PAGE 8
The Sheriff Of Siskyou
by
“Or,” interrupted the sheriff slowly, fixing his eyes on his prisoner, “not a man who would ever trust Major Overstone for a leader again?”
“Perhaps,” said the major, unmovedly again, “I don’t think EITHER OF US would ever get a chance of being trusted again by any one.”
The sheriff still kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, his gloomy face growing darker under its grime. “THAT ain’t the reason, major. Life and death don’t mean much more to you than they do to me in this yer game. I know that you’d kill me quicker nor lightning if you got the chance; YOU know that I’m takin’ you to the gallows.”
“The reason is that I want to leave Wynyard’s Bar,” said the major coolly; “and even this way out of it will suit me.”
The sheriff took his revolver from his pocket and deliberately cocked it. Then, leaning down, he unbuckled the strap from the major’s ankles. A wild hope that his incomprehensible captive might seize that moment to develop his real intent–that he might fly, fight, or in some way act up to his reckless reputation–sustained him for a moment, but in the next proved futile. The major only said, “Thank you, Tom,” and stretched his cramped legs.
“Get up and go on,” said the sheriff roughly.
The major began to slowly ascend the hill, the sheriff close on his heels, alert, tingling, and watchful of every movement. For a few moments this strain upon his faculties seemed to invigorate him, and his gloom relaxed, but presently it became too evident that the prisoner’s pinioned arms made it impossible for him to balance or help himself on that steep trail, and once or twice he stumbled and reeled dangerously to one side. With an oath the sheriff caught him, and tore from his arms the only remaining bonds that fettered him. “There!” he said savagely; “go on; we’re equal!”
Without replying, the major continued his ascent; it became steeper as they neared the crest, and at last they were both obliged to drag themselves up by clutching the vines and underbrush. Suddenly the major stopped with a listening gesture. A strange roaring–as of wind or water–was distinctly audible.
“How did you signal?” asked the major abruptly.
“Made a smoke,” said the sheriff as abruptly.
“I thought so–well! you’ve set the woods on fire.”
They both plunged upwards again, now quite abreast, vying with each other to reach the summit as if with the one thought only. Already the sting and smart of acrid fumes were in their eyes and nostrils; when they at last stood on level ground again, it was hidden by a thin film of grayish blue haze that seemed to be creeping along it. But above was the clear sky, seen through the interlacing boughs, and to their surprise–they who had just come from the breathless, stagnant hillside–a fierce wind was blowing! But the roaring was louder than before.
“Unless your three men are already here, your game is up,” said the major calmly. “The wind blows dead along the ridge where they should come, and they can’t get through the smoke and fire.”
It was indeed true! In the scarce twenty minutes that had elapsed since the sheriff’s return the dry and brittle underbrush for half a mile on either side had been converted into a sheet of flame, which at times rose to a furnace blast through the tall chimney-like conductors of tree shafts, from whose shriveled sides bark was crackling, and lighted dead limbs falling in all directions. The whole valley, the gully, the Bar, the very hillside they had just left, were blotted out by a creeping, stifling smoke-fog that scarcely rose breast high, but was beaten down or cut off cleanly by the violent wind that swept the higher level of the forest. At times this gale became a sirocco in temperature, concentrating its heat in withering blasts which they could not face, or focusing its intensity upon some mass of foliage that seemed to shrink at its touch and open a scathed and quivering aisle to its approach. The enormous skeleton of a dead and rotten redwood, not a hundred yards to their right, broke suddenly like a gigantic firework into sparks and flame.