BOB HART TAKES A HAND
Bob Hart waited till his friend had disappeared into the house before he
moved.
"Thought he'd run it over me, so I'd roost here on the roof, did he?
Well, I'm after the ol' horn-toad full jump," the puncher murmured,
a gay grin on his good-looking face.
He, too, examined his gun before he followed Dave through the dormer
window and passed into the frowsy bedchamber. None of the details of it
escaped his cool, keen gaze, least of all the sawed-off shotgun in the
corner.
"That scatter gun might come handy. Reckon I'll move it so's I'll know
just where it's at when I need it," he said to himself, and carried the
gun to the bed, where he covered it with a quilt.
At the top of the stairs Bob also hesitated before passing down. Why not
be sure of his line of communications with the roof before going too far?
He did not want to be in such a hurry that his retreat would be cut off.
With as little noise as possible Bob explored the upper story. The first
room in which he found himself was empty of all furniture except a pair
of broken-backed chairs. One casual glance was enough here.
He was about to try a second door when some one spoke. He recognized the
voice. It belonged to the man who wrote his pay checks, and it came from
an adjoining room.
"Always knew you was crooked as a dog's hind laigs Doble. Never liked you
a lick in the road. I'll say this. Some day I'll certainly hang yore hide
up to dry for yore treachery."
"No use to get on the peck, Em. It don't do you no good to make me sore.
Maybe you'll need a friend before you're shet of Brad."
"It relieves my mind some to tell you what a yellow coyote you are,"
explained the cattleman. "You got about as much sand as a brush rabbit
and I'd trust you as far as I would a rattler, you damned sidewinder."
Bob tried the door. The knob turned in his hand and the door slowly
opened inward.
The rattle of the latch brought George Doble's sly, shifty eye round.
He was expecting to see one of his friends from below. A stare of blank
astonishment gave way to a leaping flicker of fear. The crook jumped to
his feet, tugging at his gun. Before he could fire, the range-rider had
closed with him.
The plunging attack drove Doble back against the table, a flimsy,
round-topped affair which gave way beneath this assault upon it. The two
men went down in the wreck. Doble squirmed away like a cat, but before he
could turn to use his revolver Bob was on him again. The puncher caught
his right arm, in time and in no more than time. The deflected bullet
pinged through a looking-glass on a dresser near the foot of the bed.
"Go to it, son! Grab the gun and bust his haid wide open!" an excited
voice encouraged Hart.
But Doble clung to his weapon as a lost cow does to a 'dobe water-hole in
the desert. Bob got a grip on his arm and twisted till he screamed with
pain. He did a head spin and escaped. One hundred and sixty pounds of
steel-muscled cowpuncher landed on his midriff and the six-shooter went
clattering away to a far corner of the room.
Bob dived for the revolver, Doble for the door. A moment, and Hart had
the gun. But whereas there had been three in the room there were now but
two.
A voice from the bed spoke in curt command. "Cut me loose." Bob had heard
that voice on more than one round-up. It was that of Emerson Crawford.
The range-rider's sharp knife cut the ropes that tied the hands and feet
of his employer. He worked in the dark and it took time.
"Who are you? Howcome you here?" demanded the cattleman.
"I'm Bob Hart. It's quite a story. Miss Joyce sent me and Dave Sanders,"
answered the young man, still busy with the ropes.
From below came the sound of a shot, the shuffling of many feet.
"Must be him downstairs."
"I reckon. They's a muley gun in the hall."
Crawford stretched his cramped muscles, flexing and reflexing his arms
and legs. "Get it, son. We'll drift down and sit in."
When Bob returned he found the big cattleman examining Doble's revolver.
He broke the shotgun to make sure it was loaded.
Then, "We'll travel," he said coolly.
The battle sounds below had died away. From the landing they looked down
into the hall and saw a bar of light that came through a partly open
door. Voices were lifted in excitement.
"One of Em Crawford's riders," some one was saying. "A whole passel of
'em must be round the place."
Came the thud of a boot on something soft. "Put the damn spy outa
business, I say," broke in another angrily.
Hart's gorge rose. "Tha's Miller," he whispered to his chief. "He's
kickin' Dave now he's down 'cause Dave whaled him good."
Softly the two men padded down the stair treads and moved along the
passage.
"Who's that?" demanded Shorty, thrusting his head into the hall. "Stay
right there or I'll shoot."
"Oh, no, you won't," answered the cattleman evenly. "I'm comin' into that
room to have a settlement. There'll be no shootin'--unless I do it."
His step did not falter. He moved forward, brushed Shorty aside, and
strode into the midst of his enemies.
Dave lay on the floor. His hair was clotted with blood and a thin stream
of it dripped from his head. The men grouped round his body had their
eyes focused on the man who had just pushed his way in. All of them were
armed, but not one of them made a move to attack.
For there is something about a strong man unafraid more potent than a
company of troopers. Such a man was Emerson Crawford now. His life might
be hanging in the balance of his enemies' fears, but he gave no sign
of uncertainty. His steady gray eyes swept the circle, rested on each
worried face, and fastened on Brad Steelman.
The two had been enemies for years, rivals for control of the range and
for leadership in the community. Before that, as young men, they had been
candidates for the hand of the girl that the better one had won. The
sheepman was shrewd and cunning, but he had no such force of character as
Crawford. At the bottom of his heart, though he seethed with hatred, he
quailed before that level gaze. Did his foe have the house surrounded
with his range-riders? Did he mean to make him pay with his life for the
thing he had done?
Steelman laughed uneasily. An option lay before him. He could fight or he
could throw up the hand he had dealt himself from a stacked deck. If he
let his enemy walk away scot free, some day he would probably have to pay
Crawford with interest. His choice was a characteristic one.
"Well, I reckon you've kinda upset my plans, Em. 'Course I was a-coddin'
you. I didn't aim to hurt you none, though I'd 'a' liked to have talked
you outa the water-holes."
The big cattleman ignored this absolutely. "Have a team hitched right
away. Shorty will 'tend to that. Bob, tie up yore friend's haid with a
handkerchief."
Without an instant's hesitation Hart thrust his revolver back into its
holster. He was willing to trust Crawford to dominate this group of
lawless foes, every one of whom held some deep grudge against him. One
he had sent to the penitentiary. Another he had actually kicked out of
his employ. A third was in his debt for many injuries received. Almost
any of them would have shot him in the back on a dark night, but none
had the cold nerve to meet him in the open. For even in a land which
bred men there were few to match Emerson Crawford.
Shorty looked at Steelman. "I'm waitin', Brad," he said.
The sheepman nodded sullenly. "You done heard your orders, Shorty."
The ex-convict reached for his steeple hat, thrust his revolver back into
its holster, and went jingling from the room. He looked insolently at
Crawford as he passed.
"Different here. If it was my say-so I'd go through."
Hart administered first aid to his friend. "I'm servin' notice, Miller,
that some day I'll bust you wide and handsome for this," he said, looking
straight at the fat gambler. "You have give Dave a raw deal, and you'll
not get away with it."
"I pack a gun. Come a-shootin' when you're ready," retorted Miller.
"Tha's liable to be right soon, you damn horsethief. We've rid 'most a
hundred miles to have a li'l' talk with you and yore pardner there."
"Shoutin' about that race yet, are you? If I wasn't a better loser than
you--"
"Don't bluff, Miller. You know why we trailed you."
Doble edged into the talk. He was still short of wind, but to his thick
wits a denial seemed necessary. "We ain't got yore broncs."
"Who mentioned our broncs?" Hart demanded, swiftly.
"Called Ad a horsethief, didn't you?"
"So he is. You, too. You've got our ponies. Not in yore vest pockets, but
hid out in the brush somewheres. I'm servin' notice right now that Dave
and me have come to collect."
Dave opened his eyes upon a world which danced hazily before him. He had
a splitting headache.
"Wha's the matter?" he asked.
"You had a run-in with a bunch of sheep wranglers," Bob told him.
"They're going to be plumb sorry they got gay."
Presently Shorty returned. "That team's hooked up," he told the world at
large.
"You'll drive us, Steelman," announced Crawford.
"Me!" screamed the leader of the other faction. "You got the most nerve
I ever did see."
"Sure. Drive him home, Brad," advised Shorty with bitter sarcasm. "Black
his boots. Wait on him good. Step lively when yore new boss whistles." He
cackled with splenetic laughter.
"I dunno as I need to drive you home," Steelman said slowly, feeling his
way to a decision. "You know the way better'n I do."
The eyes of the two leaders met.
"You'll drive," the cattleman repeated steadily.
The weak spot in Steelman's leadership was that he was personally not
game. Crawford had a pungent personality. He was dynamic, strong, master
of himself in any emergency. The sheepman's will melted before his
insistence. He dared not face a showdown.
"Oh, well, what's it matter? We can talk things over on the way. Me, I'm
not lookin' for trouble none," he said, his small black eyes moving
restlessly to watch the effect of this on his men.
Bob helped his partner out of the house and into the surrey. The
cattleman took the seat beside Steelman, across his knees the sawed-off
shotgun. He had brought his enemy along for two reasons. One was to
weaken his prestige with his own men. The other was to prevent them
from shooting at the rig as they drove away.
Steelman drove in silence. His heart was filled with surging hatred.
During that ride was born a determination to have nothing less than the
life of his enemy when the time should be ripe.
At the door of his house Crawford dismissed him contemptuously. "Get
out."
The man with the reins spoke softly, venomously, from a dry throat. "One
o' these days you'll crawl on your hands and knees to me for this."
He whipped up the team and rattled away furiously into the night.