Ben Blair

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE INEXORABLE TRAIL

  Once more, westward across the prairie country, there moved a tall andsinewy youth astride a vicious looking buckskin. This time, however, itwas very early in the morning. The rider moved slowly, his eyes on theground. His outfit was more elaborate than on the former journey. Aheavy blanket and a light camp kit were strapped behind his saddle, andso attached that they could be quickly transferred to his back. A bigrifle was stretched across his right knee and the saddle-horn. At eitherhip rode a great holster. The air, despite the cloudiness, was bittercold; and he wore a heavy sheepskin coat with the wool turned in, andlong gauntlets reaching half-way to his elbows. A broad leather beltheld the heavy coat in place, and attached to it was a thin sheath fromwhich protruded the stout handle of a hunting-knife. He also woreanother belt, fitted with many loops, each holding a gleaming littlebrass cylinder. No one seeing the man this morning could have made themistake of considering him, as before, on a journey to see a lady.

  Slowly day advanced. The east resolved itself from flaming red into theneutral tint of the remainder of the sky. The sun shone through theclouds, dissipated them, was obscured, and shone again. The somethingwhich the man had been watching so intently gradually grew clearer. Itwas the trail of another horse--a galloping horse. It was easy tofollow, and the rider looked about him. After a few miles, when themustang had warmed to his second wind, a gauntleted hand dropped to theyellow neck and stroked it gently.

  "Let 'em out a bit, Buck," said a voice, "let 'em out!" and with a flickof the dainty ears, almost as if he understood, the little beast fellinto the steady swinging lope which was his natural gait, and which hecould follow if need be without a break from sun to sun.

  On they went, the trail they were following unwinding like a great tapesteadily before them, the crunch of the frozen snow in their ears, tinyparticles of it flying to the side and behind like spray. But, bravelyas they were going, the horse ahead which had unwound that band oftracks had moved more swiftly. Not within inches did the best efforts ofthe buckskin approach those giant strides. It had been a desperate riderwho had urged such a pace; and the grim face of the tall youth grewgrimmer at the thought.

  Not another sound than of their own making did they hear. Not an objectuncovered of white did they see, until, thirteen miles out, they passednear the deserted Baker ranch; but the trail did not stop, nor did they,and ere long it faded again from view. The course was dipping well tothe north now, and Ben realized that not again on his journey would hepass in sight of a human habitation.

  All that mortal day the buckskin pounded monotonously ahead. The sunrose to the meridian, gazed warmly down upon them, softened the surfaceof the frozen snow until the crunch sounded mellower, and slowlydescended to their left. The dainty ears of the pony, as the day waned,flattened close to his head. Foam gathered beneath the saddle andbetween the animal's legs; but doggedly relentless as his rider, heforged ahead. Much in common had these two beings; more closely thanever was their comradery cemented that day. Many times, with the samemotion as at first, the man had leaned over and patted that muscularneck, dark and soiled now with perspiration. "Good old Buck," he said asto a fellow, "good old Buck!" and each time the set ears had flickedintelligently in response.

  It was nearing sunset when they came in sight of the hills bordering theriver, and the last mile Ben drew the buckskin to a walk. The chain ofhoof-tracks had changed much since the morning. The buckskin could equalthe strides of the other now, and the follower was content. The eveningswere very short at this season of the year, and they would not attemptto go farther to-night. At the margin of the stream Ben rode along untilhe found a spot where the full strength of the current ate into thebank. There on the thinner ice he hammered with the butt of his heavyrifle until he broke a hole; then, the dumb one first, the two friendsdrank their fill. After that, side by side, they walked back until inthe shelter of a high knoll the man found a space of perhaps half anacre where the grass, thick and unpastured, was practically bare ofsnow. Here he removed saddle and bridle, and without lariat orhobble--for they knew each other now, these two--he turned the ponyloose to graze. He himself, with the kit and blanket and a handful ofdead wood, went to the hill-top, where he could see for miles around,built a tiny fire, an Indian's fire, made a can of strong black coffee,and ate of the jerked beef he had brought. Later, he cleared a spot thesize of a man's grave, and with grass and the blanket built a shallownest, in which he stretched himself, his elbow on the earth, his face inhis hand, thinking, thinking.

  The night came on. As the eastern sky had done in the morning, so nowthe west crimsoned gloriously, became the color of blood, then graduallyshaded back until it was neutral again, and the stars from a fewscattering dots increased in numbers and filled the dome as scatteredsand-grains cover a floor. Darkness came, and with it the slight wind ofthe day died down until the air was perfectly still. The cold, which hadretreated for a time, returned, augmented. As though it were a livething moving about, its coming could be heard in the almostindistinguishable crackling of the snow-crust. As beneath a crushingweight, the ice of the great river boomed and crackled from its touch.

  Wide-eyed but impassive, the man watched and listened. Scarcely a muscleof his body moved. Not once, as the hours slipped by, did he drowse; notfor an instant was he off his guard. With the first trace of morning inthe east, he was astir. As on the night before, he made his Indian'sfire, ate his handful of beef, and drank of the strong black coffee.The pony, sleepy as a child, was aroused and saddled. The ice which hadfrozen during the night over their drinking-hole was broken. Then, bothman and horse stiff and sore from the exposure and the previousexertion, the trail was taken up anew.

  For five miles, until both were warmed to their work, the man and beasttrotted along side by side. "Now, Buck, old boy!" said Ben, andmounting, they were off in earnest. At first the trail they werefollowing was that of a horse that walked; but later it stretched outinto the old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of quirtand spur which had forced the change.

  Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the rider calculatedthe distance, he came to the first break in the seemingly endless trailof hoofprints he was following. A heap of snow scraped aside and twobrown spots on the earth told the story of where the pursued man andhorse had paused to rest and sleep. No water was near. Neither the humannor the beast had strayed from the direct line; they had merely haltedand dropped almost within their tracks. Just beyond was the spot wherethe man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and again a tale laywritten on the surface of the snow. The prints of the horse's feet werenow unsteady and irregular. Within a few rods there was on the right ared splash of blood; then others, a drop at a time. Very hard it hadbeen to put life into the beast at starting; deep the rowels of thegreat spur had been dug. Ben Blair lightly touched the neck of hisbuckskin and gave the word to go.

  "They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, old chap," he said,"and very tired. We'll gain on them fast to-day."

  But though they gained--the record of the tracks told that--they did notgain fast. Notwithstanding he still galloped doggedly ahead, the gallantlittle buckskin was plainly weakening. The eternal pounding through thesnow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was indomitablethe end of his endurance was in sight. No longer would the dainty earsrespond to a touch on the neck. With head lowered he moved forward likea machine. While the sun was yet above the horizon, the lope diminishedto a trot, the trot to a walk--a game walk, but only a walk.

  Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted. Silently he removedsaddle and bridle, transferred the blanket and kit to his own back, andthen, the rifle under his arm, stopped a moment by the pony's side andlaid the dainty muzzle against his face.

  "Buck, old boy," he said, "you've done mighty well--but I can beat younow. Maybe some day we'll meet again. I hope we shall. Anyway, we'rebetter for having known each other. Good-bye."


  A moment longer his face lay so, as his hand would have lain in afriend's hand at parting; then, with a last pat to the silken nose, hestarted on ahead.

  At first the man walked steadily; then, warming to the work, he brokeinto the swinging jog-trot of the frontiersman, the hunter who travelsafoot. Many Indians the youth had known in his day, and from them he hadlearned much; one thing was that in walking or running to stepstraight-footed instead of partially sideways, as the white man plantshis sole, was to gain inches at every motion, besides making it easierto retrace his steps should he wish to do so. This habit had become apart of him, and now the marks of his own trail were like thealternately broken line which represents a railroad on a map.

  As long as he could see to read from the white page of the snow-blanket,Ben Blair jogged ahead. Hot anger, that he could not repress, was withhim constantly now, for the trail before him was very fresh, and,distinct beside it, more and more frequent were the red marks of ananimal's suffering. He knew what horse it was the other had stolen. Itwas "Lady," one of Scotty's prize thoroughbred mares, the one Florencehad ridden so many times. Often during those last hours the man wonderedat the endurance of the mare. None but a thoroughbred would have stoodup this long; and even she, if she ever stopped,--but the man aheaddoubtless knew this also, for he would not let her stop, not so long aslife remained and spur and quirt had power to torture.

  Thus night came on, folding within its concealing arms alike the hunterand the pursued. Ben did not build a fire this night. First of all,though during the day at different times he had been able to see thebordering trees of the White River at his left and the Bad River at hisright, the trail hung to the comparatively level land of the greatdivide between, and not a scrap of wood was within miles. Again,although he did not actually know, he could not believe he was farbehind, and he would run no risk of giving a warning sign to eyes whichmust be watching the backward trail. The fierce hunger of a healthyanimal was his; but his supply of beef was limited, and he ate a meagreallowance, washing it down with a draught of river water from hiscanteen. Rolled up in the blanket, through which the stinging coldpierced as though it were gossamer, shivering, beating his hands andfeet to prevent their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolfor a buffalo, keeping constant watch about him as does a great prairieowl, the interminably long hours of his second night dragged by.

  "The beginning of the end," he soliloquized, when once more it was lightenough so that standing he could see the earth at his feet. Well he knewthat ere this the other horse was eliminated from the chase--that it wasnow man against man. God! how his joints ached when he stretchedthem!--how his muscles pained at the slightest motion! He ground histeeth when he first began to walk, and hobbled like a rheumatic cripple;but within a half-hour tenacity had won, and the relentless jog-trot ofthe interrupted line was measuring off the miles anew.

  The chase was nearing an end. Long ere noon, in the distance towardwhich he was heading, Blair detected a brown dot against the white.Steadily, as he advanced, it resolved itself into the thing he hadexpected, and stood revealed before him, the centre of a horriblylegible page, the last page in the biography of a noble horse. Let uspass it by: Ben did, looking the other way. But a new and terriblevitality possessed him. His weariness left him, as pain passes under anopiate. He did not pause to eat, to drink. Tireless as a waterfall,watchful as a hawk, he jogged on, on, a mile--two miles--five--came to arise in the great roll of the lands--stopped, his heart suddenlypounding the walls of his chest. Before him, not half a mile away,moving slowly westward, was the diminutive black shape of a mantravelling afoot!

  Instantly the primal hunting instinct of the Anglo-Saxon awoke in thelank Benjamin. The incomparable fascination which makes man-hunting thesport supreme of all ages gripped him tight. The stealthy cunning of asavage became on the moment his. A plan of ambush, one which couldscarcely fail, flashed into his mind. The trail of the divide narrowingnow, stretched for miles and miles straight before them. That blackfigure would scarcely leave it. The pursuer had but to make a greatdetour, get far in advance, find a point of concealment, and wait.

  Swift as thought was action. Back on his trail until he was out of sightwent Ben Blair; then, turning to his right, he made straight for theconcealing bed of Bad River. Once there, he turned west again, followingthe winding course of the stream toward its source. Faster than ever hemoved, the pat-pat of his feet on the deadening snow drowning the soundof the great breaths he drew into his lungs and sent whistling out againthrough his nostrils. As with the horse, the sweat oozed at every pore.Collecting on his brow and face, it dripped slowly from his great chin.Dampening, his clothes clung binding-tight to his body; but he nevernoticed. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor behindhim; but, like a sprinter approaching the wire, only straight ahead.

  Under him the miles flowed past like water. Five, ten, a dozen hecovered; then of a sudden he turned again to the south, quitting hisshelter of the river-bed. For a time the country was very rough, but hescarcely slackened his pace. Once he fell through the crust of a drift,and went down nearly to his neck; but he crowded his way through bysheer strength, emerging a powdered figure from the snow which clung tohis damp clothes. The sun was down now, and he knew darkness would comevery quickly and he must reach the divide, the probable trail, before itfell, and there select his point of waiting.

  As he moved on, he saw some miles ahead that which decided him. A lowchain of hills, stretching to the north and south, crossed the greatdivide as a fallen log spans a path. In these hills, appreciable even atthis distance, there was a dip, an almost level pass. A small diversityit was on the face of nature, but to a weary man, fleeing afoot, seen inthe distance it would irresistibly appeal. Almost as certain as thoughhe saw the black figure already heading for it, the hunter felt it wouldbe utilized. Anyway, he would take the chance; and with a last spurt ofspeed he put himself fairly in its way. To clear a narrow strip ofground the length of his body, and build around it like a breastwork aborder of snow, was the work of but a few minutes; then, wrapped in hisblanket, too deadly tired to even attempt to eat, he dropped behind thecover like a log. At first the rest was that of Paradise; but swiftlycame the reaction, the chill. To lie there in his present conditionmeant but one thing, that never would he arise again; and with an effortthe man got to his feet and started walking. It was dark again now, andthe sky was becoming rapidly overcast. Within an hour it began to snow,a steady big-flaked snow that fairly filled the air and lay where itfell. The night grew slightly warmer, and, rolling in the blanket oncemore, Ben lay down; but the warning chill soon had him again upon hisfeet, walking back and forth in the one beaten path.

  Very long the two previous nights had been. Interminable seemed thisthird. As long as the sun or moon or stars were shining, the man neverfelt completely alone; but in this utter darkness the hours seemed likedays. The steadily falling snowflakes added to the impression ofloneliness and isolation. They were like the falling clods of earth in agrave: something crowding between him and life, burying and suffocatinghim where he stood. Try as he might, the man could not shake off theweird impression, and at last he ceased the effort. Grimly stolid, helit his pipe, and, his damp clothing having dried at last, cleared afresh spot and lay down, the horrible loneliness still tugging at hisheart.

  Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the morning came. With it thestorm ceased and the sun shone brightly. Behind the barricade, Ben Blairate the last of his beef and drank the few remaining swallows of waterfrom his canteen. His muscles were stiff from the inaction, and, notwishing to show himself, he kicked vigorously into space as he lay. Atintervals he made inspection of the east, looking out over the glitterof white; but not a living thing was in sight. An hour he watched, twohours, while the sun, beating down obliquely, warmed him back intoactivity; then of a sudden his eyes became fixed, the grip upon hisrifle tightened. Far to the southeast, something dark against the snowwas moving,--was coming toward him.

  Rapid
ly the figure approached, while lower behind the barricade droppedthe body of Benjamin Blair. The sun was in his eyes, so that as yet hecould not make out whether it was man or beast. Not until the object waswithin three hundred yards, until it passed by to the north, did Benmake out that it was a great gray wolf headed straight for the bed ofBad River.

  Again two hours of unbroken monotony passed. The sun had almost reachedthe meridian, and the man behind the barricade had all but decided hemust have miscalculated somehow, when in the dim distance as beforethere appeared a tiny dark object, but this time directly from the east.For five minutes Ben watched it fixedly, his hand shading his eyes;then, slowly as moves the second-hand of a great clock, a changeindescribable came over his face. No need was there now to ask whetherit was a human being that was approaching. There was no mistaking thatslow, swinging man-motion. At last the moment was approaching for whichthe youth had been striving so madly for the last few days, the momenthe had for years been conscious would some day come. It would soon behis; and with the thought his teeth set firmer, and a fierce joy tuggedat his heart.

  Five minutes, ten minutes dragged by; yet no observer, however close,could have seen a muscle stir in the long body of the waiting man. Likea great panther cat he lay there, the blue eyes peering just over thesurface of the ambush. Not ten paces away could an observer have toldthe tip of that motionless sombrero from the protruding top of aboulder. Gradually the approaching figure grew more distinct. A redhandkerchief showed clearly about the man's neck. Then a slight limp inthe left leg intruded itself, and a droop of the shoulders that spokeweariness. He was very near by this time, so near that the black beardwhich covered his face became discernible, likewise the bizarre breadthof the Mexican belt above the baggy chaperejos. The crunch of thesnow-crust marked his every foot-fall.

  And still Ben Blair had not stirred. Slowly, as the other hadapproached, the big blue eyes had darkened until they seemed almostbrown. Involuntarily the massive chin had moved forward; but that wasall. On the surface he was as calm as a lake on a windless night; butbeneath,--God! what a tempest was raging! Each one of those minutes hewaited so impassively marked the rush of a year's memories. Human hate,primal instinct all but uncontrollable, throbbed in his acceleratedpulse-beats. Like the continuous shifting scenes in a panorama, theincidents of his life in which this man had played a part appearedmockingly before his mind's eye. Plainly, as though in his physical ear,he heard the shuffle of an uncertain hand upon a latch; he saw a figurewith bloodshot eyes lurch into a rude floorless room, saw it approach abunk whereon lay a sick woman, his mother; heard the swift passage ofangry words, words which had branded themselves into his memory forever.Once more he was on all fours, scurrying for his life toward the darkopening of a protecting kennel. As plainly as though the memory were ofyesterday, he gazed into the blazing mouth of a furnace, felt itsscorching breath on his cheek. Swiftly the changing scenes danced beforehis eyes. A rifle-shot, real almost as though he could smell the burningpowder, sounded in his brain. Within the circle of light from a kerosenelamp a great figure sank in a heap to a ranch house floor. Against abackground of unbroken white a trail of red blotches ended in the mutelypathetic figure of a prostrate dying horse--a noble thoroughbred. Whatvaried horrors seethed in the watcher's brain, crowded each other,recurred and again recurred! How the long sinewy fingers itched toclutch that throat above the red neckerchief! He could see the man'sface now, as, ignorant of danger so close, he was passing by fifty feetto the left, looking to neither side, doggedly heading toward the pass.With the first motion since the figure had appeared, the hand of thewatcher tightened on the rifle, raised it until its black muzzle peepedover the elevation of snow. A pair of steady blue eyes gazed down thelong barrel, brought the sights in line with a spot between theshoulders and the waist of the unsuspecting man, the trigger-fingertightened, almost--

  A preventing something, something not primal in the youth, gripped him,held him for a second motionless. To kill a man from an ambush, evensuch a one as this without giving him a chance--no, he could not quitedo that. But to take him by the throat with his bare hands, and thenslowly, slowly--

  As noiselessly as the rifle had raised, it dropped again. The muscles ofthe long legs tightened as do those of a sprinter awaiting the startingpistol. Then over the barricade, straight as a tiger leaps, shot a tallyouth with steel-blue eyes, hatless, free of hand, straight for thatlistless, moving figure; the scattered snow flying to either side, theimpact of the bounding feet breaking the previous stillness. Tom Blair,the outlaw, could not but hear the rush. Instinctively he turned, and inthe fleeting second of that first glance Ben could see the face abovethe beard-line blanch. As one might feel should the Angel of Deathappear suddenly before him, Tom Blair must have felt then. As thoughfallen from the sky, this avenging demon was upon him. He had not timeto draw a revolver, a knife; barely to swing the rifle in his handupward to strike, to brace himself a little for the oncoming rush.

  With a crash the two bodies came together. Simultaneously the rifledescended, but for all its effectiveness it might have been a deadweed-stalk in the hands of a child. It was not a time for artificialweapons, but only for nature's own; a war of gripping, strangling hands,of tooth and nail. Nearly of a size were the two men. Both alike werehardened of muscle; both realized the battle was for life or death. Fora moment they remained upright, clutching, parrying for an advantage;then, locked each with each, they went to the ground. Beneath and aboutthem the fresh snow flew, filling their eyes, their mouths. Squirming,straining, over and over they rolled; first the beardless man on top,then the bearded. The sound of their straining breath was continuous,the ripping of coarse cloth an occasional interruption; but from thefirst, a spectator could not but have foreseen the end. The elder manwas fighting in self-defence: the younger, he of the massive protrudingjaw--a jaw now so prominent as to be a positive disfigurement--inunappeasable ferocity. Against him in that hour a very giant could nothave held his own. Merely a glimpse of his face inspired terror. Againand again as they struggled his hand had clutched at the other's throat,but only to have his hold broken. At last, however, his adversary wasweakening under the strain. Blind terror began to grip Tom Blair. Atfirst a mere suggestion, then a horrible certainty, possessed him as tothe identity of the relentless being who opposed him. Again the other'shand, like the creeping tentacle of an octopus, sought his throat, wouldnot be stayed. He struggled with all his might against it, until itseemed the blood-vessels of his neck would burst, but still the holdtightened. He clutched at the long fingers desperately, bit at them,felt his breath coming hard. Freeing his own hand, he smashed with hisfist again and again into that long thin face so near his own, knew thatanother tentacle had joined with the first, felt the impossibility ofdrawing air into his lungs, realized that consciousness was desertinghim, saw the sun over him like a mocking face--then knew no more.