The Drift Fence

by Zane Grey

  “Air you hurted, Molly? asked Dunn.

  She stared wildly. “Arch!” she cried, in recognition “Is—he daid?”

  “Wal, I reckon, onless he wears a big watch in his breast pocket.”

  Molly got shakily to her feet and ran unevenly to Jim, where she fell, still game, still proof against the collapse that had taken her strength.

  “Cut—this—rope,” she whispered, huskily, plucking at Jim’s bonds.

  Dunn, with a wary glance at the back of the cabin, dropped a knife in front of Molly.

  “Jim—did he—hit you?” she asked, fearfully, as she freed his hands.

  “No. But I sure know what a bullet sounds like. … Let me have the knife. … Molly!”

  “I cain’t heah you,” she said. “His gun deafened me.”

  Jim severed the knotted rope and got up, lifting Molly with him, which action assured her that he was uninjured.

  “Oh—thank heaven!” she cried, sinking against him. “Jim! Jim! I thought—he’d hit you.”

  Jim held her tight, and probably no other moment of his life could ever equal that one. Following it he became aware of Dunn sheathing his gun.

  “Come out heah!” he called, and his voice was piercing enough to penetrate more than a board stall.

  Seth Haverly came out first, livid of face, and Matty followed, visibly shaken, but unafraid.

  “Slinger, he had us buffaloed,” explained Seth.

  “Who else back there?”

  Sam slouched out, then Hart Merriwell, and lastly Fletch.

  “Where’s Boyd?”

  “Jocelyn sent him with a letter to old Jim Traft.”

  “Ahuh.” Then Dunn turned to his sister. “Molly, you was shore fightin’ thet skunk, an’ I needn’t ask if he got the best of you. But Seth, heah, an’ Sam—did they stand around an’ let thet hombre bulldog you?”

  The moment was critical and Molly reacted to it as might have been expected from Slinger Dunn’s sister. If Jim had had the impulse to check her he suppressed it.

  “They shore did,” she cried, lifting her pale face from Jim’s arm. “An’ what is wuss, Arch, they believed him … believed I’d got thick with him an’ come up heah, a willin’ hussy. … I agreed to give in to Jocelyn—if he saved Jim’s life. No use lyin’—I’d have done it. … But I never trusted him. I lay back there in the stall—listenin’ an’ watchin’. An’ pretty soon I knew his game. … Arch, I was ’most crazy. I prayed—an’ I peeped out through a chink between the logs. An’ I saw you comin’ under the pines! … Oh! then I had to brace an’ keep Jocelyn off his guard—till you—could get heah.”

  “Wal, I reckon it’s aboot good fer Jim Traft thet you air Slinger Dunn’s sister,” drawled Dunn.

  “Good and fine and wonderful,” declared Jim, fervently. “I’m thanking God she is Molly Dunn of the Cibeque!”

  “Thet squares you with me, Jim Traft,” replied Slinger, gruffly. “Take her away from the cabin. … An’ wash the blood offen her.”

  Jim was not loath to lead Molly away, half supporting her in his arm. He lifted her across the brook, surprised and pleased to find she was a pretty heavy little chunk. He led her on, across the open grassy flat and up the first gentle slope to a pine tree, where a fragrant brown mat, and shade, invited a stop.

  “This is far enough,” he said, letting her down. “I’ll run back—”

  “Don’t leave me. There’ll be a fight,” she cried, clinging to him.

  “But only to the brook to wet my scarf. … You’re all bloody.”

  “Then hurry.”

  Jim made short work of the trip down to the brook, and while soaking his silken scarf he heard a loud angry protest of Haverly in the cabin, and the cold ring of Slinger’s voice. He ran back to Molly. She was spitting like an angry cat.

  “I bit him, Jim, I bit him! I’d have chewed him to pieces. … But now it’s over I’m sick—sick with the taste an’ smell an’ sight of his blood.”

  And as she spat out she did look sick.

  “Never mind, darling. Your biting saved my life. … My God! how wonderful you were—how I love you!” And he kissed her passionately, stained lips and chin and hands.

  Evidently this treatment effectually checked her nausea.

  “Oh—Jim—somebody’ll see,” she whispered.

  “Who cares?—But let me scrub you good,” laughed Jim, and he did scrub her mouth inside and outside, and nearly washed the skin off her chin, and likewise the little strong brown hands.

  “There goes one. Slinger’s let him off. Look!” said Molly.

  “That’s Matty,” replied Jim, recognizing the tall member of Seth’s outfit. He was in a hurry, and snatching up a saddle and bridle he strode off up to the park, looking back over his shoulder. “He didn’t seem a bad sort of fellow.”

  “I’m glad. Slinger is hell when he’s—like you saw him. … Oh, but wasn’t Hack Jocelyn the dastardliest—”

  “Sweetheart, don’t think of him,” entreated Jim.

  “But he’s daid! An’ Slinger killed him—all on my account.”

  “No, not at all. Some on mine, and some on his own. … Honey, did you really mean you’d accepted me—when you threw it up to Jocelyn—that we were engaged?”

  “Yes, Jim—but, man alive, you cain’t make love to me now! I tell you Slinger will kill Seth Haverly, an’ like as not Sam, too.”

  “I’m afraid, but I hope not,” declared Jim. “All the same, Molly Dunn, while they’re palavering I can make love to you.”

  “Funny tenderfoot from Missourie you are—I guess not,” she declared. “You’re almost another Curly Prentiss.”

  “Thanks. You couldn’t pay me a compliment that’d please me more.”

  “Jim, I’d have liked Curly if he hadn’t the cowboys’ weakness,” said Molly, thoughtfully.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Bein’ too gay with a girl—the very first thing—all same like an Easterner I met once.”

  “Ha! Ha!—Where’d you meet him, Molly?”

  “I reckon it was in Flag. … Oh—Jim—” She was surrendering to his arm, when suddenly she started up. “Look! Another leavin’.”

  “That’s the cook. Fletch, they called him,” said Jim, watching the man, who lost no time in imitating Matty’s example in making tracks from the cabin, burdened by his saddle.

  “Hart Merriwell left, besides Seth an’ Sam. Slinger will let Hart go. Now you watch.”

  Presently Jim espied Merriwell come out, in no great hurry, and instead of striding away he slipped round to the back of the cabin and peered through a chink.

  “Well, there must be something up,” declared Jim, anxiously.

  “Listen! That’s Slinger shoutin’.” rejoined Molly.

  Jim did distinguish Slinger’s voice, with its high ranging note, but only the sound carried so far. What meaning he could attach to the harangue he had to supply himself. But as Slinger kept on it was no great task to imagine the storm of violent backwoods profanity with which he was berating the brothers who had betrayed him.

  “Just like I heahed once at a dance,” said Molly, with a sigh. “There!” She jerked spasmodically at the crack of a gun, and clapping her hands over her ears she sagged against Jim.

  “Gosh!—That didn’t sound like Slinger’s gun!” ejaculated Jim, and all his being seemed suspended upon his hearing. Bang! “That was Slinger’s,” he went on, huskily, tightening an arm around Molly. Shots followed, three or four, so swiftly as to be hardly separated. Then again came the heavy boom and a volley of lighter reports. There was a pause that might have been a suspension of hostilities. Jim dared believe it was over. Then followed loud reports, a heavy one—more of the sharp rifle shots—another heavy, and quickly the boom. Silence! Smoke drifted out of the cabin, showing blue against the green pines. Hart Merriwell, who had evidently run off appeared coming slowly back, halting, waiting, then approaching again. But there were no more shots.

  “All—daid!” wh
ispered Molly, lifting her head. She must have been able to hear the shots even with her ears covered.

  “I—I’m afraid so,” replied Jim, huskily. “I see Merriwell coming back. … There. He’s going in. … Molly, I’ll go, too.”

  “That’s the end—of the Cibeque,” she murmured. “Poor Arch! … He wasn’t all bad.”

  “Stay here, Molly,” admonished Jim. “I’ll come back—if—if—” He squeezed her hand, and getting up he ran down the slope, leaped the brook, and soon reached the cabin. As he peeped round the post, against which he had sat not many minutes past, his hand came in contact with the place splintered by Jocelyn’s bullet.

  The interior of the cabin was still smoky. Jim saw one of the men huddled in a heap. Then on the other side he espied Merriwell kneeling beside Slinger, whom he had propped up.

  “Is he—alive yet?” called Jim, breathlessly, and he ran in.

  “Hullo! Shore, Slinger’s alive, but shot all up,” replied Merriwell. “Help me carry him out of this smoke.”

  They lifted the bleeding, broken body and carried it out to the shady side, where they laid it on a blanket. While Jim lifted Slinger’s head Merriwell placed a saddle under it.

  “Reckon you’ll—cash in, Slinger, ole pard,” he said, gulping. “Anythin’ I can do?”

  “Where’s Molly?” asked Dunn faintly.

  “She’s across the brook. I’ll call her,” replied Jim, and he got up to go round the cabin. Molly was coming. She had seen them carry her brother out. Jim went out to meet her.

  “Molly, he’s alive. He asked for you.” He had to run to keep up to her.

  “Oh, Arch!” burst out Molly, dropping on her knees. “Are you—bad hurt?”

  “Wal, Molly, I ain’t hurt atall—but I reckon—I’m done fer,” he said, feebly.

  “Where there’s life there’s hope,” interposed Jim, as he too knelt.

  “Oh, cain’t we do anythin’?” cried Molly.

  “You don’t happen—to have some—whisky?” replied Slinger.

  “There’s some here,” said Jim, leaping up. “Where did I see it? … Jocelyn had it.” Jim ran to the saddlebags, and procuring the flask he rushed back. Dunn took a stiff drink.

  “Wal, Jim Traft, you’re lucky—thet you’re not layin’ around heah full of bullet holes,” he said, in stronger voice, not devoid of humor.

  “I guess yes,” said Jim, fervently.

  “I was fer killin’ you myself—till Molly made me—a promise.”

  “What promise?”

  “Molly, air you goin’ to keep it?”

  “Yes, Arch,” replied Molly, as she bent over him, her bright tears falling.

  “Good! Reckon thet’ll be aboot all,” said Slinger, with satisfaction.

  “Molly, dear, tell me the promise,” rejoined Jim, earnestly.

  “Jim, he was shore set on killin’ you. I begged him not to. An’ he said he’d let you off—if I—I would make you ask me again—to marry you—an’ take you up. … So I promised.”

  Jim took Dunn’s limp hand. “Slinger, she’d never had to make me. I’d kept asking till doomsday.”

  “Ahuh. Then you’re powerful fond of my kid sister. … Wal, I cain’t thank Gawd fer much—but I do fer thet.”

  “Oh, let’s do somethin’,” burst out Molly, in desperation. “Hart, where’s he shot bad?”

  “Lord! He’s shot bad all over,” declared Merriwell.

  “Jim, I tell you bullet holes are nothin’ to Slinger Dunn. He’s not bleedin’ at the lungs, because he’d be spittin’ blood. This cut on his haid isn’t bad. His left arm is broke. There’s a hole in his right shoulder. … Heah, low down is the bad one. … Oh, my Heavens!—But let’s tie it tight.”

  The practical Molly prompted the stricken men to get busy and do what was possible for the wounded one. Jim believed the gunshot in the abdomen would have killed any ordinary man. It had gone clear through. They padded that and bound it up. He had another dangerous wound in the hip, which, according to Merriwell, like the hole in his abdomen, had been made with a rifle.

  While they washed and dressed his wounds, as best they could do it with limited means, Slinger talked.

  “Sam throwed fust on me, when I was keepin’ two eyes on Seth. An’ he got me thet crack in the belly. It keeled me over, or the fight’d been short an’ sweet. … I nailed Sam. Then Seth showed his true color at last. He dove fer the stall an’ began shootin’ from behind. He had a Colt an’ a forty-four Winchester. An’ he shore pumped lead into me. … I sent a couple through the stall. Hit him, fer he cussed hard. But he come back at me. Then I flopped over along the wall, where he couldn’t see me onless he come out. He’d used up all his shells fer the Colt. Anyway, he didn’t take risk to load, an’ stuck to the rifle. Reckon thet beat him. I got to the corner by the stall—leaned over quick—an’ bored him—when he was tryin’ to shift the rifle round.”

  Beyond a slight huskiness Dunn’s voice did not depart radically from a tone of ordinary conversation. There was no trace of emotion, unless the mere fact of lengthy recital of the fray was one. He had a remarkable vitality. Jim knew that in case of injury, especially from gunshots, the next perilous thing to the wound itself was the shock to the consciousness. This probably had not occurred in Dunn at all.

  “Now, Merriwell, what more is to be done?” queried Jim.

  “I reckon nuthin’, onless he wants us to pray. How about it, Slinger?”

  “Nope,” was the laconic reply. He lay still, with closed eyes, a limp and ghastly sight. Molly sat beside him supporting his head.

  “I heah hosses,” suddenly spoke up Dunn, opening his eyes.

  They all listened, and Jim shook his head.

  “You ain’t close enough to the ground. I shore heah hosses,” added Dunn.

  Merriwell got up to walk out away from the cabin.

  “Bunch of cowboys comin’,” he said, excitedly. “Reckon I’d better make myself scarce.”

  Jim joined him. “No need to run, Merriwell. That’s Curly Prentiss and some of my outfit.”

  “By gum! An’ they’ve ketched Matty an’ Fletch,” ejaculated the other.

  So it appeared to be, and presently Jim made certain of it. Curly rode down the slope, followed by Bud and Lonestar and Jackson Way, who had in tow the late fleeing members of the Cibeque.

  Curly threw his bridle and made one sweep of his long leg and slid to the ground. A blue flash of keen eyes took in the situation.

  “Howdy, boss! Mawnin’, Miss Molly!” he said, and lifted his sombrero from his bright hair. Then he bent his gaze upon the prostrate Dunn.

  “Prentiss, you’re a little late in the day,” said Dunn. “But I’m recommendin’ you let Matty an’ Fletch go. I did. … It was Jocelyn an’ Seth an’ Sam. Take a look in the cabin.”

  Curly did as he was bidden, returning promptly, a queer cold look in his eyes.

  “Wal, Slinger, it shore was a good job. But I’m sorry they got you.”

  “Wal, I ain’t cashed yet, an’ if I do it shore won’t be owin’ to Seth or Jocelyn. Sam’s the one who bored me. I wasn’t lookin’ fer it from him.”

  Bud Chalfack and the cowboys came riding down, to halt before the group.

  “Dog-gone, Jim, if it ain’t fine to see you on yore feet,” said Bud, heartily. “How do, Molly! … Somebody tell me what’s come off.”

  Whereupon Jim briefly related the circumstances leading up to the stop at this cabin, the wrangle over the conditions of the ransom, the blackguard conduct of Jocelyn, and the several fights that succeeded. If Jim emphasized anything it was the wit and courage and ferocity of Molly.

  “Dog-gone me!” burst out Bud, with worshipful eyes on the girl. “Molly, I always knowed you was the sweetest an’ wonderfulest little devil in Arizonie, but now I jest haf to take off my hat to you.”

  And he did it, quite gallantly.

  Curly’s encomium was directed at Jim. “You lucky son-of-a-gun! To come out heah an’ steal her from u
s!”

  Slinger had missed nothing of all this. He seemed not only incredibly tenacious of life, but singularly possessed of receptive faculties.

  “Wal, fellars, she’s Molly Dunn of the Cibeque,” he drawled.

  Molly took exception to compliments on the moment. “You heartless cowpunchers! Heah’s daid men all aboot an’ Slinger dyin’—yet you talk an’ make eyes at me. Jim, you’re just as bad. Curly, haven’t you got some sense?”

  “Molly, I’m shore beggin’ your pardon,” replied Curly, contritely, as he threw off his gloves and knelt by Slinger. “Tell me jest where he’s shot.”

  Molly and Merriwell together gave him the desired information. Curly got up, decisive though grave. “Mebbe he’s a chance. You cain’t kill some fellars. … Jack, ride to Flag an’ fetch back the doctor. He can drive a buckboard clear to Cottonwood. You lead an extra saddle-hoss, an’ then come rustlin’ across country. … Holliday, you an’ Bud go back to camp an’ pack some of our outfit over heah. Fetch the boss’s pack an’ don’t forget everythin’ to make Miss Molly comfortable. … Boss, do you want to hold these Cibeque men heah? I reckon if we let them go they’ll haid Flick off with thet ransom money. An’ we shore don’t want to lose thet.”

  “Hold them, then, till Flick comes back,” replied Jim. “You and I can take turns on guard.”

  “Wal, Traft,” spoke up Matty, “if you’d like to know, we’re so darn glad the way things hev come off thet we won’t need watchin’.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  SLINGER Dunn sank into a pallid insensible state that Jim believed was the coma preceding death. Molly, too, succumbed to a fear that every moment would be his last. But the hours passed; the three prisoners played cards and made no trouble whatever; Curly and Jim erected a tarpaulin shelter over Dunn, and a spruce-bough bed for Molly beside him; they got supper from the coarse stores they found in Haverly’s packs; the setting sun filled the forest with a mellow glory; the heavy buffeting wings of wild turkeys going to roost in the pines broke the silence. And Slinger Dunn still lived.

  Night fell, and the wind moaned the threatening storm. Coyotes ranged the park and yelped a staccato whining protest at the camp fire. Weird flickering shadows played on the cabin and the improvised tent. Molly sat close to her brother, leaning against the wall, silent and watchful. The only way she could ascertain that Dunn still lived was by touch, and when his pulse grew imperceptible and his hands cold she laid her head on his breast to listen to his heart.