THE MAN HUNT
THE sun sank gently back of the grasslands encircling Abilene. The
night chill came, the quavering wail of the coyotes crept closer to the
outskirts of the town, the unbelievably brilliant stars came out to
illuminate a many-splendored night. But to these things Abilene paid
little heed. She held festival on her day of triumph.
The fumes of liquor, the reek of packed humanity filled each
insignificant room along Liquor Lane in Abilene. Especially crowded were
the two more ambitious places, where dancing was obtainable in
connection with strong drink. Here the scene was such as might best be
forgotten as a part of the record of the outlands. There were a dozen or
more women, or those who once had been women; and with these, in an
obscenity that should balk any pen, a hundred or two hundred men danced.
A general confusion, many voices arising continuously, passed out of the
open windows and open doors. The stamp of feet, shoutings, senseless
laughter, shrill hysteria of females excited by drink, the coarser basso
of males excited likewise, joined in a curious roar whose sensuous
undertone resembled no other sound or blend of sounds in all the world.
In no corner of the world have the primitive instincts of man found
fuller loosing than in the border capitals of the cow trails.
It was the etiquette—unvarying in Saxon outlands—that he who danced
with a damsel must lead her to the bar after they twain had trod a
measure, else lack in a decent respect for the opinion of mankind. Of
actual sets, of any measured cæsura, there was none. The music was
furnished by rum-soaked men who sat apart on barrels, the same who had
welcomed that morning the first Texas herd ever seen in Abilene. Such as
it was, and supported by fiery stimulant, the concord was continuous,
the floors were always full. Men danced in hats and boots and spurs. The
voice of a submerged set caller droned on: “Dolcie do! Allemand left!
Swing your partner! Lift her high!” It was festival in Abilene.
McMasters and Wild Bill Hickok passed from door to door, the quietest
and soberest men in all the town. There approached them a man in
uniform, a sergeant of the United States Army. He recognized McMasters.
“I’ve been looking for you, sir,” said he. “I am up from the Wichita
Mountains, from Colonel Griswold. I’ve got two ambulances and an escort
of five men for each. I was to offer you any help you required, sir, and
to put the ambulances under your order if any of your people wished to
travel south. The colonel could not come. He sends his compliments and
hopes you are quite well. He thinks it would be much safer for you to
travel south across the Nations under military escort. He hopes the
young lady will occupy one ambulance for her own in case you sell out,
and start south, sir.”
“All right, sergeant,” replied McMasters; “that’s very fine of Colonel
Griswold. The young lady has sold her herd to-day and will be starting
south before long. Where are your ambulances and your men?”
The sergeant grinned, somewhat embarrassed.
“The ambulances are at the Twin Star Barn,” said he. “I put my mules and
horses in there too. I guess my men may be scattered.”
“Stop your drinking,” said Dan McMasters. “You may be needed to-night.
Go get your men together. Be at the Silver Moon half an hour from now.”
“Very good, sir,” said the man, and saluted again. He cast a longing eye
through windows as he passed down the street.
Near the door of the Silver Moon Dance Hall a man pushed by them,
anxious; Nabours, looking around him, not hurrying to the bar.
“Dan!” he exclaimed as he caught sight of McMasters. His granite
agitation, his naïve disregard of all the post, bridged any gap
remaining between them. “Look here! Hell’s to pay!”
“What’s up?” asked McMasters, startled by the look on his face.
“Anything gone wrong with—her?”
“Yes! Miss Taisie’s trunk is gone; it’s been stole out of the cart right
in front of the door. All her scrip was in it—you know what.”
A sudden flush came to Dan McMaster’s face.
“You are rather a fine foreman, aren’t you, Jim?” said he. “Was that the
best you could use that girl?”
“Call me anything you like. I’m a damned old fool. I’ve quit her hire. I
gave her the money and quit her hire right here.”
“Don’t you know that Sim Rudabaugh and some of his gang are in town
right now? They’ve beat us, after all; they’ve got the scrip, even if
they couldn’t stop the herd. Rudabaugh can get his lands now in spite of
you and me. He’ll own all the state of Texas, west of the Double
Mountain Fork. He’ll get what Miss Lockhart’s father left her, her
fortune in lands. We have been making money for him, not her! You let
that thing happen right now, when I have almost got my hand on his
collar!” He spoke with greater bitterness than any man had ever known of
him. At length the indomitable side of his nature took sway again. “But
we’ll comb out the town first. Go get McCoyne.”
They did get McCoyne, and solicited his aid in such general search for
the missing treasure chest as they hurriedly could contrive. It all was
hopeless. No one had seen two men carrying a trunk. The cart was
precisely where it had been left. No vehicle had left town, no train.
The Del Sol treasure trunk simply had disappeared.
The allies, discomfited, met at last in the open street, Hickok having
joined them by this time, and having heard the story.
“Hark!” said the latter, raising a hand.
His keen ears had caught the sound which presently became obvious to
them all—the pounding of hoofs, yelling of riders in concert. Sweeping
over the prairies at top speed, the herdsmen of Del Sol were coming in
to have their share in the Fourth of July celebration. But as they stood
looking to the north there came the sound of a heavy rifle shot, close
at hand. A red streak came from the window near the kitchen of the
Cottage. Two men came running. On general principles Hickok halted them.
“What was that shot?” he demanded.
“That?” panted one of the runners. “That old negro woman. She got scared
and shot through the window.”
But by now Hickok thought he had recognized the speaker as one of the
men he had seen talking with Rudabaugh earlier in the day. The two
fugitives turned into the door of the Silver Moon Dance Hall just before
the Del Sol riders swept up and cast down their bridle reins. All the
overflow population of Abilene seemed to be packed into or on one side
or other of the door of the Silver Moon. Hickok, Nabours, McMasters
pushed in through the crowd hard after the Del Sol men, unkempt, ragged,
wild, troubled with no false modesty as to their own place in the world.
They pushed on up to the bar, Len Hersey leading them.
“Come on, men!” called the high voice of that lusty youth. “I got enough
dinero for one little time, and I’m going to have more. Set ’em up,
mister, and do it quick. You come in here, Sanchez—come on, Sinker!”
Then pushed forward from among them the thin figure of a boy, ragged,
unshorn, his hair through his hat, his lower extremities pushed through
a pair of leather leggings a world too large for him. It was Cinquo’s
first appearance at a public bar, part of his education for his calling.
At his shoulder was the thin figure of a dark man, old, grizzled,
imperturbable—Sanchez, the only Mexican on the Del Sol herd.
Unsmilingly Sanchez drew from under his coat the object which had had a
place on his saddle horn. He set down upon the bar a much bedraggled,
entirely dilapidated gamecock—nothing less than Gallina, whom he had
cherished for a thousand miles. And Gallina now repaid him. He cast a
red eye over the multitude and bade defiance to the world in a long and
lusty crow. A peal of laughter broke from the crowd. Again the voice of
Len Hersey arose.
“This here rooster can lick ary chicken in the state of Kansas, five
hunderd a battle. This here boy and his horse can outrun ary outfit in
this town, ary distance, for five hunderd a race. I can whip ary man in
this here room myself. We’re just from Texas and we’re wild and woolly.
Our steers has longer horns than anybody’s. Del Sol has came to town!”
The not ill-natured rioters crowded about him and his fellows, accosting
him partly in jest and partly in earnest. The Del Sol orator leaned
against the bar and faced them.
“Come on, men!” said Hersey, sweeping a wide arm. “Here goes all the
money I’ve got—couple of hunderd! Say, mister, is our credit good when
that runs out?”
“There ain’t no man’s credit good here when his money runs out,” replied
the barman sullenly. “Take that hen off my bar. Go ask your owner that
dresses in pants why she hasn’t paid off her men earlier.”
A sort of squealing yell arose above the tumult. The boy Cinquo had
wheeled like a flash, his heavy revolver in hand. His sweeping blow
struck the bartender on the top of the head and dropped him motionless
as a log.
“You can’t say her name in no saloon!” shrilled the boy. “That’s no way
to treat us folks from Texas. If there’s any of you-all looking for
trouble you can git it right here!”
“That’s what you can!” cried Len Hersey, touching elbows. The men of Del
Sol edged close together. “Take a drink, Sinker—we’ll owe it to this
house if you haven’t got no money.”
The boy reached out his hand, thin, freckled, unwavering, toward the
bottle which stood near. It was his first drink at a bar. Well, he had
to begin.
“You hear me!” again called out Len Hersey. “This kid gits his drink
free right now. We bar any talk against our boss.”
But a tall figure pushed through the crowd directly up to Hersey.
“Look here, my friend,” said Wild Bill Hickok, “I know who you are and
it’s all right, but you’re making too much noise. Just keep quiet now.
Son, you don’t get any drink—it wouldn’t do you any good.”
He reached out and took the glass which Cinquo Centavos had filled for
himself. Whether or not even Wild Bill could have done so much as this
without trouble happily did not come into question. McMasters, Nabours,
now appeared at his side.
“Shut your mouth, Len,” said Nabours. “Somebody’s liable to fill you
full of holes. You know mighty well we’ve got to trail the bulk of the
herd to-morrow over to the Smoky Hill and Junction City. Take a drink or
so, and then keep your hand off the liquor till you get done your work.”
No one seemed to pay any attention to the prone figure of the barkeeper,
who lay on the floor beyond the bar. A sort of hush in the maudlin
manifestations came upon the closely packed assemblage at the sight of
the unmistakable figure of Wild Bill, whose reputation was known over
all the borderlands.
It was in this hush, at this dead center, that there came a sudden flash
and roar from the back of the crowded hall. Dan McMasters, turning to
look over the bar at the fallen man, felt a sudden flick at the collar
of his coat. A bottle on the shelf beyond crashed to bits. A lamp toward
the rear of the hall went out under the concussion.
McMasters wheeled, both weapons in hand, looking out over the surging
mass of men and women. He was just a second later than the future
marshal of Abilene, who had not turned. The tall figure of Hickok
straightened like a flash to his full height. His arm rose high,
pointing a red line of flame. At the rear of the room a man dropped. He
had been shot squarely through the forehead, the bullet passing just
above the heads of the others.
What happened then no man knew. There was a mad rush towards the door.
Women screamed and sought to escape by the windows. A score of guns were
drawn. No man knew where stood his enemy.
Midway of the mad rush in the rear of the room three men came crouching,
crowding, each with a gun in his hand. They endeavored to keep together;
and thus, being recognized as a source of danger, certain of the crowd
pushed away from them, left them more readily visible.
“Let them out!” The command came high and clear. McMasters laid a hand
on Hickok’s arm. “Let them get out on the street!”
He had recognized, as one of the three men, the man he had come so far
to meet—his arch enemy Rudabaugh. But he did not fire.
Hickok stayed his hand. He did not look toward the rear of the room, now
cleared, for he knew his work there was done. He never was known to look
at the effect of any shot he ever made; he always knew. There stood now
at his side a man as dangerous as himself. But the two best pistol men
on all that wild border now dared not shoot, had they so desired, for
the men had shrugged down below the level of the crowd.
“That’s Rudabaugh in front!” called McMasters. “Don’t shoot him! Let him
alone! Let him get out!”
He himself began to edge toward the door, Wild Bill pushing through the
crowd at his elbow. The Del Sol men for the time were jostled back.
It was Rudabaugh who had sought to end at any cost the life of his worst
enemy, Dan McMasters. He had missed, across the room, but now intended
to kill McMasters at short range. But always some other man intervened,
caught down his arm.
He made a sudden last plan—often a deadly one—stepped outside the door
and waited for his man to follow—an old border trick which very often
worked. The shooter would be in the darkness, his target in the light.
But the wily bandit leader had reckoned ill with the men he now was
meeting. Even as he passed over the threshold Hickok suddenly fired over
McMasters’ shoulder. His bullet struck the barrel of Rudabaugh’s
revolver and hurled it from his hand. An instant later the two officers
broke out the door. Rudabaugh, wringing his hand, was stooping for his
revolver, his two companions making off at top speed in the moonlight.
As for the latter, they both fell face forward, shot through the back.
Neither of their two executioners had time to look at them. Both covered
Rudabaugh as he half rose.
“Don’t shoot!” cried McMasters once more. “Leave him to me!”
An instant later and he was locked in grips with the ruffian he had
sought so long to meet in precisely this fashion. Hickok stood back, his
elbows at the door jamb, a revolver in either hand.
“Easy, gentlemen!” said he. “Easy now! Don’t come out! Just stay right
where you are!”
Every man who heard heeded the advice of Wild Bill and set back his
shoulders against the thrust behind him.
The combat on the beaten ground in front of the Silver Moon did not long
endure. McMasters had borne down his man at the first leap. Rudabaugh’s
right hand was still numb from the impact of the ball which had struck
his weapon. Moreover, he was much older than his antagonist, soft with
drink and excess of every imaginable sort, little more than the shell of
a man; whereas his enemy was young, sound, hard and lithe as a panther.
One fought a battle with the result foreordained, the other sought to
postpone the end. McMasters was absolutely merciless when finally he
twisted Rudabaugh’s arm behind him and flung him face down on the
ground.
Handcuffs were unknown in that land. McMasters pushed his knees up under
Rudabaugh’s elbows, gripped his hands together and twisted a silk
handkerchief around them, tying it into a knot.
“Get up!”
He kicked Rudabaugh into obedience, caught him by the collar when he
stood, hated him so bitterly that he was much of the mind to shoot him
even now. But at length his calmness came back to him as Hickok
approached once more, McCoyne also pushing forward.
“Where am I going to keep this man?” demanded McMasters. It was McCoyne
who answered.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I certainly apologize. I might have known we’d
need a jail, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to fix up a lot of
things. Give me a day or so, and I’ll show you that Abilene has got the
best jail in Kansas. I’ve been so busy——”
Wild Bill turned back to Len Hersey, who now had got out at the door.
“Go get your rope and help this officer,” said he. “Now go home, all of
you.” He turned toward the crowd. “You’ve had enough to drink and you’ve
got enough Fourth of July for one day.”
He grinned as he turned once more toward McMasters.
“If you should happen to take your friend out of town,” said he, “I
don’t see how I could help myself. There don’t seem to be any courts
here, or any place to hold a prisoner.”
Rudabaugh broke out in blasphemy.
“You damned outlaws, you cutthroats!” he began. “You can’t take me
without any warrant, and you can’t hold me without process of law. I
demand counsel. I’m going to have my trial. Is this America, I want to
know?”
“You said it,” remarked Bill Hickok. “That’s just what it is.”
Now came running the men of the military escort. McMasters addressed the
sergeant.
“Help me get this man over to the livery barn.”
They led Rudabaugh away. He was cursing, struggling, sobbing. Wild Bill
stood looking after them, with no apparent concern. He evinced no
interest in the victims of the night affray. He had known worse scenes
of violence all his life, been in many encounters of greater danger. To
him these matters were much in the day’s work sometimes, always tempered
with the killer’s fatalism, which valued nothing save the fact that he
found himself still alive.
“Well, Joe,” said he, turning to McCoyne, who stood near, “it seems like
the law of habeas corpus hasn’t got quite as far west as the Twin Livery
Barn. If it has I’ll suspend habeas corpus in this town until Captain
McMasters gets his prisoner out of town and headed south.”
[Illustration: _A Paramount Picture._ _North of 36._
“HANDS OFF, RUDABAUGH!” ROARS BIG JIM.]