FullReads

Observant Curtis, the doctor, shrugged his shoulders.

“The old, old trail,” he satirized.

It was to Bud Evans, the little agent, that he made the observation.

“Which has no ending,” completed the latter.

The doctor shrugged afresh.

“That has one inevitable termination,” he refuted.

“Which is–“

“Madness–sheer madness.”

The agent was silent a moment.

“And the end of that?” he suggested.

Curtis pursed his lips.

“Tragedy, or a strait-jacket. The former, in this instance.”

Evans was silent longer than before.

“Do you really mean that?” he queried at last, significantly.

“I’ve warned Maurice,”–sententiously. “I can do no more.”

“And he?” quickly.

“Thanked me.”

“That was all?”

“That was all.”

The two friends looked at each other, steadily; yet, though they said no more, each knew the thought of the other, each knew that in future no move of Asa Arnold’s would pass unnoticed, unchallenged.

Again, weeks, a month, passed without incident. It was well along in the fall and of an early evening that a vague rumor of the unusual passed swiftly, by word of mouth, throughout the tiny town. Only a rumor it was, but sufficient to set every man within hearing in motion.

On this night Hans Becher had eaten his supper and returned to the hotel office, as was his wont, for an evening smoke, when, without apparent reason, Bud Evans and Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came quietly in and sat down.

“Evening,” they nodded, and looked about them.

A minute later Dr. Curtis and Hank Judge, the machine man, dropped unostentatiously into chairs. They likewise muttered “Evening,” and made observation from under their hat-brims. Others followed rapidly, until the room was full and dark figures waited outside. At last Curtis spoke.

“Your boarder, Asa Arnold, where is he, Hans?”

The unsuspecting German blew a cloud of smoke.

“He a while ago went out.” Then, as an afterthought: “He will return soon.”

Silence once more for a time, and a steadily thickening haze of smoke in the room.

“Did he have supper, Hans?” queried Bud Evans, impatiently.

Again the German’s face expressed surprise.

“No, it is waiting for him. He went to shoot a rabbit he saw.”

The men were on their feet.

“He took a gun, Hans?”

“A rifle, to be sure.” The mild brown eyes glanced up reproachfully. “A man does not go hunting without–… What is this!” he completed in consternation, as, finding himself suddenly alone, he hurried outside and stood confusedly scratching his bushy poll, in the block of light surrounding the open doorway.

The yard was deserted. As one snuffs a candle, the men had vanished. Hans’ pipe had gone out and he went inside for a match. Though the stars fell, the German must needs smoke. Only a minute he was gone, but during that time a group of horsemen had gathered in the street. Others were coming across lots, and still others were emerging from the darkness of alleys. Some were mounted; some led by the rein, wiry little bronchos. Watching, it almost seemed to the German that they sprang from the ground.

“Are you all ready?” called a voice, Bud Evans’ voice.

“Here–“

“Here–“

“All ready?”

“Yes–“

“We’re off, then.”

There was a sudden, confused trampling, as of cattle in stampede; a musical creaking of heavy saddles; a knife-like swish of many quirts through the air; a chorus of dull, chesty groans as the rowels of long spurs bit the flanks of the mustangs, and they were gone–down the narrow street, out upon the prairie, their hoof beats pattering diminuendo into silence; a cloud of dust, grayish in the starlight, marking the way they had taken.

Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came running excitedly up from a side street. He stopped in front of the hotel, breathlessly. Holding his sides, he followed with his eyes the trail of dust leading out into the night.

“Have they gone?” he panted. “I can’t find another horse in town.”

“Where is it to?” sputtered the German.

“Have they gone, I say?”

Hans gasped.

“Yes, to be sure.”

“They’ll never make it.” The blacksmith mopped his brow with conviction. “He has an hour’s start.”

Hans grasped the big man by the coat.

“Who is too late?” he emphasized. “Where are they going?”