Destry Rides Again (18 page)

Out of Cumber River, Willie Thornton had crawled at last like one half drowned; and so exhausted was he that, when he reached
the shore, instead of shaking himself like a dog, as most boys would have done, and then taking off and wringing his soaked
clothing, he merely sank down on the rocks to rest.

An increasing wretchedness possessed the boy. Not only was he exhausted, but the wind which came down the valley clipped him
to the bone with its cold tooth, and his breathing began to send a pain through his chest.

He remained on the rocks in a stupor, for a time, and when he recovered enough to stand up, he knew that he was sick. For
his head was heavy, his eyes were dull, and his lips felt numb.

He walked forward without a purpose or a goal, except that he guessed it would be death to remain wet and exposed much longer.
When he came to the bank, his legs collapsed, and he had to scramble up slowly, using hands and feet and knees.

At the top, some of the dizziness left him. He kept shaking his head like a stunned prizefighter, to drive that confusion
from his brain, but now the dark woods were around him, and with them came the thought of Bent like a prowling panther.

That cleared his brain like a breath of open air after a close room. His very muscles grew stronger, as it seemed, and he
went forward cautiously, every now and again pausing to stare about him. And it seemed to the boy that the breathing of the
wind was that of Bent, hurrying up behind him, and when
a branch caught at him, it was the hand of the murderer on his shoulder once more!

These fancies grew a little less strong as he wandered on through the trees, until at last he came from among them and saw
before him the shattered rays of a lamp’s light that shone in the distance.

He made straight toward it. Dipping into a sharp sided draw, the light disappeared. The loss of it discouraged him mightily.
The old bewilderment returned, but a curious bulldog instinct, such as keeps an army on the go during a forced march, carried
him straight ahead, laboring shakily up the opposite bank until he came out in view of the light once more.

It was much nearer, now. He was able to distinguish that it came from a small shack with sage brush growing about it—he knew
that by the smell of the bushes when he struck against them in floundering forward. Behind the house there was a stack of
hay or straw, and toward this he headed.

Sleep was the panacea which always had cured his ills, and he intended to burrow his way into cover and there close his eyes.
He felt guilty over his decision. In his confused mind there was a voice which told him that he must not stop, but must go
on and on in the cause of Destry.

What he could accomplish, or what he should try to do, he did not know, but loyal service to a friend seemed to demand an
unfailing effort on his part.

However, he surrendered to the necessity for rest and was through the bars of the corral when a voice called loudly behind
him: “Who’s there? Stop!”

Bent?

The terror of the thought made him suddenly strong to flee. He raced across the corral, vaguely
conscious that he was again pursued; but as he strove to slide through the bars on the opposite side of the enclosure, strong
hands gathered him up lightly, easily.

He expected that grip to shift to his throat, but his hands lacked strength to struggle.

“A kid, eh?” said the voice of the man. “Come to fetch yourself a coupla chickens, have you? I’m gunna take the hide off you
so’s you can go back and show the brats in Wham what happens when they come sneakin’ out here again!”

He bore Willie back into the path of the lamplight, calling: “I got one of ’em, Jack! I got one sure! We’ll make a doggone
bright example of this one. Must of fallen into the trough; he’s wet as a rat!”

Willie was brought into a region of what seemed to him supernal brightness and before him appeared the face of another man;
or did he have two faces?

Curious dimness beset the eyes of Willie; he forgot whatever danger he might stand in and squinted at the face of the second
man.

“Hold his hands!” said the captor. “Hold him while I make him dance, the chicken stealin’ little son of a gun!”

The hands of Willie were firmly held, but still he squinted up at the face of his jailer, amazed at the manner in which it
receded into the distance, and then swept close, as out of a cloud—an unshaven, sun reddened face.

Then a whip lash struck a line of fiery pain across his shoulders. But the pain seemed detached from the brain of the boy.
It was as though his body belonged to an impersonal set of nerves. Again it descended——

“Quit it, Pete!” shouted Jack suddenly. “A doggone
good plucked one as ever I seen! Clean gritty. He ain’t winked an eye. Leave the whip be! Who are you, kid?”

“Willie,” said he.

“Willie who?”

“I dunno. Thornton, I guess.”

“He ain’t very sure of his name!”

“Hold on. The kid talks kind of loony. D’you fall into the trough, Willie?”

“I fell into the river,” said the boy. “Destry——”

His mind had snapped back to that controlling thought, but with the name
his voice stopped. His throat was oddly dry and hot.

“He’s shakin’ all over,” said Jack. “What’s the matter with him?”

A hand was pressed against the forehead of Willie Thornton, and immediately the harsh voice of Pete softened.

“The kid’s sick. He’s got fever,” said he. “And I’ve put a whip on him! Damn my heart!”

“Look at him shake—he’s sick, right enough. How d’you feel, Willie?”

“Kind of like the way a calf looks—wobbly,” said Willie.

He heard them laugh. The sound came to him from a distance in booming waves that flooded upon the drums of his ears and ebbed
vibrantly away.

“Get him to bed,” said Jack. “I’ll fix up some quinine and whiskey. There ain’t anything better’n quinine and hot whiskey,
I reckon.”

Then rapid, powerful hands removed Willie’s clothes. He tried to help, but his fingers were numbed. He tried to walk, but
his knees sagged. He only knew that he was profoundly eager to lie
down. The very word “bed” was like a promise of heaven to him.

He was picked up.

“Gimme one of your flannel shirts, Jack. That’ll do him for a nightgown. Gimme a towel first, and I’ll dry him off. Skinny
little rat, ain’t he!”

“Look where you put your marks on his back, Pete.”

“I’d rather have ’em laid across my own. I done what I thought was right, though. He run when I called!”

A rough towel burnished Willie dry, almost rubbing away his skin. And his brain spun more and more.

“Destry—” he gasped.

“He’s got Destry in his head,” said Jack. “Has Destry been after you, son?”

“Yes—no—I mean Destry——”

“He thinks Destry’s been after him!” said the other. “Go down to Wham and get some milk for him. He’s gunna need milk. Find
out who Willie Thornton is. I never heard of no Thorntons around here before!”

Willie was laid between blankets that had a smell of horse-sweat about them; but it was fragrance to Willie, so profound was
his weariness.

He closed his eyes in an instant torpor, from which he was roused to have a stinging potion of hot whiskey, bitter with quinine,
poured down his throat.

It half choked him with pungency and with its horrible taste. But he hardly had lain back, gasping for breath, when sleep
rushed over him like a dark flight of crows. He heard the rushing of their wings—or was it the noise of the pulse in his temple?

And then he slept.

When he wakened, he was wet with sweat, he was weak, but his brain was much clearer. He lifted his brown hand from the blanket
and wondered at it, for it hardly seemed to belong to him, though he recognized the down-curved nail which had grown to replace
the one that was broken off in his fall of the year before.

He turned his head toward the roar of the kitchen stove, freshly crammed with fuel, and smoking and trembling with the force
of the fluttering flames.

There stood Jack of the night before, turning a dream into a fact.

He came and stood over the boy.

“You feelin’ better, kid?”

“Yeah. A lot, thanks.”

“You got scared out of your wits about Destry. And there ain’t no wonder. Destry’s killed another, and this time it’s murder.
The worst kind of murder. With a knife!”

“Destry didn’t—” began Willie.

“He did, though. Clifton’s dead, stuck like a pig for the autumn slaughter. And Clifton was one of the jury. Here, you, lay
back and take it easy.”

“I gotta get up,” said the boy. “I gotta tell——”

“You lay back. You’re still pretty woozy; and you lay back and take it easy. You look pretty done up, I guess. Thought Destry
was chasin’ you into the river, did you?”

He laughed, but added at once: “It’s all right, kid. I seen you show your game, and it was first class. You can have my hide
whenever you say the word, I’ll tell you! That Destry that you’re scared of, he’s a gone goose now! I always used to think
he’d oughta have a better chance, but there ain’t a man in Wham that wouldn’t take a shot at him now, if he could, excepting
Bent. And maybe even Bent has had enough of the murderin’ devil by this time!”

“Bent?” said the boy.

And he closed his eyes, bewildered and half sick by the memory of the face of Bent, as the murderer had stood above the dead
body of Clifton.

“You’re still mighty done up,” declared Jack. “Lay still. Don’t you trouble yourself, none. Unless you could tell us where
you come from, because nobody in town seems to know.”

“I’m out of the Cumber Pass. Destry——”

He wanted desperately to explain, but the other broke in before he could speak.

“It’s all right, son. Destry’ll never bother you none. There ain’t a man in town that would have a word for that red-handed
skunk. Nor no woman, neither, exceptin’ Charlotte Dangerfield. But a woman’ll always stick to a lost cause like a skipper
to a sinkin’ ship!”

The name thrust deep in the mind of Willie and gave him a sudden determination. Destry had one friend; therefore, to the girl
he must go to carry his tidings about the truth of the Clifton murder. No other person would listen. Had not Jack said so,
almost in so many words?

When at last Destry saw Bent turn back down the trail, he grew heavy of heart, for this man meant to him more than the rest
of the world.

He took from his pockets the last things that Bent had brought. There was a steel backed and rimmed pocket mirror; a good
strong knife; a quarter pound of Bull Durham and a supply of wheat-straw papers, some matches; some oiled silk, invaluable
to keep small necessaries dry; and above all, there was the last strong grip of the hand, and the straight, steady look of
Bent’s farewell.

And Destry felt that he himself had failed miserably, for he should have been able to find thanks— not eloquent ones, perhaps,
because eloquence was not necessary—but a few words to show something of the gratitude that he felt. But how infinitely he
valued not the gifts but the thought behind them, he could not begin to express. He could only trust that something of his
feeling might have been conveyed by his own silent handshake.

Over three hills he watched the rider appear and disappear, finally dwindling away. Then he turned away with a sigh and mounted
Fiddle, who had come out in the trail as though made curious by his movelessness.

He rode her at a walk up the first slope and paused her on a bald headed hill to look over the sun bathed mountains. Naked
and grim enough they appeared to the casual eye, but Destry loved them because he knew them. That apparent nakedness did not
deceive him. The shadow on the side of Mount Scare Crow was really a wood in which fat deer were grazing; on the flats between
he did not need to waste ammunition to make his bag of rabbit, when he cared for that meat—a few simple snares would do instead.
Between the Scare Crow and Timber Peak the sage hens were always plump and their flesh more delicately flavored than in any
other part of the range, and along the sides of Timber Peak itself the squirrels lived by thousands among the trees. And whose
palate grows tired of squirrels, toasted brown above wood coals? Off the side of Chisholm Mountain leaped a brook where the
trout were silver flashes in the water; and at its base the elk came down to the salt lick. Bears, too, were everywhere, not
to be hunted except with fatigue, but bagged readily enough by those who were content to wait for opportunity to come their
way.

So all this rough-headed sea of mountains was really a gigantic preserve for Destry, and the harsh face of it pleased him
more than ever did the barbed wire fence of a landowner who wishes to guard his game. Moreover, there was such beauty here
as soft green hills, and pleasant meadows, and ploughed fields never could afford; for all about him the giants stood up in
glistening armor against the pale blue sky and raised his heart and his thoughts with them.

So Destry felt as he stared about him at the highlands. But yonder in the mist which covered the lower region of Wham and
its surrounding valley were many men, danger, deceit, struggle, doubt of one another.

There was also behind that veil Charlie Dangerfield, and the thought of her came home to him with
a heady sweetness, like wine. That evening he would leave the mountains and ride down to her, and let tomorrow bring what
it might!

The wind had paused with the mare, and stood still. Now it sprang up gently and carried with it a subdued thrumming sound.
Destry listened to it with instant curiosity, wondering how the waterfalls on the side of Cringle Peak could send the rhythm
of their beat so far as this.

Then he jerked up his canted head with a start, suddenly realizing the thing was impossible. The noise could not blow as far
as where he sat the saddle.

The mystery was not a thing to be left uninvestigated. To him, as to a wild animal, every unexplained fact was a possibly
potent danger. He turned the mare to the farther side of the crest, and looking down into the shallow valley, he saw the cause
of the noise.

Five riders were pushing their horses at a steady trot up the gentle slope. They saw him at once, apparently, and the trot
became a swinging gallop. It was Destry they wanted, evidently. Destry, and the price on his head.

And as he sat in the saddle, with the wind pressing against his face and the sun hot on his back, a fierce resentment surged
up in him. If he got into the nest of rocks on the side of the mountain and opened fire with the Winchester, how long would
that gallant charge persist?

However, it was not for him to resist with guns. If, in fact, Clifton had fallen at his hand, he knew grimly and certainly
that fresh victims would be added on this day to his list; but the very knowledge of his innocence handicapped him in the
fight.

He swung the mare about, therefore, and crossed
the mountain top to the farther side—and saw struggling through the brush three riders—their faint yells as they spotted him
came tingling through the tin air to his ears.

Down the hill, then, to leave them soon far behind!

But as he started down the slope, out of the trees not a quarter of a mile away came a rush of three more mounted men! They
fired as they came, trusting to a lucky shot, hardly bringing the rifles to the shoulder. And yet one of the bullets sang
perilously close to Destry.

Up the grade he went, therefore, keeping the mare just under full speed, for he could tell that she would need her strength
later on.

They had not come with single mounts, these eleven, but behind the last group of riders came two more, each leading a cluster
of horses naked of the saddle. They were the relief mounts to be used when the first lot were exhausted. And by their action,
Destry guessed the whole troop to be chosen animals.

He was glad of the rough ground. It was through such broken rocks that Fiddle made ordinary horses appear to be tied to the
ground, and a mile straight up hill soon worked havoc with the horses behind.

It had taken a great deal from the good mare, also. She had traveled far enough for a day’s work already, since sunup, and
that hot mile started her lungs laboring like bellows. However, those behind had their heads bobbing hopelessly, and Destry
grunted with complacent understanding of what that meant. At his last look, he saw the posse changing saddles, then he entered
high brush that cut off his view.

He had three choices—to keep straight on, or to
turn to either side. To keep straight on would be a sheer test of horse power, and he doubted the advisability of that when
Fiddle was already so tired. To the left lay comparatively smooth going, where her long stride would tell. To the right was
a veritable jungle, in which she would shine because of her deerlike surety and activity of foot. He chose to turn to the
right; furthermore, it led him in the distant direction of the Dangerfield place!

He had a good hour of labor without sight of open country. The lodgepole pines stood thick in his path and gave him only the
sky overhead, and occasional glimpses of hollow valleys or sheer rocky slopes on either hand.

When he came into the open, he was at the head of O’Mara valley, and there was no sight or sound of the enemy. The sun was
dropping already behind a Western peak; far beneath he saw a squatter’s shack, and the translucent twist of smoke that curled
above it. They were quietly cooking supper in that place, cutting bacon, working up the fire, relaxing with the cool of the
evening, and the sweet sense of a night of perfect rest before them. He, too, could relax now, and let the mare rest!

He dismounted at once, slackened the girths, and walked on with the tired Fiddle stepping behind him, lagging more than was
her wont. And then, well out from the trees, he heard a roar like the beating of surf, and saw eleven horsemen in close formation
charging down upon him along the valley.

He could understand what had happened! Reaching the close covert of the trees, his pursuers had turned the chances over in
their minds. They could go straight on, or else gamble that the fugitive would turn to one side or the other; and they had
taken the
long chance, had swung to the correct side, and here they were! Only by a little had they overshot their mark, but they had
the double advantage of second mounts, and horses, moreover, which had been taken straight across open country instead of
through the heat and the twisting ways of the woods!

But, though he could understand it, Destry was too stunned by the sense of disaster to move at once. Then, with an oath, he
jerked up the cinches, sprang into the saddle, and gave the mare her head.

There was no dodging, now. He was too far out in the valley to venture a cut back on either side, for those behind would be
sure to gain ground and fill the mare and her rider with bullets.

No, there was nothing for it except a straight pull down the valley, and a blind trust in the long stride of Fiddle.

He jockeyed her as well as he could. She, with a great heart, sprang out against the bit, ready to win her race or die, but
he restrained her with his hand, and with a gently reassuring voice which will give a wise horse confidence up to the very
gate of defeat.

Over his shoulder he looked back and watched and waited. They came fast. They came pouring in a rush, with heads straight
out, and tails snapping in the wind of their gallop. He had to extend Fiddle more and more. She seemed to be flying now at
full speed, but still she did not gain, and in her strong gallop there came a trifling heaviness which only her master could
have recognized. Yet he felt a blind faith, a superstitious confidence. All the good that had come his way, in more than six
years, had been through Chester Bent. Was not this animal his gift, and could she fail her rider?

Still the long beat of her stride continued. It is
marvelous that the pursuers could maintain the pace against her, fresh though they might be.

And now, as he looked back under the red of the sunset, he saw that they actually were failing. Back they fell, raggedly.
Yonder a man had pulled up and was now standing beside his mustang, which stood with legs braced far apart, dead beat.

But two riders broke out of the pack, like thoroughbreds from among cold blooded stock. They, unfalteringly, clung to the
race. They did not lose ground. Gradually they gained.

Destry called to the good mare. He felt the lurch of her muscles as she responded, but almost instantly she was back in her
former gait.

He understood, then. She would maintain that gait until she died, but not even in her great spirit was there the power to
do more!

He leaned a little aside.

Her head was stretched out true and straight. But he could see the red stain of exhaustion in her bulging eyes; and her red
rimmed nostrils flared in a vain effort to drink in more of the life giving air. Froth dripped from her mouth, flecked her
throat and shoulders. She still ran as only a great horse can run; but, with the suddenness of a bullet striking home, Destry
knew that she was beaten!