The Spook Hills Mystery/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
Burney had not yet returned from Pocatello—indeed, he had been gone not much longer than twenty-four hours when Vida Williams came riding again to the Sunbeam; riding a heaving-flanked, sweat-roughened pony, and looking harder of lip and eye than before. Spooky had just called to the boys to "Come and get it"—meaning supper—and he stood now in the cabin doorway with his hands on his hips, waiting for them to appear. Then came Vida, galloping straight down the trail from the hills and never deigning to pull up or turn out when she overtook Shelton and Spider and Jim. The boys ducked out of her way and came on in the cloud of dust kicked up by her pony's flying heels.
Vida swung down from her horse, and walked purposefully toward Spooky in the doorway. Her sunburned braid of hair was roughened in the wind; her denim riding skirt was stained with her pony's sweat; her face was pale under the freckles and tan, and her eyes—well, her eyes held the light of battle. A six-shooter swung at one slim hip, and as she neared the cabin she jerked the gun from its scabbard and held it hanging at her side. Without any more definite reason than that one action, the boys broke into a trot and so came presently up to her.
"Where's Burney?" she asked, more quietly than one would expect from the look of her though it was the quiet that spells danger.
"Burney's in Pocatello," Shelton volunteered before Spooky had more than opened his mouth. "He went yesterday—early in the afternoon."
"You lie!" Vida turned and flung the words at him as a driver flicks his lash. Her breath was coming quickly and unevenly; she was holding herself to calmness, and it was not easy, as they could see. "Where is he? You might as well produce him," she said, eying them one after the other with that cold antagonism which she could make one feel with a glance.
She met blank surprise in every pair of eyes into which she looked, and she bit her lip and pushed the gun back into its scabbard.
"Well, anyway, he isn't in Pocatello," she asserted defiantly, "because he was over on the east ridge of Piute Hills about three hours ago. He—he killed Uncle Jake!"
"No! You don't"
"He did! And I'll kill him on sight—so help me! He—boys, that man is a fiend! I—don't blame you boys—I don't believe you had anything to do with it, or know"
Spider took a step nearer. "You're dead right, Miss Williams," he told her with that quiet earnestness which was Spider's way sometimes. "If you'd tell us—we don't know a thing about it. We—Burney left for Pocatello yesterday."
"Well, it was a blind, then, because this afternoon—I guess it was early—and Uncle Jake was herding a band of ewes and lambs on that long slope from the big hill, and he was killed"—her eyes widened with the horror of it—"just like the sheep have been killed." She caught her breath, and went on as if she were anxious to tell the thing and be done with it. "He was just grabbed—from behind, I guess—and—his neck was twisted—just like the sheep!"
Spider leaned and gripped her by the arm. "Girl, are you sure of that?" And his tone was stern.
"It's the truth! And Uncle Jake's pretty strong himself, and—he didn't have a ghost of a show. I—I saw him. And his head was twisted 'way around—like that." She turned her head far to one side, and Spider shivered and let go her arm.
The four of them stared at her incredulously. The thing was too monstrous for them to grasp all in a minute.
"Killed!" said Shelton, just above his breath. "Are you sure? Maybe he wasn't dead."
Vida turned and eyed him scornfully, and seemed to think the remark too puerile for reply.
"Wasn't there any sign of a scuffle?" asked Spooky. "Didn't anybody see it?"
"He was out alone, with just the one dog," Vida explained, turning toward him. "Poppy and I rode over to see him—because some more of our sheep was killed last night, and we wanted to see if Uncle Jake had been bothered and what he thought we better do about it. Poppy wanted to swear out a warrant. And—we found him—like that. He—he wasn't cold yet.
"No, there wasn't any sign of anything. He just laid there like he'd been grabbed up and then throwed down again. It was on a little rocky ridge. I suppose he was setting on the ridge where he could see the sheep, and Burney just crawled up on him from behind. He could easy enough; it's all little ridges and washouts there where the water has gullied out the sidehill. And Burney"
"What makes you keep on saying Burney?" Spooky asked her somewhat aggressively. "You want to be kinda careful about saying"
"Who else but Burney could 'a' done that?" she countered hotly. "Could you grab a man the size of Uncle Jake and twist his neck clear around so you broke it? And him not able to put up a fight even? It ain't easy to do, I should think."
"No," Spider agreed, "it ain't easy to do. At the same time"
"And who else would want to?" she demanded. "Uncle Jake never had any trouble with anybody around here but Burney. And he's been trying his best to drive us off ever since we came in with our sheep. And that ain't all." She stopped and bit her lips again, and fingered the sagging gun belt. Her blind rage was cooling with speech and the unspoken sympathy of these four, and she seemed almost reluctant to go on. She was growing more normal—more like the Vida Williams whom Shelton had met out on the high stretches of the Piute foothills.
"That ain't all. I ain't the killing kind—but I'd 'a' killed Burney when I rode up if I'd seen him. It would take a lot to make me do that, too. I—I was putting up a bluff the other day," she owned, with a faint flush of embarrassment. "I was mad, a-course; and if I'd been a man I'd 'a' tried to lick him, I reckon. But this is different. I know he killed Uncle Jake. I didn't see him, but I seen his tracks. Down in the gully, right behind where Uncle Jake was. It's plain as print—and there ain't a man in the country that's got feet the size of his. Is there?"
There was no need of her emphatic question. They all knew there was not.
"I guess we better ride over," suggested Spider, after a minute. "If Burney didn't go to Pocatello we can easy find it out; a man like him ain't going to be overlooked. And if he done what you say he done" Spider stopped short, and when he continued it was from a new angle of thought. "I've knowed him a long while," he said, "and I've never knowed a thing against him. At the same time you never do know all that's in a man." He turned toward Spooky challengingly. "I ain't going to back any low-down play like chokin' a man to death just because he owns a bunch-a sheep," he stated flatly, "whether it's Burney or my own brother."
"Same here, Pete," Jim shifted his cud to say—diffidently, because of the girl.
"Well, come on and eat, seeing's it's ready," urged Spooky, "and then we'll hit the high places to make up. There ain't nothing in startin' out empty. If they's tracks," he said to the girl, "we'll foller 'em up. You better come in and have something to eat."
"I—couldn't," she told him, and looked into the cabin and shuddered. But she sat upon a box near the door and drank a cup of hot coffee which Shelton brought her. "I just can't go in," she apologized to him and Spider, who had lingered outside. "It's like the den of some beast to me. I—I just keep seeing Uncle Jake—and I can just see Burney creeping up the ridge behind him."
"You want to cut that out," said Spider. "You'll get nerves for fair if you don't keep your mind off it. I guess I'll take my coffee outside, too."
Which he did, somewhat to the disgust of Shelton, who felt that Vida was in his especial charge, in spite of her pitiless analysis of his motives; perhaps because of it—for he had certainly thought a great deal about Vida since then.
The sun was low when they rode away from the Sunbeam. Close-grouped and silent they climbed the hill and galloped straight away through the sage and lava rocks toward where Spook Hills hunched their black shoulders against the sky. Grim of lip, somber-eyed they hurried out to look upon the telltale footprints which branded their boss a murderer of the foulest type.
Spooky and Jim, not having seen the things which had planted in Spider's mind the seeds of distrust, were inclined to be incredulous still. They were going to see for themselves before they would believe. As to Shelton, he glanced often at Spider in the hope of meeting his look of understanding, and he was plainly puzzled at Spider's coldly noncommittal glance.
They rode with the girl between them, but they did not talk to her very much; she did not seem to want them to talk. Her eyes were frequently blurred with tears, and her lips were trembling. For she had lived a lonely life, with but few persons who were more to her than strangers, and although Uncle Jake had been an utterly commonplace individual, for whom she felt no definite affection, he was her uncle, and he had helped to fill her life—and she had lately looked upon him dead. So, now that the first shock of horror had passed and she had sensed the sympathy of these men who were logically her enemies, but essentially her friends, she was feeling the sorrow of a personal loss.
"You mustn't mind if poppy talks mean," she said once, when they were nearing the hills. "He's awful worked up over this. He blames the whole Sunbeam outfit. He said he'd shoot the first one of you he got sight of—but he won't. Poppy—just talks like that."
Unconsciously she had revealed where lay the heaviest weight of responsibility for the family welfare. Her own slim shoulders drooped under their burden. Her tone betrayed the fact that she was stronger than her father, who "just talked like that." She would have fought, and fought hard, in defense of their property. Her poppy talked.
Spider, sensing it all, turned and looked at her pityingly. In the dusk his hand went out and clasped briefly her arm.
"Don't you worry," he said, so low that the others could not hear. "I'll see you through with this—if nobody else will."
Vida turned her face toward him, and she did not pull her arm away. "I know you will," she told him simply. "I—don't feel so alone as I did a few hours ago."
Spider's fingers slid down her arm and clasped her hand close, and let it go. In this wise did he take the oath of fealty, and none but Vida knew anything about it, not even Shelton, who was inclined to be watchful of Spider during the last couple of hours.
It was dark long before they reached the gruesome slope where Jake Williams lay as he had been found. A camp fire blazed up into the dark, and beside it the figure of a man flared into distinct outlines and faded into vague shadows. As they rode closer they saw him lift his head and listen, looking their way. He had a rifle, and he pointed it toward them with a menacing gesture. The firelight must have blinded him, however; he stood up and craned, then ducked suddenly back into the shadows beyond the light of the flames. A spurt of fire and the sharp crack of his rifle showed how he had mentally placed the newcomers, but the bullet sang its song of flight high over their heads.
"Quit that shooting! I've just brought the boys" Vida kicked her horse and plunged ahead, where the firelight touched her and quite enveloped her in its golden glow. "Put down that gun and come in outa the dark!" she commanded impatiently. "There's nothing to be scared of. Has Pete got back yet?"
"No." Her father came slowly forward, his bushy beard quite concealing any emotion his face might otherwise have revealed. "Who are these men?" he challenged.
"They're some boys from the Sunbeam. They came over to do what they can. They want to look around, and try and pick up the tracks, but it's pretty dark for that, unless we can make torches do."
"I don't want no Sunbeamers prowlin' around my camp. I won't have it, neither." But he stood there passive while they dismounted. "The Sunbeam has done about all the damage it needs to do. I ain't going to stand fer no more monkey business now, I can tell yuh!"
Vida had dismounted, and she turned her back upon him as if he were not speaking. "Over here—a couple of you bring torches and you can see for yourselves," she was saying to the boys while her father was still speaking. "And you can see the tracks, too. I don't want you to take my word for a thing. I told poppy not to move him—we just covered him up is all. We sent Pete out after the sheriff, you know—and the coroner. So be careful about your own tracks till we get a light. You can see from one side, I think—just keep back so things don't get mixed all up."
She was taking the lead quite naturally—one suspected that she had been in the habit of asserting her superior intelligence in every emergency—but her voice was harsh with the repression she had put upon herself. Spider picked a blazing sage branch from the fire and moved up alongside her.
"You needn't come," he said. "You can stay back by the fire."
"No, I'm going to see the thing through," she told him. "I've got to. I stand for our side; and you—you naturally stand for—the other."
Spider knew that she had meant to say Burney, and could not bring herself to mentioning his name.
She stood back a little when he stooped and pulled off the dirty square of canvas that covered the dead man. She did not retreat, but still she stood with her face averted a little and her eyes drooping so that they saw only the rusty, run-down-at-the-heel boots of her Uncle Jake, with the deep, hard creases which time and weather give to cheap footwear. In a minute she looked up at the faces of the four, bent forward while they stared in absolute silence. The flicker of the torch flames upon their faces gave that weird Rembrandt effect which stirs vague savage instincts in one's blood. Their brows were frowning unconsciously, their breath sucked in at the horror they looked upon.
Spider bent closer, put out a reluctant hand, and felt the crushed bones in the neck with his finger tips. He lifted an arm and felt along the ribs. Then he stood up, drew in his breath sharply, and backed away. It was Spooky, looking true to his nickname, who replaced the grimy canvas.
"Whereabouts are the tracks?" Spider asked the girl, who gave a great sigh of sheer nervous reaction and turned from the still, covered heap.
"Down here. I'll show you." She took his arm and led him around the great, flat outcropping of lava rock upon which her uncle must have been sitting when surprised from behind. "Let me take the torch. We want to keep back ourselves. He came up on these rocks, I guess. There ain't any mark till you get down in the bottom of the gully."
She led Spider down the rocky bank, the other three following. At the bottom she stopped and passed the smoldering brand slowly above the sand, hesitated while she looked back up the bank to get the line fixed in her mind, and went forward again.
Spider caught her hand, and pulled her back protectively.
"Let me look!" He took the torch, whirled it around his head to fan the blaze, and bent forward, searching.
He found it, and stopped; the plain imprint of a boot—long, wide, pressed deep into the soft soil with the weight of the man who trod there—Burney's boot without a shadow of doubt to cloud Spider's certainty. And the toe was pointed up the bank, toward where the dead man lay crumpled upon one side with the bones of his neck crushed and his head twisted horribly upon his shoulder. A long stride down the gully—a long stride for Spider, that is—was another track to match the first.
Spider waited until the others had come up, bent down, and looked upon the tracks. Then, holding Vida by the hand, he picked his way slowly down the gully. Other tracks he found; tracks leading away from the place—leading toward the gloomy scars of the mountain a mile or so away.
Down the gully across the wider depression, and part way up the farther hill they went. There the burning brands died to charred embers, winking sullen, red eyes at them. They stopped, and gave much time to the making of other torches, while Vida sat down on the steep slope and waited, a huddled little figure under the stars; a lonely little figure who gave no response when Shelton tried to lighten the quest with talk.
She sat with her elbows upon her knees and her chin in her cupped palms, and stared at the Great Dipper tilted brim up toward the North Star. Behind her a week-old moon slid out from behind a cloud bank where it had been hiding and stood a moment upon the highest peak of the mountain before it dropped down into the shadow world beyond. In the somber camp across the ridge a sheep dog barked shrilly.
Vida lifted her head, thinking the boys had lighted their torches unknown to her. She turned, looked up the long slope silvered briefly by the moon, gave a little start, and sprang suddenly to her feet.
"Spider, look! Oh, there he is—I saw him on the hill, looking down at us!"
Spider dropped the match he had been nursing between his palms, looked the way she was pointing a shaking finger, and leaped forward, running up the hill. He, too, had seen just for an instant a huge, dark figure outlined against the crescent moon.
At his first move it disappeared, but he ran on, his six-shooter in its scabbard under his hand. Vida ran after him, panting a little toward the last. Behind them came Spooky and Jim and Shelton, who had been slower to start, and, not having seen the figure, were more hazy as to their reasons for running at all.
At the last Spider and Vida climbed side by side more slowly, too breathless to do more than gasp a word now and then. And when they finally reached the top, and stood looking down into the deep, jagged cañon beyond, where the moon could not send a single faint ray, but only made the shadows blacker in contrast to the lightened hilltop, they knew that there was nothing more to be done. For Burney, running down-hill with those immense strides of which he was capable, while they panted laboriously up the other side, at that minute could easily be half a mile from there. And a half mile in such a place was just as good as a hundred, so far as their chance of overtaking him was concerned.