The Rangeland Avenger

  26

  Toward the flat-topped mountain, with the feeling of his fate upon him,Bill Sandersen pushed his mustang through the late evening, while thedarkness fell. He had long since stopped thinking, reasoning. There wasonly the strong, blind feeling that he must meet Sinclair face to faceand decide his destiny in one brief struggle.

  So he kept on until his shadow fell faintly on his path before him,long, shapeless, grotesque. He turned and saw the moon coming up abovethe eastern mountains, a wan, sickly moon hardly out of her firstquarter, and even in the pure mountain air her light was dim.

  But it gave thought and pause to Sandersen. First there was theoutcropping of a singular superstition which he had heard long beforeand never remembered until this moment: that a moon seen over the leftshoulder meant the worst of bad luck. It boded very ill for the end ofthis adventure.

  Suppose he were able only partially to surprise the big cowpuncher fromthe north, and that there was a call for fighting. What chance would hehave in the dim and bewildering light of that moon against the suretyof Sinclair who shot, he knew, as other men point the finger--instinctively hitting the target? It would be a mere butchery,not a battle.

  Sending his mustang into a copse of young trees, he dismounted. Hismind was made up not to attempt the blow until the first light of dawn.He would try to reach the top of the flat-crested mountain well beforesunup, when there would be a real light instead of this ghostly andpartial illumination from the moon.

  Among the trees he sat down and took up the dreadful watches of thenight. Sleep never came near him. He was turning the back pages of hismemory, reviewing his past with the singular clearness of a man aboutto die. For Sandersen had this mortal certainty resting upon his mindthat he must try to strike down Sinclair, and that he would fail. Andfailure meant only one alternative--death. He was perfectly confidentthat this was the truth. He knew with prophetic surety that he wouldnever again see the kind light of the sun, that in a half-light, in thecold of the dawn, a bullet would end his life.

  What he saw in the past was not comforting. A long train of vividmemories came up in his mind. He had accomplished nothing. In the totalcourse of his life he had not made a man his friend, or won the love ofa woman. In all his attempts to succeed in life there had been nothingbut disastrous failures, and wherever he moved he involved others inhis fall. Certainly the prospecting trip with the three other men hadbeen worse than all the rest, but it had been typical. It had been hewho first suggested the trip, and he had rounded the party together andsustained it with enthusiasm.

  It had been he who led it into the mountains and across the desert. Andon the terrible return trip he knew, with an abiding sense of guilt,that he alone could have checked the murderous and cowardly impulse ofQuade. He alone could have overruled Quade and Lowrie; or, failing tooverrule them he should at least have stayed with the cripple andhelped him on, with the chance of death for them both.

  When he thought of that noble opportunity lost, he writhed. It wouldhave gained the deathless affection of Hal Sinclair and saved thatyoung, strong life. It would have won him more. It would have madeRiley Sinclair his ally so long as he lived. And how easy to have doneit, he thought, looking back.

  Instead, he had given way; and already the result had been the death ofthree men. The tale was not yet told, he was sure. Another death wasdue. A curse lay on that entire party, and it would not be ended untilhe, Sandersen, the soul of the enterprise, fell.

  The moon grew old in the west. Then he took the saddle again and rode,brooding, up the trail, his horse stumbling over the stones as theanimal grew wearier in the climb.

  And then, keeping his gaze fastened above him, he saw the outline ofthe crests grow more and more distinct. He looked behind. In the eastthe light was growing. The whole horizon was rimmed with a pale glow.

  Now his spirits rose. Even this gray dawn was far better than thetreacherous moonlight. A daylight calm came over him. He was stronger,surer of himself. Impatiently he drew out his Colt and looked to itsaction. The familiar weight added to his self-belief. It becamepossible for him to fight, and being possible to fight, it was alsopossible to conquer.

  Presently he reached a bald upland. The fresh wind of the morningstruck his face, and he breathed deep of it. Why could he not return toSour Creek as a hero, and why could he not collect the price on thehead of Riley Sinclair?

  The thought made him alert, savage. A moment later, his head pushing upto the level of the shoulder of the mountain, he saw his quarry. In thedimness of that early dawn he made out the form of a sleeper huddled inblankets, but it was enough. That must be Riley Sinclair. It could notbe another, and all his premonitions were correct.

  Suddenly he became aware that he could not fail. It was impossible! Asgloomy as he had been before, his spirits now leaped to the heights. Heswung down from the saddle, softly, slowly, and went up the hillwithout once drawing his eyes from that motionless form in theblankets.

  Once something stirred to the right and far below him. He flashed aglance in that direction and saw that it was a hobbled horse, thoughnot the horse of Sinclair; but that mattered nothing. The second horsemight be among the trees.

  Easing his step and tightening the grip on his revolver, he drewcloser. Should he shoot without warning? No, he would lean over thesleeper, call his name, and let him waken and see his death before itcame to him. Otherwise the triumph would be robbed of half of itssweetness.

  Now he had come sufficiently near to make out distinctly that there wasonly one sleeper. Had Sinclair and Cold Feet separated? If so, thismust be Sinclair. The latter might have the boldness to linger so closeto danger, but certainly never Cold Feet, even if he had once workedhis courage to the point of killing a man. He stepped closer, leaned,and then by the half-light made out the pale, delicate features of theschoolteacher.

  For the moment Sandersen was stunned with disappointment, and yet hisspirits rose again almost at once. If Sinclair had fled, all thebetter. He would not return, at least for a long time, and in themeantime, he, Sandersen, would collect the money on the head of ColdFeet!

  With the Colt close to the breast of Jig, he said: "Wake up, ColdFeet!"

  The girl opened her eyes, struggled to sit up, and was thrust back bythe muzzle of the gun, held with rocklike firmness in the hand ofSandersen.

  "Riley--what--" she muttered sleepily and then she made out the face ofSandersen distinctly.

  Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring. Better to takethe desperado alive than dead--far better. Cold Feet would make a showin Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode downthrough the main street, and the men would come out to see the prizewhich even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take.

  "Roll over on your face."

  Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur. There was a coiled rope by thecinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and boundthe slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerkedhis quarry to a sitting posture.

  "Where's Sinclair gone?"

  To his astonishment, Cold Feet's face brightened wonderfully.

  "Oh, then you haven't found him? You haven't found him? Thankgoodness!"

  Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible tomistake the frankness of the latter's face.

  "By guns," he said at last, "I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off inthe middle of the night and left you alone here to face the music?"

  Jig flushed, as she exclaimed: "That's not true. He's never run away inhis life."

  "Maybe not," muttered Sandersen apprehensively. "Maybe he'll come backag'in. Maybe he's just rode off after something and will be back."

  At once the old fear swept over him. His apprehensive glance flickeredover the rocks and trees around him--a thousand secure hiding places.He faced the schoolteacher again.

  "Look here, Jig: You're charged with a murder, you see? I can take youdead or alive; and the shot that bumped you off might bring Sinclairru
nning to find out what'd happened, and he'd go the same way. But willyou promise to keep your mouth shut and give no warning when Sinclairheaves in sight? Take your pick. It don't make no difference to me, oneway or the other; but I can't have the two of you on my hands."

  To his surprise Jig did not answer at once.

  "Ain't I made myself clear? Speak out!"

  "I won't promise," said Cold Feet, raising the colorless face.

  "Then, by thunder, I'll--"

  In the sudden contorting of his face she saw her death, but as sheclosed her eyes and waited for the report and the tear of the bullet,she heard him muttering: "No, they's a better way."

  A moment later her mouth was wrenched open, and a huge wadded bandannawas stuffed into it. Sandersen pushed her back to the ground and tossedthe blanket over her again.

  "You ain't much of a man, Jig, but as a bait for my trap you'll dotolerable well. You're right: Sinclair's coming back, and when hecomes, I'll be waiting for him out of sight behind the rock. But listento this, Jig. If you wrastle around and try to get that gag out of yourmouth, I ain't going to take no chances. Whether Sinclair's in sight ornot, I'm going to drill you clean. Now lie still and keep thinking onwhat I told you. I mean it all!"

  With a final scowl he left her and hurried to the rock. It made anideal shelter for his purposes. On three sides, the rock made a thickand effectual parapet. A thousand bullets might splash harmlesslyagainst that stone; and through crevices he commanded the whole sweepof the mountainside beneath them. The courage which had been growing inSandersen, now reached a climax. Below him lay the helpless body of oneprize--from a distance apparently a sound and quiet sleeper, thoughSandersen could see the terrified glint of Jig's eyes.

  But he forgot that a moment later, when he saw the form of a horsemanbreak out of covert from the trees farther down the mountain andimmediately disappear again. Sinclair? He studied the barrel of therevolver, but the horseman appeared no more in the brightening andmisty dawn. It was only after a long pause that there issued from thetrees, not Riley Sinclair, but the squat, thick form of Arizona!