CHAPTER XIII
The Fugitive
Long, weary miles stretched out behind The Pup as he wheeled his tired pony through the brush bordering the stream and allowed him to dip his nose in the cool water, drinking in noisy mouthfuls. Long, weary miles behind—and what before? Would the miles be any shorter, the road less wearisome? Would the midday sun be more merciful, or the nights more friendly?
As his horse drank, The Pup shifted uneasily in the saddle, and, turning his head, peered quickly behind him. This gesture had become almost automatic in these last few days. Always, whenever he halted, his eyes would seek for some hidden enemy, and at the slightest sound his hand would twitch down to the gun at his side. But how guard against one enemy when the very woods themselves seemed hostile and the song of the birds sounded a note of continual warning? The man shivered apprehensively.
Savagely The Pup pulled his pony’s head up, causing the animal to whinny in pain at the suddenness of it.
“Gonna drink all day?” the man muttered, then shivered slightly. It was long since he had tasted food. Perhaps the memory of his last meal caused him to regret his cruelty to the bronco, for he allowed him to continue his drinking until fully satisfied.
He was about to dismount and quench his own thirst when a sound of voices and the splash of paddles pulled him up short, froze the blood in his veins. Panic-stricken, he gazed frantically out from the small bower of brush in which he was encased. As the splash of paddles grew nearer, The Pup’s heart kept time with their beat, almost choking him with its fierce throbbing. Men! On his trail! He must move—must force his muscles to act! Yet he sat there, his face a sickly grey, his breath coming in short gasps.
Now the bow of the canoe slid into his line of vision. In another second—a fifth of a second—those in the craft would see him. Who were they? Did they know him? Could they be—
His lips pressed together suddenly, forcing back the cry of fear that strove for utterance. They were! Roy and Teddy Manley! And two others! The men he had robbed! There, before him, looking at him!
With a sob he threw off the coils of terror that held him rooted to the spot and jerked his pony around desperately, sinking spurs deep into the animal’s sides. A single, frantic bound took him through the brush and out of sight of those on the river. Then, trembling violently, he gave the pain-maddened brute his head and clung fiercely to the saddle as the horse bore him swiftly over the uneven ground—back, far back from that dangerous stream.
Gradually his mind resumed more normal action, realizing that, for the present at least, he was safe from pursuit. Teddy and Roy were in a boat. He was on horseback, and miles from them now. Safe—he was safe! The Pup drew a wavering sigh of relief.
Slowly, stolidly, he continued his onward ride, once more parallel with the river, but at some distance from it. He had not gotten his drink after all, and thirst clutched his throat with hot, feverish fingers. Would he dare to return to the stream, to brave his pursuers, to shout—“Come an’ take me! But I’m thirsty, I tell you—thirsty!”
The very thought set him to trembling again. He must not think of such things. Of what use now was the roll of bills in his pocket? The whole sum could not buy him a single drink. He took them out and gazed at the greenbacks dully. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he replaced them and ran his tongue over his parched lips. Part of the money was gone—spent for whiskey that had proved a traitor, that burned him now, as it had soothed before.
He had to go on—always on. Mexico was ahead—Mexico and safety, Mexico and long, cooling drinks in tall glasses. The Pup grinned to himself. Togas, the town of his birth, lay just across the Border. They had thought his name was Marino! Well, that name was as good as any other. If he had given his real name, old Manley would never have hired him, for it was a name that still lingered in the minds of some of the vaqueros of the South. Marino—or, to give him his right name, Jules Kolto—was born a Mexican, although early in life he had recognized the value of concealing the place of his birth from his companions. A Mexican was not respected in his line of business—a business carried on at the muzzle of a revolver or at the point of a knife. For Jules Kolto had been a highwayman.
It was seven years since he had robbed any one. There was a girl in Togas—his sister—who had decided the matter for him. He had supported her and his mother out of the fruits of his profession, and neither of them knew what that profession was until one day his sister met him at the door of their home and led him gently within. His mother lay on a couch, her face waxen. In her hand she grasped a paper—a paper with his picture on it and “Five Hundred Dollars Reward” printed below. He had killed his own mother.
Then his sister made him promise to go straight. He had, too—until now. But the temptation had been too great. Rimor’s, with its whiskey, had been too convenient, and riding cattle was dusty work. So he had fallen into the old ways again, after seven years of peacefulness. And what was more natural than that the whiskey should remind him of those other days when money was to be had for the taking!
Mr. Manley’s departure had given him his chance. Like a rattler he had struck and glided away. Now he regretted it. Not remorse—Jules Kolto remorseful? But anger, anger at his own foolishness. The hill he had climbed up from evil had been hard and steep. Now, with a single jump, he was just where he had started from!
Jules shook his head bitterly. He had been happy before—well, fairly happy. At least he had known what it was to face a man, then, without fear, turn one’s back and walk away. That was all gone now. He was a fugitive—hunted, trailed by other men.
If he could make Mexico, he would be safe. He would seek his sister. She would understand, would shelter him and help him to come back again. Togas—why, that was the town where Gus had his girl, the girl who hadn’t written, and who had sent Gus to seek forgetfulness in alcohol! Gus—poor, deluded Gus! To worry over a girl! Funny Jules hadn’t recalled that Gus had told him that she lived in Togas. But perhaps it was just as well. He might have given himself away.
How far was it to the Border? A good eight days’ ride, at least. He’d have to leave the river soon. It was too dangerous, anyway, with Teddy and Roy Manley around. But they wouldn’t catch him! Never—never!
Then a sudden thought came to the man. Why, they might not have been chasing him at all! Those cattle—those cows that had wandered on Jake Trummer’s place while he and Gus were in town, drinking! Of course Mr. Manley had gone on ahead to round them up! He had known that. Then the boys followed, to help. That’s what had happened! Jules felt great relief surge through him. They were not chasing him!
He rode forward with a lighter heart. There was some chance for him after all. If he could reach Togas and find his sister, all would be well. He would buy an interest in a small store with his four hundred dollars, then, when he had earned more money, he might send the amount he had stolen back to the X Bar X, just to square things. The horse—well, he’d see about that. It was a fine bronc.
Later that day it rained. The wind beat upon him and the lightning blinded him and the storm left him wet and shivering. He tried to start a fire, but could find no dry wood. He put his hand to his belt for his knife, that he might cut some, then remembered. Teddy Manley had the knife now. He had not really meant to harm the young fellow, just to scare him. But the boy was too quick. Jules grinned faintly. If Teddy had known it, he was the first man ever to get the best of Jules Kolto in a knife fight. The kid sure had nerve!
Well, he would have to do without his fire. But now he could move more openly and with less fear of detection, for night was closing in. Having slaked his thirst, he pulled his belt in another notch, to lessen the pangs of hunger, and rode on. Togas was ahead—Togas and his sister and an easy chair in their tiny patio. Worth living for!
If he reached it with his money still intact, his troubles would be over. He would have enough to start a small business and live the rest of his life in contentment, fearing no man. He would return the four hundred—as soon as he made that much—and send it back to Bardwell Manley. He would start square.
He knew that the region he was now in was a favorite place for bandits. Many gangs had made the banks of Whirlpool River their stronghold in days gone by, and rumor had it that one still flourished—the Denver Smith gang. A lone rider, like Jules, with a roll of bills in his pocket, would be meat for them. He had better stop and camp for the night before he ran across any highwaymen. Jules dismounted. He picketed his horse nearby. Then the former bandit drew his coat about him and lay down to rest, fearful that if he proceeded through these dark woods the money he had stolen would be stolen from him.