WITH BARE HANDS AT LAST

In after years, when Wade tried to recall that mad ride, he found it only a vague blur upon his memory. He was conscious only of the fact that he had traveled at a speed which, in saner moments, he would have considered suicidal. Urging the big black over the rougher ground of the higher levels, he rode like a maniac, without regard for his own life and without mercy for the magnificent horse beneath him. Time and again the gelding stumbled on the rocky footing and almost fell, only to be urged to further efforts by his rider.

Five miles out of Crawling Water, the cattleman thought of a short-cut, through a little used timber-trail, which would save him several miles; but it was crossed by a ravine cut by a winter avalanche like the slash of a gigantic knife. To descend into this ravine and ascend on the farther side would be a tortuous process, which would take more time than to continue by the longer route. But if the gelding could jump the narrow cleft in the trail, the distance saved might decide the issue with Moran. On the other hand, if the leap of the horse was short, practically certain death must befall both animal and rider.

Wade decided, in his reckless mood, that the chance was worth taking and he rode the black to the edge of the cleft, where trembling with nervousness, the animal refused the leap. Cursing furiously, Wade drove him at it again, and again the gelding balked. But at the third try he rose to the prick of the spurs and took the jump. The horse’s forelegs caught in perilous footing and the struggling, slipping animal snorted in terror, but the ranchman had allowed the impulse of the leap to carry him clear of his saddle. Quickly twisting the bridle reins around one wrist, he seized the horse’s mane with his free hand, and helped by the violent efforts the animal made, succeeded in pulling him up to a firmer footing. For some minutes afterward he had to soothe the splendid brute, patting him and rubbing his trembling legs; then, with a grim expression of triumph on his face, he resumed his journey. The chance had won!

There was less likelihood now that he would be too late, although the thought that he might be so still made him urge the horse to the limit of his speed. He kept his eyes fastened on a notch in the hills, which marked the location of the ranch. He rode out on the clearing which held the house just in time to hear Dorothy’s second scream, and plunged out of his saddle, pulling his rifle from the scabbard beneath his right leg as he did so. From the kitchen chimney a faint wisp of smoke curled upward through the still air; a rooster crowed loudly behind the barn and a colt nickered in the corral. Everywhere was the atmosphere of peace, save for that scream followed now by another choking cry, and a barking collie, which danced about before the closed door of the house in the stiff-legged manner of his breed, when excited.

Wade burst into the house like a madman and on into the back room, where Moran, his face horribly distorted by passion, was forcing the girl slowly to the floor. But for the protection which her supple body afforded him, the ranchman would have shot him in his tracks.

“Gordon!” The overwhelming relief in her face, burned into Wade’s soul like a branding-iron. “Don’t shoot! Oh, thank God!” She fell back against the wall, as Moran released her, and began to cry softly and brokenly.

Snarling with baffled rage and desire, Moran whirled to meet the cattleman. His hand darted, with the swift drop of the practised gun man, toward his hip pocket; but too late, for he was already covered by the short-barreled rifle in Wade’s hands. More menacing even than the yawning muzzle was the expression of terrible fury in the ranchman’s face. For a space of almost a minute, broken only by the tense breathing of the two men and a strangled sob from Dorothy, Moran’s fate hung on the movement of an eyelash. Then Wade slowly relaxed the tension of his trigger finger. Shooting would be too quick to satisfy him!

Moran breathed more freely at this sign, for he knew that he had been nearer death than ever before in all his adventurous life, and the sway of his passion had weakened his nervous control. Courage came back to him rapidly, for with all his faults he was, physically at least, no coward. He took hope from his belief that Wade would not now shoot him down.

“Well, why don’t you pull that trigger?” His tone was almost as cool as though he had asked a commonplace question.

“I’ve heard,” said Wade slowly, “that you call yourself a good rough-and-tumble fighter; that you’ve never met your match. I want to get my hands on you!”

Moran’s features relaxed into a grin; it seemed strange to him that any man could be such a fool. It was true that he had never met his match in rough fighting, and he did not expect to meet it now.

“You’re a bigger man than I am,” the cattleman went on. “I’ll take a chance on you being a better one. I believe that I can break you with my hands like the rotten thing you are.” He paid no heed to Dorothy’s tearful protests. “Will you meet me in a fair fight?” Wade’s face suddenly contorted with fury. “If you won’t....” His grip on the rifle tightened significantly.

“No, Gordon, no! Oh, please, not that!” the girl pleaded.

“Sure, I’ll fight,” Moran answered, a gleam of joy in his eyes. He gloried in the tremendous strength of a body which had brought him victory in half a hundred barroom combats. He felt that no one lived, outside the prize-ring, who could beat him on an even footing.

“Take his gun away from him,” Wade told Dorothy. “It’s the second time you’ve disarmed him, but it’ll be the last. He’ll never carry a gun again. Take it!” he repeated, commandingly, and when she obeyed, added: “Toss it on the bed.” He stood his rifle in a corner near the door.

“You’re a fool, Wade,” Moran taunted as they came together. “I’m going to kill you first and then I’ll take my will of her.” But nothing he could say could add to Wade’s fury, already at its coldest, most deadly point.

He answered by a jab at the big man’s mouth, which Moran cleverly ducked; for so heavy a man, he was wonderfully quick on his feet. He ducked and parried three other such vicious leads, when, by a clever feint, Wade drew an opening and succeeded in landing his right fist, hard as a bag of stones, full in the pit of his adversary’s stomach. It was an awful blow, one that would have killed a smaller man; but Moran merely grunted and broke ground for an instant. Then he landed a swinging left on the side of Wade’s head which opened a cut over his ear and nearly floored him.

Back and forth across the little room they fought, with little advantage either way, while Dorothy watched them breathlessly. Like gladiators they circled each other, coming together at intervals with the shock of two enraged bulls. Both were soon bleeding from small cuts on the head and face, but neither was aware of the fact. Occasionally they collided with articles of furniture, which were overturned and swept aside almost unnoticed; while Dorothy was forced to step quickly from one point to another to keep clear of them. Several times Wade told her to leave the room, but she would not go.

Finally the ranchman’s superior condition began to tell in his favor. At the end of ten minutes’ fighting, the agent’s breathing became labored and his movements slower. Wade, still darting about quickly and lightly, had no longer much difficulty in punishing the brutal, leering face before him. Time after time he drove his fists mercilessly into Moran’s features until they lost the appearance of anything human and began to resemble raw meat.

But suddenly, in attempting to sidestep one of his opponent’s bull-like rushes, the cattleman slipped in a puddle of blood and half fell, and before he could regain his footing Moran had seized him. Then Wade learned how the big man’s reputation for tremendous strength had been won. Cruelly, implacably, those great, ape-like arms entwined about the ranchman’s body until the very breath was crushed out of it. Resorting to every trick he knew, he strove desperately to free himself, but all the strength in his own muscular body was powerless to break the other’s hold. With a crash that shook the house to its foundation, they fell to the floor, and by a lucky twist Wade managed to fall on top.

The force of the fall had shaken Moran somewhat, and the cattleman, by calling on the whole of his strength, succeeded in tearing his arms free. Plunging his fingers into the thick, mottled throat, he squeezed steadily until Moran’s struggles grew weaker and weaker. Finally they ceased entirely and the huge, heavy body lay still.

Wade stumbled to his feet and staggered across the room.

“It’s all right,” he said thickly, and added at sight of Dorothy’s wide, terror-stricken eyes: “Frightened you, didn’t we? Guess I should have shot him and made a clean job of it; but I couldn’t, somehow.”

“Oh, he’s hurt you terribly!” the girl cried, bursting into fresh tears.

Wade laughed and tenderly put his arms around her, for weak though he was and with nerves twitching like those of a recently sobered drunkard, he was not too weak or sick to enjoy the privilege of soothing her. The feel of her in his arms was wonderful happiness to him and her tears for him seemed far more precious than all the gold on his land. He had just lifted her up on the sill of the open window, thinking that the fresh air might steady her, when she looked over his shoulder and saw Moran, who had regained consciousness, in the act of reaching for his revolver, which lay on the bed where she had tossed it.

“Oh, see what he’s doing! Look out!”

Her cry of warning came just too late. There was a flash and roar, and a hot flame seemed to pass through Wade’s body. Half turning about, he clutched at the air, and then pitched forward to the floor, where he lay still. Flourishing the gun, Moran got unsteadily to his feet and turned a ghastly, dappled visage to the girl, who, stunned and helpless, was gazing at him in wide-eyed horror. But she had nothing more to fear from him, for now that he believed Wade dead, the agent was too overshadowed by his crime to think of perpetrating another and worse one. He had already wasted too much valuable time. He must get away.

“I got him,” he croaked, in a terrible voice. “I got him like I said I would, damn him!” With a blood-curdling attempt at a laugh, he staggered out of the house into the sunshine.

For a moment Dorothy stared woodenly through the empty doorway; then, with a choking sob, she bent over the man at her feet. She shook him gently and begged him to speak to her, but she could get no response and under her exploring fingers his heart apparently had ceased to beat. For a few seconds she stared at the widening patch of red on his torn shirt; then her gaze shifted and focused on the rifle in the corner by the door. As she looked at the weapon her wide, fear-struck eyes narrowed and hardened with a sudden resolve. Seizing the gun, she cocked it and stepped into the doorway.

Moran was walking unsteadily toward the place where he had tied his horse. He was tacking from side to side like a drunken man, waving his arms about and talking to himself. Bringing the rifle to her shoulder, Dorothy steadied herself against the door-frame and took long, careful aim. As she sighted the weapon her usually pretty face, now scratched and streaked with blood from her struggles with the agent, wore the expression of one who has seen all that is dear in life slip away from her. At the sharp crack of the rifle Moran stopped short and a convulsive shudder racked his big body from head to foot. After a single step forward he crumpled up on the ground. For several moments his arms and legs twitched spasmodically; then he lay still.

Horrified by what she had done, now that it was accomplished Dorothy stepped backward into the house and stood the rifle in its former position near the door, when a low moan from behind made her turn hurriedly. Wade was not dead then! She hastily tore his shirt from over the wound, her lips twisted in a low cry of pity as she did so. To her tender gaze, the hurt seemed a frightful one. Dreading lest he should regain consciousness and find himself alone, she decided to remain with him, instead of going for the help she craved; most likely she would be unable to find her mother and Barker, anyway. She stopped the flow of blood as best she could and put a pillow under the ranchman’s head, kissing him afterward. Then for an interval she sat still. She never knew for how long.

Santry reached the house just as Mrs. Purnell and Barker returned with their berries, and the three found the girl bathing the wounded man’s face, and crying over him.

“Boy, boy!” Santry sobbed, dropping on his knees before the unconscious figure. “Who done this to you?”

Dorothy weepingly explained, and when she told of her own part in shooting Moran the old fellow patted her approvingly on the back. “Good girl,” he said hoarsely. “But I wish that job had been left for me.”

“Merciful Heavens!” cried Mrs. Purnell. “I shall never get over this.” With trembling hands she took the basin and towel from her daughter and set them one side, then she gently urged the girl to her feet.

“You!” said Santry, so ferociously to Barker that the man winced in spite of himself. “Help me to lay him on the bed, so’s to do it gentle-like.”

Dorothy, who felt certain that Wade was mortally hurt, struggled desperately against the feeling of faintness which was creeping over her. She caught at a chair for support, and her mother caught her in her arms.

“My poor dear, you’re worn out. Go lie down. Oh, when I think...!”

“Don’t talk to me, mother!” Dorothy waved her back, for the presence close to her of another person could only mean her collapse. “I’m all right. I’m of no consequence now. He needs a doctor,” she added, turning to Santry, who stood near the bed bowed with grief. He, too, thought that Wade would never be himself again.

“I’ll go,” said Barker, eager to do something to atone for his absence at the critical moment, but Santry rounded upon him in a rage.

“You you skunk!” he snarled, and gestured fiercely toward the bed. “He left you here to look after things and you you went berry pickin’!” Barker seemed so crushed by the scorn in the old man’s words that Dorothy’s sympathy was stirred.

“It wasn’t Barker’s fault,” she said quickly. “There seemed to be no danger. Gordon said so himself. But one of you go, immediately, for the doctor.”

“I’ll go,” Santry responded and hurried from the room, followed by Barker, thoroughly wretched.

Dorothy went to the bedside and looked down into Wade’s white face; then she knelt there on the floor and said a little prayer to the God of all men to be merciful to hers.

“Maybe if I made you a cup of tea?” Mrs. Purnell anxiously suggested, but the girl shook her head listlessly. Tea was the elder woman’s panacea for all ills.

“Don’t bother me, mother, please. I I’ve just been through a good deal. I can’t talk really, I can’t.”

Mrs. Purnell, subsiding at last, thereafter held her peace, and Dorothy sat down by the bed to be instantly ready to do anything that could be done. She had sat thus, almost without stirring, for nearly an hour, when Wade moved slightly and opened his eyes.

“What is it?” She bent over him instantly, forgetting everything except that he was awake and that he seemed to know her.

“Is it you, Dorothy?” He groped weakly for her fingers.

“Yes, dear,” she answered, gulping back the sob in her throat. “Is there anything you want? What can I do for you?”

He smiled feebly and shook his head.

“It’s all right, if it’s you,” he said faintly, after a moment. “You’re all right always!”