At the point where the trail rose abruptly in its ascent to the bench, the horse slackened his pace and she brought him to a stand, and for the first time since she left the town, realized she was not alone. The realization gave her a momentary start, as Purdy reined in close beside her; but a glance into the man's face reassured her.
"Oh, isn't it just grand! I feel as if I could ride on, and on, and on."
The man nodded and pointed upward where the surface of the bench cut the sky-line sharply.
"Yes, mom," he answered respectfully. "If yeh'd admire to, we c'n foller the trail to the top an' ride a ways along the rim of the bench. If you like scenes, that ort to be worth while lookin' at. The dance won't git a-goin' good fer an hour yet 'til the folks gits het up to it."
For a moment Alice hesitated. The romance of the night was upon her. Every nerve tingled, with the feel of the wild. Her glance wandered from the rim of the bench to the cowboy, a picturesque figure as he sat easily in his saddle, a figure toned by the soft touch of the moonlight to an intrinsic symbolism of vast open spaces.
Something warned her to go back, but—what harm could there be in just riding to the top? Only for a moment—a moment in which she could feast her eyes upon the widespread panorama of moonlit wonder—and then, they would be in the little town again before the dance was in full swing. In her mind's eye she saw Endicott's disapproving frown, and with a tightening of the lips she started her horse up the hill and the cowboy drew in beside her, the soft brim of his Stetson concealing the glance of triumph that flashed from his eyes.
The trail slanted upward through a narrow coulee that reached the bench level a half-mile back from the valley. As the two came out into the open the girl once more reined her horse to a standstill. Before her, far away across the moonlit plain the Bear Paws loomed in mysterious grandeur. The clean-cut outline of Miles Butte, standing apart from the main range, might have been an Egyptian pyramid rising abruptly from the desert. From the very centre of the sea of peaks the snow-capped summit of Big Baldy towered high above Tiger Ridge, and Saw Tooth projected its serried crown until it seemed to merge into the Little Rockies which rose indistinct out of the dim beyond.
The cowboy turned abruptly from the trail and the two headed their horses for the valley rim, the animals picking their way through the patches of prickly pears and clumps of low sage whose fragrant aroma rose as a delicate incense to the nostrils of the girl.
Upon the very brink of the valley they halted, and in awed silenceAlice sat drinking in the exquisite beauty of the scene.
Before her as far as the eye could see spread the broad reach of the Milk River Valley, its obfusk depths relieved here and there by bright patches of moonlight, while down the centre, twisting in and out among the dark clumps of cottonwoods, the river wound like a ribbon of gleaming silver. At widely scattered intervals the tiny lights of ranch houses glowed dull yellow in the distance, and almost at her feet the clustering lights of the town shone from the open windows and doors of buildings which stood out distinctly in the moonlight, like a village in miniature. Faint sounds, scarcely audible in the stillness of the night floated upward—the thin whine of fiddles, a shot now and then from the pistol of an exuberant cowboy sounding tiny and far away like the report of a boy's pop-gun.
The torches of the wrecking crew flickered feebly and the drone of their hoisting gears scarce broke the spell of the silence.
Minutes passed as the girl's eyes feasted upon the details of the scene.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful!" she breathed, and then in swift alarm, glanced suddenly into the man's face. Unnoticed he had edged his horse close so that his leg brushed hers in the saddle. The hat brim did not conceal the eyes now, that stared boldly into her face and in sudden terror the girl attempted to whirl her horse toward the trail. But the man's arm shot out and encircled her waist and his hot breath was upon her cheek. With all the strength of her arm she swung her quirt, but Purdy held her close; the blow served only to frighten the horses which leaped apart, and the girl felt herself dragged from the saddle.
In the smoking compartment of the Pullman, Endicott finished a cigarette as he watched the girl ride toward the town in company with Purdy.
"She's a—a headstronglittle fool!" he growled under his breath. He straightened out his legs and stared gloomily at the brass cuspidor. "Well, I'm through. I vowed once before I'd never have anything more to do with her—and yet—" He hurled the cigarette at the cuspidor and took a turn up and down the cramped quarters of the little room. Then he stalked to his seat, met the fat lady's outraged stare with an ungentlemanly scowl, procured his hat, and stamped off across the flat in the direction of the dance-hall. As he entered the room a feeling of repugnance came over him. The floor was filled with noisy dancers, and upon a low platform at the opposite end of the room three shirt-sleeved, collarless fiddlers sawed away at their instruments, as they marked time with boots and bodies, pausing at intervals to mop their sweat-glistening faces, or to swig from a bottle proffered by a passing dancer. Rows of onlookers of both sexes crowded the walls and Endicott's glance travelled from face to face in a vain search for the girl.
A little apart from the others the Texan leaned against the wall. The smoke from a limp cigarette which dangled from the corner of his lips curled upward, and through the haze of it Endicott saw that the man was smiling unpleasantly. Their eyes met and Endicott turned toward the door in hope of finding the girl among the crowd that thronged the street.
Hardly had he reached the sidewalk when he felt a hand upon his arm, and turned to stare in surprise into the dark features of a half-breed,—the same, he remembered, who had helped the Texan to saddle the outlaw. With a swift motion of the head the man signalled him to follow, and turned abruptly into the deep shadow of an alley that led along the side of the livery bam. Something in the half-breed's manner caused Endicott to obey without hesitation and a moment later the man turned and faced him.
"You hont you 'oman?" Endicott nodded impatiently and the half-breed continued: "She gon' ridin' wit Purdy." He pointed toward the winding trail. "Mebbe-so you hur' oop, you ketch." Without waiting for a reply the man slipped the revolver from his holster and pressed it into the astonished Endicott's hand, and catching him by the sleeve, hurried him to the rear of the stable where, tied to the fence of the corral, two horses stood saddled. Loosing one, the man passed him the bridle reins. "Dat hoss, she damn good hoss. Mebbe-so you ride lak' hell you com' long in tam'. Dat Purdy, she not t'ink you got de gun, mebbe-so you git chance to kill um good." As the full significance of the man's words dawned upon him Endicott leaped into the saddle and, dashing from the alley, headed at full speed out upon the winding, sandy trail. On and on he sped, flashing in and out among the clumps of cottonwood. At the rise of the trail he halted suddenly to peer ahead and listen. A full minute he stood while in his ears sounded only the low hum of mosquitoes and the far-off grind of derrick wheels.
He glanced upward and for a moment his heart stood still. Far above, on the rim of the bench, silhouetted clearly against the moonlight sky were two figures on horseback. Even as he looked the figures blended together—there was a swift commotion, a riderless horse dashed from view, and the next moment the sky-line showed only the rim of the bench.
The moon turned blood-red. And with a curse that sounded in his ears like the snarl of a beast, Winthrop Adams Endicott tightened his grip upon the revolver and headed the horse up the steep ascent.
The feel of his horse labouring up the trail held nothing of exhilaration for Endicott. He had galloped out of Wolf River with the words of the half-breed ringing in his ears: "Mebbe-so you ride lak' hell you com' long in tam'!" But, would he "com' long in tam'"? There had been something of sinister portent in that swift merging together of the two figures upon the sky-line, and in the flash-like glimpse of the riderless horse. Frantically he dug his spurless heels into the labouring sides of his mount.
"Mebbe-so you kill um good," the man had said at parting, and as Endicott rode he knew that he would kill, and for him the knowledge held nothing of repugnance—only a wild fierce joy. He looked at the revolver in his hand. Never before had the hand held a lethal weapon, yet no slightest doubt as to his ability to use it entered his brain. Above him, somewhere upon the plain beyond the bench rim, the woman he loved was at the mercy of a man whom Endicott instinctively knew would stop at nothing to gain an end. The thought that the man he intended to kill was armed and that he was a dead shot never entered his head, nor did he remember that the woman had mocked and ignored him, and against his advice had wilfully placed herself in the man's power. She had harried and exasperated him beyond measure—and yet he loved her.
The trail grew suddenly lighter. The walls of the coulee flattened into a wide expanse of open. Mountains loomed in the distance and in the white moonlight a riderless horse ceased snipping grass, raised his head, and with ears cocked forward, stared at him. In a fever of suspense Endicott gazed about him, straining his eyes to penetrate the half-light, but the plain stretched endlessly away, and upon its surface was no living, moving thing.
Suddenly his horse pricked his ears and sniffed. Out of a near-by depression that did not show in the moonlight another horse appeared. It, too, was riderless, and the next instant, from the same direction sounded a low, muffled cry and, leaping from his saddle, he dashed toward the spot. The sage grew higher in the depression which was the head of a branch of the coulee by means of which the trail gained the bench, and as he plunged in, the head and shoulders of a man appeared above a bush. Endicott was very close when the man pushed something fiercely from him, and the body of a woman crashed heavily into the sage. Levelling the gun, he fired. The shot rang loud, and upon the edge of the depression a horse snorted nervously. The man pitched forward and lay sprawled grotesquely upon the ground and Endicott saw that his extended hand grasped a revolver.
Dully he stared at the thing on the ground at his feet. There was a movement in the scrub and Alice Marcum stood beside him. He glanced into her face. And as her eyes strayed from the sprawling figure to meet his, Endicott read in their depths that which caused his heart to race madly. She stepped toward him and suddenly both paused to listen. The girl's face turned chalk-white in the moonlight. From the direction of the coulee came the sound of horses' hoofs pounding the trail!
Bat Lajune grinned into the dark as the galloping cow-horse carried Endicott out upon the trail of Purdy and the girl. "A'm t'ink dat wan good job. Mebbe-so de pilgrim keel Purdy,bien! Mebbe-so Purdy keel de pilgrim, den de sheriff ketch Purdy an' she got for git hang—dat pret' good, too. Anyhow, Tex, she don' got for bodder 'bout keel Purdy no mor'. Tex kin keel him all right, but dat Purdy she damn good shot, too. Mebbe-so she git de drop on Tex. Den afterwards, me—A'm got to fool 'roun' an' keel Purdy, an' mebbe-so A'm hang for dat, too. Wat de hell!"
A man rode up to the corral and tied his horse to the fence. The half-breed drew into the shadow. "Dat Sam Moore," he muttered. "She dipity sher'ff, an' she goin' try for git 'lect for de beeg sher'ff dis fall. Mebbe-so she lak' for git chanct for 'rest som'one. A'm goin' see 'bout dat." He stepped to the side of the man, who started nervously and peered into his face.
"Hello, Bat, what the devil you doin' prowlin' around here? Why hain't you in dancin'?"
The half-breed shrugged: "Me, A'm no lak' for dance mooch. She don' do no good. Anyhow, A'm hont 'roun' for fin' you. A'm t'ink mebbe-so you better com' 'long wit' me."
"Come along with you! What's on yer mind?" Suddenly the man straightened: "Say, look a here, if you're up to helpin' Tex Benton pull off any gag on me, you've picked the wrong hand, see!"
The other shook his head vigorously: "Non! Tex, she goin' in de dance-hall. She don' know nuthin' 'bout w'at A'm know."
"What you drivin' at? Come on, spit 'er out! I hain't a-goin' to fool 'round here all night an' miss the dancin'."
Bat stepped closer: "Two mans an' wan 'oman gon' up de trail. A'm t'ink som'one goin' for git keel. Mebbe-so we better gon' up an' see 'bout dat."
"You're crazy as hell! The trail's free, hain't it? What business I got hornin' in on 'em? I come to town for to take in the dance, an' I'm a-goin' to. Besides it's a good chanct to do a little 'lectioneerin'." Once more Bat shrugged, and turning away, began to untie his horse.
"Four Ace Johnson, over 'crost de riv', she dipity sher'ff, too. A'm hear she goin' run for de beeg sher'ff, nex' fall. A'm gon' over an' see if she no lak' to go 'long an' mak' de arres' if som'ting happen. Mebbe-so w'en de votin' tam' com' 'long de men lak' for hav' Choteau County sher'ff w'at kin mak' de arres' better as de sher'ff w'at kin dance good.Voila!" Without so much as a glance toward the other, he slipped into his saddle and started slowly down the alley. Before he reached the street Moore's horse pushed up beside him.
"Where's this here outfit?" he growled, with a glance toward the dance-hall lights, "an' what makes you think they's a-goin' to be gun-fightin'?"
"A'm t'ink dey ain' so far," replied the half-breed as he swung into the trail at a trot. And although the impatient deputy plied him with a volley of questions the other vouchsafed no further information. Midway of the ascent to the bench the two drew rein abruptly. From above, and at no great distance, rang the sound of a shot—then silence. The deputy glanced at the half-breed: "Hey, Bat," he whispered, "this here's a dangerous business!"
"Mebbe-so Choteau County lak' to git de sher'ff w'at ain' so mooch scairt."
"Scairt! Who's scairt? It hain't that. But I got a wife an' nine kids back there in the mountains, an' I'm a-goin' to deputize you."
The half-breed shot him a look of sudden alarm: "Non!Non! BetterI lak' I ponch de cattle. You ke'p de nine wife an' de kid!"
"You hain't got no more sense than a reservation Injun!" growled the deputy. "What I mean is, you got to help me make this here arrest!"
The half-breed grinned broadly: "Me,—A'm de, w'at you call, de posse, eh?Bien! Com' on 'long den. Mebbe-so we no ketch, you no git 'lect for sher'ff."
At the head of the trail the deputy checked his galloping mount with a jerk and scrutinized the three riderless horses that stood huddled together. His face paled perceptibly. "Oh, Lord!" he gasped between stiffening lips: "It's Tex, an' Jack Purdy, an' they've fit over Cinnabar Joe's gal!"
He turned wrathfully toward Bat. "Why'n you tell me who it was up here, so's I could a gathered a man's-size posse?" he demanded. "Whichever one of them two has shot up the other, they hain't goin' to be took in none peaceable. An' if they've killed one of each other a'ready, he ain't goin' to be none scrupulous about pottin' you an' me. Chances is, they've got us covered right now. 'Tain't noways percautious to go ahead—an' we don't dast to go back! Bat, this is a hell of a place to be—an' it's your fault. Mebbe they won't shoot a unarmed man—here Bat, you take my gun an' go ahead. I'll tell 'em back there how you was game to the last. O-O-o-o-o! I got a turrible cramp in my stummick! I got to lay down. Do your duty, Bat, an' if I surmise this here attact, which I think it's the appendeetus, I'll tell 'em how you died with yer boots on in the service of yer country." The man forced his six-shooter into the half-breed's hand and, slipping limply from his saddle to the ground, wriggled swiftly into the shadow of a sage bush.
Bat moved his horse slowly forward as he peered about him. "If Purdy keel de pilgrim, den A'm better look out. He don' lak' me nohow, 'cause A'm fin' out 'bout dat cinch. Better A'm lak' Sam Moore, A'm git de 'pendeceet in my belly for li'l w'ile." He swung off his horse and flattening himself against the ground, advanced cautiously from bush to bush. At the edge of the depression he paused and stared at the two figures that huddled close together a few feet ahead. Both were gazing toward the trail and in the moonlight he recognized the face of the pilgrim. With a smile of satisfaction the half-breed stood erect and advanced boldly.
"You com' in tam', eh?" he asked, as with a nod Endicott stepped toward him and handed him the revolver.
"Yes, just in time. I am deeply grateful to you."
"Eh?" The other's brows drew together.
"I say, I thank you—for the gun, and for telling me——"
"Ha, dat's a'right. W'er' Purdy?" The girl shuddered, as Endicott pointed to the ground at some little distance away. The man advanced and bent over the prostrate form.
"Ba goss!" he exclaimed with a glance of admiration. "You shoot heem after de draw!Nom de Dieu! You good man wit' de gun! Wer' you hit heem?"
Endicott shook his head. "I don't know. I saw him, and shot, and he fell." The half-breed was bending over the man on the ground.
"You shoot heem on he's head," he approved, "dat pret' good place." He bent lower and a sibilant sound reached the ears of Endicott and the girl. After a moment the man stood up and came toward them smiling. "A'm fin' out if she dead," he explained, casually. "A'm speet de tobac' juice in he's eye. If she wink she ain' dead. Purdy, she don' wink no mor'. Dat damn good t'ing."
Again Alice Marcum shuddered as Endicott spoke: "Can you find our horses?" he asked. "I must go to town and give myself up."
"Oui, A'm git de hoss' a'right. Better you tak' 'em an' skeep off. A'm git on dat posse an' you bet we no ketch. A'm lak' you fine."
"No! No!" Endicott exclaimed. "If I have killed a man I shall stand trial for it. I won't sneak away like a common murderer. I know my act was no crime, let the decision of the jury be what it may."
The half-breed regarded him with a puzzled frown. "You mean you lak' fer git arres'?" he asked in surprise.
"Why, of course! I—" the other interrupted with a laugh.
"A'right. Dat de kin' Sam Moore she lak' fer arres'. Sam, she layin' back here a ways. She dipity sher'ff, an' we'n we com' on dem hoss', Sam she git to fink 'bout he's wife an' kids. He don' fink 'bout dem mooch only w'en he git dronk, or git scairt. Den he lov' 'em lak' hell, an' he grab de beeg belly-ache, so dey don' got for feel sorry 'bout heem gittin' keel."
Slipping his own gun into its holster, the half-breed turned and walked toward the spot where he had left the deputy, and as he walked he threw open the cylinder of the officer's gun and removed the cartridges.
"Sam!" he called sharply. Cautiously a head raised from behind a sage bush. "How long you t'ink dat tak' you git well? Wan man he lak' for git arres' w'en you git time."
"Shut up! Don't talk so loud! D'you want to git us killed? Which one got it?"
"Purdy. De pilgrim shoot heem 'cause he run off wit' he's girl."
"Pilgrim! What pilgrim! An' what girl? Ain't that Tex Benton's horse, an' Cinnabar Joe's——?"
"Uh-huh, A'm bor' heem Tex boss for ketch Purdy. An', Ba goss, he shoot heem on he's head after Purdy draw'd!"
Moore stared aghast. "What? A pilgrim done that? Not on yer life! He may look an' act like a pilgrim but, take it from me, he's a desperate character if he got Purdy after he draw'd. It's worser than if it was Tex.Hemight of took pity on us, knowin' about the fambly. But a stranger, an' one that kin git a man like Jack Purdy! O-o-o-o, my stummick! Bat, I'm 'fraid I'm a-passin' away! These spells is a-killin' me—an' what'll become of the woman an' the kids?"
The half-breed grinned: "Mebbe-so you kin' pass back agin, Sam. He ain' got no gun."
Sam Moore ceased to writhe, and sat abruptly erect. "Ain't got no gun!" he exclaimed. "What did he shoot Purdy with?"
"My gun. He giv' it back to me. A'm bor' heem dat gun li'l while ago."
The deputy sprang to his feet. "Quick, now, Bat!" he roared loudly. "You slip these irons on him, an' I'll catch up the horses. Don't take no chances!" He tossed the half-breed a pair of hand-cuffs, and started after his own horse. "Kill him if he makes a crooked move. Tell him you're actin' under my authority an' let him understand we're hard men to tamper with—us sheriffs. We don't stand fer no foolin'."
In Curly Hardee's dance-hall Tex Benton leaned against the wall and idly watched the couples weave in and out upon the floor to the whining accompaniment of the fiddles and the clanging piano.
Apparently the cowboy's interest centred solely upon the dancers, but a close observer would have noticed the keen glance with which he scanned each new arrival—noticed too, that after a few short puffs on a cigarette the man tossed it to the floor and immediately rolled another, which is not in the manner of a man with a mind at ease.
The Texan saw Endicott enter the room, watched as the man's eyes swept the faces of dancers and spectators, and smiled as he turned toward the door.
"Three of us," mused the cowboy, with the peculiar smile still twisting the corners of his lips, "Purdy, an' me, an' the pilgrim. Purdy's work's so coarse he'll gum his own game, an' that's where I come in. An' the pilgrim—I ain't quite figgered how he stacks up." The cowpuncher glanced at his watch. "It's time they showed up long ago. I wonder what's keepin' em." Suddenly he straightened himself with a jerk: "Good Lord! I wonder if—— But no, not even Purdy would trythat. Still, if he knows I know he tried to dope me he'll be figgerin' on pullin' his freight anyhow, an'—" The man's lips tightened and, elbowing his way to the door he stepped onto the street and hurried to the Headquarters saloon. Cinnabar Joe was behind the bar, apparently none the worse for his dose of chloral, and in answer to a swift signal, followed the Texan to the rear of the room.
"Does Purdy know I'm wise to his dope game?"
The bartender nodded: "Yes, I told him you must of switched the glasses."
"I saw him leadin' your horse rigged up with your side-saddle acrost the flats awhile back."
Again the bartender nodded: "He borrowed the outfit fer a gal of his'n he said come in on the train. Wanted to take her fer a ride."
"Where'd they go?" The words whipped viciously.
"Search me! I've had my hands full to keep track of what's goin' on in here, let alone outside."
Without a word the Texan stepped out the back door and hastened toward the horse corral behind the livery stable. Circling its fence to the head of the alley, he stared in surprise at the spot where he and Bat Lajune had tied their horses. The animals were gone, and cursing the half-breed at every step, he rushed to the street, and catching up the reins of a big roan that stood in a group of horses, swung into the saddle and headed out onto the trail.
"Women are fools," he muttered savagely. "It beats hell what even the sensible ones will fall for!"
At the up-bend of the trail he halted abruptly and listened. From the shadows of the coulee ahead came the sound of voices and the soft scraping of horses' feet. He drew the roan into a cottonwood thicket and waited.
"Somethin' funny here. Nobody ever come to a dance ridin' at a walk," he muttered, and then as the little cavalcade broke into the bright moonlight at a bend of the trail, his eyes widened with surprise. In front rode Bat Lajune with Purdy's horse snubbed to his saddle-horn, and immediately following him were the girl and Endicott riding side by side. Tex saw that the girl was crying, and that Endicott's hands were manacled, and that he rode the missing horse. Behind them rode Sam Moore, pompously erect, a six-shooter laid across the horn of his saddle, and a scowl of conceited importance upon his face that would have evoked the envy of the Kaiser of Krautland. The figure appealed to the Texan's sense of humour and waiting until the deputy was exactly opposite his place of concealment, he filled his lungs and leaned forward in his saddle.
"Y-e-e-e-o-w!" The sound blared out like the shrill of doom. The officer's six-shooter thudded upon the ground, his hands grasped the horn of the saddle, his spurs dug into his horse's flanks and sent the animal crashing between the girl and Endicott and caused Purdy's horse to tear loose from the half-breed's saddle-horn.
"Stand 'em off, Bat!" shrieked the deputy as he shot past, "I'm a-goin' fer help!" and away he tore, leaning far over his horse's neck, with Purdy's horse, the stirrups lashing his sides, dashing madly in his wake.
A moment later Tex pushed his mount into the trail where the girl, drawn close to Endicott, waited in fearful expectation. The half-breed met him with a grin.
Rapidly, with many ejaculations interspersing explosive volleys of half-intelligible words, Bat acquainted the Texan with the progress of events. The cowpuncher listened without comment until the other had finished. Then he turned to Endicott.
"Where'd you learn to shoot?" he asked abruptly.
"I never learned. Until tonight I never had a pistol in my hand."
"You done damned well—to start out with," commented the Texan dryly.
"But, oh, it's horrible!" sobbed the girl, "and it's all my fault!"
"I reckon that's right. It looks like a bad mix-up all around."
"Oh, why didn't you tell me what abeasthe was? You knew all the time. And when you insulted him I thought you werehorrid! And I thought he was so noble when he refrained from shooting you."
"No. He wasn't noble, none noticeable—Purdy wasn't. An' as for me tellin' you about him—answer me square: Would you have believed me?"
The girl's eyes fell before his steady gaze.
"No," she faltered, "I wouldn't. But isn't there something we can do?Some way out of this awful mess?"
The Texan's eyes flashed a glint of daring. He was thinking rapidly. Endicott moved his horse closer to the cowboy. "Can't you manage to getheraway—onto a train some place so she can avoid the annoyance of having to testify at the trial, and submit to the insulting remarks of your sheriff?"
The girl interrupted him: "Winthrop Adams Endicott, if you dare to even thinksucha thing—I'll never speak to you again! Indeed hewon'ttake me away or put me on any train! I got you into this, and I won't budge one inch until you get out of it. What do I care for a little annoyance—and as for the sheriff, I'll say 'boo' at him in the dark and he'll die."
There was a gleam of approval in the eyes of the Texan as his lips twisted into their peculiar cynical smile. "Spunky little devil," he thought to himself. "There's a chance to pull a play here somewhere that'll make me solid with her all right. I got to have time to think." Aloud he said: "Just you leave things to me. I'll get a line on what's what. But you both got to do as I say, an' no augerin' about it neither. It looks from here as if things could be straightened out if someone don't go to work an' ball the jack. An' as for Sam passin' insultin' remarks no more—he won't. Here he comes now with about half Wolf River for a posse." The cowboy turned to Endicott: "You go 'long with 'em an' lay low 'til you hear from Bat, there, or me. Then you do as we say, an' don't ask no questions."
The rumble of horses' feet sounded from the direction of the little town and the Texan whispered to Bat: "Find out where they lock him up. An' when the excitement dies down you find me. I ain't a-goin' to lose sight ofher—see." The half-breed grinned his understanding and Tex swung his horse in close beside the girl and awaited the coming of the posse.
With a yell the onrushing cowboys whom the deputy had recruited from the dance-hall spied the little group and, thundering up at full gallop, formed a closely packed circle about them. Recognizing the deputy who was vociferously urging his horse from the rear, Tex forced his way through the circle and called him aside.
"Say, Sam," he drawled, in a tone that caused the deputy's hair to prickle at its roots; "about some an' sundry insultin' remarks you passed agin' the lady, yonder——"
"No, I never——"
"That'll be about all the lyin' you need to do now. An' just let this sink in. You can lock up the pilgrim where you damn please. But the lady goes to the hotel. If you aim to hold her as a witness you can appoint a guard—an' I'm the guard. D'you get me? 'Cause if there's any misunderstandin' lingerin' in them scrambled aigs you use fer brains, I'll just start out by tellin' the boys what a hell of a brave arrest you pulled off, an' about the nervy stand you made agin' odds to guard your prisoners when I yipped at you from the brush. Then, after they get through havin' their fun out of you, I'll just waste a shell on you for luck—see?"
"Sure, Tex, that sounds reasonable," the other rattled on in evident relief. "Fact is, I be'n huntin' fer you ever sense I suspicioned they'd be'n a murder. 'If I c'd only find Tex,' I says to myself, I says, 'he'd be worth a hull posse hisself.' Jest you go ahead an' night-herd the lady. I'll tell her myself so's it'll be official. An' me an' the rest of the boys here, we'll take care of the pilgrim, which he ain't no pilgrim at all, but a desperate desperado, or he couldn't never have got Jack Purdy the way he done."
The Texan grinned and, forcing his horse through the crowd, reached the girl's side where he was joined a few moments later by the deputy. Despite her embarrassing situation Alice Marcum could scarce restrain a smile at the officer's sudden obsequious deference. Stetson in hand, he bowed awkwardly. "Excuse me, mom, but, as I was goin' on to say in reference of any remarks I might of passed previous, I found out subsequent I didn't mean what I was sayin', which I misunderstood myself complete. But as I was goin' on to say, mom, the State of Montany might need you fer a witness in this here felonious trial, so if you'll be so kind an' go to the _ho_tel along of Tex here whom he's the party I've tolled off fer to guard you, an' don't stand no monkey business neither. What I mean is," he hastened to add, catching a glance from the Texan's eye, "don't be afraid to ask fer soap or towels if there hain't none in yer room, an' if yer cold holler fer an extry blanket er two. The State's a-payin' fer it, an' yer board, too, an' if they don't fill you up every meal you set up a yell an' I'll see 't they do." The deputy turned abruptly away and addressed the cowboys: "Come on, boys, let's git this character under lock an' key so I kin breathe easier."
Even Endicott joined in the laugh that greeted the man's words and, detaining a cowpuncher to ride on either side of the prisoner, the officer solemnly led the way toward town.
As the horses traversed the two miles of winding trail, Alice Marcum glanced from time to time at the Texan who rode silently at her side. The man's face was grave and he seemed entirely oblivious to her presence. Only once did she venture to speak to him.
"I suppose I ought to thank you, Mr.——"
"Tex'll do," supplied the man, without even the courtesy of a glance.
"—for the very changed attitude of the sheriff, and for the fact that I am to be lodged in the hotel instead of the jail."
The girl thought the Texan's lips drew into their peculiar smile, but he gave no further evidence of having heard and rode on in silence, with his attention apparently fixed upon the tips of his horse's ears. At the edge of town the crowd, with Endicott in its midst, swerved toward the railroad and the girl found herself alone with her jailer. She drew up her horse sharply and glanced back toward the prisoner.
"This way," said a voice close beside her; "we'll go to the hotel, I guess there's enough of 'em to see that the pilgrim gets locked up safe."
"But I—I want to speak to him. To tell him——"
"Never mind what you want to tell him. It'll keep, I reckon."
At the door of the wooden hotel the cowpuncher swung from his horse. "You wait here a minute; I'll go fetch Jennie. She's prob'ly over to the dance. She'll fix you up with a room an' see that you get what you want."
"But my bag?"
"Yer what?"
"My bag—with all my things in it. I left it in the car."
"Oh, yer war-bag! All right, I'll get that after I've got Jennie cut out an' headed this way."
He stepped into the dance-hall next door and motioned to a plump, round-faced girl who was dancing with a young cowboy. At the conclusion of the dance the girl laughingly refused to accompany her partner to the bar, and made her way toward the Texan.
"Say, Jennie," the man said, after drawing her aside; "there's a girl over to the hotel and I want you to go over an' fix her up with a room. Give her Number 11. It's handy to the side door."
The girl's nose went up and the laughing eyes flashed scornfully. "No, you don't, Tex Benton! What do you think I am? An' what's more, you don't pull nothin' like that around there. That hotel's run decent, an' it's goin' to stay decent or Hank can get someone else fer help. They's some several of the boys has tried it sence I be'n there but they never tried it but onct.An' that goes!" The girl turned away with a contemptuous sniff.
"Jennie!" The Texan was smiling. "This is a little different case, I reckon."
"They're all different cases," she retorted. "But everything's be'n tried from a sister come on a unexpected visit, to slippin' me five—Cinnabar Joe tended to that one's case hisself, an' he done a good job, too. So you might's well save yer wind 'cause there ain't nothin' you can think up to say that'll fool me a little bit. I ain't worked around hotels fer it's goin' on six years fer nothin', an' I wouldn't trust no man—cowboys an' drummers least of all."
"Listen, Jennie, I ain't tryin' to tell you I wouldn't. Only this time, I ain't. If I was, don't you suppose I've got sense enough not to go to you to help me with it?" The girl waited with all outward appearance of skepticism for him to proceed. "This girl went ridin' with Jack Purdy—he borrowed the side-saddle from Cinnabar——"
"Did Cinnabar loan him that saddle fer any such——?"
"Hold on, now, Cinnabar don't know nothin' about it. Purdy wants to borrow his side-saddle an' Joe says sure."
"He might of know'd if Purdy wanted it, it wasn't fer no good. You're all bad enough, goodness knows, but he was the worst of the lot. I hate Purdy an' you bet he cuts a big circle when he sees me comin'."
"Well, he won't no more," answered the Texan dryly. "Purdy's dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes. He took a pilgrim's girl out on the bench an' the pilgrim got wise to it an' dug out after 'em. Got there just in time an' took a shot at Purdy an' got him."
"Land sakes! I'm glad he did! If they was a few more pilgrims like him that would get about half the rest of you, maybe the others would turn decent, or take to the brush."
The Texan laughed. "Anyway Purdy's dead, an' they've got the pilgrim locked up, an' the girl's held fer a witness, an' I told Sam Moore I'd take a shot at him if he locked her up wherever he's goin' to lock up the pilgrim—in the wool-warehouse I reckon. Anyhow, he told her to go to the hotel an' specified me fer a guard."
"Oh, he did, did he? Well jest you wait 'til I get my hat. I guess maybe she'll be safer withtwoguards." With a meaning look the girl hurried away and a moment later returned and followed the Texan from the room.
"Why was you so anxious she was to have Number 11, if what you've told me is on the level?" she asked, as they approached the hotel.
"I don't know, yet, exactly. But I've got a hunch they'll be somethin' doin' a little later."
"Uh-huh, an' I'll be right there when it's doin', too. An' you can bet your last blue one on that!"
Alice Marcum swung unassisted to the ground as the two approached. And as she glanced into the wide, friendly eyes of the girl she felt deeply grateful to the Texan for bringing a woman. Then the woman was speaking: "Come right along in the house. I'm Jennie Dodds, an' I'll see't you get settled comfortable. Tex, he told me all about it. Land sakes! I bet you feel proud! Who'd a thought any pilgrim could a got Jack Purdy! Where's your grip?"
"Gosh! I plumb forgot!" exclaimed the cowboy, and started for his horse. "I'll be back with yer war-bag in a minute." A few moments later, he returned to the hotel carrying a leather bag.
"I'm goin' to kind of slip around among the boys a bit. I've be'n doin' some thinkin' an maybe we can figger a way out. I don't quite like the way things is shapin' up. I'll be wantin' most likely to see you in a while——"
"We'll both be here," interrupted Jennie. "Bothof us. We'll be inNumber 11."
Outside the hotel the Texan paused to roll and light a cigarette, and as he blew the smoke from his lungs, he smiled cynically.
"Purdy's work was so damn coarse he got just what was comin' to him. There's only me an' the pilgrim, now—an' it's me an' him for it. I ain't plumb got the girl sized up yet. If she's straight—all right. She'll stay straight. If she ain't—— They say everything's fair in love an' war, an' bein' as it's my deal the pilgrim's got to go up against a stacked deck. An' if things works out right, believe me, he's a-goin' to know he's be'n somewhere by the time he gets back—if he ever does get back."
For the third time that evening he entered the dance-hall and avoiding the dancers made his way leisurely toward the bar that ran along one side of the room.
"Hello, Tex, ain't dancin'? Say, they're tellin' how a pilgrim killedJack Purdy. Yes, an' they got him locked up down in thewool-warehouse. What's yourn?" The cowboy ranged himself beside theTexan.
"A little red liquor, I reckon." The men poured their drinks and theTexan glanced toward the other: "You ain't mournin' none over Purdy,Curly?"
"Who, me?" the man laughed. "Not what you c'd notice, I ain't. An' they's plenty others ain't, too. I don't hear no lamentations wailin' a-bustin' in on the festchivities. It was over the pilgrim's girl. They say how Purdy tried to——"
"Yes, he did. But the pilgrim got there first. I been thinkin', Curly. It's plumb shameful for to hold the pilgrim for doin' what one of us would of had to do sooner or later. Choteau County has stood for him about as long as it could, an' a damn sight longer than it ought to. His work was gettin' so rotten it stunk, I could tell you about a sage-brush corral an' some runnin'-iron work over on the south slope——"
"Yes," broke in the other, "an' there's a hell of a lot of I X an' BearPaw Pool cows that show'd up, brandin' time, 'thout no calves."
The Texan nodded: "Exactly. Now, what I was goin' on to say: The grand jury don't set for a couple or three months yet. An' when they do, they'll turn the pilgrim loose so quick it'll make yer head swim. Then, there's the girl. They'll hold her for a witness—not that they'd have to, 'cause she'll stay on her own hook. Now what's the use of them bein' took down to Benton an' stuck in jail? Drink up, an' have another."
"Not none," agreed Curly, as he measured out his liquor to an imaginary line half-way up the glass. "But how'd you figger to fix it?"
"Well," answered the Texan, as his lips twisted into their peculiar smile; "we might get the right bunch together an' go down to the wool-warehouse an' save the grand jury the trouble."
The other stared at him in amazement: "You mean bust him out?"
Tex laughed: "Sure. Lord! Won't it be fun seein' Sam Moore puttin' up a scrap to save his prisoner?"
"But, how'd we git away with him? All Sam w'd do is git a posse an' take out after him an' they'd round him up 'fore he got to Three-mile. Or if we went along we'd git further but they'd git us in the end an' then we'd be in a hell of a fix!"
"Your head don't hurt you none, workin' it that way, does it?" grinned Tex. "I done thought it all out. We'll get the boys an' slip down to the warehouse an' take the pilgrim out an' slip a noose around his neck an' set him on a horse an' ride out of town a-cussin' him an' a-swearin' to lynch him. He won't know but what we aim to hang him to the first likely cottonwood, an' we'll have a lot of fun with him. An' no one else won't know it, neither. Then you-all ride back an' pertend to keep mum, but leak it out that we done hung him. They won't be no posse hunt for him then an' I'll take him an' slip him acrost to the N. P. or the C. P. R. an' let him go. It's too good a chanct to miss. Lordy! Won't the pilgrim beg! An' Sam Moore—he'll be scairt out of a year's growth!"
"But, the girl," objected Curly.
"Oh, the girl—well, they'll turn her loose, of course. They ain't nothin' on her except for a witness. An' if they ain't no prisoner they won't need no witness, will they?"
"That's right," assented the other. "By gosh, Tex, what you can't think up, the devil wouldn't bother with. That's sure some stunt. Let's get the boys an' go to it!"
"You get the boys together. Get about twenty of the live ones an' head 'em over to the Headquarters. I'll go hunt up a horse for the pilgrim an' be over there in half an hour."
Curly passed from man to man, whom he singled out from among the dancers and onlookers, and the Texan slipped unobserved through the door and proceeded directly to the hotel. On the street he met Bat.
"De pilgrim, she lock up in de woolhouse an' Sam Moore she stan' 'long de door wit two revolver an' wan big rifle."
"All right, Bat. You look alive now, an' catch up Purdy's horse an' see that you get a good set of bridle reins on him, an' find the girl's horse an' get holt of a pack-horse somewheres an' get your war-bag an' mine an' our blankets onto him, an' go down to the store an' get a couple more pairs of blankets, an' grub enough fer a week for four, an' get that onto him, an' have all them horses around to the side door of the hotel in twenty minutes, or I'll bust you wide open an' fill your hide with prickly pears."
The half-breed nodded his understanding and slipped onto his horse as the Texan entered the hotel. Passing through the office where a coal-oil lamp burned dimly in a wall-bracket, he stepped into the narrow hallway and paused with his eyes on the bar of yellow light that showed at the bottom of the door of Number 11.
"Most any fool thing would do to tell the girl. But I've got to make it some plausible to put it acrost on Jennie. I'm afraid I kind of over-played my hand a little when I let her in on this, but—damn it! I felt kind of sorry for the girl even if it was her own fool fault gettin' into this jack-pot. I thought maybe a woman could kind of knock off the rough edges a little. Well, here goes!" He knocked sharply, and it was a very grave-faced cowboy who stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "I've be'n doin' quite some feelin' out of the public pulse, as the feller says, an' the way things looks from here, the pilgrim is sure in bad. You see, the jury is bound to be made up of cow-men an' ranchers with a sheep-man or two mixed in. An' they're all denizens that Choteau County is infested with. Now a stranger comin' in that way an' kind of pickin' one of us off, casual, like a tick off'n a dog's ear, it won't be looked on with favour——"
Jennie interrupted, with a belligerent forefinger wagging almost against the Texan's nose: "But that Jack Purdy needed killin' if ever any one did. He was loose an'——"
"Yes," broke in Tex, "he was. I ain't here to pronounce no benediction of blessedness on Purdy's remains. But, you got to recollect that most of the jury, picked out at random, is in the same boat—loose, an' needin' killin', which they know as well as you an' me do, an' consequent ain't a-goin' to establish no oncomfortable precedent. Suppose any pilgrim was allowed to step off'n a train any time he happened to be comin' through, an' pick off a loose one? What would Choteau County's or any other county's he-population look like in a year's time, eh? It would look like the hair-brush out here in the wash-room, an' you could send in the votin' list on a cigarette paper. No, sir, the pilgrim ain't got a show if he's got to face a jury. There's only one way out, an' there's about fifteen or twenty of the boys that's willin' to give him a chance. We're a-goin' to bust him out of jail an' put him on a horse an' run him up some cottonwood coulee with a rope around his neck."
Alice Marcum, who had followed every word, turned chalk-white in the lamplight as she stared wide-eyed at the Texan, with fingers pressed tight against her lips, while Jennie placed herself protectingly between them and launched into a perfect tirade.
"Hold on, now." Both girls saw that the man was smiling and Jennie relapsed into a warlike silence. "A rope necktie ain't a-goin' to hurt no one as long as he keeps his heft off'n it. As I was goin' on to say, we'll run him up this coulee an' a while later the boys'll ride back to town in the same semmey-serious mood that accompanies such similar enterprises. They won't do no talkin' an' they won't need to. Folks will naturally know that justice has be'n properly dispensed with, an' that their taxes won't raise none owin' to county funds bein' misdirected in prosecutin' a public benefactor—an' they'll be satisfied. The preacher'll preach a long sermon condemnin' the takin' of human life without due process of law, an' the next Sunday he'll preach another one about the onchristian shootin' of folks without givin' 'em a chanct to repent—after they'd drawed—an' he'll use the lynchin' as a specimen of the workin's of the hand of the Lord in bringin' speedy justice onto the murderer.
"But they ain't be'n no lynchin' done. 'Cause the boys will turn the prisoner over to me an' I'll hustle him acrost to the N. P. an' let him get out of the country."
Alice Marcum leaped to her feet: "Oh, are you telling me the truth? How do I know you're not going to lynch him? I told him I'd stay with him and see him through!"
The Texan regarded her gravely: "You can," he said after a moment of silence. "I'll have Bat take you to Snake Creek crossing an' you can wait there 'til I come along with the pilgrim. Then we'll cut through the mountains an' hit down through the bad lands an'——"
"No you don't, Tex Benton!" Jennie was facing him again. "You're a smooth one all right. How long would it take you to lose the pilgrim there in the bad lands, even if you don't lynch him, which it ain't no cinch you ain't a-goin' to—then where wouldshebe? No, sir, you don't pull nothin' like that off on me!"
"But I want to go!" cried Alice. "I want to be near him, and I'm not afraid."
The girl regarded her for a moment in silence. "I should think you'd had enough of cowpunchers for one night. But if you're bound to go I ain't got no right to hold you. I'd go along with you if I could, but I can't."
"I'm not afraid," she answered as her eyes sought the Texan's. "I've learned a lot in the past few hours."
"I guess you ain't learnt enough to hurt you none," retorted Jennie, with a trace of acid in her tone. "An' you'll learn a lot more 'fore you hit the N. P., or my name ain't Jennie Dodds. If you're bound to go you can take my outfit. I guess Tex'll see that my horse comes back, anyhow."
The cowpuncher grinned: "Thanks, Jennie, I'm right proud to know you think I wouldn't steal your horse." Once more he turned to the girl. "When the half-breed comes for you, you go with him. I've got to go on with the boys, now." Abruptly he left the room, and once more paused in the hall before passing through the office. "She's game, all right. An' the way she can look at a fellow out of those eyes of hers—— By God! Purdyoughtto be'n killed!"
A group of saddle-horses stood before the Headquarters saloon, and as the Texan entered he was vociferously greeted by the twenty cowboys who crowded the bar.
"Come on, Tex, drink up!"
"Hell'll be a-poppin' down to the wool-warehouse."
"An', time we get there we won't be able to see Sam Moore fer dust."Curly raised his glass and the cowpunchers joined in uproarious song:
"We'll string him up to a cottonwood limbAn' dig his grave in under him,We'll tromp down the clods, an' we won't give a damn'Cause he'll never kill another cow-man,Ah wi yi yippie i oo-o-!"
Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to fit the occasion:
"The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore,He's standin' down by the jail-house doorWith seventeen knives an' a gatlin' gun,But you bet your boots we'll make him runAh wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!"
With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door. A moment later the bar-room was deserted and out in the street the night air resounded with the sound of snorting, trampling horses, the metallic jangle of spurs and bit chains, the creak of saddle-leather, and the terse, quick-worded observations of men mounting in the midst of the confusion of refractory horses.
"The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore!" roared a cowboy as he slammed into the saddle of a skew-ball black.
"Go git him!" howled another in exact imitation of Slim Maloney.
There was a thunder of hoofs as the whole crowd, headed by Tex and Curly swept down the street and across the flat toward the impromptu jail.
With a lighted lantern beside him, Sam Moore sat upon the strongly built unloading platform before the warehouse door, access to which was gained by means of a flight of six or eight plank steps at either end. Up these steps rode a couple of cowpunchers while the rest drew up sharply at the very edge of the platform. Hemmed in upon all sides the valiant deputy glanced fearfully into the faces of the horsemen. "Wha—What's up, boys? What's ailin' ye?" he managed to blurt out.
"Drop them guns an' give over the key!" commanded someone.
"Sure—sure, boys! I hain't aimin' to hurt no one. Yer all friends of mine an' what you say goes with me."
"Friends of yourn!" roared someone menacingly; "you're a liar, Sam!You ain't never seen nary one of us before! Git that!"
"Sure, sure thing, boys, I don't know who ye be. 'Tain't none of my business. I couldn't name none of you. You don't need to be scairt of me."
"You beat it, then, an' lose yerself an' don't yer go stirrin' up no rookus over to the dance, er we'll dangle you a little, too."
"Sure. I'm a-goin' now. I——"
"Fork over that key first!"
"Sure, Tex! Here it is——"
"Surewho!" rasped a voice close to the sheriff's ear.
"I mean—I said—— Here's the doggone key! I was thinkin' of a feller I know'd down to Wyomin'. Tex—Tex—Smith, er some such of a name it was. I mistrusted you was him, an' mebbe you be fer all I know. I don't savvy none of you whatever."
"Get a move on, Sam!"
"Me! I'm gone! An' you boys remember when 'lection time comes, to vote fer a sheriff that's got disgression an' common sense." And with ludicrous alacrity, the deputy scrambled from the platform and disappeared into the deep blackness of the lumber-yard.
The Texan fitted the key into the huge padlock and a moment later the door swung open and a dozen cowpunchers swarmed in.
"Come on, pilgrim, an' try on yer necktie!"
"We'll prob'ly have to haul down all them wool-sacks an' drag him out from behind 'em."
"I think not. If I am the man you want I think you will find me perfectly able to walk." The pilgrim stood leaning against one of the wooden supporting posts, and as a cowboy thrust the lantern into his face he noted the eyes never faltered.
"Come along with us!" commanded the puncher, gruffly, as another stepped up and slipped the noose of a lariat-rope over his head.
"So I am to be lynched, am I?" asked the pilgrim in a matter-of-fact tone, as with a cowboy on either side he was hurried across the platform and onto a horse.
"This ain't no time to talk," growled another. "We'll give you a chanct to empty yer chest 'fore we string you up."
In the moonlight the prisoner's face showed very pale, but the cow-men saw that his lips were firmly set, and the hands that caught up the bridle reins did not falter. As the cavalcade started out upon the trail the Texan turned back, and riding swiftly to the hotel, found Bat waiting.
"You go in to Number 11 and tell the girl you're ready to start."
"You'm mean de pilgrim's girl?"
The Texan frowned and swore under his breath: "She ain't the pilgrim's girl, yet—by a damn sight! You take her an' the pack horse an' hit down the river an' cut up through old man Lee's horse ranch onto the bench. Then hit for Snake Creek crossin' an' wait for me."
The half-breed nodded, and the Texan's frown deepened as he leaned closer. "An' you see that you get her through safe an' sound or I'll cut off them ears of yours an' stake you out in a rattlesnake den to think it over." The man grinned and the frown faded from the Texan's face. "You got to do me a good turn, Bat. Remember them four bits in Las Vegas!"
"A'm tak' de girl to Snake Creek crossin' a'right; you'm don' need for be 'fraid for dat."
The cowpuncher whirled and spurred his horse to overtake the cowboys who, with the prisoner in charge, were already well out upon the trail.
In front of the hotel the half-breed watched the flying horseman until he disappeared from sight.
"A'm wonder if dat girl be safe wit' him, lak' she is wit' me—bien. A'm t'ink mebbe-so dat damn good t'ing ol' Bat goin' long. If she damn fine girl mebbe-so Tex, he goin' mar' her. Dat be good t'ing. But, by Gar! if he don' mar' her, he gon' leave her 'lone. Me—A'm lak' dat Tex fine, lak' me own brudder. He got de good heart. But w'en he drink de hooch, den A'm got for look after him. He don' care wan damn 'bout nuttin'. Dat four bit in Las Vegas, dats a'right. A'm fink 'bout dat, too. But, by Gar, it tak' more'n four bit in Las Vegas for mak' of Bat let dat girl git harm."
An atmosphere of depression pervaded the group of riders as they wound in and out of the cottonwood clumps and threaded the deep coulee that led to the bench. For the most part they preserved an owlish silence, but now and then someone would break into a low, weird refrain and the others would join in with the mournful strain of "The Dying Cowboy."
"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie-e-e,Where the coyote howls and the wind blows free."
Or the dirge-like wail of the "Cowboy's Lament":
"Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly,And give a wild whoop as you carry me along:And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me,For I'm only a cowboy that knows he's done wrong."
"Shall we take him to Lone Tree Coulee?" asked one. Another answered disdainfully.
"Don't you know the lone tree's dead? Jest shrivelled up an' died after Bill Atwood was hung onto it. Some augers he worn't guilty. But it's better to play safe, an' string up all the doubtful ones, then yer bound to git the right one onct in a while."
"Swing over into Buffalo Coulee," commanded Tex. "There's a bunch of cottonwoods just above Hansen's old sheep ranch."
"We'll string him up to a cottonwood limbAn' dig his grave in under him——"
"Shut up!" ordered Curly, favouring the singer with a scowl. "Any one would think you was joyous-minded, which this here hangin' a man is plumb serious business, even if it hain't only a pilgrim!"
He edged his horse in beside the Texan's. "He don't seem tore up with terror, none. D'you think he's onto the racket?"
Tex shook his head, and with his eyes on the face of the prisoner which showed very white in the moonlight, rode on in silence.
"You mean you think he's jest nach'ly got guts—an' him a pilgrim?"
"How the hell do I know what he's got?" snapped the other. "Can't you wait till we get to Buffalo?"
Curly allowed his horse to fall back a few paces. "First time I ever know'd Tex to pack a grouch," he mused, as his lips drew into a grin. "He's sore 'cause the pilgrim hain't a-snifflin' an' a-carryin'-on an' tryin' to beg off. Gosh! If he turns out to be a reg'lar hand, an' steps up an' takes his medicine like a man, the joke'll be on Tex. The boys never will quit joshin' him—an' he knows it. No wonder he's sore."
The cowboys rode straight across the bench. Song and conversation had ceased and the only sounds were the low clink of bit chains and the soft rustle of horses' feet in the buffalo grass. At the end of an hour the leaders swung into an old grass-grown trail that led by devious windings into a deep, steep-sided coulee along the bottom of which ran the bed of a dried-up creek. Water from recent rains stood in brackish pools. Remnants of fence with rotted posts sagging from rusty wire paralleled their course. A dilapidated cross-fence barred their way, and without dismounting, a cowboy loosened the wire gate and threw it aside.
A deserted log-house, windowless, with one corner rotted away, and the sod roof long since tumbled in, stood upon a treeless bend of the dry creek. Abandoned implements littered the dooryard; a rusted hay rake with one wheel gone, a broken mower with cutter-bar drunkenly erect, and the front trucks of a dilapidated wagon.
The Texan's eyes rested sombrely upon the remnant of a rocking-horse, still hitched by bits of weather-hardened leather to a child's wheelbarrow whose broken wheel had once been the bottom of a wooden pail—and he swore, softly.
Up the creek he could see the cottonwood grove just bursting into leaf and as they rounded the corner of a long sheep-shed, whose soggy straw roof sagged to the ground, a coyote, disturbed in his prowling among the whitening bones of dead sheep, slunk out of sight in a weed-patch.
Entering the grove, the men halted at a point where the branches of three large trees interlaced. It was darker, here. The moonlight filtered through in tiny patches which brought out the faces of the men with grotesque distinctness and plunged them again into blackness.
Gravely the Texan edged his horse to the side of the pilgrim.
"Get off!" he ordered tersely, and Endicott dismounted.
"Tie his hands!" A cowboy caught the man's hands behind him and secured them with a lariat-rope.
The Texan unknotted the silk muffler from about his neck and folded it.
"If it is just the same to you," the pilgrim asked, in a voice that held firm, "will you leave that off?"
Without a word the muffler was returned to its place.
"Throw the rope over that limb—the big one that sticks out this way," ordered the Texan, and a cowpuncher complied.
"The knot had ort to come in under his left ear," suggested one, and proceeded to twist the noose into place.
"All ready!"
A dozen hands grasped the end of the rope.
The Texan surveyed the details critically:
"This here is a disagreeable job," he said. "Have you got anything to say?"
Endicott took a step forward, and as he faced the Texan, his eyes flashed. "Have I got anything to say!" he sneered. "Would you have anything to say if a bunch of half-drunken fools decided to take the law into their own hands and hang you for defending a woman against the brutal attack of a fiend?" He paused and wrenched to free his hands but the rope held firm. "It was a wise precaution you took when you ordered my hands tied—a precaution that fits in well with this whole damned cowardly proceeding. And now you ask me if I have anything to say!" He glanced into the faces of the cowboys who seemed to be enjoying the situation hugely.
"I've got this to say—to you, and to your whole bunch of grinning hyenas: If you expect me to do any begging or whimpering, you are in for a big disappointment. There is one request I am going to make—and that you won't grant. Just untie my hands for ten minutes and stand up to me bare-fisted. I want one chance before I go, to fight you, or any of you, or all of you! Or, if you are afraid to fight that way, give me a pistol—I never fired one until tonight—and let me shoot it out with you. Surely men who swagger around with pistols in their belts, and pride themselves on the use of them, ought not to be afraid to take a chance against a man who has never but once fired one!" There was an awkward pause and the pilgrim laughed harshly: "There isn't an ounce of sporting blood among you! You hunt in packs like the wolves you are—twenty to one—and that one with a rope around his neck and his hands tied!"
"The odds is a little against you," drawled the Texan. "Where might you hail from?"
"From a place where they breed men—not curs."
"Ain't you afraid to die?"
"Just order your hounds to jerk on that rope and I'll show you whether or not I am afraid to die. But let me tell you this, you damned murderer! If any harm comes to that girl—to Miss Marcum—may the curse of God follow every last one of you till you are damned in a fiery hell! You will kill me now, but you won't be rid of me. I'll haunt you every one to your graves. I will follow you night and day till your brains snap and you go howling to hell like maniacs."
Several of the cowboys shuddered and turned away. Very deliberately the Texan rolled a cigarette.
"There is a box in my coat pocket, will you hand me one? Or is it against the rules to smoke?" Without a word the Texan complied, and as he held a match to the cigarette he stared straight into the man's eyes: "You've started out good," he remarked gravely. "I'm just wonderin' if you can play your string out." With which enigmatical remark he turned to the cowboys: "The drinks are on me, boys. Jerk off that rope, an' go back to town! An' remember, this lynchin' come off as per schedule."
Alone in the cottonwood grove, with little patches of moonlight filtering through onto the new-sprung grass, the two men faced each other. Without a word the cowboy freed the prisoner's hands.
"Viewin' it through a lariat-loop, that way, the country looks better to a man than what it really is," he observed, as the other stretched his arms above his head.
"What is the meaning of all this? The lynching would have been an atrocious injustice, but if you did not intend to hang me why should you have taken the trouble to bring me out here?"
"'Twasn't no trouble at all. The main thing was to get you out of Wolf River. The lynchin' part was only a joke, an' that's on us. You bein' a pilgrim, that way, we kind of thought——"
"A what?"
"A pilgrim, or tenderfoot, or greener or chechako, or counter-jumper, owin' to what part of the country you misfit into. We thought you wouldn't have no guts, an' we'd——"
"Any what?"
The Texan regarded the other hopelessly. "Oh hell!" he muttered disgustedly. "Can't you talk no English? Where was you raised?"
The other laughed. "Go on, I will try to follow you."
"I can't chop 'em up no finer than one syllable. But I'll shorten up the dose sufficient for your understandin' to grasp. It's this way: D'you know what a frame-up is?"
Endicott nodded.
"Well, Choteau County politics is in such a condition of onwee that a hangin' would be a reg'lar tonic for the party that's in; which it's kind of bogged down into an old maid's tea party. Felonious takin's-off has be'n common enough, but there hasn't no hangin's resulted, for the reason that in every case the hangee has got friends or relations of votin' influence. Now, along comes you without no votin' connections an' picks off Purdy, which he's classed amongst human bein's, an' is therefore felonious to kill. There ain't nothin' to it. They'd be poundin' away on the scaffold an' testin' the rope while the trial was goin' on. Besides which you'd have to linger in a crummy jail for a couple of months waitin' for the grand jury to set on you. A few of us boys seen how things was framed an' we took the liberty to turn you loose, not because we cared a damn about you, but we'd hate to see even a snake hung fer killin' Purdy which his folks done a wrong to humanity by raisin' him.
"The way the thing is now, if the boys plays the game accordin' to Hoyle, there won't be no posses out huntin' you 'cause folks will all think you was lynched. But even if they is a posse or two, which the chances is there will be, owin' to the loosenin' effect of spiritorious licker on the tongue, which it will be indulged in liberal when that bunch hits town, we can slip down into the bad lands an' lay low for a while, an' then on to the N. P. an' you can get out of the country."