Shepherds of the Wild/Chapter 27
Chapter XXVII
While José Mertos had been riding, Landy Fargo had been busy, too. It wasn't enough just to order things done, and later to learn of their accomplishment. In the hand, more than the brain, lies the gratification of vengeance; and Fargo didn't intend to miss this satisfaction. Riding swiftly, he had lighted the circle of fires in front of the sheep flock.
Exultation was upon him when he saw the red, greedy flames creeping into the trees. It was his long-awaited moment. By no conceivable circumstances could the flock and its shepherd escape. He had prepared for every emergency, blockaded every pass.
The blows that Hugh had dealt him were paid for at last. His dog-pack been laid low, in a still, ugly, curious heap—but there would be other silent ones before this night was done. And there would be less of beauty in these still forms than in those of his slain pets. Everything was square at last. His brutal lips leered and his eyes burned.
When his last fire was ignited, he stopped for a moment of exultation. The red terror was sweeping into the trees, faster than he had ever dreamed. Even now his enemies were enclosed in a prison of fiery walls from which they never could escape. "I've got you," he cried in triumph. "You thought you could trample on me and get away with it, but I've shown you." He lifted his powerful hand. "I've crushed you—like that."
His brutal fingers closed. His fiery eyes glowed with self-worship. "With this hand," he exulted, in half-insane rapture. "This is the hand that crushed you—no one else's. You thought you could stand against it, but it's smashed you at last."
He waited a little while more, fascinated by the lightning advance of the fire. The brush and trees were particularly heavy in this glade—and the red tongues swept forward with startling rapidity. He hadn't much time to linger further. It was always best to play safe—and take no chances on this demon of fire. Yet he stayed, thrilled and fascinated by his handiwork.
All at once a crackle behind him caused him to glance quickly over his shoulder. He saw to his terror that a little arm of the fire had spread here, too. He whirled his horse, then with a savage oath lashed down with his quirt.
Yet plenty of time remained, by riding swiftly, to save himself. There was no need for fear. He would go straight to his home, and from its windows he could watch the progress of the fire. Yet the crackle behind him got on his nerves, and he struck his horse again.
And this second blow was a serious mistake. The horse was already running at a swift pace down the narrow trail. There is a limit to the speed a horse can run with safety in the Idaho mountains, and that limit was already reached. Beyond that point comes only panic and blind frenzy. The horse leaped forward to the wildest pace it knew.
The sweat leaped from Fargo's dark brow, and slowly his self-mastery came back to him. There was no need of this wild flight. He had plenty of time. He started to check the horse.
But at that instant the sinister forces of the wild—always lurking in ambush for such as Fargo—saw their chance. And the forest-demons do not need mighty weapons. Their agents are the Little Things, the covert trivialities that few men notice. In this case the resistless force that overwhelmed him was only a furry, half-blind creature of the dust—a rodent such as ordinarily Fargo would press his heel upon and crush.
The rodent had been enlarging his winter home, and he had dug away some of the earth from under the trail. The horse was running too wildly to be careful, his hoof broke through the little shelf of dirt, and he tripped and hurled headlong.
To the rodent, the disaster meant further hours of toil—digging tirelessly till his rooms were clean again. Through some incredible chance—perhaps because the great god Manitou had saved him for further work—the horse was uninjured, and soon regained his feet. But Fargo was hurled to the earth as the horse fell, and he only knew a great darkness that transcended and smothered him.
As if they were trying to restore his nervous forces for some great ordeal, the forest gods granted him a full hour of peaceful, restful slumber. But it was doubtful mercy. At the end of that hour they laughed—a sound, not greatly different from the crackle of a great fire, and began to call him into consciousness.
First they brought evil dreams, and Fargo started and murmured in his sleep, tossing a little on his bed of pine-needles. His look of triumph was gone from his brutal features now. Instead, there was a curious drawing and strain—and for all the sudden heat of the early night, cold drops on his brow. Still his eyes wouldn't open. He fought hard, and his quivering body rustled the dead leaves.
Curious streaks of light slashed before his eyeballs now—all colors, and they filled him with horror. But slowly remembrance returned to him. He had set the fire, and now it was time to ride away. He mustn't get caught in his own trap. He rallied all the powers of his spirit and fought for consciousness.
And the forest-demons decided to grant it to him. It was not in accord with their plans that he should lie insensible throughout all the entertainment they had provided for him. So they not only permitted him to waken, but as a final favor they bestowed upon him a super-consciousness—a fine keying of every nerve and an added sensitiveness to his flesh. It was their final beneficence, and they gave it freely. Fargo opened his starting eyes.
His first thought was of flight, and therefore of his horse. But the animal, knowing of old the fear of fire, had sped on down the trail. Fargo was alone. He had to run for it, then, before it was too late. . . . He sat up, shuddering.
It occurred to him then that the fall had bewildered him as to his directions. At the first glance he beheld the fire, but it was in front of him instead of behind where he had left it. It was curious to be so turned around—and he looked over his shoulder, intending to mark the best trail to safety. And then Landy Fargo's throat convulsed and his breath came out in a scream.
The fiery wall was behind him, too, leaping toward him with a deadly and terrible ferocity. The trees flamed like great torches, swayed and fell; the brush was a wall of fire. The conflagration had made a great half circle, just as he had planned, converging to the left of him.
But to his right the fiery barrier was nearest of all. He didn't have to turn to know that. Its crackle was just in his ear. And then he leaped to his feet with a wild, blasphemous cry.
A little peninsula of fire had crept out from the burning brush to his right, and had paused—in grim speculation—beside something hard and strong that it found resting in the pine-needles. It was Fargo's hand—the hand in which he had exulted such a little time before, and which had set the flame. As if in gratitude, the red tongue licked at its brown skin.
Full knowledge came to Fargo then. All about him raged the fire, pressing ever closer. He was helpless—powerless to aid himself as the Shropshire lamb that he had thrown, so many weeks ago, among his hounds. His own handiwork had turned against him, and the vengeance of the wilderness was complete.