The Rangeland Avenger, Above the Law & Alcatraz (3 Wild West Adventures in One Edition). Max Brand
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have and to hold—”
“To have and to hold.”
“For better or worse—”
“For better or worse.”
“Till death do us part—”
“Jim, dear Jim, can that part us?”
“Nothin’ between heaven an’ hell can, honey! Annie, there was the ring, too, but I ain’t got a ring.”
The room was bright with the firelight now. She raised her left hand and kissed the third finger.
“Jim, dear, this is a new kind of marriage. We don’t really need a ring, do we?”
“We’ll jest suppose that part.”
The roan made the whole cabin tremble with his frantic efforts to break from his halter.
“An’ old Roan Bill goes with us,” said Black Jim; “everything I wanted comes with me in the end of things, honey. But he ought to die easier than by fire!”
He drew his revolver again and stepped through the doorway into the shed, Jerry followed him and saw Roan Bill standing crouched and shuddering against the wall, his eyes green with fear. Black Jim stepped to him and stroked the broad forehead. For a moment Bill kept his terrified eyes askance upon the burning wall of the shed. Then he turned his head and pressed against Jim, as if to shut out the sight. With his left hand stroking the horse gently along the neck, Jim raised his revolver and touched it to the temple of Roan Bill. Another cry broke from the crowd without as if they could look through the burning walls and witness the coming tragedy and glory in it.
“Old pal,” said Black Jim, “we’ve seen a mighty pile of things together, an’ if hosses get on the other side of the river, I got an idea I’ll find you there. So-long!”
“Wait!” called Jerry. “Don’t shoot, Jim?”
He turned toward her with a frown as she ran to him.
“The wall, Jim’ Look at the wall of the shed!”
The thin wall had burned through in many places and the wood was charred deeply. In several parts the burning logs had fallen away, leaving an aperture edged with flames.
“I see it,” said Black Jim. “It’s about to fall. Get back in the cabin.”
“Yes,” she answered, fairly trembling with excitement, even a strong puff of wind would blow it in! Listen! I see the ghost of a chance for us! Blindfold Roan Bill so that the fire won’t make him mad. We’ll both get in the saddle. Then you can beat half of that wall down at a single blow. We’ll ride for the woods. They won’t be watching very closely from this side. We may—we may—there’s one chance in a thousand.”
He stared at her a single instant. Then by way of answer jerked the saddle from a peg on the wall of the cabin and threw it on the roan’s back. Jerry darted into the cabin and came out with the long scarf, which she tied firmly around the horse’s eyes. In two minutes their entire preparations were completed and a money-belt dropped into a saddlebag. Jerry in the saddle with the roan trembling beneath her, and the reins clutched tight in one hand, a revolver in the other. Black Jim caught up a loose log-end, fallen from the wall.
“There in the center,” she called. “It’s thinnest there!”
“The minute it falls start the roan,” he said; “I’ll swing on behind as you pass!” With that he swung the stick around his head and drove it against the wall. A great section fell. He struck again. A yell came from without as another width crushed down, and Jerry loosened the reins.
At the very moment that Black Jim caught the back of the saddle, the roan stepped on a red-hot coal and reared away, but Jim kept his hold and was safe behind the saddle as the horse made his first leap beyond the burning timbers.
“They’re out! This way!” shouted a voice from the trees, and two shots in quick succession hummed close to them.
Fifty yards away lay the trees and safety. The roan lengthened into a racing stride. A chorus of yells broke out around the house and Jerry saw a man jump from behind a tree, and the flash of a revolver in his hand. The long arm of Black Jim darted out and his gun spoke once and again. The man tossed up his arms and pitched forward to the ground. Still another revolver barked directly before them and she saw, by the light of the flaming house, the great figure of Porky Martin, half-hidden by a tree-trunk. A bullet tore through the horn of the saddle.
The woods were only a fraction of a second away from them. Martin stood in their path. Once more the revolver of Black Jim belched, and as they plunged into the saving shadow of the trees, she saw the outlaw stagger and clutch at his throat with both hands.
“To the left! To the left!” said Black Jim, “and straight down the valley for the gap!”
* * * *
A week later a golden-haired girl rode down a broken trail on the side of one of the lower Sierras. By her side walked a tall man with quick, keen eyes. When they broke from the edge of the forest, she checked her horse and they stood looking down on the upper valley of the Feather River.
Far away the water burned jewel-bright under the sun, and almost directly below them were the green and red roofs of a small village. Here the trail forked, one branch winding west along the mountainside and the other dropping straight down toward the village.
“Which way shall it be?” she asked. “I don’t know where the west trail leads, but this straight one takes us down to the village, and that means the law.”
“Jerry,” he answered, “I’ve been thinkin’ it over, an’ it seems to me that it’d be almighty hard to raise kids right above the law. Let’s take the trail for the village!”
THE END
ALCATRAZ