The Man-Hunters' Reward

A reward of five hundred dollars! That's not a bad sum for a single capture. A fellow could earn good wages if he managed to catch that outlaw. Let's see what the notice says. The postmaster at Hard Scrabble had just tacked a postal card to the door of the store that served as the post office, so that everyone might read it. It announced:

TAKE HIM IN!

$500 Reward will be paid for the arrest and delivery of Rube White to the sheriff of Yavapai County. He is about twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and slim, with light complexion, and has a big scar on the right side of his face. He is wanted for robbery and other crimes. If killed in resisting arrest, the reward will be paid on satisfactory proof of his identity. When last heard from was making for the Tonto Basin country.

By the time the reader finished, a crowd of half a dozen men surrounded him. One of them, a man named Hi Lansing, reflected aloud, "Now, if that fellow is headed for the Tonto Basin country, it wouldn't be much of a trick to take him." Another man in the crowd warned, "If you ask me, he ain't going to be taken in, and the fellow that tries it is going to have his hands full.

They've been after him for two or three years and haven't got him yet. They say he's right on the shoot."

"Well, a fellow ought to know him as soon as he sees him from that description," hazarded the first speaker. "If he got up close enough to see the scar, then all he'd have to do would be to turn loose at him if he didn't throw up his hands when you told him. Besides, nobody but him would try to cross over the mountains into the basin with this snow on the ground. Blamed if I don't think I'll go after him."

"Well, somebody ought to round him up," asserted someone in the crowd. "He's been foolin' around here long enough, just havin' his own way, sort of as if the country belonged to him. Durned if I wouldn't go with you, Hi, if I didn't have to take this grub over to the boys in camp."

"Well, if any of you want to go, all right. I'm going," replied Lansing. It was not the first time he had been on such expeditions; he was one of those men for whom danger seemed to have a fascination. At his remark, Frank Crandall, a young fellow who had been standing quietly by, volunteered to accompany him. The crowd turned toward him with more interest than they had shown during the entire proceedings. It had only been a few months since he had come among them, fresh from the East, to take charge of one of the mines that had been closed down by the winter's storms. He had been cooped up in the isolated settlement for weeks, and he longed for something to break the monotony.

"Well, get your horse and gun, and come," said Lansing. In an instant, the two men left the room to arm and equip themselves for the chase, while the loungers gathered around the stove to discuss the chances of their success. In a few minutes, the two men rode past the door, each armed with a rifle and a six-shooter, and the crowd stepped out to bid them good-bye, with the oft-repeated warning: "Be careful, and don't let him get the drop on ye."

The crust of the unbroken snow cracked crisply underfoot as the two rode on fast, leaving the little settlement behind. For some time neither spoke, but at last Lansing broke the silence, asking his young companion, "Did you ever try this kind of thing before?"

"No," replied the young man. "I never have."

"Well then, you want to be careful. If you don't lose your head, you're all right. The only danger is that we may run on him before we know it."

"And if we do, what then?" asked the young man.

"Well, he will probably commence shooting. If he does, and you aren't hit the first rattle out of the box, why, you want to get off your horse and get behind something and shoot back. If there isn't anything to get behind, keep your horse between you and him, and keep shooting. Whatever you do, don't let go of your gun. But what we want to do is to see him first, and then we've got the play on him. All you have to do is to tell him to throw up."

"And if he don't throw up?" asked Crandall.

"Why, then you let him have it. The reward will be paid just the same."

The apparent indifference with which Lansing spoke of the entire matter, much as if he were discussing the best method of hunting a wild animal, shocked the young man. But he had committed himself too far to withdraw. Besides, he had that feeling that all men have when they are young—the curiosity to know whether or not he could rely on himself when danger threatened.

"We should strike his trail on the hills here, if he is really headed for the basin country," said Lansing. They had been riding for several hours in silence through the snow, unbroken by aught save the scattered pines that here and there dotted the mesa. Before them towered the mountains through whose passes the man they were after would have to pass in his search for safety in the half-settled wilds beyond.

As the two men rode along, scanning the snow-covered mesa in every direction, Lansing suddenly wheeled his horse to the right. When Crandall joined him, he pointed to a narrow trail where two horses had passed through the snow.

"That's him. He's driving one horse and leading another, and he hasn't passed by very long either. See, the snow hasn't had time to drift in it," said he.

With the discovery, his whole demeanor changed. A new look came into his eyes, and his voice sounded strange. He even grasped his weapons in a manner different from that he had heretofore displayed. "He's right ahead, and we want to look out," the older man continued as they began to follow the trail. As they approached the summit of each hill, they would stop their horses, and Lansing would dismount and crawl to the top so that he could look, without being discovered, into the valley beyond, to avoid coming on the fugitive too suddenly.

They had traveled this way for several miles when, reining in his horse, Lansing pointed to what seemed an old road leading off to the right of the one they were following. "That's the cut-off into the basin. I thought he would take it, but he probably doesn't know the country. You had better take it and ride on ahead until you strike the road we're on again. Then if you can't find his tracks, ride back to meet me until you do. I will follow the trail up."

The young man tried to dissuade Lansing from assuming the great risk of following the trail alone, but his companion was obdurate. Cutting the argument short by again warning the young man to be on his guard, he rode on, following the trail in the snow, while the younger man, finding objection useless, took the cut-off road. He had no difficulty in following it, and he wondered why the man they were pursuing had not taken advantage of it. The whole pursuit seemed almost like a dream to him. The snow, unbroken save by his horse's footfall, stretched away mile after mile in every direction, with here and there a pine through whose branches the wind seemed to sob and sigh, making the only noise that broke the stillness of the wintry afternoon. It added to the dreamlike feeling. Not a single thing was in sight. He began to picture in his mind the kind of man they were pursuing. He had almost forgotten his name.

After all, what had the man done that he, Frank Crandall, should be seeking his blood? Perhaps, like himself, the man had a mother and sisters to grieve over any misfortune that would overtake him. These and a hundred similar thoughts passed through his mind.

The sun was fast declining as he passed from the cut-off into the main road again. The air was growing chilly with the coming of evening, and the snow in the distance took on colors of pink and purple where the rays of the setting sun touched the mountain peaks. He eagerly scanned the main road to see if the man they were pursuing had passed, but the snow covering it was unbroken. Then he rode back along the main road, in the direction from which he had come, to meet his comrade and the fugitive.

He had just ascended one of the many rolling hills when, in the distance, he discovered a man riding one horse and driving another. At the sight, his heart almost stood still. He dismounted, led his horse to one side, and concealed it in a clump of young pines. Then he returned to the roadside and waited. The man was urging his horses forward, but they seemed wearied and made only slow progress. Crandall felt his heart beat faster and faster at how long it took the man to reach him. He examined his revolver and rifle, cocking each to make sure they were in order; it seemed to relieve the tension. After that, he knelt down so he could fire with surer aim and waited. He did not care much now whether the man resisted or not. If the fugitive resisted, he would have to face the consequences. It was nothing to him. He could hear the footfall of the approaching horses in the snow, and he cocked his rifle to be ready.

The setting sun shone full in the man's face, but Crandall forgot to look for the scar that the notice had said was on the right cheek, although he had resolved to do so. When he first discovered the fugitive, he scanned the road behind him to locate Lansing, but the nearer the man came, the less he cared whether Lansing arrived or not. He let the man come closer and closer so that his aim would be more accurate. He could not afford to miss his first shot. The man's face became more and more distinct. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Crandall felt almost inclined to let him pass, but the thought that everyone would think him a coward if he did spurred him on. Rising to his feet, he ordered the man to surrender. The horse the man was driving in front of him, frightened by Crandall's sudden appearance, swerved from the road, leaving the two men facing each other. For an instant, Crandall looked straight into the other's eyes.

Then the man raised his rifle from the pommel of his saddle, and Crandall fired. The horse the man was riding bounded from the road, and at the same moment its rider's gun went off. The smoke from Crandall's own gun blew back into his eyes, and he turned away to follow the movements of the man he had shot. As he saw the man still upright in the saddle, he felt the feverish urge to fire again that comes over a man when he has shot and missed, knowing his life may be the price of failure. He shoved another cartridge into the rifle's chamber and raised it to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the man reeled from the saddle and fell, while his frightened horse galloped off through the pines.

Crandall stepped toward him, holding his rifle ready to fire again if necessary. As he did so, the man raised his hand and said simply, "Don't fire—you've got me."

The snow was already red with blood where he lay. For the first time, Crandall looked for the scar described as being on the right cheek. For an instant he did not see it, and his heart seemed to stop beating from the fear of having made a mistake. But when he drew nearer and saw that it was there—only the paleness that had spread over the man's face had made it indistinct—he could have cried out with joy at the relief that washed over him.

"Are you badly wounded?" he asked.

"I don't know how bad it is. It's here somewhere," the man said, placing his hand on his chest, as if unsure of the exact spot. "It feels numb-like," he added. Stooping down, Crandall unbuckled the man's pistol belt and threw it aside, along with his rifle. Then he tore open the man's shirt. As he did so, his fingers touched the warm blood, and he involuntarily drew back with a feeling of disgust.

"Did you find it?" asked the man, watching him closely and noticing the movement.

Feeling ashamed, Crandall tore at the shirt again, exposing the man's chest. Where the blood didn't cover it, it looked like marble, despite the dark hair on it. He couldn't see the wound at first because of the blood, but after he wiped the blood away, he found it.

"What do you think of it?" the man asked.

"There it is," replied Crandall. He couldn't say more. The pleading in the man's voice for some hope, some encouragement, made him feel faint and sick.

"What do you think of it?" the man repeated in a querulous voice, and as he spoke, he coughed until his mouth filled with blood, which he spat out onto the white snow.

Crandall shook his head and walked toward where his horse was tied. He felt that if he watched the wounded man any longer he would faint. Seeing him walk away, the wounded man called out, "For God's sake, don't leave me. Now that you've killed me, stay with me and don't let me die like a dog."

The voice was full of entreaty, and Crandall returned and sat down in the snow beside the man. The sun had gone down, and twilight had brought the chill of night. Crandall covered the wounded man with his overcoat and lifted his head from the snow. Almost unconsciously he noticed that as the patch of red grew larger, the man's face grew whiter. The man never took his eyes from Crandall, his breath coming quicker and shorter, as if he struggled to breathe. With each breath, blood seemed to bubble from the wound in his chest. One of the man's hands fell from under the coat; when Crandall picked it up, its coldness sent a chill through him. Once he asked the wounded man if he could do anything for him, but the man only shook his head. Crandall felt like cursing himself for what he had done and wondered why the wounded man didn't reproach him. Even when he expressed his sorrow over the shooting, the dying man said gently, "Don't mind it.

It's too late now."

Twilight gave way to darkness, and still Crandall sat there. He couldn't hear the dying man breathe without leaning over his face, but he did that only once. Then the man opened his eyes and looked up at him questioningly. Crandall would rather have stayed there until morning than to have seen that look again.

Suddenly he heard a voice call to him. He started as if he had been shot at, but it was only Lansing. As Crandall answered, Lansing rode forward and, seeing the outstretched form on the snow, said, "By God, you got him!"

"Hush!" replied Crandall, afraid the wounded man might hear the exulting tone, which grated on his ears as nothing ever had before. But Lansing ignored the warning, dismounted, and struck a match, holding it close to the man's face. It was pale and cold, and his half-open eyes were glazed. They didn't even reflect the light of the match, but from his partly open mouth a tiny stream of half-congealed blood still flowed down over his beard.

"That's him, and it's a pretty good day's work we've done earning that reward," said Lansing coolly as the match went out.

Somehow, as Crandall lay awake through the night, just a few yards from the body, keeping the wolves away so it would be unmarred in the morning when they would lash it to a horse and take it into the settlement for identification, he wondered why Lansing could sleep so soundly. As for himself, the rigid form covered only with a saddle blanket, lying where the snow was red instead of white, was always before his eyes—even when he closed them.