BEFORE THE DAWN
The window through which Tom Hallaway had been shot faced the open
country. The other two windows in the room flanked the front door.
The thoughtful Laguerre had brought Loudon's rifle in with him, and the
two men squatted down behind the windows. Their view of Main Street
was excellent. They could see almost the whole width of the street
from one end of the town to the other.
Far down the street the windows of Lainey's Hotel were smoking like the
gunports of an old-time line-o'-battle-ship. The men in the hotel
seemed to be devoting all their attention to the Happy Heart and the
houses between it and Piney Jackson's blacksmith shop.
Directly opposite the Happy Heart was a small store from which three or
four men were directing a heavy fire at the saloon. Next to the store
were four empty corrals, and then came some twenty houses, the
twentieth opposite the sheriff's shack. Of these houses all save the
three nearest the corrals were silent. The folk in these three were
carrying on a duel: with the defenders of the Blue Pigeon Store, whose
fire had slackened somewhat.
"I hope they haven't got Mike," said Loudon, and drove a bullet close
above a window-sill of the middle house of the three. "He's a good
fellah." Another bullet nicked the window-sill. "This can't go on
forever." Again a bullet shaved the window-sill. "Somethin's going'
to pop some soon."
Something did pop. The firing from the Happy Heart culminated in a
terrific volley, and then ceased abruptly.
"That's funny," commented Loudon. "It can't---- They're sliding out!"
Which latter remark was called forth by a sudden outburst of firing
from the corral where Johnny and Chuck were stationed. Loudon and
Laguerre ran out the back way. The former's surmise was correct.
The Happy Heart defenders had broken cover and reached the big corral
behind the saloon. Four of them were down in front of the corral gate.
They would never pull trigger again. But the others, in number a score
or more, had reached their horses and were pouring out of the gate in
the far side of the corral.
Loudon perceived that the two riders in the lead were mounted on Brown
Jug and the gray. These two kept together. The remaining fugitives
wisely fled separately and in many directions.
Loudon and Laguerre did not fire. The range was a long six hundred
yards; too long for accurate shooting when the target is astride a
racing horse. Imbued with the same idea they ran to their horses,
flipped the reins over their heads, and jammed their Winchesters into
the scabbards. Both ponies were galloping at full speed when the two
were settled in their saddles.
"We can not catch dem!" cried Laguerre ten minutes later.
"We'll try, anyhow," replied Loudon, standing up in the stirrups to
ease his horse, and wishing that he had ridden Ranger.
Half an hour later it became obvious that pursuit was useless. Brown
Jug and the gray had the legs of the pursuer's horses. The sun was
setting, too. Loudon and Laguerre pulled in their panting mounts.
"Here comes Johnny an' Chuck," said Loudon.
"Could yuh tell who they was?" demanded Johnny, breathlessly.
"They kept their backs to us," Loudon replied, drily, "an' they didn't
leave any cards."
"Ain't got no manners at all," said Johnny Ramsay. "They're headin'
northwest, an' they shore ought to get there. C'mon back, I'm dry."
"They was seven 88 ponies in Block's corral," said Chuck Morgan.
"Let's hurry. Maybe we can get the owners yet."
"If they ain't already been got," said Johnny Ramsay.
"Seven 88 ponies," repeated Loudon. "I seen 'em in the corral, but I
couldn't see the brand. Seven. That means seven o' the outfit was in
Farewell, an' more'n seven, maybe. I don't believe Blakely was there.
He's been mighty cautious lately. Well, anyhow, countin' seven at
Farewell, there'd ought to be eight more at the four line-camps.
Rudd's quit, an' Marvin is hogtied, an' Shorty Simms is dead.
Accordin' to my figurin', that makes eighteen."
"Yo're well educated, Mr. Loudon," said Johnny Ramsay.
"Correct. Well, then, unless Blakely has hired a bunch o' new men,
which ain't likely, then eighteen from twenty-five leaves seven."
"First class in 'rithmetic will take the front seats," remarked Chuck,
solemnly. "The little boys mustn't sit with the little girls.
Attention, children, an' I'll interduce our new teacher, Mr. Thomas
Loudon, a well-known---- Hi! you leave my cayuse alone, Tom! I'm the
only gent he allows to spur him. Damitall, he's goin' to buck, an' I'm
all het up, anyhow. Oh, ----! I knowed it!"
"Chuck ought to ride pitchers for a livin'," commented Loudon. "Ain't
he graceful? Go yuh ten, Telescope, he pulls leather."
Chuck returned to them ten minutes later. He sidled his now thoroughly
chastened pony in between Ramsay and Laguerre.
"I'll have nothin' more to do with that long-legged feller on the left
o' the line," Chuck announced to the world at large. "He'd just as
soon break a friend's neck as not. He ain't got no feelin's whatever.
'Rithmetic's done locoed him."
"As I was sayin' before I was interrupted," said Loudon, grinning,
"eighteen from twenty-five leaves seven. There oughtn't to be more'n
seven men at the 88 ranch house an' they won't be expectin' callers.
There's four of us. What's the answer?"
"Dat ees fine," Laguerre said. "We weel geet dere before Scotty un de
odders come. I say we go."
"Me, too," said Johnny Ramsay.
"But no more 'rithmetic!" Chuck Morgan cried in mock alarm. "It shore
makes my head ache, 'rithmetic does."
They swung away from Farewell and entered a long draw, dark with the
purple shadows of the twilight.
"Wasn't there nobody at all in Block's shack?" queried Johnny Ramsay,
rolling a cigarette one-handed.
"Three," replied Loudon.
"Huh!" Johnny Ramsay was startled.
"Two was dead an' the third was dyin'," explained Loudon. "He cashed
before we come out. His name was Tom Hallaway. You remember about
Cutting stealin' my hoss. Well, him an' Block turned up in Rocket, an'
Cutting was ridin' a blaze-face pinto. Come to find out, the pinto
belonged to a fellah named Jim Hallaway, an' Jim was found murdered.
The way I figure it: Cutting knowed better'n to ride in on my hoss, so
he killed Jim an' took his pony, leavin' my hoss back in the hills
some'ers. Later he went back after Ranger, an' sloped with the pair.
"This Tom Hallaway was Jim's brother. The two dead men in the shack
was the sheriff an' Cutting. Yeah, Rufe Cutting. It'd been better for
him if he'd gone south like the sheriff said he did. Rufe was carved
up tremendous, an' Block had been plugged three times. Hallaway got
'em both. Two o' the Farewell boys got him though--through the window.
But they didn't live long enough to tell about it. He got them plumb
centre. Yep, four was Hallaway's tally. He shore paid 'em in full for
killin' Jim."
"Which I should say as much," murmured Chuck Morgan, admiringly. "He
was some man!"
"An' he had to die," said Loudon. "All on account o' them measly
skunks. Well, by the time Scotty an' that crowd get through with
Farewell a Sunday-school won't be in it with the town."
"Yo're whistlin'," said Johnny Ramsay.
The four pushed their mounts almost to the limit of their strength. At
three in the morning they dismounted in a grove of singing pines. The
88 ranch buildings were a bare quarter-mile distant.
They tied their horses and went forward on foot. Their plan was to
enter the ranch house and take Blakely prisoner while he slept. It was
a sufficiently foolhardy proceeding, for Blakely was known to be a
light sleeper. And there might be more than seven men in the
bunkhouse. If the scheme miscarried, and Blakely should give the
alarm---- But the four men wasted little thought on that contingency.
Silently they approached the dark blots that were the ranch buildings.
Foot by foot they edged along between the two corrals.
At the blacksmith shop they halted. To the right, and fifty or sixty
yards away, was the bunkhouse. In front of them stretched the square
shape of the ranch house. Loudon sat down and pulled off his boots.
The others followed his example.
"I'm goin' down to the bunkhouse first," Loudon whispered. "I can tell
by the snores, maybe, how many we've got to count in."
Loudon slid silently toward the bunkhouse. In ten minutes he was back.
"Not a snore," he whispered. "I listened at each window. There ain't
a sound in that bunkhouse. If the boys are gone, then Blakely's gone.
There's only one window open in the ranch house. I didn't hear nothin'
there, either."
Leaving Johnny on guard at the back door, Loudon and the others tiptoed
around the ranch house. They leaned their rifles against the wall
beside the door and Loudon laid his hand on the latch. Slowly he
lifted the latch and slowly, very slowly, so that it would not creak,
he pushed the door open. Once inside they halted, nerves a-stretch,
and ears straining to catch the slightest sound. But there was no
sound.
Loudon knew that there were three rooms, an office, and a wide hall in
the ranch house, but where Blakely was in the habit of sleeping he did
not know. While Laguerre and Chuck Morgan remained in the hall, Loudon
felt his way from room to room.
Still hearing no sound he grew bolder and struck a match. He found
himself in the office. In company with the others he visited every
room in turn. Each was empty. In one room the flickering matchlight
revealed a bed. The blankets were tumbled. An alarm clock hanging on
a nail above the bed had stopped at half-past two.
"Blakely left yesterday, all right," said Loudon. "It takes a day an'
a half for them clocks to run down. Guess he must 'a' been at Farewell
after all."
"Maybe some o'the boys got him," Chuck said, hopefully.
"No such luck."
The match went out, and Loudon scratched another, intending to light a
lamp.
"Put out that light!" came in a hoarse whisper from the back door.
"Somebody's a-comin'."
Loudon crushed the match between his fingers and hurried to the back
door. Laguerre and Chuck crowded against him.
"Listen!" commanded Johnny Ramsay.
"Sounds like two horses," said Loudon.
"Comin' the way we come," growled Loudon.
The hoof-beats, at first a mere ripple of distant sound, grew louder
rapidly.
"If they're comin' here, they'll come in the ranch house, shore," said
Loudon. "They're only two, so they must be a couple o' the 88. We'll
take 'em alive. Telescope, you an' Chuck take this door, an' Johnny
an' I'll take the front. If they come yore way bend yore guns over
their heads. Don't shoot till yuh know who they are for shore. It's
just possible they may be friends."
Loudon and Johnny Ramsay ran through the hall, brought in the rifles,
and closed the front door. Side by side they waited. The door was
poorly hung. Through the cracks they could hear quite plainly the drum
of the galloping horses' feet. Suddenly a horse neighed shrilly.
"Our hosses in the grove!" breathed Loudon. "I forgot 'em, an'----"
But the approaching horsemen did not halt. As they came closer Loudon
heard one call to the other and the latter make a reply, but the words
were unintelligible. They were still talking when they pulled up in
front of the ranch-house door.
"I tell yuh I don't like that whinnerin'!" one man was insisting,
angrily. "Maybe, now----"
"Gittin' scared, huh!" sneered the other. "It's just some o' our
hosses strayed. They often go over in that bunch o' pines. You take
the hosses down to the corral, Pete, an' change the saddles, an' I'll
rustle us some grub an' the cartridges. Skip now!"
The speaker lifted the door latch. The door crashed open. A boot
scuffed the doorsill. The heavy barrel of Loudon's six-shooter smashed
down across hat and hair with a crunch.
Even as the man dropped, Loudon, taking no chances, flung his arms
around the falling body and went down with it. Johnny Ramsay, drawing
his own conclusions as to the friendliness of the man with the horses,
sprang through the doorway, his six-shooter spitting. In mid-leap he
checked and fell flat, his six-shooter flying from his hand. He was up
in an instant and feeling about for his gun. Panting and swearing, for
in his ears was the tuckle-tuck-tuckle-tuck of a furiously ridden
horse, he found his six-shooter at last.
"Deed you heet heem?" called Laguerre from the doorway.
"I did not," replied Johnny. "Leastwise he didn't wait to tell me. If
I hadn't tripped over somebody's feet an' lost my gun in the shuffle,
I'd have got him all right. He wasn't five yards away. By the time I
got hold o' the gun he was over the hills an' far away, so far as
hittin' him was concerned. He left the other sport's hoss, though."
Johnny went up to the horse, a big light-coloured animal, and flung its
dragging rein over a post near the door. The horse stood quietly, legs
spread, breathing heavily.
"Hey!" bawled Loudon. "Somebody gimme a match! I can't find mine, an'
I want to look at Blakely!"
"So eet ees Blakely," said Laguerre. "I deed not know."
"Shore," Loudon said, "I knowed both voices instanter. The other party
was that Paradise Bender named Pete O'Leary. Ain't anybody got a
match?"
Johnny Ramsay pulled a match out of his hat-band and scratched it. He
held the flame above the face of the unconscious man on the floor.
"It's Blakely. No mistake about that," said Loudon in a tone of great
satisfaction.
A guttural exclamation from Laguerre drew Loudon's eyes to the
half-breed. Laguerre was bending forward, his eyes fixed in a terrible
glare on the face of Blakely. Laguerre's lips writhed open. His teeth
were bared to the gum. His countenance was a mask of relentless hate.
"Pony George!" almost whispered Laguerre. "At las'!"
The match went out.
"Gimme them matches!" exclaimed Loudon, harshly.
He went into the office, found a lamp and lit it. He carried it into
the hall and placed it on a chair. Laguerre had squatted down on his
heels. His eyes, now mere slits, were still fixed on Blakely. Johnny
Ramsay and Chuck Morgan covertly watched Laguerre. They did not
understand. Laguerre's head pivoted suddenly.
"Dat man ees mine," he said, staring at Loudon.
"Of course. Yuh don't need to say nothin' more, Telescope."
"I weel tell why. Dese odders mus' know. My frien's," the swarthy
face with the terrible eyes turned toward Chuck and Johnny, "my
frien's, long tam ago, ovair eas' on de Sweetwatair, I know dees man.
She was not call Blakely den. Hees name was Taylor--Pony George, dey
call heem. Pony George she keel my wife, my leetle Marie. Feefteen
year I have hunt Pony George. Now I have foun' heem. Un I weel keel
heem, me."
Johnny and Chuck nodded gravely. The primitive code of the broken
lands is bluntly simple. Vengeance was Laguerre's.