CHAPTER XX
THE STORM BURSTS
The vigilantes had entered Crawling Water at about ten o'clock, when thesaloons and gambling joints were in full swing. Ribald songs and oathsfrom the players, drinkers, and hangers-on floated into the street, withnow and then the bark of a six-shooter telling of drunken sport orbravado. Few people were abroad; good citizens had retired to theirhomes, and the other half was amusing itself.
So it was, at first, that few noticed the troop of horsemen which swungin at one end of the town, to ride slowly and silently down the mainstreet. Each of the hundred men in the troop carried a rifle balancedacross his saddle pommel; each was dressed in the garb of therange-rider; and the face of each, glimpsed by the light from somewindow or doorway, was grimly stern. The sight was one calculated tomake Fear clutch like an ice-cold hand at the hearts of those withguilty consciences; a spectacle which induced such respectable men assaw it to arm themselves and fall in behind the advancing line. Theseknew without being told what this noiseless band of stern-eyed ridersportended, and ever since the coming of Moran into Crawling WaterValley, they had been waiting for just this climax.
Before the first of the dives, the troop halted as Wade raised his rightarm high in the air. Twenty of the men dismounted to enter theglittering doorway, while the remainder of the vigilantes waited ontheir horses. A few seconds after the twenty had disappeared, the musicof the piano within abruptly ceased. The shrill scream of a frightenedwoman preceded a couple of pistol shots and the sounds of a scuffle;then, profound silence. Presently the twenty reappeared guarding ahandful of prisoners, who were disarmed and hustled across the street toan empty barn, where they were placed under a guard of citizenvolunteers.
So they proceeded, stopping now and then to gather in more prisoners,who were in turn escorted to the temporary jail, while the columncontinued its relentless march. The system in their attack seemed toparalyze the activities of the Moran faction and its sycophants; therewas something almost awe-inspiring in the simple majesty of the thing.By now the whole town was aware of what was taking place; men werescurrying hither and thither, like rats on a sinking ship. Occasionallyone, when cornered and in desperation, put up a fight; but for the mostpart, the "bad men" were being captured without bloodshed. Few bad menare so "bad" that they would not rather live, even in captivity, thancome to their full reward in the kingdom of Satan. Frightened anddisorganized, the enemy seemed incapable of any concentrated resistance.As Santry succinctly put it: "They've sure lost their goat."
Not until the troop reached Monte Joe's place, which was the mostimposing of them all, was real opposition encountered. Here a number ofthe choicer spirits from the Moran crowd had assembled and barricadedthe building, spurred on by the knowledge that a rope with a runningnoose on one end of it would probably be their reward if captured alive.Monte Joe, a vicious, brutal ruffian, was himself in command and spokethrough the slats of a blind, when the vigilantes stopped before thedarkened building.
"What d'you want?" he hoarsely demanded.
"You, and those with you," Wade curtly answered.
The gambler peered down into the street, his little blood-shot eyesblinking like a pig's. "What for?" he growled.
"We'll show you soon enough," came in a rising answer from the crowd."Open up!"
Monte Joe withdrew from the window, feeling that he was doomed to death,but resolved to sell his life dearly. "Go to hell!" he shouted.
Wade gave a few tersely worded orders. Half a dozen of his men ran to anearby blacksmith shop for sledge hammers, with which to beat in thedoor of the gambling house, while the rest poured a hail of bullets intothe windows of the structure. Under the onslaught of the heavy hammers,swung by powerful arms, the door soon crashed inward, and the besiegerspoured through the opening. The fight which ensued was short and fierce.Outnumbered though the defenders were, they put up a desperate battle,but they were quickly beaten down and disarmed.
Shoved, dragged, carried, some of them cruelly wounded and a few deadbut all who lived swearing horribly, the prisoners were hustled to thestreet. Last of all came Monte Joe, securely held by two brawnycow-punchers. At sight of his mottled, blood-besmeared visage, the crowdwent wild.
"Hang him! Lynch the dirty brute! Get a rope!" The cry was taken up byfifty voices.
Hastily running the gambler beneath a convenient tree, they proceeded toadjust a noose about his neck. In another instant Monte Joe's soul wouldhave departed to the Great Beyond but for a series of interruptions.Wade created the first of these by forcing his big, black horse throughthe throng.
"Listen, men!" he roared. "You must stop this! This man--all ofthem--must have a fair trial."
"Trial be damned!" shouted a bearded rancher. "We've had enough law inthis valley. Now we're after justice."
Cheering him the crowd roared approbation of the sentiment, for even thelaw-abiding seemed suddenly to have gone mad with blood-lust. Wade, hisface flushed with anger, was about to reply to them when Santry forcedhis way to the front. Ever since Wade had released the old man fromjail, he had been impressed with the thought that, no matter what hisown views, gratitude demanded that he should instantly back up hisemployer.
"Justice!" snapped the old man, pushing his way into the circle that hadformed around the prisoner, a pistol in each hand. "Who's talkin' o'justice? Ain't me an' Wade been handed more dirt by this bunch o'crooks than all the rest o' you combined? Joe's a pizenous varmint, buthe's goin' to get something he never gave--a square deal. You hear me?Any man that thinks different can settle the p'int with me!"
He glared at the mob, his sparse, grizzled mustache seeming actually tobristle. By the dim light of a lantern held near him his aspect wasterrifying. A gash on his forehead had streaked one side of his facewith blood, while his eyes, beneath their shaggy thatch of brows,appeared to blaze like live coals. Involuntarily, those nearest himshrank back a pace but only for a moment for such a mob was not to bedaunted by threats. A low murmur of disapproval was rapidly swellinginto a growl of anger, when Sheriff Thomas appeared.
"Gentlemen!" he shouted, springing upon a convenient box. "The law mustbe respected, and as its representative in this community...."
"Beat it, you old turkey buzzard!" cried an irate puncher, wildlybrandishing a brace of Colts before the officer. "To hell with the lawand you, too. You ain't rep'sentative of nothin' in this community!"
"Men!" Wade began again.
"String the Sheriff up, too," somebody yelled.
"By right of this star...." Thomas tapped the badge on his vest. "Iam...."
"Pull on the rope!" cried the bearded rancher, and his order would havebeen executed but for Wade's detaining hand.
"I'm Sheriff here." Thomas was still trying to make himself heard,never noticing three men, who were rolling in behind him a barrel, whichthey had taken from a nearby store. "I demand that the law be respected,and that I be permitted to--to...." He stopped to sneeze and sputter,for having knocked in the top of the barrel, which contained flour, thethree men had emptied its contents over the officer's head.
His appearance as he tried to shake himself free of the sticky stuff,which coated him from head to foot, was so ludicrous that a roar oflaughter went up from the mob. It was the salvation of Monte Joe, forWade, laughing himself, took advantage of the general merriment to urgehis plea again in the gambler's behalf. This time the mob listened tohim.
"All right, Wade," a man cried. "Do as you like with the cuss. This ismostly your funeral, anyhow."
"Yes, let the ---- go," called out a dozen voices.
By this time the close formation of the vigilantes was broken. From timeto time, men had left the ranks in pursuit of skulkers, and finding theway back blocked by the crowd, had taken their own initiativethereafter. Wade and Santry could not be everywhere at once, and so ithappened that Lem Trowbridge was the only one of the leaders to bepresent when Tug Bailey was taken out of the jail. Trowbridge had notWade's quiet air of authority, and besides, he had allo
wed his own bloodto be fired by the "clean up." He might have attempted to save themurderer had time offered, but when the confession was wrung from him,the mob, cheated of one lynching, opened fire upon him as by a commonimpulse. In the batting of an eyelash, Bailey fell in a crumpled heap,his body riddled by bullets.
Meanwhile, Wade and Santry were searching for the chief cause of alltheir trouble, Race Moran. They were not surprised to find his officevacant, but as the night wore on and the saffron hues of dawn appearedin the sky, and still he was not found, they became anxious. Half of thegratification of their efforts would be gone, unless the agent was madeto pay the penalty of his crimes. Wade inquired of the men he met, andthey too had seen nothing of the wily agent. The search carried them tothe further end of the town without result, when Wade turned to Santry.
"Hunt up Lem and see if he knows anything," he said. "I'll meet you infront of the hotel. I'm going to ride out and see if I can dig up anynews on the edge of town. Moran may have made a get-away."
With a nod, Santry whirled his horse and dashed away, and Wade rodeforward toward an approaching resident, evidently of faint heart, whomeant, so it seemed, to be in for the "cakes" even though he had missedthe "roast." A little contemptuously, the ranchman put his question.
"Yes, I seen him; leastwise, I think so," the man answered. "He wentpast my house when the shootin' first started. How are the boys makin'out?"
"Which way did he go?" the cattleman demanded, ignoring the other'squestion. The resident pointed in the direction taken by Moran. "Are yousure?"
"If it was him, I am, and I think it was."
Wade rode slowly forward in the indicated direction, puzzled somewhat,for it led away from Sheridan, which should have been the agent'slogical objective point. But a few moments' consideration of thesituation made him think that the route was probably chosen forstrategic reasons. Very likely Moran had found his escape at the otherend of the town blocked, and he meant to work to some distant pointalong the railroad. Wade drew rein, with the idea of bringing hisfriends also to the pursuit, but from what his informant had told himMoran already had a long start and there was no time to waste insummoning assistance. Besides, if it were still possible to overtake thequarry, the ranchman preferred to settle his difference with him, faceto face, and alone.
He urged his horse into a lope, and a little beyond the town dismountedto pick up the trail of the fugitive, if it could be found. Thanks to arecent shower, the ground was still soft, and the cattleman soon pickedup the trail of a shod horse, leading away from the road and out uponthe turf. By the growing light, he was able to follow this at a fairlyrapid pace, and as he pressed on the reflection came to him that if theagent continued as he was now headed, he could hope to come outeventually upon the Burlington Railroad, a full seventy miles fromSheridan. The pursuit was likely to be a long one, in this event, andWade was regretting that he had not left some word to explain hisabsence, when he suddenly became aware of the fact that he had lost thetrail.
With an exclamation of annoyance, he rode back a hundred yards or so,until he picked up the tracks again, when he found that they turnedsharply to the right, altogether away from the railroad. Puzzled again,he followed it for half a mile, until convinced that Moran haddeliberately circled Crawling Water. But why? What reason could the manhave which, in a moment of desperate danger to himself, would lead himto delay his escape? What further deviltry could he have on foot? Therewas nothing to lead him in the direction he was now traveling,unless...! Wade's heart suddenly skipped a beat and beads of cold sweatbedewed his forehead, for Dorothy Purnell and her mother had come intohis mind. There was nothing ahead of Moran but the Double Arrow ranch!If that were the agent's objective point, there would be nothing betweenhim and the women save Barker, and the "drop" of a gun might settlethat!
Never had the big black horse been spurred as cruelly as he was then,when Wade plunged his heels into his flanks. With a snort the horsebolted and then settled into his stride until the gentle breeze in therider's face became a rushing gale. But the pain which the animal hadfelt was nothing to the fear which tugged at the ranchman'sheartstrings, as he reproached himself bitterly for having left only oneman at the ranch, although at the time the thought of peril to the womenhad never occurred to him. With the start that Moran had, Wade reasonedthat he stood small chance of arriving in time to do any good. He couldonly count upon the watchfulness and skill of Barker to protect them.
Failing that, there was but one hope, that the rider who had gone onahead might not be Moran after all. But presently all doubt of the man'sidentity was removed from the ranchman's mind, for on the soggy turfahead his quick eyes caught the glitter of something bright. Sweepingdown from his saddle, he picked it up without stopping, and found thatit was a half emptied whiskey flask. Turning it over in his hand, heread the inscription: "To Race Moran from his friends of the Murray HillClub."