Silvertip's Trap (13 page)

T
HE
news which Barry Christian now carried up to the party, riding at a sweeping gallop, was already clear in the mind of Naylor, of course; but he wondered vaguely how the chief would communicate the bad tidings. Surely he would hardly dare to reveal the worst! But perhaps others, though they had not lingered behind like Naylor, might have seen the dust cloud lift.

At any rate, Christian, rising in his stirrups, shouted in a loud voice:

“Boys, Jim Silver and the Elsinore men are coming like wild Indians. They've got a whole drove of remounts with them, and they're going to run us down before the day's over.”

He made a pause. Cassidy's snarling, barking voice called in answer:

“Split up the loot now and we'll all scatter!”

“Is there time to split up the loot?” demanded Christian. “Before we can sort that stuff Silver will be right on top of us. No, we've got to stick together. But I have an idea of a way to beat them still. Boys, we're going to head straight for Benton Corner!”

A shout of dismay and confused doubt answered this suggestion. But Christian went on:

“We've got the double of Jim Silver with us, and I know how we can use him. Friends, we'll go right into Benton Corner. On the way there, some of you sling an arm; some more of you get a bandage tied around your heads or legs. A few little spots of blood here and there will make it look as though we've been under fire sure enough. When we get into Benton Corner, Duff Gregor will shout out the news that Barry Christian is on the loose again, that he's raised a mob of fifty men, that he's heading straight for Benton Corner to shoot up the town, that he — Jim Silver — has tried to stop the rush and failed. He'll call for volunteers to go out and meet the men of Barry Christian.

“You understand? When the Benton Corner men hear that, they'll turn out, every soul of ‘em, and while they ride back to smash the charge, the rest of us will slip away through the town, scattering right and left through the alleys and the lanes. We'll come out and rejoin on the farther side. Understand? And we'll leave the Benton Corner and the Elsinore men fighting like fools too far away from one another to make out the truth!”

It took a moment for the details of the plan to penetrate the minds of the outlaws. But when they realized, they raised for big Barry Christian only such a shout as despairing men can lift in honor of a chief who promises them their lives. They yelled. They stood up in their stirrups and swung their hats and cheered for Christian. And Duff Gregor galloped to the side of Barry Christian to receive the final instructions before the town of Benton Corner was reached.

It was a neat idea. It might very well work, unless there happened to be in Benton Corner men cool-headed enough to realize that Jim Silver — the real Jim Silver-was hardly the sort of fellow to retire at a gallop even in the face of danger of odds of four to one. Unless, also, there happened to be some one who knew intimately the face of Silver and the figure of the great Parade.

What a man was Barry Christian! No wonder that the cream of the criminal brains of the West was eager to follow him wherever he might lead.

Then the thought of Naylor turned back to Jim Silver, riding with the men of Elsinore on behalf of the law. No doubt, close to him rode that slender panther of a man with the pale, bright eyes — Taxi. Those two alone might be strong enough to wreck all the forces of the great Christian. It seemed to Naylor a battle of supermen — and he was a useless force in the encounter.

They turned straight for the town of Benton Corner, and as they journeyed through the heightening hills, the dust cloud behind them crept closer and closer, now working up to them with a continual sweep which made it clear that Silver had mounted his men on the reserve horses, and that he had determined to have the hounds of the law on the traces of the desperadoes before long.

No doubt he had not even stopped to make inquiries at the train that had been robbed. In the distance he would be able to see the big train standing with no smoke yet rising out of the stack. That sight, near the spot which the boy must have reported, would have been enough to tell him what had happened — that, and the gradually diminishing head of a cloud of dust in the distance.

Benton Corner, that must be the salvation of the fugitives, now heaved into view, perched between two hills, with the upper mountains just beyond it, and with the eternal smoke of the great smelter rising above it in an entangling mist that seemed to keep the little town drab and gray even in the midst of this beautiful weather.

There was not much wastage of paint in Benton Corner. It was a workaday town, and the houses in it were the color of decaying, weather-rotted canvas. There were no trees rising over it. There was no sense of pleasure in life when it was viewed from a distance or close up. Into Benton Corner swept the rout of the Barry Christian gang.

The orders of Barry Christian himself had been put into execution faithfully. There appeared three men with bloodstained bandages around their heads. Two others carried one arm in a sling. There was a leg bandage here and there — and always there was the spot of red blood.

A desperate appearance they presented as they galloped through the streets of the town.

Here Duff Gregor became suddenly the most important man of the lot. Barry Christian himself had a face almost covered by a great bandage that must suggest itself to some observers as being useful as a mask as well as a protection to an injury. And Duff Gregor, his part already well rehearsed, and his brain crammed with words learned from Barry Christian, galloped before the rest on that beautiful, commanding figure of the chestnut thoroughbred.

As he went he shouted loudly, drawing rein a little. Behind him came the bandaged, the sweating, dusty, grim band of fighters. And as he galloped, Duff Gregor was yelling.

“Barry Christian's come back to life! Barry Christians on the go! He's back there with fifty desperadoes. Any fighting men in Benton Corner?”

Any fighting men in Benton Corner? Well, there were no other sort of men in the town, truth to tell. And they swarmed out from lodging houses, from saloons. They broke up the groups which they had formed at corners, idling, and they bolted for their horses. At every hitch rack stood tough mustangs, saddled and ready for action, and here and there in groups there were men tougher than the horseflesh they used. No man had to wait to get a gun. Weapons they carried under their coats or belted around their thighs, or else they had long-barreled repeating Winchesters thrust deep in the saddle holsters, waiting to be used.

Fighting men in Benton Corner? Why, the whole town rose up, shouting, and started a dust cloud rolling out toward the direction from which, according to Duff Gregor, the danger was sweeping toward the town.

What amazed Bill Naylor most of all was the devotion, the veritable joy of these men when they saw that made-up figure of Duff Gregor and cheered him under the name of Jim Silver.

That name was always, on all sides, beating through the air. “Silver!” “Silver!” “Parade!” “Jim Silver and Parade!” they yelled as Duff Gregor went by, never pausing long, and always shouting out his warning, and then dashing on before men had a full chance to center their eyes on him and criticize the truth of his appearance.

There was one great fault in the performance — Jim Silver, the real Jim Silver, would hardly come plunging into a town like this, shouting for help, but — well, what Westerner would be critical? The very name of Jim Silver was enough to put all criticism to sleep and leave, in the place of logical, reasoning brains, a frenzy of hope and courage and excitement.

Benton Corner sent out its men like a cloud of dust that winged off through the hills to find the bloodthirsty followers of “Barry Christian.” And this false “Jim Silver,” who was expected, of course, to turn behind the recruits and rally the forces of battle outside the town?

Well, that “Jim Silver,” like the rest of the rascals who were with him, turned aside and sneaked down a side street after he had seen the rush of fighting men start for the scene of conflict. Down alleys and by lanes they rode. One small boy, as Naylor would never forget, ran out in front yard and yelled at him: “That's the wrong way! Jim Silver wants you back there! Back there!”

Naylor jogged his mustang on its way. And the boy ran out into the street behind him and screamed:

“Coward! Coward! Jim Silver wants you!”

What a man, thought Naylor, if he could put himself inside the minds of the boys of the community in this fashion!

But, after all, the youngster was right. That was where all the honest and brave men belonged — back there, helping Jim Silver, among the hills.

Before Naylor came out on the farther side of Benton Corner he could hear the distant sound of rifle fire from the other side of the town. And he knew that they were at it. Honest men against honest men, shooting to kill, one side led by the invincible name of the great Jim Silver, and the other side led by Jim Silver himself!

What a thing it was to divide a man against himself and use his famous reputation to destroy him, as Barry Christian was using Jim Silver now!

In the meantime, the other members of the gang had come sifting through the town. They were gathering together again, in a string, as a wedge of ducks might be scattered by gunfire when they fly near the ground, but reform again in the sky, after a short distance. That was what had happened with the Christian outfit. Here they were again, at the mouth of a great ravine that cleaved through the mountains as though they had been ripped apart by a gigantic plow.

Every man of them had reassembled, except Dick Penny. He was gone forever to another sort of a meeting, and another sort of a meeting place; there were only twelve men, counting the great Christian himself, who entered the mouth of the ravine in a group — and one of them was leading the treasure horse!

It seemed incredible! They could not, ordinarily, have dared to come close to any town, fugitives as they were from justice. Only the brilliance of Barry Christian had enabled them not only to pass through the town in safety, but to make of the law-abiding men in Benton Corner a filter through which what dangers could flow toward them?

Far in the distance they heard the faint clattering of the rifle fire only gradually dying away!

It seemed to Naylor that the back of Barry Christian was a little straighter. Certainly he had proved as almost never before in his famous career what a right he had to be called a lord of men. All his men were laughing, and they were slapping on the back Duff Gregor, who had just saved their hides! He was laughing most of all, that Judas whose life had been spared by the mercy of the great, the true, the honest Jim Silver!

Near the mouth of the ravine, the party halted at a place where a fresh spring bubbled sparkling out of the ground and ran brimful a little crater of rock. The big mountains shoved their naked heads up into the sky upon all sides. There was not a tree in sight.

There they halted, loosened the cinches of the horses, let them dip in their heads almost to the eyes to drink of the pure water. They sloshed water over the legs of the animals. At the direction of Barry Christian they led them up and down and gave them a good breathing spell.

For Christian pointed out that they had only won one lap in the race — unless by the fortune of war a bullet had happened to tag Jim Silver.

He even kept one man posted at the mouth of the ravine to give warning in case any one of a suspicious nature should advance toward them during the rest period.

It was a very jovial pause. Every one of the men, with a single exception, seemed as light hearted as a cricket. For when had criminals before this day ever managed to make the men of the law fight one another for the sake of a band of plunderers?

The one exception was Bill Naylor, and as he stood with gloomy head, watching his gray mustang, he suddenly looked up and felt the cold, bright eyes of Barry Christian fixed upon him.

With a shudder, Naylor looked away, for he felt that the cold, bright thrust of that glance had found his heart and opened up all the dark secrets of it.

Then, amazing them all, the guard who had been posted at the mouth of the ravine ran back, shouting:

“Jim Silver! Jim Silver! He's coming, with half a dozen men behind him! Jim Silver!”

The name rang magically on the ear of Naylor. He looked at Christian, and for the first time he saw the face of the great outlaw blanch. Was it surprise or fear that had unnerved him?

T
HERE
was reason enough for Christian to be dismayed. What had happened? How had Silver managed to disentangle himself from the fight on the farther side of the town? How had he managed to sift through so quickly with a chosen band of the pursuers?

Then Christian came to himself and said calmly: “Boys, this puts the crown on everything. Scatter back on both sides. Get those horses out of sight among the rocks. You hear me? Get everything out of sight, and see that your rifles are loaded. Every man pick his target — but leave Jim Silver to me! I'll take care of him!”

He made a brief pause as he shot home the last order with a stern glance of his eye.

Then he added: “Now move!”

They moved on the jump. One glance around the place showed them that it was a perfect trap. Even if Jim Silver had led his original two or threescore men from Elsinore straight into the mouth of this funnel among the mountains, it seemed likely that the dozen sure rifles could curl them up in a red ruin and thrust them back.

Naylor, automatically taking shelter behind a great black boulder, found none other than Duff Gregor beside him. And with Duff Gregor was the horse that carried the treasure.

They were well up the side of the mountain; they had a good slant to look beyond the mouth of the ravine out onto the lower ground from which Silver must approach. And Naylor heard Gregor snarling:

“There's one thing that makes me sour, and that's Christian reserving Silver to himself. I'd like to sink some lead of my own into Jim Silver. I could ride the real Parade as well as the next man.”

“Christian's a funny guy,” said Naylor slowly. “Maybe he thought that you'd feel sort of kindly about Silver since he saved your life for you and turned you loose from the men of Crow's Nest.”

Gregor growled: “That what you say? I'm goin' to have words with you after this little job's over and we've mopped up Silver and his gang of fools.”

Suddenly curses streamed out of the lips of Naylor. He said savagely: “It ain't
words
that you're goin' to have with me, you swine!”

Gregor, unexpectedly, said nothing at all.

And then, through the gap in the mouth of the valley, Naylor had a sudden glimpse of the advancing party.

There were not six men. There were only five men — and a bare-legged youngster who rode without a saddle on a tireless little mustang. The very boy who had discovered them and had carried the alarm!

He was one. There were four others, of whom one, from his size and the way he kept close to Jim Silver, was probably that other famous man of battle, Taxi. But most of all, foremost in the lot, magnificent on his great, shining stallion, came Jim Silver himself.

Something stood up in the heart of poor Bill Naylor and called that hero his master. And something told him that it was better to die a thousand times on the side of such a warrior than to live forever surrounded by Christian and his crew.

Suddenly Naylor rose.

“Hey! Don't show yourself, you fool!” cried Gregor. “They're almost where they can see — ”

Naylor laid the barrel of a Colt along the head of Gregor, and with satisfaction listened to the ring of the hollow steel. He watched Gregor drop, and then he deliberately flung himself into the saddle of the horse that carried the treasure and started as wild, as desperate, as hopeless a charge as ever a man attempted in this world. For he made the mustang bolt, under frenzied spurring, toward the mouth of the ravine, straight out to give warning to Jim Silver of the deadly trap which he was approaching.

His horse had not taken three strides before a voice was shouting:

“Hey, you crazy fool!”

That was Cassidy. No other voice had the bull-terrier, whining note of battle as did the voice of Cassidy.

Then the stentorian shout of Barry Christian bellowed through the air: “Shoot the traitor! Shoot him!”

And the rifle fire began.

• • •

Down the steepness of the slope the flying mustang ran as a torrent of water runs, plunging from side to side, angling away from projecting rocks, dodging like a snipe in flight from the hunter, and not a single bullet struck lucky Bill Naylor.

Well, bullets didn't matter. If he could let some blood, it would carry away in its flowing some of the sins of his life, and help to wash his soul clean.

The horse hit the level of the valley floor beneath. The gunfire increased. The thunder of it rang all about him, until it seemed from the echoing that a thousand guns were working.

Then a blow struck him on the back between the shoulders, not like a bullet, but like a club. The weight of the shock knocked him forward over the pommel of the saddle. His whole back was benumbed. Afterward there was a shooting thrust of pain right up into his head; and after that the pain spread inward toward his heart.

“They've shot me through the heart,” his numb lips said to him. “Why don't I die? Heaven won't let me die till I've warned Jim Silver!”

Aye, but Jim Silver was already warned, surely, by the clamor of guns inside the death trap that he had so nearly entered. Then why could not Bill Naylor stop the mustang and slide down from the saddle and stretch himself on the ground?

To lie there, stretched on the ground, for a moment's respite from the agony that was wearing away the strength of his soul!

Then he understood why he must keep on riding. It was because he was carrying with him, back to the hands of the law, the treasure for which one man had died already.

He was going to die, too, he told himself. He wanted only to die like Dick Penny. That was the way to meet the end!

But the best he could do was to scurry away like a frightened rabbit with a bullet through his back!

Well, a man like Jim Silver would understand.

The mustang staggered suddenly and almost flung him from the saddle. The horse had been hit. And as Naylor righted himself in the saddle with dreadful labor, there was another shock and numbing blow as a rifle bullet struck him at the hip from behind and tore through his flesh, and glanced around the thigh bone, and came out above the knee.

“What kind of luck is this?” said Bill Naylor. “They're going to shoot me out of the saddle — but I got the hoss pretty near to the mouth of the ravine already.”

A wave of darkness washed across his brain.

Another shock, another club stroke. He didn't know where that blow had fallen, but now there was warm blood flowing down over his face.

“I can't feel nothing no more,” said Bill Naylor, “except my heart — except my heart.”

That agony devoured all that was inside him, all the heart, all the spirit, all the courage.

Then, like the opening of a door, he was through the mouth of the valley, and on either side of him the bright-green of the outer plain extended. He saw a group of riders halted. He saw the brilliant sheen of Parade. That was, in fact, all that he could see very clearly.

Jim Silver would have to be in the saddle on that horse.

So he made for Silver.

He saw the wink of light along leveled gun barrels, and he heard voices shouting to him to halt, and then the cry of Silver bidding the others to hold their hands. Then, suddenly, he was drawing rein, or trying to, beside Silver.

But he could not draw rein slowly enough. The wounded mustang came to a pitching halt that slewed Bill Naylor out of the saddle and rolled him on the grass. Every time he rolled he left a spot of blood. He rolled over and over twenty times, and when he looked to the side he could see the crimson trail that he had made on the grass.

Better on grass than on rocks. Far better on grass than on rocks!

The blue sky was revolving around him like a spinning wheel. He was being lifted up into the blue. He was somewhere high up, among the bright drifting of the clouds.

Then a voice boomed in his ears. He looked with a vast effort.

“Silver,” he said. “Is that you?”

He could see nothing, only the whirl of the blue; but the voice of Jim Silver, wonderfully deep and gentle, was saying:

“I'm Jim Silver, partner.”

A faint smile pulled at the numb lips of Naylor. Partner? Well, it was just as well that Silver did not know the darkness of his past! And for five minutes to be esteemed noble by such a man, was not that enough?

“Silver,” he said, “they're in there, waiting, I seen you coming, and couldn't stand it. I got on the hoss that carried the loot from the train. It's all there. Watch yourself. They're all in there. Barry Christian and ten more!”

“Barry Christian!” cried Silver. “Barry Christian?”

“Yes,” murmured Naylor.

Then, distantly, he heard the voice of Silver saying: “Taxi, stay here with him. Watch him as if he were yourself. Keep the kid with you. I'll scout on ahead.”