CHAPTER IV
A BATTLE AND A BULLET.
Bertram knew that the wagons would soon be coming along, under guard. Accordingly he turned off toward the foothills, which were beginning to be touched with pink. At a few rods from the road he was indistinguishable in the tall sagebrush and scattered groves of quaking asp and cottonwood. As he neared the foothills the tree growths became thicker, and soon he was moving in a forest which was comparatively free from down timber and underbrush.
The loneliness of the country struck Bertram as amazing. They had passed by no ranch houses on the road during the journey of the invaders from the railroad terminus. The blacksmith shop was undoubtedly the first outpost of civilization. All else was given over to unfenced prairie.
As the light grew stronger, and the bird sounds more pronounced, Bertram heard the sound of firing from the direction in which the raiders had gone.
There was a heavy volley, succeeded by firing at irregular intervals.
Being without any definite purpose in mind Bertram determined to make his way as close as possible to the firing and observe what was going on. Sheltered in the trees on the sides of the foothills the task was not difficult. From one glade he caught a glimpse of the blacksmith shop and saw that the mess wagons and bed wagons were grouped about the building. From the smoke he judged that the cooks were getting breakfast.
Pushing on, but always keeping in the shelter of the trees, Bertram advanced nearly a mile. The sound of firing grew more distinct, as he went on. There were no more volleys. Evidently the men were firing at random, but shooting steadily.
When he judged that he was about opposite the scene of the combat, Bertram tied his horse in a clump of quaking asp and made his way cautiously to the edge of a clearing, where he could command a view of the scene below. Through the binoculars, which he always carried, he watched with interest the development of a drama which had already taken the form of tragedy.
In the center of a considerable tract of cleared land stood a cabin. It was a small cabin, evidently not more than one room, but stoutly built of logs. There was no porch, but close to the single step, leading to the front door, lay the figure of a man, evidently dead. A water bucket, upturned, was near his outstretched hand.
“They didn’t give him a chance, the curs! They must have shot him as he started to the spring for water,” said Bertram aloud, noticing the well-worn trail from the door to a small ravine, one hundred yards or more away.
Sounds of firing came from the ravine and from the clumps of trees on all sides of the clearing in which the house stood. Answering shots came from the house. It was evident that the defense was being put up by one man, an expert marksman.
“He must have hit some of ’em right at the start,” muttered Bertram, “or they’d have rushed the house.”
The cabin seemed to be liberally provided with loopholes, as shots came from all sides. The lone defender, plainly enough, was distributing his shots impartially, keeping a good lookout to see that no parties gained the shelter of the cabin walls.
The bright sunlight crept down the foothills and flooded the scene of battle. Still the fight went on. One hour passed—then two. The man in the cabin seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammunition. If he could manage to hold out much longer, perhaps the countryside would be aroused and come to his rescue. Bertram knew from the talk of Swingley and others that there were many ranches between this outpost and the county seat, where the invaders had planned to dispossess the sheriff and strike their heaviest blow. If they were delayed too long, their surprise march would be futile.
The Texan could imagine how Swingley was fuming at the unexpected resistance, and how he was urging the cowboys to renewed efforts to “get” their man. But, in spite of the countless shots that were directed at the windows and loopholes on all sides of the cabin, not a bullet seemed to take effect. The return fire came steadily from the cabin—first from one side and then from another.
Bertram saw two cowboys being led away from the field of battle, evidently victims of the man who was fighting against such odds.
“Unless they’ve got something up their sleeve,” thought Bertram, “Swingley’s men might as well move on. This man seems to have plenty of ammunition, judging from the free and easy way he is firing, and he can keep up this long-range fighting all day, unless a chance bullet hits him.”
Hardly had the thought crossed his mind when, under cover of unusually heavy firing from that side, Bertram saw a two-wheeled armored device, similar to the one he had recently smashed, being pushed along the road that led from the highway to the house.
“By the gods, Swingley has had his way in spite of me!” ejaculated Bertram. “Blacksmith Jim must have come up and told them how to fit those scraper irons to another pair of wheels.”
Slowly the improvised war engine moved toward the house, under a concentrated fire of rifles. Bertram, from his elevated position, could catch a glimpse of the feet of the men behind the armor, as they pushed the go-devil toward the cabin.
The lone defender of the ranch house sensed the danger to which he was exposed by this new element in the fight. He fired shot after shot at the advancing go-devil, but still it came on.
Bertram watched intently. At first he thought it was the intention of the men to reach a loophole or a window and fire through it, but he soon saw that such was not their idea.
A bundle of straw was tossed over the top of the go-devil, against the cabin door. Another bundle followed, and then the go-devil was slowly backed away from the cabin.
“Burning him out, as if he might be a wolf, without a chance for his life!” exclaimed Bertram, striking his forehead in anger. “I’ll bet Ace Swingley himself is behind that go-devil. No one else could think up such a plan and carry it out.”
Almost as the Texan spoke flames burst from the straw pile at the cabin door. In a few seconds they had crept up the dry woodwork and had reached the roof. By the time the men with the go-devil had reached a place of safety, one side of the cabin and the roof were ablaze.
Thinking that the defender of the cabin would attempt to escape by way of the rear door, Swingley brought most of his forces around on that side. To Bertram’s amazement the front door opened, and a man, bareheaded and coatless, carrying a rifle in one hand, ran swiftly toward a gulch in the foothills. The man had a good start before the besiegers realized how cleverly they had been outwitted. If there were any riflemen concealed in the growth of timber and underbrush, toward which the man was making his way, they were too surprised to shoot. But bullets began flying from the thicket on the opposite side of the cabin. A few yards from the protecting gulch the runner stumbled and fell heavily. Animated by a determination which even his foes must have admired, he, rose slowly to his knees and then to his feet, using his rifle as a crutch.
The rifle fire had died away, as everybody seemed intent on watching the next move. Then a single shot was heard, as the defender of the cabin started to run again, and the man fell and lay still, his arms outstretched, his face turned to the sky.
The brutality of the killing caused the young Texan to tremble, as if he had been smitten with ague. He had seen sudden death in many forms, but this murder of one man by scores of assassins shook his consciousness to the center. It seemed as if a crime so monstrous could not go unpunished on the instant. Bertram almost looked for a lightning bolt to descend from the blue sky and strike down the riflemen. When the rifle firing had ceased serenity had returned to the scene. The meadow larks resumed their trilling, and, if it had not been for the burning cabin and the two still forms in the clearing, one might imagine that death and destruction could never visit so peaceful a haunt.
Now that their mission at the cabin was over, the invaders paid no further attention to their handiwork. Evidently under orders from Swingley, they swarmed out of the clearing toward the road, ready to take up the march without further delay.
Through his glasses Bertram saw Swingley approach the body at the edge of the clearing. The big cattleman appeared to be writing something. Then he stooped and attached a piece of paper to the dead man’s breast. Turning hastily aside, Swingley strode across the clearing, intent on marshaling his forces.
Bertram saw the dust and heard the clatter of hoofs, as the cavalcade took up its march. Then he could hear the rumble of the wagons. The roof of the cabin fell in with a crash, and the crackling of flames began to subside. The young Texan led his horse down the slope and into the clearing, which had been the center of such spirited conflict.
The body of the first man still lay where it had fallen, close to the cabin door, with the water bucket a few feet away. Approaching as closely as he could, and shielding his eyes from the mass of coals that had been the cabin, Bertram saw that the man was rather below medium stature and past middle age. Evidently he was a ranch helper—a cowboy who had seen his best days.
The man at the edge of the clearing was tall and powerfully built. As he lay with his arms outstretched, his brawny hand still clutching the rifle, he made an imposing figure even in death. His features were aquiline, his nose having the curve of an eagle’s beak. Though he, too, was past middle age, there was no hint of gray in his hair. Plainly enough he had been a leader of men, a foeman to be feared.
Bertram, stooping, read the message, scrawled in lead pencil on the square of paper attached to the dead man’s breast. It said:
NICK CALDWELL
KING OF THE RUSTLERS
LET OTHERS BEWARE
As he read the name Caldwell, Bertram uttered an exclamation. It was the name of the girl he had met at the start and again at Denver. Probably he was the girl’s father. In the bitterness of his heart Bertram cursed Swingley and the expedition. Then, his attention being attracted by some papers, the edges of which peeped from the man’s belt, Bertram drew the documents forth.
There were two letters addressed to Nick Caldwell. Glancing through them in the hope of finding something more concerning the man’s identity, Bertram gave a whistle of astonishment.
The letters indicated that the recipient, while ostensibly favoring the cattle rustlers, was in reality working for certain great cattle interests.
But, if Swingley and this slain man had been associated on the same side in this great war of the range, how had it come about that the leader of the expedition had been so determined to kill his confederate? Was Swingley unaware that Caldwell was really working for the cattle interests, or had some personal feud arisen between the two men?
“Probably it’s a case of wheels within wheels,” thought Bertram. “Maybe this man Caldwell threatened Swingley’s leadership. Or it may be that Caldwell was not so much on the cattlemen’s side as these letters indicate, and the word was given to Swingley to get him first of all.”
Dropping on one knee beside the body Bertram glanced over another paper, which he had taken out with the letters. It was in the form of a diary, loosely scrawled on several sheets of paper. It was a brief account of the fight which had just taken place.
“By George! this Caldwell was a cool one,” thought Bertram. “He found time to jot down a story of the fight, while he was standing off that bunch.”
The opening entry said:
Five-forty—The fight’s on. They’ve got Nate Day—shot him, as he stepped out after water. I can see from the window that he’s stone dead.
Then followed entries in which the writer told of the fight as it progressed. He mentioned wounding or killing four men, and he told of bullets that whistled through the windows and loopholes, yet did not hit him. The final entries read:
Eight-fifteen—They’re bringing out some kind of a go-devil on wheels, with an armored front. I can’t see the men behind it, and bullets don’t go through the iron. I guess I’m done.
Eight-twenty-five—They’ve set fire to the cabin. Throwed straw out from behind that go-devil. Curse the man that made that, anyway. I might have had a chance if it hadn’t been for him.
Eight-thirty-five—The roof’s afire. I’ve got to make a run for it. If I can make the gulch I may get away, but the chance is slim. Good-by all.
Bertram did not put the diary in his pocket with the letters. He thrust the rudely scrawled notes back in the man’s belt, and he left undisturbed the notice which Swingley had pinned to Caldwell’s breast.
Still kneeling beside the body, Bertram for the first time thought about himself. Should he go or stay? No doubt the whole countryside was being aroused, and men would soon be flocking along the trail of the invaders. It would not do to be found at the scene of the fight, but would he be better off anywhere else? He was a stranger in a hostile land. He had entered the country as one of a band of armed invaders, and it was not likely that any explanations he might make would be heeded. Hot-headed men, intent on vengeance, would not hesitate to shoot him down at sight. He smiled ruefully, as he thought of Arch Beam’s words: “The people in this country will scalp you alive!” No doubt Arch was right. But, if he was to be killed, it would be better to meet death on the open road, rather than at the scene of a crime so despicable.
As Bertram was about to rise to his feet a rifle cracked from across the clearing, and a bullet tore through the young Texan’s left shoulder. Although the shock of the impact spun him half around, Bertram struggled to his feet. His heavy revolver was drawn with amazing celerity, and he was about to empty the weapon in the direction from which the shot had come, when he heard a cry in a girl’s voice.
At the same time the thicket parted. As the young Texan stood with feet firmly planted, in spite of the intense pain that racked him, while his finger almost pressed the trigger, Alma Caldwell came running toward him.