Mountain Storms (14 page)

She stared at him. But could any man lie with such a steady face?

“They found him dead,” she said slowly. “And they found the trail of a horse and a bear near him.”

“I came to that place and saw him on his back with a hole in his forehead,” said Tom with a shudder. “I went away quickly. It is a terrible thing to see a dead man. I have seen two.”

“Ah,” murmured Gloria, “it is true, then? He was killed by some other man?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” she cried in excitement, “don't you see what you must do? You must go back to that place. You must find the murderer. You must bring him to Turnbull. That is the only serious crime they can charge against you. Money can settle all the rest, and I have money.”

He was bewildered, fumbling for her meaning. “Do you mean,” he said at last, “that, if I find him and bring him here, they will no longer hunt me?”

“I mean that,” said Gloria. “And if . . .”

She stopped, for a familiar step came hastily down the hall, stopped at her door. The knob was turned under his hand.

“What the deuce, Gloria?” cried the father. “Have you locked yourself in?”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

T
HE
B
ATTLE OF THE
N
IGHT

Gloria was rooted to the floor with horror. She should not have allowed him to stay until the trap had closed. Before she could rally her wits, Tom Parks turned to her with a smile and a gesture that, if it meant anything, declared that there was no serious danger immediately ahead. She saw him turn the key in the lock. The door opened. Then, suddenly, fear for her father leaped into her brain. There was a shrill, involuntary cry of warning, but what happened came before Themis could understand and defend himself.

As he stepped into the room, he was seized from the side, pitched headlong to the floor on his face with as much ease as though he had been a child, and Tom Parks, leaping into the hall, paused to turn the lock from the outside. She heard it click. Then John Hampton Themis sprang to his feet with his revolver in his hand, bewildered and furious. He cast at his daughter one baffled glance. Then he leaped for the door. When he found it locked, his shout of warning rang through the house. Next, a bullet from his revolver shattered the lock, and he burst into the hall.

As for Tom Parks, he had not fled headlong down the hall. He turned into the door of the room next to that of Gloria. He found a window open and stood beside it, waiting. Beyond the window he could see armed men standing, regarding the house with a sober interest, for they had half heard the cry of Gloria. But when the revolver shot of Themis was heard, then the crash of the door as it was flung open, and last his shout of rage and alarm in the hall, they waited no longer outside the house but rushed pell-mell around the corner to enter it and get at the root of the trouble.

That was the movement for which Tom had waited. Instantly he was out the window and had dropped with the lightness of a cat to the ground. There, in the deep shadow of the house, he waited an instant. He was unarmed, and his hands ached for a gun. But when he came near the haunts of men, the great enemy, he purposely left weapons behind him, because he never knew when the temptation would become stronger than his ability to resist.

That second of thoughtfulness gave him a course, however. In another moment the lines of watchers around the town would know that he was inside its limits, and, by simply turning around and facing the village instead of the outer night from which they had expected him to come, they would have him sealed in a trap.

He raced to the rear of the next house on the street. In the corral beside the barn there were horses, but none for his purpose. He could tell that even by their outlines in the darkness. He went on like a flash to the next corral and scanned a huddle of horses standing in a corner. He looked for a head, not for a body, and finally he saw what he wanted—a small, compact, bony head, with short, sharp ears. That was his horse.

He sprang to the barn, wrenched the door open, and, on a row of pegs inside, he found bridles, saddles, and blankets. But he only took a bridle. Even for that there was barely time. Voices were beginning to shout here and there in the outer night. Perhaps the whole circle of the campfires had been alarmed by this time.

He came out again. The horses in the corner of the corral split apart and scattered, snorting.

“Halloo!” shouted the voice of a man from the house in front of the barn. “Hello, out there! What's up?”

Tom made no answer. He had just succeeded in cornering the horse with the finely made head. It was a disappointingly small animal—not comparable with Peter, of course. But he stayed with his choice.

“Look here!” roared the man of the house, now excited. “What's up out there? Bill, come along and let's take a look.”

Tom heard the voice of Bill answer. But now he was working at the head of the horse. The stubborn little brute kept his jaws locked and refused to admit the bit. He put two fingers into the side of the beast's mouth and dug them down into the gums. That forced the mouth open, and instantly the bridle was on and slipped over the ears of the mustang.

After that, he did not wait to secure the throat-latch. He sprang to the back of his horse—and instantly found that his hands were filled with an argument of another nature, for the bronco tipped into the air and came down crooked. For thirty seconds it bucked with a wild enthusiasm and a cunning intelligence that proved it to be an old hand. But there was no unseating Tom Parks. He had learned to ride Peter in the mountains without a saddle. He had a grip with his knees almost sufficient to break the ribs of his mount, so he clung on his back.

“By heaven!” roared one of the men who was running toward the corral. “It's somebody on Sideways!”

Sideways was demonstrating the aptness of that name by a series of bucks from side to side delivered with the violence of a snapping whip and the speed of striking fists.

“Shoot for him. Try for his head!” cried one of the men.

Tom gritted his teeth. It is impossible to sit a bucking horse without carrying one's head high. He could not duck and flatten himself along the back of the mustang. A gun clanged, and a bullet sang wickedly close to his ear.

“Look out for Sideways, though,” cautioned the other. “I'll watch the gate. We'll get him.”

Suddenly Sideways came out of the bucking humor and decided to try running, as horses will do, apparently thinking that they can run out from under the burden on their backs. So Sideways bolted and made, naturally enough, straight for the corral gate. A frightened yell went up from the man who had posted himself there. Two guns banged in close succession, but the shots flew idly overhead, for the instant the mustang stopped bucking and began to run, Tom had flattened himself along its neck.

They reached the gate. He twitched Sideways to one side and aimed him at the fence. Did the little brute know how to jump, and could he manage it with such a weight on his back? The question was quickly answered. Sideways went for the fence with a grunt of anger, reared, and skimmed it like a bird. Yells of amazement greeted the feat.

He landed in his stride and was off racing. Tom let him get past two barns. Then he twitched him to the side and hurried him across the village, leaving behind him the line of campfires with the excited men milling around them, black, misshapen silhouettes.

The village of Turnbull was long and narrow, like most Western towns. In an instant he was across the main street, had plunged Sideways down an alley, and came in view of the opposite campfires. Everywhere was shouting and confusion and the gleam of the fires upon guns.

Coming out of the black night, he was dazzled by that glare of many lights. He could not choose or pick. He simply made for the first gap between the fires while a wild yell of excitement and fear went tingling up to greet him. Then the air was filled with the din of guns.

“We were only fifty yards away,” goes the old hunting story. “Every one of us was a good shot. At that range who could miss? We put forty bullets into that grizzly before he hit the brush, and we lost him. Yes, sir, he was a walking lead mine before he disappeared.” Yet, when the bear was found dead the next day, there was a solitary slug in him, and he had died from the effects of that one. What had made fifty bullets or more fly astray? Simply that fever of nervousness that makes the hand, so steady in firing at a target, quiver just a little in firing at a living thing. And hands that shook when they fired at a bear would certainly be tremulous when they attempted to kill this terrible wild man who came upon them by surprise from an unexpected direction. Just an instant, and the flying horse had carried him—long, bare arms and long, flying hair and all—out of the darkness of the houses and into the midst of the guards.

Of a hundred shots, not one struck home or even grazed the target. There was one flurry of wild shooting, and then Sideways, running with wild speed in his terror, dipped into a swale in a hollow and was lost to view. The others rushed to the edge of the swale to get in another volley, but by that time Sideways had put a precious 100 yards between him and the foremost of the sentinels.

The last volley flew wildly astray, and then the blanketing night closed on them, and Tom headed for the hills.

What a blessing it was that the noise fell away behind him, every stride of the good little horse making it dimmer. He had no occasion to regret the selection of Sideways, bucking and all, for every inch of his scant fifteen hands was all horse. He was a bundle of strength and nervous energy, and it was all loosed in that wild horse to get away from the town.

But now Tom Parks drew the mustang back to a more moderate gait. A furlong of sprinting exhausts a man as much as a mile of running. Sideways had been taxed by fear and anger and a racing gait all at once. It was no wonder that his sides were heaving as Tom brought him down to a canter. He began to talk as he alone knew how to talk to a dumb beast. What wonder that he could, when only dumb beasts had been near to listen for years? In a moment the tremor had left the body of Sideways, and under the persuasion of that gentle voice and the hand that stroked his sleek, strong neck, he began to raise his head, and one ear pricked forward. It warmed the heart of Tom to see.

In the meantime, all was not well. There had been a pale semicircle of light over the eastern hills. Now from that glow was born a great, full moon that filled the valley with swarthy shadows. It was not so bad as the all-revealing sun, but it was bad enough. For one thing, he had come out from Turn-bull on the side farthest from the direction that led toward Peter and safety. For another thing, there was a dull and increasing roar of hoofs in his rear. Tom knew that the battle of the night was by no means ended.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

T
OM
M
AKES
A
P
ROMISE

They were coming fast and hard on his heels. Every man in the village who had a horse had flung himself into the saddle. But most had fallen to the rear. There remained a round dozen of well-mounted men who had pushed on. To be sure, their horses had the burden of saddles to carry, a thing from which Sideways was freed, but the little mustang had in Tom a greater weight than an average rider and saddle combined. Moreover, he had used up the blossom of his strength in that first wild burst of running and bucking. Tom shrewdly suspected that Sideways, with his short legs and his sturdy frame, would be better fitted for a long and steady run than for the arduous labors of a swift chase.

The thing to do was to get to Peter. Five minutes of that matchless speed would leave the posse staggering and floundering behind him in the night. But how to reach Peter was the problem.

He decided, first of all, to keep straight on until the hills were a screen behind him. Then he would angle to the right and speed around until he could break across toward the opposite side of the valley where Peter had been left. What he needed now was a burst of speed to carry him into those hills as soon as possible.

Tom called to Sideways, and the good little horse lowered his nose, stretched out his neck, and raced like a champion until the steep hill shadows pushed past him and he was shut from the view of the pursuers.

Chance came to the help of Tom then. He saw before him half a dozen little ravines opening like so many funnels into the heart of the hills. How could the pursuers pick the right avenue for following him? He took the one that led most directly to the right, and, still keeping Sideways at top speed, he tore down it. Behind him, as the mustang raced, he heard the roar of hoofs and the shouting of men as they drove past the entrance to the cañon. But Tom did not slacken the pace even after this assurance that the posse had gone wrong. What he vitally needed was a sufficiently big gap between him and the others so that, when he chose, he could angle back across the Turnbull valley.

But he rode fast simply to make surety doubly sure, as men will do sometimes. It was twenty minutes before he decided that he could safely cut back. Then he let Sideways, now badly blown by all this sprinting, fall to a swaying canter that, he knew, the little horse could maintain all day. So he drifted back through the hills and came out on the plain once more.

He scanned it eagerly right and left, but over the rolling ground, now white with moonshine, he saw no dark forms of hurrying horsemen. He let Sideways continue at the same pace. Then, from a slight elevation, he caught sight of the wide, bright body of the river flowing through the distance ahead of him. They could swim that to safety.

But, as he sent Sideways ahead at a slightly freshened pace, a change of the wind brought an ominous sound to his ear. He swung sharply about, and he saw, streaking across the crest of a low knoll, a compact body of half a dozen mounted men, aimed at him at full speed. For a moment he was stunned. Then he saw the only possible explanation. Those who led the party that first pursued him must have guessed that his retreat into the hills was only a feint, for he had always made his descents into Turnbull valley from the opposite side of the valley. So they had split their party into sections. One plunged after him into the hills, and he had heard them go by on a false scent. The other had roamed along the foothills to see if they could find him as he doubled back. That strategy had succeeded. There they were coming with their comparatively fresh horses that had been kept in hand all this time. And here was he with a weary mount!

But there was nothing for it save to make Sideways sprint again and head straight on for the river. That was what he did, working himself well forward toward the withers of the little horse so that his weight would be a lesser burden at great speed. Then, with hand and voice, he shot Sideways ahead.

The brave little horse answered with all the strength in his body and, what was more important, with all the power in his soul. He ran until his legs were numb and his lungs on fire, but still those swiftly shooting shadows behind him gained and gained. In vain Tom tried to angle up the river for a more favorable crossing place. The instant he started to travel at a slant, the pursuit gained with appalling speed. Still, when he straightened the little horse fully for the river, they gained again.

Even if he gained the water, they could reach the bank, and, sitting quietly in the middle, they could riddle him with bullets better aimed than the few that they now, from time to time, sent whizzing after him. But shooting from horseback is a fine art in itself. If he, Tom Parks, had a rifle with him, he would show them how it was done. If he had six shots, he would empty six saddles for them and hunt the rest of them back across the valley as fast as they had hunted him. But his hands were empty, and he could only groan, then throw all his anguish into the voice that called on Sideways for more speed.

Still somewhere in the valiant recesses of his heart, Sideways found mysterious stores of energy upon which he called. Still he answered that voice, until he was reeling in his stride. Yet the posse closed suddenly upon him. Now the water flashed just before them. Headlong he drove the mustang at it. A cloud of silver spray was dashed up by the hoofs of the horse. He lunged in, and the water closed over them.

That instant Tom thrust himself from the mustang and kicked off underwater, swimming below the surface and with all his might. He swam until his lungs threatened to burst. Then his hands touched bottom. He drew himself to the edge of the river. In a tangle of weeds he thrust his nose and eyes above the surface and saw the drama that followed.

The horsemen of the posse, as he had expected, had halted on the bank. Their rifle butts were pitched into the hollows of their shoulders. For an instant they scanned the silver surface of the Turn-bull for sight of the man they wanted. But, imagining that the mustang in some way concealed the master, they poured a volley of lead at that gallant head where Sideways was struggling on across the current.

Tom, with an aching heart, saw poor Sideways sink beneath the surface. Then, to his soul of souls, he made a vow that for the sake of Sideways he would be kinder to all horses—to all dumb creatures—if his own life were spared from this crisis.

But there was now a shout of wonder from the posse as they saw the head of the horse go down while still no man appeared in the water.

“I guess I nailed him just as he hit the water,” said one voice. “Sure looked to me like I landed him. Look down the stream a ways, boys. Maybe you'll see him floating.”

“If he went down, he won't be up for days,” said another. “Why didn't you hold up and wait when you seen we had him, Bill?”

“A fox like that?” said Bill. “Any way of getting him was good enough for me. But I'd sure like to see his face. Hunt down the stream, boys. This current might wash him into the shallows.”

They drifted down the stream a little, but Tom dared not move from his place. There he lay in the numbing water and heard them come back.

“The thing to do,” said the quiet voice of John Hampton Themis, “is for you fellows to go back to the town and tell what has happened. Tell 'em that we've run the rat into the water. I'll stay out here and watch the place.”

“D'you think that he's living and breathing down under the water, Mister Themis?” asked another with a chuckle.

“I don't know what to think,” answered Themis. “I only know that it will be a strange thing if a man such as he seems to be has been disposed of as easily as this. We've only accounted for one of his lives tonight.”

This brought another good-natured laugh. They were in high spirits. The heart of Tom raged in him as he listened to their laughter. Presently, however, they agreed with Themis. They bade him farewell and assured him that he would not have a lonely watch. Others would come out from the village in the night to see the place, and in the morning they would all come out and drag the river by sunlight.

“And watch yourself, Mister Themis,” they said. “The rat might come out of the water and sink his teeth into you.”

So, with more laughter, they rode on. The great silence of the night fell over the place. There was only the light whisper of the river against its banks.

“Strange . . . very strange,” Tom heard Themis say, speaking just above him.

Then the noise of the horse of Themis retreated down the river a little and Tom dared to raise his head above the weeds. Down the bank he saw Themis disappear below a knoll. Quickly he worked himself out of the slime. On the grassy bank he rolled himself. He worked all his muscles convulsively two or three times to restore, in part, his deadened circulation and the vitality that the chill of the water had sapped. Then he rose to his knees.

Instantly he heard the sound of the hoofs of the horse as the solitary sentinel started to return. He must find shelter somewhere, and there was only one possibility. That was a growth of shrubs not more than a foot high, far too low and too thin to give him actually a shelter, but they must serve his purpose. He lay among them, face down, because there is nothing that, for some mysterious reason, so attracts the eye as the human face, even by night. He could only pray that his body might not be distinguishable among the shadows of the shrub. To reinforce his hope, he felt that the eye of the watcher would be chiefly employed on the bright surface of the river.

Back came the noise of hoofs. It was aimed directly at him. So straight came the noise of the approach that he turned his head toward it, and it was as he feared. Themis was letting the horse wander on straight toward the patch of shrubbery. Perhaps he would let the animal walk straight through it.

Tom gathered his legs a little under him. If it came to the worst, he must attack in the face of that gleaming rifle that was balanced across the pommel of Themis's saddle. He waited, his teeth set, his eyes gleaming, his toes digging in to gain a purchase in case that leap must be made.

Still the nodding head of the horse came on, while Themis sat the saddle looking toward the water. A yard away—suddenly the horse stopped, snorted, then bounded to the side while Themis, with an exclamation of surprise, lowered his rifle and drew heavily on the reins.

There was no escape now for Tom. The horse had seen him. The man would see him in another instant. He came out of the shrubs with a rush. He saw the rifle swing up. Then he leaped for the rider and, with up flung left hand, touched the muzzle of the gun of Themis. It discharged its contents just beside Tom's ear. Then, his lunge carrying him on and up, one hand fell on the shoulder of Themis, another circled his neck.

Themis was torn from the saddle and brought heavily to the earth. Half stunned by the fall, he allowed the rifle to be jerked from his nervous hands. He was forced upon his back. In a trice, hands and feet were tied. Then he was wrenched to a sitting posture and found himself confronting the muddy, dripping figure that stood there, rifle in hand.

“You are still alive,” said a stern voice. “You are her father, and therefore you are still alive. But the others, when I find them, shall die. They murdered the poor horse while it swam in the water. How had that horse harmed them? They shall die as the horse died. Tell them that when they come. I have let them hunt me like a dog through the mountains. When they come again, tell them that I shall shoot, and I never miss.”

He threw rifle and revolver far off into the river, while the frightened horse fled, neighing. Then he ran to the edge of the river and dived into it.

Themis, looking after him, saw the water close above him with hardly a ripple to break the surface. He came up far toward the center of the stream, swimming strongly, with his face buried. He reached the farther bank. He climbed the shore and stood a moment, a dripping, shining figure. Then he struck across country with a long, free stride and was lost in the moon haze.