THE TEMPTING OF YELLOW BARBEE
"Here's where I get down," said Steve after a very long silence during
which he watched Terry's pretty, puckered face while Terry, gripping
her wheel, recklessly assumed the responsibilities of their three
lives, hurling the car on through the moonlit night.
Iki, breathing every now and then a long quivering sigh and forgetting
to breathe betweenwhiles, held on tightly with both hands.
"Here's where I get down," said Steve again. Here the road followed
the line of his north fence; less than a mile to the southward he could
see a light like a fallen star, gleaming cheerfully through the trees.
He sensed rather than saw a quick stiffening of Terry's already tense
little body; fancied that the car was steadily taking on greater speed,
read Terry's purpose in a flash. If he forced her to carry him, why
then she would take him as far out of his way as possible.
"Terry Temple!" he cried sharply, leaning in a little toward her.
"What's the matter with you anyway? What if we're not friends exactly?
I never did you any harm, did I? Why, good Lord, girl, when a man
tells you his horse has been shot under him; when he is trying to
overhaul the crook at the bottom of the whole mess whom you hate as
well as I do-- Oh, I mean Blenham and you know it----"
"Liar!" cried Terry, flashing her eyes at him, and back to the road
alternately white with the moon and black with shadows. "Liar on two
counts! Didn't I see your horse this afternoon? Tied in front of
Wimble's whiskey joint? Oh, it's where I'd expect him! Well--and you
needn't think I looked to see or cared, either--when I came by just
now, leaving town, I saw your horse standing there yet. So you
needn't----"
"That couldn't be," muttered Steve. "And yet-- Anyhow, I've got to
get off here. Will you stop, please?"
"No, I won't stop please! Nobody asked you to ride that I know of.
Get off the same way you got on!"
Packard realized two things very clearly then:
If he jumped with the car going at its present speed he would probably
break his neck; if he gave any considerable time to arguing the matter
with her he would be carried as far in five minutes as he could walk in
an hour.
"I mean business to-night," he told her bluntly. "If you don't slow
down before I count ten I am going to lean out a little--like this--and
shoot a hole in your tire. Then, if you keep on, I'll shoot a hole in
the other tire. Understand?"
Terry laughed mockingly.
"You wouldn't dare!" she told him serenely. "That would be some kind
of a crime; they could put you in jail for it. You'd be scared to."
"One, two, three, four, five," he counted briskly.
"I would seek to interrupt to advise, oh, Miss Lady!" chattered Iki.
"His voice has the sound of bloodthirstiness."
"Six, seven, eight, nine--ten," counted Packard.
Terry sniffed. He leaned out, she saw the glint of the moon upon his
revolver.
She threw out her clutch and jammed down both brakes, hard. Steve
swung out and down to the ground. The car, as though it had gained
fresh power from the fact of being freed of his weight, shot forward,
stopped again.
"Not exactly friends?" cried Terry, and he marked a new trembling in
her voice. "I should say not. You--you darned snake, you!"
And she was gone, spinning along into the night, hidden from him by the
first hill around whose base the road curved. He stared after her a
moment, shrugged, turned his back, and strode rapidly toward the Ranch
Number Ten corrals.
He had planned correctly; he had correctly measured Blenham's impulses
and desires. Further, he had come in time, just in time.
The light was in the ranch-house. Though but little after eleven
o'clock it was dark within the bunk-house, the men long ago asleep.
But Barbee was awake, his wits about him; his voice and Blenham's, both
quiet, met Steve's ears as he slipped about the corner of the house,
coming under the window where the light was.
Blenham was talking now. He sat loosely in a chair, his hands one upon
the other, idle in his lap. Barbee, his eyes narrowed and watchful,
stood at the far side of the room. On the floor, near his feet, was a
revolver; from its position Steve guessed that Barbee had just kicked
it safely out of Blenham's reach. Barbee's own gun was in the boy's
hand.
"You're a pretty foxy kid, Barbee," Blenham was saying tonelessly.
"You got the drop on me; you're the firs' man as ever did that little
trick. Yes; you're a pretty foxy kid!"
Barbee shrugged and spat and answered Blenham with a curse and a
grunted:
"Nobody's askin' your opinion, Blenham."
But Steve saw and Blenham must have seen the gleam of triumph in
Barbee's eye.
"What are you goin' to do with me?" asked Blenham presently.
"Nothin'," replied Barbee. "Jus' keep you where I got you until Steve
Packard comes back. Which ought to be mos' any time now."
"He'll be late," said Blenham. "He won't be here for two or three
hours. Suppose while we wait, let's me an' you talk!" he said sharply,
sitting forward in his chair.
"Well?" said Barbee. "Talk an' be damned to you, Blenham. Only you
don't talk yourself out'n the hole you're in right now. An', I promise
you, you make a quick jump for a get-away, an' I'll shoot you dead."
"I know," Blenham nodded. "You'd do it. But I ain't goin' to try any
fool thing like that. I'm jus' goin'-- Like I said to you, let's
talk. What's Packard payin' you for this night's work?"
"He's no tightwad, if that's what you're drivin' at. I'd of done
to-night's job an' glad of the chance an' you know it, Blenham, an'
never asked pay for it. But I'm drawin' down a whole month's pay
extra, if I've got you like you are when he comes in."
Blenham laughed softly. Then he moved the hands resting in his lap.
Packard saw that they were folded loosely about an old leather wallet.
"He's sure payin' you generous, Barbee," jeered Blenham. "You know it!
Why, look here: This is yours an' more to trail it if you jus' pocket
your gun an' let me go! I ain't askin' much an' I'm payin' my way.
Look it over, kid!"
Packard saw how he stripped a bank-note from a thin sheaf of its
fellows; how he tossed it toward Barbee. It fell to the floor; a
little draft set it drifting; Blenham set his foot upon it.
"Look at it!" he snapped, for the first time giving sign of the strain
he was laboring under. "It's yours--if you ain't a fool."
Barbee, not to be tricked were this some ruse to snare his attention,
said crisply:
"Put you' han's up while I get it!"
Blenham obeyed; Barbee stooped swiftly, all the while with eyes riveted
on his prisoner. Then, the muzzle of his gun raised another inch, he
looked at what he held. When he looked back at Blenham his eyes were
round, his mouth stood a little open.
"My God!" he gasped. "It's a thousan' dollars!"
"Yes," said Blenham quietly. "It's a thousan' dollars. That's quite a
little wad, Barbee; it's more, anyhow, than an extra month's wages,
ain't it? An' it's yours if you want it! Think of the times you can
go on, think of the way you could make Red Creek open its eyes! An'
there's more to come if you take that an' let me go an' jus' watch my
play an' take a chance with me when I say so. What's the word, Barbee?"
Packard, having held back thus long, remained motionless, glimpsing
unexpectedly something of Barbee's soul; watching a little human drama,
become spectator to the battle royal of the two contending factions
which made up a man's self.
It seemed to him that young Barbee was pale and grew paler; that a
shiver ran through him; that he was, for the moment, like one drugged.
And, side by side, two emotions, both primal and unmistakable, peered
out of his eyes: a savage hatred of Blenham, a leaping greed of gold.
Thus for a little forgetting his own interest in this scene, Packard
watched, wondering what the outcome would be. Blenham tempted. Barbee
hesitated.
"Right here in my hand," Blenham was saying coldly, "are nine more like
that, Barbee. Ten thousan' dollars in all. One thousan' to go to you
for jus' keepin' out of my way. I said once you're a foxy kid. Now
let's see if you are. Tie to a man like me that's out to make a pile,
a damn big pile, Barbee--or hang to a fool like Steve Packard an' take
his pay in dribbles an' let him be the one that gathers in all the big
kale. Him an' me when I get things goin' right; him an' me with you
jus' gettin' the scraps. Which is it? Eh, kid? Which way're you
goin'?"
Barbee held the bank-note in his left hand; slowly his calloused
fingers closed tightly about it, crumpling it, clutching it as though
they would never release it. And then slowly the fingers opened so
that the wrinkled bit of paper lay in his palm under his eyes. Barbee
ran his tongue back and forth between his dry lips. Steve, staring in
at him through the window, saw in his eyes the two lights, that of
hate, that of covetousness; they burned side by side as a yellow candle
and a red might have done.
Which way would Barbee go? Did Barbee know? Blenham did not; Steve
did not. Suddenly, seeing how the two fires flickered in Barbee's
eyes, Steve cried out within himself:
"It's unfair! It's asking too much of Barbee!"
And aloud, shoving the nose of a Colt .45 through the window-pane which
splintered noisily:
"Hands up there, Blenham! Good boy, Barbee. You've got him, all
right! Watch him while I slip in."
Blenham jumped to his feet, threw out his arms, and cursed savagely.
Then, grown abruptly quiet, he dropped back into his chair, his two big
hands loose about the wallet hidden under them. Steve threw a leg over
the window-sill and came in, his gun ready, his eyes taking stock of
Barbee while they appeared to be for Blenham only. And Barbee, white
now as he had never been until now, shivered, filled his lungs with a
long sigh, and fell back a couple of paces, staring at Steve, at
Blenham, but most of all at the thing in his hand.
"You put it across, Barbee!" cried Steve heartily.
He reached forward and snatched the wallet from Blenham's knee.
Blenham's big hands, clenching slowly, fell to his sides; Blenham's
eyes, sullen and evil, clung steadily to Packard's.
"You've saved me my inheritance to-night; you've helped save me my
ranch. You've helped me square the game with a dirty dog named
Blenham!"
Like a dog Blenham showed his teeth. His drawn face was stamped in the
image of fury.
"You're a sweet picture of a dead game sport," he growled, shifting
nervously in his chair. "I ain't got a gun; you an' Barbee have; go
ahead an' call me all the names you like!"
Steve counted the bank-notes in the wallet. Blenham had spoken truly;
there were nine one-thousand-dollar bills. He put out his hand to
Barbee for the tenth. Barbee, staring strangely like one rudely
awakened from sleep and not yet certain of his surroundings, let the
bank-note go. His eyes, leaving it at last to rest steadily on
Blenham, looked red and ugly. Packard slipped the wallet into his
shirt.
"Barbee," he said quietly, while he busied his eyes with Blenham's
slightest movement, "this money was left to me by my father. He gave
it to Bill Royce to keep for me. You know all that Bill has stood from
Blenham; now you know why. There's quite a load of scoundrelism dumped
off at Blenham's door. And, thanks to you, we've got the dead wood on
him at last!"
"What are you goin' to do with him?" Barbee, speaking for the first
time since Steve's entrance, was husky-voiced. Blenham shifted again
in his chair; now there was only cold hatred in the boy's look. "We'd
ought to be able to put him in the pen for a good long time."
Blenham laughed jeeringly.
"Try it!" he blustered. "See what you can prove, actually prove to a
jury an' a judge! Try it! You go to the law an' see----"
"To hell with the law!" cut in Steve, and though his voice was not
lifted for the imprecation Blenham shot a quick, startled look at him.
And both Blenham and Barbee, listening wonderingly, understood that
here was a Packard talking; that in the shoes of the grandson, even
now, there might be standing the big bulk of the uncompromising
grandfather.
"What do I want with the law now? Blenham would wriggle out, I
suppose; or he would get a light sentence and trim that down to nothing
with good behavior. No, Blenham, if you ever go to jail it will be
somebody's else doing; not mine. Is it just jail for the man who shot
down my old pardner in cold blood, just for the sake of a handful of
money? Is it to be just jail for the man who has made Bill Royce's
life a hell for six months? Just jail for the brute who had a horse
shot under me to-night? Why, damn you--" and at last his voice broke
through the ice of restraint and rang out angrily, full of menace--"do
you think I'm going to let you go out of my hands into the hands of
judge and jury after all you've done?"
Blenham sprang up, drawing back. The muzzle of Steve's .45 followed
him threateningly.
"Barbee," said Packard, his voice once more under control, "go to the
bunk-house and send Bill Royce here. Don't wake the other boys. Then
you come back here with him. And bring a whip with you."
"A whip?" repeated Barbee.
"Yes; a whip. Any kind you can lay your hands to in a hurry; quirt or
buggy-whip or bull-whip!"
Blenham watched Barbee go. Then, drawn back into a corner of the room,
sullen and vigilant, he stood biting nervously at a big, clenched,
hairy fist.