Briscoe did not return at once to the scene of the round-up. He followed
the trail toward Jackson's Pocket, but diverged after he had gone a few
miles and turned into one of the hundred blind gulches that ran out from
the valley to the impassable mountain wall behind. It was known as Jack
Rabbit Run, because its labyrinthine trails offered a retreat into which
hunted men might always dive for safety. Nobody knew its recesses better
than Jed Briscoe, who was acknowledged to be the leader of that faction
in the valley which had brought it the bad name it held.
Long before Jed's time there had been such a faction, then the dominant
one of the place, now steadily losing ground as civilization seeped in,
but still strong because bound by ties of kindred and of interest to
the honest law-abiding majority. Of it were the outlaws who came
periodically to find shelter here, the hasty men who had struck in heat
and found it necessary to get beyond the law's reach for a time, and
reckless cowpunchers, who foregathered with these, because they were
birds of a feather. To all such, Jack Rabbit Run was a haven of rest.
By devious paths the cattleman guided his horse until he came to a kind
of pouch, guarded by a thick growth of aspens. The front of these he
skirted, plunged into them at the farther edge, and followed a narrow
trail which wound among them till the grove opened upon a saucer-shaped
valley in which nestled a little log cabin. Lights gleamed from the
windows hospitably and suggested the comfortable warmth of a log fire
and good-fellowship. So many a hunted man had thought as he emerged from
that grove to look down upon the valley nestling at his feet.
Jed turned his horse into a corral back of the house, let out the hoot
of an owl as he fed and watered, and returning to the cabin, gave the
four knocks that were the signal for admission.
Bolts were promptly withdrawn and the door thrown open by a slender,
fair-haired fellow, whose features looked as if they had been roughed
out and not finished. He grinned amiably at the newcomer and greeted him
with: “Hello, Jed.”
“Hello, Tommie,” returned Briscoe, carelessly, and let his glance pass
to the three men seated at the table with cards and poker chips in
front of them, The man facing Briscoe was a big, heavy-set, unmistakable
ruffian with long, drooping, red mustache, and villainous, fishy eyes.
It was observable that the trigger finger of his right hand was missing.
Also, there was a nasty scar on his right cheek running from the bridge
of the nose halfway to the ear. This gave surplusage to the sinister
appearance he already had. To him Briscoe spoke first, attempting a
geniality he did not feel.
“How're they coming, Texas?”
“You ain't heard me kicking any, have you?” the man made sullen answer.
“Not out loud,” said Briscoe significantly, his eyes narrowing after a
trick they had when he was most on his guard.
“I reckon my remarks will be plumb audible when I've got any kick to
register, seh.”
“I hope not, Mr. Johnson. In this neck of woods a man is liable to get
himself disliked if he shoots off his mouth too prevalent. Folks that
don't like our ways can usually find a door open out of Lost Valley--if
they don't wait too long!”
“I'm some haidstrong. I reckon I'll stay.” He scowled at Jed with
disfavor, meeting him eye to eye. But presently the rigor of his gaze
relaxed. Me remembered that he was a fugitive from justice, and at the
mercy of this man who had so far guessed his secret. Putting a temporary
curb on his bilious jealousy, he sulkily added: “Leastways, if there's
no objection, Mr. Briscoe. I ain't looking for trouble with anybody.”
“A man who's looking for it usually finds it, Mr. Johnson. A man that
ain't, lives longer and more peaceable.” At this point Jed pulled
himself together and bottled his arrogance, remembering that he had come
to make an alliance with this man. “But that's no way for friends to
talk. I got a piece of news for you. We'll talk it over in the other
room and not disturb these gentlemen.”
One of the “gentlemen” grinned. He was a round-bodied, bullet-headed
cowpuncher, with a face like burnt leather. He was in chaps, flannel
shirt, and broad-brimmed hat. From a pocket in his chaps a revolver
protruded. “That's right, Jed. Wrap it up proper. You'd hate to disturb
us, wouldn't you?”
“I'll not interrupt you from losing your money more than five minutes,
Yorky,” answered Briscoe promptly.
The third man at the table laughed suddenly. “Ay bane laik to know how
yuh feel now, Yorky?” he taunted.
“It ain't you that's taking my spondulix in, you big, overgrown Swede!”
returned Yorky amiably. “It's the gent from Texas. How can a fellow buck
against luck that fills from a pair to a full house on the draw?”
The blond giant, Siegfried--who was not a Swede, but a
Norwegian--announced that he was seventeen dollars in the game himself.
Tommie, already broke, and an onlooker, reported sadly.
“Sixty-one for me, durn it!”
Jed picked up a lamp, led the way to the other room, and closed the door
behind them.
“I thought it might interest you to know that there's a new arrival in
the valley, Mr. Struve,” he said smoothly.
“Who says my name's Struve?” demanded the man who called himself
Johnson, with fierce suspicion.
Briscoe laughed softly. “I say it--Wolf Struve. Up till last month your
address for two years has been number nine thousand four hundred and
thirty-two, care of Penitentiary Warden, Yuma, Arizona.”
“Prove it. Prove it,” blustered the accused man.
“Sure.” From his inside coat pocket Jed took out a printed notice
offering a reward for the capture of Nick Struve, alias “Wolf” Struve,
convict, who had broken prison on the night of February seventh,
and escaped, after murdering one of the guards. A description and a
photograph of the man wanted was appended.
“Looks some like you. Don't it, Mr.--shall I say Johnson or Struve?”
“Say Johnson!” roared the Texan. “That ain't me. I'm no jailbird.”
“Glad to know it.” Briscoe laughed in suave triumph. “I thought you
might be. This description sounds some familiar. I'll not read it all.
But listen: 'Scar on right cheek, running from bridge of nose toward
ear. Trigger finger missing; shot away when last arrested. Weight, about
one hundred and ninety.' By the way, just out of curiosity, how heavy
are you, Mr. Johnson? 'Height, five feet nine inches. Protuberant, fishy
eyes. Long, drooping, reddish mustache.' I'd shave that mustache if I
were you, Mr.--er--Johnson. Some one might mistake you for Nick Struve.”
The man who called himself Johnson recognized denial as futile. He flung
up the sponge with a blasphemous oath. “What do you want? What's your
game? Do you want to sell me for the reward? By thunder, you'd better
not!”
Briscoe gave way to one of the swift bursts of passion to which he was
subject. “Don't threaten me, you prison scum! Don't come here and try to
dictate what I'm to do, and what I'm not to do. I'll sell you if I want
to. I'll send you back to be hanged like a dog. Say the word, and I'll
have you dragged out of here inside of forty-eight hours.”
Struve reached for his gun, but the other, wary as a panther, had him
covered while the convict's revolver was still in his pocket.
“Reach for the roof! Quick--or I'll drill a hole in you! That's the
idea. I reckon I'll collect your hardware while I'm at it. That's a heap
better.”
Struve glared at him, speechless.
“You're too slow on the draw for this part of the country, my friend,”
jeered Briscoe. “Or perhaps, while you were at Yuma, you got out of
practice. It's like stealing candy from a kid to beat you to it. Don't
ever try to draw a gun again in Lost Valley while you're asleep. You
might never waken.”
Jed was in high good humor with himself. His victim looked silent murder
at him.
“One more thing, while you're in a teachable frame of mind,” continued
Briscoe. “I run Lost Valley. What I say, goes here. Get that soaked into
your think-tank, my friend. Ever since you came, you've been disputing
that in your mind. You've been stirring up the boys against me. Think
I haven't noticed it? Guess again, Mr. Struve. You'd like to be boss
yourself, wouldn't you? Forget it. Down in Texas you may be a bad, bad
man, a sure enough wolf, but in Wyoming you only stack up to coyote
size. Let this slip your mind, and I'll be running Lost Valley after
your bones are picked white by the buzzards.”
“I ain't a-goin' to make you any trouble. Didn't I tell you that
before?” growled Struve reluctantly.
“See you don't, then. Now I'll come again to my news. I was telling you
that there's another stranger in this valley, Mr. Struve. Hails from
Texas, too. Name of Fraser. Ever hear of him?”
Briscoe was hardly prepared for the change which came over the Texan at
mention of that name. The prominent eyes stared, and a deep, apoplectic
flush ran over the scarred face. The hand that caught at the wall
trembled with excitement.
“You mean Steve Fraser--Fraser of the Rangers!” he gasped.
“That's what I'm not sure of. I got to milling it over after I left him,
and it come to me I'd seen him or his picture before. You still got that
magazine with the article about him?”
“Yes.”
“I looked it over hurriedly. Let me see his picture again, and I'll tell
you if it's the same man.”
“It's in the other room.”
“Get it.”
Struve presently returned with the magazine, and, opening it, pointed to
a photograph of a young officer in uniform, with the caption underneath:
LIEUTENANT STEPHEN FRASER OF THE TEXAS RANGERS
Who, single-handed, ran down and brought to justice
the worst gang of outlaws known in recent years.
“It's the same man,” Briscoe announced.
The escaped convict's mouth set in a cruel line.
“One of us, either him or me, never leaves this valley alive,” he
announced.
Jed laughed softly and handed back the revolver. “That's the way to
talk. My friend, if you mean that, you'll need your gun. Here's hoping
you beat him to it.”
“It won't be an even break this time if I can help it.”
“I gather that it was, last time.”
“Yep. We drew together.” Struve interlarded his explanation with oaths.
“He's a devil with a gun. See that?” He held up his right band.
“I see you're shy your most useful finger, if that's what you mean.”
“Fraser took it off clean at twenty yards. I got him in the hand, too,
but right or left he's a dead shot. He might 'a' killed me if he hadn't
wanted to take me alive. Before I'm through with him he'll wish he had.”
“Well, you don't want to make any mistake next time. Get him right.”
“I sure will.” Hitherto Struve had been absorbed in his own turbid
emotions, but he came back from them now with a new-born suspicion
in his eyes. “Where do you come in, Mr. Briscoe? Why are you so plumb
anxious I should load him up with lead? If it's a showdown, I'd some
like to see your cards too.”
Jed shrugged. “My reasons ain't urgent like yours. I don't favor spies
poking their noses in here. That's all there's to it.”
Jed had worked out a plot as he rode through the night from the Dillon
ranch--one so safe and certain that it pointed to sure success. Jed was
no coward, but he had a spider-like cunning that wove others as dupes
into the web of his plans.
The only weakness in his position lay in himself, in that sudden boiling
up of passion in him that was likely to tear through his own web and
destroy it. Three months ago he had given way to one of these outbursts,
and he knew that any one of four or five men could put a noose around
his neck. That was another reason why such a man as this Texas ranger
must not be allowed to meet and mix with them.
It was his cue to know as much as he could of every man that came into
the valley. Wherefore he had run down the record of Struve from the
reward placard which a detective agency furnished him of hundreds of
criminals who were wanted. What could be more simple than to stir up the
convict, in order to save himself, to destroy the ranger who had run him
down before? There would be a demand so insistent for the punishment of
the murderer that it could not be ignored. He would find some pretext
to lure Struve from the valley for a day or two, and would arrange it
so that he would be arrested while he was away. Thus he would be rid
of both these troublesome intruders without making a move that could be
seen.
It was all as simple as A B C. Already Struve had walked into the trap.
As Jed sat down to take a hand in the poker game that was in progress,
he chuckled quietly to himself. He was quite sure that he was already
practically master of the situation.