He threw it viciously from him after removing it, so that it flew over the top of the partition and swished sinuously upon the floor of the kitchen.
For Barney Owen had not done a good job in hanging Dale. For when Barney had run across the kitchen with the rope, to tie it to the fastenings of the door, it had slacked a little, enough to permit Dale’s toes to touch the floor of the pantry.
Feeling the slack, Dale had taken advantage of it, throwing his head forward a little, to keep the rope taut while Owen fastened it. All that had been involuntary with Dale.
For, at that time Dale had had no thought of trying to fool Owen—he had merely taken what chance had given him. And when the first shock of the thing was over he had begun his attempts to reach the top of the partition in order to slacken the rope enough to get it over his head—for at that time he did not know that already the rope was slack enough.
It was not until after his hands had been smashed and he had dropped to the floor again, that he realized that he might have thrown the rope off at once.
Then it was too late for him to do anything, for he felt Owen above him, at the top of the partition, and he thought Owen had a gun. So he feigned strangulation, and Owen had been deceived.
And when Owen had entered the pantry, Dale still continued to feign strangulation, letting his body sag, and causing a real pressure on his neck. He dared not open his eyes to see if Owen had a weapon, for then the little man, having a gun, would have quickly finished the work that, seemingly, the rope had begun.
Dale might have drawn his own gun, taking a long chance of hitting Owen, but he was at a great disadvantage because of the condition of his hands, and he decided not to.
Dale heard Owen and Mary go out; he heard the clatter of hoofs as they rode away. Then he emerged from the pantry, and through a window watched the two as they rode down the slope of the basin.
Then Dale yielded to the bitter disappointment that oppressed him, and cursed profanely, going from room to room and vengefully kicking things out of his way while bandaging his smashed hands.
In the parlor he overturned the lounge and almost kicked it to pieces searching for the money Mary had told him was concealed there.
“The damned hussy!” he raged, when he realized that the money was not in the lounge.
He went out, got on his horse, and rode across the level back of the house, and up the slope leading to the mesa, where he had seen Sanderson riding earlier in the day.
For an hour he rode, warily, for he did not want to come upon Sanderson unawares—if his men had not intercepted his enemy; and then reaching the edge of a section of hilly country, he halted and sat motionless in the saddle.
For, from some distance ahead of him he heard the reports of firearms, and over him, at the sound, swept a curious reluctance to go any farther in that direction.
For it seemed to him there was something forbidding in the sound; it was as though the sounds carried to him on the slight breeze were burdened with an evil portent; that they carried a threat and a warning.
He sat long there, undecided, vacillating. Then he shuddered, wheeled his horse, and sent him scampering over the back trail.
He rode to the Bar D. His men—the regular punchers—were working far down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.
He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing distance of the firing seized him again—grew more depressing, and he sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing over him.
He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.
“That’s what a man gets for givin’ up to a damn fool notion like that,” he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to the shooting. “Once a man lets on he’s afraid, the thing keeps a workin’ on him till he’s certain sure he’s a coward. Them boys didn’t need me, anyway—they’ll get Sanderson.”
So he justified his lack of courage, and spent some hours reading. But at last the strain grew too great, and as the dusk came on he began to have thoughts of Dal Colton. Ben Nyland must have reached home by this time. Had Colton succeeded?
He thought of riding to Nyland’s ranch, but he gave up that idea when he reasoned that perhaps Colton had failed, and in that case Nyland wouldn’t be the most gentle person in the world to face on his own property.
If Colton had succeeded he would find him, in Okar. So he mounted his horse and rode to Okar.
The town seemed to be deserted when he dismounted in front of the City Hotel. He did not go inside the building, merely looking in through one of the windows, and seeing a few men in there, playing cards in a listless manner. He did not see Colton.
He looked into several other windows. Colton was nowhere to be seen. In several places Dale inquired about him. No one had seen Colton that day.
No one said anything to Dale about what had happened. Perhaps they thought he knew. At any rate, Dale heard no word of what had transpired during his absence. Men spoke to him, or nodded—and looked away, to look at him when his back was turned.
All this had its effect on Dale. He noted the restraint, he felt the atmosphere of strangeness. But he blamed it all on the queer premonition that had taken possession of his senses. It was not Okar that looked strange, nor the men, it was himself.
He went to the bank building and entered the rear door, clumping heavily up the stairs, for he felt a heavy depression. When he opened the door at the top of the stairs night had come. A kerosene lamp on a table in the room blinded him for an instant, and he stood, blinking at it.
When his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw Peggy Nyland sitting up in bed, looking at him.
She did not say anything, but continued to look at him. There was wonder in her eyes, and Dale saw it. It was wonder over Dale’s visit—over his coming to Okar. Ben must have missed him, for Dale was alive! Dale could not have heard what had happened.
“You’re better, eh?” said Dale.
She merely nodded her reply, and watched Dale as he crossed the room.
Reaching a door that led into another room, Dale turned.
“Where’s Maison?”
Peggy pointed at the door on whose threshold Dale stood.
Dale entered. What he saw in the room caused him to come out again, his face ashen.
“What’s happened?” he demanded hoarsely, stepping to the side of the bed and looking down at Peggy.
Peggy told him. The man’s face grew gray with the great fear that clutched him, and he stepped back; then came forward again, looking keenly at the girl as though he doubted her.
“Nyland killed him—choked him to death?” he said.
Peggy nodded silently. The cringing fear showing in the man’s eyes appalled her. She hated him, and he had done this thing to her, but she did not want the stigma of another killing on her brother’s name.
“Look here, Dale!” she said. “You’d better get out of here—and out of the country! Okar is all stirred up over what you have done. Sheriff Warde was in Okar and had a talk with Judge Graney. Warde knows who killed those men at Devil’s Hole, and he is going to hang them. You are one of them; but you won’t hang if Ben catches you. And he is looking for you! You’d better go—and go fast!”
For an instant Dale stood, looking at Peggy, searching her face and probing her eyes for signs that she was lying to him. He saw no such signs. Turning swiftly, he ran down the stairs, out into the street, and mounting, with his horse already running, he fled toward the basin and the Bar D.
He had yielded entirely to the presentiment of evil that had tortured him all day.
All his schemes and plots for the stealing of the Double A and Nyland’s ranch were forgotten in the frenzy to escape that had taken possession of him, and he spurred his horse to its best efforts as he ran—away from Okar; as he fled from the vengeance of tho
se forces which his evilness had aroused.
CHAPTER XXXII
WINNING A FIGHT
After Sanderson shot the big man who had tried to rush him, there was a silence in the defile. Those of Dale’s men who had positions of security held them, not exposing themselves to the deadly fire of Sanderson and the others.
For two hours Sanderson clung to his precarious position in the fissure, until his muscles ached with the strain and his eyes blurred because of the constant vigil. But he grimly held the place, knowing that upon him depended in a large measure the safety of the men on the opposite side of the defile.
The third hour was beginning when Sanderson saw a puff of smoke burst from behind a rock held by one of his men; he heard the crash of a pistol, and saw one of Dale’s men flop into view from behind a rock near him.
Sanderson’s smile was a tribute to the vigilance of his men. Evidently the Dale man, fearing Sanderson’s inaction might mean that he was seeking a new position from where he could pick off more of his enemies, had shifted his own position so no part of his body was exposed to Sanderson.
He had wriggled around too far, and the shot from Sanderson’s man had been the result.
The man was not dead; Sanderson could see him writhing. He was badly wounded, too, and Sanderson did not shoot, though he could have finished him.
But the incident drew Sanderson’s attention to the possibilities of a new position. He had thought at first that he had climbed as high in the fissure as he dared without exposing himself to the fire of the Dale men; but examining the place again he saw that he might, with exceeding caution, take another position about twenty feet farther on.
He decided to try. Letting himself down until his feet struck a flat rock projection, he rested. Then, the weariness dispersed, he began to climb, shoving his rifle between his body and the cartridge belt around his waist.
It took him half an hour to reach the point he had decided upon, and by that time the sun had gone far down into the hazy western distance, and a glow—saffron and rose and violet—like a gauze curtain slowly descending—warned him that twilight was not far away.
Sanderson determined to finish the battle before the darkness could come to increase the hazard, and when he reached the spot in the fissure he hurriedly took note of the strategical points of the position.
There was not much concealment for his body. He was compelled to lie flat on his stomach to be certain that no portion of his body was exposed; and he found a place in a little depression at the edge of the fissure that seemed suitable. Then he raised his head above the little ridge that concealed him from his enemies.
He saw them all—every man of them. Some of them were crouching; some were lying prone—apparently resting; still others were sitting, their backs against their protection—waiting.
Sanderson took his rifle by the barrel and with the stock forced a channel through some rotted rock on the top of the little ridge that afforded him concealment. When he had dug the channel deeply enough—so that he could aim the weapon without exposing his head—he stuck the rifle barrel into the channel and shouted to the Dale men:
“This game is played out, boys! I’m behind you. You can’t hide any longer. I give you fair warning that if you don’t come out within a minute, throwin’ your guns away an’ holdin’ up your hands, I’ll pick you off, one by one! That goes!”
There was sincerity in Sanderson’s voice, but the men doubted. Sanderson saw them look around, but it was plain to him that they could not tell from which direction his voice came.
“Bluffin’!” scoffed a man who was in plain view of Sanderson; the very man, indeed, upon whom Sanderson had his rifle trained.
“Bluffin’, eh?” replied Sanderson grimly. “I’ve got a bead on you. At the end of one minute—if you don’t toss your guns away and step out, holdin’ up your hands, I’ll bore you—plenty!”
Half a minute passed and the man did not move. He was crouching, and his gaze swept the edge of the fissure from which Sanderson’s voice seemed to come. His face was white, his eyes wide with the fear of death.
Just when it seemed that Sanderson must shoot to make his statement and threat convincing, the man shouted:
“This game’s too certain—for me, I’m through!”
He threw his weapons away, so that they went bounding and clattering to the foot of the slope. Then he again faced the fissure, shouting:
“I know I’ve caved, an’ you know I’ve caved. But what about them guys on the other side, there? They’ll be blowin’ me apart if I go to showin’ myself.”
Sanderson called to Williams and the others, telling them the men were going to surrender, and warning them to look out for treachery.
“If one of them tries any monkey-shines, nail him!” he ordered. “There’s eleven of them that ain’t been touched—an’ some more that ain’t as active as they might be. But they can bend a gun handy enough. Don’t take any chances!”
Sanderson ordered the man to step out. He did so, gingerly, as though he expected to be shot. When he was in plain view of Sanderson’s men, Sanderson ordered him to descend the slope and stand beside a huge rock ledge. He watched while the man descended; then he called to the others:
“Step up an’ take your medicine! One at a time! Guns first. Williams!” he called. “You get their guns as fast as they come down. I’ll see that none of them plug you while you’re doin’ it!”
There was no hitch in the surrender; and no attempt to shoot Williams. One by one the men dropped their weapons down the slope.
When all the men had reached the bottom of the defile Sanderson climbed down and asked the first man who had surrendered where they had left their horses. The animals were brought, and the men forced to mount them. Then, the Dale men riding ahead, Sanderson and the others behind, they began the return trip.
When they reached the open country above the defile, Sanderson rode close to Williams.
“There’s enough of you to take care of this gang,” he said, indicating the prisoners; “I’m goin’ to hit the breeze to the Double A an’ see what’s happened there!”
“Sure!” agreed Williams. “Beat it!”
When Streak got the word he leaped forward at a pace that gave Williams an idea of how he had gained his name. He flashed by the head of the moving columns and vanished into the growing darkness, running with long, swift, sure leaps that took him over the ground like a feather before a hurricane.
But fast as he went, he did not travel too rapidly for Sanderson. For in Sanderson’s heart also lurked a premonition of evil. But he did not fear it; it grimmed his lips, it made his eyes blaze with a wanton, savage fire; it filled his heart with a bitter passion to slay the man who had stayed behind at the Double A ranchhouse.
And he urged Streak to additional effort, heading him recklessly through sections of country where a stumble meant disaster, lifting him on the levels, and riding all the time with only one thought in mind—speed, speed, speed.
CHAPTER XXXIII
A MAN LEAVES OKAR
Riding the hard trail through the basin, from its neck at Okar to the broad, upward slope that led to the Double A ranchhouse, came another man, who also was sacrificing everything to speed. His horse was fresh, and he spared it not at all as he swept in long, smooth, swift undulations over the floor of the basin.
Ben Nyland’s lips were as straight and hard as were those of the other man who was racing toward the Double A from another direction; his face was as grim, and his thoughts were as bitter and savage.
When he reached the bottom of the long, gentle slope that stretched to the Double A ranchhouse he did not spare his horse. The terrible spurs sank in again and again, stirring the animal to a frenzy of effort, and he rushed up the slope as though it were a level, snorting with pain and fury, but holding the pace his rider demanded of him.
And when he reached the corral fence near the Double A ranchhouse, and his rider dismounted and ran forward, the horse heaved a
sigh of relief and stood, bracing his legs to keep from falling, his breath coming in terrific heaves.
An instant after his arrival Ben Nyland was in side the Double A ranchhouse, pistol in hand. He tore through the rooms in the darkness, stumbling over the furniture, knocking it hither and there as it interfered with his progress.
He found no one. Accidentally colliding with the table in the kitchen, he searched its top and discovered thereon a kerosene lamp. Lighting it with fingers that trembled, he looked around him.
There were signs of the confusion that had reigned during the day. He saw on the floor the rope that had encircled Dale’s neck—one end of it was tied to the fastenings of the kitchen door.
The tied rope was a mystery to Nyland, but it suggested hanging to his thoughts, already lurid, and he leaped for the pantry. There he grimly viewed the wreck and turned away, muttering.
“He’s been here an’ gone,” he said, meaning Dale; “them’s his marks—ruin.”
Blowing out the light he went to the front door, paused in it and then went out upon the porch, from where he could look northeastward at the edge of the mesa surmounting the big slope that merged into the floor of the basin.
Faintly outlined against the luminous dark blue of the sky, he caught the leaping silhouette of a horse and rider. He grinned coldly, and stepped back into the shadow of the doorway.
“That’s him, damn him!” he said. “He’s comin’ back!”
He had not long to wait. He saw the leaping silhouette disappear, seeming to sink into the earth, but he knew that horse and rider were descending the slope; that it would not be long before they would thunder up to the ranchhouse—and he gripped the butt of his gun until his fingers ached.
He saw a blot appear from the dark shadows of the slope and come rushing toward him. He could hear the heave and sob of the horse’s breath as it ran, and in another instant the animal came to a sliding halt near the edge of the porch, the rider threw himself out of the saddle and ran forward.
At the first step taken by the man after he reached the porch edge, he was halted by Nyland’s sharp:
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 20
