Chapter 24

THE COHORTS OF JUDGE LYNCH

Hampton staggered blindly to his feet, looking down on the motionless body. He was yet dazed from the sudden cessation of struggle, dazed still more by something he had seen in the instant that deadly knife flashed past him. For a moment the room appeared to swim before his eyes, and he clutched at the overturned table for support, Then, as his senses returned, he perceived the figures of a number of men jamming the narrow doorway, and became aware of their loud, excited voices. Back to his benumbed brain there came with a rush the whole scene, the desperation of his present situation. He had been found alone with the dead man. Those men, when they came surging in attracted by the noise of strife, had found him lying on Slavin, his hand clutching the knife-hilt. He ran his eyes over their horrified faces, and knew instantly they held him the murderer.

The shock of this discovery steadied him. He realized the meaning, the dread, terrible meaning, for he knew the West, its fierce, implacable spirit of vengeance, its merciless code of lynch-law. The vigilantes of the mining camps were to him an old story; more than once he had witnessed their work, been cognizant of their power. This was no time to parley or to hesitate. He had seen and heard in that room that which left him eager to live, to be free, to open a long-closed door hiding the mystery of years. The key, at last, had fallen almost within reach of his fingers, and he would never consent to be robbed of it by the wild rage of a mob. He grabbed the loaded revolver lying upon the floor, and swung Slavin's discarded belt across his shoulder. If it was to be a fight, he would be found there to the death, and God have mercy on the man who stopped him!

"Stand aside, gentlemen," he commanded. "Step back, and let me pass!"

They obeyed. He swept them with watchful eyes, stepped past, and slammed the door behind him. In his heart he held them as curs, but curs could snap, and enough of them might dare to pull him down. Men were already beginning to pour into the saloon, uncertain yet of the facts, and shouting questions to each other. Totally ignoring these, Hampton thrust himself recklessly through the crowd. Half-way down the broad steps Buck Mason faced him, in shirt sleeves, his head uncovered, an ugly "45" in his up-lifted hand. Just an instant the eyes of the two men met, and neither doubted the grim purpose of the other.

"You've got ter do it, Bob," announced the marshal, shortly, "dead er alive."

Hampton never hesitated. "I 'm sorry I met you. I don't want to get anybody else mixed up in this fuss. If you'll promise me a chance for my life, Buck, I 'll throw up my hands. But I prefer a bullet to a mob."

The little marshal was sandy-haired, freckle-faced, and all nerve. He cast one quick glance to left and right. The crowd jammed within the Occidental had already turned and were surging toward the door; the hotel opposite was beginning to swarm; down the street a throng of men was pouring forth from the Miners' Retreat, yelling fiercely, while hurrying figures could be distinguished here and there among the scattered buildings, all headed in their direction. Hampton knew from long experience what this meant; these were the quickly inflamed cohorts of Judge Lynch--they would act first, and reflect later. His square jaws set like a trap.

"All right, Bob," said the marshal. "You're my prisoner, and there 'll be one hell of a fight afore them lads git ye. There's a chance left--leg it after me."

Just as the mob surged out of the Occidental, cursing and struggling, the two sprang forward and dashed into the narrow space between the livery-stable and the hotel. Moffat chanced to be in the passage-way, and pausing to ask no questions, Mason promptly landed that gentleman on the back of his head in a pile of discarded tin cans, and kicked viciously at a yellow dog which ventured to snap at them as they swept past. Behind arose a volley of curses, the thud of feet, an occasional voice roaring out orders, and a sharp spat of revolver shots. One ball plugged into the siding of the hotel, and a second threw a spit of sand into their lowered faces, but neither man glanced back. They were running for their lives now, racing for a fair chance to turn at bay and fight, their sole hope the steep, rugged hill in their front. Hampton began to understand the purpose of his companion, the quick, unerring instinct which had led him to select the one suitable spot where the successful waging of battle against such odds was possible--the deserted dump of the old Shasta mine.

With every nerve strained to the uttermost, the two men raced side by side down the steep slope, ploughed through the tangled underbrush, and toiled up the sharp ascent beyond. Already their pursuers were crowding the more open spaces below, incited by that fierce craze for swift vengeance which at times sweeps even the law-abiding off their feet. Little better than brutes they came howling on, caring only in this moment to strike and slay. The whole affair had been like a flash of fire, neither pursuers nor pursued realizing the half of the story in those first rapid seconds of breathless action. But back yonder lay a dead man, and every instinct of the border demanded a victim in return.

At the summit of the ore dump the two men flung themselves panting down, for the first time able now to realize what it all meant. They could perceive the figures of their pursuers among the shadows of the bushes below, but these were not venturing out into the open--the first mad, heedless rush had evidently ended. There were some cool heads among the mob leaders, and it was highly probable that negotiations would be tried before that crowd hurled itself against two desperate men, armed and entrenched. Both fugitives realized this, and lay there coolly watchful, their breath growing more regular, their eyes softening.

"Whut is all this fuss about, anyhow?" questioned the marshal, evidently somewhat aggrieved. "I wus just eatin' dinner when a feller stuck his head in an' yelled ye'd killed somebody over at the Occidental."

Hampton turned his face gravely toward him. "Buck, I don't know whether you'll believe me or not, but I guess you never heard me tell a lie, or knew of my trying to dodge out of a bad scrape. Besides, I have n't anything to gain now, for I reckon you 're planning to stay with me, guilty or not guilty, but I did not kill that fellow. I don't exactly see how I can prove it, the way it all happened, but I give you my word as a man, I did not kill him."

Mason looked him squarely in the eyes, his teeth showing behind his stiff, closely clipped mustache. Then he deliberately extended his hand, and gripped Hampton's. "Of course I believe ye. Not that you 're any too blame good, Bob, but you ain't the kind what pleads the baby act. Who was the feller?"

"Red Slavin."

"No!" and the hand grip perceptibly tightened. "Holy Moses, what ingratitude! Why, the camp ought to get together and give ye a vote of thanks, and instead, here they are trying their level best to hang you. Cussedest sorter thing a mob is, anyhow; goes like a flock o' sheep after a leader, an' I bet I could name the fellers who are a-runnin' that crowd. How did the thing happen?"

Both men were intently observing the ingathering of their scattered pursuers, but Hampton answered gravely, telling his brief story with careful detail, appreciating the importance of reposing full confidence in this quiet, resourceful companion. The little marshal was all grit, nerve, faithfulness to duty, from his head to his heels.

"All I really saw of the fellow," he concluded, "was a hand and arm as they drove in the knife. You can see there where it ripped me, and the unexpected blow of the man's body knocked me forward, and of course I fell on Slavin. It may be I drove the point farther in when I came down, but that was an accident. The fact is, Buck, I had every reason to wish Slavin to live. I was just getting out of him some information I needed."

Mason nodded, his eyes wandering from Hampton's expressive face to the crowd beginning to collect beneath the shade of a huge oak a hundred yards below.

"Never carry a knife, do ye?"

"No."

"Thought not; always heard you fought with a gun. Caught no sight of the feller after ye got up?"

"All I saw then was the crowd blocking the door-way. I knew they had caught me lying on Slavin, with my hand grasping the knife-hilt, and, someway, I couldn't think of anything just then but how to get out of there into the open. I 've seen vigilantes turn loose before, and knew what was likely to happen!"

"Sure. Recognize anybody in that first bunch?"

"Big Jim, the bartender, was the only one I knew; he had a bung-starter in his hand."

Mason nodded thoughtfully, his mouth puckered. "It's him, and half a dozen other fellers of the same stripe, who are kickin' up all this fracas. The most of 'em are yonder now, an' if it wus n't fer leavin' a prisoner unprotected, darn me if I wud n't like to mosey right down thar an' pound a little hoss sense into thet bunch o' cattle. Thet's 'bout the only thing ye kin do fer a plum fool, so long as the law won't let ye kill him."

They lapsed into contemplative silence, each man busied with his own thought, and neither perceiving clearly any probable way out of the difficulty. Hampton spoke first.

"I 'm really sorry that you got mixed up in this, Buck, for it looks to me about nine chances out of ten against either of us getting away from here unhurt."

"Oh, I don't know. It's bin my experience thet there's allers chances if you only keep yer eyes skinned. Of course them fellers has got the bulge; they kin starve us out, maybe they kin smoke us out, and they kin sure make things onpleasant whenever they git their long-range guns to throwin' lead permiscous. Thet's their side of the fun. Then, on the other hand, if we kin only manage to hold 'em back till after dark we maybe might creep away through the bush to take a hand in this little game. Anyhow, it 's up to us to play it out to the limit. Bless my eyes, if those lads ain't a-comin' up right now!"

A half-dozen men were starting to climb the hillside, following a dim trail through the tangled underbrush. Looking down upon them, it was impossible to distinguish their faces, but two among them, at least, carried firearms. Mason stepped up on to the ore-dump where he could see better, and watched their movements closely.

"Hi, there!" he called, his voice harsh and strident. "You fellers are not invited to this picnic, an' there'll be somethin' doin' if you push along any higher."

The little bunch halted instantly just without the edge of the heavy timber, turning their faces up toward the speaker. Evidently they expected to be hailed, but not quite so soon.

"Now, see here, Buck," answered one, taking a single step ahead of the others, and hollowing his hand as a trumpet to speak through, "it don't look to us fellers as if this affair was any of your funeral, nohow, and we 've come 'long ahead of the others just on purpose to give you a fair show to pull out of it afore the real trouble begins. _Sabe_?"

"Is thet so?"

The little marshal was too far away for them to perceive how his teeth set beneath the bristly mustache.

"You bet! The boys don't consider thet it's hardly the square deal your takin' up agin 'em in this way. They 'lected you marshal of this yere camp, but it war n't expected you'd ever take no sides 'long with murderers. Thet's too stiff fer us to abide by. So come on down, Buck, an' leave us to attend to the cuss."

"If you mean Hampton, he's my prisoner. Will you promise to let me take him down to Cheyenne fer trial?"

"Wal, I reckon not, old man. We kin give him a trial well 'nough right here in Glencaid," roared another voice from out the group, which was apparently growing restless over the delay. "But we ain't inclined to do you no harm onless ye ram in too far. So come on down, Buck, throw up yer cards; we've got all the aces, an' ye can't bluff this whole darn camp."

Mason spat into the dump contemptuously, his hands thrust into his pockets. "You 're a fine-lookin' lot o' law-abidin' citizens, you are! Blamed if you ain't. Why, I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers fer the whole kit and caboodle of ye, you low-down, sneakin' parcel o' thieves. Ye say it wus yer votes whut made me marshal o' this camp. Well, I reckon they did, an' I reckon likewise I know 'bout whut my duty under the law is, an' I'm a-goin' to do it. If you fellers thought ye 'lected a chump, this is the time you git left. This yere man, Bob Hampton, is my prisoner, an' I'll take him to Cheyenne, if I have ter brain every tough in Glencaid to do it. Thet's me, gents."

"Oh, come off; you can't run your notions agin the whole blame moral sentiment of this camp."

"Moral sentiment! I 'm backin' up the law, not moral sentiment, ye cross-eyed beer-slinger, an' if ye try edgin' up ther another step I 'll plug you with this '45.'"

There was a minute of hesitancy while the men below conferred, the marshal looking contemptuously down upon them, his revolver gleaming ominously in the light. Evidently the group hated to go back without the prisoner.

"Oh, come on, Buck, show a little hoss sense," the leader sang out. "We 've got every feller in camp along with us, an' there ain't no show fer the two o' ye to hold out against that sort of an outfit."

Mason smiled and patted the barrel of his Colt.

"Oh, go to blazes! When I want any advice, Jimmie, I'll send fer ye."

Some one fired, the ball digging up the soft earth at the marshal's feet, and flinging it in a blinding cloud into Hampton's eyes. Mason's answer was a sudden fusilade, which sent the crowd flying helter-skelter into the underbrush. One among them staggered and half fell, yet succeeded in dragging himself out of sight.

"Great Scott, if I don't believe I winged James!" the shooter remarked cheerfully, reaching back into his pocket for more cartridges. "Maybe them boys will be a bit more keerful if they once onderstand they 're up agin the real thing. Well, perhaps I better skin down, fer I reckon it's liable ter be rifles next."

It was rifles next, and the "winging" of Big Jim, however it may have inspired caution, also developed fresh animosity in the hearts of his followers, and brought forth evidences of discipline in their approach. Peering across the sheltering dump pile, the besieged were able to perceive the dark figures cautiously advancing through the protecting brush; they spread out widely until their two flanks were close in against the wall of rock, and then the deadly rifles began to spit spitefully, the balls casting up the soft dirt in clouds or flattening against the stones. The two men crouched lower, hugging their pile of slag, unable to perceive even a stray assailant within range of their ready revolvers. Hampton remained cool, alert, and motionless, striving in vain to discover some means of escape, but the little marshal kept grimly cheerful, creeping constantly from point to point in the endeavor to get a return shot at his tormentors.

"This whole blame country is full of discharged sojers," he growled, "an' they know their biz all right. I reckon them fellers is pretty sure to git one of us yit; anyhow, they 've got us cooped. Say, Bob, thet lad crawling yonder ought to be in reach, an' it's our bounden duty not to let the boys git too gay."

Hampton tried the shot suggested, elevating considerable to overcome distance. There was a yell, and a swift skurrying backward which caused Mason to laugh, although neither knew whether this result arose from fright or wound.

"'Bliged ter teach 'em manners onct in a while, or they 'll imbibe a fool notion they kin come right 'long up yere without no invite. 'T ain't fer long, no how, 'less all them guys are ijuts."

Hampton turned his head and looked soberly into the freckled face, impressed by the speaker's grave tone.

"Why?"

"Fire, my boy, fire. The wind's dead right fer it; thet brush will burn like so much tinder, an' with this big wall o' rock back of us, it will be hell here, all right. Some of 'em are bound to think of it pretty blame soon, an' then, Bob, I reckon you an' I will hev' to take to the open on the jump."

Hampton's eyes hardened. God, how he desired to live just then, to uncover that fleeing Murphy and wring from him the whole truth which had been eluding him all these years! Surely it was not justice that all should be lost now. The smoke puffs rose from the encircling rifles, and the hunted men cowered still lower, the whistling of the bullets in their ears.