The Killer

  CHAPTER XIII

  I had not thought of the English groom as a man of resource, but hisaction in this emergency proved him. He cast a fleeting glance over hisshoulder. Artie Brower was huddled down in his armchair practically outof sight; Miss Emory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other twochairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative positions aswhen we had been bound and left. Only the confusion of the papers on thefloor and the open safe would have struck an observant eye.

  "It is well that you come," said Tim to Cortinez in Spanish. "The senorsent me to conduct these two to the East Room and I like not the jobalone. Enter."

  He held the door with one hand and fairly dragged Cortinez through withthe other. Instantly he closed the door and cast himself on Cortinez'sback. I had already launched myself at the Mexican's throat.

  The struggle was violent but brief. Fortunately I had not missed myspring at our enemy's windpipe, so he had been unable to shout. Thenoise of our scuffle sounded loud enough within the walls of the room;but those walls were two feet thick, and the door and windows closed.

  "Get something to gag him with, and the cords," panted Tim to the girl.

  Brower opened his eyes again.

  "I can beat that," he announced.

  He produced his hypodermic and proceeded to mix a gunful of the dope.

  "This'll fix him," he observed, turning back the Mexican's sleeve. "Youcan lay him outside and if anybody comes along they'll think he'sasleep--as usual."

  This we did when the dope had worked.

  It was now high time to think of our next move. For weapons we had thegun and knife taken from Cortinez and the miserable little automaticbelonging to Brower. That was all. It was perfectly evident that wecould not get out through the regular doorways, as, by Tim's statement,they were all closed and guarded. On my representation it was decided totry the roof.

  We therefore knotted together the cord that had bound me and two sheetsfrom the bed, and sneaked cautiously out on the verandah, around thecorner to the water barrel, and so to the vantage point of the roof.

  The chill of the night was come, and the stars hung cold in the sky. Itseemed that the air would snap and crackle were some little resolvingelement to be dropped into its suspended hush. Not a sound was to beheard except a slow drip of water from somewhere in the courtyard.

  It was agreed that I, as the heaviest, should descend first. I landedeasily enough and steadied the rope for Miss Emory who came next. WhileI was waiting I distinctly heard, from the direction of the willows, thehooting of an owl. Furthermore, it was a great horned owl, and he seemedto have a lot to say. You remember what I told you about setting yourmind so that only one sort of noise will arouse it, but that oneinstantly? I knew perfectly well that Old Man Hooper's mind was set toall these smaller harmless noises that most people never notice at all,waking or sleeping--frogs, crickets, owls. And therefore I was convincedthat sooner or later that old man and his foolish ideas and his shotgunwould come projecting right across our well-planned getaway. Which wasjust what happened, and almost at once. Probably that great horned owlhad been hooting for some time, but we had been too busy to notice. Iheard the wicket door turning on its hinges, and ventured a warning hissto Brower and Tim Westmore, who had not yet descended. An instant laterI could make out shadowy forms stealing toward the willows. Evidentlythose who served Old Man Hooper were accustomed to broken rest.

  We kept very quiet, straining our eyes at the willows. After an intervala long stab of light pierced the dusk and the round detonation ofold-fashioned black powder shook the silence. There came to us thebabbling of voices released. At the same instant the newly risen moonplastered us against that whitewashed wall like insects pinned in acork-lined case. The moonlight must have been visibly creeping down tous for some few minutes, but so absorbed had I been in the doings of theparty in the willows, and so chuckleheaded were the two on the roof,that actually none of us had noticed!

  I dropped flat and dragged the girl down with me. But there remainedthat ridiculous, plainly visible rope; and anyway a shout relieved me ofany doubt as to whether we had been seen. Brower came tumbling down onus, and with one accord we three doubled to the right around the wallsof the ranch. A revolver shot sang by us, but we were not immediatelypursued. Our antagonists were too few and too uncertain of our numbersand arms.

  It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch should bearoused. We doubled back through the willows and across the mesquiteflat toward the lone Joshua-tree where I had left my horse. I held thegirl's hand to help her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled alongwith surprising endurance for a dope wreck. Nobody said anything, butsaved their wind.

  "Where's Tim?" I asked at a check when we had to scramble across a_barranca_.

  "He went back into the ranch the way we came," replied Artie with somebitterness.

  It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. He had notbeen identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez wassafe for twelve hours.

  We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty.

  "Now," said I, "here is the plan. You are to take these papers to SenorBuck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch. That's the next ranch on thefork of the road. Do you remember it?"

  "Yes," said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober andresponsible. "I can get to it."

  "Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him read them. Tell him thatMiss Emory and I are in the Bat-eye Tunnel. Remember that?"

  "The Bat-eye Tunnel," repeated Artie.

  "Why don't _you_ go?" inquired the girl, anxiously.

  "I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is," I replied. "Ifanybody else was to go, it would be you. But Artie rides light and sure,and he'll have to ride like hell. Here, put these papers inside yourshirt. Be off!"

  Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro with lanterns.It would not take these skilled _vaqueros_ long to catch their horsesand saddle up. At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swingopen to let loose the wolf pack.

  Brower ran to my horse--a fool proceeding, especially for an experiencedhorseman--and jerked loose the tie rope. Badger is a good reliable cowhorse, but he's not a million years old, and he's got some naturalequine suspicions. I kind of lay a good deal of it to that foolhard-boiled hat. At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope,hit a yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He hung onuntil he was drug into a bunch of _chollas_, and then he had to let go.Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting.

  "Well, you've done it now!" I observed to Brower, who, crying withnervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly considerably stuck up with_cholla_ spines, was crawling to his feet.

  "Can't we catch him? Won't he stop?" asked Miss Emory. "If he gets tothe ranch, won't they look for you?"

  "He's one of my range ponies: he won't stop short of the Gila."

  I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowledge of the countryagainst the probabilities of search. The proportion was small. Most ofmy riding experience had been farther north and to the west. Suchobvious hole-ups as the one I had suggested--the Bat-eye Tunnel--were ofcourse familiar to our pursuers. My indecision must have seemed long,for the girl broke in anxiously on my meditations.

  "Oughtn't we to be moving?"

  "As well here as anywhere," I replied. "We are under good cover; andafoot we could not much better ourselves as against mounted men. We musthide."

  "But they may find the trampled ground where your horse has been tied."

  "I hope they do."

  "You hope they do!"

  "Sure. They'll figure that we must sure have moved away. They'll neverguess we'd hide near at hand. At least that's what I hope."

  "How about tracks?"

  "Not at night. By daylight maybe."

  "But then to-morrow morning they can----"

  "To-morrow morning is a long way off."

  "Look!" cried Brower.

  The big gate
s of the ranch had been thrown open. The glare of alight--probably a locomotive headlight--poured out. Mounted figuresgalloped forth and swerved to right or left, spreading in a circle aboutthe enclosure. The horsemen reined to a trot and began methodically toquarter the ground, weaving back and forth. Four detached themselves androde off at a swift gallop to the points of the compass. The mounted menwere working fast for fear, I suppose, that we may have possessedhorses. Another contingent, afoot and with lanterns, followed moreslowly, going over the ground for indications. I could not but admirethe skill and thoroughness of the plan.

  "Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon," I told my companions."If we can slip through the riders, and get in their rear, we may beable to follow the _barranca_ down. Any of those big rocks will do. Laylow, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spotwithout being seen."

  We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the three hundredand sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selectedprecisely our direction! Straight as an arrow he came for us, at fullgallop. I could see the toss of his horse's mane against the light fromthe opened door. There was no time to move. All we could do was to cowerbeneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around theshadow as he passed.

  But he did not pass. Down into the shallow _barranca_ he slid with atinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet of our lurking place.

  We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the thumping of ourhearts. I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse. It wasdifficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse,and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightlyforward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouetteagainst the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was theMorgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realizationcame to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

  It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I keptmy gun handy.

  "Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'dleft your horse by this Joshua: it's the only landmark in the dark.Saints!" he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all. "Where's your horse?"

  "Gone."

  "We can't all ride this stallion----"

  "Listen," I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previouslygiven Brower. He heard me attentively.

  "I can beat that," he cut me off. He dismounted. "Get on here, Artie.Ride down the _barranca_ two hundred yards and you'll come to an alkaliflat. Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs."

  "Why don't you do it?"

  "I'm going back and tell 'em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse."

  "They'll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?"

  "I've been back once," he pointed out. He was helping Brower aboard.

  "Where did you get that bag?" he asked.

  "Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it's mine," replied Brower.

  Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey wasobstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.

  "You're right: I beg your pardon," I answered Westmore's remark to me."You don't look slugged."

  "That's easy fixed," said Tim, calmly. He removed his hat and hit hisforehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerateboulder. The girl screamed slightly.

  "Hush!" warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his hand toward theapproaching horsemen, who were now very near. Without attention to theblood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faintclinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion's progresstoward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now dangerously close, andTim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. But at last we distinctlyheard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs.

  The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen. Tim thrust into myhand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box ofcartridges. Then with a leap like a tiger he gained the rim of the_barranca_. Once there, however, his forces seemed to desert him. Hestaggered forward calling in a weak voice. I could hear the volley ofrapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately surrounded him;and his replies. Then somebody fired a revolver thrice in rapidsuccession and the whole cavalcade swept away with a mighty crackling ofbrush. Immediately after Tim rejoined us. I had not expected this.

  Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Emory rapidly up the bed of theshallow wash. The tunnel mentioned was part of an old mine operation,undertaken at some remote period before the cattle days. It entered thebase of one of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in theplain, so common in Arizona. From where we had hidden it lay about threemiles to the northeast. It was a natural and obvious hide out, and Ihad no expectation of remaining unmolested. My hope lay in rescue.

  We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, thenstruck boldly across the plain. Nobody seemed to be following us. A wildhope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all madeour escape to Box Springs.

  As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem hadat least saved us from immediate capture. Like most men who ride I hadvery sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like--at night--in highheels. The latter affliction was common to both Miss Emory and myself.She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual cowboy boots.We began to go footsore about the same time, and the little rollingvolcanic rocks among the bunches of _sacatone_ did not help us a bit.Tim made good time, curse him. Or rather, bless him; for as I just said,if he had not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been caughtas sure as God made little green apples. He seemed as lively as acricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face.

  The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world intosilver and black velvet. When we moved in the open we showed up like atrain of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak. It was bynow nearly one o'clock in the morning.

  Miss Emory's nerve did not belie the clear, steadfast look of her eye;but she was about all in when we reached the foot of Bat-eye Butte. Timand I had discussed the procedure as we walked. I was for lying in waitoutside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down inthe boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure ofdetecting an approach through the shadows, and that from the shelter ofthe roof props and against the light we should be able to hold off alarge force almost indefinitely. In any case, we would have to gamble onBrewer's winning through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturatedmind to make a convincing yarn of it. So after a drink at the _tenaja_below the mine we entered the black square of the tunnel.

  The work was old, but it had been well done. They must have dragged thetimbers down from the White Mountains. Indeed a number of unused beams,both trunks of trees and squared, still lay around outside. From time totime, since the original operations, some locoed prospector comesprojecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find somethingthe other fellow had missed. So the passage was crazy with props andsupports, new and old, placed to brace the ageing overhead timbers.Going in they were a confounded nuisance against the bumped head; butlooking back toward the square of light they made fine protectionsbehind which to crouch. In this part of the country any tunnel would bedry. It ran straight for about a hundred and fifty feet.

  We groped our way about seventy-five feet, which was as far as we couldmake out the opening distinctly, and sat down to wait. I still had therest of the tailor-made cigarettes, which I shared with Tim. We did nottalk, for we wished to listen for sounds outside. To judge by herbreathing, I think Miss Emory dozed, or even went to sleep.

  About an hour later I thought to hear a single tinkle of shale. Timheard it, too, for he nudged me. Our straining ears caught nothingfurther, however; and I, for one, had relaxed from my tension when thesquare of light was darkened by a figure. I was nearest, so I raisedCortinez's gun and fired. The girl uttered a scream, and the figuredisappeared. I don't know yet wh
ether I hit him or not; we never foundany blood.

  We made Miss Emory lie down behind a little slide of rock, and disposedourselves under shelter.

  "We can take them as fast as they come," exulted Tim.

  "I don't believe there are more than two or three of them," I observed."It would be only a scouting party. They will go for help."

  As there was no longer reason for concealment, we talked aloud andfreely.

  Now ensued a long waiting interim. We could hear various sounds outsideas of moving to and fro. The enemy had likewise no reason for furtherconcealment.

  "Look!" suddenly cried Tim. "Something crawling."

  He raised the 30-30 and fired. Before the flash and the fumes hadblinded me I, too, had seen indistinctly something low and prone glidingaround the corner of the entrance. That was all we could make out of it,for as you can imagine the light was almost non-existent. The thingglided steadily, untouched or unmindful of the shots we threw at it.When it came to the first of the crazy uprights supporting the rooftimbers it seemed to hesitate gropingly. Then it drew slowly back a footor so, and darted forward. The ensuing thud enlightened us. The thingwas one of the long, squared timbers we had noted outside; and it wasbeing used as a battering ram.

  "They'll bring the whole mountain down on us!" cried Tim, springingforward.

  But even as he spoke, and before he had moved two feet, that catastropheseemed at least to have begun. The prop gave way: the light at theentrance was at once blotted out; the air was filled with terrifyingroaring echoes. There followed a succession of crashes, the rolling ofrocks over each other, the grinding slide of avalanches great and small.We could scarcely breathe for the dust. Our danger was that now thething was started it would not stop: that the antique and inadequatesupports would all give way, one bringing down the other in successionuntil we were buried. Would the forces of equilibrium establishthemselves through the successive slight resistances of these rotted,worm-eaten old timbers before the constricted space in which we crouchedshould be entirely eaten away?

  After the first great crash there ensued a moment's hesitation. Then asecond span succumbed. There followed a series of minor chutes withshort intervening silences. At last so long an interval of calm ensuedthat we plucked up courage to believe it all over. A single stone rolleda few feet and hit the rock floor with a bang. Then, immediately after,the first-deafening thunder was repeated as evidently another span gaveway. It sounded as though the whole mountain had moved. I was almostafraid to stretch out my hand for fear it would encounter the wall ofdebris. The roar ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Followed then along silence. Then a little cascading tinkle of shale. And another deadsilence.

  "I believe it's over," ventured Miss Emory, after a long time.

  "I'm going to find out how bad it is," I asserted.

  I moved forward cautiously, my arms extended before me, feeling my waywith my feet. Foot after foot I went, encountering nothing but theprops. Expecting as I did to meet an obstruction within a few paces atmost, I soon lost my sense of distance; after a few moments it seemed tome that I must have gone much farther than the original length of thetunnel. At last I stumbled over a fragment, and so found my fingersagainst a rough mass of debris.

  "Why, this is fine!" I cried to the others, "I don't believe more than aspan or so has gone!"

  I struck one of my few remaining matches to make sure. While of course Ihad no very accurate mental image of the original state of things, stillit seemed to me there was an awful lot of tunnel left. As the wholesignificance of our situation came to me, I laughed aloud.

  "Well," said I, cheerfully, "they couldn't have done us a better favour!It's a half hour's job to dig us out, and in the meantime we are safe asa covered bridge. We don't even have to keep watch."

  "Provided Brower gets through," the girl reminded us.

  "He'll get through," assented Tim, positively. "There's nothing on fourlegs can catch that Morgan stallion."

  I opened my watch crystal and felt of the hands. Half-past two.

  "Four or five hours before they can get here," I announced.

  "We'd better go to sleep, I think," said Miss Emory.

  "Good idea," I approved. "Just pick your rocks and go to it."

  I sat down and leaned against one of the uprights, expecting fully towait with what patience I might the march of events. Sleep was thefarthest thing from my thoughts. When I came to I found myself doubledon my side with a short piece of ore sticking in my ribs and eighteen ortwenty assorted cramp-pains in various parts of me. This was all myconsciousness had room to attend to for a few moments. Then I becamedully aware of faint tinkling sounds and muffled shoutings from theouter end of the tunnel. I shouted in return and made my way as rapidlyas possible toward the late entrance.

  A half hour later we crawled cautiously through a precarious opening andstood blinking at the sunlight.