A Texas Ranger by William MacLeod Raine (read with me .TXT) 📖
- Author: William MacLeod Raine
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which I regard as the ablest, most daring, and, at the same time, the most difficult and most successful piece of secret service that has come to my knowledge….
Suddenly, Hilliard saw the way out— a way that appealed to him none the less because it would also serve his own ambitions.
“Neither you nor I have any right to help this gentleman to escape, sheriff. The law is plain. He is charged with murder. We haven’t any right to let our private sympathies run away with us. But there is one thing we can do.”
“What is that?” the sheriff asked.
“Let him earn his freedom.”
“Earn it! How?”
“By serving the State in this very matter of the Squaw Creek raid. As prosecuting attorney, it is in my discretion to accept the service of an accomplice to a crime in fixing the guilt upon the principals. Before the law, Lieutenant Fraser stands accused of complicity. We believe him not guilty, but that does not affect the situation. Let him go up into the Cedar Mountain country and find out the guilty parties in the Squaw Creek raid.”
“And admit my guilt by compromising with you?” the Texan scoffed.
“Not at all. You need not go publicly. In point of fact, you couldn’t get out of town alive if it were known. No, we’ll arrange to let you break jail on condition that you go up into the Lost Canyon district, and run down the murderers of Campeau and Jennings, That gives us an excuse for letting you go. You see the point— don’t you?”
The Texan grinned. “That isn’t quite the point, is it?” he drawled. “If I should be successful, you will achieve a reputation, without any cost to yourself. That’s worth mentioning,”
Hilliard showed a momentary embarrassment.
“That’s incidental. Besides, it will help your reputation more than mine “
Brandt got busy at once with the details of the escape. “We’ll loosen up the mortar round the bars in the south room. They are so rickety anyhow I haven’t kept any prisoners there for years. After you have squeezed through you will find a horse saddled in the draw, back here. You’ll want a gun of course.”
“Always providing Lieutenant Fraser consents to the arrangement,” the lawyer added smoothly.
“Oh, I’ll consent,” laughed Fraser wryly. “I have no option. Of course, if I win I get the reward— whatever it is.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Then I’m at your service, gentlemen, to escape whenever you say the word.”
“The best time would be right after lunch. That would give you five hours before Nichols was in here again,” the sheriff suggested.
“Suppose you draw a map, showing the route I’m to follow to reach Cedar Mountain. I reckon I had better not trouble folks to ask them the way.” And the Texan grinned.
“That’s right. I’ll fix you up, and tell you later just where you’ll find the horse,” Brandt answered.
“You’re an officer yourself, lieutenant,” said the lawyer. “You know just how much evidence it takes to convict. Well, that’s just how much we want. If you have to communicate with us, address ‘T. L. Meredith, Box 117.’ Better send your letter in cipher. Here’s a little code I worked out that we sometimes use. Well, so-long. Good hunting, lieutenant.”
Fraser nodded farewell, but did not offer to shake hands.
Brandt lingered for an instant. “Don’t make any mistake, Fraser, about this job you’ve bit off. It’s a big one, and don’t you forget it. People are sore on me because I have fallen down on it. I can’t help it. I just can’t get the evidence. If you tackle it, you’ll be in danger from start to finish. There are some bad men in this country, and the worst of them are lying low in Lost Valley.”
The ranger smiled amiably. “Where is this Lost Valley?”
“Somewhere up in the Cedar Mountain district. I’ve never been there. Few men have, for it is not easy to find; and even if it were strangers are not invited.”
“Well, I’ll have to invite myself.”
“That’s all right. But remember this. There are men up there who would drill holes in a dying man. I guess Lost Valley is the country God forgot.”
“Sounds right interesting.”
“You’ll find it all that, and don’t forget that if they find out what you are doing there, it will be God help Steve Fraser!”
The ranger’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll try to remember it.”
It was one-twenty when Fraser slipped the iron bar from the masonry into which it had been fixed and began to lower himself from the window. The back of the jail faced on the bank of a creek; and into the aspens, which ran along it at this point in a little grove, the fugitive pushed his way. He descended to the creek edge and crossed the mountain stream on bowlders which filled its bed. From here he followed the trail for a hundred yards that led up the little river. On the way he passed a boy fishing and nodded a greeting to him.
“What time is it, mister?” the youngster asked.
A glance at his watch showed the Texan that it was one-twenty-five.
“The fish have quit biting. Blame it all, I’m going home. Say, mister, Jimmie Spence says they’re going to lynch that fellow who killed Billy Faulkner— going to hang him tonight, Jimmie says. Do you reckon they will?”
“No, I reckon not.”
“Tha’s what I told him, but Jimmie says he heard Tom Peake say so. Jimmie says this town will be full o’ folks by night.”
Without waiting to hear any more of Jimmie’s prophecies, Fraser followed the trail till it reached a waterfall Brandt bad mentioned, then struck sharply to the right. In a little bunch of scrub oaks he found a saddled horse tied to a sapling. His instructions were to cross the road, which ran parallel with the stream, and follow the gulch that led to the river. Half an hour’s travel brought him to another road. Into this he turned, and followed it.
In a desperate hurry though he was, Steve dared not show it. He held his piebald broncho to the ambling trot a cowpony naturally drops into. From his coat pocket he flashed a mouthharp for use in emergency.
Presently he met three men riding into town. They nodded at him, in the friendly, casual way of the outdoors West. The gait of the pony was a leisurely walk, and its rider was industriously executing, “I Met My Love In the Alamo.”
“Going the wrong way, aren’t you?” one of the three suggested.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll be there when y’u hang that guy they caught last night,” he told them with a grin.
From time to time he met others. All travel seemed to be headed townward. There was excitement in the air. In the clear atmosphere voices carried a long way, and all the conversation that came to him was on the subjects of the war for the range, the battle of the previous evening, and the lynching scheduled to take place in a few hours. He realized that he had escaped none too soon, for it was certain that as the crowd in town multiplied, they would set a watch on the jail to prevent Brandt from slipping out with his prisoner.
About four miles from town he cut the telephone wires, for he knew that as soon as his escape became known to the jailer, the sheriff would be notified, and he would telephone in every direction the escape of his prisoner, just the same as if there had been no arrangement between them. It was certain, too, that all the roads leading from Gimlet Butte would be followed and patrolled immediately. For which reason he left the road after cutting the wires, and took to the hill trail marked out for him in the map furnished by Brandt.
By night, he was far up in the foothills. Close to a running stream, he camped in a little, grassy park, where his pony could find forage. Brandt had stuffed his saddlebags with food, and had tied behind a sack, with a feed or two of oats for his horse. Fraser had ridden the range too many years to risk lighting a fire, even though he had put thirty-five miles between him and Gimlet Butte. The night was chill, as it always is in that altitude, but he rolled up in his blanket, got what sleep he could, and was off again by daybreak.
Before noon he was high in the mountain passes, from which he could sometimes look down into the green parks where nested the little ranches of small cattlemen. He knew now that he was beyond the danger of the first hurried pursuit, and that it was more than likely that any of these mountaineers would hide him rather than give him up. Nevertheless, he had no immediate intention of putting them to the test.
The second night came down on him far up on Dutchman Creek, in the Cedar Mountain district. He made a bed, where his horse found a meal, in a haystack of a small ranch, the buildings of which were strung along the creek. He was weary, and he slept deep. When he awakened next morning, it was to hear the sound of men’s voices. They drifted to him from the road in front of the house.
Carefully he looked down from the top of his stack upon three horsemen talking to the bareheaded ranchman whom they had called out from his breakfast.
“No, I ain’t seen a thing of him. Shot Billy Faulkner, you say? What in time for?” the rancher was innocently asking.
“You know what for, Hank Speed,” the leader of the posse made sullen answer. “Well, boys, we better be pushing on, I expect.”
Fraser breathed freer when they rode out of sight. He had overslept, and had had a narrow shave; for his pony was grazing in the alfalfa field within a hundred yards of them at that moment. No sooner had the posse gone than Hank Speed stepped across the field without an instant’s hesitation and looked the animal over, after which he returned to the house and came out again with a rifle in his hands.
The ranger slid down the farther side of the stack and slipped his revolver from its holster. He watched the ranchman make a tour of the out-buildings very carefully and cautiously, then make a circuit of the haystack at a safe distance. Soon the rancher caught sight of the man crouching against it.
“Oh, you’re there, are you? Put up that gun. I ain’t going to do you any harm.”
“What’s the matter with you putting yours up first?” asked the Texan amiably.
“I tell you I ain’t going to hurt you. Soon as I stepped out of the house I seen your horse. All I had to do was to say so, and they would have had you slick.”
“What did you get your gun for, then?”
“I ain’t taking any chances till folks’ intentions has been declared. You might have let drive at me before I got a show to talk to you.”
“All right. I’ll trust you.” Fraser dropped his revolver, and the other came across to him.
“Up in this country we ain’t in mourning for Billy Faulkner. Old man Dillon told me what you done for him. I reckon we can find cover for you till things quiet down. My name is Speed.”
“Call me Fraser.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Fraser. I reckon we better move you back into the timber a bit. Deputy sheriffs are some thick around here right
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