances.
"Aw, what's the use?" said Lister finally.
"Yeah, what's the use?" agreed Mantry. "I'd sort of like to take a fall out of this big hunk. But what's the use. Let him run?"
"Yeah, let him run."
Mantry jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Wayland nodded. "Thanks, he said. "This is white of you fellows. You can depend on me not to blow any news about you."
He walked on, pulling a bandanna from his coat pocket to wipe his face. And as he did so, a little piece of paper came out with the silk and dropped with a rustle to the ground.
He knew what it was—the bit of brown paper that he had placed in his pocket from the saddlebag, with the sum of money neatly inscribed on the top of it. He was minded to stoop and pick it up. On second thought he decided that this would attract to
o much attention to it. The wind, after all, would soon roll it out of the way.
So he walked on, with a chill tingling passing up his spine. His heels lightened and rose from the ground of his own will. He walked as though he were expecting a bullet at any moment through the middle of his body.
But not until he was rounding the next corner of the ravine, at a little distance, did he venture a glance back, and then he saw Phil Bray leaning to pick up from the ground the paper which he had dropped!
He could not, of course, stop to discover what the three would make of that wisp of paper, or whether they would at once recognize the thing as the wrapping which had once been around a good, thick wad of greenbacks. But he could take it for granted that their wits would be a little sharper than those of ordinary men.
He was out of sight now.
He had to flee. They would doubtless be after him soon. And they had horses, while he was on foot with only a burro, which any man could outrun!
To his right, the wall of the ravine consisted of a great rubble of broken stone, gravel, small rocks, big ones, boulders as big as a house. It was a sort of giant's staircase, but it would have to serve him now. He snatched the saddlebag from the side of the burro, turned, and bolted up among the rocks as fast as he could run.
After him, thin and small, wavered the voice of Lister, loudly shouting: "Wayland! Hey, come back here!"
He ran on, his heart thundering so fast that already he was weak with fear. He looked down after a moment and saw three riders sweep around the elbow turn of the canyon. He dived for shelter behind a great rock, but their wild yell of excitement told him that they had spotted him with the first glance.
XVI—THE PURSUIT
He went on, full speed. A moment later he had a chance to look down, and saw all three of them after him, eager as hunting dogs. Lister might be too long and weak in the legs, in seeming; but, in fact, he had the agility of a leaping deer. Mantry looked an athlete, and climbed like one. And as for Phil Bray, he was the sort of man that one could have told at a glance as one of the toughest and the strongest to be found.
They came swarming up over the rocks, and Wayland knew, at once, that he had only one way to escape—by using his wits.
The top of the ravine wall was not so very far above him, but he made no further effort to reach it. Instead, he pulled off his boots, dropped them in a crevice between two boulders, and turned sharply to the right, crawling among the rocks.
He heard the panting of the men as they climbed. He heard the gritting of their boots on the stones, the clank of steel, at least once—and then they were gone above him, toward the top of the ridge.
He was at once under way down the slope, moving rapidly, silently. He had to take chances now, because those fellows were foxes, and they might read his mind when they discovered that he was not at the top of the ridge or visible on the farther side of it.
So Oliver Wayland exposed himself recklessly all the way to the bottom of the slope, only taking special heed that no stone should be dislodged and rolled noisily down before him.
He gained the bottom, and looked up for the first time. He saw Joe Mantry standing slender and alert on the top of the slope, a rifle flashing in his hands. But Joe Mantry had his back turned, and was looking the opposite way.
Just at hand were the three horses. Should he try to take them all with him, or only select the fastest-looking of the lot and bolt on that one?
He decided on the second expedient. After all, he must trust on speed in the get-away rather than the chance of being followed, for riflemen like those desperadoes were not apt to miss, and their gunfire from the ridge would command the valley for a distance up and down it.
He picked on the horse of Phil Bray. It was not tall, but it was built long and low, with good, square quarters, and a rangy neck that promised striding ability. So he pitched himself into the saddle and walked the horse around the bend.
Not a shout, not a bullet, had followed him so far!
He let the horse break into a soft jog. Presently, looking back again, he saw Joe Mantry still on the ridge, for, as the distance increased, the angling bend of the canyon was no longer protection, and Mantry, on his high post, stood over the whole ravine like a hawk on hovering wing.
It seemed as though Wayland's glance had pulled the eye of Mantry toward him. At that instant the sentinel turned, saw his man, and pitched the butt of his rifle against his shoulder.
Wayland, dropping forward in the saddle with a groan, shot the mustang away at full speed.
A humming sound twitched through the air over his head; something thudded against a rock not far away before him.
That was a bullet, he knew. He lay down flat on the back of the gelding, and the mustang responded by sprinting with all its might. Just ahead there was an S-turn which would shut away even the high post of Mantry from any view of him.
That was the goal of Wayland.
Then something thudded on the side of the saddle, and the horse staggered under him. The hind legs of the mustang seemed to be dragging in deep mud, while its forelegs still struggled to keep going at full gallop.
The gelding began to sag and stagger all to one side.
Wayland understood then. He grabbed the saddlebag that held the treasure, tucked it under his arm, and slid down to the ground just as a second bullet thudded through the skull of the horse and dropped it dead.
Glancing back, he could see Mantry lying out on the rock, taking good aim. Big Phil Bray and Lister were already legging it down the slope, leaping like mountain goats, regardless of brittle bones.
Wayland, as he started to run, dodged this way and that. Bullets sang past him. He was sure that he was lost, but he kept on struggling.
A slug struck fire out of a granite boulder beside him. Another twitched at the hair of his head. And then he had dodged out of fire range around the comer and into the windings of the S-turn.
Beyond that complicated turn there was a branching of tributary ravines, one to the right and one to the left. If ever he could manage to keep his wind until he reached the triple forking of the ways, he would take the right-hand turn and trust to fortune that the enemy would either go straight ahead or sweep to the left.
Behind him now he heard the rattling of the hoofs of horses raising out of the canyon, as from between two sounding boards, reduplicated echoes in a long roar.
That noise seemed sometimes near, and sometimes it appeared to recede. Now Wayland's lungs were on fire. His knees were numb. He beat them down with his hands to give himself greater speed, but he was at a stagger when he came to the end of the S-turn and saw the ravines forking way out to either side.
He followed his original intention by swerving to the right, for the mouth of the ravine was narrow, and the pitch of the shadow right across it gave him promise of many windings. Perhaps it would immediately climb to the uplands, and there, among the trees, he would have ten-fold greater chance of getting away.
Or suppose that he were to drop from his hand the cursed weight of the saddlebag that anchored him and kept his feet dragging? He was running for his life now, but if he gave up the prize, he would be safe from those three thugs as though he were walking among friends down the main street of Elkdale.
Perhaps it was that thought of the sunny, dusty main street of Elkdale that decided him. For if he returned without the object of his quest, he would have few friends or none to walk beside him. He would remain to the end of his days, a suspected man; worst of all, he would be suspect to himself.
That was why he ran straight ahead, but presently the last of his breath came groaning from his lips, for the ravine that had commenced in such a narrow gorge now opened up suddenly into a considerable valley floor, with heap of rock like the beginning, or the wreckage, of a small hill in the middle of it.
He slowed to a dogtrot, despairing, and on top of that despair he heard the crashing of iron-shod hoofs on the rocks at the entrance of the gorge.
The w
orld spun around him and over him. He seemed to be running with the blue of the sky under his feet. There was only one way for him to head, and that was straight at the heap of great rocks in the middle of the valley, and that was, accordingly, his goal.
He reached it with bullets all aroimd him. Over his shoulder he saw that they had entered his own part of the canyon, and were fanning out, firing as they galloped. Behind the first rock he sank down and waited for death.
XVII—SILVER'S DECISION
LOVELL WENT BACK toward the camp of Jim Silver, whining all the way—whining and snarling. Sometimes the passion of his shame, hate, and rage so overcame him that he had to pause. His body stiffened. He writhed in stiff little convulsions before he could walk on again. He cursed the slippery pine needles under his feet, the horse that pulled back on the reins against his tied hands, the blue of the sky over him he cursed, because it had seen him humbled this day.
When he got to the camp, Silver was not there; neither was Parade.
But the quarters of a deer hung from a low branch of a pine tree, where Silver must have placed the meat not long before, and under the dripping venison lay Frosty. He gave no sign of seeing the man approach, but kept his big head down on his paws. He lay as still as a bullet could ever have laid him, with the wind ruffling in the gray of his mane now and then. There was only one point of life, and that was the eye, half shut, but open enough to reveal a glimmering green. But he used them not even with a glance to mark Lovell.
Jimmy Lovell paused, released his mustang, and cursed the wolf. Not that he wanted any of the venison, but because he knew perfectly well that Frosty lay still in the hope that Lovell would try to get at that meat and give the wolf a chance to sink his teeth in the man. Silver's control over the beast was not suflScient to make it like Lovell or accept the new man in the camp. Frosty would endure the stranger, and that was all. K they encountered face to face in moving about the camp, the wolf halted and would not give way an inch. So Lovell hated the big brute with all his heart, for Frosty was to the bandit a continual reminder of the superiority of Silver.
Brand, Max - Silvertip 06 Page 9
