[Illustration]
SHOTGUN GOLD
By W. C. Tuttle
A New Hashknife and Sleepy Story
“And that’s how it comes that I’m sheriff of Black Horse--and may I be
hung with horseshoes and rabbit-feet, et cettery.”
Roaring Rigby tilted back in an old swivel chair and looked
disconsolately at the white-haired man who sat across the battered desk.
The man had a long, deeply-lined face, slightly reddish nose, somber
blue eyes beneath white eyebrows.
Roaring Rigby himself was long, lean, bony of face and figure, with the
pouched eyes of a bloodhound. His nose was long too, and slightly out of
line; his cheekbones were almost visible through the tightly stretched
skin that covered them. His ears were of the hating variety, and his
neutral-colored hair was thin, like foxtail grass on alkali flats.
The room in which these two men sat was the sheriff’s office in the town
of Turquoise, the county-seat of Black Horse County. It was a small
room, unpapered, except for an array of reward notices, a State map and
a calendar of the previous year. A desk, several chairs and a
gun-cabinet completed the furnishings. The floor was uncarpeted and had
been scored deeply by years of high heel scraping.
Roaring Rigby lifted his feet and rasped one spurred heel across the top
of the desk, as if to express his contempt for such a piece of
furniture.
“And so Jim Randall, sheriff of this county, went away, did he?” sighed
the old man.
“He did that.”
Roaring Rigby turned his sad-dog eyes upon the old man.
“Yea-a-ah, he went away, Jim Randall did. He wrote out his resignation,
packed up his fambly, folded his tent, as you might say, and silently
stole away. But I don’t blame him, Judge. He’s a married man. You’re as
much to blame as he is. You two opined to make Turquoise sanitary. You
ought to know better, Judge; you’re an old-timer. Jim Randall was born
and raised in a cow-town, and he knew better. ’Sall right to set down
upon crime. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ your motives ain’t right. Turquoise needs
cleanin’. English Ed’s honkatonk ain’t noways a Sunday School, and that
redlight district hadn’t ought to be there, but--”
“I know,” nodded Judge Beal.
“Yea-a-ah, you know now. You should have knowed before. Jim Randall got
his warnin’ twice. They told him he’d get the third one in the dark, and
Jim always was scared of the dark. You’ve got your first one, Judge.”
“Turquoise isn’t fit for a decent woman. Why, a--”
“It was before you two started yore crew--crew--”
“Crusade, Roaring.”
“Yeah, that’s it. You posted your notices, and you didn’t have nothin’
to back ’em. Jim Randall posts his notice, demandin’ that every puncher
bring his gun to the sheriff’s office when he got to town, or get
arrested. Did they, I ask you, Judge? They did like hell! You told ’em
in plain English that the honkatonk must go. Did it?”
“No,” said the judge sadly. “I am obliged to admit that it is still
there. I heard that Jim Randall had resigned, so I came to you, Roaring;
you will be appointed sheriff, because you were Jim’s deputy. Now, what
are you going to do?”
“Me, huh?”
Roaring savagely rasped his spurred heel half-wayacross the desk top.
“I’m goin’ to try and hold the job, Judge.”
“Meaning that you are not in sympathy with my campaign?”
“Meanin’ that I’m in sympathy with my own skin. Your campaign! Judge, if
you’ll take my friendly advice, you’ll foller Jim Randall. The road is
plenty wide. Why, doggone you, Judge, nobody takes you seriously. You
drink more liquor than any single drinker in this town.”
“Granted.”
“And you’re single.”
“Fortunately.”
“There you are, Judge. You want to clean up the town. Do you love the
morals of your feller-men so much that you’d take a chance on gettin’
shot? You’ve got no wife to be offended by the honkatonk girls, and it’s
a cinch you ain’t temperate. Go back and set on your bench, Judge.
Cleanin’ up Turquoise ain’t no single-handed job.”
“They’ll not run me out.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m-mebby not, Judge. Damn it, I’m not any more stuck on things
than you are! I don’t like hornets, but I don’t poke their nests.”
“In other words, you are not going to enforce Randall’s notices
regarding carrying arms in town?”
“Well, I’m no fool, if that’s what you mean, Judge.”
The old judge nodded sadly. His was a forlorn cause, the cleaning up of
Turquoise City. The sheriff, backed by a county judge, had made a
half-hearted attempt to change conditions; but he had been virtually run
out of town. He had resigned, taken his family and moved away, fearful
of what might happen to him.
The old judge was sincere, drunkenly so most of the time, although in a
dignified manner. That is, he was drunkenly dignified. Judge Beal had
come of a good family and was well educated. He might have gone far in
his chosen profession, except for his love of liquor; he had drifted
into Turquoise City, when that place was in the throes of a mining
fever, so he hung out his shingle and became the lawyer of Turquoise.
That was twenty years ago. His old shingle still hung outside of his
office, but the lettering had long since faded. For five of those years
he had been the county judge. He had seen Turquoise City in boom days,
when men scrambled for raw gold; he had seen it gradually change after
the days of the big strikes to a commonplace cow-town. When the railroad
came along it boomed again, in a way. The railroad made it the shipping
point of the valley, the logical shopping city for the surrounding range
and for the mining district northeast of Turquoise. It was a busy county
seat.
It had also become the gambling center of the country--the flesh-pot of
the cowmen and miners. Turquoise City was unmoral rather than immoral.
It was a wide-open town; business was good. Even if painted women did
flaunt themselves on the streets, and an occasional cowpuncher decided
to make the main street a bucking-chute, or shot at some one’s sign, it
did not seem to hurt business. Many liked the wild excitement.
But to Judge Beal it was an offense to decent folks. He had persuaded
Jim Randall, the sheriff, that something must be done, and they had
started a two-handed crusade, which was doomed to fail, for Turquoise
City did not want reform.
Jim Randall had received two warnings. The second one said:
There will be one more but you won’t see it, because it will
come out of the dark.
No name had been signed. The old judge had received one that read the
same as the first one Randall had received.
The road is open. This is your first warning.
It was evident that the gambling element of Turquoise City did not
desire the continued presence of Judge Beal, although he had
accomplished nothing against it.
He left the sheriff’s office and crossed the street to the front of the
Black Horse Saloon, gambling-house and honkatonk, the largest building
in Turquoise City. It was a huge, barn-like structure, not at all
ornamental.
English Ed Holmes owned the place. He was an immaculate, cold-blooded
gambler, a man of middle-age, and in a way very suave and handsome.
As the judge passed the Black Horse he met a cowboy, who flashed him a
whitetoothed smile. It was Pete Conley, a half-breed cowboy, whose
father, old Moses Conley, owned the Double Circle C, known as the Hot
Creek ranch. Pete was about twenty-five years of age, more Indian than
white.
“Hello, Peter,” said the judge kindly.
“Very good,” smiled Pete. “How you, Judge?”
“Nicely, thank you, Peter. Folks all well?”
“Pretty good; I buy you drink, Judge.” The old judge shook his head.
“Thank you just the same, Peter.”
He passed on down the street, turned through an alley and walked slowly
out to his home. It was a little frame building, rather dilapidated,
with an old picket-fence around part of it.
The old judge was a bachelor, but he afforded a cook, in the person of
an old Chinese, who was crippled with rheumatism. The cook met him at
the door and waited until the judge hung up his broad-brimmed hat and
removed his soiled white collar.
“I flind him unda doo’,” said the Chinese, producing a sealed envelope,
unmarked except by contact of soiled hands.
The old judge’s lips compressed firmly as he examined the envelope.
“Somebody leabe him,” said the Chinese.
“Undoubtedly,” replied the judge evenly.
He knew what it contained. The other envelope had been the same. After a
few moments of indecision he tore open the envelope and quickly scanned
the single sheet of paper it contained.
There will be one more but you won’t see it. Go! ! !
Slowly he tore the envelope and paper to bits, his old face grim with
determination. He walked to the door and threw the papers outside, while
he looked casually up and down the street.
The Chinese watched him curiously, but the old judge made no comment as
he slowly removed his boots and put on an old pair of carpet-slippers.
Then he went to an old chest of drawers, from which he took a heavy Colt
gun, carrying it over to the table, where he placed it beside a book.
The Chinese turned and walked back to the kitchen.
“You didn’t see anybody around here, did you?” asked the old judge.
The Chinese stopped and looked back toward the door.
“I no see,” he said blankly.
“All right.”
The judge sat down, sighed deeply and picked up his book.
* * * * *
The Hot Creek ranch was rather a bone of contention in the Black Horse
country. In the days before the cattle business had grown to mean much,
Moses Conley had homesteaded his legal amount of land and bought enough
to make five hundred acres, in the center of which he had built his
ranch-houses. Within this five hundred acres was Hot Spring Valley, a
deep swale, protected from the north by a pile of old lava beds, and
fairly well bordered on the other sides by cottonwood and live oaks.
In the bottom of this swale were warm springs, that never froze, even in
the bitter winters, and they kept the temperature much above the
average. The surrounding lava beds and trees broke the force of the
north winds, and the little valley was of sufficient size for many
cattle to find refuge from blizzard and heavy snow.
Moses Conley looked much like the usual conception of his Biblical
namesake. He was a huge man, white-haired, white-bearded, with a stern
cast of countenance. In his youth he had married a Nez Perce squaw named
Minnie, who was still his wife. There were two children, Pete and Dawn.
Dawn was twenty, a tall, lithe girl, more white than Indian, and the
prettiest girl in the valley.
Old Moses Conley’s life had been one of strife. His ranch was midway
between Turquoise City and the Big 4 ranch, the biggest cow outfit in
the valley. Time after time the Big 4 had tried to buy out Moses Conley;
but the old man had refused all of their offers.
He hated Franklyn Moran, who owned the Big 4 and lived in ease and
luxury in Chicago. Men said that that was why Moses Conley refused to
sell out to the Big 4. There was a story told about some trouble between
Conley and Moran in the old mining days; Moran was alleged to have
cheated Conley out of a piece of property.
The truth of the matter was that Moran had money, and by offering a
bigger price than Conley could pay he had acquired the property after
Conley had offered to take Moran in with him on the deal.
The Big 4 had made life rather hard for Conley, and he had retaliated by
fencing in his five hundred acres with four strands of barbed-wire,
almost impoverishing himself to buy the material to shut out the Big 4
cattle from Hot Spring Valley, or Hot Creek, as it was commonly known.
Moran had sent Conley a final offer of more than the ranch was worth;
but the squaw-man refused flatly to consider any offer. He would keep
his ranch; it was home to him, and a home meant more than money.
Moran had one son, Jimmy, who came from college to show the Big 4 how it
should be run; but he got into trouble with “Slim” Regan, the foreman,
and tried by telegraph to have the whole outfit fired. Failing in that,
he drew every cent he had on deposit in a Chicago bank, his inheritance
from his mother, who had died two years before he came to Black Horse
Valley. He bought out the Stumbling K ranch, two miles east of Conley’s
ranch; it was known as the Busted ranch, because every owner had gone
broke.
Jimmy Moran was going to show the world how to raise cows. He hired
“Wind River” Jim, who had no other name, as far as he knew, and “Lovely”
Lucas, who had been christened Ephriam, to punch cows for him, and
“Horse-Collar” Fields to do the cooking.
Jimmy was of medium height, sandy-haired, freckled, with a streak of
good and a streak of mean. He liked liquor and cards and was not averse
to fighting occasionally. In fact Jimmy liked cards so well that
everybody predicted no change in the name or fortunes of the Busted
ranch. But their opinions meant little to Jimmy, as he went his joyful
way, regardless of anything.
He had met and liked Dawn Conley, and he had also met Moses Conley, who
told him to keep away from the Hot Creek ranch.
“He’s afraid I’m after his daughter,” said Jimmy, but he knew the real
reason was because of the enmity Conley held against his father.
Pete Conley had always treated Jimmy civilly. But Pete was more like old
Conley’s wife--nearly all Indian. Dawn did not look or act like an
Indian.
* * * * *
Apparently there was no law against selling liquor to a half-breed in
Turquoise City, and Pete was a regular customer of the Black Horse
Saloon and of the gambling tables. More often than not, he quit a
winner. It may have been his proverbial luck and his rather insolent
smile that caused Joe Mallette, one of English Ed’s gamblers, to dislike
him.
They had clashed several times, and Mallette had asked English Ed to bar
the half-breed from the place; but the owner of the saloon refused.
Mallette was a big man, with the cold, hard eyes of a professional
gambler and the chin of a fighter. He hated to see Pete Conley buy chips
in his game, and he did not conceal his dislike of the half-breed.
It was after dark that night when Pete took a chair in Mallette’s
stud-poker game. It was not Mallette’s shift, but the other dealer had
not put in an appearance. Mallette treated Pete civilly, for once;
perhaps he thought that the other dealer would show up presently.
Mallette had been drinking rather heavily and was just a bit clumsy in
stacking up Pete’s chips. Jimmy Moran was in the game, loser, as usual,
but still smiling.
“I heard that Jim Randall pulled out,” said one of the players casually.
“Time he did,” growled Mallette, shoving the chips over to the young
half-breed.
“Randall damn good man,” said Pete slowly.
Mallette was too diplomatic to start an argument, so he said nothing. He
played a close game, which was the natural thing for the dealer to do.
He knew that Pete Conley had very little money, so he waited for a
chance to break him; but the half-breed knew how Mallette played his
cards. Pete was lucky, and his stacks of red and blue chips increased
rapidly.
It was about nine o’clock, and the other dealer had come in, but
Mallette was in a pot which he had opened. He was playing very coldly
and had opened the pot for a substantial bet, thinking that the others
would drop out; but Pete had raised him heavily. Jimmy Moran, sitting at
Pete’s left, had turned his cards in such a way that Pete got a flash of
the king of hearts.
But it made no difference in the play, because Jimmy passed the opening
bet and threw his hand in the discards. Mallette was dealing. After
deliberating heavily, Mallette called Pete’s raise. Pete drew one card,
which he seemed to ignore; Mallette drew two. He dropped his cards
one-handed from the top of the deck, and one of them skidded on top of
some of the discards.
At the same time, Mallette upset a stack of chips in front of him and
straightened them up carefully. He looked at his cards and checked the
bet. Pete studied Mallette’s face. Pete had four sevens in his hand. The
best Mallette could have had before the draw would have been three of a
kind, and with threes he would have drawn only one card, masking the
fact of his having threes. Or perhaps he had only one pair of jacks or
better to open on, and had held up another card as a “kicker.” Pete felt
safe. After a moment of deliberation he shoved all of his chips to the
center. There was possibly two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.
“That’s all I got,” said Pete slowly. “I bet that.”
Mallette turned the edges of his cards slightly, a half-sneer on his
lips, as he shoved out enough chips to cover the bet. Pete grinned, as
he spread out the four sevens; but his grin faded when Mallette showed
four kings and began raking in the pot.
Mallette nodded to the other dealer and started to slide his chair back
from the table. Pete’s eyes were upon him; his lips twisted queerly.
“You--you thief!” choked the half-breed.
He jerked to his feet, reaching back for his gun. Jimmy Moran flung
himself against Pete, blocking his draw, while another player twisted
Pete’s gun from his hand. Mallette straightened up, his lips white.
“What’s that?” he snapped. “Who’s a thief?”
“You are!” rasped the enraged Pete. “Leave it to Jimmy Moran. He had
that king of hearts in his hand. It was a dead card. You stole it, you
thief!”
Mallette’s eyes shifted to Jimmy Moran, who was looking at him, his
mouth half-open.
“By golly, I can’t remember,” said Jimmy. “Seems to me--no, I can’t
say.”
“I reckon you can’t,” said Mallette dryly.
He turned and started toward the bar, when Pete tore away from Jimmy and
started for Mallette.
“Give back that money!” demanded Pete. “You stole--”
Mallette whirled and met Pete, smashing him full in the face with a
powerful right-hand swing. It knocked Pete flat on his back, almost
under the feet of the men who come to see what it was all about.
Mallette turned away and went out through the rear of the building.
Pete sat up, wiping the blood from his lips, looking around in a dazed
way. English Ed shoved his way to Pete. He had heard what it was all
about.
“Get up!” he exclaimed. “Pick up your hat and get out of here, you
damned half-breed, and stay out! Don’t never come in here again.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Jimmy Moran.
He had secured Pete’s six-shooter and now he handed it to Pete.
“Wait for what?” asked English Ed.
“The trouble was caused by Mallette havin’ too many kings,” said Jimmy
slowly. “I think I remember the king of hearts bein’ in my hand.”
“I see it,” nodded Pete. “When you lay hand down, I see it.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” said English Ed.
_Whap!_
Jimmy Moran struck English Ed across the face with an open hand, and the
sound of it could have been heard across the street. It caused the
gambler to half-turn on his heels; and before he could recover his
balance Jimmy swung a hard right fist against English Ed’s jaw, knocking
him backward into the deserted poker table, where he went down in a
sitting position, his eyes set in a silly stare.
The room was in an uproar. A woman screamed, another laughed. Jimmy
grinned widely and nudged Pete with his elbow.
“Better get out, Pete,” he said. “If ye want Mallette, he’ll be spendin’
your money for dollar bottles of beer in one of our houses of ill fame.”
Pete wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding lips and headed for
the back door, still carrying the gun in his hand. No one made any
attempt to molest him. Jimmy Moran backed against the wall and watched
English Ed regain his senses.
The big gambler was punch-drunk. He slowly got to his feet, tried to
smile, but merely grimaced. A gambler came with a wet towel; but he
motioned it aside and went to the bar. Some of the men followed him. The
gambler with the towel came in closer to Jimmy.
“Mallette was drunk,” he said, as if excusing him for what he had done.
“All day he’s been drinking absinth with his whisky. Maybe he didn’t
know what he was doing.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Jimmy. “He was dead drunk. My, my, he was so drunk
he could steal a card and none of us seen him. Drunk, hell! What’re you
tryin’ to do, protect him?”
“Oh, no, I just thought--do you suppose the half-breed will try to get
him?”
“Are you tryin’ get a statement from me?” demanded Jimmy. “English got
what was comin’ to him. He backed a thief.”
“I wouldn’t say that to Mallette, if I was you, Moran.”
“A-a-a-aw, go wrap that rag around your head! If English Ed is goin’ to
run a den of thieves, he can expect what a thief must expect. If
Mallette had done that to me, he’d be in hell right now, ridin’ on the
hot end of a bullet! It was me that cramped the half-breed, and I’m
sorry I did.”
Jimmy jerked his hat down over his eyes and strode through the room,
going straight past the bar, where English Ed and a crowd of men were
having a drink. The big gambler knew now what it was all about and he
turned his head to watch Jimmy leave the place.
“He got you when you wasn’t lookin’,” said a man.
English Ed nodded slowly.
“Did Mallette steal that card?” he asked.
One of the men from the poker game was at the bar, and it was to him
that English directed the question.
“I don’t know,” said the man truthfully. “I wasn’t in the pot, so I
didn’t pay any attention.”
“Mallette is getting clumsy,” said English slowly.
“It’s a wonder he can keep his feet,” said the bartender. “He’s full of
absinth and whisky. He won’t know what it’s all about tomorrow.”
“How much did he win from the breed?”
“About two hundred dollars,” said the dealer who was to take Mallette’s
place. “Goin’ to give it back?”
“Not unless I get more proof than I’ve got. Don’t let that half-breed
ever come in here again. He’s all through.”
“How about Moran?”
“I’ll handle Moran myself.”
“Somebody ought to find Mallette and tell him to look out for Conley,”
said the gambler. “That breed will kill him, if he gets a chance--and
he’s huntin’ him now.”
A man came through the room and shoved his way up to the bar beside
English Ed.
“The sheriff ain’t in here, is he?” he asked nervously.
“What do you want him for?” asked English.
“Found a dead man. He’s between here and the north end of the redlight
district. It’s Mallette, the gambler.”
“Mallette!” English grasped the man by the arm. “When did you find him?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re pinchin’?” demanded the man, yanking
his arm away. “I just found him. I was comin’ alone and almost fell over
him. Oh, he’s dead all right.”
The man had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and there was a
general exodus to view the body. A lantern was secured, and the crowd
went through the rear entrance. It was about four hundred feet from the
rear of the saloon to the line of buildings that comprised the redlight
district of Turquoise City.
The last house of this row, on the north end, was possibly two hundred
yards from the rear of the saloon; and between that building and the
Turquoise Hotel, which fronted on the main street, was Judge Beal’s
little house.
The crowd went past the rear of his building and found the body of
Mallette. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. Indifferent to the
fact that the sheriff and coroner might care to view the remains as
found, they picked up the body and carried it back to the Black Horse
Saloon and placed it on a cot in a rear room.
* * * * *
Some one found Roaring Rigby in a restaurant and told him what had
happened. He left his meal and hurried to the saloon, shouldering his
way into the little room. Rigby was mad; he knew his rights. He turned
on English Ed, who leaned against the wall, his face a trifle more white
than usual.
“Who the hell brought that body here?” demanded Roaring.
“We did,” said English. “There was a crowd of us.”
“You did, eh?” Roaring hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the
gambler. “A crowd of you, eh? Tromped all over everythin’, eh? Picked
him right up. Hell, a sheriff has a fat chance of findin’ out anythin’.
Don’tcha suppose I’d like to have seen him where he laid?”
“What’s the use?” said English Ed coldly. “That half-breed Conley went
out to get him.”
Roaring Rigby squinted closely at English Ed for a moment before turning
to the crowd.
“Git out of here,” he ordered. “No, you stay here, Ed.”
He moved them all out, closed the door tightly and turned to the
gambler.
“What about Pete Conley?”
In a few words the gambler told him about the trouble, but made no
mention of his trouble with Jimmy Moran. Roaring listened closely.
“Did Mallette steal that card, English?” he asked.
The gambler shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn’t see the play. Jimmy Moran saw the play, but wasn’t sure. He
was the one who was supposed to have discarded that king of hearts.
Mallette was drinking and--”
“Had a right to steal a card, I suppose.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You meant it. Did Mallette carry a gun?”
“I’ve never seen him with one. He had none on him when we found him.
Conley murdered him.”
Roaring Rigby took a deep breath, rather a jerky one.
“Murder? Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” softly.
“The damn half-breed!” exclaimed English Ed under his breath.
“Blood don’t make no difference,” said Roaring quickly. “The law don’t
draw no color line, English.”
“The law be damned! Mallette was murdered. Mallette was a gambler--one
of my men. Judge Beal would turn Conley loose. He’d never hang a man for
killing a gambler.”
“Old Judge Beal is a square-shooter, English. Nobody can say he ain’t
honest. But he ain’t hangin’ nobody unless they need it.”
“Well, he better keep his nose out of my business.”
“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley
is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any
good, but to make it legal.”
They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a
standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking
in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar.
For once, the _whirr_ of the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips
were stilled.
Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:
“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start
travelin’, Rigby.”
It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at
Clayton.
“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s
job--and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”
Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew
the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do.
Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around
to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.
He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot
Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he
brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the
town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.
* * * * *
Jimmy Moran rode away from Turquoise City, a grin on his lips. His right
hand ached a little, but he minded it not. He could still see the vacant
stare in English Ed’s eyes; he chuckled to himself. There had been a
certain satisfaction in hitting the big gambler.
“Mebby I can save a little money, if I get in bad with all the gamblers
and rum sellers,” he told his horse.
He had championed the cause of the son of his father’s ancient enemy,
and he wondered what his father would say if he knew about it. He
realized that he had put himself in bad with English Ed and his gang,
which meant that he would be none too safe in Turquoise City.
He forded the river that ran near the Hot Creek ranch and traveled along
Moses Conley’s barbed-wire fence. About half-way along this side of the
fence the road forked, turning to the left to Jimmy’s ranch. Only a
short distance beyond the forks was Conley’s gate, where cottonwoods
lined the road and grew along the fence.
As Jimmy turned into his road, he caught the flash of a white dress in
the moonlight near the gate. He turned his horse back to the main road,
and went slowly up to the gate. The wearer of the white dress was Dawn
Conley. She was holding the reins of her horse and had swung the gate
partly open.
“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Dawn!”
“Hello, Jimmy,” said the girl simply.
Jimmy dismounted and dropped his reins, knowing that the chunky bay
would stand as long as the reins hung down. Jimmy went close to her, his
hat in his hand.
“I was waiting for Dad,” she said. “I--I thought it was him. He went
over to the 7AL this afternoon.”
The 7AL was located about five miles east of Turquoise City.
“I see,” said Jimmy. “You--you don’t think anythin’ has happened to him,
do you, Dawn?”
“Oh, no; but I--I--”
“Uh-huh.”
Jimmy swallowed heavily; he shifted uneasily. He wanted to put out a
hand and touch her. Whenever he saw her he forgot that she was part
Indian and daughter of his father’s enemy. Standing there in the
moonlight, within half an arm’s reach of her, Jimmy hooked his thumbs
over his belt and stared at her face.
“Dawn,” he said hoarsely, “Dawn, you’re beautiful.”
“Jimmy Moran, you--why say that?” She moved slightly away.
“Don’t go away,” he said slowly. “It’s all right, Dawn; I had to say
that. It ain’t wrong to say what you think. No, I’m not drunk; I never
was more sober in my life. I’ve never seen you in my life when I didn’t
think you was the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”
“You mustn’t say that, Jimmy.”
“Why not? It may not mean anythin’ to you, but it does to me. Standin’
here like a danged idiot, tellin’ you things like that is like drinkin’
liquor. It kinda makes me dizzy. Funny, ain’t it? I’m scared to tell you
things like that, and still I’m doin’ it. It’s like doin’ things when
you’re drunk--mebby you hadn’t ought to, but you do it just the same.”
“Well,” said Dawn vaguely, “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Jimmy softly. “You’ve got to love to feel that way,
Dawn.”
“To love?”
“Yes, Dawn--I love you.”
“You love me?” slowly.
Neither of them saw Roaring Rigby. He came riding up the dusty road, his
horse still dripping from the water of the ford, his horse’s hoofs
muffled in the dust. But he saw them, and turned his horse into the
shadow of the cottonwood. He dismounted and came ahead on foot, keeping
close to the trees.
“I swear I love you, Dawn,” said Jimmy. “I’ve never had a chance to tell
you before. Oh, I know our fathers hate each other; but what has that to
do with us?”
“I’m Injun,” she said.
“I’m Irish.”
He did not try to go closer to her, and for a long time neither of them
spoke. Then:
“I heard that you might marry Roarin’ Rigby,” said Jimmy. “They say he’s
been comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”
“He’s a friend of Dad’s.”
“But comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”
“Perhaps; but he’s too old, Jimmy. Dad likes him.”
“Do you like him, Dawn?”
“He’s a nice man, but he is so homely, Jimmy--and old. No, I never could
marry him. He looks funny.”
Jimmy was silent for several moments. A breeze rattled the dry leaves of
the cottonwoods.
“Dawn, why were you anxious to meet your father?”
“It was Peter,” she said anxiously. “He came home awhile ago. He had
been fighting, Jimmy. His lips are bleeding and he looks awful. He
wouldn’t tell me what had happened, and I was afraid. I wanted to have
Dad go to town and find out. Oh, I hope it isn’t anything serious. You
know how they feel about--half-breeds.”
Jimmy laughed softly.
“Don’t worry, Dawn. I can tell you what happened.”
Without giving himself any credit, he told her about the poker game and
about the stolen king of hearts.
“Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad you took his gun!” she exclaimed. “It would go hard
with him if he used that gun. I’m glad that’s all there is to it.”
“That’s all, Dawn. Pete was right. Mallette stole that card.”
“English Ed came out here a few days ago,” she said.
“He did, eh?” Jimmy’s tone was belligerent. “What’d he want?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Nothin’?”
Dawn laughed.
“I didn’t meet him. Dad talked to him. He asked Dad about me. And he
told Dad that you were almost broke.”
“What did your dad say, Dawn?”
“He said that was good.”
Jimmy laughed softly.
“I suppose they talked a lot about me, eh?”
“Quite a lot, Jimmy. Dad said that for a college-educated man, you were
the biggest fool in the world; he said it was in your blood and that
college brought it out.”
Jimmy laughed chokingly.
“College!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord, that’s a long time back, it seems.
I’ve even forgotten how to talk English. I’m as much a part of this
country as if I had been born and raised here. I think like a cowboy,
Dawn. Mebby I am goin’ broke. I know now that English Ed’s games are
crooked. That knowledge will save me money. I’ve been a fool, but I hope
to outgrow it. I owe money, gosh! I owe money to the Turquoise City Bank
and I owe money to English Ed; but I can pay it all back some day. Your
father hates me, because I’m a son of my father. That’s a foolish hate,
Dawn. He hates the Big 4. That’s nothin’--so do I. Dad owns the Big 4,
and I ought to be loyal to the darned place, but I can’t. I don’t like
Slim Regan, the foreman. Dad thinks he’s a wonder. And there you are.
Will you marry me, Dawn?”
But before Dawn could answer they heard the _plop-plop-plop_ of horse’s
hoofs, and turned to see the dark bulk of a horse and rider coming up to
the gate. It was Roaring Rigby.
“Well, if it ain’t Jimmy Moran and Dawn Conley,” he exclaimed.
“Hello, Roarin’,” said Jimmy quickly.
“Good evening, Mr. Rigby,” said Dawn.
“Nice night,” said Roaring. His voice sounded as if he had a bad cold.
He cleared his throat harshly.
“Is Pete at home, Dawn?” he asked thickly.
“Pete? Why, yes, he’s at home, Mr. Rigby.”
“Uh-huh.” He appeared miserable.
Roaring turned in his saddle and looked back toward the ford. He felt
that it wouldn’t be long before some of the Black Horse gang would be
riding out that way.
“If it’s any of my business--what do you want Pete for?” asked Jimmy.
“It’s kinda tough,” said Roaring slowly. “You know that I’m sheriff now,
don’tcha?”
“I know Randall resigned,” said Jimmy.
“And I’m sheriff now, Jimmy. You was in that poker game in the Black
Horse tonight, wasn’t you?”
“I was. If you mean the trouble between Pete and Mallette, I know all
about it, Roaring.”
“Mebby not, Jimmy. A while ago they found Mallette over near the end of
redlight row, with a bullet square between his eyes.”
“My God!” exclaimed Dawn.
Jimmy remained silent. He had seen Pete Conley go out the back door of
the saloon, carrying that big Colt gun in his hand. Only a few moments
before that, Mallette had gone out through the same door.
“So you see,” said Roaring slowly, “you might not know it all, Jimmy.”
“Mallette robbed him,” declared Jimmy.
“English Ed said you wasn’t sure about it, Jimmy.”
“English Ed said that; but I’m sure, Roarin’. Right at the time I
hesitated. You hate to be sure of a thing like that. I was confused,
excited; but, as soon as I had a chance to think about it, I remembered
turnin’ my cards toward Pete, and I had that king of hearts. I threw my
cards over toward Mallette. Mebbe one of ’em turned so he saw what it
was. I remember he dealt one-handed, dropping the cards several inches,
and one kinda skidded away. It was his way of gettin’ that king. And he
upsets his chips. That was done to draw our attention away while he got
that card.”
“I know,” sighed Roaring, “it was crooked work; but Mallette didn’t have
a gun on him tonight.”
“You mean they’ll call it murder, Roarin’?”
“Looks that way, Jimmy. And Mallette was one of English Ed’s men. That
means they’ll try to take the law in their own hands.”
“Well, what’s to be done, Roarin’?”
“Let’s go and see Pete.”
“Will you put him in jail?” asked Dawn anxiously.
“I wish I had him there now,” said Roaring. “He’d be safe in jail. Let’s
go and have a talk with him. Where’s your pa, Dawn?”
“He went to the 7AL this afternoon and hasn’t come home yet.”
“All right; let’s see Pete.”
* * * * *
Dawn and Jimmy mounted, and they rode to the ranch-house. Pete met them
in the living-room. He had covered his split lips with court-plaster. He
seemed to realize that something was wrong, and stepped back toward the
entrance to the kitchen, as if preparing for a quick retreat.
“Better stay here, Pete,” said the sheriff warningly, as he closed the
door behind him.
“What do you want?” asked Pete warily.
“Mallette was shot and killed tonight. What do you know about it, Pete?”
Pete stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted from face to face.
“Mallette shot, eh?” He smiled crookedly. “I don’t care; he was a thief.
Jimmy Moran knows; he saw him steal.”
“What do you know about the killin’ of Mallette?” asked Roaring coldly.
“Not a damned thing!”
“Not a thing, eh?”
“How would I know?” demanded Pete.
“They told me you went out to get him.”
Pete’s left hand went to his sore lips and he scowled heavily.
“You come to get me for shootin’ Mallette?”
Roaring nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry, Pete. They think you done it, you know.”
Pete leaned back against the wall, his right hand swinging close to the
butt of his gun. Roaring knew that Pete was fast with a gun. There was
something of the trapped animal about this swarthy, bright-eyed young
man.
“Peter!” said Dawn sharply. “Don’t be foolish.”
“You think I want go to jail?” he asked harshly.
“If English Ed and his gang get you, you’ll wish you was in jail,”
warned Roaring.
Pete flashed a snarling grin.
“They come too, eh?”
Jimmy Moran stepped back and opened the door. The hills were bathed in
moonlight, making it possible to distinguish objects at quite a
distance. He leaned forward for a moment, jerked back and closed the
door.
[Illustration]
“They’re comin’!” he snapped. “I saw two riders cuttin’ east down there.
They’ve broken the fence, I’ll bet.”
“Surroundin’ us, eh?” said Roaring quickly. “Pete, you’ve got one
chance. If they get you they’ll lynch you quick. Git out through the
kitchen! C’mon, Jimmy!”
They ran outside. Their horses were on the dark side of the house. They
saw a rider on a light-colored horse, moving along a ridge north of the
stables.
It was evident that English Ed’s gang was intending to surround the
place. Roaring doubted if they knew that he was there.
“Is your bronc still saddled, Pete?” asked Roaring.
“Yeah,” said Pete quickly. “I think I might go back to town tonight.”
“You probably will,” said Roaring dryly. “There’s one chance in a dozen
that you will--and we’ll take that one chance.”
* * * * *
English Ed had no trouble in getting up a lynching party. Slim Regan and
three of his men were there from the Big 4; Kent Cutter, foreman of the
7AL, and two of his men, showed up in time to join the crowd. There was
always a goodly crew of hangers-on at the Black Horse Saloon; always
they would willingly ride to a killing.
English Ed did not go with them. He engineered the deal and then stayed
at home. At least a dozen armed men rode out of Turquoise City with the
avowed intention of making Pete Conley pay for his misdeeds. They rode
fast, because they knew Roaring Rigby’s horse was gone from his stable,
and they knew Roaring had been courting Dawn Conley. They figured that
Roaring might tip off Pete and give the half-breed a running start to
freedom.
Old Moses Conley had ridden as far as the edge of town with Cutter and
his men from the 7AL. They knew he would ride slowly to his ranch; so
they rode swiftly to overtake the old man, because he was reputed to be
a dangerous man with a Winchester and that he might, if things broke
badly for the posse, cause them considerable suffering with that same
gun.
They overtook the old man just at the ford of Black Horse river. Cutter
knew that Conley was unarmed, so he did not hesitate to tell him what
they were coming out there for. He did not tell the old man that they
suspected Pete of the killing, but stated Pete’s guilt as a fact.
The old man said nothing. The riders hemmed him in, as they crossed the
ford. At the corner of the fence they stopped, while two of the men cut
the fence wires. There they received their orders for circling the
ranch.
“He’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Slim Regan. “We’ve got to stop him from
makin’ a getaway. Four of you better go. Head for a point due east of
the ranch-house. Some of us will go through the gate and hold the south
line and kinda string around to the west and north. Move in fairly close
and wait until I whistle. I don’t look for the breed to make a break,
but you never can tell.”
“Where’s the sheriff?” asked Moses Conley. “It seems to me that this is
his affair.”
“Oh, that damn fool!” snorted a cowboy.
“This don’t require any law,” said Regan coldly.
“It shore don’t require the services of Judge Beal,” laughed another.
“Stop all that noise!” snapped Regan. “Do you want to tell him we’re
comin’?”
“It seems to me it takes a lot of brave men to capture one half-breed,”
said the old man bitterly.
“It takes twelve men to hang one,” retorted Cutter. “We want to make
this thing legal.”
“Stop talkin’!” warned Regan again.
They opened the gate and rode through, following along the cottonwoods
until they came in sight of the house. Cutter took four of the men with
him and headed north, with the intention of blocking all chance of
escape to the north and west, while Regan led the rest of the men
straight toward the ranch-house, where they could block the way to the
south.
Regan rode knee to knee with Moses Conley.
Suddenly a shot rang out beyond the ranch-house, and the men jerked up
their horses. There was no further need of concealment. They whirled and
galloped straight toward the house. Another rifle shot rattled through
the hills.
Regan caught a glimpse of a gray horse heading in their general
direction, and he thought it was one of his own men, coming back from
Cutter’s crowd; but the horse swung further to the north and then headed
straight for the gate. The light was not so good, but he seemed to
remember that none of them was riding a gray horse.
“There he goes!” yelled a cowboy. “That gray horse! It’s the one Pete
rides! He’s heading for the gate!”
There was no chance for Regan and his men to head off this running
horse. In some way Pete had luckily ridden between Cutter’s men and
Regan’s detachment. Regan threw up his revolver and emptied it at the
horse and rider, knowing that the gun would not be effective at that
distance. One of his men carried a rifle, but his horse was a little
gun-shy, and the fusilade from Regan’s gun had made the horse too jumpy
for the rider to hope to hit anything. Cutter’s men were coming back,
riding swiftly, but the man on the gray horse reached the gate. Riders
were coming from all directions and they joined Regan near the gate. Old
Moses Conley was forgotten now.
“Damn it, he must have seen us comin’!” panted a cowboy. “He broke for
the east, but I took a shot at him, and he cut back this way. How did he
get past you, Regan?”
“Didn’t see him in time,” growled Regan. “That gray horse wasn’t
visible. Which way did he go from the gate?”
“North,” said Cutter. “C’mon!”
They strung out through the gate and galloped north, spreading out like
a skirmish line, driving their horses as fast as possible. But every man
knew how impossible it would be to catch Pete Conley now. The half-breed
knew every angle of the country better than any one else, and with that
almost invisible gray horse he could ride into a clump of brush, wait
until the riders passed him and then double back.
For thirty minutes they rode straight ahead, searching the country.
Regan was about to call the men in and wait until morning, when they saw
their quarry silhouetted against the sky on a narrow ridge. He seemed to
be waiting for them. Then he dropped off the ridge, seemingly unhurried.
All the men of the posse had seen him. But their horses were getting
winded, the traveling was mostly up-hill. They reached the ridge and
drew rein. Regan called them together and they held a parley. On the
next ridge, not over two hundred yards away, appeared the rider again.
He stopped and appeared to be watching them. Cutter borrowed a rifle and
fired two shots, but neither seemed to have any effect.
“You can’t hit anythin’ in this light,” growled Cutter, giving back the
rifle.
“That half-breed shore has a lot of gall,” snorted Regan. “If he wants
to play hide-and-seek with us, we’ll play.
Let’s split up and see if we can’t get around him.”
The rider moved slowly off the ridge, as the dozen riders spurred ahead,
circling from both ends of the line. They passed the ridge, with the end
riders swinging farther out all the time.
They had gone about a mile beyond the spot where they had last seen
their quarry, when the gray horse moved slowly out of a clump of brush
near the crest of the ridge. The horse was led by its rider. They
crossed the ridge beside a tangle of brush and rocks, where the man
mounted and rode swiftly back toward Turquoise City.
It was Roaring Rigby, the sheriff of Black Horse, riding Pete Conley’s
gray horse. He came in along the fence and followed it to where the
posse had cut the wire near the corner; and there he found his own
horse.
He dismounted, tied up the reins on the gray horse, gave it a slap with
his hat; it went trotting back toward the Hot Creek ranch. Then he
untied his own horse, mounted and rode on toward town.
“I may be old as hell, and funny to look at,” he said bitterly, “but I’m
smarter ’n all the gamblers and horsethieves around here.”
It was about eight o’clock in the morning when the tired man hunters
came back to Turquoise City, empty-handed. Regan had taken his men back
to the Big 4, but Cutter brought his men to town for breakfast. All
night they had combed the hills, hoping for another glimpse of Pete
Conley. They were in a vile humor when they came back.
Cutter rode down to the sheriff’s office and found Roaring Rigby just
getting ready to go to breakfast.
“When are you goin’ to git Pete Conley?” demanded Cutter.
“When?”
Roaring shut one eye and looked curiously at Cutter with the other.
Cutter was a small man, slightly gray, with a ferret-like face and a
none too pleasant disposition.
“Yeah--when?” snapped Cutter.
Roaring shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t goin’,” he said slowly.
“You ain’t, eh? I suppose murder don’t mean anythin’ to you, Rigby.”
“I dunno--” lazily--“never gave it much thought.”
“Oh, you haven’t!”
“No-o-o-o.”
“Then yo’re not goin’ out after Pete Conley, eh?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s already in jail.”
Cutter’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roaring, with his mouth open,
gasping.
“In jail!” he exploded. “When did you put him im jail?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? Why, we--we--” Cutter spluttered helplessly. “Why, we
chased him half the night.”
“You did like hell,” drawled Roaring. “You started out to foller a gray
horse, but the gray horse doubled back on yuh. You’re a hell of a
man-hunter, you are.”
Cutter was speechless. Roaring locked the door, put the key in his
pocket and started up the street toward a restaurant, paying no
attention to Cutter, who jerked his horse around and rode straight to
the Chinese restaurant, where the posse had gone for breakfast.
A tall cowboy riding a bay horse swung into the upper end of the street,
and rode toward the Black Horse Saloon, but he saw Roaring on the
sidewalk and went over to him. It was “Wind River” Jim, one of Jimmy
Moran’s men.
He did not know what his right name was. The Arapaho Indians had raised
him, his parentage being obscure; and they had named him Wind River Jim.
He was tall, tow-headed, lean-faced, addicted to chewing tobacco and
profanity, but withal possessed of a certain sense of humor.
“Hyah, Roarin’,” he grinned, “Jimmy said fer me to come in and tell you
he sent me. He kinda had the idea that you’d need a good deputy, so he
picks me.”
Roaring Rigby cuffed his hat on one side of his head, looked Wind River
Jim over carefully. His face was puckered from an effort to think just
what to do. Then he reached in his pocket, took out a deputy’s badge and
gave it to Wind River Jim.
“Pin ’er on you, cowboy; that’s your license to git shot, and no damages
asked.”
“Do I swear to anythin’?” asked Wind River, as he pinned the badge on
his vest, swelling his chest beneath the shining badge.
“Swear to nothin’,” said Roarin’. “Make no promises, and you won’t have
anythin’ to break. Here’s the key to the office. I’m goin’ to ham and
egg m’self. See you later.”
* * * * *
Wind River Jim rode down to the office, tied his horse to the little
hitch-rack, spat vigorously, unlocked the door and went in. He sent his
tall Stetson spinning toward a nail, missed it by three feet, sat down
in the rickety swivel chair, hooked his feet over a corner of the desk,
and yawned.
“Well, I’ve reached my height,” he said aloud. “Officer of the law, and
I’ve got a badge to prove it. Next thing I know I’ll be a Senator or
some other funny thing, and you never can tell where I’ll go from there.
Hello, yourself!”
Jefferson Ryker, prosecuting attorney of Black Horse, stepped inside the
office and looked curiously at Wind River. Ryker was above average
height, but was very thin. He wore tall white collars and a stringy
black bow tie. The collar was big enough to give ample play to his
Adam’s apple. His suit was a rusty black and would have fitted him had
he been fifty pounds heavier.