The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

Jim’s voice was cold enough, but he spoke rapidly. Will, who had turned again to scan the sky-line, now looked down at him suspiciously.

“Is this bluff–or straight business?” he demanded harshly.

Jim shrugged.

“You best get on–if you’re going to clear. You said they were three miles off,” he reminded him, in the same cold manner.

Will looked back. He was still doubtful, but–he realized he must take the advice. He had delayed too long now for anything else.

“She sent you, eh?” he asked, sharply. “It’s not your own doin’?”

“I’ve no sympathy with–cattle-thieves,” Jim retorted. “Git, quick!”

His eyes were on the horizon now. And it was his alert look that finally decided the doubting man. He swung his horse round, and rode for the river.

“So long,” he called back. But there was no word of thanks. Neither had the other any response to his farewell.

Jim watched him till he disappeared, then he turned again to the rising grassland and watched for the coming of the hunters. And as he watched his thoughts reverted to the doctrine of the one-way trail. Will was traveling it hard. For him there was certainly no turning back now.

But his horse had ceased grazing again, and once more stood with ears pricked, gazing up the slope. Its master understood. This was no moment to consider abstract problems, however they might interest him. Stern reality lay ahead of him, and he knew he was in for an unpleasant time. He linked his arm through his horse’s reins, and, with head bent, trailed slowly up the incline, pausing and stooping to examine the hoof-prints of Will Henderson’s horse, as though it were a trail he had just discovered, and was anxious to learn its meaning. He was thinking hard the while, and calculating his chances when the hunters should come up.

While he appeared to be studying the track so closely, he yet was watching the hill-crest ahead. He knew the men were rapidly approaching, for the rumble of galloping horses was quite distinct to his well-trained ears. He wanted his intentness to be at its closest when the gang first discovered him.

He had his wish. As the men topped the ridge he was on one knee studying a clearer imprint than usual. Doc Crombie and Smallbones, riding at the head of a party of five men, saw him, and the latter shouted his joy.

“Gee! we’ve got him! Say–” He broke off, staring hard at the kneeling figure. The outline was familiar. Suddenly Jim stood up, and the little man instantly recognized him. “Guess you lost that three-year-old ‘driver,’ Doc,” he cried, his face alight with malice. “Ther’s our man, an’–it’s Jim Thorpe. I thought I rec’nized him from the first, when he broke cover. This is bully!”

But the stern-faced doctor had no answer for him. His eyes were fixed on the man, who now stood calmly waiting for him to approach. Experienced in such matters as he was, he looked for the threatening gun in Jim Thorpe’s hand. There was none. On the contrary, the man seemed to be waiting for them in the friendliest spirit. There was his horse, too; why was he on foot? It struck him that the riddle wanted more reading than Smallbones had given it. He was not so sure he had yet lost that three-year-old “driver.”

Jim made no change of position as they clattered up. Smallbones was ahead, with a gun leveled as he came.

“Hands up! Hands up, you dogone skunk, or I’ll blow your roof off!” he cried fiercely.

But Jim only grinned. It was not a pleasant grin, either, for the hardware dealer’s epithet infuriated him.

“Don’t be a blamed fool, Smallbones,” he said sharply. “You’re rattled.”

“Put your darned hands up, or–!”

But Doc Crombie knocked the little man’s gun up.

“Say, push that back in its kennel,” he cried, harshly. “You sure ain’t safe with a gun.”

Then, after seeing that his comrade obeyed him, and permitting himself a shadowy grin at the man’s crestfallen air, he turned to Jim Thorpe.

“Wal?” he drawled questioningly.

“Thanks, Doc,” said Jim, with a cheery smile. “I guess you saved my life. Smallbones shouldn’t be out without his nurse.” Then he glanced swiftly down at the track he had been examining. “Say, I’ve hit a trail right here. It goes on down to the river, an’ I can’t locate it further. I was just going back on it a piece. Guess you’ve come along in the same direction. See, here it is. A horse galloping hell-for-leather. Guess it’s not a lope. By the splashing of sand, I’d say he was racing.” He looked fearlessly into the doctor’s eyes, but his heart was beating hard with guilty consciousness. He was trying to estimate the man’s possible attitude.

“That’s the trail we’re on,” the doctor said sharply. “Say, how long you been here?” he inquired, glancing at Jim’s horse.

“Well, round about here, getting on for two hours.”

“What are you out here for, anyway?”

Jim glanced from the doctor to Smallbones, and then on at the rest of the men. They were all cattlemen, none of them were villagers. He laughed suddenly.

“Say, is this an–er–inquisition?”

“Sure.” The doctor’s reply rapped out tartly.

“Well, that being the way of things, guess I’d best tell you first as last. You see, I got back to the village yesterday afternoon. As maybe you know, I’ve been out nearly two days on the trail. Well, late last night, Elia Marsham came to me with a yarn about a hollow in the hills, where he said he’d seen the rustlers at work. He told me how to find it, an’–well, I hit the trail. I hoped to head you, and get ’em myself, but,” with a shrug, “I guess I was a fool some. My plug petered out two hours back, and I had to quit. You see he was stale at the start.”

“An’ this trail?” snapped the doctor.

“I was way back there down the river a goodish piece, getting a sleep by the bush, and easing my plug, when I woke up quick. Seemed to me I heard a gunshot. Maybe I was dreaming. Anyway I sat up and took notice, but didn’t see a thing. So, after a while, I got dozing again. Then my plug started to neigh, and kept whinnying. I got around then, guessing something was doing. So I started to chase up the river. Then I found this trail. It’s new, fresh done this morning, sure. Guess it must have been some feller passing that worried my horse. You say you’re on this trail? Whose? It isn’t–eh?” as the doctor nodded. “Then come right on down to the river. We’re losing time.”

Jim turned to lead his horse away, but Smallbones laughed. There was no mistaking the derision, the challenge of that laugh. Jim turned again, and the look he favored the hardware dealer with was one that did not escape the doctor, who promptly interposed.

“If you’re right an’ he’s wrong, you’ve got time in plenty to correct him later, Jim,” he said, in his stern fashion. “Meanwhiles you’ll keep your face closed, Smallbones, or–light right out.” Then he turned back to Jim. “Ther’ ain’t a heap o’ hurry now, boy, fer that feller. His horse was nigh done,” he went on, glancing at the dejected creature Jim was leading. “Done jest about as bad as yours. An’ his plug was the same color, and he was rigged out much as you are.” Then his tone became doubly harsh. “Say, the feller we’re chasin’ was your build. He was so like you in cut, and his plug so like yours, that if I put it right here to the vote I’m guessin’ you’d hang so quick you’d wonder how it was done. But then, you see, I’ve got two eyes, an’ some elegant savvee, which some folks ain’t blessed with,” with an eye in Smallbones’ direction. “An’ I tell you right here ther’s just the fact your plug is stone cold between you an’ a rawhide rope. You jest couldn’t be the man we’re chasin’ ’less you’re capable o’ miracles. Get me? But I’m goin’ to do some straight talk. Not more than ten minutes gone the feller we’re after shot down one o’ the boys back ther’ over the rise. That boy was on a fast hoss, an’ was close on that all-fired Dago’s heels. Wal, he got it plenty, an’ we’re goin’ back to bury that honest citizen later. Meanwhiles, ten minutes gone that rustler got down here, an’ as you say, made that river, an’ you–you didn’t see him. Get me? You’re jest goin’ to show me wher’ you sat.”

For a second Jim’s heart seemed to stand still. He was not used to lying. However, he realized only too well how the least hesitation would surely hang him, and he promptly nodded his head.

“Sure I will. Come right along.” And he led the way diagonally from the horseman’s tracks, so as to strike the river obliquely.

It was a silent procession, and the air was charged with possible disaster. Jim walked ahead, his horse hanging back and being urged forward by no very gentle kicks from Smallbones.

And as he walked he thought hard. He was struggling to remember a likely spot. He dare not choose one where grass lay under foot. These men had eyes like hawks for a spot on such ground. There was only one underlay where their eyes could be fooled, and that was under the shelter of a pine tree, where the pine-needles prevented impress and yielded no trace of footsteps. Was there such a spot near by? He vaguely remembered a small cluster of such trees beside his track, but he couldn’t remember how far away it lay. He knew he must take a big risk.

He did not hesitate, and, though slowly, he walked deliberately in a definite direction, winding in and out the bush. Then to his intense relief, after about five minutes’ walking, he saw the trees he was looking for. Yes, they were right in his track, and he remembered now skirting them as he came along. But he was not yet clear of trouble by any means. What was the underlay like?

He avoided giving any sign of his destination. That was most important. And he was fearful lest he should be questioned. He knew the shrewdness of the redoubtable doctor, and he feared it. He was on his own track now, which showed plain enough in the grass. And as he came to the clump of pines he still kept on until he had practically passed it. He did this purposely. It was necessary to satisfy himself that the ground under the trees was bare except for a thick carpet of pine-needles. Fortune was with him for once, and he suddenly turned and led his horse in among the trees. As he walked he disturbed the carpet as much as he could without attracting attention, and having come to a halt, he quickly turned his horse about the further to disturb the underlay. Then he flung himself into a sitting posture at the foot of one of the trees, at the same time deliberately raising a dust with his feet.

“This is the spot,” he said, looking frankly up into the doctor’s face. “I s’pose I must have been here somewhere around two hours. How far have we come? A matter of two hundred yards? Look out there. It’s more or less a blank outlook of trees.”

But Doc Crombie was studying the ground. Jim sprang up and began to move round his horse, feeling the cinchas of his saddle. He felt he could reasonably do this, and further disturb the underlay without exciting suspicion. It was a dreadful moment for him, for he noted that all eyes were closely scrutinizing the ground.

Suddenly the doctor fixed an eagle glance on his face. Jim met it. He believed it to be the final question. But the man gave him no satisfaction. He left him with the uncertainty as to whether he had wholly fooled him or not. His words were peremptory.

“We’ll git back an’ finish the hunt,” he declared. Then, “Will that durned plug carry you now?”

Jim shrugged.

“Maybe at a walk.”

“Wal, git right on.”

Jim obeyed. It would have been madness to refuse. But his brain was desperately busy.

They rode back to the river bank at the point where the fugitive had taken to the water. Most of the men dismounted, and, with noses to the ground, they studied the tracks. Two or three moved along the bank vainly endeavoring to discover the man’s further direction; and two of them rode across to the opposite side. But the banks told them nothing. Their quarry had obviously not crossed the water. A quarter of an hour was spent thus, Jim helping all he knew; then finally Doc Crombie called his men together.

“We’ll git right on,” he declared authoritatively.

“Which way?” inquired Smallbones. He was angry, but looked depressed.

The doctor considered a moment, and the men stood round waiting.

“We’ll head up-stream for the hills,” he said at last. “Guess he’ll make that way. We’ll divide up on either side of the river. Guess you best take three men, Smallbones, an’ cross over. You, Thorpe, ’ll stop with me.”

But Thorpe shook his head. He saw an opportunity to play a big hand for Eve, and, win or lose, he meant to play it. He would not have attempted it on a man less keen than the doctor.

“You’re wrong, Doc,” he said coolly, and all eyes were at once turned upon him. Every man in the party was at once agog with interest, for not one of them but shared Smallbones’ suspicion in some degree, however little it might be.

“See here,” Jim went on, with a great show of enthusiasm, “do you know this river? Well,” as the doctor shook his head, “I do. That’s why I came this trail. I guessed if any of the rustlers were liable to hit the trail, it ’ud be somewhere around this river. You figger he’s gone up-stream. I’d gamble he’s gone down. There’s a heavy timber two miles or so down-stream, and that timber is a sheer cover right up to the hills farther north. D’you get me? Well, personally, I don’t think he’s gone up-stream–so I hunt down.”

He was relying on the independence of his manner and the truth of his arguments for success, and he achieved it even beyond his hopes. Doc Crombie’s eyes blazed.

“You’ll hunt with me, Jim Thorpe,” he cried sharply.

But Jim was ready. This was what he was looking for.

“See here, Doc, I’m not out for foolishness, neither are you. Oh, yes, I know I’m suspected, and there’s folks, especially our friend Smallbones, would like to hang me right off. Well, get busy and do the hanging, I shan’t resist, and you’ll all live to regret it; that is, except Smallbones. However, this is my point. This suspicion is on me, and I’ve got to clear it. I’m a sight more interested than any of you fellows. I believe that fellow has headed down-stream, and I claim the right, in my own self-defense, to follow him as far as my horse will let me. I want to hit his trail, and I’ll run him to earth if I have to do it on foot. And I tell you right here you’ve no authority to stop me. I’m not a vigilante, and you’re not a sheriff, nor even a ‘deputy.’ I tell you you have neither moral nor legal right to prevent me clearing myself in my own way.”

“Want to get rid of us,” snarled Smallbones.

Jim turned on him like a knife.

“I’ve a score to settle with you, and, small as you are, you’re going to get all that’s coming to you–later.”

“You’ll have to get busy quick, or you won’t have time,” grinned the little man, making a hideous motion of hanging.

But further bickering was prevented by the doctor. At this moment he rose almost to the greatness which his associates claimed for him. Bitter as his feelings were at thus openly being defied and flouted, he refused to blind himself to the justness of the other’s plea. He even acquiesced with a decent grace, although he refused–as Jim knew he would–to change his own opinions.

“Hit your trail, boy,” he cried, in his large, harsh voice. “Guess you sure got the rights of a free citizen, an’–good luck.”

He rode off; and Smallbones, with a venomous glance back at the triumphant Jim, started across the river. Jim remounted his horse and rode off down the river. He glanced back at the retreating party with the doctor, and sighed his relief. He felt as though he had been passing through a lifetime of crime, and ahead lay safety.

He did not attempt to push his tired horse faster than a walk, but continued on until he came to the woods, where he knew Will had sought shelter; then he off-saddled. He had no intention of proceeding farther until sundown.

He thanked his stars that he had read Doc Crombie aright. He would never have dared to bluff a lesser man than he.

And then, having seated himself for rest under a bush, his last waking thoughts were black with the despair of an honest man who has finally and voluntarily made it impossible to prove his own innocence.

CHAPTER XXVII

ANNIE

Doc Crombie and his men had returned to Barnriff after a long and fruitless hunt. Two days and two nights they had spent on the trail. They had found the haunt of the rustlers; they had seen the men–at least, they had had an excellent view of their backs; they had pursued–and they had lost them all four. But this was not all. One of the boys had been shot down in his tracks by the man they believed to be the leader of the gang. So it was easy enough to guess their temper.

The doctor said little, because that was his way when things went wrong. But the iron possessed his soul to a degree that suggested all sorts of possibilities. And Barnriff was a raging cauldron of fury and disappointment. So was the entire district, for the news was abroad, travelling with that rapidity which is ever the case with the news of disaster. Every rancher was, to use a local phrase, “up in the air, and tearing his sky-piece” (his hair), which surely meant that before long there would be trouble for some one, the nature of which would be quite easy to guess.

The “hanging committee,” as the vigilantes were locally called, returned at sundown, and the evening was spent in spreading the news. Thus it was that Annie Gay learned the public feeling, and the general drift of Barnriff’s thought. Her husband dutifully gave her his own opinions first, that there might be no doubt in her own mind; then he proceeded to show her how Barnriff saw these things.

“Of course,” he said. “What ken you expect wi’ folk like Smallbones an’ sech on a committee like this! Doc’s to blame, sure. Ef he’d sed to me, ‘Gay, you fix this yer racket. I leave it to you,’ I’d sure ’a’ got men in the gang, an’ we’d ’a’ cleared the country of all sech gophers as rustlers. But ther’, guess I don’t need to tell you ’bout Doc.”

Annie’s loyalty to him stood the test, and she waited for the rest. It came with his recounting of the details of their exploits. He told her of their journey, of the race. Then he passed on to the story of the Little Bluff River, as he had been told it by Smallbones. He assured her that now everybody, urged on by Smallbones, wanted to hang somebody, and, as far as he could make out, unless they quickly laid hands on the real culprit, Jim Thorpe was likely violently to terminate his checkered career over the one-way trail.

He was convinced that the venom of Smallbones, added to the tongues of the women, which were beginning to wag loudly at what they believed was Jim’s clandestine intimacy with Eve during her husband’s absence, would finally overcome the scruples of Doc Crombie and force him to yield to the popular cry.

He gave her much detail, all of which she added to her own knowledge. And, with her husband’s approval, decided to go to Eve, and, in her own phraseology, “do what she could.” Her husband really sent her, for he liked Jim Thorpe.

So, on the third morning, Annie set out on her errand of kindly warning. The position was difficult. But she realized that this was no time to let her feelings hinder her. She loved Eve, and, like her husband, she had a great friendliness for Jim.

Then she was convinced that there was nothing between these two yet, other than had always existed, a liking on the woman’s part and a deep, wholesome, self-sacrificing love on the man’s. She saw the danger for Eve well enough, since her husband had turned out so badly; but her sympathetic heart went out to her, and she would never have opened her mouth to say one word to her detriment, even if she knew the women’s accusations to be true. In fact, in a wave of sentimental emotion, she rather hoped they were true. Eve deserved a little happiness, and, if it lay in her power to help her to any, she would certainly not hesitate to offer her services.

To Eve, fighting her lonely battle in the solitude of her small home, amidst the cloth and trimmings of her trade, the sight of Annie’s cheerful, friendly face always had a rousing effect. She lived from day to day in a world of grinding fear. Her mind was never clear of it now. And she clung to her work as being the only possible thing. She dared not go out more than she was actually obliged for fear of hearing the news she dreaded. There was nothing to be done but wait for the sword to fall.

But these last three days her fears had been divided, and she found herself torn in two different directions by them. Where before it had always been her husband, now, ever since the night of Jim Thorpe’s going, he was rarely out of her thoughts. Now, even more than at the time when she first understood the sacrifice he was about to make for her. And the nobleness of it appealed to her simple woman’s mind as something sublime. He was a branded man before, but now, so long as he remained in Barnriff, or wherever he met a man who had lived in Barnriff at this time, so long as Will escaped capture, the pointing finger would be able to mark honest Jim Thorpe as a–cattle-thief. He was powerless to do more than deny it. The horror of it was dreadful.

He had done it for her. And her woman’s heart told her why. Her thoughts flew back to those days, such a little way back, yet, to her, so far, far away, when his kind serious eyes used to look into hers in their gentle caressing fashion, when his unready tongue used to halt over speaking those nice things a woman, in her simple vanity, loves to hear from a man she likes. She thought of the little presents he used to make her so awkwardly, all prompted by his great, golden, loving heart.

And she had passed him by for that other. The man with the ready, specious tongue, with the buoyant, self-satisfied air, with the bright, merry eyes of one who knows his power with women, who rarely fails to win, and, having won easily, no longer cares for his plaything. But she had loved Will then, and had Jim been an angel sent straight from heaven he could not then have taken her from him.

But now? Ah, well, now everything was different. She was older. She was, perhaps, sadly wiser. She was also married, and Jim was, could be, nothing to her. His nobleness to her was the nobleness which was not the result of a selfish love that looks and hopes for its reward, she told herself. It was part of the man. He would have acted that way whatever his feelings for her. He was a great, loyal friend, she told herself again and again, and her feeling for him was friendliness, a friendliness she thanked God for, and nothing more. She told herself all this, as many a woman has told herself before, and she fancied, as many another good and virtuous woman has fancied, that she believed it.

When Annie entered her workroom she looked up with a wistful smile of welcome, but the sight of the clouds obscuring the sunshine of the girl’s face stopped her sewing-machine at once, and ready sympathy found prompt expression in her gentle voice.

“What is it, dear?” she inquired. “You look–you look as if you, too, were in trouble.”

Annie tried to smile back in response. But it was a poor attempt. She had been thinking so hard on her way to Eve. She had been calculating and figuring so keenly in her woman’s way. And curiously enough she had managed to make the addition of two and two into four. She felt that she must not hesitate now, or the courage to display the accuracy of her calculation, and at the same time help her friend, would evaporate.

“Trouble?” she echoed absently. “Trouble enough for sure, but not for me, Eve,” she stepped round to the girl’s side and laid a protecting arm about her shoulders. “You can quit those fears you once told me of. I–think he’s safe away.”

Had Annie needed confirmation of her deductive logic she had it. The look of absolute horror which suddenly leaped into Eve’s drawn face was overwhelming. Annie’s arm tightened round her shoulders, for she thought the distraught woman was about to faint.

“Don’t say a word, Eve, dear. Don’t you–now don’t you,” she cried. “I’m going to do the talking. But first I’ll just shut the door.” She crossed to the door, speaking as she went. “You’ve just got to sit an’ listen, while I tell you all about it. An’ when we’ve finished, dear,” she said, coming back to her place beside her, “ther’s just one thing, an’ only one person we’ve got to think an’ speak about. It’s Jim Thorpe.”