The Seventh Man Read online

  Chapter XI. A New Trail Begins

  If he had been an ordinary rider, sitting heavily far back in thesaddle, at the end of a long ride, Barry would either have been flungclear and smashed horribly against the rocks, or, more likely, he wouldhave been entangled in the stirrups and crushed to death instantly bythe weight of his horse; but he rode always lightly poised and when themare pitched forward his feet were already clear of the stirrups. Helanded, catlike, on hands and feet, unhurt.

  It had been a long shot, a lucky hit even for a marksman of thesheriff's caliber, and now the six horsemen streamed over a distanthilltop and swept into the valley to take their quarry dead, or halfdead, from his fall. However, that approaching danger was nothing in theeye of Barry. He ran to the fallen mare and caught her head in his arms.She ceased her struggles to rise as soon as he touched her and whinneyedsoftly. The left foreleg lay twisted horribly beneath her, broken. GreyMolly had run her last race, and as Barry kneeled, holding the bravehead close to him, he groaned, and looked away from her eyes. It wasonly an instant of weakness, and when he turned to her again he wasdrawing his gun from its holster.

  The beating hoofs of the posse as they raced towards him made agrowing murmur through the clear air. Barry glanced towards them with aconsummate loathing. They had killed a horse to stop a man, and to himit was more than murder. What harm had she done them except to carry herrider bravely and well? The tears of rage and sorrow which a child shedswelled into the eyes of Dan Barry. Every one of them had a hand in thishorrible killing; was, to that half animal and half-childish nature, amurderer.

  His chin was on his shoulder; the quiver of pain in her nostrils endedas he spoke; and while the fingers of his left hand trailed caressinglyacross her forehead, his right carried the muzzle to her temple.

  "Brave Molly, good girl," he whispered, "they'll pay for you a death fora death and a man for a hoss." The yellow which had glinted in his eyesduring the run was afire now. "It ain't far; only a step to go; andthen you'll be where they ain't any saddles, nor any spurs to gall you,Molly, but just pastures that's green all year, and nothin' to do butloaf in the sun and smell the wind. Here's good luck to you, girl."

  His gun spoke sharp and short and he laid the limp head reverently onthe ground.

  It had all happened in very few seconds, and the posse was ridingthrough the river, still a long shot off, when Barry drew his rifle fromits case on the saddle. Moreover, the failing light which had made thesheriff's hit so much a matter of luck was now still dimmer, yet Barrysnapped his gun to the shoulder and fired the instant the butt lay inthe grove. For another moment nothing changed in the appearance of theriders, then a man leaned out of his saddle and fell full length in thewater.

  Around him his companions floundered, lifted and placed him on the bank,and then threw themselves from their horses to take shelter behind thefirst rocks they could find; they had no wish to take chances with a manwho could snap-shoot like this in such a light, at such a distance. Bythe time they were in position their quarry had slipped out of sight andthey had only the blackening boulders for targets.

  "God amighty," cried Ronicky Joe, "are you goin' to let that murderin'hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?"

  For it was Harry Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank withhis arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed with purple in the center ofhis forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.

  "You lay where you are," commanded the sheriff, and indeed there hadbeen no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.

  "You yaller quitters," groaned Joe. "Give me a square chance and I'lltackle Vic Gregg alone day or night, on hoss or on foot. Are we fivegoin' to lay down to him?"

  "If that was Vic Gregg," answered the sheriff, slipping over the insultwith perfect calm, "I wouldn't of told you to scatter for cover; butthat ain't Vic."

  "Pete, what in hell are you drivin' at?"

  "I say it ain't Vic," said the sheriff. "Vic is a good man with a hossand a good man with a gun, but he couldn't never ride like the gent overthere in the rocks, and he couldn't shoot like him."

  He pointed, in confirmation, at the body of Harry Fisher.

  "You can rush that hill if you want, but speakin' personal, I ain'tready to die."

  A thoughtful silence held the others until Sliver Waldron broke it withhis deep bass. "You ain't far off, Pete. I done some thinkin' along themlines when I seen him standin' up there over the arroyo wavin' his hatat the bullets. Vic didn't never have the guts for that."

  All the lower valley was gray, dark in comparison with the bright peaksabove it, before the sheriff rose from his place and led the possetowards the body of Grey Molly. There they found as much confirmation ofPete's theory as they needed, for Vic's silver-mounted saddle was knownto all of them, and this was a plain affair which they found on the deadhorse. Waldron pushed back his hat to scratch his head.

  "Look at them eyes, boys," he suggested. "Molly has been beatin' us allday and she looks like she's fightin' us still."

  The sheriff was not a man of very many words, and surely of littlesentiment; perhaps it was the heat of the long chase which now madehim take off his hat so that the air could reach his sweaty forehead."Gents," he said, "she lived game and she died game. But they ain't nouse of wastin' that saddle. Take it off."

  And that was Grey Molly's epitaph.

  They decided to head straight back for the nearest town with the body ofHarry Fisher, and, fagged by the desperate riding of that day, they lettheir horses go with loose rein, at a walk. Darkness gathered; the lastlight faded from even the highest peaks; the last tinge of color droppedout of the sky as they climbed from the valley. Now and then one of thehorses cleared its nostrils with a snort, but on the whole they went inperfect silence with the short grass silencing the hoofbeats, and nevera word passed from man to man.

  Beyond doubt, if it had not been for that same silence, if it had notbeen for the slowness with which they drifted through the dark,what follows could never have happened. They had crossed a hill, anddescended into a very narrow ravine which came to so sharp a point thatthe horses had to be strung out in single file. The ravine twisted tothe right and then the last man of the procession heard the sheriffcall: "Halt, there! Up with your hands, or I'll drill you!" When theyswung from side to side, craning their heads to look, they made out ashadowy horseman facing Pete head on. Then the sheriff's voice again:"Gregg, I'm considerable glad to meet up with you."

  If that meeting had taken place in any other spot probably Gregg wouldhave taken his chance on escaping through the night, but in this narrowpass he could swing to neither side and before he could turn the brownhorse entirely around the sheriff might pump him full of lead. Theygathered in a solemn quiet around him; the irons were already upon hiswrists.

  "All right, boys," he said, "you've got me, but you'll have to give inthat you had all the luck."

  A moment after that sharp command in the familiar, dreaded voice of PeteGlass, Vic had been glad that the lone flight was over. Eventually thiswas bound to come. He would go back and face the law, and three menlived to swear that Blondy had gone after his gun first.

  "Maybe luck," said the sheriff. "How d' you come back this way?"

  "Made a plumb circle," chuckled Gregg. "Rode like a fool not carin'where I hit out for, and the end of it was that it was dark before I'dhad sense to watch where the sun went down."

  "Kind of cheerful, ain't you?" cut in Ronicky Joe, and his voice was asdry as the crisping leaves in an autumn wind.

  "They ain't any call for me to wear crepe yet," answered Gregg. "Worstfool thing I ever done was to cut and run for it. The old Captain willtell you gents that Blondy went for his gun first--had it clean out ofthe leather before I touched mine."

  He paused, and the silence of those dark figures sank in upon him.

  "I got to warn you," said Pete Glass, "that what you say now can be usedagain you later on before the jury."

  "My God, boys," burst
out Vic, "d'you think I'm a plain, low-down,murderin' snake? Harry, ain't you got a word for me? Are you like therest of 'em?"

  No voice answered.

  "Harry," said Ronicky, "why don't you speak to him?"

  It was a brutal thing to do, but Ronicky was never a gentle sort inhis best moments; he scratched a match and held it so that under thespluttering light Gregg found himself staring into the face of HarryFisher. And he could not turn his eyes away until the match burneddown to Ronicky's finger tip and then dropped in a streak of red to theground.

  Then the sheriff spoke cold and hard.

  "Partner," he said, "in the old days, maybe your line of talk would dosome good, but not now. You picked that fight with Blondy. You knew youwas faster on the draw and Hansen didn't have a chance. He was the worstshot in Alder and everybody in Alder knew it. You picked that fight andyou killed your man, and you're goin' to hang for it."

  Another hush; no murmur of assent or dissent.

  "But they's one way out for you, Gregg, and I'm layin' it clear. Wewanted you bad, and we got you; but they's another man we want a lotworse. A pile! Gregg, take me where I can find the gent what done forHarry Fisher and you'll never stand up in front of a jury. You got myword on that."