IN the centre of Blue Water there was a magnificent plaza, a space which would not be sold to any private investor because it was reserved for the building of the city hall, the post office, and a few other municipal or government buildings which were to be an honour to the whole West! The plans for the buildings had been drawn. The land was bought for the municipality. But there was not a penny on hand to lay so much as a foundation stone. So the big trees still grew in this open region, and among the rest there was a mighty silver spruce. Law had never troubled Blue Water a great deal, but once, in the old days, a few reputable citizens had drawn together to form a vigilance committee that had hanged a score or more of rascals to that silver spruce. It was still called the Hanging Tree, and from the largest of its lower branches, Sheriff Walt Milton intended to hang the great Barry Christian.
Tom Derry saw the long rope dangling, as he took his place on the fringe of the crowd which framed the Hanging Tree in a hollow square. On the outer edge of that circling group were a number of buckboards in which the occupants could stand in order to see the ceremonies better, and among the other wagons was one in which Old Man Cary sat at ease, with Maria beside him. His eyes, under their furrowed lids, were sparks of light. He smoked his pipe with slow puffs, enjoying every moment. Only the girl seemed in a cold humour, sometimes staring straight before her, sometimes looking grimly around on the faces in the crowd.
The bell was still tolling. The last arrivals were scurrying to get good places in the throng, and Derry worked his way over to the wagon of Old Man Cary. He saw that the buckboard was very light, and that the pair of mustangs which fretted between the traces looked like racers. Once a start was made, that outfit would get the old man out of harm’s way about as fast as though he were a youth in the saddle. The driver would be the girl. There was plenty of strength in her, and the touch of her slender brown hands on the reins soothed the mustangs constantly. It would go hard with all that got in her way. She had the calm look of one about to do desperate things.
Derry stepped up on the hub of the wheel. The old man puffed smoke in his face and looked right through him.
“The boys are ready. I’m to give the signal,” said Derry. “I yell ‘Up, Cary!’ and your people start to work.”
“Get over into your place, then,” said the old man, “and don’t spoil my view.”
Derry merely grinned. He said to the girl: “Still feeling as hard as a stone, Molly?”
She drew her glance gradually away from the distance and regarded him briefly.
“When you pick up a stone and throw it away, do you expect it to come back to your hand?” she asked him. “Get off that wheel before you fall off!”
He stepped down to the ground again and turned away. She seemed to hate him, just now. Perhaps she felt that he had taken her lightly. But when he came to her again, in a year or two, she would be a better age to know her own mind. And then, perhaps, he could restore himself to her esteem. It was no wonder if she were inclined to sneer at him, when he reflected that with a horse or a rope or a gun she so far excelled him. As for the grimness of the old man, no doubt he was angered to think that a stranger should be in a position to give command among the Cary clan.
There was a sudden outbreak of clamour from the direction of the jail, by which he guessed that Barry Christian and his guards had come out into the open. Now he could see them slowly progressing toward the Hanging Tree. He could see a squad of four tall Carys marching first, the prisoner behind them, and more of the same clan in the rear. All about them swept a crowd of people.
Looking toward the edge of the open ground, Derry saw yet others of the clan edging forward on horseback, each of the men leading two or more horses. They were a vital part of the plan.
As the crowd now thickened, it held back, nevertheless, from the straight path which led from the jail to the Hanging Tree, and that was how Derry managed to see several things of importance, as well as to hear them.
When the prisoner was close to the Hanging Tree, an old woman squeezed through the tight wall of the spectators and tried to rush on Christian with her hands held out like claws. The guards forced her back. She yelled and screeched at them.
“Lemme at him. I’m seein’ the murderer that slaughtered my two lads! Gimme a chance at him with my hands. A dog like that was never meant for hangin’. He’s meant for bein’ tore to pieces! Barry Christian, you murdered Ike and Lew. I seen you, and you know I seen you! You shot ’em through the back!”
She began to scream out curses till her voice cracked and went out. She fell back into arms that carried her away to the open air.
As Barry Christian moved on, a tall old man said loudly, calmly:
“It’s a day I’ve been watchin’ and prayin’ for for ten years, Barry Christian. I’m Hank Mason, from Texas. You recollect me, you blood-suckin’ rat? It ain’t money you’ve lived on. It’s blood and humans!”
There were other voices raised, here and there, but they were lost in one great, general cry of execration that swelled every throat in the mob, it seemed. And poor Tom Derry was stunned. Had he undertaken labour, faced danger, and was he now about to make his own head wanted by the law all for the sake of a man who richly deserved hanging?
He had to harken back to the voice of Buck Rainey, and to tell himself that Rainey must be right and all the rest wrong.
Now the procession arrived at the proper spot under the tree when a slender man of middle height or less pushed through the crowd. He said to a bulky fellow:
“Give me a hand up so that the people can see me, will you?”
“Sure, Taxi,” said the cowpuncher. “You can stand on my neck any time you want to.”
The name had riveted the attention of Derry on the stranger. He had heard, from Rainey, of Silver’s closest adherent and most faithful friend. He looked with amazement on this slender youth with a handsome face.
When “Taxi” looked down, he might have passed for the most innocuous man in the world. It was only when he looked up that men could see the pale, bright danger in his eyes, that old battle light which is recognized by instinct and fear, if not by experience. This was the man, it was said, who had walked through the heaviest and most complicated locks as though he carried a key in his hand; this was the man who would give his life as freely as a gesture for the sake of Jim Silver.
Well, Silver might command the devotion of a few friends, thought Tom Derry, but that did not prove that he was a good man.
“Hey, folks!” yelled the big cattleman who was holding up Taxi. “Hey, here’s Taxi that wants to say a word to you!”
“Taxi!” shouted the crowd instantly. “Hi, Taxi, boy! Where’s Jim Silver? Where’s Silver? Why ain’t he here? Silver! Silver!”
The uproar fell like thunder on the ears of Tom Derry. He could not and he would not believe what he heard. The applause of a few people was not apt to mean a great deal, but when an entire crowd cheers, it is a different matter. And wherever he looked, he could see men waving their hats, actually jumping up and down as they yelled in honour of Jim Silver.
Taxi, looking over this demonstration without a smile, lifted a hand that instantly cut the roaring in two and brought a silence.
Then he said in a quiet but incisive voice: “I’ve had word that a rescue is going to be attempted here today. I’m here to tell the men who may have the rescue idea in mind that I and three others are going to be standing with drawn guns. The instant that there’s a move to free Barry Christian, we’ve sworn to shoot Christian first; afterwards we’ll try to handle the rescuers in the same way.”
He was lowered to the ground, while a single deep shout of rage and apprehension went up from the bystanders.
But Tom Derry was stunned again. It seemed to him that everything that had been accomplished was at this moment reduced to nothingness. Staring blankly around him, he could pick out the men who would send their bullets into Christian the instant that a disturbance commenced. He could pick them out by their drawn guns — one with a rifle, and the other three, including Taxi, with revolvers or automatics. And the crowd fell back from these men a trifle, so as to give them room.
Last of all, Tom Derry stared at Christian, wondering whether this could be, after all, a man worth the risk of life and soul. He saw Christian standing under the Hanging Tree with the noose end of the long rope dangling near his head. That head was carried high. The pale face of the prisoner seemed about to smile. He had the look of one about to speak to an assemblage of dear friends who would burst into applause at his first words. But his hands were tied behind his back, and his shirt collar was unbuttoned, exposing the soft of his throat about which the strangling rope was intended to close.
Another picture of a man equally calm in the face of danger — burned clearly into the inward vision of Derry. And again he was sure. Whatever the crowd felt, Barry Christian must be right, and all the others were wrong. All the others — and Silver — and Taxi — they were wrong, and Barry Christian was worth the risk of a life.
Big Dean Cary was standing not far away, and now he stepped close to Derry, muttering:
“The goose is cooked, and the game’s finished. We can’t do a thing.”
Derry answered softly: “We can still make a try — and win!” He added: “There aren’t many guns in this outfit. The men have turned out to see an execution, not to take part in a fight. That’s where we have the edge. Taxi and the other three — we have them spotted. One of us has to take a stand on each side of the four. There are plenty of us for the job. When I yell: ‘Up, Cary!’ we grab our men. I’ll catch at Taxi’s gun hand. You crack him behind the ear. Not to kill, mind you. Don’t use the butt, but the barrel of your gun. Lay him out. Pass on the word to the rest of the boys. Get ’em in their posts. I’ll pass the same word along. Dean, we’ve got to win out on this job.”
He heard a long breath exhaled from the lips of Dean Cary.
“You’ve got the nerve of a devil, kid!” said the big man, and he glided off to the side.
A big black horse was brought — the same one which had been ridden by Derry in Cary Valley. Barry Christian was forced to mount it.
Sheriff Walt Milton stood by with the noose of the hangman’s rope in his hand. He said: “Speak your piece, Barry. We ain’t got much time now!”
Christian looked over the crowd. Last of all, his glance found the tense face of Tom Derry and dwelt there for an instant. It seemed to Derry that whatever Christian said would be spoken primarily for his ears, and he was eager to know what the words would be.
The speech was not long. Barry Christian simply said: “My friends, I — ”
He got that far when a voice yelled: “Not friends, blast you!”
Sheriff Walt Milton called out: “Quiet, boys, and let him talk. He ain’t got much time for many words.”
“My friends,” said Barry Christian, “I have done some bad things in my life, and it seems that most of you know about them. But I suppose that most people have done bad things, now and then. If you say that I ought to die, I won’t deny it. I’ll say this to excuse myself — that I’ve been straight with my friends and hard on my enemies.”
A deep rumbling of rage came out of the throats of the crowd.
“And when I wait here for death,” went on Christian, “I have the feeling that no matter what my enemies may be, my friends are worth more. I’m not sending any messages out. The people that hate me have enough when they’ve throttled me with a rope. The people who love me don’t need a last message. Sheriff, go ahead with your work!”
And he turned and looked down at Walt Milton.
It was enough for Tom Derry. Every fibre of his honest nature was burning with belief in the prisoner by this time. His lips parted over the cry: “Up, Cary!” and at the same instant he grasped the gun hand of Taxi and bore the gun down out of the line that pointed towards Christian.
A stream of lead spattered out of the automatic into the ground. Taxi whirled on Derry. A big man and a powerful man was Derry, but he felt that he had laid hands on a wildcat that would rip him to pieces. Then he saw the flash of Dean Cary’s gun. The barrel of it clanged with a dull sound against the base of Taxi’s skull, and he slithered down into the dust, lying in a heap.
Other hands fell on Derry then, as the enraged townsmen reached for him. He tore himself free, fighting. His fists won a little opening for him, and into that opening the rescue charged.
It was all very neat, the plan he had built up. Taxi and his three friends of the guns had gone down at the first yell of “Up, Cary!” The rest of the Cary clan inside the circle had made Barry Christian a free man and a fighting unit by slashing the ropes that held his arms behind his back and by putting revolvers into his hands. And the horse from which he was to have been hanged was now the power that might carry him away to freedom.
At the same time, while the crowd began to show guns, here and there, the men of Blue Water heard the familiar yell ringing from the rear all around the outskirts, where man after man of the clan was bringing in the horses. “Up, Cary!” they shouted at the full of their power, and the townsmen could see the heads of the plunging mustangs and hear the squealing of the broncos as they were spurred and flogged forward. At the same time, from around the freed prisoner, from the very point where law seemed most secure, from the very clansmen who had been trusted to guard Christian, they heard the same wild yelling.
“Up, Cary!” And guns were firing rapidly from all directions.
It hardly mattered that those bullets flew high in the air. The important thing was that they made a noise. The crowd began to shudder and then to melt. Sheriff Walt Milton was tapped over the head, and his hands were tied behind his back, and then the horses came pouring into the open space beneath the Hanging Tree. In a moment the Carys were mounted. They formed into a flying wedge with Tom Derry at the point of it, and Barry Christian in the centre. That was the way they hit the men of Blue Water and ploughed a way out to freedom. And as they got into the street, when a rousing gallop was possible, Tom Derry saw the buckboard of the old man sweeping away in a cloud of its own dust. He knew it was the old man’s outfit, for he could see Maria Cary standing erect on the driver’s footboard and throwing the whip into the horses as they sprinted. And the buckboard leaped and flung like a fish on a hook, behind the rapid heels of the mustangs.