CHAPTER VIII
A Fight and a Race for Life.
It was between the spring round-up and the fall, while the boys wereemployed in desultory fashion at the home ranch, breaking in new horsesand the like, and while I was indefatigably wearing a trail straightacross country to that little butte--and getting mighty little out of itsave the exercise and much heart-burnings--that the message came.
A man rode up to the corrals on a lather-gray horse, coming from Kenmore,where was a telephone-station connected from Osage. I read the messageincredulously. Dad sick unto death? Such a thing had neverhappened--_couldn't_ happen, it seemed to me. It was unbelievable; not tobe thought of or tolerated. But all the while I was planning and schemingto shave off every superfluous minute, and get to where he was.
I held out the paper to Perry Potter, "Have some one saddle up Shylock,"I ordered, quite as if he had been Rankin. "And Frosty will have to gowith me as far as Osage. We can make it by to-morrow noon--through King'sHighway. I mean to get that early afternoon train."
The last sentence I sent back over my shoulder, on my way to the house.Dad sick--dying? I cursed the miles between us. Frisco was a long, aterribly long, way off; it seemed in another world.
By then I was on my way back to the corral, with a decent suit of clotheson and a few things stuffed into a bag, and with a roll of money--moneythat I had earned--in my pocket. I couldn't have been ten minutes, but itseemed more. And Frisco was a long way off!
"You'd better take the rest of the boys part way," Potter greeted dryly asI came up.
I brushed past him and swung up into the saddle, feeling that if I stoppedto answer I might be too late. I had a foolish notion that even a longbreath would conspire to delay me. Frosty was already on his horse, andI noticed, without thinking about it at the time, that he was riding along-legged sorrel, "Spikes," that could match Shylock on a long chase--asthis was like to be.
We were off at a run, without once looking back or saying good-by to a manof them; for farewells take minutes in the saying, and minutes meant--morethan I cared to think about just then. They were good fellows, thosecowboys, but I left them standing awkwardly, as men do in the face ofcalamity they may not hinder, without a thought of whether I should eversee one of them again. With Frosty galloping at my right, elbow to elbow,we faced the dim, purple outline of White Divide.
Already the dusk was creeping over the prairie-land, and little sleepybirds started out of the grasses and flew protesting away from our rushpast their nesting-places. Frosty spoke when we had passed out of thehome-field, even in our haste stopping to close and tie fast the gatebehind us.
"You don't want to run your horse down in the first ten miles, Ellis;we'll make time by taking it easy at first, and you'll get there just assoon." I knew he was right about it, and pulled Shylock down to thesteady lope that was his natural gait. It was hard, though, to just"mosey" along as if we were starting out to kill time and earn our dailywage in the easiest possible manner. One's nerves demanded an unusualpace--a pace that would soothe fear by its very headlong race againstmisfortune.
Once or twice it occurred to me to wonder, just for a minute, how weshould fare in King's Highway; but mostly my thoughts stuck to dad, andhow it happened that he was "critically ill," as the message had put it.Crawford had sent that message; I knew from the precise way it wasworded--Crawford never said _sick_--and Crawford was about as conservativea man as one could well be, and be human. He was as unemotional as aproperly trained footman; Jenks, our butler, showed more feeling. ButCrawford, if he was conservative, was also conscientious. Dad had had himfor ten years, and trusted him a million miles farther than he would trustanybody else--for Crawford could no more lie than could themultiplication-table; if he said dad was "critically ill," that settledit; dad was. I used to tell Barney MacTague, when he thought it queer thatI knew so little about dad's affairs, that dad was a fireproof safe, andCrawford was the combination lock. But perhaps it was the other wayaround; at any rate, they understood each other perfectly, and no otherliving man understood either.
The darkness flowed down over the land and hid the farther hills; thesky-line crept closer until White Divide seemed the boundary of the world,and all beyond its tumbled shade was untried mystery. Frosty, a shadowyfigure rising and falling regularly beside me, turned his face and spokeagain:
"We ought to make Pochette's Crossing by daylight, or a little after--withluck," he said. "We'll have to get horses from him to go on with; thesewill be all in, when we get that far."
"We'll try and sneak through the pass," I answered, putting unpleasantthoughts resolutely behind me. "We can't take time to argue the point outwith old King."
"Sneak nothing," Frosty retorted grimly. "You don't know King, if you'recounting on that."
I came near asking how he expected to get through, then; when I rememberedmy own spectacular flight, on a certain occasion, I felt that Frosty wascalmly disowning our only hope.
We rode quietly into the mouth of King's Highway, our horses steppingsoftly in the deep sand of the trail as if they, too, realized theexigencies of the situation. We crossed the little stream that is thefirst baby beginning of Honey Creek--which flows through our ranch--withscarce a splash to betray our passing, and stopped before the closed gate.Frosty got down to swing it open, and his fingers touched a padlock doingbusiness with bulldog pertinacity. Clearly, King was minded to protecthimself from unwelcome evening callers.
"We'll have to take down the wires," Frosty murmured, coming back to whereI waited. "Got your gun handy? Yuh might need it before long." Frosty wasnot warlike by nature, and when he advised having a gun handy I knew thesituation to be critical.
We took down a panel of fence without interruption or sign of life at thehouse, not more than fifty yards away; Frosty whispered that they wereprobably at supper, and that it was our best time. I was foolish enough toregret going by without chance of a word with Beryl, great as was myhaste. I had not seen her since that day Frosty and I had ridden intotheir picnic--though I made efforts enough, the Lord knows--and I was notat all happy over my many failures.
Whether it was good luck or bad, I saw her rise up from a hammock on theporch as we went by--for, as I said before, King's house was much closerto the trail than was decent; I could have leaned from the saddle andtouched her with my quirt.
"Mr. Carleton"--I was fool enough to gloat over her instant recognition,in the dark like that--"what are you doing here--at this hour? Don't youknow the risk? And your promise--" She spoke in an undertone, as if shewere afraid of being overheard--which I don't doubt she was.
But if she had been a Delilah she couldn't have betrayed me morecompletely. Frosty motioned imperatively for me to go on, but I had pulledup at her first word, and there I stood, waiting for her to finish, thatI might explain that I had not lightly broken my promise; that I wascompelled to cut off that extra sixty miles which would have made me,perhaps, too late. But I didn't tell her anything; there wasn't time.Frosty, waiting disapprovingly a length ahead, looked back and beckonedagain insistently. At the same instant a door behind the girl opened witha jerk, and King himself bulked large and angry in the lamplight. Berylshrank backward with a little cry--and I knew she had not meant to do me ahurt.
"Come on, you fool!" cried Frosty, and struck his horse savagely. I jabbedin my spurs, and Shylock leaped his length and fled down that familiartrail to the "gantlet," as I had always called it mentally after thatsecond passing. But King, behind us, fired three shots quickly, one afteranother--and, as the bullets sang past, I knew them for a signal.
A dozen men, as it seemed to me, swarmed out from divers places to disputeour passing, and shots were being fired in the dark, their starting-pointbetrayed by vicious little spurts of flame. Shylock winced cruelly, as wewhipped around the first shed, and I called out sharply to Frosty, still alength ahead. He turned just as my horse went down to his knees.
I jerked my feet from the stirrups and landed free and upright, which wasa
blessing. And it was then that I swung morally far back to theprimitive, and wanted to kill, and kill, with never a thought for parleyor retreat. Frosty, like the stanch old pal he was, pulled up and cameback to me, though the bullets were flying fast and thick--and not wideenough for derision on our part.
"Jump up behind," he commanded, shooting as he spoke. "We'll get out ofthis damned trap."
I had my doubts, and fired away without paying him much attention.I wanted, more than anything, to get the man who had shot down Shylock.That isn't a pretty confession, but it has the virtue of being the truth.So, while Frosty fired at the spurts of red and cursed me for stoppingthere, I crouched behind my dead horse and fought back with evil in myheart and a mighty poor aim.
Then, just as the first excitement was hardening into deliberatemalevolence, came a clatter from beyond the house, and a chorus offamiliar yells and the spiteful snapping of pistols. It was ourboys--thirty of the biggest-hearted, bravest fellows that ever wore spurs,and, as they came thundering down to us, I could make out the bent, wiryfigure of old Perry Potter in the lead, yelling and shooting wickeder thanany one else in the crowd.
"Ellis!" he shouted, and I lifted up my voice and let him know that, likeWebster, "I still lived." They came on with a rush that the King factioncould not stay, to where I was ambushed between the solid walls of twosheds, with Shylock's bulk before me and Frosty swearing at my back.
"Horse hit?" snapped Perry Potter breathlessly. "I knowed it. Just likeyuh. Get onto this'n uh mine--he's the best in the bunch--and lightout--if yuh still want t' catch that train."
I came back from the primitive with a rush. I no longer wanted to kill andkill. Dad was lying "critically ill" in Frisco--and Frisco was a long wayoff! The miles between bulked big and black before me, so that I shiveredand forgot my quarrel with King. I must catch that train.
I went with one leap up into the saddle as Perry Potter slid down, thoughtvaguely that I never could ride with the stirrups so short, but that therewas not time to lengthen them; took my feet peevishly out of themaltogether, and dashed down, that winding way between King's sheds andcorrals while the Ragged H boys kept King's men at bay, and the unmusicalmedley of shots and yells followed us far in the darkness of the pass. Atthe last fence, where we perforce drew rein to make a free passage forour horses, I looked back, like one Mrs. Lot. A red glare lit the wholesky behind us with starry sparks, shooting up higher into the low-hangingcrimson smoke-clouds. I stared, uncomprehending for a moment; then thethought of her stabbed through my brain, and I felt a sudden horror. "AndBeryl's back among those devils!" I cried aloud, as I pulled my horsearound.
"_Beryl_"--Frosty laid peculiar stress upon the name I had letslip--"isn't likely to be down among the sheds, where that fire is. Ourboys are collecting damages for Shylock, I guess; hope they make a goodjob of it."
I felt silly enough just then to quarrel with my grandmother; I hategiving a man cause for thinking me a love-sick lobster, as I'd no doubtFrosty thought me. I led my horse over the wires he had let down, and wewent on without stopping to put them back on the posts. It was some timebefore I spoke again, and, when I did, the subject was quite different;I was mourning because I hadn't the _Yellow Peril_ to eat up the mileswith.
"What good would that do yuh?" Frosty asked, with a composure I could onlycall unfeeling. "Yuh couldn't get a train, anyway, before the one yuh_will_ get; motors are all right, in their place--but a horse isn't to bedespised, either. I'd rather be stranded with a tired horse than abroken-down motor."
I did not agree with him, partly because I was not at all pleased with mypresent mount, and partly because I was not in amiable mood; so wegalloped along in sulky silence, while a washed-out moon sidled over ourheads and dodged behind cloud-banks quite as if she were ashamed to beseen. The coyotes got to yapping out somewhere in the dark, and, as wecame among the breaks that border the Missouri, a gray wolf howled closeat hand.
Perry Potter's horse, that had shown unmistakable symptoms of disgust atthe endless gallop he had been called upon to maintain, shied sharply awayfrom the sound, stumbled from leg-weariness, and fell heavily; for thesecond time that night I had need to show my dexterity--but, in this case,with Perry Potter's stirrups swinging somewhere in the vicinity of myknees, the danger of getting caught was not so great. I stood there in thedark loneliness of the silent hills and the howling wolf, and looked downat the brute with little pity and a good deal of resentment. I applied mytoe tentatively to his ribs, and he just grunted. Frosty got down and ledSpikes closer, and together we surveyed the heavily breathing, gray bulkin the sand at our feet.
"If he was the _Yellow Peril_, instead of one of your much-vauntedsteeds," I remarked tartly, "I could go at him with a wrench and have himin working order again in five minutes; as it is--" I felt that thesentence was stronger uncompleted.
"As it is," finished Frosty calmly, "you'll just step up on Spikes and goon to Pochette's. It's only about ten miles, now; Spikes is good for it,if you ease him on the hills now and then. He isn't the _Yellow Peril_,maybe, but he's a good little horse, and he'll sure take yuh through thebest he knows."
I don't know why, but a lump came up in my throat at the tone of him.I put out my hand and laid it on Spikes' wet, sweat-roughened neck. "Yes,he's a good little horse, and I beg his pardon for what I said," I owned,still with the ache just back of my palate. "But he can't carry us both,Frosty; I'll just have to tinker up this old skate, and make him go on."
"Yuh can't do it; he's reached his limit. Yuh can't expect a common cayuselike him to do more than eighty miles in one shift--at the gait we've beentraveling. I'm surprised he's held out so long. Yuh take Spikes and go on;I'll walk in. Yuh know the way from here, and I can't help yuh out anymore than to let yuh have Spikes. Go on--it's breaking day, and yuhhaven't got any too much time to waste."
I looked at him, at Spikes standing wearily on three legs but with hisears perked gamily ahead, and down at the gray, worn-out horse of PerryPotter's. They have done what they could--and not one seemed to regret theservice. I felt, at that moment, mighty small and unworthy, and temptedto reject the offer of the last ounce of endurance from either--for whichI was not as deserving as I should have liked to be.
"You worked all day, and you've ridden all night, and gone without amouthful of supper for me," I protested hotly. "And now you want to walkten beastly miles of sand and hills. I won't--"
"Your dad cared enough to send for you--" he began, but I would not lethim finish.
"You're right, Frosty," and I wrung his hand. "You're the real thing, andI'd do as much for you, old pal. I'll make that Frenchman rub Spikes downfor an hour, or I'll kill him when I get back."
"You won't come back," said Frosty bruskly. "See that streak uh yellow,over there? Get a move on, if yuh don't want to miss that train--but easeSpikes up the hills!"
I nodded, pulled my hat down low over my eyes, and rode away; when I didget courage to glance back, Frosty still stood where I had left him,looking down at the gray horse.
An hour after sunrise I slipped off Spikes and watched them lead him awayto the stable; he staggered like a man when he has drunk too long anddeeply. I swallowed a cup of coffee, mounted a little buckskin, and wenton, with Pochette's assurance, "Don't be afraid to put heem through,"ringing in my ears. I was not afraid to put him through. That lastforty-eight miles I rode mercilessly--for the demon of hurry was againurging me on. At ten o'clock I rolled stiffly off the buckskin at theOsage station, walked more stiffly into the office, and asked for amessage. The operator handed me two, and looked at me with muchcuriosity--but I suppose I was a sight. The first was to tell me that aspecial would be ready at ten-thirty, and that the road would be clearedfor it. I had not thought about a special--Osage being so far from Frisco;but Crawford was a wonder, and he had a long arm. My respect for Crawfordincreased amazingly as I read that message, and I began at once to bullythe agent because the special was not ready at that minute to start. Thesecond message was a laconic stateme
nt that dad was still alive; I foldedit hurriedly and put it out of sight, for somehow it seemed to say a goodmany nasty things between the words.
I wired Crawford that I was ready to start and waiting for the special,and then I fumed and continued my bullying of the man in the office; hewas not to blame for anything, of course, but it was a tremendous reliefto take it out of somebody just then.
The special came, on time to a second, and I swung on and told theconductor to put her through for all she was worth--but he had already gothis instructions as to speed, I fancy; we ripped down the track a mile aminute--and it wasn't long till we bettered that more than I'd havebelieved possible. The superintendent's car had been given over to me,I learned from the porter, and would carry me to Ogden, where dad's owncar, the _Shasta_, would meet me. There, too, I saw the hand of Crawford;it was not like dad or him to borrow anything unless the necessity wasabsolute.
I hope I may never be compelled to take another such journey. Not thatI was nervous at the killing pace we went--and it was certainlyhair-raising, in places; but every curve that we whipped around on twowheels--approximately--told me that dad was in desperate case indeed, andthat Crawford was oiling every joint with gold to get me there in time. Atevery division the crack engine of the shops was coupled on in seconds,rather than minutes, bellowed its challenge to all previous records, andscuttled away to the west; a new conductor swung up the steps and answeredpatiently the questions I hurled at him, and courteously passed over theinvectives when I felt that we were crawling at a snail's pace and wantedhim to hurry a bit.
At Ogden I hustled into the _Shasta_ and felt a grain of comfort in itsfamiliar atmosphere, and a sense of companionship in the solemn face ofCromwell Jones, our porter. I had taken many a jaunt in the old car, withCrom, and Rankin, and Tony, the best cook that ever fed a hungry man, andit seemed like coming home just to throw myself into my pet chair again,with Crom to fetch me something cold and fizzy.
From him I learned that it was pneumonia, and that if I got there in timeit would be considered a miracle of speed and a triumph of faultlessrailroad system. If I had been tempted to take my ease and to sleep a bit,that settled it for me. The _Shasta_ had no more power to lull my fears orto minister to my comfort. I refused to be satisfied with less than acouple of hundred miles an hour, and I was sore at the whole outfitbecause they refused to accommodate me.
Still, we got over the ground at such a clip that on the third day, withscreech of whistle and clang of bell, we slowed at Oakland pier, where acrowd was cheering like the end of a race--which it was--and kodak fiendswere underfoot as if I'd been somebody.
A motor-boat was waiting, and the race went on across the bay, whereCrawford met me with the _Yellow Peril_ at the ferry depot. I was toldthat I was in time, and when I got my hand on the wheel, and turned the_Peril_ loose, it seemed, for the first time since leaving home, that fatewas standing back and letting me run things.
Policemen waved their arms and said things at the way we went up MarketStreet, but I only turned it on a bit more and tried not to run over anyhumans; a dog got it, though, just as we whipped into Sacramento Street.I remember wishing that Frosty was with me, to be convinced that motorsaren't so bad after all.
It was good to come tearing up the hill with the horn bellowing for aclear track, and to slow down just enough to make the turn between ourbronze mastiffs, and skid up the drive, stopping at just the right instantto avoid going clear through the stable and trespassing upon ourneighbor's flower-beds. It was good--but I don't believe Crawfordappreciated the fact; imperturbable as he was, I fancied that he lookedrelieved when his feet touched the gravel. I was human enough to enjoyscaring Crawford a bit, and even regretted that I had not shaved closer toa collision.
Then I was up-stairs, in an atmosphere of drugs and trained nurses andfuneral quiet, and knew for a certainty that I was still in time, and thatdad knew me and was glad to have me there. I had never seen dad in bedbefore, and all my life he had been associated in my mind with calmself-possession and power and perfect grooming. To see him lying therelike that, so white and weak and so utterly helpless, gave me a shock thatI was quite unprepared for. I came mighty near acting like a woman withhysterics--and, coming as it did right after that run in the _Peril_,I gave Crawford something of a shock, too, I think. I know he got me by theshoulders and hustled me out of the room, and he was looking pretty shakyhimself; and if his eyes weren't watery, then I saw exceedingly, crooked.
A doctor came and made me swallow something, and told me that there was achance for dad, after all, though they had not thought so at first. Thenhe sent me off to bed, and Rankin appeared from somewhere, with hisabominably righteous air, and I just escaped making another fool scene.But Rankin had the sense to take me in hand just as he used to do when I'dbeen having no end of a time with the boys, and so got me to bed. Thestuff the doctor made me swallow did the rest, and I was dead to the worldin ten minutes.