by Zane Grey
“Reckon we’d better keep right on in the dark—till I drop,” concluded Stevens, with a laugh.
All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the wounded outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tired then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was still spirited and cheerful. Duane made camp. The outlaw refused food, but asked for both whisky and water. Then he stretched out.
“Buck, will you take off my boots?” he asked, with a faint smile on his pallid face.
Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he did not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind.
“Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But I wasn’t—an’ dyin’ with your boots on is the next wust way to croak.”
“You’ve a chance to-to get over this,” said Duane.
“Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots—an’ say, pard, if I do go over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin’ of your kindness.”
Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundance of dew-wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done he prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when he lay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevens was still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All was quiet except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile, then rose and went for the horses.
When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful as usual, and apparently stronger.
“Wal, Buck, I’m still with you an’ good fer another night’s ride,” he said. “Guess about all I need now is a big pull on thet bottle. Help me, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain’t swallowin’ my blood this evenin’. Mebbe I’ve bled all there was in me.”
While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit, and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in a hurry to tell Duane all about the country. Another night ride would put them beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grande and the hiding-places of the outlaws.
When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, “Reckon you can pull on my boots once more.” In spite of the laugh accompanying the words Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw’s spirit.
On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail was broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride while upholding Stevens in the saddle.
The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. They were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not do for Stevens. The red died out of the west; a pale afterglow prevailed for a while; darkness set in; then the broad expanse of blue darkened and the stars brightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking and drooped in his saddle. Duane kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore away. Duane thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, that there was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length a grayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite and cactus.
Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank of a rocky little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Duane’s arms, and one look at the haggard face showed Duane that the outlaw had taken his last ride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed.
“Buck, my feet are orful tired packin’ them heavy boots,” he said, and seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them.
This matter of the outlaw’s boots was strange, Duane thought. He made Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs. And the outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he had left off the night before.
“This trail splits up a ways from here, an’ every branch of it leads to a hole where you’ll find men—a few, mebbe, like yourself—some like me—an’ gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an’ such. It’s easy livin’, Buck. I reckon, though, that you’ll not find it easy. You’ll never mix in. You’ll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if a man can stand the loneliness, an’ if he’s quick on the draw, mebbe lone-wolfin’ it is the best. Shore I don’t know. But these fellers in here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance they’ll kill you.”
Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
“Be quiet,” said Duane. “Talking uses up your strength.”
“Aw, I’ll talk till—I’m done,” he replied, doggedly. “See here, pard, you can gamble on what I’m tellin’ you. An’ it’ll be useful. From this camp we’ll—you’ll meet men right along. An’ none of them will be honest men. All the same, some are better’n others. I’ve lived along the river fer twelve years. There’s three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher—you know him, I reckon, fer he’s half the time livin’ among respectable folks. King is a pretty good feller. It’ll do to tie up with him ant his gang. Now, there’s Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way up the river. He’s an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once right in his camp. Late years he’s got rich an’ keeps back pretty well hid. But Bland—I knowed Bland fer years. An’ I haven’t any use fer him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain’t likely to miss strikin’ his place sometime or other. He’s got a regular town, I might say. Shore there’s some gamblin’ an’ gun-fightin’ goin’ on at Bland’s camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an’ thet’s not countin’ greasers.”
Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
“You ain’t likely to get on with Bland,” he resumed, presently. “You’re too strappin’ big an’ good-lookin’ to please the chief. Fer he’s got women in his camp. Then he’d be jealous of your possibilities with a gun. Shore I reckon he’d be careful, though. Bland’s no fool, an’ he loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you when you ain’t goin’ it alone.”
Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a changed tone.
“Feller’s name—was Brown,” he rambled. “We fell out—over a hoss I stole from him—in Huntsville. He stole it fuss. Brown’s one of them sneaks—afraid of the open—he steals an’ pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you’ll meet Brown some day—You an’ me are pards now.”
“I’ll remember, if I ever meet him,” said Duane.
That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the bronzed rough face.
“My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?”
Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane watching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed clearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane realized what it meant.
“Pard, you—stuck—to me!” the outlaw whispered.
Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he could not understand.
Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade’s horse, hung the weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight.
CHAPTER IV
Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged the two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and found himself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at his feet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great, wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south.
Duane had not fallen in with any travelers. He had taken the likeliest-looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him he had not the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably the inclosed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw.
No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge! Duane had spent the last two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had ever seen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of his travel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down to the river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood, and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight and a relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find a place to rest, Duane began the descent.
The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. He kept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him. And in a short time he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A stream of clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran into irrigation-ditches. His horses drank thirstily. And he drank with that fullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveler finding sweet water. Then he mounted and rode down the valley wondering what would be his reception.
The valley was much larger than it had appeared from the high elevation. Well watered, green with grass and tree, and farmed evidently by good hands, it gave Duane a considerable surprise. Horses and cattle were everywhere. Every clump of cottonwoods surrounded a small adobe house. Duane saw Mexicans working in the fields and horsemen going to and fro. Presently he passed a house bigger than the others with a porch attached. A woman, young and pretty he thought, watched him from a door. No one else appeared to notice him.
Presently the trail widened into a road, and that into a kind of square lined by a number of adobe and log buildings of rudest structure. Within sight were horses, dogs, a couple of steers, Mexican women with children, and white men, all of whom appeared to be doing nothing. His advent created no interest until he rode up to the white men, who were lolling in the shade of a house. This place evidently was a store and saloon, and from the inside came a lazy hum of voices.
As Duane reined to a halt one of the loungers in the shade rose with a loud exclamation:
“Bust me if thet ain’t Luke’s hoss!”
The others accorded their interest, if not assent, by rising to advance toward Duane.
“How about it, Euchre? Ain’t thet Luke’s bay?” queried the first man.
“Plain as your nose,” replied the fellow called Euchre.
“There ain’t no doubt about thet, then,” laughed another, “fer Bosomer’s nose is shore plain on the landscape.”
These men lined up before Duane, and as he coolly regarded them he thought they could have been recognized anywhere as desperadoes. The man called Bosomer, who had stepped forward, had a forbidding face which showed yellow eyes, an enormous nose, and a skin the color of dust, with a thatch of sandy hair.
“Stranger, who are you an’ where in the hell did you git thet bay hoss?” he demanded. His yellow eyes took in Stevens’s horse, then the weapons hung on the saddle, and finally turned their glinting, hard light upward to Duane.
Duane did not like the tone in which he had been addressed, and he remained silent. At least half his mind seemed busy with curious interest in regard to something that leaped inside him and made his breast feel tight. He recognized it as that strange emotion which had shot through him often of late, and which had decided him to go out to the meeting with Bain. Only now it was different, more powerful.
“Stranger, who are you?” asked another man, somewhat more civilly.
“My name’s Duane,” replied Duane, curtly.
“An’ how’d you come by the hoss?”
Duane answered briefly, and his words were followed by a short silence, during which the men looked at him. Bosomer began to twist the ends of his beard.
“Reckon he’s dead, all right, or nobody’d hev his hoss an’ guns,” presently said Euchre.
“Mister Duane,” began Bosomer, in low, stinging tones, “I happen to be Luke Stevens’s side-pardner.”
Duane looked him over, from dusty, worn-out boots to his slouchy sombrero. That look seemed to inflame Bosomer.
“An’ I want the hoss an’ them guns,” he shouted.
“You or anybody else can have them, for all I care. I just fetched them in. But the pack is mine,” replied Duane. “And say, I befriended your pard. If you can’t use a civil tongue you’d better cinch it.”
“Civil? Haw, haw!” rejoined the outlaw. “I don’t know you. How do we know you didn’t plug Stevens, an’ stole his hoss, an’ jest happened to stumble down here?”
“You’ll have to take my word, that’s all,” replied Duane, sharply.
“I ain’t takin’ your word! Savvy thet? An’ I was Luke’s pard!”
With that Bosomer wheeled and, pushing his companions aside, he stamped into the saloon, where his voice broke out in a roar.
Duane dismounted and threw his bridle.
“Stranger, Bosomer is shore hot-headed,” said the man Euchre. He did not appear unfriendly, nor were the others hostile.
At this juncture several more outlaws crowded out of the door, and the one in the lead was a tall man of stalwart physique. His manner proclaimed him a leader. He had a long face, a flaming red beard, and clear, cold blue eyes that fixed in close scrutiny upon Duane. He was not a Texan; in truth, Duane did not recognize one of these outlaws as native to his state.
“I’m Bland,” said the tall man, authoritatively. “Who’re you and what’re you doing here?”
Duane looked at Bland as he had at the others. This outlaw chief appeared to be reasonable, if he was not courteous. Duane told his story again, this time a little more in detail.
“I believe you,” replied Bland, at once. “Think I know when a fellow is lying.”
“I reckon you’re on the right trail,” put in Euchre. “Thet about Luke wantin’ his boots took off—thet satisfies me. Luke hed a mortal dread of dyin’ with his boots on.”
At this sally the chief and his men laughed.
“You said Duane—Buck Duane?” queried Bland. “Are you a son of that Duane who was a gunfighter some years back?”
“Yes,” replied Duane.
“Never met him, and glad I didn’t,” said Bland, with a grim humor. “So you got in trouble and had to go on the dodge? What kind of trouble?”
“Had a fight.”
“Fight? Do you mean gun-play?” questioned Bland. He seemed eager, curious, speculative.
“Yes. It ended in gun-play, I’m sorry to say,” answered Duane.
“Guess I needn’t ask the son of Duane if he killed his man,” went on Bland, ironically. “Well, I’m sorry you bucked against trouble in my camp. But as it is, I guess you’d be wise to make yourself scarce.”
“Do you mean I’m politely told to move on?” asked Duane, quietly.
“Not exactly that,” said Bland, as if irritated. “If this isn’t a free place there isn’t one on earth. Every man is equal here. Do you want to join my band?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, even if you did I imagine that wouldn’t stop Bosomer. He’s an ugly fellow. He’s one of the few gunmen I’ve met who wants to kill somebody all the time. Most men like that are fourflushes. But Bosomer is all one color, and that’s red. Merely for your own sake I advise you to hit the trail.”
“Thanks. But if that’s all I’ll stay,” returned Duane. Even as he spoke he felt that he did not know himself.
Bosomer appeared at the door, pushing men who tried to detain him, and as he jumped clear of a last reaching hand he u
ttered a snarl like an angry dog. Manifestly the short while he had spent inside the saloon had been devoted to drinking and talking himself into a frenzy. Bland and the other outlaws quickly moved aside, letting Duane stand alone. When Bosomer saw Duane standing motionless and watchful a strange change passed quickly in him. He halted in his tracks, and as he did that the men who had followed him out piled over one another in their hurry to get to one side.
Duane saw all the swift action, felt intuitively the meaning of it, and in Bosomer’s sudden change of front. The outlaw was keen, and he had expected a shrinking, or at least a frightened antagonist. Duane knew he was neither. He felt like iron, and yet thrill after thrill ran through him. It was almost as if this situation had been one long familiar to him. Somehow he understood this yellow-eyed Bosomer. The outlaw had come out to kill him. And now, though somewhat checked by the stand of a stranger, he still meant to kill. Like so many desperadoes of his ilk, he was victim of a passion to kill for the sake of killing. Duane divined that no sudden animosity was driving Bosomer. It was just his chance. In that moment murder would have been joy to him. Very likely he had forgotten his pretext for a quarrel. Very probably his faculties were absorbed in conjecture as to Duane’s possibilities.
But he did not speak a word. He remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes pale and steady, his right hand like a claw.
That instant gave Duane a power to read in his enemy’s eyes the thought that preceded action. But Duane did not want to kill another man. Still he would have to fight, and he decided to cripple Bosomer. When Bosomer’s hand moved Duane’s gun was spouting fire. Two shots only—both from Duane’s gun—and the outlaw fell with his right arm shattered. Bosomer cursed harshly and floundered in the dust, trying to reach the gun with his left hand. His comrades, however, seeing that Duane would not kill unless forced, closed in upon Bosomer and prevented any further madness on his part.
