TENDERFOOT’S LUCK
After much deliberation Rex Morgan decided that the blow on his head
must have left him slightly hazy on things in general; so he gave up
trying to puzzle out what had become of the gate. He did not speak to
Nan about this. She sat on the porch steps with him, looking toward the
6X6, and he knew she was worrying over what had taken place at the
corral.
“You saw the sheriff find that gun, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That was Peter Morgan’s gun, Rex, and I’m afraid the sheriff recognized
it. If he hadn’t, I think he would have mentioned picking it up, and
would have given it to us. They cost about thirty dollars apiece.”
“But he doesn’t know Peter Morgan is dead.”
“He will. And he’ll wonder how that gun got in our corral. Rex, we’ve
got to forget it. No matter what happens, we must keep this a secret.
They would hang my father, as sure as fate.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell,” declared Rex. “I’ve been rather weak in
the stomach since then, but I’m all right now. I don’t want to go to
jail, and I’d do anything in the world before I’d tell. But I wish we
had picked up that gun.”
“If wishes were horses, beggars might ride,” quoted Nan seriously.
“And be welcome to them,” smiled Rex wryly. “I’d rather walk.”
It was an hour or so later when Paul Lane rode in and stabled his horse.
Nan was in the kitchen, preparing a meal, and Rex was sitting on the
front porch, reading an old magazine.
Rex had never seen the old man, but he knew he must be Nan’s father. The
old man came up to the porch and looked Rex over quizzically.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“It is much better, thank you,” replied Rex. “You are Mr. Lane? My name
is Morgan.”
The old man did not offer to shake hands with him.
“What Morgan?” he asked coldly.
“What Morgan? I don’t know just what you mean, Mr. Lane.”
“Any relation to the Morgans of Mesa City?”
Rex shook his head quickly.
“I guess not. At least, I don’t believe I am.”
* * * * *
Nan heard them talking, and came out to the porch.
“Your patient recovered kinda quick, Nan,” said the old man.
“Yes,” she said softly. “How is Walter?”
“All right. I asked him about that horse and gun. He never took ’em,
Nan. He swears he never seen Ben Leach after he left the saloon.”
Nan was watching her father closely, and Rex noticed that her face was
rather white, her lips compressed tightly.
“Dad,” she said hoarsely, “what happened down by the stable this
morning?”
“Eh? Down at the stable? Why, I dunno—nothin’ that I know anythin’
about, Nan.”
“Didn’t you meet Peter Morgan?”
“Meet Peter Morgan? No! I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
He turned to Rex.
“What about you, young man? Who hit you over the head?”
“That is something I can not tell you, Mr. Lane.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Kinda funny.”
He turned from Rex and looked at Nan closely.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “What makes you look at me like
that, Nan? Don’tcha feel well?”
“You swear you didn’t meet Peter Morgan at the stable this morning?”
“I told you I didn’t. Was he here?”
“He was here,” she said. “I found him in the corral, near the corner of
the stable—dead.”
“What?” The old man came closer to her, his eyes wide. “Nan, you don’t
mean that! Not Peter Morgan.”
“He had been hit over the head,” she said slowly. “His horse was back in
the willows; so we tied him on the saddle and turned the horse loose. He
had drawn his gun, and we were so anxious to get him away from here that
we forgot the gun, and the sheriff came along—”
“My God, he didn’t see you, did he, Nan?”
“No, he didn’t see us, but he picked up the gun and took it with him.”
The old man sat down heavily on the bottom steps and tried to get it all
clear in his mind.
“We had to do something,” said Nan wearily.
The old man nodded thoughtfully.
“This young man helped you?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad, I couldn’t have done it alone.”
He turned his head and looked at Rex closely.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked.
Rex explained how he happened to be in that country, and what had
happened to him since he started.
“No idea who hit you last night?” asked the old man.
“Not the slightest, Mr. Lane. I don’t remember a thing from the time
that man stepped out to speak to me until I woke up in your home.”
“You had been hit hard, Morgan. You’ve got a hard head, young man. That
blow would have killed most men. I dunno,” he said wearily, “I almost
wish I hadn’t tried to buck the 6X6. My son is a fugitive, you know.
I’ve tried to induce him to leave the country, but he won’t go. Swears
he never killed Leach. He won’t get a square deal with a Mesa City jury,
nor a jury from any other part of this range; and if the 6X6 outfit
catch him they’ll lynch him on the spot; so what can he do?”
“But who killed Peter Morgan?” asked Nan.
“I don’t know,” replied her father. “If he was killed here, he could
only blame himself. I told him what would happen. I drew a deadline for
the 6X6. Morgan knocked me down on the street in Mesa City.”
“They’ll swear you killed him, Dad. Don’t you see what it means? No
matter where they find the horse with the body, the sheriff found
Morgan’s gun in our corral.”
“That’s true, Nan. We’ll just have to wait and see how it turns out.”
He turned to Rex.
“If I was you, young man, I’d head for Mesa City as quick as possible.
This is a dangerous place to be found. You haven’t any interests here.
I’m just telling you this for your own benefit.”
“But we haven’t done anything, Mr. Lane. I don’t know anybody in Mesa
City—and I’m not afraid.”
“That’s because you’re ignorant of what it might mean. This is my home.
I’m too old to stand trial for murder. My best days are behind me. I’ve
got to fight.”
“I never have fought,” said Rex slowly. “I don’t know how well I could
fight. But I’m not going to run away and leave you and Nan here.”
“They know he’s here,” said Nan quickly.
Her father looked at her quizzically.
“Calls you by your first name—and you don’t want him to go, eh?”
Nan got quickly to her feet.
“I think I better start supper.”
* * * * *
The old man filled his pipe and smoked slowly for a while, stealing an
occasional glance at Rex. Finally he got to his feet and stretched
wearily.
“I dunno,” he said, as if talking to himself. “Soft-handed tenderfoot
and a nester’s daughter. I had hopes she’d pick a man.”
Paul Lane entered the kitchen; he glanced at the wood box, discovered it
almost empty, and started for the back door. But he did not open it. He
stopped suddenly and listened. Nan turned from the stove, holding a
skillet in her hand.
It was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the hard-packed ground of the yard.
Unconsciously Rex crossed near the old man.
None of them said a word. Suddenly the old man reached out and flung the
door open, almost swinging it back against Rex. In the doorway stood
Spike Cahill and Dell Bowen, guns in hand, while behind them were Bert
Roddy, Dave Morgan and Red Eller.
“Gotcha, Lane!” snapped Bowen.
But before any one else made a move, Rex flung himself against the door,
crashing it shut in the faces of the cowboys. Then he darted out of the
room, and a moment later they heard the crash of glass, as he went out
through a window.
One of the cowboys yelled a warning, and they went pounding around the
house, while Nan and her father stood there, looking foolishly at each
other. Then the old man ran through the living room and barred the front
door, picking up his Winchester on the way back.
Nan and her father could hear the cowboys yelling at one another, as
they crashed through the brush, searching for the man they believed to
be Paul Lane. Nan ran to a window and looked out. The chase had taken
the men quite a distance from the ranch-house, but it would only be a
matter of minutes until they would find Rex.
“I reckon I’ll slide out for a while, Nan,” said the old man coldly.
“Looks like my best chance.”
He kissed her quickly, ran out, mounted one of the horses and rode
swiftly down past the stable. Nan heard several shots fired, and her
heart sank.
She unbarred the door and went out on the porch, but could not see
anybody. Acting on the impulse of the moment, she ran into the yard,
climbed on a tall bay horse and raced away from the ranch, heading for
Cañonville.
* * * * *
It is doubtful whether Rex could have explained just why he slammed the
door shut and then dived head first through that window. It was the same
window that Long Lane had used as an exit, but Rex did not wait to open
it.
He struck on his hands and knees in a shower of broken glass and fairly
bounced to his feet and ran as fast as possible for the fringe of brush.
Only one of the men had seen Rex, and that one got only a glimpse. But
it had been enough to draw all on Rex’s trail.
He ran through the heavy cover, tearing his clothes on the mesquite,
scratching his face and hands on the clinging thorns, but going ahead in
spite of it all.
He could hear his pursuers now. They were unable to travel any faster
than he, but they were probably in better physical condition. He tripped
and fell heavily, staying down long enough to let two cowboys pass
within twenty feet of him.
Then he got to his feet and struck off at an angle, only to be cut off
by another cowboy who yelled breathlessly and then fell flat in the
brush. Rex had seen him fall, and it struck him as very funny, but he
did not have enough breath left to laugh.
He changed his course, which took him to an open space in the brush,
where he stopped for a moment to try to get his bearings. Almost at the
same moment he heard a bullet scream past his ear, and from the slope of
a hill came the pop of a revolver.
Another bullet plucked at the sleeve of his shirt, and the third one
struck a rock behind him and went zeeing off through the brush.
“Stop shootin’, you damn’ fool!” yelled a voice. “That ain’t Old Man
Lane; that’s the crazy jigger!”
Then it seemed to Rex that cowboys came smashing through the brush from
every direction. He did not move, as they came up to him. It seemed that
they were all swearing at him. Spike Cahill faced him, breathing
heavily, purple from the hard run.
“So you’re the jigger who busted through the winder, eh?” snarled Spike.
“What was the big idea?”
Rex was too short of breath to even answer a question. He grinned at
Spike, and Spike knocked him flat on his back with a right hand punch.
“Don’t do that, Spike,” said Bowen. “This ginny is crazy.”
“Crazy hell!” gritted Spike. “He led us out here to give that dirty
murderer a chance to fade out. Git up, you lizard!”
Rex got slowly to his feet, his lips red with blood. There were tears in
his eyes, and they thought he was crying because he was hurt. Spike
grasped him by the left arm, sinking his fingers deep.
“Do you know what you done, you ignorant pup?” rasped Spike. He yanked
roughly on Rex’s arm.
_Splat!_
With no preliminary movement Rex uppercut Spike with his right fist, and
Spike landed on his haunches. The knockout was so complete that, after a
moment, Spike sagged sidewise and sprawled flat on his face.
Rex stepped back, rubbing his knuckles on his thigh.
“Bat him over the head with a gun,” advised Dave Morgan.
“No you don’t!” snapped Dell Bowen. “Spike got what was comin’ to him.
This poor fool ain’t got brains enough to fool us intentionally. He
likely got scared and took to the window. And we didn’t have sense
enough to leave somebody at the house to see that it wasn’t a trick.”
* * * * *
Spike rolled over and sat up. He was still hazy, and Red Eller helped
him to his feet.
“Wh—what hit me?” he asked weakly.
“The loon-a-tick,” grinned Red.
“This?” Spike pointed at Rex.
“That,” said Dell coldly. “You earned it, Spike.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!”
The knockout had taken the fight out of Spike. He looked at Rex gloomily
and shook his head.
“Well, we might as well go back and get the horses,” said Dave Morgan.
“It’s all off for today.”
Ignoring Rex, they headed back to the ranch-house, with Rex following.
And it was there that Dave Morgan and Spike Cahill staged a swearing
contest. Both of their horses were missing.
For several moments the air was blue with profanity. Dell Bowen went
through the house, but could find no one.
“The old man took one and the girl took the other,” he said.
“I’ve got a good notion to punch the head off that tenderfoot,” growled
Dave Morgan.
“Go ahead, Davie,” urged Spike. “Hit him for me.”
“No,” said Bowen firmly. “He has nothin’ to do with it. Hittin’ him
won’t correct our mistakes.”
“Would you mind telling me what it is all about?” asked Rex. The cowboys
stared at him.
“Old Man Lane murdered Peter Morgan,” said Bowen.
“When?”
“How in hell do we know?”
“Where?”
“Don’t know that either.”
Rex spat out a little blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“Hell!” snorted Spike. “Let’s go.”
They mounted double on two of the horses, and Rex watched them spur away
from the ranch. He washed his face in cold water and went through the
house, looking for Nan. He didn’t understand why she should leave the
ranch, but she was not there. He looked at himself in a cracked mirror,
and the reflection was somewhat of a shock. He saw a pair of swollen
lips, a discolored eye and numerous scratches across a face which was
badly in need of a shave.
“I prefer civilization,” he said, quoting the ticket agent. “With a face
like that and a head all bandaged, I doubt whether civilization would
accept me. Still, I am alive, and that is something to be thankful for.
I have been in a runaway over a dangerous grade, thrown from a wrecked
stage, beaten over the head, helped dispose of a murdered man, dived
through a window, been shot at and knocked down. What next, I wonder?
Perhaps I had better search for a razor and at least put up an
appearance of civilization.”