Trails to Two Moons/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII
Original Bill was not one of the wild horsemen who played a hundred-to-one chance against the mob before the jail. Though the instinct of the clan had pulled him that way and the old devil call of the range—which was only the adventure spirit of the boy magnified in the man—shouted that he join his fellows in the desperate sally, a saving sense of strategy kept him away from the mêlée. For one thing, the range inspector was perforce a resident of Two Moons; the town was his headquarters, and it would not be meet for him to be found among the raiders from the range. But overtopping that consideration was the heavier one of expediency.
The day's events carried to Original a broader significance than to the harum-scarum cow-punchers who had seized the golden opportunity for a run, in their pat phraseology. From that moment when he had looked down out of his window upon the cavalcade escorting the Killer to jail the little scout of the range understood that now the two grappling forces, the barons of the horned cattle and the owners of the sheep, with their allies of the town, had come to a death lock. The blundering of Von Tromp had clinched upon the cattle clan the onus of murder suborned by gold, however clean might be the hands of the faithful retainers in the saddle,—the riders of the plains.
Zang Whistler had executed a master stroke by riding boldly into town; he had become a hero in the eyes of the town and definitely exalted himself as a leader against the cattlemen. The town mob unquestionably would release him from jail, if, indeed, Sheriff Agnew had made the gesture of putting him behind bars. The leader of the Teapot Spout gang of outlawed cow-punchers and brand burners would ride free to prey upon the cattle outfits at will.
Original, pacing before the deserted Capitol Saloon and provoked to a burning restlessness by the uproar a few blocks up the street, came to a stern resolution. He would clean out the Spout at once, perhaps catch Whistler before he could get back to his hole in the mountains, at least fall upon him and his men in the first moment of their fancied security.
A big contract! Rumor credited Zang Whistler with having between thirty and forty men behind his back, all of them former cow-punchers who had been black-balled by the foremen of the Big Country for known or suspected dexterity with the running iron. Some had taken a flyer at holding up Union Pacific trains and had beaten pursuing posses in a race for the Spout. All were men who would fight desperately against any menace of prison bars. Once before Original had attempted to fight his way into the Spout at the head of a picked company of range riders and had been beaten back, but on that occasion he had gained a fair conception of the lay of the land which he had broadened subsequently by many unsuspected reconnoitering expeditions to high places and hours spent peering through his glass.
The range inspector swiftly conned over available material to put at his back. Of the men in town that night there were five or six whose fiber of bravery he had seen put to the test beforetime, and he knew its quality to be high. These men would form the nucleus of his force. Between town and the Spout lay the Circle Y and the Hashknife ranges; from these two he firmly believed he could recruit his strength and provision his outfit for a swift and deadly invasion of that narrow hallway of the mountains which was Zang Whistler's citadel.
"And this won't be Mister Von Tromp's notion of a kiss-in-the-corner game either," Original spoke his thoughts aloud. "Something going to bust and bust big!"
He walked swiftly down Main Street away from the direction of the courthouse and turned into the dark maw of the Fashion Stables, where his little horse Tige had a stall. The dim and hay-sweet interior was deserted. A single lantern hanging on a peg at the entrance to the alleyway of stalls threw a fitful light over the rumps of the nearest tethered horses. Original took down the lantern, by its light selected his saddle from those pegged along one wall, and walked to the stall where his four-footed chum was bedded. An affectionate nicker from Tige sent greeting to him before ever Original turned the stall post to give his little horse a pat on the flank.
Had Tige been gifted with speech he would have told his master something greatly in the latter's interest, which was that from the square hole in the hayloft directly over Tige's manger a pair of eyes were following the man's every movement,—eyes filled with a great fear and the desperation of some wild creature caught in a deadfall.
Hilma Ring, lurking like a hunted beast through the willows skirting the meandering course of the Poison Spider, had believed herself a fugitive, thinking the uproar about the jail behind her the beginnings of pursuit. The girl was in the last extremity of panic. Her accustomed phlegm, heritage of the Norse blood in her, had been dissipated by the whirlwind of events, and now that corroding imagination which rode the wings of the dark out around the little cabin on Teapot roweled her mercilessly.
Prison bars! The crossed branches of the willows sketched them before her eyes. The clank of iron shutting out the world; a loosened stone dropping to strike a bowlder dinned the dreadful sound in her ears. Oh, to get back to the silent places where the land heaves interminably away to the great dike of the mountains! To undo the folly of that ride with Zang and the Killer into a trap laid by that smiling little enemy, Original Bill Blunt!
Roots tripped her and she scrambled whimpering to her feet. The sly enmity of the blackberry vines laid snares for her, pecked at her thrusting arms with vicious claws. Now the leisurely sweep of the stream had brought her very close to the town, where the bridge crosses on to Main Street. Almost above her head were the black silhouettes of buildings.
Hilma climbed the steep bank away from running water and dropped behind a packing box on a rubbish heap of discarded cans to listen for the footfalls of pursuit. None sounded. There was now no more sound of firing from the direction of the jail, now the whole span of the town's four blocks away from the fugitive. She ran, bending low, to throw herself beneath a wagon standing in an unused corral behind the blacksmith shop. From the wagon her next spurt took her to the refuse piles at the back of the Fashion Stables, the objective of her Indianlike dodging and twisting. A manure trap at the back of the stable was open; through it the girl climbed to drop to the floor at the end of the dim row of stalls.
She had come to steal a horse. Horses were here for her choice.
The hidden beasts in their stalls snorted suspiciously when Hilma dropped through to the interior of the stable. A fresh wave of panic drenched her; she dropped behind a pile of bagged oats and listened to the thump-thump of her heart. No inquiring footsteps up where that single lantern hung between the farthest stall and the saddle pegs. The stable seemed deserted of men.
It was long before the girl mustered her courage to the point where she could dare venture on skipping toes down the stall lane where hung the saddles. She lifted one off its peg, threw across her arm the saddle blanket resting beneath and started back to pick her horse. It required all her strength to hold the saddle high so that dragging stumps would not betray her. She turned into one pitch-black stall at the rearmost end of the alley, whispered soothing words to the beast that resented her intrusion with a whiffling snort and prancing hoofs, then spread the blanket across its back. Just as Hilma was lifting the saddle into place the sound of footsteps at the entrance of the stable sent a stab through her heart.
She dropped the saddle. One hand flew out in the darkness and touched the rung of a rough wall ladder shooting up to the hayloft above. Hardly conscious of her movements, she clambered swiftly hand over hand up to the black vastness and let herself drop panting on the spicy hay.
For a while Hilma gave herself to a delicious lassitude,—weakness coming in the train of long nerve strain. Then, as one by one the hay vents into the stalls below glowed golden with the passing of a lantern beneath, curiosity battled with her fear. Through a square in the floor not many feet distant the light shone steadily, indicating that the lantern had come to a stop in the stall below. The girl inched her way with painful caution to the edge of the hole and dared look over.
She saw below her a broad-brimmed hat which almost hid the span of a man's shoulders beneath. Hands seemingly detached busied themselves with cinch and bridle. For a minute the hat laid itself against the horse's muzzle, and the sound of a love croon came up to her ears. The horse laid back his ears and playfully pretended to bite.
"You no 'count ole hayburner, just you keep your hair on 'til I go write up my tally on Lonny Moore's slate. Then I 'm goin' ride you plumb thin. 'Til you ain't got a tick left in your clockworks; you hear me, fool hoss!"
Tige heard. So did Hilma Ring. She heard and recognized the voice of her enemy. Her blood went cold within her, then hot rage succeeded. Original's foot-falls diminished in the direction of the office up by the street door.
A wild impulse seized the girl. Without giving time for reason it pushed her over the edge of the hay drop. Little Tige snorted in outrage and backed to the length of his bridle rope when a blue dress flashed past his eyes and quick hands flew to unsnap the clasp on his bit ring. Hilma gave a great leap, managed to throw one leg over the saddle just as Tige backed out of the stall. She fought for her seat, and found it and gave the angry horse a cut with the bridle ends as she whirled him round for the door.
Her feet had not found the stirrups and her stockinged knees, with the taut hem of her skirt bound about them, were clamped tight against the saddle flaps when Tige bore her plunging for the street.
Original, hearing the clatter of hoofs, ran out from the office, arms spread wide. Lamp-light from the door behind him showed him just a flash of Tige's blazed forehead bearing down upon him, a shapely leg bound tight against the saddle girth, a white face and blazing eyes. He put up one hand to seize the bridle.
Hilma leaned forward in the saddle; the quirtlike loose ends of the bridle rein whirled from her hand like leaping vipers and smote him fair in the face. He saw the girl's white teeth bared in a grimace of hate. Then she was out and thundering down the street for the bridge and the Big Country beyond.
Original leaped for the saddle pegs and, a saddle on arm, dashed down to the nearest horse stall.