Chapter XXXIII. The Jump
He brought Satan back to a hand canter, and so he pulled around the nextcurve of the gulch and saw the trap squarely in front. He came to a fullhalt. For he saw a tall, strong barbed-wire fence stretching across thestream-bed, and beyond the fence were a litter of chicken-coops, ironbands from broken barrels, and a thousand other of those things whichbrand the typical western farm-yard; above the top of the bank to hisleft he caught a glimpse of the sharp roof of the house.
He looked back, but it was far too late to turn, ride down the ravineto a place where the bank could be scaled, and cut across country oncemore. The posse came like a whirlwind, yelling, shooting as if theyhoped to attract attention, and attention they certainly won, for nowDan saw a tall middle-aged fellow, his long beard blowing over oneshoulder as he ran, come down into the farm-yard with a double-barreledshotgun in his hands. He was a type of those who do not know what itis to miss their target--probably because ammunition comes so high; andwith a double load of buckshot it was literally death to come within hisrange.
Dan knew that a great many chances may be taken against a revolver andeven a rifle can be tricked, but it is suicide to flirt with a shotgunin the hands of one used to bring down doves as they sloped out of theair toward a water-hole. The farmer stood with his broad-brimmed strawhat pushed far back on his head looking up and down the ravine, aperfect target, and Barry's hand slipped automatically over his rifle.
His fingers refused to close upon it.
"I can't do it, Satan," he whispered. "We got to take our chances ofgettin' by, that's all. He couldn't have no hand with Grey Molly."
Narrow chances indeed, by this time, for the brief pause had brought theposse fairly upon his heels; the farmer saw the fugitive and broughthis shotgun to the ready; and Black Bart in an agony of impatience racedround and round the master. A wild cheer rose from the posse and cameechoing about him; they had sighted their quarry. From Rickett to MorganHills, from Morgan Hills to St. Vincent, from St. Vincent to Wago andfar beyond; but this was the end of an historic run.
"D'ye see?" whispered Barry, leaning close to Satan's ears. "Lad, d'yesee what you've got to do?"
The black stood with his head very high, quivering through his wholebody while he eyed the fence. It was murderously high, and all thingswere against him, the long run, the rise of the ground going toward thefence, and the gravel from which he must take off for the jump.
"You can do it," said the master. "You got to do it! Go for it, boy. Wewin or lose together!"
He swayed forward, and Satan leaped ahead at full speed, gatheringimpetus, scattering the gravel on either side. The farmer on the insideof the fence raised his shotgun leisurely to his shoulder and took acareful aim. He knew what it all meant. He had heard of the outlaw,Barry, with his black horse and his wolf-dog--everyone in the deserthad, for that matter--and even had he been ignorant the shouting of theposse which now raced down the canyon in full view would have told himall that he needed to know. How many things went through his mind whilehe squinted down the gleaming barrel! He thought of the long labor onthe farm and the mortgage which still ate the life of his produce everyyear; he thought of the narrow bowed shoulders of his wife; he thoughtof the meager faces of his children; and he thought first and last often thousand dollars reward! No wonder the hand which supported thebarrels was steady as an iron prop. He was shooting for his life and thehappiness of five souls!
He would save his fire till he literally saw the white of theenemy's eyes: until the outlaw reached the fence. No horse on themountain-desert could top that highest strand of wire as he very wellknew; and in his youth, back in Kentucky, he had ridden hunters. Thatfence came exactly to the top of his head, and the top of his head wassix feet and two inches from the ground. To make assurance doubly surehe dropped upon one knee and made that shotgun an unstirring part andportion of himself.
Nobly, nobly the black came on, his ears pricking as he judged the greattask and his head carried a little high and back as any good jumperknows his head must be carried.
The practiced eye of the farmer watched the outlaw gather his horseunder him. Well he knew the meaning of that shortening grip on thereins to give the horse the last little lift that might mean successor failure in the jump. Well he knew that rise in the stirrups, thatleaning forward, and his heart rose in unison and went back to the bluegrass of Kentucky glittering in the sun.
Before them went the wolf-dog, skimming low, reached the fence, and shotover it in a graceful, high-arched curve.
Then the shout of the rider: "Up! Up!"
And the stallion reared and leaped. He seemed to graze it coming up,so close was his take-off; he seemed to be pawing his way over with theforefeet; and then with both legs doubled close, hugging his body,he shot across and left the highest strand of the wire quivering andhumming.
The farmer hurled his best shotgun a dozen yards away and threw up hishat.
"Go it, lad! God bless ye; and good luck!"
The hand of the rider lifted in mute acknowledgment, and as he shotpast, the farmer caught a glimpse of a delicately handsome face thatsmiled down at him.
"The left gate! The left gate!" he shouted through his cupped hands,and as the fugitive rushed through the upper gate he turned to facethe posse which was already pulling up at the fence and drawing theirwirecutters.
As Barry shot out onto the higher ground on the other side of thefarmhouse he could see them severing the wires and the interruption ofthe chase would be only a matter of seconds. But seconds counted triplynow, and the halt and the time they would spend getting up impetus alltold in favor of the fugitive.
Thirty-five miles, or thereabouts, since they left Rickett that morning,and still the black ran smoothly, with a lilt to his gallop. Dan Barrylifted his head and his whistling soared and pulsed and filled the air.It made Bart come back to him; it made Satan toss his head and glance atthe master from the corner of his bright eye, for this was an assurancethat the battle was over and the rest not far away.
On they drove, straight as a bird flies for Caswell City, and BlackBart, ranging ahead among the hills, was picking the way once more. Ifthe stallion were tired, he gave no sign of it. The sweep of his stridebrushed him past rocks and shrubs, and he literally flowed uphill anddown, far different from the horses which scampered in his rear, forthey pounded the earth with their efforts, grunting under the weight offifty pound saddles and heavy riders. Another handicap checked them, forwhile Satan ran on alone, freely, the bunched pursuers kept a continualfriction back and forth. The leaders reined in to keep back with themass of the posse, and those in the rear by dint of hard spurring wouldrush up to the front in turn until some spirited nag challenged for thelead, so that there was a steady interplay among the fifteen. Their gaitat the best could not be more than the pace, of their slowest member,but even that pace was diminished by the difficulties of group riding.Yet Mark Retherton refused to allow his men to scatter and stretch out.He kept them in hand steadily, a bunched unit ready to strike together,for he had seen the dead body of Pete Glass and he kept in mind apicture of what might happen if this fellow should whirl and pick offthe posse man by man. Better prolong the run, for in the end no singlehorse could stand up against so many relays. Yet it was maddening towatch the stallion float over hill and dale with that same unbrokenstride.
Once and again he sent the fresh horses from Wago after the fugitivein a sprinting burst, but each time the black drifted farther away, andmile after mile Mark Retherton pulled his field glasses to his eyes andstrained his vision to make out some sign of labor in the gait of Satan.There was no change. His head was still high, the rhythm of his lopeunfaltering.
But here the Wago Mountains--not more than ragged hills, to be sure--cutacross the path of the outlaw and in those hills, unless the messagewhich waited for him at Wago had been false, should be the men ofCaswell City, two score or more besides the fifteen fresh horses for theposse. Two score of men, at least, Caswell could send
out, and fromthe heights they could surely detect the coming of Barry and plantthemselves in his way. An ambush, a volley, would end this famous ride.
The hills came up on them swiftly, now, and if the men of Caswell failedin their duty it meant safety for the fugitive, because two miles beyondwere the willows of the marshes and the fords across the Asper River.There could only be two alternatives, since not a man showed on thehills. Either they waited in ambush, or else they had mistaken the routealong which Barry would come, and the latter was hardly possible. Withhis glasses Mark Retherton scanned the hills anxiously and it was thenthat he saw the dark form of the wolf-dog skulking on before theoutlaw. He had watched Black Bart before this, of course, but never withsuspicion until he noted the peculiar manner in which the animal skirtedhere and there through the rough ground, pausing on high places, weavingback and forth across the course of his master.
"Like a scout," thought Retherton. "And by God, there he comes toreport!"
For Black Bart had whirled and raced straight back for Dan. There was noneed of howl or whine to give the reason of his coming; the speed of hisrunning meant business, and Barry shortened the pace of Satan while helooked over the hills, incredulous, despairing.
It could not be that men lurked there to cut him off. No living thingcould have raced from Rickett to Caswell City to warn them of hiscoming. Nevertheless, there came Bart with the ill tidings, and it onlyremained to skirt swiftly east, round the dangerous ground, and strikethe marshes first. He swung Satan around on the new course with apressure of his knees and loosed him into a freer gallop.
They must have sensed the meaning of this maneuver at once, for hardlyhad he stretched out east when voices shouted out of the hills, andaround and over several low knolls came forty horsemen, racing. Half adozen were already due east--no escape that way; and the long line ofthe others came straight at him with the slope of the ground to givethem velocity.