Puyallup River had many twists and turns in the thirty miles which it covered between Morton’s Ranch and Roscommon. Passing within a stone’s throw of the ranch house, it flowed almost due north for six miles, then, entering the rough hill country, it doubled back on its course for three miles, rounded the base of Rawson’s Bluff, in a four-mile curve, came east by south around the base of Bear Butte, and then curved in a northwesterly direction for the last twelve miles that carried it through the outskirts of the county seat.
Markham, on his skis, could con a direct course to Roscommon, bisecting the river at three points, and finally climbing the butte for a long glissade into the town. That glissade, right into the edge of the settlement, measured ten miles of down grade. The slopes of Bear Butte were smooth, and directly under its crest the descent was steep. A mile of this, and then the course fell away more gently.
Markham, if he made good time to the eastern base of Bear Butte, would very likely reach that particular spot ahead of Peters, for he would have to travel only seven miles, while Peters was going sixteen. Where Markham would lose would be in climbing the butte; and where he would make up his loss would be in the long glissade down the opposite side.
At the river’s edge, Peters screwed the skates into his heels, pulled the straps tight, and buckled them, then put on his bearskin gloves and struck out. He was well away toward Rawson’s Bluff before Markham made his first crossing of the river, near the ranch house.
The ice was in splendid condition. A strong wind had swept it clean of loose snow, save here and there at the turns, where drifts had formed. Then a slight thaw, a few days before, had been followed by a tightening of the cold, and all rough spots had been smoothed away.
Markham, whose steel runners were the very last word in all-metal skates, excelled as a figure skater. He could cut all sorts of graceful figures on the ice, and, with Hesther Morton, would do a sort of waltz, which the girl seemed to consider rare sport. Peters, on the other hand, was not proficient at that sort of thing. He preferred straight skating, possibly because he realized that fancy capers were quite out of his line. The steel, wood, and leather with which he was shod seemed best adapted to straightaway work, anyhow.
Peters knew every foot of the river between the ranch and Roscommon. He had covered that long stretch of ice several times while getting himself in trim for the skating race at Devil’s Lake. There was “white ice” under the shelter of the bluff and the butte, caused by a fall of snow while the first crystals were forming. This had been full of air bubbles, and had been treacherous up to the time the severe frost had followed the thaw. After that the liquefied snow had congealed into a sound and superlative smoothness. There was not a spot to be feared on the entire course.
With long, steady, swinging strokes, Peters swept around the first turn and came south on the stretch which Markham was to cross in order to thread a seam through Rawson’s Bluff. But, although the moonlight was brilliant upon the sparkling snow crust, he could see nothing of his rival. It might be, he reasoned, that Markham had already effected his second crossing of the river, and was even then in the gash that cut through the bluff. Peters ground his teeth, and, with his runners ringing musically, passed like a gliding specter around the bluff’s base. Three miles farther, and he might obtain a view of Markham as he emerged from the shallow defile and pushed over the open levels toward the butte.
He was having queer thoughts about Markham. Why had the fellow protested against any attempt to reach Roscommon and notify the sheriff? Then, in the face of his protests, why had he determined to pit his skis against Peters’ skates—to accomplish the thing which he had averred could not be accomplished?
There was but one answer to this, according to Peters’ conclusions. Markham could not bear to think that Petersmightsucceed, that hemightwin favorable notice from Uncle Silas, and that hemightgain some credit in the eyes of Hesther Morton! Markham was not thinking of saving the horses; no, he was impressed with the idea of his own prestige and importance, and he could not take a chance of losing out to a “saphead.” That was all there was to it, so Peters believed.
A determination to win that race and save the stolen stock grew stronger and stronger in Peters’ breast. Here, after the miserable failures at Devil’s Lake, was a most unexpected opportunity to retrieve himself. It was his business to make the most of it.
Three straight miles lay ahead of him to the westward of the bluff. Coming down the stretch like the wind, he surveyed the shadowy opening of the swale, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Markham. But the ski runner was not in sight. In the distance, the sparkling crest of Bear Butte could be vaguely determined; yet, between the bluff and the butte no dusky figure could be seen toiling on the skis.
“He hasn’t cleared the bluff yet,” thought Peters exultantly. “I’m leading him, by ginger!”
The river, at the end of the three-mile stretch, described a curve like a gigantic horseshoe. In its first beginning, the stream had attempted to run west by south; meeting the rough country, its course had been deflected toward the northwest; then, striking the wide-spreading base of Bear Butte, it had followed northeast and east on its way around the huge uplift. On clearing the butte, the Puyallup struck off due northwest, and so, in a dozen miles, came to Roscommon.
Peters, although he had not timed himself, knew he had been making excellent speed. He was seventeen miles from the ranch, and coming rapidly under the shadow of the butte. Markham could scarcely climb the massive “rise” and glissade into Roscommon ahead of him. So far as he had been able todiscover, Markham was not yet anywhere near Bear Butte, nor——
“Peters! I say, Peters!”
Peters was amazed. Above his ringing steel a sharp cry echoed in the frosty air. It was Markham’s voice, and calling his name. Peters dug into the ice with the heels of his runners and came to a quick halt.
“That you, Porter?” he called.
“Yes, Nix. I’m in hard luck. Stop a minute, will you?”
The voice came from a shadowy overhang at the butte’s foot. Peters skated toward the black cavity, and was met by the dusky figure of Markham, limping out of the darkness and across the ice. Markham had his skis under his arm.
“By George!” cried Peters. “You got here in a hurry! What’s wrong?”
“I fell from a six-foot bank, as I was crossing the river, and splintered one of my skis,” was the answer, “and I can’t go on with the wood runners. I reckon I’ll take your skates,” Markham added coolly.
Peters caught his breath. “I reckon you won’t,” he returned, with spirit. “I’m going on to Roscommon, start the sheriff and a posse for the dry wash, and get a doctor for Bailey. What do you take me for?”
“A saphead—just a plain, everyday saphead,” said Markham. “Down on the ice, Peters, and off with those skates!Prontois the word! There’s no time to lose!”
Markham had dropped the skis, and stripped a glove from his right hand. The bare hand was in the pocket of his leather coat. Suddenly, as the two stood facing each other, the hand emerged from the pocket with a short, ugly-looking bulldog revolver. Markham leveled the weapon, and the moonlight glinted frostily on the barrel.
Again Peters caught his breath. He was dazed, bewildered. To be threatened in that manner by one whom he had believed to be a friend—or, if not a friend, at least a fellow employee of Uncle Silas Goddard, with interests in common—was a decided shock.
“You crazy, Porter?” demanded Peters, when he could find his tongue.
“Hardly,” was the reply, with a husky, ill-omened laugh, “it will be a long time before you reach Roscommon, my laddybuck. Take off those skates, I tell you! I mean business, Peters!”
There was that in Markham’s words and manner which left no doubt of the fact that he meant business. Peters was wild with indignation and anger, but he was also helpless.
“What’ll Reece Bailey say to this, when I tell him?” he asked, dropping to the ice and working at the skate straps.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” was the response. “Throw the skates over here when you get ’em off. You had to butt into this deal with the fool suggestion of getting word to the sheriff, now, blame you, take your medicine!”
“You’re bound to win,” grunted Peters, “if you have to do it with a gun! You ain’t square, Markham. I may be a good deal of a saphead, but I found, when it was too late, that one of my skis and one of my skate straps had been tampered with at Devil’s Lake. You did that!”
“Why didn’t you tell Hesther about it?” jeered Markham; “or the judges of the contests? Didn’t you have nerve enough to put up a holler?” Peters gave the skates a shove across the ice.
Ten feet away, Markham sat down to screw the skates to his heels and adjust the straps. The revolver lay at his side, and he watched Peters sharply as he worked.
Peters, a desperate purpose forming in his mind, was awaiting the moment when he could spring to the attack. He was not to be conquered in that way.There was plenty of fight in him, and Markham would discover it to his cost.
Markham worked rapidly. The skates were on, and snugly buckled, and he was just rising when Peters went after him, with a short run and a slide. But if Peters was quick, Markham was a shade quicker.
Crack!
The revolver exploded in the air, and Peters’ left arm seemed suddenly to have been scorched with a hot iron. The shock caused him to lose his footing, and he fell in a sprawl on the slippery surface of the river.
“You would have it!” shouted Markham fiercely. “That’s something more for you to tell Bailey!”
The last words faded in mellow ring of sliding steel. Peters, sitting up on the ice, and clasping his numbed arm with his right hand, watched Markham slip from sight around the curve at the foot of Bear Butte.