THE CLEAN-UP
A little later Buck and Sandy Davitt sat in the dust, cigarettes in
their still tremulous hands, and watched their victims.
“After all, we bungled it a heap,” said Davitt morosely. “Now
there’ll be hell to pay and no pitch hot! Buck, we’d ought to finish
it.”
Before them lay Steve Arnold, shot through the leg and with an ugly
scalp wound; unconscious, but far from dead. The sheriff of Pecos
lay beside Arnold, and was equally unconscious. His right knee had
been dislocated in the fall, he had a bullet through the right
shoulder, another had broken his right wrist.
“We’d ought to finish ’em for our own sake now,” repeated Sandy
Davitt.
Buck shook his head. He was white to the lips.
“Do it if you can, Sandy. I can’t.”
Sandy Davitt picked up his gun, compressed his lips, then with an
oath thrust the weapon away. It was more than he could do. Buck
smiled ironically.
“It ain’t so bad, at that,” he observed. “They’re both put out o’
business and in our hands; anyhow, it’s better’n if we’d killed them,
Sandy. Here’s the story. They come on us and started shooting;
downed them two boys yonder ’fore we could git into action. Savvy?
So we let ’em have it in self-defense. How you goin’ to prove
otherwise?”
Davitt nodded, and his face cleared. “All right. But I see plain
how come Sam Fisher missed us with them two shots; he done the work
with his left hand.”
“He didn’t miss far at that.” Buck shivered a little.
“Thanks,” said Sam Fisher, opening his eyes. “So it ain’t a dream
after all, Buck? Say, I’d appreciate it a lot if you gents would do
somethin’ to my right knee.”
Buck looked at his companion. By tacit consent they rose and
approached their victims, who had been thoroughly disarmed. Fisher
turned his head and inspected Steve Arnold.
“Well, this ain’t so bad!” he observed. “Look after Steve first,
Buck. His leg is sure pumping out a lot o’ blood. Tie him up good.”
“You shut up,” said Buck roughly. “Catch on here, Sandy.”
They rudely bandaged Arnold’s leg, found that his scalp wound was not
serious, and turned to Sam Fisher. Investigation confirmed his
previous schedule of injuries.
“She’s dislocated,” announced Sandy. “Buck, catch hold of the ankle;
I got the thigh. Go to it.”
Sam Fisher lay back, his fingers gripping at the dirt, a sweat of
agony beading his brow. It was done. He said no word as the two men
effected a hasty bandaging of his broken right wrist and wounded
shoulder. Then they stood erect above him.
“Sandy,” said Buck, steady and calm once more, “you got to ride on
the back trail in a hurry. Find the boys we left with Jake Harper
and bring ’em on.”
“You can’t stay here with ’em,” said Sandy Davitt roughly.
“I don’t aim to. We got two extra hosses. Tie Arnold in one saddle;
Fisher can ride without bein’ tied, I reckon. Anyway, he’s got to!
You help me with ’em, then ride on hard for the boys. We’ll put
these two with Jake and hold ’em safe for a spell, then I’ll clean up
everything here and light out. A week will do it.”
“You aim to light out, do you?” asked Davitt in surprise. Buck
nodded.
“Yep. It’s that or kill Sam Fisher, and I guess I’ve gone my limit
to-day, Sandy. We’ve done a-plenty.”
“Suit yourself.” Sandy Davitt shrugged.
“Besides, Tracy will be back soon. We’ll lay charges o’ this
murder,” and Buck pointed to the two dead men, “against ’em both and
lock ’em up. We’ll git clear off ’fore they are able to travel.
Dog-gone it! If Fisher was whole, I’d say shoot, but he’s too much
shot up, Sandy. Dogged if I can do it now!”
They led out the horses. Into one saddle they lifted the unconscious
Arnold, and then lashed him firmly in place. With an effort, Sam
Fisher gained his feet, his right hand dangling in its bandage. The
ghost of his old whimsical smile touched his lips.
“Put me up, gents, and I guess I can ride,” he said quietly. “And I
still got one good hand for the reins----”
“The reins ain’t goin’ to trouble you none,” intervened Buck.
“Ready, Sandy!”
Once he was placed in the saddle, Fisher clung to the pommel, his
face livid; the pain of the operation was intense. However, he would
be able to ride fairly well.
“All right, Sandy,” said Buck as he strung together the reins of the
two horses. “Git off and on your way, cowboy! And use them spurs.”
Sandy Davitt leaped to his saddle, yelled at his cayuse, and was gone
in a mad rush.
For a little Sam Fisher could only cling to his pommel, faint with
pain, his head swirling. When he came to himself he found himself
riding beside the still senseless Steve Arnold. Buck rode in front,
their reins fastened to his saddle, his rifle across the pommel. He
glanced back and glinted a hard smile at the sheriff of Pecos.
“You’re luckier than most, Fisher. Yes, sir, you sure are. If it’d
been anybody else you’d be dead this minute.”
Sam Fisher tried to smile. “I don’t see, Buck, why in thunder you
didn’t finish the job. It isn’t like you to weaken at killing a man.”
“I may yet.” Buck eyed him morosely. “Reckon I got sentimental for
a spell.”
“Then you’d better do it quick,” said Fisher, “for I’ll sure get you,
Buck. Yes, sir, I’ll sure----”
His words ended in a groan of anguish and he clutched at the pommel.
Buck smiled. “I reckon you won’t do no gettin’ for some while to
come, sheriff; you with a bum laig, a busted arm, and a bullet
through the shoulder!”
“I’ve still got one good arm.” Fisher tried to smile, but his lips
twisted in pain. A groan was torn from him again. “This knee! I
can’t ride with it, Buck.”
“You got to,” said Buck shortly.
At this time, from the wooded hills ahead of them, came a single
rifle shot that echoed and died away. Buck frowned and vainly
searched the hills with his eyes. Nothing was in sight.
For ten minutes the three pursued their slow course. Fisher clung to
his saddle; every movement of his horse caused him torture. At last
a cry burst from his lips--a cry so bitter, so desperate in its
suffering that Buck drew rein.
“Buck! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! You got to put your coat or
somethin’ under my knee; it’s more’n I can bear.”
The man reeled in the saddle as he spoke; he was bent, broken, all
his iron nerve shattered by the agony of his tortured body. His blue
eyes, dulled with pain, stared horribly at Buck.
The rancher, a trace of pity in his harsh features, silently nodded.
He put the rifle in its boot and took off his corduroy coat. This he
rolled loosely, then edged his horse beside that of the swaying
Fisher.
“Ease up on your laig now while I shove her underneath.”
Fisher reeled, caught at the shoulder of Buck as the latter stooped.
Another groan broke from his lips when Buck thrust the rolled
corduroy beneath his leg. Then suddenly----
Fisher’s left hand caught the revolver from the holster of the
stooping rancher. Swift as light he slashed the front sight across
the head of Buck.
“Still got one hand, Buck!” lifted his voice.
Buck hardly knew what had hit him. That front-sight blow stunned
him, raked his skull almost to the bone, left a grisly wound.
Blindly putting one hand to his head, Buck uttered a hoarse cry,
plunged forward, and rolled to the earth senseless.
For a moment Fisher sat gazing down, the revolver in his hand.
“Good work, Sam!” lifted a roaring voice from the trees. “Good work!
I was jest gettin’ a bead on the skunk when you riz up.”
Jake Harper urged a horse into sight, uncocking his rifle as he came.
Fisher stared at him weakly, hardly realizing what the man’s
appearance here meant.
“You got away?” he murmured.
“You bet! Any time I can’t git out o’ buckskin thongs when they’s
water handy to stretch ’em---- Good gosh, Sam! What’s happened?”
Sam Fisher reeled a little. Jake looked at the limp figure of
Arnold, perceived that Fisher himself was swaying in the saddle.
“Me, I’m about all in, Jake,” said the whimsical voice. “You got to
do the rest. Don’t hurt Buck, mind; he’s got to go to the pen. I
have the goods on him. You have to take us back to the Lazy S--but
look out! Look out for that man Sandy----”
Jake Harper dismounted, rushed to Fisher’s side, and caught the
sheriff of Pecos as he went limp.
“Don’t you worry none about Sandy Davitt,” he said grimly. “That’s
his hoss I’m ridin’ now. Didn’t ye hear a shot a while back?”
But Sam Fisher could make no response.
CHAPTER XII
FINIS
In a room of the Lazy S ranch house Sam Fisher lay upon a cot;
another held Steve Arnold, both men bandaged, splinted, and smoking
cheerfully. Beside the sheriff of Pecos sat Estella Shumway, in her
eyes a glow of happiness such as they had not known for months.
Jake Harper, caressing his glossy black mustache, stood in the center
of the room. He was just leaving for town. Behind him stood his
half-crippled foreman, surveying Sam Fisher with a wolfish smile on
his ancient features.
Jake clapped his foreman on the shoulder.
“Listen, Sam!” he said earnestly. “This here old relic, which same
has fit more Injuns than kids like you ever seen, is agoin’ to camp
outside the door of that there cell we puts Mr. Buck into. Three
more of my outfit camps in the jail likewise, until you gits there in
person. If you figger Buck gittin’ away from them four you guess
again.”
“C’rect; Jake,” and Sam Fisher laughed softly. “Hold Buck there
until I can reach town, that’s all. You don’t think any one will try
to rescue him?”
Jake Harper pursed up his lips.
“Rescue him? Not much. The coroner’s verdict will guarantee him a
quick trial for the murder of Miguel, won’t it? And I’m goin’ to
stick around town my ownself. Don’t you worry none about any rescue.
Them decrepit Injun fighters of mine is runnin’ his whole outfit, or
what’s left of it, out the county.”
“All right,” said Fisher, nodding. “You take the keys to the
sheriff’s office--they’re with the others I gave you--and look inside
the sheriff’s desk for those papers about Buck and Murphy. They must
go to the governor at once; I’ll have to go with ’em, I guess, so
that puts it off a few days. Those papers are more important than
anything else, Buck; they prove that Frank Shumway was framed and
that it was done through Murphy. We’ll get a full confession out of
Murphy, beyond a doubt. So we want to get the matter up to the
governor and get a pardon for Frank at the earliest moment.”
“I’ll attend to them,” promised Jake. He stepped forward and held
out his hand. “So long! _Hasta la vista!_”
“Say, Jake!” Over their clasped hands Fisher looked up, a twinkle in
his eye. “One thing more! Send that preacher out here to-morrow,
will you?”
“What for?” demanded Jake in surprise.
“Never mind. You send him.”
“All right. So long, Stella; see you later!”
Jake and his foreman stamped out. Stella Shumway looked at the
sheriff of Pecos, her face very red.
“Sam, what do you want that preacher for?”
“Wait a minute.” Fisher lifted himself on his good elbow, and looked
at the adjoining cot. He met the grinning features of Steve Arnold,
and made a fierce grimace. “You, Steve! If I was you, cowboy, I’d
look the other way--right at that wall. It’s a heap interesting.”
With a chuckle Steve obeyed and turned his head.
Fisher dropped on his pillows, and reaching out, seized the hand of
the girl.
“Stella, I done bought the ranch, and I’ll pay that mortgage,
too--but you ain’t told me yet if it’s done with your consent. You
know, Stella----”
The girl’s eyes met his in a smiling glory.
“I don’t aim to leave the old place, Sam,” she said softly, and bent
her lips to his.
THE END