Mountain Storms (16 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

T
HE
E
ND OF THE
T
RAIL

There was no sign of sunrise when he wakened suddenly and rose to his feet the next morning. But the iron will had roused him after a scant four hours of rest. It was enough. Where the spring water collected in a deep, black-faced pool a little farther down the mountainside, he took his morning plunge. He came back to his own new-kindled campfire, surrounded by rocks, and started the coffee. Then he tended to his shaving. It was the one habit that he had learned from men, for, when his beard began to grow, he had envied the smooth faces of the men he saw, and finally, spying on a campfire in the early morning, he had seen a man shaving. That same razor and strap and brush and soap were mysteriously stolen from the unlucky prospector's kit that night, while he slept. In its place there was left a bundle of four fine fox skins. So it was that Tom learned shaving. He had envied the short hair of men, also, but he could not cut his own unless he hacked it off close to the roots with his knife and left a ragged mass covering his head.

Bathed and shaved and breakfasted, he was still too early to take the trail. But in a few moments the quickly coming mountain dawn began, and he looked about him. All around the place were the trails of men and dogs and horses. The pursuers had rested for a time at this point in the trail, well wearied by the labors of that day, as they might have reason to be. But what would they feel when they discovered that that long loop to the side was merely a detour? Tom smiled as he thought of their faces. His ears rang in imagination with their profound oaths. Then he headed down the mountain slope.

He went on until noon, still carefully maintaining that line that he had cast ahead from the crest of the mountain toward the higher peaks. Another deer fell to his rifle then, with a long-range shot. He paused to cook and eat, and let Jerry feed his full. It was a two-hour halt, but two hours of rest in the middle of the day is an excellent measure on a long trail. When he began again in the middle of the afternoon, it was at a pace as brisk as that of his morning spurt. An hour more, and he came on what seemed to him another proof that he was following the correct trail. It was the indubitable sign of a campfire that had spread into the surrounding brush and almost started a forest fire, save that the camper had beaten it out in the nick of time before it spread to the trees.

No rains could hide the scars of that fire. So on went Tom, confident now that he was running in the right direction. He struck up above timberline, crossed a great range of gleaming stone cliffs, and dropped onto the farther side. Was he still on the line, he wondered, as he camped that evening?

Next day he went on again, and it was in the middle of the morning that he came on the first continuous trail. Well worked in along the moist bank of a stream, he found the print of a horse and a dog, and yonder was still the dent of a man's knee where he had stopped to fill his canteen. Of course, it might not be the man he wanted, but from that point he ran on snatches of the trail repeatedly. As a matter of fact, he had traveled in two days as far as the other had traveled in four, and the trail was freshening every moment. Now Jerry began to take an interest, and Tom welcomed his assistance, for there is no more able trailer than a clever grizzly. Men have worked to follow them for the sake of a photograph for two weeks or a month at a time, and never sighted them. More often than not, they have turned back to dog the hunter's steps. At the end of the trail puzzle he finds that the great brute has spent half the day working trail problems for the man to solve, and the other half has perched himself in a safe lookout to enjoy the labors of his enemy.

So it was that Jerry regarded the tracks of the man, the horse, and the dog, got their faint scent in his sensitive nostrils, and finally forged ahead, showing the way to Tom. It was far surer to follow Jerry's lead, but it was slower. Yet Tom, full of anxiety lest the posses overtake him again, allowed the bear to take his own course, only urging him on now and again.

Another day went over his head, and now the trail was so clear that even an amateur could have deciphered it. The horse was shod on three feet. The fourth was bare, and a chunk was broken out of one side of the overgrown hoofs—the right fore. The man wore boots with high heels, sloping to a rather meager supporting surface like modification of cowboy boots, well nigh. Wherever he got down from the saddle, he left prints that showed that both heels were badly turned over and leaned to the outside.

He was a big man, Tom observed by the length of the stride. He was a heavy man, as he could tell by the depth of the impression. That it was a horse as small as the rider was large was an equally clear deduction and taken from similar testimony. Moreover, it was an expert shot in whose trail Tom rode. He could tell by scars that he had found on a slender sapling at one side of the trail. The tree had been carefully cut in two with five shots, placed so nicely, side by side and in a perfectly straight line, that each orifice neatly touched the next.

Tom examined the tree with care. The caliber of the bullets was .45. He had done that shooting at thirty yards with a Colt then. Even Tom himself could not have improved upon it. Still more, they must have been quick, casual shots such as a man aims to make, such that hand and eye are in faultless practice.

No sooner did the trail become clear than Tom increased his pace, and the fear of the mellow-tongued voices of the dogs of the posse began to disappear when, on the middle of a sunshiny afternoon, he came on indisputable proofs that the trail that he was following through a pine forest had been made only an hour or so before, at the most. If this were indeed the man who had killed Dick Walker, he must be essentially lazy, for, after the first spurt away from the site of the murder, he had gone ahead with marches so short that a child could have made them on foot from day to day. Tom could have covered four times the average distance and never been hard pressed by the labor. But here were the pine needles recently pressed down and unlifted by any wind since the footprints were made. Surely the goal would not be far off.

At least, he would take no chances. He galloped Peter to one side half a mile or more and left him in a small hollow thickly fenced with trees. There he left him with Jerry, secure in the knowledge that nothing would make them budge until he returned and gave the order for a move. Then he struck off through the woods at a run, with his revolver and cartridge belt only. He cut back to the trail of the man and horse and dog. Along this he continued running for a mile until the barking of a dog not 100 yards away caused him to slacken his pace.

He came almost at once to a small clearing among the tall trees where a great dog that was apparently a cross between wolf and hound—heavy as the one and long-legged as the other, a huge, fierce brute—was raging around the bottom of a small sapling in the top of which a tree squirrel was perched, chattering with terror. At one side stood a small pinto with the sweat mark still dark on his back and the saddle thrown down just inside the open door of the log cabin. Over the cañon, smoke was curling from the chimney. But the man of the house was standing by the tree, laughing at the terror of the squirrel and the wild fury of the dog.

At sight of that man, the blood of Tom turned to ice, for it was the man who had died in his cave come to life! There was the same gigantic body. There was the same dense growth of black and curling beard. There was the same pair of keen, wickedly active, little eyes. He stood in riding boots, very much like a cowpuncher's, but slightly wider at the toes. He wore overalls and a flannel shirt that had once been red but that was now faded to a short of grisly pink. It was open at the neck. His outfit was fittingly completed with a rag of what had once been a black felt hat. As to the age of the big man, Tom judged him in spite of the heavy beard to be only in his later thirties—the very prime of his muscular life. But, first and last, he noted the boots, the heels of which had sagged well outward under his gigantic weight.

He was busy now bending the sapling. He did it with one hand, with a suggestion of strength in reserve that appalled Tom. He brought down the top of the sturdy young tree until the great hound, with a bound, almost reached the tree squirrel. The latter would run down the trunk, squealing in terror, only to recoil as it neared the hand of the man. So the dog barked and raged, and the man laughed as though his joy in the torture was almost more than he could endure.

At length, a hard shake dislodged the squirrel with such force that it was flung far through the air, struck the ground hard a short distance from the tree behind which Tom was standing, and then raced for safety in the same tree. The dog, meantime, had darted instantly in pursuit with a whine of joy, and Tom saw that in another instant the great jaws would clamp over that small, terrified morsel of flesh.

He could not resist, although it was a wild, incautious thing to do, as he knew. He leaped from his covert with a shout. The dog veered from him, and the squirrel took advantage of that moment to gain the tree and dart up into its branches. There it ran out on a limb, high enough for safety, and chattered its contempt and disgust in the general direction of the dog. The latter began leaping as high as it could in the air, howling dismally in disappointment. But Tom had no longer any thought for either the squirrel whose life he had saved or the dog. He looked up to the master of the latter and found that he was facing the muzzle of a revolver.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

A F
ORMIDABLE
F
OE

There are some men whose minds grow hazy and dim in the crises. There are some whose mental acuteness is a thousand fold redoubled. Tom Parks was one of these. He saw every detail of the body of the big man. He saw the very bending of the forefinger around the trigger. With the same glance, he looked into the mind of the fellow, down to his heart of hearts, and what he saw was relentless brutality—an unending store of it. He saw cool and quick decision, too, and the readiness for action that marks the fighting man, made such by nature and trained to perfection.

“Just get your hands up over your head, son,” the other was saying. “Just get 'em up there,” he drawled with murderous slowness through his teeth, “and keep 'em there.”

If there was hesitation in Tom's mind, it did not

outlast the fifth part of a second. Then he drew his hands up and stood with them raised obediently above his head.

“Well,” said the big man, “say your prayers.”

Tom set his teeth. He was incredulous, and yet there was a wicked devil in the eye of the other that told him that anything was possible. He saw the forefinger increase its pressure. The gun exploded. But at the last instant the muzzle was twitched up. Something dropped with a light crashing through the branches of the tree behind Tom.

“Well, Tiger, eat 'er up,” said the big man calmly, and he added to Tom, lowering his revolver and dropping it into his holster: “You've got your nerve, stranger. You're steady enough.”

“I thought that was the end,” said Tom with equal quiet.

“All right,” said the other and grinned. “You had something coming to you for robbing Tiger of that squirrel. He had the squirrel coming, and you had something coming, too. Now I guess that we're quits. You can put your hands down if you want, partner.”

There was no misunderstanding the attitude of this giant. He was perfectly willing for Tom to go for a gun if the latter so desired. His confidence in his ability to get out his own Colt beforehand was profound. There was even a malignant twinkle in his eye that suggested that he would welcome such a clash.

But Tom was not ready to fight, certainly not ready to kill. In the first place, what he wanted from this man was not his death, but, rather, all that he knew concerning the murder of Dick Walker, and, now that he confronted the fellow, it occurred to Tom for the first time that the extraction of a confession might be an affair of considerable difficulty. He had followed the trail blindly. Now that one half of his work was done, there was another half before him, about the accomplishment of which he had no idea. Besides, the mere physical subduing of the big man seemed an impossible task. Behind him the dog was champing and growling noisily at the body of the poor squirrel. It seemed indicative of the power of him of the black beard. That might not be the only death in the clearing before night came.

“Now that we're friends,” said the big man, “who might you be?”

“My name is Tom Parks.”

“I'm Bill,” said the other. “Glad to know you, Tom.”

But he made no attempt to shake hands. The right hand rested on his hip carelessly—and near the butt of his gun.

“How come you by this way?” he continued.

“I was lonely,” said Tom.

The other grinned, but made no direct response. “And you come on foot, too?” he said.

“No . . . on a horse,” said Tom.

“Where's the horse?”

“I thought I'd leave him a little ways off,” answered Tom, “until I'd scouted around a bit.”

The big man ceased smiling. “You wasn't just sure what sort of folks I might be, eh?” he said.

“I didn't know you,” said Tom as gravely as before. “I thought that I'd take a look and see for myself.”

“Till you saw Tiger take a dive for the squirrel . . . then you showed your hand?”

“That was it,” said Tom. “I hadn't intended to.”

“Well,” said Bill, “Tiger has the squirrel.” He waited, apparently ready to be taken up on this score, but, since he was not challenged, he went on: “I'm glad to see you, right enough. But if you see anything around these diggings that you take a fancy to, just pay me in coin, will you, and not in fur?”

Tom started, and the other laughed heavily, but not with such abandon that his right hand stirred from its strategic position or his eyes for an instant left off their watch.

“Sure,” he said, “I knew you the minute I clamped eyes on you. There ain't so many that go around with long hair and homemade clothes these days. I knew you
pronto
. There ain't another man in the mountains that you could be mistook for. What's up, Tom?”

“I was tired of running away from men,” said Tom idly. “I thought I'd like to sit down and talk with a man who was in the same position with me.”

“The same position? How come?” exclaimed Bill, instantly suspicious.

Tom smiled. “You don't seem to be very near other houses,” he said. “Some people may come near your house, but not very many.” He turned and waved to the ragged crests of the mountains that on every side pitched up against the sky. When he faced Bill again, he found that the latter was studying him like a hawk. But he wavered in his decision for only an instant. Then he shrugged his heavy shoulders and grinned.

“All right, kid,” he said. “I guess you know.” Bill winked, but immediately scowled and added: “Not that they got anything on me, but I'm tired of having them with me. I'm tired of being bothered. Can't show my face inside of a town without having the sheriff come around and get clubby. Why, blast their hearts, they ain't got a thing that they can prove on me. All they got is the hope of proving something. But I ain't anybody's fool!” He laughed again, more heartily than before.

Tom nodded and noted that the other waited for him to pass first and then followed half a step to the rear, keeping his guest always under his eye.

“What about the bear?” Bill said. “I'd like to see the bear. Or is that a lie they been telling about you . . . having a bear that you had tamed?”

“It's true,” said Tom.

“Well, I'll be hanged,” said Bill. “We'll go take a look at that bear after a while. How about eating now?”

“Good,” Tom said, but the walls of his stomach were cleaving together with anxiety. “You eat while I talk. I ate this noon.”

“You . . . well, son, ain't it time to eat again?”

Tom eyed him in wonder, and then he remembered. Other men sat down to eat three times a day. One meal in twenty-four hours was privation to them, whereas two was a luxury to him.

“Not till tomorrow,” he said. “I can't till then.”

Bill shook his head. “You're queer, right enough,” he decided. “But I can eat for two any day. Are you taking off your gun? It's a pile more comfortable sitting around.”

Tom took the hint and stripped off his gun belt and hung it on a peg in the wall. But Bill, while he busied himself taking his food from the frying pan where it had been simmering, kept his revolver on the edge of the table nearest to him. It was a wretched imitation of a table—two planks joined together over two sawhorses. But, at that, it was almost the only piece of sawed timber in the cabin. The rest was entirely logs. In a corner was a grimy heap of blankets on the floor. There were a few rusted traps; some shirts and boots thrown in another corner; two rifles, a shotgun, and two revolvers hanging on the wall, apparently all well cared for; some sacks of flour and other provisions, a bit mildewed around the bottoms; two stumps leveled on bottom and top had been rolled into the house as chairs. Altogether, it was the dirtiest and most uncomfortable quarters that Tom had ever seen. The fire, gleaming through the cracks of the stove, was the one cheerful center of interest.

The great hound came stalking in, snarled with twitching lips at Tom's moccasin, and then lay down near the stove and glared at Tom out of fierce, red eyes. Whenever the eyes of Tom fell upon him, his lips twitched again, and a growl formed vaguely in the deeps of his throat.

“The dog don't like you,” Bill said as he arranged his coffee and ham and fried bread on the table in tin dishes and sat down in front of it, with the revolver still near his plate. “He don't like you, and, come to think of it, you can't always blame him. He figures that you tried to cheat him out of that squirrel when he had a good chance to catch the little devil. You can't blame him for that, eh?”

“No,” said Tom.

At the sound of his voice, the dog growled heavily.

“Shut up!” thundered Bill, and kicked savagely at the head of the dog. But that brute had apparently learned to dodge with expert adroitness. He moved an inch out of range, shifted his eyes to the face of his master with a whine of abject submission, and again resumed his occupation of glaring at Tom.

His presence greatly complicated matters. Bill alone was a handful and more. He was larger than any man Tom had ever seen. Towering six feet and five inches from the ground, with some 250 pounds of mighty muscle, trained hard by the mountain climbing and the mountain work, he was the very picture of Hercules. The meal that was before him was enough in quantity to have fed Tom heartily for two days. But the giant devoured it in great sections. The cords of his huge wrist were as bulky and broad and hard as the tendon of Achilles in lesser men, well nigh. When he chewed his food, the muscles swelled out along his jaw and made his beard bristle. In addition, Tom had seen enough to know that he was lightning quick with hand and eye. If it came to a hand-to-hand fight, he would be at a more decided disadvantage in having to confront this terrible foeman in such cramped quarters. Altogether, although he had simply proved the superiority of his own strength over the power of ordinary men, and although he would have been confident even now had there been a chance for him to exercise his agility and his endurance over a broader battlefield, he seriously looked upon those enormous hands and those blunt-tipped fingers. But, in addition to all these disadvantages, there was the dog.

That huge beast, as large among his kind, almost, as his master was among men, had formed a confirmed hatred for the visitor. At the first sign of a quarrel with the master, he would fling himself at Tom with teeth large enough and strong enough to tear the throat out of a man at a single bite. Altogether, it seemed that Tom was confronted with insuperable odds.

Yet action he must have, now or never. Somewhere back in the forest, where the yellow light of the late afternoon was sifting through the trees, the posse was coming apace to overtake him. Once they were there, they would not wait to listen to his accusations. Nine chances out of ten, they would simply shoot him on the spot, or else string him up to a nearby tree. Before they arrived, he must have proof to show to the world that Bill was the murderer—or, indeed, was he?

If he were not, it was a lost trail, and with that lost trail was lost all hope of seeing Gloria again. Poor Tom passed the back of his hand across his furrowed forehead.