WINCHESTER TAKES THE LONG CHANCE
"What you doing down here?" demanded Meshackatee of Hall as soon as he
could draw him aside. "And what was that--a Horse-thieves' Reunion?"
"Those are Scarborough gunmen," answered Hall behind his hand. "We're
lucky to get off alive."
"_You're_ lucky," corrected Meshackatee. "But say, have you seen
Winchester? The rascal is down here, somewhere."
"Let's find him!" exclaimed Hall, and started for the door, but
Meshackatee drew him back.
"Keep inside," he advised. "Them Teehannos will pot you if you
show yourself in the door. Leave 'im alone--I ain't worried about
Winchester."
"But this town is dangerous," protested McIvor. "We three ought to get
together. I believe there's a reward--and a big one too--on the head of
every one of us."
"Come over here in the corner," beckoned Meshackatee, and they took
seats at a table in the rear. "Now listen," he said, "we stay here all
night. You're dead right--the damned burg is dangerous. These officers
in town, the city marshal and such, have crept plumb under the house.
It's Texas Day--or was. But here's the hell of it--I've got it straight
enough they're jest waiting for one of us to leave. We're safe, here
in town, but the minute we leave--well, I'm thinking about writing my
will."
"I can't understand it," said McIvor at last, "and yet, in a way, I
can. Miz Zoolah came ahead and hired all these gunmen and then Isham
broke cover and joined her. He's got a ranch out here somewhere----"
"That's where Winchester is," whispered Meshackatee. "They don't know
he's come down. He's out looking over the ground."
"Just where is this ranch?" asked Hall after a pause, and when
Meshackatee told him he fell silent. The night dragged on slowly and
the games of chance closed, they watched and slept by turns; but as
the morning drew near Hall rose up quietly and slipped out by the back
way to the corral. In the box stall he found his horse and led him
quickly to the street, then mounted and rode off through the darkness.
Something told him to go back, to turn and ride for the hills, to
seek out Allifair and never come back; but something else urged him
on, something warned him to strike now, before his enemies could kill
him by treachery. In the river-bottom silt his horse's feet were
muffled, he threaded the ghostly roadways in silence; and at the fourth
cross-road south he turned to the west, taking shelter beneath the
blackness of tall cottonwoods.
It was the darkness before the dawn when he sighted the place and knew
it by the baying of hounds and, finding some waste land nearby covered
with mesquite trees and high weeds, he took cover and waited for the
light. But now that he was still his heart grew sick and he almost
repented of his purpose. A little more patience, a few more days of
grace, and Meshackatee or Winchester might kill Isham. But no, that was
wrong, for even in one day Isham's gunmen might shoot down all three of
them. The time to strike was now, before they had recovered from their
surprise and had a chance to lay other plans; and the man to strike was
Isham, the head and front of the gang, the man whose cunning and hate
urged them on. Three times already Hall had set out to kill him and
each time had been diverted from his purpose. This time he would die if
he failed.
As the sun came up he crept to the edge of the wild land and searched
the Scarborough ranch with his glasses; and already they were astir,
loading some wheat sacks on a hay-wagon, rearranging them, making a
trench down the middle. He lay watching them curiously, trying to
divine their zealous interest in the loading of that grist for the
mill; but when the horses were hitched up he was suddenly enlightened,
for Isham climbed up on the load. It was a traveling fort, a barricade
on wheels; and as he settled down and took the reins they handed him
up his guns and opened the gate to the road. Men that Hall had not
seen now appeared from their ambush, hurrying to catch up their mounts
and follow; and while they were saddling Isham drove out the gate and
turned his team towards town.
Hall drew back from his lookout and ran to his horse, then hurried to
a place by the road; but as the wagon came toward him he could see
nothing but Isham's feet--he was concealed behind a wall of solid
wheat. He hesitated, for there were loop-holes between the piled-up
sacks and Isham would have him at his mercy; and yet, if he allowed
this chance to slip by----. He crouched back, confused and distrait.
But while he weighed the chances against him there was a stir across
the road, a rush and a breaking of brush; and from the cover of the
mesquite thicket a horseman burst out and went charging down on the
wagon. Isham rose up to scramble back, but the horseman was upon him,
he fired twice, never slackening his pace; and then, without a pause he
reined back into the brush and went plunging away through the trees.
Hall drew back trembling--it was Winchester Bassett, and who ever knew
Winchester to miss?
At the shooting the heavy farm-team shied and cramped the wheels, but
now with reins dangling they went galloping up the road, spilling
off grain-sacks in their terrified flight. There was a yell from the
ranch-house, the patter of pursuing hoof-beats; and as the Texans
dashed past, Hall ran for his horse and was lost in the thicket of
mesquites. Isham Scarborough was dead and Winchester had killed him,
but there was still the law to be reckoned with. There would be a
search for the murderer, a hue-and-cry through the wastelands, perhaps
later a marking down of tracks; and while Winchester had fired the
shots it would go hard with Hall if he were caught near the scene of
the crime. Winchester had counted his life as nothing, charging out
like a whirlwind and winning by his very audacity; but now he would
flee as swiftly as he had come, leaving nothing but his horse-tracks
by the road. Hall spurred through the thickets and came out on a
section-line, but as he was about to take flight he paused.
Back in the corner of the Keno, watched over only by his dog, the
big-hearted Meshackatee was sleeping across the table, unsuspecting of
the storm about to burst. In their rage at Isham's death the Texans
might shoot him down, or have the officers take him in charge; and the
devilish spite of Miz Zoolah was still to be reckoned with--she, too,
might hire him killed for revenge. Hall turned his horse towards town
and went galloping up a side street just as the first Texans, riding
alongside the wagon, came shouting the news up the street. There was
a rush of curious people and the saloon was deserted when Hall burst
in through the back door. Even the bar-keepers were gone, and if
Meshackatee had gone with them----Hall stepped to the swinging doors.
The wagon had stopped in the middle of the street and the people were
swarming around it; and up on the broad platform, now cleared of its
wheat, Miz Zoolah was standing above Isham.
"He's dead!" she announced, as men scrambled to lift the body, "leave
'im alone, I tell ye; he's dead. But I know who killed him, and if
there's an ounce of manhood in any of you, you'll ride till you ketch
Hall McIvor. He's riding a blue roan and----"
Hall ducked through the door and made a run out the back way, but as he
mounted he took a second thought. He had not killed Isham Scarborough,
and it could not be proved--there was no one to stand witness against
him; but if he fled for the hills and was pursued and brought back the
fact would be used against him. And if the Texans led the posse, as
they undoubtedly would, it would end in a fight to the death. He reined
his horse back and rode straight to the court-house, where he gave
himself up to the sheriff.