The Trail Rider/Chapter 10
A REATA swished out of the dark as Fannie spoke. It caught Texas before he could draw his gun. She saw him jerked off his feet, the rope binding his arms at his sides.
In the struggle that he made to free himself, his captors dragged him across the little fire, scattering the light sticks, out of which the blaze died almost at once. Many hands laid hold of him; the rawhide lariat was wound around his legs and arms, binding him like a mummy. They threw him down, and cursed him for his fight.
A man with a whang in his voice like the high notes of a banjo was talking to Fannie over beyond the scattered brands of fire. He was railing at her, calling her unspeakable names, abusing her for her betrayal.
"No, you don't leave here—no, you don't!" he said, in answer to something that Texas could not hear. "You wouldn't double-cross him, wouldn't you? Well, you're not goin' to double-cross us again, neither. You'll go with us, and you'll stay with us till you see this thing out!"
"Yes, and if you hurt a hair of his head I'll put a bullet between your eyes if it takes me forty years!" she told him. "I did double-cross you, and I'm glad of it, and Ed do it—"
He drowned her in a volley of abuse, yelled an order to somebody, and Fannie was taken away, protesting and defying as she went. The man who had cursed her came and bent over Texas, trying his bonds from shoulders to ankles, tightening them here and there, saying nothing.
Texas was so securely tied that he could move nothing but his fingers. For a little while the fellow stood looking down at him, as if he considered some additional precaution.
"It's purty tough medicine, Bud, but you'll have to stand it," he said.
"You might loosen the slip-knot around my arms a little if you're aimin' to leave me here, pardner. It's cuttin' off the blood from my hands. I'll be paralyzed."
The man laughed. "You're too damn handy with 'em anyhow," he said, and walked away, leaving Texas staring at the clouded sky.
Texas wondered whether one of them intended to come back and release him after they had driven their herd across, or whether it was their purpose to leave him there to die. The man who had spoken to him seemed to know something about him and his adventures in Cottonwood. No matter who he was or whence he came, Texas was certain that he would know him by his peculiar voice if he ever met him again. Surely there was not another voice in the world like that.
Somebody in Cottonwood must still be in the business of importing Texas cattle, perhaps with his connection in such transactions hidden from the cattlemen of that country. Fannie had said "that gang" as if she meant somebody in Cottonwood. These things Texas considered as he lay there, the pain of his tightly bound hands and feet increasing every moment.
This grew so intense in a short time as to be alarming. Texas believed that he must perish of it, in lingering agony, if somebody did not come soon and set him free. The hard, braided rawhide lariat had been pulled as tight as the strength of excited and vindictive hands could draw it; it cut into his flesh and stopped the return flow of blood from his extremities. All the time the pressure of his heart was pumping a little more blood past the bonds, but there was no force to send it back.
His hands were already swollen until he could not move his fingers. The pain was becoming maddening. He felt blood starting from beneath his finger nails; the gorged flesh ached and burned in an exaggeration of the wildest imaginings of pain. It was agony such as being chained in fire, only it was more prolonged. Insensibility was a condition to be prayed for, even though it might be the end.
Texas shouted for help until his voice was only a moan; thrashed his body from side to side until he had no strength left to turn again, rebellious against this cruel punishment, frantic in his desire to burst his burning bonds. He gasped like a drowning man; his heart labored to suffocation against the poison of his stifled veins. Then in a rushing climax of pain his senses left him. His last wild, protesting thought was that he had come to the quicksands of death.
The cool plash of rain in his face woke Hartwell from his swoon on the threshold of death, and it was dawn. He was unable to believe for a while that the pain had gone out of his feet and hands, the pressure relaxed on his arms. His bonds hung loose on him, as if they had been cut. He could not believe it for a time, and had no strength to investigate, thinking, indeed, that it was only a rift in his incomparable visitation of cruelty.
It came to him quickly that his release from agony was due to the rain. The nature of dry rawhide is to stretch when wet, and the rain had come in time to ease the thongs which stifled his body and choked out his life. Little by little he moved his arms, working the muscles out of their stiffness, every movement bringing back a faint reminder of his old pain. It required a long time to get one hand out of the wet rope and into his pocket for his knife, another almost hopeless spell of fumbling to open it with his swollen, numb fingers. When he stretched free of thongs at last, day was well on its way. The rain continued from the low-blowing clouds which had followed the cattle from Texas, as if to give them obscurity for their invasion of the forbidden land.
Texas found his feet and legs too tender to bear him at once. It was as if they had been frozen. Only after long chafing he was able to crawl, and crawling, he went to look for his horse, his intention being to mount and carry the alarm straight to Malcolm Duncan's ranch, almost forty miles to the north.
There was no trace of the animal near at hand; he believed the invaders had driven it away. Near the site of last night's fire he found his grub and scattered utensils where the invaders had kicked them about in the struggle. The circulation was restored to his extremities by the time he had cooked and eaten breakfast; it was possible to walk with little pain.
Further search for the horse discovered no trace of it. Hours since he should have met the rider who patrolled the border to the east of him. According to orders this man would wait a reasonable time at the established meeting point, and then would ride forward into Texas's territory to find what was amiss.
Without doubt this man had discovered the herd and was now on his way to give the alarm. There was nothing left for Hartwell to do but face toward the north and tramp it to Duncan's ranch, doubly disgraced in the eyes of his employers.
Burdened by this humiliation, he started, only to run across his horse a mile or so up the creek. The animal's trail rope had become tangled in the brush, and it had wound itself up until it hadn't an inch to spare. It was nearly noon when he mounted to ride to Duncan's ranch.
They were at supper at the Duncan ranch when a man on a mud-spattered horse drew rein before the low sod house in its nest of cottonwoods. He left the panting creature standing with legs apart like a new-born colt, its head drooping, its nostrils flaring as it puffed in its fatigue. His shout brought Duncan to the door.
Dee Winch had ridden in not an hour before. He and Duncan's sons held their clatter of cutlery to listen to the report the trail-rider began to make. At his first word Winch was on his feet, and in a second he had pushed past Duncan, where he stood bareheaded in the rain.
"Eight to ten thousand of 'em," the trail-rider was saying, "drove 'em through that Texas feller's beat."
Dee Winch went into the hall and took down his belt with its double holster, his hat and coat.
"How far have they come in?" Duncan inquired.
"Fifteen or twenty miles by now."
"Did you look for Hartwell?" Winch asked. He was adjusting his belt, ready in those few seconds to take the road.
"I rode over to look for him when he didn't meet me this morning, but I couldn't find hide nor hair of him anywheres. Then I run onto the trail of that herd, and follered it till I overtook 'em. I think they've got twenty-five or thirty men in the outfit, and they're as sassy as hell."
"They came expectin' a fight, and they knew right where to hit the line," Duncan said. He turned to Winch, his handsome face clouded and stern. "Do you think that stranger was in on it, Dee?"
"I think most anything of him right now," Winch returned.
"It looks to me like he was in on it, and came here for the purpose of gettin' a job from us to open the gate to his friends."
"I never did like the slant of that feller's eye," the trail-rider said.
"We've got to turn that herd back before any more damage is done," Duncan said. "They've sown ticks enough by now to infect this whole range, like enough, but they've got to turn back and take the set trails if we have to kill off half of them, men and beasts, to make them do it! Boys, get your horses out!"
He gave one orders to ride to this ranch, another directions to hasten to that. The frail-rider he instructed to go in and eat his supper, then saddle a fresh horse and ride to the nearest ranch, rousing all hands to repel this insolent invasion. Dee Winch had gone for his horse. He was back for orders from Duncan while the others were getting into their slickers.
"I think you'd better take a scout down there, Dee, to find out where they are, and warn them not to come this way another mile. Tell them in plain words we meant it when we set them trails for Texas cattle, and we mean it when we say they've got to get out of here as quick as the Lord will let them!"
Winch swung into the saddle. Duncan lifted his hand and stopped him as he was about to gallop away.
"If you see that man they call Texas—well, you'll know what to do; it was you that hired him."
"Yes, and by God, I'll pay him off!"
Winch's voice was down in his throat, like the growl of a dog mouthing a bone. Duncan stood looking after him a moment as he galloped into the south, then turned into the house to belt himself for the fight.