Valley of the Vanishing Men (9 page)

T
HE
wits went out of Trainor, in that emergency. The sudden yell that burst from the four scattered his thoughts as a wind scatters dust. A revolver bullet bored through the door and split it down a long panel.

Still he stood there like one hypnotized by the greatness of the terror.

He heard a rush of feet. The door, already cracked, burst open violently, with Josh May, who had been the point of the flying wedge, stumbling and then lurching forward on his face across the room. He fell right at Trainor’s feet.

A bit of straight shooting would have finished off the rest of that charge in short order, but Trainor was still so benumbed in that brain that his hand did not seek the gun he so seldom carried. Instead, he picked up a chair, flung it into the midst of them, and leaped through the next doorway.

The noise and the gunfire had brought everyone out of the bar and swarming into the other back room, by this time. In the distance Trainor saw the twisted face of the bartender. But what counted was that the instant he appeared, the crowd fell back with a shattering yell of “Trainor!”

He might have laughed to think of the reputation which he had built up in this town. But he took that single instant of surprise to dodge through the mob, jerk open another door, and slam and lock it behind him. A bullet drilled through that door at the instant. But he had a second to decide which way he was to run — while that lock held behind him and the turmoil was on the farther side of the door.

To run to the rear was to plunge into certain danger. To go the other way might give him half a chance. So he ran forward, and through an open door into the long barroom.

As he ran, he heard the ringing, familiar voice of Doc Yates, shouting:

“A thousand, five thousand for the scalp of Trainor! Get him, boys!”

Those words threw a sudden blackness over the eyes of Trainor. The last hope went out of him.

Here was the bar-room, empty for the instant, but with people in every room around it. Out on the street, men had heard the turmoil. Their footfalls beat heavily on the board sidewalk as they ran for the swing doors of the saloon. Escape seemed cut off in every way.

He vaulted over the bar and, as he dropped behind it, heard men rush into the room from the street, from two rear entrances.

And the voice of Doc Yates urged on the pack.

Trainor crept on hands and knees down the length of the bar, then turned into a little room behind it, where the walls were lined with shelves filled with bottles, while several big kegs stood on the floor. The window that gave onto the street was heavily shuttered on the inside and the shutters were padlocked.

He gripped those shutters, wrenched at them with all his might — and gained nothing. Twice his strength would not avail to tear them down. He needed a pry.

When he looked back, it seemed to him that the shouting, the thundering of feet had put the entire world in motion. His brain spun in the semi-darkness. He could neither think nor see, clearly, until he spied a heavy hammer lying on a shelf near the door.

He got to that hammer with a leap. It would serve him to pry open a board of the shutters; at the worst, he could use it to batter the shutters to pieces and so force an exit, if only he had time.

In the next room, the tremendous voice of Doc Yates was crying:

“Keep at it, boys! He’s somewhere in this house. No chance for him to get out. He’s lying low, somewhere. Five thousand to the fellow who gets him!”

That was what Trainor heard the last of as he snatched the hammer from the shelf and, swinging back toward the window, saw the twisted face of the barkeeper appear in the doorway.

Trainor struck. The weight of the hammer made the blow clumsy. It merely knocked the drawn revolver out of the hand of the barkeeper. The latter, disarmed, dived at Trainor like a football player and rolled him on the floor.

Still the bartender did not cry out. Perhaps the battle fury, perhaps the joy of finding his enemy here at hand had made the scarred man forget that a single cry would bring fifty men to his assistance. No, when Trainor got a glimpse of the face of the barkeeper, he saw the eyes gleaming with a cold and concentrated and alert malice.

Trainor could now understand. A yell for help would fill the room instantly with many men. It would also divide the promised reward into many fractions, and the barkeeper wanted the whole sum for himself. He had been disarmed of the revolver, but he had something almost better for hand-to-hand struggling — a bowie knife. Trainor managed to grip the wrist of the man’s knife hand, and desperation froze his hold on it, and stiffened his arm to keep the point from the soft of his throat.

He could not maintain that resistance long. He was underneath. The weight of the barkeeper’s whole body was bearing down to drive that knife home. Already the arm of Trainor was shuddering under the strain. The grin of triumph broadened horribly on the face of the barkeeper and kept his eyes glimmering.

There was no chance to help Trainor, then. Both his arms were occupied. Then he noticed that they lay close to the wall. He planted both feet against it and thrust out with all his might, with an impact that kicked them both over and over till their heads crashed against the rounded sides of one of the kegs.

Blackness jumped over the eyes of Trainor. As the flickering darkness came, he told himself that he was a dead man, with a knife in his throat.

Then instant sense came back to him.

The barkeeper was still striving, but the grin was frozen stupidly on his face; the strength was gone from his hand. With a twist, Trainor disarmed him. He heard the breath of the bartender caught, as he prepared to yell, and Trainor banged the rounded butt of the heavy knife against the temple of his man.

That one blow made the stunned man turn limp.

Trainor bounded to the shuttered window. There was still a rising tide of confusion thundering through the house. He could hear men upstairs, and in the barroom, and in the back rooms. There were footfalls and voices passing down the cellar stairs beneath.

And always there was that shout of Doc Yates which rang, trumpet-like, through the building:

“Five thousand for him, boys. You’ll get him. Take your time, and be thorough. I’ll have him if I have to clear the house and then burn it. Five thousand for the scalp of Ben Trainor!”

Trainor had fitted the handle of the hammer under the bottom slat of the shutters. He pried. The whole of the shutters trembled, sagged, gave way with a groaning of nail rust against old wood. He laid the hammer aside and with his bare hands wrenched the loosened weight away. There was not even a pane of glass in the window frame. He had before him the dark of the night and the street not five feet below the window sill. One glance he threw over his shoulder, and then he slid through and stood on the ground, in the open air, free!

He slid in over the window sill half the length of his body, cupped his hands at his lips, and shouted with all his stentorian might:

“Doc Yates! If you want Trainor, come and get me, here! Come and get me, you blackleg! I’m here, waiting for you!”

That voice rang and re-rang and echoed through the building. It seemed to stun everyone to motionlessness, for an instant, but after that there was a savage rush of angry men, herding toward the point from which the cry had issued. Even from outside the building, the hunters were rushing back through the entrances, perhaps with some fine picture of a desperado standing his ground, ready to fight it out to the last against great Doc Yates.

That “desperado,” the instant he had yelled, turned and fled with all his might down the street, and turned at the next corner, and again at the next, until he found himself utterly out of wind, but safe, among those saplings where Parade was tethered.

Then, through the darkness, he saw the glimmering eyes of the stallion. He spoke softly, and the great horse whinnied no louder than a whisper.

At that moment, it seemed to Trainor that there was no wonder that Silver could accomplish miracles, served as he was by even the dumb beasts.

He swung into the saddle. He rode quietly out into the narrow twisting lane, deep in muffling dust.

All across the town he heard hoofbeats, shoutings, and once there was a loud cluster of shots. But they would probably be shooting at every shadow, by this time. Men will do strange things for five thousand dollars!

He let Parade go into a trot.

Even the trot of the great stallion was smooth and easy, cushioned on the deep, supple play of the fetlock joints. And there was a springing speed to that effortless gait. It was at such a pace that a man should sit out a long pursuit, a long hunt, wearing down lesser creatures and mustangs which at full gallop could hardly match this travel gait of Parade. Yes, it was like being master of a wind which, at will, could be made to blow hard or soft, taking the rider out of the ken of lesser people.

He came beyond the town to the road to Mount Baldy. Down it he went for a mile, straining his eyes into the darkness. And there was no sight of the doctor!

Groaning, he stared about him. He should have known, he told himself, that the drunken doctor, half stimulated from his alcoholic state by an appeal to his pride and to his manhood, would quickly relapse as soon as the shock of the situation died down in him. He should have realized that ten minutes after making his promise, the doctor would be seated once more in front of his whisky bottle!

What could he do now? Return to a town that buzzed with rage and hate like a swarm of hornets? He had offended that great Doc Yates, to be sure, but he had also made a joke of all the grown men in Alkali. He wanted to laugh, as he thought of that, but he knew that the very birds of the air would see him on the darkest nights and cry out his name if he should so much as steal a pace back within the borders of the town.

He had failed, then, and the chance of saving Clive’s life was gone.

Then, down the road from the town, at a steady, moderate trot, he heard the beat of a single horse traveling toward him. The shape loomed.

“Hi! Trainor!” called the loud voice of Doctor Wells.

T
HE
doctor had waited for a little while at the Golden Hope. He said that it was beyond human nature for him to leave and keep his appointment when the man with whom the appointment was made was being hunted up and down through the various rooms of the saloon. And then he realized, suddenly, that this was a challenge to his manhood. He ought to try to help. He ought to threaten Doc Yates with the law, and at least with the weight of his own hand.

Said the doctor: “And my hand was shaking like a feather in a wind. My heart was sick inside of me, sick and crazy. I was no good. I knew that if I jumped into a fight, I would accomplish nothing. I had to stand there and curse myself. And I cursed the whisky, too. I don’t know, Trainor. It may be that I’ll relapse into the old ways, but I hope not. I saw myself dead and lost and gone out of the world. I was alive, but buried. I was not a man, because the only life I led was the life of a dog. And while I was feeling that, I heard your voice come thundering, daring Doc Yates to come and face you!

“It was a shock to Doc Yates. He was there in a corner of the bar-room, shouting suggestions here and there, and when he heard you call, I saw him change color. He turned white.

“He had to go, or his reputation was damned, of course. But it took a moment to gather himself. I felt that I had to go, also, and that was where my nerve failed me. All that I could do was to follow along slowly on the outskirts of the crowd that jammed into the pantry room off the bar. And there we could all see the barkeeper staggering about with big Doc Yates shaking him by the shoulders and trying to get news out of him. When the fellow could talk, he groaned out a few words about you, and talked of a fight, and pointed to the open window. Yates jumped right through the window. Half of the others flooded after him. I heard two or three men say outright if you’d gotten out of the Golden Hope under conditions like those, you were the devil himself, and they wanted no more to do with you on any trail whatever. And here I find you waiting for me, by thunder!”

The doctor began to laugh. “How did you do it, man?” he asked.

“I had luck. That was all,” said Trainor. “We’ve got to get along. They may send hunters out over this trail. It’s a wonder that they haven’t done it already. You have brought your medical kit?”

“I’ve got everything with me, and a horse that will keep up with yours. Lead the way.”

Trainor led the way, and he kept to the long, smooth-gaited trot with which Parade swept easily over the ground until the doctor, his horse pounding along at a steady gallop in the rear, shouted that the pace was killing off his horse. Then Trainor let Parade walk for a little distance, while the doctor caught up. His horse was so tired and blown that it stumbled repeatedly.

“Lacks exercise,” said the doctor. “I’ve had the rascal in good trim, though, when it could cover the ground well enough to keep up with a buzzard in the sky. But that’s a fine horse you’ve got there.”

Trainor laughed. “It’s Parade!”

“Parade?” cried Doctor Wells. “You mean to say that Jim Silver is mixed up in this?”

“He’s with my brother now,” answered Trainor.

“If you’d mentioned his name, you would have had no trouble with me,” answered Doctor Wells, “or with anyone who dares to call himself a right man. You would have sobered me if you’d mentioned Jim Silver!”

In fact, that name seemed to blow the last of the whisky fumes out of his head. He was a sober man entirely when they came up the narrows of the ravine, and then climbed the difficult slope to the point where Clive Trainor was lying. There Jim Silver rose from beside the patient, and the muttering voice of Clive began to rattle and rumble in delirium the moment the hand of Silver was removed.

The big gray wolf stood bristling before the doctor until the word of his master sent him away. Parade, as Trainor dismounted, went to snuff at Silver and then tossed up his head like a happy colt.

“Very smooth work; very fast work!” said Silver to Ben Trainor. He shook hands with Doctor Wells, who said:

“Whatever I can do, I’ll do with all my heart, Silver.”

Silver thanked him and stepped back with the younger Trainor while the doctor made his examination.

“The other two are dead or dying,” explained Trainor. “I found Wells. He was drunk, but he sobered up a little, and here he is! I don’t think that there’s much liquor in his brain now. The ride seemed to get the alcohol out of him — that and the mention of your name.”

“Where did you find him?” asked Silver.

“In the Golden Hope. There was a bit of trouble, but I got out of it without any bumps to speak of.”

Silver looked quietly at him. He said nothing, but that silent inspection told Trainor that he was being estimated with new eyes. Then the voice of the doctor called to them. The softness of gravity was in his words.

“He’s been in hell,” said the doctor, “and the marks are still on him, as you know. He’s been half-starved, and that’s weakened his resistance. He’s been through such things that he’s suffering now from the shock. Bad shock. Shock can kill a man just as easily and almost as quickly as bullets can. I simply want to tell you Trainor, that I don’t want to alarm you, but your brother is an extremely sick man. I’ve got some medicine that may get his fever down a little. I wouldn’t try to move him in this condition. By morning he may be a lot better, or — ”

Here he stopped and looked anxiously at the two of them.

The inference was very plain. By the morning, Clive might be much better, or he might be dead.

“Stay here with the doctor,” said Silver. “I have something to do.”

“I’m going with you,” announced Ben Trainor. “If the doctor has the nerve to stay here alone, I’m going with you. The biggest thing that anyone can do for Clive is to finish the job that he laid out for himself.”

“I’ll stay here alone,” answered Wells.

“Wait a moment,” said Silver. “We’ve been spotted, not exactly here, but near here. It may be that they’ll come back to look for us here. In that case, you’d be in a bad place.”

“Who’d be doing the looking?” asked the doctor.

“Doc Yates and Barry Christian, with their men,” said Silver, bringing out the words almost brutally.

The head of the doctor jerked under the impact of that news. He took a breath and then rubbed his knuckles across his forehead.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll stay here. The two of you carry on. I know what’s apt to happen if Yates and Christian come here together — but, after all, I like the gambling chance. I’ll stay alone.”

Silver nodded.

“Whatever we do, we have to wangle it tonight,” he explained. “This is brave of you, Wells. We both appreciate it.”

The sick man cried out in a sudden, high voice; the doctor dropped at once to his knees beside him. He waved briefly at the other two, who stood waiting, reluctant to leave.

“Start out!” commanded Wells. “I’m going to wish you luck — and pray for a short night. But get on your way!”