A killer is, with mighty few exceptions, a killer because of his own
desires. Black Jack, foreman for the LF, was no exception. He did
not even, secretly or openly, offer the plea that he was a victim of
circumstance. He had killed men. He would kill more men. His past
was a sealed book, his future a gamble and thus he met each day as
it came. Making no prayer, he branded as weak any man who believed
in a God. A half-breed, and the blend was dangerously bad for he had
inherited the baser traits of both races.
Now, as he looked along the barrel of his Winchester to find Pete
Basset at the end of it, his white teeth flashed in a smile that was
unpleasant to see. The bushy black beard hid the cruel lines about
his mouth, but the narrow slits of black that were his eyes,
glittered as the moonlight struck them. A brown finger pressed the
trigger, then paused uncertainly.
The taint in his mixed blood, thrown back to some breech-clouted
ancestor, now stayed his hand. He hated Pete Basset and a bullet
between the boy’s eyes would be too mercifully quick an end. His
trigger finger eased off.
Pete Basset, shocked and not a little disappointed at Shorty’s easy
surrender, hesitated uncertainly, gun lowered, making no move to
raise his hands nor return the fire. He realized with a sickening
feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Black Jack and his men were
well hidden and on higher ground that prevented a rush. He and
Shorty, on the other hand, stood in plain view. Resistance meant
death. Shorty had shown judgment, not a yellow streak. He dropped
his gun and raised his hands.
Shorty, the lariat still in his hands, elevated his arms skyward and
grinned weakly. The soft drip-drip of water from their soaked
clothes on to the hard clay was the only sound that broke the quiet
of the night.
Behind the willow clump, Black Jack lay aside his Winchester and
drew his .45.
“The little ’un brung a rope, Bill,” he announced in a jeering tone
as he stepped into the open. “Mebbeso it’ll come in right handy to
string ’em up. Ketch ropes is scarce and hangin’ a man spoils a rope
fer use. Bad luck to use one that’s snaked a man tuh ——.”
Followed by another man, he stepped carefully down the incline.
“Howdy, Black Whiskers,” said Shorty glibly. “When yuh go through my
pockets after you’ve made a corpse outa me, yuh’ll find four bits in
my off flank pocket. Buy yorese’f a shave with it.”
Holding his gun in careless readiness, Black Jack stepped closer,
still on the incline. Shorty noticed that the single action gun was
not cocked but that the breed’s thumb was on the hammer.
“If yuh got ary more comical sayin’s in yore system,” he sneered,
git shet of ’em. I understand as how hangin’ kinda interferes with a
man’s voice. Bill, tie Basset up. I’ll tend to this mouthy one.”
Black Jack’s hand slipped hipward and produced a pair of steel
handcuffs. He was clear of the incline now and on a level with
Shorty, standing but a couple of feet distant.
“Jest lay aside yore hangin’ rope, little man, and hold yore lily
white paws out fer a nice pair uh bracelets.”
Shorty’s right hand flicked forward from the wrist with a deft,
swift movement. The round noose shot out, settled, and tightened
with such abruptness that Black Jack was caught off his guard.
Shorty hurled himself backward, jerking the breed from his feet.
The .45 exploded harmlessly.
Pete threw himself forward as Bill shot. The youth’s hand clutched
the gun on the ground and, rolling over with a catlike twist, he
fired at the shadowy form that came through the air at him like a
mountain lion springing on its prey. His shot missed Bill by inches
and their bodies met in a thudding crash to writhe and twist in
locked embrace.
Shorty’s wet socks slipped on the water-soaked clay bank as he
jerked the rope. Black Jack, the shining handcuffs now a nasty
weapon, was upon him, the steel manacles crashing full into Shorty’s
face. A grunt of pain and the little puncher’s hand gripped the
black whiskers and jerked. His other fist swung at the man’s jaw.
Again and again the steel cuffs clinked and clashed against the
cowpuncher’s face. They came away each time speckled with blood.
Shorty, on his back underneath the breed, pulled the harder on the
black whiskers and his free arm went around the sinewy brown neck.
Muscles flexed and tightened like a steel-jawed trap and the blows
from the handcuffs became less effective as Shorty slowly pulled the
breed down to him.
Then, with a writhing, twisting movement used by professional
wrestlers, the little puncher slid from under the other’s bulk,
still holding the black head in the crook of his arm. A short arm
jab, vicious and effective, caught Black Jack’s jaw, bringing a
grunt of pain from the breed.
From the shelter of the high bank moved the man whom Shorty had
knocked out with his gun. The man was crawling toward Shorty and
Black Jack, his eyes on Shorty’s gun that lay close by. His hand
closed over the weapon and he sprang forward, his right arm dangling
awkwardly at his side, the gun in his left hand.
Shorty saw him and with a terrific effort rolled over, dragging the
striking, snarling half-breed with him. The wounded man, cursing
methodically to fight off pain and dizziness, stumbled forward and
flung himself on top the two. His gun thudded against Shorty’s head.
Once, twice, three times. Shorty’s grip on the black-bearded head
relaxed and he went limp, his bleeding, mangled features ghastly in
the light of the white moon.
Pete and Bill, panting and fighting like wild beasts, fought without
rules nor thought of fair tactics. Not a word passed their clamped
jaws as they rolled to the water’s edge and under the feet of
Shorty’s horse.
The horse, frightened, lashed out at the struggling forms. A shod
hoof struck Bill in the ribs and with a groan, he relaxed his grip.
Rolling free of the horse’s flying hoofs, Pete staggered to his
feet, aiming a kick at Bill’s face. The stocking-clad heel caught
Bill on the cheek. With a last effort, the outlaw clutched Pete’s
leg and wrapped his arms about it, jerking Pete off balance and
bringing him to the ground.
Black Jack, his breath coming in sobbing gasps, had regained his
feet. He saw Pete lurch to a sitting posture.
“Here!” called the wounded man and thrust the .45 into Black Jack’s
hand. “Finish the ——!”
The half-breed jumped forward. The next instant the gun barrel
crashed against Pete’s head and the fight was over.
X
“Ladd,” said Joe Kipp, breaking a long silence that followed their
departure from the Basset ranch, “how long was you at the lone
cottonwood afore yuh let me see yuh?”
“Mebbeso half an hour, Kipp. I laid in the brush watchin’ yuh.”
“Figgered yuh must ’a’ bin cold-trailin’ me er you’d uh ketched up
with me long afore yuh did. I’d kinda like tuh know jest how yuh
figger me out.”
“That’s a hard question, pardner. Dang me if I kin read yore hand
even when I’ve had a look at yore hole card. The sign all says that
yo’re playin’ a double game. Yet I’d shore hate tuh think it.”
“I’m obliged, Ladd. I hope tuh clear some things up afore many
hours. Supposin’ I tell yuh that by comin’ along with me now, yo’re
hinderin’ instead uh helpin’ things?”
“’Twouldn’t keep me from comin’, Kipp. Not when my Shorty pardner is
mixed up in the deal. I aim tuh see it through, regardless.”
Tad’s tone and the look in his eyes forbade further argument.
“You heerd me and Black Jack talkin’?”
“Only some, when yuh raised yore voices. I heered enough tuh _sabe_
that you was aimin’ tuh lay fer Fox, that was about all.”
“You got reason tuh want Fox killed. Yet yuh kept me from doin’ it.
Why?”
“Because, like I said, I knowed you wa’n’t that sort uh man and it
wouldn’t he’p none tuh kill Fox from the brush. I reckon yo’re goin’
tuh clear up things if yuh kin and I’ll lend a hand if the play
comes up. I hope yuh come out winners, Kipp.”
“Yet yuh won’t trust me tuh go alone?”
“Not when Shorty’s needin’ me, no.” Again an uncomfortable silence
fell over them, unbroken till they reached the edge of the
bad-lands.
“There’ll be a man on guard farther along this trail,” said Kipp.
“If I ride up alone, he’ll let me pass. If you come along, there’ll
be shootin’ and we’ll lose a horse apiece and go back afoot. Will
yuh trust me to go that far by myself? I’ll signal yuh from that
bald knoll when I’ve cleared the trail.”
Tad pondered this for a long moment as he searched Kipp’s eyes.
Apparently satisfied with what he read in the older man’s face, he
nodded briefly.
“I’ll wait half an hour, Kipp. Then I’ll be comin’, regardless uh
ary signal. Them that tries tuh stop me will find they got a game.”
Kipp nodded and, leaving Tad squatted on the ground rolling a
cigaret, rode on.
Tad consulted a battered silver-cased watch and shoved it back in
his overall pocket. A squint at the sun told him that dusk was but
an hour distant. Smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, he watched
Kipp out of sight.
Despite Kipp’s apparent duplicity, Tad liked the white-haired old
man and felt certain that he was not being tricked. There had been
an indefinable something in the sheriff’s eyes that puzzled Tad. He
felt certain that whatever hold Fox and Black Jack had on Kipp, it
must be a terrible one. He knew that Kipp’s momentary lapse of
physical courage was a minor point. There was something far greater
than any fear of physical pain that threatened the sheriff. Now Kipp
was about to break that hold. What would be the outcome?
Thus pondering, Tad saw Kipp ride to the bare knoll and signal with
his hat. Tad was on his feet and in the saddle before the hat quit
waving. Across Tad’s saddle pommel lay his Winchester, a shell in
the barrel, the hammer at half-cock.
Kipp met him, smiling thinly.
“Where’s the guard?” asked Tad. “Gagged and hog-tied in the brush
yonder. He quit easy when I threw down on him. We’re safe now till
we hit the river bottom. They only had one man on guard today. They
bin brandin’, so the gent told me. We’ll take our time now. Dark’ll
come on quick here in the cañons and we’ll slip into the Pocket
afore they spot us.”
“How many men down there?”
“Hard tuh tell. Mebbe three-four. Mebbe so a dozen. They drift in
and out. If they bin brandin’, like as not there’ll be half a
dozen.”
Kipp led the way along the narrow trail that now led along the side
of the shale cliff. Tad understood now why it required but one man
to guard the trail. A single man could, by hiding behind the rimrock
above, drop as many men as he had cartridges in his gun. If Kipp
were bent on tricking him, now was his chance.
Tad felt a shiver pass along his spine, and glanced uneasily about
him. Then he shifted his gun to cover Kipp, grimly determined to
shoot if treachery showed in the shape any movement near the
rimrock.
Kipp, turning in his saddle to address some remark, saw Tad’s gun
covering him. The faint smile on the old officer’s lips could not
hide the pain of humiliation in his eyes. Tad grinned uneasily but
did not shift the position of his gun.
The sheriff faced forward once more, the remark he had been about to
make unspoken. In the fading light, Tad gazed at the tufts of
snow-hued hair beneath the battered hat. The shoulders beneath
Kipp’s faded jumper sagged as if beneath the weight of some great
load.
“——,” muttered Tad, and shifted his Winchester so that the weapon
rested across his saddle, muzzle toward the cliff.
“I’ll borry the use of a chaw if yuh got ary handy,” he called.
In the pocket of his chaps was a plug, but he somehow felt ashamed
of mistrusting Kipp and wanted the old fellow to know that he was no
longer covered.
Kipp tossed him a piece of tobacco, noticing the while that
Tad’s Winchester now pointed in another direction. He grinned
understandingly and they rode on down the steep trail.
Dark fell like a black blanket, to be followed by the pale
moonlight. From the river bottom, miles below, the faint sound of
shots echoed, reechoed, and died away, leaving a silence charged
with a sinister foreboding that caused Tad Ladd’s eyes to narrow
dangerously.
“Can’t we make better time down this —— trail, Kipp?” he growled. “I
don’t like them shots.”
“Goin’ faster might mean a fall, Ladd. The more haste, the less
speed, right now. We can’t do them boys much good if we gits
crippled up.”
Tad, boiling with impatience, realized the truth of Kipp’s
assertion. It seemed hours before the trail widened and they found
themselves on level ground in the deep shadow of towering
cottonwoods.
The bawling of a cow, hunting her calf. The distant crack of brush
as a white-tail buck broke cover. The mournful call of a horned owl.
Then silence.
“The corrals is nigh a mile from here,” whispered Kipp. “The cabins
lays beyond them a hundred yards. It might be wise fer me tuh go on
alone. They know that Pete Basset broke out and there may be a man
er two scattered along the trail. Two of us ’ud look queer. If I was
tuh go on alone, I’d sorter spring ary traps they had set fer
visitors, savvy, and not git shot. Trust me?”
“Them shots we heered, Kipp. I don’t like tuh set here doin’ nothin’
while mebbeso Shorty’s needin’ me bad.”
“If he was needin’ yuh tuh help out ary gun scrap, there’d be more
shots. If that shootin’ was sign of a fight, the fight’s done fit
and won long ago. Best let me go on alone. Iffen I gits in a tight,
I’ll shoot and you kin come a foggin’. Gimme half a hour. Then come
on keerful.”
If Kipp was bent on leading him into a trap, thought Tad, he would
have done so before they quit the narrow trail.
“I’ll chance it, Sheriff,” he replied.
Kipp nodded briefly and in a moment was lost to sight along the
trail that faded into the tall trees.
The sheriff’s horse made but little noise as it traveled along the
trail. Minutes passed and his coming was not challenged. Then
without warning, a sickening crash of breaking timber under the
horse. Kipp and his mount dropped out of sight in the thinly covered
pit. Snorting with fear, the horse went down, Kipp striving
desperately to free himself from the falling animal. The sheriff’s
head struck something solid and he lost consciousness.
Two heavily armed men stepped from a clump of choke-cherry brush.
“I’m right glad that —— deadfall ketched somethin’,” grinned one of
them. “I shore sweat a plenty diggin’ her. Wonder how this gent got
past the guard.”
“I ketched sight uh his face as he dropped in,” growled the other.
“It was Kipp. That’s how-come he got down the trail without bein’
drilled. Hope it didn’t bust the hoss’s leg.”
“Ner Kipp’s neck. Black Jack’ll raise —— if he gits killed and a
stranger gits put in the sheriff office. Fox’d have a shore tough
time of it if a hard man was put in Kipp’s place. Lower the ladder
and we’ll look over the damage.”
“I’d give somethin’ tuh know what they got on old Kipp,” muttered
the other as he lowered a ladder into the pit.
One of them went down the ladder. A moment later a match sputtered
and lit up the inky blackness of the hole.
“Kipp’s knocked out and the hoss is good as ever,” he called in
guarded tones. “Better shove down the gangplank so we kin lead the
critter up.”
* * * * *
A cleated plank runway was lowered and after some minutes of work
the frightened horse was led to solid ground. Kipp, still
unconscious and bleeding from a nasty scalp wound, was carried out.
“You lead his hoss. I’ll pack him across my saddle.”
Thus Joe Kipp was carried to the lighted cabin where Black Jack sat
on the edge of a bunk smoking cigarets and taunting the two
prisoners who were on the dirt floor, bound hand and foot, their
backs against a log wall.
“Where’d yuh git him?” asked Black Jack.
“He rode into the pit.”
Black Jack picked up a water bucket and threw the contents roughly
into Kipp’s face. The sheriff groaned and opened his eyes. The breed
stooped and plucked the .45 from Kipp’s scabbard, then resumed his
seat on the bunk. Behind his half-closed eyes lay some nervous
tension and his brows knitted in a scowl as he watched Kipp sputter
and struggle to a sitting posture on the floor.
Shorty and Pete exchanged a quick look but made no sound. Both were
disheveled and Shorty’s face was swollen and caked with dried blood.
Yet his eyes blazed defiantly and about his bruised lips played a
sardonic smile. Pete, erect and defiant, strained cautiously at the
ropes that bound his arms. Both the prisoners divided their glances
between Black Jack and Kipp.
“Where’s Fox?” snapped Black Jack.
“He ain’t dead, if that’s what yo’re drivin’ at,” returned Kipp.
Black Jack seemed relieved at hearing this bit of news.
“Miss him?” he sneered. “Er lose yore guts at the last minute?”
“Neither.” Kipp was gathering his addled wits. “How long have I bin
knocked out?”
“Ten minutes, rough guessin’,” grinned one of the men who had taken
him from the pit.
Kipp, thinking of Tad, calculated swiftly. Fifteen minutes had
passed since the two had parted. That meant that in fifteen minutes
more, Tad would be riding along that trail into a similar trap
perhaps.
“Got ary more uh them —— holes around here fer a man tuh fall into?”
he growled, feeling gingerly of his head.
Black Jack laughed harshly.
“Nope. One’s a-plenty, I reckon. How come yuh never lit no signal
fire from the rimrock like yuh was told to?”
“Fergot.”
Kipp felt somewhat relieved to learn that Tad would not be trapped
as he had been.
“Fergot, eh?” Black Jack sneered. “Mebbe. Mebbe not. Looks tuh me
like you was aimin’ tuh sneak in and take a look around. You bin
weakenin’ fer some time. When I left yuh last night, you was doin’
some nasty talkin’. ’Lowed you was through with me and Fox. By ——,
I’ll see about that! Afore yo’re a hour older, I’ll have yuh messed
up so —— tight you won’t never make a peep. See them two skunks
settin’ yonder? They’re cashin’ in their chips tonight, savvy? And
yo’re the gent tuh do the job. Then yuh kin go back to Hank Basset
and be —— to yuh. Go back and tell him how yuh hung his son and the
nosey runt of a would-be gunman that come in here with him! Tell
Basset that. I’ll learn yuh to lay down on me!”
The breed was literally shaking with rage now. His ugly lips twisted
in a leering grin.
“I aimed tuh shoot them two and dump ’em in the river. Hangin’ beats
that all tuh ——, though. ’Specially with Sheriff Kipp tuh lead their
hosses out from under ’em and leave ’em danglin’ to a cottonwood
limb.”
“——!” said Kipp hoarsely, reading full well the cruel cunning in
Black Jack’s smoldering eyes. “You won’t! If ary harm come to them
two boys, you’ll hang fer it. I’ll hang with ’em afore I’ll mix up
in such a low-down murder. I told yuh I’d come to the place where I
was quittin’. I meant what I said. I’m givin’ you a chanct that you
don’t noways deserve. I’m givin’ you twenty-four hours tuh quit the
country. After that time, I’m goin’ after yuh and by ——, I’ll put
yuh back in the pen where yuh belong.”
Black Jack, calm again, sneered insultingly into the face of the
sheriff.
“I reckon yo’re drunk. Yo’re fergettin’ who you are, ain’t yuh?”
“No,” said Kipp evenly, “I ain’t fergittin’. I’ve left papers
behind me which tell the whole —— story. If I don’t come back in
twenty-four hours there’ll be a hundred men in here to see what’s
become uh me and to wipe out as low-down nest uh snakes as ever
lived. I never lied tuh you. I ain’t lyin’ now. I’m givin’ you a
fighting’ chanct tuh make a getaway. Take it er leave it.”
“You mean yo’re double-crossin’ me and Fox?” said Black Joe, his
words falling slowly.
“I mean that I’m wipin’ my slate clean afore I resigns as sheriff.
Wipin’ it clean, regardless uh what it costs. I’m givin’ you a
chanct tuh leave me and these two boys here and git out. Do yuh take
it?”
Kipp’s eyes were fixed on a battered alarm clock. The half hour was
up. Tad would be starting. Even if he had a gun to fire a signal
would only be putting Black Jack on guard. Tad would come
cautiously. Fate would decide.
A calculating gleam flashed in the breed’s eyes. Documentary
evidence to a criminal is a dangerous weapon. Dead men may tell no
tales, but a written statement is as a voice from beyond the grave.
“Looks like yuh hold all the winnin’ cards this deal,” he said
flatly. “Yuh shore out-figgered Fox when yuh planted them papers in
yore safe tuh cover yore trail. I suppose yore friend Hank Basset
holds the combination.”
It was a shrewd bit of calculating and Black Jack’s acting was
without fault. He was playing for the highest stakes a man may
wager: Life and freedom. Never did a gambler play more shrewdly.
Kipp, physically and mentally worn to the breaking point, was caught
off guard.
“Yes, and Hank’s the man that’ll see justice done. I——”
Black Jack’s ugly laugh caught the sheriff up short. Too late, he
realized the mistake he had made.
“Bill,” ordered the breed quickly, “take a man and ketch the fastest
mounts in the _remuda_. Ride tuh town and bust open that cracker-box
safe. Bring all the papers that’s in it. Tell Fox tuh play safe fer
a spell. Tell him that Alder Gulch’ll be needin’ a new sheriff.
Kipp’s dead.”
Bill and another man slipped outside and closed the door behind
them. There now remained but two outlaws besides Black Jack. One of
them was in a corner on a bunk, moaning from the pain of the broken
arm Pete Basset had given him.
Where was Tad? That was the sole thought in Joe Kipp’s mind now. The
departure of Bill and the other man lessened the odds.
“Better hog-tie the blattin’ old fool,” suggested Black Jack a
moment later to the man who squatted against the closed door, a .45
in his hand.
“Lemme roll a smoke first,” requested Kipp, reaching for tobacco,
hoping to delay things till Tad showed.
The man who had gotten to his feet hesitated.
“Tie him, I said. Smoke be——”
Kipp leaped forward. A clubbed gun caught the old officer across the
jaw, whirling him about. Another blow from the man’s gun while Black
Jack looked on in scowling approval. Kipp sank limply to the floor.
“Neat work. Now tie him afore he comes to. I’ll learn him what
happens tuh them that loses their guts in this game.”