Mr. Braden, some twenty-four hours after his interview with Judge Riley, made the shocking discovery that in all probability he had laid down a pat hand before a bluff. But though the discovery brought him to the verge of an apoplectic fit, it came too late. He had signed a statement covering the facts. Under the circumstances it did not matter who had the deeds. If Garland, then his scheme of blackmail would fall down. Mr. Braden found ample to occupy him in the crisis which the loss of the coal property made in his affairs.
The fact was that he was very hard up. The supposed ownership of a promising coal mine had bolstered up his shaky credit. But as soon as it was known that this was no longer his, one or two creditors would come down on him and start an avalanche. And then, though Riley had promised not to prosecute, it was inevitable that some suspicion of crookedness would attach to him. Under the circumstances he was forced to the conclusion that he had played out his string. He had been wise to secure cash. He could raise a few thousand more, and as soon as he did so he would pull out. At once he began to convert his few remaining assets, and as he turned them into cash he put it in his office safe, in a private compartment. The total formed a nice nest egg for the future. His creditors in the course of time might get judgment and be hanged to them, but the cash would be where it could not be tied up by injunctions.
Nevertheless, the strain told on his nerves. For some time he had slept badly, and now he slept scarcely at all. Whisky, which formerly had had a soporific effect, now failed, though he doubled the quantity.
And so, as Angus rode home through the darkness, Mr. Braden lay awake. His mind, after the habit of the insomniac, searched for, dug up and turned over the most unpleasant things within his recollection, driving sleep farther and farther away. It dwelt upon mistakes, failures, humiliations of years before. The wind roared and rain splashed upon the windows; and Mr. Braden, cursed by a thousand plaguing little devils of memory, cursed the night and the darkness and longed for day.
At last he dozed, but was awakened by a muffled, jarring reverberation which shook his bed slightly. It was much like localized thunder. He lay listening, and his ear caught a sound below.
Somebody was in his office. In an instant he was out of bed. He reflected that the boss of a local logging camp who had a payroll to meet the next day, had deposited a considerable amount of cash in his safe. No doubt that was what the robbers were after. But they would not overlook his own cash, too. He could not obtain help until too late. He must stop them single-handed, if at all.
His knees shaking slightly, Mr. Braden padded softly across the room to a wardrobe from which he took an old hammer ten-gauge shotgun, found a box of antique shells, and filled the chambers. Then he stole cautiously down stairs.
The door of his office was closed. He turned the knob and gently opened the door a crack. In the darkness the rays of a flashlight flickered on his open safe. Figures were vaguely outlined. He could not tell how many there were. Obviously, the thing to do was to cover them with the shotgun, but light was necessary, for otherwise they might attack him in the dark. His office was wired, and just beside the door was a switch. He put the gun to his shoulder, holding it with one hand while he felt for the switch. He found it, turned it, and the office sprang into light.
Three men were beside the safe. One held a flash light, another the mouth of a gunny sack to which the third was transferring the safe's contents.
"Hands up!" Mr. Braden commanded in a voice which shook badly.
The three men sprang erect. Mr. Braden recognized Gavin, Gerald and Larry French. They had made no attempt to conceal their faces. They blinked, frowning in the sudden light.
"You infernal scoundrels!" cried Mr. Braden. "Put up your hands! Put them up I tell you. If you make a move I'll shoot."
Mr. Braden's mistake was in reiteration. Etiquette and common sense alike demand that instant obedience to a gun be enforced by the gun itself. In this case the muzzle of the gun wavered and wobbled badly.
"Put that gas-pipe down!" Gavin said contemptuously.
"Put up your hands!" Mr. Braden repeated. "I'll shoot, I tell you. I will! I—"
Quite by accident, in response to unintentional pressure of an unsteady finger, the ten-gauge roared and the shot charge, almost solid at that short range, passing between Gavin and Gerald struck and spattered against the steel wall of the safe. Instantly, Gerald jerked a six-shooter from its holster and fired and fired twice.
Mr. Braden's face assumed an expression of dumb wonder. The shotgun sagged, exploded again, and the charge ripped the floor. He sank downward, pitched forward, and lay still.
"Hell's fire!" cried Gavin. "What did you do that for?"
"What for?" Gerald returned. "Because I don't want to be shot, myself."
"He didn't mean to shoot. He wouldn't have shot again."
"Then he was damned careless," Gerald replied. "One barrel of a shotgun is plenty for me. It was coming to him."
But in a rolling explosion of oaths Gavin cursed his brother for a fool. He had spilt the beans. There would be a devil of a row. They would have to make a get-away.
"What for—if he can't talk?" Gerald asked.
But at that moment Larry uttered an exclamation. He pointed to a window. Against the pane below the drawn blind was a face white in the reflected light. Almost instantly it vanished. Outside they heard running feet.
"How about a get-away now?" Gavin demanded. "He's gone to get help. I know him. He's a clerk in Park's law office."
"I guess that settles it," Gerald concurred coolly. Swiftly he scooped the remaining currency into the sack. "Well," he added, "we've got something to make a get-away on."
"Come on, come on," young Larry urged.
"Keep cool," said Gerald.
"If you'd kept cool," the younger man retorted, "we could have bluffed Braden."
But none of them voiced a regret for Braden himself. His death, if he was dead, was to be deplored merely as it might affect them. Gavin turned the huddled figure over and swore afresh.
"You're too smooth with a gun, Jerry. He isn't dead yet, but I guess he's got his. Now we have to beat it."
They emerged on the streets and ran for their horses, tethered on the outskirts of town, mounted and pounded off on the trail toward the ranch. They rode fast, but without forcing their horses, for later they would need all that was in the animals.
The ranch was dark as they rode up to it. They loosened cinches, removed bridles and gave the horses feed. Entering the house they began to throw an outfit together.
Gavin, mounting the stairs, knocked at his sister's door.
"I want to talk to you, Kit."
"In the morning."
"No, now."
"Come in, then."
She sat up in bed as he struck a match and lit the lamp. As he turned to her the big man's cold, blue eyes softened a shade in expression. He sat on the side of the bed and put his arm around her.
"Kittens, old girl, I've only got minutes. Jerry, Larry and I have got to pull out." He told her why, bluntly, feeling her body tense and stiffen. "So that was how it was," he concluded. "And now here's what we're going to do: We're going to break north through the hills and work up into the Cache River Valley. Then we'll go east or west, whichever looks best. We may split up, or not. Here's some money—no, no, this is all right. Braden never saw this. It's mine. Don't give any of it to Blake. And here's what you do: This place is sunk with a mortgage, so sell your own horses and quit it. Let the tail go with the hide. Get out of here, and wherever you go subscribe for thePacific Spokesman. Read the 'lost' column every day, and when you see an ad. for a lost horse with our brand, answer it. I'll be doing that advertising. I guess that's all. I'm sorry, Kit, but it's the best I can do for you now."
"Yes, it's the best," she admitted. "Don't worry about me. I was going to leave here anyway. I'm going to do something, I don't know just what. But ever since father died I've known I couldn't go on as we've been going. You've made an awful mess of things—you boys. I've seen you going down hill—from bad to worse—losing your self-respect and that of others, falling lower and lower, till it has come to—this.
"And I've gone downhill myself. I've lived on money, knowing how it was obtained, and saying nothing. I'm not preaching. I'm not finding fault. But I'm through. And I'm through with you boys unless you change. Of the whole lot, you're the only one I care anything about. I don't know if you care anything about me, but if you do you're the only one who does. You've always been fair and decent to me, anyway, I—I'd loved you—if you'd let me."
"Damn it, Kit," her brother replied, "why didn't you say something like that before? I've been fond of you ever since you were a baby, but you never let me see you thought anything more of me than the other boys—and that was mighty little. Well—what you say is true. I'm a rotten bad lot, but all the same I'm just about as sick of the show as you are. And I'll tell you this much: If I can get clear now I'll make a fresh start—I've been thinking of the Argentine—and if you'll go with me, I'd like it."
"I'll go," she promised. "But suppose you don't get clear?"
The big man shrugged his shoulders. "Then I lose out. I'm not going to rot in the pen. You can say a little prayer if you feel like it."
She stared at him, somber-eyed. "I suppose that's the best way, after all."
"The only way. And now I must rustle an outfit."
"I'll be down in a minute," she said.
She came down to the apparent confusion of their preparations. Each had drawn on his personal outfit. Gerald and Larry nodded to her. She said little, made no reproaches, helping them silently, swiftly. Suddenly Larry paused, throwing up his head, lifting his hand. Upon the sudden silence burst the sound of swift hoofs. The brothers looked at each other.
"Go upstairs, Kit," said Gavin, "and stay there."
But in a moment it was evident that there was but one horse. The door was tried, shaken. A furious oath came from outside.
"It's just Blake," said Larry, and unfastened the door.
Blake stared at his brothers, at their weapons, at the outfit piled in the room.
"What's this?" he asked.
"You may as well know," said Gerald and told him. "And you keep your mouth shut," he concluded.
Blake laughed with a certain relief. "I've got to make a get-away myself. I'm going with you. I shot up Angus Mackay."
"You shot Angus!" Kathleen cried. Her face went white, and she clutched the back of a chair. "Do you mean that he is dead?"
"No," Blake replied. He had learned that much from Garland, who had decided that it would be safer for him to part company and had done so. "He'll get over it, I guess."
"What started it?" Larry asked.
"He came for me and I downed him," Blake replied sullenly. "Never mind what started it."
"You're lying!" Kathleen told him fiercely. "I know you, Blake. You'd never have faced him if he had had a gun. You shot him in the back, or unarmed."
But Gavin interposed.
"If you're coming with us, get a move on. Rustle your own outfit."
They gave Blake scant time. Immediately Larry began to pack two ponies. If necessary these could be abandoned, but meanwhile they would save the saddle horses. In a few minutes they were packed. All but Gavin mounted. In the hall he took Kathleen in his great arms and kissed her.
"Good-by, Kit. No telling how this will come out. Remember what I told you."
"I'll remember," she said. "Good-by, Gan—and good luck."
He released her and swung into the saddle. In a moment they had vanished in the darkness, heading north for the pass which led into the wilderness of the hills—outlaws.
Kathleen returned to her room and dressed herself fully. It was only a matter of time until pursuit would be organized, would arrive, and she would be questioned. She would tell nothing. Her brothers should have their fighting chance.
Already her mind, recovering from the shock of the unexpected, was busy with the future. A sister of outlaws! Well, she would go away, adopt some other name, and wait till she heard from Gavin.
With a swift pang of pain she thought of Angus Mackay. How badly was he hurt? With daylight she would see, she would offer to do what she could. Of course Faith and Jean would shrink from Blake's sister. She could not help that. She would take her medicine. There would be much bitter medicine to take.
She went downstairs and began to put away things that her brothers had at first selected and then discarded. It would not be long, now, till something happened. She picked up a coat of Larry's, turned with it in her hand, and saw Angus Mackay.
She had heard no sound. Yet he stood in the doorway. His head was bandaged. A six-shooter in his hand advertised his purpose.
"Angus!" she cried. He raised his hand in a warning gesture.
"Don't make a noise! I didn't expect to see you. I'm sorry. I'll go away."
"You are looking for Blake!"
He nodded silently.
"He isn't here, Angus. He has gone. I want to know what happened."
"It will not be pleasant for you to hear."
"I must know."
As he told her, her face grew white with anger.
"I knew he was a brute—a cur!" she said. "But this is too much."
"Yes, it is too much," he agreed gravely. "I am sorry, because he is your brother, but it has come to a finish between Blake and me."
"I understand," she said with equal gravity. "I do not feel that he is my brother. But they have all gone together, and I may as well tell you why."
He listened, frowning. He did not care about Braden, to whom he attributed the attempt of Blake and Garland to recover Faith's deeds. But if Blake had gone with the other boys it meant that they would all stand together. It was feud, then, at last, unavoidable. But his purpose was unchanged.
"They don't know," Kathleen said, "that Blake laid hands on Faith. If they had known, they would not help him. They are bad enough but at least they are men."
He nodded silently. There was no doubt of that. Kathleen raised her head, listening. He became aware of a distant sound.
"That is—the law," she said. "Perhaps you would rather not be seen here—with me."
"I am glad to be here. I will see them. You shouldn't be alone. If you will go to Faith in the morning, and say that I asked you to stay with her—"
"No, no!" she cried. "It is kind of you. You are a good man, Angus. But I can't do that."
"You would be welcome."
"Still I cannot do it."
But the hoof-beats swelled in volume and clattered to a halt in front of the house. Angus went to the front door and opened it. He found himself confronted by a long, lean, grizzled gentleman who held a gun of orthodox proportions in readiness for action. But as he recognized Angus he lowered it with a grunt of surprise.
"Didn't expect to seeyou! Any of the French boys in the house?"
"They've pulled out. Their sister is alone."
The grizzled gentleman grunted again. His name was Bush, and he was the sheriff's deputy. As the sheriff was old and carried much weight for age, the rough jobs fell to Jake Bush, who did them well. He possessed much experience, a craw full of sand, and a thorough understanding of a gun. Behind him, with horses, Angus saw men he knew—Bustede, Drury, Fanning, McClintock—all men of the hills and of their hands.
"Yeh, I figgered them boys would pull out ahead of me," Bush admitted placidly. "And of course they'll p'int out north for the hills, where they ain't no wires. They know the country darn well, too. So I called in at your ranch and rousted out Dave. He's a wise old ram in them hills. Your brother wanted to come, and he bein' a useful kid I swore him in, too. I wanted you, but when I found out where you was I sent Dave and the kid after you, and come right along here. But I had a hunch it'd be too late. Still, it's a s'prise to see you."
"And you want to know why I'm here?"
"Well—yes. It might have some bearin' on the case."
Angus told him why, and Bush's eyebrows drew together.
"Now I'm free to say that for a low-down skunk this here Blake French is some pumpkins. I sure thought he was with his brothers, but this gives him a alibi, I s'pose. And I s'pose, also, you're out to git him. Is that right?"
"That's right."
"I don't say he don't need killin'," said the deputy. "But the darn law—nowadays—sorter discourages these here private executions. And I'm an officer of the law."
"You and the law, Jake," Angus said deliberately, "can both go to hell!"
"Now don't be so darn hair-trigger!" the deputy protested. "Here's the proposition: You've give me information which justifies me in arrestin' him for murderous assault on your wife, and shootin' you with intent to kill. His brothers is wanted for robbery and murder, and they're all stringin' their chips together. I figger they'll resist arrest, and I don't believe in allowin' my officers to be shot up. So if you was sworn in, and was to kill Blake resistin' arrest, it would be all reg'lar. Savvy?"
"But suppose he doesn't resist arrest?"
"Never cross a bridge till you come to it," said Bush wisely. "You got to come along with us to find him, anyhow. So I'll swear you in and we'll hope for the best."
Bush's questioning of Kathleen was perfunctory. He grinned at her refusal to give information. "I wouldn't think much of you if you did," he admitted, and went on a tour of investigation, from which he drew some very accurate deductions.
Turkey and Rennie arrived, and for the first time Angus heard of Braden's dying declaration that Gavin French was responsible for the killing of Adam Mackay. But beyond the bare statement there were no details. Braden's end had come before he had been able to amplify it.
"Do you suppose it's so?" Turkey queried. "Or was he just trying to hang something on Gavin?"
Angus did not know. There were times, in the years, when he had been puzzled by Gavin's peculiar regard for him. There had always been something in the big man's eyes which he could not read, something veiled, inscrutable. He alone of the brothers had been reluctant to take up their father's quarrel with Angus. This might be the reason.
"If he killed father," said Turkey grimly, "he's got it coming to him. You take Blake, and I'll take him."
"There is nothing to go on but what Braden said," Angus pointed out. But he thought of his father's dying words. His father had not wished to lay a feud upon him. It fitted.
At dawn, acting on Bush's theory, they headed north for the pass. When they struck it there were fresh footprints, many of them, heading into the hills.
"That's them," said Bush. "Hey, Dave?"
"Sure," said Rennie. "It ain't Injuns. These horses is shod."
A mountain pass is not a road. It merely represents the only practicable way of winning through the jumbled world of hills. Railway construction in the mountains follows the pass, but persons who admire scenery from vestibuled coaches know nothing of the old pass of the pack-trail, the binding brush, the fallen timber, the slides, the swift creeks, the gulches, the precipices to which the trail must cling.
The trail itself—the original trail—is invariably the line of least resistance. It proceeds on the theory that it is easier to go around than through or over. If traveling on the other side of a creek is easier it crosses. When conditions are reversed, it comes back. It wanders with apparent aimlessness, but eventually gets there, at the cost of time, but without much work. To natural obstacles the wild animals and the equally wild men who first trod the passes opposed patience and time, of which they had great store. Later the pioneer brought the ax. He slashed out the brush, so that he and his might get by without trouble; but he followed the windings of the trail.
The pass upon which the pursuit entered was a good trail. It led gradually and almost imperceptibly upward, following the general course of a creek. The hills sloped back on either hand. Into them led wide draws, timbered, little valleys in themselves. But this pass was merely a vestibule. It reached the summit of the first range of hills, and there was a way down the other side. The trail had been cut out. But beyond were hundreds of square miles of mountains in which what few trails there were had never known an ax.
In the afternoon they reached the summit of the first divide. It was comparatively low, and timbered. There was a lake, scarcely more than a pond. There the fugitives had halted.
Rennie and Bush nosed among the signs like old hounds, not looking for anything in particular, but because they could not help it.
"I sh'd say they got two pack ponies," Bush decided. "There's the four French boys, and maybe Garland."
"Garland ain't with 'em," Rennie returned with conviction. "He's too darn wise. He knows Angus would go after Blake, or if he didn't me or Turkey would. So he'd quit Blake right away and pull out by himself. I'd bet money on it."
"Not with me," Bush grinned. "I guess you're right."
They were standing by the little lake, and Rennie pointed to a moccasin track that lay in the soft ground. The foot that made it was shapely, rather small, and straight along the inner line. The toes were spread widely, naturally.
"That's funny," said Rennie.
"Why?" Bush asked. "It's some Injun. He jumped from there onto that log. I s'pose he wanted water without wettin' his feet."
"What's an Injun doin' here?"
"What's an Injun doin' any place?" Bush countered with the scorn of the old-timer. "S'pose you loosen up some. You know as much about Injuns as I do."
"Well, we ain't met this Injun," said Rennie, "so he's travelin' the same way we are. Maybe he's just one of a bunch that's in here huntin'. But I was tellin' you about how old Paul Sam come to Angus' wife's place last night. He was lookin' for Blake. 'Course you heard what was said about Blake and his granddaughter. I just wondered."
Bush removed his hat and scratched his head.
"By gosh, I wonder!" he observed. "He's mighty old, but it might be. He ain't no fish-eatin' flat-face Siwash. He's a horse Injun—one of the old stock. But he is darn old."
"He thought a heap of the girl," said Rennie. "He sent her to school. He was goin' to make her all same white girl."
"Uh-huh!" Bush growled. "A lot of darn fools think they can do tricks like that. But she's a job for the Almighty. Well, if this is the old buck, he couldn't go on a better last war-trail, and I wish him a heap of luck. Now let's get goin'."
Night found them at the foot of the range they had crossed. They were now in the valley of the Klimminchuck, a fast stream of the proportions of a river, fed by tributary creeks. Across it rose mountains, range on range, nameless, cut by valleys, pockets, basins and creeks. Their area resembled a tumbled sea. It was a mountain wilderness, little known, unmapped, much as it came from the hands of the Creator.
And yet in this wilderness there were trails. Up tributary creeks hunters had made them for short distances, but they soon petered out. Beyond, into the heart of the hills, were other faintly marked routes, scarcely trails but ways of traverse, by which at various and widely separated times man had penetrated into these solitudes and even crossed them entirely.
All the men knew something of this mountain area, but Rennie's knowledge was the most extensive. His was the restlessness, the desire to see something of what lay beyond, of the pioneer. He had made long incursions, alone. Bush leaned on this knowledge. Around the fire that night, pipes alight, they held council.
"They've turned up river," said Bush. "If they keep on for the head waters they get into mighty bad country, hey, Dave?"
"Mighty bad," Rennie agreed. "They couldn't get no place."
"And they ain't outfitted to winter. Do they know she's bad up there?"
"Sure they know. Anyhow, Gavin does. My tumtum is they'll ford above here and try for a clean get-away, maybe up Copper Creek, right across the mountains."
"Can they make it?"
"They might. Depends on what they know of the country, and what luck they have."
"With horses?"
"Well, they might."
"How far have you ever gone yourself?"
"I been up to where the Copper heads and over the divide and on a piece."
"Good travelin'?"
"No, darn mean."
"Trail?"
"Only a liar would call it a trail. Still, you can get along if you're careful."
"Could they have gone farther?"
"Sure."
"Did you ever hear of anybody gettin' plum' through, say to Cache River, that way?"
"I've heard of it—yes. Old Pete Jodoin claimed he made her. And one time I run onto an old Stoney buck and he told me how, long ago, his people used to come down huntin' onto this here Klimmin, but they don't do it no more."
"Pete Jodoin was an old liar," said Bush, "and so's any Stoney, on gen'ral principles. But it's funny the places you can go if you know how. Think these French boys would know enough to make a trip like that?"
"Gavin knows a lot about these hills," Rennie replied. "He's hunted in 'em a lot by himself. He can pack near as much as a pony, and it's darn hard to say where he went and didn't go."
"Well," said Bush, "I only hope we don't lose their trail."
So far the trail had been plain, the hoof marks on it visible. But on bad ground this would not be the case. There would be no trail, in the sense of a path, and the trail in the sense of hoof-marks might disappear entirely. Therefore it was important to ascertain if they could the line of flight, so that if signs temporarily ceased there might be a possibility of finding them again further on.
But in the morning the trail of the fugitives led straight to the ford, crossed it and held up the farther side. They came to the mouth of Copper Creek, a delta with much gravel wash, but the trail of the fugitives, in place of turning the Copper, led straight on up the valley trail. A couple of miles on, just after crossing a patch of rocky ground, Turkey who was in the lead pulled up and dismounted.
"What's the matter, kid?" Bush asked.
"Matter!" Turkey exclaimed. "Why there isn't a shod horse in this bunch of tracks we're following."
Investigation showed that Turkey was right. They had been riding on the tracks of unshod horses, presumably of an Indian hunting party. And as they had trampled on these with their own shod horses it was going to be hard to ascertain just how far they had gone on this false trail. But Rennie had his own idea of a short cut.
"They made the side jump somewheres on these here rocks," he said. "They figgered we'd go hellin' along on the tracks of them barefoots. Now this bad ground is the end of that there shoulder you see, and she runs back and dips down on the other side to the Copper."
"Sounds reas'nable," Bush admitted, "Then we go back to the Copper."
The two were standing together apart from the others.
"Look over there," said Rennie, "and line up this rock with that lone cottonwood. What do you see?"
Bush looked along the line indicated. "By gosh," he ejaculated, "that cottonwood'sblazed!"
"Blazed both sides," Rennie informed him. "I been there. And further on there's another tree blazed. Fresh."
"Lord—ee!" said Bush. "Them French boys wouldn't do that. You think it's the old buck?"
Rennie nodded. "He's wiser 'n we are; also closer to 'em. He's playin' a lone hand, so he has to wait his chance at Blake. He figgers Angus will be after Blake, and as he may run into bad luck himself he wants to make sure somebody lands him. He don't know why the other boys are there, but he knows there must be some good reason, because they're in a hurry and tryin' to hide their trail. So on gen'ral principles he blazes that cottonwood where he strikes their tracks where they've turned off, and keeps goin'."
"Uh-huh!" Bush agreed. "I guess we better not tell them Mackay boys about the Injun. They'd be for crowdin' things, and likely mess 'em up. They don't want nobody to get ahead of 'em. I wish I hadn't told 'em what old Braden said. But it seemed right they should know."
"So it is right," said Rennie. "Adam Mackay hadn't no gun. She was murder. Only thing, I don't savvy it bein' Gavin French. Givin' the devil his due, he's allman. And Braden was such a darn liar. Well, there's many a card lost in the shuffle turns up in the deal."
Many miles beyond the head waters of Copper Creek four men rode along the crest of a sparsely timbered summit. Their horses were weary, gaunted with scant, frost-burnt feed. The riders were unkempt, unshaven, their eyes reddened by much staring into distances and the ceaseless pour of the mountain winds. The wind was now blowing strongly. It was very cold, and they bent against it, their hats pulled low, their collars high. Along the summit on which they rode and even along its flanks lay thin snow, the first of the coming winter. But above, on the higher ranges, it lay thickly white on the peaks and in the great gulches, promise of the twenty or thirty or forty feet of it which would fall before Spring, as it had fallen on that high roof of the world for ages.
On the second day on the Copper the fugitives had discovered that they had not shaken off pursuit. It clung to them doggedly, tenaciously. Once through binoculars they had seen their pursuers across the width of a mountain valley. Little figures, seven of them, had ridden across the field of the lens focused on a barren patch of hillside. They could make a very fair guess at the identity of some of the men. With the discovery they had made extra speed.
Then they had got off the trail, which was ancient, faint, overgrown. Left to himself Gavin, who was the pilot, would likely have steered a correct course, for he had much of that intuition which for lack of a better term may be called sense of direction, and an eye for the general configuration of country. But he was in a hurry and his brothers obtruded advice. And so Gavin went astray. Half a day's travel converted suspicion of this to certainty. The only thing to do was to angle forward in the general direction in which the old trail might be supposed to lie.
It is one thing to travel following the line of least resistance; but it is quite another to hold for any definite objective point. Immediately, obstacles interposed. All of a sudden, as it seemed, things went wrong. Their way was barred by swift creeks, rocks, tangled wind-falls piled high. These had to be circumnavigated. One pack pony was drowned in a sudden dip of what looked like a fordable stream. The other slipped, sprained his shoulder and could not travel. They shot him, and took his load between them. At last they regained what was presumably the old trail. The one redeeming feature was that in their wanderings, they might have shaken off pursuit. But the next morning, looking back, behind and below them but on their line of travel, they saw smoke. The pursuit had even gained.
Now the old trail grew better, clearer, so that they did not have to worry about that; but they did worry about the way their pursuers hung on. Of what profit was it to traverse this sea of mountains and emerge with these hunters at their heels? As they rode, bending against the keen wind that swept the great ridge, this problem lay in the mind of each.
But Blake viewed it from an angle of his own. He had thrown in his lot with his brothers in panic, relying on them, feeling the safety of numbers. But the pursuit that dogged was primarily of them and not of him. Then he had made a mistake in joining them. Garland was a wise bird in striking off by himself. That was what he should have done. He should have known it would be assumed that he had gone with his brothers. He had been a fool.
And there was another consideration. He knew very well that the boys did not intend to be taken. If he stayed with them he would have to fight. Angus or Turkey, or even Rennie would shoot him on sight, and in all probability one or more of them was with the bunch behind. Obviously the thing to do was to quit his brothers and let them draw the pursuit. But the devil of it was he had no money. They, however, had what they had taken from Braden. He did not know how much, but it must be a lot. They ought to share up with him. He considered that he had a grievance against them.
Toward evening they came to the end of the ridge and began a long descent into a high valley. They struck timber and shelter from the wind, and water. There they camped. But though feed was short and frost-burnt, they dared not let their horses range, keeping them on ropes.
Supper over they sat close to the fire, smoking, following their own thoughts. Gerald regarded the blaze through half-closed eyes; Gavin, motionless his chin in his hand stared straight ahead; but young Larry, on one elbow, frowning, impatient, jerked cones and bits of stick at the fire with vicious flips of the wrist. Finally he sat upright.
"Oh, what thehell!" he said, in tones of nervous irritation.
Gerald's half-veiled eyes shifted to him; Gavin turned his head.
"Well?" the latter asked.
"What's the use of this?" the young man demanded. "How long are we going to be chased all over these hills? I wouldn't kick if we were making a get-away—but we aren't. This bunch is right on our heels. What good does it do us to keep going? Not a damned bit! Wherever we come out they'll be right on top of us."
"The kid's right," Gerald observed.
"Well?" said Gavin again.
"Why not let it come to a show-down now?" Larry asked. "Let's make a stand. There's only seven of them, near as we can tell." He laughed recklessly. "Whoever loses out stays in these damned hills for keeps."
"Larry's right," said Gerald again.
"He may be," Gavin admitted. "Make a stand, hey?" He stretched his great arms slowly. "Four of us, seven of them. Well, I'm game, if you are. They're apt to have some pretty good men. Some of us are due to stay in these hills, as Larry says."
"Sure," Gerald agreed. "But the hills are better than the pen. We're all in the same boat."
"I don't know about that," Blake put in.
"Since you mention it," said Gerald, "maybe we're not. If young Turkey or Rennie is with that bunch they're out to get you." Blake shifted uneasily, and Gerald sneered. "I'll bet a hundred theydoget you, too."
"You want the big end," said young Larry.
"You talk about being in the same boat," said Blake. "Well, I didn't shoot Braden, nor get any of his money. You held out on me. You thought you could get it yourselves. You wouldn't let me in on it."
"Well?"
"Well, why the devil should I help you stand off that bunch, then? They're after you, not me."
"Has anybody asked you to?" Gerald retorted. "And nobody asked you to come with us, if it comes to that."
"You had the fear of God in your heart and you begged to come," Larry told him. "You say you shot up Mackay, but you wouldn't tell why. And now, when things are getting hot, you want to quit and sneak off by yourself. I know what you're thinking. Quit and be damned, then! You never were any good. You never had the sand of a white rabbit."
Blake blustered, cursing his younger brother. The latter leaped to his feet. But Gavin interposed.
"Sit down, Larry. Blake, do you want to quit us? If you do, say so. There are no strings on you."
"If I did want to, I couldn't," Blake growled. "You know blame' well I haven't got any money."
Gavin eyed him in silence for a moment.
"I'll fix the money part," he said. Reaching into his warbag he drew forth a package of bills. He split it in half without counting, tossing one half to Blake as he would have tossed a bone to a dog. "There you are! Anything else?"
"Well, I don't want—" Blake began, but Gavin cut him short.
"You needn't lie. I've seen this in the back of your mind for days. You'll go now, whether you want to or not! Our trails fork in the morning, and you play your own hand. But if you try to save your hide by helping that bunch back there, I'll kill you. And that's cold!"
Blake could not meet the cold blue eyes that bored into his.
"You held out on me in the first place," he said. "This is your show, not mine."
"You—" Larry began.
"Shut up!" said Gavin. "Let him alone. Take what grub you want in the morning, Blake, and go your own way. And now I'm going to sleep."
He rolled his blanket around him and lay down. Gerald and Larry followed his example. Blake, to show his indifference, set by the fire for a time, smoking sullenly; but soon he too turned in.
It was dark when he awoke, but Gavin was already cooking breakfast, Larry and Gerald rolling blankets. He shared the meal, but nobody spoke to him. Larry brought in three horses, but Blake had to go for his own. Fresh snow, fallen in the night, lay on the ground, but it was merely a skift which would go with the sun.
The east was rose and gold when they mounted. High to the westward the sun, as yet invisible, struck the eastern face of a great snow-wrapped peak, playing on it dazzlingly. The cold of the high altitudes nipped; the breath of the gaunt horses hung in steam.
At the head of the little cavalcade Gavin led the way down a sloping shoulder into the valley. Blake followed, uncertain what to do. When the valley opened Gavin pulled up.
"Here's where we break, Blake."
"All right," he replied sullenly. "Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."
"I said we broke here."
"I've got to get out of these mountains, haven't I? This is the only way."
"You wanted to quit us," said Gavin, "and now you have to."
"All right," Blake replied. "I'll quit you, if you want it that way."
Without a word of farewell his brothers rode on. Blake watched them go. Their wordless contempt had stung him, and he hated them. He hoped sincerely that they would be caught.
His own immediate plans were simple. He would ride a few miles off the trail till Bush and his posse went by. Then he would make up his mind just what to do. He might take the back trail when they had gone on. He would see.
He took care to leave the trail on rocky ground. The thin snow which still lay was unfortunate, but did not greatly matter once he was off the trail. In an hour or two it would be gone. He rode for a mile, which for his purpose was as good as five or ten, and dismounting let his horse feed. He found a place where the sun struck warmly, filled his pipe and lay down, his back against a rock.
He counted the money which Gavin had thrown him. It amounted to more than two thousand dollars. That would help some. He was better off than if he had stayed with his brothers. Lord, yes! He was safe as a church.
His eyes half-closed, he enjoyed his pipe, thinking things over. He made a mess of that Mackay business. When you came right down to it, he should not have laid hands on Faith. But he would have had the deeds out of her if Garland had not weakened. But for Garland there would have been no necessity for this get-away. Garland had got him into the thing. Damn Garland! And damn women! They were all fools. Take that klootch. How the devil could she expect a white man to marry her? She wasn't bad for a klootch, but as a wife—good night!
The pipe had lost its flavor. Blake tapped it out, rose, and started back with an involuntary cry. Just back of the rock against which he had been leaning stood Paul Sam.
The old Indian raised his rifle.
"S'pose you move," he said, "you go mimaloos." Blake froze into immobility. "You go mimaloos, anyway," the old man added; "but first me talk to you."
A great fear laid hold upon Blake. The old Indian's features were impassive, but his eyes were bleak and hard. He lowered the rifle to the level of his waist, but its muzzle still dominated. Blake's rifle leaned against the rock, out of reach. His six-shooter was in his belt, but he knew better than to try for it. He stood motionless, staring at the seamed features of the Indian.
"Me talk to you," Paul Sam repeated in soft, clucking gutterals. "Ole man, me; young man, you. You white man; me Injun. Very ole man, me. All the men that were young with me go mimaloos many years ago. My wife she go mimaloos. My son and his wife they go mimaloos. Only one of my blood is left, my son's daughter—Mary!"
He paused for a moment.
"There is no one else of my blood. Me raise hiyu kuitan, hiyu moos-moos, all for her when me die. One time this country all Injun. Pretty soon no more Injun. All white. Injun way no good now. All white man's way. So me send her to school to learn the white man's way.
"She come back to my house. When me look at her me think of many things, of many people who go mimaloos many years ago. It is good for an ole man to have the young of his blood in his house, for in them his youth lives.
"There comes a time when this girl who is the last of my blood, is sad. No more laugh; no more sing. Me not know why. Me ole man. Mebbe-so me blind ole fool. Me never think of—that! When she is dead—then me hear ofyou!"
The Indian paused. Blake spoke, moistening dry lips.
"I hadn't anything to do with Mary."
"You lie!" the old man returned. "You bring shame on her and on me. So me kill you."
There was no passion in his voice; but there was finality, judgment inexorable. It was the logical conclusion, worked out, demonstrated according to his rules.
Blake's face blanched. In fancy, as he stared at it, he could see the red stab of flame leap and feel the shock of lead. Was there no way of escape? He glanced around. There was nothing save the mountain wilderness, the serene heights of the peaks, the blue autumn sky, a soaring golden eagle. His eyes came back to the rifle muzzle. His mouth opened, but words would not come.
"Mebbe-so you like pray?" Paul Sam suggested calmly. Blake found his voice.
"I have money," he said. "Look! lots of money. Take it. For God's sake, don't kill me. I didn't mean—I didn't know—"
For the first time a glint of bitter anger leaped into the old man's eyes.
"Money!" he said. "You think I take money for a dead woman of my blood and for my shame. Now me kill you all same wolf!"
The rifle rose, steadied, pointed at Blake's heart. The old finger crooked on the trigger. The hammer fell with a click. For some reason—worn firing pin, weak spring, or defective cartridge—the weapon failed to explode.
Paul Sam's hand jerked down with the lever to throw another shell into place. But Blake in that instant of reprieve took his chance. With a leap he hurled himself forward and caught the barrel, throwing it aside, feeling the flame of the explosion heat the metal beneath his fingers. The report smashed out in the stillness of the valley, racketing and rolling against the hills.
Blake wrenched the rifle from the old man's hands and threw it far. His fear was gone, his face contorted with passion. He reached for his revolver. As he did so Paul Sam drew a nine-inch knife from its beaded scabbard and struck as a snake strikes.
With a screaming oath Blake shoved the muzzle of the six-shooter against him and pulled the trigger. The blunt report was muffled by the body. But again the knife, now red to the hilt, rose and fell, and again the gun barked like a kenneled dog. And then Blake reeled backward, his eyes wide, the gun escaping from his hand, and fell on his back horribly asprawl. With him fell Paul Sam. But the old Indian's fingers were locked around the haft of the knife, and the haft stood out of Blake's breast. And so they lay together as the rolling echoes died and the stillness of the great hills came again.
Down the slope from the wind-swept summit into the valley rode the posse of Jake Bush. Their horses, too, were gaunted with scant feed and hard work. Like the men who had preceded them these were unkempt, strained of eye. Rennie rode in the lead, his eyes on the trail. The eyes of the others prodded and tested the valley into which they were descending.
By various signs they knew they were closing the gap which separated them from their quarry. When they reached the abandoned camp they dismounted and Rennie and Bush tested the ashes.
"Warm where they ain't wet," said Bush. "This is the earliest we've ever struck their camp yet. They made slow time yesterday. Can't be many hours ahead."
"Looks to me like their horses is playin' out," Rennie agreed. "Well, let's get goin'."
They rode on down the valley. The trail was plain, and the tracks of horses in the vanishing light snow. They strung along at a steady jog.
From the left, clean and sharp came the vibrant crash of a rifle shot. Instantly the hills took it up, flinging it in echoes back and forth. But with the echoes came other shots, not clear but blunt, muffled, multiplying the riot of sound. They jerked their horses to a standstill.
"Not more 'n a mile away," said Rennie. "Them boys is further ahead. It can't be them."
"We'll darn soon see," said Bush.
They turned in the direction of the shots, spreading out riding slowly. And presently they came upon a pony standing with dropped reins.
"Why," Turkey exclaimed, "it's Paul Sam's! I'd know that cayuse anywhere."
There was no mistaking the calico pony. Angus, too recognized it. If Paul Sam were there it could be but for one purpose.
"Ride slow," Bush advised. "We don't want to overlook anything."
But in less than five hundred yards they came upon tragedy. Paul Sam and Blake lay as they had fallen. In the background a gaunt horse raised his head for a moment from his browsing.
They dismounted, ringing the prostrate figures around. Bush removed his hat, not out of respect for the dead, but to scratch his head.
"Gosh!" he observed inadequately. Rennie loosened the old fingers from the knife haft and made a swift examination. He picked up a rifle cartridge, unexploded, with the cap faintly dinted.
"Missed fire!" he said. "Then Blake took the gun away from him and went for his six-shooter and the old man went for his knife. Lord!"
Angus said nothing. He felt he had been defrauded, hardly used. By day and by night one vision had haunted him—Faith's soft throat, bruised and discolored. Just so he had made up his mind to kill Blake, with his hands, repaying him measure for measure. His disappointment was bitter.
"The old man beat you to it," said Rennie, "but I guess he had the right to, if he could."
Angus nodded. It was true enough. But Turkey was picking up the scattered money which Blake had let fall. It opened a field for speculation. No doubt this was some of Braden's money, and the brothers had divided with Blake. But why had Blake quit them? Bush made a shrewd guess.
"Blake wasn't no game bird," he said. "He'd quit any time rather than go to a show-down. Mabbe that was what he was tryin' to do."
"And bumped into one," said Rennie. "But I wonder! We're gettin' close, and it ain't so far to the Cache now. It wouldn't do 'em no good to get there with us right behind. They might make a stand and take a chance."
"Or bushwhack us," the deputy suggested. "Us ridin' along single file in some bad place and them shootin' from cover—hell! we'd be down and kickin' before we could draw a gun."
"That's so," Rennie replied thoughtfully. "We'd better go careful. Well, I s'pose we better try to bury these dead folks while we're here."
"The Injun, anyway," said Bush. "Give him the best of it."
They did the best they could, and built above with stones. Then they went back and took up the pursuit, holding on till darkness hid the trail. By daylight they were away, and even earlier than before they came upon the deserted camp.
And now the old trail began to ascend. It led into a country wild and rugged, the jagged vertebrae of a mountain range seamed and scarred with gulch and canon. It was very bad for horses and very hard work for everybody. But signs showed that they were very near their quarry.
"We're darn near on top of 'em," said Rennie, and thereafter he rode with gun in hand.
But it was late in the afternoon when they got their first glimpse of the fugitives, who were rounding a bare shoulder ahead and above them. Two were riding and one was leading his horse. They themselves were not seen for a growth of brush at that point of the trail intervened. They looked to Bush for instructions.
"There ain't much sun left and they'll be goin' into camp soon," the deputy said. "We'll leave the horses here with one man, and the rest of us go ahead. While they're makin' camp we'll stand 'em up. What say, Dave?"
"Who stays with the horses?"
"Turkey," Bush decided. "He's the youngest."
"I'm damned if I do," Turkey rebelled. "Stay yourself. You're the oldest."
Bush grinned. "Can't, sonny, though I'd love to." He drew a dilapidated pack of cards from his pocket and spread them fanwise. "Draw one. Low stays. Deuce is low."
Drury drew low, cursed his luck. McClintock on one knee lacing a shoepack grinned at him.
"I wisht you'd sponge off my cayuse's back, Joe. He's gettin' sore. While you're about it, with nothin' else to do, you might go over the whole lot."
Drury's retort put his first outburst in the shade. Laughter stirred him to fresh efforts.
"Now, boys!" said Bush.
He took the lead, Rennie behind him, then Angus.
Angus was glad to be out of the saddle, and glad, too, that the end of the chase was at hand. With the death of Blake much of his interest in it had vanished. There was still Gavin, who if Braden's dying declaration was to be believed had killed his father. But strangely enough he felt little or no enmity toward him. He thought he should feel more. Turkey, behind him, spoke.
"I guess this is the finish of that bunch. If they start anything, we want to get Gavin—if he killed father."
Angus was silent for a moment. There was the possibility that it would not be a one-sided affair. He was not troubled for himself, but Turkey was rash.
"Don't take any chances, kid, if there is trouble."
"Not a chance," Turkey replied cheerfully. "Anybody that beats me to the trigger will have to go some."
"That wasn't what I meant. Look after yourself. Don't get hurt."
"Are you trying to tell me to play it safe?" Turkey demanded with virtuous indignation. "Why I ought to report you to Bush. Look after yourself. You're married. Play it safe! Huh! You bet I will—with a fast gun."
But the sun was going down. Unless the fugitives suspected something they would soon be making camp. Now and then Bush stopped to listen. None now spoke above a whisper. It was like the last hundred yards of a long, hard stalk of big game. In this case the game was big enough, and dangerous. Mistakes could not be afforded.
Bush stopped suddenly. Distinct in the stillness came the quick "lick-lock" of an ax. The deputy nodded.
They came upon the camp. It was on a little flat at the mouth of a wild draw, a little glade fringed with brush, through which ran a trickle of a spring creek. At one side the horses, unsaddled, grazed. Gavin, at the other side, was dragging in a dry pole for firewood. Gerald knelt beside a freshly kindled fire. Larry was getting food from a sack.
It was Larry who saw them almost at the instant they saw him. He cried a warning. Gerald rose swiftly. Gavin dropped his pole. Bush stepped forward and held up his hand.
"I want you boys," he said.
"You can't have us," Gerald replied. "That's cold, Bush."
"Don't be foolish," Bush advised. "I want you, and I'm going to get you. And that's cold, too."
"Then fly at it!" Gerald cried, and with the words jerked his gun and fired.
Bush staggered, twisted and went down; but he drew his gun as he did so and began to shoot from the ground. The lonely mountain camp became an inferno of shattering, rolling sound.
Angus felt his hat lift as in a sudden squall. At the same moment Turkey spun half around and against him, destroying his aim.
"I'm all right!" the youngster gasped, and in proof of his assertion fired.
Bustede, his right arm hanging, had dropped his rifle and was struggling to draw his six-shooter with his left hand. McClintock, on one knee, was working the lever of his rifle like a saw. Rennie, a gun in either hand, unhooked them in a rattling roar.
Suddenly Gerald pitched forward on his face. Larry doubled up and went down. But Gavin was apparently unhurt. He saw his brothers fall. For an instant he stood looking at them. Then he turned and bounded for the sheltering brush. With the rush of a bull moose he crashed into it while a sleet of lead cut twigs around him, and disappeared.
"Git him!" Bush croaked from the ground. "Git him, somebody. Oh, sink my soul for all rotten shootin'! Six guns-and he makes the timber! Agh-r!"
Angus stooped for an instant over Turkey. The youngster, very white of face, was sitting on the ground; but he was outcursing Bush.
"Are you hurt much? Where?"
"Not much. My shoulder. Get him, damn him! Get him for father!"
Angus found Rennie running beside him. It was impossible to trail the fugitive. All they could do was to keep on up the draw and trust to luck. But the pace and the rough ground soon told on Rennie.
"I can't travel no more," he gasped. "Too old. You go ahead."
"Go back and help the boys," Angus said. "There's a moon to-night and I may not be back. If I don't find him I'll come in in the morning."
"Be darn sure you do come in. Don't take no chances."
Angus ran on up the draw. Now that he was alone he began to put forth his strength and speed while the light should last. He was sure that Gavin would make for the higher ground. He would cross the summit of that range, and go ahead for the Cache. Though he had neither food nor outfit he had his six-shooter and presumably ammunition and matches. Angus knew that he himself would suffer little more than inconvenience if he were in Gavin's place.
The draw narrowed, and steep hills closed in on either hand. He turned to the right and began to climb. Darkness overtook him and he stopped. The cold chilled his sweating body with the cessation of motion, but Gavin was as badly off. When the moon rose he went on again, but it was slow work. Objects were distorted. Shadows lay where he would have had light. Once he slipped and fell, slithering twenty feet and barely saving himself from an almost perpendicular drop of a hundred. He crawled back with difficulty, but his rifle was gone. He had heard it clang far below him. However, he had his belt gun, and so was on a par with Gavin.
His objective was what seemed to be a notch in the summit. It was what he would make for were he in Gavin's place. He toiled upward methodically, without hurry now, for there might be a long trail ahead. If Gavin could go to the Cache so could he. The timber began to thin out, to stunt. Trees were dwarfed, twisted by the mountain winds, mere miniatures. Presently they ceased altogether. He was above timberline.
There the thin snow partially covered the ground, increasing the difficulty of travel. But its actinic qualities gave more light. It was past midnight, and the moon was well up. He had been traveling for more than seven hours.
For a moment he paused to rest, his lungs feeding greedily on the thin, cold air, and surveyed the scene below. It was a black fur of tree-tops, rolling, undulating, cleft with lines of greater darkness indicating greater depths. He could look over the tops of lesser mountains. Above were the peaks of the range, whitened spires against the sky.
In those far heights of the mountain wilderness one seemed to touch the rim of space itself. The moon, the night, the height produced an effect of unspeakable vastness. It seemed to press in, to enfold the tiny atom crawling upon and clinging to the surface of the earth. There finite and infinite made contact. It was like the world's end, theUltima Thuleof ancient man.
Some such thoughts, vague, scarcely formed, passed through his mind. The ranch, ploughed land, houses, seemed to belong to another world.
Once more he began to climb, and now that he was close to the summit the going was easier. Suddenly he stopped. There, clear in the moonlight, was the track of a moccasin-clad foot.
There was no doubt that it was Gavin's. Knowing his own pace Angus knew that the big man could not be far ahead. No doubt he would keep going, over the summit and down the other side, for timber. Once in the timber, with a fire, he would rest. His trail across would be covered by the first wind. He would not suspect that any one would or could follow him by night.
Angus followed the trail easily by the bright moonlight, noting grimly that the length of the stride was almost identical with his own. The prints were clean, showing that the feet had been cleanly lifted and set down, token of energy unimpaired.
When he reached the summit he took a careful survey. It was a desolate plateau, swept and scoured by the winds and rains and snow of unnumbered centuries. On it nothing grew. Here and there bowlders loomed blackly. But nothing moved. Apparently, it was as bare of life as the dead mountains of the moon. The trail led straight on.
Satisfied of this, Angus followed the trail at speed. Now and then it turned out to avoid a bowlder, but otherwise it went straight ahead, as though no doubt of direction existed in its maker's mind. Presently it swung around a huge rock and then turned north. Angus glanced casually at the bowlder and passed by; but he had taken no more than three strides in the new direction when a voice behind him commanded:
"Stop! Put up your hands!"