POWDER LAW
By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Sheriff of Sun-Dog,” etc.
When the Evil Spirit was very young, he desired to live upon the earth.
Being an Evil Spirit, the land was too fair for his abode; so he builded
himself a land upon a land.
Being very young, his dwelling pleased him for a time, but like a child
he soon tired of it, after which he destroyed it with a sweep of his
hands. The tale is true. This place was surely made by a spirit, and
would the Great Spirit build such a place as this?--_Indian Legend_.
* * * * *
As proof of this legend they point to the Mauvaises Terres, the Bad
Lands of eastern Montana; mute evidences of the one-time devil’s
playground. White men call it a freak of nature, this desolate region;
peopled with shadow-ghosts, grotesque architecture, not made by human
hands, where the blizzards of Winter howl and shriek through cave and
column, and where the heat gods dance through the short Summers. Freak
of nature, it may be--devil’s playground, it is.
It was the Summer of 1880, nine years before Montana was admitted to
the sisterhood of States; a time when the laws of God and man were but
vague shadows of the future or of a forgotten past; a time when right
and wrong were but an individual point of view.
History does not touch this period of the West, except to tell briefly
of troubles with the Cheyenne and Sioux, who merely fought to repel the
invader. But this tale is not of the Indian, but of another menace of
that day, which is not mentioned in history.
* * * * *
Skirting the border of the Bad Lands came two mounted men, leading a
pack-horse. The man in the lead, riding a tall gray horse, drew rein
at the top of a small butte. He removed his sombrero and wiped the
perspiration from his brow, with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Blaze” Carlin was a striking figure of a man, as he sat his horse with
the ease attained by none except men who live their lives atop a horse.
His hair was long and as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, except
for a strip, at least two inches wide of snow-white hair, which began at
the center of his forehead and ended at the crown of his head. From this
peculiarity he received his nickname.
His forehead was broad, his cheek-bones prominent, and a generous
mouth smiled from beneath a high-arched nose. He was as bronzed as a
savage. In fact, at first glance, one would have called him a Sioux,
but there was a hint of Celtic blood in his upper lip and mouth, and
his eyes, a slaty-gray, did not fit the rest of his features nor
coloring. It was as if an artist had used a Sioux model; painting in
an Irish smile and blue-gray eyes and finished it off by drawing a
full brush of white through the center of the hair.
The other man was small and wiry, bearded to the eyes, which were as
black and luminous as jet beads. His nose was hooked, like the beak of
an eagle. While Blaze Carlin was dressed in the height of cowboy
fashion, this little man, “Frenchy” Ditteau, wore an old, half-fringed
buckskin shirt, plaid, blanket pants and short boots. Across the fork
of their saddles, both men carried Sharp’s rifles.
Frenchy Ditteau rode up beside Blaze, took out a plug of tobacco and a
heavy clasp-knife and began to cut a pipeful of tobacco.
“Bimeby we strike de town, eh, Blaze?”
Blaze Carlin nodded, but continued to stare ahead. He brushed his hand
across his eyes and turned his head.
“I reckon so, Frenchy. This heat kinda makes things look queer and
this danged country makes yuh see things what ain’t; but I thought I
seen seven men riding toward the sun. Maybe they was buffalo, but I
don’t think so.”
“You got de good eye,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m mak’ de bet that she’s not
be de buffalo.”
Blaze smiled at his companion. He had first met little Frenchy Ditteau
in a saloon near Deadwood; a saloon filled with powder-smoke and
struggling men. He had seen Frenchy empty his pistol and then fling
himself headlong into the muzzles of spouting pistols, slashing with
his knife and yelling like a Comanche.
The odds were sadly against Frenchy; therefore Blaze accepted part
of the battle. Frenchy had been scored in several places, but Blaze
managed to get him to the hitch-rack, where they got mounted and rode
out of the town.
“Where yuh headed for?” Blaze had asked.
“Some place,” said Frenchy vaguely. “I’m t’ink dis town she’s not be
friend to me and you, pardnair. Where you go?”
“Some place,” grinned Blaze and they galloped out of town, headed north.
Blaze Carlin was a gambler, but an honest one. He had no visions of
making a big stake. Gambling to Blaze was an obsession rather than a
profession. He knew the cattle business, knew that his riding and
roping ability would earn him a job in any cow-country. Money meant
nothing to him except a chance to pit his judgment against other
men.
He had ridden away with Frenchy Ditteau for the simple reason that
he knew the town would be against him for his part in the battle and
partly because he admired the heart of a man who would pit his knife
against pistols. He did not ask Frenchy the reasons for the fight,
because it was none of his affair, and Frenchy did not explain. It
was merely an incident. Frenchy was utterly indifferent as to his
destination. Blaze suggested Medora.
“Ba gosh, dat’s de place!” declared Frenchy.
“How about headin’ up into Montana where the new railroad is comin’
through?” asked Blaze.
“We go dere sure!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to see de railroad.”
Blaze laughed.
“Ain’t you got no choice, Frenchy?”
“To go wit’ you,” grinned Frenchy and the partnership pact was sealed.
For miles they had skirted the Bad Lands, seeking to strike into the
big cattle-ranges, but as yet they had found no signs of human
habitation. Frenchy lighted his pipe and they rode on. About half a
mile farther on they came to a brushy coulée, and partly hid away in
the brush they could see the half-log, half-mud cabin of a squatter.
“Hittin’ closer to civilization,” observed Blaze pointing at the cabin.
Frenchy drew slowly at his unlighted pipe, his eyes squinted in a steady
focus on some object.
“What do yuh see?” asked Blaze.
Frenchy did not reply, but spurred his horse down the edge of the
coulée. Blaze, after another look, followed him, driving the pack-horse
ahead of him. A trail, hammered hard by cloven hoofs, led straight down
through the brush to the rear of the cabin.
Near the side of the cabin grew a stunted cottonwood tree, and hanging
to a large branch by a noosed rope was the figure of a man. Blaze and
Frenchy dismounted and walked around the tree. The body was tightly
bound with ropes, and pinned to the breast of the dead man’s shirt was
a square of paper on which was crudely printed--
A WARNIN TO ALL
It was signed with a large V. Frenchy folded his arms and puffed loudly
on his pipe while Blaze read it aloud.
“You spik true,” nodded Frenchy. “We are close to de civilize folks,
Blaze.”
“That V would be for vigilantes,” mused Blaze. “Did yuh ever hear of
them, Frenchy?”
Frenchy shook his head.
“They’re a bunch of fellers who takes the law in their own hands,”
explained Blaze. “When the law can’t or won’t do the job right, then
the vigilantes steps in.”
“Mm-m-m,” mumbled Frenchy. “She’s hang de bad-man, eh? All de time she’s
do no-ting to de good man?”
“I don’t reckon they’re supposed to,” said Blaze.
“When de vigilante she’s hones’ man, she’s only tak’ away de bad-man,
eh? Me, I’m mak’ t’ink she’s bad t’ing if de bad-man mak’ himself
vigilante. W’at you t’ink, Blaze?”
The crude wisdom of Frenchy had picked out the flaw of the vigilante
system--a system which was efficient in bringing terror to outlawry
in the old West, but which went beyond its intention and became the
weapon of unscrupulous men, who used it to further their own ends.
“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy,” admitted Blaze, after thinking over
Frenchy’s words. “Maybe they won’t thank us for buryin’ their victim,
bein’ as they kinda leaves ’em hangin’ around as a warnin’; but we’ll
take a chance.”
They cut the rope. The man was well past middle-age, his hair and beard
almost white. Blaze examined him closely. One of his legs lay in an
unnatural position, and Blaze discovered that the man was a cripple. He
examined the man’s hands and got to his feet as Frenchy appeared with a
shovel and a pick.
“Why you t’ink dey string him up for?” asked Frenchy. “Bad-man, you
t’ink?”
“He was a cripple, Frenchy.” Blaze spoke softly, as if afraid the dead
man might hear. “His knee is all crooked and his hands are tied in knots
from rheumatism. He couldn’t neither run nor hold a gun.”
Frenchy turned away and began digging. Blaze watched him for a time and
then picked up the shovel.
“I’m mak’ t’ink,” observed Frenchy leaning on his pick, “I’m t’ink I’m
mad like ---- for de vigilant. Mebbe she’s de law, but jus’ de same----”
“He couldn’t run nor hold a gun,” said Blaze.
“Me and you t’ink alike, mos’ always,” nodded Frenchy.
Neither of them knew anything of the burial service. The victim of
the vigilantes was rolled in an old blanket and buried beside the old
cottonwood tree. The interior of the cabin did not disclose the man’s
identity. It was crudely furnished and did not show long occupancy.
There was no sign of any firearms and the food supply was low. They
fastened the door and rode on.
The sun was an hour high when they reached a large stream of water
flowing down a small valley. The stream was lined with willow and
cottonwood, which cut a green gash through that sun-baked country.
Several head of range cattle whirled out of the willows at their
approach, wild as partridge.
“We’re into the cow-country at last,” smiled Blaze, as they rode into
the willows.
Frenchy nodded. They followed a trail through the brush and drew up at
the bank of the stream.
“Somebody mak’ de sign,” observed Frenchy, pointing at a sign on a big
cottonwood, which grew near the bank.
Blaze rode in close to the tree and read the notice aloud.
WARNIN
THIS LAND BELONG TO
BLACK MORA
NO BODY ALLOW HERE
Frenchy snorted his disgust.
“Shall we move on?” asked Blaze.
“I’m mak’ de wet camp today,” declared Frenchy. “I’m no want Black
Mora’s land--I’m jus’ want to camp. We stay.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Blaze. “A man in Deadwood told me something
about him. Big cattleman, I reckon. Wants to run the country.”
“Mebbe de countree she’s no run,” grinned Frenchy, taking the swing-rope
off the pack. “We tak’ chance.”
Both of the men owned camp-broke horses and there was no need of hopple
or picket-rope. The three horses moved up the stream, cropping at the
green grass, while the men prepared camp. Blaze happened to glance
across the creek just in time to see a rider disappearing over a ridge.
He was close enough for Blaze to see that the man was looking at their
camp.
“One of Black Mora’s spies,” said Blaze pointing him out to Frenchy, but
the man disappeared before Frenchy could locate him.
“We’ll give the horses an hour on the grass and then tie ’em up,”
stated Blaze. “Yuh never can tell what kind of a hornet this Mora is
and we might need a horse under us real quick.”
“Ba gosh, I’m prepare for de night!” Frenchy’s beard and mustache seemed
to fuzz out like the whiskers on an angry bobcat.
He patted his pistol butt.
“I’m hard man for mak’ move, but jus’ as you say, Blaze. Mebbe she’s
de good idea for have de horse handy, for de reason dat mebbe we have
to chase dis Black Mora, eh?”
Blaze laughed, but Frenchy was serious. In anything except a fight the
little Frenchman had the heart of a child, but the prospect of trouble
seemed to add inches to his height and his black eyes became bead-like
in their intensity.
They cooked and ate their supper and then Blaze caught the horses, tying
them near camp. Blaze had been keeping a close watch across the creek,
expecting trouble to come from that direction, if at all. Suddenly he
heard Frenchy grunt softly. Two men had ridden in from the rear, making
no sound on the soft trail, and were almost to the fire before Frenchy
saw them.
One was a tall, swarthy, black-mustached person, with an arrogant
expression. The other was a trifle smaller, with mouse-colored hair,
one empty eye-socket and a badly scarred face. Both men carried rifles
and wore pistols.
Blaze looked them over carefully. The tall man, after staring hard at
Blaze, pointed at the sign, his long, bony forefinger quivering as he
seemed to put his soul into the gesture.
“You see that sign?” he grunted.
“Still havin’ my sight,” nodded Blaze.
The man seemed shocked to think that Blaze had seen it and still
disregarded its warning. His hand dropped to his side and he frowned
at Blaze. Frenchy was standing near the other rider, his legs braced
far apart, his unlighted pipe between his lips.
“This here land belongs to Mora,” stated the tall man.
“Who is Mora?” asked Blaze easily.
“Black Mora? You don’t know?”
“Nigger?” asked Frenchy.
The man turned his head and shot a withering glance at Frenchy, but
Frenchy’s glare was just as deadly and the man turned back to Blaze.
“You git off this land! Mora don’t allow nobody here. I’ll give you--”
he glanced around at the meager outfit and turned back to Blaze--“I’ll
give yuh half-hour to git off this ranch.”
Blaze rubbed his chin and considered the order.
“You work for Black Mora?” he asked.
“I shore do.”
“Know him well enough to take a message to him?”
“I shore do.”
“Then tell him that Blaze Carlin told him to go to ----.”
“Mak’ de message from Frenchy Ditteau, too,” added Frenchy. “Mak’ her
read de same.”
The tall man’s eyes narrowed for an instant and his shoulder seemed to
hunch. Blaze Carlin’s hand crooked at the wrist and his Colt .44 split
the stillness of the creek bottom. The tall man’s arm swung forward,
seemed to crumple at the elbow and his pistol fell to the ground.
At the first motion of the draw, Frenchy had sprung forward and upward,
grasping the other man by the belt and yanking him off his horse. The
man drew a gun as Frenchy tore him loose from the saddle, but the gun
went spinning into the bushes.
Blaze paid no attention to Frenchy and the other man. The tall man’s
rifle slid to the ground, and his frightened horse backed until its
rump struck a tree, which made it jerk forward, almost unseating its
rider, whose arm seemed to occupy all his attention. Frenchy had
flung his man to the ground and pinned his arms.
“Ba gosh, I’m hope for de good fight, but I’m mak’ mistake,” grunted
Frenchy.
“You’ll have a chance to use your left arm for a while,” stated Blaze,
but the tall man did not reply.
Frenchy let his man get up, but kept a hand twisted in his collar.
“You heard the message we sent to Black Mora, didn’t yuh?” asked Blaze.
“Now, maybe you’re tamed enough to carry it to him.”
“You goin’ to turn dem loose?” asked Frenchy. “Ba gosh, you got sof’
heart. Whoa!”
Frenchy yanked his man backward and proceeded to administer the toe of
his boot to the spot designated by precedent for such a proceeding and
alternately yanked and booted the man all the way to his horse, which
the man managed to mount.
“Vamoose!” snapped Blaze.
The men rode away; one of them hugging a shattered right arm, and the
other standing high in his stirrups and trying to keep his frightened
horse to a comfortable walk.
Frenchy proceeded to shave a pipeful of tobacco, and lighted it from
the fire embers. He turned and looked at Blaze who was leaning against
a tree, watching in the direction of the disappearing horsemen.
“Blaze,” Frenchy puffed furiously, “Blaze, I’m t’ink dem two feller get
sore from us. You mak’ ---- good shot for break hees arm. Eh?”
“Good shot! Lucky shot, Frenchy--lucky for him. I never shot at his arm.
You had a lot of nerve to yank that other feller plumb off his horse.”
“Nerve--me?” Frenchy laughed heartily. “Why, Blaze, I’m so ---- scare
dat I’m forget my gun. Ho, ho, ho!”
They both laughed. Frenchy had seen Blaze shoot the heads off sage-hens,
and Blaze had seen Frenchy fighting with a knife against roaring
pistols, but neither was seeking glory in the other’s eyes.
“We’ll move back a ways as soon as it gets dark,” stated Blaze. “This
ain’t the end of it, Frenchy. Maybe we better pack up and pull out.”
“_Non!_” Frenchy shook his head vehemently. “I’m back up a little, but
no pack de horse and run away. We got two rifle an’ two pistol more den
we have biffore dey come. Ho, ho, ho!”
Frenchy collected the four guns, which were loaded. The rifles were
Sharp’s, the ammunition of which fitted their rifles, but the two
pistols would be useless to them after the rounds were fired, as they
both used smaller caliber than those carried by Blaze and Frenchy.
Blaze kept a close watch until dark and then they moved their blankets
farther back from the creek after throwing more wood on the fire. But
there was no further sign of Black Mora or his men that night.
They were up at daylight. Blaze started to get breakfast, while Frenchy
climbed up into the branches of a cottonwood where he perched like an
owl with his rifle across his lap.
Blaze laughed at Frenchy, but Frenchy was serious.
“I’m mak’ t’ink,” said Frenchy, “I’m mak’----”
He broke off, rose a little higher and swung the heavy rifle to his
shoulder. A moment later the big rifle bellowed. Blaze sprang across
the fire and picked up his rifle.
“What yuh shootin’ at?” he demanded.
Frenchy extracted the empty cartridge and blew into the breech of his
rifle before replying.
“De sonn of a gonn go creep, creep along to git behin’ de big rock. Ho,
ho, ho! I’m push de dirt in his face. He turn over lak----”
Frenchy threw up his rifle and fired as it leveled. He waved the cloud
of smoke away with a sweep of his hand.
“Dat’s anodder one, Blaze. I miss him pretty close, I tell you dat.
Whoa!”
Frenchy shifted excitedly.
“Blaze, you pack de cayuse ---- quick! I’m mak’ t’ink dat sonn of a gonn
has de army work for him. I hol’ dem off, I tell you.”
Bullets began to whiz through the foliage and thump into the tree
trunks. Blaze hurriedly packed the horse and then threw on the two
saddles, while Frenchy swore alternately in English and French and
punctuated his oaths with lead from his old Sharps.
“All set, Frenchy,” called Blaze, swinging into his saddle.
Frenchy fired again and swung down to the ground.
“Go straight down dis side,” ordered Frenchy. “I’m have dem stopped.”
They rode away as swiftly as possible, keeping in the willows. For a
while it looked as if they had thrown off the attackers, but as soon
as they crossed the creek and struck into more open country they found
that there was a strong possibility of more trouble.
One bunch of horsemen were behind them, while another bunch had circled
into the hills to head them off. They pulled up and considered the
matter. A long-range bullet dusted the ground at their horses’ feet,
fired from the bunch in the hills. They could see the riders across the
creek as they checked up at the edge of the stream.
“W’at we do now--fight?” asked Frenchy.
Blaze considered. The horsemen in the hills were still swinging around
as if to join forces with those at the creek.
“They’ve headed us off in that direction,” observed Blaze, “and it
appears to me that they’re danged awful sure that we want to go
thataway. Well, we’ll take a chance and go up the creek instead. We
may have to lose our pack-horse.”
“My blanket she’s on de pack, and I stay wit’ my bed,” declared Frenchy.
“De pack-horse run lak ----. Come on.”
* * * * *
They turned and spurred into a gallop, traveling parallel to the creek,
but in open country. There were six men in the bunch which had circled
them, and five more in the crowd at the creek. Now they joined and came
racing up the same side of the creek.
Both Blaze and Frenchy were well mounted, but the pack-animal, seeming
to sense the need of haste, passed Frenchy, who was leading it.
“Go so fas’ as you like!” yelled Frenchy and threw the rope across the
pack, turning the animal loose.
They swung over a knoll and around the side of a steep slope, jumping
mesquite and greasewood, and found themselves a short distance from a
rambling ranch-house, which stood in the center of a clearing about
three acres in extent. A long low stable and a big pole corral were
between them and the house, and a pole fence surrounded the house and
barn. The center pole of the bars was in place and the pack-animal
tried to jump it, but the horse was not built for hurdling and came
to grief.
Blaze’s horse cleared the bar and the struggling pack animal, and
Frenchy’s horse barely clicked the rail as it went over. The pack-animal
struggled to its feet, kicked at a loose rope and galloped after its
master. Blaze and Frenchy swung down at the door of the ranch-house,
turning the horses loose, and then went straight toward the open stalls
of the barn, as if they had lived there all their lives.
Came a whirl of dust and the panting horses, as the pursuers clattered
up to the bars. Blaze threw up his rifle and sent a bullet past their
heads and they spurred to one side out of sight. Blaze kicked open the
door, almost in the face of a fat Indian squaw, who was coming to the
door to see what was going on. She stared blankly at the two men.
“Whose place is this?” asked Blaze.
“Black Mora,” replied the stolid aborigine.
“Where is he?”
“I dunno. He ride away with men.” The squaw spoke in halting English.
“This is going to be a hard place to leave,” observed Blaze, but Frenchy
was chuckling as he leaned over a rough table.
“Look, Blaze!” he called. “Here’s plenty shell for de rifle. Fill up de
belt and use de pocket for de rest. She’s good place to fin’.”
Blaze stepped over to the table and filled his belt from fresh boxes.
Frenchy stuffed his pockets full and then put more inside his shirt.
“Ba gosh, she’s goin’ to be wan good fight, I’m tell you, Blaze.”
Blaze stepped to a window and saw a man running to get behind the barn.
Another was stooped low, running farther to the left where another old
building would give him cover. Blaze looked around the room, which was
about twenty by thirty feet in size. There were four doors, two opening
outside, and the other two were connected with the rooms at each end.
All the doors were fitted with heavy bars.
It was only a moment’s work to throw the bars into place. The squaw
watched Blaze, but her fat face expressed no emotion. The strange doings
of the white men did not cause any wonder in her one-idea brain. Blaze
grinned at her lack of interest.
“You like Black Mora?” he asked.
The squaw glanced at Blaze and then spat disgustedly.
“Either she hates him or she don’t like my question,” grinned Blaze.
The windows, of which there was one at each side of the room, were
composed of two small panes of glass set in crude frames. Frenchy
dumped the extra cartridges onto a shelf near the rear window, placed
his pistol beside them, and calmly knocked one of the panes of glass
out. Then he produced his plug of tobacco and clasp-knife and then
grinned at Blaze, who was looking at the squaw.
“Blaze, you better knock out de little window and git ready for fight.
Plenty time for de love-mak’ after de wil’ man she’s went away. Ho, ho,
ho!”
Frenchy chuckled heartily over his crude joke.
Blaze went back to the window and poked out one of the panes, only to
have a bullet ricochet off the barrel of his rifle and buzz across the
room like an angry bee.
“Ho, ho, ho!” chortled Frenchy. “De dance she is begin, Blaze. I’m hope
she don’t all dance from your side, biccause my feet she’s itch for git
busy.”
Blaze fired and was rewarded by a yell from the barn.
“Ba gosh, you don’t miss dat feller,” chuckled Frenchy. “I’m can tell de
yelp from de ol’ Sharp’s bullet. She’s----”
Thump! A bullet tore through the mud chinking of the cabin near
Frenchy’s window, and Blaze turned to see Frenchy with both hands
clapped to his face, dancing a circle. He sprang across the room and
grasped Frenchy’s arm.
“Where’d it hit yuh?” he asked.
“De ---- mud-daubers t’row dirt in my eye! Go back to your own side. Dis
feller be-long to me, ba gosh!”
The squaw had sat down on the floor at the end of the room and watched
the two men. She glanced at the wall, where a bullet tore into some
medicine bottles on a crude shelf, but there was neither wonder nor
anxiety in her face. Frenchy crouched flat against the wall, leaning
out far enough to fire and then leaning back to reload.
* * * * *
The attack was growing stronger now, as the Black Mora crowd found
points of vantage, and they searched the house with lead from every
angle. Blaze was shooting methodically, while Frenchy grew voluble
with French epithets and drilled his initials on a shed door, where
three men had fired at his window from a loop-hole in the logs.
Two men had attempted to reach the door of a small building about sixty
yards from Blaze, but both of them failed. Blaze could see no reason for
any one sacrificing his life to reach this building. Another man had
come in from the rear of this building, which was built on such an angle
that Blaze could only see the front and one side, and had sneaked in on
the far side to the front.
His hand shot out in an attempt to lift the barred door, in which
attempt he had succeeded, but Blaze shot carefully and the man’s hand
went out of commission. The heavy door swung open, but no man seemed
foolhardy enough to try to reach the shelter of the interior.
Luckily for both Blaze and Frenchy the bullets were all coming from
one direction. There was no cover from one side, consequently they
were able to stay close to the window without danger of cross-fire.
The remaining panes of glass were long since gone and the casing and
log-ends on one side of each window had been chewed to a pulp with
rifle bullets. Occasionally a bullet would splinter through the
doors, but the thick seasoned wood mushroomed the soft lead until it
was practically harmless.
“De gun she get ---- hot,” observed Frenchy, grinning across at Blaze.
“How many you get?”
Blaze shook his head.
“I dunno, Frenchy. I’ve got two down in sight and I put a bullet through
one feller’s hand. Couple more I kinda figured to ache up a little, but
they seem to keep shootin’.”
“I’m not got none for sure.” Frenchy seemed downhearted over this fact.
“I’m got t’ree inside de little house, one behin’ a pile of poles, and
anodder one she’s get in hole in de ground. I’m mak’ t’ink Frenchy
Ditteau ---- poor shot.”
He leveled his rifle and fired again.
“Ho, ho, ho! De sonn of a gonn she try to come out of de hole. I’m mak’
bet she’s change her mind.”
Blaze nodded and grinned. His rifle barrel was so hot he could hardly
hold it. Suddenly the squaw got to her feet. She sniffed at the air.
Blaze watched her.
“Fire come,” she said slowly. “House afire.”
Blaze sniffed, but the room was hazy with powder smoke.
“I smell,” stated the squaw. “Black Mora set house on fire.”
“The same of which complicates things,” observed Blaze.
“I’m mak’ t’ink we trapped,” said Frenchy. “Mus’ go way pretty soon,
Blaze.”
A trickle of smoke began to show under one of the connecting doors and
Blaze stepped over to smell of it.
“Wood smoke, Frenchy. They’ve set fire to our little fort.”
Blaze stepped back to his rifle, but there was no one in sight. Frenchy
peered out of his window, but there was no sign of his targets. Black
Mora had decided to smoke out his quarry. Blaze watched the squaw walk
to the farther corner of the room, where she dragged a crude bunk away
from the wall. She threw aside a pile of old sacks and skins and lifted
a trap-door.
“Cellar?” queried Blaze.
“You come,” ordered the squaw, and started down a short ladder.
Blaze and Frenchy each took a last look from the windows and, as there
was no sign of the besiegers, they followed the squaw.
Instead of a cellar they found a narrow low tunnel shored up with small
timbers. It was pitch dark and the tunnel was barely wide enough for
them to squeeze through; but they followed in single-file behind the fat
squaw. It seemed as if they had gone a mile, when the squaw stopped and
straightened up. Blaze reached out his hand and felt the rungs of a pole
ladder, up which the squaw had started.
Came the creak of boards and the tunnel was flooded with light, as the
squaw lifted another trap-door letting them into a small log-room. The
open door gave them a view of part of the house they had just left.
“This is where them fellers wanted to get,” whispered Blaze
understandingly. “No wonder they took a chance. They could go through
the tunnel, open the trap under that old bunk and nail us both.”
“Sure t’ing,” nodded Frenchy. “Gran’ scheme, Blaze. Look at de house
burn.”
The ranch-house was composed of three large rooms, and the fire had been
started in the north end. Black Mora had taken no chances in trying to
smash the connecting door, after seeing the defenders’ shooting ability;
so he decided on the Indian method of routing them out.
Blaze and Frenchy crouched near the door, watching the flames eat into
the seasoned logs. One end of the house was burning fiercely, and it
was only a question of a short time until the whole building would be
in flames.
The squaw sat down in a corner, stolidly watching the fire as if having
no interest in it whatever. Blaze and Frenchy knew that at least six
rifles covered the front and rear doors of the ranch-house, and were
also fairly sure that the men behind those rifles believed that their
quarry must soon break for liberty.
Blaze examined the walls of their room, but there was no exit except
the half-open door. The squaw looked at Blaze and seemed to understand
what he was looking for. Flames were soaring from the ranch-house. Came
the shrill nicker of a horse; a man’s voice cried an order, but above
it all came the splintering crash as the pole and mud roof of one end
of the ranch-house collapsed.
The squaw got to her feet and backed into a corner. The two men
watched her as she fumbled along the chinking between two logs.
Suddenly she shoved with her shoulder, and a section composed of two
logs swung outward. The aperture was large enough to allow a man to
pass through and through it they could see their three horses near
the barn, watching the fire.
The logs had been cut in such a way and so hinged that they could only
be opened from the inside. Evidently Black Mora had more need of an exit
than an inlet.
“You go,” urged the squaw. “Everybody look fire.”
Blaze held out his hand to her, but she seemed ignorant of a hand-shake.
He slipped a large opal ring from his finger and handed it to her. She
understood this and smiled happily. It was Blaze Carlin’s mascot, but he
gave it willingly. He and Frenchy slipped out the aperture and the logs
closed behind them.
By going straight to their horses they could keep the small cabin
between them and Mora’s men, unless the men had moved lately. Ducking
low, they raced for the horses, but no shot followed them. It was but
a moment’s work to lead their horses around the corner of the barn and
there they found a huddled group of saddle-horses, snorting from fright
of the fire.
Frenchy chortled gleefully and wanted to cut the saddle-cinches, but
Blaze stopped him. He was not afraid of Mora’s men catching him once
they got away and there was a chance that the gang might believe that
they perished in the flames.
Frenchy grumbled at losing the chance of spoiling all possibility of
pursuit, but spurred out of the clearing, riding swiftly down the
creek, around the first curve and into the hills, while behind them
a black cloud of smoke pillared into the sky.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Frenchy threw back his head and whooped gleefully. “Nobody
she’s allow on Mora’s lan’, eh? Blaze, you ever hear ’bout Nero?”
Blaze shook his head.
“She’s lak’ to be de boss, too,” explained Frenchy. “She’s fire de town
of Rome and den she feedle.”
“She done what?” asked Blaze.
“Feedle, feedle, feedle!” Frenchy imitated the motions of playing a
fiddle. “She’s mak’ music for de fire.”
“Must ’a’ been loco, Frenchy.”
“Jus’ so. Mak’ good shepherd, eh, Blaze?”
“Make a good pardner for Black Mora.”
“Ba gosh, dat’s de fac’. Bot’ crazy. No man can run dis countree a-lone.
Mebby she mak’ big try, but bimeby somebody she’s come along and no run.
Bam! One man no run, anodder man she’s see and she’s quit run. Bimeby
everybody quit run. Den de man who run de countree mus’ run fas’ or de
countree run over him.”
Blaze laughed at the wisdom of Frenchy Ditteau. Back of Frenchy’s
black eyes was a keen mind; a brain capable of doing bigger things
than fighting battles in border countries or trapping for furs.
The country needed keen minds, but Frenchy Ditteau loved action too well
to live long enough in any one place. Blaze was also a drifter. The
clink of poker chips, the lure of the green cloth was in his blood. His
long, muscular fingers itched for the feel of playing-cards, but above
it all was an indefinite longing to do something worth while.
Blaze was better educated than the majority of cowboys. He did not
remember his mother; and his father was but a hazy, unreal sort of a
person. Thrown on his own at an early age, he had grown to manhood,
unsullied by his environment. He rode hard, drank moderately, and
fought ferociously, but something in his soul seemed to cleave a
deep line between right and wrong. Men said that Blaze Carlin was
too honest to be a gambler--an honor conferred to few gamblers in
those wild days.
To the six-shooter has been the glory of winning the West, but it took
brains behind the gun to do this. Perhaps the six-shooter did much to
hold back the West--the six-shooter plus lax laws, or no law at all.
Very often a sheriff was elected for his pistol ability, regardless of
his fitness for the office, and only too often they combined with evil
powers to loot behind the mantle of the law.
At times an honest sheriff was elected when the law-abiding element was
in the majority; but the majority were unable to give their assistance
when the lawless combined against his authority.
* * * * *
Wolf Butte was a county-seat in a territorial county; a county so vast
that a man could ride for a week and never reach a boundary-line. Range
cattle mingled with the buffalo. Men were neighbors at fifty miles.
Towns were very few and far between, with Wolf Butte the metropolis.
Therefore Wolf Butte flourished, roughly speaking and more roughly
acting.
It was a town of saloons, dance-halls, gambling-places, where
hard-bitted men came to revel in wine, painted women and coarse song;
a town, where morals were flung to the winds, like a deck of unlucky
playing-cards.
There was a certain moral element; an element composed of hard-riding,
Godfearing men, but they were wofully in the minority. Day or night
the long hitch-racks of the main street were lined with saddle-horses,
standing patiently, often for days at a time, while their masters
lounged in the smoke-festooned gambling houses and pitted their weak
wisdom against games which did not operate for any one’s health.
Wolf Butte lived fast--living today, for tomorrow might never come.
Into this town rode Blaze Carlin and Frenchy Ditteau; rode past the
gambling-halls, where the rattle of poker-chips sang a siren song to
Blaze’s ears. To Frenchy it only meant mingling with other men, a
drink or two, much useless argument and perhaps trouble; but Frenchy
welcomed it all. He liked the drink or two, loved an argument, and
fighting only added zest to life.
They went straight to a livery-stable and turned their horses over to
the stable-man. On the wall of the grain-room was a prominent, crudely
painted sign:
LEAVE YOUR GUNS HERE OR TURN
THEM OVER TO THE SHERIFF
THIS MEANS YOU
Blaze read it aloud and turned to the stable-man.
“Does that sign mean what she says?”
The man laughed and shook his head.
“I reckon not, pardner. Yuh see, we ain’t got no sheriff. Him and his
under-sheriff got run out by the vigilantes.”
“What did they do that for?”
“I dunno.” The man shook his head and turned away. It was evident that
he did not care to discuss the matter.
“Lak’ I’m say biffore,” observed Frenchy. “She’s de good t’ing at de
right time. I’m hongry inside, Blaze. Mebbe we better find de ham and
de egg, eh?”
Blaze agreed readily. Mora’s gang had interrupted their breakfast and
they had not made a stop since leaving Mora’s ranch, which was about
twelve miles from Wolf Butte. They walked down the dusty street to a
restaurant.
Riders came galloping into the street, their horses kicking up clouds of
dust. Freight-wagons creaked in, the mules dusty and tired, the drivers
bitterly profane. Here were no traffic laws. An empty wagon, with a torn
schooner-cover, swerved to the left of a heavy freighter and their front
wheels locked.
The freighter screamed an oath and swung his whip at the other driver,
while the teams lunged wildly. In the swirl of dust, both riders got to
the ground and fought each other like madmen, while a gathering crowd
cheered them.
The veil of alkali dust made the fighters appear as an out-of-focus
picture. Suddenly the freighter went down. The other driver sprang to
his seat, backed his vehicle away from the heavy freighter and drove
away, hatless, coatless but triumphant, while willing hands helped
the freighter back into his wagon. The street cleared and the fight
was forgotten.
At the door of a restaurant Blaze stopped and threw up his head. The
gambling fever was upon him again. Directly across the street was a
huge sign:
EUREKA SALOON AND
GAMBLING PALACE
A violin screeched an old jig-tune; an out-of-tune piano was jangling
notes, while above it all came the husky voice of a woman, singing
“Suwanee River.” Her voice broke harshly on a high note and a burst of
coarse laughter showed that the audience had been amused.
A bouncer propelled a quarrelsome drunk out of the wide door and the
unfortunate one sprawled into the street from a well-directed kick. All
the saloon doors were double width, wide open so as not to obstruct any
rider who was in too much of a hurry to dismount for his drink.
“She’s a ---- bad town,” declared Frenchy as they sat down at a greasy
table where linen and silverware were unknown.
“Man for breakfast every mornin’, stranger,” smiled a bearded man at
the next table. “Everythin’ goes in Wolf Butte. Railroad’s within
seventy miles of here now and the stakes sure cuts close to the main
street.”
Came a scattered volley of pistol shots from up the street and several
men rode swiftly past the restaurant.
“More punchers in for a bust,” observed the stranger. “They sure does
salute the town since the sheriff hit for the hills.”
“Vigilantes run him out?” asked Blaze.
“Accordin’ to the notice tacked on his door.”
The stranger attacked his meal and Blaze and Frenchy turned back to
their own business of eating. More men drifted in to eat and the place
was filled when Blaze and Frenchy paid for their meal and went across
the street to the Eureka. The games were running full blast. Blaze
waited until a man cashed in his poker-winnings and then slipped into
his place, tossing a piece of gold to the dealer, who shoved the chips
across the table.
Frenchy leaned against the bar, his keen eyes taking in the place.
Painted women, with scarlet lips and painted cheeks, dressed in cheap
finery, mingled with the men, their shrill laughter audible above the
roar of male conversation.
Two fiddlers added to the general confusion by screeching out a
hoe-down. Three bartenders dished out cheap whisky, while rough waiters
hurried hither and yon, carrying orders to the games or to those unable
to navigate from table to bar.
Frenchy was looking toward the door as three men came in. The man in
the lead was inches taller than any man in the room. His neck was so
short that it appeared his head was set flush with his shoulders, his
long arms swinging even below the bottom of his holstered gun.
His face was like a piece of carved mahogany, carved to a perpetual
sneer, and his eyes were black as ink and without depth. A lock of
greasy hair curved down over his forehead from under the back-flung
brim of his sombrero. He wore a beaded vest, heavy with brass
ornaments, and below it flashed the two heavy silver buckles of his
ornamented belt. His chaps were heavily ornamented with silver studs
and carved rosettes, and the spurs above his high heels were heavy
with silver and gold.
He stopped and swept the crowd with his eyes, his glance traveling from
man to man. He only gave Frenchy a passing glance and then turned to the
bar. The two men stepped in beside him. A bartender hurried to take
their order. The big man slopped the liquor on the bar indifferently and
then spat out his drink.
“Rotten!” he snapped and flipped the uncorked bottle off the bar
under his feet where it gurgled its contents along the rough floor.
“Gimme good whisky, ---- you!” he roared at the bartender. “None of
that pizen!”
The bartender placed another bottle on the bar, along with fresh
glasses.
“That’s the best in town, Mora,” said the bartender.
“Don’t tell me what’s the best!” growled Mora. “I’ll do the talkin’.”
Frenchy studied the big man. So this was Black Mora. Frenchy looked at
the huge, hairy wrists, the big, powerful hands; the shoulders of an
ape. Mora’s forehead was broad and intelligent, but the back of his
huge head was almost flat. His hips were narrow and his feet small.
Frenchy noted that Mora’s gun had a beautifully carved handle. In
Frenchy’s mind there was not the slightest doubt but that Black Mora
was deadly efficient. The two men with him were ordinary cow-puncher
types, well trained to follow their master.
Mora turned and saw Frenchy looking at him. There was nothing offensive
in Frenchy’s attitude; rather he was admiring this huge piece of
fighting machinery. Mora placed his glass on the bar and turned toward
Frenchy.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he growled, eyes half-closed.
Frenchy feigned not to have heard the question and turned his head
slowly toward the poker-table. Blaze Carlin was looking at Mora. He
and Frenchy exchanged glances and Frenchy turned back to Mora.
“Didja hear what I said?” growled Mora.
Frenchy smiled and shook his head. “De little question she’s get lost in
all dis talk. I’m ver’ sorry.”
“Frog-eater!” rumbled Mora, stepping closer and glowering at Frenchy.
Blaze moved his chair back from the table slowly, watching Mora. As
Blaze’s right hand drew back from his chips he touched a heavy glass
beer mug. His fingers twined into the handle and he leaned forward
in his chair. Frenchy had not moved. Mora’s throat rumbled a curse
and his right hand shot out to grasp Frenchy by the throat, but
Blaze shot to his feet and flung the beer mug with such unerring aim
that it caught Black Mora over his right ear, when the latter’s hand
was brushing Frenchy’s chin.
Mora dropped like a log. For a moment nobody spoke nor made a move.
Frenchy leaned against the bar, the butt of his pistol braced against
his right hip, covering Mora’s two men.
“Ho, ho, ho!” he chuckled. “De beer mug save Mora’s life. I’m to kill
him when he touch me, de beeg pig!”
Mora stirred and then sat up, staring vacantly. His eyes fastened on
Frenchy and the muzzle of the unwavering pistol. He put his hand to
his head and drew it away stained with blood. His eyes traveled around
the saloon, as if seeking the man who had hit him. He got to his feet
and leaned against the bar, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Frenchy
did not move a muscle.
The room had gone suddenly still. Then a woman laughed harshly and Black
Mora’s muscles seemed to jerk from the insult. It was as if some one had
laughed when a king fell.
Blaze stepped away from the poker-table and walked half-way to Mora.
The two men looked at each other for several moments and then Blaze
spoke evenly:
“I throwed that glass. Yuh don’t know it, but I saved your life. ’Pears
to me that you ain’t been weaned long, or yuh wouldn’t reach for an
armed man.”
Again came the harsh, cackling laugh from the whisky-raw female throat.
Mora seemed to quiver with suppressed anger. His tongue passed along his
thick, lower lip. Then he spoke----
“You know who I am?”
Blaze smiled and shook his head.
“I am Black Mora.”
It was as if he had said--“I am the king.”
“Never heard of yuh,” replied Blaze, “but you sure have a hard head,
pardner. How’s all your folks down on the farm?”
Frenchy chuckled aloud.
“Black Mora, eh? I’m mak’ you acquaint wit’ Blaze Carlin, Black Mora.”
Mora was like a teased tiger, which knew that steel bars kept him from
wreaking vengeance on his tormentors. In this case the bars were Frenchy
and his big pistol, which had never wavered; the pointed hammer back at
full-cock, like the head of a snake about to strike. Mora’s face settled
back to its perpetual sneer and he turned on his heel and walked out,
followed by his two men. As he went out of the door he was followed by
the woman’s derisive laugh.
Frenchy flipped his pistol back into its holster. Blaze turned back to
the table, where men were staring at him. The man in the lookout chair
spoke:
“Mister, you’ve kinda put yourself in bad. That’s Black Mora
and--and----”
“He said that’s who he was,” smiled Blaze. “Is he supposed to be so
bad?”
The men around the table shifted uneasily. It was rather a personal
question as no man seemed to know who was in Mora’s confidence. Blaze
glanced around the circle and then laughed.
“Don’t nobody tell me he’s a bad-man, ’cause I won’t believe it. He’s a
big, black bully. Some kid will chase him off the range some day, with a
tin can full of rocks hangin’ to his shirt-tail.”
The dealer picked up the cards, glanced at the door uneasily and went on
dealing. Frenchy still leaned against the bar, smiling around the room.
The place grew animated again, but hilarity was forced. The king had
been humiliated, disgraced and none knew when the king might try to wipe
out the stain--nor how.
There was a man at the poker-table who did not seem of the same caliber
as the rest of the crowd. He was past middle age, slow of movements,
soft of voice. He played methodically, unemotional, as if thinking
deeply. His hair and mustache were nearly white and his eyes seemed to
hold nothing but kindness to all men.
Blaze looked up to see the blue eyes fastened upon him inquiringly. It
was as if the man were asking a question. Blaze smiled at him, and for
some reason half-nodded as if answering the unspoken question.
After a few more hands the blue-eyed man cashed in his chips and got up
from the game. Another was waiting for his chair. He straightened his
collar and sauntered toward the door. Blaze felt that his interest in
the game was waning; so he also cashed in and let another take his
place. The blue-eyed man was standing at the door, looking outside, and
Blaze went straight to him, walking slowly. He did not speak directly
to the man, but kept his face toward the door as he said--
“I kinda reckon you wants to talk to me, pardner?”
The other shifted his feet and continued to stare at the door.
“Not here. At the west end of town, a quarter of a mile away, is a
house, standing alone. Can you be there an hour after dark--you and
your pardner?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look out for Mora.”
“I ain’t a bit sleepy, pardner.”
The man yawned and walked out of the door. Blaze turned slowly and
walked up to Frenchy.
“Thirsty?” he asked.
“I’m mak’ t’ink we better off wit’out drink, Blaze.” Frenchy spoke
softly. “Whisky ver’ good when everybody she’s happy, but nobody she
act happy over de Mora business. Mebbe de sonn of a gonn she’s need
more convince, eh?”
“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy. Come on.”
* * * * *
They sauntered out of the door into the street, and once more the Eureka
seemed to grow hilarious; as if a weight had been removed from its mind.
Blaze told Frenchy of his conversation with the man.
“He no say w’at he want? Ba gosh! Mebbe she’s trap from Black Mora.”
Blaze shook his head.
“No, I reckon not, Frenchy. I’ll take that chance.”
“Sure ’nough. I’m bet Black Mora mak’ t’ink we die in de fire. He not
know us. His two men see us close, but one is got busted arm and de oder
she’s no set on saddle for week. I’m like dis ---- town, Blaze. Ba gosh,
nobody’s she get rusty from live her, you bet me my life.”
Several cowboys whirled their horses away from a hitch-rack, and one
of them came bucking down the center of the street, its rider swinging
sidewise in the saddle, his right spur hooked into the cinch, while he
fanned the bronco’s ears with his sombrero.
Another forced his horse to enter the saloon, spurring the frightened
beast into a jerky buck as it went inside and a few moments later
bucked out again with a big bottle held aloft in his hand. His horse
passed Blaze and Frenchy in a whirl of dust as he raced to catch the
others.
Across the street was a sign: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. A notice was pinned to
the door. Blaze and Frenchy crossed the street and read the notice.
CLOSED BY ORDER OF VIGILANT
Blaze studied the crudely lettered sign.