FRIENDS ON THE OUTSIDE
While events were working out smoothly for the arrest of the two men
in Kane's gambling-hall, four friends were passing a quiet evening in
Quayle's barroom, but the quiet was not to endure.
With lagging interest in the game Idaho picked up his cards, ruffled
them and listened. "Reckon that's singin'," he said in response to the
noise floating down from the gambling-hall. "Sounds more like a bunch
of cows bawlin' for their calves. Kane's comin' to life later'n usual.
Wonder if Thorpe's joinin' in?" he asked, and burst out laughing. "Next
to our hard-workin' sheriff there ain't nobody in town that I'd rather
see eat dirt than him. Wish I could 'a' seen him a-climbin' that wall!"
"Annybody that works for Kane eats dirt," commented Quayle. "They has
to. He'll learn how to eat it, too, th' blackguard."
"There goes _somethin'_," said Ed Doane as the distant roaring ceased
abruptly. "Reckon Thorpe's makin' another try at th' wall." He laughed
softly. "They're startin' a fandango, by th' sound of it."
"'Tis nothin' to th' noise av a good Irish reel," deprecated the
proprietor.
"I'm claimin' low this hand," grunted Idaho. "Look out for yore jack."
Johnny smiled, played and soon a new deal was begun.
"Th' dance is over, too," said Doane, mopping off the bar for the third
time in ten minutes. "Must 'a' been a short one."
"Some of them _hombres_ will dance shorter than that, an' harder,"
grunted Idaho, "th' next time they pay _us_ a visit. They didn't get
many head th' last time, an' I'm sayin' they'll get none at all th'
next time. Where they take 'em to is more'n we can guess: th' tracks
just die. Not bein' able to track 'em, we're aimin' to stop it at th'
beginnin'. You fellers wait, an' you'll see."
Quayle grunted expressively. "I been waitin' too long now. Wonder why
nobody ever set fire to Kane's. 'Twould be a fine sight."
"You'll mebby see that, too, one of these nights," growled the puncher.
"Then pick out wan when th' wind is blowin' _up_ th' street," chuckled
Quayle. "This buildin' is so dry it itches to burn. I'm surprised
it ain't happened long ago, with that Mick in th' kitchen raisin'
th' divvil with th' stove. If I didn't have a place av me own I'd be
tempted to do it meself."
The bartender laughed shortly. "If McCullough happens to think of it I
reckon it'll be done." He shook out the bar cloth and bunched it again.
"Funny he ain't cut loose yet. That ain't like him, at all."
"Waitin' for th' rewards to start workin', I reckon," said Johnny.
Idaho scraped up the cards, shaped them into a sheersided deck and
pushed it aside. "I'm tired of this game; it's too even. Reckon I'll
go up an' take a look at Kane's." He arose and sauntered out, paused,
and looked up the street. "Cussed if they ain't havin' a pe-rade," he
called. "This ain't th' Fourth of July, is it? I'm goin' up an' sidle
around for a closer look. Be back soon."
Johnny was vaguely perturbed. The sudden cessation of the song bothered
him, and the uproar which instantly followed it only served to increase
his uneasiness. Ordinarily he would not have been affected, but the
day's events might have led to almost anything. Had a shot been fired
he swiftly would have investigated, but the lack of all shooting
quieted his unfounded suspicions. Idaho's remark about the parade
renewed them and after a short, silent argument with himself he arose,
went to the door and looked up the street, seeing the faint, yellow
patch on the sand where Kane's lamps shown through the open door and
struggled against the surrounding darkness, and hearing the faint
rumble of voices above which rang out frequent laughter. He grimly told
himself that there would be no laughter in Kane's if his two friends
had come to any harm, and there would have been plenty of shooting.
"Annythin' to see?" asked Quayle, poking his head out of the door.
"No," answered Johnny, turning to reenter the building. "Just feelin'
their oats, I reckon."
"'Tis feelin' their _ropes_ they should be doin'," replied Quayle,
stepping back to let his guest pass through. "An' 'twould be fine
humor to swing 'em from their own. Hist!" he warned, listening to the
immoderate laughter which came rapidly nearer. "Here's Idaho; he'll
know it all."
Idaho popped in and in joyous abandon threw his sombrero against the
ceiling. "Funniest thing you ever heard!" he panted. "Corwin's arrested
that Bill Long an' Red Thompson. Took a full dozen to do it, an' half
of 'em are cripples now. Th' pe-rade I saw was Corwin an' a bunch
escortin' 'em over to th' jail. Ain't we got a rip-snortin' fool for a
sheriff?" His levity died swiftly, to give way to slowly rising anger.
"With this country fair crowded with crooks he can't find nobody to
throw in jail except two friendless strangers! D--n his hide, I got a
notion to pry 'em out and turn 'em loose before mornin', just to make
things right, an' take some of th' swellin' out of his flat head. It's
a cussed shame."
The low-pulled brim of Johnny's sombrero hid the glint in his eyes
and the narrowed lids. He relaxed and sat carelessly on the edge
of a table, one leg swinging easily to and fro as conjecture after
conjecture rioted through his mind.
"They must 'a' stepped on Kane's toes," said Ed, vigorously wiping off
the backbar.
Idaho scooped up his hat and flung it on the table at Johnny's side.
"You'd never guess it, Ed. Even th' rest of th' gang was laughin' about
it, all but th' cripples. I been waitin' for them rewards to start
workin,' but I never reckoned they'd work out like this. Long an'
Thompson are holdin' th' sack. They're scapegoats for th' whole cussed
gang. Corwin took 'em in for robbin' th' bank, an' gettin' Ridley!"
Ed Doane dropped the bar cloth and stared at the speaker and a red
tide crept slowly up his throat and spread across his face. Johnny slid
from the table and disappeared in the direction of his room. He came
down again with the two extra Colts in his hands, slipped through the
kitchen and ran toward the jail. Quayle's mouth slowly closed and then
let out an explosive curse. The bartender brought his fist down on the
bar with a smash.
"Scapegoats? Yo're right! It's a cold deck--an' you bet Kane never
would 'a' dealt from it if he wasn't dead shore he could make th' play
stick. Every man in th' pack will swear accordin' to orders, an' who
can swear th' other way? It'll be a strange jury, down in Sandy Bend,
every man jack of it a friend of Ridley an' th' T & C. Well, I'm a
peaceable man, but this is too much. I never saw them fellers before
in my life; but on th' day when Corwin starts south with 'em I'll be
peaceable no longer--an' I've got friends! There's no tellin' who'll be
next if he makes this stick. Who's with me?"
"_I_ am," said Quayle; "an' _I_ got friends."
"Me, too," cried Idaho. "There's a dozen hickory knots out on th' ranch
that hate Corwin near as much as I do. They'll be with us, mebby even
Lukins, hisself. Hey! Where'd Nelson go?" he excitedly demanded. "Mebby
he's out playin' a lone hand!" and he darted for the kitchen.
Johnny, hidden in the darkness not far from the jail, was waiting.
The escort, judging from the talk and the glowing ends of cigarettes,
was bunched near the front of the building, little dreaming how close
they stood to a man who held four Colts and was fighting down a rage
which urged their use. At last, thoroughly master of itself, Johnny's
mind turned to craftiness rather than to blind action and formulated
a sketchy plan. But while the plan was being carried through he would
not allow his two old friends to be entirely helpless. Slipping off his
boots he crept up behind the jail and with his kerchief lowered the two
extra guns through the window, softly calling attention to them, which
redoubled the prisoners' efforts to untie each other. Satisfied now
that they were in no immediate danger he slipped back to his boots, put
them on and waited to see what would happen, and to listen further.
"There ain't no use watchin' th' jail," said a voice, louder than the
rest. "They're tied up proper, an' nobody ever got out of it before."
"Just th' same, you an' Harry will watch it," said Corwin. "Winder an'
door. I ain't takin' no chances with this pair."
A thickening on the dark ground moved forward slowly and a low voice
called Johnny's name. He replied cautiously and soon Idaho crawled to
his side, whispering questions.
"Go back where there ain't no chance of anybody hearin' us, or
stumblin' over us," said Johnny. "When that gang leaves there won't be
so much noise, an' then they may hear us."
At last reaching an old wagon they stood up and leaned against it, and
Johnny unburdened his heart to a man he knew he could trust.
"Idaho," he said, quietly, "them fellers are th' best friends I ever
had. They cussed near raised me, an' they risked their lives more'n
once to save mine. 'Most everythin' I know I got from them, an' they
ain't goin' to stay in that mud hut till mornin', not if I die for it.
They come down here to help me, an' I'm goin' to get 'em out. Did you
ever hear of th' old Bar-20, over in th' Pecos Valley?"
"I shore did," answered Idaho. "Why?"
"I was near raised on it. Bill Long is Hopalong Cassidy, an' Red
Thompson is Red Connors, th' whitest men that ever set a saddle. Rob a
bank, an' shoot a man from _behind_! Did Bill Long act like a man that
had to shoot in th' back when he made Thorpe climb his own wall, with
his own crowd lookin' on? Most of their lives has been spent fightin'
Kane's kind; an' no breed of pups can hold 'em while I'm drawin' my
breath. It's only how to do it th' best way that's botherin' me. I've
slipped 'em a pair of guns, so I got a little time to think. Why, cuss
it: Hoppy knows th' skunk that got Ridley! An' before we're through
we'll know who robbed th' bank, an' hand 'em over to Mac. That's what's
keepin' th' three of us here!"
"Bless my gran'mother's old gray cat!" breathed Idaho. "No wonder they
pulled th' string! I'm sayin' Kane's got hard ridin' ahead. Say, can I
tell th' boys at th' ranch?"
"Tell 'em nothin' that you wouldn't know except for me tellin' you,"
replied Johnny. "I know they're good boys; but they might let it slip.
Me an' Hoppy an' Red are aimin' for them rewards--an' we're goin' to
get 'em both."
"It's a plumb lovely night," muttered Idaho. "Nicest night I think I
ever saw. I don't want no rewards, but I just got to get my itchin'
paws into what's goin' on around this town. An' it's a lovely town.
Nicest town I think I ever was in. That 'dobe shack ain't what it once
was. I know, because, not bein' friendly with th' sheriff, an' not
bein' able to look all directions at once, I figgered I might be in
it, myself, some day. So I've looked it over good, inside an' out. Th'
walls are crumbly, an' th' bars in th' window are old. There's a waggin
tongue in Pete Jarvis' freight waggin that's near twelve foot long, an'
a-plenty thick. Ash, I think it is; that or oak. Either's good enough.
If it was shoved between th' bars an' then pushed sideways that jail
wouldn't be a jail no more. If Pete ain't taken th' waggin to bed with
him, bein' so proud of it, we can crack that little hazelnut. I'm goin'
back an' see how many are still hangin' around."
"I'm goin' back to th' hotel, so I'll be seen there," said Johnny.
"I'll do th' same, later," replied his friend as they separated.
Quayle was getting rid of some of his accumulated anger, which
reflection had caused to soar up near the danger point. "Tom Ridley
wasn't killed by no strangers!" he growled, banging the table with his
fist. "I can name th' man that done it by callin' th' roll av Kane's
litter; an' I'll be namin' th' bank robbers in th' same breath." He
looked around as Johnny entered the room. "An' what did ye find, lad?"
"Idaho was right. They've got 'em in th' jail."
"An' if I was as young a man as you," said the proprietor, "they
wouldn't kape 'em there. As ut is I'm timpted to go up an' bust in th'
dommed door, before th' sheriff comes back from his ride. Tom Ridley's
murderer? Bah!"
"Back from his ride?" questioned Johnny, quickly and eagerly.
"Shure. He just wint down th' trail. Tellin' Mac, I don't doubt that
he's got th' men Twitchell wants. I was lookin' around when he wint
past. This is th' time, lad. I'll help ye by settin' fire to Red
Frank's corral if th' jail's watched. It'll take their attention. Or
I'll lug me rifle up an' cover ye while ye work." He arose and went
into the office for the weapon, Johnny following him. "There she
is--full to th' ind. An' I know her purty ways."
"Tim," said Johnny's low voice over his shoulder. "Yo're white, clean
through. I don't need yore help, anyhow, not right now. An' because you
are white I'm goin' to tell you somethin' that'll please you, an' give
me one more good friend in this rotten town. Bill Long an' Red Thompson
are friends of mine. They did not rob th' bank, nor shoot Ridley; but
Bill knows who _did_ shoot Ridley. He saw him climbin' out of Kane's
south stable while th' smoke was still comin' from th' gun that shot
yore friend. I can put my hand on th' coyote in five minutes. Th' three
of us are stayin' here to get that man, th' man who robbed th' bank,
an' Pecos Kane. I'm tellin' you this because I may need a good friend
in Mesquite before we're through."
Quayle had wheeled and gripped his shoulder with convulsive force.
"Ah!" he breathed. "Come on, lad; point him out! Point him out for Tim
Quayle, like th' good lad ye are!"
"Do you want him so bad that yo're willin' to let th' real killer get
away?" asked Johnny. "You only have to wait an' we'll get both."
"What d'ye mean?"
"You don't believe he shot Ridley without bein' told to do it, do you?"
"Kane told him; I know it as plain as I know my name."
"Knowin' ain't provin' it, an' provin' it is what we got to do."
"'Tis th' curse av th' Irish, jumpin' first an' thinkin' after,"
growled Quayle. "Go wan!"
"Yo're friends with McCullough," said Johnny. "Mac knows a little; an'
I'm near certain he's heard of Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of th'
Bar-20. Don't forget th' names: Hopalong Cassidy an' Red Connors, of
th' old Bar-20 in th' Pecos Valley. Buck Peters was foreman. I want you
to go down an' pay him a friendly visit, and tell him this," and Quayle
listened intently to the message.
"Bye," chuckled the proprietor, "ye leave Mac to me. We been friends
for years, an' Tom Ridley was th' friend of us both. But, lad, ye may
die; an' Bill Long may die--life is uncertain annywhere, an' more so in
Mesquite, these days. If yer a friend av Tim Quayle, slip me th' name
av th' man that murdered Ridley. I promise ye to kape han's off--an' I
want no reward. But it fair sickens me to think his name may be lost.
Tom was like a brother."
"If you knew th' man you couldn't hold back," replied Johnny. "Here:
I'll tell Idaho, an' Ed Doane. If Bill an' I go under they'll give you
his description. I don't know his name."
"Th' offer is a good wan; but Tim Quayle never broke his word to anny
man an' there's nothin' on earth or in hiven I want so much as to
know who murdered Tom Ridley. I pass ye my word with th' sign av th'
cross, on th' witness of th' Holy Virgin, an' on th' mem'ry av Tom
Ridley--I'll stay me hand accordin' to me promise."
Johnny looked deeply into the faded blue eyes through the tears which
filmed them. He gripped the proprietor's hand and leaned closer. "A
Greaser with a pock-marked face, an' a crescent-shaped scar over his
right eye. He is about my height an' drags one foot slightly when he
walks."
"Aye, from th' ball an' chain!" muttered Quayle. "I know th' scut!
Thank ye, lad: I can sleep better nights. An' I can wait as no Irishman
ever waited before. Annythin' Tim Quayle has is yourn; yourn an' yore
friends. I'll see Mac tomorrow. Good night." He cuddled the rifle and
went toward the stairs, but as he put his foot on the first step he
stopped, turned, and went to a chair in a corner. "I'm forgettin'," he
said, simply. "Ye may need me," and he leaned back against the wall,
closing his eyes, an expression of peace on his wrinkled face.