CHAPTER XII
ON MUSIC MOUNTAIN
De Spain, when he climbed into Sassoon's saddle, was losing sight andconsciousness. He knew he could no longer defend himself, and was sofaint that only the determination of putting distance between him andany pursuers held him to the horse after he spurred away. With theinstinct of the hunted, he fumbled with his right hand for his meansof defense, and was relieved to find his revolver, after his panickydash for safety, safe in its place. He put his hand to his belt forfresh cartridges. The belt was gone.
The discovery sent a shock through his failing faculties. He could notrecollect why he had no belt. Believing his senses tricked him, hefelt again and again for it before he would believe it was not buckledsomewhere about him. But it was gone, and he stuck back in hiswaistband his useless revolver. One hope remained--flight, and hespurred his horse cruelly.
Blood running continually into his eyes from the wound in his headmade him think his eyes were gone, and direction was a thing quitebeyond his power to compass. He made little effort to guide, and hisinfuriated horse flew along as if winged.
A warm, sticky feeling in his right boot warned him, when he tried tomake some mental inventory of his condition, of at least one otherwound. But he found he could inventory nothing, recollect next tonothing, and all that he wanted to do was to escape. More than once hetried to look behind, and he dashed his hand across his red forehead.He could not see twenty feet ahead or behind. Even when he hurriedlywiped the cloud from his eyes his vision seemed to have failed, and hecould only cling to his horse to put the miles as fast as possiblebetween himself and more of the Morgans.
A perceptible weakness presently forced him to realize he must look tohis wounded foot. This he did without slackening speed. The sight ofit and the feeling inside his torn and blood-soaked boot was notreassuring, but he rode on, sparing neither his horse nor hisexhaustion. It was only when spells of dizziness, recurring withfrequency, warned him he could not keep the saddle much longer, thathe attempted to dismount to stanch the drip of blood from hisstirrup.
Before he slackened speed he tried to look behind to reconnoitre.With relief he perceived his sight to be a trifle better, and inscanning the horizon he could discover no pursuers. Choosing asecluded spot, he dismounted, cut open his boot, and found that abullet, passing downward, had torn an artery under the arch of thefoot. Making a rude tourniquet, he succeeded in checking pretty wellthe spurting flow that was sapping his strength. After he had adjustedthe bandage he stood up and looked at it. Then he drew his revolveragain and broke it. He found five empty shells in the chambers andthrew them away. The last cartridge had not been fired. He could noteven figure out how he had happened to have six cartridges in thecylinder, for he rarely loaded more than five. Indeed, it was hisfixed habit--to avoid accidents--never to carry a cartridge under thehammer of his gun--yet now there had been one. Without trying toexplain the circumstance, he took fresh stock of his chances and beganto wonder whether he might yet escape and live.
He climbed again into the saddle, and, riding to a ridge, lookedcarefully over the desert. It was with an effort that he could steadyhimself, and the extent of his weakness surprised him. What furtherperplexed him as he crossed a long divide, got another good view andsaw no pursuit threatening in any direction, was to identify thecountry he was in. The only landmark anywhere in sight that he couldrecognize was Music Mountain. This now lay to the northwest, and heknew he must be a long way from any country he was familiar with. Butthere was no gainsaying, even in his confused condition, MusicMountain. After looking at it a long time he headed with somehesitation cautiously toward it, with intent to intercept the firsttrail to the northeast. This would take him toward Sleepy Cat.
As his eyes continued to sweep the horizon he noted that the sun wasdown and it was growing dark. This brought a relief and a difficulty.It left him less in fear of molestation, but made it harder for him toreach a known trail. The horse, in spite of the long, hard ride seemedfresh yet, and de Spain, with one cartridge would still have laughedat his difficulties had he not realized, with uneasiness, that hishead was becoming very light. Recurring intervals of giddinessforeshadowed a new danger in his uncharted ride. It became again aproblem for him to keep his seat in the saddle. He was aware atintervals that he was steadying himself like a drunken man. Hisefforts to guide the horse only bewildered the beast, and the twotravelled on maudlin curves and doubled back on their track until deSpain decided that his sole chance of reaching any known trail was tolet go and give the horse his head.
A starless night fell across the desert. With danger of pursuitpractically ended, and only a chance encounter to fear, de Spain triedto help himself by walking the horse and resting his bleeding foot infront of the pommel, letting the pony pick his way as he chose. Aperiod of unconsciousness, a blank in de Spain's mind, soon followedthe slowing up. He came to himself as he was lurching out of thesaddle. Pulling himself together, he put the wet foot in the stirrupagain and clung to the pommel with his hands. How long he rode in thisway, or how far, he never knew. He was roused to consciousness by theunaccustomed sound of running water underneath his horse's feet.
It was pitch dark everywhere. The horse after the hard experience ofthe evening was drinking a welcome draft. De Spain had no conceptionof where he could be, but the stream told him he had somehow reachedthe range, though Music Mountain itself had been swallowed up in thenight. A sudden and uncontrollable thirst seized the wounded man. Hecould hear the water falling over the stones and climbed slowly andpainfully out of the saddle to the ground. With the lines in his lefthand he crawled toward the water and, lying flat on the ground besidethe horse, put his head down to drink. The horse, meantime, satisfied,lifted his head with a gulp, rinsed his mouth, and pulled backward.The lines slipped from de Spain's hand. Alarmed, the weakened manscrambled after them. The horse, startled, shied, and before his ridercould get to his feet scampered off in a trot. While de Spain listenedin consternation, the escaped horse, falling into an easy stride,galloped away into the night.
Stunned by this new misfortune, and listening gloomily to theretreating hoof-beats, de Spain pondered the situation in which thedisaster left him. It was the worst possible blow that could havefallen, but fallen it had, and he turned with such philosophy as hecould to complete the drink of water that had probably cost him hislife. At least, cold water never tasted sweeter, never was so gratefulto his parched tongue, and since the price of the draft might bemeasured by life itself, he drank extravagantly, stopping at times torest and, after breathing deeply, to drink again.
When he had slaked a seemingly unquenchable craving, he dashed therunning water, first with one hand and then the other, over his face.He tried feebly to wash away some of the alkali that had crusted overthe wound in the front of his head and was stinging and burning in it.There was now nothing to do but to secrete himself until daylight andwait till help should reach him--it was manifestly impossible for himto seek it.
Meantime, the little stream beside him offered first aid. He tried itwith his foot and found it slight and shallow, albeit with a rocky bedthat made wading in his condition difficult. But he felt so muchbetter he was able to attempt this, and, keeping near to one side ofthe current, he began to follow it slowly up-stream. The ascent was attimes precipitous, which pleased him, though it depleted his newstrength. It was easy in this way to hide his trail, and the higherand faster the stream took him into the mountains the safer he wouldbe from any Calabasas pursuers. When he had regained a little strengthand oriented himself, he could quickly get down into the hills.
Animated by these thoughts, he held his way up-stream, hoping at everystep to reach the gorge from which the flow issued. He would haveknown this by the sound of the falling water, but, weakening soon, hefound he must abandon hope of getting up to it. However, by restingand scrambling up the rocks, he kept on longer than he would havebelieved possible. Encountering at length, as he struggled upward, aledge and a clump of bushes, he c
rawled weakly on hands and knees intoit, too spent to struggle farther, stretched himself on the flattenedbrambles and sank into a heavy sleep.
* * * * *
He woke in broad daylight. Consciousness returned slowly and he raisedhimself with pain from his rough couch. His wounds were stiff, and helay for a long time on his back looking up at the sky. At length hedragged himself to an open space near where he had slept and lookedabout. He appeared to be near the foot of a mountain quite strange tohim, and in rather an exposed place. The shelter that had served himfor the night proved worthless in daylight and, following his stronglydeveloped instinct of self-preservation, de Spain started once more upthe rocky path of the stream. He clambered a hundred feet above wherehe had slept before he found a hiding-place. It was at the foot of atiny waterfall where the brook, striking a ledge of granite, hadpatiently hollowed out a shallow pool. Beside this a great mass offrost-bitten rock had fallen, and one of the bowlders lay tilted insuch a way as to roof in a sort of cave, the entrance to which wasnot higher than a man's knee. De Spain crawled into this refuge. Heconceived that from this high, open ledge he could show a smallsignal-fire at night, and if it were answered by his enemies he had asemblance of a retreat under the fallen rock, a hunting-knife, and onelone cartridge to protect himself with. A mountain-lion might have tobe reckoned with; and if a pursuer should follow him under the rockhis only chance would lie in getting hold, after a fight, of the man'sloaded revolver or ammunition-belt. Such a hope involved a great dealof confidence, but de Spain was an optimist--most railroad men are.
The outlook was, in truth, not altogether cheerful--some would havecalled it, for a wounded man, desperate--but it had some slightconsolations and de Spain was not given to long-range forebodings. Therising sun shone in a glory of clearness, and the cool night airrolling up the mountain was grateful and refreshing. Lying flat on therock, he stretched his head forward and drank deeply of the ice-coldpool beside which he lay. The violent exertion of reaching the heighthad started the ruptured artery anew, and his first work was crudelyto cleanse the wound and attempt to rebandage it. He was hungry, butfor this there was only one alleviation--sleep--and, carefullyeffacing all traces of his presence on the ledge, he crawled into hisrock retreat and fell again into a heavy slumber.
It was this repose that proved his undoing. He woke to consciousnessso weak he could scarcely lift his head. It was still day. A consumingthirst assailed him, but he lacked the strength to crawl out of hiscave, and, looking toward his bandaged foot, he was shocked at thesight of how it had bled while he slept. When he could rally from hisdiscouragement he rewound the bandages and told himself what a fool hehad been to drag his foot up the rocks before the wound had had anychance to heal. He resolved, despite his thirst, to lie still all dayand give the artery absolute quiet. It required only a littlestoicism; the stake was life.
Toward afternoon his restlessness increased, but he clung to hisresolve to lie still. By evening he was burning with thirst, and whenmorning came after a feverish night, with his head on fire and hismouth crusted dry, he concluded rightly that one or both of his woundshad become infected.
De Spain understood what it meant. He looked regretfully at theinjured foot. Swollen out of shape and angry-looking, the mereappearance would have told him, had the confirmation been needed,that his situation was becoming critical. This did not so muchdisconcert him as it surprised him and spurred him mentally to thenecessity of new measures. He lay a long time thinking. Against theinfection he could do little. But the one aid at his hand wasabundance of cold water to drink and bathe his wound in, and to thishe resolved now to drag himself. To crawl across the space thatseparated him from the pool required all the strength he could summon.The sun was already well up and its rays shot like spectrum arrowsthrough the spray of the dainty cataract, which spurted in a jewelledsheet over a rocky ledge twenty feet above and poured noisily downfrom the broad pool along jagged bowlders below.
Crawling, choking with thirst, slowly forward, he reached the water,and, reclining on his side and one elbow, he was about to lean down todrink when he suddenly felt, with some kind of an instinctive shock,that he was no longer alone on the ledge. He had no interest inanalyzing the conviction; he did not even question it. Not a sound hadreached his ears. Only a moment before he had looked carefully allaround. But the field of his vision was closely circumscribed by thewalls about him. It was easy for an invader to come on his retreatunawares--at all events, somebody, he was almost sure, stood behindhim. The silence meant an enemy. The first thing to expect was abullet. It would probably be aimed at the back of his head. At leasthe knew this was the spot to aim for to kill a man instantly andpainlessly--yet he shrank from that anticipated crash.
And it was this thought that cost the defenseless man at the momentthe most pain--that feeling, in advance, of the blow of the bulletthat should snuff out his life. Defense was out of the question; hewas as helpless as a baby. An impulse in his fingers to clutch hisrevolver he restrained at once--it could only hasten his death. Hewondered, as the seconds passed, why his executioner hesitated toshoot, but he could not rid himself of the mental horror of being shotin the base of the brain. Anywhere else he would have almost welcomeda bullet; anywhere else it might have given him one chance for lifethrough rolling over after he was struck in an attempt to kill hisassailant.
His thoughts, working in flashes of lightning, suggested everypossible trick of escape, and as rapidly rejected each. There wasnothing for it but to play the part, to take the blow with no morethan a quiver when it came. He had once seen a man shot in just thatway. Braced to such a determination, de Spain bent slowly downward,and, with eyes staring into the water for a reflection that mightafford a glimpse of his enemy, he began to drink. A splash above hishead frightened him almost to death. It was a water ousel dashing intothe foaming cataract and out again, and the spray falling from thesudden bath wrecked the mirror of the pool. De Spain nearly choked.Each mouthful of water was a struggle. The sense of impending deathhad robbed even the life-giving drafts of their tonic; each instantcarried its acute sensation of being the last. At length, his nervesweakened by hunger and exposure, revolted under the strain. Suppose itshould be, after all, a fantasy of his fever that pictured so vividlyan enemy behind. With an effort that cost more mental torture than heever had known, he drew back on his elbow from the pool, steadiedhimself, turned his head to face his executioner, and confronted NanMorgan.