Part 21 (1/2)
”Do that much fer 'em!” the woman exclaimed. ”I reckon they ain't nothin' I wouldn't do fer _them_. Mebbe Jack's right, an' mebbe he's wrong. I've saw him be both, 'fore now. Anyways, it ain't a-goin' to do Samuelsons no harm, nor the horse-thieves no good fer me to go up there. You hit the trail fer town, an' I'll ride up the crick.” The woman cut short the girl's thanks. ”You better take straight on down Porky 'til it crosses the trail,” she advised. ”It's a little longer but you won't git lost that way, an' chances is you would if I tried to tell you the short cut. Thompsons is great friends with Samuelsons,” called the woman, as Patty mounted. ”Better change horses there! Or, mebbe Thompson'll go on to town fer you.”
Below the Pierce ranch the trail was not so good but, unheeding, the girl held her horse to his pace. In her heart now was no wild exhilaration of moonlight, nor was there any lurking fear of unknown hors.e.m.e.n, only a mighty rage--a rage engendered by Pierce's accusation, but which expanded with each leap of her horse until it included Vil Holland, Bethune, the Samuelson cowboys, and even Len Christie and the Samuelsons themselves--a senseless, consuming rage that caused the blood to throb hotly to her temples and found vicious expression in driving the rowels into her horse's sides until the animal tore down the rough, half-lit trail at a pace that sent the loose stones flying from beneath his hoofs in rattling volleys.
Possibly, it was the rattling of loose stones, possibly her anger dulled her sensibilities to the point where they were incapable of taking note of her surroundings, but the fact remains that as she approached the mouth of a wide coulee that gave into the valley from the eastward, she did not hear the rumble of hundreds of pounding hoofs that each second grew louder and more ominous, until as she reached the mouth of the coulee a rider swept into the valley, his horse straining every muscle to keep ahead of the herd that thundered in his wake.
Apparently the horseman did not notice her, and the next moment Patty was engulfed in the herd. The girl lived one wild moment of terror. In front, behind, upon each side were madly plunging horses, eyes staring, mouths agape exposing long white teeth that flashed wickedly in the moonlight, manes tossing wildly, and air whistling through wide-flaring nostrils. On and on they swept down the valley. The roar of hoofs rose to a mighty crescendo of thunder, above which, now and then, the terrified girl caught fierce yells from the flank of the herd. So close were the terrorized horses running that it was impossible for the girl to see the ground before her. Sweating, plunging bodies surged against her legs threatening each moment to sc.r.a.pe her feet from the stirrups. Gripping the horn with both hands she rode in a sort of daze.
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught an occasional flash of white as the men on the flanks waved sheets above their heads, whose flapping, fluttering folds urged the maddened horses into a perfect frenzy of action.
In front, and a little to one side of Patty, a horse went down, a big roan colt, and she got one horrible glimpse of a grotesquely twisted neck, and a tangle of thras.h.i.+ng hoofs as another horse plunged onto his fallen comrade. A horrible scream split the air as he, too, went down, and the sudden side-surge of the herd all but unseated the clinging girl. In a second it was over and the herd thundered on.
Patty closed her eyes, and with white, tight-pressed lips, wondered when her horse would go down. She pictured the b.l.o.o.d.y, battered _thing_ that had been herself, lying flattened and gruesome, in the moonlight when the pounding hoofs swept past.
Time and distance ceased to be. Patty was carried helplessly on, a part of that frenzied flood of flesh, muscles rigid, brain tense--waiting for the inevitable moment--the horrible moment that was to mark the climax of this ride of horrors. She wondered if it would hurt, or would merciful unconsciousness come with the first impact of the fall.
Suddenly she opened her eyes. She sensed a change in the rumble of hoofs. Horses surged together and the pace slackened from a wild rush to a wilder thras.h.i.+ng of uncertainty. In the forefront a thin red spurt of flame leaped forth and above the pounding hoofs rang the report of a shot. The leaders seemed to have stopped and the main body of the herd pressed and struggled against the unyielding front. Other spurts of flame pierced the night, and shots rang viciously from all sides. The horses were milling, churning, about in a huge maelstrom, in which Patty found herself being slowly forced to the outside as the unenc.u.mbered free horses crowded to the center away from the terrifying stabs of flame and the crack of guns. She could see a mounted form before her. Evidently it was the man who had ridden in the forefront of the herd. The rider was very close, now, his horse keeping pace with her own which had nearly reached the outer rim of the churning ma.s.s of animals. The brim of his hat shadowed his face but Patty could see that the gauntleted hand held a six-gun. A s.h.i.+ft of position brought the moonlight full upon the man's front--upon a scarf of robin's-egg blue caught together at the throat with the polished tip of buffalo horn. No other hors.e.m.e.n were in sight, but an occasional sharp report sounded from the opposite side of the herd.
”Vil!” she screamed. ”Vil Holland!” The form stiffened in the saddle and the girl caught the flash of his eyes beneath the hat brim. The next instant the gun had given place to a heavy quirt in his hand, his tall, rangy horse plunged straight toward her, the wild horses, crowding frenziedly to escape the blows as the rider lashed furiously to the right and to the left as he forced his mount to her side.
”Good G.o.d! Girl, what are you doing here? I thought you were one of them--and I nearly--” The man leaned suddenly forward and grasped the bit-chain of her bridle. As if knowing exactly what was expected of them, side by side the two horses fought their way free of the herd, the big buckskin with ears laid back, snapping viciously at the crowding horses. A six-gun roared twice. Patty felt a sudden brush of air against her cheek and the next instant the two horses plunged down the steep side of a narrow ravine. In the bottom the man released her bridle. ”You stay here!” he commanded gruffly.
”But, the Samuelsons! Mr. Samuelson is--” The words were drowned in a shower of gravel as the rangy buckskin scrambled up the bank and disappeared over the top. The rapid transition from anger to terror, and from terror to relief, proved too much for the girl's nerves and she burst into a violent fit of sobbing. The tears enraged her and she shouted at the top of her voice. ”I won't stay here!” but the words sounded puny and weak, and she knew that they had not penetrated beyond the rim of the ravine. ”I won't do it! I won't stay here!” she kept repeating, the sentences broken by the hysterical sobbing.
Nevertheless, stay there she did, until with a mighty rumble of hoofs and a scattering volley of shots, the horse herd swept northward, and when finally she succeeded in gaining the upper level, the sounds came to her ears faint and far away.
Hurriedly she glanced about her. What was that stretching to the southward, a long ribbon of white in the moonlight? ”The trail!” she cried. ”The trail to town--and to Thompson's!” Just beyond the trail, upon the brown-yellow buffalo gra.s.s a dark object lay motionless.
Patty stared at it in horror. It was the body of a man. Her first impulse was to put spurs to her horse and fly down that long white ribbon of trail--to place distance between herself and the thing that lay sprawled upon the gra.s.s. Then a thought flashed into her brain.
Suppose it were he? Vil Holland, the man whom everybody trusted--the man who had calmly braved the shots of the horse-thieves to rescue her from that churning maelstrom of horror.
Unconsciously, but surely, under the influence of those upon whose judgment she knew she could rely, her suspicion and distrust of him had weakened. She had half-realized the fact days ago, when at thought of him she found herself forced to enumerate his apparent offenses over and over again to keep the distrust alive. She thought of him now as he had fought his way to her, las.h.i.+ng the infuriated horses from his path. He had appeared, somehow--different. She closed her eyes and clean cut as though chiseled upon her brain was the picture of him as he forced his way to her side. Like a flash the detail of difference broke upon her--The jug was missing! And close upon the heels of the discovery came the memory of the strange thrill that had shot through her as his leg pressed hers when their horses had been forced together by the milling herd, and the sense of security and well being that replaced the terror in her heart from the moment she had called his name. A sudden indescribable pain gripped her breast, as though icy fingers reached up and slowly clutched her heart. With staring eyes and breath coming heavily between parted lips, she rode toward the thing on the ground. As she drew near, her horse stopped, sniffing nervously. She attempted to urge him forward, but he quivered, s.h.i.+ed sidewise, and, snorting his fear, circled the sprawling object with nostrils a-quiver.
Fighting a terrible dread, the girl forced her eyes to focus upon the gruesome form, and the next instant she uttered a quick little cry of relief. The man's hat had fallen off and lay at some distance from the body. She could see a shock of thick black hair, and noticed that he wore a cheap cotton s.h.i.+rt that had once been white. There were no chaps. One leg of his blue overalls had rolled up and exposed six inches of bare skin which gleamed whitely in the moonlight above the top of his shoe. The sight sickened, disgusted her, and whirling her horse she dashed southward along the trail forgetting for the moment the Samuelsons, the doctor, and everything else in a wild desire to put distance between herself and that awful thing on the ground.
Not until her horse's hoofs rang upon the hard rock of the canyon floor, did Patty slacken her pace. Thompson's was only a few miles farther on. It was dark in the high walled canyon and she slowed her horse to a walk. He stopped to drink in the shallow creek and the girl glanced over the back trail. Where was he now! Thundering along with the recaptured horse herd, or following the thieves in a mad flight through the devious fastnesses of the mountains. Was it possible that even at this moment he was lying upon the yellow-brown gra.s.s, or among the broken rock fragments of some coulee, twisted, and shapeless, and still--like that other who lay repulsive and ugly, with his bare leg s.h.i.+ning white in the moonlight? She shuddered. ”No, no, no!” she cried aloud, ”they can't kill him. They're cowards--and he is brave!” Her voice rang hollow and thin in the rocky chasm, and she started at the sound of it. Her horse moved on, tongueing the bit contentedly. ”They were right, and I was wrong,” she muttered. ”And--and, I'm _glad_.”
The canyon was left behind and before her the trail wound among the foothills that rolled away to the open bench. She noticed that the moon had sunk behind the mountains, yet it was not dark. Glancing toward the east, she realized that it was morning. She urged her horse into a lope, and reached Thompson's just as the ranchman and his two hands were starting for the barn.
”Well, dog my cats, if it ain't Miss Sinclair!” exclaimed the man, and stood silent for a second as if trying to remember something. He rushed toward her excitedly. ”You want that horse?” he cried, and without waiting for an answer, turned to the astonished ranch hands: ”You, Mike, throw the sh.e.l.l onto Lightnin', an' git him out here, an'
don't lose no time about it, neither!
”Pete, git that rifle an' lay along the trail! An' if anyone comes a-foggin' along towards town shoot his horse out from in under him!
Never mind chawin'--you git! Shoot his horse, an' I'll pay the bill.
Any skunk that would try fer to beat a lady out of her claim ain't a-goin' to expect nothin' but what he gits around this outfit. An'
say, Pete--if it should be Monk Bethune--an' you happen to shoot a leetle high fer to hit the horse--don't worry none--git, now!
”You come right along of me, an' git a snack from Miz T. while Mike's a-saddlin' up. It's a long drag to town, even on Lightnin', an' you ain't et yet. If the coffee ain't hot, you can wait a couple o'
minutes--that there Pete--he won't let nothin' git by--he kin cut a sage hen's head off twenty rod with that rifle!” Patty had made several unsuccessful attempts to speak--attempts to which Thompson paid no attention whatever. At last, she managed to make him understand. ”No, no! It isn't the claim, Mr. Thompson--but, let him saddle the horse just the same. Mr. Samuelson is worse and I'm riding for the doctor.”
”You!” exclaimed the astonished Thompson. ”What's the matter with Bill or some of Samuelson's riders?”
”They're after the horse-thieves. They ran off a lot of Mr.