Part 24 (1/2)
”They ain't nothin' the matter with me,” said Curly slowly, ”'ceptin' I done said I wouldn't give this man up to no man but the Co'te. A lot o' us fellers, here in the settlement, we 'lowed that the law goes here now.”
Silence fell for an instant, then from the rear of the party there came pus.h.i.+ng and crowding and cries of ”Burn the house--drive him out!”
There was a rush, but it was met by a silent thickening of the line at the point a.s.sailed. Men scuffled with men, swearing and grunting, panting hard. Here and there weapons flashed dully, though as yet no shot was fired. Time and again Franklin raised his voice. ”Men, listen to me!” he cried. ”We promise you a fair trial--we promise--”
”Shut up!” cried the leader, and cries of ”No talking!” came from the crowd. ”Give him up, or we'll clean you all out!” cried another voice, angrily. The rushers toward the house grew closer, so that a.s.sailants and besiegers were now mingled in a fighting, swearing ma.s.s.
”You're no cowman, Curly,” cried one voice, bitterly, out of the black s.h.i.+fting sea in front of the house.
”You're a d----d liar!” cried Curly in reply, ”whoever says that to me!
I'm only a-keepin' of my word. You kain't clean us out. I'll shoot the livin' soul out o' any man that touches that door! This here is the jail, an' I'm the deppity, and, by ----! you'll not have my prisoner!”
”Quite right, me man,” said a cool voice at Curly's side, and a hand fell on his shoulder as a tall form loomed up in the crowd. ”There's good matayrial in you, me bully. Hould yer position, an' be sure that Batty's with you, at the laste. Fair play's a jule, an' it's fair play we're goin' to have here.”
Backed by a crowd of men whose resolution was as firm as their own, these three fell back in front of the door. Franklin felt his heart going fast, and knew that more was asked of him here than had ever been upon the field of battle; yet he was exultant at the discovery that he had no thought of wavering. He knew then that he had been proved.
With equal joy he looked upon the face of Curly, frowning underneath the pushed-back hat, and upon that of Battersleigh, keen-looking, eager, as though about to witness some pleasurable, exciting thing.
Yet he knew the men in front were as brave as they, and as desperately resolved. In a moment, he reflected, the firing would begin. He saw Curly's hands lying lightly upon the b.u.t.ts of his revolvers. He saw Battersleigh draw his revolver and push with the side of the barrel against the nearest men as though to thrust them back. He himself crowded to the fore, eager, expectant, prepared. One shot, and a score of lives were done, and dark indeed would be this night in Ellisville.
Suddenly the climax came. The door was thrust irresistibly open, not from without, but from within. Stooping, so that his head might clear its top, the enormous figure of Juan, the Mexican, appeared in the opening. He looked out, ignorant of the real reason of this tumult, yet snuffing conflict as does the bear not yet a.s.sailed. His face, dull and impa.s.sive, was just beginning to light up with suspicion and slow rage.
A roar of anger and excitement rose as the prisoner was seen standing there before them, though outlined only by the dim light of the sky.
Every man in the a.s.sailing party sprang toward the building. The cries became savage, beastlike. It was no longer human beings who contended over this poor, half-witted being, but brutes, less reasonable than he.
Juan left the door. He swept Franklin and Curly and Battersleigh aside as though they were but babes. It was his purpose to rush out, to strike, to kill. It was the moment of opportunity for the leader of the a.s.sailants. The whistle of a rope cut the air, and the noose tightened about the giant's neck with instant grip. There was a surge back upon the rope, a movement which would have been fatal for any other man, which would have been fatal to him, had the men got the rope to a horse as they wished, so that they might drag the victim by violence through the crowd.
But with Juan this act was not final. The noose enraged him, but did not frighten or disable him. As the great bear of the foothills, when roped by the horseman, scorns to attempt escape, but pulls man and horse toward him by main force, so the giant savage who was now thus a.s.sailed put forth his strength, and by sheer power of arm drew his would-be captors to him, hand over hand. The noose about his own neck he loosened with one hand. Then he raised his hand and let it fall.
The caster of the rope, his collar bone broken and his shoulder blade cracked across, fell in a heap at his feet as the swaying crowd made way. Once again there was silence, one moment of confusion, hesitation. Then came the end.
There came, boring into the silence with horrible distinctness, the sound of one merciful, mysterious shot. The giant straightened up once, a vast black body towering above the black ma.s.s about him, and then sank gently, slowly down, as though to curl himself in sleep.
There was a groan, a roar, a swift surging of men, thick, black, like swarming bees. Some bent above the two p.r.o.ne figures. Others caught at the rope, grovelling, snarling.
They were saved the last stage of their disgrace. Into the crowd there pressed the figure of a new-comer, a hatless man, whose face was pale, whose feet were unshod, and who bore one arm helpless in a dirty sling which hung about his neck. Haggard and unkempt, barefooted, half-clad as he had stumbled out of bed at his ranch six miles away, Bill Watson, the sheriff, appeared a figure unheroic enough. With his broken arm hanging useless and jostled by the crowd, he raised his right hand above his head and called out, in a voice weak and halting, but determined:
”Men, go--go home! I command you--in the name--of the law!”
BOOK IV
THE DAY OF THE PLOUGH
CHAPTER x.x.x
THE END OF THE TRAIL
The Cottage Hotel of Ellisville was, singularly enough, in its palmy days conducted by a woman, and a very good woman she was. It was perhaps an error in judgment which led the husband of this woman to undertake the establishment of a hotel at such a place and such a time, but he hastened to repair his fault by amiably dying. The widow, a large woman, of great kindness of heart and a certain skill in the care of gunshot wounds, fell heiress to the business, carried it on and made a success of it. All these wild range men who came roistering up the Trail loved this large and kind old lady, and she called them all her ”boys,” watching over the wild brood as a hen does over her chickens.