Chapter XXVI: The Man-Trap

The Scarborough gang disappeared over night, disappeared and was lost track of completely, and its dissolution was as complete as that of a bubble which suddenly explodes and is gone. The outlaws and horse-thieves who had so terrorized the country, carrying their trade as far as Wyoming and Texas, took to the hills and were gone, leaving the stock they had stolen to be rounded up and restored by Meshackatee. In the corrals by the Rock House horses and cattle awaited their owners; and the Rock House itself, once the holdout of the gang, became the abode of Tonto County deputies. But Isham himself, the wolf who had turned fox, was lost and could not be found.

He had started west, taking the trail to the Geronimo, and somewhere on the way he had disappeared. For hundreds of miles along the base of the Rim, and for thousands of square miles along its top, there was a forest of pines as unbroken as the first wilderness, as untracked as the Arctic regions. Once out of the trail a man was lost to all pursuit but, knowing his directions, he was free to ride on as he pleased until he came to the edge of the forest. Into this covert of trees and brush Isham had slipped like a weasel, leaving his wife to ride on to Geronimo; but McIvor cut his trail at last, and, after a month of hard riding, he too rode into Geronimo. For the wolf, now turned fox, had doubled on his tracks and taken shelter within the shadow of the law.

There had been a time when Isham had scoffed at the law, but that was in Tonto County. Geronimo County was different, and there was also a sharp rivalry between the mountain and valley counties. Geronimo was down in the valley, a land of heat and broad canals and alfalfa fields stretching away for miles, and its people were peaceably inclined; but the mountainous Tonto had achieved an unenviable reputation as the home of horse-thieves and outlaws. The Geronimo papers had made the most of his outlawry but Isham had reckoned well when he depended upon local jealousy to protect him from the hand of the law. No Tonto County deputy could arrest him in Geronimo, and he knew that no Geronimo deputy would. And to add to his security it soon became evident that Tonto was glad to get rid of him. The county was bankrupt already from trying to convict him and it was content to let sleeping dogs lie.

This much McIvor learned before he had been in town an hour--and then he experienced a shock. A tall man that he knew sauntered into the saloon and regarded him out of the tail of his eye--it was Burge Masters, one of the Scarborough gunmen. He took a drink and sauntered out, and as Hall sat at a card table another tall Texan walked in.

"Say," he said, coming over to where Hall sat, "haven't I seen you before around here somewhere?"

"Why, not that I know of," responded Hall, and looked him over carefully. He belonged to a breed that he knew all too well--heavy-jawed, with high cheek-bones and narrowed eyes--he was a gunman, straight from Texas. But what was he doing here in this peaceful farming community? The answer was in his eyes. He was there for a purpose and that purpose, for some reason, was not unconnected with him, Hall.

"That your horse out there?" inquired the Texan abruptly, "blue roan with a slit in one ear? Well, I'll have you to know you _stole_ 'im!"

He struck the table and Hall glanced up at him quickly, but he did not make a move.

"You are mistaken, my friend," he answered at last, and the Texan turned away. Hall stepped out the door after him, just in time to see three Texans making a critical examination of his roan. And then it flashed over him, the old Scarborough trick which Isham had attempted at Cold Spring. They were trying to prove him a horse-thief. He stood and watched them, stamping their faces on his memory, and at last they slouched away. But he had the answer now--they were still Scarborough gunmen, and they knew he had come with a purpose. What that purpose was he would admit to no man; but they knew, and Isham would know. He was there to kill the last of the Scarboroughs.

Even if he were not superstitious the appearance of Hall McIvor would send the chill of fear over Isham; for the blue roan which he rode had lured Red to his death, and then horse and man had lured Elmo. It was like the shadow of a raven, the heavy winging of Death itself, to see that drooping roan at the horse-rack, and as McIvor watched the street he was conscious of tense faces that seemed to divine his mission. Perhaps it was his clothes, torn by riding through the brush, or the stern set look in his eyes; but he could tell by their looks that these strangers knew all about him, although now they studiously ignored him. Even the Texans kept away from him, retreating to the saloon across the street; but he knew what was in their hearts. There was a thousand-dollar reward on his head.

Not for nothing had Burge Masters' friend slapped the table insultingly and accused him of being a horse-thief; they were out for the reward and if he refused to fight there were other ways of embroiling him. Hall sensed mischief in the air and yet he was puzzled--they seemed to be prepared for his coming. Where before there had been one Texan now there were eight or ten, all armed and watching him closely; and as he mounted his tired horse and rode him down to the corral he saw two of them swing up and start after him. Then he knew it--he had ridden into a trap. Isham had assembled his gunmen and made all things ready, and then let his presence be known; and McIvor, following blindly, had ridden into an ambush, right there in that peaceful, farming town. If he fled, they would follow him; and if he stayed--well, then it would be ten to one.

He rode down to the feed corral and looked it over closely, then summoned the proprietor from his office.

"Put this horse in a box stall," he directed, "and don't let any person go near him. I want to leave him saddled--and I'll hold you personally responsible if he isn't right here when I want him."

"All right, pardner," answered the livery-stable keeper, "I suppose the horse is yours?"

"Yes, and here's the bill of sale."

Hall took out the bill of sale which he had carefully preserved and showed it to the worldly-wise proprietor, who nodded and passed it back.

"Kee-reck," he remarked. "'Be sure you're right,' sez I, 'and then go ahead.' Your horse will be here when you call for him."

The Texans had disappeared when Hall returned to the main street, but he sat with his back to the wall. It was a habit he had acquired in just such towns as this, when the clans had gathered for court-day. But here all was different, the air was furnace-hot and strange birds fluttered about through the palms; there was the smell of desert greasewood, the rank tang of arrow-weed and the fragrance of sun-ripened hay. Heavy wagons dragged past, loaded with wheat for the flour mill which stood at the edge of the river-bottom; long-haired Indians strode by, their bare feet whispering along the sidewalk, and Mexicans sat smoking on their heels. There were ranchers in sweaty shirts and faded-out overalls, and the usual collection of bums; but the Texans were gone and as evening came on Hall retired to his room above the saloon.

Here was a new problem, new conditions, a conspiracy on foot to draw him into a quarrel; and he wondered rather wearily if it would not be better to withdraw and come in again. Isham Scarborough had rented a ranch several miles out of town and was reported to be harvesting his wheat; he was forewarned now and if Hall rode to his ranch he would expose his hand to no purpose. And then the hired gunmen, who even now were dogging his footsteps, would find the opportunity they sought. He would be shot down from ambush, somewhere along the road, and Isham would escape unscathed. Every circumstance was against him, but now he could not flee, for they would hunt him down like a rabbit. All he could do was to stand pat and wait.

In towns like Geronimo there is but one place to wait and Hall found himself back in the saloon. The Keno was the largest by far in the city and there he would find company and friends. It was a protection, in a way, to mingle with the crowd that gathered to gamble and drink; and if the Texans came to gang him these men of the valley would see that he had fair play. So as the evening came on, making the darkened streets dangerous, he drifted back into the Keno; and to pass away the time he ventured small sums at roulette, always keeping one eye on the door. And then they came in, not eight or ten of them, but fifteen or twenty armed Texans; and a hush settled over the room.

The skitter of the roulette balls sounded with painful distinctness; and drunken men, wrangling in an uproar, heard their voices break through and rise high in the sudden silence. Texans were rare in Geronimo, they almost never came there, and especially in the heat of summer; and these swashbucklers from Tonto were known for what they were, though their purpose that night was still a mystery. All the Arizonans knew was that they were out to make trouble--Hall knew they had come to get him. They called for the drinks and then scattered through the room, some watching the crap-games, others losing a dollar at roulette, but gradually closing in. A hand, coming from nowhere, reached out to steal his pistol; another man jostled him from behind, but as the gang surged towards him Hall slipped between two tables and stood with his back to the wall.

There was a pause, in which crap dealers slid down softly beneath their tables and the rest of the assembly stood frozen, and then Hall spoke to the nearest of the gang.

"What can I do for you, my friend?" he asked with deceptive quietness, and the nerve of the Texan broke.

"Have a drink!" he guffawed, turning and heading for the bar; but Burge Masters stepped out in his place.

"We want you," he said, "and you might as well come quietly. If you don't----"

"I won't come," stated Hall.

There was another pause, and the crowd by the door suddenly ducked and charged out into the street; then, after an interval, another crowd surged in, and in the lead strode Wahoo Meshackatee. He had a gun in each hand and when he saw the Texans he started, then glanced inquiringly at McIvor.

"Well, hello!" he exclaimed, "what's going on here, anyhow? Have I broke in on a little family party?"

Burge Masters turned his head but he did not speak and his men began to shuffle away.

"Oh, nothing much," he mumbled, and Meshackatee beckoned to Hall, then held up his hand to the bar-keeper.

"Have a drink, boys," he said. "Your faces seem familiar. Long time since I've seen a live Texan."

They looked at him and winced, for they knew what he meant, and suddenly all the fight went out them.

"Well," grumbled Masters, and they drank in stony silence then turned and filed out of the door.