SOME DEBTS ARE PAID.
The arrival of one additional horseman in the principal street of
Wild Horse was something to attract no attention whatever. Several
hundred riders had arrived at that headquarters of industry and
gossip, ahead of Milton Bertram. Most of them, it is to be said, were
interested in the gossip, rather than the prosaic affairs of the
cattle industry. The news of Jimmy Coyle’s shooting by the masked
horseman had spread fast and far, and men had ridden far and fast to
talk it over.
Only the Texan did not urge his horse at top speed, like the others,
as he entered the town. On the contrary he slackened the animal’s
steady pace a trifle. One might have thought that he had come in from
a distant camp for supplies, and that he would soon be heading forth
again, a slave of the vast region of silences which binds its victims
none the less strongly because they are willing in servitude.
Perhaps something in the unusual keenness of the Texan’s glance from
one building to another would have told one of his intimate friends
that something out of the ordinary was on his mind. But to the average
beholder he was merely one more cowboy, riding into town, a handsome
fellow to be sure, long of limb, broad of shoulder, and with a certain
supple grace in the saddle that marks the born horseman. His features,
which ordinarily were expressive of the lightest sentiment that
crossed his mind, to-day seemed molded into a hard mask of
determination. His dark eyes, under level brows, were calm enough, but
it would take little, apparently, to light the fires of anger in them.
Obviously the Texan was undecided just where to stop. He reined his
horse momentarily in front of the hotel and then drove on and crossed
the street to a saloon and gambling place, known as Laroque’s.
As he dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching rack that had little
vacant space, the Texan’s motions were deliberate. He made sure that
his horse was securely tied, something entirely unnecessary, seeing
that the well-trained animal would not have stirred away if the reins
had been left trailing. But, while he was going through the mechanics
of making secure his horse’s place at the rack, the Texan’s mind had
leaped ahead, and he was visualizing Laroque’s place something as
follows:
“Let’s see: Eddie Laroque himself will probably be tending bar. That’s
good, because Eddie is no rat, and he will stick when trouble starts.
There aren’t any doors into the room where the gambling layouts are.
The open doorway’s not more than one jump from the end of the bar. The
barroom itself is plenty wide. There’s elbow room enough for an
orchestra of fiddlers let alone a couple of gun fighters. I guess
Laroque’s is as good a place as any.”
With a good-by pat on the white-starred forehead of his horse the
Texan turned toward Laroque’s, mechanically adjusting the guns at his
hips, as he did so. Here again there would have been nothing to arouse
more than passing interest on the part of the ordinary spectator, for
every cowboy, who had entered Laroque’s, had made that same
readjustment of revolvers. It was a fighting man’s country, and
Laroque’s specialized in entertainment for men of that sort. Eddie’s
shutters had been taken down and used so often to carry out men, who
were either dead or desperately wounded, that it was said that the
hinges were being worn out. Laroque himself was supposed to order his
big mirrors by the half dozen, for every gun fight saw one shattered.
There was a long line of men at Laroque’s bar, as the Texan entered
the saloon, and others were sitting in little groups at the tables to
the right. The Texan instinctively realized that Jimmy Coyle’s
shooting had caused something approaching a revolt in the Swingley
ranks. Hardened as the invaders were and accustomed to the idea of
killing, this shooting of a mere boy and leaving him for dead was
something that went against the grain.
Bertram had no sooner set foot in Laroque’s place than the group at
the first table called him over and inquired about Jimmy Coyle’s
condition. Bertram sat down, but in such a position that he could see
through the open doorway into the gambling establishment.
“Swingley and Hoog are here,”, said one of the cow-punchers, “and
they’re sure as restless as a couple of mountain lions. Likewise
they’ve both been taking on more liquor than common.”
“I know you don’t stand any too well with ’em, Milt, on account of
your quittin’ the command,” observed another puncher. “Onless you are
courtin’ argymint, I advise your seekin’ entertainment elsewhere.”
“I’m here, and I always did like the homelike atmosphere of Eddie
Laroque’s place,” responded Bertram quietly. “I reckon I’ll stay.”
As he spoke, the Texan saw Tom Hoog entering the open doorway. Though
he must have seen the Texan, who was in plain view, Hoog made no sign,
but walked to the bar.
With one foot on the rail, his elbow on the bar, the gunman let his
gaze travel slowly over Bertram, from head to foot. The others at the
table shoved back uneasily. Those who were in the direct line of fire
rose and stepped to one side. The Texan returned the gaze calmly
enough. The men who flanked Hoog at the bar, after a startled glance
around, edged away.
“Texas ain’t produced but few quitters,” said Hoog, in a loud voice,
though apparently he was not addressing anybody. “But, when it does
produce one, he’s all yellow.”
Bertram did not change his expression nor his attitude. Hoog’s face
reddened with sudden passion. As he stood at the bar, his long,
saturnine countenance writhing with hate, more men slipped quietly out
of the room, feeling that the storm could not be delayed many seconds
longer. The gunman stood with one arm resting on the bar, though he
had not touched the glass that had been shoved toward him by the
despairing Laroque, who had already counted another mirror as good as
smashed.
“Push along another glass, Eddie,” went on Hoog. “I’m goin’ to have a
drinkin’ companion. Come on over here, you big feller from Texas. You
never would drink with me before, but you’ve got to to-day, because
I’ve got a special toast fer you.”
Bertram rose slowly and walked over to the bar, beside Hoog, as calmly
as if he had been invited by his most intimate friend. The bartender
shoved the bottle of bootleg toward him, and the Texan poured out a
drink. The spectators noticed that his hand did not tremble.
“Now pour me a good, stiff drink,” said Hoog, determined to goad
Bertram into an attempt to draw. “I’m tired to-day, and I need a
waiter to pour my liquor for me.”
To the amazement of the onlookers, who had surged quietly away from;
the bar to new positions out of the line of fire, Bertram did as
directed. He filled Hoog’s glass almost to the brim. Even the gunman
was surprised at the obedience to his insulting order. His left hand,
which had been half opened at his side, for Hoog was an ambidextrous
fighter, dropped away from the pistol butt that peered from the worn
leather scabbard at the gunman’s hip.
“Now let’s drink,” said Hoog, jubilant at having humiliated Bertram
before the crowd. “Drink to the State you’ve disgraced--Texas.”
Both men drank, Hoog raising his glass to his lips with his right hand
and tossing off the liquid. As they set down their glasses, Hoog said:
“If there’s any word that’ll make you fight, Bertram, tell me what it
is, and I’ll say it.”
But the Texan apparently did not hear. He had produced the little
bottle of gray powder which the district attorney had given him.
Evidently he had palmed the bottle before he had stepped to the bar,
as he made no move toward his pocket to get it. With the little brush,
which was inserted in the cork, he dusted some of the powder on the
outside of Hoog’s whisky glass.
The gunman, with every one else in the room, was watching with
undisguised interest, as the Texan inspected the glass.
“Goin’ to give us a little parlor magic?” asked Hoog.
Bertram set down Hoog’s whisky glass, carefully refraining from
touching it, where the gray powder showed on the outside.
“Hoog,” he said softly, “that was a long, long time ago when you got
bitten in the right thumb by a rattlesnake, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know I had a rattlesnake bite me?” asked the gunman,
disconcerted at the unexpectedness of the question.
The Texan’s eyes and face blazed into anger. His supple frame
tightened, and his voice came, quick, sharp and electrifying.
“Because you leave the mark of it on everything you touch, you
prowling hound. You didn’t know it, but you might as well have signed
your name, every time you posted a notice, you masked assassin. You
left your thumb print, with the snake scar on it, on little Jimmy
Coyle’s chaps and rifle. You’ve left it on this whisky glass, and it’s
your confession and your death warrant, all rolled into one. Now, if
you want to fight, draw and we’ll see if I have disgraced Texas.”
Confronted thus suddenly and unexpectedly with evidence of his guilt,
Tom Hoog was a fraction of a second late in reaching for his weapons.
The young Texan had given the gunman a fair chance at the draw, but
Hoog, for the first time in his life, was not equal to the emergency.
Before his terrible guns were out of their holsters two bullets had
been sent from the weapon of the crouching Texan.
Hoog stood for a moment, a wound in either arm, just above the elbow.
His long, sinuous hands were powerless to grasp the revolvers that had
never failed before. Then he fell in a heap on the floor.
The men, who had prepared to rush from the room at the first sign of
conflict, had not stirred. The fight had developed so unexpectedly,
after every one believed that all signs of trouble were over, that
even the most phlegmatic had been taken completely by surprise.
Leaping over Hoog’s prostrate form the Texan ran through the open
door. At the sound of the two shots the gamblers had ceased all play.
Asa Swingley, who had just started a game at the head of the room,
kicked over his chair and, drawing both guns, had started toward the
barroom. He saw Bertram in the doorway, his smoking weapons in his
hand.
Instinctively Swingley raised both revolvers, but, before he could
pull a trigger, Bertram had “creased” him twice, and the outlaw leader
staggered to a chair.
The Texan, firing from the hip, had disabled the second man even more
quickly than the first.
Sheathing one of his weapons, but carrying the other at a threatening
angle, Bertram turned back to the barroom. “Laroque,” he said, “see
that these two disabled outlaws are properly guarded until the sheriff
arrives.” Then, picking up Hoog’s whisky glass, Bertram held it out to
Laroque. “Here, Ed, take this whisky glass in the palm of your hand.
Careful, now, and don’t touch that powder on the outside of the glass.
That’s state evidence against this assassin, Hoog, and his employer,
Swingley. Put it away in your safe, and the district attorney will be
in here in a few minutes to get it. If you’ve brushed so much as a
speck of the dust off that glass, you’ll be run out of town.
Swingley’s reign is ended in this county. We’re going to hand these
assassins over to the court, and we’ll see that they get what is
coming to them. From now on law and order are going to rule here.”
Paying no attention to the questions and congratulations that the men
showered upon him, the Texan made his way to the door. As he untied
his horse, he could hear the babel of voices, as the cow-punchers,
with their tongues loosened, began to crowd about Swingley and Hoog.