by Max Brand
There was not even the minor consolation of the vengeance the law might take afterward. Granted that some fugitive might escape, still there was very small chance that the officers of the law could get up to this far-off retreat among the snows for several weeks. The late fall of snow would render the roads impassable. And when the sheriff came, there would be a well-bolstered tale, no doubt, of a murderous attack on the part of the Loring men, a justified counterattack—and what would the newly made law courts of the region do with the case? No more than blacken the name of the Montagues, already sufficiently besmudged.
At this point in his reflections, he heard the old man murmur, “What the dickens business is that?”
Montague, he found, was staring at the same window from which the snow had fallen away, and now the Lamb could make out a sinuous shadow swaying away into the darkness, and back again into the faint lamplight.
As for the Lamb, he understood, or thought he understood, in one leap of the heart. He stooped and swept up the rag rug that was nearest to him upon the floor, and leaped at the patriarch. Montague turned with a cry of alarm forming on his lips, but it was instantly strangled under the impact, and the jerking of the rug that was about his head.
Once the old fellow was under his fingers, the Lamb was half of a mind to contract his grip and extinguish that wicked life at once. But he delayed. The moral principles of the Lamb were undoubtedly most sketchy, but fair play was vastly important among them.
Swiftly, securely he went about the gagging and the binding of the veteran. He left him swathed with cords, and gagged almost to suffocation, then he turned to the window and pressed it up. The noose end of a rope instantly blew in against his face.
He leaned out and called softly, guardedly, cupping his hands at his lips.
And presently, from above, faint as a whisper, the voice of Louise Patten floated down to him, “I’ve made it fast here about the chimney. It’ll hold your weight.”
He jerked down heavily upon it, but it gave not a whit under the strain, and the Lamb delayed no longer, but wriggled out over the sill. He saw beneath him the sheer side of the house, the packed snow along the banks of the creek, and the dark, swift gleam of the waters of the creek itself. Then he swung himself out, and began to climb hand over hand.
Chapter Forty-Two
Cowering against the piled snow upon the roof, the Lamb found Louise near the chimney, cold and trembling, so that he had to help her up with one hand, and she went with a tottering step toward the skylight through which she had climbed up from the attic. From Jack McGuire, she had gathered enough to guess at what had happened—from him, and from Milligan on guard in the hallway. And the scheme of rescue had been thrust into her mind by the manner in which both man and dog had been saved that same day.
There was no need to tell her that, after this, the house of the Montagues would be no place for her. Jimmy had asserted his authority, even if the exercise of it were to cost the life of his grandfather, and that old man no longer would be an ameliorating influence in the house. All would be in the iron hand of Jimmy, when he returned from the expedition against Loring, and Louise Patten would be in his control among the rest.
Neither she nor the Lamb said a word of this, but when they had stolen down the attic stairs, they paused only a moment in the hallway, hearing the voice of Milligan calling, just around the corner, “Tap and be hanged! Tap and beat as loud as you like. I’ll never open to you, you sneak! Shut up and keep still, or I’ll smash a bullet through the door in a minute!”
Apparently old Monty had wriggled across the floor in spite of his bonds, and was now beating against the door—with his feet, perhaps—in a vain effort to make the guard open to him. It might be that he would prevail by very persistence, after a time. But, before that, the Lamb and the girl must be away.
They slipped, softly as shadows, down the stairs, and into the open again. The air of the house was like the air of a prison left behind them, and the moonlit open received them with all the purity and sweetness of the great pines.
There was no soul left on guard at the stable. Throughout the place, there was only Milligan to guard Montague in that otherwise empty room. The rest had marched to strike their blow.
The black stallion was saddled by the Lamb no quicker than the girl equipped her own slender mustang, and rode it prancing out into the snow. Then down the driveway they fled together, the bridge sounding hollow beneath the driving hoofs of their horses. Out onto the open road they scampered, giving one another one tight-lipped glance of relief. They had saved themselves, but there were other lives about which to think.
Before them, the snow had been cut and trampled by a solid cavalcade that went on for a full quarter of a mile before it turned down into the throat of the valley. Here, the Lamb checked his horse.
“I hoped that they’d take the way across country,” he said. “But I couldn’t hardly pray for it. They wouldn’t take the open road. They were afraid that a watch was kept on it. Now, I think I can trail ’em across the valleys. But if your horse can run at all, you’re sure to get to the house before Jimmy Montague and his murderers. Round up Loring, and tell him I sent you. Rouse him up, and tell him to stretch his men across the head of the two cañons. Up one of ’em, Montague is marching … into a pocket, fate willing … and all that Loring has gotta do is to close the head of the sack. He’ll have ’em.”
“And who will close the bottom of the sack?” she asked him. “Do you mean?”
“Ask no questions … ride fast. There’s a dozen lives of honest men in this.” And he swung the big black about and put it down the slope so fast that the stallion slid, at last, on braced legs, knocking up a great shower of dry snow dust.
She did not attempt to follow for a further question, but the Lamb saw her horse scooting rapidly along the roadway. She had taken up her part of the burden. Now if only he could perform the thing that he saw before him. He would need speed, for one thing, and speed the stallion gave to him in abundance. Across the rolling hills, and through the crooked, snakelike ravines, the big horse carried him at breakneck force, his weight driving his hoofs through the loose snow, and biting down securely into the earth beneath.
All the while, the Lamb scanned the rims of the hills and every skyline before him. At last he saw what he wanted—a long line of dark forms mounting over a hummock, and dropping out of sight into the darkness beyond. They were filing into the ravine between the Black Hills and the Capper Hills, and the heart of the Lamb rose as he saw it, for the line began broad, with widespread arms, but, presently contracting, it pointed up toward the house in a narrow funnel, hardly forty feet across. There, fate willing, he would seal one end of this trap—and seal it most securely.
He looked to the magazine of his Winchester. It was filled. Two revolvers weighed down his saddle holsters, another sagged from his hip. It would go hard if he could not hold the enemy with this force of repeating weapons.
In the meantime, he needed only most careful secrecy, and a prayer that Louise should have arrived in time at the house of Loring. That she was sure to do, unless she had a fall on the way.
Jimmy took his men on slowly, with the deliberateness of one who knows that victory is in his hand and does not wish to bungle the last effort. The riders wound up the constantly narrow defile, while the Lamb drifted easily behind them, working from the cover of jutting rocks to the cover of the big brush. So he saw before him the lofty sides of the ravine in its narrowest portion—hollowed sides, eaten away by the rip of the currents that flowed here for a few days, in the middle spring when the melting of the snow was at its height.
The Lamb went on, his teeth on edge, like the teeth of a carnivorous animal, and a cold and steady fury in his heart. There was much to avenge—but in one great blow all might be done. He dismounted. The stallion followed him like a dog—a cunning dog that saw that its master was stalking, and, ther
efore, went in the same manner, choosing its footsteps with care, stretching forth a lowered head as though anxious to avoid being seen. To the Lamb, looking back at the sleek, glimmering sides of the great horse, this seemed a terrible and a wonderful thing. Dumb beasts themselves seemed to wish the downfall of the Montagues.
He came into the narrow bottom of the gorge. The shadow from the eastern wall fell steeply across him. At that moment, rifles exploded at the head of the cañon, and long, wild yells rang back to the Lamb, mingled with the clangor and the echoing of the rifles. So that in an instant the gorge was filled as if with the sound of a great battle. He threw himself forward into a nest of rocks placed there by fate for him, in the very center of the ravine, with a fine, open stretch before him.
He heard the wild yelling swing about and pour back at him. Then from the tangle of rocks and brush a dozen riders broke out in one knotted clump, the leaders of the Montague retreat. Here was his time, at last.
With set teeth and grinning lips he placed his shots. Men were what he wanted, but the fall of men might not stop this rush. He picked the horses, and shot straight into the compacted center of the group. In the center, a whole cluster fell, one dropped by a bullet, others pitching over them. Next the flight split, and, with terrible yells of rage and despair, the Montagues whirled to right and to left and streamed back toward cover. On the ground lay three horses. Two men got onto hands and knees and began to drag themselves away.
The Lamb let them go. Even now he wanted battle, not brute slaughter. But the heart of the Lamb was filled with a savage joy, and a sad joy, also, for it seemed to him as though the gentle, cheerful shade of Will Dunstan went beside him, rifle in hand, and nodded approval of this work that was going ahead.
From the far end of the valley the rifle firing had ended, and a triumphant shout came down to him, continued long as one man took up the yell where the other left off. Prolonged, and magnified, and jumbled by the repeated echoes along the walls of the ravine, it came to the Lamb like the screaming of many eagles, and like eagles he wished them to come upon their prey in the throat of the hollow ravine and sweep it before them. Then he heard a great voice shouting from the scattered men of the Montagues, and he knew the hoarse, deep bellow of big Jimmy, calling to his followers that they were shrinking away from one man. And what one man could hold so many?
The Lamb smiled, still with set teeth, and as a cat peers around one side of the bush and then the other, with the feeding bird scant feet away, so the Lamb peered out from his nest of rocks, at one side of the valley and then at the other, reloading the partially emptied magazine of his rifle as he did so. For, though there was no cover for the others, at least they might work their way along the walls of the valley, where the shadow of the moon lay most deep, most like midnight—doubly deep, compared with the silver flaming edges of the cañon.
A steady blast of rifle fire began. It swept about the rocks. Sure hands held those rifles at pointblank range, and though they had no target, they were firing rapidly, putting their bullets blindly through the crevices among the rocks, in the hope of striking their man. The Lamb was showered with rock fragments, and with stinging splinters. He crushed his hat, and held it before his face, working still from side to side, like a snake, and so keeping his steady watch.
And presently, to the right, he saw a drift among the shadows, close at the edge of the cliff. Shadows cannot flow like water. He stared more intently, and saw that men were working along, on foot, trusting to the blast of the rifle fire to cover their retreat. Aye, and to the left were others.
He could recognize the brain of Jimmy, working behind this touch of battle tactics. He took steady aim to the right, gathered a dim form in the middle of his sights—and fired.
The yell of the stricken man leaped in his brain like the leap of a blindingly bright flame. He turned to the left. The shadows were scuttling back, close to the ground, but again he fired, and a gasping cry answered him. He saw a man fall; he saw the companions gather him up and half carry and half drag him back to shelter. At that, he held his fire. For he respected that touch of virtue among thieves.
The torrent of rifle bullets no longer pattered and rushed about his nest of rocks. Silence all at once covered the little ravine. There were no voices from the refugees; there were no shouts of triumph from the besieged. And one picture stood out in the darkness of the Lamb’s mind, and that was the boiling wrath of Jimmy Montague, as he saw his strength and his fame so bottled, so helplessly stopped and netted.
The suspense grew, like an increasing strain on a rope that will not hold a sail long against the pressure of the wind. Then, from the right-hand upper rim of the ravine, a rifle cracked, a sound strangely far off and small, for it was not caught up by the loud echoes of the ravine. But, small though the sound was, it brought a sudden shout of consternation from the herded Montagues, gathered somewhere among the rocks. He heard them scattering, the brush snapping and crackling under their feet.
From the left-hand wall, another rifle spoke. And then the Lamb understood. With a few men, Loring was choking the upper end of the ravine. With the rest, he was lining the wall to torment the refugees with a plunging fire. No doubt he had sent one or two more far down the ravine wall to some point where they could lower themselves to the bottom, and so join the Lamb at his vital work of holding the horde.
He heard the big voice of Jimmy booming again, and he could distinguish the words.
“He’s only human! We can rush him! Suppose he gets a couple of us. Most likely to get me. I’m bigger than the rest of you. But if a couple go down, the rest will surely get him and crush in his skull. He’s only human, you know!”
The Lamb laughed, loud and shrill, and then he sent his voice pealing, “I’m not human, Jimmy. I’m the Lamb! Come and get me, son! Come an’ get me, Jimmy boy! I’m waiting here all alone for you!”
An incredulous bellow of rage came from the young Montague, and from the rest, a groan. And the Lamb knew that nothing could persuade them, now, to trust themselves under the fire of his gun.
Another voice spoke, and this was from the left-hand wall. He recognized the great tones of Muldoon.
“Are ye there, kid?”
“Aye!” called the Lamb.
“Bless ye forever and ever. Can ye hold ’em?”
“I can. Hold ’em tighter than beer in a bottle. I got ’em corked, Muldoon!”
“Kid, it’s a glorious night. Oh, we got ’em sewed up … if you can hold out. Not long now. Shorty and another is comin’ up to brace you. And we’ll help hold from the rim, here! Hey, you Montagues! Will you talk sense, now?”
“Damn you,” bellowed big Jimmy, “and all your kind, and every dirty hound that runs behind Loring! We’ll have no talk with you!”
But another voice called, farther off, and thin and sharp with fear, “Hello! Is it you, Muldoon?”
“Aye, it’s me. Who’s there?”
“McGuire! Jack McGuire!”
“Ye spalpeen! What’ll you have, McGuire?”
“A chance for living, Muldoon!”
“March up to the far end of the ravine. Drop your guns, and walk out with your hands in the air. Mind you! There’s boys there waitin’ to take you!”
“Waitin’ to fill me full of lead.”
“Ye deserve it, ye dog! But Loring is a gentleman. He’ll let you come safe through. There’ll be no murder in this night’s work, if ye’ll come in free, with your hands up. He wants no blood.”
“You fools!” roared Jimmy Montague. “What else would he want out of us, except our blood?”
“Is that you, Jimmy? You murderin’ skunk!” cried Muldoon. “You are named out by Loring. We want your scalp. But the rest of ’em can come out quiet and safe. And quiet and safe they’ll have to lie for a few days. Because over on your range there’s dogies, and cows, and calves that Loring can use. They’s nothing wron
g with ’em except the brands that is wrote upon them! That’s what we want. Boys, see sense, or we’ll pot you like sick sheep before the mornin’ ever gets pink!”
Big Jimmy kept shouting.
The Lamb could hear him arguing, almost pleading, but there was no response. And presently there was a shout from the upper end of the ravine. The Lamb needed no interpreter. The first of the pocketed rascals had come out in submission—probably Jack McGuire in person. No doubt the others would come soon, and Jimmy must have known, and known, too, that he was fighting now for his life, in the last hole.
For suddenly out of the dark of the brush, with a spitting of fire from the rocks on which they trod, came two horses, running side-by-side—one a tall gray, and the other a common mustang, with two empty saddles, and yet running as in harness, side-by-side. It was an old Indian trick. In between those running horses was the man who controlled them, of course, and that man must be Jimmy.
It was at the gray that the Lamb carefully aimed, hating his work. And the fine animal stumbled to its knees with a cough.
A shadow climbed the side of the mustang and dropped away to the farther side of it. They were very near now. Again and again the Lamb fired, but the mustang rushed on, and straight at the nest of rocks, then reared and pitched heavily forward on the verge of them. Out of the heart of the sky, as it seemed to the Lamb upon his knees, the great form of Jimmy Montague spread-eagled down at him, with the spurt of a Colt darting from his hand in a tongue of flame.
Like a cat, the Lamb sprang to the side, but a great, massive arm caught him and hurled him down. They spun over and over, their guns knocked from their hands by the impetus of their fall, and then, by an odd chance, they staggered to their feet and faced each other, empty-handed, panting.
