Louisiana Lou

  CHAPTER XVI

  IN THE SOLITUDES OF THE CANYON

  The great wall of the Esmeraldas is split at one point by a raggedchasm opening out into the foothills and the grass plains to thenorth. This was the outlet of Shoestring Creek, a small stream ofwater which flowed out into the plain and was finally lost in thesands. It ran back into the range almost to the top of the maindivide, forming a sort of natural pathway through the ruggedmountains, a pathway much followed by the sheep-herders in drivingtheir flocks from winter to summer range.

  There was no road, properly speaking. In fact, when one had penetrateda few miles into the canyon passage was rendered arduous and difficultby a series of rocky terraces down which the stream tumbled. At manypoints the sheep trails winding along the slopes of the canyon wallsformed the only practical thoroughfare.

  Farther up, the canyon became more level, but no one had ever built aroad through it. A good trail ran along it, generally at the level ofthe stream. Once past the terraced and rough part, there were nodifficulties worthy of mention, at least in other seasons thanwinter.

  It was into this entrance to the Esmeraldas that Solange and hercavaliers rode, pushing on steadily so as to be able to make campabove the obstructions. Sucatash and Dave, finding that the girl was acapable horsewoman and apparently able to bear any reasonable amountof fatigue, had pushed their first day's travel relentlessly, coveringthe twenty miles between the ranch and the mountains, and aiming topenetrate another ten miles into the hills on the first day.

  There had been little conversation. The two boys had the habit oftheir kind and kept silence for the most part while on the trail. Asfor Solange, though interested in the strange and wild country, shewas engrossed in her own thoughts, aloof from all about her, wonderingceaselessly what her search would eventually develop.

  There had been many times, even after starting on her pilgrimage, whenthe whole adventure had appealed to her as one that was no better thana weird, senseless obsession, one that she would do well to turn backfrom and forget. Probably, at first, she had only been kept to thetask by a certain spirit of adventure, a youthful and long-repressedurge for romance, fortified by inherited traditions of the sacrednessof vengeance. It is even probable that, had it not been for thefortuitous advent of De Launay and the wild impulse which had led herto enlist him in the affair, she would have remained at home andsettled down to--what?

  It was that memory of what her fate must be at home that had alwaysfurnished the final prick to her faltering resolution. Better towander, lonely and helpless, fighting and struggling to achieve somemeasure of independence, than remain to what her existence must be inFrance, whether it was the drab life of a seamstress or shopgirl, thegray existence of a convent, the sluggish grind of a sordidmarriage--provided she could find a man to marry--or the feverishdegradation of the _demi-monde_.

  But now, as she rode under the frowning, yellow-brown, black-patchedrocks of the Esmeraldas, or looked backward over the drab plain behindher, she felt an ever-increasing exaltation and tingling sense ofexpectation. She could not guess what was going to happen. She had noidea of what awaited her among those mountains, but she had a strongand distinct impression that fate was leading her on to a finalaccounting.

  Why De Launay should be inextricably entangled in that settlement shecould not imagine but he was always there. Her recollections of himwere those of disgust and contempt. To her he was merely a fallen,weak, dissipated man, criminally neglectful of opportunities,criminally indifferent to his obligations. She recalled him as he hadstood in the cell of the jail, unkempt, shattered of nerve, and sheshivered to think that he had been a man who was once consideredgreat. The fact that she was bound to him, even though the affair wasone purely of form, should have affected her as something degrading.

  Peculiarly, however, it did not. Most of the time she never consideredthe marriage at all. When she did it was with a feeling of mingledsecurity and comfort. It was convenient and, somehow, she felt that,in De Launay, she had the one husband who would not have been anuisance or have endeavored to take advantage of the circumstances.The marriage being a matter of form, a divorce was inevitable andsimple, yet, when she considered that matter of divorce, she felt aqueer sort of reluctance and distaste, as though it were best to shoveconsideration of that point into the future as far as possible.

  The gaunt, bare canyon thrilled her. She felt as though she werebreaking into some mysterious, Bluebeard region where danger,adventure and intrigue awaited her. The mine, indeed, remained a merevague possibility, hoped for but hardly expected. But her father'sslayer and the vengeance that she had nursed so long became realities.The rocks that blocked the way might hide him and, somewhere in thosehills, rode De Launay, who would lead her to that evil beast who hadblighted her life.

  Again, why De Launay? She did not know, except that she felt that thedrunken soldier held the key to the search. Probably he was to be theinstrument of vengeance; the slayer of the criminal; the settler ofthe blood feud. He was hers by marriage, and in marrying her hadwedded the vendetta. Besides, he was the type. A l?gionnaire, probablya criminal, and certainly one who had killed without compunction inhis time. The instrument of Providence, in fact!

  Ahead of her rode Sucatash, ahead of him the long string of laden packhorses and ahead of them the silent Dave. The two cow-punchers hadjogged throughout the day with silent indifference to theirsurroundings, but after they had entered the foothills and werecreeping into the shadow of the canyon they evinced more animation.Every now and then Solange observed that one or the other cast aglance up into the air and ahead of them, toward the interior of therange. She was riding closer to Sucatash who motioned toward thedistant crest of the range which showed through the gap of the canyon.

  She nodded. She was mountain born and bred and recognized the signs.

  "There will be a storm, monsieur."

  Sucatash rewarded her with an admiring glance. "Afraid we're headedinto it," he said. "Better turn back?"

  "It will take more than storms to turn me back," she answered.

  Sucatash nodded and turned again to look at the sky turning gray andgradually blackening above the dim line of the ridge. Even as theywatched it, the sky seemed to descend upon the crest and to melt it.The outlines became vague, broken up, changed.

  "Snowing up there," he said. "By'n by, it'll be snowin' down here.Snow ain't so bad--but----"

  "But what?"

  "She drifts into this here canyon pretty bad. There ain't no road anddown hereaways where these rocks make the goin' hard at the best oftimes, the drifts sure stack up bad."

  "What is it that you mean, Monsieur Sucatash?"

  "I mean that we ain't goin' to have no trouble gettin' in,mad'mo'selle, but we may have a fierce time gettin' out. In two daysthe drifts will be pilin' up on the divide and the trail on the otherside, and in a coupla days more they'll be blockin' the canyon downthis a way."

  Solange shrugged her shoulders. "We have food," she answered. "At anyrate, I am going on. I have promised that I would meet Monsieur deLaunay in this canyon. I cannot keep him waiting."

  Sucatash accepted her ultimatum without protest. But, after amomentary silence, he turned once more in his saddle.

  "Say, mad'mo'selle," he said, "this here De Launay, now; he's sureenough your husband?"

  "Of course."

  "But he ain't noways a regular, honest-to-God husband, is he?"

  "We are married," said Solange. "Is that not enough?"

  "I reckon so. Still, there's Dave and me--we would sure admire to knowhow this feller stands with you."

  Solange looked at him, and he found difficulty, as usual, inconcentrating on what she said or on anything but the fathomless eyes.Yet he comprehended that she was speaking, that she was smilingkindly, and yet that speech and smile were both destructive of hisimmature romance.

  "He stands--not at all, monsieur, except as an instrument. But--thatway--he and I are bound together forever."

  It was in her
eyes that Sucatash read meaning. Somewhere in theirdepths he found a knowledge denied even to her, perhaps. He heaved aprofound sigh and turned to yell at Dave.

  "Get a wiggle on, old-timer! You an' me are just hired hands on thispasear. _Madame de Launay_ will be gettin' hungry before we makecamp."

  Dave swung quickly around, catching the slight emphasis on the strangename. Over the backs of the pack horses his and his companion's eyesmet. Then he turned back and jogged up the pace a trifle.

  By five o'clock in the evening they had passed the worst stages of thejourney and were well up into the canyon. But the storm was worse thanthey had thought. Already occasional snowflakes were drifting down,and the chill was beginning to bite even through the warm fleece thatlined mademoiselle's coat. The men decided to make camp.

  They pitched Solange's tent in a sheltered spot not far above thestream. They themselves slept in the open under heavy tarps. Sucatashsighed again when, during that evening, Solange showed that she was nohelpless creature of civilization but could fully perform her part ofany tasks that were to be done. She cooked over a camp fire as thoughshe had been born to it, and the food was better in consequence.

  But Sucatash was uneasy. In the morning he consulted Dave and thatyoung man shared his fears.

  "It ain't goin' to be bad for several days," he said. "But when shedrifts in earnest we all are liable to be stuck in here until spring.I ain't aimin' to get anxious, Dave, but we ain't fixed to bucksnow."

  "She ain't goin' to turn back, so what can we do?" asked the other.

  "This here De Launay will probably be up near the crater. Once we gether up there we ain't responsible. But there ain't no telling how soonthe snow'll drift. I'm thinkin' one of us ought to mosey back to theranch and bring in webs and dogs."

  "He'd better get a-going, then," said Dave.

  "You'd better stay with the lady and take her on. I hate to leave heralone with a feller like you, but I reckon she'll meet up with herhusband by night and he can settle you if necessary. I'll pull myfreight out o' here and git the snowshoes and a dog sled and team.We'll maybe need a heap more grub than we've got if we hole up heretoo long."

  "You're shoutin'," agreed Dave.

  Mademoiselle, when the plan was broached to her, made no objection.She was constitutionally fearless where men were concerned, and thedeparture of Sucatash did not in the least alarm her. She alsorecognized the wisdom of taking precautions against their being snowedin.

  Thus the party broke up in the morning. Sucatash, before departing,took his rifle and a full belt of ammunition and fastened it to thegirl's saddle.

  "If Dave gets gay," he said, with a grin, "just bust him where helooks biggest with this here 30-30."

  After assisting in packing the horses, he mounted and rode down thecanyon while Solange and Dave resumed their journey in the oppositedirection.

  Sucatash, as soon as he had passed out of sight, quartered up the sideof the canyon where sheep trails promised somewhat easier going thanthe irregular floor of the gulch. Thus he was enabled to get anoccasional glimpse of them by looking backward whenever favorableground exposed the valley. But he was soon past all hope of furthervision, and when the distraction was removed settled down to make thebest speed on his journey.

  He gave no heed to anything but the route ahead of him and that wassoon a task that engrossed him. It had been snowing some all night,and it was now slithering down in great flakes which made the air agray mystery and the ground a vague and shadowy puzzle. Sucatash didnot care to linger. Without the girl to care for he was one who wouldtake chances, and he rushed his horse rapidly, slogging steadily alongthe trails, without attention to anything but the ribbon of beatenpath immediately ahead of him.

  There was every reason to believe that the hills were empty of allhumankind except for their own party and De Launay, who was ahead andnot behind them. Sucatash was entirely ignorant of the fact that,among the rocky terraces of the canyon, Jim Banker camped, after havingfollowed their trail as long as the light would allow him to do so.

  The prospector was up and on the move as soon as Sucatash. He and hisburros were trudging along among the rocks, the old man muttering andtalking to himself and shaking his head from side to side as one whosebrain has been affected by years of solitude and unending search forgold. His eyes were never still, but swept the trail ahead of him orthe slopes on either hand, back and forth, back and forth, restlesslyand uneasily as though there were something here that he looked forand yet feared to see.

  Far ahead of him and high on the slope he finally beheld Sucatash,riding alone and at a rapid trot along a sheep trail, his long, leanfigure leaning forward, raised in his stirrups, and his hands onsaddle horn. He was evidently riding in haste, for that gait andattitude on the part of a cow hand means that he is in a hurry and hasa long way to go.

  The prospector hurriedly unslung a field glass and focused it onSucatash. When he was sure of the man and of his route he grinnedevilly.

  "One of 'em right into my hands," he chuckled.

  He then dismounted and ran to one of the burros. From the pack hedragged a roll of wire which he carried there for some purpose orother, probably for the construction of a short length of fencewhenever he stopped long enough to make it desirable. He glanced up atthe gray sky, noting the swirl of snowflakes which settled down like acloud. A few moments ago they had almost ceased, enabling him toglimpse the rider at a distance and now they were providentiallyfalling again. Luck was surely with him.

  Above him, about fifty yards up the slope of the canyon wall, was along bench, rather narrow and beaten flat by the passage of countlesssheep. Under it the hill sloped sharply, almost precipitously. It wasas though made to order for his purpose.

  He mounted his horse and spurred it around and quartering up the hilleven as Sucatash wound in and out among the swales and depressions ofthe canyon wall, now coming into dim view and now vanishing behind abend. Banker had plenty of time.

  He reached the bench and hurriedly dismounted, to run to a scrubbycedar growing almost on the edge of the ledge. Round this, at no morethan six inches above the ground, he twisted an end of the wire. Thenhe ran with the other end across the bench and snubbed it around ascrub oak growing on the slope. The branches of the little tree werethick, and the tough, prickly leaves still hung to it in somequantity.

  He dropped the wire and went out and led his horse back among thescrub oaks. He then stood up close to the tree, almost invisibleagainst the tangled branches and dead leaves. In one hand he held thecoil of wire snubbed about the roots of the scrub oak while the otherwas clutching the nose of his horse.

  Finally out of the smother of snow Sucatash came driving, head bentand hat brim pulled down to avoid the snow. The road was easy enoughand he thought of nothing but getting along with all the speedpossible. He did not notice that his horse, when emerging onto thebench, broke its stride and threw up its head as though seekingsomething. Instead he sank his spurs and urged the beast on.

  The horse broke into a lope on the level stretch in answer to thespur. They came sweeping down until opposite where the prospectorcrouched.

  Banker released his hold on his horse's nose and tightened the pull onthe wire at the same time. His horse neighed.

  Shrilly and loud, Sucatash's mount answered. Head thrown high andturned to the side he half checked his stride at the call of his kind.Startled, Sucatash also threw up his head and turned.

  Then the wire clutched the forelegs of the horse and, with a crash, hewent down. Sucatash went with him, and, catlike, strove to throwhimself from the saddle. Unfortunately, he leaped on the outer sidewhere the ledge fell away steeply.

  He freed himself from the plunging horse, but his head struck hardagainst the gnarled trunk of a juniper and, half stunned, his bodyslid over the edge and dropped.

  Chuckling and mouthing, rubbing his hands together, Banker slunk fromhis ambush. He retrieved his wire and then looked at the horse kickingon the ground.

  "No use
lettin' him go back to the ranch," he said, slyly. Then hedrew his six-shooter and shot the animal.

  Leading his own horse he climbed carefully down the slope and workedhis way to where the body must have fallen. But it took him some timeto find it, as Sucatash had rolled far after striking the slope.

  He came upon it at last wedged against a clump of greasewood. Therewas blood on the head and the sightless eyes stared up to the graysky. Snowflakes fell steadily and melted against the white cheeks. Thebody lay awkwardly twisted.

  "Dead!" chuckled Banker. "All of 'em die! Old Jim don't die, though!Old Jim'll find it! He'll find the gold. French Pete hid it; Panaminthid it; this here Frog lady is hidin' it. But old Jim'll find it. OldJim'll find it after all of 'em's dead. Dead! Dead! Dead!"

  He burst out into shrill laughter, and his horse snorted and tried topull away. He instantly broke off laughing to curse foully, mouthingobscenities and oaths as he jerked cruelly at the spade bit. Thetrembling horse squatted back and then stood with wildly rollingeyes.

  Muttering, Jim stamped heavily down the hill, dragging the horse withhim and leaving the still form to the mercies of the snow. The fallingflakes were already filling up the trail that he left. In an hour ortwo there would be no sign of his presence.