Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 3 (1924-11).djvu/107

106 off for wettin' their whistles. We got to think of them as well as ourselves. It's a long, hot ride and the other trail is bone-dry."

"Right you are, Bill. I plumb forgot about the poor brutes. A man'll do that sometimes when he's got a full canteen himself."

"You're a hell of a cowpuncher," roared Hawkins. "I don't never forget 'em. They can't run without water no more'n a ottymobile can run without gasoline."

"It's this big strike of ourn that's got me kinda loco," replied Ormsby. "I don't know whether I'm horseback or ridin' a airyoplane half the time."

Big Bill did not reply. His eyes were on the trail ahead. The time for action was almost at hand. The sharp curve, now only fifty feet away, was the appointed place.

Nearer and nearer they drew to that curve. Big Bill's gaze did not falter. True, the hands that held the reins trembled slightly, but there was nothing in his expression that might serve to betray his purpose. He was wearing his poker face. The time for the show-down had arrived. He reined back slightly, drew his keen hunting knife, and stealthily severed the lead ropes.

With a vicious kick he suddenly drove his spur into the left flank of his unsuspecting steed. As the horse reared, he pulled on the right rein, jerking the animal against Ormsby's mount. The ledge was a narrow one—the drop only a matter of a few feet. Horse and rider lurched, slipped, and fell into something that received them with a dull splash. A moment later man and beast were struggling desperately in a yielding, slimy mess that threatened to engulf them in a few seconds.

Big Bill's horse galloped swiftly up the trail for more than a hundred yards. By sawing the bit he brought the animal to a prancing walk, then to a dead stop. He turned and rode leisurely back. The frightened squeals of the mired horse all but drowned the man's cries for help.

"My God, Bill, it's quicksand!" shouted Ormsby.

Hawkins dismounted leisurely and walked to the brink. Taking a plug of tobacco from his pocket, he bit off a hunk, chewed for a moment, then spat into the bubbling, slimy mess beneath him.

"Damned if it ain't," he said. "Hang on for a minute and I'll throw you a rope."

With studied deliberation he turned and gave his attention to the coiled lariat that dangled from his saddle. He seemed to be having trouble with the knots.

"Hurry, Bill, for God's sake!" cried Ormsby. "It's up to my waist already!"

Big Bill continued to pull at the tangled lariat. Somehow, with each pull, the knot grew tighter. At length he turned. Ormsby had succeeded in loosing his own rope and was trying to throw it to him. The slimy ooze was up to his armpits. Of his horse nothing could be seen but the foam-flecked nostrils. These disappeared as he cast the rope. It fell at the feet of Hawkins.

"Grab holt of my rope, Bill. I think I can crawl out on it."

Big Bill stooped slowly and picked up the slime-smeared rope. Then, with a vicious laugh that was almost a snarl, he hurled it in the face of his victim.

The deadly quagmire had reached Ormsby's chin. A look of blank surprise came to his face. It was followed by one of hatred and revulsion as the sinister purpose of his partner was revealed to him. He tilted his head backward for a last sobbing inhalation.

"You dirty coyote," he gasped. "You murderin' yaller dog. I'll get you for this if I have to break out of hell to do it. I'll—"