bottle whizzed across the room and crashed against his head. Sales
dropped like a log and over him fell Mora, blubbering for mercy.
For a moment there was silence; then the crash of a pistol shot. One
of the men who had been standing on the bar went backward, clawing
for support. He had thrown the bottle and some one in the crowd had
seen the deed.
Came the crash of breaking glassware, as he plunged behind the bar and
the tense crowd went hog-wild. Sales’ men were out for blood and Mora’s
men were willing to accommodate them, but the pistol was of little use
in that close-packed place.
Men drew their guns and swung them overhanded, clubbing the barrels
against anything which might come before them. Bottles flew crashing
against the walls; sometimes against heads. The wide doors were not
wide enough to accommodate the stampede, so windows were smashed to
make exits. Blaze had flung himself across Sales, shielding him from
the trampling feet, while Mora’s men strove to fight their way to
Mora’s side.
Blaze managed to get to his feet, holding Sales’ limp body, but was
buffeted aside by weight of numbers. He clung to the inert body with
one hand, while he clubbed his way through the crowd with his heavy
six-shooter. Above the roar of the tumult came Frenchy’s voice.
“Hol’ on, you ---- fools! Hol’ on! De sheriff say stop!”
But that crowd knew no authority. Blaze fought his way to the front
door, while Mora’s men managed to get their leader and half-drag him
out the back door. Bullets began to fly as soon as the clans were
separated sufficiently to tell which was which. Mora’s men got him
out of the door, but they had paid toll.
Three of his men did not get to the door and as many more were stretched
on the floor, downed by pistol barrels or thrown bottles. Four other
men, whether Sales’ men or otherwise, were also _hors de combat_. The
shooting stopped when Mora’s men disappeared.
Disheveled men staggered around in the street, clothes half-torn from
their bodies, bruised and bleeding. The saloon was a shambles, furniture
wrecked, mirrors shattered. Blaze staggered across to the office
carrying Sales, while behind him limped Frenchy, talking French so fast
that he fairly spat words as a machine gun spits bullets. Frenchy’s hat
and shirt were gone and his hair seemed to rise up like the roach on an
angry grizzly bear.
Blaze placed Sales on a cot and dashed a dipper of water into his face.
Sales blinked painfully and opened his eyes. A man, bruised about the
face and minus one sleeve of his shirt, came into the door and looked
at Sales. He spat out through the aperture of missing teeth and tried
to grin. Sales looked up at Blaze and then sat up on the cot, feeling
tenderly of the swollen cut on his head.
“How do you feel, Chuck?” asked the man.
Sales squinted up past his crooked nose at the questioner.
“That’s a ---- of a question to ask,” grunted Sales and then looked up
at Blaze and asked--“Did I lick him, Carlin?”
“Yuh did, Sales--yuh sure did and yuh licked him fair. Where did yuh
learn to fight like that?”
“Back East. I was a prize-fighter once. That’s where I got this
lop-sided nose. What happened after somebody hit me?”
“I got the bottle-thrower,” said the man. “He was a friend of Mora.
This here Carlin saved yuh from bein’ tramped to death, Chuck. I tried
to git yuh but I couldn’t go no place in that millin’ herd. I seen him
pick yuh up and fight his way through. McCarty, Simpson, and Franklyn
got hammered up a lot and Micky Shannon stopped a bullet, but I think
they’ll all pull through.”
Sales held out his hand to Blaze.
“I reckon you went out of your way to do this fer me, Carlin, and I
thank yuh to beat ----.”
“I ain’t thanked yuh for what yuh done for me over in the Eureka,”
smiled Blaze.
“Just came out even,” sighed Sales. “’Pears like I can’t never git
nobody indebted to me, ---- the luck.”
Doctor Brenton worked swiftly probing for bullets and binding up cuts
and bruises. There was not enough left of the Square Deal Saloon for
the owner even to promise an opening within a week, so the regular
habitués shifted their affections to the Eureka, the Double Cinch or
the High Card gambling-houses.
* * * * *
The fight was the subject of conversation and only seemed to add zest to
the business of the night. Chuck Sales was a hero. He had accomplished
the impossible. It was gossip that Chuck was formerly a prize-fighter,
of the then “bare-knuckle” school and he was favored of men; but Chuck
wore his honors with the crooked smile and a bandage around his head.
Fights were started over the merits of the punch which had made Black
Mora as helpless as a child. Men loaded with bad whisky demonstrated
it upon their acquaintances, which caused many upset stomachs and not
a little spilling of angry blood. Few men cared for fighting with
their hands, preferring the more rapid methods which seldom ended in
a draw decision.
Four of Mora’s men had been patched up and went home, but two of them
would never ride the ranges again. Only one of Sales’ men, Micky
Shannon, was unable to partake of the festivities and he would be
riding again in a few days. Several others had been slightly injured
in the melee. Luckily the fight was held at short range, which made
it impossible to shoot without danger of hitting friend as well as
foe, otherwise the toll would have been very much greater.
Blaze and Frenchy did not mix with the crowd, but stayed in the office.
Both of them had received superficial cuts and bruises. There was no
doubt that Black Mora would make reprisals if possible. He would have to
do something desperate to wipe out the disgrace of that whipping, and
his followers were likely in a mood to follow him on any undertaking.
Frenchy had talked so much during the day that his throat was weary. It
was the first time that Blaze had ever seen Frenchy tired of talking. He
lay stretched out on a cot, puffing slowly on his old pipe and staring
at the ceiling. Blaze walked slowly up and down the small room.
On the table was a pile of weapons which Frenchy had collected that
day and surmounting the pile was Black Mora’s belt and gun. Blaze took
it from the holster and looked it over. It was a single-action .44
Colt, with carved bone handle, depicting a running wolf. The figure of
the animal was in relief. Below the animal was carved the initials, J.
L. H.
“Black Mora packs another man’s gun,” observed Blaze, handing the weapon
to Frenchy.
Frenchy exhaled a cloud of smoke and examined the gun, peering at the
delicate carving.
“Somebody she’s do plenty work on de handle,” he observed, handing it
back to Blaze, who replaced it in the holster.
“I’m t’ink any man’s fool to put name on de gun.”
Came a timid knock on the door, barely audible. Frenchy got off the
cot and stretched his arms. From across the street came the sounds of
dancing, singing, voices raised in shrill argument.
Frenchy stepped to one side of the door while Blaze lifted the bar,
drawing the door to him. A woman stepped quickly inside and Blaze
shut the door behind her. Blaze dropped the bar into place and faced
the woman. It was the one who had laughed when he hit Black Mora,
the woman who had turned away when he had lifted his hat to her on
the Eureka balcony.
Blaze bowed to her and indicated a chair.
“Won’t yuh set down, ma’am?”
The woman shook her head.
“No, I’ve got to get back quick, but I had to ask you
something--something----”
She glanced quickly around the room as if afraid to talk. She was less
than thirty years of age, but hardened and haggard from her profession;
yet she appeared embarrassed. Beauty parlors were as yet unknown in the
West and the women of the dance-halls had little time for more than a
daub of paint, smeared in a grotesque imitation of the bloom of youth;
their hair frizzed with curling-irons which were heated in the chimney
of an oil-lamp, and decorated according to their own standards.
This woman’s dress was sparkling with cheap bangles and reeking with
perfume, which is supposed to dull the senses of uncouth men and lead
them to believe that this “rag, bone and a hank of hair” is perfection
personified.
“Ma’am,” said Blaze, “I’m glad to answer a question if I can.”
She hesitated for a moment as if thinking deeply.
“I heard a man talking about you today. I think he runs one of the
stores. He said that you found a man who--who had been hung.”
“Yes’m,” nodded Blaze, “we did find one man thataway.”
“At a little cabin in the gulch which leads to Cinnamon Creek?”
“Is Cinnamon Creek where Black Mora’s ranch is?” asked Blaze.
The woman nodded and compressed her lips.
“I can try to describe the old man,” volunteered Blaze. But the woman
got to her feet with a gesture of dissent. She leaned on the table for
a moment and then turned, with her back to the table, her hands behind
her and looked at Blaze.
“You heard what happened to Jack Wheeler?” she asked slowly.
Blaze nodded.
“Ma’am, it was awful--it sure was.”
She bit her lips as if to keep back the tears and walked back to the
door.
“I want to thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for answering my
question, and--and for taking off your hat to me.”
She lifted the bar before Blaze could assist her and slipped out into
the street. Blaze dropped the bar back into place and looked at Frenchy
who had never spoken while the woman was in the room.
“Whatcha know about that?” wondered Blaze.
Frenchy whittled some tobacco from his plug and filled his pipe. He
tamped the tobacco carefully and lit a sulfur match.
“Can’t yuh talk?” asked Blaze.
Frenchy nodded his head.
“Sure, I’m mak’ talk, Blaze, but first I’m mak’ t’ink. W’at you suppose
she’s tak’ Black Mora’s gun for, eh?”
“Black Mora’s gun?” parroted Blaze and stepped over to the table. The
holster was empty.
“She’s tak’ it when she’s back against de table,” explained Frenchy.
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
Frenchy puffed thoughtfully.
“Blaze, de woman no steal for de value of de gun, ba gosh. De woman
know some-t’ing. Mebbe she’s need gun. Mebbe she’s tak’ Black Mora’s
gun biccause his gun be de handies’, eh?”
“Suppose he comes after his gun, Frenchy? We ain’t got no right to keep
his gun.”
Frenchy shook his head.
“_Non_. We got no right, Blaze, but I’m not worry. When Black Mora come
for de gun, I’m mak’ t’ink I’m kill Black Mora. Chuck Sales she’s wort’
while for de fight; Beel McKeever she’s suppose to be big man, but I’m
got not’ing against dem two out-law. I’m----”
A heavy hand banged against the door. There was nothing timid about this
knock.
“Who’s out there?” asked Blaze.
A voice answered, saying something about Delaney, the rest of it being
drowned by the noise from the dance-hall. Blaze cautiously opened the
door. A man was standing there, his face shaded from the light. The
light was behind Blaze and Frenchy, which left their faces in the
shadow.
“What was it?” asked Blaze.
“Delaney wants yuh to come to his house,” stated the man. “The Wheeler
woman wants to talk to yuh.”
The man half-turned his head toward the dance-hall as he finished his
message. Without a sound, Frenchy sprang through the doorway into the
man, and both of them crashed to the ground. For a moment Blaze was
stunned at the suddenness of Frenchy’s actions, but sprang to his
assistance. The man twisted and cursed, but the little Frenchman had
pinned his arms.
Blaze removed the man’s gun and they dragged him inside and closed
the door. The man sat on the floor and stared at them. Blaze let the
full light of the lamp fall upon the man’s face. It was the man whom
Frenchy had booted at Cinnamon Creek; the man with mouse-colored
hair and empty eye-socket. He stared at them, wonderingly, his eye
wide open with fright. It suddenly occurred to Blaze that Mex Free
had been killed before telling Mora that the two men had not been
burned in the ranch-house fire, and that this man did not know until
now.
The man’s forehead had come in contact with the ground, and a trickle of
blood was running into his remaining eye, but he made no move to wipe it
away. He seemed bereft of motion or understanding.
“I’m never forget de man I’m kick,” stated Frenchy. “She’s plant de
trap, Blaze.”
“Delaney wants to see me, eh?” asked Blaze.
The man looked at Blaze, but did not affirm nor deny the question.
Frenchy leaned over the man, shoving his bearded face close and peering
into the one eye.
“Who sent you to lie?” asked Frenchy harshly, but the man was dumb. His
eye stared straight ahead, as if visioning the punishment he expected.
Frenchy stood up and looked at Blaze.
“W’at you t’ink, Blaze? Dis is Black Mora’s man for sure. She’s bring de
message to come and see Delaney. Delaney never send him, ba gosh!”
Frenchy snapped his words as if anxious to get into action again. Blaze
lifted a coiled rope from under the table and proceeded to hog-tie the
one-eyed man, who made no move to prevent it. Blaze roped him as only a
cowboy can do the job and when he was finished the one-eyed outlaw was
as secure as knots could make him. Not a word would the man speak, not
even a curse. He was taking no chances.
“Where you go?” asked Frenchy.
“Delaney’s place. Know where it is?”
“No. Mebbe somebody show us.”
* * * * *
They closed the door behind them and went across the street. The closed
Square Deal Saloon made a dark spot in the otherwise lighted street. Two
men met them as they reached the sidewalk, and Blaze recognized one of
them as being the stable-man.
“Know where Delaney lives?” asked Blaze.
The man had recognized Blaze and Frenchy and gave them the directions in
a few words. Delaney lived a short distance from the business section,
back on the slope of a hill. Blaze and Frenchy did not go cautiously,
for the reason that Blaze believed that if it was an ambush, the outlaws
might mistake Frenchy for their messenger in the dark and give them a
chance to find out what they were up against. A dim light was burning in
Delaney’s front window. They were almost to the door when a voice said--
“Good work, Blue.”
Men rose up from behind them, men who were unseen in the shadows of
the fence and who ringed Frenchy and Blaze from every avenue of escape
except into the house.
“The house,” whispered Blaze. “Smash the window if the door is blocked.”
“---- yuh, I’ve got yuh where yuh won’t kick fer a while,” gritted Black
Mora’s voice.
Blaze whirled and fired at the figure which he thought was Black
Mora, while Frenchy’s pistol spat flame in the other direction. The
bushwhackers were taken by surprise; supposing that one of the two
was their messenger, Al Blue. Blaze swung his gun from figure to
figure, firing as fast as possible, while Frenchy emptied his gun
into the bulk of the men who were only a few feet from him.
Oaths and cries of pain mingled with the crashing of pistols. Blaze felt
a bullet tear through the flesh of his left forearm, while another bit
deeply across his shoulder. His gun was empty. Frenchy had ceased to
fire for the same reason. Straight for the door they ran, crashing into
it together and splintering the cheap latch. It was a narrow hallway,
opening each way into larger rooms.
Blaze bounded back from the wall and threw himself against the door.
Frenchy went to his knees and skidded almost into the right-hand room.
For a moment Blaze held the door with his shoulder, but he immediately
dropped flat, braced his feet against the bottom of it, while he calmly
shoved cartridges into his empty gun.
Bullets splintered the door, waist high to a man, but none of them came
low enough to injure Blaze. Frenchy reloaded as fast as possible and
crouched against the wall out of line with the door, cursing softly.
“Didja get hit, Frenchy?” asked Blaze.
“I’m los’ piece from my ear and git bullet in de leg; I’m t’ink one boot
she’s get irrigate from de blood. How you come?”
“Got a slug through my left arm and one through my left shoulder, I
think. Can’t shut my hand very good. We kinda busted up the meetin’,
Frenchy.”
“Ho, ho, ho! I’m have de gran’ time latelee. I’m never know dere be so
much good time in de worl’, Blaze. Where you suppose everybodee she’s
be? Where’s Delaney and de female wimmin’, eh?”
Blaze crawled away from the door, which swung ajar for a few inches.
Into the other room went Blaze, crawling softly in the dark. One room
was partly lighted with the smoking oil-lamp, but this one was in
darkness. Blaze crawled slowly, reaching ahead as much as possible;
crawling like a three-legged animal.
Suddenly his hand touched flesh. Like a flash his pistol barrel bored
into it but there was no movement. Blaze reached out with his injured
hand, not daring to take away the pistol, and felt tight ropes.
“Frenchy,” he called softly. “Come here, Frenchy.”
“Ba gosh, I’m come,” whispered Frenchy, and came limping softly into the
room.
“Light a match,” whispered Blaze.
Frenchy lighted a match, shading it with his hands. On the floor lay
Delaney, trussed with ropes, gagged with a dirty rag and with a
hangman’s noose around his neck. He had been bruised about the head,
but his eyes were open.
Blaze cut his bonds and ripped away the gag. For a moment Delaney was
unable to move, but he struggled to a sitting position as the match
flared out.
“Where are the women?” asked Blaze softly.
Delaney seemed unable to talk and when he did regain speech it was
barely a weak whisper.
“Gone. They stole them. Said they’d hang me as soon as they got you,
Carlin.”
“Shake yourself,” ordered Blaze. “Where have the women gone? Why did
Mora’s gang come here?”
“Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Delaney. “Black Mora wanted her. Those were
Mora’s men in the store when she came there. She knew it was Mora’s
gang that killed Jack. Mora killed him to get her. He knew she’d tell
me who got Jack and Mora was afraid.
“I heard him send the message to you. Mora’s face is cut to ribbons,
where Sales beat him. He said he was going to hang us both to the same
limb.”
“He’s got your wife, ain’t he?” asked Blaze.
“We were all here when they broke in,” whispered Delaney. “Mora grabbed
Mrs. Wheeler.”
Delaney got to his feet, mumbling to himself. Blaze moved back toward
the front door, his footsteps muffled in the heavy rag-carpet. The
oil-lamp was guttering in the other room, casting a yellow light over
the walls.
The half-open door began to squeak, as some one shoved it gently from
the outside. The sound of a husky whisper came to Blaze’s ears. Blaze
covered the edge of the door with his pistol. Suddenly a man’s body
moved into view, but before Blaze could shoot a streak of flame shot
from Frenchy’s gun and the man dropped to the floor.
“Ba gosh, you mebbe wait too long sometime, Blaze,” said Frenchy softly.
They listened, waited. Outside came a shrill whistle and a moment later
the sound of galloping horses. Blaze took a chance. He hurdled the man
in the doorway and sprang into the yard.
By the dim light from the moon he could see men riding away. Two
horsemen swung past him, coming from the rear of the house. Blaze
emptied his pistol as the horses thundered past. One of the men cursed
and fired back. Fifty feet beyond, the horses seemed to crash together
and go down.
Frenchy and Delaney joined him. Blaze had watched, but could not tell
whether the horsemen had gone to town or not.
“Mora gave up trying to get us,” said Blaze. “He’s taken the women with
him, I think. He’s lost too many men already, and he knows we are still
alive. Look out for them two out there by the horses. They may have some
fight left.”
They separated and started for the spot where the horses had fallen.
A few feet away, Blaze stumbled over the body of a man, which proved
that Mora’s surprize party had not worked out as he had planned. They
found the horses--one dead, the other crippled, but there was no sign
of the two men.
The three men stood there, undecided. Far away they could hear the
music from the dance-halls, soft and as indefinite as the light from
the fleece-covered moon. The saddle creaked on the crippled horse,
as the animal started to move away. Far back in the hills a coyote
lifted its voice in lamentation.
“Ba gosh, she’s de peaceful night,” breathed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to go to
sleep, Blaze.”
“How does the leg feel, Frenchy?”
“Not feel much. I’m not t’ink she’s belong to me. My boot squash, squash
all de time. How’s de arm?”
“Can’t lift it,” said Blaze. “Weighs a ton. Buck up, Frenchy; we’ve got
to get Black Mora tonight.”
“She’s a fact,” said Frenchy. “We got t’ree good leg and t’ree good hand
left, which mak’ plenty fun, ba gosh!”
“My wife!” exclaimed Delaney suddenly, as if he had just awakened. “My
----, they’ve got my wife!”
He trotted toward the town with Blaze and Frenchy following painfully
behind.
“Delaney got shocked, I reckon,” muttered Blaze. “He’s just rememberin’
things, Frenchy.”
“I’m kill, kill----” muttered Frenchy complainingly, as if talking to
himself. “De bad-man mus’ be kill biffore de countree she’s good to
live here.”
Blaze knew that Frenchy was weakening from the loss of blood. His voice
was halting and his left leg seemed to drag. Suddenly Frenchy increased
his pace and his voice boomed out:
“Ho, ho, ho! Ba gosh! All de time I’m mak’ t’ink of de squash, squash
inside de boot. To ---- wit’ de squash! First we git Mora, den we sleep.
Ho, ho, ho!”
“Good man!” grunted Blaze, gritting his teeth over his throbbing
shoulder and arm. “We’ll clean ’em up, old pardner.”
Frenchy stumbled and almost fell to his knees.
“Hurrah for ----!” he croaked drunkenly. “Who’s afraid of de fire?”
Blaze steadied him with his good arm and Frenchy laughed foolishly. They
reached the street and headed for the Eureka, passing the other places.
Frenchy was weaving, stumbling, but Blaze helped him along.
* * * * *
Into the saloon they went and men stepped aside to let them through.
The woman, who had stolen Mora’s gun, was standing on a platform,
singing, but stopped when she saw Blaze and Frenchy, who came up near
the platform. The violin quit in the middle of a bar of music.
Blaze faced the crowd, lifting his good hand as a signal for silence.
The room stilled in a moment, except for the shuffling of feet. Frenchy
was hunched from weariness, but watched the crowd, with his right hand
near the butt of his gun.
“Men,” said Blaze hollowly, “you know us. We’re cleanin’ up this town.”
Sales was standing near the bar and now he moved closer to Blaze. From
back in the crowd came a voice--
“Look out yuh don’t drown in your own suds.”
“Black Mora and his men stole two women and a little girl tonight.”
Blaze’s voice was cool. “Black Mora is the leader of the cut-throat
gang, who are posing as vigilantes. No man or woman is safe while his
gang are alive.”
The crowd received this statement silently. A man pushed his way to
the front and faced Blaze. He was a tall, gaunt figure of a man,
yellow as old ivory. His taffy-colored hair was matted and a long,
greasy lock curved over his forehead and almost to the bridge of his
nose. His eyes were cavernous and the light from the hanging lamps
made deep hollows under his cheek-bones. A yellow muffler around his
neck seemed to increase the sallowness of his face. Blaze had never
seen this man before.
“Talk to ’em, McKeever,” urged a man behind him. Blaze knew that this
was Bill McKeever, a partner of Buck Law, whom Frenchy had shot.
“Got gunned up and now you’re lookin’ fer help, eh?” drawled McKeever.
“Bit off more ’n yuh can chaw and now you’re huntin’ fer sympathy. Well,
yuh won’t git a ---- bit of it hereabouts. I ain’t forgot Buck Law, and
by ----, if yuh wasn’t crippled----”
“It’s my left hand, McKeever,” replied Blaze coldly. “I use my right
hand for shootin’. I’ve had plenty of shootin’ today, but if you must
have it----”
McKeever was moving as Blaze spoke. His hand streaked to his gun,
drew swiftly, but his gun exploded into the ceiling. Blaze had shaded
him just enough to send a bullet ripping through McKeever’s knuckles,
scoring his forearm and burning across the ribs of the man who had
urged McKeever on.
The crowd split with a rush, but above it all came Chuck Sales’ voice:
“Steady, steady! Carlin stopped him, gents. No use of any more trouble.”
McKeever staggered back, nursing his shattered hand, cursing impotently,
his nerve gone. Then Sales sprang to the platform, shouting:
“Listen to me, you bunch of mangy coyotes! Stay here and suck a
bottle and be ----ed to yuh! Dance, you whelps, while that offspring
of the devil runs away with good women. Me and my men ride with the
law tonight, and when we come back we’re goin’ to help the sheriff
do the rest of his washin’.”