Valley of the Vanishing Men (12 page)

B
EN
T
RAINOR
got there in time. He lay in between two rocks that stood like reefs in the whitening river of sand that flowed through the throat of the ravine. As he stretched out there, he could see the dust haze clearing away and the moonlight beginning to glimmer more and more brightly on the polished walls of Slocum’s Ravine, up which even a fly could not walk. Not very high walls, but high enough, he told himself.

There was grit between his teeth, grit down his back, crawling grit that irritated his flesh, and grit that half blinded his eyes. But he was blinking them clearer and clearer. And there was plenty of moonlight. There was enough to show him the huddle of shadows at the farther end of the ravine which had sheltered Christian’s party from the sand storm, but had not sheltered it enough. The huddle of shadows was rising from the low rocks that were spilled about the floor of the little valley, and Trainor could see everything. He could see everything except the little cones of security which existed behind the rocks, here and there.

The moon lay in the west, but before it went down, the sun would be up, to give better shooting light than ever. And at about the same time Jim Silver would come back from Alkali with many men. They would clean up the whole lot of bad men inside. They would sweep up the entire gang, and in that gang was the man most infamous — Barry Christian! When Ben Trainor thought again of the pale, handsome face, the magnificently towering forehead, and that cold smile of Christian, he knew that the man represented all the evil that could be gathered in one human being, and he was glad he was there, closing the mouth of the trap with his rifle. He liked the job. He had no love of bloodshed, but he could shoot into these scoundrels with as free a conscience as ever a hungry man had when he killed for venison.

The wind was falling rapidly. There was still flying dust in the air, but it diminished constantly and let the strength of the moon come through. And everything was perfect. Ben could see the entire inside of the gulch. All was spread out before him. He had plenty of ammunition, and he had Jim Silver’s own rifle. To be sure, he was no great marksman, but he could not very well miss a target as big as a man at these ranges. So the savage that is locked up in the breast of every man grew great and heated the blood of Ben Trainor.

Christian’s men were preparing to move. The horses were being mounted. A tall, imposing figure rode first toward the mouth of the valley. That was Doc Yates.

Trainor glanced once over his shoulder. He could see, dim and small with distance, a crawling cluster of life that moved slowly away toward the Alkali trail.

Then he looked back toward Yates, and leveled his rifle. It would be easy to pick the man off. He could drill him through the breast, a little to the left of center and half-way down between shoulder and hip. That would get the heart. Or else he could take him through the head. That would be easy, too, and he knew it as he steadied the gun. The fact that it had belonged to Silver made him feel, somehow, that it could not miss. But it was hard to shoot a man from ambush, without warning.

Instead, he put a bullet a few dangerous inches away from the head of Yates, and saw the fellow duck so violently that he almost fell out of the saddle.

Yates turned his horse around and fled, flattening himself along the back of the animal. But he could not flee far — there were the walls of that ravine which even a fly could not climb, and they would hold Yates and all of the others, safely.

Trainor fired again, sending the bullet once more over the heads of the thickest cluster. And as turtles dive off low rocks, scuttling into the water, so those men of Christian dived out of their saddles and took shelter here and there behind the meager stones that dotted the bottom of the ravine.

A gust of rifle fire came at once. They had located the site of Trainor’s post. Now they pelted and swept it with lead. He heard the brief whining of the bullets. He heard and even felt the shock of the pellets against the stones that shielded him.

So he lay low, head down, taking it easy. They could shoot like that till doomsday, without being able to budge him or break down his defenses.

Then he heard the beating of hoofs.

He ventured a glance and saw three riders sweeping at full gallop toward the mouth of the ravine. The tactics were simple and they might be effective. If Trainor’s rocks were sufficiently blanketed with gunfire, he would not be able to show himself to shoot.

Even that slight lifting of the head had let him fairly feel the breath of a bullet passing his cheek.

He got the rifle ready. He would have to take chances — but it would surely be the end for at least one of the three who were charging. He only wished that Yates or Christian were among the trio!

Up with the rifle — a quick shot at point-blank range just as the three neared the mouth of the gulley, and the central rider toppled and dropped over to the side. His companions on either side pulled up their horses with yells of rage and fear. A shout of dismay came from the remnants of the gang in the rear. They could not maintain such a fire, now. Their own men were a screen, in part, between them and Trainor.

To right and left the two unharmed riders jerked their horses. The stricken man kept on falling. He hit the ground, and a puff of dust rose from the spot, like an explosion. He trailed, his foot caught for an instant in the stirrup. Then the mustang broke free and raced off into the desert, not three yards from Trainor’s nest in the rocks.

After that came a fiercely concentrated burst of rifle fire. The air was thick with the wasp noises. It died out, and Trainor heard, close to him and in front, the groaning of a man sick with pain. That was his victim, lying out there beyond the reach of his friends, lost.

The rifle fire had ended when the voice of Perry shouted, fairly close to the entrance of the gulch:

“Who’s there? Who’s there? Is it Jim Silver?”

Trainor laughed silently. If he held his tongue, they could keep on imagining it to be Jim Silver, and that would more effectively bottle up the ravine than any rifle work. They would take no chances in face of the gun of terrible Jim Silver!

“Listen, Silver!” called Perry. “Let us take Chuck back inside, won’t you? He’s dyin’ out there. It don’t do you no good to leave him there. Will you let us take him back inside?”

Trainor made no answer.

And the groaning voice of “Chuck” appealed to him: “Silver, you was always a white man. You never was a low skunk like the rest of us. Leave me have a chance to get a whack at a canteen, will you? Gimme a chance to have one drink, will you, Silver?”

“All right!” said Trainor. “Come out and take him in. I won’t shoot.”

“It’s Trainor!” he heard Perry exclaim.

And then there was an outburst of rage and hate from many voices.

“Come on, Blacky,” urged Perry. “Gimme a hand to get Chuck back inside, will you?”

“Not me,” shouted Blacky. “I won’t show myself. The kid couldn’t help plugging me if he got the chance.”

“He won’t double-cross you. He’s a white man,” said Perry. “You come along with me, then, Lem.”

Two sets of footsteps came toward the rock of Trainor. He did not show himself, for the thing might be a blind — this rescue, this act of humanity only arranged so that cunning marksmen, their rifles on the target, might slip lead into him the instant he lifted up.

“Let me hear you moving about, boys,” said Trainor. “Don’t try to sneak up on me, is all I advise you.”

“We won’t try to sneak up,” said Perry. “It’s white of you to let us take poor Chuck in. It’s damn white of you, seeing what we’ve been doing.”

“I’ll go one bigger step for you, Perry,” said Trainor. “You can walk right past me and keep on walking. You’re free to go, if you’ll drop your guns before you start. You’re not like the rest of this poison.”

“Thanks,” said Perry. “I’ve throwed in with these hombres, and I guess I’ll stick with them to the finish. You know how it is, Trainor, I made my bed, and I’m goin’ to lie on it. I ain’t goin’ to walk out on them when the pinch comes.”

Trainor could hear them moving away; he could hear the diminishing groans of the wounded man, cursing those who bore him, damning them for the cruel strength of their hands, which tormented him.

Then another voice spoke from near the mouth of the ravine, and it was Barry Christian.

“You hear me, Trainor?” he asked.

“I hear you, yes.”

“I want to talk business with you.”

“You can’t talk to me, Christian.”

“Every man will listen to business. So will you, Trainor. Listen to me. I’m not talking small stuff. I’m talking big.”

“Go on. How big?” asked Trainor.

“Ten thousand dollars. Not a promise. I’ve got the cash for you, here and now.”

“It’s a lot of money,” said Trainor. “But it’s not enough.”

“Think it over,” said Christian. “Ten thousand is a big pile. It will take care of you the rest of your life, if you invest it right and do a little honest work besides. Ten thousand — more than the savings of a whole lifetime.”

“It’s a lot, but it’s not enough,” said Trainor.

“You want to remember,” said Christian, “that you’ll be protected. We’ll fix up the escape so that it’ll look perfectly natural. It’ll seem that we managed to get out and surprise you — we’ll leave you tied hand and foot, if you want us to. Nobody in the world will ever be able to suspect that you sold out. We’ll fix it any way you want.”

“Thanks,” said Trainor, “but you haven’t hit my price yet.”

“All right,” said Christian. “You boost the figure, then, and tell me what you want. If I haven’t got it in cash, I’ll give myself into your keeping, until my men bring you whatever you want.”

“You can pay my price without money,” said Trainor. “There’s a point of rock that juts out, down there in the ravine. Let me see a couple of ropes strung over that rock. Let me see Doc Yates hanging from one end, and you from the other — and I’ll let the rest of the boys go scot-free.”

He heard a snarl of rage from Christian. Half a dozen rifles exploded in one heavy clap of thunder. And that was the end of the parley.

He waited. Once he ventured to look out around the edge of the rock, and he saw the horses coming into a single cluster, apparently of their own volition. A rifle bullet dug up sand and threw it into his face as he risked this glance.

He lay back to wonder what device was now in progress in the fertile brain of Barry Christian.

T
RAINOR
could only venture a spying glance now and again. Then he saw that the horses were being collected, without the hand of a man showing, because ropes had been flung over their heads, and in this manner they were drawn about until they were ranged in a compact line, a dozen of them. Then a voice sang out:

“Are you ready, boys?”

From closer to the mouth of the ravine the answer was: “Ready! Let her go!”

Then suddenly those horses were started with a wild yelling and whooping and a discharge of guns behind them. They came like mad, their bridles interlinked, and Trainor, with a shock, saw the intent.

The rifle fire doubled on his rocks, pelting this post all over with a close shower of bullets. And, in a moment, the solid wall of horses woud rush out of the mouth of the ravine. The instant that they passed it, behind them would come the men of Christian, sprinting. They would be so close to the rocks, by the time the horses passed, that Trainor would be unable to defend himself against the many-sided attack.

There was only one thing to do, and he hated that almost worse than shooting at a man.

He got a bead on the head of a horse in the center of the charging line, and dropped the poor brute with a bullet through the brain. Then the entangled bridle reins which were holding the horses in a solid line, making of them a perfect moving rampart, served to break up the charge instantly. The fall of the one mustang confused all the others and brought them up short as though on an anchor. Two or three of them tumbled head over heels. There was a great fighting and kicking among the horses. Then two or three of them broke loose and rushed singly out of the valley and across the desert. Others followed, drawn along as into a vacuum. The men of Christian vainly yelled and whooped and exploded guns near the mouth of the ravine, for the horses would not be turned. In a steady stream, rapidly, never in a charging cluster which might have served as a means of shielding an advance of the outlaws on their enemy, the mustangs shot away into the open plain and left their masters without the means of transport!

What a howling they put up, then, like furious wild beasts. What a raging of oaths and execrations they poured out on Trainor. But he lay snug in his post. He was, in truth, like a small cork in a great bottle, and the powerful contents were held in check by his single gun, easily. Now that these fellows were dismounted, even if they were to escape from the valley at this moment, a good many of them would almost unquestionably be caught by the men who would soon be coming out from Alkali. Perhaps already Silver was in town, sounding the alarm to all good citizens and believers in the law.

Ben Trainor heard the shouted arguments, now and again, the raging, the groaning of these lost men. He heard them damn Christian bitterly. And then silence followed. They were evidently about to make another effort.

Presently he could make out what it was. He had already mentioned one of several rocks that projected near the top of the wall at the bottom of the box canyon and suggested that he would accept as a ransom for the rest the hanging of Christian and Yates. Now he saw a rope that mounted invisibly, slowly, toward one of those projections.

No doubt a rock that was attached to a light twine or cord had been thrown over the rock first, and now hands that were protected from view on the floor of the canyon were pulling up a rope. It was brought up carefully. A shuddering and awful hope came to Trainor that perhaps the outlaws had actually determined to take advantage of his offer. That rope, invisibly drawn, reached the top of a projecting drop and then fell off the end of it like a thin-bodied serpent, curling in the air.

Another try was made on another projection. This time, the curiously watching eye of Trainor enabled him to see the flinging of the rock, the small shadow showing dimly, in the moonlight, against the smooth of the cliff. He saw the rope begin to rise again, drawn by the invisible cord. And then he paid for the heedless manner in which he had exposed head and shoulder.

He had his rifle at the shoulder, pointed, ready for any target that might present itself as he looked out, when a single gun spoke, and a rifle bullet clanged on the barrel and butt of his weapon. It slashed through his upper arm and lodged behind his shoulder. He could feel it like a fist inside his flesh.

He lay flat on his face, for a moment, gripping his teeth to keep from groaning aloud in his misery. After that, he fell to work on the bandaging.

The blood was running out of him at a frightful rate. He got his shirt off with difficulty and cut it into rags that he tied together and then twisted and retwisted around his shoulder and the mangled flesh of the upper arm. For all the pressure that he put on, he was not able to stop the bleeding entirely. The drain continued steadily, though, of course, in a much diminished degree.

And the pain of the flesh, crushed together as it was by the binding grip of the bandage, sickened him. He looked up, feeling that the light of the moon had grown dimmer, and then he saw the dull and muddy color of the sunrise beginning in the sky.

Well, Silver was far off in Alkali, by this time, and perhaps already he was galloping on the road of the return. Let his coming be swift!

When Trainor ventured another glance, he saw that a doubled rope depended from the rock projection, near the top of the cliff — within arm’s reach of the crest, in fact. And then, grasping the two ropes and pulling himself up with the ape-like speed of a sailor in rigging, appeared Blacky. He was easily known, even in that baffling light of the moon and the dawn, by the build of his body and the bandage around his head. And there was something gallant in this desperate attempt of his that stopped the heart of Trainor.

There was no time for admiration, however. The rifle fire was showering about him again, more rapidly than ever. It was at the risk of his own life that he exposed the tip of his head, took quick aim, and fired.

He saw Blacky droop, and hang by one hand like a wounded monkey, so he ducked back under the rock with a shudder of disgust and remorse.

A shout startled him. He looked again, and saw that Blacky, wounded or not, had resumed his climbing, and was now standing on the rock projection and actually reaching for the rim of the cliff.

Again Trainor fired. He missed; and Blacky pulled himself right up on the edge of the rock as Trainor tried with a third bullet.

He saw Blacky twist into a knot and roll over the verge of the height, then drop down, his heavy body spinning over and over.

Very distinctly, Trainor heard the awful impact of the body against the ground. It sickened him, it weakened him through every nerve. He lay flat once more, thankful that the grisly business was ended. They would surely give over their efforts now and accept the fate that waited for them.

In fact, a dead silence settled over the ravine and continued for so long that Trainor grew suspicious and looked out again. A swishing of bullets through the sand about him proved that the men of Christian were on the alert. But the ropes dangled naked from the cliff.

There was this advantage — that he could see the upper portion of the ropes without exposing himself a great deal. So he kept his glance from time to time fixed on them, while the moon sank in the west, and the dawn turned red, and suddenly the dazzling eye of the sun was shining down upon him.

The warmth of it soaked like hot water into the increasing agony of his wound. Shooting, if he had to do any, would be more difficult, now, because the arm was half numb from the pull of the bandages and the pain of the flesh.

The sun climbed higher in that mortal silence. And why did not Silver appear? Yet when Trainor turned his head, again and again, he saw no sign of a dust cloud across the broad face of the desert.

At last, it seemed to him that the ropes were jerking a little. When he ventured a glance, it was to see a coat-less, bootless man climbing up the face of the rock on the ropes. His long hair blew out in the wind. The power in those long arms and the broad shoulders made Trainor think of Jim Silver — and by that token he knew that it was Barry Christian!

Christian, at last, for a target! And perhaps it would be for Silver’s rifle, in the hands of another, to end the long trail of Barry Christian!

Trainor drew his bead. It was not easy, because Christian, as he climbed, was swinging his body violently, and this caused him to sway in strong, irregular pulsations from side to side. He had a rifle strapped at his back, and the barrel of the gun flashed in the sun.

Trainor fired at that wavering image.

The report of his gun brought a crashing volley from both sides of the valley, close to the mouth of the ravine. In order to center their shots and aim with a better chance, the men of Christian were exposing themselves recklessly, standing up from their rock screens. They were sheltering their leader, but they were fighting for their own lives.

A bullet slicked across the side of Trainor’s head. It was a mere graze. It felt as though a sharp edge of ice had been whipped across the scalp. Then the blood rushed out.

He fired again, and again he knew that he had missed that dangling, swinging target!

Now Christian reached and pulled up on the projecting rock. The time had come when he would have to straighten and haul himself up to the edge of the cliff, and this was the chance of Trainor to place a careful shot in the target.

So he waited, tense, calm, sure of himself, only wishing that the ghastly throbbing in his right arm would ease for the important instant. He took his aim as Christian rose on the rock. He began to squeeze with his whole hand.

And then Christian leaped like a stag, right out of the intended path of the bullet. For he had gripped the verge of the cliff with one hand, and then sprung up as a man would do in vaulting a fence. Trainor fired, cursing his luck at the very instant that he pressed the trigger, and Christian rolled — untouched, he knew — into safety over the lip of the rock.

A babel of mad rejoicing rose out of the ravine, at that. What a cheering and what a mighty yelling went up in honor of a great leader!

For, of course, the battle was won now. Christian had merely to creep out to a vantage point high up on either side of the entrance to the ravine, and from that place he could shoot down at an angle that would make the rocks of Trainor a useless shelter for his body.

But Trainor could not stand up and flee. The watchers inside the valley would riddle him instantly with bullets. There was nothing for him to do but lie there and wait for the coming stroke of agony and death.

There were no calm thoughts, there was no remorse in his mind. There was only a savage rage because the great plan was balked, in this fashion, at the very last moment.

Eagerly he scanned the upper ridges of the rocks. It might be that Barry Christian would expose himself a trifle when making his shot, and in that case —

The minutes grew. An impatient shouting began in the valley.

“Barry! Hey, Christian! Come to life! Come to life! Do something! I can hear them coming now!”

Yes, it was true. A beating of hoofs sounded softly in the ears of Trainor. He turned his head, and out of a growing cloud of dust, he saw riders coming; he saw the golden flash of the great stallion, running far in the lead.

And Christian?

Why, from the height he had seen the coming danger, and instead of staying to liberate his imprisoned men by firing a single bullet into the man who had blocked the way to freedom, he had simply sped away to give himself a better start.