# Romanced to Freedom

Mystery was there and allurement, in the crenelated turrets of naked rock and strange fortresses of gullied clay. And romance was there, too, in the person of a young man who smoked behind a flat rock on which he rested a rifle and dreamed dreams concerning a small letter that rested in his pocket. From a girl, of course. He became lost in formless thoughts of her, while he waited for a murderer to come out, for the night to be stabbed by spiteful flashes of crackling flame, and for whining bullets to come about his ears. . . .
Romanced to Freedom
By
Murray Leinster
A BULLET plunked neatly between the horse's legs and spattered into a shapeless mass of lead against a boulder, from whence it went whining off into nowhere. That was one second. The next, the very young sheriff was off his mount and was jerking it behind an outcrop of rock. His head peered cautiously around it a little later, but with perfect caution. He could see, but he would not be seen. A long blue barrel came around the ledge.
The valley was empty. All raw red earth and barren rocks, there was no trace of vegetation save down at the very bottom, where a stream might run if it rained, which was improbable. The naked rocks were just beginning to cool a little from their midday heat, and on the farther side the shadows began to take on those strangely beautiful purple tints that come in high, thin air at nightfall.
Suddenly the sheriff's horse stirred, and its shod hoofs clinked musically. As if it were a signal, there was a shot from below. The sheriff heard it sing above his head, and then it spitefully hissed into red clay. The crack of the rifle the other man was using echoed and reëchoed thinly among the cliffs. The sheriff fired, and fired again, then squinted wisely at the sun. Two hours more of daylight, perhaps—no more.
Now he began to survey the ground before him. The other man would wait for nightfall, if he were wise—holding the sheriff here by rifle fire—and then make a bolt for it. And that was something the sheriff did not propose to allow. He began to map out a course for himslf, so that he would have cover in his proposed journeying, and yet manage to get close enough to spoil the other man's plan.
He was a very young man, the sheriff. A day of hard riding had not tired him, nor did he look upon his present task with either the phlegmatic calm of an older man, or the nervousness of the inexperienced. He was possibly twenty-five, and his attitude was eminently businesslike and yet pleasurably excited. Even in the least tamed of communities, a man hunt is not so common as to be altogether devoid of thrill. The man below had killed a Mexican deliberately. Therefore the sheriff was after him, and therefore he picketed his horse and wriggled carefully away from his first hiding place.
The location of the fugitive had been fairly well indicated by his shots. Modern firearms no longer emit a cloud of dense white smoke on being fired. A faint blue cloud that instantly dissipates is the most one can expect, but even that will show up to a watchful eye. The sheriff had placed his man behind a mass of detritus, fallen from the cañon sides. There would be room there even for a horse.
Pleasurably excited, the sheriff was not looking for unnecessary heroics. His object was to capture the man as promptly as possible and with the least damage. Therefore, instead of trying to make a frontal attack, involving a descent of the cañon wall under fire—which would have been sheer suicide—he actually moved back for some little distance and then walked cautiously for nearly a quarter of a mile. It was a pocket cañon, with a deep slide, where the sheriff's horse was waiting, and a narrow opening just opposite that spot.
Once he got down on hands and knees and crawled to the edge. In the gathering shadows he could just make out a huddled mass in the place he had picked out. As he watched, it moved slightly, and his suspicions were confirmed. The man was there. The sheriff drew back and walked quietly enough to a spot where he could clamber down unseen by his quarry. No more than half an hour after the first interchange of shots he was intrenched behind a huge flat rock on the cañon floor, completely commanding the entrance, with his repeating rifle. And then he settled himself comfortably, even lighting a cigarette. As he thrust back his sack of tobacco, a comforting little rustle in the same pocket, just over his heart, made his expression soften a trifle.
The sun sank down and down. It was gone, with a bewildering flash of momentary green that sometimes shows above mountains on the far horizon. And then the shadows deepened. Darkest purple and palest lavender, they made the gloomy rocks and forbidding cliffs into places of colorful beauty. Mystery was there and allurement, in the crenelated turrets of naked rock and strange fortresses of gullied clay. And romance was there, too, in the person of a young man who smoked behind a flat rock on which he rested a rifle and dreamed dreams concerning a small letter that rested in his pocket. From a girl, of course. He became lost in formless thoughts of her, while he waited for a murderer to come out, for the night to be stabbed by spiteful flashes of crackling flame, and for whining bullets to come about his ears.
Far in the east the horizon lightened the barest trifle. Soon the moon would rise. Now would be the time of course.
Like a ghost he came, his horse's feet making no sound. He rode swiftly, bent low in the saddle, expecting futile shots from behind him to follow. Instead, the young sheriff dropped his cigarette.
"Damn!" he said softly. "Muffled his horse's hoofs."
There was no time for a hail or stern command to halt. The young sheriff fired quickly and heard the impact of his bullet, so still was the night. And then he heard a queer sound from the horse's throat, and it pitched forward clumsily and lay sprawled out, kicking more and more feebly.
Flinging himself at the heap of horse and man, his rifle discarded, but a revolver ready, the sheriff dragged a writhing figure from the mass.
"Easy!" he said curtly. "I've got you!"
He drew out the other man's gun and felt him for other weapons. He was curiously silent, the fugitive.
"Guess we'll camp," commented the sheriff a moment later. "Hike back in the morning."
A sudden curiosity made him strike a match, and then an exclamation was wrenched from him at the sight of the bearded, sun-tanned face that was smiling oddly at him.
"Dick!"
The match dropped and went out in its fall, leaving the two men staring at each other with momently flame-dazzled eyes in a world gone black. There was silence for perhaps half a minute, then a queer noise. The sheriff was shivering.
"My Lord!" he whispered. "Dick!"
The prisoner smiled whimsically in the darkness.
"You've no idea, Jerry, what a temptation it was to plug you when you first showed up. You made a beautiful target, but I tried for your horse and wanted to be sure of missing you, so I fired too low."
The sheriff's voice was strained.
"But are you—are you the—the Andrews that killed that Mex?"
"I'm afraid I am, Jerry." The tone was not mocking, nor even light. It was curiously sympathetic. "There are times when I regret being a black sheep. It must be pretty tough to go out after a murderer and find him your own brother."
The sheriff turned suddenly. His words were muffled.
"We'll make camp. Here, let me take off that rope." He stumbled away after loosening his captive's bonds. "You—you'll wait here until I lead my horse down. Supplies on my saddle."
Dick heard him going clumsily, and Dick seemed to be debating a bolt in his absence. He glanced at the desert beyond the cañon, but then shook his head.
"Couldn't make it," he murmured to himself. "And he'd track me in the morning."
There were quite forty miles of desert ahead of him, if only a dozen behind him. He could not cross that waterless country without more than one canteen of water, and it would be a terrible journey without a horse. He went over to his mount. It was still now. He ran a hand caressingly down the horse's stiff muzzle.
When the sheriff came back, Dick was sitting on a flat rock, puffing soberly on a cigarette.
"Some yucca over yonder, Jerry," he said soberly. "Light one and camp by it?"
The young sheriff nodded and followed in silence. His horse ambled contentedly behind him. When the prickly, oily bush began to flare up, his face was haggard. There were new deep lines about his mouth.
The prisoner glanced up gently, as his brother flung himself down.
"What're you going to do, Jerry?"
The sheriff flung out his hand.
"Take you in," he said hoarsely; "I've got to!"
Oddly enough the prisoner seemed to be the less moved of the two. He was grave, yes, but he seemed to be thinking more of the sheriff than of himself.
"And what do you suppose will happen, Jerry?"
"They'll probably hang you." The sheriff was speaking through stiff lips. "I don't know what defense you've got, but they told me a man named Andrews had ridden into Potosi, looking for a Mex named Pedro Cordoba. He found the Mex in a cantina, and the Mex and Andrews clinched. Andrews went for the Mex with bare hands, roaring that he was going to kill him. The Mex drew a knife, and Andrews got it away from him and killed him—with his hands."
Dick nodded soberly. "That's right, Jerry. Just what I did. But will they hang me for that?"
"I'm afraid they will, Dick. You were looking for him. He was trying to defend himself."
There was silence for a time, while the leaves of the clump of Spanish bayonet flared up and died, and only the oily stalk in the center burned on with little licking flames. The flickering light shone weirdly upon the two figures, dusty and travel-stained. The young sheriff's eyes were dark and full of pain. The prisoner was smiling gravely at the fire.
"You couldn't let me go, Jerry?"
"No, I couldn't let you go. If I'd known it was you, Dick, I'd have sent a deputy after you. Why did you let me catch you?"
A moment's pause.
"I knew you were the sheriff," said the prisoner gently. "I couldn't kill you very well. I tried for your horse, but fired too low. I wanted to be sure of missing you."
"You might have winged me, Dick! Oh, if you only had!"
The prisoner looked up somberly.
"You're thinking it will hurt dad and mother?"
Again the sheriff groaned. The prisoner stirred.
"I'm the black sheep, Jerry," he said slowly. "They expect something of the sort from me, you know. But it will be tough."
Perhaps in the firelight, perhaps in the thin smoke, perhaps in the purple shadows that were slowly being lightened by the first pale rays of the thin sickle moon, a picture seemed to form. It was of a ranch house shining in the sunlight, nestled among a grove of cottonwood trees. There was water there and grass, and there were cattle in herds about it, grazing. It seemed that the lazy contentment and perfect peace of the place added a certain, glamour to the vision. Even the noise of many hoofs, that faint and indefinable sound of cattle grazing, contentedly, came to the sheriff through the dimness.
And then his brother moved suddenly, and the vision vanished. But the sheriff could still feel the atmosphere of his home, and he could foresee with pitiless clarity what his brother's hanging would mean to his parents. Pride humbled and fresh disgrace—and even Dolores would be pained. She had liked Dick, though she had shyly promised to marry Jerry. She would find it difficult to understand the conception of duty that would make him take in his own brother to be hung. And her father, Don Luis, would storm and greet Jerry with a perfect Castilian courtesy that would somehow fail of being convincing.
There was no great happiness ahead for the sheriff. He stared at the fire, while his mouth twisted, as if he were tasting something of surpassing bitterness. His brother, across the fire, shot a look at him that was whimsical and curiously tender, the tenderness of which only a man is capable. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then spoke.
"Heard from home lately, Jerry?"
"Last week," said the sheriff weakly. "All well."
Dick looked away.
"Dolores?"
"I heard from her at the same time."
There was a long silence, and then the prisoner, shrugged oddly.
"I'd better tell you, Jerry. I was at home a few days ago."
His expression was of one who speaks against his will and hating to say a thing that will be painful. The sheriff listened dully.
"You were home?"
"I'd gone back," said Dick gravely, "to tell them I'd quit. To tell them I was going to try to face the music and straighten up. Not very easy for me, Jerry; because there are a few things I'd have to pay for, answer for, before I could come out in the open. I wish you'd let me go, old fellow. Dad would like it."
The sheriff clenched his hand tightly and drew a deep breath.
"Dick," he said steadily, "I've caught you. I wish I hadn't, but I have. And I—I took an oath of office. If you try to get away, Dick, I'll try not to kill you, but I'll have to get you again, and I'll do it."
A ghost of a smile showed in the prisoner's face.
"Thought so, Jerry. That's the way we were raised." He paused and looked at the dim glow of the burning yucca root. "But at home, there—you'd never heard of this Cordoba I killed, had you?"
In the paling light the sheriff's face could barely be seen. The moon had risen behind him and lightened the broad brim of his hat, casting a faint shadow even in the firelight's circle. His prisoner seemed not to need a reply. He went on, staring at the fire.
"He had been there, at Don Luis' hacienda. He was a low-class Mexican, and you know that Don Luis is a real Spaniard, gente de razon, he calls himself. But this Cordoba had the impertinence to make eyes at Dolores."
At the sudden movement of the sheriff, a note crinkled softly in his shirt pocket. The other man stared into the fire.
"Don Luis had him kicked off the place. His vaqueros handled him pretty roughly. Cordoba vanished. Two or three days after that, Dolores started to ride over to see dad and mother. Don Luis, as you know, allowed her a lot of freedom."
An inarticulate sound came from the sheriff. Beads of perspiration came out upon his forehead.
"She didn't come back. They found her with a bullet through her heart. Sorry, Jerry."
For a full minute there was a dead silence. The sheriff barely moved, but his eyes closed tightly. A little later the breath rasped sobbingly in his throat.
"And you see, Jerry, I knew what you'd do. You'd have followed him and killed him, wouldn't you?"
"Yes!" The sheriff's voice was very strange.
Dick nodded quietly, staring into the fire.
"There wouldn't have been much thought of the law for you, old fellow. But it wouldn't have done. One killer in the family was bad enough. You are an officer of the law, sworn to uphold it. If you'd gone and killed him—as you would have done—it would have looked rather bad for us. There'd have been two black sheep, both of us outlawed most likely, and you'd be in particularly bad because an officer of the law isn't supposed to exact private revenge. So I—well, I'm not much good, Jerry. I know it. I made them promise at home not to let you know for a little while. Then I stared after Cordoba. I found him, Jerry."
Silence again. When the sheriff spoke, it seemed as if his throat were swollen.
"I—I see. You killed him to—keep me from doing it."
The moon, climbing over a grotesque mass of rock shaped in the form of a goblin's castle, saw the two men seated by their dying fire. A single horse browsed in the shrubbery, not far away. One man gazed at the expiring flame. The other was very, very still.
It was a long time latter that the sheriff found his voice, and then it was thick and dulled.
"You'll have to ride on to-night, Dick," he said with difficulty. "I left word for my two deputies to follow me. They'll trace our trails without any trouble, and they ought to be here early to-morrow. Take my horse and go."
Slowly the prisoner rose. Slowly he picked up his weapons, the sheriff watching apathetically. He moved off into the darkness and came back leading the sheriff's horse. He looked down at his brother.
"Jerry!"
The sheriff looked up and smiled in a fashion that was pure agony.
"Good-by, Dick, and good luck! But I wish you'd let me kill him."
A moment's pause, and Dick's mouth twisted queerly.
"I can't do it!" His voice broke. "Blast you, Jerry——"
The sheriff started up, and his late prisoner swung quickly and powerfully for his jaw. The sheriff was flung back and down and lay still on the earth. And then Dick threw himself upon him.
A trickle of water down his throat and a hand working expertly at the third vertebra—which will bring a man out of any unconsciousness that is not coma—were his first sensations, as the sheriff came slowly back to the world. His brother's face was above him, and there were tears in the older man's eyes.
"I couldn't do it, Jerry. I lied to you."
The sheriff struggled to move and could not. His brother erect, smiling queerly.
"Old fellow, I'm the most worthless human being in the universe, but I couldn't go away and let you believe that yarn, even for an instant. I haven't been home, Jerry, and I followed Cordoba from Chihuahua. He hasn't been there, either. Dolores is all right—she must be all right."
There was a moment in which the sheriff drank in the assurance, and then he struggled with his bonds. Dick watched him. He relaxed.
"I did kill Cordoba, Jerry," said Dick slowly, "because three months ago, down in Chihuahua, just what I told you of Dolores, happened to another girl. She was going to marry me the next day, but Cordoba put a bullet through her heart to keep me from having her. I'm going back there now. Her father and I—well, her father is a very proud old gentleman, like Don Luis, and he looks on me rather as his son. But I had to get Cordoba."
Slowly, in spite of his bonds, the sheriff managed to smile.
"I wouldn't have let you go, except for that yarn."
"And I couldn't take it, Jerry. But I could knock you out and rope you. There's no disgrace in losing a prisoner."
The sheriff was still smiling wryly.
"No, Dick, I guess there ain't. And there'll be no come-back to dad."
Dick hesitated and then said somewhat wearily.
"Don't expect you to believe me, but that's my only reason for wanting to get away. The girl that Cordoba killed—I loved her, Jerry."
He stood up and climbed into the saddle.
"You said your deputies would be here early to-morrow. In case they don't, I've fixed that rope so you can wriggle free in a couple of hours. And there's a canteen. It's only twelve miles to a ranch where you can get a horse. 'By, Jerry,"
The sheriff managed to grin faintly.
"Good-by, Dick. And—and——" A sudden wave of comprehension came over him. His brother felt now, just as he had felt when he had believed the tale that was told him. His tone was sincerely sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Dick. Good luck!"
The thudding of the horse's hoofs died away in the distance, and then a long time later the sheriff began to work on the ropes that bound him.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1975, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 48 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse