Kitabı oku: «The Octopus : A Story of California», sayfa 30

“Fair and just to everybody,” murmured old Broderson, wagging his head, frowning perplexedly. “I don’t want to—to—to harm anybody unless they harm me.”

“Is the team going towards Guadalajara?” enquired Garnett, getting up and coming to the door.

“Yes, it’s a Portuguese, one of the garden truck men.”

“We must turn him back,” declared Osterman. “He can’t go through here. We don’t want him to take any news on to the marshal and S. Behrman.”

“I’ll turn him back,” said Presley.

He rode out towards the market cart, and the others, watching from the road in front of Hooven’s, saw him halt it. An excited interview followed. They could hear the Portuguese expostulating volubly, but in the end he turned back.

“Martial law on Los Muertos, isn’t it?” observed Osterman. “Steady all,” he exclaimed as he turned about, “here comes Harran.”

Harran rode up at a gallop. The others surrounded him.

“I saw them,” he cried. “They are coming this way. S. Behrman and Ruggles are in a two-horse buggy. All the others are on horseback. There are eleven of them. Christian and Delaney are with them. Those two have rifles. I left Hooven watching them.”

“Better call in Gethings and Cutter right away,” said Annixter. “We’ll need all our men.”

“I’ll call them in,” Presley volunteered at once. “Can I have the buckskin? My pony is about done up.”

He departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met Gethings and Cutter returning. They, too, from their elevated position, had observed the marshal’s party leaving Guadalajara by the Lower Road. Presley told them of the decision of the Leaguers not to fire until fired upon.

“All right,” said Gethings. “But if it comes to a gun-fight, that means it’s all up with at least one of us. Delaney never misses his man.”

When they reached Hooven’s again, they found that the Leaguers had already taken their position in the ditch. The plank bridge across it had been torn up. Magnus, two long revolvers lying on the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, Harran at his side. On either side, some five feet intervening between each man, stood the other Leaguers, their revolvers ready. Dabney, the silent old man, had taken off his coat.

“Take your places between Mr. Osterman and Mr. Broderson,” said Magnus, as the three men rode up. “Presley,” he added, “I forbid you to take any part in this affair.”

“Yes, keep him out of it,” cried Annixter from his position at the extreme end of the line. “Go back to Hooven’s house, Pres, and look after the horses,” he added. “This is no business of yours. And keep the road behind us clear. Don’t let ANY ONE come near, not ANY ONE, understand?”

Presley withdrew, leading the buckskin and the horses that Gethings and Cutter had ridden. He fastened them under the great live oak and then came out and stood in the road in front of the house to watch what was going on.

In the ditch, shoulder deep, the Leaguers, ready, watchful, waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the road leading to Guadalajara.

“Where’s Hooven?” enquired Cutter.

“I don’t know,” Osterman replied. “He was out watching the Lower Road with Harran Derrick. Oh, Harran,” he called, “isn’t Hooven coming in?”

“I don’t know what he is waiting for,” answered Harran. “He was to have come in just after me. He thought maybe the marshal’s party might make a feint in this direction, then go around by the Upper Road, after all. He wanted to watch them a little longer. But he ought to be here now.”

“Think he’ll take a shot at them on his own account?”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe they took him prisoner.”

“Well, that’s to be thought of, too.”

Suddenly there was a cry. Around the bend of the road in front of them came a cloud of dust. From it emerged a horse’s head.

“Hello, hello, there’s something.”

“Remember, we are not to fire first.”

“Perhaps that’s Hooven; I can’t see. Is it? There only seems to be one horse.”

“Too much dust for one horse.”

Annixter, who had taken his field glasses from Harran, adjusted them to his eyes.

“That’s not them,” he announced presently, “nor Hooven either. That’s a cart.” Then after another moment, he added, “The butcher’s cart from Guadalajara.”

The tension was relaxed. The men drew long breaths, settling back in their places.

“Do we let him go on, Governor?”

“The bridge is down. He can’t go by and we must not let him go back. We shall have to detain him and question him. I wonder the marshal let him pass.”

The cart approached at a lively trot.

“Anybody else in that cart, Mr. Annixter?” asked Magnus. “Look carefully. It may be a ruse. It is strange the marshal should have let him pass.”

The Leaguers roused themselves again. Osterman laid his hand on his revolver.

“No,” called Annixter, in another instant, “no, there’s only one man in it.”

The cart came up, and Cutter and Phelps, clambering from the ditch, stopped it as it arrived in front of the party.

“Hey—what—what?” exclaimed the young butcher, pulling up. “Is that bridge broke?”

But at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice, badly frightened, bewildered, not knowing what was to happen next.

“No, no, I got my meat to deliver. Say, you let me go. Say, I ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

He tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. Cutter, with his jack-knife, parted the reins just back of the bit.

“You’ll stay where you are, m’ son, for a while. We’re not going to hurt you. But you are not going back to town till we say so. Did you pass anybody on the road out of town?”

In reply to the Leaguers’ questions, the young butcher at last told them he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on horseback just beyond the railroad tracks. They were headed for Los Muertos.

“That’s them, all right,” muttered Annixter. “They’re coming by this road, sure.”

The butcher’s horse and cart were led to one side of the road, and the horse tied to the fence with one of the severed lines. The butcher, himself, was passed over to Presley, who locked him in Hooven’s barn.

“Well, what the devil,” demanded Osterman, “has become of Bismarck?”

In fact, the butcher had seen nothing of Hooven. The minutes were passing, and still he failed to appear.

“What’s he up to, anyways?”

“Bet you what you like, they caught him. Just like that crazy Dutchman to get excited and go too near. You can always depend on Hooven to lose his head.”

Five minutes passed, then ten. The road towards Guadalajara lay empty, baking and white under the sun.

“Well, the marshal and S. Behrman don’t seem to be in any hurry, either.”

“Shall I go forward and reconnoitre, Governor?” asked Harran.

But Dabney, who stood next to Annixter, touched him on the shoulder and, without speaking, pointed down the road. Annixter looked, then suddenly cried out:

“Here comes Hooven.”

The German galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his rifle laid across his saddle. He came on rapidly, pulled up, and dismounted at the ditch.

“Dey’re commen,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “I watch um long dime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. Dey shtop bei der gate oder side der relroadt trecks and talk long dime mit one n’udder. Den dey gome on. Dey’re gowun sure do zum monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I see Gritschun put der kertridges in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome MY blace first. Dey gowun to try put me off, tek my home, bei Gott.”

“All right, get down in here and keep quiet, Hooven. Don’t fire unless–”

“Here they are.”

A half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once.

There could be no mistake this time. A buggy, drawn by two horses, came into view around the curve of the road. Three riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a cloud of dust were two—three—five—six others.

This, then, was S. Behrman with the United States marshal and his posse. The event that had been so long in preparation, the event which it had been said would never come to pass, the last trial of strength, the last fight between the Trust and the People, the direct, brutal grapple of armed men, the law defied, the Government ignored, behold, here it was close at hand.

Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end to end of the line.

“Remember our agreement, gentlemen,” cried Magnus, in a warning voice. “Mr. Osterman, I must ask you to let down the hammer of your weapon.”

No one answered. In absolute quiet, standing motionless in their places, the Leaguers watched the approach of the marshal.

Five minutes passed. The riders came on steadily. They drew nearer. The grind of the buggy wheels in the grit and dust of the road, and the prolonged clatter of the horses’ feet began to make itself heard. The Leaguers could distinguish the faces of their enemies.

In the buggy were S. Behrman and Cyrus Ruggles, the latter driving. A tall man in a frock coat and slouched hat—the marshal, beyond question—rode at the left of the buggy; Delaney, carrying a Winchester, at the right. Christian, the real estate broker, S. Behrman’s cousin, also with a rifle, could be made out just behind the marshal. Back of these, riding well up, was a group of horsemen, indistinguishable in the dust raised by the buggy’s wheels.

Steadily the distance between the Leaguers and the posse diminished.

“Don’t let them get too close, Governor,” whispered Harran.

When S. Behrman’s buggy was about one hundred yards distant from the irrigating ditch, Magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving his revolvers behind him. He beckoned Garnett and Gethings to follow, and the three ranchers, who, with the exception of Broderson, were the oldest men present, advanced, without arms, to meet the marshal.

Magnus cried aloud:

“Halt where you are.”

From their places in the ditch, Annixter, Osterman, Dabney, Harran, Hooven, Broderson, Cutter, and Phelps, their hands laid upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for anything.

At the Governor’s words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the reins. The buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing likewise. Magnus approached the marshal, still followed by Garnett and Gethings, and began to speak. His voice was audible to the men in the ditch, but his words could not be made out. They heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the two shook hands. Delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horse standing before the team across the road. He leaned from the saddle, listening to what was being said, but made no remark. From time to time, S. Behrman and Ruggles, from their seats in the buggy, interposed a sentence or two into the conversation, but at first, so far as the Leaguers could discern, neither Magnus nor the marshal paid them any attention. They saw, however, that the latter repeatedly shook his head and once they heard him exclaim in a loud voice:

“I only know my duty, Mr. Derrick.”

Then Gethings turned about, and seeing Delaney close at hand, addressed an unheard remark to him. The cow-puncher replied curtly and the words seemed to anger Gethings. He made a gesture, pointing back to the ditch, showing the intrenched Leaguers to the posse. Delaney appeared to communicate the news that the Leaguers were on hand and prepared to resist, to the other members of the party. They all looked toward the ditch and plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms.

But meanwhile Ruggles had addressed himself more directly to Magnus, and between the two an angry discussion was going forward. Once even Harran heard his father exclaim:

“The statement is a lie and no one knows it better than yourself.”

“Here,” growled Annixter to Dabney, who stood next him in the ditch, “those fellows are getting too close. Look at them edging up. Don’t Magnus see that?”

The other members of the marshal’s force had come forward from their places behind the buggy and were spread out across the road. Some of them were gathered about Magnus, Garnett, and Gethings; and some were talking together, looking and pointing towards the ditch. Whether acting upon signal or not, the Leaguers in the ditch could not tell, but it was certain that one or two of the posse had moved considerably forward. Besides this, Delaney had now placed his horse between Magnus and the ditch, and two others riding up from the rear had followed his example. The posse surrounded the three ranchers, and by now, everybody was talking at once.

“Look here,” Harran called to Annixter, “this won’t do. I don’t like the looks of this thing. They all seem to be edging up, and before we know it they may take the Governor and the other men prisoners.”

“They ought to come back,” declared Annixter.

“Somebody ought to tell them that those fellows are creeping up.”

By now, the angry argument between the Governor and Ruggles had become more heated than ever. Their voices were raised; now and then they made furious gestures.

“They ought to come back,” cried Osterman. “We couldn’t shoot now if anything should happen, for fear of hitting them.”

“Well, it sounds as though something were going to happen pretty soon.”

They could hear Gethings and Delaney wrangling furiously; another deputy joined in.

“I’m going to call the Governor back,” exclaimed Annixter, suddenly clambering out of the ditch. “No, no,” cried Osterman, “keep in the ditch. They can’t drive us out if we keep here.”

Hooven and Harran, who had instinctively followed Annixter, hesitated at Osterman’s words and the three halted irresolutely on the road before the ditch, their weapons in their hands.

“Governor,” shouted Harran, “come on back. You can’t do anything.”

Still the wrangle continued, and one of the deputies, advancing a little from out the group, cried out:

“Keep back there! Keep back there, you!”

“Go to hell, will you?” shouted Harran on the instant. “You’re on my land.”

“Oh, come back here, Harran,” called Osterman. “That ain’t going to do any good.”

“There—listen,” suddenly exclaimed Harran. “The Governor is calling us. Come on; I’m going.”

Osterman got out of the ditch and came forward, catching Harran by the arm and pulling him back.

“He didn’t call. Don’t get excited. You’ll ruin everything. Get back into the ditch again.”

But Cutter, Phelps, and the old man Dabney, misunderstanding what was happening, and seeing Osterman leave the ditch, had followed his example. All the Leaguers were now out of the ditch, and a little way down the road, Hooven, Osterman, Annixter, and Harran in front, Dabney, Phelps, and Cutter coming up from behind.

“Keep back, you,” cried the deputy again.

In the group around S. Behrman’s buggy, Gethings and Delaney were yet quarrelling, and the angry debate between Magnus, Garnett, and the marshal still continued.

Till this moment, the real estate broker, Christian, had taken no part in the argument, but had kept himself in the rear of the buggy. Now, however, he pushed forward. There was but little room for him to pass, and, as he rode by the buggy, his horse scraped his flank against the hub of the wheel. The animal recoiled sharply, and, striking against Garnett, threw him to the ground. Delaney’s horse stood between the buggy and the Leaguers gathered on the road in front of the ditch; the incident, indistinctly seen by them, was misinterpreted.

Garnett had not yet risen when Hooven raised a great shout:

“HOCH, DER KAISER! HOCH, DER VATERLAND!”

With the words, he dropped to one knee, and sighting his rifle carefully, fired into the group of men around the buggy.

Instantly the revolvers and rifles seemed to go off of themselves. Both sides, deputies and Leaguers, opened fire simultaneously. At first, it was nothing but a confused roar of explosions; then the roar lapsed to an irregular, quick succession of reports, shot leaping after shot; then a moment’s silence, and, last of all, regular as clock-ticks, three shots at exact intervals. Then stillness.

Delaney, shot through the stomach, slid down from his horse, and, on his hands and knees, crawled from the road into the standing wheat. Christian fell backward from the saddle toward the buggy, and hung suspended in that position, his head and shoulders on the wheel, one stiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in attempting to rise from his kneeling position, received a rifle ball squarely in the throat, and rolled forward upon his face. Old Broderson, crying out, “Oh, they’ve shot me, boys,” staggered sideways, his head bent, his hands rigid at his sides, and fell into the ditch. Osterman, blood running from his mouth and nose, turned about and walked back. Presley helped him across the irrigating ditch and Osterman laid himself down, his head on his folded arms. Harran Derrick dropped where he stood, turning over on his face, and lay motionless, groaning terribly, a pool of blood forming under his stomach. The old man Dabney, silent as ever, received his death, speechless. He fell to his knees, got up again, fell once more, and died without a word. Annixter, instantly killed, fell his length to the ground, and lay without movement, just as he had fallen, one arm across his face.

CHAPTER VII

On their way to Derrick’s ranch house, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick heard the sounds of distant firing.

“Stop!” cried Hilma, laying her hand upon young Vacca’s arm. “Stop the horses. Listen, what was that?”

The carry-all came to a halt and from far away across the rustling wheat came the faint rattle of rifles and revolvers.

“Say,” cried Vacca, rolling his eyes, “oh, say, they’re fighting over there.”

Mrs. Derrick put her hands over her face.

“Fighting,” she cried, “oh, oh, it’s terrible. Magnus is there—and Harran.”

“Where do you think it is?” demanded Hilma. “That’s over toward Hooven’s.”

“I’m going. Turn back. Drive to Hooven’s, quick.”

“Better not, Mrs. Annixter,” protested the young man. “Mr. Annixter said we were to go to Derrick’s. Better keep away from Hooven’s if there’s trouble there. We wouldn’t get there till it’s all over, anyhow.”

“Yes, yes, let’s go home,” cried Mrs. Derrick, “I’m afraid. Oh, Hilma, I’m afraid.”

“Come with me to Hooven’s then.”

“There, where they are fighting? Oh, I couldn’t. I—I can’t. It would be all over before we got there as Vacca says.”

“Sure,” repeated young Vacca.

“Drive to Hooven’s,” commanded Hilma. “If you won’t, I’ll walk there.” She threw off the lap-robes, preparing to descend. “And you,” she exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Derrick, “how CAN you—when Harran and your husband may be—may—are in danger.”

Grumbling, Vacca turned the carry-all about and drove across the open fields till he reached the road to Guadalajara, just below the Mission.

“Hurry!” cried Hilma.

The horses started forward under the touch of the whip. The ranch houses of Quien Sabe came in sight.

“Do you want to stop at the house?” inquired Vacca over his shoulder.

“No, no; oh, go faster—make the horses run.”

They dashed through the houses of the Home ranch.

“Oh, oh,” cried Hilma suddenly, “look, look there. Look what they have done.”

Vacca pulled the horses up, for the road in front of Annixter’s house was blocked.

A vast, confused heap of household effects was there—chairs, sofas, pictures, fixtures, lamps. Hilma’s little home had been gutted; everything had been taken from it and ruthlessly flung out upon the road, everything that she and her husband had bought during that wonderful week after their marriage. Here was the white enamelled “set” of the bedroom furniture, the three chairs, wash-stand and bureau,—the bureau drawers falling out, spilling their contents into the dust; there were the white wool rugs of the sitting-room, the flower stand, with its pots all broken, its flowers wilting; the cracked goldfish globe, the fishes already dead; the rocking chair, the sewing machine, the great round table of yellow oak, the lamp with its deep shade of crinkly red tissue paper, the pretty tinted photographs that had hung on the wall—the choir boys with beautiful eyes, the pensive young girls in pink gowns—the pieces of wood carving that represented quails and ducks, and, last of all, its curtains of crisp, clean muslin, cruelly torn and crushed—the bed, the wonderful canopied bed so brave and gay, of which Hilma had been so proud, thrust out there into the common road, torn from its place, from the discreet intimacy of her bridal chamber, violated, profaned, flung out into the dust and garish sunshine for all men to stare at, a mockery and a shame.

To Hilma it was as though something of herself, of her person, had been thus exposed and degraded; all that she held sacred pilloried, gibbeted, and exhibited to the world’s derision. Tears of anguish sprang to her eyes, a red flame of outraged modesty overspread her face.

“Oh,” she cried, a sob catching her throat, “oh, how could they do it?” But other fears intruded; other greater terrors impended.

“Go on,” she cried to Vacca, “go on quickly.”

But Vacca would go no further. He had seen what had escaped Hilma’s attention, two men, deputies, no doubt, on the porch of the ranch house. They held possession there, and the evidence of the presence of the enemy in this raid upon Quien Sabe had daunted him.

“No, SIR,” he declared, getting out of the carry-all, “I ain’t going to take you anywhere where you’re liable to get hurt. Besides, the road’s blocked by all this stuff. You can’t get the team by.”

Hilma sprang from the carry-all.

“Come,” she said to Mrs. Derrick.

The older woman, trembling, hesitating, faint with dread, obeyed, and Hilma, picking her way through and around the wreck of her home, set off by the trail towards the Long Trestle and Hooven’s.

When she arrived, she found the road in front of the German’s house, and, indeed, all the surrounding yard, crowded with people. An overturned buggy lay on the side of the road in the distance, its horses in a tangle of harness, held by two or three men. She saw Caraher’s buckboard under the live oak and near it a second buggy which she recognised as belonging to a doctor in Guadalajara.

“Oh, what has happened; oh, what has happened?” moaned Mrs. Derrick.

“Come,” repeated Hilma. The young girl took her by the hand and together they pushed their way through the crowd of men and women and entered the yard.

The throng gave way before the two women, parting to right and left without a word.

“Presley,” cried Mrs. Derrick, as she caught sight of him in the doorway of the house, “oh, Presley, what has happened? Is Harran safe? Is Magnus safe? Where are they?”

“Don’t go in, Mrs. Derrick,” said Presley, coming forward, “don’t go in.”

“Where is my husband?” demanded Hilma.

Presley turned away and steadied himself against the jamb of the door.

Hilma, leaving Mrs. Derrick, entered the house. The front room was full of men. She was dimly conscious of Cyrus Ruggles and S. Behrman, both deadly pale, talking earnestly and in whispers to Cutter and Phelps. There was a strange, acrid odour of an unfamiliar drug in the air. On the table before her was a satchel, surgical instruments, rolls of bandages, and a blue, oblong paper box full of cotton. But above the hushed noises of voices and footsteps, one terrible sound made itself heard—the prolonged, rasping sound of breathing, half choked, laboured, agonised.

“Where is my husband?” she cried. She pushed the men aside. She saw Magnus, bareheaded, three or four men lying on the floor, one half naked, his body swathed in white bandages; the doctor in shirt sleeves, on one knee beside a figure of a man stretched out beside him.

Garnett turned a white face to her.

“Where is my husband?”

The other did not reply, but stepped aside and Hilma saw the dead body of her husband lying upon the bed. She did not cry out. She said no word. She went to the bed, and sitting upon it, took Annixter’s head in her lap, holding it gently between her hands. Thereafter she did not move, but sat holding her dead husband’s head in her lap, looking vaguely about from face to face of those in the room, while, without a sob, without a cry, the great tears filled her wide-opened eyes and rolled slowly down upon her cheeks.

On hearing that his wife was outside, Magnus came quickly forward. She threw herself into his arms.

“Tell me, tell me,” she cried, “is Harran—is–”

“We don’t know yet,” he answered. “Oh, Annie–”

Then suddenly the Governor checked himself. He, the indomitable, could not break down now.

“The doctor is with him,” he said; “we are doing all we can. Try and be brave, Annie. There is always hope. This is a terrible day’s work. God forgive us all.”

She pressed forward, but he held her back.

“No, don’t see him now. Go into the next room. Garnett, take care of her.”

But she would not be denied. She pushed by Magnus, and, breaking through the group that surrounded her son, sank on her knees beside him, moaning, in compassion and terror.

Harran lay straight and rigid upon the floor, his head propped by a pillow, his coat that had been taken off spread over his chest. One leg of his trousers was soaked through and through with blood. His eyes were half-closed, and with the regularity of a machine, the eyeballs twitched and twitched. His face was so white that it made his yellow hair look brown, while from his opened mouth, there issued that loud and terrible sound of guttering, rasping, laboured breathing that gagged and choked and gurgled with every inhalation.

“Oh, Harrie, Harrie,” called Mrs. Derrick, catching at one of his hands.

The doctor shook his head.

“He is unconscious, Mrs. Derrick.”

“Where was he—where is—the—the–”

“Through the lungs.”

“Will he get well? Tell me the truth.”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Derrick.”

She had all but fainted, and the old rancher, Garnett, half-carrying, half-leading her, took her to the one adjoining room—Minna Hooven’s bedchamber. Dazed, numb with fear, she sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking herself back and forth, murmuring:

“Harrie, Harrie, oh, my son, my little boy.”

In the outside room, Presley came and went, doing what he could to be of service, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot.

The surviving members of both Leaguers and deputies—the warring factions of the Railroad and the People—mingled together now with no thought of hostility. Presley helped the doctor to cover Christian’s body. S. Behrman and Ruggles held bowls of water while Osterman was attended to. The horror of that dreadful business had driven all other considerations from the mind. The sworn foes of the last hour had no thought of anything but to care for those whom, in their fury, they had shot down. The marshal, abandoning for that day the attempt to serve the writs, departed for San Francisco.

The bodies had been brought in from the road where they fell. Annixter’s corpse had been laid upon the bed; those of Dabney and Hooven, whose wounds had all been in the face and head, were covered with a tablecloth. Upon the floor, places were made for the others. Cutter and Ruggles rode into Guadalajara to bring out the doctor there, and to telephone to Bonneville for others.

Osterman had not at any time since the shooting, lost consciousness. He lay upon the floor of Hooven’s house, bare to the waist, bandages of adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and shoulder. His eyes were half-closed. Presley, who looked after him, pending the arrival of a hack from Bonneville that was to take him home, knew that he was in agony.

But this poser, this silly fellow, this cracker of jokes, whom no one had ever taken very seriously, at the last redeemed himself. When at length, the doctor had arrived, he had, for the first time, opened his eyes.

“I can wait,” he said. “Take Harran first.” And when at length, his turn had come, and while the sweat rolled from his forehead as the doctor began probing for the bullet, he had reached out his free arm and taken Presley’s hand in his, gripping it harder and harder, as the probe entered the wound. His breath came short through his nostrils; his face, the face of a comic actor, with its high cheek bones, bald forehead, and salient ears, grew paler and paler, his great slit of a mouth shut tight, but he uttered no groan.

When the worst anguish was over and he could find breath to speak, his first words had been:

“Were any of the others badly hurt?”

As Presley stood by the door of the house after bringing in a pail of water for the doctor, he was aware of a party of men who had struck off from the road on the other side of the irrigating ditch and were advancing cautiously into the field of wheat. He wondered what it meant and Cutter, coming up at that moment, Presley asked him if he knew.

“It’s Delaney,” said Cutter. “It seems that when he was shot he crawled off into the wheat. They are looking for him there.”

Presley had forgotten all about the buster and had only a vague recollection of seeing him slide from his horse at the beginning of the fight. Anxious to know what had become of him, he hurried up and joined the party of searchers.

“We better look out,” said one of the young men, “how we go fooling around in here. If he’s alive yet he’s just as liable as not to think we’re after him and take a shot at us.”

“I guess there ain’t much fight left in him,” another answered. “Look at the wheat here.”

“Lord! He’s bled like a stuck pig.”

“Here’s his hat,” abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party. “He can’t be far off. Let’s call him.”

They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceeded cautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly that those following carromed against them. There was an outburst of exclamation.

“Here he is!”

“Good Lord! Sure, that’s him.”

“Poor fellow, poor fellow.”

The cow-puncher lay on his back, deep in the wheat, his knees drawn up, his eyes wide open, his lips brown. Rigidly gripped in one hand was his empty revolver.

The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows from Guadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at length ventured near, peering down into the face.

“Is he dead?” inquired those in the rear.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, put your hand on his heart.” “No! I—I don’t want to.”

“What you afraid of?”