Part 22 (2/2)
He swung up, and Jackson sullenly followed.
”Give me that gun,” ordered Banion, and took the shotgun and slung it in the pommel loop of his own saddle.
The gentle amble of the black stallion kept the prisoner at a trot. At times Banion checked, never looking at the man following, his hands at the rope, panting.
”Ye'll try him in the camp council, Will?” began Jackson once more.
”Anyways that? He's a murderer. He tried to kill us both, an' he will yit. Boy, ye rid with Doniphan, an' don't know the _ley refugio_ Hasn't the prisoner tried to escape? Ain't that old as Mayheeco Veeayho? Take this skunk in on a good rope like that? Boy, ye're crazy!”
”Almost,” nodded Banion. ”Almost. Come on. It's late.”
It was late when they rode down into the valley of the Platte. Below them twinkled hundreds of little fires of the white nation, feasting.
Above, myriad stars shone in a sky unbelievably clear. On every hand rose the roaring howls of the great gray wolves, also feasting now; the lesser chorus of yapping coyotes. The savage night of the Plains was on.
Through it pa.s.sed three savage figures, one a staggering, stumbling man with a rope around his neck.
They came into the guard circle, into the dog circle of the encampment; but when challenged answered, and were not stopped.
”Here, Jackson,” said Banion at length, ”take the rope. I'm going to our camp. I'll not go into this train. Take this pistol--it's loaded now.
Let off the _reata_, walk close to this man. If he runs, kill him. Find Molly Wingate. Tell her Will Banion has sent her husband to her--once more. It's the last time.”
He was gone in the dark. Bill Jackson, having first meticulously exhausted the entire vituperative resources of the English, the Spanish and all the Indian languages he knew, finally poked the muzzle of the pistol into Woodhull's back.
”Git, d.a.m.n ye!” he commanded. ”Center, guide! Forrerd, march! Ye--”
He improvised now, all known terms of contempt having been heretofore employed.
Threading the way past many feast fires, he did find the Wingate wagons at length, did find Molly Wingate. But there his memory failed him. With a skinny hand at Sam Woodhull's collar, he flung him forward.
”Here, Miss Molly,” said he, ”this thing is somethin' Major Banion sont in ter ye by me. We find hit stuck in the mud. He said ye're welcome.”
But neither he nor Molly really knew why that other man had spared Sam Woodhull's life, or what it was he awaited in return for Sam Woodhull's life.
All that Jackson could do he did. As he turned in the dark he implanted a heartfelt kick which sent Sam Woodhull on his knees before Molly Wingate as she stood in wondering silence.
Then arose sudden clamorings of those who had seen part of this--seen an armed man a.s.sault another, unarmed and defenseless, at their very firesides. Men came running up. Jesse Wingate came out from the side of his wagon.
”What's all this?” he demanded. ”Woodhull, what's up? What's wrong here?”
CHAPTER XXIII
AN ARMISTICE
To the challenge of Wingate and his men Jackson made answer with a high-pitched fighting yell. Sweeping his pistol muzzle across and back again over the front of the closing line, he sprang into saddle and wheeled away.
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