by B. M. Bower
“Number one looks back, but whether he seen number two I couldn’t say; seemed to me like he just glanced back casual and in the wrong direction. Be that is it may, number two edged off a little and rode in behind a bunch uh mesquite—and then I seen that the trail took a turn, right there. So he pulled up and stood still till the other one had ambled past, and then he whirled out into the trail and swung his loop.
“When I’d got the glasses focused on ’em again, he had number one snared, all right, and had took his turns. The hoss he was riding—it was a buckskin—set back and yanked number one end over end out uh the saddle, and number one’s hoss stampeded off through the brush. Number two dug in his spurs and went hell-bent off the trail and across country dragging the other fellow—and him bouncing over the rough spots something horrible.
“I don’t know what got the matter uh me, then; I couldn’t do anything but sit there on my rock and watch through the glasses. Anyway, while they looked close enough to hit with a rock, they was off a mile or more. So while I could see it all I couldn’t do nothing to prevent. I couldn’t even hear number one yell—supposing he done any hollering, which the chances is he did a plenty. It was for all the world like one uh these moving pictures.
“I thought it was going to be a case uh dragging to death, but it wasn’t; it looked to me a heap worse. Number two dragged his man a ways—I reckon till he was plumb helpless—and then he pulled up and rode back to where he laid. The fellow tried to get up, and did get partly on his knees—and number one standing over him, watching.
“What passed I don’t know, not having my hearing magnified like my sight was. I framed it up that number two was getting his past, present and future read out to him—what I’d call a free life reading. The rope was pinning his arms down to his sides, and number two was taking blamed good care there wasn’t any slack, so fast as he tried to get up he was yanked back. From first to last he never had a ghost of a show.
“Then number two reaches back deliberate and draws his gun and commences shooting, and I commences hollering for him to quit it—and me a mile off and can’t do nothing! I tell yuh right now, that was about the worst deal I ever went up against, to set there on that pinnacle and watch murder done in cold blood, and me plumb helpless.
“The first shot wasn’t none fatal, as I could see plainer than was pleasant. Looked to me like he wanted to string out the agony. It was a clear case uh butchery from start to finish; the damnedest, lowest-down act a white man could be guilty of. He empties his six-gun—counting the smoke-puffs—and waits a minute, watching like a cat does a gopher. I was sweating cold, but I kept my eyes glued to them glasses like a man in a nightmare.
“When he makes sure the fellow’s dead, he rides alongside and flips off the rope, with the buckskin snorting and edging off—at the blood-smell, I reckon. While he’s coiling his rope, calm as if he’d just merely roped a yearling, the buckskin gets his head, plants it and turns on the fireworks.
“When that hoss starts in pitching, I come alive and drop the glasses into their case and make a jump for my own hoss. If the Lord lets me come up with that devil, I aim to deal out a case uh justice on my own hook; I was in a right proper humor for doing him like he done the other fellow, and not ask no questions. Looked to me like he had it coming, all right.
“I’d just stuck my toe in the stirrup, when down comes the fog like a wet blanket on everything. I couldn’t see twenty feet—” Andy stopped and reached for a burning twig to relight his cigarette. The Happy Family was breathing hard with the spell of the story.
“Did yuh git him?” Happy Jack asked hoarsely. Andy took a long puff at his cigarette. “Well, I— Holy smoke! what’s the matter with you, Blink?” For Blink was leaning forward, half crouched, like a cat about to pounce, and was glaring fixedly at Andy with lips drawn back in a snarl. The Happy Family looked, then stared.
Blink relaxed, shrugged his shoulders and grinned unmirthfully. He got up, pulled up his chaps with the peculiar, hitching gesture which comes with long practice and grows to be second nature, and stared back defiantly at the wondering faces lighted by the dancing flames. He turned his back coolly upon them and walked away to where his horse stood, took up the reins and stuck his toe in the stirrup, went up and landed in the saddle ready for anything. Then he wheeled the big sorrel so that he faced those at the camp-fire.
“A man’s a damned fool, Andy Green, to see more than is meant for him to see. He’s plumb crazy to go round blatting all he knows. You won’t tell that tale again, mi amigo!”
There was the pop of a pistol, a puff of blue against the gray, and then the fog reached out and gathered Blink and the sorrel to itself. Only the clatter of galloping hoofs came to them from behind the damp curtain. Andy Green was lying on his back in the grass, his cigarette smoking dully in his fingers, a fast widening red streak trailing down from his temple.
The Happy Family rose like a covey of frightened chickens before the echoes were done playing with the gun-bark. On the heels of Blink’s shot came the crack of Happy Jack’s “howitzer” as he fired blindly toward the hoof-beats. There was more shooting while they scurried to where their horses, snorting excitement, danced uneasily at the edge of the bushes. Only one man spoke, and that was Pink, who stopped just as he was about to swing into the saddle.
“Damme for leaving my gun in camp! I’ll stay with Andy. Go on—and if yuh don’t get him, I’ll—” he turned back, cursing hysterically, and knelt beside the long figure in the grass. There was a tumult of sound as the three raced off in pursuit, so close that the flight of the fugitive was still distinct in the fog.
While they raced they cursed the fog that shielded from their vengeance their quarry, and made such riding as theirs a blind gamble with the chances all in favor of broken bones; their only comfort the knowledge that Blink could see no better than could they. They did not talk, just at first. They did not even wonder if Andy was dead. Every nerve, every muscle and every thought was concentrated upon the pursuit of Blink. It was the instant rising to meet an occasion undreamed of in advance, to do the only thing possible without loss of a second in parley. Truly, it were ill for Blink to fall into the hands of those three in that mood.
They rode with quirt and spur, guided only by the muffled pluckety-pluck, pluckety-pluck of Blink’s horse fleeing always just before. Whenever the hoof-beats seemed a bit closer, Happy Jack would lift his long-barreled .45 and send a shot at random toward the sound. Or Weary or Slim would take a chance with their shorter guns. But never once did they pull rein for steep or gulley, and never once did the hoof-beats fail to come back to them from out the fog.
The chase had led afar and the pace was telling on their mounts, which breathed asthmatically. Slim, best he could do, was falling behind. Weary’s horse stumbled and went to his knees, so that Happy Jack forged ahead just when the wind, puffing up from the open, blew aside the gray fog-wall. It was not a minute, nor half that; but it was long enough for Happy Jack to see, clear and close, Blink pausing irresolutely upon the edge of a deep, brush-filled gulley. Happy Jack gave a hoarse croak of triumph and fired, just as the fog-curtain swayed back maddeningly. Happy Jack nearly wept with pure rage. Weary and Slim came up, and together they galloped to the place, riding by instinct of direction, for there was no longer any sound to guide.
Ten minutes they spent searching the gulley’s edge. Then they saw dimly, twenty feet below, a huddled object half-hidden in the brush. They climbed down none too warily, though they knew well what might be lying, venomous as a coiled rattler, in wait for them below. Slipping and sliding in the fog-dampened grass, they reached the spot, to find the big sorrel crumpled there, dead. They searched anxiously and futilely for more, but Blink was not there, nor was there anything to show that he had ever been there. Then not fear, perhaps, but caution, came to Happy Jack.
“Aw, say! he’s got away on us—the skunk! He’s down there in the brush, somewheres, waiting for somebody to go in and drag him out by t
he ear. I betche he’s laying low, right now, waiting for a chance to pot-shot us. We better git back out uh this.” He edged away, his eyes on the thicket just below. To ride in there was impossible, even to the Happy Family in whole or in part. To go in afoot was not at all to the liking of Happy Jack.
Slim gave a comprehensive, round-eyed stare at the unpromising surroundings, and followed Happy Jack. “By golly, that’s right. Yuh don’t git me into no hole like that,” he assented.
Weary, foolhardy to the last, stayed longest; but even Weary could not but admit that the case was hopeless. The brush was thick and filled the gully, probably from end to end. Riding through it was impossible, and hunting it through on foot would be nothing but suicide, with a man like Blink hidden away in its depths. They climbed back to the rim, remounted and rode, as straight as might be, for the camp-fire and what lay beside, with Pink on guard.
It was near noon when, through the lightening fog, they reached the place and discovered that Andy, though unconscious, was not dead. They found, upon examination of his hurt, that the bullet had ploughed along the side of his head above his ear; but just how serious it might be they did not know. Pink, having a fresh horse and aching for action, mounted and rode in much haste to camp, that the bed-wagon might be brought out to take Andy in to the ranch and the ministrations of the Little Doctor. Also, he must notify the crew and get them out searching for Blink.
All that night and the next day the cowboys rode, and the next. They raked the foothills, gulley by gulley, their purpose grim. It would probably be a case of shoot-on-sight with them, and nothing saved Blink save the all-important fact that never once did any man of the Flying U gain sight of him. He had vanished completely after that fleeting glimpse Happy Jack had gained, and in the end the Flying U was compelled to own defeat.
Upon one point they congratulated themselves: Andy, bandaged as he was, had escaped with a furrow ploughed through the scalp, though it was not the fault of Blink that he was alive and able to discuss the affair with the others—more exactly, to answer the questions they fired at him.
“Didn’t you recognize him as being the murderer?” Weary asked him curiously.
Andy moved uneasily on his bed. “No, I didn’t. By gracious, you must think I’m a plumb fool!”
“Well, yuh sure hit the mark, whether yuh meant to or not,” Pink asserted. “He was the jasper, all right. Look how he was glaring at yuh while you were telling about it. He knew he was the party, and having a guilty conscience, he naturally supposed yuh recognized him from the start.”
“Well, I didn’t,” snapped Andy ungraciously, and they put it down to the peevishness of invalidism and overlooked the tone.
“Chip has given his description in to the sheriff,” soothed Weary, “and if he gets off he’s sure a good one. And I heard that the sheriff wired down to the San Simon country and told ’em their man was up here. Mama! What bad breaks a man will make when he’s on the dodge! If Blink had kept his face closed and acted normal, nobody would have got next. Andy didn’t know he was the fellow that done it. But it sure was queer, the way the play come up. Wasn’t it, Andy?”
Andy merely grunted. He did not like to dwell upon the subject, and he showed it plainly.
“By golly! he must sure have had it in for that fellow,” mused Slim ponderously, “to kill him the way Andy says he did. By golly, yuh can’t wonder his eyes stuck out when he heard Andy telling us all about it!”
“I betche he lays for Andy yet, and gits him,” predicted Happy Jack felicitously. “He won’t rest whilst an eye-witness is running around loose. I betche he’s cached in the hills right now, watching his chance.”
“Oh, go to hell, the whole lot of yuh!” flared Andy, rising to an elbow. “What the dickens are yuh roosting around here for? Why don’t yuh go on out to camp where yuh belong? You’re a nice bunch to set around comforting the sick! Vamos, darn yuh!”
Whereupon they took the hint and departed, assuring Andy, by way of farewell, that he was an unappreciative cuss and didn’t deserve any sympathy or sick-calls. They also condoled openly with Pink because he had been detailed as nurse, and advised him to sit right down on Andy if he got too sassy and haughty over being shot up by a real outlaw. They said that any fool could build himself a bunch of trouble with a homicidal lunatic like Blink, and it wasn’t anything to get vain over.
Pink slammed the door upon their jibes and offered Andy a cigarette he had just rolled; not that Andy was too sick to roll his own, but because Pink was notably soft-hearted toward a sick man and was prone to indulge himself in trifling attentions.
“Yuh don’t want to mind that bunch,” he placated. “They mean all right, but they just can’t help joshing a man to death.”
Andy accepted also a light for the cigarette, and smoked moodily. “It ain’t their joshing,” he explained after a minute “It’s puzzling over what I can’t understand that gets on my nerves. I can’t see through the thing, Pink, no way I look at it.”
“Looks plain enough to me,” Pink answered. “Uh course, it’s funny Blink should be the man, and be setting there listening—”
“Yes, but darn it all, Pink, there’s a funnier side to it than that, and it’s near driving me crazy trying to figure it out. Yuh needn’t tell anybody, Pink, but it’s like this: I was just merely and simply romancing when I told that there blood-curdling tale! I never was south uh the Wyoming line except when I was riding in a circus and toured through, and that’s the truth. I never was down in the San Simon basin. I never set on no pinnacle with no field glasses—” Andy stopped short his labored confession to gaze, with deep disgust, upon Pink’s convulsed figure. “Well,” he snapped, settling back on the pillow, “laugh, darn yuh! and show your ignorance! By gracious, I wish I could see the joke!” He reached up gingerly and readjusted the bandage on his head, eyed Pink sourly a moment, and with a grunt eloquent of the mood he was in turned his face to the wall.
MISS MARTIN’S MISSION
When Andy Green, fresh-combed and shining with soap and towel polish, walked into the dining-room of the Dry Lake Hotel, he felt not the slightest premonition of what was about to befall. His chief sensation was the hunger which comes of early rising and of many hours spent in the open, and beyond that he was hoping that the Chinaman cook had made some meat-pie, like he had the week before. His eyes, searching unobtrusively the long table bearing the unmistakable signs of many other hungry men gone before—for Andy was late—failed to warn him. He pulled out his chair and sat down, still looking for meat-pie.
“Good afternoon!” cried an eager, feminine voice just across the table.
Andy started guiltily. He had been dimly aware that some one was sitting there, but, being occupied with other things, had not given a thought to the sitter, or a glance. Now he did both while he said good afternoon with perfunctory politeness.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it? so invigorating, like rare, old wine!”
Andy assented somewhat dubiously; it had never just struck him that way; he thought fleetingly that perhaps it was because he had never come across any rare, old wine. He ventured another glance. She was not young, and she wore glasses, behind which twinkled very bright eyes of a shade of brown. She had unpleasantly regular hair waves on her temples, and underneath the waves showed streaks of gray. Also, she wore a black silk waist, and somebody’s picture made into a brooch at her throat. Further, Andy dared not observe. It was enough for one glance. He looked again for the much-desired meat-pie.
The strange lady ingratiatingly passed him the bread. “You’re a cowboy, aren’t you?” was the disconcerting question that accompanied the bread.
“Well, I—er—I punch cows,” he admitted guardedly, his gaze elsewhere than on her face.
“I knew you were a cowboy, the moment you entered the door! I could tell by the tan and the straight, elastic walk, and the silk handkerchief knotted around your throat in that picturesque fashion. (Oh, I’m older than you, and dare speak as I thi
nk!) I’ve read a great deal about cowboys, and I do admire you all as a type of free, great-hearted, noble manhood!”
Andy looked exactly as if someone had caught him at something exceedingly foolish. He tried to sugar his coffee calmly, and so sent it sloshing all over the saucer.
“Do you live near here?” she asked next, beaming upon him in the orthodox, motherly fashion.
“Yes, ma’am, not very near,” he was betrayed into saying—and she might make what she could of it. He had not said “ma’am” before since he had gone to school.
“Oh, I’ve heard how you Western folks measure distances,” she teased. “About how many miles?”
“About twenty.”
“I suppose that is not far, to you knights of the plains. At home it would be called a dreadfully long journey. Why, I have known numbers of old men and women who have never been so far from their own doors in their lives! What would you think, I wonder, of their little forty acre farms?”
Andy had been brought to his sixteenth tumultuous birthday on a half-acre in the edge of a good-sized town, but he did not say so. He shook his head vaguely and said he didn’t know. Andy Green, however, was not famous for clinging ever to the truth.
“You out here in this great, wide, free land, with the free winds ever blowing and the clouds—”
“Will you pass the butter, please?” Andy hated to interrupt, but he was hungry.
The strange lady passed the butter and sent with it a smile. “I have read and heard so much about this wild, free life, and my heart has gone out to the noble fellows living their lonely life with their cattle and their faithful dogs, lying beside their camp-fires at night while the stars stood guard—”
Andy forgot his personal embarrassment and began to perk up his ears. This was growing interesting.
