by Zane Grey
Then Neale shook with a violent start. He grasped Allie tight. “I saw him, too. Just before I came in. I saw one of the men that visited us at Slingerland’s . . . Big hulking fellow . . . red angry face . . . bad look.”
“That’s Fresno. He and the gang must have been camped with these graders you brought here. Oh, I’m more afraid of Fresno’s gang than the Indians.”
“But Allie . . . they don’t know you’re here. You’re safe. The troops will be back soon and drive these Indians away.”
Allie clung to Neale, and again he felt something of the terror these ruffians had inspired in her. He reassured her, assuming a confidence he was far from feeling, and cautioned her to stay there in that protected corner. Then he went in the other room of his station. It angered Neale, and alarmed him, that another peril perhaps menaced Allie, and he prayed for the return of the troops.
But the day passed swiftly, in intense watchfulness on the part of the defenders, and in a waiting game on the part of the besiegers. They kept up a desultory firing all afternoon. Now and then a reckless grader, running from post to post, drew a volley from the Sioux, and likewise something that looked like an Indian called forth shots from the defenders. But there was no real fighting.
It developed that the Sioux were waiting for night. A fiery arrow, speeding from a bow in the twilight, left a course of sparks in the air, like a falling rocket. It appeared to be a signal for demoniacal yells on all sides. Rifle shots ceased to come from the slopes. As darkness fell, gleams of little fires shot up from all around. The Sioux were preparing to shoot volleys of burning arrows down into the camp.
Anderson hurried in to consult with Baxter. “We’re surrounded,” he said tersely. “The redskins are goin’ to try burnin’ us out. We’re in a mighty tight place.”
“What’s to be done?” asked Baxter.
Anderson shook his head.
In the instant there was a dull spat of an object striking the roof over their heads. This sound was followed by a long shrill yell.
“That was a burnin’ arrow,” declared Anderson.
The men, as of one accord, ran out through the engineers’ quarters to the open. It was now dark. Little fires dotted the hillsides. A dull red speck, like an ember, showed over the roof, darkened, and disappeared. Then a streak of fire shot out from the black slope and sped on clear over the camp.
“Sooner or later they’ll make a go of that,” muttered Anderson.
Neale heard the scout’s horse that had been left there in the enclosure.
“Anderson, suppose I jump your horse. It’s dark as pitch. I could run through . . . reach the troops. I’ll take the chance.”
“I had that idee myself,” replied Anderson. “But it seems to me if them troopers wasn’t havin’ hell they’d’ve been here long ago. I’m lookin’ for them every minnit. They’ll come. An’ we’ve got to fight fire now ’afore they get here.”
“But there’s no fire yet,” said Baxter.
“There will be,” replied Anderson. “But mebbe we can put it out as fast as they start it. Plenty of water here. An’ it’s dark. What I’m afraid of is they’ll fire the tents out there . . . an’ then it’ll be light as day. We can’t risk climbin’ over the roofs.”
“Neale, go inside . . . call the boys out,” said Baxter.
Neale had to feel his way through the rooms. He called to his comrades, and then to the women to keep up their courage—that surely the troops would soon return.
When he went out again, the air appeared full of fiery streaks. Shouts of the graders defiantly answered the yells of the savages. Showers of sparks were dropping upon the camp. The Sioux had ceased shooting their rifles for the present, and, judging from their yells, they had crawled down closer under the cover of night.
Presently a bright light flared up outside of the enclosure. One of the tents had caught fire. The Indians yelled triumphantly. Neale and his companions crouched back in the shadow. The burning tent set fire to the tent adjoining. They blazed up like paper, lighting the camp and slopes. But not an Indian was visible. They stopped yelling. Then Neale heard the thudding of arrows. Almost at once the roof of the engineers’ quarters, which was merely strips of canvas over a wooden frame, burst into flames. The Sioux did not need then to shoot any more burning arrows at the cabin, and they were well aware of that fact. In a single moment the roof of the cabin was blazing. More tents ignited, flared up, and the scene was almost as light as day. Rifles again began to crack. The crafty Indians poured a hail of bullets into the enclosure and the walls of the buildings. Still not an Indian was visible for the defenders to shoot at.
Anderson, Neale, and Baxter were in grim consultation. They agreed with the scout’s dictum: “Reckon the game’s up. Hustle the women out.”
Neale crawled along the enclosure to the opening. On that side of the buildings there was dark shadow. But it was lifting. He ran along the wall, and he heard the whistle of bullets. Back of the cabin the Indians appeared to have gathered in force. Neale got to the corner and peered around. The blazing tents lighted up this end. He saw the graders break and run, more on his side of the cabin, some on the other, while others crowded into the door and window. Neale ran back to the window on the dark side of the cabin. He clambered in. A door of this room was open, and, through it, Neale saw the roof of the engineers’ quarters blazing. He heard the women screaming. Suddenly they, too, were running out to the enclosure. Neale hurried into the room where he had left Allie. He called. There was no answer, but a growing roar outside apparently drowned his voice. It was dark in this room. He felt along the wall, the fireplace, the corner. Allie was not there. The room was empty. His hands, groping low along the floor, came in contact with the bag he had left in Allie’s charge. It contained the papers he had taken the precaution to save. Probably in her flight to escape from the burning cabin she had dropped it. But that was not like Allie; she would have clung to the bag while strength and sense were hers. Perhaps she had not gotten out of the cabin.
Neale searched again, growing more and more aware of the strife outside. He heard the crackling of wood over his head. Evidently the cabin was burning like tinder. There were men in the back room fighting, yelling, crowding. Neale could see only dim burly forms and the flashes of guns. Smoke floated thick, there. Someone, on the inside or outside, was beating at the door with an axe. He decided quickly that whatever Allie might have done, she would not have gone into that room. He retraced his steps, groping, feeling everywhere in the dark.
Suddenly the crackling, the shots, the yells ceased, or had been drowned in volume of greater sound. Neale ran to the window. The flare from the burning tents was dying down. But into the edge of the circle of light he saw loom a line of horsemen. “Troopers!” he cried joyfully. A great black pressing weight seemed lifted off his mind. The troops would soon rout that band of sneaking Sioux.
Neale ran to the back room, where, above the din outside, he made himself heard. But for all he could see or hear, his tidings of rescue did not at once affect the men there. Then he forgot them and the fight outside in his search for Allie. The cabin was on fire and he did not mean to leave it until he was absolutely sure she was not hidden or lying in a faint in some corner. And he had not made sure of that until the burning roof began to fall in. Then he leaped out the window and ran back to the enclosure.
The blaze here was no longer bright, but Neale could see distinctly. Some of the piles of ties were burning. The heat had begun to drive the men out. Troopers were everywhere. And it appeared the rattle of rifles was receding up the valley. The Sioux had retreated.
Here Neale continued his search for Allie. He found Mrs. Dillon and three of her companions, but Allie was not with them. All he could learn from the frightened women was that Allie had been with them when they started to run from the cabin. They had not seen her since.
Still Neale did not despair, although his heart sank. Allie was hiding somewhere. Frantically he searched the enclosure, que
stioned every man he met, rushed back to the burning cabin, where the fire drove him out. But there was no trace of Allie.
Then the conviction of calamity settled upon him. While the cabin burned, and the troopers and graders watched, Neale now searched for the face of the man he had recognized—the ruffian Allie called Fresno. This search was likewise fruitless.
The following hours were a hideous slow nightmare for Neale. He had left one hope—that daylight would disclose Allie somewhere.
* * * * *
Day eventually dawned. It disclosed many facts. The Sioux had departed, but if they had suffered any loss, there was no evidence of it. The engineers’ quarters, cabin, and tents had burned to the ground. Utensils, bedding, food, grain, tools, and instruments—everything of value except the papers Neale had saved had gone up in smoke. The troopers, who had rescued the work team, must now depend on that train for new supplies. Many of the graders had been wounded, some seriously, but none fatally. Nine of them were missing, as was Allie Lee.
The blow was terrible for Neale. Yet he did not sink under it. He did not consider the opinion of his sympathetic friends that Allie had wildly run out of the burning cabin to fall into the hands of the Sioux. He returned with the graders to their camp, and it was no surprise to him to find the wagon train, that had tarried near, gone in the night. He trailed that wagon train to the next camp, where on the busy road he lost the wheel tracks. Next day he rode horseback all the way in to Benton. But all his hunting and questioning availed nothing. Gloom, heart-sickness, and despair seized upon him. Those fiends had gotten her again. It was fate that she be taken away from him once more. He believed now all that she had said, and there was something of hope in the thought that, if Durade had found her again, she would at least not be at the mercy of ruffians like Fresno. But this was a forlorn hope. Still it upheld Neale, and determined him to seek her during that time his work did not occupy him.
And thus it came about that Neale plodded through his work along the line during the day, and late in the afternoon rode back with the laborers to Benton. If Allie Lee lived, she was in Benton.
Chapter Twenty
Neale took up lodgings with his friend Larry Red King. He did not at first tell the cowboy about his recovery of Allie Lee and then her loss, and when finally he could not hold the revelation any longer, he regretted that he had been compelled to tell.
King took the news hard. He inclined to the idea that she had run out, fell into the hands of the Indians. Nevertheless he grew at once terribly bitter against men of the Fresno stamp, and in fact against all the outlaw, ruffian, desperado class so numerous in Benton.
Neale begged King to be cautious, to go slow, to ferret out things, and so help him, instead of making it harder to locate Allie.
“Pard, I reckon Allie’s done for,” he said gloomily.
“No . . . No! Red, I feel she’s alive . . . well. If she were dead or . . . or . . . wouldn’t I know?” protested Neale.
But King was not convinced. He had seen the hard side of border life; he knew the odds against Allie.
“Reckon I’ll look fer that Fresno,” he said. And deeper than before he plunged in Benton’s wild life.
* * * * *
One morning in the early hours, Neale, on returning to his lodgings, found the cowboy there. In the dim light King looked strange. He had his gun belt in his hands. Neale turned up the lamp.
“Hello, Red, what’s the matter? You look pale and sick,” queried Neale.
“They wanted to throw me out of that dance hall,” said King.
“Which one?”
“Stanton’s.”
“Well, did they?” inquired Neale.
“Wal, I reckon not. I walked. An’ some night I’ll shore clean out that hall.”
Neale did not know what to make of King’s appearance. The cowboy seemed to be relaxing. His lips that had been tight began to quiver and his hands shook. Then he swung the heavy gun belt with somber and serious air, as if he were undecided about leaving it off even when he went to bed.
“Red, you’ve thrown a gun!” exclaimed Neale.
King glanced at him and Neale sustained a shock.
“Shore,” he drawled.
“By heaven, I knew you would!” declared Neale excitedly, and he clenched his fist. “Did you . . . you kill someone?”
“Pard, I reckon he’s daid,” mused the cowboy. “I didn’t look to see . . . Fust gun I’ve throwed fer long . . . It’ll come back now, shore’n hell!”
“What’ll come back?” queried Neale. King did not answer this. “Who’d you shoot?” Neale went on.
“Pard, I reckon it ain’t my way to gab a lot,” replied King.
“But you’ll tell me,” insisted Neale passionately. He jerked the gun and belt from King and threw them on the bed.
“All right,” drawled King, taking a deep breath. “I went into Stanton’s hall the other night. An’ a pretty girl made eyes at me. Wal, I shore asked her to dance. I reckon we’d been good pards if we’d been let alone. But there’s a heap of fellers runnin’ her, an’ some of them didn’t cotton to me. One they called Cordy . . . he shore did get offensive. He’s the four-flush loud kind. I didn’t want to make any trouble fer the girl Ruby . . . thet’s her name . . . so I was mighty good-natured . . . I dropped in Stanton’s early tonight. Ruby spotted me first off an’ she asked me to dance. Shore I’m no dandy dancer, but I tried to learn. We was gettin’ along powerful nice when in come Cordy, hoppin’ mad. He had a feller with him, an’ both had been triflin’ with red liquor. You oughta seen the crowd get back. Made me think Cordy an’ his pard had blowed a lot ’round heah an’ got a rep. Wal, I knowed they was bluff. Jest mean ugly four-flushers. Shore they didn’t an’ couldn’t know nothin’ of me. I reckon I was only that long-legged red-bearded galoot from Texas. Anyhow, I was made to understand it might get hot sudden-like, if I didn’t clear out. I left it to the girl. An’ some of them girls is full of hell. Ruby jest stood there scornful an’ sassy, with her haid leanin’ to one side, her eyes half shut, an’ a little smile on her face. I’d call her more’n hell. A nice girl gone wrong. Them kind shore is the dangerest . . . ‘Wal,’ she says, ‘Reddy, are you goin’ to let them run you out of heah? They haven’t any strings on me.’ So I slapped Cordy’s face an’ told him to shut up. He let out a roar an’ got wild with his hands, like them four-flush fellars do who wants to look real bad. I says, pretty sharp-like . . . ‘Don’t make any moves now,’ . . . an’ the darned fool went for his gun! Wal, I caught his hand, twisted the gun away from him, poked him in the ribs with it, an’ then shoved it back in his belt. He was crazy. But pretty pale an’ surprised. Shore I acted sudden-like. Then I says . . . ‘My festive gent, if you think of that move again, you’ll be stiff before you start it.’ Guess he believed me.”
King paused in his narrative and wiped his face and moistened his lips. Evidently he was considerably shaken.
“Well, go on,” said Neale impatiently.
“Thet was all right so far as it went,” resumed King. “But the pard of Cordy’s . . . he was half drunk an’ a big brag anyhow. He took up Cordy’s quarrel. He hollered so, he stopped the music an’ drove ’most everybody out of the hall. They were peepin’ in at the door. But Ruby stayed. There’s a game kid, an’ I’m a-goin’ to see her tomorrow.”
“You are not,” declared Neale. “Hurry up. Finish your story.”
“Wal, the big bloke swaggered all over me, an’ I seen right off thet he didn’t have sense enough to be turned. Then I got cold. I always used to . . . but thet’s neither heah nor there . . . He says . . . ‘Are you goin’ to keep away from Ruby?’ An’ I says very polite . . . ‘I reckon not.’ Then he throws hisself in shape, like he meant to leap over a hoss, an’ hollers . . . ‘Pull yer gun!’ I asks very innocent . . . ‘What for, mister?’ An’ he bawls fer the crowd . . . ‘’Cause I’m a-goin’ to bore you an’ I never kill a man till he goes fer his gun.’ To thet I replies more considerate . .
. ‘But it ain’t fair. You’d better get the first shot.’ Then the fool hollers . . . ‘Redhead!’ Thet settled him. I leaps over quick, slugged him one . . . left-handed. He staggered, but he didn’t fall . . . Then he straightens up an’ goes fer his gun.”
King halted again. He looked as if he had been insulted and a bitter irony sat upon his lips.
“I seen . . . when he dropped, thet he never got his hand to his gun at all . . . Jest as I’d reckoned. Wal, what made me sick was . . . my bullet went through some of them thin walls . . . an’ hit a girl in another house. She’s bad hurt . . . They oughta have walls thet’d stop a bullet.”
* * * * *
Next day Neale heard the same narrative from the lips of Ancliffe, and it differed only in the essential details of the cowboy’s consummate coolness. Ancliffe, who was an eyewitness of the encounter, disclosed that drink or passion or bravado had no part in determining King’s conduct. Ancliffe talked at length about the cowboy. Evidently he had been struck with King’s singular manner and look and action. Ancliffe had all an Englishman’s intelligent and phlegmatic observing powers, and the conclusion he drew was that King had reacted to a situation familiar to him.
Neale took more credence in what Slingerland had told him at Medicine Bow. That night Hough and their many other acquaintances halted Neale to gossip about Larry Red King.
The cowboy had been recognized by Texans visiting Benton. They were cattle barons and they did not speak freely of King until ready to depart from the land. King’s right name was Fisher. He had a brother—a famous Texas outlaw called King Fisher. King had always been Red Fisher, and, when he left Texas, he was on the way to become as famous as his brother. Texas had never been too hot for Red until he killed a sheriff. He was a born gunfighter, and was well known on all the ranches from the Panhandle to the Río Grande. He had many friends; he was a great horseman, a fine cowman. He had never been remarkable for bad habits or ugly temper. Only he had an itch to throw a gun and he was unlucky in always running into trouble. Trouble gravitated to him. His redhead was a target for abuse and he was sensitive and dangerous because of that. Texas, the land of gunfighters, had seen few who were his equal in cool nerve and keen eye and swift hand.
