Chapter XXXI. The Trap
He had already covered a good ten miles, and a large part of thatthrough extremely rough going, but the black ran with his head as highas the moment he pulled out of Rickett that morning, and there was onlyenough sweat to make his slender neck and greyhound flanks flash in thesun. Back he winged toward Rickett, running as freely as the wild leaderof a herd, sometimes turning his fine head to one side to look back atthe master or gaze over the hills, sometimes slackening to a trot upa sharper ascent or lengthening into a fuller gallop on an easydown-slope. There seemed no purpose in the reins which were kept justtaut enough to give the rider the feel of his mount, and the left handwhich held them was never still for a moment, but played back and forthslightly with the motion of the head. Except in times of crisis thosereins were not for the transmission of orders, it seemed, but theyserved as the wires through which the mind of the man and the mind ofthe horse kept in telegraphic touch.
In the meantime Black Bart loafed behind, lingering on the crest ofeach rise to look back, and then racing to catch up, but halfway backto Rickett he came up beside the master, whining, and leaping as high asBarry's knee.
"You seen something?" queried Barry. "Are they comin' on the trailagain?"
He swayed a bit to one side and diverted Satan out of his course so asto climb one of the more commanding swells. From this point he glancedback and saw a dust cloud, much like that which a small whirlwind picksup, rolling down the nearest slope of the Morgan Hills. At that distancethe posse looked hardly larger than one unit, and certainly they couldnot see the single horseman they followed; however, they could followthe trail easily across this ground. Satan had turned to look back.
"Shall we go back and play around 'em, boy?" asked Barry.
Black Bart had run on ahead, and now he turned with a short howl.
"The partner says 'no,'" continued the master. "Of all the dogs Iever see, Bart plays the most careful game, but out on the trail,Satan"--here he sent the stallion into the sweeping lope--"Bart knowsmore'n you an' me put together, so we'll do what he says."
For answer, Satan lengthened a little into his stride. As for thewolf-dog, he went off like a black bolt into the eye of the wind,streaking it west to hunt out the easiest course. A wolf--and surelythere was more of wolf than of dog in Black Bart--has a finer sense forthe lay of ground than anything on four feet. He knows how to come downthe wind on his quarry keeping to the depressions and ravines so thatnot a taint of his presence is blown to the prey; and he will skulkacross an open plain, stealing from hollow to hollow and stalking frombush to bush, so that the wariest are taken by surprise. As for BlackBart, he knew the kind of going which the stallion liked as well,almost, as he knew his own preferences, and he picked out a course whicha surveyor with line and spirit-level could hardly have bettered. Hewove across the country in loosely thrown semicircles, and came back inview of the master at the proper point. There was hardly much point insuch industry in a country as smooth as this, not much more difference,say, than the saving of distance which the horse makes who hugs thefence on the turn and on account of that sticks his head under thefinish wire a nose in front; and Bart clung to his work with scrupulouscare.
Sometimes he ran back with lolling, red tongue, when the course layclear even to the duller sense of a human, and frisked under the noseof Satan until a word from Barry sent him scurrying away like a pleasedchild. His duties comprehended not only the selection of the course butalso an eagle vigilance before and behind, so that when he came againwith a peculiar whine, Barry leaned a little from the saddle and spoketo him anxiously.
"D'you mean to say that they been gainin' ground on us old boy?"
Black Bart leaped sidewise, keeping his head toward the master, and hehowled in troubled fashion.
"Whereaway are they now?" muttered Barry, and looked back again.
A great distance behind, hardly distinguishable now, the dust of theposse was blending into the landscape and losing itself against a graybackground.
"If they's nothin' wrong behind, what's bitin' you, Bart. You gettin'hungry, maybe? Want to hurry home?"
Another howl, still louder, answered him.
"Go on, then, and show me where they's trouble."
Black Bart whirled and darted off almost straight ahead, but bearing upa hill slightly south of their course. Toward the top of this eminencehe changed his lope for a skulking trot that brought his belly furtrailing on the ground.
"They's somethin' ahead of us, Satan!" cried the master softly. "Whatcould that be? It's men, by the way Bart sneaks up to look at 'em.They's nothin' else that he'd do that way for. Easy, boy, and go soft!"
The stallion cut his gallop into a slinking trot, his head lowered,even his ears flat back, and glided up the hillside. Barry swung tothe ground and crawled to the top of the hill. What he saw was a dozenmounted men swinging down into the low, broad scoop of ground beyond thehill. They raced with their hatbrims standing stiff up in the wind.
"They've been watchin' us with glasses!" whispered Dan to Bart, and thewolf-dog snarled savagely, his neck-fur ruffling up.
The dozen directly in front were not all, for to the right, bearingstraight across his original course, came another group almost asstrong, and to the left eight more riders spurred at top speed.
"We almost walked into 'em," said Barry, "but they ain't got us yet.Back, boy!"
The wolf dog slunk down the hill until it was out of sight from thefarther side of the slope, and the master imitated these tactics untilhe was close to Satan. Once in the saddle he made up his mind quickly.Someone in Rickett had guessed his intention to double back towardTucker Creek, and they had cut him off cleverly enough and inoverwhelming force. However, no one in Rickett could guess that anotherway out remained for him in the fords below Caswell City, and even ifthey knew, their knowledge would do them no good. They could not wing amessage to that place to head him off; it was not humanly possible.For Dan knew nothing of the telephone lines which brought Caswell Cityitself within speaking distance of far away Rickett. Caswell City, then,was his goal, but to get toward it he must circle far back toward theMorgan Hills, back almost into the teeth of the posse in order to skirtaround the right wing of these new enemies. Even then, to double thatflank, he must send Satan ahead at full speed. As he swung around, theeight men of that end party crashed over the hill five hundred yardsaway, and their yell at the view of the quarry went echoing up theshallow valley.
The slayer of Pete Glass, he who had done the notorious Killing atAlder, was almost in touch of their revolvers--and their horses werefresh. Not one of that eight but would have given odds on his chances ofsharing the capture money. There were no spurs on the heels of Barry tourge Satan, and no quirt in his hand, but a single word sent the blackstreaking down the hill.
Going into the Morgan Hills he had gone like the wind, but now he rushedlike a thoroughbred standing a challenge in the homestretch. His nose,and his flying tail were a straight line and the flash of his legs wasa tangle which no eye could follow as he shot east on the back trail,straight toward the posse. For a mile or more that speed did notslacken, and at the end of that distance he began to edge to the right.
The men behind him knew well enough what the plan of the fugitive was,and they angled farther toward the north; there in the distance came theposse, the cloud of dust breaking up now into the dark figures of thefifteen, and if the men from St. Vincent could hold the pace a littlelonger they would drive Barry between two fires. They flattenedthemselves along their horses' necks at infinite risk to their necksin case of a stumble, and every spur in the crowd was dripping red;horseflesh could do no more, and still the black drew ahead inches andinches with every stride.
If they could not turn him with their speed another way remained, and byswift agreement the four best horses were sent ahead at full speed whilethe other riders caught their reins over the pommels and jerked outtheir rifles; a quartet of bullets went screaming after the black horse.
Indeed, there was little enough chance that a placed shot would go home,but their magazines were full, and a chance hit would do the work andkill both man and horse at that rate of speed. Dan Barry knew it, andwhen the bullets sang he whirled in the saddle and swept out his riflefrom its case in the same movement. That yellow devil of anger flaredin his eyes as he pitched the butt to his shoulder and straight into thecircle of the sight rode Johnny Gasney of St. Vincent. Another volleywhistled about him and his finger trembled on the trigger. No chancework with Barry, for he knew the gait of Satan as a practized navalgunner knows the swing of his ship in a smooth sea, and that circle ofdoom wavered over Johnny Gasney for a dozen strides before Dan turnedwith a faint moan and jammed the rifle back in its case. Once again hewas balancing in his stirrups, leaning close to cut the wind with hisshoulders.
"I can't do it, Satan. I got nothin' agin them. They think they'replayin' square. I can't do it. Stretch out, old boy. Stretch out!" Itseemed impossible that the stallion could increase his exertions, butwith that low voice at his ear he did literally stretch along the groundand jerked himself away from the pursuit like a tall ship when a newsail spreads in a gale.
The men from St. Vincent saw that the game was lost. Every one of theeight had his rifle at the shoulder and the bullets hissed everywhereabout him. Right into his face, but a greater distance away, rode theposse from Rickett, the fifteen tried men and true; and having caughtthe scheme of the trap they were killing their horses with a lasteffort.
It failed through no fault of theirs. Just as the jaws of the trap wereabout to close the black stallion whisked out from danger, lunged overa swell of ground, and was out of view. When they reached that point,yelling, Barry raced his black out of range of all except the wildestchance shot. The eight from St. Vincent drove their weapons sullenlyinto the holsters; for the last five minutes they had been silentlydividing ten thousand dollars by eight, and the awakening left a tasteof ashes.
They could only follow him now at a moderate pace in the hope ofwearing him down, and since a slight pause made little difference in theresult--it would even be an advantage to breathe their horses after thatburst,--they drew rein and cursed in chorus.