“No, you don't,” responded Anson, sharply.
“Then thet's square. I wash my hands of the whole deal. Make Riggs pay up. He's got money an' he's got plans. Go in with him.”
With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away. The outlaws gazed after him until he disappeared in the cedars.
“What'd you expect from a greaser?” queried Shady Jones.
“Anson, didn't I say so?” added Burt.
The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands. Riggs showed immense relief.
“Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an' I'll ride off with the girl,” he said, eagerly.
“Where'd you go now?” queried Anson, curiously.
Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.
“You're no woodsman. An' onless you're plumb locoed you'd never risk goin' near Pine or Show Down. There'll be real trackers huntin' your trail.”
The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.
“Don't let him take me off—alone—in the woods!” she faltered. That was the first indication of her weakening.
Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. “I'm not bossin' this gang.”
“But you're a man!” she importuned.
“Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an' come with us,” said Anson, craftily. “I'm particular curious to see her brand you.”
“Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine,” said Jim Wilson.
Anson swore his amaze.
“It's sense,” continued Wilson. “We've shore got our own troubles, an' keepin' her 'll only add to them. I've a hunch. Now you know I ain't often givin' to buckin' your say-so. But this deal ain't tastin' good to me. Thet girl ought to be sent home.”
“But mebbe there's somethin' in it for us. Her sister 'd pay to git her back.”
“Wal, I shore hope you'll recollect I offered—thet's all,” concluded Wilson.
“Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we'd let Riggs take her off,” remonstrated the outlaw leader. He was perturbed and undecided. Wilson worried him.
The long Texan veered around full faced. What subtle transformation in him!
“Like hell we would!” he said.
It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail. He might have been leader here, but he was not the greater man. His face clouded.
“Break camp,” he ordered.
Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between Anson and Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get his horse.
In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear.
This start was made a little after the noon hour. They zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed it up to where it headed in the level forest. From there travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot. Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the cavalcade. His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat. The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades.
They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone, and twilight was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson, breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.
The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark slopes of spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in abundance. All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs, before the tired girl made an effort to get down. Riggs, observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off. She gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.
“Keep your paws to yourself,” she said. No evidence of exhaustion was there in her spirit.
Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.
“What come off?” he asked.
“Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the lady—as he was doin' the elegant,” replied Moze, who stood nearest.
“Jim, was you watchin'?” queried Anson. His curiosity had held through the afternoon.
“He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him,” replied Wilson.
“That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to Moze.
“Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he'll hoodoo this outfit. Jim was figgerin' correct.”
“Hoodoo—” cursed Anson, under his breath.
Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.
Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among the spruces. One by one they fell with swish and soft crash. Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off the branches with long sweeps. Presently he appeared in the semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him. He made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a low, projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides, quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture in front. Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and threw that inside the shelter. Then, touching the girl on the shoulder, he whispered:
“When you're ready, slip in there. An' don't lose no sleep by worryin', fer I'll be layin' right here.”
He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of the narrow aperture.
“Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan,” she whispered back.
“Mebbe,” was his gloomy reply.
The girl refused to take food proffered her by Riggs, but she ate and drank a little that Wilson brought her, then she disappeared in the spruce lean-to.
Whatever loquacity and companionship had previously existed in Snake Anson's gang were not manifest in this camp. Each man seemed preoccupied, as if pondering the dawn in his mind of an ill omen not clear to him yet and not yet dreamed of by his fellows. They all smoked. Then Moze and Shady played cards awhile by the light of the fire, but it was a dull game, in which either seldom spoke. Riggs sought his blanket first, and the fact was significant that he lay down some distance from the spruce shelter which contained Bo Rayner. Presently young Burt went off grumbling to his bed. And not long afterward the card-players did likewise.
Snake Anson and Jim Wilson were left brooding in silence beside the dying camp-fire.
The night was dark, with only a few stars showing. A fitful wind moaned unearthly through the spruce. An occasional thump of hoof sounded from the dark woods. No cry of wolf or coyote or cat gave reality to the wildness of forest-land.
By and by those men who had rolled in their blankets were breathing deep and slow in heavy slumber.
“Jim, I take it this hyar Riggs has queered our deal,” said Snake Anson, in low voice.
“I reckon,” replied Wilson.
“An' I'm feared he's queered this hyar White Mountain country fer us.”
“Shore I 'ain't got so far as thet. What d' ye mean, Snake?”
“Damme if I savvy,” was the gloomy reply. “I only know what was bad looks growin' wuss. Last fall—an' winter—an' now it's near April. We've got no outfit to make a long stand in the woods.... Jim, jest how strong is thet Beasley down in the settlements?”
“I've a hunch he ain't half as strong as he bluffs.”
“Me, too. I got thet idee yesterday. He was scared of the kid—when she fired up an' sent thet hot-shot about her cowboy sweetheart killin' him. He'll do it, Jim. I seen that Carmichael at Magdalena some years ago. Then he was only a youngster. But, whew! Mebbe he wasn't bad after toyin' with a little red liquor.”
“Shore. He was from Texas, she said.”
“Jim, I savvied your feelin's was hurt—by thet talk about Texas—an' when she up an' asked you.”
Wilson had no rejoinder for this remark.
“Wal, Lord knows, I ain't wonderin'. You wasn't a hunted outlaw all your life. An' neither was I.... Wilson, I never was keen on this girl deal—now, was I?”
“I reckon it's honest to say no to thet,” replied Wilson. “But it's done. Beasley 'll get plugged sooner or later. Thet won't help us any. Chasin' sheep-herders out of the country an' stealin' sheep—thet ain't stealin' gurls by a long sight. Beasley 'll blame that on us, an' be greaser enough to send some of his men out to hunt us. For Pine an' Show Down won't stand thet long. There's them Mormons. They'll be hell when they wake up. Suppose Carmichael got thet hunter Dale an' them hawk-eyed Beemans on our trail?”
“Wal, we'd cash in—quick,” replied Anson, gruffly.
“Then why didn't you let me take the gurl back home?”
“Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I'm sore, an' I need money—an' I knowed you'd never take a dollar from her sister. An' I've made up my mind to git somethin' out of her.”
“Snake, you're no fool. How 'll you do thet same an' do it quick?”
“'Ain't reckoned it out yet.”
“Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an' thet's all,” returned Wilson, gloomily.
“Jim, what's ailin' you?”
“I'll let you figger thet out.”
“Wal, somethin' ails the whole gang,” declared Anson, savagely. “With them it's nothin' to eat—no whisky—no money to bet with—no tobacco!... But thet's not what's ailin' you, Jim Wilson, nor me!”
“Wal, what is, then?” queried Wilson.
“With me it's a strange feelin' thet my day's over on these ranges. I can't explain, but it jest feels so. Somethin' in the air. I don't like them dark shadows out there under the spruces. Savvy?... An' as fer you, Jim—wal, you allus was half decent, an' my gang's got too lowdown fer you.”
“Snake, did I ever fail you?”
“No, you never did. You're the best pard I ever knowed. In the years we've rustled together we never had a contrary word till I let Beasley fill my ears with his promises. Thet's my fault. But, Jim, it's too late.”
“It mightn't have been too late yesterday.”
“Mebbe not. But it is now, an' I'll hang on to the girl or git her worth in gold,” declared the outlaw, grimly.
“Snake, I've seen stronger gangs than yours come an' go. Them Big Bend gangs in my country—them rustlers—they were all bad men. You have no likes of them gangs out heah. If they didn't get wiped out by Rangers or cowboys, why they jest naturally wiped out themselves. Thet's a law I recognize in relation to gangs like them. An' as for yours—why, Anson, it wouldn't hold water against one real gun-slinger.”
“A-huh' Then if we ran up ag'in' Carmichael or some such fellar—would you be suckin' your finger like a baby?”
“Wal, I wasn't takin' count of myself. I was takin' generalities.”
“Aw, what 'n hell are them?” asked Anson, disgustedly. “Jim, I know as well as you thet this hyar gang is hard put. We're goin' to be trailed an' chased. We've got to hide—be on the go all the time—here an' there—all over, in the roughest woods. An' wait our chance to work south.”
“Shore. But, Snake, you ain't takin' no count of the feelin's of the men—an' of mine an' yours.... I'll bet you my hoss thet in a day or so this gang will go to pieces.”
“I'm feared you spoke what's been crowdin' to git in my mind,” replied Anson. Then he threw up his hands in a strange gesture of resignation. The outlaw was brave, but all men of the wilds recognized a force stronger than themselves. He sat there resembling a brooding snake with basilisk eyes upon the fire. At length he arose, and without another word to his comrade he walked wearily to where lay the dark, quiet forms of the sleepers.
Jim Wilson remained beside the flickering fire. He was reading something in the red embers, perhaps the past. Shadows were on his face, not all from the fading flames or the towering spruces. Ever and anon he raised his head to listen, not apparently that he expected any unusual sound, but as if involuntarily. Indeed, as Anson had said, there was something nameless in the air. The black forest breathed heavily, in fitful moans of wind. It had its secrets. The glances Wilson threw on all sides betrayed that any hunted man did not love the dark night, though it hid him. Wilson seemed fascinated by the life inclosed there by the black circle of spruce. He might have been reflecting on the strange reaction happening to every man in that group, since a girl had been brought among them. Nothing was clear, however; the forest kept its secret, as did the melancholy wind; the outlaws were sleeping like tired beasts, with their dark secrets locked in their hearts.
After a while Wilson put some sticks on the red embers, then pulled the end of a log over them. A blaze sputtered up, changing the dark circle and showing the sleepers with their set, shadowed faces upturned. Wilson gazed on all of them, a sardonic smile on his lips, and then his look fixed upon the sleeper apart from the others—Riggs. It might have been the false light of flame and shadow that created Wilson's expression of dark and terrible hate. Or it might have been the truth, expressed in that lonely, unguarded hour, from the depths of a man born in the South—a man who by his inheritance of race had reverence for all womanhood—by whose strange, wild, outlawed bloody life of a gun-fighter he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and mocked his fame.
It was a long gaze Wilson rested upon Riggs—as strange and secretive as the forest wind moaning down the great aisles—and when that dark gaze was withdrawn Wilson stalked away to make his bed with the stride of one ill whom spirit had liberated force.
He laid his saddle in front of the spruce shelter where the girl had entered, and his tarpaulin and blankets likewise and then wearily stretched his long length to rest.
The camp-fire blazed up, showing the exquisite green and brown-flecked festooning of the spruce branches, symmetrical and perfect, yet so irregular, and then it burned out and died down, leaving all in the dim gray starlight. The horses were not moving around; the moan of night wind had grown fainter; the low hum of insects was dying away; even the tinkle of the brook had diminished. And that growth toward absolute silence continued, yet absolute silence was never attained. Life abided in the forest; only it had changed its form for the dark hours.
Anson's gang did not bestir themselves at the usual early sunrise hour common to all woodsmen, hunters, or outlaws, to whom the break of day was welcome. These companions—Anson and Riggs included—might have hated to see the dawn come. It meant only another meager meal, then the weary packing and the long, long ride to nowhere in particular, and another meager meal—all toiled for without even the necessities of satisfactory living, and assuredly without the thrilling hopes that made their life significant, and certainly with a growing sense of approaching calamity.
The outlaw leader rose surly and cross-grained. He had to boot Burt to drive him out for the horses. Riggs followed him. Shady Jones did nothing except grumble. Wilson, by common consent, always made the sour-dough bread, and he was slow about it this morning. Anson and Moze did the rest of the work, without alacrity. The girl did not appear.
“Is she dead?” growled Anson.
“No, she ain't,” replied Wilson, looking up. “She's sleepin'. Let her sleep. She'd shore be a sight better off if she was daid.”
“A-huh! So would all of this hyar outfit,” was Anson's response.
“Wal, Sna-ake, I shore reckon we'll all be thet there soon,” drawled Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone that said so much more than the content of the words.
Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again.
Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the horses; Riggs followed shortly with several more. But three were missed, one of them being Anson's favorite. He would not have budged without that horse. During breakfast he growled about his lazy men, and after the meal tried to urge them off. Riggs went unwillingly. Burt refused to go at all.
“Nix. I footed them hills all I'm a-goin' to,” he said. “An' from now on I rustle my own hoss.”
The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered Shady and Moze out to do their share.
“Jim, you're the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you go,” suggested Anson. “You allus used to be the first one off.”
“Times has changed, Snake,” was the imperturbable reply.
“Wal, won't you go?” demanded the leader, impatiently.
“I shore won't.”
Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson's gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted it. The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look.
“Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench—?” began Shady Jones, sarcastically.
“Shut up, you fool!” broke in Anson. “Come on, I'll help rustle them hosses.”
After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off into the forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale, with dark shadows. She asked for water to wash her face. Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf from his pack and carried them to her.
Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different with her hair arranged and the red stains in her cheeks.
“Miss, air you hungry?” asked Wilson.
“Yes, I am,” she replied.
He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a cup of coffee. Evidently she relished the meat, but she had to force down the rest.
“Where are they all?” she asked.
“Rustlin' the hosses.”
Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the fleeting glance she gave him attested to a thought that his voice or demeanor had changed. Presently she sought a seat under the aspen-tree, out of the sun, and the smoke continually blowing in her face; and there she stayed, a forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant eyes.
The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent head, and hands locked behind him. But for the swinging gun he would have resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and hatless, with his brown vest open, his trousers stuck in the top of the high boots.
And neither he nor the girl changed their positions relatively for a long time. At length, however, after peering into the woods, and listening, he remarked to the girl that he would be back in a moment, and then walked off around the spruces.
No sooner had he disappeared—in fact, so quickly after-ward that it presupposed design instead of accident—than Riggs came running from the opposite side of the glade. He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to her feet.
“I hid—two of the—horses,” he panted, husky with excitement. “I'll take—two saddles. You grab some grub. We'll run for it.”
“No,” she cried, stepping back.
“But it's not safe—for us—here,” he said, hurriedly, glancing all around. “I'll take you—home. I swear.... Not safe—I tell you—this gang's after me. Hurry!”
He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand. The moment had reddened his face, brightened his eyes, made his action strong.
“I'm safer—here with this outlaw gang,” she replied.
“You won't come!” His color began to lighten then, and his face to distort. He dropped his hold on the saddles.
“Harve Riggs, I'd rather become a toy and a rag for these ruffians than spend an hour alone with you,” she flashed at him, in unquenchable hate.
“I'll drag you!”
He seized her, but could not hold her. Breaking away, she screamed.
“Help!”
That whitened his face, drove him to frenzy. Leaping forward, he struck her a hard blow across the mouth. It staggered her, and, tripping on a saddle, she fell. His hands flew to her throat, ready to choke her. But she lay still and held her tongue. Then he dragged her to her feet.
“Hurry now—grab that pack—an' follow me.” Again Riggs laid hold of the two saddles. A desperate gleam, baleful and vainglorious, flashed over his face. He was living his one great adventure.
The girl's eyes dilated. They looked beyond him. Her lips opened.
“Scream again an' I'll kill you!” he cried, hoarsely and swiftly. The very opening of her lips had terrified Riggs.
“Reckon one scream was enough,” spoke a voice, slow, but without the drawl, easy and cool, yet incalculable in some terrible sense.
Riggs wheeled with inarticulate cry. Wilson stood a few paces off, with his gun half leveled, low down. His face seemed as usual, only his eyes held a quivering, light intensity, like boiling molten silver.
“Girl, what made thet blood on your mouth?”
“Riggs hit me!” she whispered. Then at something she feared or saw or divined she shrank back, dropped on her knees, and crawled into the spruce shelter.
“Wal, Riggs, I'd invite you to draw if thet 'd be any use,” said Wilson. This speech was reflective, yet it hurried a little.
Riggs could not draw nor move nor speak. He seemed turned to stone, except his jaw, which slowly fell.
“Harve Riggs, gunman from down Missouri way,” continued the voice of incalculable intent, “reckon you've looked into a heap of gun-barrels in your day. Shore! Wal, look in this heah one!”
Wilson deliberately leveled the gun on a line with Riggs's starting eyes.
“Wasn't you heard to brag in Turner's saloon—thet you could see lead comin'—an' dodge it? Shore you must be swift!... DODGE THIS HEAH BULLET!”
The gun spouted flame and boomed. One of Riggs's starting, popping eyes—the right one—went out, like a lamp. The other rolled horribly, then set in blank dead fixedness. Riggs swayed in slow motion until a lost balance felled him heavily, an inert mass.
Wilson bent over the prostrate form. Strange, violent contrast to the cool scorn of the preceding moment! Hissing, spitting, as if poisoned by passion, he burst with the hate that his character had forbidden him to express on a living counterfeit. Wilson was shaken, as if by a palsy. He choked over passionate, incoherent invective. It was class hate first, then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the hate of disgrace for a murder. No man so fair as a gun-fighter in the Western creed of an “even break”!
Wilson's terrible cataclysm of passion passed. Straightening up, he sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the fire. Not many moments afterward he jerked his head high and listened. Horses were softly thudding through the forest. Soon Anson rode into sight with his men and one of the strayed horses. It chanced, too, that young Burt appeared on the other side of the glade. He walked quickly, as one who anticipated news.
Snake Anson as he dismounted espied the dead man.
“Jim—I thought I heard a shot.”
The others exclaimed and leaped off their horses to view the prostrate form with that curiosity and strange fear common to all men confronted by sight of sudden death.
That emotion was only momentary.
“Shot his lamp out!” ejaculated Moze.
“Wonder how Gunman Riggs liked thet plumb center peg!” exclaimed Shady Jones, with a hard laugh.
“Back of his head all gone!” gasped young Burt. Not improbably he had not seen a great many bullet-marked men.
“Jim!—the long-haired fool didn't try to draw on you!” exclaimed Snake Anson, astounded.
Wilson neither spoke nor ceased his pacing.
“What was it over?” added Anson, curiously.
“He hit the gurl,” replied Wilson.
Then there were long-drawn exclamations all around, and glance met glance.
“Jim, you saved me the job,” continued the outlaw leader. “An' I'm much obliged.... Fellars, search Riggs an' we'll divvy.... Thet all right, Jim?”
“Shore, an' you can have my share.”
They found bank-notes in the man's pocket and considerable gold worn in a money-belt around his waist. Shady Jones appropriated his boots, and Moze his gun. Then they left him as he had fallen.
“Jim, you'll have to track them lost hosses. Two still missin' an' one of them's mine,” called Anson as Wilson paced to the end of his beat.
The girl heard Anson, for she put her head out of the spruce shelter and called: “Riggs said he'd hid two of the horses. They must be close. He came that way.”
“Howdy, kid! Thet's good news,” replied Anson. His spirits were rising. “He must hev wanted you to slope with him?”
“Yes. I wouldn't go.”
“An' then he hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, recallin' your talk of yestiddy, I can't see as Mister Riggs lasted much longer hyar than he'd hev lasted in Texas. We've some of thet great country right in our outfit.”
The girl withdrew her white face.
“It's break camp, boys,” was the leader's order. “A couple of you look up them hosses. They'll be hid in some thick spruces. The rest of us 'll pack.”
Soon the gang was on the move, heading toward the height of land, and swerving from it only to find soft and grassy ground that would not leave any tracks.
They did not travel more than a dozen miles during the afternoon, but they climbed bench after bench until they reached the timbered plateau that stretched in sheer black slope up to the peaks. Here rose the great and gloomy forest of firs and pines, with the spruce overshadowed and thinned out. The last hour of travel was tedious and toilsome, a zigzag, winding, breaking, climbing hunt for the kind of camp-site suited to Anson's fancy. He seemed to be growing strangely irrational about selecting places to camp. At last, for no reason that could have been manifest to a good woodsman, he chose a gloomy bowl in the center of the densest forest that had been traversed. The opening, if such it could have been called, was not a park or even a glade. A dark cliff, with strange holes, rose to one side, but not so high as the lofty pines that brushed it. Along its base babbled a brook, running over such formation of rock that from different points near at hand it gave forth different sounds, some singing, others melodious, and one at least of a hollow, weird, deep sound, not loud, but strangely penetrating.
“Sure spooky I say,” observed Shady, sentiently.
The little uplift of mood, coincident with the rifling of Riggs's person, had not worn over to this evening camp. What talk the outlaws indulged in was necessary and conducted in low tones. The place enjoined silence.
Wilson performed for the girl very much the same service as he had the night before. Only he advised her not to starve herself; she must eat to keep up her strength. She complied at the expense of considerable effort.
As it had been a back-breaking day, in which all of them, except the girl, had climbed miles on foot, they did not linger awake long enough after supper to learn what a wild, weird, and pitch-black spot the outlaw leader had chosen. The little spaces of open ground between the huge-trunked pine-trees had no counterpart up in the lofty spreading foliage. Not a star could blink a wan ray of light into that Stygian pit. The wind, cutting down over abrupt heights farther up, sang in the pine-needles as if they were strings vibrant with chords. Dismal creaks were audible. They were the forest sounds of branch or tree rubbing one another, but which needed the corrective medium of daylight to convince any human that they were other than ghostly. Then, despite the wind and despite the changing murmur of the brook, there seemed to be a silence insulating them, as deep and impenetrable as the darkness.
But the outlaws, who were fugitives now, slept the sleep of the weary, and heard nothing. They awoke with the sun, when the forest seemed smoky in a golden gloom, when light and bird and squirrel proclaimed the day.
The horses had not strayed out of this basin during the night, a circumstance that Anson was not slow to appreciate.
“It ain't no cheerful camp, but I never seen a safer place to hole up in,” he remarked to Wilson.
“Wal, yes—if any place is safe,” replied that ally, dubiously.
“We can watch our back tracks. There ain't any other way to git in hyar thet I see.”
“Snake, we was tolerable fair sheep-rustlers, but we're no good woodsmen.”
Anson grumbled his disdain of this comrade who had once been his mainstay. Then he sent Burt out to hunt fresh meat and engaged his other men at cards. As they now had the means to gamble, they at once became absorbed. Wilson smoked and divided his thoughtful gaze between the gamblers and the drooping figure of the girl. The morning air was keen, and she, evidently not caring to be near her captors beside the camp-fire, had sought the only sunny spot in this gloomy dell. A couple of hours passed; the sun climbed high; the air grew warmer. Once the outlaw leader raised his head to scan the heavy-timbered slopes that inclosed the camp.
“Jim, them hosses are strayin' off,” he observed.
Wilson leisurely rose and stalked off across the small, open patches, in the direction of the horses. They had grazed around from the right toward the outlet of the brook. Here headed a ravine, dense and green. Two of the horses had gone down. Wilson evidently heard them, though they were not in sight, and he circled somewhat so as to get ahead of them and drive them back. The invisible brook ran down over the rocks with murmur and babble. He halted with instinctive action. He listened. Forest sounds, soft, lulling, came on the warm, pine-scented breeze. It would have taken no keen ear to hear soft and rapid padded footfalls. He moved on cautiously and turned into a little open, mossy spot, brown-matted and odorous, full of ferns and bluebells. In the middle of this, deep in the moss, he espied a huge round track of a cougar. He bent over it. Suddenly he stiffened, then straightened guardedly. At that instant he received a hard prod in the back. Throwing up his hands, he stood still, then slowly turned. A tall hunter in gray buckskin, gray-eyed and square-jawed, had him covered with a cocked rifle. And beside this hunter stood a monster cougar, snarling and blinking.
“Sssssh! Not so loud,” said the hunter, in low voice. “You're Jim Wilson?”
“Shore am. Say, Dale, you showed up soon. Or did you jest happen to run acrost us?”
“I've trailed you. Wilson, I'm after the girl.”
“I knowed thet when I seen you!”
The cougar seemed actuated by the threatening position of his master, and he opened his mouth, showing great yellow fangs, and spat at Wilson. The outlaw apparently had no fear of Dale or the cocked rifle, but that huge, snarling cat occasioned him uneasiness.
“Wilson, I've heard you spoken of as a white outlaw,” said Dale.
“Mebbe I am. But shore I'll be a scared one in a minit. Dale, he's goin' to jump me!”
“The cougar won't jump you unless I make him. Wilson, if I let you go will you get the girl for me?”
“Wal, lemme see. Supposin' I refuse?” queried Wilson, shrewdly.
“Then, one way or another, it's all up with you.”
“Reckon I 'ain't got much choice. Yes, I'll do it. But, Dale, are you goin' to take my word for thet an' let me go back to Anson?”
“Yes, I am. You're no fool. An' I believe you're square. I've got Anson and his gang corralled. You can't slip me—not in these woods. I could run off your horses—pick you off one by one—or turn the cougar loose on you at night.”
“Shore. It's your game. Anson dealt himself this hand.... Between you an' me, Dale, I never liked the deal.”
“Who shot Riggs?... I found his body.”
“Wal, yours truly was around when thet come off,” replied Wilson, with an involuntary little shudder. Some thought made him sick.
“The girl? Is she safe—unharmed?” queried Dale, hurriedly.
“She's shore jest as safe an' sound as when she was home. Dale, she's the gamest kid thet ever breathed! Why, no one could hev ever made me believe a girl, a kid like her, could hev the nerve she's got. Nothin's happened to her 'cept Riggs hit her in the mouth.... I killed him for thet.... An', so help me, God, I believe it's been workin' in me to save her somehow! Now it'll not be so hard.”
“But how?” demanded Dale.
“Lemme see.... Wal, I've got to sneak her out of camp an' meet you. Thet's all.”
“It must be done quick.”
“But, Dale, listen,” remonstrated Wilson, earnestly. “Too quick 'll be as bad as too slow. Snake is sore these days, gittin' sorer all the time. He might savvy somethin', if I ain't careful, an' kill the girl or do her harm. I know these fellars. They're all ready to go to pieces. An' shore I must play safe. Shore it'd be safer to have a plan.”
Wilson's shrewd, light eyes gleamed with an idea. He was about to lower one of his upraised hands, evidently to point to the cougar, when he thought better of that.
“Anson's scared of cougars. Mebbe we can scare him an' the gang so it 'd be easy to sneak the girl off. Can you make thet big brute do tricks? Rush the camp at night an' squall an' chase off the horses?”
“I'll guarantee to scare Anson out of ten years' growth,” replied Dale.
“Shore it's a go, then,” resumed Wilson, as if glad. “I'll post the girl—give her a hunch to do her part. You sneak up to-night jest before dark. I'll hev the gang worked up. An' then you put the cougar to his tricks, whatever you want. When the gang gits wild I'll grab the girl an' pack her off down heah or somewheres aboot an' whistle fer you.... But mebbe thet ain't so good. If thet cougar comes pilin' into camp he might jump me instead of one of the gang. An' another hunch. He might slope up on me in the dark when I was tryin' to find you. Shore thet ain't appealin' to me.”
“Wilson, this cougar is a pet,” replied Dale. “You think he's dangerous, but he's not. No more than a kitten. He only looks fierce. He has never been hurt by a person an' he's never fought anythin' himself but deer an' bear. I can make him trail any scent. But the truth is I couldn't make him hurt you or anybody. All the same, he can be made to scare the hair off any one who doesn't know him.”
“Shore thet settles me. I'll be havin' a grand joke while them fellars is scared to death.... Dale, you can depend on me. An' I'm beholdin' to you fer what 'll square me some with myself.... To-night, an' if it won't work then, to-morrer night shore!”
Dale lowered the rifle. The big cougar spat again. Wilson dropped his hands and, stepping forward, split the green wall of intersecting spruce branches. Then he turned up the ravine toward the glen. Once there, in sight of his comrades, his action and expression changed.
“Hosses all thar, Jim?” asked Anson, as he picked up, his cards.
“Shore. They act awful queer, them hosses,” replied. Wilson. “They're afraid of somethin'.”
“A-huh! Silvertip mebbe,” muttered Anson. “Jim, You jest keep watch of them hosses. We'd be done if some tarnal varmint stampeded them.”
“Reckon I'm elected to do all the work now,” complained Wilson, “while you card-sharps cheat each other. Rustle the hosses—an' water an' fire-wood. Cook an' wash. Hey?”
“No one I ever seen can do them camp tricks any better 'n Jim Wilson,” replied Anson.
“Jim, you're a lady's man an' thar's our pretty hoodoo over thar to feed an' amoose,” remarked Shady Jones, with a smile that disarmed his speech.
The outlaws guffawed.
“Git out, Jim, you're breakin' up the game,” said Moze, who appeared loser.
“Wal, thet gurl would starve if it wasn't fer me,” replied Wilson, genially, and he walked over toward her, beginning to address her, quite loudly, as he approached. “Wal, miss, I'm elected cook an' I'd shore like to heah what you fancy fer dinner.”
The outlaws heard, for they guffawed again. “Haw! Haw! if Jim ain't funny!” exclaimed Anson.
The girl looked up amazed. Wilson was winking at her, and when he got near he began to speak rapidly and low.
“I jest met Dale down in the woods with his pet cougar. He's after you. I'm goin' to help him git you safe away. Now you do your part. I want you to pretend you've gone crazy. Savvy? Act out of your head! Shore I don't care what you do or say, only act crazy. An' don't be scared. We're goin' to scare the gang so I'll hev a chance to sneak you away. To-night or to-morrow—shore.”
Before he began to speak she was pale, sad, dull of eye. Swiftly, with his words, she was transformed, and when he had ended she did not appear the same girl. She gave him one blazing flash of comprehension and nodded her head rapidly.
“Yes, I understand. I'll do it!” she whispered.
The outlaw turned slowly away with the most abstract air, confounded amid his shrewd acting, and he did not collect himself until half-way back to his comrades. Then, beginning to hum an old darky tune, he stirred up and replenished the fire, and set about preparation for the midday meal. But he did not miss anything going on around him. He saw the girl go into her shelter and come out with her hair all down over her face. Wilson, back to his comrades, grinned his glee, and he wagged his head as if he thought the situation was developing.
The gambling outlaws, however, did not at once see the girl preening herself and smoothing her long hair in a way calculated to startle.
“Busted!” ejaculated Anson, with a curse, as he slammed down his cards. “If I ain't hoodooed I'm a two-bit of a gambler!”
“Sartin you're hoodooed,” said Shady Jones, in scorn. “Is thet jest dawnin' on you?”
“Boss, you play like a cow stuck in the mud,” remarked Moze, laconically.
“Fellars, it ain't funny,” declared Anson, with pathetic gravity. “I'm jest gittin' on to myself. Somethin's wrong. Since 'way last fall no luck—nothin' but the wust end of everythin'. I ain't blamin' anybody. I'm the boss. It's me thet's off.”
“Snake, shore it was the gurl deal you made,” rejoined Wilson, who had listened. “I told you. Our troubles hev only begun. An' I can see the wind-up. Look!”
Wilson pointed to where the girl stood, her hair flying wildly all over her face and shoulders. She was making most elaborate bows to an old stump, sweeping the ground with her tresses in her obeisance.
Anson started. He grew utterly astounded. His amaze was ludicrous. And the other two men looked to stare, to equal their leader's bewilderment.
“What 'n hell's come over her?” asked Anson, dubiously. “Must hev perked up.... But she ain't feelin' thet gay!”
Wilson tapped his forehead with a significant finger.
“Shore I was scared of her this mawnin',” he whispered.
“Naw!” exclaimed Anson, incredulously.
“If she hain't queer I never seen no queer wimmin,” vouchsafed Shady Jones, and it would have been judged, by the way he wagged his head, that he had been all his days familiar with women.
Moze looked beyond words, and quite alarmed.
“I seen it comin',” declared Wilson, very much excited. “But I was scared to say so. You-all made fun of me aboot her. Now I shore wish I had spoken up.”
Anson nodded solemnly. He did not believe the evidence of his sight, but the facts seemed stunning. As if the girl were a dangerous and incomprehensible thing, he approached her step by step. Wilson followed, and the others appeared drawn irresistibly.
“Hey thar—kid!” called Anson, hoarsely.
The girl drew her slight form up haughtily. Through her spreading tresses her eyes gleamed unnaturally upon the outlaw leader. But she deigned not to reply.
“Hey thar—you Rayner girl!” added Anson, lamely. “What's ailin' you?”
“My lord! did you address me?” she asked, loftily.
Shady Jones got over his consternation and evidently extracted some humor from the situation, as his dark face began to break its strain.
“Aww!” breathed Anson, heavily.
“Ophelia awaits your command, my lord. I've been gathering flowers,” she said, sweetly, holding up her empty hands as if they contained a bouquet.
Shady Jones exploded in convulsed laughter. But his merriment was not shared. And suddenly it brought disaster upon him. The girl flew at him.
“Why do you croak, you toad? I will have you whipped and put in irons, you scullion!” she cried, passionately.
Shady underwent a remarkable change, and stumbled in his backward retreat. Then she snapped her fingers in Moze's face.
“You black devil! Get hence! Avaunt!”
Anson plucked up courage enough to touch her.
“Aww! Now, Ophelyar—”
Probably he meant to try to humor her, but she screamed, and he jumped back as if she might burn him. She screamed shrilly, in wild, staccato notes.
“You! You!” she pointed her finger at the outlaw leader. “You brute to women! You ran off from your wife!”
Anson turned plum-color and then slowly white. The girl must have sent a random shot home.
“And now the devil's turned you into a snake. A long, scaly snake with green eyes! Uugh! You'll crawl on your belly soon—when my cowboy finds you. And he'll tramp you in the dust.”
She floated away from them and began to whirl gracefully, arms spread and hair flying; and then, apparently oblivious of the staring men, she broke into a low, sweet song. Next she danced around a pine, then danced into her little green inclosure. From which presently she sent out the most doleful moans.
“Aww! What a shame!” burst out Anson. “Thet fine, healthy, nervy kid! Clean gone! Daffy! Crazy 'n a bedbug!”
“Shore it's a shame,” protested Wilson. “But it's wuss for us. Lord! if we was hoodooed before, what will we be now? Didn't I tell you, Snake Anson? You was warned. Ask Shady an' Moze—they see what's up.”
“No luck 'll ever come our way ag'in,” predicted Shady, mournfully.
“It beats me, boss, it beats me,” muttered Moze.
“A crazy woman on my hands! If thet ain't the last straw!” broke out Anson, tragically, as he turned away. Ignorant, superstitious, worked upon by things as they seemed, the outlaw imagined himself at last beset by malign forces. When he flung himself down upon one of the packs his big red-haired hands shook. Shady and Moze resembled two other men at the end of their ropes.
Wilson's tense face twitched, and he averted it, as apparently he fought off a paroxysm of some nature. Just then Anson swore a thundering oath.
“Crazy or not, I'll git gold out of thet kid!” he roared.
“But, man, talk sense. Are you gittin' daffy, too? I declare this outfit's been eatin' loco. You can't git gold fer her!” said Wilson, deliberately.
“Why can't I?”
“'Cause we're tracked. We can't make no dickers. Why, in another day or so we'll be dodgin' lead.”
“Tracked! Whar 'd you git thet idee? As soon as this?” queried Anson, lifting his head like a striking snake. His men, likewise, betrayed sudden interest.
“Shore it's no idee. I 'ain't seen any one. But I feel it in my senses. I hear somebody comin'—a step on our trail—all the time—night in particular. Reckon there's a big posse after us.”
“Wal, if I see or hear anythin' I'll knock the girl on the head an' we'll dig out of hyar,” replied Anson, sullenly.
Wilson executed a swift forward motion, violent and passionate, so utterly unlike what might have been looked for from him, that the three outlaws gaped.
“Then you'll shore hev to knock Jim Wilson on the haid first,” he said, in voice as strange as his action.
“Jim! You wouldn't go back on me!” implored Anson, with uplifted hands, in a dignity of pathos.
“I'm losin' my haid, too, an' you shore might as well knock it in, an' you'll hev to before I'll stand you murderin' thet pore little gurl you've drove crazy.”
“Jim, I was only mad,” replied Anson. “Fer thet matter, I'm growin' daffy myself. Aw! we all need a good stiff drink of whisky.”
So he tried to throw off gloom and apprehension, but he failed. His comrades did not rally to his help. Wilson walked away, nodding his head.
“Boss, let Jim alone,” whispered Shady. “It's orful the way you buck ag'in' him—when you seen he's stirred up. Jim's true blue. But you gotta be careful.”
Moze corroborated this statement by gloomy nods.
When the card-playing was resumed, Anson did not join the game, and both Moze and Shady evinced little of that whole-hearted obsession which usually attended their gambling. Anson lay at length, his head in a saddle, scowling at the little shelter where the captive girl kept herself out of sight. At times a faint song or laugh, very unnatural, was wafted across the space. Wilson plodded at the cooking and apparently heard no sounds. Presently he called the men to eat, which office they surlily and silently performed, as if it was a favor bestowed upon the cook.
“Snake, hadn't I ought to take a bite of grub over to the gurl?” asked Wilson.
“Do you hev to ask me thet?” snapped Anson. “She's gotta be fed, if we hev to stuff it down her throat.”
“Wal, I ain't stuck on the job,” replied Wilson. “But I'll tackle it, seein' you-all got cold feet.”
With plate and cup be reluctantly approached the little lean-to, and, kneeling, he put his head inside. The girl, quick-eyed and alert, had evidently seen him coming. At any rate, she greeted him with a cautious smile.
“Jim, was I pretty good?” she whispered.
“Miss, you was shore the finest aktress I ever seen,” he responded, in a low voice. “But you dam near overdid it. I'm goin' to tell Anson you're sick now—poisoned or somethin' awful. Then we'll wait till night. Dale shore will help us out.”
“Oh, I'm on fire to get away,” she exclaimed. “Jim Wilson, I'll never forget you as long as I live!”
He seemed greatly embarrassed.
“Wal—miss—I—I'll do my best licks. But I ain't gamblin' none on results. Be patient. Keep your nerve. Don't get scared. I reckon between me an' Dale you'll git away from heah.”
Withdrawing his head, he got up and returned to the camp-fire, where Anson was waiting curiously.
“I left the grub. But she didn't touch it. Seems sort of sick to me, like she was poisoned.”
“Jim, didn't I hear you talkin'?” asked Anson.
“Shore. I was coaxin' her. Reckon she ain't so ranty as she was. But she shore is doubled-up, an' sickish.”
“Wuss an' wuss all the time,” said Anson, between his teeth. “An' where's Burt? Hyar it's noon an' he left early. He never was no woodsman. He's got lost.”
“Either thet or he's run into somethin',” replied Wilson, thoughtfully.
Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath—the reaction of a man whose accomplices and partners and tools, whose luck, whose faith in himself had failed him. He flung himself down under a tree, and after a while, when his rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep. Moze and Shady kept at their game. Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the dell and back to camp. The afternoon hours were long. And they were waiting hours. The act of waiting appeared on the surface of all these outlaws did.
At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague, thick twilight. Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up. As he glanced around, evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.
“No sign of Burt?” he asked.
Wilson expressed a mild surprise. “Wal, Snake, you ain't expectin' Burt now?”
“I am, course I am. Why not?” demanded Anson. “Any other time we'd look fer him, wouldn't we?”
“Any other time ain't now.... Burt won't ever come back!” Wilson spoke it with a positive finality.
“A-huh! Some more of them queer feelin's of yourn—operatin' again, hey? Them onnatural kind thet you can't explain, hey?”
Anson's queries were bitter and rancorous.
“Yes. An', Snake, I tax you with this heah. Ain't any of them queer feelin's operatin' in you?”
“No!” rolled out the leader, savagely. But his passionate denial was a proof that he lied. From the moment of this outburst, which was a fierce clinging to the old, brave instincts of his character, unless a sudden change marked the nature of his fortunes, he would rapidly deteriorate to the breaking-point. And in such brutal, unrestrained natures as his this breaking-point meant a desperate stand, a desperate forcing of events, a desperate accumulation of passions that stalked out to deal and to meet disaster and blood and death.
Wilson put a little wood on the fire and he munched a biscuit. No one asked him to cook. No one made any effort to do so. One by one each man went to the pack to get some bread and meat.
Then they waited as men who knew not what they waited for, yet hated and dreaded it.
Twilight in that glen was naturally a strange, veiled condition of the atmosphere. It was a merging of shade and light, which two seemed to make gray, creeping shadows.
Suddenly a snorting and stamping of the horses startled the men.
“Somethin' scared the hosses,” said Anson, rising. “Come on.”
Moze accompanied him, and they disappeared in the gloom. More trampling of hoofs was heard, then a cracking of brush, and the deep voices of men. At length the two outlaws returned, leading three of the horses, which they haltered in the open glen.
The camp-fire light showed Anson's face dark and serious.
“Jim, them hosses are wilder 'n deer,” he said. “I ketched mine, an' Moze got two. But the rest worked away whenever we come close. Some varmint has scared them bad. We all gotta rustle out thar quick.”
Wilson rose, shaking his head doubtfully. And at that moment the quiet air split to a piercing, horrid neigh of a terrified horse. Prolonged to a screech, it broke and ended. Then followed snorts of fright, pound and crack and thud of hoofs, and crash of brush; then a gathering thumping, crashing roar, split by piercing sounds.
“Stampede!” yelled Anson, and he ran to hold his own horse, which he had haltered right in camp. It was big and wild-looking, and now reared and plunged to break away. Anson just got there in time, and then it took all his weight to pull the horse down. Not until the crashing, snorting, pounding melee had subsided and died away over the rim of the glen did Anson dare leave his frightened favorite.
“Gone! Our horses are gone! Did you hear 'em?” he exclaimed, blankly.
“Shore. They're a cut-up an' crippled bunch by now,” replied Wilson.
“Boss, we'll never git 'ern back, not 'n a hundred years,” declared Moze.
“Thet settles us, Snake Anson,” stridently added Shady Jones. “Them hosses are gone! You can kiss your hand to them.... They wasn't hobbled. They hed an orful scare. They split on thet stampede an' they'll never git together. ... See what you've fetched us to!”
Under the force of this triple arraignment the outlaw leader dropped to his seat, staggered and silenced. In fact, silence fell upon all the men and likewise enfolded the glen.
Night set in jet-black, dismal, lonely, without a star. Faintly the wind moaned. Weirdly the brook babbled through its strange chords to end in the sound that was hollow. It was never the same—a rumble, as if faint, distant thunder—a deep gurgle, as of water drawn into a vortex—a rolling, as of a stone in swift current. The black cliff was invisible, yet seemed to have many weird faces; the giant pines loomed spectral; the shadows were thick, moving, changing. Flickering lights from the camp-fire circled the huge trunks and played fantastically over the brooding men. This camp-fire did not burn or blaze cheerily; it had no glow, no sputter, no white heart, no red, living embers. One by one the outlaws, as if with common consent, tried their hands at making the fire burn aright. What little wood had been collected was old; it would burn up with false flare, only to die quickly.
After a while not one of the outlaws spoke or stirred. Not one smoked. Their gloomy eyes were fixed on the fire. Each one was concerned with his own thoughts, his own lonely soul unconsciously full of a doubt of the future. That brooding hour severed him from comrade.
At night nothing seemed the same as it was by day. With success and plenty, with full-blooded action past and more in store, these outlaws were as different from their present state as this black night was different from the bright day they waited for. Wilson, though he played a deep game of deceit for the sake of the helpless girl—and thus did not have haunting and superstitious fears on her account—was probably more conscious of impending catastrophe than any of them.
The evil they had done spoke in the voice of nature, out of the darkness, and was interpreted by each according to his hopes and fears. Fear was their predominating sense. For years they had lived with some species of fear—of honest men or vengeance, of pursuit, of starvation, of lack of drink or gold, of blood and death, of stronger men, of luck, of chance, of fate, of mysterious nameless force. Wilson was the type of fearless spirit, but he endured the most gnawing and implacable fear of all—that of himself—that he must inevitably fall to deeds beneath his manhood.
So they hunched around the camp-fire, brooding because hope was at lowest ebb; listening because the weird, black silence, with its moan of wind and hollow laugh of brook, compelled them to hear; waiting for sleep, for the hours to pass, for whatever was to come.
And it was Anson who caught the first intimation of an impending doom.