On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

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      “Look out there, Rufe!” yelled Creede, leaping up from behind his rock pile. “Run! Jump into the river!” But instead Hardy grabbed up a handful of sand and ran in upon his adversary. The pistol stuck for a moment in its hidden sling and as Swope wrenched it loose and turned to shoot, Hardy made as if to close with him and then threw the sand full in his face. It was only an instant’s respite but as the sheepman blinked and struck the dirt from his eyes the little cowman wheeled and made a dash for the river. “Look out!” screamed Creede, as the gun flashed out and came to a point, and like a bullfrog Hardy hurled himself far out into the eddying water. Then like the sudden voice of Nemesis, protesting against such treachery, a rifle shot rang out from the towering crags that overshadowed the river and Jasper Swope fell forward, dead. His pistol smashed against a rock and exploded, but the man he had set himself to kill was already buried beneath the turbid waters. So swiftly did it all happen that no two men saw the same –– some were still gazing at the body of Jasper Swope; others were staring up at the high cliff whence the shot had come; but Jeff Creede had eyes only for the river and when he saw Hardy’s head bob up, halfway to the whirlpool, and duck again to escape the bullets, he leapt up and ran for his horse. Then Bill Johnson’s rifle rang out again from the summit of his high cliff, and every man scrambled for cover.

      A Mexican herder dropped his gun suddenly and slipped down behind a rock; and his compadres, not knowing from whence the hostile fire came, pushed out their carbines and began to shoot wildly; the deep cañon reverberated to the rattle of thirty-thirtys and the steady crack, crack of the rifle above threw the sheep camp into confusion. There was a shout as Creede dashed recklessly out into the open and the sand leapt up in showers behind him, but Bat Wings was running like the wind and the bullets went wide of their mark.

      Swinging beneath the mesquite trees and scrambling madly over stones and bushes he hammered up the slope of Lookout Point and disappeared in a cloud of dirt, but as Hardy drifted around the bend and floated toward the whirlpool there was a crash of brush from down the river and Creede came battering through the trees to the shore. Taking down his reata as he rode he leapt quickly off his horse and ran out on the big flat rock from which they had often fished together. At his feet the turbid current rolled ponderously against the solid wall of rock and, turning back upon itself, swung round in an ever-lessening circle until it sucked down suddenly into a spiral vortex that spewed up all it caught in the boiling channel below. There in years past the lambs and weaklings from the herds above had drifted to their death, but never before had the maelstrom claimed a man.

      Swimming weakly with the current Hardy made a last ineffectual effort to gain the bank; then fixing his eyes upon his partner he resigned himself to the drag of the whirlpool, staking his life on a single throw of the rope. Once the plaited rawhide was wetted it would twist and bind in the honda and before Creede could beat it straight and coil it his partner would be far out in the centre of the vortex. Planting his feet firmly on the rock the big cowboy lashed the kinks out of his reata and coiled it carefully; then as the first broad swirl seized its plaything and swung him slowly around Creede let out a big loop and began to swing it about his head, his teeth showing in a tense grin as he fixed his eyes upon the mark. At each turn his wrist flexed and his back swayed with a willowy suppleness but except for that he was like a herculean statue planted upon the point.

      The maelstrom heaved and rocked as it swung its victim nearer and like a thing with life seemed suddenly to hurry him past; then as Hardy cried out and held up a hand for help the rope cut through the air like a knife and the loop shot far out across the boiling water. It was a long throw, fifty feet from the rock, and the last coil had left his tense fingers before the noose fell, but it splashed a circle clean and true about the uplifted hand. For a moment the cowboy waited, watching; then as the heavy rope sank behind his partner’s shoulders he took in his slack with a jerk. The noose tightened beneath Hardy’s arms and held him against the insistent tug of the river; and while the whirlpool roared and foamed against his body Creede hauled him forth roughly, until, stooping down, he gathered him into his arms like a child.

      “My God, boy,” he said, “you’re takin’ big chances, for a family man –– but say, what did I tell you about sheepmen?”

      The Mexicans were still firing random shots along the river when Creede lifted his partner up on Bat Wings and carried him back to Hidden Water. Long before they reached the house they could see Lucy standing in the doorway, and Hardy held himself painfully erect in the saddle, with Creede steadying him from behind; but when Bat Wings halted before the ramada Jeff broke rudely in on the play acting by taking the little man in his arms and depositing him on a bed.

      “Fell into the river,” he said, turning with a reassuring smile to Lucy, “but he ain’t hurt none –– only kinder weak, you know. I reckon a little hot tea would help some, bein’ as we’re out of whiskey, and while you’re brewin’ it I’ll git these wet clothes off. Yes’m, we’re havin’ a little trouble, but that’s only them locoed Mexicans shootin’ off their spare ammunition.” He dragged up a cot as he spoke and was hurriedly arranging a bed when Lucy interposed.

      “Oh, but don’t leave him out here!” she protested, “put him back in his own room, where I can take care of him.”

      “All right,” said Creede, and picking him up from his bare cot beneath the ramada he carried Hardy into the little room where he had lived before Lucy Ware came. “I guess your troubles are over for a while, pardner,” he remarked, as he tucked him into the clean white bed, and then with a wise look at Lucy he slipped discreetly out the door.

      As she entered with the tea Hardy was lying very limp and white against the pillow, but after the hot drink he opened his big gray eyes and looked up at her sombrely.

      “Sit down,” he said, speaking with elaborate exactness, “I want to tell you something.” He reached out and took her hand, and as he talked he clung to it appealingly. “Lucy,” he began, “I didn’t forget about you when I went down there, but –– well, when Jasper Swope came out and challenged us my hair began to bristle like a dog’s –– and the next thing I knew I was fighting. He said if I licked him he’d go round –– but you can’t trust these sheepmen. When he saw he was whipped he tried to shoot me, and I had to jump into the river. Oh, I’m all right now, but –– СКАЧАТЬ