saloon, plowing their way through the crowd, which split wide open to
let them through.
“Horses are at the hitch-rack!” cried Sales. “We’ll find enough to carry
us.”
Frenchy was staggering and Blaze put an arm around his shoulder.
“Keep goin’, pardner,” urged Blaze.
“Ba gosh, I’m go!” declared Frenchy weakly. “I’m go, but de legs she’s
forgit how to lif’ up. I’m tired like ----, Blaze Carlin.”
Sales and his men were ahead. Blaze and Frenchy were passing the front
of the deserted Square Deal Saloon, when Frenchy jerked to a stop and
almost fell.
“You hear dat, Blaze? You hear de woman scream?”
“Keep goin’, Frenchy,” urged Blaze. “There wasn’t no woman screamin’,
old pardner.”
“I hear,” declared Frenchy stubbornly, stumbling toward the door of the
deserted saloon. “She’s sound lak’ somebody choke hoff de scream.”
Blaze stepped to the smashed window, across which had been nailed
strips of boards, and tried to peer into the blackness. There was
moonlight enough to show that the back door was open, and against the
moonlit strip of the rear door moved the figures of men.
Blaze turned to Frenchy, who was trying to see inside, and gripped him
tight.
“Stand here, Frenchy!” he whispered fiercely. “Black Mora was sure we’d
go to his ranch to find him and he’s holed up in here, where nobody’d
think to look for him. Maybe he was afraid we’d catch him in the hills,
do you understand, Frenchy?” Blaze shook him by the arm. “They’ve got
them women in there! If Wolf Butte went huntin’ Black Mora, he’d be
right here to raise ---- with the town while we was gone. Do you know
what I mean?”
“You t’ink I’m ---- fool en-tire, Blaze?”
Frenchy’s voice was cold as steel. Dizzy and sick from loss of blood,
yet his will was stronger than his flesh.
“You get Sales,” ordered Frenchy. “We smash dis Black Mora, ba gosh!”
Blaze trotted up the street, where men were mounting horses at the
hitch-rack.
“Sales!” cried Blaze. “Chuck Sales! This is Carlin.”
“Here’s a horse for you, Carlin,” answered Sales.
“Wait!” panted Blaze. He stepped in beside Sales and told him what they
had discovered.
“Tie your horses!” ordered Sales sharply, calling to his men who had
already-mounted. “Turn ’em loose--do anything, but hurry!”
None of them took time to tie their horses and in a few moments crowded
around their leader and Blaze. Sales gave them the information in a few
words.
“Be careful,” he added. “There’s two women and a little girl in there
and we don’t want them hurt.”
“One is Jack Wheeler’s wife,” said one of the men. “She’s fed me three
times.”
“I knowed Jack,” said another. “They hung a grindstone around his neck
and throwed him in the creek.”
“Black Mora swore he’d steal her,” declared Blaze.
“We’ll split into two bunches,” said Sales. “Slim, you and Flack go
with Carlin to the front where the sheriff is. The rest of us will go
to the back. Give us time to get there, will yuh, Carlin? I’ll let out
a war-whoop when we arrive. They’ll think I’m just drunk.”
Blaze and his two men went down the street, walking slowly so as not
to arrive much ahead of Sales and his men. They found Frenchy braced
against a corner of the building. Blaze put his hand on Frenchy’s
shoulder and shook him.
“You t’ink I’m ’sleep?” growled Frenchy. “I’m tak’ off de boot and pour
out de squash, squash, and I’m can’t get de boot on no more, ba gosh!”
“Stay with her, pardner,” encouraged Blaze. “We’ll go to bed when this
here thing is over.”
“De bed,” muttered Frenchy. “Dat’s de good word, Blaze, I’m tire like
----, but de work mus’ be do.”
From the rear of the building floated the eerie war-whoop, which Sales
had promised as a signal. Blaze peered into the building just in time to
see the door close, cutting off the moonlight from the rear. From inside
came the dull thump of a six-shooter. Footsteps rattled across the floor
and a man darted to the front window and then dropped to the floor.
“Get down!” he yelled, followed by unprintable oaths. “They’re at the
front, too!”
Another voice cursed feelingly and a bullet whizzed out through the
half-boarded window.
“We’ve got yuh trapped,” stated Blaze. “Yuh can’t get away. Throw your
guns out of the window and come out with your hands up.”
But there was no response. The men knew only too well what it meant.
There would be scant mercy for any of them and Mora’s men would rather
die fighting than on the gallows. Mora laughed mockingly. He was at
the end of his rope, but would not admit it as long as he lived. Blaze
grasped one of the boards and tore it off the window. Bullets
splintered through the board, but did no damage. Blaze ripped them all
off, which left the large window unprotected.
“What’s the idea?” asked one of Sales’ men. “You ain’t goin’ in, are
yuh?”
“May have to,” said Blaze calmly.
“Carlin!” shouted Black Mora. “Do yuh hear me?”
“Go ahead,” said Blaze. “Talk fast!”
“I’ve got two women in here,” stated Black Mora. “I’ll make a trade with
yuh, Carlin. You let me and my men get out and get away and I’ll give
yuh the wimmin and the kid. Talk fast or the deal’s off. We go free, or
by ---- the wimmin and kid git what you give us, _sabe_?”
“No gut,” declared Frenchy weakly. “Don’ trus’ him, Blaze.”
“Go to the rear and tell Sales to try to smash in the door,” whispered
Blaze to one of the men. “Tell him to hit it hard.”
The man ran to the corner and circled the building. Blaze ducked below
the window-sill and crept in close.
“Well, are yuh goin’ to talk business?” growled Mora. There was a note
of uneasiness in his voice, as if his nerves were badly worn. Blaze did
not reply.
Suddenly there was a crash at the rear door, which threatened to tear
the door from its hinges. Blaze shot upright, vaulted through the
window and dropped flat on the floor. He had succeeded in attracting
all the attention to the rear and not a man in the building had seen
him come in.
The blows were shattering the door, tearing off the hinges. Pistols
flashed and bullets thudded into the door, but the door was too thick
for the bullets to injure the men outside, who were using a wagon-wheel
for a battering-ram.
The pistol flashes momentarily lighted the place for Blaze, and he was
able to locate the women, who were bound and sitting upright against the
top of an overturned table. Blaze crawled to them, while Black Mora and
his men expended ammunition against the door and cursed brokenly.
Blaze reached the women and touched one of them on the head to satisfy
himself that he was not mistaken. “Go out the front!” ordered Mora.
“That ---- door won’t last another smash. Jump out the window and take
a chance. Those ---- women----”
* * * * *
MORA stepped across the room, feeling in the darkness. Blaze was on
his feet now, crouched in front of the women, and Mora’s groping hands
touched him.
“Who in ----?” grunted Mora.
Blaze clubbed his gun, striking at Mora’s head with the barrel, but
he misjudged direction and struck Mora’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp
of pain. Mora flung himself forward, encircling Blaze with both arms.
As they crashed to the floor there came a sound of splintering wood
as the door gave way, the shouts of men, the thudding of pistols.
Blaze went down with Mora on top of him, clawing, biting, striking
blindly. Blaze drew up his knees as he fell, and was thus able to
prevent Mora from reaching his throat. His wounded arm was caught under
Mora’s knee, and his shoulder came in contact with a table-leg.
Mora slackened his frenzied attempt to reach Blaze’s throat and grasped
Blaze by the knees, trying to throw them aside. Like a flash, Blaze
rolled sidewise, landed on his knees and sprang to his feet. Mora
clawed himself upright, cursing hoarsely. Outside a conflict seemed to
rage, but Blaze and Mora had the room to themselves. Blaze had lost his
gun and he knew that Mora must be in the same fix.
This thought was only a flash, for Mora dived into him again. Blaze
smashed him with a right-hand swing, but Mora growled hoarsely and
grappled Blaze around the waist.
Weakened as he was, Blaze was no match for Mora in this kind of
fighting, yet he continued to drive short blows to Mora’s already
disfigured face. They crashed into an upturned chair and went down,
fighting with tooth and nail. Mora’s breath was sobbing into Blaze’s
ear and there seemed to be little pressure from Mora’s left arm.
Blaze wondered if the blow from the pistol barrel had not injured Mora’s
shoulder. Blaze was almost exhausted, but he fought savagely. He managed
to get his fist beneath Mora’s chin, driving upward with every ounce of
his strength.
Mora groaned and that groan was his undoing. Blaze laughed. He was a
better man than Mora. Blaze laughed aloud, a wheezing chuckle. Mora
blubbered a curse and tried to get his fingers around Blaze’s throat,
but Blaze tore his hand away and ground the heel of his palm into
Mora’s nose.
Suddenly Mora surged away from him and started to get to his feet.
Blaze laughed again and tried to revile Mora for being a coward, but
his vocal cords refused to function. Very well, he would get up, too,
and they could fight more. It was hard work, this getting up, but he
managed to get to his feet. He struck at Mora, but Mora did not fight
back. Mora almost fell out of the rear door, which was splintered and
sagging. Blaze staggered after him, shoving Mora toward the rear of
the Eureka.
Once Mora stopped and tried to go the other way, but Blaze struck him in
the neck; struck him with a fist which would not stay clenched, and Mora
whimpered like a beaten puppy.
The front of Mora’s shirt was splotched with blood, where a bullet had
ripped through the muscles, and there was a jagged furrow across his
neck, where another chunk of hot lead had barely missed its kill.
* * * * *
Mora stumbled into the rear door of the Eureka. He stopped, but Blaze
bumped into him, shoving him ahead. The room was in a turmoil.
Sales, pistol in hand, a bloody smear across his face, had his left
hand twisted into the collar of a man and was holding him against the
bar. Another man was lying on the floor, with Frenchy standing astride
of him, his knees half-bent, mouth wide open, but still gripping his
big Colt; dangerous as an old crippled wolf. Two of Sales’ men were
holding another man against a card-table. The crowd had given them
plenty of room.
Straight ahead staggered Mora, head down and weaving like a wounded
animal, while behind him came Blaze, scarcely able to lift his feet.
A group of dance-hall girls scattered to let Mora through. He came to a
stop near Frenchy.
“By ----, he didn’t get away!” croaked Sales.
Frenchy threw up his head and looked at Mora.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Frenchy’s voice rasped weakly. “Tak’ look, everybodee! De
big one she’s come to be judged!”
Suddenly a woman, the woman who had stolen Black Mora’s gun, rushed
past Blaze. She stopped a few feet from Mora, her right hand buried
in the folds of her dress.
Her face was white with fury. Her penciled eyes gleamed green in the
murky light, and her carmined lips were a thin, red line, barely
discernible. For a moment she stared at Black Mora. He seemed about
to speak to her, but she forestalled him.
“Black Mora, I’ve waited for you. You made me what I am because I was
afraid of you, but I am not afraid of you now.”
She brushed her hand across her brow as if to clear her thoughts.
“My old father--you killed him, Black Mora. He came to this country to
kill you for what you done to me and you and your men hung him. He was
old and crippled, but you feared him.
“You and your vigilantes! Ha, ha, ha! You told me you would run this
country and that you would marry me. You wanted Jack Wheeler’s wife;
so you murdered him.”
Mora’s mouth was wide open and his breath was jerking from his lips, but
no protest came from him. Cold fear gripped his heart. The crowd made no
move. Blaze listened dully, as if to an oft-told tale, wishing that the
woman would keep still so he could sleep. Frenchy was swaying on his
feet, fighting to keep above the man, who had turned on his side and was
staring at Mora, as if wondering if his chief could save him.
“You wanted power,” continued the woman, without a trace of inflexion in
her voice. “Power--women! Ha, ha, ha!”
Her lips barely opened to emit the cackling laugh, and the lines of her
face did not change.
“Women, Mora. You didn’t care what breed. You lied to me. You killed my
father and stole his gun. Listen to me, Mora. You said that my voice
pleased you more than any you ever heard. Listen to it, because it’s the
last voice you’ll ever hear. My father’s gun, Mora. His initials are on
the handle. Jack Henderson, whom the Indians called Running Wolf. He
carved his hate into those handles, but he loved the gun, because it was
to kill you. Do you hear me, Mora?”
Her voice was almost a scream.
“I’ve got that gun, Mora! Pray--quick!”
Mora threw out his arm blindly. Blaze lurched to grasp the woman, but
her hand came up swiftly, the skirt still covering the muzzle of the
gun.
Just once it roared. Mora jerked back, seemed to collapse like a bundle
of rags and crashed to the floor.
The woman dropped the gun and staggered back against the bar, her flimsy
dress flaming. She screamed as Blaze grabbed her and swung her around.
His ebbing strength flared up as his hand grasped her bodice and with
one jerk he ripped off her gown and sent her spinning into the group of
hysterical girls.
Blaze kicked the flaming dress to the center of the room. For a moment
there was silence; then came a dull thump. Frenchy Ditteau had fallen
to his knees, straddling his captive, clutching him with both hands.
“De job is done.” Frenchy’s voice was barely audible. “De bad-man she’s
all t’rough in Wolf Butte, and I’m ver’ tire’ of de squash, squash----”
Frenchy slid forward across his man, face down. Blaze tried to go to
him, but the room whirled. In a dull sort of a way he seemed to feel
hands grasping him and carrying him away. It seemed good to move
without effort.
Suddenly the hands seemed to release him. His body stiffened to take
the shock, which did not come. Then he opened his eyes. He was in a
strange room. Across from him he could see another bed, around which
a blue cloud seemed to hover.
He tried to move, but his left side seemed to be bandaged tightly.
After a moment’s reflection he lifted his head. A man was standing at
a window, while another was humped over, sitting in a chair.
Footsteps were coming up the hall. The man got out of his chair and went
to the door. For a few moments there was a whispered conversation. The
door closed and the man came toward the foot of the bed.
It was Chuck Sales. He glanced at Blaze and a glad smile lighted up his
homely features. He dropped a heavy object on a table and came quickly
to the head of the bed.
“Carlin,” he said, “I’m danged glad to see yuh with your eyes open.”
“Ba gosh!” came an exclamation from the smoke enshrouded bed across the
room, “Blaze, are you ’wake up?”
“Hello, old pardner,” called Blaze weakly.
The other man came to Blaze. It was Judge Whalen. He looked down at
Blaze, a glad smile in his eyes.
“Yuh might tell me about it,” suggested Blaze.
“Doc Brenton told me to keep yuh quiet,” stated Sales, “but I don’t
reckon a little tellin’ is goin’ to hurt yuh any. Them women wasn’t
hurt none and Mora’s gang is completely wiped out. Wolf Butte is
tamed, Carlin.”
“Do yuh mean that?” queried Blaze. “Did all that killin’ do any good?”
The judge picked up the small table and carried it around to where Blaze
could see it. On it were at least twenty pistols. Sales lifted the top
two and smiled down at Blaze.
“These two just came in. There ain’t nobody down there to make ’em give
up their guns, but they’re all doin’ it. I’m takin’ it upon myself to
look out for you two, but I wish you’d hurry up and git well.”
“A few more days of this civilized town and I won’t have a horse-thief
left to follow me. You fellers sure did put one awful crimp in my
business.”
Sales walked back to the window and the judge sat down on the edge of
the bed.
“Carlin, you can’t realize what you have done,” said the judge softly,
and then added--“you and Ditteau. It will be years before Wolf Butte
will be anything except a border-town, but it will be an orderly
border-town--a town where good men and women may live in peace. You
took the only method of making it change its ways, and--well, we won’t
try to thank you.”
“You’re welcome, judge,” said Blaze simply.
“I’m sure had one gran’ time--me,” stated Frenchy. “Nobody she’s have to
t’ank Frenchy Ditteau, ba gosh, biccause I’m enjoy everyt’ing, you bet.”
“You fightin’ son of a gun!” laughed Sales and pointed out of the
window. “Here comes more artillery. Reckon I better git my gang and
drag out of here before a preacher hits town.”
Blaze grinned contentedly and stared up at the ceiling. He had done
something for the country--something worth while, and he was glad.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 20, 1922 issue
of Adventure magazine.]