Far away in the western sky Andy Lanning saw a black dot that moved in
wide circles and came up across the heavens slowly, and he knew it was a
buzzard that scented carrion and was coming up the wind toward that
scent. He had seen them many a time before on their gruesome trails, and
the picture which he carried was not a pleasant one.
But now the picture that drifted through his mind was still more
horrible. It was a human body lying face downward in the sand with the
wind ruffling in the hair and the hat rolled a few paces off and the gun
close to the outstretched hand. He knew from Uncle Jasper that no matter
how far the trail led, or how many years it was ridden, the end of the
outlaw was always the same--death and the body left to the buzzards. Or
else, in some barroom, a footfall from behind and a bullet through
the back.
The flesh of Andy crawled. It was not possible for him to relax in
vigilance for a moment, lest danger come upon him when he least expected
it. Perhaps, in some open space like this. He went on until the sun was
low in the west and all the sky was rimmed with color.
Dusk had come over the hills in a rush, when he saw a house half lost in
the shadows. It was a narrow-fronted, two-storied, unpainted, lonely
place, without sign of a porch. Here, where there was no vestige of a
town near, and where there was no telephone, the news of the deaths of
Bill Dozier and Buck Heath could not have come. Andy accepted the house
as a blessing and went straight toward it.
But the days of carelessness were over for Andy, and he would never
again approach a house without searching it like a human face. He
studied this shack as he came closer. If there were people in the
building they did not choose to show a light.
Andy went around to the rear of the house, where there was a low shed
beside the corral, half tumbled down; but in the corral were five or six
fine horses--wild fellows with bright eyes and the long necks of speed.
Andy looked upon them wistfully. Not one of them but was worth the price
of three of the pinto; but as for money there was not twenty dollars in
the pocket of Andy.
Stripping the saddle from the pinto, he put it under the shed and left
the mustang to feed and find water in the small pasture. Then he went
with the bridle, that immemorial sign of one who seeks hospitality in
the West, toward the house. He was met halfway by a tall, strong man of
middle age or more. There was no hat on his head, which was covered with
a shock of brown hair much younger than the face beneath it. He beheld
Andy without enthusiasm.
"You figure on layin' over here for the night, stranger?" he asked.
"That's it," said Andy.
"I'll tell you how it is," said the big man in the tone of one who is
willing to argue a point. "We ain't got a very big house--you see
it--and it's pretty well filled right now. If you was to slope over the
hills there, you'd find Gainorville inside of ten miles."
Andy explained that he was at the end of a hard ride. "Ten more miles
would kill the pinto," he said. "But if you don't mind, I'll have a bit
of chow and then turn in out there in the shed. That won't crowd you in
your sleeping quarters, and it'll be fine for me."
The big man opened his mouth to say something more, then turned on his
heel.
"I guess we can fix you up," he said. "Come on along."
At another time Andy would have lost a hand rather than accept such
churlish hospitality, but he was in no position to choose. The pain of
hunger was like a voice speaking in him.
It was a four-room house; the rooms on the ground floor were the
kitchen, where Andy cooked his own supper of bacon and coffee and
flapjacks, and the combination living room, dining room, and, from the
bunk covered with blankets on one side, bedroom. Upstairs there must
have been two more rooms of the same size.
Seated about a little kitchen table in the front room, Andy found three
men playing an interrupted game of blackjack, which was resumed when the
big fellow took his place before his hand. The three gave Andy a look
and a grunt, but otherwise they paid no attention to him. And if they
had consulted him he could have asked for no greater favor. Yet he had
an odd hunger about seeing them. They were the last men in many a month,
perhaps, whom he could permit to see him without a fear. He brought his
supper into the living room and put his cup of coffee on the floor
beside him. While he ate he watched them.
They were, all in all, the least prepossessing group he had ever seen.
The man who had brought him in was far from well favored, but he was
handsome compared with the others. Opposite him sat a tall fellow very
erect and stiff in his chair. A candle had recently been lighted, and it
stood on the table near this man. It showed a wan face of excessive
leanness. His eyes were deep under bony brows, and they alone of the
features showed any expression as the game progressed, turning now and
again to the other faces with glances that burned; he was winning
steadily. A red-headed man was on his left, with his back to Andy; but
now and again he turned, and Andy saw a heavy jowl and a skin blotched
with great, rusty freckles. His shoulders over-flowed the back of his
chair, which creaked whenever he moved. The man who faced the redhead
was as light as his companion was ponderous. His voice was gentle, his
eyes large and soft, and his profile was exceedingly handsome. But in
the full view Andy saw nothing except a grisly, purple scar that twisted
down beneath the right eye of the man. It drew down the lower lid of
that eye, and it pulled the mouth of the man a bit awry, so that he
seemed to be smiling in a smug, half-apologetic manner. In spite of his
youth he was unquestionably the dominant spirit here. Once or twice the
others lifted their voices in argument, and a single word from him cut
them short. And when he raised his head, now and again, to look at Andy,
it gave the latter a feeling that his secret was read and all his
past known.
These strange fellows had not asked his name, and neither had they
introduced themselves, but from their table talk he gathered that the
redhead was named Jeff, the funereal man with the bony face was Larry,
the brown-haired one was Joe, and he of the scar and the smile was
Henry. It occurred to Andy as odd that such rough boon companions had
not shortened that name for convenience.
They played with the most intense concentration. As the night deepened
and the windows became black slabs Joe brought another candle and
reenforced this light by hanging a lantern from a nail on the wall. This
illuminated the entire room, but in a partial and dismal manner. The
game went on. They were playing for high stakes; Andrew Lanning had
never seen so much cash assembled at one time. They had stacks of
unmistakable yellow gold before them--actually stacks. The winner was
Larry. That skull-faced gentleman was fairly barricaded behind heaps of
money. Andy estimated swiftly that there must be well over two thousand
dollars in those stacks.
He finished his supper, and, having taken the tin cup and plate out into
the next room and cleaned them, he had no sooner come back to the door,
on the verge of bidding them good night, then Henry invited him to sit
down and take a hand.