The Night Riders Page 14

  And in that first survey Tresler realized something of the personality which form and features were so ludicrously struggling to conceal.

  “Yes.” The officer let his eyes move slowly over this stranger. Then, without the least expression of cordiality he spoke the thought in his mind. “That’s a good nag—remarkably good. You handle her tolerably. Didn’t get your name?”

  “Tresler—John Tresler.”

  “Yes. New hereabouts?”

  The broad-shouldered man had an aggravatingly official manner. Tresler replied with a nod.

  “Ah! Remittance man?”

  At this the other laughed outright. He saw it was useless to display any anger.

  “Wrong,” he said. “Learning the business of ranching. Going to start on my own account later on.”

  “Ah! Younger son?”

  “Not even a younger son!” The two horses were now moving leisurely on toward the ford. “Suppose we quit questions and answers that serve no particular purpose, sheriff. I have been waiting to see you.”

  “So I figured,” observed the other, imperturbably, “or you wouldn’t have answered my questions so amiably. Well?”

  The sheriff permitted himself a sort of wintry smile, while his watchful eyes wandered interestedly over the surrounding bush.

  “There are things doing about this country,” Tresler began a little lamely. “You’ve possibly heard?”

  “Things are generally doing in a cattle country where brands are easily changed and there is no official to inquire who has changed them.”

  Fyles glanced admiringly down at Lady Jezebel’s beautiful clean legs.

  “This Red Mask?” Tresler asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “You’ve heard the story of his latest escapade? The murder of Manson Orr?”

  “From Mr. Marbolt—and others. In telling me, the blind man offered five thousand dollars’ reward for the capture of the man.”

  “That’s better than I hoped for,” replied Tresler, musingly. “You see,” he went on, “the blind man’s something cantankerous. He’s lost cattle himself, but when some of the boys offered to hunt Red Mask down, he treated them with scant courtesy—in fact, threatened to discharge any man who left the ranch on that quest.”

  “I found him amiable.”

  “You would.” Tresler paused. This man was difficult to talk to, and he wanted to say so much. Suddenly he turned and faced him, and, to his chagrin, discovered that the other was still intent on the mare he was riding. His eyes were fixed on the lady’s shoulder, where the indistinct marks of the brand were still visible. “You see, sergeant,” he went on, ignoring the other’s abstraction, “I have a story to tell you, which, in your official capacity, you may find interesting. In the light of recent events, I, at any rate, find it interesting. It has set me thinking a heap.”

  “Go ahead,” said the officer, without even so much as raising his eyes. Tresler followed the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing more interesting in his mare’s fore-quarters than their perfect shape. However, there was no alternative but to proceed with his narrative. And he told the sheriff of the visit of the night-riders which he had witnessed on the night of his arrival at the ranch. In spite of the other’s apparent abstraction, he told the story carefully and faithfully, and his closing remarks were well pointed and displayed a close analysis. He told him of the previous visits of these night-riders, and the results following upon the circulation of the story by each individual who chanced to witness them. He told of Joe Nelson’s warning to him, and how his earnestness had, at length, persuaded him to keep quiet. He felt no scruples in thus changing the responsibility of Diane’s warning. Nothing would have induced him to drag her name into the matter.

  “You see, sheriff,” he said in conclusion, “I think I did right to keep this matter to myself until such time as I could tell it to you. It has all happened several times before, and, therefore, will no doubt happen again. What do you think?”

  “She’s the finest thing I’ve ever set two eyes on. There’s only one like her—eh?” Tresler had given audible expression to his impatience, and the other abruptly withdrew his gaze from the mare. “It’s interesting—decidedly.”

  “Did Marbolt tell you of the previous visits of these raiders? He knows of them.”

  “He told me more than I had time to listen to.”

  “How?”

  “He told me of the revolutionary spirit pervading the ranch.”

  “Ah!”

  Tresler saw the trap the wily police officer had laid for him and refused the bait. Evidently the blind man had told his version of that morning’s doings, and the sheriff wished to learn the men’s side of it. Probably his, Tresler’s. This calm, cold man seemed to depend in no way upon verbal answers for the information he desired, for he went on without any appearance of expecting a reply.

  “There’s one thing you’ve made plain to me. You suspect collusion between these raiders and some one on the ranch.”

  “Yes. I meant you to understand that.”

  “Whom do you suspect? And your reasons?”

  The two questions rapped out one after the other like lightning.

  “My suspicions rest nowhere, because I can find no reason.”

  They had drawn rein at the ford. Fyles now looked keenly into Tresler’s face, and his glance was full of meaning.

  “I’m glad I’ve had this talk with you, Tresler. You have a keen faculty for observation, and a wise caution. When you have reason to suspect any one, and wish to tell me of it, you can communicate with me at any hour of the day or night. I know this ranch well by repute. So well, in fact, that I came out here to find you. You see, you also were known to me—through mutual acquaintances in Forks. Now your excellent caution will tell you that it would be bad policy for you to communicate openly with me. Good. Your equally excellent observation will have called your attention to this river. I have a posse stationed further down stream, for certain reasons which I will keep to myself. It is a hidden posse, but it will always be there. Now, to a man of your natural cleverness, I do not think you will have any difficulty in finding a means of floating a message down to me. But do not send an urgent message unless the urgency is positive. Any message I receive in that way I shall act upon at once. I have learned a great deal to-day, Tresler, so much indeed that I even think you may need to use this river before long. All I ask of you is to be circumspect—that’s the word, circumspect.”

  The sheriff edged his horse away so that he could obtain a good view of Lady Jezebel. And he gazed at her with so much intentness that Tresler felt he must call attention to it.

  “She is a beauty,” he suggested.

  And Fyles answered with a sharp question. “Is she yours?”

  “No. Only to use.”

  “Belongs to the ranch?”

  “Jake told me she is a mare the blind man bought from a half-breed outfit passing through the country. He sets great store by her, but they couldn’t tame her into reliability. That’s three years ago. By her mouth I should say she was rising seven.”

  “That’s so. She’d be rising seven. She’s a dandy.”

  “You seem to know her.”

  But Fyles made no answer. He swung his horse round, and, raising his hand in a half-military salute in token of “good-bye,” called over his shoulder as his bay took to the water—

  “Don’t forget the river.”

  Tresler looked after him for some moments, then his mare suddenly reared and plunged into the water to follow. He understood at once that fresh trouble was brewing in her ill-balanced equine mind, and took her sharply to task. She couldn’t buck in the water; and, finally, after another prolonged battle, she dashed out of it and on to the bank again. But in the scrimmage she had managed to get the side-bar of the bit between her teeth, and, as she landed, she stretched out her lean neck, and with a snort of ill-temper, set off headlong down the trail.

  * * *

  CHAPTER X
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  A WILD RIDE

  The intractability of the Lady Jezebel was beyond all bounds. Her vagaries were legion. After his experiences with her, Tresler might have been forgiven the vanity of believing, in spite of her sex, that he had fathomed her every mood. But she was forever springing unpleasant surprises, and her present one was of a more alarming nature than anything that had gone before. One of her tricks, bolting, was not so very serious, but now she proved herself a “blind bolter.” And among horsemen there is only one thing to do with a blind bolter—shoot it. A horse of this description seems to be imbued with but one idea—a furious desire to go, to run anywhere, to run into anything lying in its course, to run on until its strength is spent, or its career is suddenly terminated by a forcible full stop.

  At the bend of the trail the mare took blindly to the bush. Chance guided her on to a cattle-path which cut through to the pinewoods beyond. It was but a matter of moments before her rider saw the dark shadow of the woodlands come at him with a rush, and he plunged headlong into the gray twilight of their virgin depths. He had just time to crouch down in the saddle, with his face buried in the tangle of the creature’s flying mane, when the drooping boughs, laden with their sad foliage, swept his back. He knew there were only two courses open to him. Either he must sit tight and chance his luck till the mad frolic was spent, or throw himself headlong from the saddle at the first likely spot. A more experienced horseman would, no doubt, have chosen the latter course without a second thought. But he preferred to stay with the mare. He was loth to admit defeat. She had never bested him yet, and a sort of petty vanity refused to allow him to acknowledge her triumph now. They might come to an opening, he told himself, a stretch of open country. The mare might tire of the forest gloom and turn prairieward. These things suggested themselves merely as an excuse for his foolhardiness in remaining in the saddle, not that he had any hope of their fulfilment.

  And so it was. Nothing moved the animal out of her course, and it seemed almost as though a miracle were in operation. For, in all that labyrinth of tree-trunks, a sheer road constantly opened out before them. Once, and once only, disaster was within an ace of him. She brushed a mighty black-barked giant with her shoulders. Tresler’s knee struck it with such painful force that his foot was wrenched from the stirrup and dragged back so that the rowel of his spur was plunged, with terrific force, into the creature’s flank. She responded to the blow with a sideways leap, and it was only by sheer physical strength her rider retained his seat. Time and again the reaching boughs swept him and tore at his clothes, frequently lacerating the flesh beneath with the force of their impact.

  These things, however, were only minor troubles as he raced down the grim forest aisles. His thoughts centred themselves on the main chance—the chance that embraced life and death. An ill-fate might, at any moment, plunge horse and rider headlong into one of those silent sentries. It would mean anything. Broken limbs at the best. But Providence ever watches over the reckless horseman, and, in spite of a certain native caution in most things, Tresler certainly was that. He knew no fear of this jade of a mare, and deep down in his heart there was a wild feeling of joy, a whole-hearted delight in the very madness of the race.

  And the animal herself, untamed, unchecked, frothing at her bit, her sides a-lather with foam, her barrel tuckered like that of a finely trained race-horse, rushed blindly on. The forest echoed and reëchoed with the dull thud of her hoofs as they pounded the thick underlay of rotting cones. And her rider breathed hard as he lay with his head beside the reeking neck, and watched for the coming of the end.

  Suddenly, in the midst of the gray, he saw a flash of sunlight. It was like a beacon light to a storm-driven mariner. It was only a gleam of sunshine and was gone almost at once, but it told him that he was fast coming on the river. The final shoals, maybe, where wreck alone awaited him. Just for an instant his purpose wavered. There was still time to drop to the ground. He would have to chance the mare’s flying heels. And it might save him.

  But the idea was driven from his head almost before he realized it; the mare swerved like a skidding vehicle. He clung desperately to her mane, one arm was even round her neck in a forcible embrace. The struggle lasted only a few seconds. Then, as he recovered his equilibrium, he saw that she had turned into what was undoubtedly a well-defined, but long-disused, forest trail. The way was clear of obstruction. The trees had parted, opening up a wide avenue, and above him shone the perfect azure of the summer sky.

  He was amazed. Where could such a trail lead? His answer came immediately. Away ahead of him, towering above the abundant foliage, he saw the distant shimmer of snowy peaks, and nearer—so near as to make him marvel aloud—the forest-clad, broken lands of the foot-hills. Immediate danger was past and he had time to think. At all cost he must endeavor to stop the racing beast under him. So he began a vicious sawing at her mouth. His efforts only drove her faster, and caused her to throw her head higher and higher, until her crown was within six inches of his face.

  The futility of his purpose was almost ludicrous. He desisted. And the Lady Jezebel lowered her head with an angry snort and rushed on harder than ever. And now the race continued without relaxing. Once or twice Tresler thought he detected other hoof-marks on the trail, but his impression of them was very uncertain. One thing surely struck him, however: since entering this relic of the old Indian days, a decided change had come over the mare. She was no longer running blind; more, it seemed to him that she displayed that inexpressible familiarity with her surroundings which a true horseman can always detect, yet never describe. This knowledge led him to the hope of the passing of her temper.

  But his hope was an optimistic mistake. The sweat pouring from neck, shoulders, and flanks, she still lifted her mud-brown barrel to her mighty stride, with all the vim and lightness of the start. He felt that, jade that she was, she ran because she loved it; ran with a delight that acted as a safety-valve for her villainous temper. She would run herself into amiability and then stop, but not before. And he knew her temper so well that he saw many miles lying ahead of him.

  The rift was gradually widening, and the forest on either side thinned. The trees were wider and more scattered, and the broken hilltops, which but now had been well ahead, were frowning right over him, and he knew, by the steady, gradual rise of the country, that he would soon be well within the maze of forest, crag, and ravine, which composed the mountain foot-hills.

  At last the forest broke and the ragged land leapt into full view with magical abruptness. It was as though Nature had grown her forest within the confines of a field embraced by an imaginary hedge. There were no outskirts, no dwindling away. It ended in one clean-cut line. And beyond lay the rampart hills, fringed and patched with disheveled bluff, split by rifts and yawning chasms. And ever they rose higher and higher as the distance gained, and, though summer was not yet at its height, it was gaunt-looking, torn, chaotic, a land of desolation.

  The mare held straight on. The change of scene had no effect on her; the trail still lay before her, and she seemed satisfied with it. Tresler looked for the river. He knew it was somewhere near by. He gazed away to the right, and his conjecture was proved at once. There it lay, the Mosquito River, narrowed and foaming, a torrent with high, clean-cut banks. He followed its course ahead and saw that the banks lost themselves in the shadow between towering, almost barren hills, which promised the narrow mouth of a valley beyond.

  And as he watched these things, a feeling of uneasiness came over him. The split between the hills looked so narrow. He looked for the trail. It seemed to make straight for the opening. As the ground flew under him, he turned once more to the river and followed its course with his eyes, and suddenly he was thrilled with his first real feeling of apprehension. The river on the right, and the hill on the left of him were converging. Nor could he avoid that meeting-point.

  He was borne on by the bolting mare. There was not the smallest hope of restraining her. Whatever lay before him, he must face
it, and face it with every faculty alert and ready. His mouth parched, and he licked his lips. He was facing a danger now that was uncertain, and the uncertainty of it strung him with a nervous apprehension.

  Bluff succeeded bluff in rapid succession. The hill on the left had become a sheer cliff, and the general aspect of the country, that of a tremendous gorge. The trail rose slightly and wound its tortuous way in such an aggravating manner that it was impossible for him to see what lay before him.

  At one point he came to a fork where another trail, less defined, branched away to the right. For a moment he dreaded lest the mare should adopt the new way. He knew what lay out there—the river. However, his fears were quickly allayed. The Lady Jezebel had no intention of leaving the road she was on.

  They passed the fork, and he sighed his relief. But his relief was short-lived. Without a sign or warning the trail he was on died out, and his course lay over a narrow level flat sparsely dotted with small, stubbly bush. Now he knew that the mare had been true to herself. She had passed the real trail by, and was running headlong to——

  He dared think no more. He knew the crisis was at hand. He had reached the narrowest point of the opening between the two hills, and there stretched the river right across his path less than fifty yards ahead. It took no central course—as might have been expected—through the gorge. It met the left-hand cliff diagonally, and, further on, adopted its sheer side for its left bank. He saw the clearly defined cutting, sharp, precise, before it reached the cliff, and he was riding straight for it!

  In that first moment of realization he passed through every sensation of fear; but no time was given him for thought. Fifty yards! What was that to the raking stride of his untamed mare? It would be gone in a few seconds. Action was the only thing to serve him, and such action as instinct prompted him to was utterly unavailing. With a mighty heave of his body, and with all the strength of his sinewy arms, he tried to pull the creature on to her haunches. As well try to stem the tide ahead of him. She threw up her head until it nearly struck him in the face; she pawed the air with her great front legs; then, as he released her, she rushed forward again with a vicious snort.