Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Good Men and True/Chapter 14

HE tracking of Borrowman had ended on Wednesday in the wee sma' hours. On Friday Jeff found this communication in his morning paper:

Run to earth hear everything by hot air now is time for party to aid himself to-night at nine sharp be at fire signal when ready by cowboy's lament hold fast all six fine friends I give you.

Jeff was pleased. Yet this was the hardest day of his captivity. He made things very unpleasant for Borrowman, who was on guard, his drunk having disarranged the previous schedule. The day dragged slowly on. Mac came at seven and Borrowman left as soon as supper was cooked.

Jeff had let the fire run low. He stood with his back to it, carrying on an earnest conversation with Mac, who sat on the bed.

"What time is it, Mac?"

"Eight-feefty."

"Most bedtime," said Jeff, yawning. "Can't you manage to stick it out till this time to-morrow night?" he demanded querulously. "That'll put it back the way it was, so Borrowman'll be on while I'm asleep. That filthy brute isn't fit for a gentleman to associate with. Besides, he'll be letting me get away."

"He's all that and worse," said Mac, grinning toothsomely, "but he'll na let ye get away. Man, I jalouse he fair aches to kill ye. Ye treat him with much disrespect. Ye'll na get away from him or me, neither. We'll hold you here till crack o doom, if need be."

"Oh, yes, I'll escape sooner or later, of cou'd get me a good one. You didn't fetch mine here, you know. I suppose the barrel of Broderick's gun cut it. Certainly it did. How else could it have cut my head open so? Get a J. B., 7½, four-inch brim, pearl gray. It'll supply a long-wanted felt."

"Ye'll need no hat. Man, ye vex me wi' your frantic journeys. Ye canna escape. It is na possible. If ye do, ye may e'en take my hat, for I'll no be needin it mair."

"Oh, well, I'll not argue with you. It just ruffles you up, without convincing you of your error," said Jeff. "But you're wrong." He turned his face to the fire and lightly hummed the first line of the Cowboy's Lament:

"‘As I rode down to Latern in Barin’"

Immediately the long, blue barrel of a .45 nosed inquiringly down the chimney. Jeff disengaged the gun from the hook and slipped it under his coat. He jerked the line slightly; it was drawn up. Jeff left the fire and sat down, facing Mac across the table.

"Mac what?" he demanded. "We've spent a good many pleasant days together, but I don't know your name till this very yet. Mac what?"

"It is no new thing for men of my blood to be nameless," said Mac composedly. His voice took on a tone of pride; his bearing was not without a certain dignity. "For generations we were a race proscribit, outlawed, homeless and nameless. The curse of yon wild man Ishmael was ours, and the portion of unblessed Esau—to live by the sword alone, wi' the dews of heaven for dwelling-place. Who hasna heard of the Gregara?"

"Oh! So you're a MacGregor? Well, Mr. MacGregor, it is likewise said in that same book that they who take up the sword shall perish by the sword," said Jeff, fondling the gun handle beneath the table. "It seems almost a pity that an exception should be made in your case. For you have your points; I'll not deny it. Of course, you richly deserve to be hung on the same scaffold with Thorpe. But you are so much the more wholesome scoundrel of the two, so straightforward and thoroughgoing in your villainy, that I must admit that I shall feel a certain regret at seeing you make such an unsatisfactory end. Besides, you don't deserve it from me. If Thorpe had listened to you I would never have escaped to hang you both."

"Let me tell you then," said MacGregor with spirit, "that I could hang in no better company. And I shall na stumble on the gallow-steps. Dinna trouble yourself. If I could hang for him it would be na mair than he has deservit at my hands. He has been staunch wi' me. Wi' wealth and name to lose, he broke me out of San Saba prison wi' his own hands, where else I had been rotting now. But we talk foolishness." He tamped tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and held it over the bowl.

"I assure you that I do not," said Jeff earnestly. "But I'll change the subject. Did you know there was a much shorter sentence with all the letters in it than we've been using? There is. 'Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.' It reached me by R. F. D. So did this!" He rose; the long barrel leaped to level with sinister exultance. "Hold your hands there, Mr. MacGregor—it'll warm your fingers." The MacGregor held his fingers there, eying the unwavering blue barrel steadily. He kept his pipe going. Bransford could not withhold his admiration for such surly, indomitable courage. Making a wary circuit to the rear of the defeated warrior, and keeping him covered, he gingerly reached forth to take the MacGregor gun. "Now you can take 'em down. Come on, boys—all clear!" he said, raising his voice.

Sound of running feet from above; the outer door smashed open. Mac flung his hat over to Jeff and sat glowering in wordless rage. Footsteps hurried down the stairs and the passageway. An ax hewed at the door. It crashed in; Pringle, gun in hand, burst through the splintered woodwork; the others pressed behind. John Wesley leaned upon his ax, fumbled at his coat pocket, and extended the famous leather bottle:

"Well, Brutus, old pal, we meet again! Shall we smile?"