As Steve fired his shot into the lamp, Bud Lee understood just what
would be Steve's next play; the bartender had given his friends brief
respite from the deadly fire of the Blue Lake man, and now would turn
his second shot through the flimsy wall itself on the man standing
there. Lee did not hesitate now, but with one leap was across the
room, avoiding the table, seeking to come to close quarters with
Quinnion and have the thing over and done with. In the bitterness
still gnawing at his heart, he told himself again that it would be no
calamity to the world if the two men who had insulted Judith Sanford
went down together.
Again Steve fired. His bullet ripped into the wall, tearing a hole
through the partition where a brief instant ago Lee had stood. The
light out in the barroom was extinguished. In the cardroom it was
utterly, impenetrably dark now, only a vague square of lesser darkness
telling where was the window through which Shorty had fled.
A red flare of flame from where Quinnion crouched, and Lee stood very
still, refusing the temptation to fire back. For Quinnion's bullet had
sped wide of the mark, striking the wall a full yard to Lee's left.
Quinnion's eyes had not found him, would not find him soon if he stood
quite motionless. The fight was still to be made, Quinnion's friends
would be taking a hand now, Steve had already joined issue. There were
six of them against him and with one shot fired from his heavy Colt
there were but five left. No shot to be wasted.
A little creaking of a floorboard, a vague, misty blur almost at his
side, and still Lee saved his fire. Quickly he lifted the big
revolver, held welded to a grip of steel, throwing it high above his
head and striking downward. There was almost no sound; just the
thudding blow as the thick barrel struck a heavy mat of hair, and with
no outcry a man went down to lie still. At the same moment the dim
square of the window showed a form slipping through; one man was
seeking safety from a quarrel not his own. And as he went, there came
again a soft thudding blow and Carson's dry voice outside, saying
calmly:
"Shorty got away, but you don't, pardner. Give 'em hell, Bud. I'm in
the play again."
"Two men down," grunted Lee to himself with grim satisfaction. "And
old Carson back on the job. Only two to our one now."
The form in the window crumpled and under Carson's quick hands was
jerked out. Suddenly it was very still in the little room. Steve did
not fire a third time; Quinnion held his fire. For Lee had made no
answer and they were taking heavy chances with every shot now, chances
of shooting the wrong man. Each of the four watchful men in the narrow
apartment breathed softly.
Once more Lee lifted his gun above his head. As he held it thus, he
put out his left hand gently, inch by inch, gropingly. Extended full
length, it touched nothing. Slowly he moved it in a semi-circle, the
gun in his right hand always ready to come crashing down. His fingers
touched the wall, then moving back assured him that no one was within
reach. Lifting a foot slowly, he took one cautious step forward,
toward the spot where he had last seen Quinnion. Again his arm,
circling through the darkness, sought to locate for him one of the men
who must be very near him now. Suddenly it brushed a man's shoulder.
There was a sharp, muttered exclamation, and again a flare of red flame
as this man fired. But he had misjudged Bud Lee's position by a few
inches, the bullet cut through Lee's coat, and Lee's clubbed revolver
fell unerringly, smashing into the man's forehead. There was a low
moan, a revolver clattered to the floor, a body fell heavily.
"A new situation," thought Lee. Three men down before a clock could
tick off as many minutes and not a single man shot. It was a place for
a man like Charlie Miller with his old pick-handle.
"Bud," called Carson's voice sharply, "are you all right?"
"Yes," answered Lee briefly, and as he answered moved sharply to one
side so that his voice might not draw a shot from Quinnion or the other
men. There came two spurts of flame, one from each of the corners of
the room opposite him, the reports of the two shots reverberating
loudly. But this was mere guesswork--shooting at no more definite
thing than a man's voice, and Lee having moved swiftly had little fear.
And he knew pretty well where those two men were now.
So did Carson, who from without fired in twice through the window.
Then again it grew so silent that a clock ticking somewhere out in the
barroom was to be heard distinctly, so that again the men guarded their
breathing.
Lee thought that he knew where Quinnion was, in the corner at his right
close to the rear wall. Not square in the corner, of course, for
having fired he was fox enough to shift his position a little. True,
no sound had told of such a movement. But Quinnion could be trusted to
make no sound at a time like this. Lee, equally silent, again set a
slow foot out, moving cautiously toward the spot where his eyes sought
Quinnion in the dark.
He was calculating swiftly now: Quinnion had fired twice from the
screen of the table just as Steve shot out the light; he had fired
again just now, it was a fair bet that at least one of the other shots
had been his. That meant that he had fired four times. If Quinnion
still carried his old six-shooter he had but two shots at most left to
him, for there had been no time which he would risk in reloading.
Lee swept off his hat and tossed it out before him to the spot where he
believed Quinnion was and dropped swiftly to his knee as he did so.
There was a snarl, Quinnion's evil snarl, and a shot that sped high
above his head. His hat had struck Quinnion full in the face. Then
Lee again sprang onward, again struck out with his clubbed revolver.
The blow missed Quinnion's head but caught him heavily on the shoulder
and sent him staggering back against the wall. Lee could hear the bulk
of his body crashing against the boards. And again leaping, he struck
the second time at Quinnion. This time there was no snarl, but a
falling weight and stillness.
There was a sound of a chair violently thrown down, the scuffle of
hasty feet and in the door the faint blur of a flying figure seeking
refuge in the bar. Lee flung the crippled door shut after the fugitive
and then with his left hand struck a match, his revolver ready in his
right.
Holding the tiny flame down toward the floor, he made out two prone
bodies. One, that of the first man he had struck down, a man whom he
knew by name as Lefty Devine, a brawler and boon companion of Quinnion.
The other Quinnion himself. Devine lay very still, clearly completely
stunned. Quinnion moved a little.
Carson's weather-beaten face peered in at the window.
"Better do the hot foot, Bud," he grunted softly, "while the trail's
open. Steve will be mixing in again."
But Lee seemed in no haste now. When the match had burned out, he
dropped it and slipped fresh cartridges into his gun. That done, he
stooped, gathered up Quinnion's feebly struggling body in his arms and
carried it to the window.
"Here," he said coolly to Carson. "Take him through."
"What the hell do you want of him?" Carson wanted to be told. "Ain't
going to scalp him, are you, Bud?"
"Take him out," commanded Lee with no explanation. Carson obeyed,
jerking the now complaining Quinnion out hastily and unceremoniously.
Lee followed as Steve threw open the barroom door.
"It's a new one on me, just the same," said Carson dryly as he watched
Lee stoop and gather Quinnion up in his arms. "After a little party
like this one, I'm generally travelling on an' not stopping to pick
flowers an' gather sooveneers! You ain't got cannibal blood in you,
have you, Bud?"
While Carson was cudgelling his brains for the answer and Steve was
making cautious examination of the card-room, Lee with his burden in
his arms passed through the darkness lying at the rear of the saloon
and out into the street. Carson followed to take care of a sortie
should Steve and the rest not have had all they wanted for one night.
He chuckled, remarking to himself that Bud Lee and Quinnion were the
very picture of a young mother and her babe in arms.
Not until they again reached the Golden Spur did Lee's burden
completely recover consciousness. Many a man on the street looked
wonderingly after them, demanded to know "what was up," and, receiving
no answer, swung in behind Carson.
In the Golden Spur the arrivals were greeted by a heavy silence. Sandy
Weaver forgot to set out the drinks which had just been ordered by
three men who, in their turn, forgot that they had ordered. Men at the
tables playing cards put down their hands and rose or turned
expectantly in their seats.
Lee put Quinnion down on the floor. The man lay there a moment
blinking at the lights above him and at the faces around him. At
length his eyes came to Lee.
"Damn you," he muttered, trying to rise, and slowly getting to his feet
with the aid of a chair, "I'll get you----"
Then Bud Lee gave his brief explanation, cutting Quinnion's ugly snarl
in two.
"This is Quinnion's farewell party," he said bluntly. "He is a liar
and a crook and an undesirable citizen. I have told him all that
before. He took it upon himself to say about town that I am all of
those things which he is himself. I have damn near killed him for it;
I am going to give him ten minutes to get out of town. If he doesn't
do it, I am going to kill him. And in that ten minutes he is going to
find time to eat his words."
"I'll see you in--" began Quinnion, as something of the old bluster
came back to him.
"Shut up!" snapped Lee. "Carson, let me have your gun."
Carson, wondering, gave it. Lee dropped it on the floor at Quinnion's
foot.
"Pick that gun up and we'll finish what we've begun," he said coolly to
Quinnion. "I won't shoot until you've got it in your hand and have
straightened up. Then I'll kill you. Unless first you admit that you
are the contemptible liar every one knows you are, and second, get out
of town and stay out. It's up to you, Quinnion."
Knowing Quinnion, the men moved swiftly so that they did not stand
behind either him or Lee. Sandy Weaver, shifting a few feet along his
bar, shook his head and sighed.
"It'll be both of them," he muttered.
Quinnion turned his head a little, his red-rimmed eyes going from face
to face, his tongue moving back and forth between his lips. For an
instant his eyes dropped to the gun at his feet, and a little spasmodic
contraction of his body showed that he was tempted to take up the
weapon. But he hesitated, and again turned to Lee.
"It's up to you," repeated Lee. "If you're not a coward after all,
pick it up." Lee's hands were at his sides, his own revolver in his
pocket. Quinnion was tempted. The evil lights in his eyes danced like
witch-fires. Again he hesitated; but his hesitation was brief. With
his whining, ugly laugh he lurched to the bar.
"Gimme a drink, Sandy," he commanded.
"Neither now nor after a while," Sandy told him briefly. "I ain't
dirtyin' my glasses that-a-way."
"There you are," jeered Quinnion, with a sullen sort of defiance. "You
swat me over the head while I ain't lookin' an' then bring me in here
where they're all your friends. If I drop you I get all mussed up with
their bullets. No, thanks."
"For the last time," said Lee, and his low voice was ominous, "I tell
you what to do. If you don't do it, I'll kill you just the same.
You've got your chance. Count ten seconds, Sandy."
"One," said Sandy, watching the clock on the wall, "two, three, four,
five, six, seven----"
"Curse you!" cried Quinnion then, a look of fear at last in his eyes.
"I'll get you for this some day, Bud Lee. Now you've got me----"
"Keep on counting, Sandy," commanded Lee.
"Eight," said Sandy, "nine----"
"I lied!" snapped Quinnion. "An' I'm leavin' town for a while."
And lurching as he walked, he made his way out of the room, his eyes on
the floor, his face a burning red.
"Carson and I are riding back to the ranch as soon as our horses rest
up and get some grain," said Lee, his fingers slowly rolling a brown
cigarette. "We'll mosey out now, see Quinnion on his way and drop back
to make up a little game of draw for a couple of hours. Strike you
about right, Billy? And you, Watson? And you, Parker?"
They listened to him, took the cue from him, and allowed what lay
between him and Chris Quinnion to lie in silence. But there was not a
man there but in his own fashion was saying to himself:
"It's a good beginning. But where's the end going to be?"