Kitabı oku: «The Coming of the Law», sayfa 7
The would-be killer did not have even time enough to pull the trigger of his six-shooter. It fell from his hand and thudded dully to the floor as his knees doubled under him and he collapsed in an inert, motionless heap near the door.
With a grim smile on his face Hollis picked up Ten Spot’s weapon and placed it on the desk. For an instant he stood at the window, looking out into the street. Down near the Fashion he saw some men–Yuma Ed among them. No doubt they were waiting the sound of the pistol shot which would tell them that Ten Spot had disposed of Hollis. Hollis grinned widely–Yuma and his gang were due for a surprise. For perhaps a minute Hollis stood beside the desk, watching Ten Spot. Then when the latter’s hands began to twitch and a trace of color appeared in his face, Hollis pulled out his own revolver and approached him, standing within a few feet of him and looking down at him.
There was no mark on Ten Spot’s jaw to show where Hollis’s blow had landed, for his fist had struck flush on the point, its force directed upward. Ten Spot’s mouth had been open at the instant and the snapping of his teeth from the impact of the blow no doubt had much to do with his long period of unconsciousness.
He stirred presently and then with an effort sat up and looked at his conqueror with a glance of puzzled wonderment. Seeing Hollis’s weapon and his own on the desk, the light of past events seemed to filter into his bewildered brain. He grinned owlishly, felt of his jaw and then bowed his head, a flush of shame overspreading his face.
“Herd-rode!” he said dismally. “Herd-rode, an’ by a tenderfoot! Oh, Lordy!” He suddenly looked up at Hollis, his eyes flashing with rage and defiance.
“Damn your hide, why don’t you shoot?” he demanded. He placed his hands, palm down, on the floor, preparatory to rising, but ceased his efforts when he heard Hollis’s voice, coldly humorous:
“I shall shoot you just the instant you get to your feet. I rather think that I am running things here now.”
Ten Spot sagged back and looked up at him. “Why I reckon you are,” he said. No method of action having suggested itself to him, he continued to sit, watching Hollis narrowly.
The latter retreated to his chair and dropped into it, moving deliberately. When he spoke his voice was cold and metallic.
“When you first came into the office,” he said, “you applied a vile epithet to me. Once after that you did it again. You have asked me why I don’t shoot you. If you really want me to shoot you you can keep your mouth closed for just one minute. If you want to continue to live you can tell me that you didn’t mean a word of what you said on those two occasions. It’s up to you.” He sat silent, looking steadily at Ten Spot.
The latter fidgeted, shame again reddening his cheeks. “Why,” he said finally, “I reckon she don’t go, tenderfoot. You see, she’s only a noma de ploom which we uses when we wants to rile somebody. I cert’nly didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Thanks,” drawled Hollis dryly; “I’ll call that sufficient. But you certainly did ‘rile’ me some.”
“I reckon I must have done just that,” grinned Ten Spot ruefully. “You’re shorely some she-wolf with them there claws of your’n. An’ I done laffed at Dunlavey an’ Yuma after you’d clawed them.” His face sobered, his eyes suddenly filling with an expression of defiant resignation.
“I reckon when you’re done triflin’ with me you c’n start to pumpin’ your lead,” he said. “There ain’t no use of prolongin’ the agony.” He looked steadily at Hollis, his eyes filling with decision as he again placed his hands beside him on the floor to rise.
“You c’n open the ball when you get damn good an’ ready,” he sneered, “but I’m gettin’ up right now. I ain’t goin’ to die off my pins like a damn coyote!”
He rose quickly, plainly expecting to be shot down the moment he reached his feet. When he discovered that Hollis evidently intended to delay the fatal moment he stiffened, his lips twitching queerly.
“Ten Spot,” said Hollis quietly, “by apologizing for what you said when you came in you have shown that there is a great deal of the man left in you despite your bad habits and associations. I am going to show you that I think there is enough of the man left in you to trust you with your gun.”
He turned abruptly to the desk and took up Ten Spot’s weapon, holding it by the muzzle and presenting it to the latter. Ten Spot looked from the weapon to Hollis and back again to the weapon, blank amazement pictured on his face. Then he reached out mechanically, taking the weapon and holding it in his hands, turning it over and over as though half inclined to believe that it was not a revolver at all.
“Chuck full of cattridges, too!” he exclaimed in amazement, as he examined the chambers.
“Why, hell – ” He crouched and deftly swung the six-shooter around, the butt in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger. In this position he looked at Hollis.
The latter had not moved, but his own weapon was in his right hand, its muzzle covering Ten Spot, and when the latter swung his weapon up Hollis smiled grimly at him.
“Using it?” he questioned.
For an instant it seemed that Ten Spot would. An exultant, designing expression came into his eyes, he grinned, his teeth showing tigerishly. Then suddenly he snapped himself erect and with a single, dexterous movement holstered the weapon. Then his right hand came suddenly out toward Hollis.
“Shake!” he said. “By – , you’re white!”
Hollis smiled as he returned the hearty handclasp.
“You’re cert’nly plum grit,” assured Ten Spot as he released Hollis’s hand and stepped back the better to look at the latter. “But I reckon you’re some damn fool too. How did you know that I wouldn’t turn you into a colander when you give me back my gun?”
“I didn’t know,” smiled Hollis. “I just took a chance. You see,” he added, “it was this way. I never intended to shoot you. That sort of thing isn’t in my line and I don’t intend to shoot anyone if there is any way out of it. But I certainly wasn’t going to allow you to shoot me.” He smiled oddly. “So I watched my chance and slugged you. Then when I was certain that you weren’t dangerous any more I had to face another problem. If I had turned you loose after taking your gun what would you have done?”
“I’d have gone out an’ rustled another gun an’ come back here an’ salivated you.”
“That’s just what you would have done,” smiled Hollis. “I intend to stay in this country, Ten Spot, and if I had turned you loose without an understanding you would have shot me at the first opportunity. As it stands now you owe me – ”
“As it stands now,” interrupted Ten Spot, a queer expression on his face, “I’m done shootin’ as far as you’re concerned.” He walked to the door, hesitated on the threshold and looked back. “Mister man,” he said slowly, “mebbe you won’t lick Big Bill in this here little mix-up, but I’m telling you that you’re goin’ to give him a damn good run for his money! So-long.”
He stepped down and disappeared. For a moment Hollis looked after him, and then he sat down at the desk, his face softening into a satisfied smile. It was something to receive a tribute from a man like Ten Spot.
CHAPTER X
THE LOST TRAIL
It was after seven o’clock when Hollis mounted his pony in the rear of the Kicker office and rode out over the plains toward the Circle Bar. He was properly elated by the outcome of his affair with Ten Spot. The latter had come to the Kicker office as an enemy looking for an opportunity to kill. He had left the office, perhaps not a friend, but at least a neutral, sympathetic onlooker, for according to Hollis’s interpretation of his words at parting he would take no further part in Dunlavey’s campaign–at least he would do no more shooting.
Hollis was compelled to make a long detour in order to strike the Circle Bar trail, and when at seven-thirty o’clock he rode down through a dry arroyo toward a little basin which he must cross to reach a ridge that had been his landmark during all his trips back and forth from Dry Bottom to the Circle Bar, dusk had fallen and the shadows of the oncoming night were settling somberly down over the plains.
He rode slowly forward; there was no reason for haste, for he had told Potter to say nothing about the reason of his delay in leaving Dry Bottom, and Potter would not expect him before nine o’clock. Hollis had warmed toward Potter this day; there had been in the old printer’s manner that afternoon a certain solicitous concern and sympathy that had struck a responsive chord in his heart. He was not a sentimentalist, but many times during his acquaintance with Potter he had felt a genuine pity for the man. It had been this sentiment which had moved him to ask Potter to remove temporarily to the Circle Bar, though one consideration had been the fact at the Circle Bar he would most of the time be beyond the evil influence of Dry Bottom’s saloons. That Potter appreciated this had been shown by his successful fight against temptation the night before, when postponement of the publication of the Kicker would have been fraught with serious consequences.
Riding down through the little basin at the end of the arroyo Hollis yielded to a deep, stirring satisfaction over the excellent beginning he had made in his fight against Dunlavey and the interests behind him. Many times he smiled, thinking of the surprise his old friends in the East must have felt over the perusal of their copies of the Kicker; over the information that he–who had been something of a figure in Eastern newspaperdom–had become the owner and editor of a newspaper in a God-forsaken town in New Mexico, and that at the outset he was waging war against interests that ridiculed a judge of the United States Court. He smiled grimly. They might be surprised, but they must feel, all who knew him, that he would stay and fight until victory rewarded him or until black, bitter defeat became his portion. There could be no compromise.
When he reached the ridge toward which he had been riding for the greater part of an hour night had come. The day had been hot, but there had been a slight breeze, and in the Kicker office, with the front and rear doors open, he had not noticed the heat very much. But just as he reached the ridge he became aware that the breeze had died down; that waves of hot, sultry air were rising from the sun-baked earth. Usually at this time of the night there were countless stars, and now as he looked up into the great, vast arc of sky he saw no stars at all except away down in the west in a big rift between some mountains. He pulled up his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, watching the sky. A sudden awe for the grandeur of the scene filled him. He remembered to have seen nothing quite like it in the East.
Back toward Dry Bottom, and on the north and south, rose great, black thunderheads with white crests, seeming like mountains with snowcapped peaks. Between the thunder-heads were other clouds, of grayish-white, fleecy, wind-whipped, weird shapes, riding on the wings of the Storm-Kings. Other clouds flanked these, moving slowly and majestically–like great ships on the sea–in striking contrast to the fleecy, unstable shapes between the thunderheads, which, though rushing always onward, were riven and broken by the irresistible force behind them. To Hollis it seemed there were two mighty opposing forces at work in the sky, marshalling, maneuvering, preparing for conflict. While he sat motionless in the saddle watching, a sudden gust of cold wind swirled up around him, dashed some fine, flint-like sand against his face and into his eyes, and then swept onward. He was blinded for an instant, and allowed the reins to drop on his pony’s neck while he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He sat thus through an ominous hush and then to his ears came a low, distant rumble.
He touched his pony lightly on the flanks with his spurs and headed it along the ridge, convinced that a storm was coming and suddenly realizing that he was many miles from shelter.
He had traveled only a little distance when clouds of sand and dust, wind-driven, enveloped him, blinding him again, stinging his face and hands and blotting out the landmarks upon which he depended to guide him to the Circle Bar. The sky had grown blacker; even the patch of blue that he had seen in the rift between the distant mountains was now gone. There was nothing above him–it seemed–except inky black clouds, nothing below but chaos and wind. He could not see a foot of the trail and so he gave the pony the rein, trusting to its instinct.
When Norton had provided him with an outfit the inevitable tarpaulin had not been neglected. Hollis remembered that this was attached to the cantle of the saddle, and so, after he had proceeded a little way along the crest of the ridge, he halted the pony, dismounted, unstrapped the tarpaulin, and folded it about him. Then he remounted and continued on his way, mentally thanking Norton for his foresight.
The pony had negotiated the ridge; had slowly loped down its slope to a comparatively low and level stretch of country, and was traveling steadily forward, when Hollis noticed a change in the atmosphere. It had grown hot again–sultry; the heat seemed to cling to him. An ominous calm had succeeded the aerial disturbance. From a great distance came a slight sound–a gentle sighing–gradually diminishing until it died away entirely. Then again came the ominous, premonitory silence–an absolute absence of life and movement. Hollis urged the pony forward, hoping the calm would last until he had covered a goodly part of the distance to the Circle Bar. For a quarter of an hour he went on at a good pace. But he had scarcely reached the edge of a stretch of broken country–which he dreaded even in the daylight–when the storm was upon him.
It did not come unheralded. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated miles of the surrounding country, showing Hollis the naked peaks of ridges and hills around him; gullies, draws, barrancas, the levels, lava beds, fantastic rock shapes–mocking his ignorance of the country. He saw them all for an instant and then they were gone and darkness–blacker than before–succeeded. It was as though a huge map had suddenly been thrust before his eyes by some giant hand, an intense light thrown upon it, and the light suddenly turned off. Immediately there came a heavy crash as though the Storm-Kings, having marshalled their forces, had thrown them together in one, great, clashing onrush. And then, straight down, roaring and shrieking, came the deluge.
The wise little plains-pony halted, standing with drooping head, awaiting the end of the first fierce onslaught. It lasted long and when it had gone another silence, as ominous as the preceding one, followed. The rain ceased entirely and the pony again stepped forward, making his way slowly, for the trail was now slippery and hazardous. The baked earth had become a slimy, sticky clay which clung tenaciously to the pony’s hoofs.
For another quarter of an hour the pony floundered through the mud, around gigantic boulders, over slippery hummocks, across little gullies, upon ridges and small hills and down into comparatively level stretches of country. Hollis was beginning to think that he might escape a bad wetting after all when the rain came again.
This time it seemed the Storm-Kings were in earnest. The rain came down in torrents; Hollis could feel it striking against his tarpaulin in long, stinging, vicious slants, and the lightning played and danced along the ridges and into the gullies with continuing energy, the thunder following, crashing in terrific volleys. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and the only consoling thought was that the deluge would prove a God-send to the land and the cattle. Hollis began to wish that he had remained in Dry Bottom for the night, but of course Dry Bottom was not to be thought of now; he must devote all his energy to reaching the ranch.
It was slow work for the pony. After riding for another quarter of an hour Hollis saw, during another lightning flash, another of his landmarks, and realized that in the last quarter of an hour he had traveled a very short distance. The continuing flashes of lightning had helped the pony forward, but presently the lightning ceased and a dense blackness succeeded. The pony went forward at an uncertain pace; several times it halted and faced about, apparently undecided about the trail. After another half hour’s travel and coming to a stretch of level country, the pony halted again, refusing to respond to Hollis’s repeated urging to go forward without guidance. For a long time Hollis continued to urge the animal–he cajoled, threatened–but the pony would not budge. Hollis was forced to the uncomfortable realization that it had lost the trail.
For a long time he sat quietly in the saddle, trying in the dense darkness to determine upon direction, but he finally gave it up and with a sudden impulse took up the reins and pulled the pony to the left, determined to keep to the flat country as long as possible.
He traveled for what seemed several miles, the pony gingerly feeling its way, when suddenly it halted and refused to advance. Something was wrong. Hollis leaned forward, attempting to peer through the darkness ahead, but not succeeding. And now, as though having accomplished its design by causing Hollis to lose the trail, the lightning flashed again, illuminating the surrounding country for several miles.
Hollis had been peering ahead when the flash came and he drew a deep breath of horror and surprise. The pony had halted within a foot of the edge of a high cliff whose side dropped away sheer, as though cut with a knife. Down below, perhaps a hundred feet, was an immense basin, through which flowed a stream of water. To Hollis’s right, parallel with the stream, the cliff sloped suddenly down, reaching the water’s edge at a distance of two or three hundred feet. Beyond that was a stretch of sloping country many miles in area, and, also on his right, was a long, high, narrow ridge. He recognized the ridge as the one on which he and Norton had ridden some six weeks before–on the day he had had the adventure with Ed Hazelton. Another flash of lightning showed him two cotton-wood trees–the ones pointed out to him by Norton as marking Big Elk crossing–the dead line set by Dunlavey and his men.
Hollis knew his direction now and he pulled the pony around and headed it away from the edge of the cliff and toward the flat country which he knew led down through the canyon to Devil’s Hollow, where he had taken leave of Ed and Nellie Hazelton. He was congratulating himself upon his narrow escape when a flash of lightning again illuminated the country and he saw, not over a hundred feet distant, sitting motionless on their ponies, a half dozen cowboys. Also on his pony, slightly in advance of the others, a grin of derision on his face, was Dunlavey.
CHAPTER XI
PICKING UP THE TRAIL
At about the time that the storm had overtaken Hollis, Potter was unsaddling his pony at the Circle Bar corral gate. A little later he was on the wide lower gallery of the ranchhouse washing the stains of travel from his face and hands. At supper he was taciturn, his face deeply thoughtful. Had Ten Spot come? What had been the outcome of the meeting? These questions preyed on his mind and brought furrows into his face.
At supper he caught Norton watching him furtively and he flushed guiltily, for he felt that in spite of Hollis’s order to say nothing to Norton he should have told. He had already informed Norton that Hollis intended remaining in Dry Bottom until a later hour than usual, but he had said nothing about the intended visit of Ten Spot to the Kicker office. Loyalty to Hollis kept him from communicating to Norton his fears for Hollis’s safety. It was now too late to do anything if he did tell Norton; whatever had been done had been done already and there was nothing for him to do but to wait until nine o’clock.
After he finished his meal he drew a chair out upon the gallery and placing it in a corner from where he could see the Dry Bottom trail he seated himself in it and tried to combat the disquieting fears that oppressed him. When Norton came out and took a chair near him he tried to talk to the range boss upon those small subjects with which we fill our leisure, but he could not hold his thoughts to these trivialities. He fell into long silences; his thoughts kept going back to Dry Bottom.
When the rain came he felt a little easier, for he had a hope that Hollis might have noticed the approach of the storm and decided to remain in town until it had passed. But after the rain had ceased his fears again returned. He looked many times at his watch and when Mrs. Norton came to the door and announced her intention of retiring he scarcely noticed her. Norton had repeatedly referred to Hollis’s absence, and each time Potter had assured him that Hollis would come soon. Shortly before nine o’clock, when the clouds lifted and the stars began to appear, Potter rose and paced the gallery floor. At nine, when it had become light enough to see quite a little distance down the Dry Bottom trail and there were still no signs of Hollis, he blurted out the story of the day’s occurrences.
The information acted upon Norton like an electric shock. He was on his feet before Potter had finished speaking, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly.
“Why didn’t you say something before?” he demanded. “Why did you leave him? Wasn’t there somebody in Dry Bottom that you could have sent out here to tell me?” He cursed harshly. “Ten Spot’s got him!” he declared sharply, his eyes glittering savagely. “He’d have been here by this time!” He was taking a hitch in his cartridge belt while talking, and before concluding he was down off the gallery floor and striding toward the corral.
“Tell my wife that I’ve gone to Dry Bottom,” he called back to Potter. “Important business! I’ll be back shortly after midnight!”
Leaving Potter on the porch staring after him he ran to the corral, roped his pony, threw on a saddle and bridle and mounted with the animal on a run.
The stars were shining brilliantly now and from the porch Potter could see Norton racing down the Dry Bottom trail with his pony in a furious gallop. For a time Potter watched him, then he disappeared and Potter went into the house to communicate his message to his wife.
The rain had been heavy while it lasted, but by the time Norton had begun his race to Dry Bottom very little evidence of it remained and the pony’s flying hoofs found the sand of the trail almost as dry and hard as before the storm. Indeed, there was now little evidence that there had been a storm at all.
Norton spared the pony only on the rises and in something over an hour after the time he had left the Circle Bar he drew up in front of the Kicker office in Dry Bottom, dismounted, and bounded to the door. It was locked. He placed a shoulder against it and crashed it in, springing inside and lighting a match. He smiled grimly when he saw no signs of Hollis; when he saw that the interior was in an orderly condition and that there were no signs of a conflict. If Ten Spot had killed Hollis he had done the deed outside the Kicker office.
Norton came out again, pulling the wreck of the door after him and closing it as well as he could. Then, leaving his pony, he strode toward the Fashion saloon. As he came near he heard sounds of revelry issuing from the open door and he smiled coldly. A flashing glance through the window showed him that Ten Spot was there, standing at the bar. In the next instant Norton was inside, confronting Ten Spot, his big six-shooter out and shoved viciously against Ten Spot’s stomach.
“What have you done with Hollis, you mangy son-of-a-gun?” he demanded.
Several men who had been standing at the bar talking and laughing fell silent and looked at the two men, the barkeeper sidled closer, crouching warily, for he knew Norton.
Ten Spot had spread his arms out on the bar and was leaning against it, looking at Norton in unfeigned bewilderment. He did not speak at once. Then suddenly aware of the foreboding, savage gleam in Norton’s eyes, a glint of grim humor came into his own and his lips opened a little, curling sarcastically.
“Why,” he said, looking at Norton, “I don’t reckon to be anyone’s keeper.” He smiled widely, with a suddenly ludicrous expression. “If you’re talkin’ about that tenderfoot noospaper guy, he don’t need no keeper. What have I done to him?” he repeated, his smile growing. “Why, I reckon I didn’t do a heap; I went down to call on him. He was right sociable. I was goin’ to be mean to him, but I just couldn’t. When he left he was sayin’ that he’d be right glad to see me again–he’d been right playful durin’ my talk with him. I reckon by now he’s over at the Circle Bar laffin’ hisself to sleep over the mean way I treated him. You just ast him when you see him.”
A flicker of doubt came into Norton’s eyes–Ten Spot’s words had the ring of truth.
“You went down there to shoot him!” he said coldly, still unconvinced.
“Mebbe I did,” returned Ten Spot. “Howsomever, I didn’t. I ain’t tellin’ how I come to change my mind–that’s my business, an’ you can’t shoot it out of me. But I’m tellin’ you this: me an’ that guy has agreed to call it quits, an’ if I hear any man talkin’ extravagant about him, me an’ that man’s goin’ to have a run in mighty sudden!” He laughed. “Someone’s been funnin’ you,” he said. “When he handed me back my gun after sluggin’ – ”
But he was now talking to Norton’s back, for the range boss was at the door, striding rapidly toward his pony. He mounted again and rode out on the trail, proceeding slowly, convinced that something had happened to Hollis after he had left Dry Bottom. It was more than likely that he had lost his way in the storm, and in that case he would probably arrive at the Circle Bar over some round-about trail. He was now certain that he had not been molested in town; if he had been some of the men in the Fashion would have told him about it. Hollis would probably be at the ranch by the time he arrived, to laugh at his fears. Nevertheless he rode slowly, watching the trail carefully, searching the little gullies and peering into every shadow for fear that Hollis had been injured in some accident and might be lying near unable to make his presence known.
The dawn was just showing above the horizon when he rode up to the ranchhouse to find Potter standing on the porch–apparently not having left there during his absence. Beside Potter stood Ed Hazelton, and near the latter a drooping pony, showing signs of hard riding.
Norton passed the corral gate and rode up to the two men. A glance at their faces told him that something had gone wrong. But before he could speak the question that had formed on his lips Hazelton spoke.
“They got him, Norton,” he said slowly.
“Dead?” queried Norton sharply, his lips straightening.
“No,” returned Hazelton gloomily; “he ain’t dead. But when I found him he wasn’t far from it. Herd-rode him, the damned sneaks! Beat him up so’s his own mother wouldn’t know him!”
“Wait!” commanded Norton. “I’m going with you. I suppose you’ve got him over to your shack?” He caught Hazelton’s nod and issued an order to Potter. “Go down to the bunkhouse and get Weary out. Tell him to hit the breeze to Cimarron for the doctor. If the doc’ don’t want to come drag him by the ears!”
He spurred his pony furiously to the corral gate and in a short time had saddled another horse and was back where Hazelton was awaiting him. Without speaking a word to each other the two men rode rapidly down the Coyote trail, while Potter, following directions, his face haggard and drawn from loss of sleep and worry, hurried to the bunkhouse to arouse Weary and send him on his long journey to Cimarron.
