BLACKY SILK
TWENTY minutes after Manzanita Canby had struggled up from the sand
into which her leap from Mart’s pony had pitched her, she was throwing
the silver-mounted saddle on the back of her pinto mare. She was
chapped and spurred now and ready for any meeting.
The fiery little mare leaped forward at the suggestion of spurs about
to touch her belly. They dashed out of the gate and sped away over the
desert toward the railroad camps.
It was possible that Mart would not readily find the sheriff to show
him the pasteboard cover found by the man hunters in the mountains. The
sheriff had been investigating in the various camps during the greater
part of the afternoon, and by this time--early evening--he must have
reached a point some distance up the line. If only she could overtake
her brother and in some way manage to wheedle him out of that damning
bit of evidence against Halfaman Daisy and Falcon the Flunky.
She had not stopped to reason. She knew now, beyond all doubt, that she
loved the flunky of the Mangan-Hatton camp, and, womanlike, she cared
not who knew it nor what any one might think. Womanlike, also, she was
riding now in unquestioning devotion to protect the man she loved, be
he guilty or innocent. The makers of our laws were perhaps wise when
they decided it to be unjust for a wife to be compelled to implicate
her husband. For if the wife loves the husband it would require more
than laws to make her condemn him. Blind justice for men--blind love
for women!
On and on she rode, pulling up only when the pinto raced alongside
the work in the camp of Jeddo the Crow, where Manzanita saw her
black-haired girl friend driving a wheeler team.
Wing o’ the Crow stopped her mules when she saw her bearing down in a
cloud of dust. With her pony on her haunches, Manzanita leaned from the
saddle when she reached the railroad girl, and asked excitedly:
“Has the sheriff been here, Wing-o?”
Startled black eyes looked up at her as she replied, just above a
whisper:
“Yes, why?”
“And my brother, Mart?”
“He rode in, lookin’ for the sheriff, Nita. Wh-what’s wrong?”
“It’s about the--the holdup. Did the sheriff say anything about a pink
tie?”
Wing o’ the Crow’s eyes grew wider and more startled still. “He was
carryin’ one--all in a string. It--I know it----”
She came to a stop and bit her lips.
“I know, Wing-o; I know,” Manzanita said. “You think perhaps it
belonged to Halfaman, don’t you? I--I’m afraid I think so, too. I’m
riding now to try and overtake Mart. There’s something else. Mart has
it. If I can get it away from him----”
Wing o’ the Crow was staring at her, her red lips parted.
“Get it! Get it!” she cried. “If it’s bad for Halfaman. Go on! You c’n
tell me later. I c’n wait. Halfaman never held up th’ stage. Him an’
your flunky.”
“My flunky! No--they didn’t. I know it. I just know it! But even if
they did----”
“That’s right. Even if they did! The sheriff an’ your brother rode on
up the line. You oughta ketch th’ kid. Sheriff was here hours before.
Cut dust! I c’n wait.”
The pinto leaped forward again, and horse and rider sped for the
Mangan-Hatton camp.
Manzanita became tactful as she rode into the bigger camp, though she
slackened the mare’s speed but little. The men had stared at her, and
some had yelled as she rode past the work. In camp she found Hunt
Mangan at the commissary door.
“I’m looking for Mart, Hunt,” she said lightly. “Has he been here?”
“Why the great speed?”
“Oh, the mare’s been up for a day or two. She feels good. Then I want
Mart as quick as I can find him.”
“Why, he was here a few minutes ago, looking for the sheriff. He rode
on up the line. Has anything new developed in the man hunt? Mart seemed
in a hurry, and rode directly on when he found the sheriff wasn’t here.”
“I--I don’t know,” faltered the girl. “You’ll excuse my abruptness
to-day. I want to find Mart. Thanks for your help. Now I’ll hurry on.”
Hurry on she did, indeed, for the pinto was covered with sweat and foam
as they took the road that followed the new grade at a run.
They neared the buttes. Mart had passed between them, Manzanita knew,
else she would have seen him on the level desert across which she now
sped along.
Now and then she passed through groups of workmen, who stared curiously
at the foam-flecked mare and her rider. Mart could not be so very far
ahead, she reasoned, for it was doubtful if he had traveled as swiftly
as she had after he had shaken her off. Still, twenty minutes is a long
time in a matter of one rider overtaking another, and the girl would
not allow the tough little mare to flag.
They passed between the buttes, and here for five minutes she was held
back by a shot that was scheduled to be fired. There was but the one
shot, and as it detonated between the rocky walls she lunged her mare
past the astonished man who had stopped her, and, with rocks and earth
falling about her, spurred on through the deep cut.
She made three more camps, each time to learn that Mart had ridden on
up the line only a few minutes before her arrival. Yes, the sheriff had
ridden on ahead of him, hours before.
And so she came to Stlingbloke, with her faltering mare about all in
and her rider’s hope receding with each new stopping point.
The ragtown was alight. It was growing dark now. Piano music tinkled in
the resorts. There came the sounds of ribald laughter and dancing feet.
Stlingbloke was rousing itself from the afternoon siesta.
In the street Manzanita accosted the first man she met.
Yes, a man who said he was the sheriff had been there that afternoon.
The sheriff had been riding alone. Her informer had seen nothing of a
boy on a bay horse looking for the sheriff.
“But there’s the sheriff now,” said the man, pointing suddenly to a
gray horse and rider just jogging into town from the desert to the west.
Now the railroad grade ran almost due north from Stlingbloke, and to
have been at the camps on up the line the sheriff should have come in
from the north; Manzanita wondered.
The sheriff saw her and rode toward her--a big-mustached man with a
small, wizened face, seeming smaller still under the big Columbia-shape
Stetson that he wore.
“Ain’t you Miss Canby?” he asked, riding up.
“Yes,” replied Manzanita. “I know you, Mr. Glenn. How do you do?”
“Yes, I been to Squawtooth several times. How’s yer dad?”
“Oh, he’s just fine.”
“Why don’t he come up and help us hunt the bandits?”
“He’s pretty busy just now. We’re doing some building over at Little
Woman, and he rides there a great deal. That’s our winter camp, you
know.”
“Yes, yes. Quite a sight, these here camps. First time I seen ’em. D’ye
ride here often, Miss Canby?” He was curiously eying her heaving mare.
“Not much. I’ve been here only once before, in fact.” Then Manzanita
made a plunge. “I’m looking for my brother, Martin. Have you seen him?”
“Left him up in the mountains. Did he come down?”
“Yes, this afternoon. And you haven’t seen him?”
“No. I rode on through here and to two camps above, then cut west
across the desert to a water hole, where the second outfit gets water
for their stock. I was over there some time; then I cut in straight for
this place--made a triangle, see?”
“Have--have you found out anything? You see, I know about the--the tie.”
Again he looked at her speculatively, and studied the mare’s fatigued
condition.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I ain’t got anything to say, anyway, Miss
Canby--if you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I shouldn’t have let my curiosity get the better
of me. Well, I must ride on and try to find Martin. We--we want him.”
“Tol’able het up--the mare.”
“Yes, she’s bound to go, and I thought I’d let her work it off.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll be peggin’ on, I guess. Ain’t ye pretty far from
home this time o’ night, Miss Canby? Maybe ye’d better ride back with
me. I’m stayin’ at the next camp below here for to-night.”
He glanced around at Stlingbloke and several curious observers standing
in saloon doors.
“Course it ain’t any o’ my business,” he said apologetically, “but
ain’t you a bit worried, ’way out here this time o’ day? ’S almost
night.”
“Oh, I’ll get along--thanks. I ride lots after dark. I simply must find
Mart. Don’t let me detain you.”
He touched a finger to the broad brim of his hat, hitched up his heavy
cartridge belt, and rode on through town. Manzanita moved her pinto
until tents and sacks hid her from the retreating sheriff, then sat her
saddle a moment or two and heaved a great sigh of relief.
For some reason obscure to her the sheriff, after leaving the second
camp beyond Stlingbloke, had departed from the right of way and
rode westward across the sandy wastes. From the water hole he had
mentioned--she knew its location--he had ridden back to the ragtown as
the crow flies. Thus she had come upon him before her brother had. Mart
probably was still trailing him. At the water hole he doubtless would
be told that the sheriff had ridden straight to Stlingbloke, completing
his triangle, and Mart at once would continue on here in his trailing.
What luck! The sheriff was to spend the night in the next camp below
Stlingbloke--two miles away, perhaps. There was no course for her to
pursue other than to remain at the town to intercept her brother and in
some way rob him of the record of the family tree of Aaron. For many
men might wear pink ties, regardless of the tastes of others, but who
other than Phinehas Daisy could have written his fantastic rigmarole
on that bit of pasteboard? And who in the camps did not know that Mr.
Daisy was a proud member of the “begatters”--who did not know that
Daisy and The Falcon were friends?
She was at the edge of town farthest from the retreating sheriff. He
would not know that she had not ridden on up the line. Her mare was
spent, anyway. She needed rest and water.
Manzanita dismounted and found a piece of lath, with which she scraped
the foamy sweat from the pinto’s neck and rump and belly. This done,
she looked about for a means of at least letting her wet her mouth, and
caught sight of a tank wagon in the rear of a big structure, half tent,
half boards and corrugated iron.
She saw nothing else that promised water, and, though she dreaded to,
she led the mare to the tank.
A man stood in the rear door of the establishment behind which the tank
wagon was at rest. She did not by any means like his looks.
“May I turn on a little water?” she asked. “My mare needs it badly.”
At once the man became active. “Sure; sure!” he said with a grin. “I’ll
get you a bucket.”
She waited, the pinto pulling the reins and nosing the spigot of the
tank.
Directly the man came to her with a galvanized pail. Behind him in the
door more men now appeared, and two women with impossibly pink and
white faces stood on tiptoe and watched over the men’s shoulders. From
behind them came the click of gambling devices and the wheezy complaint
of a piano.
The man who brought the bucket wore a black Stetson hat, a
cream-colored silk shirt without a tie, and a fancy silk vest.
Underneath the vest the shirt bloused comfortably, cow-puncher fashion.
He was dark and had a carefully waxed black mustache. His dark eyes
seemed small and calculating--a slight cast in one of them. Manzanita
remembered him now. He was the man who had watched her so keenly on her
first surreptitious visit to Stlingbloke.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of
her voice, for now she was just a little bit afraid of this man’s
steady stare.
She attempted to take the bucket. Their hands touched.
“Le’ me draw the water,” he suggested.
“Just a little, please--not over two inches in the bucket. More might
hurt her, overheated as she is.”
“Sure! I know. Just a little at first. More pretty soon, maybe.”
He turned on the water, and the pinto frantically nosed him aside to
thrust her muzzle into the refreshing downpour. Manzanita stood silent,
ill at ease, as the group in the door still gazed at her and laughed
occasionally among themselves.
“Where you from, kid?” asked the man.
The red mounted to Manzanita’s forehead in resentment of the
unwarranted familiarity. But she thought it the part of wisdom to
appear serene.
“I live at Squawtooth,” she replied. And she added significantly: “My
brother’s not far from here. I’m waiting for him.”
“Who? The kid that rode through a little while back?”
“Well, maybe he might be called a kid,” she replied, “but he does a
man’s work, and--and he can throw a dollar in the air and hit it with a
six-gun. For that matter, I can, too,” she added.
“So? Nice little popgun you pack on your hip there. Thirty-eight on a
forty-five, ain’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Huh! I usta take thirty-eights for pills when I was feelin’ a little
puny.”
“Indeed? Such pills are often good for certain complaints--if they’re
administered properly.”
He laughed. “Pretty good!”
“Thank you ever so much now,” said the girl. “She mustn’t have any more
at present. Now I’ll ride around in front and wait for my brother.”
“Stick here five minutes and give the little mare another drink.”
“No, thank you. I think that will be too soon.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, perhaps you don’t know her as well as I do.”
“How ’bout yourself, then?”
“I don’t understand,” Manzanita answered, her lips straight. She was
reaching for the reins, which he had taken when the mare forced her
head into the bucket, and now seemed loath to surrender.
“Why, you ain’t had a drink yourself.”
“I don’t care for any, thanks.” In truth her throat was uncomfortably
dry at that very moment. “I’ll take the reins now, please. Thank you
again.”
“Kinda anxious, ain’t you?”
She fought back her growing terror. “Perhaps I am. I don’t want to risk
missing my brother.”
“Nice little filly. Will she stand?”
“Certainly. But please--I must be going.”
Again she reached for the reins, which he held just out of her grasp.
She could not lay hold of them without coming into close contact with
him.
“We’ll leave her stand, and you ’n’ me’ll go into Johnny’s place and
have a glass o’ beer.”
“‘You ’n’ me’ will do nothing of the sort!” she said hotly. “Will you
please hand me those reins?”
She was trembling from head to foot now. From the door she heard the
sounds of tittering. Those who occupied it were too far off to hear,
but they were able to interpret the meaning of her outstretched hand
and the immovable figure of the man.
“What makes you so sore on me, kiddo?” he asked. “Ain’t I treated you
like a gentleman?”
“To a certain extent. You’re not doing so now, though. Give me those
reins!”
“Aw, come now! Forget the dignity stuff. I’ve seen you before. You and
your kid brother was here one day, and the two o’ you was sneakin’
around, peepin’ into dance halls. I guess you was interested, all
right, but kinda shy about buttin’ in. Well, there’s nothin’ to be
afraid of. Come on in with me. I’ll show you a good time. Ask any of
’em if ‘Blacky’ Silk ain’t a perfect gentleman.”
“If you’re a gentleman you’ll hand me those reins.”
“Aw, cut it out! You gi’me a pain! Come on”--he dropped the reins
to the ground--“you ’n’ me’s gota have a couple o’ beers and get
acquainted.”
Shaking like a leaf, Manzanita took a step toward the reins, trying to
avoid him and at the same time get hold of them.
He waited disarmingly until she stooped for them, then suddenly took
her by the shoulders.
With a little scream she straightened, but she held the reins.
Indignantly she shook her shoulders, her tremor outmatched by her anger
now. But he tried to take her in his arms, grinning maliciously.
Then with all her might she shot a little brown fist to his jaw, and it
cracked musically. It was not a slap--it was a punch, deliberate and
not ineffective. In the instant that he was staggering back, surprised
beyond measure, she grasped the saddle horn, and, without throwing the
reins over the mare’s neck and ignoring the stirrup, vaulted like an
acrobat to a sitting posture in the saddle. When Blacky Silk stepped
quickly toward her, his dark eyes alight with anger and determination,
he stopped suddenly and looked into the black muzzle of her Colt.
“Perhaps you feel like taking one of your pills now,” she said, her
voice cool and steady as the whistle of a valley quail.
Blacky Silk seemed to feel better at once, though his face did not show
it. A laugh of derision came from the door of Johnny’s place.
“Go on, Blacky!” they called jeeringly. “Ain’t losin’ interest, are
you? What’s the matter all of a sudden?”
The muzzle of the gun was steady. The girl held it on a line with her
thigh, pointing straight at his breast--not at his head, proving that
she was no amateur. Blacky seemed suddenly to have remembered that when
he took .38’s for pills it had occurred in the day before high-power
powder had been invented.
“You made me,” she said. “I didn’t want to. But now that you’ve started
this thing, I’ll see it all the way if you make another move toward
me. I’m a woman, you must remember. A jury couldn’t be got together
that wouldn’t acquit me. Think it over.”
Blacky did, then said huskily: “You win, I guess.”
“Then turn around and walk away from me.”
He obeyed her silently, and she touched the mare’s ribs and rode
swiftly away from the tank.
Roars of derision sounded behind her as the disappointed Romeo returned
to Johnny’s Place.
The triumphant but badly shaken girl reached the street in front and
rode before Stlingbloke’s single store. There she dismounted and made a
purchase hurriedly, and, back in her saddle, she engaged herself with
it and the pencil she always carried in her chaparajos.
She finished just as Mart came riding in from the darkening desert on
his snip-nosed bay.
Still pale from her recent experience, Manzanita rode to meet him,
calling:
“Mart! Mart!”