Randall Parrish - Molly McDonald
R >>
Randall Parrish >> Molly McDonald
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18
The marks of their horses' hoofs cutting sharply into the soil, told
accurately the fugitives' rate of progress, and the pursuers swept
forward with caution, anxious to spare their mounts and to keep out of
vision themselves until nightfall. Their success depended largely on
surprise, and the confidence of those ahead that they were unpursued.
Wasson expressed the situation exactly, as the four halted a moment at
an unexpectedly-discovered water-hole.
"I 'd think this yere plain trail was some Injun trick, boys, if I did
n't know the reason fur it. 'T ain't Injun nature, but thar 's a white
man ahead o' that outfit, an' he 's cock-sure that nobody 's chasin'
him yet. He 's figurin' on two or three days' get-a-way, and so don't
care a tinker's dam 'bout these yere marks. Once in the sand, an' thar
won't be no trail anyhow. It's some kintry out thar, an' it would be
like huntin' a needle in a haystack to try an' find them fellars after
ter-night. This is my idea--we'll just mosey along slow, savin' the
hosses an' keeping back out o' sight till dark. Them fellars ain't
many hours ahead, an' are likely ter make camp furst part o' ther night
anyhow. They 'll feel safe onct hid in them sand-hills, an' if they
don't git no sight of us, most likely they won't even post no guard.
Thet 's when we want ter dig in the spurs. Ain't that about the right
program, Sergeant?"
Burning with impatience as Hamlin was, fearful that every additional
moment of delay might increase the girl's danger, he was yet soldier
and plainsman enough to realize the wisdom of the old scout. There
were at least four men in the party pursued, two of them Indian
warriors, the two whites, desperate characters. Without doubt they
would put up a fierce fight, or, if warned in time, could easily
scatter and disappear.
"Of course you are right, Sam," he replied promptly. "Only I am so
afraid of what may happen to Miss Molly."
"Forget it. Thar's nuthin' goin' ter happen to her while the bunch is
on the move. If that outfit was all Injun, or all white, maybe thar
might. But the way it is they'll never agree on nuthin', 'cept how to
git away. 'T ain't likely they ever meant ter kill the Major, 'er take
the girl erlong. Them things just naturally happened, an' now they 're
scared stiff. It 'll take a day er two for 'em to make up their minds
what to do."
"What do you imagine they will decide, Sam?"
"Wall, thet 's all guesswork. But I reckon I know what I 'd do if I
was in thet sort o' fix an' bein' chased fer murder an' robbery. I 'd
take the easy way; make fer the nearest Injun village, an' leave the
girl thar."
"You mean Black Kettle's camp?"
"I reckon; he 's down thar on the Canadian somewhar. You kin bet those
fellars know whar, an' thet's whut they 're aimin' for, unless this
yere Dupont has some hidin' out scheme of his own. Whar did you say he
ranched?"
"Buffalo Creek."
"Thet's the same neighborhood; must've been in cahoots with those red
devils to have ever run cattle in thar. We 've got to head 'em off
afore they git down into that kintry, er we won't have no scalps to go
back home with. Let's mosey erlong, boys."
The day grew dark and murky as they moved steadily forward, the wind
blew cold from out the northwest, the heavy canopy of cloud settled
lower in a frosty fog, which gradually obscured the landscape. This
mist became so thick that the men could scarcely see a hundred yards in
any direction, and Hamlin placed a pocket compass on his saddle-pommel.
The trail was less distinct as they traversed a wide streak of alkali,
but what few signs remained convinced Wasson that the fugitives were
still together, and riding southward. Under concealment of the fog his
previous caution relaxed, and he led the way at a steady trot, only
occasionally drawing rein to make certain there was no division of the
party ahead. The alkali powdered them from head to foot, clinging to
the horses' hides, reddening and blinding the eyes, poisoning the lips
dry and parched with thirst. The two troopers swore grimly, but the
Sergeant and scout rode in silence, bent low over their pommels, eyes
strained into the mist ahead. It was not yet dark when they rode in
between the first sand-dunes, and Wasson, pulling his horse up short,
checked the others with uplifted hand.
"Thar 'll be a camp here soon," he said, swinging down from the saddle,
and studying the ground. "The wind has 'bout blotted it all out, but
you kin see yere back o' this ridge whar they turned in, an' they was
walkin' their horses. Gittin' pretty tired, I reckon. We might as
well stop yere too, Sergeant, an' eat some cold grub. You two men
spread her out, an' rub down the hosses, while Hamlin an' I poke about
a bit. Better find out all we kin, 'Brick,' 'fore it gits dark."
He started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his
arm, and the Sergeant ranged up beside him. The sand was to their
ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into
their faces.
"What's comin', Sam; a storm?"
"Snow," answered the scout shortly, "a blizzard of it, er I lose my
guess. 'Fore midnight yer won't be able ter see yer hand afore yer
face. I 've ben out yere in them things a fore, an' they're sure hell.
If we don't git sight o' thet outfit mighty soon, 't ain't likely we
ever will. I 've been expectin' that wind to shift nor'east all
day--then we'll get it." He got down on his knees, endeavoring to
decipher some faint marks on the sand. "Two of 'em dismounted yere, an
Injun an' a white--a big feller by his hoof prints--an' they went on
leadin' their hosses. Goin' into camp, I reckon--sure, here's the spot
now. Well, I 'll be damned!"
Both men stood staring--under protection of a sand ridge was a little
blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all
about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had
outstretched themselves. Almost at Wasson's feet fluttered a pink
ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to
the sky. It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one
cheek caked black with blood. The Sergeant sprang across, and bent
over the motionless form.
"Pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back. "The poor devil!"
"Had quite a row here," returned the scout. "That stain over thar is
blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell. Most
likely he shot furst, er used a knife. The girl's with 'em anyhow; I
reckon this yere was her ribbon; that footprint is sure."
He stirred up the scattered ashes, and then passed over and looked at
the dead man.
"What do yer think, Sergeant?"
"They stopped here to eat, maybe five hours ago," pushing the ashes
about with his toe. "The fire has been out that long. Then they got
into a quarrel--Connors and Dupont--for he was shot with a Colt '45';
no Indian ever did that. Then they struck out again with two led
horses. I should say they were three or four hours ahead, travelling
slow."
"Good enough," and Wasson patted his arm. "You 're a plainsman all
right, 'Brick.' You kin sure read signs. Thet 's just 'bout the whole
story, as I make it. Nuthin' fer us to do but snatch a bite an' go on.
Our hosses 're fresher 'n theirs. No sense our stoppin' to bury
Connors; he ain't worth it, an' the birds 'll take care o' him. The
outfit was still a headin' south--see!"
There could be no doubt of this, as the shelter of the sand ridge had
preserved a plain trail, although a few yards beyond, the sweeping wind
had already almost obliterated every sign of passage. The four men ate
heartily of their cold provender, discussing the situation in a few
brief sentences. Wasson argued that Dupont was heading for some Indian
winter encampment, thinking to shift responsibility for the crime upon
the savages, thus permitting him to return once more to civilization,
but Hamlin clung to his original theory of a hide-out upon Dupont's old
cattle-range, and that a purpose other than the mere robbery of
McDonald was in view. All alike, however, were convinced that the
fugitives were seeking the wild bluffs of the Canadian River for
concealment.
It was not yet dark when they again picked up the trail, rode around
the dead body of Connors, and pushed forward into the maze of sand.
For an hour the advance was without incident, the scout in the lead not
even dismounting, his keen eyes picking up the faint "sign" unerringly.
Then darkness shut down, the lowering bank of clouds completely
blotting the stars, although the white glisten of the sand under foot
yielded a slight guidance. Up to this time there had been no deviation
in direction, and now when the trail could be no longer distinguished,
the little party decided on riding straight southward until they struck
the Cimarron. An hour or two later the moon arose, hardly visible and
yet brightening the cloud canopy, so that the riders could see each
other and proceed more rapidly. Suddenly Wasson lifted his hand, and
turned his face up to the sky.
"Snow," he announced soberly. "Thought I felt it afore, and the wind
's changed."
Hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow
pellets on his face. Before he could even answer the air was full of
whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against
them. In another instant they were in the very heart of the storm,
almost hurled forward by the force of the wind, and blinded by the icy
deluge. The pelting of the hail startled the horses, and in spite of
every effort of the riders, they drifted to the right, tails to the
storm. The swift change was magical. The sharp particles of icy snow
seemed to swirl upon them from every direction, sucking their very
breath, bewildering them, robbing them of all sense of direction.
Within two minutes the men found it impossible to penetrate the wintry
shroud except for a few feet ahead of them.
The Sergeant knew what it meant, for he had had experience of these
plains storms before.
"Halt!" he cried, his voice barely audible in the blast. "Close up,
men; come here to me--lively now? That you, Wade? Wasson; oh, all
right, Sam. Here, pass that lariat back; now get a grip on it, every
one of you, and hold to it for your lives. Let me take the lead, Sam;
we 'll have to run by compass. Now then, are you ready?"
The lariat rope, tied to Hamlin's pommel, straightened out and was
grasped desperately by the gloved hands of the men behind. The
Sergeant, shading his eyes, half smothered in the blast, could see
merely ill-defined shadows.
"All caught?"
The answers were inaudible.
"For the Lord's sake, speak up; answer now--Wasson."
"Here."
"Wade."
"Here."
"Carroll."
"Here."
"Good; now come on after me."
He drove his horse forward, head bent low over the compass, one arm
flung up across his mouth to prevent inhaling the icy air. He felt the
tug of the line; heard the labored breathing of the next horse behind,
but saw nothing except that wall of swirling snow pellets hurled
against him by a pitiless wind, fairly lacerating the flesh. It was
freezing cold; already he felt numb, exhausted, heavy-eyed. The air
seemed to penetrate his clothing, and prick the skin as with a thousand
needles. The thought came that if he remained in the saddle he would
freeze stiff. Again he turned, and sent the voice of command down the
struggling line:
"Dismount; wind the rope around your pommels. Sam. How far is it to
the Cimarron?"
"More 'n twenty miles."
"All right! We 've got to make it, boys," forcing a note of
cheerfulness into his voice. "Hang on to the bit even if you drop. I
may drift to the west, but that won't lose us much. Come on, now."
"Hamlin, let me break trail."
"We 'll take it turn about, Sam. It 'll be worse in an hour than it is
now. All ready, boys."
Blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind,
yet clinging desperately to his horse's bit, the Sergeant struggled
forward in the swirl of the storm.
CHAPTER XXV
IN THE BLIZZARD
There was no cessation, no abatement. Across a thousand miles of plain
the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a
hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them
mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes. In that
awful grip they looked upon Death, but struggled on, as real men must
until they fall. Breathing was agony; every step became a torture;
fingers grasping the horses' bits grew stiff and deadened by frost;
they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by
the pounding of the blast against their ears. All consciousness left
them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering
forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to
beckon. In their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains,
yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend. Aching in every joint,
trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant. The wind,
veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip. They
crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching
the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet.
Wade, a young fellow not overly strong, fell twice. They placed him in
the centre, with Carroll bringing up the rear. Again he went down,
face buried in the snow, crying like a babe. Desperately the others
lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went
grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them. Hour
succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only
the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass. Wasson and Hamlin
took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees. They
had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even. All their movements
became automatic, instinctive, the result of iron discipline. They
realized the only hope--attainment of the Cimarron bluffs. There was
no shelter there in the open, to either man or horse; the sole choice
left was to struggle on, or lie down and die. The last was likely to
be the end of it, but while a drop of blood ran red and warm in their
veins they would keep their feet and fight.
Carroll's horse stumbled and rolled, catching the numbed trooper under
his weight. The jerk on the lariat flung Wade out of the saddle,
dangling head downward. With stiffened fingers, scarcely comprehending
what they were about, the Sergeant and Wasson came to the rescue,
helped the frightened horse struggle to its feet, and, totally blinded
by the fury of the storm which now beat fairly in their eyes, grasped
the dangling body, swaying back and forth as the startled animal
plunged in terror. It was a corpse they gripped, already stiff with
cold, the eyes wide-open and staring. Carroll, bruised and limping,
came to their help, groaning with pain, and the three men together
managed to lift the dead weight to the horse's back, and to bind it
safely with the turn of a rope. Then, breathless from exhaustion,
crouching behind the animals, bunched helplessly together, the howl of
the wind like the scream of lost souls, the three men looked into each
other's faces.
"I reckon Jim died without ever knowin' it," said the scout, breaking
again the film of ice over his eyes, and thrashing his arms. "I allers
heard tell it was an easy way o' goin'. Looks to me he was better off
than we are just now. Hurt much, Carroll?"
"Crunched my leg mighty bad; can't bear no weight on it. 'T was darn
near froze stiff before; thet 's why I could n't get out o' the way
quick."
"Sure; well, ye 'll have ter ride, then. We 'll take the blanket off
Jim; he won't need it no more. 'Brick' an' I kin hoof it yet
awhile--hey, 'Brick'?"
Hamlin lifted his head from the shelter of his horse's mane.
"I reckon I can make my feet move," he asserted doubtfully, "but they
don't feel as though there was any life left in them." He stamped on
the snow. "How long do these blizzards generally last, Sam?"
"Blow themselves out in about three days."
"Three days? God! We can never live it out here."
His eyes ranged over the dim outline of Wade stretched across the
saddle, powdered with snow, rested an instant upon Carroll who had sunk
back upon the ground, nursing his injured limb, and then sought the
face of Wasson.
"What the hell can we do?"
"Go on; thet's all of it; go on till we drop, lad. Come, 'Brick,' my
boy," and the scout gripped the Sergeant's shoulder, "you 're not the
kind to lie down. We 've been in worse boxes than this and pulled out.
It 's up to you and me to make good. Let's crunch some hard-tack and
go on, afore the whole three of us freeze stiff."
The Sergeant thrust out his hand.
"That isn't what's taken the nerve out of me, Sam," he said soberly.
"It's thinking of the girl out in all this with those devils."
"Likely as not she ain't," returned the other, tramping the snow under
his feet. "I 've been thinkin' 'bout thet too. Thet outfit must hev
had six hours the start o' us, didn't they?"
Hamlin nodded.
"Well, then, they could n't a ben far from the Cimarron when the storm
come. They 'd be safe enough under the bluffs; have wood fer a fire,
and lay thar mighty comfortable. That's whar them bucks are, all
right. Why, damn it, man, we 've got to get through. 'T ain't just
our fool lives that's at stake. Brace up!"
"How far have we come?"
"A good ten miles, an' the compass has kep' us straight."
They drew in closer together, and munched a hard cracker apiece,
occasionally exchanging a muttered word or two, thrashing their limbs
about to keep up circulation, and dampening their lips with snow. They
were but dim, spectral shapes in the darkness, the air filled with
crystal pellets, swept about by a merciless wind, the horses standing
tails to the storm and heads drooping. In spite of the light
refraction of the snow the eyes could scarcely see two yards away
through the smother. Above, about, the ceaseless wind howled, its icy
breath chilling to the bone. Carroll clambered stiffly into his
saddle, crying and swearing from weakness and pain. The others,
stumbling about in the deep snow, which had drifted around them during
the brief halt, stripped the blanket from Wade's dead body, and tucked
it in about Carroll as best they could.
"Now keep kicking and thrashing around, George," ordered the Sergeant
sternly. "For God's sake, don't go to sleep, or you 'll be where Jim
is. We 'll haul you out of this, old man. Sam, you take the rear, and
hit Carroll a whack every few minutes; I'll break trail. Forward! now."
They plunged into it, ploughing a way through the drifts, the reluctant
horses dragging back at first, and drifting before the fierce sweep of
the wind, in spite of every effort at guidance. It was an awful
journey, every step torture, but Hamlin bent to it, clinging grimly to
the bit of his animal, his other arm protecting his eyes from the sting
of the wind. Behind, Wasson wielded a quirt, careless whether its lash
struck the horse's flank or Carroll. And across a thousand miles of
snow-covered plain, the storm howled down upon them in redoubled fury,
blinding their eyes, making them stagger helplessly before its blasts.
They were still moving, now like snails, when the pale sickly dawn
came, revealing inch by inch the dread desolation, stretching white and
ghastly in a slowly widening circle. The exhausted, struggling men,
more nearly dead than alive from their ceaseless toil, had to break the
film of ice from their eyes to perceive their surroundings. Even then
they saw nothing but the bare, snow-draped plain, the air full of
swirling flakes. There was nothing to guide them, no mark of
identification; merely lorn barrenness in the midst of which they
wandered, dragging their half-frozen horses. The dead body of Wade had
stiffened into grotesque shape, head and feet dangling, shrouded in
clinging snow, Carroll had fallen forward across his saddle pommel,
too weak to sit erect, but held by the taut blanket, and gripping his
horse's ice-covered mane. Wasson was ahead now, doggedly crunching a
path with his feet, and Hamlin staggered along behind.
Suddenly some awakened instinct in the numbed brain of the scout told
him of a change in their surroundings. He felt rather than saw the
difference. They had crossed the sand belt, and the contour of the
prairie was rising. Then the Cimarron was near! Even as the
conviction took shape, the ghostly outline of a small elevation loomed
through the murk. He stared at it scarce believing, imagining a
delusion, and then sent his cracked voice back in a shout on the wind.
"We 're thar, 'Brick'! My God, lad, here 's the Cimarron!"
He wheeled about, shading his mouth, so as to make the words carry
through the storm.
"Do you hear? We're within a half mile o' the river. Stir Carroll up!
Beat the life inter him! There 's shelter and fire comin'!"
As though startled by some electric shock, Hamlin sprang forward, his
limbs strengthening in response to fresh hope, ploughed through the
snow to Carroll's side, and shook and slapped the fellow into
semi-consciousness.
"We 're at the river, George!" he cried, jerking up the dangling head.
"Wake up, man! Wake up! Do you hear? We 'll have a fire in ten
minutes!"
The man made a desperate effort, bracing his hands on the horse's neck
and staring at his tormentor with dull, unseeing eyes.
"Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and went down again.
Hamlin struck him twice, his chilled hand tingling to the blow, but the
inert figure never moved.
"No use, Sam. We 've got to get on, and thaw him out. Get up there,
you pony!"
The ghostly shape of the hill was to their right, and they circled its
base almost waist-deep in drift. This brought the wind directly into
their faces, and the horses balked, dragging back and compelling both
men to beat them into submission. Wasson was jerking at the bit, his
back turned so that he could see nothing ahead, but Hamlin, lashing the
rear animal with his quirt, still faced the mound, a mere dim shadow
through the mists of snow. He saw the flash of yellow flame that
leaped from its summit, heard the sharp report of a gun, and saw Wasson
crumble up, and go down, still clinging to his horse's rein. It came
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that the single living man left scarcely
realized what had happened. Yet dazed as he was, some swift impulse
flung him, headlong, into the snow behind his pony, and even as he
fell, his numbed fingers gripped for the revolver at his hip. The
hidden marksman shot twice, evidently discerning only dim outlines at
which to aim; the red flame of discharge cut the gloom like a knife.
One ball hurtled past Hamlin's head; the other found billet in Wade's
horse, and the stricken creature toppled over, bearing its dead burden
with him. The Sergeant ripped off his glove, found the trigger with
his half-frozen fingers, and fired twice. Then, with an oath, he
leaped madly to his feet, and dashed straight at the silent hill.
CHAPTER XXVI
UNSEEN DANGER
Once he paused, blinded by the snow, flung up his arm, and fired,
imagining he saw the dim shape of a man on the ridge summit. There was
no return shot, no visible movement. Reckless, mad with rage, he
sprang up the wind-swept side, and reached the crest. It was deserted,
except for tracks already nearly obliterated by the fierce wind.
Helpless, baffled, the Sergeant stared about him into the driving
flakes, his ungloved, stiffening hand gripping the cold butt of his
Colt, ready for any emergency. Nothing but vacancy and silence
encompassed him. At his feet the snow was still trampled; he could see
where the man had kneeled to fire; where he had run down the opposite
side of the hill. There had been only one--a white man from the
imprint--and he had fled south, vanishing in the smother.
It required an effort for the Sergeant to recover, to realize his true
position, and the meaning of this mysterious attack. He was no longer
numb with cold or staggering from weakness. The excitement had sent
the hot blood pulsing through his veins; had brought back to his heart
the fighting instinct. Every desire urged him forward, clamoring for
revenge, but the aroused sense of a plainsman held him motionless,
staring about, listening for any sound. Behind him, down there in the
hollow, were huddled the horses of his outfit, scarcely distinguishable
from where he stood. If he should venture farther off, he might never
be able to find a way back again. Even in the gray light of dawn he
could see nothing distinctly a dozen yards distant. And Wasson had the
compass. This was the thought which brought him tramping back through
the drifts--Wasson! Wade was dead, Carroll little better, but the
scout might have been only slightly wounded. He waded through the snow
to where the man lay, face downward, his hand still gripping the rein.
Before Hamlin turned him over, he saw the jagged wound and knew death
had been instantaneous. He stared down at the white face, already
powdered with snow; then glared about into the murky distances,
revolver ready for action, every nerve throbbing. God! If he ever met
the murderer! Then swift reaction came, and he buried his eyes on the
neck of the nearest horse, and his body shook with half-suppressed
sobs. The whole horror of it gripped him in that instant, broke his
iron will, and left him weak as a child.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18