The Coming of the Law

It did not come unheralded. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated miles of the surrounding country, showing Hollis the naked peaks of ridges and hills around him; gullies, draws, barrancas, the levels, lava beds, fantastic rock shapes–mocking his ignorance of the country. He saw them all for an instant and then they were gone and darkness–blacker than before–succeeded. It was as though a huge map had suddenly been thrust before his eyes by some giant hand, an intense light thrown upon it, and the light suddenly turned off. Immediately there came a heavy crash as though the Storm-Kings, having marshalled their forces, had thrown them together in one, great, clashing onrush. And then, straight down, roaring and shrieking, came the deluge.

The wise little plains-pony halted, standing with drooping head, awaiting the end of the first fierce onslaught. It lasted long and when it had gone another silence, as ominous as the preceding one, followed. The rain ceased entirely and the pony again stepped forward, making his way slowly, for the trail was now slippery and hazardous. The baked earth had become a slimy, sticky clay which clung tenaciously to the pony’s hoofs.

For another quarter of an hour the pony floundered through the mud, around gigantic boulders, over slippery hummocks, across little gullies, upon ridges and small hills and down into comparatively level stretches of country. Hollis was beginning to think that he might escape a bad wetting after all when the rain came again.

This time it seemed the Storm-Kings were in earnest. The rain came down in torrents; Hollis could feel it striking against his tarpaulin in long, stinging, vicious slants, and the lightning played and danced along the ridges and into the gullies with continuing energy, the thunder following, crashing in terrific volleys. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and the only consoling thought was that the deluge would prove a God-send to the land and the cattle. Hollis began to wish that he had remained in Dry Bottom for the night, but of course Dry Bottom was not to be thought of now; he must devote all his energy to reaching the ranch.

It was slow work for the pony. After riding for another quarter of an hour Hollis saw, during another lightning flash, another of his landmarks, and realized that in the last quarter of an hour he had traveled a very short distance. The continuing flashes of lightning had helped the pony forward, but presently the lightning ceased and a dense blackness succeeded. The pony went forward at an uncertain pace; several times it halted and faced about, apparently undecided about the trail. After another half hour’s travel and coming to a stretch of level country, the pony halted again, refusing to respond to Hollis’s repeated urging to go forward without guidance. For a long time Hollis continued to urge the animal–he cajoled, threatened–but the pony would not budge. Hollis was forced to the uncomfortable realization that it had lost the trail.

For a long time he sat quietly in the saddle, trying in the dense darkness to determine upon direction, but he finally gave it up and with a sudden impulse took up the reins and pulled the pony to the left, determined to keep to the flat country as long as possible.

He traveled for what seemed several miles, the pony gingerly feeling its way, when suddenly it halted and refused to advance. Something was wrong. Hollis leaned forward, attempting to peer through the darkness ahead, but not succeeding. And now, as though having accomplished its design by causing Hollis to lose the trail, the lightning flashed again, illuminating the surrounding country for several miles.

Hollis had been peering ahead when the flash came and he drew a deep breath of horror and surprise. The pony had halted within a foot of the edge of a high cliff whose side dropped away sheer, as though cut with a knife. Down below, perhaps a hundred feet, was an immense basin, through which flowed a stream of water. To Hollis’s right, parallel with the stream, the cliff sloped suddenly down, reaching the water’s edge at a distance of two or three hundred feet. Beyond that was a stretch of sloping country many miles in area, and, also on his right, was a long, high, narrow ridge. He recognized the ridge as the one on which he and Norton had ridden some six weeks before–on the day he had had the adventure with Ed Hazelton. Another flash of lightning showed him two cotton-wood trees–the ones pointed out to him by Norton as marking Big Elk crossing–the dead line set by Dunlavey and his men.

Hollis knew his direction now and he pulled the pony around and headed it away from the edge of the cliff and toward the flat country which he knew led down through the canyon to Devil’s Hollow, where he had taken leave of Ed and Nellie Hazelton. He was congratulating himself upon his narrow escape when a flash of lightning again illuminated the country and he saw, not over a hundred feet distant, sitting motionless on their ponies, a half dozen cowboys. Also on his pony, slightly in advance of the others, a grin of derision on his face, was Dunlavey.

CHAPTER XI

PICKING UP THE TRAIL

At about the time that the storm had overtaken Hollis, Potter was unsaddling his pony at the Circle Bar corral gate. A little later he was on the wide lower gallery of the ranchhouse washing the stains of travel from his face and hands. At supper he was taciturn, his face deeply thoughtful. Had Ten Spot come? What had been the outcome of the meeting? These questions preyed on his mind and brought furrows into his face.

At supper he caught Norton watching him furtively and he flushed guiltily, for he felt that in spite of Hollis’s order to say nothing to Norton he should have told. He had already informed Norton that Hollis intended remaining in Dry Bottom until a later hour than usual, but he had said nothing about the intended visit of Ten Spot to the Kicker office. Loyalty to Hollis kept him from communicating to Norton his fears for Hollis’s safety. It was now too late to do anything if he did tell Norton; whatever had been done had been done already and there was nothing for him to do but to wait until nine o’clock.

After he finished his meal he drew a chair out upon the gallery and placing it in a corner from where he could see the Dry Bottom trail he seated himself in it and tried to combat the disquieting fears that oppressed him. When Norton came out and took a chair near him he tried to talk to the range boss upon those small subjects with which we fill our leisure, but he could not hold his thoughts to these trivialities. He fell into long silences; his thoughts kept going back to Dry Bottom.

When the rain came he felt a little easier, for he had a hope that Hollis might have noticed the approach of the storm and decided to remain in town until it had passed. But after the rain had ceased his fears again returned. He looked many times at his watch and when Mrs. Norton came to the door and announced her intention of retiring he scarcely noticed her. Norton had repeatedly referred to Hollis’s absence, and each time Potter had assured him that Hollis would come soon. Shortly before nine o’clock, when the clouds lifted and the stars began to appear, Potter rose and paced the gallery floor. At nine, when it had become light enough to see quite a little distance down the Dry Bottom trail and there were still no signs of Hollis, he blurted out the story of the day’s occurrences.

The information acted upon Norton like an electric shock. He was on his feet before Potter had finished speaking, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” he demanded. “Why did you leave him? Wasn’t there somebody in Dry Bottom that you could have sent out here to tell me?” He cursed harshly. “Ten Spot’s got him!” he declared sharply, his eyes glittering savagely. “He’d have been here by this time!” He was taking a hitch in his cartridge belt while talking, and before concluding he was down off the gallery floor and striding toward the corral.

“Tell my wife that I’ve gone to Dry Bottom,” he called back to Potter. “Important business! I’ll be back shortly after midnight!”

Leaving Potter on the porch staring after him he ran to the corral, roped his pony, threw on a saddle and bridle and mounted with the animal on a run.

The stars were shining brilliantly now and from the porch Potter could see Norton racing down the Dry Bottom trail with his pony in a furious gallop. For a time Potter watched him, then he disappeared and Potter went into the house to communicate his message to his wife.

The rain had been heavy while it lasted, but by the time Norton had begun his race to Dry Bottom very little evidence of it remained and the pony’s flying hoofs found the sand of the trail almost as dry and hard as before the storm. Indeed, there was now little evidence that there had been a storm at all.

Norton spared the pony only on the rises and in something over an hour after the time he had left the Circle Bar he drew up in front of the Kicker office in Dry Bottom, dismounted, and bounded to the door. It was locked. He placed a shoulder against it and crashed it in, springing inside and lighting a match. He smiled grimly when he saw no signs of Hollis; when he saw that the interior was in an orderly condition and that there were no signs of a conflict. If Ten Spot had killed Hollis he had done the deed outside the Kicker office.

Norton came out again, pulling the wreck of the door after him and closing it as well as he could. Then, leaving his pony, he strode toward the Fashion saloon. As he came near he heard sounds of revelry issuing from the open door and he smiled coldly. A flashing glance through the window showed him that Ten Spot was there, standing at the bar. In the next instant Norton was inside, confronting Ten Spot, his big six-shooter out and shoved viciously against Ten Spot’s stomach.

“What have you done with Hollis, you mangy son-of-a-gun?” he demanded.

Several men who had been standing at the bar talking and laughing fell silent and looked at the two men, the barkeeper sidled closer, crouching warily, for he knew Norton.

Ten Spot had spread his arms out on the bar and was leaning against it, looking at Norton in unfeigned bewilderment. He did not speak at once. Then suddenly aware of the foreboding, savage gleam in Norton’s eyes, a glint of grim humor came into his own and his lips opened a little, curling sarcastically.

“Why,” he said, looking at Norton, “I don’t reckon to be anyone’s keeper.” He smiled widely, with a suddenly ludicrous expression. “If you’re talkin’ about that tenderfoot noospaper guy, he don’t need no keeper. What have I done to him?” he repeated, his smile growing. “Why, I reckon I didn’t do a heap; I went down to call on him. He was right sociable. I was goin’ to be mean to him, but I just couldn’t. When he left he was sayin’ that he’d be right glad to see me again–he’d been right playful durin’ my talk with him. I reckon by now he’s over at the Circle Bar laffin’ hisself to sleep over the mean way I treated him. You just ast him when you see him.”

A flicker of doubt came into Norton’s eyes–Ten Spot’s words had the ring of truth.

“You went down there to shoot him!” he said coldly, still unconvinced.

“Mebbe I did,” returned Ten Spot. “Howsomever, I didn’t. I ain’t tellin’ how I come to change my mind–that’s my business, an’ you can’t shoot it out of me. But I’m tellin’ you this: me an’ that guy has agreed to call it quits, an’ if I hear any man talkin’ extravagant about him, me an’ that man’s goin’ to have a run in mighty sudden!” He laughed. “Someone’s been funnin’ you,” he said. “When he handed me back my gun after sluggin’ – ”

But he was now talking to Norton’s back, for the range boss was at the door, striding rapidly toward his pony. He mounted again and rode out on the trail, proceeding slowly, convinced that something had happened to Hollis after he had left Dry Bottom. It was more than likely that he had lost his way in the storm, and in that case he would probably arrive at the Circle Bar over some round-about trail. He was now certain that he had not been molested in town; if he had been some of the men in the Fashion would have told him about it. Hollis would probably be at the ranch by the time he arrived, to laugh at his fears. Nevertheless he rode slowly, watching the trail carefully, searching the little gullies and peering into every shadow for fear that Hollis had been injured in some accident and might be lying near unable to make his presence known.

The dawn was just showing above the horizon when he rode up to the ranchhouse to find Potter standing on the porch–apparently not having left there during his absence. Beside Potter stood Ed Hazelton, and near the latter a drooping pony, showing signs of hard riding.

Norton passed the corral gate and rode up to the two men. A glance at their faces told him that something had gone wrong. But before he could speak the question that had formed on his lips Hazelton spoke.

“They got him, Norton,” he said slowly.

“Dead?” queried Norton sharply, his lips straightening.

“No,” returned Hazelton gloomily; “he ain’t dead. But when I found him he wasn’t far from it. Herd-rode him, the damned sneaks! Beat him up so’s his own mother wouldn’t know him!”

“Wait!” commanded Norton. “I’m going with you. I suppose you’ve got him over to your shack?” He caught Hazelton’s nod and issued an order to Potter. “Go down to the bunkhouse and get Weary out. Tell him to hit the breeze to Cimarron for the doctor. If the doc’ don’t want to come drag him by the ears!”

He spurred his pony furiously to the corral gate and in a short time had saddled another horse and was back where Hazelton was awaiting him. Without speaking a word to each other the two men rode rapidly down the Coyote trail, while Potter, following directions, his face haggard and drawn from loss of sleep and worry, hurried to the bunkhouse to arouse Weary and send him on his long journey to Cimarron.

CHAPTER XII

AFTER THE STORM

Hollis’s tall figure lay pitifully slack on a bed in the Hazelton cabin. Nellie Hazelton had given him what care she could out of her limited knowledge and now nothing more could be done until the arrival of the Cimarron doctor. Swathed in bandages, his clothing torn and soiled–as though after beating him his assailants had dragged him through the mud–one hand queerly twisted, his face swollen, his whole great body looking as though it had received the maximum of injury, Hollis moved restlessly on the bed, his head rolling oddly from side to side, incoherent words issuing from between his bruised and swollen lips.

Norton stood beside the bed, looking down at the injured man with a grim, savage pity.

“The damned cowards!” he said, his voice quivering. “There must have been a dozen of them–to do him up like that!”

“Seven,” returned Ed Hazelton grimly. “They left their trail there; I counted the hoof prints, an’ they led down the slope toward Big Elk crossin’.” He looked at Norton with a frown. “We can’t do anything here,” he said shortly, “until the doctor comes. I’ll take you down where I found him.”

They went out and mounted their ponies. Down the trail a mile or so they came to a level that led away toward Rabbit-Ear Creek. From the level they could see the Circle Cross buildings, scattered over a small stretch of plain on the opposite side of the river. There was no life around them, no movement. Norton grimaced toward them.

Hazelton halted his pony in some tall grass near a bare, sandy spot on the plains. The grass here grew only in patches and Norton could plainly see a number of hoof prints in the sand. One single set led away across the plains toward the Dry Bottom trail. Seeing the knowing expression in Norton’s eyes, Hazelton spoke quietly.

“That’s Hollis’s trail. He must have took the Dry Bottom trail an’ lost it in the storm. Potter says he would probably take it because it’s shorter. Anyways, it’s his trail; I followed it back into the hills until I was sure. I saw that he had been comin’ from Dry Bottom. He lost his way an’ rode over here. I remember there was an awful darkness, for I was out scoutin’ around to see if my stock was all right. Well, he got this far–rode right up to the edge of the butte over there an’ then come back this way. Then he met–well, the men that did it.”

“They all stood there for a little while; you can see where their horses pawed. Then mebbe they started somethin’, for you can see where Hollis’s pony throwed up a lot of sand, tryin’ to break out. The others were in a circle–you can see that. I’ve figured it out that Hollis saw there wasn’t any chance for him against so many an’ he tried to hit the breeze away from here. I’ll show you.”

They followed the hoof prints down the slope and saw that all the riders must have been traveling fast at this point, for the earth was cut and the hoof prints bunched fore and aft. They ran only a little way, however. About a hundred yards down the slope, in a stretch of bare, sandy soil, the horses had evidently come to a halt again, for they were bunched well together and there were many of them, showing that there had been some movement after the halt.

Norton dismounted and examined the surrounding soil.

“They all got off here,” he said shortly, after the examination; “there’s the prints of their boots. They caught him here and handed it to him.”

Hazelton silently pointed to a queer track in the sand–a shallow groove running about fifty feet, looking as though some heavy object had been drawn over it. Norton’s face whitened.

“Drug him!” he said grimly, his lips in two straight lines. “It’s likely they roped him!” He remounted his pony and sat in the saddle, watching Hazelton as the latter continued his examination. “They’re a fine, nervy bunch!” he sneered as Hazelton also climbed into his saddle. “They must have piled onto him like a pack of wolves. If they’d have come one at a time he’d have cleaned them up proper!”

They rode away down the trail toward the cabin. Norton went in and looked again at Hollis, and then, telling Hazelton that he would return in the afternoon, he departed for the Circle Bar. He stopped at the ranchhouse and communicated the news to his wife and Potter and then rode on up the river to a point about ten miles from the ranchhouse–where the outfit was working.

The men received his news with expressions of rage and vengeance. They had come to admire Hollis for his courage in electing to continue the fight against Dunlavey; they had seen that in spite of his ignorance of the customs of their world he possessed a goodly store of common sense and an indomitable spirit. Yet none of them expressed sympathy, though their faces showed that they felt it. Expressions of sympathy in a case such as this would have been unnecessary and futile. But their expressions of rage showed how the news had affected them. Though they knew that Dunlavey’s forces outnumbered their own they were for striking back immediately. But Norton discouraged this.

“We’re layin’ low for a while,” he said. “Mebbe the boss will get well. If he does he’ll make things mighty interestin’ for Dunlavey–likely he’ll remember who was in the crowd which beat him up. If he dies – ” His eyes flashed savagely. “Well, if he dies you boys can go as far as you like an’ I’ll go with you without doin’ any kickin’.”

“What’s goin’ to be done with that noospaper of his’n?” inquired Ace. “You reckon she’ll miss fire till he’s well again?”

Norton’s brows wrinkled; he had not thought of the newspaper. But he realized now that if the paper failed to appear on scheduled time the people in Union County would think that Hollis had surrendered; they would refuse to believe that he had been so badly injured that he could not issue the paper, and Dunlavey would be careful to circulate some sort of a story to encourage this view. Now that Ace had brought the matter to his attention he began to suspect that this had been the reason of the attack on Hollis. That they had not killed him when they had the opportunity, showed that they must have had some purpose other than that of merely desiring to get him out of the way. That they had merely beaten him showed that their wish was only to incapacitate him temporarily. Norton’s eyes flashed with a sudden determination.

“I don’t reckon that the Kicker will miss fire,” he declared; “not if I have to go to Dry Bottom an’ get her out myself!”

Ace eyed him furtively and now spoke with an embarrassed self-consciousness.

“I’ve been considerin’ this here situation ever since you told us about the boss,” he said diffidently, “an’ if you’re goin’ to get that paper out, a little poem or two might help out considerable.”

“Meanin’?” interrogated Norton, his eyelashes flickering.

Ace’s face reddened painfully. “Meanin’ that I’ve got several little pieces which I’ve wrote when I didn’t have anything else to do an’ that I’d be right willin’ to have them put into the Kicker to help fill her up. Some of the boys think they’re right classy.”

Norton looked around at the other men for confirmation of the truth of this modest statement. He caught Lanky’s glance.

“I reckon that’s about right,” said that sober-faced puncher; “Ace is the pote lariat of this here outfit, an’ he sure has got a lot of right clever lines in his pomes. I’ve read them which wasn’t one-two-three with his’n.”

Norton smiled, a little cynically. He wasn’t quite sure about it, he said, but if Ace could write poetry he hadn’t any doubt that during the next few weeks there would be plenty of opportunity to print some of it in the Kicker. He smiled when he saw Ace’s face brighten. But he told him he would have to see Hollis–if the latter got well enough to endure an interview. If the boss recovered enough to be able to look at Ace’s poetry before it was printed, why of course it would have to be shown him. He didn’t want anything to go into the Kicker which the boss wouldn’t like. But if he wasn’t able to look at it, why he would leave the decision to Potter, and if it suited the latter he would be satisfied. He would keep the boys posted on the boss’s condition. Then he rode away toward the ranchhouse.

Late in the afternoon he again visited the Hazelton cabin. He found the Cimarron doctor already there. Hollis was still unconscious, though resting easier. The doctor declared that he would remain with him throughout the night. He followed Norton out on to the porch and told him that at present he could not tell just how serious Hollis’s injuries were. There was a great wound in his head which he feared might turn out seriously, but if not, Hollis would recover quickly and be as good as ever within a few weeks–except for his left wrist–which was broken. He praised Nellie Hazelton for the care she was giving the injured man. Convinced that there was nothing more to be done, Norton returned to the Circle Bar to give his attention to his work.

CHAPTER XIII

“WOMAN–SHE DON’T NEED NO TOOTER”

The Cimarron doctor’s fears for the wound on Hollis’s head had proved unfounded and on the tenth day after his experience on the night of the storm, Hollis was sitting on the Hazelton porch, his head still swathed in bandages, his left wrist in a splint, but his spirit still untouched. The marks on his face had all disappeared, except an ugly gash under his right eye–which still showed a slight discoloration–and a smaller cut on the chin. The Cimarron doctor had told him that the wound under his eye would leave a permanent scar–the wound had been deep and in spite of the doctor’s care, had drawn together queerly, affecting the eye itself and giving it an odd expression. Many times since becoming able to move about had Hollis looked at his face in his mirror, and each time there had come into his eyes an expression that boded ill for the men who had been concerned in the attack on him.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was coming slant-wise over the roof of the cabin, creating a welcome shade on the porch. Ed Hazelton had been gone since morning, looking after his cattle, and Nellie was in the house, busily at work in the kitchen–Hollis could hear her as she stepped about the room.

Norton had left the cabin an hour before and a little later Potter had stopped in on his way over to Dry Bottom to set up an article that he had written at Hollis’s dictation. Hollis had told Norton of his experiences on the night of the storm.