The Saturday Evening Post/The Line of Least Resistance/Chapter 9
IX
A HUNDRED terrible seconds before, Kennedy had spurred from behind his sheltering knoll on the mountain crest. One look across the Gap, the gleam of a white dress by the wagon; the line of least resistance led straight to death and shame. As he followed it, in that wild downward plunge, his mind, in some impregnable inner citadel, planned steadily, calm and cool. A flashing vision of chances, dangers, hopes; he settled on the one sure way as swift and straight as ever shot fell from tower.
He dragged the dazed girl up before him. As he passed the wagon he snatched a canteen that swung cooling from the brake. He turned southward, up the wide, smooth draw. He looked back. The Indians were mounting, streaming down the steep slope in furious pursuit. Dolly moaned in his arms: "Father! Father!"
Noche was strained and bruised in every tendon and joint; he was failing under the double weight. A bullet had plowed across Kennedy's cheek; otherwise he was unhurt. Had Noche fared as well, had the girl been able to find her way or to stand the terrible ride, he might now send her on alone and keep the pursuit off long enough; but it would not do. She could never find her way out of the hills—the horse would die. He took the right-hand prong; the Indians were gaining. He began with a lie.
"Listen, Dolly. There are two of them"—he had not seen Quinlan—"they are behind shelter, they may escape. We can do them no good. I can save you and, perhaps, save them. But you must do what I tell you—and it is no light thing. Here you must ride alone. He can't carry us both up this hill."
He leaped off and clung to the stirrup-leather as the gasping horse lunged bravely, jerkily, sobbing up the steep. The foremost Indians were still more than a rifle shot behind.
"I'll stop 'em a little while Noche gets his breath," said Kennedy. "Look! Noche's shot through his thigh! No wonder he's giving out."
They passed over the little divide. Kennedy drew his rifle from the scabbard, crept back and shot several times at long range. One of the horses fell at the fire. The Indians dared not follow up the bare hillside. They turned aside to right and left for a long détour. That would give them half an hour—enough. Kennedy's hand brushed the holster at his hip. His revolver was gone—lost in the desperate ride down the mountain. His face—caked with dirt and blood—grew a shade graver. This would complicate matters, hurry his purposed signaling.
"Ride along now, Dolly, and I'll tell you my plan. I've checked the Indians for a while. Before they get sight of us we'll be in the thick timber. They'll follow our trail, but they'll be slow and cautious. They'll never know when I may stop and waylay them."
They clambered up the hill. "There's a cave up there that Hiram knows about. I'll have to leave you there."
"Leave me? Oh, Don!" She was shaking with fear.
He lied again. "It is to save your father's life, Dolly. I could stay with you and fight them off. But I'm going up on the mountain to signal with a fire for help to come. If I don't your father will have no show." All of which was untrue. The plan was that the Apaches should follow him—leaving her scatheless. As for Otis, Don believed him dead.
She shuddered, but straightened up like the brave girl she was. "I'll do it—for Father. How will you signal?"
Don was breathless from the furious pace. "I can't talk here. We must hurry. Wait till we get in the trees, where the red devils can't see us and shoot at us."
Five minutes later they reached the friendly shelter. The Apaches were not in sight. Don slowed to a walk. Black Noche was foam-white, failing, but stumbled gallantly along as if he knew how much depended on him.
"It'll be dark before I leave you. I'll go on clear to the top of Timber Mountain. There I'll build a fire right on the crest, undouble my saddle blanket, hold it up before the fire, take it way, hold it up again; so they'll see the fire at Dundee in short dots or long dashes—just like the Morse code, only for the eye instead of the ear. It's an old dodge. Everybody knows it. I told you I used to be a telegrapher."
"Couldn't you do that here?"
"It will take a long time. They may not see it at first. After dark I'll gain on the Indians, and when I get to the top I'll be so far ahead that I'll have time enough. But Noche can never take you to the top. I'll lead him up as far as he can go and then leave him. That's one reason. There are two better ones. They can see a fire better if it is built on the skyline. Then they can see the signal at Palomas to the northwest, just as they do at Dundee on the northeast. If any one in Palomas or Vega Blanco can read Morse that gives your father a much better chance—and us too. It's only six or seven miles to Palomas, and eighteen to Dundee. Come, Dorothy—be brave! It's the only way."
"I will," she said. Her tears were falling fast. She dried them now. That appeal—for Father—nerved her for her terrible task as nothing else could have done.
"I won't go very near to the cave. It's hidden by a big juniper in front of it. A smooth rock ledge runs off from it, where you'll leave no tracks. I'll watch till you get safely there. Take the canteen. Oh, and you'll find canned stuff there, and a blanket. That's where I've made headquarters while I've been hiding out. I call it my kitchen. You'll be safe. I'll tear a piece from your dress, and leave little bits of it sticking on the brush as I go up. Give me one of your shoes, too. After I leave Noche I'll make a track with it once in a while. And—here's the place."
A shout reached them faintly from far below. He helped her off. Her body was quivering. He kissed her pale cheek.
"It's pretty tough for you, Dolly. Remember, it's for Daddy. One thing more—the most important of all." He handed her the rifle and lied again. "I've got my revolver—I'll be all right. They won't know but what I've still got the rifle. After I get an answer I'll try to come back to you. Keep awake. There's a bend in the cave. Stay in the back part. If Hiram comes he will call. If any one comes"—he faltered, he pressed her hands tight—"wait—wait—be sure! But if by any chance it should be the Apaches" He touched his heart. "Be sure; you understand?"
"Yes, Don. I'll—I'll not fail you. Just a minute." She clung to him. "There—I'll be brave now—for Daddy! Good-by!"
"I'm trusting you, Dolly—trusting you with a great deal more than my life. You have the hardest part. I'm proud of you." He tore a strip from her dress and took off the little shoe. "Straight along the rock behind that juniper. There—I'll not say good-by, but, as Aloys Priesser always says—Auf Wiedersehen! Good little Dolly, brave little girl! We'll make it yet—see if we don't! Go now."
She held up her lips silently. He watched the little figure to the juniper. Then he took Noche's bridle and went on his appointed upward way.
••••••
Pappy Sickles washed up after supper, paused at the tent door to bite off a generous portion of navy plug, dropped the flap behind him and went sauntering across the plaza toward the post-office. He stopped. On Timber Mountain a sudden light flared along the wind-blown sky; a high and leaping flame. "Some fool prospector set fire to a Curajo pole," sniffed Pappy. "Cur'us how some folks likes to climb." He walked on, but checked again. "Hey! What's that?"
It was a smaller, steadier light a little to one side of the first one. While he looked it disappeared—flamed again—went and came in purposed brief eclipse.
Pappy turned and took to his aged heels. He burst into the telegraph office.
"Daglish! Dalton Daglish! There's a message on Timber Mountain! Green grass—time for Injuns!"
The night operator looked out through the open window and saw the winking light above the roof of Armstrong's store. Dot dot, dot dot dot, dot dash, dash! He snatched up pad and pencil, slipped through the window, took the message down under the blood-red glare of the semaphore. Pappy followed through the corridor and stood beside him, to read, white-lipped:
—ast Dolly Otis hid in kitchen Apaches out Kennedy Apaches out Tell Hiram Yoast Dolly Otis hidden in my cave—
Pappy filled his lungs and bellowed across the startled dark. "Ho-o-o! Hiram Yoast!" The agent stuck his head through a second-story window. "Got a gun?" yelled Pappy. "Then shoot, damn ye, shoot! 'Paches in the Gap!"
Shots, shouts, lights streaming into the night from opened doors, running feet.
"Hiram Yoast!" High voices took up the relayed call and shrilled it across the town. "Hiram Yoast! Hiram Yoast!"
Pappy pointed. They saw the twinkling light. Daglish scrawled over the paper. The sweat dropped from his brow. A loose sheet fluttered to Lewis as he tore it off. Lewis held it to the light. A roar went up: "Here he is, here's Yoast!" Hiram Yoast and Kaylor pushed through the circle. "Read it, you numskull, read it out loud!" screamed Pappy.
Hiram Yoast Apaches out Dolly Otis hidden in our cave Otis killed in Palomas Gap Don Kennedy ten to twenty braves Hiram Yoast Apaches out—
Daglish was left alone. Men were running in every direction; to the stables, to their tents for guns. "Build a fire, some of you damned fools, out to one side. Boxes, barrels, whisky, coal-oil!" That was Polk Armstrong at the store door.
The slow, steady message came from the hill:
Dolly Otis in my hide-out Otis killed in gap Answer Indians close Kennedy Hiram Yoast Apaches Dolly hid in cave Don Kenn—
The beacon twinkled no more. For a little space it burned clear, then sank dimly to darkness.
The swiftest, readiest thundered on ahead—Lewis, Yoast, Kaylor, Teagardner, Horsethief Fisher, Smith-Leonard, Springtime Morgan, Pappy. Far behind came others. In Dundee the slower or less fortunate were yet arming, saddling; strangers' horses, stage horses, all that were in Dundee stables; saddles levied from the store, saddles from tentmen whose horses were hobbled out. And in every direction from town went men afoot, to drive in the hobbled and picketed and loose horses—saddle horses, freight horses, mules—to follow later.
"Here, fellows, this won't do!" It was the gray veteran Teagardner who took the lead of the others, as they breasted the slope of Three-Mile Hill. "We're doing up our horses. Slow down. We save time in the long run. We got to take it on a trot. Hiram—in case you get wiped out—tell us, so there can't be no mistake, where the girl's cave is." So Hiram told them.
"All right—we can't miss that. Pres, you and Pappy fall back, and check them fellows up. Killin' their horses won't get 'em there. We'll push on for the girl first. After we get her we'll see what we can do for Don. Pres, you pick out ten or twelve of the best-mounted and come after us. Pappy, your horse is better'n Pres's. Change with him. Then you take the rest of the men and go to the Gap. Put the best trackers out at daylight, lookin' for sign. When you get it follow it to hell. If you find Otis and Pat and Jimmy dead, leave 'em and go after the 'Paches."
"Jimmy ain't there," said Pappy. "His mules run away and come to town. He started back just before sundown. We'll catch him. He'll see the fire and stop. No, he won't. He'll see the fire and hurry on like hell beatin' tanbark."
"Well, if you find him, leave him and the mules and three or four men in the Gap. We'll bring the girl and—the others—in the wagon."
"All right." Pappy reined up. "Here's your horse, Pres."
The van pushed on at a long, swinging trot, leaning forward, standing in the stirrups.
"Hiram, you jest happened to know where this cave is, I s'pose?" said Kaylor.
"Happened, yes. He's my pardner."
Smith-Leonard touched the sheriff's elbow. They fell back into the dust. Behind them, in the trail, bits of torn paper eddied and spun in the soft nightwind.