In the Shadow of the Hills by George C. Shedd (the best ebook reader for android txt) 📕

the shot must have gone to Sorenson, so close as to inject into the man's mind recollection of his pursuer's accuracy and a fear of a bullet in his back, for when within twenty feet of the bushes he dropped behind a small bowlder, whence he fired twice at Weir but without striking his mark.

Neither man after the furious ride and the concluding run on foot was fit for sure marksmanship. This Weir realized, so stopped where he was some forty feet off from Sorenson's stone in order to regain his breath and calm his nerves. Of the cattleman he could see nothing; the man crouched low out of sight, perhaps reloading his weapon, perhaps steeling himself for a dash across that small moonlit space that separated him from safety, or perhaps preparing for a quick upward spring and a fresh volley directed at his foe.

It may be questioned if in his heart Sorenson was not almost disposed to fight the matter out. He was no coward; his original hatred for the engineer had by recent events been swelled to a diabolical desire to kill; and now even if he, Sorenson, succeeded in slipping away, his whereabouts would be known unless he destroyed the man. Safety demanded that he not only escape but escape without this witness.

Weir had not sought cover. He stood upright, his revolver ready, trusting to have an advantage in his speed when it came to an exchange of shots. Then he began an advance, a slow noiseless circling advance that at the same time of taking him closer to his enemy brought him round on his flank.

Sorenson's hand and pistol appeared and half his face while three shots rattled from his gun, two at the spot where Weir had been and one at him in his new position, which the hiding man had immediately located. The last shot ticked the engineer's sleeve. In return Weir fired twice, the first bullet striking the rock and ricocheting off with a loud whine, while the second struck the pistol from Sorenson's hand.

Instantly Weir sprang forward.

"Show yourself," he ordered. And the kneeling fugitive, disarmed, gripping his bleeding hand, sullenly arose to his feet. "You've led me a chase, but I have you at last," the engineer continued. "Now you're going back to San Mateo and jail. Walk towards the horses."

Sorenson cast one bitter glance at the thicket in the ravine; by only the little matter of a few yards he had failed to gain liberty. For Weir his visage when he looked around again was never more hard, hostile, full of undying hatred. Though balked, he was not submissive, and was the kind who kept his animosity to the end. Then he started off towards the horses, his own which had staggered to its feet again and Weir's, both standing with hanging heads and heaving, quivering sides.

All at once the cattleman halted and faced about.

"Most men have a price, and I suppose you have yours," he said, with forced calmness. "I'm ready to pay it."

"You're going to pay it," was the answer.

"How much will you ask to let me go?"

"If you offered me ten million, which you haven't got, I wouldn't accept it," Weir said, harshly. "There isn't enough money in the world to buy your liberty. You're going back to San Mateo, and from there to the penitentiary or to the gallows, one or the other."

"It will be neither," Sorenson stated.

"You're mistaken, but I shall not argue the matter with you. Keep walking towards the horses."

Sorenson's lips became compressed. He glanced down at his bleeding hand, shook the blood from his fingers.

"I stay here," said he.

Weir went a step nearer and thrust his face forward, jaw set, eyes smoldering.

"Go on, I say," he exclaimed.

But the other did not retreat before him or indeed move at all. A sneer lifted his gray mustache.

"You have a gun; you're a killer; here I am unarmed and in your power," he said. "You intend to take me in; I propose to stay here. If I go to San Mateo, it will be as a dead man. I'll see whether you have the nerve to shoot me down where I now stand. If you have, go to it. You can then take my body to town, but I'll not have paid the price you name and I'll have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you at the last--in that, at least. Your bragging will be empty. Start your shooting any time you please." The tone spoke complete contempt.

Weir said nothing. The defiance, the supreme audacity of this assertion, coming so unexpectedly, surprised him and left him at a loss. He would not kill an unresisting man, even Sorenson, his worst enemy. Sorenson in his place probably would not have hesitated to do so, for he had no fine scruples in such matters; but for Steele Weir the thing was no more possible than striking a woman or a child.

It was not a question of nerve, as the other had stated. It was a test of brutality and consciencelessness. To shoot a man while escaping is one thing; to kill him while a prisoner, however contemptuous and brazen, was another. But there are means other than bullets for handling obstinate prisoners.

Weir shifted his weapon so as to grasp the barrel and have the butt free.

"I'll leave your execution to the proper officials, if an execution is what you want," he said. "Now will you go?" he demanded, threateningly.

His foe gazed at the clubbed pistol and turned as if to yield. Next instant he whirled, lunging at Weir and flinging his arms about his captor. An exultant exclamation slipped from his lips; his hot breath fell on the engineer's cheek; his eyes glared into those of the man his arms encircled. He had tricked Weir by his pretense of obstinacy, led him to weaken his guard and had him in his grasp.

Weir braced himself to resist the man's effort to force him down. Strong arms the other had, now doubly strengthened by hate and a belief in victory. All the power of Sorenson's great body was exerted to lift him off his feet, crush him in a terrific bear-hug, put him on his back and render him helpless; and Weir in his turn was tensing his muscles and arching his frame with every ounce of his lean, iron-like frame.

Thus they swayed and struggled in the moonlight, without witnesses. A sinister silent fight, marked only by their fierce breathing and fiercer heart-beats. The pistol had dropped from Steele Weir's hand; instead of attempting to break the other's hold he had yielded to it and pushing his own arms forward had clasped his hands behind Sorenson's back in the wrestler's true defense to such an attack.

Once Sorenson almost had him on his knees, but by a quick powerful upthrust of his legs he regained his upright position. However, it had been a close shave for Weir, for he well knew that his opponent would use any tactics, fair or foul, to kill him if he once lay on his back.

"You hound from hell!" Sorenson snarled. "You crippled my boy, and you shall die for that. You've ruined me in San Mateo, and you shall die for that. You jailed Burkhardt and poisoned Gordon and shot Vorse, and you shall die for that. I'm going to choke the life out of you, and grind your dead head into the dust, and then spit on you. That's how I treat snakes. Say your prayers, if you know any, for you'll never get another chance. Your friends won't recognize your remains when I'm done with you."

Venomous and impassioned, all the hate in the man's heart flowed forth in a fuming stream. For hate and murderous desire was all that was left him in the wreck of life caused by the engineer. If he could no longer rule, he could at least destroy.

Weir had made no response to the fierce imprecations. He was working his hands upward, straining his arms so as to reach Sorenson's head.

"When the coyotes are gnawing your skull," Sorenson went on, raging, "when the worms are feeding on you----"

The words died in a gurgle of pain. Weir's hands had closed about his temples, a finger sunk in each eye, forcing his head back. Sorenson shook himself frantically to break the torturing hold. His head went farther and farther back as if it seemed his neck would snap; his mouth opened to gasp, "Oh, God!" and all at once his hug slipped apart.

Instantly Weir tripped him, falling on top. Reaching out like a flash he seized his pistol lying on the ground and brought it down on the head of his enemy, who momentarily blinded and suffering could not resist. Sorenson went limp. From the savage beast of a minute before he had been changed to a huge, motionless, sprawling figure, with face upturned to the moon.

And on that face the victor of the life and death struggle could still behold, through the contorted lines stamped by pain, the man's brutal passion and fixed malevolence.

Weir arose.

"You felt the hound of hell's teeth," he muttered.

With thongs from one of the saddles he bound Sorenson's hands, pulling the knots tight and hard. The prostrate man moaned, opened his eyes. Weir jerked him dazed and staggering to his feet.

"Up into the saddle with you if you don't want another rap on the head," Steele ordered, bruskly. "And go straight this time. From now on I'll take you at your word and put a hole through your black heart if you try any more tricks."

When his prisoner was mounted, he fastened his ankles together by another thong under the belly of the pony. Weir was taking no chances. Up into his own saddle then he swung himself.

No exultant curses now came from his captive's lips.


CHAPTER XXXI

A FINAL CHALLENGE

The hour was drawing near midnight when Weir and his prisoner entered the town. Most of the women and children of the crowd of Mexicans had gone to their homes, but men yet remained before the court house and in the street, discussing and arguing the exciting events of the night.

In some mysterious manner knowledge that Burkhardt and not Weir was the prisoner in the jail, together with news of Judge Gordon's suicide and Vorse's death, had spread from mouth to mouth. Amazement and incredulity had been followed by an aroused feeling of anger, for to the Mexicans it appeared that the crushing blow dealt the leaders of the town was the arbitrary act of the man they believed a lawless gun-man. Were not Weir's foremen and engineers guarding the jail? Men who were strangers, not even citizens of the county?

But though an undercurrent of feeling ran among the talking groups, gradually increasing as the time passed, yet was there no active desire on the part of all or a concerted movement to drive away the seeming invaders of the law. For any such attempt a strong leader was necessary. There was none: Madden frowned upon them, only saying as he moved about that he was executing the law; Sorenson, the dominating figure of the town, and Burkhardt's, Vorse's and Gordon's friend, was strangely absent.

The determined guard about the jail was in itself a deterrent to mob action. Meyers had brought twenty or more men from camp, armed and alert, who with those already about the building constituted a