Outlaw's Pursuit Read online

  You will see why it was that I forgot the body of Truck himself. I ate my breakfast in a brown study, and then I saddled and mounted Spike and started. It was easy trailing, for a time. Then the trail hit a stretch of rocks and there were difficulties. I hit straight across the rocks to the soft dirt on the farther side, but I cut for sign in vain there. I had to work far to the left before I found what I wanted.

  This was more interesting still. The four were determined to make their trail as difficult as possible. Even as early as this they were making little problems that would break the heart of any hasty pursuit.

  I labored down that trail all day, and I assure you that my hands were full. Every instant I had to be using my wits. Sometimes the four sets of sign were unwoven—first one strand going apart, and then another, and then another, until the straight course of the riders was marked out by one horseman only. This fellow would lead me into a nest of rocks, or into a stream, create a trail problem that made my head ache for an hour, and then away would go his sign at a sharp angle, to rejoin the others who, meeting again, had gone off at high speed.

  Indeed, they galloped so much that I began to suspect these fellows must be Mexicans, for few Americans, even cowpunchers, push horses as hard as Mexicans do.

  All that day I worked, and far into the dusk. Then I camped, exhausted. It was a dry camp and a miserable one on bleak highlands, combed by a biting wind. I was glad to be up again, shivering and cramped with cold. Off went Spike and I as soon as I could make out the sign again. And on into the morning we struggled.

  A good deal of my enthusiasm for this work had left me, I confess, even so early in the game. For, in spite of my assurance as to riding faster with a poor mount than four men can ride with good ones, I had never had in mind four riders who were so skillful in concealing their tracks. And I saw that the sign was much less fresh the farther I went. Every moment they were gaining. And trails dim quickly to the eyes of white men.

  The morning grew hotter and hotter, and my discontent grew greater and greater. But I kept to the faint trail. They had obviously turned onto the road, here, and followed it as it wound down into the green heart of the valley beneath. Yes, and perhaps they had followed it where it wound across the valley and struggled up the farther mountainside.

  At any rate, it was worth the trial, and I decided that I would make the short cut. My heart was in my mouth when I rode Spike slowly toward the edge of the cliff and looked down to the mountainside, all jagged and toothed with rocks and boulders. But Spike had no such doubts. He strained against the bit until he had stretched out his long neck. Then down he pitched for the bottom of the valley, caroming from one precarious footing to another.

  I waved my hat and shouted like a madman. Indeed, it was as though I were sitting on the back of an eagle for that wild descent. And, suddenly, we were sloping smoothly out on the floor of the valley beneath.

  I had been right in this guess, at least. Where the road wound up the side of the opposite mountain I found their trail as big as life. And I felt victory in my grip. Even by this one maneuver I must have gained a full half hour upon them, and, if the trail were only long enough, I knew that I should be able to overtake them. For no animal that ever carried man could live with my cat-footed mule when it came to a long-distance race over the highlands. I tried him on the mountain grade. And away he drove at that famous, long-swinging trot of his, and plowed steadily up the top of the grade.

  He was breathing a little, but it would have killed most horses to carry a 200-pound man through such difficulties. I leaned and slapped the shoulder of Spike, and he tossed his head and pretended with flattened ears to be furious with me.

  Then we struck away across the level on the trail. By the middle of the next day I promised myself that I should be on the heels of the four riders. And then let them protect themselves. For the murdered body of poor Truck Janvers lay heavily upon my mind’s eye.

  But I did not come up with them upon the middle of the next day. And neither did I come up with them upon the day following, or even on the day that still succeeded that. And, as I watched Spike swinging forward, I wondered what sort of winged creatures these could be that were flying before me and keeping him at a distance.

  It was not until the fourth day thereafter that I had my first glimpse of them. But, when I saw them, I very well understood.

  IV

  I had risen early in the morning, and, as the rose began in the east, I had dipped down into the heart of a narrow ravine. Then, rising against the dawn horizon, black against that lovely flare of color, I saw four riders on four horses at the rim of the ground above me. They were the men after whom I was questing, and the moment that I saw these horsemen, I understood very well why I had not been able to overtake the riders before.

  It was at quite close range that I saw the riders, with such a light behind them that, although I could not make out features, yet the silhouette was wonderfully clean. And I saw that those four horses were of a kingly breed, made like thoroughbreds, only that they were a little less leggy. I thought that they answered very nearly to my mind’s picture of what an Arab must be like. At any rate, they were four beauties, and I gaped at them in bewilderment.

  Mind you, I had only a flash of those horses before they drifted on out of sight, but that flash was all that I needed. If there was an animal there that was worth less than $500, I was willing to call myself blind and a fool. Quality and breeding thrust out from them like a light.

  What were they doing, then, under such riders as these? Or were the four outlaws, perhaps? Yes, but, if they were outlaws, was it possible that the four of them would undertake the peril and the fatigue of a march that I already knew had consumed a fortnight going and coming? And would the four of them have ridden this great distance all for the sake of putting to death one clumsy-handed miner who, it seemed to me, could have been safely handled by any cool-eyed boy?

  No matter how I looked at the death of Janvers, it grew more and more maddening. I could not understand.

  I put my impatience behind me. Behind that problem lay some great meaning. Four such horses could not be bestrode by four common men. And if these four men had ridden 1,000 miles to kill a common old prospector, it was because his death meant a great deal indeed either to them or to someone who had hired them. It was all very well to tell myself this, but still I followed them from that moment with a hungry heart.

  From that moment I had them repeatedly in sight. I found that I had to go with caution all the time, for I never knew when I might come into their view, for, once I had caught up with them, I found that they were really no match for Spike. Across the flat, to be sure, they simply walked away from him with matchless ease. But when it came to the sides of ravines, and the rough and tumble of cut-up country, or when it came to plodding through deep, soft sand, then the matchless strength and the mule patience of Spike was too much for them.

  I was constantly drifting in eyeshot of them during that day, but, when the night came, I satisfied myself that I had not been seen by them. When the night came, however, I took the precaution of camping on a selected site. For that matter, after four years of a hunted life, it was instinct for me to protect myself as much as possible.

  I built no fire—not so much as a flame the size of the palm of my hand. I had a canteen of water and a slab of hardtack for my supper. Spike I put at a little distance from me among the brush, where he would be sure to find grass enough among the shrubbery. And I knew, from of old, that he would not wander beyond the reach of my call. My own blanket I unrolled in the shelter of a nest of rocks and there I furled myself in it and folded my hands under my head with a good night cigarette between my lips.

  I was thinking of those four horses against the morning color—four marvelous pictures of beauty—and into the stillness of my thoughts came a rustling softer than the stir of a snake’s belly across the ground.

  I was wide awake instantly, and my legs were gathered under me. Then I wa
ited, not drawing a breath. The sliding sound was gone, but I heard an instant later a very soft noise that I should not have perceived had I not tuned my ears to an extra sharpness—the light crunching made by a heavy body as foot or knee presses against the ground.

  That was enough.

  And I acted on the first impulse that came to me. A very foolish impulse, you will think, but I have found that in a crisis very often the boldest and the apparently wildest move is really the safest. And, above all, the hunter is never more confused than when he finds that he has changed roles and become the hunted!

  I leaped into the air with a gun in either hand and with a wild yell breaking from my throat.

  It gained me what I wanted—the sight of two dim shadows crawling toward me among the rocks—and two quick exclamations of terror. But they were not so baffled that they could not act.

  A gun blazed at me as I shot into the air like a jumping-jack and a very honestly intentioned slug combed past my ear. I dodged as I landed and, as I dodged, fired from both hands. Whatever happened to one bullet, the other went home. It brought one of the creepers pitching to his feet with a scream, his arms flung into the air, and then he toppled backward.

  I did not have to ask questions about him. That man was dead. The second, however, rising to his knees with a snarl, attempted to fire, and I heard the hammer click heavily, lifelessly. His gun had clogged. He did not pause. I saw the dull glimmer of steel as he tossed his gun aside, and then he came at me with his hands.

  I could have filled him with lead before he reached me, but there is something in me that has never let me shoot at a man without a gun in his hand. I dropped the Colt from my right hand and poised myself for the blow.

  Aye, but this scoundrel did not intend an honest fight, hand to hand. At the last instant I saw the wicked gleam of the knife with which he was lunging at me. The thrill of that fear made me agile enough, I think. I dropped far down under the line of that stabbing knife and gave my man the benefit of 220 pounds of reasonably hard muscle and bone all concentrated behind a flying right hand.

  The blow caught him well down on the ribs, and I felt them crunch under the impact like an eggshell—a frightful feeling under my hand. There was weight enough in that punch to stop his mid-rush and flatten him on the ground, and there he lay tied in a knot, kicking and gasping to regain his breath.

  He would be perfectly helpless for some minutes. So I stepped to the first unlucky fellow and lighted a match to make sure of him. The flare of the light showed me a great tall fellow with a long, thin face, high features, and a jet-black skin. He looked like a Jamaican Negro. And I shuddered as I stared at him. I don’t know what there is about a Negro that is terrifying. But to me, at least, they are totally unnerving.

  There was no use in examining his wound. I saw that the bullet had struck behind his neck, as he lay on the ground, and it must have ranged down into his vitals. It was only wonderful that it had left the instant of life in him that enabled him to leap to his feet and give his death cry.

  I turned from him to a flurry in the brush. And there I saw, suddenly, the figures of five animals rushing through the night, controlled by two riders.

  Five—and one of them must be Spike.

  I raised a mighty shout for him, and instantly one of the shadowy beasts detached itself from the rest and raced, riderless, toward me. The two riders followed Spike with a snap shot or two, but who can fire accurately from the back of a galloping horse?

  At least the scoundrels were away without doing me an injury, and, having made up their minds that their two friends were lost, they were not remaining near to inquire after their hurts. The two were abandoned to my hands, to finish them in any way that I chose.

  I came back to my second man—and just in time, for I found that, in spite of his half-winded lungs, and in spite of the agony that must be burning in his side, he had wormed himself over to a fallen revolver—my own—and he was gathering it into his hand when I kicked it out of his grip.

  He turned on me with a snarl of such brute rage that he fastened his teeth in the toe of my boot. I thrust him away with an exclamation of horror and disgust. And I was half prepared for the thing that I saw when I lighted the second match—the lean face of another Negro, as black as night.

  I gave him not a bit more attention for the moment. There was no weapon near him, now. So I kindled a small fire as soon as I could bring together some dead brush. After the flame had warmed and grown to a comfortable point so that I could look over my captive, I sat down to watch him.

  He lay flat on the ground, except for his shoulders, which were supported against a shelving edge of rock. The pain from his side, although it had not made him utter a cry, was nevertheless great enough to turn him to muddy gray. And yet I thought that there was more curiosity than malice in his glance as he stared back at me.

  “And so,” I said, “we are all here together like good friends at the end of a hard day’s work. What is your name, Tony?”

  His eyes remained perfectly blank. I tried him in Spanish.

  “What are you, friend?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you say friend?” he said, and he grinned a twisted smile.

  “I say friend,” I said. “Matter of habit. I’m a friendly sort of a fellow.”

  He tried to make a gesture of amused comment, but a pang in his side made him drop one hand to the hurt place in haste.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but there’s nothing that I can do for you. The ribs are gone under there. They’ll set themselves, if you’ll give them a fair chance by keeping still for a time. But your friends have left you to take care of yourself, I see.”

  He cast one glance in the direction in which they had fled. There was not a shadow of resentment in his expression.

  “It is the order,” said the black man.

  V

  That seems like a rather simple thing to write down, but it gave me an odd feeling as I listened to him, and as I watched him. There was no venom in his manner of saying it.

  “But look here, friend,” I said, “what will become of you if I leave you out here with a pair of busted ribs, to take care of yourself? Can you stand?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Try.”

  He stood up like an automaton. He tried a few steps and suddenly sank to the ground again. He was gasping, and his face was as gray as the black pigment under his skin would permit. I opened up his coat and his shirt and looked. He was not a very big fellow—150 or 160 pounds, I suppose. And he had rushed straight in on the weight of my blow. It was as though a fourteen-pound sledge had been swung with a big man’s weight behind it. That Negro’s side caved in like the dented part of a paper bag.

  I stretched him out and gave him a drink of water and brandy mixed. He accepted it and drank it down. Then he lay quietly, breathing more easily, and watching me with a dull look of wonder. He seemed much more moved by my kindness to him than by the desertion of his companions.

  “You’re not in shape to take care of yourself out here,” I said to him.

  He shrugged his shoulders. His movement brought a gasp of pain from him.

  “I don’t know this part of the country,” I went on. “Do you?”

  He admitted that he did not. He had simply followed the lead of the others.

  “Then you’re one of the hired men,” I said. “You’re not the one with the grudge against Truck Janvers?”

  “I don’t know who you mean?” he said.

  It pricked me sharply with anger to hear that sort of a bald-faced lie.

  “Come, come,” I said. “Do you think that I’m a fool? Didn’t I see the old fellow lying with the knife in his throat?”

  “Was that his name?” he said, as cool as you please.

  “Whose name?”

  “The name of the man that was killed?”

  “And you didn’t know that before?”

  “No,” he said.

  “What the dev
il!” I cried out at him. “Do you mean to tell me that you went out to slaughter a poor devil whose name you didn’t know? You had no grudge against Truck? You didn’t even know his name? I mean the old miner in the shack?”

  “Sir,” he said, “I did not know. However, the knife went straight, did it not?”

  “It did,” I said with a shudder.

  He smiled and nodded, as pleased as a child.

  “You!” I shouted, pointing at him in rage and in horror. “You threw that knife?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I choked.

  He went on: “I have done much better than that . . . however. I have thrown just as accurately for a longer distance.”

  I had to loosen the neckband of my shirt. My blood was turning colder and colder. Yet this man was helpless, and, by what he said, I gathered that he considered that he had done nothing really wrong.

  “But,” he continued as smooth as ever, “it would have been better if I had aimed at your back instead, sir. I remember that there was a wrinkle in your coat just between the shoulder blades. I should have aimed there. It would have been the end.”

  I swallowed hard. “I should have lived long enough to put a pair of bullets in you, however,” I said.

  “Ah, no, sir.” He smiled blandly at me, and he added: “You came out quickly enough even after the other man died.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “Lying close to the ground, just outside the door. Very close to the ground, and spread out so that I could not have done anything to help myself if you had seen me. But I knew that you would not see me. You went out looking man high . . . not ground high.”

  This was true enough. I began to see that there was a sort of wit in this cold-blooded devil.

  “Friend,” I said, “the question is now . . . what shall I do with you?”

  “Leave me, sir, of course,” he said.

  “To die?”