Part 9 (1/2)

”Four shots.”

”You was running away when your colt s.h.i.+ed at the bear?”

”My ankle! Jesse, it hurts so dreadfully. Yes the left.”

My knife ripped her riding-boot clear. The old red bandana from my neck made her a wet bandage, and the boot top served for a splint. There was no call to tell her the foot was broken, and the fainting fits eased my job. Between whiles she would tell me to hurry, knowing that the return of that d.a.m.ned colt would show Trevor which way she'd run. I had no weapon, so if Trevor happened along with the .45 revolver it wouldn't be healthy.

I couldn't leave the loads of ore on my ponies, and if I got Mrs. Trevor mounted with her foot hanging down, she'd lose time swooning. So I unloaded all the ponies except Jones, and turned them loose, keeping Jones and Swift, who has a big heart for travel. Next I filled one of the rawhide panniers with brush, and lashed it across Jones' neck for a back rest. A wad of pine brush made a seat between Jones' panniers where I mostly carry my grub. Hoisting Mrs. Trevor on to the mare's back was a pretty mean job, but worst of all I had to lash her down. Taking my thirty-eight-foot rope I threw a single-hand diamond, hitching the lady good and hard to mare and cargo. Her head and shoulders was over Jones'

neck, her limbs stretched out above his rump, where I had made them fast with a sling rope. I've packed mining machinery, wheels, and once a piano, but I never heard tell of any one packing a lady. For chafing gear to keep the ropes from scorching, I had to use my coat, s.h.i.+rt, and unders.h.i.+rt, so that when I mounted Swift to lead off, I'd only boots and overalls, and Mrs. Trevor could see I was blus.h.i.+ng down to my belt.

Shocked? Nothing! Great ladies doesn't shock like common people. No, in spite of the pain-racking and the fear-haunting, she laughed, and it done me good. She said I looked like Mr. Pollo Belvideary, a dago she'd met up with in Italy. Dagos are swine, but the way she spoke made me proud.

Jones leads good, which was well for me riding bareback, for we didn't stop to pick flowers.

Was.h.i.+ng day after supper.

We weren't more than half-way down to the river when we heard Trevor surging and yelling astern, somewheres up on the bench. At that I broke to a trot, telling the lady to let out a howl the moment it hurt beyond bearing. I wonder what amount of pain is beyond the bearing of real thoroughbreds? That lady would burn before she'd even whimper.

Nearing the ferry my innards went sick, for the punt was on the far bank, the man was out of sight, and even Jones wouldn't propose to swim the river with a cargo of mineral and a deck load. As we got to the door of Brown's cabin, Trevor hove in sight.

Now, supposing you're poor in the matter of time, with, say, half a minute to invest to the best advantage, you try to lay out your thirty seconds where they will do most good. I lep' to the ground, giving Jones a hearty slap on the off quarter, which would steer her behind Brown's cabin; then with one jump I grabbed old man Brown's Winchester rifle from its slings above the hearth, shoved home two cartridges from the mantel, rammed the muzzle through the window-pane, which commands a view up the trail, and proceeded to take stock of Mr. Trevor.

The man's eyes being stark staring mad, it was a sure fact he'd never listen to argument. If I shot him, the horse would surge on, dropping the corpse at Mrs. Trevor's feet, which would be too sudden to please.

If I stopped the horse at full gallop, the rider would go on till he hit the scenery, and after that he wouldn't feel well enough to be injurious. That's why I waited, following with the rifle until the horse's shoulder widened out, giving me a clear aim at the heart.

The horse finished his stride, but while I was running to the door, he crumpled and went down dead, the carca.s.s sliding three yards before it stopped. As to the man, he shot a long curve down on his back in a splash of dust, which looked like a brown explosion. His revolver went further on whirling, until a stump touched off the trigger, and its bullet whined over my head.

Next thing I heard was the rapids, like a church organ finis.h.i.+ng a hymn, and Mrs. Trevor's call.

”You've killed him?”

”No, ma'am, but he's had an accident. I'll take him to the cabin for first aid.”

Trevor was sitting up by the time I reached him. He looked sort of sick.

”Get up,” said I, remembering to be polite in the presence of a lady.

”Get up, you cherub.”

Instead of rising, he reached out a flask from his pocket, and uncorked to take a little nourishment. I flicked the bottle into the river, and a.s.sisted him to rise with my foot. ”My poor erring brother,” said I, ”please step this way, or I'll kick your tail through your hat.”

He said he wasn't feeling very well, so when I got him into the cabin, I let him lie on Brown's bed, las.h.i.+ng him down good and hard. I gave him a stick to bite instead of my fingers, which is private. ”Now,” said I, ”your name is Polecat. You're due to rest right there, Mr. Polecat, until I get the provincial constable.” I gathered from his expression that he'd sort of taken a dislike to me.

Swift and the mare were grazing on pine chips beside the cabin, and Mrs.

Trevor looked wonderfully peaceful.

”Your husband,” said I, ”is resting.”

She gave me a wry laugh, and seeing she was in pain, I poured water over her foot.