CHAPTER XX
THE RIDE WITH DEATH
“So steady and firm, leaning low to the mane,
With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,
Rode we on;
Reaching low, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows;
Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer;
There was work to be done, there was death in the air;
And the chance was as one to a thousand.”
Sibyl had buttoned her glove, and she now took the rein herself and settled firmly in the saddle.
“Do you think there is danger? How horrid to have a thing like this happen and spoil our ride!”
To her unpracticed eyes the appearance of the moiling herd was not as threatening as at first. The cattle in front were pushing into those behind and staying their forward progress. Farther back, where the stampede madness was doing its deadliest work, she could not see, for the cattle there were hidden by the dust cloud.
“We must get out of this,” said Clayton, in a nervous voice, as he set his horse in motion. “Unless we ride fast they may cut us off at the lower end of the cañon.”
The forward line of moving cattle was hurled on again, as the receding wave is caught by the one behind it and flung against the shore. The thunder of pounding hoofs rose like the lashing of surf on a rocky coast. Then that long line, flashing out of the dust, deepened backward beneath the lifting cloud until it resembled a stretch of tossing sea. The resemblance was more than fanciful. The irregular heaving motion of a choppy sea was there, the white glint of horns was as the shine of wave crests, the tumultuous roar rose and fell like the thunder of billows, and the dust cloud hovered like thick mist.
Clayton and Sibyl were galloping at a swift pace. Terror clutched at her heart now and shone in her dark eyes. She heard the mad roar behind her, and dared not look back. Clayton looked back, and his face became set and white.
“A little faster,” he begged, when he had thus glanced behind.
He struck her horse with his hand to urge it on, while his heels flailed the sides of his own beast. Her ribboned whip lifted and fell, and she cried out to her horse in fear. The whole herd was in motion.
It was crescent-shaped; widest in its center, like the horned moon; one end rested, or rather moved, on the cañon’s rim; the other, out on the flat mesa, was swinging in toward the cañon, farther down. It was this lower point of the crescented herd that Clayton feared most; the great moon-shaped mass was crumpling together, its ends were converging, and if that lower point reached the cañon before the riders could pass through the gap which now beckoned there, they would be caught in the loop of the crumpled crescent and crushed to death or hurled into the cañon. The only hope lay in passing through that opening while it still remained an opening. And toward that gap they were riding, with a portion of the herd thundering behind along the cañon wall.
“We can make it,” Clayton cried hopefully; “we can make it!”
And he urged the horses on.
Though the words encouraged her, Sibyl could not fail to perceive the deadly peril of the closing gap toward which they were speeding.
Fortunately the ground was level, broken only by grassy hillocks and bunches of sage. The few obstructing plum bushes that had survived the fire or had sprouted since that time had been passed already.
As the cattle at the lower end of the crescent were thus brought near, Sibyl beheld the flecking spume of their foaming mouths as it was flung into the air and glistened on their heads and bodies. She could even see the insane glare of their eyes, as they drove toward her in their unheeding course. The thunder of their hoofs was making the ground shake.
“Ride, ride!” Clayton shouted, his voice tremulous. “We can get through. We must get through!”
Even the horses seemed to know what threatened now. Leaping into the narrowing gap, they answered this last appeal of heel, whip, and voice with a further increase of speed. Clayton bent forward in his saddle as if he would hurl himself on, and in the extremity of his anxiety reached out his stiff hand toward Sibyl’s bridle to urge her horse to even a swifter pace.
They were riding dangerously near the cañon wall. Hidden as the cañon was by tall grass, the cattle were driving straight toward it, as though determined to hurl themselves and these wild riders into its depths.
And now the heaving backs, the tapering horns, the glaring eyes, the shining gossamer threads of wispy spume, and the tortured dust cloud, seemed to be flung together into the very faces of the riders. For a moment Sibyl thought all was lost; in imagination she was being impaled on those tapering horns. She heard Clayton yelling encouragement. Then, with spurning feet, the horses passed through the narrow passage; and behind them broke a bellowing tumult, as the foremost cattle began to plunge downward into the cañon.
Sibyl reeled in her saddle, and Clayton put out his stiff hand to support her.
Behind them was that wild roar, where the living cascade was pouring over the cañon wall; and the danger was behind them, and past, he thought.
But suddenly the shooting torrent of bellowing animals was stopped. The portion of the herd which had followed madly after the fleeing riders along the wall, and had been augmented greatly in numbers, struck this lower line. It was like the impact of two cross sections of a landslide. The weaker gave way, over-borne and crushed; and the larger herd streamed on, over a tangle of fallen bodies, adding to the tangled pile and treading each other down in wild confusion. The danger was not past.
Clayton’s stiff hand settled Sibyl’s reeling form in the saddle. He was shaking with the strain of his exertions and his emotions. His face was set like a mask and his dark eyes glittered feverishly.
“We must ride on!” he urged. “Just a little farther! I’ll help you, but we must ride on!”
Returning fear put strength into her quivering body. She sat erect once more, and again plied the ribboned whip. The horses, with sides smoking and flanks heaving, galloped on. They had made a terrible run, as their dripping bodies and straining red nostrils showed, but they were still game, and they responded to this new call as nobly as to the first.
The section of the herd that had overwhelmed and trampled under foot the cattle in its way, came straight on, now and then tossing an unfortunate into the cañon as a splinter is flung out from a revolving and broken wheel. But the speedier horses drew away again.
While hope was thus returning to Sibyl her horse went down, having thrust a foot into a grass-grown badger hole, and she was torn from the saddle and hurled violently through the air. She struck heavily and lay stunned. Clayton was off his horse and at her side in an instant, but had caution enough left to cling to his bridle rein. Sibyl lay groaning; but when he put his strong sound arm about her, she rose to her feet. Blood showed on her lips.
“It’s nothing,” she said, as he wiped it away with his handkerchief. “I—I think I have only cut my lip.” The thunder of the approaching hoofs frightened her. “Can you help me into the saddle?”
She clung to him weakly.
“Yes,” he answered, supporting her.
But when they turned to her horse he saw that in its fall it had broken its leg. It stood helplessly by the badger hole, from which it had scrambled, holding up that dangling leg.
“You must take my horse!” he said.
“And leave you here?”
“I—I can outrun them, maybe; if I had a revolver I might stop the foremost and get ground to stand on.”
She put her hand to her bosom and drew out a small revolver.
“It may be foolish for a woman to carry such a weapon, but it will be useful now.”
It was but a little thing, a woman’s toy, yet he took it eagerly.
“I can turn them aside with this; you must take my horse at once.”
He lifted her in his arms and placed her in his saddle. She did not stop for conventionalities, but set a foot in each stirrup.
“You can make it yet!” he panted. “Go; don’t think of me; I will stop them here!”
He knew he could neither stop them nor turn them aside. She did not want to leave him, but fear tore at her heart; the herd was on them again, though the halt had been so brief.
“Go!” he yelled, and struck the horse with the shining revolver.
Its quick leap almost threw her, but she clutched the horn of the saddle and raced on.
Clayton turned to face the mad stampede. That line of tossing heads and clicking horns was not a hundred yards away. He looked at the little revolver and smiled. The strange light which had so startled Justin was again in his eyes.
“I will not leave you to be trodden to death by them, old fellow,” he said to the horse; “you deserve a better fate than that.”
With the words, he put the pistol to the head of the trembling horse and fired. It was but a small pellet of lead, but it went true, and the horse fell. He stepped up to its body and sent the second shot at the leading steer. He glanced at the sky an instant, then at Sibyl fleeing away along the cañon wall in the direction of the distant ranch buildings. The strange light deepened in his eyes.
“I have saved her,” he whispered; “and even God can die, when the reason is great enough!”
Sibyl did not hear those shots in the confusion that clamored behind her, and she had not courage to look back. Having lost her ribboned whip in the fall, she beat the horse with her gloved hand. A numbing pain gripped her heart and made her breathing quick and heavy. At times her sight blurred, and then fear smote hardest, for she felt that she was falling. Yet she rode on, reeling in the deep saddle, and when faint maintained her position by clinging to the saddle horn. At the door of the ranch house she fell forward on the neck of the horse and slipped in a limp heap to the ground; but she was up again, with hand pressed to her heart, when Pearl Harkness dashed out to assist her.
Behind Pearl came Lucy Davison and Mary Jasper. They had heard the thundering of hoofs, and but a minute before had seen Sibyl ride into view at that mad pace from behind the screening stables. She had outridden the stampeded cattle. The curving cañon wall had turned them at last, and they were beginning to mill.
There was blood on Sibyl’s lips and a look of death in her ghastly face; yet she smiled, and tried to stand more erect, when she saw Mary.
“Help me into the house, please,” she whispered faintly; “I—I’m afraid I’m hurt.”
Supported by Pearl on one side and by Lucy and Mary on the other, Sibyl entered the house. Inside the doorway she reeled and put her hand to her eyes. She stiffened with a shudder, as she recovered.
“I must lie down!” she gasped; but when she took another step the blindness and faintness returned, and she fell, in spite of the supporting arms.
Pearl’s cry of alarm and consternation reached the room where Philip Davison lay. It was a lower room and furthest removed from the mesa, but he had heard the rumble of the stampede. The sound of excited voices, Sibyl’s heavy fall, and that outcry from Pearl Harkness, called back the wasted strength to his weakened body. He appeared in the connecting doorway, half dressed, and with a blanket drawn round his shrunken shoulders. He looked a spectre and not a man; his bearded cheeks were hollowed, his straight nose appeared to crook over the sunken mouth like the beak of a bird, and his blue eyes, gleaming from cavernous sockets, stared with unnatural brightness. Seeing Sibyl on the floor with the frightened women about her, he came forward and offered to help. Nothing could have astounded them more than this, for they thought he had not strength to walk.
“Put her in the bed there,” he commanded, indicating an adjoining room.
He stooped to assist in lifting her; but the faintness was passing, and she showed that she was still able to assist herself.
“Yes, put me in the bed,” she panted.
They helped her to the bed, Davison following with tottering steps, trying to aid. Mary shook the pillow into shape and placed it under her head. Sibyl observed her and put up her gloved hand to touch Mary’s hair.
“You are here, dear; I—I am so glad!”
“Where is Clayton?” said Davison, turning about. “He is needed.”
A cowboy came running into the house to report the stampede of the cattle.
“Let them go,” Davison cried; “you ride at once for Doctor Clayton. Tell him to come immediately.”
Pearl Harkness had hurried into the kitchen, thinking of hot-water bags. Mary stared into Sibyl’s face and inanely patted the pillow tucked under her head. Lucy was wiping away the blood that oozed from between Sibyl’s lips.
“Come nearer, dear,” said Sibyl in a weak voice, speaking to Mary. “Come nearer, dear; I want you to kiss me and forgive me. I—I—”
Her ghastly features became more pinched and ghastly; her hand wavered toward Mary’s face. Mary took it and placed it against her warm, tear-wet cheek, in the old way.
Sibyl stared at her.
“I—I can’t see you, dear; but you have hold of my hand. The room must be growing dark, or—or is it my eyes? The windows haven’t been closed, have they?”
“The windows are open,” said Mary; “wide open.”
Sibyl still stared at her, while Pearl bustled into the room with cloths and a water bottle.
“It—it is growing dark to me. I’m dying, and I know it. My—my horse fell, and—and Clayton was with me; he is out there yet—where—where the cattle are.”
She made another effort to see.
“Hold—hold my hand tight, Mary; and—and please kiss me, won’t you? Hold my hand tight! I loved you, Mary—I loved you! Oh, I can’t see you—I can’t see you at all! Kiss me, and forgive me. I don’t want to go into the dark! I always loved the light—the light!”
As Mary stooped with that forgiving kiss, Sibyl touched her hair with affection.
“I forgive you everything,” said Mary.
“You won’t believe that I truly loved you, Mary, but I did; always remember that I did. Oh, I want the light—the light—I can’t see you! I’m afraid there isn’t any light—beyond! I could bear the fires of hell if they but gave light and I could live on. But I’m afraid—afraid, Mary, that—that there isn’t anything beyond; and that I shall never see you again!”
She put up her hands, gasping for breath.
“I’ve been a wicked woman, but I loved you, Mary; oh, I loved you; and I tried to shield you all I could! I oughtn’t to have taken you to Denver, but I wanted you, and I was selfish. Oh, this darkness! Open the windows; I’m—I’m afraid of the darkness! Open the—windows; I must—must have light!”
But the light did not return.
Clayton’s body, mangled beyond recognition, was found near that of the horse he had mercifully slain.
CHAPTER XXI
RECONCILIATION
Philip Davison had an accession of strength after that and sat at his desk through the whole of one afternoon, thinking and writing. When Justin made his customary call in the morning and was about to turn away, Davison bade him stay.
“You will find some papers in the upper right hand drawer of my desk, Justin. Get them and bring them to me.”
Justin found the papers and handed them to him.
“Now, sit down by the bed again.”
Justin took the chair, and looked at his father, who reclined in the bed propped with pillows. Davison had changed greatly. His hair and beard were almost white and his blue eyes gleamed from deep sockets. There was something pathetic in the contrast between the emaciated, trembling father and the robust, stalwart son. Justin pitied him.
“There are some things I want to talk to you about, Justin.” His hands trembled so much that the papers rattled as he unfolded them. “I am not able to attend to business now, and may never be able. Fogg will be here to-morrow, and there are some things I want to talk over with you before he comes. He is anxious to sell out to that man from the East. He thinks the chance is one not to be lost.”
It was the first time that Davison had offered to consult with Justin on any subject, or had spoken to him in this manner. Justin drew his chair closer to the bed.
“If I can help you in any way.”
“I’ve got to have your help, I suppose,” said Davison, with a touch of his old petulance. “When a man is wrecked he clutches at—well, we won’t talk about that! We’ll have to agree to let bygones be bygones. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, and I want to do right by you.”
He put down the papers, which he had been about to read.
“By the way, Justin, I’ve been thinking a good deal about you and Lucy. You and she are still in the notion of marrying, I suppose?”
His voice was kindly now, and it softened still more as he beheld the hurt expression on his son’s flushed face.
“Forget what I said just now, and I’ll try to be more considerate. This has been a terrible thing for me; how terrible I don’t think you can ever realize. I had made Ben my idol. It was foolish, of course, but in this world men do foolish things; I have done my full share of them. So if there is anything to be forgiven by any one I am the one to do the forgiving.”
His hands shook again on the papers and tears came into the sunken eyes.
“I have forgiven Ben everything. I think he was not so much to blame after all. I was wild, too, in my youth; and, forgetting that, I did not bring him up right. If he had lived; that is, if–” The tears overflowed on his cheeks, and he stopped. “But we won’t talk about that. I wish I could forget it.”
He folded the papers and spread them out again, while he sought to gain control of his voice.
“If you and Lucy are still in the notion of getting married, you have my full consent to do so. You are my son, and I shall treat you as a son should be treated; and she is my adopted daughter. So, whatever I have is yours and hers, when I am gone.”
“You will get well!” said Justin, earnestly and with feeling.
“Yes, I believe so!” There was a touch of the old fire now. “I think I shall get well. I have improved lately. My head doesn’t trouble me so much, for one thing. It has cleared so that I was able to do a good deal of writing yesterday. I shall get well, but I know I shall never be the same; I shall never be able to take the interest in business matters that I did. I don’t seem to care what goes on in the valley and on the ranch now. Even the loss of those cattle didn’t touch me. Once I should have felt it, just as Fogg did.”
“Lucy will be very glad to know that we have your full consent to our marriage,” Justin ventured.
“Of course she will; and you, too. It will even please me to have you married as soon as possible. You may live in any of the houses we have bought that will suit you, or a new one can be built.”
He took up the papers again.
“I shall turn the management of the place over to you until I am able to manage it myself. You can consult with Fogg, and I will give you what instructions I can. I hope to be strong enough in another month to ride about, and then I can assist you even more. Fogg thinks it would be well to sell our canal interests and a part of our land to this Eastern man. I agree with him. I think we ought to hold a good deal of the valley land; it’s going to be valuable, when that tunnel is cut. That man will bring in a colony of farmers and gardeners; a good many people can live here, with the aid of the irrigation that can be had from the Warrior River. I want to stay here, in spite of what has happened; and you and Lucy will want to stay here. There isn’t a prettier valley in the state, and it’s our home; and the sale of a part of our land, with the cultivation of the rest of it, and the increase in values, will make us independent.”
He began to read from the papers. To Justin’s surprise they held a list of names of men Davison had wronged and to whom he wished now to make restitution.
“I was over-persuaded in a good many things, and often went with Fogg against my better judgment. But I haven’t anything to say against him. Whatever I did I am willing to shoulder. He is a first-class business man; I admire his ability to make money, and I wanted money, for Ben. These things I have marked here I desire made right, so far as they can be made right. I don’t want you to give away money to anybody. Money isn’t to be shaken out of every tree, except by a man like Fogg. Pay whatever is just, but no more. The names are here, and the amounts. I have been generous in the estimates, and you will have no call to go farther than I have.”
He put the papers in Justin’s hands.
“There; I turn this business, and all the rest of my business, over to you! And you and Lucy may get married as soon as you like. Consult with Fogg concerning the land to be sold.”
The blue eyes smiled from the deep sockets, and the face was softer and more kindly. Already Davison had a higher and more satisfactory opinion of himself.
“You are my son, Justin. I have no other son now; and we will try to be to each other what we ought to have been all these years.”
“Father!”
Justin’s voice trembled; and though when he stood erect he towered above other men, he humbled himself now as a child, and laid his first kiss of love on his father’s wasted cheek.