THE BOOMING OF THE FORTY-FIVES
At the gate Father Marston stopped. “You run along home, Vicky,” he
said. “I’ll drop in after a while and see how the Colonel is.”
The girl hesitated. “Hadn’t I better go with you?” she said. It was not
necessary for her to say in words that she was afraid to leave the
chaplain alone with Dutch. All three of them understood it.
Marston laughed, rather grimly. “No, child. Mr. Dutch and I understand
each other first rate. We’ll get along fine. See you later.”
She left them, reluctantly. The men took a side street that led toward
Benton’s stable. Dutch was anxious to be gone from Carson. The
preacher’s words had filled him with foreboding. He would not feel easy
until the dust of the capital had long been shaken from his horse’s
hoofs.
His surly voice took on a whine. It was his way of attempting to
propitiate fate. “I got a bad name, Parson, an’ so folks don’t feel
right to me. Lemme say that there’s a heap of worse men than Sam Dutch.
I’ve shot men sure enough, but I ain’t ever shot one that wasn’t better
dead. Most folks don’ know that. They think I go round killin’ to see
’em kick. Well, I don’t. Live an’ let live would be my motto, if gunmen
would only lemme alone. But you know yorese’f how it is, Parson. They
git to thinkin’ if they can bump off Sam Dutch they’ll be chief. So they
come lookin’ for trouble, an’ I got to accommodate ’em.”
A man came down the street walking as though he loved it. His stride
rang out sharp in the still night. He was singing softly the words of a
trail song:
“Last night as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet by and by.
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, little dogies, roll——”
Marston’s heart lost a beat. He felt rather than saw the figure of the
man at his side grow tense as it crouched. Steel flashed in the
moonlight. The preacher struck at a hair-matted wrist as the gun roared.
The singer stopped in his tracks. With incredible quickness he dragged
out a revolver and fired. The chaplain thrust Dutch from him and stepped
back into the road out of the direct line of fire.
The boom of the forty-fives seemed continuous while the short sharp
flashes stabbed the darkness.
A man groaned and clutched at his breast. He sank down, still firing. On
his knees, supporting the weight of his body with the palm of his hand
thrust against the ground, Dutch emptied his revolver, ferocious as a
wounded grizzly. From his throat there issued a sound that was half a
sob and half a snarl of rage.
The thunder of the guns died. The singer moved forward, warily, his gaze
fastened on the huge huddled figure slowly sinking lower. One glance had
been enough to tell him that Marston was not an enemy. Therefore he
concentrated his attention on the centre of danger.
Marston ran to the fallen man and knelt down beside him. He tore open
the coat and vest. A single look was sufficient. Three bullets had torn
into the great barrel-like trunk of his body. One had pierced the right
lung. A second had struck just below the heart. The third had raked from
right to left through the stomach.
“Take my boots off,” gasped the desperado.
The chaplain knew that Dutch was aware he had been mortally wounded.
This request showed it. The Western gunman wanted always to be without
his boots on when he died.
Father Marston eased his head while Hugh McClintock removed the boots.
A gargoyle grin was on the face of the bad man. He meant to “die game,”
after the manner of his kind.
“You sure rang a bull’s eye, Parson, when you pulled them Bible texts on
me. At that, maybe I’d ’a’ fooled you if you hadn’t spoiled my aim that
first shot.”
“You realize——”
“—that I got more’n I can carry? Sure do.”
Marston forgot that this man was the worst desperado Nevada had ever
known. He remembered only that the soul of Sam Dutch, a poor erring
human being, was about to meet its Maker.
“His mercy endureth for ever. Repent. Repent and be saved,” he exhorted
earnestly.
“Too late, Parson,” Dutch answered feebly. “I’m a—dyed-in-the-wool
sinner—an’ I’m—hittin’ the trail—for hell.”
“It’s never too late. ‘While the light holds out to burn, the vilest
sinner may return.’ That’s you, Sam.”
“That’s sure me, but—I don’t reckon—I’ll——”
His body stiffened suddenly, then relaxed limply. He was dead.
The two men rose and looked at each other. Hugh spoke first.
“I had to do it, Father. It was Dutch or me.”
“Yes, you had to do it.”
“He didn’t give me any choice. Came a-shootin’ before I knew even who he
was.”
“I saw what he was doing just in time to hit his arm.”
“I reckon that saved me. You were that quick. I can’t thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Hugh. Thank God.” He looked soberly down at the dead
man. “There, but for His grace, lies Hugh McClintock.”
“Yes,” agreed Hugh solemnly.