Heart's Desire Part 31

"Wait till I get a Winchester," said McKinney, briefly, and started down the street.

"Whiteman," Doc Tomlinson volunteered, "you 'tend to my drug store while I'm away, and if anybody wants any drugs, you go get 'em."

"You all hold on a minute," said Curly, hurrying forward, "while I run over home and git saddled up." He did not see the Littlest Girl approaching, but the sheriff did.

"Never mind, Curly," said the sheriff, quietly, pointing to her. "I want one more man, a single man."

"You, Curly!" interrupted his spouse, "you stay right where you are.

You get some one else, Mr. Stillson. He's got a family, and besides, he's _such_ a fool."

Curly flushed. "Was it _my_ fault I got married?" he began hotly.

"And them twins, was they mine, real? Now look here--" But the sheriff shook his head. He looked at Dan Anderson inquiringly.

"Certainly I'll go," said he. "Wait till I get fixed."

"That's as many as I'll need," said Stillson. "Hurry up, all of you."

Dan Anderson hastened across the _arroyo_ to his house, first asking Curly to get him a horse. Curly departed to his own home with the Littlest Girl; so that Constance presently got fuller news of the arrival of the sheriff's party, and learned also that Dan Anderson was to join them.

"But, Curly," cried Constance, "isn't it dangerous? Won't some one get hurt?" She winced. The steady flame of her own brave heart flickered at this new terror.

"_Kin savvy_?" grinned Curly. "The Kid's gang sh.o.r.e'll fight. A good many fellers has got hurt goin' after him. But what you goin' to do?

Let 'em steal all the cows they want, and kill everybody they feel like?"

"That's work for the officers," insisted Constance.

"There ain't no police out here," Curly replied, "and not sherfs enough to go around; so a feller sorter has to go when he's asked. They won't let me, because I got twins--though they ain't mine. But, now, I've got to take this here horse over to Dan Anderson." He mounted and rode away.

It was Dan Anderson himself who presently came at a gallop across the _arroyo_. A heavy revolver swung at his hip, a rifle rested in the scabbard under his leg, and a coat was rolled behind his saddle, plainsman fashion. Constance noted these details, but pa.s.sed them in her eagerness and pleasure that he should come at least to say good-by.

Something of the joy faded from her eyes as he approached. She had seen his face wear this same expression before,--fierce, eager, forgetful of all but a purpose.

He did not smile. He stooped from his saddle and grasped her hand. He looked squarely into her eyes, but said no word of salutation or farewell. He did not look back, as upon the instant, he whirled and galloped away! For her there were to be yet more days of waiting; for him the relief of action and of danger.

That afternoon Tom Osby drove into town from the northern trail. Mr.

Ellsworth welcomed him and his rude vehicle as the first feasible means of getting back to Sky Top. By noon of the following day they were well upon their way, leaving behind them problems enough unsolved, and breaking touch with pending events which might cut short all problems for at least one loyal heart. It was a sad and silent Constance who looked back and said good-by to the rambling street of Heart's Desire, lying in the sun empty, empty!

As for the sheriff of Blanco and his men, they trotted on steadily toward the northeast, hour after hour. They crossed the Patos divide, and a few miles beyond took up the trail of their quarry, at the point where Stillson had earlier left it. This they followed rapidly, crossing wide plains of sage brush and cactus throughout the day. They slept in their saddle-blankets that night, and were up and off again by dawn for the second day of steady travel. There were seven men in the posse, three besides Stillson from the Seven Rivers country, employees of the cow men on the Pecos,--slim, brown, thin-featured fellows, who talked little either in the saddle or at the bivouac fire by night.

The second night out they spent by a water hole in the desert; and on the morning of the third day they ran into their game, earlier than they had expected. The sheriff, riding in advance, suddenly pulled up at the crest of a low ridge which they were ascending, and came back motioning to his men to remain under cover.

"That's the Pinos Altos ranch house just ahead," he explained, "and there's smoke coming out of it. Old Frazee's friendly enough with the Kid, and more'n likely the bunch has stopped in there to get something to eat. Hold on a little till I have a look." He took a pair of field-gla.s.ses from his saddle, and crawling to the top of the ridge lay examining the situation.

"It's them, all right," he said when he returned. "I know some of the horses. It's the Kid and about three others. They are all saddled up--probably stopped in to cook a meal. We'll get 'em sure. Now, all of you hitch back here, and crawl around to the _arroyo_ below, there.

That'll put us within a hundred yards or so of the house."

Each man, dismounting, hitched his horse, then quietly ran over the cylinder of his revolver, blew the dust out of the rear sight of his Winchester, tested the magazine, and cleared the breech action. This done, each crept to the place a.s.signed to him. Dan Anderson found himself moving mechanically, dully, with a strange absence of excitement. He almost felt himself looker-on at what other men were doing.

For some time Stillson lay behind a little bush at the edge of the gully, peering critically at the house, from which came nothing to indicate that their approach had been discovered. At length, without a word, he slowly raised his short-barrelled rifle and fired. One of the horses. .h.i.tched to the beam above the door stumbled forward and sank across the opening, blocking it. The bullet had caught it at the b.u.t.t of the ear, and it fell stone dead, its neck bent up by the shortened rein.

In response, without a word of parley, a thin cloud of smoke gushed out of the only window facing the attack. Puffs of sand arose along the front of the _arroyo_, searching out each little bush top which might possibly offer cover. Stillson heard a smothered spat and a short sound, and turned his head quickly. He saw Jim Harbin, one of the boys from the lower range, turn over with a sigh, and lie with arms spread out. He had been shot straight through the neck. Dan Anderson, the man nearest to him, drew him back. He would have raised the head of the wounded man, but the choking warned him. Harbin lay out on his back, looking up, his breath gurgling in his throat. "No use," he whispered thickly. "Leave me alone. I've got to take my medicine."

In ten minutes he was dead.

The day's work went on. The sheriff fired three or four more deliberate shots, but finally turned around. At each shot, the other horse tied to the beam sprang back.

"Can't you hit it?" grinned McKinney.

"I don't want to kill the horse," said Stillson; "I know that horse, and it's a good one. I want to turn it loose. Here you, Anderson, can you see that rope from where you are? Shoot it off, if you can, close up to the beam."

Dan Anderson, in spite of Stillson's hasty warning to keep down, rose at full height at the edge of the cover, and took a deliberate off-hand shot. They saw him whirl half around, and look down at his left arm; but as he dropped lower, he rested his rifle on a bit of sage brush, and fired once more. With a snort the horse, which had been pulling back wildly on its lariat, now broke free and went off, saddled as it was.

"Good shot!" commented the sheriff. "That'll about put 'em on foot.

What, did they get you?"

Dan Anderson drew back from the crest and rolled up his shirt-sleeve above an arm now wet with blood. A bullet had cut through the upper arm above the elbow.

"Serves you mighty near right," called McKinney to him, "standing up, like a blamed fool! You suppose them fellers can't shoot, same as us?"

Doc Tomlinson crawled over to him and examined the hurt. "It's all right," said he. "Bone ain't touched. Let me tie her up."

A half hour pa.s.sed without further firing. Stillson edged around to the point nearest the house. "Here you, Kid," he called out. "Come on out. We've got you on foot, and you might as well give up."

A dirty rag was thrust out of a window at the end of a rifle-barrel.

"That you, Ben?" called a m.u.f.fled voice from the adobe.

"You know it is, Kid. Drop it, and come on out. We've got you sure."

The day's work was over. Dan Anderson remembered afterward how matter of fact and methodical it all had seemed. A few moments later a short, dirty young man appeared at the door, crawling over the prostrate horse. He held up his hands, grinning. He was followed by two others, both chewing tobacco calmly. The sheriff ordered down his men to meet them. McKinney unbuckled the belts. The captives seated themselves a few feet apart on the ground.

"This all the men you've got?" asked the Kid.

The sheriff nodded. "You've killed Jim Harbin," he added, jerking a thumb toward the _arroyo_.

"Why didn't he stay home, then?" said the Kid, peevishly. No one seemed disposed again to mention an unpleasant subject.

"Where you goin' to take us?" the Kid inquired.

"Vegas. It's a United States warrant, and you go dead or alive, either way you want."

"Oh, that's all right, Ben. We'll take the chance of stayin' alive a while."

Stillson now appeared to experience his first concern in regard to his casualties. "Doc," said he, "you take the ranch wagon here and carry Jim back to the settlements. You go along, Anderson. Doc, you drive."

"You busted up our breakfast," said the Kid, in an aggrieved tone.

"Don't we eat?" He spoke complainingly. The day's work was thus concluded.

It was a long ride back for Dan Anderson, lying part of the time himself p.r.o.ne at the bottom of the wagon, too faint to sit with comfort on the narrow, jolting seat. The long, m.u.f.fled body of the dead man, wrapped tightly in its blankets, at times rolled against him as the wagon tilted, and he pushed it back gently. The day's work had been savage, stern, and simple. The lesson of the landscape, the lesson of life, came to him as he had never felt it before. He saw now how little a thing is life, how easy to lay down--gayly, bitterly, lightly, or quietly perhaps; but not cheaply. He remembered the last words of the boy who now lay there, shrouded and silent,--"I've got to take my medicine."

"It's not a question of being happy," thought Dan Anderson, "but of doing your work, and taking your medicine."