“And I love you, Hugh,” she answered clearly. He heard her without exultation, rather only with a great and inward peace, as if this were his ordained fate, his destiny fulfilled. He swung toward her, their lips met. And she rode away toward the advancing wall of flame.
CHAPTER XXVI
Landy Fargo was not of a mind to have his plan go wrong, so he had given particular care to its details. He didn’t want to take even the slightest chance of failure. Not probabilities alone mattered at a time like this: he must consider the remotest possibilities also. And he had not forgotten the pass through the Dark Canyon.
“They may try to drive the sheep out that way,” he had said, “and if they get there before eight o’clock, they may make it. By eight at most, I should think, the fire’ll get into it—and then of course they’re blocked—penned in tight. And we don’t want to forget the ’phone line on the old Lost River road—we don’t want ’em to get to that and send for help until every pass is blocked. If they leave the sheep and try to ride out, they’ll take that way—and that’s why I don’t want you to fire it earlier in a special trip. I want you to puncture the horse and the man. You can do it—I’ve seen you shoot too many times to think you can’t. All you have to do is wait on the trail. The plan’s only half done if that tenderfoot gets out alive—and that’s the surest way to prevent it, and a way there won’t be no doubt about later. And if you want to spare the girl, all right—but keep her there until the pass is closed.”
Nothing could be plainer. José waited on the trail. The fire madness still branded—like fire itself—his face; and he found an evil exultation in watching the slow sweep of the flames behind him. But he didn’t intend to wait too long. He didn’t want to take any chances on being trapped himself. The way of the forest fire is the way of the wind, and no man can always predict accurately where it will go. Besides, he was just at the mouth of the canyon and had a long ride himself to safety.
The Mexican found nothing to his displeasure in the work. The pay was good, and there had been a certain, savage rapture in aiding in the destruction of the forest and its people. But the work before him now promised best of all. It was just straight shooting and clean killing, and he had been well educated for such work as this. He had known the deserts, the hot battles of his own land; his eyes were true and his hand steady. Best of all, the interview with the girl afforded pleasing conjectures. José had not often operated among women. His eyes were lurid with a fire of different source from the red glamor that was over all the land.
It was eight o’clock, and the fire was only a little behind time. Fargo had estimated with really astonishing accuracy. Already the flames played on the ridges at each side, the tall trees caught, flashed, swayed and fell, and the fiery wall was slowly working down into the canyon’s depths. Once there, no passing could be made. He couldn’t wait much longer. Fargo would have to forego the detailed report of how Hugh lurched and fell from the saddle at the rifle report. José had to think of his own safety.
And at that instant he flattened in the trail. The butt-plate of his rifle nestled against his shoulder. Of course it might be just the footfall of the running elk, fleeing in terror before the fire, but this possibility died quickly. Before ever the rider came in sight, he recognized the sound as the hoofbeats of a racing horse. Thus he was to have his pleasure, after all.
No deer, quietly grazing toward the thicket where the puma lay crouched, no blind gopher, venturing forth from his burrow in the icy gaze of a rattler stretched still and lifeless in the moonlight, ever sped so straight and unsuspecting into an ambush as Alice, riding toward the shadowed mouth of the canyon. A little gleam of hope had returned to her, for she saw that the fire advanced but slowly from the ridge above the canyon, and that she could not only ride to safety but that there was some hope, at least, of Hugh driving his flocks through in time. True, a long ride still remained before her, but even the longest chance was worth praying for. And even as the prayers rose, sweet and appealing, from her lips, José saw her speeding horse through his rifle sights.
His finger was perfectly steady as he pressed back against the trigger. Except for one little telltale curl of his lips, his dark face was impassive. The rifle cracked, a little dart of flame that was scarcely distinguishable in the eerie and terrible glow of the fire spat from the muzzle and the horse shot forward with a strange effect of diving into the dead pine needles. There was no need to shoot twice. The noble heart of the animal was pierced through with the wicked lead. He had done his last service—willingly and well—and what need had he of a more eloquent epitaph?