Bransford of Rainbow Range

He returned to the outpost, convinced at last. Nevertheless, merely to quiet the ravings of his insubordinate instincts, now in open revolt, he restaked the horses nearer to camp and cautiously carried both saddles to the head of the bed. Concession merely encouraged the rebels to further and successful outrages – the government was overthrown.

He drew sentry Steele aside and imparted his doubts. That faithful follower heaped scorn, mockery, laughter and abuse upon his shrinking superior: recounted all the points, from the first blasts of dynamite to the present moment, which favored the charitable belief above mentioned as newly entertained by Captain Griffith concerning himself. This belief of Captain Griffith was amply indorsed by his subordinate in terms of point and versatility.

“Of course they look alike. I noticed that the minute I saw him – the same amount of legs and arms, features all in the fore part of his head, hair on top, one body – wonderful! Why, you pitiful ass, that Bransford person was a mighty keen-looking man in any company. This fellow’s a yokel – an old, rusty, cap-and-ball, single-shot muzzle-loader. The Bransford was an automatic, steel-frame, high velocity – ”

“The better head he has the more apt he is to do the unexpected – ”

“Aw, shut up! You’ve got incipient paresis! Stuff your ears in your mouth and go to sleep!”

The captain sought his couch convinced, but holding his first opinion, savagely minded to arrest Mr. Long rather than let him have a gun to stand guard with. He was spared the decision. Mr. Long declined Gurdon’s proffered gun, saying that he would be right there and he was a poor shot anyway.

Gurdon slept; Long took his place – and Captain Rex, from the bed, watched the watcher. Never was there a more faithful sentinel than Mr. Long. Without relaxing his vigilance even to smoke, he strained every faculty lest the wily Bransford should creep out through the shadows. The captain saw him, a stooped figure, sitting motionless by his rock, always alert, peering this way and that, turning his head to listen. Once Tobe saw something. He crept noiselessly to the bed and shook his chief. Griffith came, with his gun. Something was stirring in the bushes. After a little it moved out of the shadows. It was a prowling coyote. The captain went back to bed once more convinced of Long’s fidelity, but resolved to keep a relentless eye on him just the same. And all unawares, as he revolved the day’s events in his mind, the captain dropped off to troubled sleep.

Mr. Long woke him at three. There had been a temptation to ride away, but the saddles were at the head of the bed, the ground was stony; he would be heard. He might have made an attempt to get both guns from under the pillow, but detection meant ruin for him, since to shoot these boys or to hurt them was out of the question. Escape by violence would have been easy and assured. Jeff preferred to trust his wits. He was enjoying himself very much.

When the captain got his relentless eyes open and realized what had chanced he saw that further doubt was unworthy. Half an hour later the unworthy captain stole noiselessly to Long’s bedside and saw, to his utter rage and distraction, that Mr. Bransford was there again. It was almost too much to bear. He felt that he should always hate Long, even after Bransford was safely hanged. Bransford’s head had slipped from Long’s pillow. Hating himself, Griffith subtly withdrew the miner’s folded overalls and went through the pockets.

He found there a knife smelling of dynamite, matches, a turquoise carved to what was plainly meant to be the form of a bad-tempered horse, and two small specimens of ore!

Altogether, the captain passed a wild and whirling night.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SIEGE OF DOUBLE MOUNTAIN (Continued)

“If the bowl had been strongerMy tale had been longer.”– Mother Goose.

When the sun peeped over Rainbow Range, Captain Griffith bent over Tobe Long’s bed. His eyes were aching, burned and sunken; the lids twitched; his face was haggard and drawn – but he had arrived at an unalterable decision. This thing could not and should not go on. His brain reeled now – another such night would entitle him to state protection.

He shook Mr. Long roughly.

“See here! I believe you’re Bransford himself!”

Thus taken off his guard, Long threw back the bedding, rose to one elbow, still half asleep, and reached for his shoes, laughing and yawning alternately. Then, as he woke up a little more, he saw a better way to dress, dropped the shoes and unfurled his pillow – which, by day, he wore as overalls. Fumbling behind him, where the pillow had lain, he found a much-soiled handkerchief and tenderly dabbed at his swollen eye.

“Bit of steel in my eye from a drill-head,” he explained. “Jiminy, but it’s sore!”

Plainly he took the accusation as a pleasantry calling for no answer.

“I mean it! I’m going to keep you under guard!” said Captain Griffith bitingly.

Poor, sleepy Tobe, half-way into his overalls, stared up at Mr. Griffith; his mouth dropped open – he was quite at a loss for words. The captain glared back at him. Tobe kicked the overalls off and cuddled back into bed.

“Bully!” he said. “Then I won’t have to get breakfast!”

Gurdon Steele sat up in bed, a happy man. His eye gave Mr. Long a discreetly confidential look, as of one who restrains himself, out of instinctive politeness, from a sympathetic and meaningful tap of one’s forehead. A new thought struck Mr. Long. He reached over behind Steele for the rifle at the bed’s edge and thrust it into the latter’s hands.

“Here, Boy Scout! Watch me!” he whispered. “Don’t let me escape while I sleep a few lines! I’m Bransford!”

Gurdie rubbed his eyes and giggled.

“Don’t you mind Rex. That’s the worst of this pipe habit. You never can tell how they’ll break out next.”

“Yes, laugh, you blind bat!” said Rex bitterly. “I’ve got him all the same, and I’m going to keep him while you go to Escondido!” His rifle was tucked under his arm; he patted the barrel significantly.

It slowly dawned upon Mr. Long that Captain Griffith was not joking, after all, and an angry man was he. He sat up in bed.

“Oh, piffle! Oh, fudge! Oh, pickled moonshine! If I’m Bransford what the deuce am I doing here? Why, you was both asleep! I could ’a’ shot your silly heads off and you’d ’a’ never woke up. You make me tired!”

“Don’t mind him, Long. He’ll feel better when he takes a nap,” said Gurd joyfully. “He has poor spells like this and he misses his nurse. We always make allowances for him.”

Mr. Long’s indignation at last overcame his politeness, and in his wrath he attacked friend and foe indiscriminately.

“Do you mean to tell me you two puling infants are out hunting down a man you never saw? Don’t the men at the other side know him either? By jinks, you hike out o’ this after breakfast and send for some grown-up men. I want part of that reward – and I’m going to have it! Look here!” He turned blackly to Gurdon. “Are you sure that Bransford, or any one else, came in here at all yesterday, or did you dream it? Or was it all a damfool kid joke? Listen here! I worked like a dog yesterday. If you had me stand guard three hours, tired as I was, for nothing, there’s going to be more to it. What kind of a sack-and-snipe trick is this, anyway? You just come one at a time and I’ll lick the stuffin’ out o’ both o’ you! I ain’t feelin’ like any schoolboy pranks just now.”

“No, no; that part’s all straight. Bransford’s in there, all right,” protested Gurdon. “If you hadn’t been working in the tunnel you’d have seen him when he went by. Here’s the note he left. And his horse and saddle are up at the spring. We left the horse there because he was lame and about all in. Bransford can’t get away on him. Rex is just excited – that’s all the matter with him. Hankering for glory! I told him last night not to make a driveling idiot of himself. Here, read this insolent note, will you?”

Long glowered at the note and flung it aside. “Anybody could ’a’ wrote that! How am I to know this thing ain’t some more of your funny streaks? You take these horses to water and bring back Bransford’s horse and saddle, and then I’ll know what to believe. Be damn sure you bring them, too, or we’ll go to producing glory right here – great gobs and chunks of it! You Griffith! put down that gun or I’ll knock your fool head off! I’m takin’ charge of this outfit now, and don’t you forget it! And I don’t want no maniac wanderin’ round me with a gun. You go to gatherin’ up wood as fast as ever God’ll let you!”

“Say, I was mistaken,” said the deposed leader, thoroughly convinced once more. “You do look like Bransford, you know.” He laid down his rifle obediently.

“Look like your grandmother’s left hind foot!” sneered the outraged miner. “My eyes is brown and so’s Bransford’s. Outside o’ that – ”

“No, but you do, a little,” said his ally, Steele. “I noticed it myself, last night. Not much – but still there’s a resemblance. Poor Cap Griffith just let his nerves and imagination run away with him – that’s all.”

Long sniffed. “Funny I never heard of it before,” he said. He was somewhat mollified, nevertheless; and, while cooking breakfast, he received very graciously a stammered and half-hearted apology from young Mr. Griffith, now reduced to the ranks. “Oh, that’s all right, kid. But say – you be careful and don’t shoot your pardner when he comes back.”

Gurdon brought back the sorrel horse and the saddle, thereby allaying Mr. Long’s wrathful mistrust that the whole affair was a practical joke.

“I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!” said Rex triumphantly, and watched the working of his test with a jealous eye.

Long knew his Alice. “‘But it was the best butter,’” he said. He surveyed the sorrel horse; his eye brightened. “We’ll whack up that blood-money yet,” he announced confidently. “Now I’m going to walk over to the south side and get one of those fellows to ride sign round the mountain. You boys can sleep, turn and turn about, till I get back. Then I want Steele to go to Escondido and wire up to Arcadia that we’ve got our bear by the tail and want help to turn him loose, and tell Pappy Sanders to send me out some grub or I’ll skin him. Pappy’s putting up for the mine, you know. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Griffith.” He gave that luckless warrior a jeering look, as one who has forgiven but not forgotten.

“Why don’t you ride one of our horses?” said Gurdon.

“Want to keep ’em fresh. Then if Bransford gets out over the cliffs you can run him down like a mad dog,” said Tobe. “Besides, if I ride a fresh horse in here he’ll maybe shoot me to get the horse; and if he could catch you lads away from shelter maybe so he’d make a dash for it, a-shootin’. See here! If I was dodgin’ in here like him – know what I’d do? I’d just shoot a few lines on general principles to draw you away from the gates. Then if you went in to see about it I’d either kill you if I had to, or slip out if you give me the chance. You just stay right here, whatever happens. Keep under shelter and keep your horses right by you. We got him bottled up and we won’t draw the cork till the sheriff comes. I’ll tell ’em to do the same way at the other end. I won’t take any gun with me and I’ll stick to the big main road. That way Bransford won’t feel no call to shoot me. Likely he’s ’way up in the cliffs, anyhow.”

“Ride the sorrel horse then, why don’t you? He isn’t lame enough to hurt much, but he’s lame enough that Bransford won’t want him.” Thus Mr. Griffith, again dissimulating. Every detail of Mr. Long’s plan forestalled suspicion. That these measures were precisely calculated to disarm suspicion now occurred to Griffith’s stubborn mind. For he had a stubborn mind; the morning’s coffee had cleared it of cobwebs, and it clung more tenaciously than ever to the untenable and thrice-exploded theory that Long and Bransford were one and inseparable, now and forever.

He meditated an ungenerous scheme for vindication and, to that end, wished Mr. Long to ride the sorrel horse. For Mr. Long, if he were indeed the murderer – as, of course, he was – would indubitably, upon some plausible pretext, attempt to pass the guards at the farther end of the trip, where was no clear-eyed Griffith on guard. What more plausible that a modification of the plan already rehearsed – for Long to tell the wardens that Griffith had sent him to telegraph to the sheriff? Let him once pass those warders on any pretext! That would be final betrayal, for all his shrewdness. There was no possibility that Long and Bransford could complete their escape on that lame sorrel. He would not be allowed to get much of a start – just enough to betray himself. Then he, Griffith, would bring them back in triumph.

It was a good scheme: all things considered, it reflected great credit upon Mr. Griffith’s imagination. As in Poe’s game of “odd or even,” where you must outguess your opponent and follow his thought, Mr. Rex Griffith had guessed correctly in every respect. Such, indeed, had been Mr. Long’s plan. Only Rex did not guess quite often enough. Mr. Long had guessed just one layer deeper – namely, that Mr. Griffith would follow his thought correctly and also follow him. Therefore Mr. Long switched again. It was a bully game – better than poker. Mr. Long enjoyed it very much.

Just as Rex expected, Tobe allowed himself to be overpersuaded and rode the sorrel horse. He renamed the sorrel horse Goldie, on the spot, saddled him awkwardly, mounted in like manner, and rode into the shadowy depths of Double Mountain.

Once he was out of sight Mr. Griffith followed, despite the angry protest of Mr. Steele – alleging falsely that he was going to try for a deer.

Tobe rode slowly up the crooked and brush-lined cañon. Behind him, cautiously hidden, came Griffith, the hawk-eyed avenger – waiting at each bend until Mr. Long had passed the next one, for closer observation of how Mr. Long bore himself in solitude.

Mr. Long bore himself most disappointingly. He rode slowly and awkwardly, scanning with anxious care the hillsides before him. Not once did he look back lest he should detect Mr. Griffith. Near the summit the Goldie horse shied and jumped. It was only one little jump, whereunto Goldie had been privately instigated by Mr. Long’s thumb – “thumbing” a horse, as done by one conversant with equine anatomy, produces surprising results! – but it caught Mr. Long unawares and tumbled him ignominiously in the dust.

Mr. Long sat in the sand and rubbed his shoulder: Goldie turned and looked down at him in unqualified astonishment. Mr. Long then cursed Mr. Bransford’s sorrel horse; he cursed Mr. Bransford for bringing the sorrel horse; he cursed himself for riding the sorrel horse; he cursed Mr. Griffith, with one last, longest, heart-felt, crackling, hair-raising, comprehensive and masterly curse, for having persuaded him to ride the sorrel horse. Then he tied the sorrel horse to a bush and hobbled on afoot, saying it all over backward.

Poor Griffith experienced the most intense mortification – except one – of his life. This was conclusive. Bransford was reputed the best rider in Rainbow. This was Long. He was convinced, positively, finally and irrevocably. He did not even follow Mr. Long to the other side of Double Mountain, but turned back to camp, keeping a sharp eye out for traces of the real Bransford; to no effect. It was only by chance – a real chance – that, clambering on the gatepost cliffs to examine a curious whorl of gneiss, he happened to see Mr. Long as he returned. Mr. Long came afoot, leading the sorrel horse. Just before he came within sight of camp he led the horse up beside a boulder, climbed clumsily into the saddle, clutched the saddle-horn, and so rode into camp. The act was so natural a one that Griffith, already convinced, was convinced again – the more so because Long preserved a discreet silence as to the misadventure with the sorrel horse.

Mr. Long reported profanely that the men on the other side had also been disposed to arrest him, and had been dissuaded with difficulty.

“So I guess I must look some like Bransford, though I would never ’a’ guessed it. Reckon nobody knows what they really look like. Chances are a feller wouldn’t know himself if he met him in the road. That squares you, kid. No hard feelings?”

“Not a bit. I certainly thought you were Bransford, at first,” said Griffith.

“Well, the black-eyed one – Stone – he’s coming round on the west side now, cutting sign. You be all ready to start for Escondido as soon as he gets here, Gurd. Say, you don’t want to wait for the sheriff if he’s up on Rainbow. You wire a lot of your friends to come on the train at nine o’clock to-night. Sheriff can come when he gets back. There ain’t but a few horses at Escondido. You get Pappy Sanders to send your gang out in a wagon – such as can’t find horses.”

“Better take in both of ours, Gurd,” said Griffith. He knew Long was all right, as has been said, but he was also newly persuaded of his own fallibility. He had been mistaken about Long being Bransford; therefore he might be mistaken about Long being Long. In this spirit of humility he made the suggestion recorded above, and was grieved that Long indorsed it.

“And I want you to do two errands for me, kid. You give this to Pappy Sanders – the storekeeper, you know” – here he produced the little eohippus from his pocket – “and tell him to send it to a jeweler for me and get a hole bored in it so it’ll balance. Want to use it for a watch-charm when I get a watch. And if we pull off this Bransford affair I’ll have me a watch. Now don’t you lose that! It’s turquoise – worth a heap o’ money. Besides, he’s a lucky little horse.”

“I’ll put him in my pocketbook,” said Gurdon.

“Better give him to Pappy first off, else you’re liable to forget about him, he’s so small. Then you tell Pappy to send me out some grub. I won’t make out no bill. He’s grubstakin’ the mine; he’ll know what to send. You just tell him I’m about out of patience. Tell him I want about everything there is, and want it quick; and a jar for sour dough – I broke mine. And get some newspapers.” He hesitated perceptibly. “See here, boys, I hate to mention this; but old Pappy, him and this Jeff Bransford is purty good friends. I reckon Pappy won’t much like it to furnish grub for you while you’re puttin’ the kibosh on Jeff. You better get some of your own. You see how it is, don’t you? ’Tain’t like it was my chuck.”

Stone came while they saddled. He spoke apart with Griffith as to Mr. Long, and a certain favor he bore to the escaped bank-robber; but Griffith, admitting his own self-deception in that line, outlined the history of the past unhappy night. Stone, who had suffered only a slight misgiving, was fully satisfied.

As Steele started for the railroad Mr. Stone set out to complete the circuit of Double Mountain, in the which he found no runaway tracks. And Griffith and Long, sleeping alternately – especially Griffith – kept faithful ward over the gloomy gate of Double Mountain.

CHAPTER XIV

FLIGHT

“Keep away from that wheelbarrow – what the hell do you know about machinery?”

– Elbert Hubbard.2

Just after dark a horseman with a led horse came jogging round the mountain on the trail from Escondido. On the led horse was a pack bound rather slouchily, not to a packsaddle, but to an old riding saddle. The horses were unwilling to enter the circle of firelight, so the rider drew rein just beyond – a slender and boyish rider, with a flopping wide-brimmed hat too large for him.

“Oh, look who’s here!” said Tobe, as one who greets an unexpected friend.

“Hello, Tobe! Here’s your food, grub, chuck and provisions! Got your outlaw yet? Them other fellows will be out along toward midnight.” He went on without waiting for an answer: “Put me on your payroll. Pappy said I was to go to work – and if you was going to quit work to hunt down his friend you’d better quit for good. Lead on to your little old mine. I don’t know where it is, even.”

“I’ll go up and unpack, Rex,” said Tobe; “but, of course, I’m not going to lose my part of that five thousand. Pappy’s foolish. He’s gettin’ old. I’ll be back after a while and bring down the papers.”

Chatting of the trapped outlaw, the Ophir men climbed the zigzag to the mine. To Griffith, their voices dwindled to an indistinct murmur; a light glowed through the tent on the dump.

The stranger pressed into Jeff’s hand something small and hard – the little eohippus. “Here’s your little old token. Pappy caught on at once and he sent me along to represent. Let’s get this pack off and get out of here. Do we have to go down the same trail again?”

“Oh, no,” said Jeff. “There’s a wood-trail leads round the mountain to the east. Who’re you? I don’t know you.”

“Charley Gibson. Pappy knows me. He sent the little stone horse to vouch for me. I’m O. K. Time enough to explain when we’ve made a clean getaway.”

“You’re damn right there,” Jeff said. “That boy down yonder is nobody’s fool. I’ll light a candle in the tent and he’ll think I’m reading the newspapers. That’ll hold him a while.”

“I’ll be going on down the trail,” said Gibson. “This way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s the one. All right. Go slow and don’t make any more noise than you can help.”

Jeff would have liked his own proper clothing and effects, but there was no time for resuscitation. Lighting the candle, he acquired “Alice in Wonderland” and thrust it into the bosom of his shirt. It had been years since last he read that admirable work; his way now led either to hiding or to jail – and, with Alice to share his fate, he felt equal to either fortune. He left the candle burning: the tent shone with a mellow glow.

“If he didn’t hear our horses coming down we’re a little bit of all right,” said Jeff, as he rejoined his rescuer on the level. “Even if he does, he may think we’ve gone to hobble ’em – only he’d think we ought to water ’em first. Now for the way of the transgressor, to Old Mexico. This little desert’ll be one busy place to-morrow!”

They circled Double Mountain, making a wide détour to avoid rough going, and riding at a hard gallop until, behind and to their right, a red spark of fire came into view from behind a hitherto intervening shoulder, marking where Stone and Harlow held the southward pass.

Jeff drew rein and bore off obliquely toward the road at an easy trot.

“They’re there yet. So that’s all right!” he said. “They’ve just put on fresh wood. I saw it flame up just then.” He was in high feather. He began to laugh, or, more accurately, he resumed his laughter, for he had been too mirthful for much speech. “That poor devil Griffith will wait and fidget and stew! He’ll think I’m in the tent, reading the newspapers – reading about the Arcadian bank robbery, likely. He’ll wait a while, then he’ll yell at me. Then he’ll think we’ve gone to hobble the horses. He won’t want to leave the gap unguarded. He won’t know what to think. Finally he’ll go up to the mine and see that pack piled off any which way, and no saddles. Then he’ll know, but he won’t know what to do. He’ll think we’re for Old Mexico, but he won’t know it for sure. And it’s too dark to track us. Oh, my stars, but I bet he’ll be mad!”

Which shows that we all make mistakes. Mr. Griffith, though young, was of firm character, as has been lightly intimated. He waited a reasonable time to allow for paper-reading, then he waited a little longer and shouted; but when there was no answer he knew at once precisely what had happened: he had not been a fool at all, whatever Steele and Bransford had assured him, and he was a bigger fool to have allowed himself to be persuaded that he had been. It is true that he didn’t know what was best to do, but he knew exactly what he was going to do – and did it promptly. Seriously annoyed, he spurred through Double Mountain, gathered up Stone and Harlow, and followed the southward road. Bransford had been on the way to Old Mexico – he was on that road still; Griffith put everything on the one bold cast. While the others saddled he threw fresh fuel on the fire, with a rankling memory of the candle in the deserted tent and Hannibal at Saint Jo. For the first time Griffith had the better of the long battle of wits. That armful of fuel slowed Jeff from gallop to trot, turned assured victory into a doubtful contest; when the fugitives regained the El Paso road Griffith’s vindictive little band was not five miles behind them.

The night was lightly clouded – not so dark but that the pursuers noticed – or thought they noticed – the fresh tracks in the road when they came to them. They stopped, struck matches and confirmed their hopes: two shod horses going south at a smart gait; the dirt was torn up too much for travelers on their lawful occasions. From that moment Griffith urged the chase unmercifully; the fleeing couple, in fancied security, lost ground with every mile.