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Man Size, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 8. At Sweet Water Creek |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. AT SWEET WATER CREEK Before a fire of buffalo chips Constable Beresford and his prisoner smoked the pipe of peace. Morse sat on his heels, legs crossed, after the manner of the camper. The officer lounged at full length, an elbow dug into the sand as a support for his head. The Montanan was on parole, so that for the moment at least their relations were forgotten. "After the buffalo--what?" asked the American. "The end of the Indian--is that what it means? And desolation on the plains. Nobody left but the Hudson's Bay Company trappers, d'you reckon?" The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle." "Some, maybe," Morse assented. "But, holy Moses, think of the millions it would take to stock this country." "Bet you the country's stocked inside of five years of the time the buffalo are cleared out. Look at what the big Texas drives are doing in Colorado and Wyoming and Montana. Get over the idea that this land up here is a desert. That's a fool notion our school geographies are responsible for. Great American Desert? Great American fiddlesticks! It's a man's country, if you like; but I've yet to see the beat of it." Morse had ceased to pay attention. His head was tilted, and he was listening. "Some one ridin' this way," he said presently. "Hear the hoofs click on the shale. Who is it? I wonder. An' what do they want? When folks' intentions hasn't been declared it's a good notion to hold a hand you can raise on." Without haste and without delay Beresford got to his feet. "We'll step back into the shadow," he announced. "Looks reasonable to me," agreed the smuggler. They waited in the semi-darkness back of the camp-fire. Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound of that clear, bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to listen better. The constable answered the call. Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim, straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swung from the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion of her ride shadowed her. Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness. "Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called to the constable. "How do you know?" "Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand the lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behind it, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to follow you--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey." "He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed hard and chill. He would see about that. "They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better hurry." The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those of the prisoner. Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find out pretty soon. "Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail." "Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?" Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelight flickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery. This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees. "Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of both hands to indicate the numbers. "Coming up creek. Here soon." "We'll move back to the big rocks and I'll make a stand there," the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap the saddles on without cinching. We've got no time to lose." His voice lost its curtness as he turned to the girl. "Miss McRae, I'll not forget this. Very likely you've saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better slip away quietly. You mustn't be seen here." "Why mustn't I?" she asked quickly. "I don't care who sees me." She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that little touch of scornful defiance in the quivering nostrils that seemed to express a spirit free and unafraid. The sense of superiority is generally not a lovely manifestation in any human being, but there are moments when it tells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean. Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. He could hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch of words. "... must be somewheres near, I tell you." Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, and moved toward the big rocks. The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strange tricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools or like prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as the Three Bears, another as the Elephant. Among these boulders Morse found the party he had just left. The officer was still trying to persuade Jessie McRae to attempt escape. She refused, stubbornly. "There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot. So am I. For that matter, if anybody is going to escape, it had better be you," she said. "Too late now," Morse said. "See, they've found the camp-fire." Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approaching the camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barney and Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian trailer of the Piegan tribe. "He must 'a' heard us comin' and pulled out," Barney said. "Then he's back in the red rocks," boomed West triumphantly. "Soon find out." Brad Stearns turned the head of his horse toward the rocks and shouted. "Hello, Tom! You there?" No answer came from the rocks. "Don't prove a thing," West broke out impatiently. "This fellow's got Tom buffaloed. Didn't he make him smash the barrels? Didn't he take away his six-gun from him and bring him along like he hadn't any mind of his own? Tom's yellow. Got a streak a foot wide." "Nothin' of the kind," denied Stearns, indignation in his voice. "I done brought up that boy by hand--learned him all he knows about ridin' and ropin'. He'll do to take along." "Hmp! He always fooled you, Brad. Different here. I'm aimin' to give him the wallopin' of his life when I meet up with him. And that'll be soon, if he's up there in the rocks. I'm goin' a-shootin'." Bully West drew his revolver and rode forward. The constable had disposed of his forces so that behind the cover of the sandstone boulders they commanded the approach. He had tried to persuade Jessie that this was not her fight, but a question from her had silenced him. "If that Bully West finds me here, after he's killed you, d' you think I can get him to let me go because it wasn't my fight?" She had asked it with flashing eyes, in which for an instant he had seen the savagery of fear leap out. Beresford was troubled. The girl was right enough. If West went the length of murder, he would be an outlaw. Sleeping Dawn would not be safe with him after she had ridden out to warn his enemy that he was coming. The fellow was a primeval brute. His reputation had run over the whole border country of Rupert's Land. Now he appealed to Morse. "If they get me, will you try to save Miss McRae? This fellow West is a devil, I hear." The officer caught a gleam of hot red eyes. "I'll 'tend to that. We'll mix first, him 'n' me. Question now is, do I get a gun?" "What for?" "Didn't you hear him make his brags about what he was gonna do to me? If there's shootin' I'm in on it, ain't I?" "No. You're a prisoner. I can't arm you unless your life is in danger." West pulled up his horse about sixty yards from the rocks. He shouted a profane order. The purport of it was that Beresford had better come out with his hands up if he didn't want to be dragged out by a rope around his neck. The man's speech crackled with oaths and obscenity. The constable stepped into the open a few yards. "What do you want?" he asked. "You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden gust of passion. "Think you can make a fool of Bully West? Think you can bust up our cargo an' get away with it? I'll show you where you head in at." "Don't make any mistake, West," advised the officer, his voice cold as the splash of ice-water. "Three of us are here, all with rifles, all dead shots. If you attack us, some of you are going to get killed." "Tha's a lie. You're alone--except for Tom Morse, an' he ain't fool enough to fight to go to jail. I've got you where I want you." West swung from the saddle and came straddling forward. In the uncertain light he looked more like some misbegotten ogre than a human being. "That's far enough," warned Beresford, not a trace of excitement in manner or speech. His hands hung by his sides. He gave no sign of knowing that he had a revolver strapped to his hip ready for action. The liquor smuggler stopped to pour out abuse. He was working himself up to a passion that would justify murder. The weapon in his hand swept wildly back and forth. Presently it would focus down to a deadly concentration in which all motion would cease. The torrent of vilification died on the man's lips. He stared past the constable with bulging eyes. From the rocks three figures had come. Two of them carried rifles. All three of them he recognized. His astonishment paralyzed the scurrilous tongue. What was McRae's girl doing at the camp of the officer? It was characteristic of him that he suspected the worst of her. Either Tom Morse or this red-coat had beaten him to his prey. Jealousy and outraged vanity flared up in him so that discretion vanished. The barrel of his revolver came down and began to spit flame. Beresford gave orders. "Back to the rocks." He retreated, backward, firing as he moved. The companions of West surged forward. Shots, shouts, the shifting blur of moving figures, filled the night. Under cover of the darkness the defenders reached again the big rocks. The constable counted noses. "Everybody all right?" he asked. Then, abruptly, he snapped out: "Who was responsible for that crazy business of you coming out into the open?" "Me," said the girl. "I wanted that West to know you weren't alone." "Didn't you know better than to let her do it?" the officer demanded of Morse. "He couldn't help it. He tried to keep me back. What right has he to interfere with me?" she wanted to know, stiffening. "You'll do as I say now," the constable said crisply. "Get back of that rock there, Miss McRae, and stay there. Don't move from cover unless I tell you to." Her dark, stormy eyes challenged his, but she moved sullenly to obey. Rebel though she was, the code of the frontier claimed and held her respect. She had learned of life that there were times when her will must be subordinated for the general good. _ |
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