CHAPTER III
AN EMPTY SADDLE
The Duke was seen coming back before the meal was over, across thelittle plain between camp and hills. A quarter of a mile behind him JimWilder rode, whether seen or unseen by the man in the lead they did notknow.
Jim had fallen behind somewhat by the time the Duke reached camp. Theadmiration of all hands over this triumph against horseflesh and thedevil within it was so great that they got up to welcome the Duke, andshake hands with him as he left the saddle. He was as fresh and nimble,unshaken and serene, as when he mounted old Whetstone more than an hourbefore.
Whetstone was a conquered beast, beyond any man's doubt. He stood withflaring nostrils, scooping in his breath, not a dry hair on him, not adash of vinegar in his veins.
"Where's Jim?" the Duke inquired.
"Comin'," Taterleg replied, waving his hand afield.
"What's he doin' out there--where's he been?" the Duke inquired, apuzzled look in his face, searching their sober countenances for hisanswer.
"He thought you----"
"Let him do his own talkin', kid," said Siwash, cutting off the cowboy'sexplanation.
Siwash looked at the Duke shrewdly, his head cocked to one side like arobin listening for a worm.
"What outfit was you with before you started out sellin' themtooth-puller-can-opener machines, son?" he inquired.
"Outfit? What kind of an outfit?"
"Ranch, innercence; what range was you ridin' on?"
"I never rode any range, I'm sorry to say."
"Well, where in the name of mustard did you learn to ride?"
"I used to break range horses for five dollars a head at the Kansas CityStockyards. That was a good while ago; I'm all out of practice now."
"Yes, and I bet you can throw a rope, too."
"Nothing to speak of."
"Nothing to speak of! Yes, I'll _bet_ you nothing to speak of!"
Jim didn't stop at the corral to turn in his horse, but came clatteringinto camp, madder for the race that the Duke had led him in ignorance ofhis pursuit, as every man could see. He flung himself out of the saddlewith a flip like a bird taking to the wing, his spurs cutting the groundas he came over to where Lambert stood.
"Maybe you can ride my horse, you damn granger, but you can't ride me!"he said.
He threw off his vest as he spoke, that being his only superfluousgarment, and bowed his back for a fight. Lambert looked at him with aflush of indignant contempt spreading in his face.
"You don't need to get sore about it; I only took you up at your owngame," he said.
"No circus-ringer's goin' to come in here and beat me out of my horse.You'll either put him back in that corral or you'll chaw leather withme!"
"I'll put him back in the corral when I'm ready, but I'll put him backas mine. I won him on your own bet, and it'll take a whole lot betterman than you to take him away from me."
In the manner of youth and independence, Lambert got hotter with everyword, and after that there wasn't much room for anything else to be saidon either side. They mixed it, and they mixed it briskly, for Jim'scontempt for a man who wore a hat like that supplied the courage thathad been drained from him when he was disarmed.
There was nothing epic in that fight, nothing heroic at all. It was awildcat struggle in the dust, no more science on either side than natureput into their hands at the beginning. But they surely did kick up a lotof dust. It would have been a peaceful enough little fight, with ahandshake at the end and all over in an hour, very likely, if Jim hadn'tmanaged to get out his knife when he felt himself in for a trimming.
It was a mean-looking knife, with a buck-horn handle and a four-inchblade that leaped open on pressure of a spring. Its type was widelypopular all over the West in those days, but one of them would be almosta curiosity now. But Jim had it out, anyhow, lying on his back with theDuke's knee on his ribs, and was whittling away before any man couldraise a hand to stop him.
The first slash split the Duke's cheek for two inches just below hiseye; the next tore his shirt sleeve from shoulder to elbow, grazing theskin as it passed. And there somebody kicked Jim's elbow and knocked theknife out of his hand.
"Let him up, Duke," he said.
Lambert released the strangle hold that he had taken on Jim's throat andlooked up. It was Spence, standing there with his horse behind him. Helaid his hand on Lambert's shoulder.
"Let him up, Duke," he said again.
Lambert got up, bleeding a cataract. Jim bounced to his feet like aspring, his hand to his empty holster, a look of dismay in his blanchingface.
"That's your size, you nigger!" Spence said, kicking the knife beyondJim's reach. "That's the kind of a low-down cuss you always was. Thisman's our guest, and when you pull a knife on him you pull it on me!"
"You know I ain't got a gun on me, you----"
"Git it, you sneakin' houn'!"
Jim looked round for Taterleg.
"Where's my gun? you greasy potslinger!"
"Give it to him, whoever's got it."
Taterleg produced it. Jim began backing off as soon as he had it in hishand, watching Spence alertly. Lambert leaped between them.
"Gentlemen, don't go to shootin' over a little thing like this!" hebegged.
Taterleg came between them, also, and Siwash, quite blocking up thefairway.
"Now, boys, put up your guns; this is Sunday, you know," Siwash said.
"Give me room, men!" Spence commanded, in voice that trembled withpassion, with the memory of old quarrels, old wrongs, which this lastinsult to the camp's guest gave the excuse for wiping out. There wassomething in his tone not to be denied; they fell out of his path as ifthe wind had blown them. Jim fired, his elbow against his ribs.
Too confident of his own speed, or forgetting that Wilder already hadhis weapon out, Spence crumpled at the knees, toppled backward, fell.His pistol, half-drawn, dropped from the holster and lay at his side.Wilder came a step nearer and fired another shot into the fallen man'sbody, dead as he must have known him to be. He ran on to his horse,mounted, and rode away.
Some of the others hurried to the wagon after their guns. Lambert, for amoment shocked to the heart by the sudden horror of the tragedy, bentover the body of the man who had taken up his quarrel without evenknowing the merits of it, or whose fault lay at the beginning. A lookinto his face was enough to tell that there was nothing within thecompass of this earth that could bring back life to that strong, youngbody, struck down in a breath like a broken vase. He looked up. JimWilder was bending in the saddle as he rode swiftly away, as if heexpected them to shoot. A great fire of resentment for this man'sdestructive deed swept over him, hotter than the hot blood wasting fromhis wounded cheek. The passion of vengeance wrenched his joints, hishand shook and grew cold, as he stooped again to unfasten the belt abouthis friend's dead body.
Armed with the weapon that had been drawn a fraction of a second toolate, drawn in the chivalrous defense of hospitality, the high courtesyof an obligation to a stranger, Lambert mounted the horse that had cometo be his at the price of this tragedy, and galloped in pursuit of thefleeing man.
Some of the young men were hurrying to the corral, belting on their gunsas they ran to fetch their horses and join the pursuit. Siwash calledthem back.
"Leave it to him, boys; it's his by rights," he said.
Taterleg stood looking after the two riders, the hindmost drawingsteadily upon the leader, and stood looking so until they disappeared inthe timber at the base of the hills.
"My God!" said he. And again, after a little while: "My God!"
It was dusk when Lambert came back, leading Jim Wilder's horse. Therewas blood on the empty saddle.