A DUEL IN THE DARK
Ordinarily long before this every gun in the room would have been
trained on the intruder, but something restrained them. Perhaps it
was the easy, confident manner of the man in the doorway. Then
again, they well knew that a man who would voluntarily face that
assemblage, and expect to get away with it, must have supreme
confidence in himself. Whether or not that confidence was well
placed, they proposed to find out sooner or later.
“I been lookin’ fer ye fellers,” announced Sam. “Now that I’ve found
ye we’ll have a little confab, so don’t git smart an’ feel fer yer
guns, ’cause somethin’ might happen. This heah right hand o’ mine,
though it’s all crinkled up with the rheumatiz, now an’ ag’in gits
mighty nervous, an’ it might throw a gun afore I could stop it. Jest
like this”:
His heavy Colt revolver flicked into Sam Conifer’s hand as if by
magic, and lay trembling there in his palm. Then it slipped smoothly
towards his finger tips as if doing so of its own volition, spun and
slid without an apparent movement of the arm, always moving, now
like a flash of light, then with slow easy grace, but, as it was
observed by the keen eyes of the watchers, with the muzzle ever
pointed towards him of the swarthy face.
As the weapon slipped back into its holster, and the rheumatic hand
of the old guide lay trembling on its butt, a look of relief passed
over the face of the dark mountaineer.
The others in the cabin looked their amazement, for few there had
ever seen a gun handled as this old, stoop-shouldered intruder
handled his. It was a revelation, though not a pleasant one. It was
a warning as well, but they were watching him—watching and waiting
for that moment when the old man’s alert, shifting glances should
wander from some of them for a few golden seconds.
“Say, ye feller! Who be ye?” demanded the dark man. “What do ye mean
by holdin’ up a bunch o’ honest prospectors?”
Sam Conifer grinned sardonically.
“Honest, did ye say? You don’t know the meanin’ o’ that word. Them’s
queer words comin’ from the lips o’ Mexican Charlie.”
The dark man started, flushed and reached for his weapon, but
thinking better of it, permitted his hand to slip back to its former
position.
“I wants to know whar the boy is? Mex, I ask ye, whar is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ye lie, Mex! Yer too yellow to draw at thet word. Whar’s my pard,
Jim?”
“I tell you I don’t know nothin’ ’bout what yer talkin’,” flung back
Mexican Charlie.
“Ye lie twice, but yer too yellow to draw at thet word,” reiterated
Sam. “I knows thet the boy got away, but whar did he go?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. Who be ye?”
“Leavin’ the lie fer the moment, ye ought to know me, Charlie. You
an’ me has met afore, but a long time ago an’ times has changed me,
but yer the same low-down houn’ thet ye always was. I’ve growed some
fresh whiskers since ye last seen me, an’ fer reasons. Look sharp,
Mex! Look under the whiskers and mebby ye’ll see a scar thar,” urged
the old guide, lifting his whiskers with the left hand. “Do ye see
it, Mex?”
The mountaineer nodded, but he was puzzled. That scar seemed to
bring back the past, but Mexican Charlie plainly could not fix the
thing in his mind.
“Mex! Ye put thet scar thar. It was up in the Klondike years ago,
and ye give it to me when I wasn’t lookin’. Ye got away then an’ ye
know why, cause my hand wasn’t all crinkled up with the rheumatiz
like it is now. But listen, Mex! I’ve been waitin’ fer ye, knowin’
thet some day you an’ me would meet up with each other an’ then we’d
talk it all over nice an’ friendly like. I didn’t recognize ye when
ye come to our camp t’other night an’ told us ye come from Malcolm
Hornby with orders fer us to git out ’cause we was on his property.
Ye lied then, too, jest as you’ve been doin’ tonight. Mex, I’m Sam
Conifer!”
The announcement was like a blow in the face to Mexican Charlie. Mex
knew his torturer now. To the others the announcement meant nothing
except as they saw how nervous it had made their leader.
“Do ye know what I’m goin’ to do now, Mex?” purred Sam.
“Yer goin’ to git out o’ here afore somebody shoots ye up!” shouted
the mountaineer.
“Shore I be, but not yit. Fust, I’m goin’ to give ye the same kind
o’ scar that ye give me up in the Klondike. Turn yer head round
sideways jest as I was doin’ when ye give it to me,” urged Sam
gently.
“Yer wrong, pard. I ain’t the man ye think I be. I never seen ye
before,” protested Charlie.
“I’m speakin’ to ye, Charlie! Be ye goin’ to turn yer head or must I
turn it fer ye after I’ve put ye in condition to turn?”
“I’ll kill ye fer this!” hissed the mountaineer. “Yer a coward, an’
ye wouldn’t dare talk to me like thet if things was equal.
“No, things ain’t equal, eh? Heah ye be, six of ye an’ I only one
man; each of ye armed an’ lookin’ fer a chance to kill me, but not
darin’ to try it, though I ain’t got a gun in my hand no more than
ye fellers has. No, things ain’t equal. Draw, ye sneakin’ coyote!
I’ll not touch my gun till your’n is out o’ the holster. Draw, you
coward!”
Enraged beyond further endurance, and taking advantage of the
visitor’s apparent relaxation, Mexican Charlie snatched at his gun,
fumbled it in his nervous excitement, then jerked it free.
Like a flash of light the nervous hand of Sam Conifer flicked his
own weapon out and two guns roared, one a fraction of a second ahead
of the other. Mexican Charlie clapped a hand to his neck, as his
weapon fell to the floor.
“Steady, fellers! We ain’t finished our little talk yit,” warned
Sam. “Mex’s got it right whar he give it to me an’ he don’t like it.
Neither did I. Tie yer handkerchief ’bout yer neck, Charlie, an’
we’ll finish what we got to say to each other, an’ this time ye’ll
talk right out in meetin’ cause thar’s some things I’ve got to know,
among them, who is bossin’ this heah gang o’ rustlers, an’ hoss
thieves, an’ fellers thet—”
Sam did not finish his sentence. A rifle somewhere outside of the
cabin roared, and the lantern swinging overhead crashed to the
floor, leaving the room in sudden darkness.
Revolvers began to bark, weapons aimed at the spot where Sam Conifer
had been standing. The firing was fast and furious for a moment,
then the voice of Mexican Charlie was heard above the uproar.
“Git out! On the jump!” he shouted.
The rustlers made haste to obey, some going out by way of the door,
others taking to the rear and out by the lean-to in which Stacy
Brown had been held a captive.
A moment later Sam Conifer rose from the floor where he had thrown
himself on the instant when the light went out, and stole out. Sam
did not go far, only to the base of the granite slope, at one side
of which he crouched down and waited. Sam could not understand that
shot. Why, if it were a friend of the rustlers, did the fellow not
shoot him instead of shooting out the light? After a time a light
began to dawn on the old guide. He uttered a low whistle signal that
had been agreed upon between himself and his companions.
The signal was properly answered.
“Come heah, but do it keerful like,” ordered Conifer.
After a few seconds a voice called out softly. It was the voice of
Two-gun Pete.
“Thet you, Sam?” asked Pete.
“Yes. Whar’s that bunch o’ ruffians?” demanded the guide.
“They’ve hit the trail on their ponies, an’ some of ’em had to be
helped into their saddles, I reckon. Our fellers aire back heah in
the bushes. They was waitin’ till I sized things up an’—”
“Look heah, Pete! Be you the critter thet shot out the light jest
when I was holdin’ a friendly conversation with thet bunch? Be you
him?”
Pete admitted that he was the man.
“Thar was a feller in thar thet had his gun out and was gittin’
ready to let you have it,” explained Pete. “I reckoned thet I didn’t
want to kill the critter. Somehow I don’t like to let go at a feller
when he ain’t lookin’. It ain’t good sport; so I jest shot out the
light, knowin’ thet you’d be out of range instanter if things went
off thar, which they did.”
“Thet’s what I calls a low-down trick, Pete. No gent would butt in
when another gent is holdin’ a private conversation, but I forgive
ye. Lead me to our bunch. Be they all heah?”
Pete said they were, and conducted Sam to them. Tom, Hippy and Idaho
eagerly plied the old guide with questions, all talking at the same
time. They conversed in low tones, for no one knew at what moment
they might be overheard by mountain prowlers, for none had great
faith in the flight of the men that Sam Conifer had held up. They
were expected to return seeking for revenge.
Sam was troubled, though the Overlanders were happy in the thought
that Stacy had escaped. They reasoned that by this time he must be
well on his way to the Circle O ranch. Sam, on the other hand, was
worried about Jim. He believed that Jim must be somewhere about,
and, after a few moments’ further conversation with his companions,
started for a prowl about. In the meantime Two-gun and Idaho kept
watch to guard against surprises.
The old guide’s search lasted for more than an hour. Upon his return
he announced that he couldn’t find the slightest trace of Jim, and
that he could do nothing more until daylight. The night passed
without the party being disturbed, and with daylight all hands were
out before breakfast continuing the search.
The cabin was the first object of their inquiry. After searching it
and finding nothing of interest, except the message that Hippy had
sent by one of the pigeons, they proceeded to the lean-to. The first
object to interest them there was Stacy Brown’s hat.
“I reckon the fat boy went away in a hurry,” suggested Pete.
“An’ somebody cut the ropes thet held him,” added Idaho.
“He cut ’em hisself with the axe,” averred Sam, whose eyes had taken
in every detail in one sweeping glance. “I knowed the kid would fool
’em if he got half a chance. But whar’s Jim? If they’ve done fer him
I’ll foller thet bunch till I gits every one of ’em, if it takes me
all the rest of my life. But Jim ain’t daid. I’ll tell ye, Cap’n
Gray, and all the rest of ye, I love thet pard o’ mine like I never
didn’t love no one else.”
“Then why do you fight each other all the time?” questioned Hippy
laughingly.
“Why, ain’t thet the way? What t’other way could a couple of fellers
show thet they love each other? Ye wouldn’t expect ’em to git mushy,
would ye? No. Ain’t no t’other way ’cept to arg’fy an’ fit it out.
Why, Jim an’ me have got so het up now an’ ag’in thet we drawed guns
on each other, an’ one time Jim shot at me, but thet critter never
could shoot. All he kin do is to foller a trail, but thar ain’t a
man lives thet kin beat him at thet. The time he shot at me, I was
so all-fired tickled to think I’d riled him till he drawed, thet I
jest chucked my gun an’ grabbed him an’ hugged him till we both got
to laughin’. Thet’s the only time we ever come nigh gittin’ mushy
like a couple o’ gals,” finished Conifer, who stroking his whiskers,
turned and strode out to the edge of the gulch that dropped away at
the rear of the lean-to.
Hippy looked at Tom and Tom looked at Hippy, then both burst into
laughter.
“Can you beat it?” chuckled Hippy.
Tom Gray agreed that he could not. Sam was out of range of both
their words or their laughter, absorbed in his study of the
surrounding mountains and gorges. His forehead wore a heavy frown,
and, as he looked he thought, with all the concentration that he
could summon, trying to evolve a theory to find a solution of the
mystery of his companion’s disappearance. No answer came to him.
Two-gun Pete, who was listening to the conversation of the two
Overland men, suddenly reared his head attentively.
“Did ye hear it?” he demanded.
The Overlanders nodded. The distant report of a rifle had been heard
by all, but as there was no repetition of it they again fell to
talking.
“Wha—at!” cried Lieutenant Wingate, springing to his feet when, a
moment later, Sam Conifer came staggering in. “In the name of Mike,
what’s happened?”
The old guide’s face was covered with blood from the forehead down,
which served to accentuate the pallor that showed in the narrow
strip above it.
“Sam! What is it?” begged Tom Gray.
“Nothin’ much ’cept—” The words ended in a moan, and old Sam
Conifer, staggering forward a pace, crumpled down to the floor and
lay still.