“Guess we’ll send the committee, sheriff.”
With a surging of turned horses, the crowd headed about and started back for town. Fisher gazed after them until the darkness had swallowed up the mob; then he turned, and found Steve Arnold at his elbow.
“Red, you’re sure a wonder!” exclaimed Steve admiringly. “You done it. What next?”
“Riding,” replied Fisher. “Hard riding, Steve. You know the country better than I do. You have to go ahead to the Circle Bar and get every last one of Jake Harper’s boys out around Buck’s place; no fighting, understand, but the Running Dog outfit must be cooped up. Tell ’em to drop any man that rides out.”
“Ain’t enough of ’em,” objected Arnold dubiously.
“Sure there is.” Fisher laughed. “Those old fellows are dead shots, Steve; you don’t know ’em. They’ll circle out around the Running Dog buildings and close up things tighter than a drum. Anyhow, they have to do it. Tell them I’ll be over to-morrow, after getting cleaned up at the Lazy S. And tell them to wait, understand? Wait! No foolishness. Then you come ahead to the Lazy S yourself. I’m going there now.”
“S’pose Jake’s all right?” suggested Arnold. “We ain’t certain that Buck got him——”
“The orders stand. If Jake’s there, tell him it’s a clean-up of the Running Dog.”
“Suits me, feller. Adios!”
Arnold climbed into the saddle and was gone.
Templeton Buck might have a dirty streak in him, but he was no coward.
If the man’s make-up held a large amount of deliberate criminality, of cold and unscrupulous evil, it also held a large amount of strength and resolute purpose. Otherwise, Buck could never have remained the leader of such men as followed him.
And on this bright and sunny morning Templeton Buck was facing the hardest battle he had ever faced—a battle with himself.
On the previous night he had learned of the disaster which had overwhelmed all his craftily laid plans. True, he had Jake Harper a prisoner, tied into the big chair before the fireplace. But Robinson had turned out to be Sam Fisher—and the roads were watched by the Circle Bar men.
The story told by the two men on the previous night had been utterly incredible, but with daylight it had been backed up when Sandy Davitt undertook to ride forth. Sandy’s horse had been killed under him. No one else tried to leave the Running Dog buildings.
Here in the living room of the ranch house, alone with the old man tied into the chair, Buck paced up and down, fighting out his battle. Would he lie to his men, or tell them the truth? That was it.
From the chair old Jake Harper watched him with terrible, intent eyes.
“Give me your word to act gentle, and I’ll loose you, Jake,” said Buck.
“I’ll give you my word,” said Jake, his voice deadly, “that all I want is to git my hands on a gun, and I’ll fill ye full o’ lead, ye mis’able coyote!”
So Jake Harper remained where he was. Buck continued his steady pacing back and forth, then suddenly came to a pause before his captive and shot out a remark:
“Where I made a mistake was in killing Cervantes. I should have given him a chance.”
Jake Harper swore at him angrily.
“Where you done made your mistake, Buck, was in tryin’ to covet the Shumway place. You stole the Lazy S cattle, and you should ha’ stopped there.”
Silence again. Buck went on with his uneasy stride. It was a difficult decision which faced him.
At this moment, while he stood on the brink of disaster, Templeton Buck for the first time saw clearly how things had come to this pass. He was rich in money and land. He did not need the Shumway land added to his own. He was powerful.
Being rich and powerful, he had thought himself secure, had determined to get both Stella and the Lazy S, and had been careless as to his methods. Back in the old days, when Frank Shumway had knocked him down, he had revenged himself by sending young Shumway to the penitentiary—deliberately framing him.
He had not stopped there. One thing had led to another—little things, most of them. Like a rolling snowball, the affair had gained impetus. The one man Buck had feared was Sam Fisher, the sheriff of Pecos, and he had tried desperately to keep Fisher out of the way. Even now, he perceived, Fisher was the one man who threatened him.
If he could only be rid of Fisher! With Fisher out of the way all would yet be well. The murder of Cervantes could be met and faced down; with Sheriff Tracy handling the affair, no jury in the county would dare to convict Buck. Jake Harper could be held a prisoner until the mortgage was foreclosed. Lies and false witnesses would still serve to smooth the way.
Buck strode from the room, left the building, and passed over to the corrals. Here his entire outfit was lounging about as though waiting for his coming. Not until he met their nods and greetings did Buck come to a full decision as to what he would do.
For, as yet, these punchers knew nothing of the Cervantes killing beyond what had been reported from town. None of them had witnessed it. All of them, beyond a doubt, held strong suspicions. It had been a despicable act, even in their eyes.
Buck came to a halt, beckoned to the men, and met their curious stares with a flame of resolution in his eyes.
“Boys,” he said quietly, “the story that Sam Fisher told in town was true. Steve Arnold must have seen the killing of Cervantes. We could have made it stick on Fisher, at that, if he hadn’t been too smart for me.”
Every man there appreciated what this confession meant to Buck.
“Now, boys,” went on the rancher, “Sam Fisher is no fool. As things stand right now, he’s playin’ a strong game and a winnin’ game. He’s got us blockaded here, and the only thing left for me is to take my med’cine without a whine. I aim to do it. Still, that’s no reason for draggin’ you boys into the same noose, so I’m here to give each of you his time. You ain’t workin’ for me no more.”
An outburst of protest was quieted by Buck’s uplifted hand, in which was a roll of bills.
“Sandy Davitt! Come an’ git it, puncher.”
Davitt stepped up, started to speak, reddened, and checked the words. He took the money placed in his hand, and waited. One by one the other Running Dog men stepped up to Buck and received their wages. When it was finished Buck smiled thinly.
“Now, I reckon, you-all can git past the Circle Bar men.”
Nobody moved. Of the eleven men who stood there in the sunlight around the tall figure of Templeton Buck, none budged. Sandy Davitt glanced around, hitched up his belt, and grinned at the rancher. His cast eye gave the grin a baleful aspect.
“Buck,” he said, “I opine we ain’t workin’ for you no more. Is that c’rect?”
“You said it, Sandy.”
“Then, far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a durn about Cervantes. You’ve spoke out to us like a man, Buck, and by thunder I’m stickin’ right here!”
“And me!” chimed in a voice. Then a chorus: “Me, too! We stays here, Buck!”
Buck stood in silence a long moment, his thin, high-boned features flushed darkly. It was a magnificent tribute these men paid him—a tribute of which he was unworthy. To the last one they were men; reckless, scoundrelly if you like, but men unafraid.
“Ain’t none of you ridin’ to town?” asked Buck.
“Nary one, I guess,” Sandy Davitt made response. A growl of assent backed him up.
“I appreciate this, boys; I sure do!” Buck’s tall figure straightened up. “Well, I give you the worst end of the talk on the start. It’s true that Sam Fisher is playin’ a winning hand so far, but he ain’t raked in the pot by a long sight! He’s bluffed out Tracy, and he’s got Pahrump buffaloed—but all he’s got behind him is the Circle Bar, and we’ve got Jake Harper here. That means we got to wipe out Sam Fisher to win the pot!”
“And Steve Arnold,” corrected Davitt. Buck nodded.
“Yep. Them two, y’ understand. They’re over to the Lazy S, as I get it, while Harper’s bunch has us held up here. Also, we can’t afford to drop Fisher when, he comes to arrest me; it’d look too much like he was killed in the performance of his duty, y’ understand? We want to fix it so nobody won’t know jest what happened. Do you foller me?”
“You bet!” came the admiring response. “How ye goin’ to work it?”
Buck was silent for a moment, his eyes searching the surrounding country. Not a sign of the Circle Bar men was in evidence, but well he knew that they were waiting, grimly hidden.
Almost any man, given the opportunity, will shoot rather than be sent to the penitentiary, and Buck was now perfectly cool and steady in his resolute air. He had everything to gain and nothing to lose, and a single bold, well-planned stroke might yet save him from the brink of disaster.
“Twelve of us,” he murmured. “We might work it! How many horses in the corral, Sandy?”
“Close to thirty,” returned Davitt at once.
“And the Circle Bar lays right up the valley from the Lazy S. Anybody at Shumway’s would be sure to see the Circle Bar if she was burnin’, I guess?”
Davitt straightened up in surprise.
“Certain, Buck, certain! They’d see the smoke sure. But how ye goin’ to reach the Circle Bar to fire her?”
Buck smiled weakly. “That’s the easiest part of it, Sandy. This here Sam Fisher, he never wants no crowd; it’s always a lone-hand play with him. If him and Arnold seen the smoke from the Circle Bar, what’d they do?”
“Light out to investigate where we were,” was the response. “They’d know we’d got away from here and was busy. And they’d come a-smokin’.”
“Exactly, Sandy,” was Buck’s triumphant return. “Jest what I figger my ownself.”
“But how in time are we goin’ to git away from here?”
Buck laughed and clapped his ex-foreman on the shoulder.
“Jest ride, cowboy, ride!” he exclaimed. “All right, boys; rustle up some grub and git saddled. Bring out every hoss in the corral, rope ’em together, and wait. Saddle an extry hoss for Jake Harper. Sandy, come along and give me a hand with Jake.”
Comprehending, at least in part, the bold scheme which Buck planned, the men leaped into action.
Thirteen of the horses were saddled, the others were hastily strung together; rifles were booted, packets of grub made up, canteens filled. By the time the punchers were mounted they had not long to wait; Sandy Davitt and Buck appeared, shoving forward the figure of old Jake Harper, hands firmly bound behind his back. They could not bind his tongue, however, and he cursed the entire gang with vitriolic emphasis as he came. The hearers smiled and grinned, making no response.
“Climb or we boosts you, Jake,” said Buck, reaching the spare saddle.
The boost was necessary, and was given; following which the old scout was firmly lashed in the saddle. At Buck’s orders a reata was put about his neck, the loose end of which Buck took over when he had mounted. Then, revolver in hand, Buck gave the word to ride north.
“Take it easy, boys,” he ordered. “No hurry.”
His strategy became only too apparent to friend and foe alike. Any shots from ambush would draw an instant bullet into the body of Jake Harper; the menace of the rope and Buck’s drawn revolver were entirely obvious.
Buck himself rode in the van, Jake Harper a little in front. Behind, the Running Dog men spread out, the extra horses crowding up in the rear. As they wound out on the way, Jake Harper perceived how he was being used, and he sent a booming roar of command at the empty spaces around, where he knew his men were hidden.
“Fire into ’em, boys! Shoot! Don’t ye mind me! Shoot!”
No response was made. None could be made; the Circle Bar outfit dared not call the silent bluff that Buck was running. Well they knew that the bluff would be backed up.
Without a shot being fired, without an enemy being sighted, the Running Dog men rode off in peace. After them, undoubtedly, would trail Harper’s men, but it would take some time for the latter to collect and follow.
Immediately upon reaching the highway, Buck halted and lifted a hand.
“I want two of you boys to take all the spare hosses and ride on to the Circle Bar. Fire her, barns and all, and kill your beasts gettin’ there. It’s got to be done quick. Harper’s outfit will likely foller your trail. Four stays here to hold ’em up half an hour, no more. The rest goes with me.”
Two of the men at once gathered in the lines of the spare horses, waved an adios, and went north at a gallop. To the four who announced themselves as ready to hold up the pursuit, Buck gave a few brief words.
“No killin’ if ye can help it. Shoot the hosses. Then make your get-away to town and wait for news. If I win I’ll join ye there to-night. If not, then beat it into Laredo County and lay low. Good luck to ye, boys!”
“Same to you!” they rejoined, and scattered out to take position.
Five men with him, besides their captive, Buck turned from the road and led the way toward the hills.
Old Jake Harper cursed luridly as he perceived the really admirable strategy that was under way, although its object was hidden from him. When the Circle Bar came up, they would be delayed appreciably by the four men. When at last left free to take the trail, they would naturally follow that left by the largest number of horses, leading toward their home ranch. And in the meantime Buck would be somewhere else.
“What’s the big idea, Buck?” asked Sandy Davitt, riding at the rancher’s stirrup. “Where we off for?”
“Git through the hills, hit the valley trail beyond, and lay up,” said Buck with a grin. “Sam Fisher and Arnold are bound to come that way from the Lazy S when they see the smoke, ain’t they?”
Sandy Davitt slapped his thigh with a loud guffaw.
“Whoop-ee! Buck, you sure wins the deal! And while we gathers in the sheriff o’ Pecos and his pal, the Circle Bar outfit is millin’ around tryin’ to find out what’s done happened, eh?”
“Somethin’ like that, Sandy,” and Buck grinned confidently.
Jake Harper fell silent from sheer desperation.
In less than an hour Buck and his party were assured that they had nothing to fear from any trailing Circle Bar riders. They rode through the hills and gained the farther slopes of the divide, with the rolling river flat beyond.
Here Buck drew rein, pointing.
There was no need for words, although Jake Harper, with recovered vocabulary, spilled pardonable curses upon the air. To the-north was ascending a stream of heavy smoke that rose straight into the windless sky.
“They done it,” said Sandy Davitt briefly.
“Two of you boys stay here with Jake,” ordered Buck to his five. “If you don’t get no word from me by dark, turn Jake loose and make your getaway. If I win, I’ll send word to ye ’fore dark.”
Nobody wanted to remain, so straws were pulled. The losers, disgruntled, took over the prisoner’s bridle and sat their horses while Buck, Sandy Davitt, and the remaining two men rode on.
“Good luck!” they called. Buck responded with a wave of his white Stetson.
The four men who were left in company now pushed their horses ahead at a good clip. Two miles away was the river trail, which Arnold and Sam Fisher would follow, provided they did the expected thing.
“Gosh, she’s sure a-smoking!” observed Sandy Davitt, his squint gaze flitting to the smoke in the north. “They done it, all right. Fired everything in sight! I’ll bet Jake will curse over losin’ his first cuttin’ of alfalfa. He only laid it in last week.”
Buck smiled weakly, but made no response. If he lost his stake, he would lose more than alfalfa.
Knowing to what manner of work they rode, the four pressed on warily, eyes searching the landscape ahead. They were unlikely to meet any one here. The Lazy S and Circle Bar lands ran together at a short distance, and the river road was only a trail used by the few riders of the two ranches.
They came upon it at last, and simultaneously drew rein. The trail told them a plain story; no one had passed this way within the past few hours, at least.
“What you aim to do?” asked one of the punchers as they sat motionless. “Rope him?”
“Rope him?” Buck spat a vicious oath. “We’d look fine ropin’ that gent—and Arnold! What would we want to rope ’em for?”
Sandy Davitt laughed harshly. He swung up his arm to a bend in the road fifty yards to their left.
“Stick right here, Buck, and drop ’em as they come around that bend. Don’t need the rifles to do it. Better hobble the cayuses in this bresh.”
Buck nodded assent. A better place for the ambush could not be found.
The four men dismounted. One of the punchers led off the animals. The other three went to the river bank, here a scant hundred yards distant, and slaked their thirst. Upon rising, Buck gave his orders.
“We’d better spread out jest far enough to keep an eye out in both directions. I’ll watch the south for ’em, Sandy, attend to the Circle Bar end; ain’t likely any one will come, but we’d better watch that way, too.”
Sandy Davitt swung off, followed by his companion.
Buck sought a position whence he could obtain a fair view of the valley in the direction of the Shumway ranch. He did not need to have the winding road in view. Even this slightly used trail was deep in dust, and any rider would leave a brown smudge that would rise into a trailing wedge to be discerned afar.
The horses were hidden away from sight among the trees that fringed the river. To the north the great splotch of smoke had lessened into a thin trail; Harper’s place was burned out. It could not be long now before Fisher would come—if he came at all.
“Hey, Buck!” rose the cautious voice of Davitt. “Rider from the north!”
“Comin’,” responded Buck hastily, and ran to join his men.
The north trail was nearly hidden from them, but they could make out a trail of dust, and presently the swiftly moving object which had drawn the attention of Davitt. As this object came closer Davitt uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Ain’t no rider at all! By gosh, it’s a hoss!”
“It’s Jake Harper’s hoss, Celestine,” added Buck, watching the approaching beast.
“He got away from us when we nabbed Jake yestiddy,” said Sandy Davitt. “Git a rope, boys——”
“Stop!” ordered Buck. “Git off the trail, quick; leave the brute go through! It’ll fetch Sam Fisher jest that much quicker.”
They hastened to clear the way. A moment more and the pound of hoofs came to them, and along the trail dashed the rawboned brute at a mad gallop, his vicious eyes rolling wildly, panic driving him. He was past them like a whirlwind, and went pounding away to the south.
“Fire scart him,” said Davitt, emerging into the road again. “Good idee to let him go, Buck. Scatter out, everybody! Keep yer eyes skinned!”
It was only a moment later that Buck’s voice rose warningly:
“Dust a-comin’, boys! Git together!”
Excitement spurred them as they ran in to the place of ambush. From here they had a view of the road farther down the river; they stood motionless, guns drawn, tense with expectation. Davitt and Buck were together on one side of the road, the other two men opposite them.
Into the patch of road down the river crept a moving object, dust trailing it. From Davitt broke one astounded oath.
“Look out thar, boys! It’s Stella Shumway comin’; out o’ sight, quick! Duck, you devils, duck! Let her go through; likely they’ll be behind her.”
Davitt and Buck plunged down into the brush, the others following suit. Hoofs came pounding; around the bend just ahead plunged Stella Shumway, wildly spurring her horse forward. The Circle Bar smoke had drawn her as well as others. Her strained and drawn face showed the girl’s inward anxiety.
“Hurry, boy, hurry!” she cried to her mount. “We’re ahead of them yet; we’ve got to find Uncle Jake! Hurry, hurry——”
Her voice died into the distance. Almost before she had gone, Davitt was out in the road, then swinging himself into a tree for a swifter view of the lower valley.
“They’re comin’ behind her,” said Buck, his voice steady. “Now the only question is—who’s a-comin’? If it’s a hull blamed crowd, we got to lay low. If it’s them two——”
“Hey, Buck!” Davitt came sliding down, plunged into the dust, sprang eagerly to his feet again. “Two comin’—no more that I can see. Likely they stopped to halt Harper’s hoss, or try to, and the gal went on ahead. Them two’ll be our meat; couldn’t be no others. Watch the road now——”
The four craned forward, intent. Into the patch of road down the river slid the forms of two horses, galloping neck and neck.
“Got ’em!” cried Buck triumphantly. “Git set, boys; let ’em have it as they come around this here bend.”
They scurried to their places, eager with the trembling thrill of the man hunt, fired out of themselves by the hot lust for blood, careless of the thing they were about to do. Hidden, they waited, guns at the level, bloodshot eyes trained on the bend of the trail.
Came a furious drive of hoofs pounding the dusty trail. Through it lifted the voice of Steve Arnold gayly, boyishly:
“Whoop-ee! Out o’ my way, cowboy! I’m crowdin’ you for room; gimme air! Go git a good hoss if ye want to ride with me——”
Buck’s lips curved cruelly; they were coming together, racing neck and neck!
And then—they came. Plunging around the bend together, Sam Fisher and Arnold, low in the saddle, driving their white-flecked horses, racing to catch up with the girl ahead and reach the cause of that smoke reek in the sky.
Crack! Pistols roared from either side the road. The two riders caromed together, a horse sent up its horrible scream, men and beasts went flinging down in a terrible crash.
Mad with the killing, Buck’s two punchers leaped into sight across the road, ran forward. From the great cloud of dust cracked a shot, and another. The foremost man fell on his face; the second coughed, spun around, and dropped.
“Got you!” yelled Arnold.
At the same instant Buck shot, Davitt close behind him. Arnold, dimly visible amid the dust, fell back and straightened out. But, as though in echo to those two shots, came another from the dust. Buck’s hat jerked from his head.
“By gosh, Fisher’s still klckin’!” cried Sandy Davitt in stark amazement.
An oath burst from Buck. He fired into the dust again and again, frenzied. One shot answered him, and one only; the bullet seared across his face, sent him down into the grass wiping at his cheeks, swearing, death frightened. Yet he was unhurt.
Both Davitt and Buck crouched low, peering forward, waiting for the dust to settle. It seemed impossible that Fisher could have gone down in that awful welter of death and yet have remained alive; but he was not dead. The shot had shown that.
Little by little the dust subsided. Arnold’s horse, its shoulder smashed by a bullet, raised a shaking head and emitted another frightful scream, then fell back. The other horse lay behind, kicking feebly, trying to grip the ground with its fore hoofs; the poor beast’s back was broken.
Midway between the two animals lay the body of Steve Arnold, face to the sky. But of Sam Fisher there was no sign.
“My gosh!” breathed Davitt incredulously. “He ain’t there. Ah, behind his hoss, Buck! There he is!”
Buck fired, and swore at the miss as he ducked to escape an answering shot. None came. Sandy Davitt, unable to bear the sight of what had been done, deliberately leaned forward and shot the two horses. He, too, ducked low, but no shot answered.
“The son of a gun!” muttered Buck hoarsely. “He’s playing possum, Sandy. Watch out! He wants a good shot at us.”
“I’ll bet he does,” assented Davitt fervently.
For long moments the two men crouched there, peering forward, seeking any sign of movement. None came. The sun beat down on the scene, flooding with pitiless light each terrible detail on the shot-up Steve Arnold, the two horses, the two Running Dog men who had paid the price. And still Sam Fisher remained silent.
At last Buck, unable to stand the strain, went suddenly to his feet.
“All right, you can have your chance!” he cried, and flung himself forward.
Davitt watched, ready to fire at Fisher’s shot. But, to his amazement, he saw Buck check his rush, lower his pistol, and turn.
“All right, Sandy.” Buck’s voice was hoarse. “It’s all over. We got ’em.”
Davitt slowly rose, still half fearful of a trap. Then he put up his gun and stared at his work in silence.
“We win,” said Buck softly, and there was none to say him nay.
A little later Buck and Sandy Davitt sat in the dust, cigarettes in their still tremulous hands, and watched their victims.
“After all, we bungled it a heap,” said Davitt morosely. “Now there’ll be hell to pay and no pitch hot! Buck, we’d ought to finish it.”
Before them lay Steve Arnold, shot through the leg and with an ugly scalp wound; unconscious, but far from dead. The sheriff of Pecos lay beside Arnold, and was equally unconscious. His right knee had been dislocated in the fall, he had a bullet through the right shoulder, another had broken his right wrist.
“We’d ought to finish ’em for our own sake now,” repeated Sandy Davitt.
Buck shook his head. He was white to the lips.
“Do it if you can, Sandy. I can’t.”
Sandy Davitt picked up his gun, compressed his lips, then with an oath thrust the weapon away. It was more than he could do. Buck smiled ironically.
“It ain’t so bad, at that,” he observed. “They’re both put out o’ business and in our hands; anyhow, it’s better’n if we’d killed them, Sandy. Here’s the story. They come on us and started shooting; downed them two boys yonder ’fore we could git into action. Savvy? So we let ’em have it in self-defense. How you goin’ to prove otherwise?”
Davitt nodded, and his face cleared. “All right. But I see plain how come Sam Fisher missed us with them two shots; he done the work with his left hand.”
“He didn’t miss far at that.” Buck shivered a little.
“Thanks,” said Sam Fisher, opening his eyes. “So it ain’t a dream after all, Buck? Say, I’d appreciate it a lot if you gents would do somethin’ to my right knee.”
Buck looked at his companion. By tacit consent they rose and approached their victims, who had been thoroughly disarmed. Fisher turned his head and inspected Steve Arnold.
“Well, this ain’t so bad!” he observed. “Look after Steve first, Buck. His leg is sure pumping out a lot o’ blood. Tie him up good.”
“You shut up,” said Buck roughly. “Catch on here, Sandy.”
They rudely bandaged Arnold’s leg, found that his scalp wound was not serious, and turned to Sam Fisher. Investigation confirmed his previous schedule of injuries.
“She’s dislocated,” announced Sandy. “Buck, catch hold of the ankle; I got the thigh. Go to it.”
Sam Fisher lay back, his fingers gripping at the dirt, a sweat of agony beading his brow. It was done. He said no word as the two men effected a hasty bandaging of his broken right wrist and wounded shoulder. Then they stood erect above him.
“Sandy,” said Buck, steady and calm once more, “you got to ride on the back trail in a hurry. Find the boys we left with Jake Harper and bring ’em on.”
“You can’t stay here with ’em,” said Sandy Davitt roughly.
“I don’t aim to. We got two extra hosses. Tie Arnold in one saddle; Fisher can ride without bein’ tied, I reckon. Anyway, he’s got to! You help me with ’em, then ride on hard for the boys. We’ll put these two with Jake and hold ’em safe for a spell, then I’ll clean up everything here and light out. A week will do it.”
“You aim to light out, do you?” asked Davitt in surprise. Buck nodded.
“Yep. It’s that or kill Sam Fisher, and I guess I’ve gone my limit to-day, Sandy. We’ve done a-plenty.”
“Suit yourself.” Sandy Davitt shrugged.
“Besides, Tracy will be back soon. We’ll lay charges o’ this murder,” and Buck pointed to the two dead men, “against ’em both and lock ’em up. We’ll git clear off ’fore they are able to travel. Dog-gone it! If Fisher was whole, I’d say shoot, but he’s too much shot up, Sandy. Dogged if I can do it now!”
They led out the horses. Into one saddle they lifted the unconscious Arnold, and then lashed him firmly in place. With an effort, Sam Fisher gained his feet, his right hand dangling in its bandage. The ghost of his old whimsical smile touched his lips.
“Put me up, gents, and I guess I can ride,” he said quietly. “And I still got one good hand for the reins——”
“The reins ain’t goin’ to trouble you none,” intervened Buck. “Ready, Sandy!”
Once he was placed in the saddle, Fisher clung to the pommel, his face livid; the pain of the operation was intense. However, he would be able to ride fairly well.
“All right, Sandy,” said Buck as he strung together the reins of the two horses. “Git off and on your way, cowboy! And use them spurs.”
Sandy Davitt leaped to his saddle, yelled at his cayuse, and was gone in a mad rush.
For a little Sam Fisher could only cling to his pommel, faint with pain, his head swirling. When he came to himself he found himself riding beside the still senseless Steve Arnold. Buck rode in front, their reins fastened to his saddle, his rifle across the pommel. He glanced back and glinted a hard smile at the sheriff of Pecos.
“You’re luckier than most, Fisher. Yes, sir, you sure are. If it’d been anybody else you’d be dead this minute.”
Sam Fisher tried to smile. “I don’t see, Buck, why in thunder you didn’t finish the job. It isn’t like you to weaken at killing a man.”
“I may yet.” Buck eyed him morosely. “Reckon I got sentimental for a spell.”
“Then you’d better do it quick,” said Fisher, “for I’ll sure get you, Buck. Yes, sir, I’ll sure——”
His words ended in a groan of anguish and he clutched at the pommel.
Buck smiled. “I reckon you won’t do no gettin’ for some while to come, sheriff; you with a bum laig, a busted arm, and a bullet through the shoulder!”
“I’ve still got one good arm.” Fisher tried to smile, but his lips twisted in pain. A groan was torn from him again. “This knee! I can’t ride with it, Buck.”
“You got to,” said Buck shortly.
At this time, from the wooded hills ahead of them, came a single rifle shot that echoed and died away. Buck frowned and vainly searched the hills with his eyes. Nothing was in sight.
For ten minutes the three pursued their slow course. Fisher clung to his saddle; every movement of his horse caused him torture. At last a cry burst from his lips—a cry so bitter, so desperate in its suffering that Buck drew rein.
“Buck! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! You got to put your coat or somethin’ under my knee; it’s more’n I can bear.”
The man reeled in the saddle as he spoke; he was bent, broken, all his iron nerve shattered by the agony of his tortured body. His blue eyes, dulled with pain, stared horribly at Buck.
The rancher, a trace of pity in his harsh features, silently nodded. He put the rifle in its boot and took off his corduroy coat. This he rolled loosely, then edged his horse beside that of the swaying Fisher.
“Ease up on your laig now while I shove her underneath.”
Fisher reeled, caught at the shoulder of Buck as the latter stooped. Another groan broke from his lips when Buck thrust the rolled corduroy beneath his leg. Then suddenly——
Fisher’s left hand caught the revolver from the holster of the stooping rancher. Swift as light he slashed the front sight across the head of Buck.
“Still got one hand, Buck!” lifted his voice.
Buck hardly knew what had hit him. That front-sight blow stunned him, raked his skull almost to the bone, left a grisly wound. Blindly putting one hand to his head, Buck uttered a hoarse cry, plunged forward, and rolled to the earth senseless.
For a moment Fisher sat gazing down, the revolver in his hand.
“Good work, Sam!” lifted a roaring voice from the trees. “Good work! I was jest gettin’ a bead on the skunk when you riz up.”
Jake Harper urged a horse into sight, uncocking his rifle as he came. Fisher stared at him weakly, hardly realizing what the man’s appearance here meant.
“You got away?” he murmured.
“You bet! Any time I can’t git out o’ buckskin thongs when they’s water handy to stretch ’em—— Good gosh, Sam! What’s happened?”
Sam Fisher reeled a little. Jake looked at the limp figure of Arnold, perceived that Fisher himself was swaying in the saddle.
“Me, I’m about all in, Jake,” said the whimsical voice. “You got to do the rest. Don’t hurt Buck, mind; he’s got to go to the pen. I have the goods on him. You have to take us back to the Lazy S—but look out! Look out for that man Sandy——”
Jake Harper dismounted, rushed to Fisher’s side, and caught the sheriff of Pecos as he went limp.
“Don’t you worry none about Sandy Davitt,” he said grimly. “That’s his hoss I’m ridin’ now. Didn’t ye hear a shot a while back?”
But Sam Fisher could make no response.
In a room of the Lazy S ranch house Sam Fisher lay upon a cot; another held Steve Arnold, both men bandaged, splinted, and smoking cheerfully. Beside the sheriff of Pecos sat Estella Shumway, in her eyes a glow of happiness such as they had not known for months.
Jake Harper, caressing his glossy black mustache, stood in the center of the room. He was just leaving for town. Behind him stood his half-crippled foreman, surveying Sam Fisher with a wolfish smile on his ancient features.
Jake clapped his foreman on the shoulder.
“Listen, Sam!” he said earnestly. “This here old relic, which same has fit more Injuns than kids like you ever seen, is agoin’ to camp outside the door of that there cell we puts Mr. Buck into. Three more of my outfit camps in the jail likewise, until you gits there in person. If you figger Buck gittin’ away from them four you guess again.”
“C’rect; Jake,” and Sam Fisher laughed softly. “Hold Buck there until I can reach town, that’s all. You don’t think any one will try to rescue him?”
Jake Harper pursed up his lips.
“Rescue him? Not much. The coroner’s verdict will guarantee him a quick trial for the murder of Miguel, won’t it? And I’m goin’ to stick around town my ownself. Don’t you worry none about any rescue. Them decrepit Injun fighters of mine is runnin’ his whole outfit, or what’s left of it, out the county.”
“All right,” said Fisher, nodding. “You take the keys to the sheriff’s office—they’re with the others I gave you—and look inside the sheriff’s desk for those papers about Buck and Murphy. They must go to the governor at once; I’ll have to go with ’em, I guess, so that puts it off a few days. Those papers are more important than anything else, Buck; they prove that Frank Shumway was framed and that it was done through Murphy. We’ll get a full confession out of Murphy, beyond a doubt. So we want to get the matter up to the governor and get a pardon for Frank at the earliest moment.”
“I’ll attend to them,” promised Jake. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “So long!Hasta la vista!”
“Say, Jake!” Over their clasped hands Fisher looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “One thing more! Send that preacher out here to-morrow, will you?”
“What for?” demanded Jake in surprise.
“Never mind. You send him.”
“All right. So long, Stella; see you later!”
Jake and his foreman stamped out. Stella Shumway looked at the sheriff of Pecos, her face very red.
“Sam, what do you want that preacher for?”
“Wait a minute.” Fisher lifted himself on his good elbow, and looked at the adjoining cot. He met the grinning features of Steve Arnold, and made a fierce grimace. “You, Steve! If I was you, cowboy, I’d look the other way—right at that wall. It’s a heap interesting.”
With a chuckle Steve obeyed and turned his head.
Fisher dropped on his pillows, and reaching out, seized the hand of the girl.
“Stella, I done bought the ranch, and I’ll pay that mortgage, too—but you ain’t told me yet if it’s done with your consent. You know, Stella——”
The girl’s eyes met his in a smiling glory.
“I don’t aim to leave the old place, Sam,” she said softly, and bent her lips to his.
THE END