The Twins of Suffering Creek

by Ridgwell Cullum

“Still around. Still around,” he muttered. And in a moment the battle was surging once more.

No longer was the leader of the attack moved by the irresponsible bravado of his first attack. He was a raging savage, goaded by the desperate wounds he had received, and the knowledge that he and all his force were being held at bay by one man. So he charged again, a headlong rush, howling as he came at the head of his four remaining supporters.

They came like an avalanche, their voices making hideous the rapidly falling night, while the wounded defender waited, waited, all his purpose concentrated, husbanding his ebbing strength as a starving man might husband the last crumbs of food. He knew that not only his strength, but his very life was slowly ebbing in the red tide that was fast saturating every shred of his clothing.

Again they reached the cart. Again the maddened horses were driven head on to the dreaded fortress. And instantly their quarry rose to his full height, a grim specter thrilling with a murderous purpose, his arms outstretched, his guns held low, that there should be no mistake this time.

The crash of battle was appalling. The scene was almost lost in the smoke cloud which hung over it. There was fire and cross-fire. There were exultant shouts and cries of pain. And through it all the scuttling of rushing hoofs and champing bits. A moment and the defender dropped. But instantly he rose again, gripping in his nervous hands the butts of a pair of fresh guns snatched from his foot-box. Nor did he stir foot again, nor relax a muscle, till every one of the twelve chambers was emptied.

Then, with an oath that carried with it all the pent-up hatred of a bitter heart, he flung both weapons in the direction whither his last shot had gone, and, staggering back, dropped helplessly into the driving-seat behind him.

The smoke hung heavily and drifted slowly away upon the still air. The sound of rushing hoofs receded and died away in the distance, and in a while a profound quiet settled upon the scene. The man lolled heavily in his seat, and his eyes closed. His face was a ghastly gray, his eyes were sunken and his blackened lips hung agape. His arms hung helplessly at his side, and his legs were stretched out in a pitiable attitude of uselessness.

The moments passed drearily. For a long time there was no movement of any sort but the restless fidgeting of the horses. They had stood through all the turmoil as their master had long since trained them to stand. But now that it was over their eager spirits were demanding the joy of the trail again. It almost seemed as though, in their equine minds, they had a full realization of the meaning of that battle in the wild, as though sympathy between master and beast had held them during that fierce ten minutes still and passive, lest through any act of theirs they should cross the will of the one being whom they acknowledged their lord. And now that it was over and the crisis passed, it seemed as if they understood that victory had been achieved, and their duty once more lay upon the trail ahead of them.

At last the eyes of the man opened. The chafing of his horses had penetrated to his numbing brain. Their fierce depths were dull and lusterless as they rolled vaguely around. Yet there was intelligence in them, although it was the intelligence of a weary, fainting mind. They closed again, as though the will behind them lacked in its support. And then followed a sigh, a deep, long sigh of exhaustion.

There was another pause, and presently there came a bodily movement. The man stirred uneasily, in the manner of one gathering his weakening forces for a supreme effort from which his whole body shrank. Again his eyes opened, and this time their depths were full of purpose. Suddenly his legs gathered under him and his arms drew up, and in a moment he staggered to his feet, his hands clutching support upon the back of the seat.