CHAPTER XXXV
ON MONDAY NIGHT
Big Brother Bill, after an evening of considerable worry, had retired to his little lean-to bedroom with its low, camp bedstead. It was useless sitting up any longer attempting one of those big worrying “thinks” which, usually, he was rather proud of achieving.
On this occasion thinking led him nowhither. His worries had come swiftly and significantly. In the first place, on Sunday afternoon he had been seriously concerned about Helen. It was not until Kate’s going that either he or Helen had realized the girl’s lonely position in the house on the river bank. It came home to them both as they returned thither at about sundown, to find that neither of the hired men had shown up again, and the work, even to the “chores” of the homestead, was at a standstill.
He really became angry in his anxiety. Angry with Kate, angry with the men. However, his displeasure was not likely to help matters, so he and Helen turned to and fed the few livestock, made them snug for the night, and then proceeded to consider Helen’s position. After some debate it was decided to appeal to Mrs. John Day. This was promptly done, and the leading citizeness, after a closer cross-examination, consented to take the girl under her brusque wing, and lodged her in her own rather resplendent house.
This was comparatively satisfactory, and Bill breathed his relief. But hard upon this came the more alarming realization that Charlie did not return home on Sunday night. Not only that, but nothing was heard of him the whole of Monday. All the alarmed brother was able to discover was the fact that Charlie had left the saloon at the time O’Brien closed it, about midnight on Sunday, in a hopelessly drunken condition.
So, what with assisting Helen with the work of her homestead, and searching for his defaulting brother, Bill’s day was an anxious one. Then, at nightfall, a further concern added fresh trouble to his thought. Kid Blaney had defected as well, and, in consequence, the work of Charlie’s little ranch had been completely at a standstill the whole day.
In the end, quite wearied out with his unusual exertions, Bill abandoned all further attempt to get a grip on the situation and went to bed. He knew he must be up early in the morning, at daylight, in fact, for he had promised Helen to be at the ceremony of the felling of the pine tree, for which all preparations had been duly made under the watchful and triumphant eye of Mrs. John Day.
Sleep, however, was long in coming. His brain was too busy, a sign he was secretly pleased at. He felt that during the last two days he had more than proved his ability in emergency. So, lying awake, waiting patiently for sleep to come, he rather felt like a general in action, perfectly assured of his own capacity to meet every situation successfully.
It was nearly midnight when he finally dropped off into a light and rather disturbed slumber. How long he had slept, or even if he really had slept at all, he was never quite sure, for, quite suddenly, he was aroused, and wide awake, by the sound of his own name being called in the darkness.
“Bill! Bill!”
At the second pronouncement of his name he was sitting up with his bare feet on the bare floor, and his great pajamaed body foolishly alert.
“Who in – ” he began. But in a moment Charlie’s voice cut him short.
“You there? Thank God! Where’s the lamp? Quick, light it.”
To Bill’s credit it must be admitted he offered no further attempt at a blasphemous protest, but leaned over toward the Windsor chair on which the lamp stood, and fumbled for the matches.
The next moment he had struck a light, and the lamp was lit. He stood up and looked across the room. Charlie’s slight figure was just inside the doorway. His face was ghastly in the yellow lamplight. His clothes were in a filthy condition, and, altogether, in Bill’s own words, he looked like a priceless antique of some forgotten race.
However, the hunted look in the man’s eyes smote his brother’s generous heart, and a swift, anxious inquiry sprang to his lips.
“What’s – what’s up, Charlie?” he cried, gathering his clothes together, and beginning to dress himself.
Charlie’s eyes glowed with a reflection of the lamplight.
“The game’s up, Bill,” he cried hoarsely. “My God, it’s been given away. Pete Clancy, the feller you hammered, has turned informer. I – I shot him dead. Say, the gang’s out to-night. They’re coming in with a cargo of liquor. Fyles is wise to their play, and knows just how it’s coming in. They’ll be trapped to a man.”
“You – shot Pete – dead?”
In the overwhelming rush of his brother’s information, the death of the informer at his, Charlie’s, hands seemed alone to penetrate Bill’s, as yet, none too alert faculties.
“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently. “I’d have shot him, or – or anybody else for such treachery, but – but – it’s the other that matters. I’ve got to get out and stop that cargo. It’s midnight now, and – God! If the police get – ”
Bill’s brain was working more rapidly, and so were his hands. He was almost dressed now.
“But you, Charlie,” he cried, all his concern for his brother uppermost. “They’ll get you. And – and they’ll hang you for killing Pete – sure.”
Suddenly a peal of hysterical laughter, which ended in a furious curse, rang through the room.
“God Almighty!” Charlie cried fiercely, “don’t stand there yapping about me. Hang me? What in hell do I care what they do to me? I haven’t come here about myself. Nothing that concerns me matters. Here, it’s midnight. I’ve time to reach ’em and give ’em the word. See, that’s why I’m here. I don’t know what’s happened by now, or what may happen. You offered to help. Will you help me now? Bill, I’ve got to get there, and warn ’em. The police will try and stop us. If there are two of us, one may get through – will you – ?”
Bill crushed his hat on his head. His eyes, big and blue, were gleaming with the light of battle.
“Give me a gun, and come on,” he cried. “I don’t understand it all, but that don’t matter. I’ll think it out later. You’re up against it, and that’s good enough for me. Somebody’s going to have to look bright if he lays hands on you, if it’s Fyles, or McBain, or the devil knows who. Come on.”
Picking up the lamp, Bill took the lead. Here, in action, he had no doubts or difficulties, Charlie was in trouble; Charlie was threatened; Charlie, his foolish, but well-loved brother.
Five minutes later two horsemen, regardless of rousing the inhabitants, regardless of who might see and recognize them, galloped headlong through the heart of the village.
CHAPTER XXXVI
STILL MONDAY NIGHT
The little river wound its silvery way through the heart of the valley. The broken summer clouds strove to shut out the brilliant light of the moon, and signally failed. The swift-moving currents of air kept them stirring, and breaking. So the tattered breaks through which peeped the radiant lamp of night, illuminated each fringe of mist with the sheen of burnished steel.
In spite of the high wind above, the night was still in the heart of the valley. So still. High up above, the racing wind kept up the constant movement, but not a breath below disturbed one single sun-scorched leaf. It was warm. The night air was heavy with the fragrance of ripening vegetation, and the busy droning sounds of stirring insect life chorused joyously and seductively with the murmuring of speeding waters.
The very stillness thrilled. It was the hush of portent, the hush of watchfulness, the hush of a threatening tension.
In the wide heart of the valley the waters of the river laughed, and sang, and frollicked on their way, while under cover of the deep night-shadows lurking figures waited, with nerves set, and weapons of destruction ready to fulfill their deadly mission. Strife loomed heavy amid the reigning peace, the ruthless, savage strife which seems ever to center the purpose of all sentient life.
So the moments passed. Minutes grew. With every passing minute the threat weighed heavier and heavier, until it seemed, at last, that only the smallest spark was needed to fire the train.
The racing clouds melted. They gathered again. Again and again the changes came and went. It was like one great, prolonged conflict wherein the darkening veil strove to hide the criminal secrets upon the earth below from the searching gaze.
For awhile the moon held sway. The river lit, a perfect mirror. Only the shadowed banks remained. Round the bend came a trifling object, small, uncertain in its outline. A sigh of relief went up from many lips. The tension was relaxed.
Caught in the dazzling light the object shot across the water to the sheltering bank. Then the clouds obscured the moonlight, and eyes strove vainly to penetrate the shadow.
The moments passed. Again the moon shone out. Again was the object caught in the revealing light. Now it was closer, and as it raced once more for the wood-lined bank the watching eyes made out a deep-laden canoe, low in the water, with a solitary figure plying a skillful paddle.
It crept on under the bank. With a wonderful dexterity the man at the paddle steered his course beneath the green of drooping foliage, while now and then his narrow, evil, humorous eyes surveyed the heavy cargo at his feet with a smile of satisfaction.
But the shadows could not claim him for long. The full stream lay beyond in the middle of the river. His cargo was heavy, and the sluggish water under the bank made his progress slow and arduous. Again he sought the stream, and the lesser effort, and the little craft raced on.
Then, of a sudden, the peace of the night was broken. A chorus of night cries awoke to the sharp crack of a carbine. A voice shouted a swift command, and the canoe was turned head on to the hither bank. In a moment a ring of metal was thrust into the face of the man with the paddle, and the hard voice of Sergeant McBain bade him throw up his hands.
The boatman glanced swiftly about him. His evil eyes lit with a smile of appreciation as he dropped his paddle and thrust his hands high above his head. There were ten or twelve police troopers upon the bank – and he was only one.
“Haul him out o’ that, boys, and yank the boat up out o’ water. We’re needin’ his cargo bad.”
The man was dragged unceremoniously from the boat, and stood before the hard-faced sergeant.
“Name?” he snapped.
“Holy Dick,” chuckled the prisoner.
The sergeant peered into his face. At the moment the clouds had obscured the moon.
Was this the man they were waiting for? He made out the gray hair, the smiling, evil eyes. He knew and recognized the features.
The officer struggled with himself for a moment. Then his authority returned.
“You’re under arrest for – running this cargo of liquor,” he said sharply.
Holy Dick’s smile broadened.
“But – ”
“If you’re going to make a statement I’m here to listen, but – it’ll be used against you.”
Sergeant McBain rapped out his formula without regard for the letter of it. Then, while one of the troopers placed handcuffs upon the prisoner’s wrists, he turned to those at the canoe.
“How many kegs?” he demanded.
For a moment there was no reply. Holy Dick sniggered. McBain glared furiously, and his impatience rose.
“How many?” he cried again, more sharply.
One of the troopers approached him and spoke in a low voice.
“None, sergeant,” he said, vainly striving to avoid the sharp ears of their prisoner. “The boat’s loaded heavy with loose rocks. It’s – ”
A cunning laugh interrupted him. Holy Dick was holding out his manacled arms.
“Guess you’d best grab these off, Sergeant; maybe you’ll need ’em for someone else.”
But the policeman’s reply became lost. A rattle of firearms far off on the other side of the river left it unspoken. Something was happening away over there, something they had not calculated upon. The rest of the patrol, with Fyles, was divided between the other bank and the more distant trail. He turned to his men.
“Loose him and get into the saddle sharp!” he cried. “They’ve fooled us. By God, they’ve fooled us – again!”
The uncertain moonlight revealed to Stanley Fyles a movement on the distant rise of ground where the trail first mounted, and, beyond, finally disappeared. His night glasses made out a rapidly oncoming vehicle, accompanied by a small band of horsemen.
The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pass him. He would take these men as part of the gang, working in conjunction with the boat. All was well, and his spirits rose. A sharp order was passed back to his men, ambushed in the bluff where he had taken up his position. The thing would be simple as daylight. There would be no bloodshed. A few shots fired to hold the gang up. Then the arrest.
He waited. Then he backed into the ambush out of sight. The wagon came on. Through his leafy screen he watched for the details of the vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant’s wagon; that he knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance which did not belong to the village.
Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men’s carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses’ hoofs were almost abreast. A few seconds more, then —
Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of the wagon, and above the horses’ heads. The teamster reined up, throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell headlong from his driving seat.
Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry went up from the wagon’s escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the ambush.
In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses, with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.
Then the fight waged furiously.
It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been certain – certain as death itself.
But, after that first furious assault, these untamed prairie souls realized the inevitable result of their action. They broke and fled, scattering across country, vanishing like shadows in the night. The next moment, acting on a sharp command, the police were in red-hot pursuit, like hounds breaking from leash. Only Fyles and three men stayed behind with the fallen teamster and his one other dead comrade.
But at the moment of the flight and pursuit, the sound of racing wheels some distance away caught the officer’s ears. In a moment he was at the wagon side. His men were close upon his heels. The wagon was empty. It was the blind he had anticipated, but – that sound of speeding wheels.
He shouted to his men and set off across country in the direction. Nothing must be left to chance. There was no doubt about the peculiar rattle which sounded so plainly. It was a buckboard being driven at a racing speed. Why?
As his horse ploughed through the low scrub his men followed hard upon his heels. Farther on the country was open, and a wide stretch of prairie grass spread out without cover of any sort. It was over this the buckboard was racing.
He strove to estimate its distance away, the start it had of him, by the sound. It could not be much over a mile. A light buckboard and team could travel very fast under the hands of a skilful teamster. It would take a distance of five miles to overhaul it. The direction – yes, it was the direction of the village. The buckboard might get there ahead of them.
Fyles rammed both spurs into the flanks of the faithful Peter, and, as he did so, he saw a party of horsemen converging on him from the left. They drew on, and, in a moment, he recognized McBain and his men.
He called out to the Scot as they came together.
“You get the boat?”
McBain shouted his reply.
“Sure, but – there was nothing doing. It was loaded down with rocks.”
Just for one brief instant a bitter imprecation hovered on the officer’s lips. Then, in a wave of inspiration, he shouted his conviction.
“By God, then we’re on the right trail now. It’s the buckboard ahead. We must get it. That’s the cargo, sure as fate. Come on!”
A light buckboard was moving leisurely over the open prairie. It was just an ordinary, spidery buckboard drawn by an unusually fine team of horses, and driven by a slightish man clad in a dark jacket and cord riding-breeches, with a wide prairie hat drawn firmly down upon his dark head, its brim deeply shading his boyish, good-looking face. Running beside his team, tied to the neck yoke of the near-side driver, was a saddle horse. It was a fine beast, with racehorse quarters, and a shoulder laid back for speed.
The buckboard was well loaded. Nor was its load disguised. It consisted of a number of the small wooden kegs adopted for the purpose of transporting contraband liquor.
But though the vehicle moved over the rough grass in such a leisurely fashion, the man’s eyes were alert and watchful. His ears, too, were sharply set, and lost no sound, as his eyes lost no sight, in the distant prospect of the country through which he was traveling.
His gait was by no means the result of any reposeful sense. It was the well-calculated result of caution. There was caution in his whole poise. In the quick turn of the head at any predominating sound. In the sharp glance of his dark eyes at any of the more fantastic shadows cast by the searching moonlight. Then, too, a tight hand was upon the reins, and there was an alert searching for those badger and gopher holes so perilous for horses in the uncertain light of the moon.
He was traveling in a parallel, a mile to the south of the river trail, and, far ahead, to the right, he could see the bush which marked the winding course of the river.
Now he was listening to the faint rumble of a wagon moving along the trail, and, with which, though so far away, he was carefully keeping pace. This was his whole object – to keep pace, almost step for step, with the rumbling movement of the distant wagon.
At his present gait his wheels gave out practically no sound. They gently, almost silently, crushed their way over the tufted grass, and the sound of his horses’ hoofs suggested a muffling.
So he made his way, stealthily, secretly. His was the brain which had planned, and this vital work of convoying his smuggled liquor could be entrusted to no other hand. The work he demanded of others was simple; it was the background to his central purpose. He had no desire to risk his helpers. His must be the risk, as, too, his must be the chief profit.
With all his caution he yet had time to think of those other things which frequently brought a smile to his dark eyes. Why not? There was a wild exhilaration in this work. He reveled in the thought of his risk. He reveled in laying plans which could beat all the best brains among the law officers. The excitement of the chances was as the breath of life to him, and the cargo once safely secreted he could feel that he had not lived in vain.
He knew full well that the penitentiary doors were wide open waiting to greet him, but he meant them to remain open, and spend their whole time in a yearning which he vowed should never be fulfilled. Five years. He smiled. Five years – wearing a striped —
What was that?
A shot! One single shot! Far away, there, by the river. Ah, yes. That big bluff. Holy Dick was probably busy. Holy Dick in his boat. He smiled. But all unconsciously he eased his hand upon the lines, and his horses quickened their gait. It was just the slight, nervous quickening as the critical moment of his effort drew near.
The buckboard was less silent. The wheels began to rattle over the hummocky surface of the prairie grass. He listened even more acutely for the rumble of the wagon on the trail. He must definitely assure himself he was still abreast of it. That was all important.
He could plainly hear it. Was he abreast? For the moment he was not quite sure. Therefore, he further permitted his horses to quicken their pace. It was better to —
He sat up, and a look of alarm peered out from under the brim of his hat. The sound of a volley being fired over there on the trail suddenly disconcerted him. This was something he had not reckoned on. This was something he had wished to —
Hark! Again! An answering volley! The first was the heavier. The latter was the familiar note of revolvers. A definite alarm took hold of him. What was the meaning of it? An attack? Were the men on the trail resisting the police? He had warned them. He – . Listen! The shouting! Now he could distinctly hear the sound of galloping horses.
He leaned forward and grabbed the whip from its socket on the dashboard, and brought it smartly down upon his horses’ backs.
In an instant they leaped into a gallop, and he was racing over the rough grass at a perilous pace.
The fools. The mad, idiotic fools. Resisting the police. An armed attack on the police. If they killed any of them – . Great God, was there ever such a pack of fools and madmen? It was no longer simple contraband. It was no longer playing up a ridiculous law. It was —
Again he brought his whip down upon his horses. He must get through now. He must get to the cache with the liquor, and trust to the luck of the reckless to get away. Further concealment was out of the question.
Hark, what was that?
Horsemen coming his way. Yes – horsemen. There could be no doubt of it. The racing hoof-beats were unmistakable. Down came the whip again, and the great team, with the saddle horse beside them, raced with bellies low to the ground.
Now he had no thought but for getting away. His mind ran over the possibilities. If only he could get clear with the liquor there might yet be a chance of his comrades’ and his own escape. He had no knowledge of what had happened to the others, except that there was shooting and pursuit. The only comfort to be drawn was from the certainty in his mind that the first shooting he had heard was the heavy firing of police carbines.
Hark! Yes, there was no doubt of the pursuit. Furthermore, the pursuit was hard behind him. Why? The police must have heard the buckboard. He flogged his horses to a greater effort. They were the speediest team in the country, and he had only three miles to go. They —
“Hold up, you beast,” he cried, his deep voice hoarse with excitement.
One of the horses lunged forward, stumbling in a badger hole. The buckboard jolted terrifically. The driver was nearly thrown from his seat. Under his firm hands, however, the beast managed to recover itself. Then, as though he saw the gates of the penitentiary closing upon him, a feeling of unutterable horror shivered through the man’s body and settled upon his heart. The horse was dead lame.
But there was no time now for feeling, no time for regrets. The pursuers had found his trail, and were hard upon his heels. The cargo must go. Everything must go. Personal safety was the only thing to be considered. From the confidence of victory now he had fallen to the zero of certain failure.
He pulled his sweating team up and sprang to the ground. He ran up to the saddle horse, and, casting the neck-rope loose from the neck yoke, looped it over the horn of the saddle. The next moment he was in the saddle and racing over the grassland in the direction of the village.