He had resolved that Levake was to be punished, but it was not a
unanimous voice that backed the railroad leader in his determination.
Weak-kneed men in the conference wanted to compromise and end the
fight where it stood. Even Atkinson was disposed to make terms, as the
party returned to the barricade.
"No," repeated Stanley. "Levake is the head and front of this whole
disorder. As long as he can shoot down unarmed men in the streets of
Medicine Bend there will be no law and order here. While men see him
walking these streets unpunished they will take their cue from him and
rob and shoot whom they please--Levake and his ilk must go. A
railroad, on the start, brings a lawless element with it--this is
true. But it also brings law and order and that element has come to
Medicine Bend to stay. If the machinery of the law is too weak to
support it, so much worse for the machinery. I don't want to see
blood shed or property destroyed, but the responsibility for this
rests with the outlaws that are terrorizing this town. And I will
spend every ounce of ammunition I have and fight them to the last man,
rather than compromise with a bunch of cutthroats.
"If any man here feels differently about this, he may step out of the
barricade now," continued Stanley, addressing those of the townsmen
that listened. "There will be no hard feeling. But this is the time to
do it. Worse is ahead of us before we can clean the town up as it will
have to be cleaned sometime. The longer you leave the job undone, the
harder it will be when you tackle it."
A movement across the square interrupted his words, and a messenger
waving a white handkerchief came over to the barricade to ask for a
surgeon for a wounded man. There were some who opposed sending any
relief to men that had forfeited all claim to humane consideration.
Doctor Arnold, however, was summoned, and Stanley finally determined
that the matter should be left to the surgeon himself--he could go if
he wished. Arnold did not hesitate in his decision. "It is my duty to
go," he decided briefly.
"I don't quite see that," muttered Atkinson.
The white-haired surgeon turned to the leader of the vigilantes. "It
is not a matter of personal inclination, Atkinson. When I took my
degree for the practice of medicine, I took an oath to respond to
every call of suffering and I have no right to refuse this one."
Leaving his own injured with his assistant, the surgeon told the
messenger to proceed and the two walked across the square and up Front
Street to the Three Horses. Arriving there, Arnold was asked to dress
the wound of a man that had been shot through the breast in the fight
along Fort Street. While he was working over his patient, who lay on a
table surrounded by a motley crowd of onlookers, Levake walked in. He
nodded to the surgeon and drawing a pocket knife, while Arnold was
cleansing the wound, sat down beside him to whittle a stick.
"I hear your man, Stanley, wants me," began Levake after an interval.
"I guess you hear right," returned Arnold dryly.
"Tell him for me to come get me, will you?" suggested Levake.
"If he ever comes after you, Levake, he will get you," returned
Arnold, looking the outlaw straight in the eye. "There isn't any doubt
about that," he added, resuming his task.
Levake whittled but made no reply. He watched the surgeon's work
closely, and when Arnold had finished and given directions for the
wounded man's care he walked out of the place with him.
"Tell Stanley what I said, will you?" repeated Levake, as the railroad
surgeon left the door and started down street.
Arnold made no answer and Levake, taunting him to send all the men the
railroad had after him, followed Arnold toward the square.
The surgeon understood that it was Levake's purpose to engage him in a
dispute and kill him if he could. Arnold, moreover, was hot-tempered
and made no concealment of his feelings toward any man. For this
reason, despite his realization of danger, he was an easy prey.
To the final taunt of the outlaw the surgeon made rather a sharp
answer and quickened his pace, to walk away from his unpleasant
companion. But Levake would not be shaken off, and as the two were
passing a deserted restaurant he ordered the surgeon to halt. Arnold
turned without shrinking. Levake had already drawn his pistol and his
victim concluded he was to be killed then and there, but he resolved
to tell the outlaw what he thought of him.
"I understand your game perfectly, Levake," he said after he had raked
him terrifically. "Now, if you are going to shoot, do it. You haven't
long to live yourself--make sure of that."
"No man can threaten me and live," retorted Levake harshly.
"I came up here, an unarmed man, on an errand of mercy."
"I didn't send for you."
"You would kill me just as quick if you had, Levake. What are you
hesitating about? If you are going to shoot, shoot."
Throwing back his right arm, and fingering the trigger of his revolver
as a panther lashes his tail before springing, Levake stepped back and
to one side. As he did so, with the fearless surgeon still facing him,
a man stepped from behind the screen door of the deserted restaurant.
It was Bob Scott.
The old and deadly feud between the Indian and the outlaw brought them
now, for the first time in months, face to face. In spite of his iron
nerve Levake started. Scott, slightly stooped and wearing the familiar
slouch hat and shabby coat in which he was always seen, regarded his
enemy with a smile.
So sudden was his appearance that Levake could not for an instant
control himself. If there was a man in the whole mountain country that
Levake could be said to be afraid of, it was the mild-mannered,
mild-spoken Indian scout. Where Scott had come from, how he had got
through the pickets posted by Levake himself--these questions, for
which he could find no answer, disquieted the murderer.
Arnold, reprieved from death as by a miracle, stood like a statue.
Levake, with his hand on his pistol, had halted, petrified, at the
sight of Scott.
The latter, eying the murderer with an expression that might have been
mistaken for friendly, had not Levake known there could be no
friendship among decent men for him, broke the silence: "Levake, I
have a warrant for you."
The words seemed to shake the spell from the outlaw's nerves. He
answered with his usual coolness: "You've waited a good while to serve
it."
"I've been a little busy for a few days, Levake," returned Scott, with
the same even tone. "I kind of lost track of you." But his words again
disconcerted Levake. The few men who now watched the scene and knew
what was coming stood breathless.
Levake, moistening his dry lips, spoke carefully: "I don't want any
trouble with you here," he said. "When this town fight is over, bring
your warrant around and I'll talk to you."
"No," returned Scott, undisturbed, "I might lose track of you again.
You can come right along with me, Levake."
With incredible quickness the outlaw, half-turning to cover Scott,
fired. The cat-like agility of the Indian answered the move in the
instant it was made. Scott was, in fact, the first scout from whom
mountain men learned to fire a revolver without aiming it and it was
not without reason that Levake sought no encounter with him. For Scott
to draw and fire was but one movement, and hating Levake as a monster,
the Indian had long been ready to meet him as he met him now, when he
should be forced to face him fairly.
A fusillade of shots rang down the street. The air between the two
men, feinting like boxers in their deadly duel, filled with whitish
smoke. Arnold, stunned by the suddenness of the encounter, jumped out
of range. In the next moment he saw Levake sink to the sidewalk.
Scott, springing upon him like a cat, knelt with one hand already on
his throat; with the other he wrung a second revolver from Levake's
hand. The surgeon ran to the two men.
Levake, panting, lay desperately wounded, as Scott slowly released his
grip upon him. The Indian rose as the surgeon approached, but Levake,
his eyes wide open, lay still.
"You are wounded, Bob," cried Arnold, tearing the stained sleeve of
Scott's coat from his shoulder. The scout shook his head.
"We're in danger here," he replied, glancing hurriedly up the street.
"We must get this fellow away."
The two picked the wounded man from the ground and started quickly
down street with him. The shooting, now so frequent all over the town,
had attracted little attention outside the few that had witnessed the
swift duel, and the two railroad men made good progress with their
burden before the alarm was spread. But the surgeon saw that the
strain was telling on Scott, whose shoulder was bleeding freely. He
had even ordered his companion to drop his burden and run, when he
heard a shout and saw Bill Dancing running across from the barricade
to their aid.
[Illustration: FOR SCOTT TO DRAW AND FIRE WAS BUT ONE MOVEMENT.]
Half a dozen of the rioters, shouting threats and imprecations, were
hastening down Front Street after Levake and his captors to rescue
their prisoner. Scott, reloading his revolver as Dancing relieved him
of his end of the burden, stood free to cover the retreat. He fired a
warning shot at the nearest of their pursuers. A scattering pistol
fire at long range followed. But the railroad men crossed the square
in safety, and the big lineman, with Levake in his arms, carried him
single-handed into the barricade.
The surgeon and Bob Scott followed close. Bucks was first to meet the
wounded scout, and the railroad men, jubilant at Levake's capture, ran
to Scott and bore him down with rough welcome. Levake was laid upon a
bench in the station and Scott followed to his side. Arnold, joining
the scout, made ready to dress the wound in his shoulder.
"See to Levake first, doctor," said Scott, "he needs it the most."
As he spoke, Dancing hurried into the room. "Bob, the car shops are on
fire."
Scott ran to the east window. It was true. The rioters, supplied with
oil and torches, had made their way in the darkness through
Callahan's picket line near the river and set fire to the shops.
Stanley was eating a hasty supper in the despatchers' office.
Within a few minutes the blaze could be seen from all the east windows
of the station. Almost at the same moment, through the north windows
fire was seen breaking out in one of the big stores in Front Street.
As Stanley rose from his midnight meal, Atkinson ran in with word that
a band of rioters, well armed, had attacked a train of boarding-cars
defended by the roundhouse men.
The sky, bright again with the flame of conflagration, made a huge
dome of red, lighting the railroad yards across which men were now
hurrying to make fresh dispositions for the emergency.
The vigilante leaders saw impending, in the Front Street fire, the
ruin of their business property. There were no longer men enough
left to fight the flames and guard the fire-fighters. A point had
been reached in which life and property were no longer taken into
account, and efforts to restore law and order were facing complete
failure. It was then that the most radical of all measures, the
last resort of organized society in its resolve to defend itself,
was discussed. The vigilantes, as well as the railroad men, now
realized that but one measure remained for saving Medicine Bend and
that was the extermination of the outlaws themselves.