The Night Riders Read online

  His case seemed utterly hopeless. He sat down tight in the saddle, leaning slightly forward. He held his reins low, keeping a steady strain upon them. There was a vague, wild thought in his mind. He knew the river had narrowed. Was it a possible jump? He feared the very worst, but clung desperately to the hope. He would lift the creature to it when it came, anyhow. Would she see it? Would she, freakish brute that she was, realize her own danger, and, for once in her desperate life, do one sensible act? He did not expect it. He dared not hope for that. He only wondered.

  He could see the full extent of the chasm now. And he thrilled as he realized that it was broader than he had supposed. Worse, the far bank was lower, and a fringe of bush hung at its very edge. His jaws tightened as he came up. He could hear the roar of the torrent below, and, to his strained fancy, it seemed to come up from the very bowels of the earth.

  A few more strides. He timed his effort with a judgment inspired by the knowledge that his life depended on it—it, and the mare.

  The chasm now came at him with a rush. Suddenly he leaned over and let out a wild “halloo!” in the creature’s ears. At the same time he lifted her and plunged his spurs hard into her flanks. The effect was instantaneous, electrical. Just for an instant it seemed to him that some unseen power had suddenly shot her from under him. He had a sensation of being left behind, while yet he was rushing through the air with the saddle flying from under him. Then all seemed still, and he was gliding, the lower part of his body struggling to outstrip the rest of him. He had an impression of some great depth below him, though he knew he saw nothing, heard nothing. There came a great jolt. He lurched on to the animal’s neck, recovered himself, and, the next instant, the old desperate gallop was going on as before.

  He looked back and shivered as he saw the gaping rift behind him. The jump had been terrific, and, as he realized the marvel of the feat, he leaned over and patted the mare’s reeking shoulder. She had performed an act after her own wild heart.

  And Tresler laughed aloud at the thought. He could afford to laugh now, for he saw the end of his journey coming. He had landed on the trail he had lost, in all probability the continuation across the river of the branch road he had missed on the other side, and this was heading directly for the hill before him. More, he could see it winding its way up the hill. Even the Lady Jezebel, he thought, would find that ascent more than to her liking.

  And he was right. She faced it and breasted it like the lion-hearted animal she was, but the loose sandy surface, and the abruptness of the incline, first brought her to a series of plunges, and finally to her knees and a dead halt.

  And Tresler was out of the saddle in an instant, and drew the reins over her head, while she, now quite subdued, struggled to her feet. She was utterly blown, and her master was little better. They stood together on that hillside and rested.

  Now the man had a full view of the river below, and he realized the jump that the mare had made. And, further down, he beheld an astonishing sight. At a point where the course of the river narrowed, a rough bridge of pine-logs had been thrown across it. He stood for some minutes contemplating the scene and busy with his thoughts, which at last culminated in a question uttered aloud—

  “Where on earth does it lead to?”

  And he turned and surveyed the point, where, higher up, the trail vanished round the hillside above him. The question voiced a natural curiosity which he promptly proceeded to satisfy. Linking his arm through the reins, he led the mare up the hill.

  It was a laborious climb. Even free of her burden the horse had difficulty in keeping her feet. The sandy surface was deep, and poured away at every step like the dry sand on the seashore. And as they labored up, Tresler’s wonder increased at every step. Why had such a trail been made, and where—where could it lead to?

  At length the vanishing-point was reached, and horse and rider rounded the bend. And immediately the reason was made plain. But even the reason sank into insignificance before the splendor of the scene which presented itself.

  He was standing on a sort of shelf cut out of the hillside. It was not more than fifty yards long, and some twenty wide, but it stood high over a wide, far-reaching valley, scooped out amongst the great foot-hills which reared their crests about him on every side. Far as the eye could see was spread out the bright, early summer green of the grass-land hollow. For the most part the surrounding hills were precipitate, and rose sheer from the bed of the valley, but here and there a friendly landslide had made the place accessible. Just where he stood, and all along the shelf, the face of the hill formed a precipice, both above and below, and the only approach to it was the way he had come round from the other side of the hill.

  And the object, the reason, of that hidden road. A small hut crushed into the side of the sheer cliff. A dugout of logs, and thatch, and mud plaster. A hut with one fronting door, and a parchment window; a hut such as might have belonged to some old-time trapper, who had found it necessary to set his home somewhere secure from the attacks of marauding Indians.

  And what a strategic position it was! One approach to be barred and barricaded; one laborious road which the besieged could sweep with his rifle-fire, and beat back almost any horde of Indians in the country. He led his horse on toward the hut. The door was closed, and the parchment of the window hid the interior.

  The outside appearance showed good repair. He examined it critically. He walked round its three sides, and, as he came to the far side of it, and thoughtfully took in the method of its construction, he suddenly became aware of another example of the old trapper’s cunning. The cliff that rose sheer up for another two or three hundred feet slightly sloped backward at the extremity of the shelf, and here had been cut a rude sort of staircase in the gray limestone of which it was composed. There were the steps, dangerous enough, and dizzying to look at, rising up, up, to the summit above. He ventured to the brink where they began, but instantly drew back. Below was a sheer drop of perhaps five hundred feet.

  Turning his eyes upward, his fancy conjured up a picture of the poor wretch, hunted and besieged by the howling Indians, starving perhaps, creeping at dead of night from the little fort he had held so long and so valiantly against such overwhelming odds, and, in desperation, availing himself of his one and only possible escape. Step by step, he followed him, in imagination, up the awful cliff, clinging for dear life with fingers worn and lacerated by the grinding stone. Weary and exhausted, he seemed to see him draw near the top. Then a slip, one slip of his tired feet, and no hold upon the limestone with his hands would have power to save him. Down, down——

  He turned back to the hut with a sick feeling in his stomach. Securing his mare to an iron ring, which he found driven firmly into one of the logs, he proceeded to investigate further. The door was held by a common latch, and yielded at once when he raised it. It opened inward, and he waited after throwing it open. He had a strange feeling of trespass in thus intruding upon what might prove to be the home of some fur-hunter.

  No sound followed the opening of the door. He waited listening; then at last he stepped forward and announced himself with a sharp “Hello!”

  His only answer was the echo of his greeting. Without more ado he stepped in. For a moment the sharpness of the contrast of light made it impossible for him to see anything; but presently he became used to the twilight of the interior, and looked about him curiously. It was his first acquaintance with a dugout, nor was he impressed with the comfort it displayed. The place was dirty, unkempt, and his dream of the picturesque, old-time trapper died out entirely. He beheld walls bare of all decoration, simply a rough plastering of mud over the lateral logs; a frowsy cupboard, made out of a huge packing-case, containing odd articles for housekeeping purposes. There were the fragments of two chairs lying in a heap beside a dismembered table, which stood only by the aid of two legs and the centre post which supported the pitch of the roof. A rough trestle-bed occupied the far end of the hut, and in shape and make it reminded him of his own b
ed in the bunkhouse. But there the resemblance ended, for the palliasse was of brown sacking, and a pair of dull-red blankets were tumbled in a heap upon its foot. One more blanket of similar hue was lying upon the floor; but this was only a torn fragment that had possibly served as a carpet, or, to judge by other fragments lying about, had been used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes.

  It was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was dug. Beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and Tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who could have endured such meanness. It did not occur to him that probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those things which were worthless.

  A few minutes satisfied his curiosity. Probably his ride, and a natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. Certain it is that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation about it that he missed. He took it for a deserted shack merely, and gave it no second thought.

  He passed out into the daylight with an air of relief; he had seen quite enough. The Lady Jezebel welcomed him with an agitated snort; she too seemed anxious to get away. He led her down the shelving trail again. The descent was as laborious as the ascent had been, and much more dangerous. But it was accomplished at last, and at the foot of the hill he mounted the now docile animal, who cantered off as amiably as though she had never done anything wrong in her life.

  And as he rode away his thoughts reverted to the incidents of that morning; he went again over the scenes in which he had taken part, the scenes he had witnessed. He thought of his brief battle with Jake, of Diane and Joe, of his interview with Fyles. All these things were of such vital import to him that he had no thought for anything else; even the log bridge spanning the river could not draw from him any kind of interest. Had his mind been less occupied, he might have paused to ask himself a question about the things he had just seen. He might even have wondered how the logs of that dugout had been hauled to the shelf on which it stood. Certain it was that they must have been carried there, for there was not a single tree upon the hillside, only a low bush. And the bridge; surely it was the work of many hands. And why was it there on a disused trail?

  But he had no thought for such questions just then. He bustled the mare and hurried on.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  THE TRAIL OF THE NIGHT-RIDERS

  A week passed before Tresler was again brought into contact with Jake. When he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the “broncho-busting” carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to have no share in it. Jacob Smith was waiting for him with a message from Julian Marbolt; his orders were peremptory. He was to leave at once for Whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the young horses now being broken for the troops. The rancher made his meaning quite plain. And Tresler was quick to understand that this was simply to get him out of the way until such time as Jake’s temper had cooled and the danger of a further rupture was averted.

  He received his instructions without comment. It was rough on his mare, but as the Lady Jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she must not mind if she received a similar treatment in return. And so he went, much to the disquiet of Joe Nelson, and with a characteristic admonition from Arizona. That individual had just finished thrashing a bull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn’t move from the spot where he had been saddled, when Tresler came up. The lean man was breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily.

  “Kep y’r gun good an’ handy,” he said. “Et’s mighty good company, if et don’t git gassin’ wi’out you ast it a question.”

  In this case, however, there was no need for the advice. The journey was a peaceful relief after the storms of Mosquito Bend. Tresler transacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to the authorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing with their remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience and moderation. Then he set out for the ranch again, in company with Raw Harris and Lew Cawley—the two men who had brought the band into the town.

  His return to Mosquito Bend was very different from his first coming. It seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had been ridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. So much had happened since then. Now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man, with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpunchers with him, in moleskin and buckskin, Mexican spurs, and slouch hat; his gun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as he rode. He was no longer “the guy with the pants” he had been when he first entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at the metamorphosis. It brought him nearer to the land, which, with all its roughness, he felt to be the true life for him.

  It was evening; the sun had not yet set, but it was dipping low over the western hills, casting long shadows from behind the gorgeous-colored heat clouds. Its dying lustre shone like a fire of molten matter through the tree-tops, and lit the forest-crowned hills, until the densest foliage appeared like the most delicate fretwork of Nature’s own cutting. And in the shadow cast by the hilly background there nestled the ranch, overlooking its vast, wide-spreading pastures of succulent grass.

  Yes, Tresler was glad to be back to it all, no matter what the future might hold for him. He had missed his companions; he had missed Arizona, with his fierce, untamed spirit; he had missed Joe, with his quaint face and staunch heart; but more than all, he had longed to get back to Diane, looking forward to the greeting she would extend him as only a lover can. But there was something more in his longing than that. Every day he had been away he had fretted and chafed at the thought of what might be happening to her. Joe was there to send him word, but even this was insufficient. There had been times when he felt that he could not stay to finish the work put upon him; there had been times when his patience utterly gave way before the nervous tension of his feelings, and he had been ready to saddle his mare and offer her a race against time back to the girl he loved.

  His feelings were stirred to their very depths as he came up the trail from the ford. He had no words for either of his companions, nor did they seem inclined for speech. They passed the corrals in silence and reached the bunkhouse, where several of their comrades greeted them with a nod or a casual “Hello!” They might have just returned from a day’s work on the range for all the interest displayed at their coming. But, then, effusiveness is no part of the cowboy’s manner. There is rarely a “good-bye” on the prairie, unless it is when a comrade “hits the one-way trail.” Even then it is more often a quiet “s’long,” without any demonstrativeness, but which may mean far more than a flood of tears.

  Jake was at his door when Tresler rode over to report. He was still bearing the marks of the quirt on his face, and the author of them beheld his handiwork with some qualms of regret. However, there was none of this in his manner as he made his report. And, much to his astonishment, Jake displayed a cold civility. He surpassed himself. Not a sneer or sarcasm passed his lips. The report done, he went on to the barn and stabled his mare for the night. Then he passed on toward his quarters.

  Before he reached his destination, however, he was joined by Nelson. The little man had evidently been waiting for him.

  “Well?”

  There was no greeting. Tresler put his monosyllabic question at once. And the choreman responded without hesitation.

  “She’s bin astin’ fer you three times. When wus you gittin’ around agin? I guessed I didn’t know fer sure. She wus kind o’ worrited, I reckon.” He paused, and his twisted face turned in the direction of the foreman’s hut. “She wus weepin’ last night,” he went on. Then he paused again, and his shrewd eyes came back to Tresler’s face. “She’s bin weepin’ to-day,” he said, with a peculiar look of expectation in hi
s manner.

  “What’s the trouble?” The question came short and sharp.

  “Mebbe she’s lonesome.”

  “That’s not it; you’ve got other reasons.”

  Joe looked away again. “Jake’s bin around some. But I guess she’s lonesome too. She’s ast fer you.” The little man’s tone was full of obstinacy.

  Tresler understood his drift. If Joe had his way he’d march Diane and him off to the nearest parson with no more delay than was required to saddle two horses.

  “I’m going to see her to-night,” Tresler replied quietly. Then, as he saw Jake appear again in the doorway, he said, “You’d better pass on now. Maybe I’ll see you afterward.”

  And Joe moved off without another word. Jake had seen them together, but he was unsuspicious. He was thinking of the scars on his face, and of something else that had nothing to do with their meeting. And his thoughts made him smile unpleasantly.

  If Tresler’s first greeting had been indifferent, his reception, as he came over to the bunkhouse now, was far from being so. Talk flowed freely, inquiries hailed him on every side; jests passed, sometimes coarse, sometimes subtle, but always cordial. All the men on the ranch had a fair good-will for him. “Tenderfoot” he might be, but they approved his grit, and with frontiersmen grit is all that matters.

  After supper he separated himself from his companions under pretext of cleaning his saddlery. He hauled a bucket of water, and went down to the lower corrals and disposed his accoutrements for the operation, but he did no work until he saw Arizona approaching. That unkempt personage loafed up in a sort of manner that plainly said he didn’t care if he came or not. But Tresler knew this was only his manner. The cleaning of the saddle now proceeded with assiduity, and Arizona sat himself down on a fallen log and spat tobacco-juice around him. At last he settled himself, nursing one knee in his clasped hands, and spoke with that air of absolute conviction which always characterized him.