Wrangle's Race Run
: Riders Of The Purple SageThe plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to
go to the village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for
Bess, or at least less striking apparel than her present garb,
and to return post-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, she would add
to their store of gold. Then they would strike the long and
perilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the ev
to fetch back a horse for her, they intended to make the giant
sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle blankets,
and Venters's guns were to compose the light outfit with which
they would make the start.
"I love this beautiful place," said Bess. "It's hard to think of
leaving it."
"Hard! Well, I should think so," replied Venters. "Maybe--in
years--" But he did not complete in words his thought that might
be possible to return after many years of absence and change.
Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of
Balancing Rock, and this time it was with whispered hope and
tenderness and passionate trust. Long after he had left her, all
down through the outlet to the Pass, the clinging clasp of her
arms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new and
exquisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly and
thrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadly called herself
nameless and nothing had been marvelously transformed in the
moment of his avowal of love. It was something to think over,
something to warm his heart, but for the present it had
absolutely to be forgotten so that all his mind could be
addressed to the trip so fraught with danger.
He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of
bread and meat, and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progress
down the slope and out into the valley. Darkness was coming on,
and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he reached his old
hiding-place in the split of canyon wall, and by their aid he
slipped through the dense thickets to the grassy enclosure.
Wrangle stood in the center of it with his head up, and he
appeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim light.
Venters whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then called.
The horse snorted and, plunging away with dull, heavy sound of
hoofs, he disappeared in the gloom. "Wilder than ever!" muttered
Venters. He followed the sorrel into the narrowing split between
the walls, and presently had to desist because he could not see a
foot in advance. As he went back toward the open Wrangle jumped
out of an ebony shadow of cliff and like a thunderbolt shot huge
and black past him down into the starlit glade. Deciding that all
attempts to catch Wrangle at night would be useless, Venters
repaired to the shelving rock where he had hidden saddle and
blanket, and there went to sleep.
The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was
light enough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his
saddle and went out to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at the
lower end of the cove and approached him in a perfectly natural
manner. When he got near enough, Wrangle evidently recognized
him, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on into
the narrow lane between the walls. This favored Venters's speedy
capture of the horse, so, coiling his noose ready to throw, he
hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within a hundred feet and
then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly getting into his
stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He had time
to brace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw him
and dragged him several yards before halting.
"You wild devil," said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle up.
"Don't you know me? Come now--old fellow--so--so--"
Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters's strong hand.
He was as straggly and wild-looking as a horse left to roam free
in the sage. He dropped his long ears and stood readily to be
saddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly sensitive, and
quivered at every touch and sound. Venters led him to the
thicket, and, bending the close saplings to let him squeeze
through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in each
direction assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canyon,
then he was in the saddle, riding south.
Wrangle's long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer.
His stride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse; and his
endurance was equally remarkable. Venters pulled him in
occasionally, and walked him up the stretches of rising ground
and along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown any
indication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless,
there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Venters did not
resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. He
camped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was to
Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was
in the neighborhood of fifty miles.
Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the
middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked
the southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail up
to the sage-level. He spied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust,
but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle's
bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, more
severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level
above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of
slope.
Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.
Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant
wind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles
when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavily
against the pommel.
"What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a loose
shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded,
he raised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head
high, with his long ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly
gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen
riding down the slope. If they had seen him, it apparently made
no difference in their speed or direction.
"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed to
run. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he
reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could
not be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle
behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal them
until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were;
after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered
him.
After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in
working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of
a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into
life. If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten how
rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compact
and dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual that
their horses did not see Wrangle! But such failure, Venters
decided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling.
They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlers than by
riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that these
horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance
to tell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yards
he deliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.
Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and
saw horses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying
manes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply
against the black background of riders and horses, and shots rang
out. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped up the
dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great for
revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to
check advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in
Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, so that Wrangle
could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled the
trigger twice.
He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another
lurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle,
plunging in fright, lifted Venters and nearly threw him. He
jerked the horse down with a powerful hand and leaped into the
saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, that Venters
had not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swift
movement, he secured it and dropped the loop over the pommel.
Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what the issue would
be.
The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark for
bullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns.
He heard a sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again he
caught the whim of a leaden missile that would have hit him but
for Wrangle's sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold,
passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out the one rider
with a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted shrilly and
bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a few rods, then with
iron arm checked him.
Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the
saddle to secure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot from
Venters, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over him
made him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The crippled
rider went one way; the one frustrated in his attempt to get the
carbine rode another, Venters thought he made out a third rider,
carrying a strange-appearing bundle and disappearing in the sage.
But in the rapidity of action and vision he could not discern
what it was. Two riders with three horses swung out to the right.
Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldom carried by
rustlers or riders--they had been put to rout.
Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted
was riding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bay
racer she had given to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry.
Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, and
the ease and grace of his seat in the saddle--things so
strikingly incongruous--grew more and more familiar in Venters's
sight.
"Jerry Card!" cried Venters.
It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white hot wrath
inflamed Venters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze.
"It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's riding
Black Star and leading Night!"
The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst into
flame. He spurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride
Venters slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it
was once again full. Card and his companion were now half a mile
or more in advance, riding easily down the slope. Venters marked
the smooth gait, and understood it when Wrangle galloped out of
the sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had once
tracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. This hard-packed trail, from
years of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters saw
Jerry Card look back over his shoulder, the other rider did
likewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the
point where the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop.
"Wrangle, the race's on," said Venters, grimly. "We'll canter
with them and gallop with them and run with them. We'll let them
set the pace."
Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless
horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling
Jane Withersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neck
and neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to
him, Venters wished that Jane were there to see the race to
recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the
giant sorrel. Then Venters found himself thankful that she was
absent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card's death. The
first flush, the raging of Venters's wrath, passed, to leave him
in sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was a deadly
mood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, and
released by the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. The
strength in him then--the thing rife in him that was note hate,
but something as remorseless--might have been the fiery fruition
of a whole lifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped
him.
Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells would
probably drop behind and take to the sage. What he did was of
little moment to Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden
career as well as his present flight, and then to catch the
blacks--that was all that concerned Venters. The cattle trail
wound for miles and miles down the slope. Venters saw with a
rider's keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear purple
sage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aid Card. His
only chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses and
creeping away in the sage to hide. In ten miles Wrangle could run
Black Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could kill
them outright. So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card make
the running. It was a long race that would save the blacks.
In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept
appreciably closer to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again,
and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to a
gallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into his
stride.
Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into a
gallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. But
Venters restrained him. And in the gallop he gained more than in
the canter. Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star and Night
had been trained to run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to a
quarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer.
Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the red
flash of his red face. This time he looked long. Venters laughed.
He knew what passed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to make
out what horse it happened to be that thus gained on Jane
Withersteen's peerless racers. Wrangle had so long been away from
the village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten. Besides,
whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame as the greatest
rider of the sage, certain it was that his best point was not
far-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangle. After what must
have been a searching gaze he got his comrade to face about. This
action gave Venters amusement. It spoke so surely of the facts
that neither Card nor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yet
if they kept to the trail--and the last thing such men would do
would be to leave it--they were both doomed.
This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he
even shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then,
all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the
saddle, began to fling his right arm up and down. That flinging
Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry also became
active. And the three racers lengthened out into a run.
"Now, Wrangle!" cried Venters. "Run, you big devil! Run!"
Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loop
over the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth
trail. He was surer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait,
and his running gave the impression of something devilish. He
might now have been actuated by Venters's spirit; undoubtedly his
savage running fitted the mood of his rider. Venters bent forward
swinging with the horse, and gripped his rifle. His eye measured
the distance between him and Jerry Card.
In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the
blacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated
that the rustler would soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not
improbably he reasoned that the powerful sorrel could more easily
overtake Bells in the heavier going outside of the trail. Soon
only a few hundred yards lay between Bells and Wrangle. Turning
in his saddle, the rustler began to shoot, and the bullets beat
up little whiffs of dust. Venters raised his rifle, ready to take
snap shots, and waited for favorable opportunity when Bells was
out of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in him to
kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he
had restraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's beloved
Arabians.
No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to
the left, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters,
aiming high and waiting for the pause between Wrangle's great
strides, began to take snap shots at the rustler. The fleeing
rider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he was moving
swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting from
Wrangle's back was shooting from a thunderbolt. And added to that
was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effect on Bells.
Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedingly
difficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw a
speedy and fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixth
shot the rustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off
his horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself to a
half-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the
sage. As Venters went thundering by he peered keenly into the
sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran a few hundred
yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.
Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine
of his rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not
drop a single cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment
of a marksman he once more measured the distance between him and
Jerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing him into rifle range.
Venters was hard put to it now not to shoot, but thought it
better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of a
running fusillade, had huddled himself into a little twisted ball
on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would make
sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat
in the saddle.
In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment
was the beginning of the real race.
Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then
backward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair
trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity.
But Wrangle's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute
thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he had
never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possible
for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a
passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be
astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his
magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to
ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.
So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters
lived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of
wildness to the dregs.
When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in
the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a
downward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw
only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail.
He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouth
still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were
snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race with
death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing,
colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple
breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy,
steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweet
odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.
Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space
separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The
blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card,
admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable
seat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Venters
that Card had changed his position, or the position of the
horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had
been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racer
was now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But,
Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star.
Another clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was
really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.
"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters,
realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed
at full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm
drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before
I believe it."
Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the
little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the
daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to
bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had
them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing
pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise general in
retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of
pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt,
Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more
wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and the
saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the
last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of
self-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve
and the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind.
That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his
horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of
years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and
wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in
quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun
flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and
closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.
Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the
stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star.
He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was
there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right
foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to
catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that
rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters.
For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed
back to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the
blacks could avail little more against the sorrel.
Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land.
Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then it
disappeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods,
Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of
Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the
opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the
Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he
must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of
five miles.
Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch
of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a
ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular
convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost
unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, and
the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once
more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make
his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the
trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters
hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But
Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in
the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then,
while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star
leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain;
for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he
caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly
on the other black.
Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and
Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every
yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils,
wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever,
strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendous stride jarred
Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit and
momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great race
was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before
him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black
Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a
mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Venters
felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap.
Flecks of foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him
see all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed
to see, Black Star suddenly riderless and with broken gait.
Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break.
Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop to
canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk to stop, the great
sorrel ended his race.
Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail.
Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night
came trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half
blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficiently
to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and
bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But
he had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had no
fears.
As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on
shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching
him Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been
killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the
stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth,
mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful
body in convulsions.
Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters
hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept
a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would
keep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be lost on
the sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger in the
vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Night
soon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him
down near the others, and unsaddling him, let him loose to rest.
Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himself
not yet spent.
Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he
was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for
the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He
was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close
to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go
down into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.
He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which
the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by
washes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon
line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting
canyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading
toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass.
Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail
went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail,
and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove
cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at all
that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had
many holes to his burrow.
In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his
relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some
bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse
so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the
hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and
Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended
to make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the safer
it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go
over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead
he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was
recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters was
overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star
presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook
himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little
pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a
drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a
drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more.
Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time
Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.
The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and
the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales.
Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and,
taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one
ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of
water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his
fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything
but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within
roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in
disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a
quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet
doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he
might be caught.
As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he
kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There
was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters
sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick
and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters
clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.
The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western
rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened.
The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts
appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.
It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the
thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south.
Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in
thundering flight.
Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His
head was high and twisted, in a most singular position for a
running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape
clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled
Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange
position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters's
nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went
down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his
leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.
Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of
Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a
memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought
of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to
break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad.
The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more
than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it
was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel
turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.
"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up
the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape
over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet
Venters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five!
all wasted shots and precious seconds!
With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the
sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud.
Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death
action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the
canyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like
shape clinging to his neck!
There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an
instant s silence.
Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying
away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.
Wrangle's race was run.
More
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What Happened At The Water-hole
The new-comers exchanged a word or two in Spanish, then the second rider flung himself from his saddle and made for the water. He was lying prone and drinking deeply when out of nowhere came a sharp command. "Oiga! Hands up, both of you!" Th... What Happened To Andy
With the sun shining comfortably upon his back, and with a cigarette between his lips, Andy sat upon his horse and watched in silent glee while the irate Happy Family scurried here and there behind the band, swinging their ropes down upon the woolly... What Is A Rustler?
We all know what birds of a feather do. And it may be safely surmised that if a bird of any particular feather has been for a long while unable to see other birds of its kind, it will flock with them all the more assiduously when they happen to al... What It Meant To Keith
"Dick, I wish you'd tell me about this leasing business. There are points which I don't understand." Beatrice leaned over and smoothed Rex's sleek shoulder with her hand. "What do you want to understand it for? The thing is done now. We've got ... What Mary Thorne Found
A few hundred yards away from the fence strung along the western side of middle pasture, Mary Thorne pulled her horse down to a walk and straightened her hat mechanically. Her cheeks were flushed becomingly and her eyes shone, but at the end of th... What Nat Poole Had To Tell
"You saw two fellows sneaking around our place last evening?" cried Roger, with interest. "I certainly did." "What did they look like?" asked Dave. "I see 'em plainly an' I was wonderin' what they was up to," said the driver of the milk wa... What We Found In The Pool
Though we got back to camp pretty late, we set to work to load our poles at once, fearing that there was going to be a fall of snow which might prevent our getting them to town. This turned out to be a wise precaution, for when we started in the m... When Greek Meets Greek
It was late that night when I reached the herd. Before I parted with my employer we had carefully reviewed the situation in its minutest details. Since the future could not be foreseen, we could only watch and wait. The Texan may have his shortcomin... When Greek Meets Greek
The next morning, which was Sunday, the machinations of Big Medicine took Pink down to the creek behind the bunk-house. "What's hurtin' yuh?" he asked curiously, when he came to where Big Medicine stood in the fringe of willows, choking between his ... When Green Grass Comes
Old Applehead Furrman, jogging home across the mesa from Albuquerque, sniffed the soft breeze that came from opal-tinted distances and felt poignantly that spring was indeed here. The grass, thick and green in the sheltered places, was fast painting... When The Sun Goes Away
"I wish," said Phoebe, putting her two hands on Miss Georgie's shoulders at the gate and looking up at her with haggard eyes, "you'd see what you can do with Vadnie. The poor child's near crazy; she ain't used to seeing such things happen--" "Whe... When You Call Me That Smile!
We cannot see ourselves as other see us, or I should know what appearance I cut at hearing this from the tall man. I said nothing, feeling uncertain. "I reckon I am looking for you, seh," he repeated politely. "I am looking for Judge Henry," ... Where Fancy Was Bred
Two camps in the open, and the Virginian's Monte horse, untired, brought him to the Swintons' in good time for the barbecue. The horse received good food at length, while his rider was welcomed with good whiskey. GOOD whiskey--for had not steers j... Where Is Angela?
For a moment as they drew under shelter the stricken form of the soldier, there was nothing the defense could do but dodge. Then, leaving him at the edge of the pool, and kicking before them the one cowed and cowering shirker of the little band, B... Where Northern Lights Come Down O' Nights
The Mission House at Togiak stands forlornly on a wind-swept Alaskan spit, while huddled around it a swarm of dirt-covered "igloos" grovel in an ecstacy of abasement. Many natives crawled out of these and stared across the bay as down a gully cam... Where The Path Led
By daylight next morning every man and most of the women among the new arrivals had disappeared into the hills--the women in spite of the by-laws of Lee's Creek, which discriminated against their sex. When a stampede starts it does not end with th... Where The Wheel Tracks Led
Bud Jessup removed a battered stew-pan from the fire and set it aside to cool a little. "Well, by this time I reckon friend Tex is all worked up over what's become of me," he remarked in a tone of satisfaction, deftly shifting the coffee-pot to... Wherein A Woman Lies
"Aren't you going to welcome me, dearie?" From the porch of the Bar B ranchhouse Rosalind had watched the rapid approach of the buckboard, and she now stood at the edge of the step leading to the porch, not more than ten or fifteen feet distant ... Wherein Andy Green Lies To A Lady
In the soft-creeping dusk came Andy Green, slouched in the saddle with the weariness of riding since dawn; slouched to one side and singing, with his hat far back on his head and the last of a red sunset tinting darkly the hills above him. Tip-toe o... While The Going's Good
At supper Bud noticed that Marian, standing at his right side, set down his cup of coffee with her right hand, and at the same instant he felt her left hand fumble in his pocket and then touch his elbow. She went on, and Bud in his haste to get outs... White Sage
THE night was as a blank to Hare; the morning like a drifting of hazy clouds before his eyes. He felt himself moving; and when he awakened clearly to consciousness he lay upon a couch on the vine-covered porch of a cottage. He saw August Naab open... Whose Letters?
There is something about a night alarm of fire at a military post that borders on the thrilling. In the days whereof we write the buildings were not the substantial creations of brick and stone to be seen to-day, and those of the scattered "camps"... Why Bud Missed A Dance
"Bud, you're fourteen kinds of a damn fool and I can prove it," Jerry announced without prelude of any kind save, perhaps, the viciousness with which he thrust a pitchfork into a cock of hay. The two were turning over hay-cocks that had been drenche... Why Don't You Give Them Something Real?
"Well, you don't seem crazy about it. What's the matter?" Robert Grant Burns stood in his favorite attitude with his hands on his hips and his feet far apart, and looked down at Jean with a secret anxiety in his eyes. Without realizing it in the l... With Bare Hands At Last
In after years, when Wade tried to recall that mad ride, he found it only a vague blur upon his memory. He was conscious only of the fact that he had traveled at a speed which, in saner moments, he would have considered suicidal. Urging the big bl... With Bridges Burned
Louis Mitchell knew what the telegram meant, even though it was brief and cryptic. He had been expecting something of the sort ever since the bottom dropped out of the steel business and prices tobogganed forty dollars a ton. Nevertheless, it came... With Interest To Date
This is the tale of a wrong that rankled and a great revenge. It is not a moral story, nor yet, measured by the modern money code, is it what could be called immoral. It is merely a tale of sharp wits which clashed in pursuit of business, therefor... With Malice Aforethought
Town lay twelve straight miles before the lover and his sweetheart, when they came to the brow of the last long hill. All beneath them was like a map: neither man nor beast distinguishable, but the veined and tinted image of a country, knobs and f... Without Benefit Of Clergy
When the steamer had gone Napoleon Doret went to look for Necia, and found her playing with the younger Gales, who revelled in the gifts he had brought. Never had there been such a surprise. Never had there been such gorgeous presents for little f... Wolf
ON the anniversary of the night Mescal disappeared the mysterious voice which had called to Hare so often and so strangely again pierced his slumber, and brought him bolt upright in his bed shuddering and listening. The dark room was as quiet as a... Woman-walk-in-the-night
The dawn of another cloudless day was breaking and the dim lights at the guard-house and the hospital burned red and bleary across the sandy level of the parade. The company cooks were already at their ranges, and a musician of the guard had been ... Woman-walk-no-more
More morning suns than could be counted in the field of the flag had come, and gone, but not a sign of Natzie. Wren's own troopers, hot on Punch's flashing heels, were cooling their own as best they could through the arid days that followed. Wren ... Word To Bennington
They kept their secret for a while, or at least they had that special joy of believing that no one in all the world but themselves knew this that had happened to them. But I think that there was one person who knew how to keep a secret even better... World's End
Barbara Morgan had fought Deveny until she became exhausted. Thereafter she lay quiet, breathing fast, yielding to the nameless terror that held her in its icy clutch. The appearance of Deveny so soon after the end of the heartbreaking ride dow... Would You Be A Parson?
After this I gave up my experiments in conversation. So that by the final afternoon of our journey, with Sunk Creek actually in sight, and the great grasshoppers slatting their dry song over the sage-brush, and the time at hand when the Virginian ... Wounded Body And Soul
To say the Sioux were furious at the failure of their second attempt would be putting it far too mildly. The fierce charge from the northward side, made under cover of the blinding smoke sent drifting by the gale across the level flats, had been p... Wrangle's Race Run
The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to go to the village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for Bess, or at least less striking apparel than her present garb, and to return post-haste to the valley. Mean... Yetmore's Mistake
Three months had elapsed when Tom Connor turned up one day with a very long face. All his drilling had brought no result; he was at the end of his tether; he could see no possible chance of ever repaying the borrowed money, and so, said he, would ... You Can Tell Jessie
In the days that followed Rowdy was much alone. There was water to hunt, far ahead of the herd, together with the most practicable way of reaching it. He did not take the shortest way across that arid country and leave the next day's camping-place t... You Can't Play With Me
Good Indian was young, which means that he was not always logical, nor much given to looking very far into the future except as he was personally concerned in what he might see there. By the time Sunday brought Miss Georgie Howard and the stir of pr... You Re Going To Love Me Before We Get Through
The Swinton barbecue was over. The fiddles were silent, the steer was eaten, the barrel emptied, or largely so, and the tapers extinguished; round the house and sunken fire all movement of guests was quiet; the families were long departed homeward... A Meeting On The River Trail
About ten o'clock in the morning of a perfect day Sheila left the Double R ranchhouse for a ride to the Two Forks to visit Doubler. This new world into which she had come so hopefully had lately grown very lonesome. It had promised much and it had... A Parting And A Visit
The problem which filled Duncan's mind as he sat on the edge of the slope overlooking the river was a three-sided one. To reach a conclusion the emotions of fear, hatred, and jealousy would have to be considered in the light of their relative impo... A Woman On The Trail
Many disquieting thoughts oppressed Miss Sheila Langford as she halted her pony on the crest of a slight rise and swept the desolate and slumberous world with an anxious glance. Quite the most appalling of these thoughts developed from a realizati... Bethune Pays A Call
It was past noon when Patty sank into the chair beside her table and glanced about her with a sigh of satisfaction. Warm June sunlight streamed through the open door and lay in a bright oblique patch upon the scrubbed floor. The girl's glance st... Bethune Tries Again
For several days following the incident of the two struggling horsemen, Patty rode, extending her quest farther and farther into the hills, and thus widening the circle of her exploration. She had overhauled her father's photographic outfit and fo... Bogged Down
Each day during the two weeks that her father had been at the Double R Sheila had accompanied him on his rides of exploration. She had grown tired of the continued companionship, and despite the novelty of the sight she had become decidedly wearie... Converging Trails
It was the barking of a dog that brought Sheila out of a sleep--dreamless this time--into a state of semi-consciousness. It was Dakota's dog surely, she decided sleepily. She sighed and twisted to a more comfortable position. The effort awakened h... Dakota Evens A Score
With the thermometer at one hundred and five it was not to be expected that there would be much movement in Lazette. As a matter of fact, there was little movement anywhere. On the plains, which began at the edge of town, there was no movement, no... Doubler Talks
After the departure of the doctor Sheila entered the cabin and closed the door, fastening the bars and drawing a chair over near the table. Doubler seemed to be resting easier, though there was a flush in his cheeks that told of the presence of fe... Duncan Adds Two And Two
Had Langford known that there had been a witness to his visit to Dakota he might not have ridden away from the latter's cabin so entirely satisfied with the result of his interview. Duncan had been much interested in Langford's differences with ... For Dakota
Though in a state of anxiety and excitement over the incident of Duncan's attack on Doubler and the subsequent shooting, together with a realization of Dakota's danger, Sheila did not lose her composure. She ran to the river and secured the water,... In The Cabin
For a long time after the departure of her visitors, Patty Sinclair sat thinking. Was it true, all this man had told her? She remembered vividly the beautiful tribute he had paid her father and the emotion that had gripped him as he finished. Sure... Into The Unknown
After a time Sheila rose from the bunk on which she had been sitting and stood in the center of the floor, looking down at her father. Dakota had not moved. He stood also, watching Langford, his face pale and grim, and he did not speak until Sheil... Kindred Spirits
Looking rather more rugged than when he had arrived at the station at Lazette two weeks before, his face tanned, but still retaining the smooth, sleek manner which he had brought with him from the East, David Dowd Langford sat in a big rocking cha... Langford Lays Off The Mask
The sun was still an hour above the horizon when Sheila rode up to the corral gates. While removing the saddle and bridle from her pony she noted with satisfaction that the horse which her father had been accustomed to ride was inside the corral. ... Lord Clendenning Gets A Ducking
Patty awoke at dawn and dressed hurriedly. Shivering in the chill air, she lighted a match and pushed back a lid of the little cast iron cook stove. Instead of the "cold fire" of neatly arranged wood and kindlings that she had built before leaving... Patty Draws A Map
That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched the slowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered to encroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!" she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness... Patty Finds A Glove
Dismounting before her cabin, Patty dropped her reins, pushed open the door, and entered. Her eyes flew to the little dressing table. The packet was gone! With a thrill of exultation she carefully inspected the room. Everything was exactly as she ... Patty Makes Her Strike
It was noon, one week from the day she had returned from the Samuelson ranch, and Patty Sinclair stood upon the high shoulder of a butte and looked down into a rock-rimmed valley. Her eyes roved slowly up and down the depression where the dark gre... Patty Takes Precautions
During the next few days Patty Sinclair paid scant attention to rock ledges. Each morning she saddled her cayuse and rode into the hills to the southward, crossing divides and following creeks and valleys from their sources down their winding, twi... Prospecting
The gray of early morning was just beginning to render objects in the little room indistinguishable when Patty awoke. She made a hasty toilet, lighted the fire, and while the water was heating for her coffee, delved into the pack sack and drew out... Sheep Camp
If Patty Sinclair had anticipated annoyance from the forced attention of her tall horseman of the hills, she was disappointed, for neither at meals, nor during the shopping tour that occupied the whole of the following day, nor yet upon the long h... Sheila Fans A Flame
Sheila departed from the quicksand crossing nursing her wrath against the man who had rescued her, feeling bitterly vindictive against him, yet aware that the Dakota who had saved her life was not the Dakota whom she had feared during her adventur... Sheriff Allen Takes A Hand
The sheriff's posse--three men whom he had deputized in Lazette and himself--had ridden hard over the twenty miles of rough trail from Lazette, for Duncan had assured Allen that he would have to get into action before Dakota could discover that th... Some Memories
When Sheila recovered consciousness she was in Dakota's cabin--in the bunk in which she had lain on another night in the yesterday of her life in this country. She recognized it instantly. There was the candle on the table, there were the familiar... Strictly Business
For two or three quiet weeks Sheila did not see much of Duncan, and her father bothered her very little. Several nights on the gallery of the ranchhouse she had seen the two men sitting very close together, and on one or two occasions she had over... The Bishop Of All Outdoors
The days slipped into weeks, as Patty Sinclair, carefully and methodically traced valleys to their sources, and explored innumerable coulees and ravines that twisted and turned their tortuous lengths into the very heart of the hills. Rock ledges w... The Dim Trail
Sheila had been dreaming of a world in which there was nothing but rain and mud and clouds and reckless-eyed individuals who conversed in irritating drawls when a sharp crash of thunder awakened her. During her sleep she had turned her face to the... The Horse Raid
Patty did not know how long she had slept when she awoke, tense and listening, sitting bolt upright in bed. Moonlight flooded the room through the windows thrown wide to admit the chill night air. Beyond the valley floor, green with the luxuriant ... The Parting On The River Trail
"I'll be leaving you now, ma'am." There was a good moon, and its mellow light streamed full into Dakota's grim, travel-stained face as he halted his pony on the crest of a slope above the Two Forks and pointed out a light that glimmered weakly thr... The Race For The Register
Beside the little table Patty Sinclair listened to the sound of hoofs splashing through the shallows of the creek and thudding dully upon the floor of the valley beyond. When the sounds told her that the horseman had disappeared into the timber, s...