The Girl Of Ghost Mountain/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
COYOTE SPRINGS TRAIL
Along the edge of the Chico Mesa, where it broke down to the desert in high walls of rock and friable dirt, weathered, decomposed, heaped and split and crevassed, unscalable save for the wedge where one trail uncoiled to the place where no man sought to go willingly; the cacti were assembled in great ranks. With them were agaves, candlewood, soapweed, mesquite and creosote bush but they were only a scattering gathering to the gray-green companies marshaled against the waste. Prickly pear, hedgehog cactus, torch thistles, old-man cactus, Judas Tree, and barrel cactus, three-fourths of a hundred varieties, from the button tops to the giant columnar chayas, fleshy, thorny growths that formed impenetrable thickets or stood in serried array.
Through them at the best speed they could make, the lithe ponies dodging and twisting, spines catching at leather chaparejos or cloth, Sheridan and Jackson rode against the moonrise. To this issue they clung stubbornly, clutching at the one hope as a drowning man grabs for the proverbial straw.
Glittering stars pierced the sky and made a half-light, a star dusk, but they figured that the cruel gang gathered under Hollister would wait to see more of the punishment they intended to inflict than this would reveal. They would want to see their victim cringe as the hot tar smeared his naked flesh, to see to strike as he ran the ruthless gauntlet down into the desert that would receive him as a horrible travesty of man and desiccate him to the semblance of a mummied bird.
Here was no group that could be cajoled by the ways of a woman, by a tune on a fiddle, doughnuts and a whistled aria. A Chinaman was fair game. Hollister would be leader of a crowd inhuman in their desire to torture, to hurt, to send a half-crazed screaming thing that had been a man to a loathsome death. And Metzal, while it might not universally approve, would be apathetic, would neither interfere nor punish. The feat would restore Hollister to that bullying supremacy that he loved and had lost.
The horses had made forty miles that day. They had rested well between stretches but they were tired and the clogging dust of the mesa pulled at their strength. Sheridan did not dare to gaze at the east. The full moon would throw glints and shadows soon enough to apprise him if his trip was a lost venture—a thought intolerable. That this was aimed at him, through Quong, he knew and cared not as he cheered the mare, responding to the last ounce of game vitality, dropping from springless lope to walk, back to dreary trot and so to walk again, almost played out, but indomitable to answer the will of her master. Beside her toiled the pinto. Both horses, both men, were grey with dust, grey as the whole landscape.
At last Jackson sniffed at the air, pulling down his neckerchief from his mouth. Ahead of them stretched a battalion of chayas, another formation to their right.
"We're close on the desert," he said. "An' we ain't fur off the trail. I figger it to the right a bit." He turned in his saddle and sought certain notches in the range to fix his position. "Gawd!" he said with a sudden intake of his breath, "here comes the moon."
It sailed up like a great bubble of pearl, poising on the saw teeth of the far-away eastern crests. It seemed to leap from them into the air, blanching all the mesa, bringing color to the cactus, touching the blossoms to a faint semblance of their hues.
Sheridan struck off to the right between the cactus coliimns, Jackson following his tortuous trail. Suddenly Sheridan halted.
"I see their fire," he whispered. "Wait a minute."
He dismounted, passed his reins to Jackson and slid through the grove, gun in hand. Here and there he caught glimpses of an orange glow and could hear the careless talk of the raiders, feeling safe from pursuit, liquor-dulled to all but their intent.
Sheridan took his place behind a chaya that grew on the verge of a dry ravine, washed out by some long-dried and forgotten torrent. Down this ran the trail to the desert. He saw a group of twenty men, masked by bandannas, still wearing them for the devilish joy of the murderous masquerade. He saw horses standing in a little herd. Over the fire a pot swung on a shaky tripod. The smell of melting pitch was distinct and brought the blood boiling to Sheridan's brain, his finger to his trigger. A man was testing the stuff.
"Poco mas," he said. "Casi" (A little more. Almost ready.)
He was sweating beneath his clumsy mask and he lifted it to wipe his face. Sheridan saw it plainly in the glow of the fire. It was Pedro, brother to Juanita, one of Hollister's most devoted henchmen.
Two men brought out another from the shadow. It was Quong, stripped naked, hands bound, feet hobbled. His yellow face showed no emotion. It might have been carved from bone.
Sheridan stole back to Jackson and his horse.
"You ride around the head of the arroyo," he said. "Plenty of cover. When you hear me shoot, stampede the horses. Get them going hard and then you can help me round up the gang. I'll have them milling by the time you come," he added, quietly, as he mounted. Jackson rode off without a word and Sheridan walked the mare to where he had stood behind the arroyo. Pedro was still stirring the sticky tar, stubborn to become liquid enough for their purpose.
"Ahora!" (now), he said, as he tested it.
The men crowded towards him with cursing laughter, dragging Quong. Sheridan's gun spurted fire. Pedro dropped the ladle with an oath, clutching at his wrist, reeling back. His foot caught the clumsy tripod and the pot slumped upon the fire, scattering it, slopping over a little of its contents which flamed up, burning fiercely while it lasted.
"Hands up, the lot of you," called Sheridan as he rode out of the Chayas. Two more shots sounded. Jackson darted out from the opposite side of the arroyo, between the men and their mounts, firing at the heels of the frightened herd.
"Yippi-yi-yippi," he yelled and the startled brutes, stumbling over their reins, kicking, plunging, squealing, rushed off into the clumps of cactus and mesquite, streaking north.
"I'm right back of you-all," he cried as the last of the broncos disappeared. "Herdin' coyotes on the old Coyote Trail. Elevate, gents, elevate!"
Sheridan, like a statue on the tired mare, saw a furtive hand flash towards a holster. He fired again and the man fell groaning with a bullet through his shoulder.
"Line up!" he said tersely. "Next time I'll shoot closer. And I don't miss."
"Prime light for shootin'," said Jackson. "You folks timed it just right, like we did. Moonlight! Line up, you mangy, skunk-hearted lot of hoodwinked bastards. line up!"
They stood in a crestfallen, ragged line, their faces masked behind the bandannas, surprised, deadly afraid of Sheridan's targetry, fearful of Jackson menacing their backs.
Sheridan rode to Quong and cut his wrist bonds with one hand, then gave him the knife.
"Put on your clothes," he said. "Then take their guns away. Throw them over here."
Quong, wordless, impassive in relief as he had been in peril, passed down the line. Pedro, holding aloft his dripping wrists, pleaded for a respite.
"No!" barked Sheridan. "Hurry up, Quong. I don't want to have a general murder on my hands," he said slowly. "My boys are on their way with the Diamond W outfit and they'll be a trifle warm under the collars by the time they get here. Hold on, Quong, drop that!"
His voice rang out sharply. Quong had just taken a knife from a sheath in the belt of one of the masked men Sheridan had placed as Hollister. As the blade gleamed Quong had crouched and his calm face had twisted into a sudden murderous fury. But he obeyed. The weapons were piled in a heap by Sheridan's feet.
"Throw them out into the desert as far as you can," he ordered. "You prick-eared curs of hell can collect them later. But not tonight." His voice took a higher note. His rage was mounting and he was having hard work to control it. But he knew that the best judgment on these men, outside the law, by reason of crooked politics, was the one he had devised.
"If there was tar enough to go round," he said, "I'd treat you all to the dose you meant for Quong. I may not be able to find a judge to treat you the way you deserve but I can make you laughing stocks and take some of the deviltry out of you before you get back to Metzal. For you are going to walk, unless you want to hunt your horses in the cactus. If you had killed Jim Lund I'd go further, but he'll want to settle that score himself. Now get out, the whole pack of you. Hurry! Hear that?"
They heard it distinctly. A twitch of apprehension ran down the line at the distant shouts, coming nearer, nearer, the joyous "Whoopee" of cowboys on the trail. Jackson rode towards Sheridan, leading a horse. The band scattered, diving for cover, fleeing for the shadows, torn by the cactus as they ran and leaped and dodged the eager spines.
One man stood his ground, the one Sheridan had marked as Hollister.
"Give me my horse," he said. "God damn you, Sheridan, I'll have you run out of the country for this. I'll" he sputtered in his rage.
"Is it yore hawss?" drawled Jackson. "I sure hoped so. Quong's goin' to ride it back. We'll send it over later, maybe with a little tar an' feathers on it for a souvenir, though I'd hate to mistreat even yore brute."
"You'll walk, Hollister," said Sheridan. "If I were you, I'd run."
Hollister tore off his neckerchief, his features working as he struggled for sufficient speech to express his seething soul.
"I'll be even with you, you damned tenderfoot," he said. "You low, sneakin', love-makin'"
Sheridan slid from the mare and jumped for him, tossing his gun to one side, anxious only to get his hands on Hollister, to choke down the dirty slanders he was about to utter. Hollister met him halfway and they came to a furious clinch, slugging and infighting, stamping, panting as they swayed back and forth. Hollister grunted as Sheridan smashed him over the heart with a short-armed jolt, clinging, striking up with his knee to foul. With one hand, his strength desperate in the extremity, Hollister clawed at Sheridan's face, his nails fetching blood, thumb and finger hooked into his opponent's eye, striving to force the ball from the socket while the other hand clutched at Sheridan's right arm.
The pain was maddening, paralyzing. Sheridan hammered at him with his free left, tore loose and, half-blinded, closed in again with smashing blows that broke down Hollister's guard. He clutched him by the throat and shook him, forcing him to his knees until his tongue lolled out and his bloated face turned purple.
"No sense in swingin' for him, Pete," said Jackson, his voice crisp.
"I'll not—kill—him," panted Sheridan, "but I'll mark him."
He twisted Hollister to hands and knees and dragged him, one hand in the slack of his overalls, the other twined in his collar, over the sand to where the tar pot stood slightly tilted. Into it he thrust Hollister's head, deep into the clinging muck, dipping it deep, then jerked it out and flung him to the sand. Hollister got up slowly, striving to wipe the stuff from his eyes, his mouth. His mustache was clogged with it, his face was hideous as he stood there, horrible, inarticulate, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
"Better git that off, 'fore yore whiskers start to sprout," advised Jackson.
The reddened gleam of one eye shone at them as the cowboys from the two outfits broke through the chayas and rode down into the arroyo. They made a wondering circle round Hollister and broke into guffaws of laughter that left them weak in their saddles.
"I guess he's had enough, boys," said Sheridan. "There are a few scattered between here and Metzal you might sort of help on their way. No target shooting, boys, they'll have had all they need by the time they limp home."
"Called you a tenderfoot!" said Jackson. "Some of them'll be steppin' high an' soft afore they roost tonight. Hollister, the laugh's on you. Buenos noches."
Sheridan called Jim Lund, the wounded cowboy, who had come with the Diamond W outfit, over to him when the rest, still laughing, scattered over the mesa on their round-up.
"I said no shooting, Jim," he cautioned. "You'll ride home with us." Lund reluctantly put up his gun and obeyed. Quong mounted and the quartet started, leaving Hollister in the arroyo. When they looked back he was beginning to grope out a dim trail towards Metzal.
"You ought to have feathered him a bit," said Jackson. "An' we plumb forgot the tick. They spiled it ennyways."
Quong kept silence. The hands on his reins were steady. Sheridan wondered whether the man's sensitory system was different from that of a white man, his nervous combinations less complex, or merely under better control. In Quong's case, however it might be with others of his countrymen, Sheridan was inclined to think that his will ruled.
"They nearly had you, Quong," he said as they neared the ranch.
The Chinaman looked at him.
"A clock does not strike until the hands reach the hour," he said.
That was all. No word of gratitude. Yet Sheridan felt the man was not ungrateful, in his own way. He caught up with Jackson.
"The Chink isn't handin' out any life-savin' medals," suggested Red.
"He'll probably make it up to us in cooking."
"I'm mighty glad we fixed that gate an' got up that signal code," said Jackson presently.
"I was thinking that," answered Sheridan. "And we've fixed Hollister. If he wants to lead that gang of his again they'll remember that he's foozled out the last time or two. And they'll always be looking close to see if he has any tar on his face," Jackson laughed.
"Yep. Sure will. For once the devil got painted as black as he is. Ye-ah, but I'm hungry. I c'u'd eat a horned-toad stew. How about eats, Quong?" he shouted back.
Quong cantered up.
"I was planning something for tomorrow's breakfast," he said. "I can make them tonight, if you wish."
"Them? What? Not them chicken crokwets you've bin talkin' about?"
"No. Waffles." And the cook surveyed them with his inscrutable, sphinxlike face as Sheridan bent to his horn in sudden mirth and Jackson muttered blankly,
"Waffles. I'm a son of a gun. Waffles!"