Chapter III
Ranse Roush Pays
Jim Thursday knew that his sole chance of success lay in reaching thefork of the canons before the Indians. So far he had been lucky. ThreeApaches had gone to their happy hunting ground, and though both he andBillie were wounded, his hurt at least did not interfere with accuraterifle-fire. But it was not reasonable to expect such good fortune tohold. In the party he was pursuing were four men, all of them used towarfare in the open. Unless he could take them at a disadvantage he couldnot by any possibility defeat them and rescue their captive.
His cinnamon pony took the rising ground at a steady gallop. Its stridedid not falter, though its breathing was labored. Occasionally the ridertouched its flank with the sharp rowel of a spur. The boy was a lover ofhorses. He had ridden too many dry desert stretches, had too often keptnight watch over a sleeping herd, not to care for the faithful andefficient animal that served him and was a companion to his loneliness.Like many plainsmen he made of his mount a friend.
But he dared not spare his pony now. He must ride the heart out of thegallant brute for the sake of that life he had come to save. And while heurged it on, his hand patted the sweat-stained neck and his low voicesympathized.
"You've got to go to it, old fellow, if it kills you," he said aloud. "Wegot to save that girl for Billie, ain't we? We can't let those red devilstake her away, can we?"
It was a rough cattle trail he followed, strewn here with boulders andthere tilted down at breakneck angle of slippery shale. Sometimes it fellabruptly into washes and more than once rose so sharply that a heathercat could scarce have clambered up. But Thursday flung his horserecklessly at the path, taking chances of a fall that might end the madrace. He could not wait to pick a way. His one hope lay in speed, inreaching the fork before the enemy. He sacrificed everything to that.
From the top of a sharp pitch he looked down into the twin canon ofEscondido. A sharp bend cut off the view to the left, so that he couldsee for only seventy-five or a hundred yards. But his glance followed thegulch up for half a mile and found no sign of life. He was in time.
Swiftly he made his preparations. First he led the exhausted horse backto a clump of young cottonwoods and tied it safely. From its place besidethe saddle he took the muley gun and with the rifle in his other hand helimped swiftly back to the trail. Every step was torture, but he couldnot stop to think of that now. His quick eye picked a perfect spot for anambush where a great rock leaned against another at the edge of thebluff. Between the two was a narrow opening through which he couldcommand the bend in the trail below. To enlarge this he scooped out thedirt with his fingers then reloaded the rifle and thrust it into thecrevice. The sawed-off shotgun lay close to his hand.
Till now he had found no time to get nervous, but as the minutes passedhe began to tremble violently and to whimper. In spite of his experiencehe was only a boy and until to-day had never killed a man.
"Doggone it, if I ain't done gone an' got buck fever," he reproachedhimself. "I reckon it's because Billie Prince ain't here that I'm soscairt. I wisht I had a drink, so as I'd be right when the old muley gungits to barkin'."
A faint sound, almost indistinguishable, echoed up the gulch to him.Miraculously his nervousness vanished. Every nerve was keyed up, everymuscle tense, but he was cool as water in a mountain stream.
The sound repeated itself, a faint tinkle of gravel rolling from a trailbeneath the hoof of a horse. At the last moment Thursday changed his mindand substituted the shotgun for the rifle.
"Old muley she spatters all over the State of Texas. I might git two atonce," he muttered.
The light, distant murmur of voices reached him. His trained ear told himjust how far away the speakers were.
An Apache rounded the bend, a tall, slender young brave wearing only alow-cut breech-cloth and a pair of moccasins. Around his waist wasstrapped a belt full of cartridges and from it projected the handle of along Mexican knife. The brown body of the youth was lithe and graceful asthat of a panther. He was smiling over his shoulder at the next rider inline, a heavy-set, squat figure on a round-bellied pinto. That smile wasto go out presently like the flame of a blown candle. A third Mescalerofollowed. Like that of the others, his coarse, black hair fell to theshoulders, free except for a band that encircled the forehead.
Still the boy did not fire. He waited till the last of the partyappeared, a man in fringed buckskin breeches and hickory shirt ridingpillion behind a young woman. Both of these were white.
The sawed-off gun of Thursday covered the second rider carefully. Beforethe sound of the shot boomed down the gorge the Apache was lifted fromthe bare back of the pony. The heavy charge of buckshot had riddled himthrough and through.
Instantly the slim, young brave in the lead dug his heels into the flankof his pony, swung low to the far side so that only a leg was visible,and flew arrow-straight up the canon for safety. Thursday let him go.
Twice his rifle rang out. At that distance it was impossible for a goodshot to miss. One bullet passed through the head of the third Mescalero.The other brought down the pony upon which the whites were riding.
The fall of the horse flung the girl free, but the foot of her captor wascaught between the saddle and the ground. Thursday drew a bead on himwhile he lay there helpless, but some impulse of mercy held his hand. Theman was that creature accursed in the border land, a renegade who hasturned his face against his own race and must to prove his sincerity tothe tribe out-Apache an Apache at cruelty. Still, he was white afterall--and Jim Thursday was only eighteen.
Rifle in hand the boy clambered down the jagged rock wall to the dryriver-bed below. The foot of his high-heeled boot was soggy with blood,but for the present he had to ignore the pain messages that throbbed tohis brain. The business on hand would not wait.
While Thursday was still slipping down from one outcropping ledge of rockto another, a plunge of the wounded horse freed the renegade. The manscrambled to his feet and ran shakily for the shelter of a boulder. Inhis hurry to reach cover he did not stop to get the rifle that had beenflung a few yards from him when he fell.
The boy caught one glimpse of that evil, fear-racked face. The bloodflushed his veins with a surge of triumph. He was filled with the savage,primitive exultation of the head-hunter. For four years he had slept onthe trail of this man and had at last found him. The scout had fought theApaches impersonally, without rancor, because a call had come to him thathe could not ignore. But now the lust of blood was on him. He had becomethat cold, implacable thing known throughout the West as a "killer."
The merciless caution that dictates the methods of a killer animated hismovements now. Across the gulch, nearly one hundred and fifty yards fromhim, the renegade lay crouched. A hunched shoulder was just visible.
Thursday edged carefully along the ledge. He felt for holds with his handand feet, for not once did his gaze lift from that patch of hickoryshirt. The eyes of the boy had narrowed to slits of deadly light. He waswary as a hungry wolf and as dangerous. That the girl had disappearedaround the bend he did not know. His brain functioned for just onepurpose--to get the enemy with whom he had come at last to grips.
As the boy crept along the rock face for a better view of his victim, theminutes fled. Five of them--ten--a quarter of an hour passed. Therenegade lay motionless. Perhaps he hoped that his location was unknown.
The man-hunter on the ledge flung a bullet against the protectingboulder. His laugh of cruel derision drifted across the canon.
"Run to earth at last, Ranse Roush!" he shouted, "I swore I'd camp onyour trail till I got you--you an' the rest of yore poison tribe."
From the trapped wretch quavered back a protest.
"Goddlemighty, I ain't done nothin' to you-all. Lemme explain."
"Before you do any explainin' mebbe you'd better guess who it is that'sgoin' to send yore cowardly soul to hell inside of five minutes."
"If you're some kin to that gal on the hawss with me, why, I'll tell youthe honest-to-God
truth. I was aimin' to save her from the 'Paches when Igot a chanct. Come on down an' let's we-uns talk it over reasonable."
The boy laughed again, but there was something very far from mirth in thesound of that chill laughter. "If you won't guess I'll have to tell youEver hear of the Clantons, Ranse Roush? I'm one of 'em. Now you know whatchance you got to talk yoreself out of this thing."
"I--I'm glad to meet up with you-all. I got to admit that the Roush clanis dirt mean. Tha's why I broke away from 'em. Tha's why I come out here.You Clantons is all right. I never did go in for this bushwhackin' withDave an' Hugh. I never--"
"You're a born liar like the rest of yore wolf tribe. You come out herebecause the country got too hot to hold you after what you did to 'LindyClanton. I might 'a' knowed I'd find you with the 'Paches. You allus waslow-mixed Injun." The boy had fallen into the hill vernacular to which hehad been born. He was once more a tribal feudist of the border land.
"I swear I hadn't a thing to do with that," the man cried eagerly. "Youshore done got that wrong. Dave an' Hugh done that. They're a bad lot.When I found out about 'Lindy Clanton I quarreled with 'em an' we-allsplit up company. Tha's the way of it."
"You're ce'tainly in bad luck then," the boy shouted back tauntingly."For I aim to stomp you out like I would a copperhead." Very distinctlyhe added his explanation. "I'm 'Lindy Clanton's brother."
Roush begged for his life. He groveled in the dust. He promised toreform, to leave the country, to do anything that was asked of him.
"Go ahead. It's meat an' drink to me to hear a Roush whine. I got all dayto this job, but I aim to do it thorough," jeered Clanton.
A bullet flattened itself against the rock wall ten feet below the boy.In despair the man was shooting wildly with his revolver. He knew therewas no use in pleading, that his day of judgment had come.
Young Clanton laughed in mockery. "Try again, Roush. You ain't quite gotthe range."
The man made a bolt for the bend in the canon a hundred yards away.Instantly the rifle leaped to the shoulder of the boy.
"Right in front of you, Roush," he prophesied.
The bullet kicked up the dust at the feet of the running man. The nerveof Roush failed him and he took cover again behind a scrub live-oak. Amemory had flashed to him of the day when he had seen a thirteen-year-oldboy named Jim Clanton win a turkey shoot against the best marksmen ofthe hill country.
The army Colt spit out once more at the boy on the ledge. Before the echohad died away the boom of an explosion filled the canon. Roush pitchedforward on his face.
Jim Clanton lowered his rifle with an exclamation. His face was a pictureof amazement. Some one had stolen his vengeance from him by a hair'sbreadth.
Two men came round the bend on horseback. Behind them rode a girl. Shewas mounted on the barebacked pinto of the Indian Clanton had killedwith the shotgun.
The boy clambered down to the bed of the gulch and limped toward them.The color had ebbed from his lips. At every step a pain shot through hisleg. But in spite of his growing weakness anger blazed in the light-blueeyes.
"I waited four years to git him. I kept the trail hot from Tucson toVegas an' back to Santone. An' now, doggone it, when my finger was on thetrigger an' the coyote as good as dead, you cut in an' shoot thedaylights out of him. By gum, it ain't fair!"
The older man looked at him in astonishment. "But he is only a child,Polly! Cela me passe!"
"Mebbe I am only a kid," the boy retorted resentfully. "But I reckon I'mman enough to handle any Roush that ever lived. I wasn't askin' for helpfrom you-uns that I heerd tell of."
The younger man laughed. He was six or seven years older than the girl,who could not have been more than seventeen. Both of them bore a markedlikeness to the middle-aged man who had spoken. Jim guessed that this wasthe Roubideau family of whom Billie Prince had told him.
"Just out of the cradle, by Christmas, and he's killed four 'Pachesinside of an hour an' treed a renegade to boot," said young Roubideau."I'd call it a day's work, kid, for it sure beats all records ever I knewhung up by one man."
The admiration of the young rancher was patent. He could not take hiseyes from the youthful phenomenon.
"He's wounded, father," the girl said in a low voice.
The boy looked at her and his anger died away. "Billie sent me up thegulch when he was shot. He 'lowed it was up to me to git you back fromthose devils, seein' as he couldn't go himself."
Polly nodded. She seemed to be the kind of girl that understands withoutbeing told in detail.
Before Thursday could protect himself, Roubideau, senior, had seized himin his arms, embraced him, and kissed first one cheek and then the other."Eh bien! But you are the brave boy! I count it honor to know you. Mylittle Polly, have you not save her? Ah! But I forget the introductions.Myself, I am Pierre Roubideau, a tout propos at your service. My sonJean. Pauline--what you call our babie."
"My real name is Jim Clanton," answered the boy. "I've been passin' bythat of 'Thursday' so that none of the Roush outfit would know I was inthe country till I met up face to face with 'em."
"Clanton! It is a name we shall remember in our prayers, n'est-ce pas,Polly?" Pierre choked up and wrung fervently the hand of the youngster.
Clanton was both embarrassed and wary. He did not know at what momentRoubideau would disgrace him by attempting another embrace. There wassomething in the Frenchman's eye that told of an emotion not yet expendedfully.
"Oh, shucks; you make a heap of fuss about nothin'," he grumbled. "Didn'tI tell you it was Billie Prince sent me? An' say, I got a pill in myfoot. Kindness of one of them dad-gummed Mescaleros. I hate to walk onthat laig. I wish yore boy would go up on the bluff an' look after myhorse. I 'most rode it to death, I reckon, comin' up the canon. An'there's a sawed-off shotgun. He'll find it..."
For a few moments the ground had been going up and down in waves beforethe eyes of the boy. Now he clutched at a stirrup leather for support,but his fingers could not seem to find it. Before he could steady himselfthe bed of the dry creek rose up and hit him in the head.