Cactus and Rattlers

by H. Bedford-Jones

Something flickered from the black depths of the passage. Before Ramsay could comprehend its import, a lariat settled over his shoulders and was jerked taut. He was fighting it instantly, trying to whip around his rifle—fighting it furiously, fiercely, vainly. A hoarse laugh made answer; then he was drawn off his feet and hurled sprawling. Next instant, a horse came leaping through the opening and started away, the rider holding the rope with Ramsay dragging behind.

In the space of a few seconds terrible things can come to pass. Arms caught just above his elbows and fast bound to his body with the rope cutting into the flesh, Ramsay was dragged along for half a minute, jerking and helpless, clothes ripped away, death threatening with every rock that loomed in his path; he came to the grass, slid over it more easily, heard the outlaw yelling at his mount to increase its speed—and all the while held on to his rifle, though it was nearly torn from his hand.

And then came a merciful relaxation. The horse stumbled suddenly, was reined sharply in—the lariat slackened. Ramsay rolled over on his side, gained his feet with a leap, cocked and fired the rifle from his hip. It was a chance shot, but a good one. The poor horse sank forward. Its outlaw rider, leaping from the saddle, turned and threw up a pistol. But Ramsay, working up the lariat, had ejected the shell and now fired again. The outlaw pitched forward on his face, shot through the brain.

All this took place with incredible rapidity. Indeed, it must have passed swiftly, for no man can long survive the dragging at a lariat’s end. As it was, Ramsay knew himself bruised and hurt, torn and scratched—but in essentials undamaged. He was not thirty yards from the passage, and turned to it. As he did so, that dark cleft in the rock wall vomited a spat of flame, and to the smashing report of a pistol, a bullet whined past him.

Instantly Ramsay whirled, threw himself at the dead horse, gained it, and took shelter. Another report, and another bullet went screaming over him. He answered it with a blind shot. Panting, he realized his intolerable position. He was out here in the open, trapped, and from the shouts at the other end of the cañon, he knew the three men there would soon be sweeping down on him. Swiftly he weighed the chances for a dash toward one of the side slopes—and then he saw a grim thing, yet one which spelled his salvation.

He had supposed that these shots from the passage must have come from a third horsethief. Now he perceived a figure take shape in the grayness, and was about to fire when he saw it staggering forward, and checked himself. It was the tall figure of Jimson, mortally wounded and yet still alive, blindly reeling on, pistol in hand. As Ramsay waited, the pistol dropped. For a moment Jimson stood there, swaying, then dropped slowly to his knees and fell in a limp heap.

In a flash, Ramsay visualized what was now sure to take place. It was his one chance, and a sure chance. None of those three outlaws at the head of the cañon would know what had happened here. He leaped up, and imagined that he could see riders coming from the gray background of the cañon. That he was unseen, he knew well enough. Next instant he was running for the heaped-up rocks near the passage. As he went by Jimson, he saw the dying man was still alive and trying to rise, but kept on, and a moment later threw himself down in cover of the boulders.

“No time to ask after Sagebrush now—here’s the great chance to clean up the whole gang!” he thought, as he reloaded his rifle and drew long deep breaths to calm himself. “By glory, we haven’t done so badly so far, either! Three of them done for now. They came asking for it, and they got it. If things work right, I’ll get these last three scoundrels alive—ah! They’re coming, all right.”

He waited, eyes glittering, bloody and bruised figure tense, rifle ready. Now the gray darkness was clearing off, and the clearer light of day was breaking through. Coming across the grassy cañon at a breakneck gallop were three riders, impeded at first by the mass of frightened and rushing horses. Now, free of the remuda, the three were plunging toward the passage and the three outstretched figures lying there in the open; one of those figures was moving, slowly crawling upward. Jimson, dying hard, got to one knee and remained thus, swaying.

The three outlaws swept on, straight for the figure of Jimson, and the man in the lead was Tom Emery, his mass of flaming whiskers marking him clearly. All three had rifles and were girded with gun-belts. Ramsay grinned excitedly as he waited, out of sight.