Howard Holds the Gulch
'Look at the mysterious gentleman!' said Helen, laughing, as her father
returned to them upon the hotel porch. Longstreet observed that she
appeared to be in the best of spirits. 'Look at the light in his eye!
Can't you just tell that he thinks he has a secret? Papa,' and she
squeezed his arm, 'won't you ever learn that with that face of yours
you couldn't hide what you are thinking to save your life?'
For the second time that day Longstreet winked slyly at Howard. His
laughter, as gay as Helen's, bubbled up straight from his soul.
'Helen,' he said as soberly as he might, 'I am afraid that we shall
have to leave you to your own devices for an hour or so. Mr. Howard
and I have a little business together.'
'Oh,' said Helen. She studied her father's face gravely, then turned
toward Alan. She knew all along that her father was planning some sort
of birthday surprise for her, and now she could not but wonder what it
was that had called the cattleman in to Longstreet's aid. For the
thought of the two men really having business together struck her as
quite absurd.
'I have been dying to be alone,' she said quickly. 'There is an
ice-cream shop across the street, and it's so much more comfortable on
a day like this not to have a man along counting the dishes you order.
Good-bye, business men,' and rather than be the one deserted she left
them and ran across the street, vanishing within the inviting door.
'I have already arranged the matter of filing on my claim,' said
Longstreet, turning triumphantly to Howard. 'I saw Bates, George
Harkness's assistant, and he has undertaken to do everything
immediately.'
'I know Bates. He's a good man, better for your work than Harkness
even.' He spoke without a great amount of interest in the subject, and
there was something of downright wistfulness in his look which had
followed Helen across the street.
They walked a short block in silence. Longstreet, glancing at his
companion and noting his abstraction, was glad that there were no
questions to answer. After all, it was going to be very simple to keep
Mrs. Murray's name out of the whole matter. When they came to the
corner and he asked 'Which way?' Howard actually started.
'Guess I was wool-gathering,' he grunted sheepishly. 'We go back this
way.'
They retraced their steps half the way, crossed the quiet street and
turned in at a hardware store. Howard led the way to the tiny office
at the front, whose open windows looked out on the street. A
ruddy-faced man in shirt sleeves sat with his hands clasped behind his
head, his eyes thoughtful. Seeing his callers, he jumped to his feet.
'Put her there, Al, old boy,' he called in a big, booming, good-natured
voice like a young bull's. 'Watched you go by and wondered if you
weren't coming in. Haven't seen you since old Buck was a calf. Where
you been keeping yourself?' His big smile widened. 'Courtot hasn't
got you hiding out, has he?'
'So you've heard that Courtot stuff, too? Pony, this is a friend of
mine; Mr. Longstreet, Pony Lee.' While they shook hands Howard added:
'Lee here knows more about practical mining than any other foot-loose
stranger this side the Alleghanies.'
'Draw it mild, Al,' laughed Lee. 'Glad to know you, Longstreet. Think
I've heard of you.'
He indicated chairs and the three sat down. Longstreet, looking
curiously at the man, noted that whereas he was florid and jolly and
gave the impression at first almost of joviality, upon closer scrutiny
that which was most pronounced about him was the keen glint of his
probing grey eyes. He came to learn later that Pony Lee had the
reputation of being both a good fellow and a fighting man.
'Longstreet wants to spin you a little yarn.' said Howard. 'And if you
will see him through, I imagine he's going to have a job open for you.'
'Mine, of course?' suggested Lee.
'Yes.'
'Have a cigar,' invited Lee. He produced a box from a desk drawer.
'See if I can guess where it is. Other side of Big Run?'
Howard nodded.
'Who found it?'
'I did,' answered Longstreet. 'Yesterday.'
'Last Ridge country, then. H'm.' He rolled his cigar in his mouth
idly. Then he sat bolt upright and leaned forward. 'How many people
have you told about it already? A dozen?'
It was little less than accusation, and Longstreet flushed. He was
opening his lips to answer stiffly when Howard spoke for him.
'He is keeping it to himself. He has told no one but me.'
Lee sank back in his chair, and when he spoke again it was in a
careless, off-hand manner.
'Half an hour ago I saw Monte Devine. He came tearing down the street,
hell-bent-for-election. Down at the saloon on the corner he picked up
two men you know, Al. One of them was Jake Bettins and the other was
Ed True. The three hit the pike at a regular two-forty clip for the
Big Run road. Those birds don't go chasing around on a day like this
just to get sunburn, do they?'
Howard frowned. 'Monte Devine?' he muttered, staring at Lee. But Lee,
instead of taking the trouble to give the necessary assurance again,
turned his eyes upon Longstreet.
'Filed on your claim yet?' he demanded.
'Yes,' retorted Longstreet, feeling inexplicably ill at ease and
shifting in his chair. 'Immediately.'
'That's good,' grunted Lee. 'But I would be squatting on my diggings
with a shot-gun under my arm. Al, here, can tell you a few things
about Monte Devine and his crowd.'
'Next to Lee,' said Howard, 'Devine knows the mining game from
hackamore to hoof. And he's a treacherous hound and a Jim Courtot man.'
'You said it, boy,' grunted Pony Lee. 'He's all of that. And he's no
nickel shooter, either. If the game ain't big, he won't chip in.'
'But,' continued Howard, 'I guess you've doped it up wrong, Pony.
Chances are they've got something else up their sleeves. They couldn't
possibly have dropped on to Longstreet's find.'
For a full minute Lee's eyes bored into Longstreet's. Then he spoke
dryly:
'As long's the desert wind blows, word of a strike will go with it.
Maybe I have got the wrong end of it.' He shrugged loosely. 'I've
done that sort of thing now and then. But I got one more thing to
spill. Sanchia Murray's in town. Or she was a little while ago.'
Again he fixed his shrewd eyes upon Longstreet's tell-tale face, which
slowly reddened. Pony Lee grunted and at last lighted his cigar.
Howard, with a look of sheer amazement, stared at Helen's father.
'You didn't tell Sanchia?' he gasped.
They got their answer in a perfect silence. Lee laughed somewhere deep
down in his throat. Howard simply sat and stared. Then suddenly he
sprang to his feet and grasped Longstreet by both shoulders, jerking
him up out of his chair.
'Tell me about it,' he commanded sternly. 'What did you tell her?'
'Everything,' returned the bewildered college man. 'Why shouldn't I?
She promised not to say anything.'
Howard groaned.
'Oh, hell!' he muttered and turned away. But he came back and
explained quietly. 'She's as crooked as a dog's hind leg; she's
running neck and neck, fifty-fifty, with Jim Courtot and Monte Devine
on all kinds of deals--Come on. We've got to burn the earth getting
back to Big Run. We'll beat 'em to it yet.'
'Wait a minute, Al,' called Lee softly. 'Let's get all the dope first.
You say, Mr. Longstreet, that you filed on your claim all right?'
Longstreet began to flounder and half-way through his recital bogged
down helplessly. He had met Sanchia Murray, had gone with her to the
Montezuma House, had seen Mr. Bates there----
'What sort of a looking gent is this Mr. Bates?' quizzed Pony Lee
sharply.
'A short man, dark, black moustaches----'
Again Howard groaned. Lee merely smiled.
'Recognize the picture, Al? She steered him right into Monte to fix
his papers! Well, by God!'
His expression was one of pure admiration. In his mind Sanchia Murray
had risen to undreamed of heights--heights of impudence, but none the
less daring. He could see the coup in all of its brilliance. But not
so Howard.
'We saw her leave a letter at the hotel in Big Run!' he cried out. He
was half-way to the door. 'She had the hunch then. By now Courtot and
Devine and the rest are in the saddles, if they are not, some of them,
already squatting on the job at Last Ridge! I'm on my way. Pony, come
alive. Chase over to the court-house; take Longstreet with you and
file on the claim if it isn't too late.'
As his last words came back to them he was out on the street and
running. He knew within himself that it was too late. They would find
that Sanchia or one of her crowd had already visited Harkness's office.
Well, that was one thing; the other was to take possession. His boots
clattered loudly upon the echoing board sidewalk and men came out to
look after him.
He came to his horse in front of the hotel, snatched the tie-rope loose
and went up into the saddle without bothering about the spurs hanging
over the horn. His horse plunged under him and in another moment horse
and rider were racing, even as Sanchia Murray's white mare had carried
her, out toward Big Run.
He came as close to killing a horse that day as he had ever come in his
life. His face grew sterner as he flung the barren miles behind him
and higher and higher surged the bitterness in his heart. If
Longstreet had found gold, and he believed that he had, it would have
meant so much to Helen. He had seen how she did without little things;
he had felt that she was just exactly the finest girl in all of the
world; it had seemed to him only the right and logical thing that she
should own a gold mine. And now it was to go to Jim Courtot and
Sanchia Murray. Sanchia instead of Helen! At the moment he felt that
he could have choked the lying heart out of the woman's soft white
throat. As for Jim Courtot, already he and Howard hated each other as
perforce two men of their two types must come to do. Here again was
ample cause for fresh hatred; he drove his horse on furiously, anxious
to come upon Courtot, thanking God in his heart that he could look to
his enemy for scant words and a quick gun. There come to men at times
situations when the only solution is to be found in shooting a way out.
Now, more than ever before in his life, was Alan Howard ready for this
direct method.
Arrived in Big Run he rode straight on until he came to Tony Moraga's.
Here, if anywhere in the settlement, he could hope to find his man. A
glance showed him one horse only at the rack, a lean sorrel that he
recognized. It was Yellow Barbee's favourite mount, and it struck him
that if there were further hard riding to be done, here was the horse
to satisfy any man. He threw himself from the saddle, left his own
horse balancing upon its trembling legs, and stepped into the saloon.
Moraga was dozing behind his bar. Yellow Barbee sat slumped over a
table, his lean, grimy fingers twisting an empty glass. No one else
was in the room.
'Courtot been here?' demanded Howard of Moraga.
Moraga shook his head. Howard glanced toward Barbee. The boy's face
was sullen, his eyes clouded. He glowered at Moraga and, turning his
morose eyes upon Howard, snapped out:
'Moraga lies. Jim was here a little while ago. He's just beat it with
a lot of his rotten crowd, Monte Devine and Bettins and True. They're
up to something crooked.'
'I forgot.' Moraga laughed greasily. 'Jim was in the back room there
talking to Sanchia! Nice girl, no?' he taunted Barbee.
'I'll kill you some day, Moraga,' cursed Barbee thickly.
Howard turned back to the door.
'I want your horse, Barbee,' he said quickly. 'All right?'
'Go to it,' Barbee flashed out. 'And if you ain't man enough to get
Jim Courtot pretty damn soon, I am!'
'Keep your shirt on, kid,' Howard told him coolly. 'And keep your
hands off. And for God's sake, stop letting that woman make a fool of
you.'
Barbee cursed in his throat and with burning eyes watched the swing
doors snap after the departing cattleman. Howard, his anger standing
higher and hotter, threw himself to the back of Barbee's roan and left
Big Run riding furiously from the jump. He knew the horse; it could
stand the pace across the few miles and there was no time to lose.
There was scant enough likelihood as matters were of his coming to Last
Ridge before Courtot's crowd. But the men might have failed to change
to fresh horses; in that case his chance was worth something. And,
always, until a game be played out, it is anybody's game.
As he rode out toward the Last Ridge trail his one thought was of Jim
Courtot. Little by little he lost sight of other matters. He had
fought with Jim Courtot before now; he had seen the spit of the
gambler's gun twice, he had knocked him down. Courtot had hunted him,
he had gone more than half-way to meet the man. And yet that which had
occurred just now had happened again and again before; he came seeking
Courtot, and Courtot had just gone. It began almost to seem that
Courtot was fleeing him, that he had no stomach for a face-to-face
meeting; that what he wanted was to step out unexpectedly from a
corner, to shoot from the dark. This long-drawn-out, fruitless seeking
baffled and angered. It was time, he thought, high time that he and
Jim Courtot shot their way out of an unendurable mess. At every
swinging stride of Barbee's roan he grew but the more impatient for the
end of the ride and the face of Jim Courtot.
The broad sun flattened against the low hills and sank out of sight.
Dusk came and thickened and the stars began to flare out. Against the
darkening skyline before him the Last Ridge country reared itself
sombrely. A little breeze went dancing and shivering through the dry
mesquite and greasewood. His horse stumbled and slowed down. They had
come to the first of the rocky ground. He should be at the mouth of
Dry Gulch in half an hour. And there he would find the men he had
followed; they had beat him to it, for not a glimpse of them had he
had. They were, then, first on the ground. That was something, he
conceded. But it was not everything.
At last he dismounted and tied his horse to a bush. About him were
thick shadows, before him the tall bulwark of the uplands. His feet
were in a trail that he knew. He went on up, as silently, as swiftly
as he could. Presently he stood on the edge of the same flat on which
the Longstreets had made their camp, though a good half-mile to the
east of the canvas shack. A wide black void across the plateau was Dry
Gulch. Upon its nearer bank, not a hundred yards from him, a dry wood
fire blazed brightly; he must have seen it long ago except that a
shoulder of the mountain had hidden it. It burned fiercely, thrusting
its flames high, sending its sparks skyward. In its flickering circle
of light he saw dark objects which he knew must be the forms of men.
He did not count them, merely prayed within his heart that Courtot was
among them, and came on. He heard the men talking. He did not listen
for words, since words did not matter now. He hearkened for a certain
voice.
The voices broke off and a man stood up. When he was within a score of
paces of the fire Howard stopped. The man's thick squat form was
clearly outlined. Unmistakably this was Monte Devine. There were two
or three other forms squatting; it was impossible to distinguish a
crouching man from a boulder.
'That you, Monte?' called Howard.
'Good guess,' came Monte's heavy, insolent voice. 'You've got one on
me, though, pardner.'
'Courtot here?' demanded Howard.
Monte Devine laughed then.
'Hello, Al,' he returned lightly. 'You and Jim sure play a great
little game of tag, don't you?'
'He isn't here, then?'
'Left an hour ago. There's just me and Bettins and True on the job.
Come on in and make yourself at home.'
Howard came on slowly. Monte might be telling the truth, and then
again lying came easy to him. Every dark blot was searched out
suspiciously by Howard's frowning eyes. Again, having read what was in
Howard's mind, Monte laughed.
'He ain't here, Al,' he insisted. 'You and him will have to make a
date if you ever get together.'
The two other men rose from the ground and stood a little aside. No
doubt they were True and Bettins; still neither had spoken and in this
uncertain light either might be Courtot.
'Hello, True,' said Howard shortly. True's voice answered him.
'Hello, Bettins,' he said, and it was Bettin's voice replying.
'Where did Jim go?' he asked.
'Search me,' retorted Monte Devine. Then, a hint of a jeer in his
voice, 'Going to stay out there in the dark all night? 'Fraid Jim'll
be hiding out waiting to pot you?'
The other men laughed.
'That's his sort of play,' muttered Alan coolly.
He took his time to look about. Little by little the mystery shrouding
this and that object dissolved and showed him a rock or a bush. He
heard a snapping bit of brush off to the right and wheeled toward it.
It was a horse moving. He circled the fire and went to it. Beyond
were two other horses, only three in all. Then he shrugged his
shoulders and jammed his revolver angrily into its holster and came
back to the figures by the fire.
'Longstreet is a friend of mine,' he said shortly. 'I am going to see
him through, Monte.'
'Who's Longstreet?' demanded Monte.
'I guess you know. He's the man who found gold up here yesterday.
He's the man Sanchia Murray brought to you at the Montezuma House. He
owns these diggings that you and Jim Courtot and your crowd are trying
to jump to-night. Better think it over and jump somewhere else, Monte.'
Monte Devine appeared to be meditating. Howard's angry thoughts were
racing. Rage baffled was but baffled again. There seemed nothing
concrete that he could lay his hands on; again Jim Courtot had come and
gone. To drive the men off the land, even could he succeed in doing it
would so far as he could see be barren of any desired result. There
was a law in the country, and that law would see the man through who
had properly filed on his claim. And yet, for all that, his blood grew
hot at the thought of all of this riff-raff of Jim Courtot squatting
here upon that which by right was Helen's.
'I reckon we'll stay and see it through,' said Monte at last.
Howard turned and strode away. True laughed. But Howard had seen
something showing whitely just yonder in the black void of Dry Gulch.
There was the spot where Longstreet's claim lay. He went down into the
gulch and to the thing that he had seen dimly. It was a stake and a
bit of white paper thrust into the split, and showed him that the three
men had not mistaken the spot. Here, at last, was something concrete
upon which a man, hot with his anger, could lay his hands. He wrenched
it away and hurled it far from him. He saw another stake and another
and these like the first he snatched up and pitched wrathfully as far
as he could throw them.
'That's something, if it isn't much,' he muttered to himself.
The others had held back, watching him. He could hear them speaking
quickly among themselves, Bettins and True angrily. Monte's voice was
low and steady. But it was Monte who came on first.
'Hold on there a minute,' called Howard sharply. 'I'm not asking any
company down here. Here I am going to stick until morning. By that
time, or I miss my guess, this neck of the woods will be full of people
who have heard that something's doing here. There'll be a handful of
your crowd, but there'll be twice as many square-shooters. You'll
stand back with the crowd and take your chance with what is left after
Longstreet gets his, or you'll play crooked and take another chance,
that of a long rope and a quick drop. Think it over, boys.'
'Better clean out while you can, Al,' said Monte. His own voice had
sharpened. 'We're coming down to put them stakes back.'
Howard withdrew half a dozen steps into the deeper shadows of the gulch.
'Come ahead when you're ready,' he retorted. 'I can see you fine up
there against the skyline. Start it going any time, Monte.'
His was the position of a man in desperate need for action and with
little enough scope for his desire. But he had the hope that
Longstreet and Pony Lee might possibly have been the first at the
court-house; were that to prove to be the case and were he on the
ground when they came in the morning, he would in the end have
prevented a tangle and the long delay and intricate trouble of
dispossessing Courtot's agents. Further, his mood was one in which he
would have been glad to have Monte 'start it going.'
Monte and his companions spoke quietly among themselves a second time.
Then, with never another word to him, they withdrew and disappeared.
An immense silence shut down about him. He knew that they had not gone
far and that they would be heard from before long. For they were not
the men to let go so easily. But Monte Devine, plainly the brains of
the crowd, was a cool hand who played as safe a game as circumstances
allowed.
He sat down with his back to a fallen boulder. He was thinking that
perhaps they were waiting for the dawn; by daylight they would have all
the best of it and might close in on him from three sides. But when
the night wind blowing up the gulch brought him the smell of dead
leaves burning, when he saw a quick tongue of flame on one bank and
then another, like a reflection in a mirror, on the other bank, he
understood. It was like a Monte Devine play. Presently the dry grass
would be burning all along the draw; the flames would sweep by him and
in their light he would stand forth as in the light of day. Then, if
there were a single rifle among the three men, he would have not so
much as a chance to fight. Even if they had nothing but revolvers, the
odds were all on their side.
And it was like Jim Courtot's play, too, to clear out and leave his
agents to deal with the man he hated. All in the world that Courtot
ever wanted was to win; the means were nothing. If his enemy went down
by another man's bullet than his own, so much the better for Jim
Courtot, who had always enough to answer for as it was.
'This belongs to Helen Longstreet,' Howard told himself steadily. 'I
am going to hold it for her if it's in the cards.'
He withdrew a little further. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he
clambered silently up the sloping bank. The men who had lighted the
fires would have circled about to come upon him from the other side.
He was right. As he thrust his head above the top of the bank he saw
two figures running in the direction that he had judged they would
take. He pulled himself up. A loosened rock rolled noisily into the
gulch. They heard it and stopped. He knew when they saw him and knew
who they were as he heard them call to each other. They were Ed True
and Monte Devine. And Ed True, as he called, whipped out his revolver
and fired.
'He's on this side, Bettins,' called Monte loudly. 'Take your time.'
He had not fired nor had Howard. Ed True, however, lacked the cool
nerve and emptied his revolver. Monte cursed him for a fool.
'You couldn't hit a barn that far off in this light,' he shouted.
'Take your time, can't you?'
Howard's lips tightened. That was Monte Devine for you. Steady and
cool as a rock.
'We've got the best of you, Al,' called Monte warningly. 'Better crawl
out while you got the chance.'
'Go to hell!' Howard told him succinctly. And knowing that the man had
been right when he had said you couldn't hit a barn at that distance
and in that light, he came forward suddenly. For in a little the
burning grass would be behind him and outlined against it the target of
his body would be a mark for anybody to hit.
Suddenly, having reloaded, True fired again. But he was not so hurried
now. He fired once and waited. This time the bullet had not flown so
far afield as the first shots; Howard heard its shrill cleaving of the
air. He saw that Monte was moving to one side. Again he understood
the man's intention. Monte planned to put him between two fires.
Howard jerked up his own gun.
The two explosions came simultaneously, his and Monte's. There was a
brief silence. Plainly no bullet had yet found its mark. True fired
again. His bullet whined by and Howard realized that the man was
coming closer every time. He turned a little and, 'taking his time,'
as Monte was doing, answered True's fire. There was a little squeal of
pain from True, a grunt of satisfaction from Howard, a second shot from
Monte. Howard saw that True had spun about and fallen. He saw,
further, that Monte had come a step nearer and had stopped. In a
little Bettins would be to reckon with. It was still close enough for
a chance hit, too far for absolute accuracy. Walking slowly, realizing
that he had but four shots left and that those gone he would never be
given time to reload, Howard came half a dozen paces toward Monte
before he stopped. He heard True's groaning curse; a spat of flame
from where the man lay showed him that he was still to be counted on.
But his shooting would be apt to be wild and he must be forgotten until
Devine was dealt with.
He was near enough to make out the gesture as Monte raised his arm.
And he was ready. Howard fired first; he saw the flare and heard the
report of Monte's gun and knew that he had missed. But Monte had not
missed. There was a searing pain across Howard's outer left arm, near
the shoulder. The pain came and was gone, like the flash of the gun;
remained only a mounting rage in Howard's brain. Three shots left and
three men still to fight. A shot for each man and none to waste, or
the tale would be told for Alan Howard. And there would be occasion
for Jim Courtot's jeering laugh tomorrow.
Before the smoke had cleared from Monte's gun Howard leaped closer, and
at this close range fired. He saw Monte reel back. He knew that Ed
True was still shooting, but he did not care. Monte was stumbling,
saving himself from falling, straightening again, lifting his gun. But
before the swaying figure could answer the call of the cool brain
directing it, Howard sprang in upon him and struck with his clubbed
revolver. And Monte Devine, his finger crooking to the trigger as the
blow fell, went down heavily from the impact of the gun-barrel against
his head. Ed True emptied his cylinder and cursed and began filling it
again.
Howard stood a moment over Monte Devine. Then he took up the fallen
revolver in his left hand and turned to True.
'Chuck your gun to me, Ed,' he commanded sternly, 'or I'll get you
right next time.'
True damned him violently. Then he groaned, and a moment later there
was the sound of his revolver hurled from him, clattering among the
stones. Howard took it up, shoved it into his pocket and turned toward
the gulch. While he sought for a sight of Bettins he hastily filled
the empty chambers of his own weapon.
Now only he realized how brief a time had elapsed since Ed True's first
shot. The grass fire was blazing, but had crept up the draw only a few
feet. And Bettins had not yet had the time to come from the other
side, down into the gulch and up on this side. He saw Bettins; the man
was standing still staring toward his fallen companions. The fire
leaped higher, its light danced out in widening circles, touching at
last the spot where Howard stood, where Ed True and Monte Devine lay.
'Well, Bettins?' called Howard abruptly.
'What about you? Are you coming over?'
Bettins was silent a moment. The light flickered on the gun in his
hand. Presently he raised his voice to inquire anxiously:
'Hurt much, Monte? And you, True?'
No answer from Monte. True shrieked at him: 'Come, over and plug him,
Bettins. For God's sake, plug the damn cowman.'
Still Bettins hesitated.
'Monte dead?' he demanded.
'How the hell do I know?' complained True.
'Come, plug him, Bettins.'
This time Bettins' reply was lost in a sudden shout of voices rising
from the lower end of the flat. The vague forms of several horsemen
appeared; there came the thunderous beat of flying hoofs. Howard's
lips grew tight-pressed. True lifted himself on his elbow.
'It's Jim coming back!' he called triumphantly.
'This way, Jim!'
But the answering shout, closer now, was unmistakably the voice of
Yellow Barbee. And with him rode half a dozen men and, among them a
girl.