The other laughed: "You bet they can't! Say, that was some ride you put up down to Wolf River. None of us could have done better."
"Did you say they was headin' this way?"
"Who?"
"Who would I be thinkin' about now, I wonder?"
"Oh! Naw! They ain't ready to make any arrests yet. The grand jury set special an' returned a lot of indictments an' you're one of 'em, but the districk attorney, he claims he can't go ahead until he digs up the cripus delinkty——"
"The what?"
"Oh, that's a nickname the lawyers has got fer a pilgrim."
"Wasn't one stranglin' enough for spreadin' out Purdy? What do they want of the pilgrim?"
"Spreadin' out Purdy!" exclaimed the other, "don't you know that Purdy didn't stay spread? Wasn't hardly hurt even. The pilgrim's bullet just barely creased him, an' when Sam Moore went back with a spring wagon to fetch his remains, Purdy riz up an' started cussin' him out an' scairt Sam so his team run away an' he lost his voice an' ain't spoke out loud since—an' them's only one of the things he done. So, you see, you done your lynching too previous, an' folks is all stirred up about it, holdin' that lawless acts has got to be put a stop to in Choteau County, an' a pilgrim has got as good a right to live as the next one. They're holdin' that even if he had got Purdy it would of be'n a damn good thing, an' they wasn't no call to stretch a man for that. So the grand jury set, an' the districk attorney has got a gang of men diggin' up all the coulees for miles around, a-huntin' for the pilgrim's cripus delinkty so he kin go ahead with his arrests."
The eyes of the Texan were fixed on the mountains. He appeared not interested. Twenty feet away in a deep crevice at the edge of the coulee, Bat Lajune, who had overheard every word, was convulsed with silent mirth.
"You say they've dug up all the coulees? Red Rock an'—an' all, Buffalo, Six-mile, Woodpile, Miller's?" The Texan shot out the names with all appearance of nervous haste, but his eye was sombre as before as he noted the gleam of quick intelligence that flashed into the cowboy's eyes. "You're sure they dug up Buffalo?" he pressed shrewdly.
"Yes, I think they finished there."
The Texan gave a visible sigh of relief. "Say," he asked, presently, "do you know if they're fordin' at Cow Island this year?"
"Yes, the Two Bar reps come by that way."
"I'm right obliged to you. I reckon I'll head north, though. Canada looks good to me 'til this here wave of virtue blows over. So long."
"So long, Tex. An', say, there's some of us friends of yourn that's goin' to see what we kin do about gettin' them indictments squashed. We don't want to see you boys doin' time fer stretchin' no pilgrim."
"You won't," answered the Texan. "Toddle along now an' hunt up Mr. Kester's horses. I want room to think." He permitted himself a broad smile as the other rode at a gallop toward the mountains, then turned his horse into the coulee he had just left and allowed him his own pace.
"So Purdy ain't dead," he muttered, "or was that damned fool lyin'? I reckon he wasn't lyin' about that, an' the grand jury, an' the district attorney." Again he smiled. "Let's see how I stack up, now: In the first place, Win ain't on the run, an' I am—or I'm supposed to be. But, as long as they don't dig Win up out of the bottom of some coulee, I'm at large for want of a party of the first part to the alleged felonious snuffin'-out. Gosh, I bet the boys are havin' fun watchin' that diggin'. If I was there I'd put in my nights makin' fresh-dug spots, an' my days watchin' 'em prospect 'em." Then his thoughts turned to the girl, and for miles he rode unheeding. The sun had swung well to the westward before the cowboy took notice of his surroundings. Antelope Butte lay ten or twelve miles away and he headed for it with a laugh. "You must have thought I sure enough was headin' for Cow Island Crossing didn't you, you old dogie chaser?" He touched his horse lightly with his spurs and the animal struck into a long swinging trot.
"This here's a mixed-up play all around," he muttered. "Win's worryin' about killin' Purdy—says it's got under his hide 'til he thinks about it nights. It ain't so much bein' on the run that bothers him as it is the fact that he's killed a man." He smiled to himself: "A little worryin' won't hurt him none. Any one that would worry over shootin' a pup like Purdy ought to worry—whether he done it or not. Then, there's me. I start out with designs as evil an' triflin' as Purdy's—only I ain't a brute—an' I winds up by lovin' her. Yes—that's the word. There ain't no mortal use beatin' around the bush to fool myself. Spite of silk stockin's she's good clean through. I reckon, maybe, they're wore more promiscuous in the East. That Eagle Creek Ranch, if them corrals was fixed up a little an' them old cattle sheds tore down, an' the ditches gone over, it would be a good outfit. If it was taken hold of right, there wouldn't be a better proposition on the South Slope." Gloom settled upon the cowboy's face: "But there's Win. I started out to show him up." He smiled grimly. "Well, I did. Only not just exactly as I allowed to. Lookin' over the back-trail, I reckon, when us four took to the brush there wasn't only one damned skunk in the crowd—an' that was me. It's funny a man can be that ornery an' never notice it. But, I bet Bat knew. He's pure gold, Bat is. He's about as prepossessin' to look at as an old gum boot, but his heart's all there—an' you bet, Bat, he knows."
It was within a quarter of a mile of Antelope Butte that the Texan, riding along the bottom of a wide coulee met another horseman. This time there was no spurring toward him, and he noticed that the man's hand rested near his right hip. He shifted his own gun arm and continued on his course without apparently noticing the other who approached in the same manner.
Suddenly he laughed: "Hello, Curt!"
"Well, I'm damned if it ain't Tex! Thought maybe I was going to get the high-sign."
"Same here." Both men relaxed from their attitude of alertness, andCurt leaned closer.
"They ain't dug him up yet," he said, "but they sure are slingin' gravel. I hope to God they don't."
"They won't."
"Anything I can do?"
The Texan shook his head: "Nothin', thanks."
"Hot as hell fer June, ain't it."
"Yes; who you ridin' for?"
"K 2! Mister Kester moved his outfit over to the south slope?"
"Naw. I'm huntin' a couple of old brood mares Mister Kester bought offen the Bar A. They strayed away about a week ago."
"Alone?"
"Might better be," replied the cowboy in tones of disgust. "I've got that damned fool, Joe Ainslee, along—or ruther I had him. Bob Brumley's foreman of the K 2, now, an' he hired the Wind Bag in a moment of mental abortion, as the fellow says, an' he don't dast fire him for fear he'll starve to death. They wouldn't no other outfit have him around. An' I'm thinkin' he'll be damn lucky if he lives long enough to starve to death. Bob sent him along with me—said he'd do less harm than with the round-up, an' would be safer—me bein' amiable enough not to kill him offhand."
"Ain't you found your mares?"
Curt snorted: "Yes. Found 'em couple hours ago. An' now I've lost the Wind Bag. Them mares was grazin' right plumb in plain sight of where I'd sent him circlin', an' doggone if he not only couldn't find 'em, but he's lost hisself. An' if he don't show up pretty damnprontohe kin stay lost—an' the K 2 will win, at that."
The Texan grinned: "Go get your mares, Curt. The short-horn has stampeded. I shouldn't wonder if he's a-foggin' it through the mountains right now to get himself plumb famous for tippin' off the district attorney where to do his minin'."
"You seen him!"
"Yes, we had quite a little pow-wow."
"You sure didn't let him git holt of nothin'!"
"Yes. He's about to bust with the information he gathered. An' say, he might of seen them mares an' passed 'em up. He ain't huntin' no brood mares, he's after twenty head of young saddle stock—forgot to mention there was any one with him. Said it was easy to run three-year-olds off their own range single handed if you savvied horses. Called Mister Kester 'Old Pete' an' told of an orgy they had mutual in the Long Horn."
Curt burst out laughing: "Can you beat it?"
"I suppose they'll have Red Rock Coulee all mussed up," reflected theTexan, with a grin.
"You wait 'til I tell the boys."
"Don't you. They'd hurt him. He's a-whirlin' a bigger loop than he can throw, the way it is."
Curt fumbled in his slicker and produced a flask which he tendered.
Tex shook his head: "No thanks, I ain't drinkin'."
"You ain'twhat?"
"No, I'm off of it"; he dismounted and tightened his cinch, and the other followed his example.
"Off of it! You ain't sick, or nothin'?"
"No. Can't a man——?"
"Oh, sure, he could, but he wouldn't, onless—you got your camp near here?"
Tex was aware the other was eyeing him closely.
"Tolerable."
"Let's go camp then. I left my pack horse hobbled way up on LastWater."
The Texan was thinking rapidly. Curt was a friend of long standing and desired to share his camp, which is the way of the cow country. Yet, manifestly this was impossible. There was only one way out and that was to give offence.
"No. I'm campin' alone these days."
A slow red mounted to the other's face and his voice sounded a trifle hard: "Come on up to mine, then. It ain't so far."
"I said I was campin' alone."
The red was very apparent now, and the other took a step forward, and his words came slowly:
"Peck Maguire told me, an' I shut his dirty mouth for him. But now I know it's true. You're ridin' with the pilgrim's girl."
At the inference the Texan whitened to the eyes. "You're a damned liar!" The words came evenly but with a peculiar venom.
Curt half drew his gun. Then jammed it back in the holster. "Not between friends," he said shortly, "but jest the same you're goin' to eat them words. It ain't a trick I'd think of you—to run off with a man's woman after killin' him. If he was alive it would be different. I'd ort to shoot it out with you, I suppose, but I can't quite forget that time in Zortman when you——"
"Don't let that bother you," broke in the Texan with the same evenness of tone. "You're a damned liar!"
With a bound the man was upon him and Tex saw a blinding flash of light, and the next moment he was scrambling from the ground. After that the fight waxed fast and furious, each man giving and receiving blows that landed with a force that jarred and rocked. Then, the Texan landed heavily upon the point of his opponent's chin and the latter sank limp to the floor of the coulee. For a full minute Tex stood looking down at his victim.
"Curt can scrap like the devil. I'm sure glad he didn't force no gun play, I'd have hated to hurt him." He recovered the flask from the ground where the other had dropped it, and forced some whiskey between his lips. Presently the man opened his eyes.
"Feelin' better?" asked the Texan as Curt blinked up at him.
"Um-hum. My head aches some."
"Mine, too."
"You got a couple of black eyes, an' your lip is swol up."
"One of yours is turnin' black."
Curt regained his feet and walked slowly toward his horse. "Well, I'll be goin'. So long."
"So long," answered the Texan. He, too, swung into the saddle and each rode upon his way.
From their place of concealment high upon the edge of Antelope Butte, Alice Marcum and Endicott watched the movements of the three horsemen with absorbing interest. They saw the Texan circle to the south-eastward and swing north to intercept the trail of the unknown rider. They watched Bat, with Indian cunning, creep to his place of concealment at the edge of the coulee. They saw the riders disperse, the unknown to head toward the mountains at a gallop, and the Texan to turn his horse southward and ride slowly into the bad lands. And they watched Bat recover his own horse from behind a rock pinnacle and follow the Texan, always keeping out of sight in parallel coulees until both were swallowed up in the amethyst haze of the bad lands.
For an hour they remained in their lookout, pointing out to each other some new wonder of the landscape—a wind-carved pinnacle, the heliographic flashing of the mica, or some new combination in the ever-changing splendour of colours.
"Whew! But it's hot, and I'm thirsty. And besides it's lunch time."Alice rose, and with Endicott following, made her way to the camp.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathed, as they ate their luncheon. "This life in the open—the pure clean air—the magnificent world all spread out before you, beckoning you on, and on, and on. It makes a person strong with just the feel of living—the joy of it. Just think, Winthrop, of being able to eat left-over biscuits and cold bacon and enjoy it!"
Endicott smiled: "Haven't I improved enough, yet, for 'Win'?—Tex thinks so."
The girl regarded him critically. "I have a great deal of respect forTex's judgment," she smiled.
"Then, dear, I am going to ask you again, the question I have asked you times out of number: Will you marry me?"
"Don't spoil it all, now, please. I am enjoying it so. Enjoying being here with just you and the big West. Oh, this is the real West—the West of which I've dreamed!"
Endicott nodded: "Yes, this is the West. You were right, Alice.California is no more the West than New York is."
"Don't you love it?" The girl's eyes were shining with enthusiasm.
"Yes. I love it," he answered, and she noticed that his face was very grave. "There must be something—some slumbering ego in every man that awakens at the voice of the wild places. Our complex system of civilization seems to me, as I sit here now, a little thing—a thing, somehow, remote—unnecessary, and very undesirable."
"Brooklyn seems very far away," murmured the girl.
"And Cincinnati—but not far enough away. We know they are real—that they actually exist." Endicott rose and paced back and forth. Suddenly he stopped before the girl. "Marry me, Alice, and I'll buy a ranch and we will live out here, and for us Brooklyn and Cincinnati need never exist. I do love it all, but I love you a thousand times more."
To Endicott's surprise the girl's eyes dropped before his gaze and rested for a long time upon the grazing horses—then abruptly she buried her face in her arms. The man had half expected a return to the light half-mocking raillery that had been her staunchest weapon, but there was nothing even remotely suggestive of raillery in the figure that huddled at his feet. Suddenly, his face became very grave: "Alice," he cried, bending over her, "is it because my hands are red? Because I have taken a human life, and am flying from the hand of the law like a common murderer?"
"No, no, no! Not that? I——"
Swiftly he gathered her into his arms, but she freed herself and shook her head in protest. "Don't please," she pleaded softly. "Oh, I—I can't choose."
"Choose!" cried Endicott. "Then there is—someone else? You have found—" he stopped abruptly and drew a long breath. "I see," he said, gently, "I think I understand."
The unexpected gentleness of the voice caused the girl to raise her head. Endicott stood as he had stood a moment before, but his gaze was upon the far mountains. The girl's eyes were wet with tears: "Yes, I—he loves me—and he asked me to marry him. He said I would marry either you or him, and he would wait for me to decide—until I was sure." Her voice steadied, and Endicott noticed that it held a trace of defensive. "He's a dear, and—I know—way down in his heart he's good—he's——"
Endicott smiled: "Yes, little girl, he is good. He's a man—every inch of him. And he's a man among men. He's honest and open hearted and human. There is not a mean hair in his head. And he stands a great deal nearer the top of his profession than I do to the top of mine. I have been a fool, Alice. I can see now what a complacent fool and a cad I must have been—when I could look at these men and see nothing but uncouthness. But, thank God, men can change——"
Impulsively the girl reached for his hand: "No," she murmured, remembering the words of the Texan, "no, the man was there all the time. The real man that isyouwas concealed by the unreal man that is superficiality."
"Thank you, Alice," he said gravely. "And for your sake—and I say it an all sincerity—let the best man win!"
The girl smiled up into his face: "And in all sincerity I will say that in all your life you have never seemed so—so marryable as you do right now."
While Endicott cut a supply of fire-wood and tinkered about the spring, the girl made a complete circuit of the little plateau, and as the shadows began to lengthen they once more climbed to their lookout station. For an hour the vast corrugated plane before them showed no sign of life. Suddenly the girl's fingers clutched Endicott's arm and she pointed to a lone horseman who rode from the north.
"I wonder if he's the same one we saw before—the one who rode away so fast?"
"Not unless he has changed horses," answered Endicott. "The other rode a grey."
The man swung from his horse and seemed to be minutely studying the ground. Then he mounted and headed down the coulee at a trot.
"Look! There is Tex!" cried Endicott, and he pointed farther down the same coulee. A sharp bend prevented either rider from noticing the approach of the other.
"Oh, I wonder who it is, and what will happen when they see each other?" cried the girl. "Look! There is Bat. Near the top of that ridge. He's cutting across so he'll be right above them when they meet." She was leaning forward watching: breathlessly the movements of the three horsemen. "It is unreal. Just like some great spectacular play. You see the actors moving through their parts and you wonder what is going to happen next and how it is all going to work out."
"There! They see each other!" Endicott exclaimed. Each horseman pulled up, hesitated a moment, and rode on. Distance veiled from the eager onlookers the significant detail of the shifted gun arms. But no such preclusion obstructed Bat's vision as he lay flattened upon the rim of the coulee with the barrel of his six-gun resting upon the edge of a rock, and its sights lined low upon the stranger's armpit.
"They've dismounted," observed Alice, "I believe Tex is going to unsaddle."
"Tightening his cinch," ventured Endicott, and was interrupted by a cry from the lips of the girl.
"Look! The other! He's going to shoot—— Why, they're fighting!" Fighting they certainly were, and Endicott stared in surprise as he saw the Texan knocked down and then spring to his feet and attack his assailant with a vigour that rendered impossible any further attempt to follow the progress of the combat.
"Why doesn't Bat shoot, or go down there and help him?" cried the girl, as with clenched fists she strained her eyes in a vain effort to see who was proving the victor.
"This does not seem to be a shooting affair," Endicott answered, "and it is my own private opinion that Tex is abundantly able to take care of himself. Ah—he got him that time! He's down for the count! Good work, Tex, old man! A good clean knockout!"
The two watched as the men mounted and rode their several ways—the stranger swinging northward toward the mountains, and the Texan following along the south face of the butte.
"Some nice little meetings they have out here," grinned Endicott. "I wonder if the vanquished one was a horse-thief or just an ordinary friend."
Alice returned the smile: "You used to rather go in for boxing in college, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes. I can hold my own when it comes to fists——
"And—you can shoot."
The man shook his head: "Do you know that was the first time I ever fired a pistol in my life. I don't like to think about it. And yet—I am always thinking about it! I have killed a man—have taken a human life. I did it without malice—without forethought. All I knew was that you were in danger, then I saw him fling you from him—the pistol was in my hand, and I fired."
"You need have no regrets," answered the girl, quickly. "It was his life or both of ours—worse than that—a thousand times worse."
Endicott was silent as the two turned toward the plateau. "Why, there's Bat's horse, trotting over to join the others, and unsaddled, too," cried Alice. "He has beaten Tex to camp. Bat is a dear, and he just adores the ground Tex walks on, or 'rides on' would be more appropriate, for I don't think he ever walked more than a hundred feet in his life."
Sure enough, when they reached camp there sat the half-breed placidly mending a blanket, with the bored air of one upon whom time hangs heavily. He looked up as Endicott greeted him.
"Mebbe-so dat better you don' say nuttin' 'bout A'm gon' 'way from here," he grinned. "Tex she com' 'long pret' queek, now. Mebbe-so he t'ink dat better A'm stay roun' de camp. ButVoila! How A'm know he ain' gon for git hurt?"
"But he did—" Alice paused abruptly with the sentences unfinished, for the sound of galloping hoofs reached her ears and she looked up to see the Texan swing from his horse, strip off the saddle and bridle and turn the animal loose.
"Oh," she cried, as the man joined them after spreading his saddle blanket to dry. "Your eyes are swollen almost shut and your lip is bleeding!"
"Yes," answered the cowboy with a contortion of the stiff, swollen lip that passed for a smile. "I rounded the bend in a coulee down yonder an' run plumb against a hard projection."
"They certainly are hard—I have run against those projections myself," grinned Endicott. "You see, we had what you might call ringside seats, and I noticed that it didn't take you very long to come back with some mighty stiff projecting yourself."
"Yes. Him pastin' me between the eyes that way, I took as an onfriendly act, an' one I resented."
"That wallop you landed on his chin was a beautiful piece of work."
"Yes, quite comely." The cowboy wriggled his fingers painfully. "But these long-horns that's raised on salt-horse an' rawhide, maintains a jaw on 'em that makes iron an' granite seem right mushy. I didn't figure I'd recount the disturbance, aimin' to pass it off casual regardin' the disfigurin' of my profile. But if you-all witnessed the debate, I might as well go ahead an' oncork the details. In the first place, this warrior is a deputy that's out after Win."
The Texan glanced sharply at Bat who became suddenly seized with a fit of coughing, but the face of the half-breed was impassive—even sombre as he worked at the blanket. "It's all owin' to politics," continued the cowpuncher, rolling and lighting a cigarette. "Politics, an' the fact that the cow country is in its dotage. Choteau County is growin' effeminate, not to say right down effete when a lynchin', that by rights it would be stretching its importance even to refer to it in conversation, is raised to the dignity of a political issue. As everyone knows, a hangin' is always a popular play, riddin' the community of an ondesirable, an' at the same time bein' a warnin' to others to polish up their rectitude. But it seems, from what I was able to glean, that this particular hangin' didn't win universal acclaim, owin' to the massacre of Purdy not bein' deplored none."
Once more the half-breed emitted a strangling cough, and Tex eyed him narrowly. "Somethin' seems to ail your throat."
"Oui, A'm swal' de piece tabac'."
"Well just hang onto it 'til it gets a little darker an' we'll have supper," said the Texan, dryly, and resumed.
"So there was some talk disparagin' to the lynchin', an' the party that's in, holdin' its tenure by the skin of its teeth, an' election comin' on, sided in with public opinion an' frowned on the lynchin', not as a hangin', you onderstand, but because the hangin' didn't redound none to their particular credit—it not being legal an' regular. All this is brewed while the dance is goin' on, an' by breakfast time next mornin', there bein' a full quorum of Republican war chiefs on hand, they pulls a pow-wow an' instructs their deputies to round up the lynchers. This is done, barrin' a few that's flitted, the boys bein' caught unawares. Well, things begun lookin' serious to 'em, an' as a last resort they decided to fall back on the truth. So they admits that there ain't no lynchin'. They tells how, after they'd got out on the bench a piece they got to thinkin' that the demise of Purdy ain't a serious matter, nohow, so they turned him loose. 'Where is he, then?' says a county commissioner. 'Search us,' replies the culprits. 'We just turned him loose an' told him tovamoose. We didn't stick around an' herd him!'" Again Bat coughed, and the Texan glared at him.
"Maybe a drink of water would help them lacerated pipes of yourn," he suggested, "an' besides it's dark enough so you can start supper a-goin'."
"But," said Endicott, "won't that get the boys all into serious trouble for aiding and abetting a prisoner to escape? Accessories after the fact, is what the law calls them."
"Oh Lord," groaned the Texan inwardly. "If I can steer through all this without ridin' into my own loop, I'll be some liar. This on top of what I told 'em in Wolf River, an' since, an' about Purdy's funeral—I dastn't bog down, now!"
"No," he answered, as he lighted another cigarette. "There comes in your politics again. You see, there was twenty-some-odd of us—an' none friendless. Take twenty-odd votes an' multiply 'em by the number of friends each has got—an' I reckon ten head of friends apiece wouldn't overshoot the figure—an' you've got between two hundred an' three hundred votes—which is a winnin' majority for any candidate among 'em. Knowin' this, they wink at the jail delivery an' cinch those votes. But, as I said before, hangin' is always a popular measure, an' as they want credit for yourn, they start all the deputies they got out on a still-hunt for you, judgin' it not to be hard to find a pilgrim wanderin' about at large. An' this party I met up with was one of 'em."
"Did he suspect that we were with you?" asked Alice, her voice trembling with anxiety.
"Such was the case—his intimation bein' audible, and venomous. I denied it in kind, an' one word leadin' to another, he called me a liar. To which statement, although to a certain extent veracious, I took exception, an' in the airy persiflage that ensued, he took umbrage to an extent that it made him hostile. Previous to this little altercation, he an' I had been good friends, and deemin', rightly, that it wasn't a shootin' matter, he ondertook to back up his play with his fists, and he hauled off an' smote me between the eyes before I'd devined his intentions. Judgin' the move unfriendly, not to say right downright aggressive, I come back at him with results you-all noted. An' that's all there was to the incident of me showin' up with black eyes, an' a lip that would do for a pin cushion."
All during supper and afterward while the half-breed was washing the dishes, the Texan eyed him sharply, and several times caught the flash of a furtive smile upon the habitually sombre face.
"He knows somethin' mirthful," thought the cowboy, "I noticed it particular, when I was flounderin' up to my neck in the mire of deception. The old reprobate ain't easy amused, either."
Alice retired early, and before long Endicott, too, sought his blankets. The moon rose, and the Texan strolled over to the grazing horses. Returning, he encountered Bat seated upon a rock at some distance from camp, watching him. The half-breed was grinning openly now, broadly, and with evident enjoyment. Tex regarded him with a frown: "For a Siwash you're plumb mirthful an' joyous minded. In fact I ain't noticed any one so wrapped up in glee for quite a spell. Suppose you just loosen up an' let me in on the frivolity, an' at the same time kind of let it appear where you put in the day. I mistrusted my packin' a pair of purple ones wouldn't give you the whoopin' cough, so I just sauntered over an' took a look at the cayuses. Yourn's be'n rode 'til he's sweat under the blanket—an' he ain't soft neither."
"Oui, A'm fol' 'long we'n you make de ride. A'm t'ink mebbe-so two better'n wan."
"Well, I was weaned right young, an' I don't need no governess. After this you——"
The half-breed shrugged: "A'm tink dat tam way back in Las Vegas dat dam' good t'ing ol' Bat fol' 'long, or else, ba Goss, you gon' to hell for sure."
"But that's no sign I've always got to be close-herded. Did you sneak up near enough to hear what the short-horn said?"
"Oui, A'm hear dat. She mak' me laugh lak' hell."
"Laugh! I didn't see nothin' so damn hilarious in it. What do you think about Purdy?"
"A'm tink dat dam' bad luck she no git keel." The half-breed paused and grinned: "De pilgrim she mak' de run for nuttin', an' you got to ke'p on lyin' an' lyin', an bye-m-bye you got so dam' mooch lies you git los'. So far, dat work out pret' good. De pilgrim gon' ke'p on de run, 'cause he no lak' for git stretch for politick, an' you git mor' chance for make de play for de girl."
"What do you mean?" The Texan's eyes flashed. "I just knocked the livin' hell out of one fellow for makin' a crack about that girl."
"Oui, A'm know 'bout dat, too. Dat was pret' good, but nex' tam dat better you start in fightin' fore you git knock clean across de coulee firs'. A'm lak dat girl. She dam' fine 'oman, you bet. A'm no lak' she git harm."
"See here, Bat," interrupted the Texan, "no matter what my intentions were when I started out, they're all right now."
"Oui, A'm know dat, 'bout two day."
"It's this way, I be'n thinkin' quite a bit the last couple of days there ain't a thing in hellin' around the country punchin' other folks' cattle for wages. It's time I was settlin' down. If that girl will take a long shot an' marry me, I'm goin' to rustle around an' start an outfit of my own. I'll be needin' a man about your heft an' complexion to help me run it, too—savvy?"
The half-breed nodded slowly. "Oui, all de tam A'm say: 'Some tam Tex she queet de dam' foolin', an' den she git to be de beeg man.' I ain' tink you git dis 'oman, but dat don' mak' no differ', som' tam you be de beeg man yet. Som' nodder 'oman com' 'long——"
"To hell with some other woman!" flared the Texan. "I tell you I'll have that girl or I'll never look at another woman. There ain't another woman in the world can touch her. You think you're wise as hell, but I'll show you!"
The half-breed regarded him gloomily: "A'm tink dat 'oman de pilgrim 'oman."
"Oh, you do, do you? Well, just you listen to me. She ain't—not yet. It's me an' the pilgrim for her. If she ties to him instead of me, it's all right. She'll get a damn good man. Take me, an' all of a sudden throw me into the middle ofhiscountry, an' I doubt like hell if I'd show up as good as he did in mine. Whatever play goes on between me an' the pilgrim, will be on the square—with one deck, an' the cards on the table. There's only one thing I'm holdin' out on him, an' that is about Purdy. An' that ain't an onfair advantage, because it's his own fault he's worryin' about it. An' if it gives me a better chance with her, I'm goin' to grab it. An' I'll win, too. But, if I don't win, I don't reckon it'll kill me. Sometimes when I get to thinkin' about it I almost wish it would—I'm that damned close to bein' yellow."
Bat laughed. The idea of the Texan being yellow struck him as humorous. "I'm wonder how mooch more beeg lie you got for tell, eh?"
Tex was grinning now, "Search me. I had to concoct some excuse for getting 'em started—two or three excuses. An' it looks like I got to keep on concoctin' 'em to keep 'em goin'. But it don't hurt no one—lyin' like that, don't. It don't hurt the girl, because she's bound to get one of us. It don't hurt the pilgrim, because we'll see him through to the railroad. It don't hurt you, because you don't believe none of it. An' it don't hurt me, because I'm used to it—an' there you are. But that don't give you no license to set around an' snort an' gargle while I'm tellin' 'em. I got trouble enough keepin' 'em plausible an' entangled, without you keepin' me settin' on a cactus for fear you'll give it away. What you got to do is to back up my play—remember them four bits I give you way back in Los Vegas? Well, here's where I'm givin' you a chance to pay dividends on them four bits."
Bat grinned: "You go 'head an' mak' you play. You fin' out I ain't forgit dat four bit. She ain' mooch money—four bit ain'. But w'en she all you got, she wan hell of a lot . . .bien!"
It was well toward noon on the following day when the four finally succeeded in locating the grub cache of the departed horse-thief. Nearly two years had passed since the man had described the place to Tex and a two-year-old description of a certain small, carefully concealed cavern in a rock-wall pitted with innumerable similar caverns is a mighty slender peg to hang hopes upon.
"It's like searching for buried treasure!" exclaimed Alice as she pried and prodded among the rocks with a stout stick.
"There won't be much treasure, even if we find thecache," smiled Tex. "Horse thievin' had got onpopular to the extent there wasn't hardly a livin' in it long before this specimen took it up as a profession. We'll be lucky if we find any grub in it."
A few moments later Bat unearthed thecacheand, as the others crowded about, began to draw out its contents.
"Field mice," growled Tex, as the half-breed held up an empty canvas bag with its corner gnawed to shreds. Another gnawed bag followed, and another.
"We don't draw no flour, nor rice, not jerky, anyhow," said the puncher, examining the bags. "Nor bacon, either. The only chance we stand to make a haul is on the air-tights."
"What are air-tights?" asked the girl.
"Canned stuff—tomatoes are the best for this kind of weather—keep you from gettin' thirsty. I've be'n in this country long enough to pretty much know its habits, but I never saw it this hot in June."
"She feel lak' dat dam' Yuma bench, but here is only de rattlesnake. We don' got to all de tam hont de pizen boog. Dat ain' no good for git so dam' hot—she burn' oop de range. If it ain' so mooch danger for Win to git hang—" He paused and looked at Tex with owlish solemnity. "A'm no lak we cross dem bad lands. Better A'm lak we gon' back t'rough de mountaine."
"You dig out them air-tights, if there's any in there, an' quit your croakin'!" ordered the cowboy.
And with a grin Bat thrust in his arm to the shoulder. One by one he drew out the tins—eight in all, and laid them in a row. The labels had disappeared and the Texan stood looking down at them.
"Anyway we have these," smiled the girl, but the cowboy shook his head.
"Those big ones are tomatoes, an' the others are corn, an' peas—but, it don't make any difference." He pointed to the cans in disgust: "See those ends bulged out that way? If we'd eat any of the stuff in those cans we'd curl up an' die,pronto. Roll 'em back, Bat, we got grub enough without 'em. Two days will put us through the bad lands an' we've got plenty. We'll start when the moon comes up."
All four spent the afternoon in the meagre shade of the bull pine, seeking some amelioration from the awful scorching heat. But it was scant protection they got, and no comfort. The merciless rays of the sun beat down upon the little plateau, heating the rocks to a degree that rendered them intolerable to the touch. No breath of air stirred. The horses ceased to graze and stood in the scrub with lowered heads and wide-spread legs, sweating.
Towards evening a breeze sprang up from the southeast, but it was a breeze that brought with it no atom of comfort. It blew hot and stifling like the scorching blast of some mighty furnace. For an hour after the sun went down in a glow of red the super-heated rocks continued to give off their heat and the wind swept, sirocco-like, over the little camp. Before the after-glow had faded from the sky the wind died and a delicious coolness pervaded the plateau.
"It hardly seems possible," said Alice, as she breathed deeply of the vivifying air, "that in this very spot only a few hours ago we were gasping for breath.
"You can always bank on the nights bein' cold," answered Tex, as he proceeded to build the fire. "We'll rustle around and get supper out of the way an' the outfit packed an' we can pull our freight as soon as it's light enough. The moon ought to show up by half-past ten or eleven, an' we can make the split rock water-hole before it gets too hot for the horses to travel. It's the hottest spell for June I ever saw and if she don't let up tomorrow the range will be burnt to a frazzle."
Bat cast a weather-wise eye toward the sky which, cloudless, nevertheless seemed filmed with a peculiar haze that obscured the million lesser stars and distorted the greater ones, so that they showed sullen and angry and dull like the malignant pustules of a diseased skin.
"A'm t'ink she gon' for bus' loose pret' queek."
"Another thunder storm and a deluge of rain?" asked Alice.
The half-breed shrugged: "I ain' know mooch 'bout dat. I ain' t'ink she feel lak de rain. She ain' feel good."
"Leave off croakin', Bat, an' get to work an' pack," growled the Texan."There'll be plenty time to gloom about the weather when it gets here."An hour later the outfit was ready for the trail.
"Wish we had one of them African water-bags," said the cowboy, as he filled his flask at the spring. "But I guess this will do 'til we strike the water-hole."
"Where is that whiskey bottle?" asked Endicott. "We could take a chance on snake-bite, dump out the booze, and use the bottle for water."
The Texan shook his head: "I had bad luck with that bottle; it knocked against a rock an' got busted. So we've got to lump the snake-bite with the thirst, an' take a chance on both of 'em."
"How far is the water-hole?" Alice asked, as she eyed the flask that the cowboy was making fast in his slicker.
"About forty miles, I reckon. We've got this, and three cans of tomatoes, but we want to go easy on 'em, because there's a good ride ahead of us after we hit Split Rock, an' that's the only water, except poison springs, between here an' the old Miszoo."
Bat, who had come up with the horses, pointed gloomily at the moon which had just topped the shoulder of a mountain. "She all squash down. Dat ain' no good she look so red." The others followed his gaze, and for a moment all stared at the distorted crimson oblong that hung low above the mountains. A peculiar dull luminosity radiated from the misshapen orb and bathed the bad lands in a flood of weird murky light.
"Come on," cried Tex, swinging into his saddle, "we'll hit the trail before this old Python here finds something else to forebode about. For all I care the moon can turn green, an' grow a hump like a camel just so she gives us light enough to see by." He led the way across the little plateau and the others followed. With eyes tight-shut and hands gripping the saddle-horn, Alice gave her horse full rein as he followed the Texan's down the narrow sloping ledge that answered for a trail. Nor did she open her eyes until the reassuring voice of the cowboy told her the danger was past.
Tex led the way around the base of the butte and down into the coulee he had followed the previous day. "We've got to take it easy this trip," he explained. "There ain't any too much light an' we can't take any chances on holes an' loose rocks. It'll be rough goin' all the way, but a good fast walk ought to put us half way, by daylight, an' then we can hit her up a little better." The moon swung higher and the light increased somewhat, but at best it was poor enough, serving only to bring out the general outlines of the trail and the bolder contour of the coulee's rim. No breath of the wind stirred the air that was cold, with a dank, clammy coldness—like the dead air of a cistern. As she rode, the girl noticed the absence of its buoyant tang. The horses' hoofs rang hollow and thin on the hard rock of the coulee bed, and even the frenzied yapping of a pack of coyotes, sounded uncanny and far away. Between these sounds the stillness seemed oppressive—charged with a nameless feeling of unwholesome portent. "It is the evil spell of the bad lands," thought the girl, and shuddered.
Dawn broke with the moon still high above the western skyline. The sides of the coulee had flattened and they traversed a country of low-lying ridges and undulating rock-basins. As the yellow rim of the sun showed above the crest of a far-off ridge, their ears caught the muffled roar of wind. From the elevation of a low hill the four gazed toward the west where a low-hung dust-cloud, lowering, ominous, mounted higher and higher as the roar of the wind increased. The air about them remained motionless—dead. Suddenly it trembled, swirled, and rushed forward to meet the oncoming dust-cloud as though drawn toward it by the suck of a mighty vortex.
"Dat better we gon' for hont de hole. Dat dust sto'm she raise hell."
"Hole up, nothin'!" cried the Texan; "How are we goin' to hole up—four of us an' five horses, on a pint of water an' three cans of tomatoes? When that storm hits it's goin' to be hot. We've just naturally got to make that water-hole! Come on, ride like the devil before she hits, because we're goin' to slack up considerable, directly."
The cowboy led the way and the others followed, urging their horses at top speed. The air was still cool, and as she rode, Alice glanced over her shoulder toward the dust cloud, nearer now, by many miles. The roar of the wind increased in volume. "It's like the roar of the falls at Niagara," she thought, and spurred her horse close beside the Texan's.
"Only seventeen or eighteen miles," she heard him say, as her horse drew abreast. "The wind's almost at our back, an' that'll help some." He jerked the silk scarf from his neck and extended it toward her. "Cover your mouth an' nose with that when she hits. An' keep your eyes shut. We'll make it all right, but it's goin' to be tough." A mile further on the storm burst with the fury of a hurricane. The wind roared down upon them like a blast from hell. Daylight blotted out, and where a moment before the sun had hung like a burnished brazen shield, was only a dim lightening of the impenetrable fog of grey-black dust. The girl opened her eyes and instantly they seemed filled with a thousand needles that bit and seared and caused hot stinging tears to well between the tight-closed lids. She gasped for breath and her lips and tongue went dry. Sand gritted against her teeth as she closed them, and she tried in vain to spit the dust from her mouth. She was aware that someone was tying the scarf about her head, and close against her ear she heard the voice of the Texan: "Breathe through your nose as long as you can an' then through your teeth. Hang onto your saddle-horn, I've got your reins. An' whatever you do, keep your eyes shut, this sand will cut 'em out if you don't." She turned her face for an instant toward the west, and the sand particles drove against her exposed forehead and eyelids with a force that caused the stinging tears to flow afresh. Then she felt her horse move slowly, jerkily at first, then more easily as the Texan swung him in beside his own.
"We're all right now," he shouted at the top of his lungs to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. And then it seemed to the girl they rode on and on for hours without a spoken word. She came to tell by the force of the wind whether they travelled along ridges, or wide low basins, or narrow coulees. Her lips dried and cracked, and the fine dust and sand particles were driven beneath her clothing until her skin smarted and chafed under their gritty torture. Suddenly the wind seemed to die down and the horses stopped. She heard the Texan swing to the ground at her side, and she tried to open her eyes but they were glued fast. She endeavoured to speak and found the effort a torture because of the thick crusting of alkali dust and sand that tore at her broken lips. The scarf was loosened and allowed to fall about her neck. She could hear the others dismounting and the loud sounds with which the horses strove to rid their nostrils of the crusted grime.
"Just a minute, now, an' you can open your eyes," the Texan's words fell with a dry rasp of his tongue upon his caked lips. She heard a slight splashing sound and the next moment the grateful feel of water was upon her burning eyelids, as the Texan sponged at them with a saturated bit of cloth.
"The water-hole!" she managed to gasp.
"There's water here," answered the cowboy, evasively, "hold still, an' in a minute you can open your eyes." Very gently he continued to sponge at her lids. Her eyes opened and she started back with a sharp cry. The three men before her were unrecognizable in the thick masks of dirt that encased their faces—masks that showed only thin red slits for eyes, and thick, blood-caked excrescences where lips should have been.
"Water!" Endicott cried, and Alice was sure she heard the dry click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The girl saw that they were in a cavern formed by a mud crack whose walls had toppled together. Almost at her feet was a small pool, its surface covered with a film of dust. Endicott stepped toward it, but the Texan barred the way.
"Don't drink that! It might be a poison spring—most of 'em are down here. It's the meanest death there is, the bellyache an' cramps that comes from drinkin' poison water. Watch the horses. If they will drink it, we can. He led his horse to the pool into which the animal thrust his nose half way to the eyes. Only a moment he held it there, then with a thrash of disappointment that sent the water splashing over the dust-coated rocks, he raised his head and stood with the water dripping in streams from his muzzle. He pawed at the ground, shook his head wrathfully, and turned in disgust from the water-hole.
"Poison," announced the Texan. "We can rinse out our mouths with it an' clean out our eyes an' wash our faces, an' do the same for the horses, but we can't swallow not even a drop of it, or us an' the angels will be swappin' experiences about this time tomorrow." He turned to Alice: "Ladies first. Just take your handkerchief an' wet it an' swab out your mouth an' when you're through there's a good drink of real water waitin' for you in the flask."
When she had done, the three men followed her example, and the Texan tendered the bottle:
"Take all you need, there's plenty," he said. But she would take only a swallow which she held in her mouth and allowed to trickle down her throat. Endicott did the same and Bat, whereupon the cowboy replaced the cork to the bottle and was about to return it to his slicker when the girl caught his arm.
"You didn't drink any!" she cried, but he overrode her protest.
"I ain't thirsty," he said almost gruffly. "You better catch you a little rest, because as soon as we get these horses fixed up, we're goin' to pull out of here." The girl assayed a protest, but Tex turned abruptly away and the three fell to work removing the caked dust from the eyes and nostrils of the horses, and rinsing out their mouths. When they finished, Tex turned to Bat.
"How far d'you reckon it is to the water-hole?" he asked.
The half-breed shrugged: "Mebbe-so fi' mile, mebbe-so ten. I ain' know dis place. A'm t'ink we los'."
"Lost!" snorted the Texan, contemptuously. "You're a hell of an Injun, you are, to get lost in broad daylight in sight of the Bear Paws. I ain't lost, if you are, an' I tell you we camp at that water-hole tonight!"
Again the half-breed shrugged: "I ain' see no mountaine. I ain' see no mooch daylight, neider. Too mooch de dam' dus'—too mooch san'—too mooch de win' blow. If we com' by de water-hole, A'm t'ink dat dam' lucky t'ing."
Tex regarded him with disapproval: "Climb onto your horse, old Calamity Jane, an' we'll mosey along. A dry camp is better than this—at least nobody can crawl around in their sleep an' drink a snifter of poison." He helped Alice from the ground where she sat propped against a rock and assisted her to mount, being careful to adjust the scarf over her nose and mouth.
As the horses with lowered heads bored through the dust-storm the Texan cursed himself unmercifully. "This is all your fault, you damned four-flusher! You would run a girl—that girl, into a hole like this, would you? You low-lived skunk, you! You think you're fit to marry her, do you? Well, you ain't! You ain't fit to be mentioned in the same language she is! You'll get 'em all out of here or, by God, you'll never get out yourself—an' I'm right here to see that that goes! An' you'll find that water-hole, too! An' after you've found it, an' got 'em all out of this jack-pot, you'll h'ist up on your hind legs an' tell 'em the whole damn facts in the case, an' if Win jumps in an' just naturally mops up hell with you, it'll be just what you've got comin' to you—if he does a good job, it will." Mile after mile the horses drifted before the wind, heads hung low and ears drooping. In vain the Texan tried to pierce the impenetrable pall of flying dust for a glimpse of a familiar landmark. "We ought to be hittin' that long black ridge, or the soda hill by now," he muttered. "If we miss 'em both—God!"
The half-breed pushed his horse close beside him: "We mus' got to camp," he announced with his lips to the Texan's ear. "De hosses beginnin' to shake."
"How far can they go?"
"Camp now. Beside de cut-bank here. Dem hoss she got for res' queek or, ba Goss, she die."
Tex felt his own horse tremble and he knew the half-breed's words were true. With an oath he swung into the sheltered angle of the cut-bank along which they were travelling. Bat jerked the pack from the lead-horse and produced clothing and blankets, dripping wet from the saturation he had given them in the poison spring. While the others repeated the process of the previous camp, Bat worked over the horses which stood in a dejected row with their noses to the base of the cut-bank.
"We'll save the water an' make tomatoes do," announced the Texan, as with his knife he cut a hole in the top of a can. "This storm is bound to let up pretty quick an' then we'll hit for the waterhole. It can't be far from here. We'll tap two cans an' save one an' the water—the flask's half full yet."
Never in her life, thought Alice, as she and Endicott shared their can of tomatoes, had she tasted anything half so good. The rich red pulp and the acid juice, if it did not exactly quench the burning thirst, at least made it bearable, and in a few minutes she fell asleep protected from the all pervading dust by one of the wet blankets. The storm roared on. At the end of a couple of hours Bat rose and silently saddled his horse. "A'm gon' for fin' dat water-hole," he said, when the task was completed. "If de sto'm stop, a'right. If it don' stop, you gon' on in de mornin'." He placed one of the empty tomato cans in his slicker, and as he was about to mount both Endicott and Tex shook his hand.
"Good luck to you, Bat," said Endicott, with forced cheerfulness. The Texan said never a word, but after a long look into the half-breed's eyes, turned his head swiftly away.
Both Tex and Endicott slept fitfully, throwing the blankets from their heads at frequent intervals to note the progress of the storm. Once during the night the Texan visited the horses. The three saddle animals stood hobbled with their heads close to the cut-bank, but the pack-horse was gone. "Maybe you'll find it," he muttered, "but the best bet is, you won't. I gave my horse his head for an hour before we camped, an' he couldn't find it." Tex sat up after that, with his back to the wall of the coulee. With the first hint of dawn Endicott joined him. The wind roared with unabated fury as he crawled to the cowboy's side. He held up the half-filled water flask and the Texan regarded him with red-rimmed eyes.
"This water," asked the man, "it's for her, isn't it?" Tex nodded. Without a word Endicott crawled to the side of the sleeping girl and gently drew the blanket from her face. He carefully removed the cork from the bottle and holding it close above the parched lips allowed a few drops of the warm fluid to trickle between them. The lips moved and the sleeping girl swallowed the water greedily. With infinite pains the man continued the operation doling the precious water out a little at a time so as not to waken her. At last the bottle was empty, and, replacing the blanket, he returned to the Texan's side. "She wouldn't have taken it if she had known," he whispered. "She would have made us drink some."
Tex nodded, with his eyes on the other's face.
"An' you're nothin' but a damned pilgrim!" he breathed, softly. Minutes passed as the two men sat silently side by side. The Texan spoke, as if to himself: "It's a hell of a way to die—for her."
"We'll get through somehow," Endicott said, hopefully.
Tex did not reply, but sat with his eyes fixed on the horses. Presently he got up, walked over and examined each one carefully. "Only two of 'em will travel, Win. Yours is all in." He saddled the girl's horse and his own, leaving them still hobbled. Then he walked over and picked up the empty tomato can and the bottle. "You've got to drink," he said, "or you'll die—me, too. An' maybe that water ain't enough for her, either." He drew a knife from his pocket and walked to Endicott's horse.
"What are you going to do?" cried the other, his eyes wide with horror.
"It's blood, or nothin'," answered the Texan, as he passed his hand along the horse's throat searching for the artery.
Endicott nodded: "I suppose you're right, but it seems—cold blooded."
"I'd shoot him first, but there's no use wakin' her. We can tell her the horse died." There was a swift twisting of the cowboy's wrist, the horse reared sharply back, and Endicott turned away with a sickening feeling of weakness. The voice of the Texan roused him: "Hand me the bottle and the can quick!" As he sprang to obey, Endicott saw that the hand the cowboy held tightly against the horse's throat was red. The weakness vanished and he cursed himself for a fool. What was a horse—a thousand horses to the lives of humans—her life? The bottle was filled almost instantly and he handed Tex the can.
"Drink it—all you can hold of it. It won't taste good, but it's wet." He was gulping great swallows from the tin, as with the other hand he tried to hold back the flow. Endicott placed the bottle to his lips and was surprised to find that he emptied it almost at a draught. Again and again the Texan filled the bottle and the can as both in a frenzy of desire gulped the thick liquid. When, at length they were satiated, the blood still flowed. The receptacles were filled, set aside, and covered with a strip of cloth. For a moment longer the horse stood with the blood spurting from his throat, then with a heavy sigh he toppled sidewise and crashed heavily to the ground. The Texan fixed the cork in the bottle, plugged the can as best he could, and taking them, together with the remaining can of tomatoes, tied them into the slicker behind the cantle of his saddle. He swung the bag containing the few remaining biscuits to the horn.
"Give her the tomatoes when you have to.Youcan use the other can—tell her that's tomatoes, too. She'll never tumble that it's blood."
Endicott stared at the other: "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you had better wake her up, now, an' get goin'. I'll wait here for Bat. He's probably found the spring by this time, an' he'll be moseyin' along directly with water an' the pack-horse."
Endicott took a step toward him: "It won't work, Tex," he said, with a smile. "You don't expect me to believe that if you really thought Bat would return with water, you would be sending us away from here into this dust-storm. No. I'm the one that waits for Bat. You go ahead and take her through, and then you can come back for me."
The Texan shook his head: "I got you into this deal, an'——"
"You did it to protect me!" flared Endicott. "I'm the cause for all this, and I'll stand the gaff!"
The Texan smiled, and Endicott noticed that it was the same cynical smile with which the man had regarded him in the dance hall, and again as they had faced each other under the cottonwoods of Buffalo Coulee. "Since when you be'n runnin' this outfit?"
"It don't make any difference since when! The fact is, I'm running it, now—that is, to the extent that I'll be damned if you're going to stay behind and rot in this God-forsaken inferno, while I ride to safety on your horse."
The smile died from the cowboy's face: "It ain't that, Win. I guess you don't savvy, but I do. She's yours, man. Take her an' go! There was a while that I thought—but, hell!"
"I'm not so sure of that," Endicott replied. "Only yesterday, or the day before, she told me she could not choose—yet."
"She'll choose," answered Tex, "an' she won't choose—me. She ain't makin' no mistake, neither. By God, I know a man when I see one!"
Endicott stepped forward and shook his fist in the cowboy's face: "It's the only chance. You can do it—I can't. For God's sake, man, be sensible! Either of us would do it—for her. It is only a question of success, and all that it means; and failure—and all that that means. You know the country—I don't. You are experienced in fighting this damned desert—I'm not. Any one of a dozen things might mean the difference between life and death. You would take advantage of them—I couldn't."
"You're a lawyer, Win—an' a damn good one. I wondered what your trade was. If I ever run foul of the law, I'll sure send for you,pronto. If I was a jury you'd have me plumb convinced—but, I ain't a jury. The way I look at it, the case stands about like this: We can't stay here, and there can't only two of us go. I can hold out here longer than you could, an' you can go just as far with the horses as I could. Just give them their head an' let them drift—that's all I could do. If the storm lets up you'll see the Split Rock water-hole—you can't miss it if you're in sight of it, there's a long black ridge with a big busted rock on the end of it, an' just off the end is a round, high mound—the soda hill, they call it, and the water-hole is between. If you pass the water-hole, you'll strike the Miszoo. You can tell that from a long ways off, too, by the fringe of green that lines the banks. And, as for the rest of it—I mean, if the storm don't let up, or the horses go down, I couldn't do any more than you could—it's cashin' in time then anyhow, an' the long, long sleep, no matter who's runnin' the outfit. An' if it comes to that, it's better for her to pass her last hours with one of her own kind than with—me."
Endicott thrust out his hand: "I think any one could be proud to spend their last hours with one of your kind," he said huskily. "I believe we will all win through—but, if worse comes to worst—— Good Bye."
"So Long, Win," said the cowboy, grasping the hand. "Wake her up an' pull out quick. I'll onhobble the horses."