The Fight
Half a dozen cowboys cantered up the main street of Los Portales in a
cloud of dust. One of them, older than the rest, let out the wild yell he
had known in the days when he rode with Quantrell's guerrillas on the
infamous raids of that bandit. A second flung into the blue sky three
rapid revolver shots. Plainly they were advertising the fact that they
had come to paint the town red and did not care who knew it.
The riders pulled up abruptly in front of Tolleson's Gaming Palace &
Saloon, swung from their horses, and trailed with jingling spurs into
that oasis of refreshment. Each of them carried in his hand a rope. The
other end of the rawhide was tied to the horn of a saddle.
A heavy-set, bow-legged man led the procession to the bar. He straddled
forward with a swagger. The bartender was busy dusting his stock. Before
the man had a chance to turn, the butt of a revolver hammered the
counter.
"Get busy here! Set 'em up, Mike. And jump!" snarled the heavy man.
The barkeeper took one look at him and filed no demurrer. "Bad man" was
writ on every line of the sullen, dissipated face of the bully. It was a
safe bet that he was used to having his own way, or failing that was
ready to fight at the drop of the hat.
Swiftly the drinks were prepared.
"Here 'show!"
"How!"
Every glass was tilted and emptied.
It was high noon by the sun and Tolleson's was practically deserted. No
devotees sat round the faro, roulette, and keno tables. The dealers were
asleep in bed after their labors. So too were the dance girls. The poker
rooms upstairs held only the stale odor of tobacco and whiskey. Except
for a sleepy negro roustabout attendant and two young fellows at a table
well back from the bar, the cowboys had the big hall all to themselves.
The bay was near the front of the barnlike room and to the right. To the
left, along the wall, were small tables. Farther back were those used for
gaming. In the rear one corner of the floor held a rostrum with seats for
musicians. The center of the hall was kept clear for dancing. Three steps
led to a door halfway back on the left-hand side of the building. They
communicated with an outer stairway by means of which one could reach the
poker rooms.
The older of the two young men at the table nodded toward the roisterers
and murmured information. "Some of the Snaith-McRobert crowd."
His companion was seated with his back to the bar. He had riot turned his
head to look at those lined up in front of the mirrors for drinks, but a
curious change had come over him. The relaxed body had grown rigid. No
longer was he lounging against the back of his chair. From his eyes the
laughter had been wiped out, as a wet sponge obliterates writing on a
slate. All his forces were gathered as if for instant action. He was
tense as a coiled spring. His friend noticed that the boy was listening
intently, every faculty concentrated at attention.
A man leaning against the other end of the bar was speaking. He had a
shock of long red hair and a squint to his eyes.
"Sure you're right. A bunch of Webb's gunmen got Ranse--caught him out
alone and riddled him. When Webb drove through here two days ago with
a herd, his killers bragged of it. Ask Harsha up at the Buffalo Corral if
youse don't believe me. Sure as hell's hot we got to go on the war-path.
Here, you Mike! Set 'em up again."
The boy at the table had drawn back his lips so that the canine teeth
stood out like tusks. There was something wolfish about the face, from
which all the color had been driven. It expressed something so deadly, so
menacing, that the young man across from him felt a shock almost of fear.
"We'd better get out of here," he said, glancing toward the group near
the front door.
The other young man did not answer, but he made no move to leave. He was
still taking in every syllable of what the drinkers were saying.
The ex-guerrilla was talking. "Tha's sure sayin' something, Hugh. There
ain't room in New Mexico for Webb's outfit an' ours too."
"Better go slow, boys," advised another. He was a thick-set man in the
late thirties, tight-lipped and heavy-jawed. His eyes were set so close
together that it gave him a sinister expression. "Talkin' don't get us
anywhere. If we're goin' to sit in a game with Homer Webb an' his
punchers we got to play our hand close."
"Buck Sanders, segundo of the Lazy S M ranches," explained again the
young man at the table in a low voice. "Say, kid, let's beat it while
the goin' is good."
The big bow-legged man answered the foreman. "You're right, Buck. So's
Hugh. So's the old rebel. I'm jus' servin' notice that no bunch of
shorthorn punchers can kill a brother of mine an' get away with it.
Un'erstand? I'll meet up with them some day an' I'll sure fog 'em to a
fare-you-well." He interlarded his speech with oaths and foul language.
"I'll bet you do, Dave," chipped in the man next him, who had had a
run-in with the Texas Rangers and was on the outskirts of civilization
because the Lone Star State did not suit his health. "I would certainly
hate to be one of them when yore old six-gun begins to pop. It sure will
be Glory-hallelujah for some one."
Dave Roush ordered another drink on the strength of the Texan's
admiration. "Mind, I don't say Ranse wasn't a good man. Mebbe I'm a
leetle mite better 'n him with a hogleg. Mebbe--"
"Ranse was good with a revolver all right, but sho! you make him look
like a plugged nickel when you go to makin' smoke, Dave," interrupted the
toady.
"Well, mebbe I do. Say I do. I ain't yet met up with a man can beat me
when I'm right. But at that Ranse was a mighty good man. They bushwhacked
him, I'll bet a stack of blues. I aim to git busy soon as I find out who
done it."
The red-headed man raised his voice a trifle. "Say, you kid--there at the
table--come here an' hold these ropes! See you don't let the hawses at
the other end of 'em git away!"
Slowly the boy turned, pushing his chair round so that he half-faced the
group before the bar. He neither rose nor answered.
"Cayn't you-all hear?" demanded the man with the shock of unkempt, red
hair.
"I hear, but I'm not comin' right away. When I do, you'll wish I hadn't."
If a bomb had exploded at his feet Hugh Roush could not have been more
surprised. He was a big, rough man, muscular and sinewy, and he had been
the victor of many a rough-and-tumble fight. On account of his reputation
for quarrelsomeness men chose their words carefully when they spoke to
him. That this little fellow with the smooth, girlish face and the small,
almost womanish hands and feet should defy him was hard to believe.
"Come a-runnin', kid, or I'll whale the life out of you!" he roared.
"You didn't get me right," answered the boy in a low, clear voice. "I'm
not comin' till I get ready, Hugh Roush."
The wolf snap of the boy's jaw, the cold glitter in his eyes, might have
warned Roush and perhaps did. He wondered, too, how this stranger knew
his name so well.
"Where are you from?" he demanded.
"From anywhere but here,"
"Meanin' that you're here to stay?"
"Meanin' that I'm here to stay."
"Even if I tell you to git out of the country?"
"You won't be alive to tell me unless you talk right sudden."
They watched each other, the man and the boy. Neither as yet made any
motion to draw his gun, the younger one because he was not ready, Roush
because he did not want to show any premature alarm before the men taking
in the scene. Nor could he yet convince himself, in spite of the
challenge that rang in the words of the boy, of serious danger from so
unlikely a source.
Dave Roush had been watching the boy closely. A likeness to someone whom
he could not place stirred faintly his memory.
"Who are you? What's yore name?" he snapped out.
The boy had risen from the chair. His hand rested on his hip as if
casually. But Dave had observed the sureness of his motions and he
accepted nothing as of chance. The experience of Roush was that a gunman
lives longer if he is cautious. His fingers closed on the butt of the
revolver at his side.
"My name is James Clanton."
Roush let fall a surprised oath. "It's 'Lindy Clanton you look like!
You're her brother--the kid, Jimmie."
"You've guessed it, Devil Dave."
The eyes of the two crossed like rapiers.
"Howcome you here? Whad you want?" asked Roush thickly.
Already he had made up his mind to kill, but he wanted to choose his own
moment. The instinct of the killer is always to take his enemy at
advantage. Clanton, with that sixth sense which serves the fighter, read
his purpose as if he had printed it on a sign.
"You know why I'm here--to stomp the life out of you an' yore brother for
what you done to my sister. I've listened to yore brags about what you
would do when you met up with them that killed Ranse Roush. Fine! Now
let's see you make good. I'm the man that ran him down an' put an end to
him. Go through, you four-flushin' coward! Come a-shootin' whenever
you're ready."
The young Southerner had a definite motive in his jeering. He wanted to
drive his enemies to attack him before they could come at him from two
sides.
"You--you killed Ranse?"
"You heard me say it once." The eyes of the boy flashed for a moment to
the red-headed man. "Whyfor are you dodgin' back of the bar, Hugh
Roush? Ain't odds of two to one good enough for you--an' that one only a
kid--without you runnin' to cover like the coyote you are? Looks like
you'll soon be whinin' for me not to shoot, just like Ranse did."
If any one had cared to notice, the colored roust-about might have been
seen at that moment vanishing out of the back door to a zone of safety.
He showed no evidence whatever of being sleepy.
The silence that followed the words of the boy was broken by Quantrell's
old grayback. Dave Roush was a bad man--a killer. He had three notches on
his gun. Perhaps he had killed others before coming West. At any rate, he
was no fair match for this undersized boy.
"He's a kid, Dave. You don't want to gun a kid. You, Clanton--whatever
you call yourself--light a shuck pronto--git out!"
It is the habit of the killer to look for easy game. Out of the corner of
his eye the man who had betrayed 'Lindy Clanton saw that Hugh was edging
back of the bar and dragging out his gun. This boy could be killed safely
now, since they were two to one, both of them experts with the revolver.
To let him escape would be to live in constant danger for the future.
"He's askin' for it, Reb. He's goin' to get it."
Dave Roush pulled his gun, but before he could use it two shots rang out
almost simultaneously. The man at the corner of the bar had the
advantage. His revolver was in the clear before that of Clanton, but Jim
fired from the hip without apparent aim. The bullet was flung from the
barrel an imperceptible second before that of Roush. The gunman, hit in
the wrist of the right hand, gave a grunt and took shelter back of the
bar.
The bystanders scurried for safety while explosion followed explosion.
Young Clanton, light-footed as a cat, side-stepped and danced about as
he fired. The first shot of the red-headed man had hit him and the shock
of it interfered with his accuracy. Hugh had disappeared, but above the
smoke the youngster still saw the cruel face of Devil Dave leering
triumphantly at him behind the pumping gun.
The boy kept moving, so that his body did not offer a static target. He
concentrated his attention on Dave, throwing shot after shot at him. That
he would kill his enemy Clanton never had a doubt. It was firmly fixed in
his mind that he had been sent as the appointed executioner of the man.
It was no surprise to Jim when the face of his sister's betrayer lurched
forward into the smoke. He heard Roush fall heavily to the floor and saw
the weapon hurled out of reach. The fellow lay limp and still.
Clanton did not waste a second look at the fallen man. He knew that the
other Roush, crouched behind the bar, had been firing at him through the
woodwork. Now a bullet struck the wall back of his head. The red-headed
man had fired looking through a knot-hole.
The boy's weapon covered a spot three inches above this. He fired
instantly. A splinter flew from a second hole just above the first.
Three long, noiseless strides brought Clanton to the end of the bar. The
red-headed man lay dead on the floor. The bullet had struck him just
above and between the eyes.
"I reckon that ends the job."
It was Jim's voice that said the words, though he hardly recognized it.
Overcome by a sudden nausea, he leaned against the bar for support. He
felt sick through and through.