"Sam," said Billy, when the owner of the house appeared with the drink,
"Sam, how about a li'l hot something to eat? I know it's only the
shank of the afternoon, but I'm hungry and I probably have a long hard
night ahead of me."
"You have, all right," concurred Sam. "All your own fault, too. But I
expect you know what's best."
Sam eased his fat self into a chair and began to construct a cigarette.
Billy elevated his eyebrows. "Say. I thought I asked you for
something to eat?"
Sam ran his tongue along the side of the cigarette. "I heard you, but
I don't cook a thing till supper. That's flat. I been in and out of
that kitchen all day, and I've got enough, you bet you."
"You don't have to cook anythin' yourself. Let your cook do it."
"I let him go to town for the day."
"I don't s'pose you could persuade one of your boys to throw a li'l
bite together for me, now, could you?"
Sam shook a decided head. "I couldn't, Bill. There ain't a boy on the
place. I sent them all down on the Wagonjack to fence off a quicksand."
Billy closed his eyes to conceal the satisfaction in their depths. Not
a man on the place! Which was just what he had been working to find
out. But the odds were still two to one, and an armed two to a
weaponless one at that. When Craft returned, they would be three to
one, provided Billy still was a prisoner.
He surveyed his captors through drop-lidded eyes. Sam Larder was
looking out of the window. But Tip was on the alert, even as he had
been from the beginning. And Billy knew well that Tip would not
hesitate to shoot. Most decidedly the future did not look bright and
shining. But Billy's was a confident nature.
"What's that?" queried Tip.
"What do--oh, that! Simon says 'thumbs up,' you mean? It doesn't mean
anythin' serious, Tip. Just another way of saying, 'Faint heart never
won a bet in its life' and 'It's always darkest 'round midnight.'
Don't mind if I take a snooze, do you, Tippy, old boy?"
Billy rolled over on his stomach, rammed his head into the pillow and
completely relaxed his body, but, although his breathing soon became
deceptively regular, he was far from being asleep. He was thinking as
purposefully as ever he had in his life. He had to escape. _He had
to_! To permit his enemies to do this thing was intolerable. There
was a way out. Every strait, no matter how close and awkward it may
be, has its way out.
He built many plans while he lay there. But there was a flaw in each
and every one of them. His brain was still feverishly busy when Felix
Craft returned about the middle of the afternoon.
As the door opened and Craft entered, Billy sat up. "Have a nice
time?" he drawled.
"Went through like clockwork," replied Craft, slumping into a chair
beside the table.
"Not even a li'l teeny-weeny hole in you anywhere?" Billy demanded
hopefully. "Hell, I shore had a better opinion of Jerry Fern than
that."
"Jerry didn't do any fightin' to-day," said Felix. "Handed over his
watch like a major."
"Yeah, Tip said you'd take his watch. Funny you didn't know Jerry Fern
was driving this trip when I asked you. Tip knew."
"Oh, I knew all right," Craft said carelessly. "Lord A'mighty, I'm
hungry. My stomach is sticking to my backbone closer than a postage
stamp to a letter. I ain't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Got
any more eggs and ham, Sam?"
"If you want anything to eat, you can cook it yourself," said Sam.
"It's like I told Bill here, I ain't goin' into that kitchen till
suppertime."
"That's always the way," grumbled Craft, kicking his chair back. "Here
I ride from hell to breakfast and back--and I wanna say again that
having that hold-up fifteen miles from here was too much of a good
thing. Just as well have had it two or three miles away. It wouldn't
have made a bit of difference, not a smidgin, by Gawd."
"You know, Felix," defended Tip, "that we had it fifteen miles away so
the give-out horse of Bill's would look more natural."
"Damn his give-out horse," snarled Craft, moving stiffly toward the
hall leading to the kitchen. "I wish it had give out before I was
born."
"So you found out how rough-gaited the pinto was, did you, Felix?"
Billy observed sweetly. "Do you know, I had an idea you would. Yeah.
You don't ride enough, that's whatsa matter. Stick too close behind
your faro box, you do. Y'oughta try the open air and the range more.
Tell you, Felix, I'll gamble you'll do more ridin' and less card
playin' in the next sixty days than you ever did in any two months of
your life before. In round numbers I'll bet you ride more than six
hundred miles in the next two months. Go you a hundred even. The bet
payable in Golden Bar sixty days--say any time after the first day of
June."
"Humor him, Crafty," suggested Tip, glad of the diversion. "Sometimes
they turn real violent."
"Make it five hundred even," said Craft, who was nothing if not
commercial.
Billy smiled pityingly. "You poor feller! But you've asked for it.
Five hundred she is. It'll have to be a finger bet, because I haven't
a cent with me."
"Your word's good," said Craft and went on his way.
"How about you fellers?" Billy pursued brightly. "Any chance of my
turning a honest penny? I'll go you both the same as Crafty. I
suppose my word's good."
"Better than gold," declared Tip, "but I don't see how you're going to
check up on anybody's riding."
Billy waved a complacent hand. "That's the least of my troubles. How
about it? You fellers want to bet? No? Aw right, my loss is your
gain. Tippy, I wonder if you'd mind opening the door and hollering to
Felix to fry me up a mess of eggs while he's at it? Tell him to let
'em lay. That's the way I like 'em. I thank you. Tip, you've made a
mistake."
"How?"
"Having that hold-up fifteen miles away and then having me arrested
here so close to Golden Bar. You poor flap, is it reasonable to
suppose I'd hold up the Hillsville stage and then come scamperin' right
home, especially when I knew my horse had been seen? You'll find the
judge and jury lookin' cross-eyed at that li'l bit. Yeah, flaw in your
title, Tippy. Y'oughta be more careful."
"Bill's right," said Sam Larder unexpectedly. "I always thought
fifteen miles away was too far, and I know the jury will think it's
funny he came right back to Golden Bar. That don't look natural.
Nawsir."
"Blah!" snorted Tip. "You never thought anything about it till Bill
pointed it out to you, and at that, he's wrong. And anyway, he ain't
arrested yet. We can always rub out Bill if we feel like it. This is
one county that has plenty of good places to leave a man--places where
he won't be found for years and years, and not then, judging by the way
the coyotes scatter a feller's bones. Have you thought of that, Bill?
You'd better. So far I've been dead against making you hard to find,
but if you keep on trying to show me where I'm wrong, maybe I'll accept
your view of the case."
This was plain speaking. Billy accepted it at its face value. Tip was
good-hearted enough. He had proved it. But he was desperate. He had
proved that, too.
Billy smiled engagingly at Tip. "Shucks, I was only talking to you for
your own good," he said in an injured tone. "And here you go and get
all het up. You make me more tired than a day's work."
"We may make you tireder," was the grim return.
When Felix Craft brought the eggs, he drew up at one side of the table
and Billy at the other. The platter of eggs was between them. Tip
looked on from his seat near the fireplace. Sam lounged comfortably in
his chair.
Billy looked with a dissatisfied air upon the eggs. "Ain't there any
bread, Felix? One thing I like is to sort of smush a piece of bread
round my eggs till it gets all gooey and good. A li'l butter on the
bread wouldn't hurt neither."
So Felix made another trip to the kitchen. When he returned with the
bread and butter, Billy discovered that the pepper had been overlooked.
"For Gawd's sake use salt on 'em!" implored Felix. "I never use
pepper, I don't. Salt is just as good. Healthier, too."
"But I don't like salt," protested Billy. "I've got no manner of use
for it. I want pepper, I do."
"Use salt," mumbled Craft, stoking busily.
Billy pushed right back from the table and refused to be comforted. "I
want some pepper! Whatsa matter with you jiggers--tryin' to starve me
to death? Sam, you lazy lump of slumgullion, get me some pepper, will
you?"
"No, I won't. I'm too comfortable and you're too finicky."
Bill glanced across at Tip. "You going to refuse me too, Tip, old
citizen?"
"No," said Tip with a weary air, "I suppose not."
He arose and betook himself to the kitchen. Returning with a large
old-fashioned tin pepper pot he thumped it down upon the table in front
of the captive. "There y'are. Now, stop your squalling."
"Thank you, Tippy, I will. Yeah."
Billy scraped up to the table as Tip turned away. "What's the matter
with this pepper pot, anyway?"
Tip turned to look. Billy picked up the pepper pot slowly and stared
hard at it. Felix Craft craned his neck.
"I don't see anything the matter with it," said Craft.
"Don't you?" murmured Billy, his fingers busy with the removable top.
"Look here."
Sam Larder did not move, but both Tip and Craft obeyed. In fact, they
obeyed with such good will that the handful of pepper that Billy
instantly swept into their faces dusted up their nostrils as well as
into their eyes.
In throwing the pepper Billy had employed his left hand. This left
hand had not completed the motion before Billy was reaching for the
platter of eggs with his right hand.
It was unfortunate for Sam Larder that he was a slow-going gentleman.
The platter struck him edgewise over the eye when his six-shooter had
barely cleared the holster. The six-shooter thudded to the floor. Sam
and his chair went over backward and lay together in a tangle amid the
fragments of broken platter and the remains of several eggs. On the
way down some of the eggs painted Sam's countenance and part of his
shirt a bright yellow. But Sam made no attempt to rise and scrape
himself off. He was unconscious.
Billy, arriving in Sam's immediate neighborhood a split second after
Sam struck the floor, scooped up the fallen six-shooter and wheeled
back to face his other two enemies. But they were too occupied with
their very real misery to be an immediate menace. Felix Craft was
sitting on the floor, clawing at his eyes and swearing continuously.
Tip, coughing and sneezing, was not swearing. Perhaps he had not
sufficient breath. At any rate, he was on his feet, arms spread wide,
feeling his way along the wall toward the door giving into the hall.
Billy cat-footed up behind Tip and snatched away his six-shooter. Tip
spun round at the touch, but Billy dodged away from the clutching hands.
Bang! a revolver bullet cut a button from his vest and tucked into the
wall at his elbow. Billy's sudden movement had saved his life. He
leaped back another two yards to get out of the smoke and crouched,
balancing his tense body on the balls of his feet.
He saw beyond the table Felix Craft with a gun in each hand. The
gambler's face, despite the tears that overflowed his eyes and ran down
his cheeks, was fairly murderous.
"Tip! Where are you? Don't you move, Bill," Craft was saying, the
barrels of his two guns weaving to and fro uncertainly. "Get away from
that door, Bill. Don't you try and get away. I can see you."
Billy leaned forward, picked up a fork from his set-out on the table
and flung it across the room. It fell with a clatter. Craft fired at
the sound. The next instant Billy kicked him under the chin and
flattened him out.
"First time I ever saw a feller shoot by ear," observed Billy, calmly
divesting Craft of his gun belt and exchanging Sam's six-shooter for
his own gun with the brass-trigger guard. "He did pretty good,
considering. Tip, don't you try to bluff me, like Crafty, that you can
see. Hey! do you want to be the third senseless man in this room?"
Tip answered the question by halting his groping way toward the
speaker. He stood still, his body swaying, his muscular fingers locked
in the palms of his hands. Billy stooped over the senseless Craft and
whipped off his neckerchief.
"Put your hands behind you, Tip," he directed.
"Damfi will!" Tip declared.
"I don't want to whang you over the head, Tip, but I'll have to if you
won't be good. Stick 'em behind you."
Tip hesitated, then suddenly he thrust his hands behind him. Billy
slipped around him, laid his six-shooter on a chair seat and drew the
handkerchief beneath Tip's crossed wrists. The next instant Tip had
whirled about, Tip's knees were between his legs and Tip's long arms
were wrapped round him in an under-hold.
Tip was essaying the wrestling chip Cumberland men call the swinging
hype. It is a crack chip and when well done is disastrous to an
opponent. But it must be well done--the right arm under, hyping with
the right leg and striking outside with the left. Fortunately for
Bill, Tip, although his right arm was under in a strong hold, had made
the mistake of sticking his left knee between Bill's legs. He struck
outside with his right leg and missed. With the right arm under, he
had not the leverage he should have had.
Billy, fighting for his life, dropped his arms--back-heeled Tip and ran
over him. Thump! The wrestlers, Tip underneath, landed full upon the
senseless back of Felix Craft. Tip freed a hand, writhed his body
sidewise and struck viciously at Billy's unprotected stomach. He
struck too low and the blow glanced off Billy's hipbone. Billy,
striking in turn, drove a smashing right against the point of Tip's
chin. Tip merely grunted and struck again at Billy's stomach. Billy
parried the blow with his left and brought up his knee with the
laudable intention of kicking Tip in the abdomen.
Blinded though he was, Tip apparently sensed what was impending, for he
crowded his body against Billy and struck outside with all his might.
In an instant Tip was on top and Billy underneath. The older man
jammed both thumbs into Billy's windpipe and wrenched himself astride
Billy's body. The strangling Billy spread wide his legs, hunched up
his knees, planted both feet against Tip's ribs and straightened his
legs with a jerk. Tip's hands were torn loose from Billy's throat and
Tip himself crashed backward against the wall.
Billy scrambled to his feet and without the slightest hesitation
clipped Tip over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter. Tip
remained where he was. Billy stood over him, pistol poised, till he
made sure he was senseless. Then he took pains to make fast the trio's
respective arms and legs with strips torn from a nightgown belonging to
Sam. He likewise removed his spurs from Craft's heels to his own.
This being done, he stripped Tip and Sam of their gun belts, gathered
up all the guns and ran out into the kitchen. Here, on the floor,
Craft had thrown his saddle, bridle and saddle blanket. Bill added the
lot to his burden and sped out to the corral. The pinto was there,
looking very tired. Bill hastily unstrapped his rope and dropped the
loop over a rangy-bodied chestnut with good legs and a mule stripe.
This animal he bridled and saddled, left it standing and ran back to
Sam's storeroom for another set of horse equipment. It was his
laudable intention to pack the unconscious Felix into town and jail him
for the stage-coach robbery. It was a bold plan, but Billy always
rather favored the bold plan. The plan had not occurred to him till
almost the instant of throwing the pepper so he had had no time to
thoroughly mature it, but it seemed to contain more elements of success
than any other because it would forestall his enemies' scheme so
neatly. With Craft in jail and wearing the clothing worn by the
robber, to which clothing the complaisant Jerry Fern and his passengers
would undoubtedly be prepared to swear, it would be hard indeed, if
Bill could not fasten the robbery on him, Craft.
He swore bitterly as he pulled taut the cinch strap of the second
horse. Fastening the robbery on Craft was one thing, obtaining his
indictment and conviction were decidedly two others. What though Judge
Donelson would do his best to see justice done, the doing of said
justice would rest in the laps of twelve men, each and every one of
them the opposite of good and true. But at least he, Billy Wingo,
would not be the victim of an outrageous conspiracy. There was that
much gained.
He led the two horses to the kitchen door and went within to fetch out
Felix Craft.
It must have been his good angel who caused him to look through the
front window. He looked and saw a cloud of horsemen scouring toward
the ranch house. Sam's field glasses were on the shelf above the
window. He opened the window, snatched up the glasses and focussed
them on the approaching riders. He immediately recognized, to his
great disgust, half a dozen of Sam Larder's punchers. Obviously they
had completed the fencing-off of the quicksand sooner than expected.
"This," said Billy, dropping the glasses and leaving the room at speed,
"is no place for me."
At the first sight of the riders he had abandoned the plan of taking
Felix Craft to town. He would be hard put to escape himself. A
burdened led horse was an impossibility, even if he had had time to
carry out Craft and tie him to the saddle. The punchers would be at
the ranch house in another sixty seconds, and if they should discover
him with their bound and unconscious employer and two of his friends,
they would shoot first and ask questions later. Any one would,--under
the circumstances.
Billy topped his mount, struck in the spurs and fled. The other horse
he perforce left standing.
As he flashed past the corner of the building, one of Larder's punchers
raised a yell. Some well-meaning fool fired. Zung-g! the bullet
buzzed overhead. Smack! Zung-g! Smack! Several bits of lead either
ripped past his ears or tucked into the posts of the corral he was
skirting. It was borne in upon him that the Larder employees were
mistaking him for a horse thief, or some one worse.
He leaned over his saddle horn and began to ride. From the Larder
corral to a clump of trees on the edge of a draw was a long hundred
yards. As Billy galloped in among the trees he glanced over his
shoulder. The corral concealed the horsemen. He pulled up at the edge
of the draw, slid down the bank in a shower of stones and dirt, turned
sharp to the left at the bottom and tore ahead. A mile farther on he
looked back. No one was in sight yet.
"Ropin' themselves fresh horses," was his muttered verdict. "Damitall,
running away was about the worst thing I could have done, after all!
But what else was there to do, I'd like to know? If I'd stayed I'd
have been plugged for a holdup and now I'm a heap likely to be lynched
for a horse thief and a hold-up both."
He knew what he might expect from the brisk Larder outfit after Sam had
given it his careful version of the stage robbery.
"And that goes double for the rest of the county," he said to himself,
staring ahead over the flattened ears of his racing horse. "It looks
like a cold day for Billy Wingo. I'll have to do some almighty tall
hustling, that's a cinch."
Two miles and a half from the clump of trees at the back of Larder's
corral he turned his horse and scuffled up the right-hand bank of the
draw. At the top he looked back. He could see the clump of trees
quite plainly and below it, in the bottom of the draw, were several
black beads. He counted four beads. No doubt the remaining beads were
spreading out to right and left to head him off.
"Thank Gawd for the mule stripe," he muttered piously, trotting onward.
"We'll diddle 'em yet, old-timer."
Old-timer cocked an ear. His muscles were moving rhythmically, his
long free stride was steady and collected. His breathing, while
audible, showed no catchiness or other sign of distress. He was good
for many miles yet, this chestnut with the mule stripe.
"Alla same, I've got to have another horse," Billy decided. "The
quicker this feller gets back on the Larder range the better."
He didn't quite know how to get another horse. When he came in town to
assume the duties of his office he brought with him from his ranch two
horses besides the red-and-white pinto. His remaining horses he had
turned out into the hills, upon whose tops, when the snow flew, they
could grub up a living without too much difficulty. These hills lay
sixty miles away beyond the Tuckleton range, and every horse on them
would be carrying a grass belly.
"Not one of 'em fit for hard riding right off the reel," he told
himself, and cursed a little. "Looks like Sam Prescott was my one best
bet."
He came to a stream and rode in it till almost sunset when he left it,
dismounted beside a tall cottonwood and shinned to the top. To his
earnest satisfaction he saw, hopelessly distant and following utterly
wrong lines, the tiny black beads that were his pursuers.
"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, rustling groundward rapidly.