IT was only a few nights later that the occupants of Ghost Greek ranch were roused out of their bunks at midnight by the sodden thump of hoofs outside and a guarded call. A rumble of thunder was murmuring in the west. There had been a fall storm earlier in the evening; there would be another before morning, unless it blew around.
Doc Lantry was the first to stamp into his boots. Reb followed suit. Gloomy blinked owlishly in the light of the lantern he lit.
“Git a fire goin’, Gloomy, an’ put on coffee,” Doc told him. He turned to the door and went out.
Reb didn’t have to remind himself that it probably was not just a bunch of range men out there. He looked after Doc, hesitated, and then remained where he was. There were times when it didn’t pay to stumble around in the dark. He’d find out soon enough what was afoot.
If there was any lingering doubt in his mind as to its nature, there was none in Gloomy Jepson’s. “Hell of a time of night to git up!” he grumbled, the lines of his face drawn down. “Hell of a business to be in. Dang it all, I’m goin’ back to punchin’ cows, see if I don’t.” This was the burden of his perpetual complaint. According to him outlawry was a fool’s paradise, a snare and a delusion. He was forever on the verge of forsaking it. The only insult he recognized was to be told that he never would; but he never did.
Santee paid small attention to his ramblings, intent on the murmur of voices outside, indistinguishable above the prolonged roll of the thunder. But a moment later, corral bars rattled and boots sloshed toward the dugout.
A blurred face showed momentarily at the door. Then: “Hullo, boys!” The Sundance Kid stepped in, followed by Doc Lantry and three other men. One of them was the Kid’s brother, Lonny Logan. Reb did not know the others. All except Doc dumped wet saddles in a corner.
“Santee, you didn’t meet these boys down at the Park,” the Kid said now. “Bob Leigh an’ Flat Nose George,” he introduced them.
There was some reserve in the chorus of acknowledgments, despite the Kid’s assurance that Reb was all right. But Logan himself was not so reticent, his black eyes glinting in the lantern light, a lock of raven hair drooping over his sallow forehead.
“Not a bad place you got here, Doc,” he averred; “an’ damn handy fer us too. We would’ve had a wet, mis’able night of it.” He shook his head.
“You must’ve been pushin’ them mustangs pretty hard,” Lantry suggested. “How far’d you come today?”
“Dern nigh from the Bitter Root country,” Lonny Logan put in with a grin. “An’ if that sounds like three days to yuh, don’t blame us. It still seems like t’day to me.”
Lantry whistled. “Chased yuh, eh?”
The Kid looked at him humorously. “Hot an’ close,” he said. He glanced toward the stove. “How do we stand on the coffee, Jepson? Man, I could drink a hogshead of it an’ sleep a week.” The lines in his haggard face showed this to be only a mild exaggeration.
“It’ll be ready fer yuh, if yuh can drink coffee in the dead o’ night like this,” Gloomy responded lugubriously. “I can’t.” He was already rattling the tin cups about.
The Kid didn’t hear him, telling Lantry about the pursuit. They thought they had shaken it off now, but were not sure. “We got to snatch some shut-eye, if the whole state of Montana is on our necks,” said Logan easily. “We’ll pull out before dawn. This rain should wipe out our tracks fer a ways back.” Plainly he was not overly worried, nor were the others. Reb did a lot of listening.
“How yuh pullin’ out of here?” Doc queried.
“We’ll foller the Basin east an’ keep to the fastest ground till the weather changes.”
Lantry nodded. “That’s the best way. The pass’ll be slow an’ hard in the mornin’.”
The coffee was passed around. The outlaws drank it in noisy sips, smoking hot, and asked for more. The Kid was questioning Doc about his activities now. He remarked that the Basin was fertile ground, and broke off to ask Santee what he thought of it.
Reb was aware the man’s familiarity was largely a pose, and that Logan was still studying him. Conscious also of the effect his words would have on the listening Lantry, he answered with an evasive quip: “A basin’s a handy thing to wash in,” he said lazily. “I never yet tried to hide in one, if I thought anybody around near wanted to look me up.”
Logan’s companions laughed, and he was not himself displeased. In a way it loosened the stiffness, and in a few minutes Reb had them all in a good humor. It was easy to see they were ready to take to him.
“Sensible feller, Santee,” the Kid observed to Doc Lantry, under cover of the jests that accompanied the removal of boots, damp vests and the like. The men were not inclined to put off their rest much longer.
Doc said nothing.
It was only a short time before they were settled for the duration of the night. Sufficient bunks had been built in the dugout originally to accommodate nearly a dozen punchers, and there was room for all.
Thinking over the newcomers, Reb did not allow their presence to cut into his sleep. He realized that he had not the same argument against them that he had used with Lantry against Lucas and Tapper. The Sundance Kid and his men were distinctly not small fry. Wild and reckless as their stories told him they were, there was a shine of virility, of manhood, in their eyes that set them above the scavengers of the range. He sensed that they were slated for still bolder activities than those they already related without boast; they would go far, and some would come to a violent death; but there was something about their wild freedom that had its effect on Reb despite his knowledge that it was all wrong.
Thunder rumbled throughout the early morning hours, one of the last electric storms of the season; daylight was delayed. Long before it broke, the Logans and Leigh and Flat Nose George Curry were astir. Gloomy made them more coffee, fried bacon and warmed up the beans, muttering under his breath. Half-an-hour later, as the first diluted light streaked the east, the outlaws were in the saddle. They had around fifty head of stolen horses with them, which had been put in the large corral.
“Better foller the creek south four-five miles an’ then swing east toward the gap,” Lantry told the Kid. “That way you’ll miss any C 8 hands that might be moochin’ around over back. That’s all yuh got to worry ’bout.”
Logan nodded, leaning down to yank straight his saddle-skirts. “Looks like ’nother shower comin’ at us,” he observed, scanning the leaden sky. “That’ll drown our tracks fer a ways farther.... Well, boys, take care o’ yoreselves.” He lifted a hand to Doc and Reb and Gloomy, and turned his pony.
A few minutes later the horse-herd faded into the gloom down the bank of the creek.
The Kid’s prediction proved correct. He and his men had scarcely got well out of sight before the rain began again. A sprinkle grew to a drizzle and then to a steady downpour which promised to endure.
“That puts ’em in the clear,” Doc said with satisfaction. “It ought to wipe out any marks they left gittin’ here too.” He chuckled. “But they’re jest crazy ’nough to crab because they got to ride in the wet.”
“All but the Kid,” Reb rejoined reflectively. “He knows when to stay out in the rain.”
Doc glanced at him sharply. “You been doin’ a little sizin’ up on yore own hook, ain’t yuh?” he grunted.
If it meant that Lantry had been narrowly watching the effect Reb had on the Sundance Kid’s outfit, he gave no sign that he was aware of it.
“It’s a habit I got,” was all he said.
Not three hours later, Gloomy, who had started disgustedly down to the creek for water, stamped in with an even longer face, if that were possible. “Couple more o’ yore playmates ridin’ up,” he announced.
Lantry took his boots down off the table and threw his cigarette away. This was something he had been vaguely expecting. Reb was behind him as he reached the door. They stood just out of the drip from the roof and watched two slickered horsemen advance through the mists.
“The old one’s Jim Ward,” Doc muttered, as they drew close enough for identification. His gaze was narrow. “That’s Bob Calverly with ’im. Ward’s sheriff of Freemont County, an’ Bob’s his chief deputy. Don’t let on you know it ... I’ll do the talkin’.” He raised his voice, simulating cheer. “Light an’ come in, boys. It’s shore plenty wet. Better pull off yore saddles.”
The sheriff drew up with a long straight look out of wise, thoughtful eyes. His brows were gray and bushy under the dripping broadbrim. His mustache drooped.
“Thanks,” he said. He stepped down, but made no move to unsaddle his horse, coming in the door with Calverly behind him as Lantry and Reb made room. Once in he stopped, and stood blocky and immovable. “I’m Ward,” he said. “Sheriff of Freemont.”
Lantry pretended surprise. “Sheriff, eh? Kinda off the beaten track, ain’t you?” He did not overdo it.
Having tested Doc’s response, Ward pierced Santee with a glance and took in Gloomy. Calverly, a stalwart, leather-faced man, was equally alert, his eye riding around the dugout.
The sheriff paid no attention to Doc’s query. He put one of his own: “Hear any men ridin’ by durin’ the night?” The words were abrupt and clipped.
“Which way was they headin’—?” Lantry began. He would have denied all knowledge of the outlaws, but Reb cut him off easily.
“Yes, we seen ’em, Sheriff,” he said frankly. “They was here ’bout midnight.”
“How many of ’em?” Ward barked.
“Four.”
Calverly nodded, but the sheriff pressed on: “Tell us about it.”
“Not much to tell. They made us feed them and then pulled out.” Lantry made an attempt to break in and Ward ignored him. Reb was the acknowledged spokesman now. He was careful not to meet Doc’s eye as he gave a straightforward, circumstantial account of the visit of Logan and his men, avoiding their names, however, until an interpolation by Calverly told him the fugitives were known. According to him the outlaws held them in the dugout while they wolfed down a meal, and departed immediately afterward.
“Which way did they go?” Ward bored in.
“Well, they warned us to keep our heads down till they was long gone. We stayed in till we was sure we was in the clear.” Reb was speaking freely now, his whole manner artless. He was well aware that Lantry was in a killing temper, and that he would have to answer to him for his outspokenness as soon as the law rode on. But he gave no sign. “From the sound of it, I’d say they pulled away south and a little west,” he said. He seemed anxious to make this clear, telling just how it had struck him.
Calverly unconsciously came to his aid again. “Hittin’ fer Crazy Woman Pass, they was,” he gave his opinion. “They figured we’d figure they’d go out that way, an’ not expect ’em to fer that reason.”
Even the sheriff gave a dry assent. He made ready to leave, pulling up the collar of his coat inside his slicker. “They got away around one o’clock, ch? ... That puts ’em a full eight hours ahead of us. We ain’t seen a real track since dark last night. Mebbe we c’n pick up a trail of some sort here.”
Reb hoped they could. He said so anyway. Really he knew they wouldn’t, for he had made sure of that. “If you don’t, you’ll probably pick up sign as you ride along toward the Crazy Woman,” he went on. “This rain won’t wipe out everything.” It was true, and it was all the more reason he was ready to steer the officers off on the wrong track altogether.
Ward and Calverly left a few moments later. Doc Lantry waited until they were well away and then wheeled on Reb fiercely.
“Now suppose you explain to me why yuh pulled that damn fool trick—if yuh can!” he bit out. His face was dark with blood, his eyes flashing a steely challenge.
“What trick?” Reb met him coolly. Gloomy gaped, moving apart.
Doc was ready to erupt, more angry than they had ever seen him. There was murder in his red glare. He fought it back with difficulty.
“You know, damn yuh! Was it necessary to say the boys was anywheres near here?”
Reb was brusque. “Dammit, Doc, get hold of yoreself,” he retorted. “They was here, wasn’t they? Where in hell would we’ve been if you said no an’ the sheriff found out yuh was lyin’?”
“How was he goin’ to find out!” Lantry yelped.
“Easy enough. As soon as his eyes lit on these bunks he knew they stopped without askin’. Everyone of ’em is damp yet. An’ there’s them dishes Gloomy’s been in such a sweat to git washed, if that ain’t enough.” Reb was scornful now. “The first thing you thought of was to act ignorant—an’ the fat would’ve been in the fire for sure in another two minutes, if I hadn’t spoke up. I don’t want no more to do with yuh, if yo’re goin’ to be so careless.”
Doc sputtered, an impotent rage shaking him. Reb watched him for a moment and then went on:
“Don’t forget, Lantry, we got ourselves to look out for as well as others. In this case, a straight story—or what sounded like one—was our best out. Now Ward’ll ride on an’ think no more ’bout us; but if he’d caught us in the smallest kind of lie, this place would be marked for good. You can see that, can’t yuh?”
Doc had to see it, but he did so with reluctance and a bad grace.
“That may all be so; but I don’t cotton to the way you take matters in yore own hands, Santee,” he growled. “I told yuh I’d do the talkin’.”
Reb faced him with short patience. “You do the talkin’ after this. But you see to it you do a blame sight better job of it than yuh would’ve done this time, or I’ll take it away from yuh again, I’m tellin’ yuh.” There was no defiance in his tone; only a chill, persuasive warning that made Lantry writhe.
In itself no small matter, Reb’s ultimatum was only an example of the gradual change that had worked in him. He had started out much as a hand Doc had hired. But since that time he had asserted himself in a hundred ways until he no longer looked for or took orders. Of the two, it was clearly apparent that he was the strong man. Doc sensed it. Little good though it did him, he fought against it with all the power of his will. Both knew a time would come when they would face each other in a showdown.