The crest of the watershed separating the flow between the Salt Fork
and the Cimarron was also the dividing line between Crowfoot’s range
and the leases of the Half Diamond H. Carver crossed over this low
divide and angled toward Turkey Creek to intersect its course at a
point near Crowfoot’s place. Here the majority of the range stock wore
the straggling brand intended to represent a bird’s claw, the badge of
Crowfoot’s ownership.
Carver viewed the ranch buildings from the shoulder of a hill, noting
particularly the corral which was fashioned as a solid stockade
some ten feet high. Crowfoot had entered into a beef contract with
the railroad and his slaughtering was conducted within this small
enclosure. Carver entertained positive convictions as to the purpose
of this arrangement but in common with others of his kind he made a
religion of remaining strictly incurious regarding the calling or
customs of acquaintances except in so far as they might affect his own
immediate affairs.
He turned his horse up the Turkey Creek bottoms and followed that
stream for a dozen miles, then angled away to the right toward the
Half Diamond H range. When well up the gentle slope he rode out on to
the rim of a pocket. The scattering trees in the bottoms indicated the
presence of water. A spring branch probably headed in the pocket and
drained back toward Turkey Creek, he reflected. He pulled up his horse
as a woman’s voice floated up to him. Somewhere down below him a girl
was singing, and Carver headed his horse down the slope toward the
sound.
A sod house nestled under the hill beside the trickling spring-creek.
The singing ceased abruptly and a girl appeared in the door of the sod
house at the sound of his horse’s hoofs in the yard.
For the second time Carver saw her framed in a doorway and he was
conscious of a sudden pleased conviction that she should always choose
a similar setting. The drab surroundings served only as a background
to hold her vivid youth and charm in more startling relief. Carver
recollected that he had mauled one brother in no gentle fashion and was
held accountable for another’s day of transgressions; in consequence he
feared a cool reception from the sister. Instead, her face lighted with
sudden recognition.
“Oh, it’s you!” she greeted. “Bart will be coming home any time now and
he’d be so sorry if he missed you. Won’t you step down off your horse
and wait?”
She sat on the doorsill and motioned Carver to a seat on a bench
against the cabin. He removed his hat and tilted back against the sod
wall as she explained that Bart was even now overdue. As they talked
it was quite evident that all her thoughts centered round the younger
brother. Carver found the tones of her voice as pleasant to his ear
as the sight of her was pleasing to his eyes, and he was content to
listen, hoping meanwhile that Bart would never come.
He knew this for a Crowfoot line camp, recently installed, which
accounted for the fact that he had not chanced across it the year
before. The Lassiters, therefore, must ride for Crowfoot, he decided.
“Bart and I only came down last week,” she said. “We’ve been living in
your little house in Caldwell. Did you know?”
“I gave him the key and told him the place was his,” Carver said. “But
I’d have straightened it up a bit if I’d known he was going to install
you there.”
“It was supremely tidy,” she complimented. “Which was a distinct
surprise. Most men’s housekeeping is rather the reverse.”
Her gaze kept wandering off down the bottoms for some sign of Bart’s
return.
“I do hope he comes,” she said.
“I’m real anxious to see Bart,” he confessed. “I certainly hope he
turns up sometime inside of the next three or four hours for this is my
busy day and I couldn’t conscientiously wait on him longer than that.”
His tones expressed only a mild anxiety over the possible non-arrival
of his friend.
“Do please stay the very limit, at least,” she urged, and laughed up at
him. “You know, you’re like Bart in a great many ways.” Carver someway
felt that he knew her better after that laugh. “Don’t you think you two
are somewhat alike?”
He had divined the close bond between this girl and her brother and now
made swift use of the knowledge.
“Bart and I are so similar that we might easy be mistaken for twins,”
he admitted. “You might say we’re almost identical.”
“He means a lot to me Bart does,” she said. “In most ways he’s a
lovable youngster, but----”
Carver leaned back with an audible sigh.
“Tell me all about Bart,” he urged.
“I will,” she agreed. “In most ways he’s likable but he’s as wild as
a hawk. He is absolutely irresponsible and will commit any reckless
folly on a second’s notice without a thought of future consequences.
The future means not one thing to him. He’s sublimely confident that
every new day stands by itself, entirely unrelated to either yesterday
or to-morrow. And he’s too easily led. Now don’t you think you two are
considerably alike?”
Carver considered this at some length.
“There’s some few particulars wherein our make-ups branch way out
apart,” he testified. “On those points we’re altogether dissimilar. Now
me, I just can’t be led. I’m sometimes misled, maybe, but never plain
led. And so far as the relation of one day to another”--he produced a
silver dollar and regarded it--“why nothing could possibly convince
me that five weeks ago last Tuesday wasn’t close kin to to-day.” The
girl’s mind flashed back to that first meeting as he smiled across at
her and continued: “And I’m hoping that there’ll be other days in the
future that’ll belong to the same family group. You’d be downright
surprised to know how far my mind wanders into the future--and you
accusing me of not looking ahead.”
“He’s told me a lot about you,” she said. “You’re the supreme chief of
the tumbleweeds, from what I gather; openly irresponsible.”
“On the contrary, I’m apt to take my responsibilities too much to heart
if I don’t watch myself,” he defended. “Do you consider a state of
responsibility one to strive for?” Then, as she nodded, “Hereafter I’ll
track down responsibilities like a duck collects Junebugs, and assume
one after the next.”
“I’ve raised Bart from a baby,” she said. “And I don’t want to see him
go over to the wild bunch. He likes you a lot. Use that influence to
steady him, won’t you, instead of the other way?”
“Just what is the main thing you want Bart to stay clear of?” he asked.
“I want him to run straight,” she said.
Carver rose to take his leave, his departure hastened by the sight of
a horseman through the trees far down the bottoms. And the rider was
not Bart. He had no desire to meet Noll Lassiter during his first real
visit with the girl, and he somehow knew the identity of the man who
approached.
“Maybe I can do Bart a trifle of good in spots,” he said, as he stood
before her. “And I’ll guarantee not to do him any great amount of
harm.”
“Thanks,” she said, rising to face him and extending her hand. “I knew
you’d do it.”
Carver retained the hand and leaned to kiss her as she stood looking up
at him. The girl stepped back and studied him, evidencing no annoyance
but seeming rather to try to determine the thought which had occasioned
the act and searching for a possible trace of disrespect. Carver met
her eyes fairly.
“You oughtn’t to have smiled just at that particular moment,” he said.
“You see, you are irresponsible,” she pointed out. “That’s exactly what
Bart would have done. You yield to any passing whim.”
“That wasn’t any passing whim,” he corrected. “It was one powerful
impulse; and it’s permanent--not passing. It’s related to to-day and
five weeks ago Tuesday, and I’m hoping it’s related to to-morrow.”
She disregarded this except for an almost imperceptible shake of her
head.
“But you will remember about Bart,” she urged.
“I’ll try and collect all Bart’s loose ends and shape him up into one
solid pattern of propriety,” he promised. “You won’t hardly know him
for the same party after I’ve worked him over.” He swung to the saddle.
“But I’ll have to put in considerable time over here conferring with
you if we’re going to make a success out of Bart.”
He turned his horse to leave but the approaching rider had hastened
through the last belt of trees and he now held up a hand and signalled
Carver to wait. Lassiter pulled up his horse abruptly as he discovered
Carver’s identity.
“I thought it was Wellman,” he stated surlily. “Who asked you here?
This is a little off your range.”
“I travel on a roving permit,” Carver said. He explored his pockets as
if seeking the document and an expression of mock concern overspread
his face. “I declare, I must have mislaid it somehow. But I believe I
showed it to you once before; and anyway, I’m going now.”
He nodded a casual good-by to the girl, turned his back on Lassiter and
departed. As he mounted the cow trail leading out of the head of the
pocket he met Bart Lassiter coming down.
“I’ve just been over to your house visiting round with Miss Molly,”
Carver greeted. “Noll came riding up and I someway gathered the
impression that he wasn’t glad to see me.”
The two lolled sidewise in their saddles. Bart looked down the bottoms
toward the sod house.
“I’d keep an eye peeled for Noll,” he advised. “He’s out for you if he
sees the right chance. If you don’t watch sharp your horse will come
dangling in some day without a rider.”
“Sho!” Carver deprecated. “It’s been against the law to kill folks for
a long time now.”
“I know,” said Bart. “But the mere fact that we’ve got a law like that
proves that maybe some one did get killed once and there’s a chance it
might happen again.”
“He’s been telling you things,” Carver guessed. “Likely he was just
easing his mind.”
“Noll didn’t tell me a word,” Bart denied. “He don’t need to. I know
him. He rode hard on me with a club, up until I outgrew him, and I
can read what’s going on in his mind. I put in all my early years
dodging, until one day he cuffed Molly; then I forgot my timidity and
pulled down his meat house. It was weeks before he was up and around.
He’ll bear watching. I don’t mean to infer that Noll’s all charged
with valor, which he’s not, but he’s certainly loaded to the ears with
meanness and he’ll take a chance if the odds are all his way and no one
looking on.”
“Then I’ll take to surveying my back track,” Carver promised. “Because
if we meet it will likely be from the rear.”
“That’s where,” Bart agreed.
“What’s to hinder my taking you on as a bodyguard, sort of?” Carver
suggested. “I’m going in with the Half Diamond H wagon. Old Nate would
put you on.”
“The three of us are leaving for the X I L in a day or two,” said Bart.
“Otherwise I’d go with you. Milt has been trail boss for the X I L for
the last four summers and brought their trail herds through. Always
before we’ve gone on back and wintered there, but this season we laid
over to help Crowfoot.”
Carver turned this arrangement over in his mind. The X I L was a Texas
brand running south of the Washita country.
“I’ll have a little deal on this fall after round-up,” he said. “And
I’d like to have you cut in with me, provided you don’t hang out at
Crowfoot’s. I’m not over-squeamish and there’s one time and another
when I’ve rode for outfits whose methods was open to question. Most
riders have. But folks are coming to frown on irregularities and it’s
time a man reads his signs right and quits before it’s just too late.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Bart agreed easily. “I can see that plain.”
“It’s my surmise that there’s a right small percentage of the meat that
goes to fill Crowfoot’s contracts with the railroad that is dressed out
of steers wearing his own brand,” Carver said. “Of course, he’s too
smart to cut in on his neighbors, and they don’t bother to get curious
as long as they know their own strays are safe on his range. But it’s
my guess that if a steer from some foreign outfit turns up on the
Turkey Creek range he’ll get converted into beef overnight.”
Lassiter grinned and wagged a negative head.
“Now you wouldn’t go and suspect Crowfoot of filling his beef contracts
at other folks’ expense,” he reproved. “Besides, how could he when it’s
the law that whenever a cow critter is butchered its hide must be hung
on the fence till it’s been inspected and passed?”
“And our present hide inspector would ride miles out of his way rather
than meet a fresh hide face to face,” Carver testified. “I expect
maybe Crowfoot kills out a batch of his own steers, about every third
slaughtering. That way there’d always be enough fresh hides of his own
brand hanging round the place to make it look right. But he wouldn’t
dress out any more of his own till after one batch of pelts was too
dried out to answer. He’s not that improvident.”
“Well, maybe not,” Bart said. “I couldn’t say for sure. What has
Crowfoot done to you to start you commenting on his habits?”
“Not anything!” Carver confessed. “I don’t even lose sleep over what
he’s doing to other folks. I’m generalizing, kind of. Things are
changing rapid and a man had better let his glance rove a few years
ahead.”
“Hadn’t he, though?” Bart concurred. He didn’t inquire as to the nature
of Carver’s proposition, for it mattered not at all. “We’ll put on our
telescopes and spy out a soft berth for the future. That’s us. You can
count me in till the hair slips.”
With this casual promise they separated. Carver reviewed his recent
utterances with some doubt as he rode across the divide.
“That’s the first time I ever aspired to turn evangelist,” he said.
“And I’m awkward at it. The rôle don’t become me any to speak of, but
I’ve committed myself to take Bart in hand.”
Three days later he rode again to the little sod house on the
spring-creek. He came upon it from behind, his horse’s hoofs making
but slight sound on the springy turf. Not until he had dismounted and
rounded the corner on foot did he discover that a saddled horse stood
on the far side of the house. He stopped short, wondering which of the
three brothers might be at home. While he hesitated a man’s voice
sounded from within, and it was not that of any one of the Lassiters.
He took another step toward the door but halted again as he detected a
threat in the tones of the man inside.
“You listen to reason or I’ll have Bart locked up for the rest of his
natural life,” the voice proclaimed. “And that within the next two
days. I know his whereabouts on a certain night two years ago, when a
saloon in Taosin was ransacked.”
“You’ve told me all that,” said the girl. “But even if you could prove
it, why Bart was only seventeen then.”
“There’s places where they keep such naughty children,” the man pointed
out. “Then he was into that Casa affair, when the station was burned.”
This statement enabled Carver to identify the man whose voice had
seemed vaguely familiar. It could be no other than Freel.
“I’ve got a line on the whole past of the Lassiters,” Freel resumed.
“Clear back prior to when the old man was alive. He’d be wanted too, on
a dozen counts, if he was still above ground. You know what it is to
have the law always barking at your door. If you take up with me folks
would respect you. But any one in this whole country will tell you
that Freel is a bad man to have on the other side. You don’t want me
lined up against the Lassiters, girl.”
Carver stepped to the door. Freel’s back was toward him but he could
see the girl’s face. There was no trace of apprehension there, only
distaste for the man before her. Her eyes widened with surprise as they
met Carver’s and as she divined his purpose she made a move to station
herself between the two men but Carver held up a hand to halt her.
Freel had whirled to face the door when the girl’s face betrayed the
presence of a third party. He recovered his self-confidence, shaken for
the moment, with the discovery of the intruder’s identity.
“Morning,” he greeted casually. “Any more wagers on your mind to-day?”
“Yes,” said Carver. “Step outside. I’m going to make you another little
bet.”
He stepped aside as the marshal passed through the door, then followed
and closed it behind him.
“This wager’s not going to be in money,” Carver said. “If I lose I’ll
look you up and explain to you what the stakes are. I’m betting that
you don’t ever pass out any remarks about Bart Lassiter or his sister.
The bridle’s off as far as the other two boys are concerned. You can
go as far as you like with them.”
Freel sized him up, sensing a new quality in the man before him, a
certain tenseness which Carver concealed beneath the cloak of casual
speech.
“You drop out of this,” he advised. “I was offering to marry Miss
Lassiter when you romped in.”
“Offering to,” said Carver. “I thought maybe you was threatening to.”
“Any girl of the Lassiter tribe ought to be damn glad of an opportunity
to marry and live respectable,” Freel stated, and was instantly aware
that he had made a grave mistake, for that quality which he had sensed
in Carver was now quite openly apparent in his eyes.
“So you’re going to make her respectable,” Carver said. “That’s real
generous of you, I’d say. It’s rumored around that you set up to be a
bad one. I just heard you confess it. Let’s see how wicked you can be
when your badness all boils over.”
He took a step toward Freel and the marshal backed away, reading
Carver’s purpose in his eyes.
“It’s never my policy to start a quarrel without good reason,” he
announced.
“I’m laying myself out to supply the reason,” Carver said. “I always
did want to see a regular desperado working at his trade.” He removed
his hat with his left hand and brought it with a back-handed slash
across the marshal’s face. “You’re wicked clear through,” he said.
“You’re just as bad as you can be.”
He swung the hat twice again but Freel turned and walked toward his
horse.
“You’re not bad; you’re just tainted,” Carver stated. “I always felt
that about you and now I know for sure.”
The marshal mounted and turned upon Carver a face set in lines of stern
disapproval.
“I refuse to force an issue except in the regular routine of duty,” he
proclaimed. “This is not a matter of official business. Otherwise----”
He intended that the unfinished statement should carry an impressive
implication of power held in reserve and which he controlled only with
the greatest difficulty. He turned and rode off down the bottoms.
“I feel like I’d just come in off a spree,” Carver told himself. “It
shakes a man up something fearful to let his temper go running wild all
over the lot. I oughtn’t to have lost hold of myself.”
He regarded the closed door. A sharp rap sounded from the inside of
it and Carver smiled as he speculated as to how many people of his
acquaintance would have respected his unspoken wish that the door
remain closed. The rap sounded again.
“Come in,” he called.
She opened the door and answered his smile, her eyes following the
marshal as he disappeared in the scattering black-jacks of the bottoms.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad you came just when you did. But I’m
sorry if you made an enemy of him. I really don’t mind him--much.”
“He’s right harmless,” said Carver. “But apt to be annoying. I don’t
surmise he’ll be turning up here again.”
He knew that the marshal operated only on safe ground. Freel had known
that both elder brothers would be entirely indifferent to any course
he might adopt toward Molly Lassiter if only it afforded a measure
of protection for themselves; and she would not mention any such
occurrence to Bart lest it precipitate trouble between himself and
Freel.
The girl motioned him to a seat on the bench.
“You did remember your promise of the other day,” she commended. “About
Bart, I mean. He said you’d pointed out the narrow pathway and invited
him to join forces.”
“I never did set up as a reformer,” Carver admitted, “and it likely
sounded a mite unnatural, coming from me.”
“Bart was a little vague about the plans,” she said. “Do you mind
telling me what the proposition was?”
“I couldn’t say any offhand,” he confessed. “You see I just put it up
to him and was intending to work out the details later on. There, now!”
he complained, as she laughed at this lack of definiteness. “You’re
doubting my stability again. There’s numerous ways open for me to
follow.” He checked them off on his fingers. “I might get appointed
marshal in Freel’s place and there’s any number of folks would
contribute to my success. I could assist Crowfoot to fill his beef
contracts; or I could get the job of hide inspector and Crowfoot would
then assist me.”
Beneath this facetious recitation of possibilities she read in his
reference to Crowfoot a deliberate intention to apprise her of the fact
that the man’s methods were open to question, leaving her to devise her
own means of utilizing the knowledge in so far as it related to Bart’s
employment by Crowfoot.
“The boys are all leaving for the X I L in a few days now,” she
returned.
“This man Bronson that owns the X I L--he’s someway related to
Crowfoot,” said Carver. “Seems like I’ve heard he was. Anyway, there’s
some connection. I spoke for a job for Bart with the Half Diamond H
wagon and was hoping he’d take it on.”
When Carver rose to leave he rested his hands on her shoulders as she
stood facing him.
“The round-up will cut into our conferences but I’m looking forward to
resuming them after it’s over.”
She stepped back and shook her head as he leaned toward her.
“Don’t forget how much I’m like Bart,” he urged. “And you know you’d do
that much for him. You might try it on me once, just for similarity’s
sake.”
The girl faced him gravely.
“I’m going to absolve you from that promise,” she said. “Try and forget
all about the Lassiters. We bring bad luck.”
“It’s too late to start forgetting; and besides, I cut my first baby
teeth on a horseshoe,” he returned; “and from that day on down to
date I’ve been the greatest sort of a hand to counteract bad luck. It
positively refuses to settle in my neighborhood. I’ll tell you all
about it, Honey, as soon as the round-up’s over.”
She stood and watched him ride off up the country, returning his
salutation when he turned in his saddle and waved to her as he reached
the rim of the pocket.
He spent the night at a line camp and the next day made a long ride
into Caldwell, dismounting before his little cabin in the early
evening. A blanketed figure prowled uneasily at the far side of the
street as Carver unsaddled, then crossed over and padded silently along
the path that led to the house.
“Me like whiskey,” the Indian stated.
“Yes,” said Carver. “So do I. But they do say it’s a sinful appetite.”
The red man pondered this.
“Me buy whiskey,” he amended, exhibiting a gold piece.
“I’m just out,” said Carver. “Try next door.”
The Indian departed, only to be replaced some few minutes later by a
second applicant. Carver recalled the incident of the two black bottles
on that other day when he had first met Bart Lassiter in the Silver
Dollar.
“Bart has been up to some more financing,” he reflected. “While Molly
was downtown somewhere, he was busy irrigating the Cherokee nation at
a profit. I’ve heard somewheres that if you do any one thing better
than your neighbors the world will beat a pathway to your door--and
this path looks well-worn and much-traveled. I’ll have to speak to Bart
about this.”
He retired for the night after a third thirsty soul had made the
pilgrimage down the pathway to the door.
“Before I can straighten out Molly’s affairs,” he said, “it does look
as if I’d have to discharge a marshal, reform one brother and practice
homicide on another.”
With this disquieting reflection he dropped instantly asleep. An hour
later his awakening was equally abrupt. It is given only to those who
live much in the open to wake suddenly from profound slumber with
every faculty alert. When Carver opened his eyes he was conscious that
something was amiss. He continued his regular deep breathing as if
still wrapped in sleep. His horse fidgeted nervously in the lean-to
shed behind; but he knew that this sound, being one to which he was
accustomed, would not have roused him. The spring lock on the door
had clicked slightly as if under the manipulation of a stealthy hand
and the sound had penetrated his consciousness even while he slept.
Probably another parched but hopeful Cherokee, he reflected, but he
rose noiselessly and stepped to the window.
“I didn’t start discharging and homiciding soon enough,” he told
himself.
Freel and Noll Lassiter stood outside in the bright moonlight, the
latter having just stepped back within Carver’s range of vision after
testing the spring lock on the door. Carver turned swiftly and donned
shirt and trousers. The latch clicked again as he pulled on his chaps;
then came a sharp knock at the door. Carver did not answer but finished
buckling his belt and drew on one boot. The rap was repeated.
“Ho!” Carver called loudly, as if suddenly roused from heavy sleep.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Freel,” the deputy’s voice answered.
“Oh,” said Carver. “Come on in. I’m in bed.”
“Door’s locked,” Freel returned.
“Must have blown shut,” Carver stated. “There’s a spring lock on it.
Wait a minute and I’ll pile into some clothes and let you in. What do
you want, anyway, at this time of night?”
“There’s been complaints lodged against you for selling whiskey to the
Cherokees,” Freel explained apologetically. “I don’t suppose there’s
anything to it but I was ordered to make the arrest. You can clear
yourself likely.”
Carver laughed easily.
“Why, man! This is the first time I’ve been here in two months,” he
scoffed. “They won’t keep me overnight.”
“I hope not,” said Freel. “It’s the pen if they cinch you--Federal law,
you know. I didn’t like the idea of coming after you but I was ordered
to do it.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Carver answered cheerfully. “I can
explain it easy enough.”
He thumped the bed with the edge of his hand in imitation of a bare
foot descending upon the floor.
“Killed while resisting arrest,” he said to himself, his mind working
swiftly. “This is just a plain old-fashioned killing. Freel knows I
wouldn’t be so simple as to start shooting over being picked up on a
fool charge like this. I’d take it more as a joke. He’ll step in to
talk it over while Noll pots me from outside. Neighbors hear shots--a
regular battle in progress--and later, at the inquest, it transpires
that my gun’s been shot empty. They can prove that Cherokees have been
buying bottles here, whether I did it or not, and Freel, having heard
about it, had come out to investigate. I put up a desperate fight but
went down in the smoke--died hard as it were, but real dead. But they
wouldn’t do it before I was dressed. That might appear like they’d
slaughtered me in my sleep.”
Meanwhile he commented in disjointed fragments to Freel.
“I’ll go on down with you and explain it. It’s a right foolish charge.”
He was now fully dressed. “They’ll let me out by to-morrow so it don’t
matter any.” And to himself, “After Noll’s first shot there’s two from
inside. Neighbors look out into the moonlight. Freel has ducked back
outside and they see him prone on the ground shooting into the house.
He rushes the open door, calling out to me to surrender in the name of
the law, and the neighbors all hear him. There’s sounds of a struggle
inside; chairs overturned, and there’s shooting. A regular hell-roaring
combat--and me dead on the floor all the time.”
He moved to the window. Lassiter was nowhere in sight.
“Flat against the house between the window and the door,” he decided;
then aloud to Freel, “Anyone with you?”
“Not a soul,” Freel lied.
“Better so; maybe we can figure out some little bet whereby it would be
to your advantage to help me come clear of this charge.” He was now
fully clothed and he crossed to the door without permitting his boot
heels to touch the floor. “Can’t find a match,” he complained, fumbling
at the catch. “Come in and strike a light while I hop into my clothes.
I’m in my nightie.” He opened the door, standing back from the streak
of moonlight which streamed through. Freel would shoot if he saw that
Carver was already dressed.
“I’ll just wait here,” Freel said.
“And pot me as I step out,” Carver mentally completed.
“You’ll be out on bond in an hour,” Freel resumed. His head was within
a foot of the door as he attempted to peer inside.
Carver swung his gun with deadly precision and Freel collapsed without
a word as the heavy weapon descended solidly upon his skull. Before the
deputy had fairly struck the ground Carver was peering round the door
jamb with the gun levelled on Lassiter who was flattened against the
house some three feet from the door.
“Steady! Let it slide out of your hand!” Carver ordered.
Lassiter’s slow brain had scarcely grasped the fact that his plans
had gone amiss, and even as the hand which held his gun relaxed in
response to the order, Carver took one swift half step round the door
and swung his own weapon again.
Ten minutes later he had saddled and was riding out of town. As he
cleared it, he chanted a verse wherein the tumbleweed rebuked the
sluggish pumpkin for sticking to its garden patch as Thanksgiving day
approached.
“You can lay right there and wait
To be turned into pies and tarts,
But me, I’ll jump the fence right now
And head for other parts.”
“Freel’s bringing me in feet first, like he’d planned, could be easy
explained,” Carver reflected. “But a live active prisoner is different.
The last thing in this world he’d want is to book me for trial. I
couldn’t force myself on him as a captive. Next time I meet Freel out
in company I’ll surrender and insist that he puts me under arrest.”