WINIFRED JUDGES A MAN
There was a puzzled frown in her eyes, a faint flush tingeing her cheeks
as, withdrawing her regard from Thornton's departure, she looked to
Templeton and asked quickly:
"Why did he call Henry Pollard a rattlesnake?"
A faint smile for a moment threatened to drive the sternness away from
Templeton's lips. But it was gone in a quick tightening of the mouth,
and he answered briefly.
"He didn't know that you knew Pollard."
"I don't know him," she reminded him coolly. "You will remember that I
haven't seen him since I was six years old. I hardly know what he looks
like. But you haven't answered me; why did your imprudent giant call him
a rattlesnake?"
"They have had business dealings together," he told her vaguely. "Maybe
they have disagreed about something. Men out there are a little given to
hard words, I think."
She sat silent, leaning forward, tapping at her boot with her quirt.
Then quickly, just as the banker was opening his lips to speak of the
other matter, she demanded:
"Why did you call him a fool for bringing the money here? It had to be
brought, hadn't it?"
"Yes! That's just it. It had to be brought and there is not a man in all
of the cattle country here who does not know all about the terms of the
contract Thornton and Pollard made. Ten thousand down, five thousand in
three days from now, the other five thousand in six months. Why, right
now I wouldn't attempt to carry five thousand dollars _in cash_ over
that wilderness trail if there were ten times the amount to come to me
at the end of it! It's as mad as this thing you want to do."
"He did it."
"Yes," shortly. "He did it." He gathered up the loose money, pushed a
button set in the table, and upon the prompt appearance of the cashier
said crisply, "Five thousand to apply on the Pollard-Thornton agreement.
Put it in the big safe immediately."
"He looks as though he could take care of himself," the girl said
thoughtfully when the money had gone.
Templeton whirled about upon her, his eyes blazing.
"Take care of himself!" he scoffed. "What chance has a man to take care
of himself when another man puts a rifle ball through his back? What
chance had Bill Varney of the Twin Dry Diggings stage only three weeks
ago? Varney is dead and the money he was carrying is gone, that's the
chance he had! What chance has any man had for the last six months if he
carried five hundred dollars on him and any one knew about it? They
chased off a dozen steers from Kemble's place not three days ago, you
yourself know what happened at Drury's road house last night, and now
Buck Thornton rides through the same country with five thousand dollars
on him!"
"He did it," she repeated again very softly, her eyes musing.
"And one of these days he's going to find out how simple a matter it is
for a gang like the gang operating in broad daylight in this country now
to separate a fool and his money! The Lord knows how a simple trick like
coming in three days ahead of time fooled them. It won't do it again."
"He is the type of man to succeed," she went on, still musingly.
Templeton shrugged.
"We have our own business on our hands," he said abruptly, looking at
his watch. "The stage leaves in half an hour. Are you going to be
reasonable?"
Then she stood up and smiled at him very brightly.
"The stage is going its way, Mr. Templeton. I am going mine."
Templeton flung down his pen with an access of irritation which brought
a flicker of amusement into the bright grey eyes. But the banker's grim
mouth did not relax; there was anger in the gesture with which he
slammed a blotter down on the big yellow envelope on which his wet pen
had fallen. After his carefully precise fashion he was reaching for a
fresh, clean envelope when the girl took the slightly soiled one from
him.
"Thank you," she said, rising and smiling down at him. "But this will do
just as well. And now, if you'll wish me good luck..."
She went out followed by a look of much grave speculation.
Meanwhile Buck Thornton, leading his horse after him, crossed the dusty
street to the Last Chance saloon. At the watering trough he watered his
horse, and then, slackening the cinch a little, he went inside. In the
front part of the long, dreary room was the bar presided over by a
gentleman in overalls, shirt sleeves and very black hair plastered close
to his low forehead. At the rear was the lunch counter where two
Chinamen were serving soup and stew and coffee to half a dozen men.
Thornton, with one of his quick, sharp glances which missed nothing in
the room, went to the bar.
"Hello, Blackie," he said quietly.
The bartender, who in a leisure moment had been bending in deep
absorption over an illustrated pink sheet spread on the bar, looked up
quickly. For a short second a little gleam as of surprise shone in his
shoe-button eyes. Then he put out his hand, shoving the pink sheet
aside.
"Hello, Buck," he cried genially. "Where'd you blow in from?"
"Poison Hole," briefly. He spun a silver dollar on the bar and ignored
the hand.
Blackie reached for bottle and glass, and putting them before the cowboy
bestowed upon him a shrewd, searching look.
"What's the news out your way, Buck?"
"Nothing." He tossed off his whiskey, took up his change and went on to
the lunch counter. Several men looked up at him; one or two nodded. It
was evident that the new owner of the Poison Hole was something of a
stranger here. He called an order to the Chinaman at the stove, told him
that he'd be back in ten minutes and was in a hurry and went out to his
horse. The bartender watched him go but said nothing.
Within less than ten minutes Thornton had left his sorrel at the stable,
seeing personally the animal had its grain, and had come back to the
saloon. Blackie, idle with his gazette unnoticed in front of him, saw
him come in this time.
"In town for a little high life, Buck?" he queried listlessly.
"No. Business." He passed on down toward the lunch counter, and then
swinging about suddenly came back. "Bank business," he added quietly. "I
just paid my second instalment of five thousand dollars cash!"
For a moment he stood staring very steadily into the bartender's eyes,
a great deal of significance in his look. Blackie returned his stare
steadily.
"You're lucky, Buck," he offered colourlessly.
"Meaning to get the Poison Hole? Yes. It's the best cow range I ever
saw."
"Meanin' to pack five thousan' aroun' in your tail pocket an' get away
with it with this stick-up gang workin' the country."
Thornton shrugged his shoulders.
"There isn't any gang," he said, speaking as a man who knew. "It's one
man with a confederate here and there maybe to keep him here. Every job
that has been pulled off yet was a one man job."
Blackie polished his bar and shook his head.
"Jed Macintosh got cleaned out night before last," he retorted. "He'd
made a clean-up right in here playin' stud. They got his wad before he'd
gone to the end of the street. That was more than a one man job."
"Did Jed see more than one?" demanded Thornton sharply.
"No. Jed didn't see nothin', I guess. But we all seen the trail their
horses made goin' through Jed's hayfield. There was three horses any
way."
With no answer to this Thornton turned away, washed at the faucet near
the back door, and settled his tall form upon one of the high stools at
the counter. He ate hungrily, with no remark to the men upon right and
left of him. But he heard their scraps of talk, noting that the one
topic of conversation here in Dry Town was the work of the "stick-up
party" manifesting itself in such episodes as the robbery and murder of
Bill Varney, stage driver, the theft of Kemble's cattle, the "cleanin'"
of Jed Macintosh and, finally, the affair of last night at Poke Drury's.
He listened with what seemed frank and only mild interest.
"It's a funny thing to me," one little dried-up old man with fierce
moustaches and very gentle eyes was saying, "what we got a sheriff for.
This sort of gun play's been runnin' high for nigh on six months now,
an' Cole Dalton ain't boarded anybody in his little ol' jail any worse'n
hoboes an' drunks for so long it makes a feller wonder what a jail an' a
sheriff is for."
"Give him time, Pop," laughed a young rancher at his side. "You know all
that's the matter with Cole Dalton is he's got his election on the
Republican ticket, an' you ain't never saw a man yet as wasn't a
Demmycrat as you'd admit was any 'count. Give him time. Cole knows what
he's doin', an' when he does git his rope on Mr. Badman he ain't goin'
to need no jail. Cole'll give him a firs' class funeral an' save the
county a board bill."
Pop grunted, sniffed, and got to his feet to go to the door and watch
the stage pull out. At the rumble and creak of the great lumbering
vehicle and the quick thud of the hoofs of the four running horses
several men left the lunch counter and followed him. Buck Thornton,
finishing his own meal swiftly, went with the others.
Hap Smith took on fresh mail bags in front of the post-office, slammed
back his brake, and with his long whip cracking like pistol shots over
his leaders' heads, drove on until he had passed the Last Chance. And
then he came to a halt again, his coach rocking and rolling on its great
springs, in front of the bank.
"Hi, there," he yelled mightily. "Git a move on, will you? I'm half a
day late now."
Mr. Templeton himself appeared on the instant at the door, a small
strong box in his hands. He tossed it up into the ready hands of the
bull-necked, round-shouldered guard who sat at Hap Smith's side with a
rifle between his knees, the two passengers craned their necks with much
interest, the guard bestowed the box under the seat, the driver loosened
his reins, threw off his brake, and the stage rocked and rumbled down
the street, spattering mud on either hand, racing away upon the last leg
of its two hundred and fifty mile trip to the last town upon the far
border of the great state.
"And Templeton called me a fool!" mused the tall cattle man, a look of
vast contempt in his stern eyes.
He stood a little behind the other men, looking over their heads. For
only a fleeting second had his glance rested upon the stage at the bank.
Then he looked swiftly at the man in front of him. It was Blackie, the
bartender. When Blackie turned abruptly Thornton looked squarely into
the black eyes, seeing there an unusually beady brightness, something
of the hint of a quick frown upon the thin slick line of the eyebrows.
"Driver and guard will both be needing their shooting irons before they
see the border, Blackie," Thornton said quietly.
And then with a short, insolent laugh he returned for the hat he had
left hanging upon a nail. Blackie, making no answer, followed, going
behind his bar. A little dusky red had crept up into his shallow face,
his eyes burned hard into Thornton's as the man from the Poison Hole
came by him.
"When you goin' back to the range, Buck?" he asked sharply.
"I'm going to start as soon as I can roll a smoke and saddle a horse,"
Thornton answered him, a little smile in his eyes. And then, as an after
thought, "I follow the stage road for about ten miles before I turn off
on the trail. Wish I could stick with them clean through."
"What for?" demanded Blackie in the same sharp tone.
"Oh, just to see the fun," Thornton told him lightly. "So long,
Blackie."
"You seem to be mighty sure something's goin' to be pulled off this
trip."
Thornton hung upon his heel, turning slowly.
"I am, Blackie," he said carelessly. And then, "Say, did you notice the
two passengers in the stage?"
"No." He put a great deal of emphasis into the denial. "Who was it?"
"I thought you might have noticed. One of them was that crooked eyed
jasper I saw you staking to free drinks the last time I was in town."
He stared straight into the smaller man's eyes, saw the colour deepen in
his cheeks, shrugged his big shoulders and went to the door. Several of
the men who had come back into the room looked after him curiously, then
as though for explanation, into Blackie's narrowed eyes. The bartender's
hand dropped swiftly out of sight under his bar. Thornton's back was
turned square upon him. And yet, as though he had seen the gesture and
it had been full of significance to him, he whirled with a movement even
quicker than Blackie's had been, and standing loosely, his hands at his
side, looked coolly into the bright black eyes. For a moment no man
moved. Then Blackie, with a little sigh which sounded loudly in the
quiet room, brought his hand back into sight, letting his fingers tap
upon the bar. Thornton smiled, turned again and stepped quickly out of
the door.
"As long as they don't get any closer to the Poison Hole it's none of my
funeral," he muttered to himself. "But if they do, I know one little man
who could do a powerful lot of squealing with the proper inducement!"
Not turning once he passed swiftly down the street toward the stable,
his meditative eyes upon the rocking stage sweeping on to the
south-east, already drawing close to the first of the wooded foothills.
He waited ten minutes, watching his horse eating, and then saddled and
rode out toward the hills.