Chapter XXXIV. The Warning
All in a grim instant he saw the trap. It closed upon his consciousnesswith a click, and as he doubled Satan around he knew that the onlyescape was in running southeast along the banks of the Asper. Even thatwas a desperate, a forlorn chance, for if that omnipotent voice couldreach from Rickett to Caswell City, fifty miles away, certainly it musthave warned the river towns of Ganton and Wilsonville and Bly Fallswhere Tucker Creek ran into the Asper. But this was no time forthinking. Already, looking back, he saw the posse changing their saddlesto fifteen fresh mounts, and he headed Satan across the Wago Hills, Westand South.
It was hot work. Even the steel-wire muscles of Black Bart wereweakening under the tremendous labors of that day, and as he scoutedahead his head was low and his red tongue lolled, and surest sign ofall, the bushy tail drooped; yet it was time to make a new call uponboth wolf-dog and horse, for the posse was racing after him as before,giving even the fresh, willing mounts the urge of spurs and quirts. Heran his hand down the dripping neck and shoulder of Satan; he called tohim; and with a snort the stallion responded. He felt the quiver as themuscles tightened for the work; he felt the settling as Satan lengthenedto racing speed.
Through the Wago Hills, then, with Bart picking the way as before, andnever a falter in the sweep of Satan's running. If his head was a littlelower, if his ears lay flat, only the master knew the meaning, andstill, when he spoke, the glistening ears pricked up, and they boundedon to a greater speed than before. The flight of a gull on unstirringwings when the wind buoys it, the glide of water over the descent ofsmooth rock, with never a ripple, like all things effortless, swift,and free, such was the gait of Satan as he fled. Let them spur the freshhorses from Caswell City till their flanks dripped red, they would nevergain on him.
On through the hills, and now the heave of his great breaths told ofthe strain, down like an arrow into the rolling ground, and now theygalloped beside the Asper banks. The master looked darkly upon thatwater.
Ten days before, when the snows had not yet reached the climax ofmelting, ten days later when that climax was overpassed, the Asper wouldhave been fordable, but now a brown flood stormed along the gully, ateaway the banks, undermined the willows here and there, and rolled stoneslarger than a man could lift. It went with an angry shouting as if itdefied the fugitive. It was narrow, maddeningly narrow, almost smallenough to attempt a leap across to the safety of the thickets on thefarther side, but the force of the water alone was enough to warn thebravest swimmer away, and here and there, like teeth in the mouth of theshark, jagged stones cut the surface with white foam streaking out belowthem; as if to prove its power, even while Dan turned South along thebank a dead trunk shot down the stream and split on one of the Asper'steeth.
Even then he felt the temptation. There lay the forest on the fartherside, a forest which would shelter him, and above the forest, hardlya mile back, began the Grizzly Peaks. They lunged straight up to snowysummits, and all along their sides blue shadows of the afternoon driftedthrough a network of ravines--a promise of peace, a surety of safety ifhe could reach that labyrinth.
He was almost glad when he left the mockery of the river's noise to turnaside for Ganton. There it lay in a bend of the Asper in the low-lands,and every town where men lived was an enemy. He could see them nowgathered just outside the village, twenty men, perhaps and fifteen sparehorses, the best they had, for the posse.
On past Ganton, and again a call upon Satan to meet the first spurtof the posse on its new horses. There was something in the stallion toanswer, some incredible reserve of nerve strength and courage. Therewas a slight labor, now, and something of the same heave and pitch whichcomes in the gait of a common horse; also, when he put Satan up thefirst slope beyond Ganton he noted a faltering, a deeper lowering ofthe head. When his hoofs struck a loose rock he no longer had the easyrecoil of the morning. He staggered like a graceful yacht chopped bya cross-current. Now down the slope, now back to the roar of the Asperonce more, for there the going was most level, but always the strideswere shortening, shortening, and the head of the stallion nodded at hiswork.
All that was seen by Mark Retherton through his glasses, though theywere almost close enough now to see details through the naked eye. Heturned in the saddle to the posse, grim faces, sweat and dust clotted intheir moustaches, their faces drawn and gray with streaks over the noseand under the eyes where perspiration ran. They rode crookedly, now, forseventy miles at full speed had racked them, twisted them, cramped theirmuscles. Scotty kept his head tilted far back, for his spinal columnseemed about to snap. Walsh leaned to his right side which a tormentingpain drew at every stride, and Hendricks cursed in gasps through a wrymouth. It had been an hour since Mark Retherton last spoke, and when heattempted it now his voice was as hoarse as a croaking frog.
"Boys, buck up! He's done! D'ye see the black laborin'. D'ye see it?Hey, Lew, Garry, we've got the best hosses among us three. Now's thetime for a spurt, and by God, we'll run him down. I'm startin!"
He made his word good with an Indian yell and a wave of his hat thatsent his buckskin leaping straight into the air, to land with stifflegs, "swallowing its head," but then it straightened out in earnest.That buckskin had a name from Bly Falls to Caswell City between speed andcourage, and it lived up to the record in the time of need. Close behindit came Lew and Garry ponies scarcely slower than the buckskin, and theyclosed rapidly on Satan. The plan of Retherton was plain: now that theblack was running on its nerve a spurt might bring them within strikingdistance and if they could check the flight for an instant by openingadvance guard fire, they might drive the fugitive into a corner by theriver and hold him there until the main body the posse came up. Thethree of them running alone the lead could do five yards for every fourof the slow horses, and the effect showed at once.
Going up a slope the trot of the stallion maintained or even increasedhis lead, but when they reached the easier ground beyond they drewrapidly upon him. They saw Barry bend low; they saw the stallionincrease its pace.
"By God," shouted Retherton in involuntary admonition, "I'd rather havethat hoss than the ten thousand. But feed 'em the spurs, boys, and he'llcome back to us inside a mile."
And Retherton was right. Before that mile was over the black slippedback inch by inch, until at length Retherton called: "Now grab your gunsboys and see if you can salt him down with lead. Give your hosses theirheads and turn loose!"
They pulled their guns to their shoulders and sent a volley at theoutlaw. One bullet clipped a spark from the rocks just behind thestallion's feet; the other two must have gone wide. Once more Barryflinched closer over the neck of Satan and once again the horse answeredwith a fresh burst of speed, but in a few moments he came back to them.Flesh could not stand that pace after seventy-five miles of running.
They saw the rider straighten and look back; then the sun flashed on hisrifle.
"Feed 'em the spur!" shouted Retherton. "If we can't hit him shootingahead, he ain't got a chance to hit us shootin' backwards." For it isnotoriously hard to turn in the saddle and accomplish anything witha rifle. One is moving away from the target instead of toward it, andevery condition of ordinary shooting is reversed; above all, the momenta man turns his head he is completely out of touch with his horse.Apparently the fugitive knew this and made no attempt to place hisshots. He merely jerked his gun to the shoulder and blazed away as soonas it was in place; half a dozen yards in front of Retherton the bulletkicked up the dust.
"I told you," he shouted. "He can't do nothin' that way. Close in, boys.Close in for God's sake!"
He himself was flailing with his quirt, and the buckskin grunted atevery strike. Once more the rifle pitched to the outlaw's shoulder, andthis time the bullet clicked on a rock not ten feet from Retherton, andagain on a straight line for him.
"Damned if that ain't shootin'!" called Garry, and Retherton, alarmed,swung the buckskin out to one side to throw the marksman out of line.He had turned again in the saddle, and as though
the episode were atan end, restored his rifle to its case, but when they poured in anothervolley about him, he swung sharply roundabout again, gun in hand. Oncemore the rifle went to his shoulder, and this time the bullet knocked apuff of dust into the very nostrils of the buckskin. Retherton reined inwith an oath.
"He's been warn in' me, boys," he called. "That devil has the range likehe was sitting in a rockin' chair shooting at a tin-can. He's warnin' usback to the rest of the gang. And damned if we ain't goin'!"
It was quite patent that he was right, for three bullets sent on a linefor one horse, and each of them closer, could mean only one thing. Theychecked their horses, and in a moment the rest of the posse wasclattering around them.
"It don't make no difference," called Retherton, "savin' in time. Maybehe'll last to Wilsonville, but he can't stay in three miles when we hangonto him with fresh hosses. The black is runnin' on nothin' but gutsright now."