“Peace--Parker--”
“Uh-huh--it’s me,” whispered Peace. “How do yuh feel, Jess?”
“F-fine,” she whispered, bravely. “I--I--thought--you--were--killed.”
“No-o-o, I’m kinda livin’--yet. Can yuh stand up?”
He helped her to her feet, but the cramped muscles refused to work and
she crumpled. Peace swung her up to the saddle and she clung to the horn
dizzily.
“Can yuh ride, Jess?” anxiously. “Can yuh, girl?”
“I think so, Peace. I’m so numb all over and my mouth feels as big
as--as----”
“Mine,” added Peace. “Now yuh can see how I suffer all the time.”
“Don’t say that, Peace. Your mouth is ju-just the right size. Where do
you want me to go?”
“Ride north and swing into the dry cañon at the foot of Poncho Pass.
Wait for me there. Don’t try to go through the pass, ’cause it’s
guarded. If I don’t show up, stay there ’till mornin’ and go in with
some of yore own folks.”
“You’ll come, won’t you, Peace?”
“I’m figurin’ a heap on it,” softly. “I kinda want to know, and--” Peace
took Crane’s confession and bill of sale from his vest pocket and handed
it to Jess.
“Hang onto that, will yuh, Jess? If I don’t never come across the Pass,
yuh can show it to yore folks.”
“What is it, Peace?”
“Didn’t yuh hear what me and Crane talked about, when you was under that
box?”
Jess shook her head.
“No, I couldn’t hear what was said, Peace. That cloth was over my ears,
and all I could hear was a jumble of voices, and after a while those
shots were fired.”
“That’s my pay for five years of hard work, Jess. I wasn’t hired to
work that long; but the man who got me the job is payin’ me for doin’
it well.”
“I--I don’t understand what you mean, Peace?”
“I ain’t got time to tell yuh now. You ride out where I told yuh to,
Jess. I’ve got some more work to do around here before I can join yuh.”
As Peace finished talking he seemed to melt into the shadows of the high
corral fence. Jess Marshall listened, but not even a footfall told where
the big man had gone. She lifted her sore hands and guided the horse
around the corner of the fence.
She wanted to go back and help Peace Parker. He was in trouble, but
she did not know what the trouble was. No doubt it concerned the men
who had tied her up and brought her to the tent-house unconscious.
She seemed to remember the shooting of the sheriff, but it was only
a hazy remembrance.
She felt tired, sore. Her throat and mouth were raw from the gag, and
every muscle in her body ached from the tightly-drawn ropes. She rode
slowly out into the night, swinging to the northern flats on a big
circle toward the foot of Poncho Pass.
* * * * *
Peace had proof of Crane’s guilt in his pocket, but there was grave
danger that he might not last long enough to present his proofs. The
main street seemed deserted, except for the great number of horses
tied to the racks.
He walked down the opposite side of the street from the Poncho saloon,
and saw that the place was packed with men. A dull hum of conversation,
like the hum of a big machine, came to him, and he grinned in
realization that his actions had caused all this conversation. No one
had heard the shots at the corrals, which were some distance from the
center of town.
Peace crossed the street and went in behind the saloon. A high
board-fence was built against a shed and Peace managed to get to the
top of this shed. Above him was an open window, which lighted the
main hall of the balcony above the Poncho, and by making a short jump
he could grasp the sill.
It was a hard pull for sore muscles, but he managed to draw himself in
through the window, where he sat and rested for a while. Down the hall
he could see the tops of the shaded oil chandeliers, around which eddied
the smoke from the men below.
There seemed to be no rattle of chips, no clink of glasses; nothing but
the dull hum of serious conversation. Peace walked slowly down the hall
and out to the edge of the balcony, keeping concealed from those below.
Over a hundred men were in the room. He could see Cross L Marshall near
the end of the bar, listening to Clell Danert.
Through the crowded room came Jefferson Crane, and his voice sounded
shrill above the rest as he stopped near the center of the room. The
hum of conversation ceased as he shouted--
“Is Cross L Marshall here?”
Peace saw Marshall shove away from the bar and elbow his way to Crane.
Danert followed him.
“Peace Parker’s got yore daughter,” shrilled Crane. “Me and Perez ran
into them down by the corrals. He was tryin’ to put her on his horse.
He killed Perez.”
Crane stopped for breath.
“Don’t try to take him alive! He’s travelin’ by this time!”
A roar of anger went up from the packed mob, as they surged in closer
to Crane. They were like a pack of wolves at the scent of blood. Some
one tossed a rope high in the air and it hung to a hanging lamp.
Peace realized why Crane was lying about the kidnaping. Crane knew
that he was all through in that country and he wanted time to make his
getaway. He wanted to get his men together and pull into the hills. By
tomorrow, after the mob had talked with Jess or with him--Peace--there
would be no place strong enough to hold Crane and his gang. It was a
desperate move for Crane. He would have to give up his sheep, and race
against time to get out of the country; but his life was worth more
than money, and he was taking a long chance that the mob would kill
Peace Parker on sight, and that perhaps Jess would not know who was
responsible for her kidnaping.
Peace could see Wylie sitting on the bar, and further back in the room
was Gus Sinks, sitting on a card-table. Cross L Marshall climbed to the
top of a table and held up his hand for silence.
“Men, I ask yuh to use reason in this. Find Peace Parker first; but
give him a chance to defend himself against these charges. If he is
guilty--hang him; but first, be sure. Come on.”
The crowd surged toward the door. Crane and Danert made no move. Sinks
slid off the card table, but did not mix into the mob. Wylie remained
on the bar. There was no confusion.
Peace came slowly down the stairs and almost to the center of the room.
Marshall had stopped near the door, giving instructions to the men as
they filed past. Many of them were from Chinook Valley; and Crane knew
that Peace Parker would get a chance to tell his story in case he was
captured.
Peace stopped in the center of the room, within twenty feet of Crane
and Danert, who were watching the door. Peace saw the look which passed
between them, and knew that they were going to make their getaway as
soon as the mob was gone.
Marshall turned as the last man filed out and looked back into the room.
He looked at Crane and Danert--then past them.
He stared at Peace, blinking his eyes as though mistrusting his own
vision, while Crane, Danert, Sinks and Wylie looked at Marshall
curiously.
* * * * *
Peace stood in the middle of that big room, hatless, almost shirtless,
his face and hair plastered with gore. One leg of his pants had been
torn nearly all the way from bottom to thigh, and flapped widely, as
he stood, legs planted far apart, his body tensed forward and his gun
swinging in his right hand.
To the left of him, not over twenty feet away, half-turned away from
him, were Danert and Crane; while to his right, about the same
distance away was Wylie sitting on the bar, looking toward the door.
Between Crane and Marshall, leaning against a table, and looking
toward the door, was Gus Sinks. Outside everything was confusion, as
the men were mounting their horses; but inside the Poncho saloon all
was silence.
Marshall stared at Peace so intently that Wylie turned his head and
looked straight at Peace. Wylie did not move. His eyes opened a trifle
wider. Then Peace spoke.
“Jess--is--safe.” Peace spoke every word distinctly and spaced them
widely, that there might be no mistake.
Crane, Danert and Sinks whirled at the sound of his voice, and stared
open-mouthed at him. Sinks’ hand went to the table-top for support.
“Crane’s--men--kidnaped--her,” said Peace slowly and ominously. “They--
were--going--to--take--sheep--into--Chinook--tonight--and--she--knew--it.”
Crane licked his lips and shot a glance at Danert, who was tense as a
fiddle-string. Wylie looked straight at the opposite wall, as though
afraid to move even his eyes.
“Wylie--and--Perez--killed--the--sheriff,” Peace intoned the
statement without a single inflexion of his voice.
“I--killed--Perez--and--now--I’m goin’ to get the rest of the crooked
layout.”
Men seemed to move back to the doorway and windows, looking curiously
inside--looking for Cross L Marshall, who was to lead the hunt. Marshall
did not speak, but a look of understanding flashed across his face and
his right hand dropped to the butt of his six-shooter.
* * * * *
The room grew very still, and every man seemed a graven image, except
Peace, who swayed easily on the balls of his feet, head thrust forward,
his right hand tensed at his side.
Suddenly Gus Sinks dove for the door, like a frightened rabbit; but
Marshall flung him reeling back into the room. This seemed to break
the spell. Danert streaked for his gun.
Peace swung forward, as if to brace himself against the shock, and fired
from his hip--once--twice.
Danert’s gun spouted wildly, a fraction of a second too late; his
muscles jerking from the shock of heavy bullets as he went to his knees.
Peace felt a bullet tear through his arm, as Wylie fired down from
the bar; but he only felt the shock in a dim way, as he shot through
the smoke at Crane--pulling the trigger slowly and
deliberately--once--twice--three times.
He seemed to see Crane falling sidewise, his revolver twisted in his
hand. He knew that Wylie was falling from the bar and rolling across
the floor, shocked from bullets fired from over by the door.
As in a dream he saw a man dash through the smoke, and he tackled him
as he rushed past. They crashed into a roulette table and went down
in the wreckage. Men were crowding around him, shouting, swearing. He
realized that the man beneath him was Gus Sinks, and he laughed to
think that none had escaped.
Men lifted him to his feet and a babel of voices beat upon his ears,
questioning, wondering. He looked around and saw that Cross L Marshall
and Bart Farley were holding him up, and he laughed drunkenly.
Other men had pulled Sinks to his feet and were handling him roughly.
“Keep still!” yelled Marshall, and the noise died down.
He turned to Peace.
“Are you tellin’ the truth, Peace?”
Peace smiled and looked at Sinks.
“It won’t cost yuh nothin’ to tell the truth, Sinks.”
Sinks jerked his head to release his throat from a hand, which was
twisted in his muffler.
“Crane was to blame,” he babbled. “Him and Danert framed it all. Perez
killed the sheriff. I didn’t do any shootin’. I didn’t shoot any in
here. They--they was goin’ to put sheep into Chinook; but Parker busted
up their game. They was goin’ to kill him and then make me herd the
first bunch in.
“Honest, I never killed nobody. They caught that girl on the Pass
and they thought Parker was dead. The sheriff was after Parker and
he ran into them with the girl. Perez shot the sheriff. They thought
Parker was dead; so they brought him and the sheriff to the doctor’s
place--but Parker wasn’t dead--not by a ---- sight!”
Sinks turned appealingly to Peace.
“I tell yuh somethin’ else, Parker; Crane branded them cows five years
ago himself and sent yuh to the pen for it.”
Sinks turned back to the crowd.
“I’ve told all I know. Go ahead and do what yuh want to.”
“You’ve been trailin’ with a bad bunch, Sinks,” said Peace slowly, “but
I reckon you’ll be good now.”
“He sure will,” growled one of the men. “Good for a long time.”
The crowd assented eagerly. They had been worked up to a certain pitch,
and Sinks’ life was not worth a plugged cent. Sinks knew this, but was
game. He had not mixed in the battle, but he knew the crowd would not
stop to weigh evidence; so he gamely shut his lips tight over defeat.
Peace looked at him and back at the faces of the men.
“Folks,” he said slowly, “I got the man who killed yore sheriff.” His
eyes came back to Marshall beside him. “I saved yore daughter, Marshall,
and I blocked the sheep from Chinook.”
He lifted a hand and rubbed it across his eyes.
“Twelve of yore citizens found me guilty of somethin’ I never done and
sent me up for five years. Don’t yuh think that Chinook Valley and Tarp
City owe me somethin’?”
“Yore ---- well right they do!” exploded Marshall, and the crowd growled
an assent. “What do yuh want, Peace River Parker?”
Peace smiled at Sinks’ white face and turned to the crowd.
“Crane gave me a bill of sale for all his sheep. He kinda wanted to
pay me for what he done. Gus Sinks needs to be punished; so I--I kinda
thought I’d like to hire him to herd the ---- things for me, if yuh
don’t mind.”
It took this several moments to soak into the minds of the overwrought
crowd. Then some one laughed. A grin overspread the nearer faces.
Another man laughed aloud. The spell was broken--a man’s life saved.
Sinks gasped foolishly as the import of it came to him. He staggered
ahead, grasped Peace by the arm, muttering incoherently; trying to
thank the man who had given him back his life.
He knew that he was free and that men had slapped him on the back,
laughing as they did it. He was looking up at Peace, holding to his
sleeve, trying to say something.
“Quit pawin’ me, you ---- sheepherder!” croaked Peace. “Go back and take
care of my animated bunch of itch-producin’ underwear.”
Marshall put his arm around Peace’s shoulders and turned him toward the
door.
“Peace, I don’t know what to say to yuh--honest.”
Peace grinned.
“Tha’s all right, Cross L--don’t say anythin’. Get me a horse and head
me toward Poncho Pass, will yuh? I know where somebody is planted out
there--waitin’ for me.”
“If yuh mean Evers--he ain’t there, boss,” stated Sinks, touching Peace
on the arm. “They sent him to guard the Pass against yuh; but he seen
the killin’ of the sheriff and he pulled out. The Pass is as safe as a
church.”
“Yo’re goin’ to a doctor--that’s where yo’re goin’!” declared Marshall.
“Goin’ right now, Peace Parker.”
“Ain’t there a doctor in Pasiooks?” asked Peace.
“Yeah; but he ain’t much good,” replied Farley. “Yo’re goin’ to have the
best medicine we can get, old-timer.”
“Tha’s all right,” smiled Peace widely, “I’m goin’ to pick up my
medicine at the foot of Poncho Pass. C’m on.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 10, 1923 issue of
Adventure magazine.]