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Mavericks, a fiction by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 26. The Man-Hunt |
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_ CHAPTER XXVI. THE MAN-HUNT When Jim Yeager separated from Phil after their discovery of Keller's hat and the deductions they drew from it, the former turned his pony toward the Frying Pan. Daylight had already broken before he came in sight of it, but sounds of revelry still issued boisterously from the house. As he drew near there came to him the squeal of sawing riddles, the high-pitched voice of the dance caller in sing-song drawl, the shuffling of feet keeping time to the rhythm of the music. For though a new day was at hand, the quadrilles continued with unflagging vigor, one succeeding another as soon as the floor was cleared. The cow country takes its amusements seriously. A dance is infrequent enough to be an event. Men and women do not ride or drive from thirty to fifty miles without expecting to drink the last drop of pleasure there may be in the occasion. As Jim swung from the saddle, a slim figure in white glided from the shadow of the wild cucumber vines that rioted over one end of the porch. "Well, Jim?" The man came to the point with characteristic directness. "He has been waylaid, Phyl. We found his hat and the place where they ambushed him." "Is he----" Her voice died at the word, but her meaning was clear. "I don't think it. Looks like they were aiming to take him prisoner without hurting him. They might easily have shot him down, but the ground shows there was a struggle." "And you came back without rescuing him?" she reproached. "Phil and I were unarmed. I came back to get guns and help." "And Phil?" "He's following the trail. I wanted him to let me while he came back. But he wouldn't hear to it. Said he had to square his debt to Larry." "Good for Phil!" his sister cried, eyes like stars. "Is Brill still here?" he asked. "No. He rode away about an hour ago. He was very bitter at me because I wouldn't dance with him. Said I'd curse myself for it before twenty-four hours had passed. He must have Larry in his power, Jim." "Looks like," he nodded, and added grimly: "If you do any regretting there will be others that will, too." She caught the lapels of his coat and looked into his face with extraordinary intensity. "I'm going back with you, Jim. You'll let me, won't you? I've waited--and waited. You can't think what an awful night it has been. I can't stand it any longer! I'll go mad! Oh, Jim, you'll take me, I know!" Her hands slipped down to his and clung to them with passionate entreaty. "Why, honey, I cayn't. This is likely to be war before we finish. It ain't any place for girls." "I'll stay back, Jim. I'll do whatever you say, if you'll only let me go." He shook his head resolutely. "Cayn't be done, girl. I'm sorry, but you see yourself it won't do." Nor could all her beseechings move him. Though his heart was very tender toward her he was granite to her pleadings. At last he put her aside gently and stepped into the house. Going at once to the fiddlers, he stopped the music and stood on the little rostrum where they were seated. Surprised faces turned toward him. "What's up, Jim?" demanded Slim, his arm still about the waist of Bess Purdy. "A man was waylaid while coming to this dance and taken prisoner by his enemies. They mean to do him a mischief. I want volunteers to rescue him." "Who is it?" several voices cried at once. "The man I mean is Larrabie Keller." A pronounced silence followed before Slim drawled an answer: "Cayn't speak for the other boys, but I reckon I haven't lost any Kellers, Jim." "Why not? What have you got against him?" "You know well enough. He's under a cloud. We don't say he's a rustler and a bank robber, but then we don't say he ain't." "I say he isn't! Boys, it has come to a show-down. Keller is a member of the Rangers, sent here by Bucky O'Connor to run down the rustlers." Questions poured upon him. "How do you know?" "How long have you known?" "Who told you?" "Why didn't he tell us so himself, then?" Jim waited till they were quiet. "I've seen letters from the governor to him. He didn't come here declaring his intentions because he knew there would be nothing doing if the rustlers knew he was in the neighborhood. He has about done his work now, and it's up to us to save him before they bump him off. Who will ride with me to rescue him?" There was no hesitation now. Every man pushed forward to have a hand in it. "Good enough," nodded Yeager. "We'll want rifles, boys. Looks to me like hell might be a-popping before mo'ning grows very ancient. We'll set out from Turkey Creek Crossroads two hours from now. Any man not on hand then will get left behind. "And remember--this is a man hunt! No talking, boys. We don't want the news that we're coming spread all over the hills before we arrive." As Jim descended from the rostrum, his roving gaze fell on Phyl Sanderson standing in the doorway. Her fears had stolen the color even from her lips, but the girl's beauty had never struck him more poignantly. Misery stared at him out of her fine eyes, yet the unconscious courage of her graceful poise--erect, with head thrown back so that he could even see the pulse beat in the brown throat--suggested anything but supine surrender to her terror. Before he could reach her she had slipped into the night, and he could not find her. Men dribbled in to the Turkey Creek Crossroads along as many trails as the ribs of a fan running to a common centre. Jim waited, watch open, and when it said that seven o'clock had come he snapped it shut and gave the word to set out. It was a grim, business-like posse, composed of good men and true who had been sifted in the impartial sieve of life on the turbid frontier. Moreover, they were well led. A certain hard metallic quality showed in the voice and eye of Jim Yeager that boded no good for the man who faced him in combat to-day. He rode with his gaze straight to the front, toward that cleft in the hills where lay Gregory's Pass. The others fell in behind, a silent, hard-bitten outfit as ever took the trail for that most dangerous of all big game--the hidden outlaw. The little bunch of riders had not gone far before Purdy, who was riding in the rear, called to Yeager. "Somebody coming hell-to-split after us, Jim." It turned out to be Buck Weaver, who had been notified by telephone of what was taking place. A girl had called him up out of his sleep, and he had pounded the road hard to get in at the finish. Jim explained the situation in a few words and offered to yield command to the owner of the Twin Star ranch. But Buck declined. "You're the boss of this _rodeo_, Yeager. I'm riding in the ranks to-day." "How did you hear we were rounding-up to-day?" Jim asked. "Some one called me up," Buck answered briefly, but he did not think it necessary to say that it was Phyllis. Behind them, unnoticed by any, sometimes hidden from sight by the rise and fall of the rough ground, sometimes silhouetted against the sky line, rode a slim, supple figure on a white-faced cow pony. Once, when the fresh morning wind swept down a gulch at an oblique angle, it lifted for an instant from the stirrup leather what might have been a gray flag. But the flag was only a skirt, and it signalled nothing more definite than the courage and devotion of a girl who knew that the men she loved best on earth were in danger. _ |
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