The Trail Horde

by Charles Alden Seltzer

There were other men behind her—a multitude. She felt them pressing close behind her as she ran up the stairs. But she did not look back, for she heard sounds of a conflict in Warden's office—the thud and jar of blows, the crashing of furniture overturned and smashed; the scuffling of feet on the floors—and screams of rage—in Warden's voice.

When she reached the top of the stairs and looked into the room between Shorty's shoulder and the door jamb, she screamed with apprehension. For she saw Singleton, with blood dripping from a huge gash in his cheek, in the act of picking up a pistol that, evidently, had fallen on the floor during the fight that must have raged in the room.

Singleton's face was hideous with rage. It was evident that he did not see Shorty and herself at the door—and that he had not heard the tramping of the many feet on the stairs. He was apparently oblivious to everything but the fact that the pistol was there and that he had an opportunity to use it.

Ruth saw Warden and Lawler fighting in a corner. Warden's back was against the wall, near the stove. He was facing the door. His lips were lacerated, drooling blood, his eyes were puffed and blackened, and he was screaming and cursing insanely.

As Ruth watched, her gaze taking in the wreck of the room—and Singleton picking up the pistol—she saw Lawler strike Warden—a full sweeping blow that sent forth a sodden deadening sound as it landed.

Warden sagged, his eyes closing as he slid to the floor and sat in the corner his legs doubled under him, his chin on his chest.

The scene had held only for an instant—merely while Ruth screamed. The sound had hardly died away when Singleton succeeded in grasping the pistol. Ruth tried to squeeze past Shorty, to prevent the tragedy that seemed imminent. But Shorty's quick, flashing motion checked her—made interference by her unnecessary. There was a flash at Shorty's side, and the crash of his pistol rocked the air in the room and the hallway. Singleton straightened, turned slowly, looked full at Shorty. Then without uttering a sound he pitched forward, almost at Lawler's feet.

The roar of the pistol brought Lawler around so that he faced the door. He saw Shorty and Ruth and the others behind them, but gave no sign. His rage had left him; he seemed coldly deliberate. The only sign of passion about him was in his eyes. They were narrowed, and pin points of fire appeared to flame in them. As though there were no witnesses to what he was doing, he stooped, lifted Warden and threw him over his shoulder. The crowd gave way before him as he started for the stairs—even Ruth and Shorty stepping aside to let him pass. They watched him wonderingly as he carried his burden down the stairs and out into the street. And then as he walked they followed him.

He went straight across the street, past some low buildings, and over a vacant stretch between the buildings and the station. The crowd followed him—Ruth and Shorty closely, silently watching.

The special train in which he had come was still standing beside the station platform, the engine panting as though from its long run eastward. Ruth noted that the train crew was on the platform near the engine, interestedly watching the approach of Lawler carrying his burden.