Beyond the Law — Reading Notes

hundred yards in advance. Then came the two horses. And in the rear, his brain leaping from the talk of last night to Watson’s accounts of the place where “the whole side of the mountain was rotten with gold,” to wondering about this Devil’s Pocket, Dick Farley followed silently.

They camped a little at noon by a spring which Watson had marked upon his map, and rested for a couple of hours. The older man, unostentatiously and without effort at concealment, unlimbered the two heavy revolvers at his belt and looked to them as a man does when he expects he will use them.

“The cards ain’t played yet, Dick,” he said. “And if it don’t come too onexpected, we’re going to give ’em a run for their money, old timer.”

During the silent hours of the afternoon Farley strove to keep his partner always in sight, hurrying up the lagging horses, keeping them at Watson’s heels. And, although he still told himself that he did not and would not believe in this senseless superstition, he carried all day a forty-five-caliber Colt.

All day they drove steadily into the mountains. For ahead of them was the thing which had called to them across the miles of wilderness, which, since the world was young, had drawn men into hardship, exile and often enough to death—soft, yellow, crumbling gold! And it was almost eight, and dark in the narrow pass, when Watson called out and Farley pushed by the horses to his side and looked on the site for their camp—“the last camp this side the strike.”

It was a spring which bubbled out clear and cold upon a little flat hardly bigger than the barroom at the Eagle Hotel. And oddly, there was no creek flowing from it to mark its whereabouts. For the water ran a scant ten feet westward and sank into a great fissure in the rock.

“We’ll eat first,” said Watson when the two men had drunk. “The moon’ll be up pretty quick. Then I’ll show you something—what the Devil’s Pocket country looks like.”

The day had died slowly. It did not grow dark, for with the rising evening breeze the full moon climbed up through a tangle of fir-tops and barren peaks, its strong white light driving all but the most valiant stars from the sky. Watson knocked the dead ashes out of his pipe and got to his feet.

“Come ahead, Dick. We’ll take a look at where we’re going. Where a good many men have been—and not many come back.”

They climbed from the trail along a spine of rock to a black spire, rising clear of the scanty brush. To the very top of the sloping rock they worked their cautious way until their two gaunt bodies stood outlined against the sky. Here they found footing, and here Watson stood with arm flung out, pointing. Dick Farley was not unused to the thousand moods of the mountain places, and yet as his eyes ran along the pointing arm, and beyond it eagerly, he muttered his startled admiration.

The moon, full, round and yellow, had floated clear of the distant ridges and hung in rich splendor above a long, narrow, twisting valley, the Devil’s Pocket. Trees, hills, peaks and ravines stood out in the soft light, black and without detail. The floor of the winding valley took upon itself many shifting shades, a dark silver-gray here where there was a strip of sandy soil, a more somber splotch there where the willows followed a thin thread of a stream.

“There she is!” Watson exclaimed. “That thread of willows marks the only creek in the valley. It runs from a big spring like ours here, and the lake drinks it up. They call the lake ‘The Last Drink.’ We’ll walk fifteen minutes before we get to it. We hit the southeast shore just about where you see that little bay with the cliffs coming down close. There’s a trail along the base of them cliffs; we follow that worse’n six miles fu’ther. And when we’re there, Dickie boy, we’re right on top of the biggest goldmine——”

His voice broke off sharply, and he turned his back to it all. Dick heard him move back down to the trail. With his eyes filled with the panorama below him Dick’s thoughts drew back from the trail and the ore at the end of it and followed the man who had found the thing, the precious thing which they had so long sought, and who had turned back for his partner that he, too, might have his share.

And again he told himself that his fears of last night, which had been growing all day, were groundless, senseless—that Johnny Watson could not be in danger of death.

CHAPTER III: FARLEY MAKES A VOW

Before he climbed down the way Watson had gone, Dick Farley again turned his eyes along the trail which was to lead him tomorrow to the Cup of Gold. His wandering fancies built a golden dream future. Then he turned back and climbed slowly down to the trail.

The fire was dying upon the little rocky ledge where he had built it an hour ago. Beyond the camp-fire, where he had flung his blanket at the base of the cliff, Johnny Watson was already lying. Farley swept up his own blanket from the ground and, stepping around the fire, flung it down close to Watson’s.

“I don’t believe in your premonitions, pardner,” he said with a little laugh. “But if they get one of us they’ll have to take two. Here’s where I pitch my tent.”

Johnny Watson made no answer. He was already asleep. Johnny never wasted time in wakefulness when he had turned in.

Farley straightened out his blankets, jerked off his heavy boots and socks and lay down, his elbow close to Watson’s. And so he went to sleep.

Something awoke him; it might have been the moon, shining full in his face. He rolled over upon his side, shifted his wide-brimmed hat to shield his face from the light, and still he did not go back to sleep. He felt restless, uneasy—inexplicably uneasy. Those confounded things Johnny had said last night wouldn’t leave him. There was no sound; not a ripple upon the surface of the night’s silence save the murmur and trickle of the water. He should be able to hear the horses—the chain on old Shaggy’s halter.

He sat up. Doing so, he put his right hand on the ground beside him, beside Johnny Watson. He felt something damp, spongy, and sticky. He lifted his hand, staring at it in the moonlight. There was a dark stain. He put it to his nostrils.

“Good God!” he cried aloud. “Johnny! Johnny!”

And then when Johnny Watson did not answer, he did not need to look. He knew Johnny Watson was dead—dead at the side of his partner who had slept!

The young man staggered to his feet and stared wildly around. Each rock and tree and bush stood out clearly in the moonlight with its shadow flung out very dark and very distinct. His revolver was rigid in the tense steel of his grip. There was nothing, there was no one. And yet, while he slept, some one had crept upon his partner.

He turned to where Watson lay. And suddenly, as he saw how the man was lying, the way an arm lay at his side, the other arm flung out, the truth came upon him; and without looking at the wound he knew that death had not come upon Watson while the two men lay side by side.

It had come while Farley stood alone upon the top of the cliff staring out into Devil’s Pocket, dreaming! For as Watson lay now, so had he lain when Farley came down to him. He had been dead when his partner called to him, saying they would sleep side by side!

“While I was up on the rock,” Farley muttered dully, “they got him.”

He stooped low over the prostrate body and gently, tenderly, he moved it so that it lay face-up. The moonlight showed well how Johnny Watson’s death had found him. At the side of his bared neck was a cut such as a broad-bladed knife would make, a great gash, two inches long. Just one blow had been struck, just one such blow needed.

Farley got slowly to his feet and for a little stood looking down into the dead man’s face. And the face of the man who looked into the dead eyes was as oddly quiet and calm.

“They got you, Johnny,” Farley was saying in a voice void of expression, “with me in calling distance— Oh, Johnny!”

For a moment he stood, his face sunk into his two brown hands. And then suddenly he whirled about, his head lifted, his arm dung out, shaken with a frenzy of rage.

“My pardner—you’ve murdered my pardner!” he shouted. “And I’m going to find you out! I’m going to kill you!”

Then he suddenly calmed as he realized that he was alone in the mountains, a week’s travel from the nearest mining-camp, alone with his dead partner. He moved back from the ledge and into the shadow, where he sat down upon a broken boulder. All at once a thing which he had forgotten swept back over him—the horses! He had missed the noise of their crunching, he had failed to hear the jingle of old Shaggy’s tie-chain!

He sprang to his feet and ran down into the little clearing where they had tied the two pack-animals. They were gone, both gone. He stumbled over one of the pack-saddles with its load. There had been no time to take that. But the other, old Shaggy’s saddle, was missing.

Slowly he made his way back to the little ledge where Johnny Watson lay. Again he sat down upon the bit of boulder, and lighting his pipe pulled at it steadily, staring down into the quiet cañon. He could not follow tracks until morning.

With the first glint of the new day he buried Johnny Watson.

For a moment Dick stood hat in hand, looking at the little mound of earth which he had made and piled high with stones. And then he turned and, walking swiftly, strode back to the spot where the horses had been staked.

There was no difficulty in picking up the trail. Upon that rugged, rocky mountainside the murderer, if he had taken the two horses with him, must have moved eastward and into the Devil’s Pocket, or in a direction leading southwesterly over the trail which Farley and Watson had come yesterday. He could not have scaled the cliffs above, he could have made no progress through the dense brush of the deep-cut ravine below.

For a moment Farley hesitated between going forward toward the little mountain valley and turning back. Then the thought came to him that he could hope to learn what he sought to know by going forward, quicker than by swinging back toward the southwest. For if the two horses had gone eastward, it would be easier to pick up their trail than upon the path which they had cut up yesterday. If there should be any fresh tracks leading into the Devil’s Pocket, that would settle it. And not ten minutes later, having followed the stony trail until it dipped a little into a bit of soft soil in a hollow, he found the tracks—fresh tracks made by two shod horses.

Then he went back to last night’s camp, made himself a small pack of bacon and coffee and flour; and taking no useless thing, no blanket even to interfere with the free swing of his body, he turned east and struck out swiftly.

He followed the trail for a mile, saw how it wound in and out, climbing and dipping, worming slowly toward the pocket. And then, when he had been assured that the two horses were ahead of him, he left the trail and fought his way due east, up the face of a steep bank and to the crest of the bleak mountains. He remembered Watson had told him that following the trail they would have to go a good fifteen miles to travel ten, and now he sought a short-cut to head off the man he followed. He knew that he would pick up the trail again in the valley.

Hour after hour he trudged on, his face whipped by tangled brambles in the cañons, his hands torn by the crags over which he continued to climb toward the top of the ridge.

At last, about the middle of the forenoon, he came to the top of the narrow divide. From an outjutting crag he looked down into the valley before him, seeing again the winding course of the creek, the little lake, the steep mountain walls and gorges. Here he stopped long enough to choose the way he must go to make the best time. And then with one long look back toward the slope where the lone cedar flung its twisted branches over his partner, he turned again eastward and plunged down into the steep cañon, down into the Devil’s Pocket.

CHAPTER IV: FARLEY TAKES A TUMBLE

ON THE floor of the Devil’s Pocket Dick Farley came upon the trail again as he had foreseen. Where it ran from the ridges across the creek he found tracks. He drank first and then studied them. And slowly there came a frown into his eyes, and then a look of pain.

For there were the tracks of one horse, and of a man’s boot-heels in the soft wet soil—tracks a month old, the tracks which Johnny Watson had left when he drew out of the valley to find his partner.

Back and forth Farley moved, stepping slowly by the side of the path, searching long and carefully for the fresh signs to tell him that two horses had passed here during the night or in the early morning. He did not find them. But a moment later, at the very edge of the stream, close to the spot where he had just flung himself down to drink, he found that another man had lain there drinking. He saw the prints of the heavy boots, saw that they had come from the west; that the man had crossed the stream here, stepping over the mere thread of water, and had pushed on toward the northern end of the valley. And the horses?

Dick had no doubt this was the man he sought. For some reason he had left the horses in the hills, hidden in some steep-walled cañon.

Again Farley pushed on, following the trail, seeing now and again the outline of the heavy boots where the soil was moist or dusty. In a little he ceased to look for the tracks, excepting at long intervals, for they led straight ahead, keeping to the path through the wiry grass, straight toward the lake. At noon he stopped to eat and smoke his pipe. And then again he pushed on.

He was tired now, but he gave no respite to the muscles which had been greatly taxed after a night of wakefulness.

Finally, a little after noon, he came to the lake shore, where the trail ran close to the water’s edge, and at the base of the cliffs which rose a perpendicular twenty feet here, fifty feet there. And when he had drunk of the clear, cold water and had turned from looking out across the mile of dimpling crystal, mountain fringed, he made a discovery, a discovery which came very close to costing him his life.

Rising straight up through the clear air above the cliffs at his side was a thin wisp of smoke, such as climbs upward from a little camp-fire. His heart beat quickly at sight of it. It was back from the cliffs maybe a quarter of a mile, he judged. There must be a sort of tableland up there. There he would find the man he had followed. He saw that the tracks had come to the lake here ahead of him; that they continued northward along the shore. But again he left them, again to make a short cut, and began working his way up along the cliff-side. Clinging with his fingers to seams and crevices, driving the toes of his boots into the cracks which they could find, he drew painfully, slowly toward the top.

He was already so close to the edge above that he could almost reach it with a hand thrust up as far as he could reach, with fifteen feet between him and the ground below. He was straining every muscle, his face tight-pressed to the rocks, reaching up for the rough hand-hold which just defied him, when he was startled by a sound coming clearly to him from below—the unmistakable sound of the dip of a paddle.

He saw the trap he had blundered into. As he was, he could not turn, could not draw a gun from his belt. There he was, clinging to the face of the cliff, a mark to be seen from across the lake, with no hope of being overseen by the man who in a moment would drive a canoe around the rocky point a few yards away, who could shoot him in the back as easily as lift a finger.

Again he strained upward, and at last he succeeded in grasping the rock which protruded from the edge above, and drew himself up. Then he heard a cry from below, a cry as of warning; the rock came away in his hand, he clutched wildly to save himself, then plunged headlong, twisting as he fell. As his body had struck he felt a swift-driven pain through his head, and lost consciousness in a black nothingness.

Luckily for him the fall had been broken for he had twisted his body so that a part of his solid weight struck upon his shoulder. For life was still in him, and came back little by little. He tried dizzily to lift his head and could not. But he could turn a little to the side so that he could see the lake. There was the canoe, its paddle floating in the water. And coming toward him....

It was all so vague; he was so dizzy, the blackness wavered so like a misty veil in front of his eyes! For a little he would not believe that his mind was clear yet, that he was not wandering. For coming toward him was a girl; a girl clad in rough, coarse cloth, made into a short skirt and sleeveless blouse; a girl whose long braided hair was scarcely a deeper, richer brown than her bronzed cheeks, as brown as an Indian maid, but with great, fearless gray eyes. She came swiftly to his side and dropped down upon her knees, flinging back the thick braid which had brushed across his breast.

“I tried to call, to tell you!” she was saying, her low-toned voice coming to him clearly through the singing in his ears. “Are you very badly hurt?”

He didn’t answer at once, but stared up at the fresh, girlish beauty of her, frowning to clear the mist from his eyes, telling himself that it was impossible.

She leaned closer and put her quick light hands upon his head. He felt a little shudder run through them. And then, before he could speak, she sprang up, ran to the lake and came back to him with water in her two hands. She bathed the cut, washed the blood away and, ripping a strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt, tied it about his head in a rude bandage.

“I thought—” he began, groping for words.

“Yes, yes!” she broke in. “You could not know how crumbling, how treacherous to the climber those rocks are up there. I tried to warn you. Are you very much hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered, still frowning. And then, “You—where did you come from?”

She laughed, sitting back from him—her hands clasped about her two knees, her chin tip-tilted, a glimpse of her round throat telling that the bronze and copper of her coloring were not racial, that the slender body was of wonderful white and pink.

“No, you’re not badly hurt. Or you wouldn’t be wondering about other folks!”