Читать книгу The Fugitive Trail - Zane Grey - Страница 3

Table of Contents

THE town was full of trail drivers and laborers just paid off and looking at red liquor. In the back room of Lafe Hennesy’s six men sat at a big round table and played poker for table stakes. Two of them were cowboys making a night of it, and blowing their roll early, one was a stranger in those parts. The gambler, Quade Belton, dark, swarthy, and with sharp eyes, had the biggest pile of silver and gold before him. His sidekick, Steve Henderson, was doing well too. The sixth man was trying hard, and sweating freely, but he was getting trimmed. He was in his twenties, soft of face and hands, obviously not a horseman and, judging from the way he played, not much of a gambler. His name was Barse Lockheart.

Suddenly a few onlookers were shoved aside and a young man stepped up to the table. Except for his hardness and the steel in his eye he was a dead ringer for Barse Lockheart. His voice, when it came, had bite in it.

“Barse, get up! Quit this game pronto!”

The six men looked up, questioning, wary. Barse flushed red. “What the hell’s eatin’ you?” he burst out.

“You’re in bad company. Shake it now,” came the reply.

“But I’m loser. I won’t quit. You’ve got a gall to brace me in the middle of a game.”

Henderson banged the table and turned to Barse. “Tell him to go where it’s hot.”

“Bruce, you can go to hell!” shouted Barse. But the wavering of his eyes belied the defiance in his voice.

The stranger looked up at the intruder with a sneer on his lips. “Say, are you your brother’s keeper?”

“You’re damn right—when he keeps company with Steve Henderson and an outfit any trail driver would know is shady as hell.”

All six men flipped their cards on the table. Several chairs scraped back. The two cowboys looked uneasy.

“Lockheart, I resent that,” growled Henderson. “I’ll just have to call you out.”

There was no bravado in Bruce’s cold, matter-of-fact reply. “Don’t make the mistake of trying it.”

The stranger slowly rose from his chair, his right hand crooked low near his gun. Belton pocketed his winnings. The two cowboys left their seats and joined the group of onlookers backing away from the table.

“Mr. Lockheart,” snapped the stranger, “did you include me in the outfit you called shady?”

“I did. But I was flattering you.”

“Ahuh! Jest how?”

Bruce replied with a smile. “Shady might do for you in this easygoing town. But down on the trail where men are hard you’d be just plain crooked.”

The stranger’s gun was out in a flash, but with the same incredible speed Bruce had drawn his and squeezed the trigger. The bang of his gun seemed to lift the roof and the stranger fell across the table, which upset letting him slump to the floor. A second later Henderson’s gun was out, but he never had a chance to aim as Bruce shot him. The third roar was Henderson’s gun going off in the air as he toppled over backwards.

Bruce backed away, his gun smoking, and was swallowed by the crowd that pressed forward around Henderson. Quade Belton and Barse Lockheart slipped out the door and went for their horses. The older man mounted and turned to the other.

“Are you coming, or does your brother call your shots?”

The sting went home. “My brother can go to hell!” Barse replied angrily. He mounted quickly and rode after Belton into the fading light.

In the early spring twilight Trinity sat on a log above the swift stream waiting for a lover who was always unreliable and late. The murmuring stream mirrored the fading rose and gold of sunset; a mother duck with her brood paddled under the overhanging foliage; late birds twittered sleepily in the tall trees; there was a fresh, damp sensation in the cool air. Behind her were distant sounds from the Spencer ranch, where she lived, and from beyond that the low roar from the town of Denison, more than usually raw and elemental this spring night by reason of the railroad construction camp on the outskirts and the arrival of trail drivers and cattle herds from the south.

Looking southward always fascinated Trinity. It was from the south that she had come and from there the future vaguely called. A wide gap in the dark line of trees opened to the vast wild Texas rangeland. By day and by night, when she waited at this trysting place, she seemed to see down to the Trinity River where she had been found abandoned as a child and rescued by these good Spencers. They called her Trinity and nothing had ever been learned about where she had come from nor who she was. She remembered long rides in wagons; endless plains of waving grass; black herds of buffalo; camps and fires along dark rivers; fierce bearded men; gunshots, and the blood-curdling war cries of Indians.

A dreaming, brooding loneliness spread south from the stream. And never had the beauty of that Texas land struck her so poignantly. Purple dusk moved silently from the wooded stream bottom, over the undulating range, toward the golden afterglow of sunset. Almost, Trinity preferred the peaceful and wild unknown southland to the tumult and trouble of the Spencer ranch and the wide-open town of Denison.

The distant noise of that town brought her mind back to Barse. He had changed, there was no denying it. The lovable, gay, thoughtless, improvident boy had taken to evil companions and a dissolute life. He resented her talking about it, too, and more than once had turned on her with stubborn violence when she brought up the subject. And yet there were flashes of his old self, like the time he had insisted on buying her that expensive dress. She had been thrilled, but when she asked him how he had got the money he had become angry and defiant. It worried her. “I feel like Barse’s mother,” she thought. “He’s a little, irresponsible boy.”

Then her thoughts turned to Bruce, as they had more and more lately. He was so different from Barse, tough, hard, and serious, with a reputation as a buffalo hunter, trail driver, and yes, a gunman. Trinity wondered at the talk she had heard of Bruce’s prowess as a gunman. She had not seen much of Bruce until lately as he had always been away hunting or trail driving. But in the last few months he had come to the ranch often, more to see her, she knew, than to see her parents. And, in spite of her affection for Barse, there was something solid about Bruce that she found very appealing. The last time he came, she remembered with a pang of guilt, she had almost let him kiss her. And even now she found the idea disturbing and exciting. No, he couldn’t be a killer. But her duty was with Barse. She had to try to get him to change his ways and settle down. He needed her, and if he promised to straighten out she would marry him.

She knew that Barse was not going to come tonight, so she left the riverbank and picked out the familiar trail through the darkness. As she crossed the meadows, the grazing horses lifted their heads to snort. Horses had played a large part in her life. Few of the boys could outride her. Then she remembered that Barse was one Texan who did not own or love horses, and she suffered a pang.

Trinity entered the grove that surrounded the ranch house. The peeping of the frogs in the pond made a sweet, sad music she had loved as long as she could remember. There was a light in the sitting room of the rambling house. She went in, wanting to seek the seclusion of her room, but resolved to tell the Spencers of her decision.

“Trinity, you’re in early,” said Mrs. Spencer, a gray-haired, sturdy woman.

“Barse did not come,” replied Trinity. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s out somewhere. Hal rustled off to town. One of the riders fetched news of a holdup. Bandits, I reckon. Denison was pretty bad before the railroad work came with its gold an’ riffraff laborers, an’ gamblin’ halls an’ dance-hall hussies. But now it’s the worst Texas town I ever lived near.”

“I’ve decided I—I’d marry Barse,” stammered the girl.

“Oh, no, Trinity!” expostulated Mrs. Spencer.

“But I’m almost distracted!” exclaimed the girl. “Hal is the best of them all, if I only cared for him. I—I like Bruce too well and I’ve let him be sweet on me. Barse has the only claim on me. He needs me.”

“Don’t be upset, Trinity,” rejoined Mrs. Spencer. “I feel sorry for you. Too many beaus! It’s no wonder. Reckon there aren’t many girls as pretty as you. Or as good. An’ you can lay your hand to any ranch wife’s work. Not to say a cowboy’s knack with hawses, an’ a rope an’ gun! I say take the boy you want most.”

“Mother, I think it’s Barse,” returned Trinity.

“You’re not shore, though.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. I’ve sort of babied Barse for years.”

“You’ve tried to mother him, boss him, reform him, because he’s bad. Beware of that, Trinity. It doesn’t work out often.”

Mr. Spencer’s heavy tread sounded on the porch and through the kitchen. He entered the sitting room, a typical Texan of lofty stature, lean face, white hair, and piercing eyes.

“Howdy, lass. You shore look forlorn,” he said in his hearty voice.

“Dad, I’ve been telling my troubles—and what I’m going to do,” said Trinity, and she blurted out her situation and her conviction about what seemed best.

“Wal, lass, you’ve settled it. Now abide by it an’ don’t worry no more.”

“Do you—you approve, Dad?”

“I cain’t say thet I do, Trin. But it’s yore life an’ you’ve got to decide it. Time was not long back when Barse was a fair-to-middlin’ boy. But he changed, same as Denison changed with growin’, more money an’ cattle, an’ now this durn railroad.”

“But Bruce said the railroad would make Hal rich.”

“I cain’t gainsay thet. When the work’s done an’ this mushroom camp is gone, I reckon Denison will settle down. But now it’s tough. Why, tonight at six when the railroad paymaster was about to pay the laborers a gang of masked riders rode down an’ held him up. Got away slick with thousands! Not a shot fired!”

“Thet easy!” retorted Mrs. Spencer, with scorn. “Where was Bruce Lockheart an’ some of these other fightin’ Texans about then?”

“Mother, I’m sure Bruce wasn’t in on it,” interposed Trinity.

“No, I saw Bruce after, luckily for him,” replied Spencer. “He wasn’t one of them bandits, though some of us rangemen reckon this two-bit robbin’ an’ rustlin’ around heah lately ain’t been done by old hands.”

“Dad!” cried Trinity, aghast.

“Wal, lass, don’t let it fuss you.”

“But how can I help that?”

“You cain’t at thet, mebbe. I cain’t. It doesn’t all look so good. I’ve seen reckless cowboys break out many a time. There’s always some reason. Money scarce or else too much money in sight. Hobart Smith, who saw this holdup, swore there was only one heavy matured man in the outfit. The rest lean, young riders!”

Trinity was thinking, with a queer sinking of her heart, that of late Barse had been unusually well supplied with money and careless of it. Without another word she went to her room and, without lighting the lamp, threw herself on her bed. She pondered this thought. One day she had met Barse in town when he had been drinking and he had tried to buy her everything in the store. When she grew curious, he said he was unlucky in love but lucky at cards. She always endeavored to forget his evasions, but this had stuck. And now it came back with redoubled force. Bruce, in his bitterness about her love for Barse, once said she did not know the half. Seldom did he speak ill of anyone. Much less of Barse. At other troubled times she had been too strong and loyal for doubt. This time she failed to rise above it. There was something deeply wrong. She reflected on many instances to which she had blinded herself. Almost all of them threw discredit on Barse Lockheart.

Still, though Trinity admitted she might be a fool, she would stand by Barse and trust him to be above anything worse than drinking and gambling. She would silence her fears and doubts. She would try to avoid seeing or hearing any more to make her unhappy.

Suddenly there was the sound of horses. A team was driving in. Peeping out the window Trinity saw a buckboard with a spirited brace of blacks pounding to a halt at the gate. Caleb Green, a neighboring rancher, held the reins and his companion was Hal Spencer. Trinity’s father joined them. Green spoke. Trinity was quick to sense something amiss. Then she saw that Hal was bareheaded and pale. Her father led the way indoors.

Trinity hurriedly went to the sitting room. Mrs. Spencer looked startled, and was staring at Hal, who evidently had just finished speaking. Spencer’s gray eyes were on fire.

“Howdy, Trinity,” said Green, with a smile. “You shore grow prettier every day. Where’d you get those red spots in your cheeks?”

“Good day, Mr. Green. Thanks for the compliment. I reckon I’m excited.”

“Quick to get a hunch, eh? ... Wal, Spencer, I’ll be rustlin’ along. Want to tell the news.” And Green went out the open door. Spencer went as far as the door and closed it.

“Now spill it, Hal,” he said curtly.

“Trinity, you better leave us,” spoke up Mrs. Spencer nervously.

“Nonsense. She’ll have to heah it,” returned the rancher sharply.

“Mother, I’d better tell Trinity. I saw the whole thing.”

“Oh, Hal! ... What?”

Hal faced her, quite white, and his eyes were dark with feeling.

“Trin, it needn’t upset you.... Bruce Lockheart just shot two men. Killed a stranger who butted into the argument. And shot Steve Henderson—mortally, so they say.”

“How—dreadful!” gasped Trinity. “Bruce! ... What for? Where?”

“It just happened, Trin. Bruce was drawn on first, to be sure. But he must have been hunting trouble. He was terrible—wonderful! Denison will never doubt again all those trail drivers’ stories of his fights. His speed with a gun! Whew!”

“Wal, tell us, son,” interposed Spencer.

“Barse! Was he—there?” asked Trinity breathlessly.

“Ha! Was he? Barse was to blame for the fight. Damn bullhaided fourflusher——”

“Oh!” cried Trinity, in distress. “But then he couldn’t have been in on the holdup,” she said, relieved.

“Hal, talk sense,” ordered his father. “What come off?”

Hal sat down and wiped the sweat beads from his pallid face. “I’m sorry, Dad. I reckon I’m flustered. Sit down and don’t look so scared.... It was this way. Just after Jeff Hawkins got shot——”

“Hawkins?” ejaculated Spencer, amazed “When was thet?”

“Dad, I plumb forgot you left town before,” replied Hal. “It must have been soon after the holdup. I didn’t see that fight. Hawkins was shot by a strange gunslinger who later made the fatal mistake of bucking up against Bruce. But, by golly, I saw that!”

“Son, would you mind comin’ out with the facts?” interposed Spencer impatiently.

“Give me time!” Then Hal told them of the incident at Lafe Hennesy’s. He was still excited, and the story came out in a rush.

“Wal, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Spencer.

“Oh—how dreadful!” cried Trinity.

“Well, there was an uproar,” continued Hal. “Belton and Barse skipped out. I didn’t see Bruce any more. Men crowded around Henderson. He was alive, but shot clean through. He’ll die most likely. They took him to the doctor at the construction camp.”

“What did the crowd say?” asked Spencer.

“Gosh! I couldn’t remember. But there was excitement, believe me. After the atmosphere cleared, the dead gunman was identified as the one Hawkins had tried to arrest. Then Bruce came in for a lot of praise.”

“But, Barse—what became of him?” begged Trinity.

“Nobody seemed to know—or care,” responded Hal gruffly. “Later I heard he rode out of town with Belton, probably went to Belton’s camp.”

“Bruce had it right,” said Spencer. “Belton’s outfit is shady.”

“Well, Dad, they’re two less than they were,” observed Hal significantly. “Mother, let’s have supper quick. I want to go downtown again.”

“Hal, I’ll go with you.... Trinity, what’s on your mind?”

“I—I hardly know,” faltered the girl.

Suddenly Trinity had conceived the idea of playing the spy herself. Find out what Barse Lockheart’s relation was to Belton’s outfit! It shocked and then fascinated her. She thought over her capabilities. She was strong, supple, and she could ride and follow tracks with any cowboy. She could slip through the brush like an Indian. No sense of fear impeded her.

“I’ll do it!” she thought. “After supper I’ll ride down the trail and find Belton’s camp.”

Trinity went in and changed to her riding overalls and boots. She often rode to town in the early evening. And when she met Barse she sometimes stayed out late. She could do it. She could discover something, if not that night, then on another night. Her blood raced and she tingled with the secret intention of allaying her fears or learning if there were grounds for them.

An hour later, when she rode down to the river on her mustang, Buckskin, she found her mind was crowded with thoughts and resolves. There had not been any horses on the trail since those she had seen earlier in the day. Putting Buckskin to a lope, she headed down the river in the direction she had seen Belton go several days ago. The trail kept to the timber, and that grew heavier until, with the darkness, she could not see far ahead. Thereupon she dismounted and, stepping a little way from her mustang, listened intently for hoofbeats. Trinity’s ears had long been keyed to catch the sounds of the open.

In five miles she halted ten times. She had now entered the wild river bottom, where she dismounted at intervals to listen and peer low to discern tracks.

She was fully seven miles from home now. Considering that, Trinity was about to turn back when she smelled smoke. After a little she heard the ring of an ax. It was farther down. She proceeded slowly for perhaps a quarter of a mile and presently was rewarded by spying the flicker of a campfire. Slipping out of her saddle, she led Buckskin off the trail and tied him. Then she faced up the trail and marked the spot by the dead branches of a tree against the sky.

Once back on the trail, Trinity leaned on a log and took cautious stock of the situation. It seemed natural to be thrust upon her own resources. By inheritance and training she was well adapted to this kind of lonely work. But up to now her many jaunts had been concerned with hunting and fishing, trailing lost horses and cattle, and playing at being pursued by Comanches. She was now tracking men and, she felt convinced, men who were evil and dangerous.

Trinity stilled her agitation and figured that she must not make the slightest sound or move which would betray her to sharp-eared outlaws. For she had concluded that Belton’s gang were outlaws.

It was a cool spring night and very quiet. She became aware of the peep of frogs, the soft murmur of a swift stream, the cry of night hawks, and stealthy rustles in the brush. Once more locating the campfire, she began to steal silently toward it. She became absorbed in this stalk. She had a gun, but she was going to make sure she would not need it.

For a while the timber was fairly open, consisting of big trees through which she could glide from one to another. She avoided cracking twigs or rustling brush. The campfire grew brighter. She lost it sometimes and then found it again.

After a long, careful advance, circling a little, she found the fire obscured for some moments. Suddenly, on rounding a thicket, she was amazed and frightened to see it clearly not more than a hundred steps distant; and the bright blaze disclosed three men in plain sight. One was the bold dark-faced Belton. One she had never seen before. The third was Barse.

Trinity felt a cold shock and fought to keep her courage. The men were talking.

Belton had a deep voice and he was not cautious. She distinguished: “gunslinger messed our plans ... we got a bank job.” The others spoke low in earnest tones. Barse shook his head, evidently not agreeing with Belton.

She was too far away and she determined to crawl closer, to a point behind some logs. The grass and weeds looked deep enough to shield her. But her heart thumped and she shook when she started across that open space.

Making for a small clump of bushes, she got it between her and the campfire. Gaining that, she grew brave again and then elated. Belton’s voice sounded nearer. She sank flat and strained her ears—“luck changed—we better pull bank ... an’ rustle tomorrow ... leary of this....” Trinity strained to hear more. Rob the bank? Oh, no, not Barse.

Trinity heard a slight noise close at hand. Her heart leaped, then seemed to stop. There came a soft footfall right upon her. It paralyzed her—curdled her blood. Then two gloved hands, hard as iron, seized her, one in a viselike grip on the back of her neck and the other clamped tight over her mouth.