The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand
16
It was a weary ride that brought them to the end of that day and to acamping place. It seemed to Jig that the world was made up of nothingbut the ups and downs of that mountain trail. Now, as the sun wentdown, they came out on a flat shoulder of the mountain. Far below themlay Sour Creek, long lost in the shadow of premature night which filledthe valley.
"Here we are, fixed up as comfortable as can be," said Sinclaircheerily. "There's water, and there's wood aplenty. What could a gentask for more? And here's my country!"
For a moment his expression softened as he looked over the black peaksstepping away to the north. Now he pointed out a grove of trees, and onthe other side of the little plateau was heard the murmur of a feeblespring.
Riley swung down easily from the saddle, but when Jig dismounted hisknees buckled with weariness, and he slipped down on a rock. He wasunheeded for a moment by the cowpuncher, who was removing from hissaddle the quarters of a deer which he had shot at the foot of themountain. When this task was ended, a stern voice brought Jig to hisfeet.
"What's all this? How come? Going to let that hoss stand there allnight with his saddle on? Hurry up!"
"All right," replied the schoolteacher, but his voice quaked withweariness, and the cinch knot, drawn taut by the powerful hand of JerryBent, refused to loosen. He struggled with it until his fingers ached,and his panicky breath came in gasps of nervous excitement.
Presently he was aware of the tall, dark form of Sinclair behind him,his saddle slung across his arm.
"By guns," muttered Sinclair, "it ain't possible! Not enough muscle tountie a knot? It's a good thing that your father can't see the sort ofa son that he turned out. Lemme at that!"
Under his strong fingers the knot gave by magic.
"Now yank that saddle off and put it yonder with mine."
Jig pulled back the saddle, but when the full weight jerked down on himhe staggered, and he began to drag the heavy load.
"Hey," cut in the voice of the tyrant, "want to spoil that saddle, kid?Lift it, can't you?"
Gaspar obeyed with a start and, having placed it in the requiredposition, turned and waited guiltily.
"Time you was learning something about camping out," declared thecowpuncher, "and I'll teach you. Take this ax and gimme some wood,pronto!"
He handed over a short ax, heavy-headed and small of haft.
"That bush yonder! That's dead, or dead enough for us."
Plainly Jig was in awe of that ax. He carried it well out from hisside, as if he feared the least touch against his leg might mean a cut.Of all this, Riley Sinclair was aware with a gradually darkeningexpression. He had been partly won to Jig that day, but his betteropinion of the schoolteacher was being fast undermined.
With a gloomy eye he watched John Gaspar drop on his knees at the baseof the designated shrub and raise the ax slowly--in both hands! Notonly that, but the head remained poised, hung over the schoolteacher'sshoulder. When the blow fell, instead of striking solidly on the trunkof the bush, it crashed futilely through a branch. Riley Sinclair drewcloser to watch. It was excusable, perhaps, for a man to be unable toride or to shoot or to face other men. But it was inconceivable thatany living creature should be so clumsy with a common ax.
To his consummate disgust the work of Jig became worse and worse. Notwo blows fell on the same spot. The trunk of the little tree becamebruised, but even when the edge of the ax did not strike on a branch,at most it merely sliced into the outer surface of the wood and leftthe heart untouched. It was a process of gnawing, not of chopping. Tocrown the terrible exhibition, Jig now rested from his labors andexamined the palms of his hands, which had become a bright red.
"Gimme the ax," said Sinclair shortly. He dared not trust himself tomore speech and, snatching it from the hands of Cold Feet, buried theblade into the very heart of the trunk. Another blow, driven home withequal power and precision on the opposite side, made the tree shudderto its top, and the third blow sent it swishing to the earth.
This brought a short cry of admiration and wonder from theschoolteacher, for which Sinclair rewarded him with one glance ofcontempt. With sweeping strokes he cleared away the half-dead branches.Presently the trunk was naked. On it Riley now concentrated his attack,making the short ax whistle over his shoulders. The trunk of the shrubwas divided into handy portions as if by magic.
Still John Gaspar stood by, gaping, apparently finding nothing to do.And this with a camp barely started!
It was easier to do oneself, however, than to give directions to suchstupidity. Sinclair swept up an armful of wood and strode off to thespot he had selected for the campfire, near the place where the springwater ran into a small pool. A couple of big rocks thrown in placefurnished a windbreak. Between them he heaped dead twigs, and in amoment the flame was leaping.
As soon as the fire was lighted they became aware that the night waswell nigh upon them. Hitherto the day had seemed some distance from itsfinal end, for there was still color in the sky, and the tops of thewestern mountains were still bright. But with the presence of firebrightness, the rest of the world became dim. The western peaks wereghostly; the sky faded to the ashes of its former splendor; and Jigfound himself looking down upon thick night in the lower valleys. Hesaw the eyes of the horses glistening, as they raised their heads towatch. The gaunt form of Sinclair seemed enormous. Stooping about thefire, enormous shadows drifted above and behind him. Sometimes thelight flushed over his lean face and glinted in his eyes. Again hishead was lost in shadow, and perhaps only the active, reaching handswere illuminated brightly.
He prepared the deer meat with incomprehensible swiftness, at the sametime arranging the fire so that it rapidly burned down to a firm,strong, level bed of coals, and by the time the bed of coals wereready, the meat was prepared in thick steaks to broil over it.
In a little time the rich brown of the cooking venison streaked acrossto Jig. He had kept at a distance up to this time, realizing that hewas in disgrace. Now he drifted near. He was rewarded by an amiablegrin from Riley Sinclair, whose ugly humor seemed to have vanished atthe odor of the broiling meat.
"Watch this meat cook, kid, will you? There's something you can do thatdon't take no muscle and don't take no knowledge. All you got to do isto keep listening with your _nose_, and if you smell it burning, yankher off. Understand? And don't let the fire blaze. She's apt to flareup at the corners, you see? And these here twigs is apt to burnthrough--these ones that keep the meat off'n the coals. Watch them,too. And that's all you got to do. Can you manage all them things atonce?"
Jig nodded gravely, as though he failed to see the contempt.
"I seen a fine patch of grass down the hill a bit. I'm going to takethe hosses down there and hobble 'em out." Whistling, Sinclair strodeoff down the hill, leading the horses after him.
The schoolteacher watched him go, and when the forms had vanished, andonly the echo of the whistling blew back, he looked up. The last lifewas gone from the sunset. The last time he glanced up, there had beenonly a few dim stars; now they had come down in multitudes, greatyellow planets and whole rifts of steel-blue stars.
He took from his pocket the old envelope which Sinclair had given him,examined the scribbled confession, chuckling at the crude labor withwhich the writing had been drawn out, and then deliberately stuffed thepaper into a corner of the fire. It flamed up, singeing the cookingmeat, but John Gaspar paid no heed. He was staring off down the hill tomake sure that Sinclair should not return in time to see that littleact of destruction. An act of self-destruction, too, it well might turnout to be.
As for Sinclair, having found his pastureland, where the grass grewthick and tall, he was in no hurry to return to his clumsy companion.He listened for a time to the sound of the horses, ripping away thegrass close to the ground, and to the grating as they chewed. Then heturned his attention to the mountains. His spirit was easier in thisplace. He breathed more easily. There was a sense of freedom at onceand companionship. He lingered so long, indeed, that
He was hungry, ravenously hungry, but the first thing that greeted himwas the scent of burning meat. It stopped him short, and his handsgripped involuntarily. In that first burst of passion he wantedliterally to wring the neck of the schoolteacher. He strode closer. Itwas as he thought. The twigs had burned away from beneath the steak andallowed it to drop into the cinders, and beside the dying fire, barelyilluminated by it, sat Jig, sound asleep, with his head resting on hisknees.
For a moment Sinclair had to fight with himself for control. All hismurderous evil temper had flared up into his brain and set his teethgritting. At length he could trust himself enough to reach down and sethis heavy grip on the shoulder of the sleeper.
Even in sleep Jig must have been pursued by a burdened consciousness ofguilt. Now he jerked up his head and stammered up to the shadowy faceof Sinclair.
"I--I don't know--all at once it happened. You see the fire--"
But the telltale odor of the charring meat struck his nostrils, and hisspeech died away. He was panting with fear of consequences. Now a newturn came to the fear of Cold Feet. It seemed that Riley Sinclair'shand had frozen at the touch of the soft flesh of Jig's shoulder. Heremained for a long moment without stirring. When his hand moved it wasto take Jig under the chin with marvelous firmness and gentleness atonce and lift the face of the schoolteacher. He seemed to find much toread there, much to study and know. Whatever it was, it set Jigtrembling until suddenly he shrank away, cowering against the rockbehind.
"You don't think--"
But the voice of Sinclair broke in with a note in it that Jig had neverheard before.
"Guns and glory--a woman!"
It came over him with a rush, that revelation which explained so manythings--everything in fact; all that strange cowardice, and all thatstranger grace; that unmanly shrinking, that more than manly contemptfor death. Now the firelight was too feeble to show more than onething--the haunted eyes of the girl, as she cowered away from him.
He saw her hand drop from her breast to her holster and close aroundthe butt of her revolver.
Sinclair grew cold and sick. After all, what reason had she to trusthim? He drew back and began to walk up and down with long, slowstrides. The girl followed him and saw his gaunt figure brush acrossthe stars; she saw the wind furl and unfurl the wide brim of his hat,and she heard the faint stir and clink of his spurs at every step.
There was a tumult in the brain of the cowpuncher. The stars and thesky and the mountains and wind went out. They were nothing in theelectric presence of this new Jig. His mind flashed back to onepicture--Cold Feet with her hands tied behind her back, praying underthe cottonwood.
Shame turned the cowpuncher hot and then cold. He allowed his mind todrift back over his thousand insults, his brutal language, his cursing,his mockery, his open contempt. There was a tingle in his ears, and achill running up and down his spine.
After all that brutality, what mysterious sense had told her to trustto him rather than to Sour Creek and its men?
Other mysteries flocked into his mind. Why had she come to the veryverge of death, with the rope around her neck rather than reveal heridentity, knowing, as she must know, that in the mountain desert menfeel some touch of holiness in every woman?
He remembered Cartwright, tall, handsome, and narrow of eye, and thefear of the girl. Suddenly he wished with all his soul that he hadfought with guns that day, and not with fists.