Moreover, it was by no means certain that Hal Dozier,
great trailer though he was, would know that the fugitive
was making for the northern mountains. With all
these things in mind, in spite of the pessimism of
Henry Allister, Andrew felt that he had far more than
a fighting chance to break out of the mountain desert
and into the comparative safety of the crowded country
beyond.
He made one mistake in the beginning. He pushed
the chestnut too hard the first and second days, so
that on the third day he was forced to give the gelding
his head and go at a jarring trot most of the day.
On the fourth and fifth days, however, he had the
reward for his caution. The chestnut’s
ribs were beginning to show painfully, but he kept
doggedly at his work with no sign of faltering.
The sixth day brought Andrew Lanning in close view
of the lower hills. And on the seventh day he
put his fortune boldly to the touch and jogged into
the first little town before him.
It was just after the hot hour of the afternoon.
The shadows from the hills to the west were beginning
to drop across the village; people who had kept to
their houses during the early afternoon now appeared
on their porches. Small boys and girls, returning
from school, were beginning to play. Their mothers
were at the open doors exchanging shouted pieces of
news and greetings, and Andrew picked his way with
care along the street. It was a town flung down
in the throat of a ravine without care or pattern.
There was not even one street, but rather a collection
of straggling paths which met about a sort of open
square, on the sides of which were the stores and the
inevitable saloons and hotel.
But the narrow path along which Andrew rode was a
gantlet to him. For all he knew, the placards
might be already out, one of the least of those he
passed might have recognized him. He noticed that
one or two women, in their front door, stopped in
the midst of a word to watch him curiously. It
seemed to Andrew that a buzz of comment and warning
preceded him and closed behind him. He felt sure
that the children stood and gaped at him from behind,
but he dared not turn in his saddle to look back.
And he kept on, reining in the gelding, and probing
every face with one swift, resistless glance that
went to the heart. He found himself literally
taking the brains and hearts of men into the palm of
his hand and weighing them. Yonder old man, so
quiet, with the bony fingers clasped around the bowl
of his corncob, sitting under the awning by the watering
trough—that would be an ill man to cross
in a pinch—that hand would be steady as
a rock on the barrel of a gun. But the big, square
man with the big, square face who talked so loudly
on the porch of yonder store—there was
a bag of wind that could be punctured by one threat
and turned into a figure of tallow by the sight of
a gun.
