"Smile," he said, with a boldness that surprised himself.
It surprised Hazel Walton, surprised her so that she jerked around to
the front, "kissed" to the mules and drove away without a word.
Billy stood quite still in the middle of Main Street, with his hat off,
and looked after her a moment. Then he pulled on the hat with a jerk
and returned to his packing case.
"What did she say to you?" Riley wanted to know.
"None of your business," was the ungracious reply.
"She left you sort of sudden," persisted Riley. "And why did you stand
still in the middle of the street and look after her so forlorn and
long?"
"I wasn't lookin' more than ten seconds," denied Billy, jarred off his
balance for once in his life.
"Shucks, I had time to roll a cigarette, and smoke it to the butt while
you stood there nailed to the earth. Yeah. Tell you, Bill, you don't
wanna let your feelings give you away so much. Bad business that is.
Somebody's bound to pick your pocket forty ways. Y'oughta play poker
more. That would teach you self-control."
"Bluh," grunted Billy. "Think you're smart, don't you?"
"I know I am," returned Riley, crossing one knee over the other and
diddling his foot up and down to the thin accompaniment of a tinkling
spur-rowel. "I got eyes, I have. I can see through a piece of glass
most generally. Oh, mush and milk, love's young dream, and when shall
we meet again."
"Aw, hell, shut up!" urged Billy, and shoved his friend off the packing
case and went elsewhere hastily.
Riley first swore, then laughed and reseated himself on the case. Jack
Murray, passing by, stopped and sneered openly. It was obvious that
Jack was in liquor.
"He don't care how much he picks on you, does he?" observed Jack.
Riley Tyler did not move hand or foot. But a subtle change took place.
Iron turning into steel undergoes such a metamorphosis. The sixth
sense of an observing old gentleman across the street and directly in
line with Jack Murray informed its owner of the sudden chill in the
air. The observing old gentleman, whose name was Wildcat Simms, oozed
backward through a doorway into the Old Hickory saloon.
"Why are you walking like a crab, Wildcat?" queried his friend the
bartender.
"Because Jack Murray is talking to Riley Tyler."
The bartender, wise in his generation, was well able to fill in the
rest for himself. He joined the old gentleman behind a window at one
side of the line of fire.
Riley Tyler, meanwhile, was fixedly regarding Jack Murray.
"Meaning?" said Riley Tyler.
Jack Murray came right out into the open. "Ain't you able to stand up
for yourself no more?"
There it was--the deliberate insult. Followed the movement so swift no
eye could follow. But Riley's gun caught. Jack Murray's didn't. When
the smoke began to wreathe upward in the windless air, Jack Murray was
calmly walking away up in the street and Riley Tyler was hunched across
the packing case. Blood was running down the boards of the packing
case and seeping through the cracks in the sidewalk.
Billy Wingo was the fourth man to reach Riley. The boy, for he was not
yet twenty-one, had been turned over on his back on the sidewalk. He
was unconscious. Samson, the Green-Front Store owner, was bandaging a
wound in Riley's neck.
"Lucky," observed Samson, "just missed the jugular."
"Where else is he shot?" queried Billy, his eyes on the blood-soaked
front of Riley's shirt.
"Right shoulder," Samson informed him.
"I heard three shots," said Billy. "Two was close together but the
last one was maybe ten seconds later."
"I only found the two holes," declared Samson.
But when Billy and another man picked up Riley to carry him to the
hotel, Billy found where the third shot had gone. It had penetrated
Riley's back on the left side, bored between two ribs, missed the wall
of the stomach by a hair and made its exit an inch above the waistband
of the trousers.
The marshal, who had seen the crowd going into the hotel, arrived as
Billy and Samson were making Riley as comfortable as possible on a cot
in one of the hotel rooms.
The marshal, whose surname being Herring was commonly called "Red,"
thrust out a lower lip as he surveyed the man on the bed.
"Even break, I hear," said the marshal.
Billy set him right at once. "You heard wrong, Red. Riley's gun
caught. I found where the sight had slipped through a crack in the
leather. Besides, Riley was plugged in the back after he was down. Do
you call that an even break?"
"Well, no," admitted Red Herring, who was inclined to be just, if being
just did not interfere with his line of duty. "Anybody see it besides
you?"
"I didn't see it a-tall. I didn't have to. I heard the shots--two
close together and one a good ten seconds later. Oh, Riley was plugged
after he was down and out, all right enough. Besides, Riley was lying
across his gun hand when he was picked up, Samson says."
"That's right," nodded Samson.
"Jack was a little previous, sort of," frowned the marshal.
"You think so," said Billy sarcastically. "Maybe you're right."
"Well, I can't do a thing," said the marshal. "I didn't see it. And
these fraycases will happen sometimes."
"Nobody's asking you to do anything," said Billy. "I'm looking after
this."
"Now don't you go pickin' a fight with anybody," urged the marshal,
instantly perceiving his line of duty. "Judge Driver is dead against
these promiscuous shootings."
"Judge Driver can go to hell," Billy said with heat. "What's this here
but a promiscuous shooting, I'd like to know? And I don't see you
arrestin' anybody for it. You said you couldn't."
"I didn't see this one, and besides Riley ain't been killed, and no
complaint has been made," defended the marshal, who was no logician.
"But where a feller says he's gonna attend to somebody, that shows
premeditation and malice aforethought, which both of 'em is against the
statute as made and provided in such cases."
"How you do run on," commented Billy.
But the Red Herring lacked a sense of humor. Heavy of soul, he frowned
heavily at Billy.
"You go slow," was his fishy advice.
"Be careful and otherwise refrain from violence," observed Billy, whose
English became better as his temper grew worse. "I grasp your point of
view," he added gravely. "But I don't like it. Not for a minute I
don't. I'll do as I think best. I'd rather, really."
"Don't you go startin' nothin' you can't finish," said the marshal,
lost in a maze of words. "I don't want to have to arrest you."
"I don't want you to have to either," Billy averred warmly. "Arrestin'
me would surely interfere with my plans. Yeah."
"A sheriff-elect had oughta set a good example," argued the marshal.
Riley Tyler rolled his head from side to side. He muttered
incoherently. The men about the cot turned to look down at him. Then
he said, speaking distinctly:
"He shot me after I was down."
Billy Wingo raised his eyes and stared at the marshal.
"How's that, umpire?" said Billy.
"He's raving," snapped the marshal.
"A man speaks the truth when he's thataway," rebuked Billy. "I'm going
to see about this."
But the marshal blocked his way. "I told you----" he began.
"Get out of my way!" directed Billy, his gray eyes ablaze.
The marshal got. After all, he had no specific orders to prevent a
meeting between Jack Murray and Billy Wingo. Let Jack look out for
himself. No doubt Rafe and sundry other of his friends would be
annoyed, but it couldn't be helped. The marshal betook himself
hurriedly to the back room of the Freedom Saloon.
Billy, coldly purposeful, made a round of the saloons first. In none
of them did he find his man or news of him. Finally, from the stage
company's hostler tending a cripple outside the company corral, he
learned that Jack had left town.
"Which he went surging off down the Hillsville trail," said the
hostler, "like he hadn't a minute to lose. He told me he was going to
Hillsville."
"Told you?" Surprisedly.
"Yes, told me, sure. 'If the marshal wants me,' says he, as he loped
past, 'tell him I've gone to Hillsville.'"
Here was an odd thing. Jack Murray knew where he stood with the powers
that were and consequently knew that the marshal would not want him for
the shooting. Yet here was Jack Murray not only leaving town hastily,
as though he feared capture, but taking pains to leave word where he
was going. The two facts did not fit. True, a gentleman seeking to
mislead possible pursuers might lie as to where he was going. In which
case such a gentleman would not take a trail like the Hillsville
trail--a trail visible from Golden Bar for almost five miles in both
directions. But if a person wished to be pursued----
"I think I can see his dust still," said the hostler helpfully,
pointing toward the spot where the Hillsville trail entered a grove of
pines five miles out.
"I think I see it too," declared Billy grimly, and went hurriedly to
the hotel for his rifle and saddle.
Hazel Walton, jogging along the homeward way, was overtaken by a
horseman. He nodded and called, "'Lo," as he galloped by. She
returned his greeting with careful courtesy. But she scowled and made
a little face after his retreating back. She did not like Jack Murray.
She never had. The man had repelled her from the moment she first set
eyes on him.
It is human nature for one to take an interest in the movement of a
person one dislikes. Hazel wondered where Jack Murray was riding so
fast. For it was a hot day. Her wonder grew when, twenty minutes
after he had passed from sight, she perceived by the hoofmarks that he
had left the trail and turned into a dry wash. She knew that the wash
led nowhere, that it was a blind alley, a cul-de-sac ending in a
rock-strewn, unclimbable slope that was the base of Block Mountain.
This wash was a good two miles beyond where the trail entered the grove
of pines five miles out of Golden Bar.
Beyond the wash the trail wound up the side of a hill. At the crest of
the hill the off mule picked up a stone. Hazel set the brake, tied the
reins to the felley of a wheel and jumped to the ground. The stone was
in a near fore, and jammed tight. After ten minutes hard hammering and
levering with her jackknife she had the stone out.
As she released the foot from between her knees and straightened her
back, her gaze swept along the back trail. She saw only sections of
trail till it passed beyond the grove of pines five miles out of town.
The grove was now three miles behind her. The wash into which Jack
Murray had ridden was distant not half a mile. The land on either side
of the wash had once been burnt over and had grown up in brush and
scraggly jack pine.
Of the pines and spruce that had once covered the ground surrounding
the wash, but one tall gray stub remained. The eye of the beholder was
naturally drawn to this salient characteristic of the landscape, She
saw more than the stub. She saw Jack Murray's horse tied to its bole.
There was something queer about the horse's head. Whereas Jack
Murray's horse when it passed her on the trail had been a sorrel of a
solid color, the head was now whitey-gray.
Hazel was not of an abnormally inquisitive nature, but that a horse's
head should change color within the space of half an hour was enough to
make any one ask questions. Ever since she and her uncle had come to
realize that some one was rustling their cattle, neither of them ever
left home without field glasses. Hazel pulled her pair from beneath
the seat cushion and focused them on the odd-looking horse.
"Why, it's a flour sack over the horse's head!" she exclaimed. "They
say a horse won't whinny if you cover his head. I wonder why Jack
doesn't want him to whinny. And _where_ is Jack?"
Two minutes later she found Jack. He was lying on his stomach in the
brush behind an outcrop. The outcrop overlooked the trail. Jack's
rifle was poked out in front of him. It was only too obvious that Jack
was also overlooking the trail. Why?
A few minutes later that question was answered by the sudden appearance
of a rider at a bend of the trail a mile back. Jack Murray must have
glimpsed the rider at the same time, for Hazel saw him snuggle down
like a hare in its form, and alter slightly the position of his rifle,
although the rider was not yet within accurate shooting range. With a
gasp she recognized the rider on the trail by his high-crowned white
hat: only one man in Golden Bar wore such a hat and that man was Billy
Wingo. Instantly she recalled what folks were saying of Jack Murray
since it had become positively known that the party nomination for
sheriff had gone to Billy Wingo, that Jack Murray "had it in" for
Billy, that he had made threats more or less vague, and that he had
taken to brooding over his fancied wrongs. She realized that the
threats had crystallized into action, and that this was an ambush.
She knew that Billy would be masked by a certain belt of trees before
he traveled another thirty yards, not to emerge into view again till he
topped a rise of ground about a thousand yards from the base of the
hill on which she stood. It was a certainty that Jack would not risk a
shot till his enemy had crossed the rise of ground. If Hazel could
only reach the top of the rise first--
Hazel popped up into the seat of the buckboard as Billy reached the
belt of trees. It has been shown that Hazel Walton was a good driver,
and she needed every atom of her skill to turn the buckboard in the
narrow trail without smashing a wheel against the rocks that some
apparently malign agency had seen fit to strew about at that particular
spot. The near mule, devil that he was, when he found that he was no
longer headed for home, stuck out his lower lip and front legs and
balked.
This was unwise of the near mule. He should have chosen a more
opportune moment. Hazel had no time to reason with him. She set her
teeth, slacked the reins, opened her jack-knife and jabbed an inch and
a half of the longer blade into the mule's swelling hip.
It is doubtful whether the recalcitrant mule ever moved faster in his
life. The forward spring he gave as the steel perforated his thick
hide almost snapped the doubletree. Hazel, her toes hooked under the
iron foot-rail, poured the leather into the off mule.
She made no attempt to guide her galloping team. She did not need to.
She barely felt their mouths, but ever she kept her whip going, and the
mules laid their bellies to the ground and flew down that hill like
frightened jack rabbits. And like a rubber ball the buckboard bounced
behind them.
Hazel knew that Jack Murray behind his outcrop must hear the thunder of
the racing hoofs, the rattle of the swooping buckboard. Half-way down
the hill she lost her hat. Promptly every hairpin she possessed lost
its grip and her hair came down. In a dark and rippling cloud it
streamed behind her.
"Keep your feet, mules!" she gritted through her locked teeth. "Keep
your feet, for God's sake!"
And they kept their footing among the rolling stones, or rather a
merciful Providence kept it for them. For that hill was commonly a
hill to be negotiated with careful regard to every bump and hollow.
Hazel's life was in jeopardy every split second, but so was another
life, and it was of this other life she was thinking. Reach that
white-hatted rider she must before he came within thousand-yard range
of the man behind the outcrop.
Within thousand-yard range, yes. Jack Murray's reputation with the
long arm was of territorial proportions. He had made in practice,
hunting and open competition almost unbelievable scores. Given
anything like a fair shot, and it would be hard if he could not hit an
object the size of Billy Wingo. All this Hazel Walton knew, and her
heart stood still at the thought. But she was of the breed that fights
to the last breath and a gasp beyond.
She breathed a little prayer, dropped her right hand on the reins ahead
of her left and turned the team around the curve at the foot of the
hill as neatly as any stage-driver could have done it. That they swung
round on a single wheel did not matter in the least. Beyond the curve
one of the front wheels struck a rock that lifted Hazel a foot in the
air and shot every single package and the tarpaulin out of the
buckboard.
And now the road passed the wash and ran straight for more than half a
mile till it disappeared over the rise of ground. Throughout the whole
distance it was under the sharpshooting rifle of the man behind the
outcrop.
As she clung to the pitching buckboard and plied the whip, she
speculated on the probability of Jack Murray firing on her. He must
realize her purpose. He had been called many things, but fool was not
one of them. He might even shoot her. She recalled dim stories of
Jack Murray's ruthlessness and grim singleness of purpose.
"Bound to get what he wants, no matter how," men had said of him.
Four hundred yards from the curve where the buckboard had so nearly
upset, a Winchester cracked in the rear. The near mule staggered,
tried to turn a somersault, and collapsed in a heap of sprawling legs
and outthrust neck. The off mule fell on top of his mate, and Hazel
catapulted over the dashboard and landed head first on top of the off
mule.
The off mule regained his feet with a snort and a lurch, in the process
throwing Hazel into a squaw bush. Dizzy and more than a little shaken,
that young woman scrambled back into the trail and feverishly set about
unhitching the mule.
She heard a yell from the direction of the outcrop above the wash.
Fingers busy with the breast-strap snap, she looked back to see a man
hurdle the outcrop and plunge toward her through the brush.
"Wait!" he bawled. "Wait!"
Her reply to this command was to spring to the tail of the mule and
shout to him to back. He backed. She twitched both trace cockeyes out
of the singletree hooks (she was using the wagon harness that day)
tossed the traces over the mule's back and ran round in front to
unbuckle the dead mule's reins.
"Halt or I shoot!"
She giggled hysterically. How could she halt when she had not yet
started? She freed the second billet, tore the reins through the
terrets, and bunched the reins anyhow in her left hand. He was a tall
mule, but she swarmed up his shoulder by means of collar and hames,
threw herself across his withers and besought him at the top of her
lungs to "Go! Go! Go!"
He went. He went as the saying is, like a bat out of hades. Hazel
slipped tailward from the withers, settled herself with knees clinging
high, and whanged him over the rump with the ends of the reins. He
hardly needed any encouragement. Her initial cry had been more than
enough.
The man in the brush stopped. He raised his rifle to his shoulder,
looked through the sights at the galloping mule, then lowered the
firearm and uttered a heartfelt oath. It had at last been borne in
upon his darkened soul that he possibly had made a mistake. Instead of
shooting the mule, in the first place, he might better have
relinquished his plan of ambush and gone his way in peace. There were
other places than Golden Bar, plenty of them, where an enterprising
young man could get along and bide his time to square accounts with his
enemy.
But the killing of the mule had fairly pushed the bridge over. It was,
not to put a nice face on it, an attack on a woman. He might just as
well have shot Hazel--better, in fact. She had undoubtedly recognized
him. Those Waltons both carried field glasses, he had heard.
"I'll get the mule anyhow," he muttered. "That'll put a crimp in her."
He dropped on one knee between two bushes, took a quick sight at the
mule's barrel six inches behind the girl's leg and pulled trigger.
Over and over rolled the mule, and over and over a short foot in
advance of his kicking hoofs rolled Hazel. Luckily she was not stunned
and she rolled clear. She scrambled to her feet and set off up the
trail as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.
"Damn her!" cursed Jack Murray, notching up his back sight. "I'd
oughta drop her! She's askin' for it, the hussy!"
His itching finger trembled on the trigger, but he did not pull.
Reluctantly, slowly, he lowered the Winchester and set the hammer on
safety. The drink was dying out in him. Against his will he rendered
the girl the tribute of unwilling admiration. "Whatsa use? She's got
too much nerve; but maybe I can get him still."
On her part the girl pelted on up the rise, stumbled at the top and
came down heavily, tearing her dress, bruising her knees and thoroughly
scratching the palms of her hands. But she scrambled to her feet and
went on at a hobbling run, for she saw below her, rising the grade at a
sharp trot, the rider of the white hat.
Now she was waving her arms and trying to shout a warning, though her
voice stuck in her throat and she was unable to utter more than a low
croak.
Billy Wingo pulled up at sight of the wild apparition that was Hazel
Walton. But the check was momentary. He clapped home the spurs and
hustled his horse into a gallop. He and Hazel came together literally,
forty yards below the crest. The girl seized his stirrup to save
herself from falling and burst into hysterical tears.
"Lordy, it's the girl that dropped the package!" exclaimed Billy,
dismounting in haste.
He had his arm round her waist in time to prevent her falling to the
ground. She hung limply against him, and gasped and choked and sobbed
away her varied emotions.
"There, there," he said soothingly, patting her back and, it must be
said, marveling at the length and thickness and softness and shininess
of her midnight hair. "It's all right. You're all right. You're all
right. Nothing to worry about--not a-tall. You're safe. Don't cry.
Tell me what's bothering you?"
And after a time, when she could speak coherently, she told him.
It was a disconnected narrative and spotty with gasps and gurgles, but
Billy made no difficulty of comprehending her meaning. They who can
construct history from hoofmarks in the dust do not require a clear
explanation.
When he had heard enough for a working diagram he plumped her down
behind a fortuitous stone and adjured her to lie there without moving,
which order was superfluous. She did not want to get up again--ever.
Billy stepped to his horse, dragged the Winchester from the scabbard
under the near fender and trotted to the top of the rise. Arrived at
the crest, he dropped his hat and went forward crouchingly, his rifle
at trail. Sheltering his long body behind bushes he dodged
zigzaggingly across the top of the ridge to an advantageous position
behind a wild currant bush growing beside a jagged boulder.
He lay down behind the wild currant bush and surveyed the landscape
immediately in front of him. At first he saw nothing--then two hundred
yards away on his right front a sumac suddenly developed an amazingly
thick shadow. He automatically drew a fine sight on that sumac.
The shadow of the sumac became thin. A dark objected flitted from it
to another bush. The dark object was a man's head. It was hatless.
Billy smiled and decided to wait. He understood that he was dealing
with a man who could shoot the buttons off his shirt, but on the other
hand, Billy did not think meanly of himself as a still hunter. He lay
motionless behind the currant bush and watched Jack Murray's advance.
Billy smiled pityingly. It was obvious to him that Jack Murray had
never been on a man hunt before. If he had he would have been more
careful.
"Good Gawd," Billy said to himself, "it's like taking candy from a
child."
It was destined to be even more like taking candy from a child.
Four times before the bold Jack reached the crest of the hill he
offered Billy a target he couldn't miss. And each time the latter
refrained from shooting. Somehow he was finding it difficult to shoot
an unconscious mark. If Jack had been shooting at him or had even been
aware of his presence, it would have been different. But to shoot him
now was too much like cold-blooded murder. There was nothing of the
bushwhacker in the Wingo make-up.
Suddenly at the top of the rise, Jack Murray ducked completely out of
sight.
"Must have seen the horse," thought Billy, and looked over his
shoulder. No, it was not the horse. Billy was on higher ground than
was Jack and he could not see even the tips of his mount's ears.
"It can't be my hat he sees," Billy told himself.
Evidently it was the hat, for while Billy's eyes were on the hat, a
rifle cracked where Jack Murray lay hidden and the hat jumped and
settled.
"Good thing my head ain't inside," said the wholly delighted Billy, his
eyes riveted on the smoke shredding away above the bushes on the right
front. "I wonder if he thinks he got me."
It was evident that Jack Murray was wondering too. For the crown of a
hat appeared with Jack-in-the-box unexpectedness at the right side of
the bush below the smoke. Experience told Billy that a stick was
within the crown of the hat which moved so temptingly to and fro.
Three or four minutes later, Jack Murray's hat disappeared and the
rifle again spoke.
"Another hole in my hat," Billy muttered resignedly and cuddled his
rifle stock against his cheek. "He'll wave his hat again, and then
he'll be about ready to go see if the deer is venison."
Even as he foretold, the hat appeared and was moved to and fro, and
raised and lowered, in order to draw fire. Then, peace continuing to
brood over the countryside, the hat was crammed on the owner's head and
the owner, on hands and knees, headed through the brush toward Billy's
hat.
Billy was of the opinion that Jack Murray's course would bring him
within ten feet. He was right. Jack Murray passed so close that Billy
could have reached forth his rifle and touched him with the muzzle.
Instead he waited till Jack's back was fairly toward him before he
said, "Hands up!"
Jack Murray possessed all the wisdom of his kind. He dropped his rifle
and tossed up his hands.
"Stand up. No need to turn around," resumed Billy, Riley Tyler's
six-shooter trained on the small of Jack's back. "Lower your left hand
slowly and work your belt down. You wear it loose. It'll drop easy.
And while you're doing it, if you feel like gamblin' with me, remember
that this is Riley's gun and I ain't used to it, and I might have to
shoot you three or four times instead of only once, y' understand."
Obviously Jack Murray understood. He lowered his left hand and worked
his gun-belt loose and down over his hip bone with exemplary slowness.
The shock of his capture had evaporated the last effects of the liquor.
He was cold sober and beginning to perceive the supreme folly he had
committed in shooting a woman's mount from under her.
"One step ahead," directed Billy when the gun-belt was on the ground.
"And up with that left hand."
Jack Murray, thumbs locked together over his head, stepped out of the
gun-belt. Billy went to him, rammed the six-shooter muzzle against his
spine and patted him from top to toe in search of possible hide-outs.
He found none except a pocket knife which did not cause him
apprehension.
"Le's take up the thread of our discourse," said Billy, "farther down
the hill. Walk along, cowboy, walk along."
With Billy carrying both rifles and Jack's discarded gun-belt, they
walked along downhill to where Billy's pony stood in a three-cornered
doze. It was then that Jack Murray caught sight of Hazel Walton lying
on her back behind a stone, her arms over her face. She looked
extremely limp and lifeless.
"I didn't shoot her!" cried the startled Jack.
"I know you didn't," said Billy. "The lady's restin', that's all.
We'll wait till she feels like moving."
Hazel Walton uncovered her face. There was a large and purpling lump
in the middle of her forehead, the skin of her pretty nose was
scratched, a bruise defaced one cheek bone, and one eye was slightly
black.
"Your work, you polecat," Billy declared succinctly. "You'll be
lynched for mauling her like that."
But Hazel Walton was just. She sat up, supporting herself by an arm,
and dispelled Billy's false impression. "He never touched me--and he
could have shot me if he'd wanted to."
"So kind of him not to," said Billy with sarcasm. "Who is responsible
for hurting you? Your face is bruises all over."
"Is it?" she said, with an indifference born of great weariness. "I
suppose it must be. I remember I struck on my face when he shot the
mule I was riding. He--he shot both mules."
"He'll be lynched for that, then," Billy said decisively.
"Who'll pay for the mules?" Hazel wished to know. "We needed those
mules," she added.
Billy nodded. "That's so. If he's lynched for this attack on
you--your mules--same thing if you know what I mean--you lose out on
the mules. Maybe we can fix it up."
"Sure we can," Jack Murray spoke up briskly.
"I'm not talkin' to you," pointed out Billy. "Whatever fixing up there
is to do, I'll do it. You have done about all the fixing you're gonna
do for one while. Yeah. I came out after you, Jack, to make you a
better boy, but now that we got you where you'll stand without
hitching, I can't do it. I ain't got the heart. Of course, if you
were to jump at me or something, or make a dive for your gun I'm
holding, I don't say but I'd change my mind in a hurry. I kind of wish
you had seen me back there a-lying under my currant bush. Then we'd
have had it out by this time, and I'd be going back to town for a
shovel."
"Don't you be too sure of that," snarled Jack Murray. "Just you gimme
my gun back, and I'll show you something."
"I'll bet you would," acquiesced Billy, "but I'm keeping your guns,
both of 'em. I'd feel too lonesome without 'em."
"Can't you do nothing but flap your jaw?" demanded Jack in a huff.
"I'd just as soon be downed outright as talked to death."
"But you haven't any choice in the deal," Billy told him in mild
surprise. "Not a choice. You shut up. I'll figure out what to do
with you. Y'understand, Jack, I've got to be fair to Miss Walton too.
If you're lynched she won't get paid for her team, and I can't have her
losin' a fine team of mules thisaway and not have a dime to show for
it. That would never do. Never. Lessee now. You got any money,
Jack?"
"A little."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten or twelve dollars."
"Maybe you've got more. You know you never were good at figures.
Lemme look."
He looked. From one of Jack Murray's hip pockets he withdrew a plump
leather poke that gave forth a jingling sound. A search of the inner
pocket of the vest produced a thin roll of greenbacks. But the bills
were all of large denominations.
"There," said Billy, "I knew you'd made a mistake in addition, Jack.
You count what's here, Miss Walton."
He tossed the greenbacks and the heavy poke into the lap of the girl
who was now sitting up cross-legged, her back against the rock.
"Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars and sixty-five cents," announced
Hazel a few minutes later.
"How much did your mules cost?" queried Billy.
"Five hundred and a quarter the team," was the prompt reply.
"Call it six hundred," said Billy briskly. "It's only right for you to
take something at an auction thisaway. Strip off six hundred dollars
worth of greenbacks and put them in your pocket."
"Oh, I wouldn't feel right about taking more than the regular price,"
demurred Hazel.
"No reason why you shouldn't. No reason a-tall. Jack's only paying
you for the damage he did. He's glad to pay. Ain't you, Jack?"
"I suppose so," grunted Jack.
"There, you see. Your uncle would want you to. I know he would. In
fact, he'd be a heap put out if you didn't. Those bumps of your's now.
What do you say to one hundred wheels a bump? You got three bumps and
a scratched nose. Which last counts as a bump. In round numbers that
makes four hundred dollars. One thousand dollars to you, Miss Walton."
"Here!" cried the outraged Jack Murray. "You're robbin' me! You're
takin' every nickel I got!"
"No, I ain't," denied Billy, "and don't go and get excited and put
those hands down. Don't you, now. About that money--the worst is yet
to come. Young Riley Tyler not being here to assess his own damages,
I'll assess 'em for him. You put three holes in Riley. Call it two
hundred dollars a hole. That makes six hundred dollars. Just put that
six hundred in a separate pile for Riley, Miss Walton."
"I don't mind the man paying for the mules," said Miss Walton firmly,
"but I can't take any money for my scratch or two."
Billy looked at her, decided she meant it and said:
"All right, put that four hundred with Riley's six. Riley won't mind."
"But I do!" shouted Jack Murray, his arms quivering with rage. "You
can't rob me thisaway. By Gawd----"
"Now, now," Billy cut in sharply, "no swearing. You forget Miss
Walton. You're right about the money, though. I can't rob you. Miss
Walton, dump all that money back in the poke and hand it to him. He
wants to go back to Golden Bar and be lynched."
"I got friends in Golden Bar," blustered the prisoner.
"None of 'em will be your friends after I tell 'em what you did to Miss
Walton, Jack. There's a prejudice in this country against hurting a
woman. Folks don't like it. Aw right, get a-going, feller. No, the
other way--toward Golden Bar."
A hearty groan wrenched itself from the depths of Murray's being.
"Uncle! Uncle!" he cried angrily. "Have it your own way. I don't
want to go to the Bar. Take all my money and be done with it."
"I wouldn't think of such a thing," declared Billy, "though it wouldn't
be any more than right if I did. You're getting off too easy. You'll
live to be hung yet, I'm afraid, but I can't just see my way to downing
you now and here. No, you divide the money again, Miss Walton. Six
hundred for you, a thousand for Riley and twelve dollars and sixty-five
cents tobacco money for this gentleman.-- Don't bother reaching for
the money, Jack. I'll put it in your pocket. There you are. Now,
Miss Walton, if you'll wait here while I get this citizen started--
You've got a horse somewhere, I expect, Jack. Lead the way."
"Oh, sure I saw him off all right. I don't guess he'll be back for a
while--not if he has brains. You know, I owe you a lot, Miss Walton.
You did the bravest thing I ever knew a man or woman to do. You
gambled your life to save mine. You might have been killed, you know
it? And after me getting fresh there in the street, I dunno what to
say, I don't."
He knew that he was talking too much. But in the reaction that had set
in he was so embarrassed that it hurt.
"Yeah!" he gabbled on, red to the ears, "you certainly are a wonder.
I--uh--I guess we better be getting back to town. You feel able to
ride now? My horse is gentle. Besides, I'll lead him."
It was then that reaction set in for Hazel Walton. As the strain on
her nerves eased off, everything went black before her eyes and she
keeled over sidewise in a dead faint.