Mountain Storms (9 page)

Jerry made a lunge in pursuit, but Tom called him back, for voices of excited men were sounding not far away, and men meant guns, and guns meant that the only safety lay in flight. A low whistle apprised Jerry that overwhelming odds were now opposed to them, and Tom took to his heels.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

A M
ISTREATED
D
AY

He ran like the wind during the first quarter of a mile, weaving deftly through the trees, for he had been trained to such night work by many a prowl in company with Jerry. He could read the ground underfoot almost as though he saw in the dark. After that first sprint, as the voices died away behind him, he still ran on like a wild thing that cannot measure danger but only knows that it is somewhere in the rear, an indescribable thing. His swift and easy stride did not slacken until ten miles were behind him.

Then, breathing hard, but by no means winded, he went ahead at a brisk walk, with Jerry lumbering and grunting behind him. They encountered a steep hill. He slipped onto Jerry's back, and they went up it handily. Down the farther slope they ran again, and so they hurried on through the night.

Just before dawn, he paused at a creek and spent an hour fishing with great results for Jerry and himself. Then they pushed on until mid-morning, reached the forested crest of a hill, and there made their covert.

They slept soundly until mid-afternoon and wakened as they had fallen asleep—in an instant. They climbed on, then, to a higher range of hills to the westward, and here, from the naked summit, Tom found that he was looking out on more than he had dreamed of.

Far to the east, Bald Mountain was lost in the pale horizon haze. All that he could see was the procession of rolling, forested hills that climbed up the valley of the Turnbull. North, behind him, rose higher hills, climbing to naked mountain heights. South stretched the wide expanse of the valley, with the broad Turnbull flashing in the midst and sweeping away to the west in lazy curves quite different from the arrowy little stream that he knew near the cave and through his own territory.

Westward, also, lay the things that most amazed him. In this direction the air was free of mist, the hills sloped away to smoother forms, and he saw the landscape dotted with houses and checked in loose patterns with fences. And yonder, not quite lost to his view, the houses collected in a village, a thick cluster of roofs and trees.

For years all of this had laid hardly more than a hundred miles from his own cave! He would have welcomed that sight four years before. This prospect would have been better than a promise of heaven to the lonely boy. But that was before the big stranger came to the cave and engraved in his mind the lesson that men are dangerous, treacherous, cruel, ungrateful. So it was that Tom, as he stared down on these houses, shivered a little and then cast a glance back over his shoulder as men do when they are in fear.

All his past, before the death of his mother and the day his father left the city and started into the mountains, was lost behind a veil of indistinctness. But he remembered enough to know that his father and mother had both suffered at the hands of other men, that there had been poverty in their household, that there had been hunger even. So there was ingrained in his mind the belief that men are evil. The first man he had met since the death of his father had repaid food and shelter with brutality. The second voice he had heard had been of one who kept fierce dogs that had attacked him without warning, without justification. In his buckskin trousers there were still spots of blood. Aye, that was the cardinal sin of man—bloodshed!

He shuddered in a strong revulsion.

Yet, that afternoon, in spite of Jerry's earnest endeavors to stop the westward journey and head back toward the home country, he insisted upon skirting along the hills to get a better view of all that the valley might hold. Before the day was ended, he saw another proof that man is brute, and nothing but brute.

They passed among the trees to the head of a promontory, a low plateau that thrust out into the more level or rolling ground, and from the brow of this eminence Tom found himself in view of men—many men. A ranch house with shambling barns and outhouses around it had been built just beneath the cliff, and now, between the rearmost of the houses and the base of the cliff, a dozen men were gathered with their horses, in or around a large corral. Several of the men were grouped closely around one of their number who lay upon the ground, apparently badly hurt. They were pouring water upon his face and chest. But he was not the main object of interest.

In the center of the corral four men were holding a young bay stallion, saddled and blindfolded. He danced restlessly, his head snubbed to the saddle of another horse. Instantly Tom connected that empty saddle on the bay with the prostrate man outside the fence.

Presently the latter arose and staggered to the fence, where he leaned feebly. Another rider now advanced, climbed into the saddle, and the others grouped as closely as possible around the fence to watch while the ropes were taken from the stallion and his head was freed of the blindfold.

There followed one minute of more condensed action than Tom had ever seen, even when Jack and Jerry were having a mimic combat, for the bay began to leap into the air, tie himself almost literally into a knot, and then land on stiff legs. The rider was jolted and jarred from side to side. Suddenly the bay reared and flung himself backward. The yell of the watchers came tinglingly up to Tom on the height. But his fierce heart was all with the horse. Why had they united to torture the poor creature?

The rider had flung himself from the saddle barely in time, but, when he rose, he apparently refused to continue the contest. Yet still the struggles of the stallion were not over. A third rider presented himself, distinguished by a blue bandanna and a sombrero whose belt gleamed with pure, burnished gold. He mounted as the other had done. Once more the battle began, and this time it lasted thrice as long. Tom could see that the young stallion had grown black with sweat. But he fought on as though he were muscled with springs. In the end, a leap, a jarring landing, and a spring to the side unseated the rider.

He fell in a cloud of dust, while the tormented horse fled to the farther side of the corral and tried to leap to safety beyond the bars. He was roped and brought down heavily on his side, and, while he lay there, the dismounted man of the blue bandanna approached and quirted the helpless body brutally.

This, however, seemed too much for even the other savages. They drew the fellow away, the stallion was allowed to climb to his feet, and was led away, and the group dispersed.

But the heart of Tom followed the beautiful bay, for on the morrow, would not the torture begin again? And would they not persist until they had broken his spirit and his heart? Savagely he shook his fist at the backs of the disappearing men. Jerry, comprehending the anger, although not its cause, stopped in his digging for a ground squirrel and looked up with a growl among the trees.

But after that Tom turned eastward again, and Jerry went joyously in the lead. They had both had too much of men. A bright-running trout stream a mile away, however, was too great a temptation to them both. There they paused while Tom caught their supper. He risked a fire, carefully made of dead wood so that there would be as little smoke as possible, and broiled a small part of his catch for himself, while Jerry devoured the remainder.

When that meal was ended, the twilight was descending, and Tom, with a filled stomach, found that the vision of the bay still haunted him. It seemed to fill his mind, that picture of the horse. He began to remember an old mustang that his father had used for mountain work. Even that treacherous brute he had loved, for men are born to love horses or to despise them, and Tom was one of the former.

It seemed to him that, if he could have that magnificent creature in the mountains, his happiness would be complete. Not to ride, to be sure, for his own legs were good enough to carry him where he wished to go, and, when he was tired, there was the exhaustless Jerry, to carry him on.

But how could he take a wild horse from men who were armed with guns?

That question lay heavily on the mind of Tom as the twilight thickened. He sat broodingly beside the fire until Jerry began to growl, so great was his eagerness for the return journey to twice-traveled fields. But Tom shook his head. That very insistence confirmed him in his new desire.

“The point is,” he said to the huge bear, “that I've got to have that horse. And if I can't have him, I've got to have one more look at him. Stay here, Jerry. I'm going back!”

It was a command that Jerry understood. He stood still with an almost human groan, and Tom turned, drew tight his belt, and started back at a run.

He never walked when he was bent on business. Walking was the gait for leisure and careful observation. But he had learned to read even a difficult trail while he ran, and now he jogged back through the trees, twisted aside into the head of the cañon to his right, and then let out a link and raced blithely across the rolling ground until he turned the point of the promontory and the ranch houses were in view.

The instant he saw the first lighted window, he slowed to a walk. He had learned from Jerry's mother a lesson of caution that he never forgot. Jerry himself was an alert hunter. He could not cross a clearing, no matter how small, without first pausing an instant to take in his surroundings. He seemed to carry in the back of his brain a chamber crowded with memories of dangers that had come upon his ancestors. He suspected every tree, apparently, lest it might turn into a monster.

There was something of the same manner in Tom as he approached the house. He took advantage of every tree. He skulked swiftly down the hollows. He crawled on hands and knees over the knolls. When he came to the first barn, his caution redoubled. Around it he stole. And then he heard men's voices—many of them. A shudder crept down his spine as he listened, for the memory of the stranger in his cave was still rank. And, never having matched his strength against another man, how could he know that even that giant of a man would have been helpless now against his own lightning speed of hand and foot and that strange strength with which his muscles had been seasoned by those years of exposure and constant exercise? All he knew was that he had been helpless in the hands of a man once before, and he felt that he would be helpless again.

Nevertheless, he went on. He came in view of the house itself, long, low, thrown loosely together, with only three lighted windows in its length. These were open, and from one of them came the tumult of voices.

He stole to it and looked in. What he saw was a group of four men around a table, playing cards. Each man was flanked with a glass, and there were bottles behind the chairs from which, now and again, they poured a trickle of amber liquid into their glasses, drank, and played again. The talk came at intervals. Sometimes there was a solemn silence while the cards were sent flashing out around the table and the hands were picked up. Then they began to push out money toward the center of the table. Some of the cards were discarded. Others were drawn, and more money was stacked, all in a deadly seriousness. But Tom cast only an idle glance of wonder at their occupation. He gave his more serious attention to the faces of the players.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

P
ETER
IS
T
AKEN

If he had traveled around and around the country, he could not have found four more repulsive faces. Greed, ferocity, cruelty were ingrained in each. It was no practiced eye with which Tom looked upon them, but instinct taught him all he needed to know. How different they were from John Parks. The surety grew in him that his father had been a different breed of man, a single exception. But the rest of the human race was evil, all evil. He felt his detestation grow, for how could all of these be compared in worth with that beautiful horse he had seen them torturing that day?

Here the man of the blue bandanna pushed back his chair. His pile of money was gone. “I'm busted, boys,” he said, “but who'll stake me twenty?”

“On what, Hank?” asked another. “What's your security?”

“On old Peter,” said Hank.

“Twenty dollars on that hoss?” murmured the other.

“Well?” asked Hank aggressively.

“I'll tell you,” said the other, “Peter is worth something in the thousands . . . or else he ain't worth a cent. And, speaking personal, I say he ain't worth a cent.”

“Hey!” responded Bill. “He's got the looks. There ain't no doubt of that. But looks ain't what a gent can sit a saddle on. Matter of fact, the man ain't born that can ride Peter.”

“That's fool talk!” cried Hank. “Why, anybody can lead Peter around.”

“Who's talking about leading?” answered Bill. “What good does it do a gent to have a hoss that he can lead if he can't ride it? And nobody can ride Peter. Look at Sam Dunbar. Didn't he try his prettiest on Peter today? But after he got throwed, he had enough. He wouldn't go back at Peter.”

“Dunbar's nerve is gone,” said Hank sullenly.

“What about your nerve? Why didn't you tackle him after he threw you?”

Hank sat silently and glared. He was plainly hunting for words but could find no retort.

“You take my advice,” said Bill. “Peter has a pile of looks, but that's all. All the good he'll do you will be to run up a feed bill. If I had him, I'd turn him into dog food
pronto
.”

Hank sprung to his feet. “Boys,” he said, “ain't there a one of you what would advance me something on Peter?”

They shook their heads.

“Yet you all wanted him bad enough when he was running loose. When he was running through the hills with that gang of mustangs, you all sure enough wanted Peter bad. Every man here rode for him. But, when I creased him and got him, you say he ain't worth nothing. Is that sense?”

“Talk for yourself, Hank,” they told him. “We don't want him. All he'll do for a gent is to bust his neck. He's turning into a killer. That's the worst kind . . . them that are quiet as lambs till they feel a cinch bite into them. They ain't no use, ever. You got him rope broke easy, but you'll never break him for the saddle. If you want some money, put up your gun. I'll give you something for that!”

Hank sneered. “Give up my gat with Joe Saunders in town?” he said fiercely. “I ain't that much of a fool!”

“Then use your gat to turn Peter into dog meat, if you want,” said Bill, “but don't hold up the game no longer. Your deal, Sam.”

Hank regarded the others with a concentrated malevolence for a moment, but suddenly he jammed his hat upon his head, turned on his heel, and strode from the room.

“Wait a minute . . . ,” began Bill.

“Shut up,” said Sam. “If he wants to kill the hoss, let him do it before the hoss kills him. And that's what it would come to one of these days.”

“But a hoss like Peter . . . ,” began Hank.

“I know,” said Sam. “A hoss like Peter looks like a picture, but that's all the good he is. He might as well stay on the page of a book. All the good in him is to make a pile of talk.”

Tom recoiled from the window.

So that was to be the end of beautiful Peter—a bullet through the head and then the buzzards. He stole around the house just as the back door of it banged, and Hank stepped out into the night and walked straight for the corrals with the speed and the decision of a man bent on business. Like a moving shadow, Tom drifted behind him.

In the corral, Hank advanced with a rope, and Tom saw him go directly up to Peter. There was no mistaking the horse even in the darkness. That mobile and beautiful animal had a light of its own.

Tom wondered to see the great horse submit so calmly to the rope that was put around its head. Then Peter was led out from the corral and tethered to the fence. A gun gleamed in the hand of Hank.

“Now, damn your soul,” growled Hank, “you've got out to the end of your rope, and you're going to be flopped. I've stood a whole lot from you. Take it by and large, I put in six months getting in a shot at you. And when that slug knocked you down without killing you, I sure thought I was going to make a pile of money out of you. I figured I had the fastest thing on four feet that was running through the mountains. But you ain't done me no good. You've got me busted. I'm through with you. Here's the end of your trail. I might turn you loose, but I ain't going to let it be said that I had six months' work for nothing.”

The gun raised in a steady hand. Tom slipped closer. His heart was hammering at the top of his throat. He could barely breathe, so great was his fear. There was the knife, to be sure. But he could not strike it into a human body—from behind. Something in his heart made that impossible. Yet, if he grappled that man hand to hand, how could he match that matured strength of Hank?

Desperately he set his teeth. There was no time to reflect. He leaped from behind and caught Hank in his arms. To his amazement the body of Hank seemed to crumple to water. Strength? He knew at a touch that he could break the man in two! But the sense of power made him gentle. There was only a strangled gasp from Hank as the revolver was torn from his hand and he was laid upon the ground. Peter snorted and stepped back.

“Now listen,” said Tom, while all his blood was in a riot from that easy victory. “Listen to me. If you try to call the others by yelling for them, I'll send a slug into you. That'll make one less to follow me. If you even try to stand up, I'll shoot. And you can be sure that I won't miss!”

There was not a word from Hank. His body merely stiffened. But in the meantime, the possession of that loaded gun meant a world of added power to Tom. He took off the heavy cartridge belt from his victim. He buckled it around his own hips. He dropped the revolver into the holster. Then he went to Peter. But there seemed to be no need for his soothing voice. The strength of a rope was a fact that the stallion had learned first of all from his contact with men, and, although he might be in terror for his life, he would not pull back against it. It had burned into his flesh too often before.

He stood patiently while Tom unknotted the rope. At the first tug of the rope against his neck, he stepped out to follow the new master. That act of obedience thrilled Tom with a sudden and strange gratitude, a wealth of tenderness. In his heart of hearts he vowed that Peter should never regret that step. He sent a last word to Hank.

“I'm still watching you!” he called softly, then broke into a jogging run. Peter came readily at his heels. Once around the edge of the corral, he increased the pace to his full speed, and still Peter followed without once drawing back on the rope. But, as Tom rounded the edge of the cliff from the top of which he had first had a view of the horse, he heard a sudden hubbub behind him, and voices shouting, carrying clearly through the mountain night. The alarm had been given, and in another moment the pursuit on horseback would begin!