Down the trail, where it narrowed to pass between two clumps of brush, a coatless, hatless figure crouched in the left-hand thicket, the coil of rope in his left hand held low down. At irregular intervals he seemed to be suffering from an attack of ague, for he quivered and shook; and there came from him strange, subterranean rumblings and rusty wheezes which he tried to muffle with an arm. As the hoofbeats coming from town grew rapidly louder and nearer he tensed himself. The pounding rang out loudly, now, the soft jingling of chain and ornaments distinguishable in the greater sound, and soon the vague figure of a mounted man burst out of the darkness and swept past the clumps of brush. The waiting man on foot straightened his body and arm at the same moment, and at the instant the rope grew taut he pulled it sharply and leaned back with all his strength. There was an exclamation and a crash, and the man who had waited ran swiftly forward, hauling the rope in hand over hand. Kneeling at the side of the prostrate figure he slipped the guns from their holsters and threw them into the brush, and then fell back to work with the rope and the victim's kerchiefs. With the gagged, bound, and blindfolded man on his back he went up the trail toward town.
Gunsight had been quiet for over an hour when a strangely shaped figure staggered across the road west of the hotel and steadily neared the shed. It came slowly around the corner and stopped at the side of the big freight wagon, where part of it went to the ground, while the remainder, appearing in the form of a man, worked at the ropes closing the tarpaulin at the rear of the wagon, and soon had it open. He stepped back for a moment as a reminder of what lay behind it struck his nostrils, and again he was seized with a recurrence of the peculiar malady which had seized him frequently in the last hour. At the muffled sounds which came from him, the figure on the ground writhed as if in sympathy and endeavored to repeat them. The attack passing, he drew a long breath and plunged his head and shoulders into the opening he had made and worked hard for a few minutes; and when he stepped back he had several pieces of rope in his hands, which he had taken from a bundle of skins. Drawing a few deep breaths he moved around the wagon and bent over the figure on the ground, exchanging the pieces of rope for his own lariat, but not without a struggle which made it necessary for him to sit on the figure and exert his strength. Tying good knots in the dark on arms and legs which writhed and twisted was slow work, but it was necessary that it be well done, and when he arose to his feet he was assured as to that. Bending over, he picked up the figure and carried it to the rear of the wagon, where he pushed it headfirst into the opening made for it, despite its contortions and gurgled profanity. Again his head and shoulders disappeared under the tarpaulin, and when he straightened up he knew that his victim was so securely lashed to the wagon box that it would be impossible for him to move around, no matter how much he bridged and wriggled, no matter how much the wagon jolted. It was a job which demanded care, and had received it. Satisfied as to the conditions inside the wagon, he now turned his attention to the outside, which must be proof against telling anything to the observing eyes of the old buffalo hunter. He carefully replaced the tarpaulin as he had found it, even to its folds, and he duplicated the knots he had untied. Pausing a moment to think, he dusted canvas and ropes, cogitated as to his own footprints, which Old Buffalo would not fail to notice, if the light permitted. He got his rope, coiled it, and with this for his tool he effaced the prints and then went to the horse shed. When he reappeared he was leading a horse whose color melted into the darkness like a lump of charcoal in ink. They passed in the dark like the passing of a cloud and it was not until some minutes later that the drumming of hoofs rang out on the trail, bound southward in search of a saddled, but riderless, horse, which should be found in that direction. It would not do for it to be seen by anyone but themselves while it bore the riding gear of Wolf Forbes.
A blot on the ground near the horse shed arose. Two-Spot was in pain and the tears were flowing down his unwashed cheeks, while spasm after spasm racked him. Holding a six-gun limply in his hand, he stumbled and staggered away from the buildings, to some place where he could give free vent to the agonizing mirth which threatened to choke him. Coming to a weed-filled gully he sank into it and lay with his face buried in his arms. Minutes passed before he got control of himself and then he rolled over weakly and stared up at the star-filled sky, inert and sore, for he knew not how long.
"If it was anybody but Wolf," he moaned, "it would be bad enough, but it's ten times worse as it is. Wolf Forbes, th' killer; Wolf, th' two-gun badman, th' terror of th' range; th' cool, deliberate, stuck-up Wolf, who walks with stiff-laigged dignity, an' holds his nose up in th' air! Wolf Forbes—oh, my G—d! Gimmie air! Snoopin' wiselike all over town, fillin' his ears; smart an' chipper, cold an' wise! Oh, me! Oh, my! Sneakin' 'round from winder to winder, listenin' at th' cracks—as if I didn't see his bow laigs passin' back and forth. Tryin' to learn if it was Nelson who stole th' pill-roller, an' did for Squint. Hearin' what them Double X fellers had to say about it, an' him; standin' there bilin' with rage! Oh, when this night's work gets spread over th' range there'll go up a laugh that'll shake th' sky! If he's got th' nerve to come back an' face that music he'll have to use them guns of his'n. An' he can't fight 'em all, good as he is. Wolf, huh? He started out as a wolf, but he'll change his spots afore he gets to Highbank, an' his scent, too! He! He! He! He'll turn into a polecat—a hydrophoby skunk! Oh! Me! Oh! My! Polecat Forbes, th' strong man! Oh! Ho! Ho!"
While he rested, his merriment slowly died and gave way to venom, and he sat up to shake his fist in the direction of the wagon.
"You earned it, cuss you!" he snarled. "Bound up like a bundle of rags, an' headed for Highbank, you are! Forty mile, it is; forty mile of sun, an' jolts, an' stink, an' flies, an' achin' bones, an' cuttin' ropes. Forty mile of heat an' dust an' thirst; forty mile of rage, of thinkin' it all over; forty mile of h—l on wheels—that's what it is—forty mile of h—l on wheels! Fourteen hours, says I, but I hopes it's twenty. Time enough for thinkin', you blackguard. 'Member th' time you kicked me off'n Dave's hitchin' rail? 'Member how funny it was, huh? 'Member how I said I'd get square with you, an' how you kicked me ag'in, an' made me dance to yore blasted guns? I was a harmless ol' man; but it was funny, just th' same. Oh, I'm wishin' I dast go over there an' tell you all I'm thinkin'—yore ears would bother you more'n yore nose if I could. If I only knowed you wouldn't come back; if I only knowed that! It was me that did it. I told Nelson about you, an' I was hopin' you'd get blowed apart; but this is better, cuss you! When yo're dead yore troubles are over—an' you'll wish you was dead when this story gets out. An' if you keeps yore nerve, an' finds out who done it, you will be! Wolf? Wolf? Huh! I got a better name for you!"
He arose and went back toward the saloon, and had not quite reached it when he heard the soft steps of a horse on the sand and he dropped to the ground, his gun lightly held and ready. In a moment he made out a man leading a horse and he arose, which turned the approaching figure into a blur of action. He could feel the menace of the other's gun.
"It's me—Two-Spot," he whispered hoarsely.
The other relaxed and came nearer. "You tryin' to get shot?" came a low, tense voice. "What you doin'?"
"I had to be dead shore who it was that's tied up like a bundle of trash in th' waggin," answered Two-Spot. "You ridin' south bothered me. I'll never forget this, never!"