style="font-size:15px;"> "Is this no harm?" they asked. "Look at Pete, and then talk."
They lowered the tall, limp figure of the man in pajamas to the ground; his face was a crimson smear.
"Is he dead?" asked Charles Merchant.
"No move out of him," they answered.
Other people, most of them on horseback, were pouring back to learn the meaning of the strange call from Charles Merchant.
"I can't tell you what I mean," he was saying in explanation. "But you, dad, I'll be able to tell you. All I can say is that he mustn't be followed—unless Pete here—"
The eyes of Pete opportunely opened. He looked hazily about him.
"Is he gone?" asked Pete.
"Yes."
"Thank the Lord!"
"Did you see him? What's he like?"
"About seven feet tall. I saw him jump off the roof of the house. I was right under him. Tried to get my gun on him, but he came up like a wild cat and went straight at me. Had his fist in my face before I could get my finger on the trigger. And then the earth came up and slapped me in the face." "There he goes!" cried some one.
The sky was now of a brightness not far from day, and, turning east, in the direction pointed out, Charles Merchant saw a horseman ride over a hilltop, a black form against the coloring horizon. He was moving leisurely, keeping his horse at the cattle pony's lope. Presently he dipped away out of sight.
John Merchant dropped his hand on the shoulder of his son. "What is it?" he asked.
"Heaven knows! Not I!"
"Here are more people! What's this? A night of surprise parties?"
Six riders came through the trees, rushing their horses, and John Merchant saw Bill Dozier's well-known, lanky form in the lead. He brought his horse from a dead run to a halt in the space of a single jump and a slide. The next moment he was demanding fresh mounts.
"Can you give 'em to me, Merchant? But what's all this?"
"You make your little talk," said Merchant, "and then I'll make mine."
"I'm after Andy Lanning. He's left a gent more dead than alive back in Martindale, and I want him. Can you give me fresh horses for me and my boys, Merchant?"
"But the man wasn't dead? He wasn't dead?" cried the voice of a girl. The group opened; Bill Dozier found himself facing a bright-haired girl wrapped to the throat in a long coat, with slippers on her feet.
"Not dead and not alive," he answered. "Just betwixt and between."
"Thank God!" whispered the girl. "Thank God!"
There was only one man in the group who should not have heard that whispered phrase, and that man was Charles Merchant. He was standing at her side.
CHAPTER 8
It took less than five minutes for the deputy sheriff to mount his men; he himself had the pick of the corral, a dusty roan, and, as he drew the cinch taut, he turned to find Charles Merchant at his side.
"Bill," said the young fellow, "what sort of a man is this Lanning?"
"He's been a covered card, partner," said Bill Dozier. "He's been a covered card that seemed pretty good. Now he's in the game, and he looks like the rest of the Lannings—a good lump of daring and defiance. Why d'you ask?"
"Are you keen to get him, Bill?" continued Charlie Merchant eagerly.
"I could stand it. Again, why?"
"You'd like a little gun play with that fellow?"
"I wouldn't complain none."
"Ah? One more thing. Could you use a bit of ready cash?"
"I ain't pressed," said Bill Dozier. "On the other hand, I ain't of a savin' nature."
Then he added: "Get it out, Charlie. I think I follow your drift. And you can go as far as you like." He put out his jaw in an ugly way as he said it.
"It would be worth a lot to me to have this cur done for, Bill. You understand?"
"My time's short. Talk terms, Charlie."
"A thousand."
"The price of a fair hoss."
"Two thousand, old man."
"Hoss and trimmin's."
"Three thousand." "Charlie, you seem to forget that we're talkin' about a man and a gun."
"Bill, it's worth five thousand to me."
"That's turkey. Let me have your hand."
They shook hands.
"And if you kill the horses," said Charles Merchant, "you won't hurt my feelings. But get him!"
"I've got nothing much on him," said Bill Dozier, "but some fools resist arrest."
He smiled in a manner that made the other shudder. And a moment later the deputy led his men out on the trail.
They were a weary lot by this time, but they had beneath the belt several shots of the Merchant whisky which Charles had distributed. And they had that still greater stimulus—fresh horses running smooth and strong beneath them. Another thing had changed. They saw their leader, Bill Dozier, working at his revolver and his rifle as he rode, looking to the charges, trying the pressure of the triggers, getting the balance of the weapons with a peculiar anxiety, and they knew, without a word being spoken, that there was small chance of that trail ending at anything short of a red mark in the dust.
It made some of them shrug their shoulders, but here again it was proved that Bill Dozier knew the men of Martindale, and had picked his posse well. They were the common, hard-working variety of cow-puncher, and presently the word went among them from the man riding nearest to Bill that if young Lanning were taken it would be worth a hundred dollars to each of them. Two months' pay for two days' work. That was fair enough. They also began to look to their guns. It was not that a single one of them could have been bought for a mankilling at that or any other price, perhaps, but this was simply a bonus to carry them along toward what they considered an honest duty.
Nevertheless, it was a different crew that rode over the hills away from the Merchant place. They had begun for the sake of the excitement. Now they were working carefully, riding with less abandon, jockeying their horses, for each man was laboring to be in on the kill.
They had against them a good horse and a stanch horseman. Never had the pinto dodged his share of honest running, and this day was no exception. He gave himself whole-heartedly to his task, and he stretched the legs of the ponies behind him. Yet he had a great handicap. He was tough, but the ranch horses of John Merchant came out from a night of rest. Their legs were full of running. And the pinto, for all his courage, could not meet that handicap and beat it.
That truth slowly sank in upon the mind of the fugitive as he put the game little cattle pony into his best stride. He tried the pinto in the level going. He tried him in the rough. And in both conditions the posse gained
