XX
THE FIGHT AT THE JAILBIRD
As Steve fired his shot into the lamp, Bud Lee understood just whatwould be Steve's next play; the bartender had given his friends briefrespite from the deadly fire of the Blue Lake man, and now would turnhis second shot through the flimsy wall itself on the man standingthere. Lee did not hesitate now, but with one leap was across theroom, avoiding the table, seeking to come to close quarters withQuinnion and have the thing over and done with. In the bitternessstill gnawing at his heart, he told himself again that it would be nocalamity to the world if the two men who had insulted Judith Sanfordwent down together.
Again Steve fired. His bullet ripped into the wall, tearing a holethrough the partition where a brief instant ago Lee had stood. Thelight out in the barroom was extinguished. In the cardroom it wasutterly, impenetrably dark now, only a vague square of lesser darknesstelling where was the window through which Shorty had fled.
A red flare of flame from where Quinnion crouched, and Lee stood verystill, refusing the temptation to fire back. For Quinnion's bullet hadsped wide of the mark, striking the wall a full yard to Lee's left.Quinnion's eyes had not found him, would not find him soon if he stoodquite motionless. The fight was still to be made, Quinnion's friendswould be taking a hand now, Steve had already joined issue. There weresix of them against him and with one shot fired from his heavy Coltthere were but five left. No shot to be wasted.
A little creaking of a floorboard, a vague, misty blur almost at hisside, and still Lee saved his fire. Quickly he lifted the bigrevolver, held welded to a grip of steel, throwing it high above hishead and striking downward. There was almost no sound; just thethudding blow as the thick barrel struck a heavy mat of hair, and withno outcry a man went down to lie still. At the same moment the dimsquare of the window showed a form slipping through; one man wasseeking safety from a quarrel not his own. And as he went, there cameagain a soft thudding blow and Carson's dry voice outside, sayingcalmly:
"Shorty got away, but you don't, pardner. Give 'em hell, Bud. I'm inthe play again."
"Two men down," grunted Lee to himself with grim satisfaction. "Andold Carson back on the job. Only two to our one now."
The form in the window crumpled and under Carson's quick hands wasjerked out. Suddenly it was very still in the little room. Steve didnot fire a third time; Quinnion held his fire. For Lee had made noanswer and they were taking heavy chances with every shot now, chancesof shooting the wrong man. Each of the four watchful men in the narrowapartment breathed softly.
Once more Lee lifted his gun above his head. As he held it thus, heput out his left hand gently, inch by inch, gropingly. Extended fulllength, it touched nothing. Slowly he moved it in a semi-circle, thegun in his right hand always ready to come crashing down. His fingerstouched the wall, then moving back assured him that no one was withinreach. Lifting a foot slowly, he took one cautious step forward,toward the spot where he had last seen Quinnion. Again his arm,circling through the darkness, sought to locate for him one of the menwho must be very near him now. Suddenly it brushed a man's shoulder.
There was a sharp, muttered exclamation, and again a flare of red flameas this man fired. But he had misjudged Bud Lee's position by a fewinches, the bullet cut through Lee's coat, and Lee's clubbed revolverfell unerringly, smashing into the man's forehead. There was a lowmoan, a revolver clattered to the floor, a body fell heavily.
"A new situation," thought Lee. Three men down before a clock couldtick off as many minutes and not a single man shot. It was a place fora man like Charlie Miller with his old pick-handle.
"Bud," called Carson's voice sharply, "are you all right?"
"Yes," answered Lee briefly, and as he answered moved sharply to oneside so that his voice might not draw a shot from Quinnion or the othermen. There came two spurts of flame, one from each of the corners ofthe room opposite him, the reports of the two shots reverberatingloudly. But this was mere guesswork--shooting at no more definitething than a man's voice, and Lee having moved swiftly had little fear.And he knew pretty well where those two men were now.
So did Carson, who from without fired in twice through the window.Then again it grew so silent that a clock ticking somewhere out in thebarroom was to be heard distinctly, so that again the men guarded theirbreathing.
Lee thought that he knew where Quinnion was, in the corner at his rightclose to the rear wall. Not square in the corner, of course, forhaving fired he was fox enough to shift his position a little. True,no sound had told of such a movement. But Quinnion could be trusted tomake no sound at a time like this. Lee, equally silent, again set aslow foot out, moving cautiously toward the spot where his eyes soughtQuinnion in the dark.
He was calculating swiftly now: Quinnion had fired twice from thescreen of the table just as Steve shot out the light; he had firedagain just now, it was a fair bet that at least one of the other shotshad been his. That meant that he had fired four times. If Quinnionstill carried his old six-shooter he had but two shots at most left tohim, for there had been no time which he would risk in reloading.
Lee swept off his hat and tossed it out before him to the spot where hebelieved Quinnion was and dropped swiftly to his knee as he did so.There was a snarl, Quinnion's evil snarl, and a shot that sped highabove his head. His hat had struck Quinnion full in the face. ThenLee again sprang onward, again struck out with his clubbed revolver.The blow missed Quinnion's head but caught him heavily on the shoulderand sent him staggering back against the wall. Lee could hear the bulkof his body crashing against the boards. And again leaping, he struckthe second time at Quinnion. This time there was no snarl, but afalling weight and stillness.
There was a sound of a chair violently thrown down, the scuffle ofhasty feet and in the door the faint blur of a flying figure seekingrefuge in the bar. Lee flung the crippled door shut after the fugitiveand then with his left hand struck a match, his revolver ready in hisright.
Holding the tiny flame down toward the floor, he made out two pronebodies. One, that of the first man he had struck down, a man whom heknew by name as Lefty Devine, a brawler and boon companion of Quinnion.The other Quinnion himself. Devine lay very still, clearly completelystunned. Quinnion moved a little.
Carson's weather-beaten face peered in at the window.
"Better do the hot foot, Bud," he grunted softly, "while the trail'sopen. Steve will be mixing in again."
But Lee seemed in no haste now. When the match had burned out, hedropped it and slipped fresh cartridges into his gun. That done, hestooped, gathered up Quinnion's feebly struggling body in his arms andcarried it to the window.
"Here," he said coolly to Carson. "Take him through."
"What the hell do you want of him?" Carson wanted to be told. "Ain'tgoing to scalp him, are you, Bud?"
"Take him out," commanded Lee with no explanation. Carson obeyed,jerking the now complaining Quinnion out hastily and unceremoniously.Lee followed as Steve threw open the barroom door.
"It's a new one on me, just the same," said Carson dryly as he watchedLee stoop and gather Quinnion up in his arms. "After a little partylike this one, I'm generally travelling on an' not stopping to pickflowers an' gather sooveneers! You ain't got cannibal blood in you,have you, Bud?"
While Carson was cudgelling his brains for the answer and Steve wasmaking cautious examination of the card-room, Lee with his burden inhis arms passed through the darkness lying at the rear of the saloonand out into the street. Carson followed to take care of a sortieshould Steve and the rest not have had all they wanted for one night.He chuckled, remarking to himself that Bud Lee and Quinnion were thevery picture of a young mother and her babe in arms.
Not until they again reached the Golden Spur did Lee's burdencompletely recover consciousness. Many a man on the street lookedwonderingly after them, demanded to know "what was up," and, receivingno answer, swung in behind Carson.
In the Golden Spur the arrivals were greeted b
y a heavy silence. SandyWeaver forgot to set out the drinks which had just been ordered bythree men who, in their turn, forgot that they had ordered. Men at thetables playing cards put down their hands and rose or turnedexpectantly in their seats.
Lee put Quinnion down on the floor. The man lay there a momentblinking at the lights above him and at the faces around him. Atlength his eyes came to Lee.
"Damn you," he muttered, trying to rise, and slowly getting to his feetwith the aid of a chair, "I'll get you----"
Then Bud Lee gave his brief explanation, cutting Quinnion's ugly snarlin two.
"This is Quinnion's farewell party," he said bluntly. "He is a liarand a crook and an undesirable citizen. I have told him all thatbefore. He took it upon himself to say about town that I am all ofthose things which he is himself. I have damn near killed him for it;I am going to give him ten minutes to get out of town. If he doesn'tdo it, I am going to kill him. And in that ten minutes he is going tofind time to eat his words."
"I'll see you in--" began Quinnion, as something of the old blustercame back to him.
"Shut up!" snapped Lee. "Carson, let me have your gun."
Carson, wondering, gave it. Lee dropped it on the floor at Quinnion'sfoot.
"Pick that gun up and we'll finish what we've begun," he said coolly toQuinnion. "I won't shoot until you've got it in your hand and havestraightened up. Then I'll kill you. Unless first you admit that youare the contemptible liar every one knows you are, and second, get outof town and stay out. It's up to you, Quinnion."
Knowing Quinnion, the men moved swiftly so that they did not standbehind either him or Lee. Sandy Weaver, shifting a few feet along hisbar, shook his head and sighed.
"It'll be both of them," he muttered.
Quinnion turned his head a little, his red-rimmed eyes going from faceto face, his tongue moving back and forth between his lips. For aninstant his eyes dropped to the gun at his feet, and a little spasmodiccontraction of his body showed that he was tempted to take up theweapon. But he hesitated, and again turned to Lee.
"It's up to you," repeated Lee. "If you're not a coward after all,pick it up." Lee's hands were at his sides, his own revolver in hispocket. Quinnion was tempted. The evil lights in his eyes danced likewitch-fires. Again he hesitated; but his hesitation was brief. Withhis whining, ugly laugh he lurched to the bar.
"Gimme a drink, Sandy," he commanded.
"Neither now nor after a while," Sandy told him briefly. "I ain'tdirtyin' my glasses that-a-way."
"There you are," jeered Quinnion, with a sullen sort of defiance. "Youswat me over the head while I ain't lookin' an' then bring me in herewhere they're all your friends. If I drop you I get all mussed up withtheir bullets. No, thanks."
"For the last time," said Lee, and his low voice was ominous, "I tellyou what to do. If you don't do it, I'll kill you just the same.You've got your chance. Count ten seconds, Sandy."
"One," said Sandy, watching the clock on the wall, "two, three, four,five, six, seven----"
"Curse you!" cried Quinnion then, a look of fear at last in his eyes."I'll get you for this some day, Bud Lee. Now you've got me----"
"Keep on counting, Sandy," commanded Lee.
"Eight," said Sandy, "nine----"
"I lied!" snapped Quinnion. "An' I'm leavin' town for a while."
And lurching as he walked, he made his way out of the room, his eyes onthe floor, his face a burning red.
"Carson and I are riding back to the ranch as soon as our horses restup and get some grain," said Lee, his fingers slowly rolling a browncigarette. "We'll mosey out now, see Quinnion on his way and drop backto make up a little game of draw for a couple of hours. Strike youabout right, Billy? And you, Watson? And you, Parker?"
They listened to him, took the cue from him, and allowed what laybetween him and Chris Quinnion to lie in silence. But there was not aman there but in his own fashion was saying to himself:
"It's a good beginning. But where's the end going to be?"
Judith of Blue Lake Ranch Page 20
