CHAPTER IV
Bruce Standing—Timber-Wolf, as he exulted in being called—was a man of few friends and many enemies. In and about Big Pine men disliked him wholeheartedly; many hated him so that they would have been glad to know that he was dead. And this was chiefly because he jeered at them and overrode them; because at every opportunity, going out of his way to make opportunity more often than not, he thrust them aside and trod his unobstructed path through and over them, setting his heel upon many; because he spat upon their laws and made his own. And he, in his turn, held them in high contempt simply because always they stood aside for him. Those few who did not hate him were the handful of hard men whom, in the working out of his wide, overweening ambitions, he had drawn to him like so many feudal henchmen; they were, in their lesser degrees, of his stamp; they belonged in their hearts to an older day and a wider frontier; there were scores taking his pay whose blood ran hot and lawless.
So to-night he came riding down the winding trail from his mountains, singing. Thus he shot his spirit across the miles ahead of him, to invade Big Pine before his coming, to taunt before he brought his hard eyes to mock at them. He had received his word and his warning, and made his retort in the one way possible to him.
The road in front of the Gallup House, leading on to the pines and the aloof jail where Mexicali Joe glared out, was thronged. Half a dozen bonfires had been started, and in the ruddy light men stirred restlessly. Their talk was becoming purposeful; they gathered in knots about men who were showing impatient signs of initiative; they had murmured and were looking this way and that, over their shoulders, shifting their feet as they gave increasingly free expression to their determination. They were working themselves up to the pitch of defiance of the law, as represented by Sheriff Jim Taggart; as yet no man cared to be first and still they looked frequently at the deputy sheriff with the rifle across his arm, and meant to set Mexicali Joe free. A man broke away from one of these groups and ran back to the Gallup House, to carry warning to Taggart.
It was at this moment that Bruce Standing, Timber-Wolf, rode into town. He rode alone, on a powerful red-bay gelding, silent now, a great-bulked man sitting straight in the saddle. One saw nothing of his face under the wide black hat.
He had no word of greeting for any man of them; after his characteristic coldly insolent way, he appeared to ignore them utterly. On the instant he, rather than Mexicali Joe, became the central object of interest. Most knew who he was and what he stood for, and wherein his visit among them was to be regarded as worthy of interest; those who did not know, marked the hush which greeted him, and in lowered voices demanded the explanation which, in voices equally low, was briefly given. They looked for him to draw rein at Gallup's and swing down and go in. But, knowing that you could never be sure of him, they watched to see.
He disappointed them. That, in itself, was like him. No doubt he got his bit of glee out of knowing that, where they had looked to him for one thing, he had given them another. He rode on by Gallup's without turning his head. Where a tree grew at the road-crossing he dismounted, tying his horse. They saw that his rifle was in its scabbard, slung to the saddle; he left it where it was, and went forward on foot. Bigger than ever he loomed among them, appearing to walk leisurely, yet taking the long, measured strides which carried him along swiftly. They let him go on his way, their eyes following him with growing interest, some of the more curious of the crowd stringing along in his wake. And all this time no man had given him the time of day, and he had not opened his lips.
Meanwhile they saw him turn his head this way and that, as though he sought something. Before he had gone fifty paces he found what he wanted. A man was piling wood on his fire; the axe which he had used a moment ago lay on the ground, glinting in the firelight. Bruce Standing stooped and caught it up and went on—straight toward the jail. A sudden shout from many voices burst out; men came running to see, now that they understood what he meant to do. And those about the jail, when they saw, drew back to right and left hurriedly, leaving only the deputy with the rifle across his arm to block the way.