Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1301
Red Krehl eyed the leader with amazing tolerance and respect for that hard cowboy to exhibit at a hard time.
“Dann, from yore side of thet fence thet is good figgerin’,” he said. “But I know Ormiston either shot Cedric or put somebody up to it. Let’s don’t argue any more. We’re wastin’ time, an’ we’ll know for shore pronto.”
“Men, fetch shovels and a ground-cloth,” ordered Dann. “We’ll bury poor Cedric here on the spot of his brave stand. Keep it from the women!”
A shrill aboriginal yell startled the group. Friday appeared on the highest part of the bank, gesticulating violently.
“What the hell?” muttered Red. Then he mounted a fraction of a second behind Sterl. They raced for the black man, the drovers pounding behind.
With a long arm and a spear Friday pointed across the river. Sterl located an object crawling down a slight sandy slope.
“Man! White fella! Boss’s brudder!” called Friday, dramatically.
Sterl wiped his eyes with steady hand.
“Look, pard. Make sure,” he said, coolly. His faculties were swiftly settling for action.
“Friday’s right,” declared Red. “It’s Eric Dann. Bad hurt from the way he moves!”
The man across the river flopped down a sandy slope, crawled, got to his knees to wave weakly.
“Ormiston has done for him,” said Red.
“Red, strip King’s saddle,” flashed Sterl, leaping down to sit flat, and tear off spurs and boots. “I can land here, somewhere if you rope me.”
“I could rope yore cigarette. Rustle.”
“Hazelton, what do you intend doing?” boomed Stanley Dann.
Sterl had no time for the leader then. Leaping upon King he seized the bridle and wheeled the black up the river. At a hard gallop he covered the few hundred yards of open bank and hauled up. The flood here came swirling to the edge of the bank. The muddy torrent appeared crisscrossed with debris, logs and brush.
King champed his bit and snorted. He knew what he was in for and wanted to go at it. The drovers, led by Red, arrived at this juncture.
Stanley Dann thundered, “Hazelton, don’t throw your life away. This is suicide!”
“Now!” pealed out Red Krehl, who had been watching the current for a favorable moment.
Sterl released his strain on the bridle and thumped King hard in the flanks. The black sprang into action and took off in three jumps. As they hit the current Sterl turned King downstream, quartering for a point far down on the opposite shore. Again and again, the backlash of the waves crashed over the heads of horse and rider. They were strangled, submerged, tossed. Logs grazed them, a huge piece of drift rolled over them, a great gum tree bore down on them, upending now its blunt trunk and now its roots. But just as it was about to fall, the roots caught momentarily on the river bottom and the stouthearted King swam on. Two hundred yards of this, and King struck the bottom. With a tremendous heave and snort, he waded out.
When King emerged from the river to shake himself like a huge dog, Sterl did not at once see the wounded man. Red’s piercing yell and outstretched arm gave him a clue, and presently he saw Dann sprawled upon the sand. Sterl dismounted and ran to him.
Eric Dann lay flat on his back, arms wide, eyes open. That part of his face not covered with dirt and blood was ashen white and clammy. His hair, matted with blood, failed to hide a wound — probably from a blow with the barrel of a gun, Sterl reflected.
“Dann, you’ve been beaten up,” cried Sterl, anxiously. “Have you been shot, too?”
“Not that — I know of,” replied Dann, in faint, hoarse tones. “Must have — been unconscious some time.”
“Ormiston’s work?”
“Yes, Bedford, too — set upon me.”
“When?”
“About daylight.”
Lifting the drover to his feet, Sterl found that he could not walk even when supported. So Sterl heaved him up to straddle the horse, and holding him there urged King up the river. The bed of this fork of the river widened upstream, with a correspondingly flatter bank. Sterl turned to look across. Red sat his horse in the middle of the open space where the cattle had run. He waved his lasso. Surveying the scene, Sterl knew that King could cross again, if there was no accident. He waded the black into the shallow water up to his haunches.
“Slide off, Eric. I don’t want double weight on the horse. I’ll drag you.”
“Can you?”
“If you drown, so will I,” said Sterl. “But we’ll make it. All in a day’s work.”
He helped Eric to slide off feet first, then took hold of his shirt high up in front. He had to keep Dann’s head out of the water when that was possible. Even with good fortune and management it would be submerged to the suffocating limit. Then he watched the river for a slatch, and urged King into deep water. Resting Dann’s head on his leg he floated him along on the downstream side of the horse. King breasted the flood, held his black nose high, parted the mass of debris, and striking the current broadside on, sheered into the crested waves, magnificently powerful. The last of the heavy driftwood, in front of the open space, caught him and bore him on, submerged him, almost rolled him over. Then they were in the thick of the crashing turmoil, as wave on wave curled back to bury Sterl beneath its yellow crest. For the first time he hauled on the bridle. King responded and swam out of the rough water. Eric Dann hung limp, like a sack, in Sterl’s grasp.
A ringing yell — Red was riding Duke at the water’s edge, swinging a loop of the lasso round his head. They were fifty feet from the shore, drifting swiftly toward the lower end of a bare place.
“He’s founderin’, Sterl,” yelled Red, at the top of his lungs. “Beat him on! Only a little farther!”
King had spent himself. Sterl knew he never needed to beat that horse. But he bent low and screamed, “You can make it. Only a little farther! Oh, King!”
The gallant horse responded. A last violent spurt, a last plunge, his head rose high — then the lasso whipped out and spread, to hiss and tighten with a crack round horse and rider. Red and the drovers dragged them ashore. Strong hands pulled Sterl and his burden up on the bank. Red released Sterl from the noose.
Dann had almost drowned. But rubbing and manipulating brought him to. Then a drover put a black bottle to his lips.
“Boss, he’s been beaten on the head — with a gun,” said Sterl, panting for breath. “Told me Ormiston and Bedford did it — about daylight. Then they left.”
“Boss, get his story,” cut in Red, cool and hard. “Let him talk before he croaks or goes out of his haid.”
“But now that his life is saved—” remonstrated the leader.
“Hells fire!” flashed the cowboy. “We’re goin’ after Ormiston. Hurry. Let him talk. Help us thet much.”
“Eric, tell me,” interposed Sterl. “It may help. When did you drive your wagon across to Ormiston’s camp?”
“Last night — at dusk — before the storm broke,” whispered Dann.
“What for?”
“I wanted to be — on that side — to go with Ormiston.”
“Did you know he didn’t want you?”
“Not till daylight. Then I realized — what he was. Bushranger! — Ash Pell! That’s his real name. Notorious Queensland bushranger! We’ve heard of him. I heard Jack and Bedford call him by his name. I found out they had rushed — our mob — stolen our horses. I confronted him — then they hit me!”
“Did you know he had Beryl there?”
“He told me. She had come willingly. — When I came to — my senses — they were gone. I crawled down — to the bank.”
Stanley Dann swayed like a great tree uprooted.
“God forgive my ignorance — my stubbornness! God forgive me for all except my faith in man! Shall that fail because some men are evil? Oh, my little Beryl!”
“Dann, we’ll fetch her back,” said Sterl. “Red, see if King’s all right.”
“Me go along you,” said Friday, simply.
“Good. — Red, we’ve got some meat and bread. Dried fruit, too. They’ll get wet, but no matter. Dann, how many of your drovers carry rifles on their saddles?”
“Not one of those drovers who — who deserted me — turned bushrangers — perverted by that villain’s promises.”
“Red, I remember Ormiston had rifles in his wagon.”
“Yes. Small bore. An’ he couldn’t hit a barn door!”
“Sterl, let me go,” entreated Larry. “They murdered my friend — Let me go.”
“You bet,” retorted Sterl. Larry might never have ridden on a deadly chase, but he had a light in his hawk eyes that was sufficient for Sterl.
Drake addressed himself to their leader. “Mr. Dann, I couldn’t let these boys go alone. What Hazelton does we can do — or try.”
“Drake, you’re on,” rang out Sterl. “One more man. Rollie, are you game? There’ll be some hard riding — and a little gunplay.”
“Hazelton, I was about to ask you,” returned Roland, pale and resolute.
“Here, fellows!” ejaculated Sterl, as the other drovers chimed in eagerly. “Three men are plenty. Thanks though. You’re real pards. Mr. Dann, I’d advise packing your brother back to camp.”
Dann gave the order to his drover. Then he addressed the cowboys, not with his usual direct assurance.
“If you come up with Ormiston and his drovers then — there will be violence?” went on Dann, swallowing hard. He was on strange ground here.
“For cripe’s sake, boss!” burst out the cowboy, “Ormiston has damn near croaked yore brother! He has killed one of our drovers and corrupted a lot of yours an’ raided yore cattle! An’ as for Beryl — I swear to you it’s wuss than if she did elope with him. Hell no! There won’t be any violence! We’ll pay our respects, drink some tea with him, an’...” Here Red lost his voice.
“What will you do?” thundered Dann, roused by the cowboy’s stinging irony.
Sterl, having got his boots and spurs on, rose to face their leader. He was cool as Red had been hot.
“Dann, we will hang Ormiston if possible. But kill him in any event! And his right-hand men! Your drovers will make a run for it — which may save them. With Beryl to care for we can’t chase a lot of white-livered suckers all over the place. You may expect us back with Beryl by nightfall, or tomorrow at the latest.”
“My God! You petrify me, Hazelton. But you have never failed me. Nor has Krehl! Go! Bring back Beryl. I leave the decision to you!”
He stalked away, leading his horse.
CHAPTER 19
THE FIVE WHITE avengers, picking a relatively calm stretch, swam their horses across the river. Friday crossed by holding onto King’s tail and floating behind. Ormiston, Sterl reflected, had probably assumed that the flooded river was an insurmountable barrier to pursuit. There came a slight change in the temperature, the cool air moderating, and the drizzle increasing to rain. The gray overcast sky darkened. The water level had risen another foot. Owing to the rain, Dann’s wagon had not burned up completely, but the canvas cover was partly destroyed, and some of the contents. Half of the load had evidently been carried away. There was no sign of team or harness.
“Ormiston was kinda rarin’ to go, huh?” drawled Red.
They rode out of the timber. Broad wheel tracks curved away to the east.
“Three wagons,” said Red, thinking aloud. “All loaded heavy. Ten or twelve miles a day over this ground is about all they could do. Three drivers, which I reckon will be Ormiston, Jack, an’ Bedford. They’ll drive ahaid of the cattle.”
“Righto, Red. Say they left camp an hour or so after daybreak,” rejoined Sterl. “Anybody got the time?”
“Half after nine,” replied Drake.
Sterl and his riders set off at a lope, with the aborigine running along easily. He had a marvelous stride and he covered ground as smoothly as an Indian. Red followed the wheel tracks for a mile, until they disappeared under the trampling hoofmarks of the cattle. Presently the broad, heavy track of the herd that had been raided across the river joined the main mob.
“One of them there little ridges ahaid will...Look heah!” Red leaped out of his saddle and bent to pick up something. It was one of the handkerchiefs Red had given Beryl for Christmas. When he carefully stowed the handkerchief away inside his leather coat Sterl thought he would not have been in that bushranger’s boots for anything in the whole world.
They rode on to where the mob track curved to the left away from the first ridge. Once beyond that, the country was open bushland, grassy plains, patches of scrub, scattered gum trees with rolling country beyond.
Sterl took note of their three Australian companions. Drake was the only one who was not overexcited. Being a mature man, he had probably seen some hard days. But Larry and Rollie, stalwart young outdoor men though they were, had certainly never shot a man in their lives. Sterl knew how they felt. Red Krehl was always one to be cool and provocative in the face of a fight, but now he looked fierce and relentless.
The rain had let up to a fine mist when the posse climbed another rocky edge. Distance, heights, lowlands preserved their gray-green monotony, but all were magnified. And in the center of a long valley the mob of cattle stood out strikingly clear for so dark a day. The pursuers gazed in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, until Red spoke:
“Four or five miles, mebbe. I figger they’re pushin’ the herd — not grazin’ atall.”
“I can’t see any wagons,” added Larry. “Too far.”
Friday touched Sterl’s arm. He extended his bundle of long spears.
“Wagons. Alonga dere,” he pointed.
“Ahuh! How far, pard?” And Sterl thought surely that was the only instance in Red Krehl’s life when the Texan had called a black man his partner.
“Close up,” replied the black.
“Red, the wagons are in front of the cattle,” interposed Sterl.
“Jest too bad. Mister Bushranger Ormiston shore figgers things good for us,” returned the cowboy. Then he bent a keen calculating gaze upon the herd of cattle in its relation of landmarks on each side. “Reckon there’s plenty of cover all along heah to the left. Come on, fellers. It’s gettin’ kinda hot.”
They descended the ridge on its steep side.
Here Red told Friday to get up behind Sterl.
The black understood, but he shook his head.
“Come, Friday,” called Sterl, and extended his hand. “Look out! — For cripe’s sake don’t stick me with your spears!” He helped the aborigine to a place astride King behind the saddle. “Hang on to me,” he concluded.
Red led off, heading due west from that ridge. They crossed the flat to find a pass between two low ridges, then turned east again. It was thicker bushland, through which the cowboy led in a zigzag course. Five miles, more or less, of this; then he halted to the left of another ridge.
“Reckon this heah is ahaid of the herd an’ drovers. You can all wait heah while I take a look-see.”
He took a slanting course up the ridge. Friday had slid off King at once, and if his dark visage could have expressed distaste it would have done so then.
“Me tinkit hoss no good,” he said.
Sterl’s grimness broke at this, but the perturbed drovers did not even crack a smile.
“What will we do next?” asked Larry, his voice not quite natural.
“I don’t know what Red will advise. Depends on the lay of the land. But if there’s any chance for a fight he’ll have us in it pronto.”
“We — we’ll attack them?” queried Rollie. “I rather think so!”
Red appeared, riding back. As he reined Duke in, as was characteristic of him, he lighted a cigarette before he spoke.
“Jest couldn’t be better. Herd about a couple miles below us, close to this side of the valley. Bunch of hosses behind. All the six drovers ridin’ behind, bunched close, as if they had lots to talk about, an’ they’re goin’ to pass less’n a hundred yards from a patch of brush right around this corner of the ridge.”
He paused, puffed clouds of smoke that obscured his lean, red face and fire-blue eyes, and presently resumed, this time cooler and sharper.
“Heah’s the deal. This setup will be duck soup. Sterl an’ me, with Friday, will ride ahaid, hell-bent for election, an’ get in front of the wagons. Drake, you take Larry an’ Rollie, ride around this corner, then lead yore horses back to the thicket you’ll see. Keep out of sight. Crawl through the brush to the edge, wait for the herd to pass by, an’ the drovers to come up even with you, I reckon thet’s about all.”
“All right, Krehl. We’ll do it,” declared Drake, firmly. “Looks a good deal luckier than I hoped for.”
“You’ll have to give us the time it takes for the herd an’ drovers to come up. We gotta rustle. Let’s don’t argue. Sterl, what say?”
“Made to order for us,” returned Sterl, darkly.
Larry burst out: “Let’s not waste time. We’ll do it, Krehl!”
This young man had never shot at more than a kangaroo. Now he realized that he was going out to shoot at his fellow men, and be shot at. He was trembling but courageous.
“Wait!” ejaculated Rollie, hoarsely. “What will we do?”
Red eyed the big drover in supreme disdain. Then he spoke with a deadly softness. “Wal, Rollie, you might wave yore scarf an’ call, Woo-hoo!”
“Don’t cast aspersions upon me, you cowboy blighter!” retorted Rollie, angrily.
“Hellsfire, then! Come out of yore trance. This is a man hunt. These drovers you’ve hobnobbed with, mebbe, air murderin’ traitors — cattle an’ hoss thieves! I’ve had to help hang more’n one cowboy friend that I reckoned was a clean honest chap, when he’d come to be a low-down rustler. Same, mebbe, between you boys an’ Dann’s drovers. It’ll be tough. But it’s gotta be done.”
“Krehl, I can take orders. Stop ranting in your lingo, and give them.”
“Short an’ sweet. Think of yore pard Cedric. Think of Beryl Dann, who’s in Ormiston’s hands. Cut loose with yore rifles an’ kill them drovers. If you cain’t down ’em pronto, fork yore hosses an’ ride them down.”
