The Seventh Man Page 6

  Chapter VI. The Rifle

  Dawn found him over the first crest; at noon he was struggling up theslope of the second range, whose rise was not half so sharp as theupward plunge out of the Asper, but in spite of that easier ground GreyMolly could not gain. She went with shorter steps, now, and her headhung lower and lower, yet when a down stretch opened before her she wentat it with a gallop as light, almost, as her race out of Murphy's Pass.Not once had she offered to stop; not once had she winced from the laborof some sharp up-pitch; but still six horsemen hung behind her, and attheir head rode a little dusty man on a little dusty roan. It was thelack of training as well as the rough going which held Molly back.

  Beyond that second range, however, the down slope stretched smoothly,evenly, for mile on mile and mile on mile; perfect going for Grey Mollyover easy hills with patches of forest here and there where he mightdouble, or where he might stop with the hunt sweeping past. All this thesheriff must have known perfectly well, for he no longer kept back withhis pack of five, but skirted on ahead, hunting alone. Again and againVic heard the little shrill whistle with which Pete Glass encouraged theroan. Vic used the spurs twice, and then he desisted from the uselessbrutality for Molly was doing her best and no power on earth couldmake her do more. After all, her best would be good enough, for now Viclooked up and his heart leaped into his throat; there was only one morerise above him, and beyond lay the easy ground and a running chance forMolly's slender legs. Even as he raised his head something whined evillyover him, followed by a sound like two heavy hammers swung together,face to face, and shattered by the stroke. A rifle!

  He looked back, saw the roan standing broadside towards him, watched thesun waver and then flash in a straight steady line along the barrel ofthe sheriff's gun. The line of light jerked up, and before the soundreached him a blow on his right shoulder sent Vic lurching forwardagainst the pommel. Afterwards the voice of the rifle rang around himand a sharp pain twitched up and down his side, then ran tingling to hisfingertips.

  It was the stunning blow which saved him, for the sheriff had the rangeand his third bullet would have clipped Vic between the shoulders, butGlass had seen his quarry pitch forward in the saddle and he would notwaste ammunition. The thrift of his New England ancestry spoke inPete now and then and he could only grit his teeth when he saw Vic,disappearing on the other side of the crest, straighten in the saddle;the next instant the top of the hill shielded the fugitive.

  Well and nobly, then, Grey Molly repaid all the praise, all thetenderness and care which Vic had lavished upon her in the past years,for with her legs shaking from the struggle of that last climb, with arider who wobbled crazily in his seat, with reins hanging loose on herneck, with not even a voice to guide or to encourage her, she sweptstraight across the falling ground, gaining strength and courage atevery stride. By the time Vic had regained his self-control and rallieda little from that first terrible falling of the heart, the dusty roanwas over the crest and streaking after the game. Grey Molly gainedsteadily, yet even when he gathered the reins in his left hand Vic knewthat the fight was done, in effect. How could he double or dodge whenhis own blood spotted the trail he kept, and how long could he keep thesaddle with the agony which tore like saw teeth at his shoulder?

  Grey Molly plunged straight into the shadow of pine trees, and the coolgloom fell like a blessing upon Vic in his torment; it was heaven tobe sheltered even for a few moments from the eyes of the posse. At theopposite edge of the wood he drew rein with a groan. Some devil hadprompted Gus Reeve and some devil had poured Reeve's horse full ofstrength, for yonder down the valley, not a hundred yards away, gallopeda rider on a black horse; yet Vic could have sworn that when he lookedback from the crest he had seen Gus riding the very last in the posse.An instant later the illusion vanished, for the black horse of Gus wasnever an animal such as this, never had this marvelous, long gait. Itsfeet flicked the earth and shot it along with a reaching stride so easy,so flowing that only the fluttered mane and the tail stretching straightbehind gave token of the speed. For the rest, it carried its head high,with pricking ears, the sure sign of a horse running well within hisstrength, yet Grey Molly, fresh and keen for racing, could hardly havekept pace with the black as it slid over the hills. God in heaven, ifsuch a horse were his a thousand sheriffs on a thousand dusty roanscould never take him; five minutes would sweep him out of sight andreach.

  Before the horseman ran a tall dog, wolfish in head and wolfish in thegait which carried it like a cloud shadow over the ground, but it wasover-large for any wolf Vic had ever seen. It turned its head now, andleaped aside at sight of the stranger, but the rider veered from hiscourse and swept down on Vic. He came to a halt close up without eithera draw at the reins or a spoken word, probably controlling his mountwith pressure of the knees, and Gregg found himself facing a delicatelyhandsome fellow. He was neither cowpuncher nor miner, Vic knew at aglance, for that face had never been haggard with labor. A tenderfoot,probably, in spite of his dress, and Vic felt that if his right arm weresound he could take that horse at the point of his gun and leave therider thanking God that his life had been spared; but his left handwas useless on the butt of a revolver, and three minutes away came theposse, racing. There was only time for one desperate appeal.

  "Stranger," he burst out, "I'm follered. I got to have your hoss. Takethis one in exchange; it's the best I ever threw a leg over. Here's twohundred bucks--" he flung his wallet on the ground and swung himself outof the saddle.

  The wolfish dog, which had growled softly all this time and roughed upthe hair of its neck, now slunk forward on its belly.

  "Heel, Bart!" commanded the stranger sharply, and the dog whipped aboutand stood away, whining with eagerness.

  The moment Gregg's feet struck the ground his legs buckled like saplingsin a wind for the long ride had sapped his strength, and the flow ofblood told rapidly on him now. The hills and trees whirled around himuntil a lean, strong hand caught him under either armpit. The strangerstood close.

  "You could have my hoss if you could ride him," said he. His voice wassingularly unhurried and gentle. "But you'd drop out of the saddle inten minutes. Who's after you?"

  A voice shouted far off beyond the wood; another voice answered, nearer,and the whole soul of Gregg turned to the stallion. Grey Molly wasblown, she stood now with hanging head and her flanks sunk in alarminglyat every breath, but even fresh from the pasture she was not a rag, nota straw compared to the black.

  "For God's sake," groaned Vic, "loan me your hoss!"

  "You couldn't stick the saddle. Come in here out of sight; I'm going totake 'em off your trail."

  While he spoke, he led, half carried Vic, into a thicket of shrubs witha small open space at the center. The black and the wolf-dog followedand now the stranger pulled at the bridle rein. The stallion kneeledlike a trained dog, and lying thus the shrubbery was high enough tohide him. Closer, sweeping through the wood, Vic heard the crash of thepursuit, yet the other was maddeningly slow of speech.

  "You stay here, partner, and sit over there. I'm borrowin' your gun"--aswift hand appropriated it from Vic's holster and his own fingers weretoo paralyzed to resist--"and don't you try to ride my hoss unless youwant them teeth in your throat. Lie quiet and tie up your hurt. Bart,watch him!"

  And there sat Gregg where he had slipped down in his daze of weaknesswith the great dog crouched at his feet and snarling ominously everytime he raised his hand. The voices came closer; the crashing burst onhis very ears, and now, through the interstices of the shrubbery hesaw the stranger swing into the saddle on Grey Molly and urge her to agallop. He could follow them for only an instant with his eyes, but itseemed to Vic that Molly cantered under her new rider with strange easeand lightness. It was partly the rest, no doubt, and partly the smallerburden.

  A deep beat of racing hoofs, and then the dusty roan shot out of thetrees close by with the sheriff leaning forward, jockeying his horse.It seemed that no living thing could escape from that relentless rider.Then ri
ght behind Vic a horse snorted and grunted--as it leaped a fallenlog, perhaps--and he watched in alarm to see if the stallion wouldanswer that sound with start or whinney. The black lay perfectly still,and instead of lifting up to answer or to look, the head lowered withears flat back until the long, outstretched neck gave the animal a snakyappearance. The dog, too, though it showed murderous fangs whenever Vicmoved, did not stir from his place, but lay flattening into the ground.

  "Cut to the right! Cut to the right, Harry!" came the voice of thesheriff, already piping from the distance as the last of the possebrushed out from the trees. "Yo hoi! Gus, take the left arroyo!"

  Two answering yells, and then the rush of hoofs fell away. They werecornering the stranger, no doubt, and Vic struggled to lift himself tohis feet and watch until a faint sound from the dog made him look down.Bart lay with his haunches drawn up under him, his forepaws digginginto the soft loam, his eyes demoniac. Instinctively Vic reached for hisabsent gun, and then, despairing, relaxed to his former position. Thewolf-dog lowered his head to his paws and there remained with the eyesfollowing each intake of Gregg's breath. A rattle of gunshots flung backloosely from the hills, and among them Vic winced at the sound of thesheriff's rifle, clear and ringing over the bark of the revolvers.

  Had they nailed the stranger? The firing recommenced, more faintly andprolonged, so that it was plain the posse maintained a running fusiladeafter the fugitive. After that fear of his own growing weakness shutout all else from the mind of Gregg as he felt his senses, his physicalstrength, flowing out like an ebb tide to a sea which, he knew, wasdeath. He began to work desperately to bind up the wound and stop theflow of blood and it was fear which gave him momentary strength to tearaway his shirt and then with his teeth and left hand rip it into strips.After that, heedless of the pain, he constructed a rude bandage, veryclumsily, for he had to work over his shoulder. Here his teeth, oncemore, were almost as useful as another hand, and as the bandage grewtight the deadly, warm trickle along his side lessened and his fingersfell away from the last knot. He fainted.