Way of the Lawless

It was, indeed, a grave moment, yet the chances were large that even if he met someone on the road he would not be recognized, for it had been many days since the death of Andrew Lanning was announced through the countryside.  He gritted his teeth when he thought that this single burst of childish carelessness might have imperiled all that he and Jud and Pop had worked for so long and so earnestly—­the time when he could take the bay mare and start the ride across the mountains to the comparative safety on the other side.

That time, he made up his mind, would be the next evening.  He was well; Sally was thoroughly mastered; and, with a horse beneath him which, he felt, could give even the gray stallion of Hal Dozier hard work, and therefore show her heels to any other animal on the mountain desert, he looked forward to the crossing of the mountains as an accomplished fact.  Always supposing that he could pass Twin Falls and the fringe of towns in the hills, without being recognized and the alarm sent out.

Going back up the road toward the ravine at a brisk canter, he pursued the illuminating comparison between Sally and Dozier’s famous Gray Peter.  Of course, nothing but a downright test of speed and weight-carrying power, horse to horse, could decide which was the superior, but Andrew had ridden Gray Peter many times when he and Uncle Jasper went out to the Dozier place, and he felt that he could sum up the differences between the two beautiful animals.  Sally was the smaller of the two, for instance.  She could not stand more than fifteen hands, or fifteen-one at the most.  Gray Peter was a full sixteen hands of strong bone and fine muscle, a big animal—­almost too big for some purposes.  Among these rocks, now, he would stand no chance with Sally.  Gray Peter was a picture horse.  When one looked at him one felt that he was a standard by which other animals should be measured.  He carried his head loftily, and there was a lordly flaunt to his tail.  On the other hand, Sally was rather long and low.  Furthermore, her neck, which was by no means the heavy neck of the gray stallion, she was apt to carry stretched rather straight out and not curled proudly up as Gray Peter carried his.  Neither did she bear her tail so proudly.  Some of this, of course, was due to the difference between a mare and a stallion, but still more came from the differing natures of the two animals.  In the head lay the greatest variation.  The head of Gray Peter was close to perfection, light, compact, heavy of jowl; his eye at all times was filled with an intolerable brightness, a keen flame of courage and eagerness.  But one could find a fault with Sally’s head.  In general, it was very well shaped, with the wide forehead and all the other good points which invariably go with that feature; but her face was just a trifle dished.  Moreover, her eye was apt to be a bit dull.  She had been a pet all her life, and, like most pets, her eye partook of the human quality.  It had a conversational way of brightening and growing dull.  On the whole, the head of Sally had a whimsical, inquisitive expression, and by her whole carriage she seemed to be perpetually putting her nose into other business than her own.

But the gait was the main difference.  Riding Gray Peter, one felt an enormous force urging at the bit and ready and willing to expend itself to the very last ounce, with tremendous courage and good heart; there was always a touch of fear that Gray Peter, plunging unabated over rough and smooth, might be running himself out.  But Sally would not maintain one pace.  She was apt to shorten her stride for choppy going, and she would lengthen it like a witch on the level.  She kept changing the elevation of her head.  She ran freely, looking about her and taking note of what she saw, so that she gave an indescribable effect of enjoying the gallop just as much as her rider, but in a different way.  All in all, Gray Peter was a glorious machine; Sally was a tricky intelligence.  Gray Peter’s heart was never in doubt, but what would Sally’s courage be in a pinch?

Full of these comparisons, studying Sally as one would study a friend, Andrew forgot again all around him, and so he came suddenly, around a bend in the road, upon a buckboard with two men in it.  He went by the buckboard with a wave of greeting and a side glance, and it was not until he was quite around the elbow turn that he remembered that one of the men in the wagon had looked at him with a strange intentness.  It was a big man with a great blond beard, parted as though with a comb by the wind.

He rode back around the bend, and there, down the road, he saw the buckboard bouncing, with the two horses pulling it at a dead gallop and the driver leaning back in the seat.

But the other man, the big man with the beard, had picked a rifle out of the bed of the wagon, and now he sat turned in the seat, with his blond beard blown sidewise as he looked back.  Beyond a doubt Andrew had been recognized, and now the two were speeding to Tomo to give their report and raise the alarm a second time.  Andrew, with a groan, shot his hand to the long holster of the rifle which Pop had insisted that he take with him if he rode out.  There was still plenty of time for a long shot.  He saw the rifle jerk up to the shoulder of the big man; something hummed by him, and then the report came barking up the ravine.

But Andrew turned Sally and went around the bend; that old desire to rush on the men and shoot them down, that same cold tingling of the nerves, which he had felt when he faced the posse after the fall of Bill Dozier, was on him again, and he had to fight it down.  He mastered it, and galloped with a heavy heart up the ravine and to the house of Pop.  The old man saw him; he called to Jud, and the two stood in front of the door to admire the horseman and his horse.  But Andrew flung himself out of the saddle and came to them sadly.  He told them what had happened, the meeting, the recognition.  There was only one thing to do—­make up the pack as soon as possible and leave the place.  For they would know where he had been hiding.  Sally was famous all through the mountains; she was known as Pop’s outlaw horse, and the searchers would come straight to his house.

Pop took the news philosophically, but Jud became a pitiful figure of stone in his grief.  He came to life again to help in the packing.  They worked swiftly, and Andrew began to ask the final questions about the best and least-known trails over the mountains.  Pop discouraged the attempt.

“You seen what happened before,” he said.  “They’ll have learned their lesson from Hal Dozier.  They’ll take the telephone and rouse the towns all along the mountains.  In two hours, Andy, two hundred men will be blocking every trail and closin’ in on you.”

And Andrew reluctantly admitted the truth of what he said.  He resigned himself gloomily to turning back onto the mountain desert, and now he remembered the warning of failure which Henry Allister had given him.  He felt, indeed, that the great outlaw had simply allowed him to run on a long rope, knowing that he must travel in a circle and eventually come back to the band.

Now the pack was made—­he saw Jud covertly tuck some little mementoes into it—­and he drew Pop aside and dropped a weight of gold coins into his pocket.

“You tarnation scoundrel!” began Pop huskily.

“Hush,” said Andrew, “or Jud will hear you and know that I’ve tried to leave some money.  You don’t want to ruin me with Jud, do you?”

Pop was uneasy and uncertain.

“I’ve had your food these weeks and your care, Pop,” said Andrew, “and now I walk off with a saddle and a horse and an outfit all yours.  It’s too much.  I can’t take charity.  But suppose I accept it as a gift; I leave you an exchange—­a present for Jud that you can give him later on.  Is that fair?”

“Andy,” said the old man, “you’ve double-crossed me, and you’ve got me where I can’t talk out before Jud.  But I’ll get even yet.  Good-by, lad, and put this one thing under your hat:  It’s the loneliness that’s goin’ to be the hardest thing to fight, Andy.  You’ll get so tired of bein’ by yourself that you’ll risk murder for the sake of a talk.  But then hold hard.  Stay by yourself.  Don’t trust to nobody.  And keep clear of towns.  Will you do that?”

“That’s plain common sense, Pop.”

“Aye, lad, and the plain things are always the hardest things to do.”

Next came Jud.  He was very white, but he approached Andrew with a careless swagger and shook hands firmly.

“When you bump into that Dozier, Andy,” he said, “get him, will you?  S’long!”

He turned sharply and sauntered toward the open door of the house.  But before he was halfway to it they heard a choking sound; Jud broke into a run, and, once past the door, slammed it behind him.

“Don’t mind him,” said Pop, clearing his throat violently.  “He’ll cry the sick feelin’ out of his insides.  God bless you, Andy!  And remember what I say:  The loneliness is the hard thing to fight, but keep clear of men, and after a time they’ll forget about you.  You can settle down and nobody’ll rake up old scores.  I know.”

“D’you think it can be done?”

There was a faint, cold twinkle in the eyes of Pop.  “I’ll tell a man it can be done,” he said slowly.  “When you come back here I may be able to tell you a little story, Andy.  Now climb on Sally and don’t hit nothin’ but the high spots.”