Valley of the Vanishing Men

by Brand, Max

  The moon was gone. The sheeted dust made a false twilight as thick as the last hour of dusk, and through it the two men forced their horses.

  Trainor, as he reached the goal, saw the girl trying to make more shelter for a helpless man stretched flat on his back; through the murk, he thought he could make out the face of his brother, and he threw himself hastily from the saddle.

  It was an almost fatal error, as time was to tell, for the horse, wild with fear in the storm, snatched the reins through the fingers of Trainor and suddenly bolted before the wind. Only for an instant was it visible, making gigantic strides as though the wind were buoying it up on wings. Then it was gone.

  Trainor, for the instant, paid little heed to that. He was sprawling flat, helping to make a shelter for his brother. Silver was there, also. On the flat top of the gold rock, he had made Parade lie down, thereby increasing the height of the barrier toward the wind. Under the lee of that shelter the five people huddled.

  Speech was impossible. The wind screamed like a thousand fiends. The heavy body of Parade, even, was shaken and battered by its force. And in the thick murk of the night, Ben Trainor could barely make out what was happening close beside him.

  Clive, happily, was bearing the thing fairly well. That was because Silver took charge and from the first carefully moistened the cloth that covered the face of the sick man. That moisture helped to strain out the incredibly fine sand which was sifting through the clothes of the others. It not only worked in up sleeves and down neckbands, but also it actually blew right through the strong fabric of the cloth! Wherever the air could penetrate, the fine sand could work with it!

  Ben Trainor and Wells and the girl, huddling over Clive, helped make the barrier more solid against the sweep of the wind, but that was all they could do. The fight to keep breathing was enough to tax them. The frightful sense of stifling drove Ben Trainor half mad. He wondered how the girl could endure. And yet she offered no complaint, by any gesture. Neither did Doctor Wells. However, it was Silver who did everything. It was he who busily pushed away the sand that whipped around the rock like water. The moment that it was thrust out, as it threatened to overwhelm the group, the wind caught hold of it and knocked it into a cloud that traveled off with a hissing sound down the wind. It was Silver, too, who continually turned and swabbed out the nostrils of Parade. Sometimes, in a lull of the wind, he reached into the mouth of the stallion and, with a few drops of water on a rag, swabbed out the dust that was clogging the air passages of the nose, making the mouth dry. The same service he performed for Frosty, who lay, as a rule, with his head thrust under the coat of his master.

  The magic hands of Silver were nearly always busy, with the two animals, and with the sick man. And now and then he bowed his head and listened to the heartbeat of Clive Trainor. For it might well be that the suggestion of Christian would come into effect, and that Clive would stifle in the storm.

  One thing was certain — they could not move either with the storm or against it. The weight of the wind was such that even a horse could hardly have stood in it.

  And this continued for hours.

  Doctor Wells had begun to act strangely before the end of the strain. Ben Trainor could see the medical man swaying his head and then his entire body from side to side, as though he were in great distress. But he was not prepared to see Wells suddenly leap to his feet with a gasping cry, that sounded faint and small and far away.

  The wind, as he jumped up, took him with many hands and jerked him away. He rolled helplessly in the sand, and it was Silver who sprang after him — Silver and Frosty!

  Ben Trainor, stunned, had barely begun to rise to give his hand, when already he saw the doctor dragged back by Silver, who leaned with his body almost horizontal, and with Frosty backing up, tugging with all his might at the coat of Wells.

  The doctor was unconscious.

  No doubt he had been gradually stifling for a long time, fighting to keep himself calm while the sand coated the inside of his nose and mouth, even through the doubled folds of his bandanna. The shattered nerves and the alcohol-weakened heart had endured this long simply because the will of the doctor had bravely held on. But at last, in a panic, all had given way together. He had leaped, in the throes of strangulation, to his feet, and had been hurled into the darkness by the stroke of the wind.

  Now, his nose and mouth filled with sand — blind with it, also — he lay like one dead while Silver worked over him. More of the precious water had to be used to swab out the nose passages. Water had to be poured down the throat of the senseless man. It seemed to Ben Trainor that poor Wells was surely dead. And then, by the grace of Silver and good chance, the man began to move. It was merely a movement of the hand, but it announced life.

  And just after that the wind began to fall away.

  Its terrible screaming dropped down the scale several notes at a time. It was possible to uncover the eyes, if they were carefully squinted. And as the wind fell away, the masses of the flying dust diminished. The light of the moon once more was filtering through, and the group could look about into each other’s ghastly faces.

  They were winning. They had two helpless men on their hands, but they were winning — for the moment.

  What would happen when the storm had passed quite on and the men of Christian rode out again? They would find the group huddled up, waiting for destruction.

  It was possible even now to rise and walk against the wind, barely possible. But even if both the helpless men were put on Parade, the other three would have to remain on foot, and they could not travel a mile before the savage horsemen of Christian would bear down upon them.

  They had this moment while the wind screamed less fiercely to make up their minds.

  Wells was badly done in. Silver, taking his heartbeat, shook his head gloomily. The honest doctor had endured, as a matter of fact, too long. He should have asked for help before coming to the verge of prostration. Now there was the very effect of shock which he had noted in Clive Trainor.

  Whatever was done, Wells would have to be considered a helpless weight of flesh.

  As for Clive, he was alive; perhaps it would be better for him directly, but he was very far gone, and as the wind fell, Ben Trainor could hear him muttering rapidly, somewhat vaguely, without meaning. The delirium, it seemed, had commenced again in him, and no wonder!

  The girl?

  As the falling of the wind, and the hurtling mists of dust made it possible for her to uncover her face, it appeared like the faces of the others — black as a Negro’s, because the covering and the heat had produced rivers of sweat that turned into rivers of sticky mud. But she actually seemed less affected by the storm than any of the others. Perhaps that was because she had had the head of Clive Trainor in her lap all through the crisis, and her hands had cherished him, following the precepts that Silver showed her.

  Silver himself? The storm seemed to have passed over him as over a rock. He was busy, now, caring for the stallion, which was snorting the clotted dust out of its flaring nostrils. Parade, no doubt, had saved them more than all else, with the bulwark of his body.

  Then Silver called loudly, through the dying yell of the wind: “Ben, what are you thinking of?”

  Ben Trainor had been thinking, and not in vain.

  “That ravine — you remember Les said that not even a fly could climb out of it?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Then suppose that a man with a rifle and plenty of ammunition lay right in the mouth of the gulch and opened up on anyone who tried to get out? Wouldn’t that plug the valley like a cork in a bottle? Wouldn’t that hold ‘em all there until help comes from Alkali?”

  Before he got an answer, Ben Trainor added: “But we’ll get no help out of that town. I forgot that!”

  “We’ll get plenty of help,” said Silver. “Don’t think that everybody in Alkali is a crook. Not a bit! With Yates and Christian gone, we can get plenty of followers-enough to ring that valley around, I
tell you! Trainor, go back with the others. Parade will carry Wells and Clive. Nell and you can walk. I’ll stay here and bottle up the valley.”

  “No,” said Ben Trainor, though the heart in him shrank as he spoke and saw the danger that he would have to face. “You’ll have to go with them to handle Parade. How could I make him carry double? And there’s no time for you to teach him; Christian’s rats may poke their heads out of the hole any minute now. Besides, it’s Jim Silver that will raise the crowd in town. What could I do? Nothing! But even the crooks will follow Jim Silver! It’s your job to go!”

  He knew that he had spoken the truth and the full truth. Even Silver was silent, though his face worked as he peered through the flying mist of dust toward the mouth of the valley — where his heart was urging him to go. For in there was Christian.

  Ben Trainor gripped the senseless hand of his brother. He patted Wells on the shoulder and drew a feeble groan for an answer.

  The hand of Silver almost crushed Trainor’s, and Silver’s own rifle was passed into his hands. They said nothing. They merely looked at one another.

  Then the girl stood up. The wind staggered her, and she gripped both hands of Ben Trainor, and let him go, head down, blundering, stumbling, toward his post of danger and honor.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  In the Trap

  BEN TRAINOR got there in time. He lay in between two rocks that stood like reefs in the whitening river of sand that flowed through the throat of the ravine. As he stretched out there, he could see the dust haze clearing away and the moonlight beginning to glimmer more and more brightly on the polished walls of Slocum’s Ravine, up which even a fly could not walk. Not very high walls, but high enough, he told himself.

  There was grit between his teeth, grit down his back, crawling grit that irritated his flesh, and grit that half blinded his eyes. But he was blinking them clearer and clearer. And there was plenty of moonlight. There was enough to show him the huddle of shadows at the farther end of the ravine which had sheltered Christian’s party from the sand storm, but had not sheltered it enough. The huddle of shadows was rising from the low rocks that were spilled about the floor of the little valley, and Trainor could see everything. He could see everything except the little cones of security which existed behind the rocks, here and there.

  The moon lay in the west, but before it went down, the sun would be up, to give better shooting light than ever. And at about the same time Jim Silver would come back from Alkali with many men. They would clean up the whole lot of bad men inside. They would sweep up the entire gang, and in that gang was the man most infamous — Barry Christian! When Ben Trainor thought again of the pale, handsome face, the magnificently towering forehead, and that cold smile of Christian, he knew that the man represented all the evil that could be gathered in one human being, and he was glad he was there, closing the mouth of the trap with his rifle. He liked the job. He had no love of bloodshed, but he could shoot into these scoundrels with as free a conscience as ever a hungry man had when he killed for venison.

  The wind was falling rapidly. There was still flying dust in the air, but it diminished constantly and let the strength of the moon come through. And everything was perfect. Ben could see the entire inside of the gulch. All was spread out before him. He had plenty of ammunition, and he had Jim Silver’s own rifle. To be sure, he was no great marksman, but he could not very well miss a target as big as a man at these ranges. So the savage that is locked up in the breast of every man grew great and heated the blood of Ben Trainor.

  Christian’s men were preparing to move. The horses were being mounted. A tall, imposing figure rode first toward the mouth of the valley. That was Doc Yates.

  Trainor glanced once over his shoulder. He could see, dim and small with distance, a crawling cluster of life that moved slowly away toward the Alkali trail.

  Then he looked back toward Yates, and leveled his rifle. It would be easy to pick the man off. He could drill him through the breast, a little to the left of center and half-way down between shoulder and hip. That would get the heart. Or else he could take him through the head. That would be easy, too, and he knew it as he steadied the gun. The fact that it had belonged to Silver made him feel, somehow, that it could not miss. But it was hard to shoot a man from ambush, without warning.

  Instead, he put a bullet a few dangerous inches away from the head of Yates, and saw the fellow duck so violently that he almost fell out of the saddle.

  Yates turned his horse around and fled, flattening himself along the back of the animal. But he could not flee far — there were the walls of that ravine which even a fly could not climb, and they would hold Yates and all of the others, safely.

  Trainor fired again, sending the bullet once more over the heads of the thickest cluster. And as turtles dive off low rocks, scuttling into the water, so those men of Christian dived out of their saddles and took shelter here and there behind the meager stones that dotted the bottom of the ravine.

  A gust of rifle fire came at once. They had located the site of Trainor’s post. Now they pelted and swept it with lead. He heard the brief whining of the bullets. He heard and even felt the shock of the pellets against the stones that shielded him.

  So he lay low, head down, taking it easy. They could shoot like that till doomsday, without being able to budge him or break down his defenses.

  Then he heard the beating of hoofs.

  He ventured a glance and saw three riders sweeping at full gallop toward the mouth of the ravine. The tactics were simple and they might be effective. If Trainor’s rocks were sufficiently blanketed with gunfire, he would not be able to show himself to shoot.

  Even that slight lifting of the head had let him fairly feel the breath of a bullet passing his cheek.

  He got the rifle ready. He would have to take chances — but it would surely be the end for at least one of the three who were charging. He only wished that Yates or Christian were among the trio!

  Up with the rifle — a quick shot at point-blank range just as the three neared the mouth of the gulley, and the central rider toppled and dropped over to the side. His companions on either side pulled up their horses with yells of rage and fear. A shout of dismay came from the remnants of the gang in the rear. They could not maintain such a fire, now. Their own men were a screen, in part, between them and Trainor.

  To right and left the two unharmed riders jerked their horses. The stricken man kept on falling. He hit the ground, and a puff of dust rose from the spot, like an explosion. He trailed, his foot caught for an instant in the stirrup. Then the mustang broke free and raced off into the desert, not three yards from Trainor’s nest in the rocks.

  After that came a fiercely concentrated burst of rifle fire. The air was thick with the wasp noises. It died out, and Trainor heard, close to him and in front, the groaning of a man sick with pain. That was his victim, lying out there beyond the reach of his friends, lost.

  The rifle fire had ended when the voice of Perry shouted, fairly close to the entrance of the gulch:

  “Who’s there? Who’s there? Is it Jim Silver?”

  Trainor laughed silently. If he held his tongue, they could keep on imagining it to be Jim Silver, and that would more effectively bottle up the ravine than any rifle work. They would take no chances in face of the gun of terrible Jim Silver!

  “Listen, Silver!” called Perry. “Let us take Chuck back inside, won’t you? He’s dyin’ out there. It don’t do you no good to leave him there. Will you let us take him back inside?”

  Trainor made no answer.

  And the groaning voice of “Chuck” appealed to him: “Silver, you was always a white man. You never was a low skunk like the rest of us. Leave me have a chance to get a whack at a canteen, will you? Gimme a chance to have one drink, will you, Silver?”

  “All right!” said Trainor. “Come out and take him in. I won’t shoot.”

  “It’s Trainor!” he heard Perry exclaim.

  And then there was an outb
urst of rage and hate from many voices.

  “Come on, Blacky,” urged Perry. “Gimme a hand to get Chuck back inside, will you?”

  “Not me,” shouted Blacky. “I won’t show myself. The kid couldn’t help plugging me if he got the chance.”

  “He won’t double-cross you. He’s a white man,” said Perry. “You come along with me, then, Lem.”

  Two sets of footsteps came toward the rock of Trainor. He did not show himself, for the thing might be a blind — this rescue, this act of humanity only arranged so that cunning marksmen, their rifles on the target, might slip lead into him the instant he lifted up.

  “Let me hear you moving about, boys,” said Trainor. “Don’t try to sneak up on me, is all I advise you.”

  “We won’t try to sneak up,” said Perry. “It’s white of you to let us take poor Chuck in. It’s damn white of you, seeing what we’ve been doing.”

  “I’ll go one bigger step for you, Perry,” said Trainor. “You can walk right past me and keep on walking. You’re free to go, if you’ll drop your guns before you start. You’re not like the rest of this poison.”

  “Thanks,” said Perry. “I’ve throwed in with these hombres, and I guess I’ll stick with them to the finish. You know how it is, Trainor, I made my bed, and I’m goin’ to lie on it. I ain’t goin’ to walk out on them when the pinch comes.”

  Trainor could hear them moving away; he could hear the diminishing groans of the wounded man, cursing those who bore him, damning them for the cruel strength of their hands, which tormented him.

  Then another voice spoke from near the mouth of the ravine, and it was Barry Christian.

  “You hear me, Trainor?” he asked.

  “I hear you, yes.”

  “I want to talk business with you.”

  “You can’t talk to me, Christian.”

  “Every man will listen to business. So will you, Trainor. Listen to me. I’m not talking small stuff. I’m talking big.”