by Brand, Max
“Climb! Climb! Climb!” yelled Silver.
He took the lead to show them how to do it. There would be no time to dismount and gradually maneuver the horses up the face of that dangerous pile. The men of Kirby Crossing would be at them in no time, and Silver flew Parade right at the mighty barrier.
Right and left, like a mountain goat, Parade sprang up three- and four-foot stages. His feet were slipping; his iron shoes were striking fire at every move, but yet he went on swiftly. Nothing but his seventeen hands could stretch from one footing to the next, perhaps. But up to the top he went, dislodging a great boulder near the crest of the barrier.
Silver, dismounting, shouted the order that would make the stallion lie flat on his side, safe from rifle fire. Silver himself turned, rifle in hand, and dropped to his knees, for his first purpose in riding up the wall had been to get into a position from which he could cover the climbing of the rest.
He saw the boulder that had been dislodged leap down an irregular step or two, then bound outward. It missed the head of Kenyon by a hair’s breadth, and smashed to bits on the rocky floor of the ravine. Kenyon himself was struggling up among the rocks. He had given up trying to lead his horse, which had promptly balked. In fact, only one horse of the outfit was climbing, and that was the gray which Holman had been riding. The tough mustang seemed to be cat-footed as it followed, though far less swiftly, where Parade had showed the way with a rider on his back. Big Harry Bench was leading in the climb, close behind the mustang, and David Holman was a little below him, helping the girl.
That was the picture at the feet of Silver when the leaders of the posse came sweeping around the corner of the canyon wall. He hoped, in his heart, that Lorens and Nellihan would be among the first, for he wanted with all his heart to put lead into them. But they were not among the leaders, and Silver could not shoot point-blank at strange men, whose hands might be clean.
He could fan their faces with his bullets, however.
Lying flat, with his rifle on a rest, he pumped six shots in rapid succession among the riders, and every bullet made some one of them jump or duck as though it had actually whipped through his flesh.
They whirled their horses, yelling, swinging forward like Indians along the necks of their horses, to make themselves into smaller targets. In a moment they were out of view, at the same time that the grey mustang gained the crest of the rock pile. Silver caught the horse, threw the reins, and let it stand. Then he lay down once more to guard the climbing of his party.
Presently, guns began to clang. The men from Kirby Crossing had dismounted, and lying behind rocks, or standing behind the edge of the elbow turn in the canyon wall, they opened fire. Two or three bullets sang in the air over Silver. Others thudded against the boulders farther down.
He answered that fire. He had only an occasional glance at the sheen of steel gun barrels, but a howl of pain answered his third shot.
An instant later, it was echoed by a cry of agony from Edith Alton. Silver looked down, in horror. It was not the girl that had been struck, however, but David Holman, who lay helpless, wedged between two rocks.
Kenyon saw that from beneath, and struggled up to help the wounded man. Greater help came from above, however, for huge One-eyed Harry sprang down, caught up Holman’s body as though it were a sack of bran, and bore it unaided over the top of the rocks.
There was only one reason why every one of the climbers was not shot down, and that was the rapid fire which Silver opened on every glint of steel. Not a single rifle was answering him when Kenyon helped the girl up the last step, and the whole party ran stumbling forward into safety.
Silver looked back. He could see a red stain spreading over the back of Holman’s coat, as Bench carried him trussed across his shoulders. The bullet seemed to have gone right through the centre of Holman’s body! He marked the place where it had entered; he marked the white agony in the face of the girl as she ran to her lover. Then he shouted his orders.
They were to strip Holman to the waist and examine the wound, and dress it as well as they could. While the girl and Kenyon did that, Bench would clamber onto the high ground on the adjoining side of the rock heap, and cut down two straight, light-bodied saplings for the making of a litter. He, Silver, would try to keep the enemy back while these preparations were made for carrying Holman with them in their retreat.
No one answered him by word of mouth. Each dumbly set about the execution of his appointed task while Silver turned back with a freshly loaded rifle and gave his attention to the ravine below.
The men of Kirby Crossing were not apt to try to charge forward from their angle of concealment. They were more likely to try to climb the wall of the gorge at their left, and so come out on a level with their quarry. They would not be in very great haste however. For they knew that Holman had been shot, and they would not be likely to imagine that the other three men would attempt to take the desperately wounded man along with them in the retreat. No, Holman was their prize, and Holman they would soon have!
Silver could not help agreeing with that thought. Hope had dwindled in him to vanishing point, as he glanced back from his scanning of the valley and watched the girl and Kenyon at work. It was a strange sight to see the three together, the girl and the man she had wronged working with a single devotion to save her lover.
They had stripped Holman to the waist. He was still senseless. And now they were bandaging him with strips torn from shirts and the underskirt of the girl. Kenyon was lifting the body, and the girl was passing the long strips around it. She had made a pad over the wound where the bullet entered that body, and another over the more gaping mouth whereby it had torn its way out.
Were they bandaging a man already dead, or breathing his last?
Silver looked back toward the ravine again, when he heard the voice of Holman say distinctly:
“The rest of you go on. Arizona — and the rest of you. You’ll get long terms if you’re caught helping an outlawed man to escape. And I’m not worth it. The life’s running out of me. In another hour it won’t matter whether you’ve stood by me to the finish or not! Arizona, take charge — make the rest of ‘em march on!”
Chapter 20
Sometimes to a lucky father there comes a moment when his son reveals by some word or some act the promise of a mind and a soul worthy of taking its place among the good and the strong men of the world. And in that moment all the pain of labor that has been spent, the anxiety, the fear, the groaning time of disappointment, are repaid, and a calm happiness comes over him.
So it was with Silver when he heard Holman speak. Much had been ventured for this fellow. Not only Silver’s safety, but Bench and poor Ned Kenyon were endangered exactly as the wounded man had pointed out. But that danger mattered nothing now, because the words of Holman proved that he was worth all that could be done for him.
He heard Kenyon saying: “There ain’t any use talking. Arizona won’t leave you. And I won’t leave you. And I reckon that Harry Bench won’t chuck you over, neither. Here he comes now!”
Bench had duly brought back the stripped sapling poles that Silver demanded. The ends of them were tied to the saddle of Parade and of the gray horse. Across the centre of them a blanket was lashed to complete the litter, and Silver helped lift the wounded man into it.
He made one final protest.
“Waste is a bad thing, Arizona,” said he. “Why do you waste yourself and all the rest, Arizona? The life is running out of me. It’s no good fighting when the fight’s lost beforehand!”
He even turned to the girl, saying: “Tell them, Edith. Tell them that they’ve done enough already. If they try to go on with me, they’ll simply be scooped in by Lorens and the rest. I’m what those fellows are after. They’ll leave the trail if they get me!”
The girl said nothing. She kept her green eyes fixed upon the face of Holman and suffered silently.
“If you’ve got breath enough to chatter like this, you’ve got breath enough to l
ive for a while,” said Silver. “Harry, you can’t lead Parade. He’d try to eat you. I’ll have to take him along. Ned will see the gray doesn’t pull back. Edith, you walk beside Holman. Harry, you’re the rear guard. Watch yourself, because those fellows are going to be after us on horses before long!”
It was the logical danger. After the men of Kirby Crossing gained the high ground to which Silver’s party was now passing, the pursuers would be sure to get at least some of their horses over the rocky barrier, and so be able to rush the fugitives.
There was one good feature. The whole of the upland was covered with boulders, with big brush, and with copses of pine; and if they could make a few trail problems, they might keep away from the pursuit until darkness gave them a real chance to slip away.
Behind them they heard not a sound as they began to climb the side of a mountain, and when they were well up, Silver looked back and halted Parade for an instant. They were among big pines, but through the trunks they had distant glimpses of the scene below, where the entire posse was at work bringing up unwilling horses to the top of the barrier. Already eleven horses were up. Two more came to the top, and instantly these were mounted, and the diminished posse rushed off in pursuit.
“Ned,” called Silver, “they’ll be on our heels in twenty minutes. Is there any way out for us?”
“There’s no way except one that a horse can’t walk!” said Kenyon. “There’s nothing but the old rope bridge across Whistling Canyon. If the ropes ain’t rotted away!”
No way except one that a horse could not take? It meant leaving the gray behind, then; above all, it meant that Parade would be lost. Silver, jerking his head suddenly back, looked up at the sky and groaned.
“You’ve done a grand piece of work and you’ve made a good try,” called the voice of David Holman. “But it’s no use. Put me down here, Arizona. Heaven bless you for what you’ve done, but drop me here and go on to clear your own heels before the fire gets at them!”
Silver answered harshly: “Save your breath, Holman. You may be needing it before the night! Ned, which way to the bridge?”
Kenyon called the directions. Silver led the way, and they went slowly around the side of the mountain -slower, it seemed, than the crawling of a snail — while behind them horses were galloping on their trail! But now they came out on the side of Whistling Canyon and saw the bridge. It was a thing to take the breath, a fifty-foot stretch of ropes sagging across a gulch a hundred yards deep. And those ropes not only looked small, but they were whitened by long weathering.
The floor of the bridge was a mere cross-lashing of small ropes, stiffened by sapling poles to give a steadier footing. There was a guide rope stretched three feet above the frail bridge, and the whole supple structure was swaying in the wind that had given the canyon its name.
Silver set his teeth and looked across the span. Then he stepped on the edge of the bridge and strained on the ropes with all his might. They gave very little as he pulled up the slack. But though their strength might sustain his single weight, how would it support two men in the centre with the burden of Holman borne between them?
He dared not risk that. Two at a time would be the greatest weight that he dared to put on the ropes, he felt.
Quickly the litter was unfastened from the stirrups, and, lifting Holman to a sitting posture, Silver said to him: “Hang your arms over my shoulders. I’m going to carry you.”
“No!” cried the girl. “You can’t balance yourself with Dave on your back. You’ll both — ”
Silver raised his hand.
Holman said gravely: “You know what you’re doing. I’m only a fool if I try to stop you. But Heaven help you, Arizona, when you get out there in the center, if the wind starts the bridge pitching!”
Silver grunted. The fear of the thing was already a cold stone in his stomach.
“Go first, Ned,” he commanded Kenyon. “Sneak across and try it out for us. If it holds one man, we’ll chance it with two.”
Kenyon, yellow-green with terror, cast one glance at the girl, winced back a step, and then marched straight out onto the ropes! Silver watched him, amazed at the nerve power that the poor fellow had managed to rouse in the time of need. Right out across the bridge went Kenyon, with stealthy, short steps, one hand gripping the guide rope. He reached the center. His weight there, fighting against the pressure of the wind, made the whole bridge shudder violently. But still he went on, perhaps for no other reason than because to pass on was easier than to turn back!
And now he had leaped the last yard or so and lay face down, safe on the farther side.
Big Harry Bench came grunting up, exclaiming: “They’re milling around down there on the side of the mountain, but they’ll find the trail again in a minute. What the devil is this here? I been told I was goin’ to die by the rope, but I never seen this kind of a picture of my finish! Here, Silver! I’ll pack him over! I can do it more easy than you!”
“Pack yourself over — and shut up,” said Silver, and rose with the feeble arms of Holman hanging over his neck. He gripped those arms with one hand. The other he placed on the guide rope, and the last he saw before he stepped onto the peril of the bridge was the girl on her knees, her face buried in her hands, unable to look on.
No, there was one thing more he saw, and that was the beautiful head of Parade thrusting close to his face with pricking ears, and eyes filled with mild inquiry. He tried to speak, but no words came to Silver. It was the end of the horse for him, no doubt. Those men of Kirby Crossing would pick up the great horse as their rightful prize. And they would soon learn that it was a prize worth more than the blood money they could collect on poor David Holman.
He stepped straight past Parade and started out onto the bridge.
Step by step he went on, his teeth hard-set. And at his ear he heard the gasping breath of Holman, for, of course, the man was enduring the most frightful agony.
Silver tried to keep his glance only on the floor of the bridge, but that floor was hardly two and a half feet wide, and again and again his eyes slipped over the side and reached the bottom of the ravine, where the waters of Whistling Creek were churning themselves white and sending up an ominous voice into the shrillness of the wind. He saw a blasted pine, a naked trunk at the edge of the water, and it looked hardly larger than a walking stick.
One false step—
And he could not trust to the guide rope except for the most treacherous bit of aid in steadying himself. He had to keep his balance almost entirely by his feet alone. It was hard enough at the side; it was a desperate business in the center, for the wind came in gusts and struck the ropes hammer blows.
But the center had been passed, and now his courage and his hope revived together. He was moving forward more rapidly when suddenly the body he carried slumped down, the full weight jerking on his shoulders as the knees that had gripped his hips lost their hold.
He staggered. For one instant he swayed far to the right. The hands which clutched the arms of Holman shuddered and almost relaxed their grip. It seemed that they were already falling, the two of them together — and then the wind knocked at the bridge and seemed to put it again under the feet of Silver.
He walked on. The feet of the senseless man he carried were dragging behind him. But there was Ned Kenyon waiting for him, holding out both hands, shouting with a white, distorted mouth, words of encouragement. So he made the last steps and stretched his burden safely on the ground.
A dead man? No, the lips of Holman were moving, though they made no sound. Neither had there been a fresh hemorrhage. And Silver began to breath out loud groans of relief.
“Look at her!” he heard Kenyon saying. “There’s no fear in her except for him. There’s no care in her except about him, Jim! Look!”
She was already halfway across the bridge, moving more rapidly than any one who had passed before her. She seemed almost to run up the last bit of the way, and now she was dropping to her knees beside Holman.
&nbs
p; Silver merely said: “He’s living, and he’s going to keep on living. I’ve forgotten the litter. No, there’s Harry Bench bringing it. Ned, there’s a man with a heart as big as his body!”
For Harry Bench, with the long poles of the litter balanced on his shoulder, was now coming steadily, smoothly across the bridge, and in a moment he was with them.
“Get him on the litter,” commanded Silver. “Quick, Harry — take his shoulders — there we have him. Ned, cut the ropes at this end, and we’ll leave a jump that the Kirby boys can’t take!”
“Send him back!” shouted Kenyon. “Look, Jim! He’s trying to cross the bridge to join you!”
Silver, whirling about, saw that the great stallion had actually started out on the bridge, and was already a little distance from the farther side. Crouching low, his head thrust far out and down, the golden horse was stealing like a cat across the bridge. And he could not be sent back; he was already committed to the crossing.
Chapter 21
A stupor came over Silver as he watched. Love drew the great horse to him, he knew. But that crossing could not be made. Even if the ropes could endure the strain of that great body, Parade could not keep his balance against the battering strokes of the wind, whose force was increasing now. He had no hand to place on the guide rope and help him across the worst moments of the way.
He would fall, and the creek beneath would grind his glorious body to shreds. There would be one crimson flowing of the water, and there the end of Parade And Silver thought of the other days when he had made the great march behind the starving wild horse, and how they had journeyed up the burning valley, and drunk together from the same spring!
He had not conquered Parade. It had been simply that in the end they had given their trust to one another. And because of that trust, Parade was crossing the bridge, trembling, crouching with terror, feeling his way like a cat, but always with his ears pricked.
