Destry Rides Again (22 page)

Much had been taken from Fiddle that day, but she had rested since the strain and now she was willing to run on, straight
and swift. And every bound she made lifted the heart of Destry. He felt a cold, hard certainty that unless he overtook his
conqueror on this night and fought out the battle with him again, he would never again be the Harry Destry whom other men
had learned to fear.

Not that he cared to triumph over them, as he had done before. For now that he had dipped into the valley of humiliation,
his heart was softened, and with every pulse of the mare’s gallop he swore inwardly that this night would see the last bullet
fired from his Colt, whether he won or lost.

It must be a short race, he knew, for Fiddle could not endure another heart-racking effort in this day, but he trusted to
her first fierce burst of speed to overhaul the other.

Mercilessly he pressed her on, until her ears flattened, and her head stretched out straight with her labor up the hill, then
over it and shooting down a sharp slope at breathless speed. It seemed to Destry like plunging into the dark of a well; and
the stars flew back over his head like sparks from a wheel. Then he was riding up the easy floor of a hollow and the trees
stood on the ridges at either hand like fenceposts planted regularly.

But all was growing brighter as the moon came up in the east, small and dull behind a rag of clouds. By her light, Destry
saw the rider before him far closer
than at first and working desperately to drop his pursuer.

It could not be done! With a great upbursting of exultation, Destry knew that the other was surely being overhauled, and Fiddle
herself like a hunting dog increased her pace as she saw the race in her grip.

They turned a sharp bend of the valley. The walls of it increased on either hand, and to make surety doubly sure, Destry saw
that he had run his prey into a box cañon. Straight before him the way terminated in a low wall over which a stream of water
tumbled into spray and showered across the rocks beneath with a continual hushing sound. Beyond the water stood the rim of
the moon, so bright that it half dazzled Destry, and made more dim than phantoms the shadowy rocks and trees around him.

But in spite of that dimness he could not but be aware of one form running toward him. It was Chester Bent, who had fled long
enough and now turned back to strike at his pursuer.

A bullet clipped the sombrero from Destry’s head, the bark of the gun crashed against his ear and the instant echoes repeated
it in a harsh jumble. And he fired in turn, half blindly, being desperate with the knowledge that the light was in his eyes,
obscuring all things for him as much as it illumined them for his enemy. He was in a thick mist, as it were, while Bent had
at least a twilight to strike by. Both weapons spoke again. Pitching down the slip, Bent came, horse and man, like a thrown
missile, but the second bullet from Destry at least altered his course.

Up went the mustang on its rear legs. Destry saw the mouth gaped wide under the strain of the reins;
the eyes were fiercely bright. It seemed more like a trained fighting beast than a harmless servant of any master.

However, it reared so high and so far that it passed the balance point, and toppled back as Bent, with a yell of anger and
surprise, flung himself from the saddle. Horse and man went down, the crashing body of the big animal seeming to land fairly
on top of its master. Yet when Destry sprang down from the back of Fiddle, it was to see Bent rolling over and over, then
pitching to his feet.

Destry fired. There was no return. Instead, Bent came running in with a peculiarly rapid, dodging gait, so that Destry was
amazed. It seemed as though Bent scorned to use a weapon, but preferred to fight out the battle, trusting to his bare hands.

There was no such folly in the mind of Bent, however. The holster on his thigh was empty; his fall from the horse had disarmed
him and his only escape from the bullets of Destry was to get at the source of them.

The truth flashed up like fire in the mind of Harry Destry. The hypocrite, the traitor, the false friend he now held helpless
under the nose of the Colt. No dodging could avoid the gun at such a distance, but Destry flung it suddenly from him.

For the fear left him. A sort of madness came on him as he saw this enemy rushing in with empty hands. Out of the past a picture
poured upon his mind of the twelve men who had gathered to judge him and to rob him of a portion of his life.

All these years it had seemed a frightful mockery, a frightful sham, that verdict delivered by the “twelve peers.” Now, in
an instant, all bitterness left him. Whatever weakness and sin there had been among
them now was nothing contrasted with the overmastering sin of Bent. His evil, as it were, was a fire that burned the others
clean.

Here was a peer, indeed, a king among men, towering above Destry in keenness of mind, in craft, in all subtlety. Only in one
way could he be matched, and that was in strength of hand. So the pride stood up like flame in Destry. He shouted, as an Indian
shouts rushing to battle, there was laughter in his throat as he plunged forward. They looked like two old friends, newly
met and throwing out their arms to embrace each other. So it was that they appeared, but when they met, it was with a shock
that spun them about. Then they fell into a hard grip.

The hands of Destry slipped and glided on the body of Bent. Now he knew for certain that sleekness was not fat but hardened
muscle, from which his fingerhold failed. But Bent, in return, drove home his shoulder against Destry’s breast, staggering
him; then in the excess of his power, he raised Destry floundering in the air. He was a helpless and clumsy child in the grip
of Bent. He who had been so proud of his strength was unnerved and half unmanned by the first onset of his enemy.

Yet not beaten!

He was swung in the air, then hurled down, Bent casting his weight forward to fall upon his victim. But Destry, catlike, turned
in the air, struck the earth with feet and hands, and dodged from the hands of Bent. His foot tripped on a rock with a violence
that cast him head over heels down the slope. More desperately than ever he fought to regain his balance, came staggering
to his feet, and braced himself to meet an onslaught that did not come!

Instead, he heard the beating of a horse’s hoofs,
and yonder went Chester Bent on the back of Fiddle, rushing up the trail at the head of the cañon.

Vain curses poured from the throat of Destry. he had welcomed this last and greatest battle in a divine frenzy, but even in
this he was tricked, eluded, baffled and shamed. He cried out loud, and ran a few stumbling steps in pursuit, until his foot
struck the revolver which he had thrown away. He looked blankly down at it for an instant, then scooped it up.

Up the cliff-face on the winding trail went the rider, until at the top he burst out across the face of the moon which now
stood just above the rim of the rock. It was an odd and terrible effect, as though Fiddle were snatched into the heart of
the sky, racing down the slope of the constellation. Her mane and tail flew out. This was the last instant her former rider
would see her, it seemed, and as he rode, Bent waved his hand, laughing.

Loudly, yet as from a distance, that laughter floated down to the ear of Destry, mixed with the ringing beat of the hoofs.
It was the laughter that made him recover suddenly from his dream. The gun leaped high in his hand, barked.

And as its nose jerked up with the recoil, Destry saw Chester Bent lurch from the saddle of the flying mare—lurch, so to speak,
from the white cradle of the moon. Both his arms were flung out; he dropped at once from view against the rock of the cliff-face.

For an instant, Destry held his breath. In that instant, he told himself that it was impossible. Such a man could not die
in such a way, but by a last impossible touch of craft would rescue himself!

Then out of the darkness, Destry heard the impact, horrible, distinct, like huge gloved hands smitten together.

Chester Bent was dead!

Fiddle, in the meantime, had turned back, and coming across the moon once more, she paused there and whinnied anxiously into
the dark of the ravine. Only then did Destry raise his head, which had fallen in profound thought. He let the Colt fall from
his hand and turned back up the hill, stumbling. Even Fiddle he did not wish near him, for Fiddle had come to him through
the dead man’s gift!

Destry went back to Wham, but he did not pause in the town; he went on through it until he came to the Dangerfield house beyond.

He hesitated to approach it. The place seemed dark, until he circled to the farther side and saw the dim glow of a lamp against
the drawn shade. Coming up to the front of the old house, he heard voices on the veranda and he paused in the darkness to
listen.

It was Docter Whipple and the Colonel. The doctor was saying: “They’re like willow. You can beat ’em and bend ’em, but still
they’re tough and keep their life.”

“You mean that he’ll come through?” asked the Colonel.

“He’s got a tolerable fair chance,” said the doctor.

Destry suddenly remembered that there was no call for him to remain sheltered from view in the dark. He was a free man. There
was no shadow of legal complaint against him. In all the world no one could give evidence that would place him in danger of
the law. A load fell from his shoulders. He came quietly up the veranda steps.

“It’s Destry, most likely,” said the Colonel. “Is that you, Harry?”

“It’s me,” said he.

“Set down,” said the Colonel. “Ding Slater has just left, and he told us.”

“About Bent?”

“He told us everything. You’ve got him, son, or you wouldn’t be back, I reckon?”

“Bent is gone,” said Destry soberly. “Did I hear you say that the kid is going to pull through, Doc?”

“If he was ten years older,” replied Whipple, “he wouldn’t have a chance. But the young ones will bend without breaking. You
might go up and see him. He’s been talking about you a good deal.”

“The fever,” said Destry. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty high. He needs sleep and——”

At this, a note of shrill, high laughter came sharply down to them from the upstairs of the house.

Destry listened with a shudder, and started toward the door. The Colonel accompanied him up the stairs to the right door,
and there paused with him.

“Charlie is in there with the kid,” he remarked, “and before you go in, maybe you’ll let me know which turn your trail is
gunna take with her, son?”

“Her way is my way,” said Destry, “so long as she’ll let me go with her.”

The Colonel nodded, and Destry tapped at the door. It was opened at once by the girl. She turned pale when she saw the newcomer,
but stepped back and waved him in, pointing toward the bed.

Little Willie Thornton lay there, his arms thrown out wide, and looking sun-blackened until they were as dark as a Negro’s
skin. But his face was pale. He seemed gaunt and old; the skin was drawn tight and looked polished over the cheekbones. And
his eyes rolled wildly.

“He’s mighty sick,” said the girl. “Speak to him, Harry!”

Destry sat on the side of the bed, and took one of the small, clenced fists in his hand.

“D’you know me, Willie?” said he.

“You’re Chester Bent,” said the boy. “It’s you that set me on fire, but Destry’ll come and put the fire out. He’ll find you,
too. There ain’t any trail so long——”

His eyes grew vacant.

Destry took the youngster by both shoulders.

“It’s me—it’s Harry Destry!” said he. “D’you hear me, son?”

Into the eyes of Willie came sudden life and understanding.

“Hey, Harry!” said he. “Hullo! I’m glad to see you. You’re safe from ’em, Harry?”

“Account of you, I am,” said Destry. “You fixed me up, old son!”

The boy smiled and his eyes closed.

“D’you mean it? And Bent?”

“Bent’ll never be seen again.”

The boy nodded, his smile increasing.

“I reckoned that you’d tend to him,” said he. “Why don’t they figger it out with sense? They ain’t nobody that ever could
give you no trouble, Harry! I reckon that you’re the top wrangler everywhere!”

Destry looked back to the swift and desperate fight in the shadow of the narrow ravine and he said nothing, but thought the
more. Willie Thornton’s closed fist relaxed in the grip of Destry. The haggard tautness relaxed in the face of the boy, and
a slight perspiration gleamed on his forehead and moistened his hand. In a moment he was sleeping. Another moment still, and
he smiled in his sleep.

“You’re the best doctor, Harry!” said the girl.

She had been leaning beside him all this time and now Destry looked up at her through a mist of vast weariness.

“Charlie,” said he, “I wonder if this here is the end of the trail?”

She smiled as she looked down at him.

“I mean,” he explained, “that I’m plumb tired, Charlie. I’m finished with the game. I’m done up and weary to the bone. But
if you still can waste time on a good-for-nothin’ gent that never done anything well except the makin’ of trouble, I’ve come
back here to ask you to marry me, Charlie.”

“You better have a sleep, first,” said she. “You’re tuckered out and you want to quit now, but tomorrow you’ll be on the wing
again.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked her, too tired to follow her meaning clearly.

“You’ll always hunt trouble till you’ve met a master,” said she, firmly. “You gotta ride to a fall, Harry. You gotta fight
till you’re knocked out.”

Destry laughed, and he was so very tired that his head fell loosely back as he laughed.

“I’ve met my master,” said he. “I’ve met my peer. He beat me to the draw; he beat me with guns, and he beat me hand to hand.
I killed him with luck and not with skill. I’ve throwed the gun away, Charlie. I’m an old man, and finished and done for.
A Chinaman could laugh in my face, now, and I’d take it!”

“It was Bent?” she asked.

“Ay, it was Chet.”

She drew a great breath.

“I always knew,” said she, “that something good would come out of him!”

They were married that month, on the day when Willie Thornton was pronounced able to sit up. Because he expressed a desire
to see the affair, it was performed in Willie’s room, which was jammed
with a crowd that overflowed into the hall and even up and down the stairs.

But, as Ding Slater said, the whole county should have been present, because it meant the end of the old days and the beginning
of a new regime in Wham, for Harrison Destry had put away his Colt.