Tharon of Lost Valley Part 38

In a few seconds he would be encompa.s.sed by his enemies.

And then, on the tick of fate, that universally unknown factor, a woman's heart, flung its last p.a.w.n in the balance.

Lola, gleaming like a bird of paradise in her gay habiliments, leaning forward from the further steps of Baston's store where she had slipped up unnoticed, cupped her white hands to her scarlet mouth, and sent out a cry like a clarion.

"Buck!" she called, bell-like, clear, far-reaching--"Buck! Turn back!

They've called your turn! It's all up for you! Go! Go--down--the Wall!

And--G.o.d bless you--Buck! Good-bye!"

For one awful moment the great red Ironwood, Bolt, flung up his head and slid forward on his haunches, ploughing up the earth in a cloud.

Then, while the half-stunned crowd gaped in silence, he gathered himself, straightened, whirled, shook his giant frame and leaped clear of the ground in a spectacular turn. The man on his back s.n.a.t.c.hed off his hat and shook it defiantly at the town--the people--the very Valley that he had ruled so long. It was a dramatic gesture--daring, scorning, renouncing. Then, without a word to his henchmen, a single look of farewell, Buck Courtrey struck the Ironwood, and was gone back along the little street.

His men whirled after him, but strange turn of destiny, they swung directly north away from him, for he was turning south at the town's edge.

"For the--Wall!" breathed Lola, her face like milk, one hand on her glittering breast. "He--goes--for below!"

Then all the watchers knew the same.

The master of the Stronghold, having played for Lost Valley and for a woman and lost them both--was done with both.

He leaned on the Ironwood's mighty neck and went south toward the Bottle Neck.

All eyes were upon him--all, that is, save the earnest grey ones of Billy Brent. They were fixed in anguish on the face of Tharon Last beside him--Tharon Last, who shoved the gun-b.u.t.ts hard down in the holsters at her hips, who whirled on her booted heel, who cleared the s.p.a.ce between her and El Rey in three cat-like leaps.

As she went up the stallion rose with her, came down with a pounding of iron-shod hoofs, dropped his huge hips in the first leap--and was away.

Corvan saw the silver horse shoot out from its midst and woke from its lethargy.

"_Th' race!_" some one cried, high and shrill, "_th' race at last!_"

The two strangers saw it, and their lips fell open with amaze.

Kenset from his low porch saw it--and dropped his face on his arms.

"Lord G.o.d!" he groaned, "it's come! I couldn't hold her! I might have known! I might have known! She's Valley bred--she _is_ the Valley!

I--and all I stand for--chaff in the wind! Nothing could hold her now!

Aye--nothing could hold her."

True at last to herself--true to Harkness--true to Jim Last--true to the Vigilantes and to the Valley she loved, Tharon flung the sombrero from her bright head, settled her feet in the stirrups, slid the rein on El Rey's neck, leaned down above him and began to call in his ears.

No need of that cry.

El Rey heeded nothing that she might say. She was not his master--never had been. He had had but one, the big, stern man whose sharp word had been his law--the one who had ever had his best, his love and his speed.

What was it now that rode in his saddle--the saddle with the long dark stain?

a.s.suredly it was not the slim girl-thing with the golden voice!

El Rey had ever looked through, beyond her.

Nay, it was something bigger, stronger, sterner--who shall say?

Perhaps the spirit of that master whom he had served, whom he had brought faithfully home that night in spring, for whom he had looked and listened all these weary months! There was something, indeed--for El Rey, the great, lay down to earth and ran without the need of guidance. He set the long red horse out there on the green plain before him like a beacon and put the mighty machinery of his ma.s.sive body into motion. Bolt was a rival worthy of his best--Bolt, the king of the Ironwoods, huge, spirited, fast as the wind and wild as fire.

El Rey's silver ears lay back along his neck, the mane above them was like a cloud, his long tail streamed behind him like a comet--and forgotten was his singlefooting. He ran, his great limbs gathering and spreading beneath him--gathering and spreading--with the regularity, of clock-work.

Tharon's blue eyes were narrow as her father's, the little lines about them stood out. She rode low, like a limpet clinging, and her mind was on the two ahead--the man and the great bay horse.

As she felt the wind sing by her cheeks, sting the tears beneath her lids, she shut her lips tighter and hugged the pommel closer.

The green carpet went by beneath her like a blur. The thunder of El Rey's beating hoofs was like the sound of the cataracts when the canons shot their freshets from the Rockface.

The note of his speed was rising--rising--rising. The blood began to pound in her temples with pride and exultation.

She saw the distance narrowing just the smallest bit between her and Courtrey. Just the smallest trifle, indeed, but _narrowing_.

"He ain't a-puttin' Bolt down to his best," she told herself tensely, "I know what he can do." And she remembered that ride from the mouth of Black Coulee to the pine-guarded glade--and Kenset. At that thought she pressed her lips tighter.

No thought of Kenset must come to her now--to weaken her with memory of those pressing, vital hands of his above his pounding heart.

No--she was herself again--Tharon Last, Jim Last's girl, the gun woman of Lost Valley--and yonder went her father's killer.

She leaned down and called again in El Rey's ear.

No slightest spurt of speed rewarded her--nothing but the rising note.

Then she saw that the distance was widening--just a tiny bit.

Truly it was widening. Courtrey, looking back, had caught the sun on her golden hair, on her face as white as milk. He saw that her hands were at her hips--loosely set back at her hips--and what thought he might have had of mercy at her hands--what wild vision he might have seen of speech with her--of parley--of persuasion--was dead.

He leaned down and struck the Ironwood with his open hand.

Bolt, the beautiful, leaped in answer. A little more--slowly--the distance between pursuer and pursued widened. Then--Tharon blinked the mist from her eyes to make sure--the gain was lost. Slowly, steadily, El Rey closed up the extra width. Then for a time there was no change.

The open plain resounded to the roar of hoofs, the wind sang by like taut strings struck. The earth was still that racing green blur beneath.

And still the electric note of rising speed hummed softly higher.

If Jim Last rode his silver stallion to the goal of vengeance he must surely have been satisfied. The great shoulders worked like pistons, the whole ma.s.sive body was level as the flowing floor beneath, the steel-thewed limbs reached and doubled--reached and doubled--with wonderful power and precision.

And then at last Tharon knew--knew that El Rey was gaining, slowly, steadily, surely. The splendid bay horse was running magnificently, but El Rey ran like a super-horse. His silver head was straight as a level, his ears laid back, his nostrils wide and flaring, red as blood, his big eyes glowed with the wildness of savage flight.

The great king was mad with speed!

Jim Last's girl was mad also--mad with the l.u.s.t of conquest, of revenge.

She rose a little from the stallion's whipping mane, and her blue eyes burned on the man ahead.

"I said I'd get you, Buck Courtrey!" she muttered, "that some day I'd run th' Ironwoods off their feet--th' heart out of their master!

"Run, d.a.m.n you--for it's your last ride!"