The Rider of Golden Bar

by William Patterson White

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE BARE-HEADED MAN

  "But I rode over here especially to bring you back with me to stay awhile, a long while, as long as you like and longer." Thus Sally Jane,looking injured.

  Hazel shook her head. "Can't, dear. Honestly, I'd like nothing betterthan to go a-visiting, but I've just got to look after the ranch."

  Sally Jane gazed at her friend a moment in silence, then: "You don'treally have to stay here, Hazel. You only think you do. You'd muchbetter come over and stay with us. You know I'd love to have you, andthis is no place for you all alone by yourself this way. Suppose----"

  "Who'd hurt me?" interrupted Hazel. "Anyway, I'm not going to bedriven off my own ranch by anybody. I'm going to stay here until Ifind a buyer for the place."

  "But that may be a year," objected Sally Jane.

  "It may be several years. Money's awfully tight just now, theHillsville cashier said, the last time I was over."

  "I don't care, somebody--some man ought to be here. Can't you get Rayback earlier than usual?"

  Hazel shook her head. "I don't want to, Sally Jane. He went east toMissouri to visit his folks, and I'm not going to spoil his good time.He'll be back in time for the spring round-up, though."

  "That won't be till next month," objected Sally Jane. "Anything mighthappen in the meantime. Land alive, just look at this afternoon!"

  "Well, look at it. Not a thing happened to hurt, did it? Lord, SallyJane, men are the easiest things in the world to handle when you knowhow."

  "You don't give them half enough credit," said Sally Jane dryly."Scratch a man and you'll catch a savage every time. Beasts!"

  "Rats!" remarked Hazel, and gave her head a toss and turned herattention to practical things. "_Look_ at this clean floor! _Look_ atthe dirt they tracked in! Oh, the devil! I could swear!"

  She fetched a fresh bucket of water and began to scrub the floor anew.

  "I'm going," announced Sally Jane. "Once more, Hazel, won't you changeyour mind and visit with us for a while?"

  Hazel shook her head. "I only wish I felt able to. But you don't haveto go yet. Stay to supper, do. Let the male parent get his own supperfor a change. It won't hurt him. And there'll be a fine old moonto-night about eight."

  "I promised Dad French bread for to-night, or I would. I can'tdisappoint him. So long. Ride over first chance you get."

  When Sally Jane was gone, Hazel hurried to finish the scrubbing of thefloor. When she had wrung out the last mop rag and hung it to drybehind the stove, she fed the chickens and horses, took the ax andbucksaw, went out to the woodpile and sawed and split a man's size jagof stove wood and kindling.

  In the red glory of the sunset she returned to the house with her armspiled high with wood. She made sufficient trips to fill the woodbox,then started a fire in the stove, put on the coffeepot and ground upenough coffee for four cupfuls. She liked coffee, did Hazel Walton.

  Bacon and potatoes were sputtering in their respective pans on thestove before it was so dark that she was forced to light the lamp.

  She had slipped back the chimney into the clamps and was waiting for itto heat so that she could turn up the wick when the faintest of creaksat the door made her look up.

  She did not move, just stood there staring stupidly at the bareheadedman that blocked the open doorway. For the bareheaded man was DanSlike, his harsh face rendered even less prepossessing than usual by aweek's stubble of beard. A six-shooter was in Dan Slike's hand, andthe barrel was pointing at her breast.

  "Don't go makin' any move toward that rifle on the hooks back of you,"said Dan Slike, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him."If you do, I'll have to beef you. I don't wanna hurt you--I ain't inthe habit of hurting women, but by Gawd, if it comes to me or you, whyit'll just naturally have to be you. Dish up that grub a-frying thereon the stove. I'm hungry. Get a move on."

  At that she turned in a flash and reached for the Winchester. She hadit barely off the hooks when Dan Slike was beside her. With his lefthand he seized the gun barrel and shoved it upward. And as he did so,he smote her across the top of the head with his pistol barrel.

  A rocketing sheaf of sparks danced before her eyes and her knees gaveway. She sank to the floor in a dazed heap. He dragged the Winchesterfrom her failing grasp as she fell.

  He began to work the lever of the rifle with expert rapidity. Atwinkling stream of cartridges twirled against his chest and fell tothe floor. Carefully he gathered all the cartridges and dropped theminto the side pocket of his coat. The unloaded rifle he leaned againstthe door jamb.

  Hazel slowly raised her body to a sitting position. She clung to a legof the table for support. She passed a hand very tenderly across thetop of her head. She felt a little nauseated.

  Dan Slike, watching her with hard, bright eyes, strode to the stove andpoured himself out a cup of coffee. He spaded in a spoonful of sugarand stirred the mixture meditatively. But he did not cease to watchher.

  "You'll be all right in about ten minutes," he said calmly. "I didn'thit you so awful hard. I didn't go to. Gawd, no! I figure always tobe as gentle with a woman as I can. No sense in bein' rougher than yougot to be, I say."

  He drank the coffee slowly, with evident enjoyment.

  "Nothing like coffee when your cork's pulled," he rambled on, sloshinground the last of the coffee in the bottom of the cup. "It beatswhisky, but now that I've had the coffee I don't care if I do. Got abottle tucked away somewhere, li'l girl?"

  She was still unable to speak. Her mouth had an odd, cottony feeling.She shook her head in reply to his question.

  "Is that so?" he said in the chatty tone he had been using. "I guessmaybe you're mistaken."

  He set the cup down on the table, reached down and twisted his fingersinto her hair. With a yank that brought the tears springing to hereyes, he said:

  "About that bottle now--ain't you a mite mistaken? What's the matter?Cat got your tongue?"

  Again he pulled her hair, pulled it till the tears ran down her cheeks,and she moaned and cried in purest agony.

  "C'mon!" directed Dan Slike. "Quit your bluffin', you triflin' hussy!You ain't hurt a-tall. And I can't stay here all night while you siton the floor and beller. Stand up on your two legs and bring me thatbottle. And no monkey business either. Say, have you got asix-shooter? Answer me, have you?"

  "No! No! I haven't! I haven't another gun." She told him this liein such a heart-breaking tone that he was constrained to believe her.

  "I'll have to take your word for it," he grumbled. "But you remember,girl, the first false move you make with a knife or anything else, I'llblow you apart. Damn you, get up!"

  With which he gave her hair such a terrific twist that the exquisitepain expelled all her initial fear of him, and she leaped at him like awildcat, her nails curving at his eyes.

  Dan Slike dodged backward, set himself and swung his right fist withoutmercy. He was no boxer. The accurate placing of blows was beyond him.So it was that the swing intended for her jaw landed on her cheekbone,a much less vulnerable spot. Nevertheless the smash was enough to sendher spinning sidewise over a chair and piled her sicker and dizzierthan before in a corner of the room.

  She lay still and panted.

  "You see how it is," he pointed out. "You ain't gainin' a thing byfighting me. Might as well be sensible first as last. But lemme tellyou if you keep on a-fussin' at me thisaway, I'll sure have to be roughwith you."

  He sat down on the edge of the table and rolled a cigarette. Lightingit he drew in a slow luxurious lungful.

  "One thing I gotta say for your sheriff," he observed behind a barrierof smoke, "he gimme plenty of tobacco while I was his guest. I can'tsay but he took right good care of me--for a sheriff."

  His incarceration having deprived Dan Slike of conversationalopportunities, he was now experiencing the natural reaction. He wastalking too much.

  "Fed me well too," he resume
d. "Oh, I ain't complainin'. I--Hell,your grub's beginnin' to burn. I'll just move those frypans back.Feelin' any better, girl?"

  He came and stood over her, hands on hips, and looked down at hergrimly. She shrank away, her wide eyes fixed upon him in fright andloathing.

  It was evident that he found his survey of her satisfactory, for hekicked her in the side. Not hard. Simply as an earnest of what lay instore for her in case she chose to continue contumacious. "Get up," hecommanded.

  The nausea and most of the dizzy feeling had evaporated. She wasperfectly able to get up, but it was intolerable that she should do thebidding of her uncle's murderer. She continued to lie still.

  "Get up!" he repeated, and kicked her again--harder.

  She got up, gasping, a hand at her side. She felt as though one of herribs was broken. His long fingers fastened on the tender flesh of hershoulder. He shoved her across the room. She brought up against thestove. Instinctively she thrust out a hand to save herself. Her barepalm smacked down upon the hottest stove lid.

  She sprang back with a choked cry and clapped the burned hand to hermouth.

  Dan Slike laughed merrily--for him. "Serve you right. You're too damnpernickety, anyway. Aw, whatcha blubberin' about, cry-baby? Dontchaknow enough to put some bakin' soda on the burn and tie a rag round it?Ain't you got any brains a-tall? Pick up that kettle! Just pick itup!"

  Her unburned hand fell away from the kettle. She had seen thesix-shooter flash out at his last words. She knew now that this manmeant what he said. He would kill her, even as he had killed her uncle.

  With a shudder that began at her knees and ended at the nape of herneck she went to the cupboard and took out a carton of baking soda.

  "Here," he said roughly, when he saw that she was making a poor job atbandaging, "here, you can't tie that one-handed. Lemme."

  He bandaged the hand, made fast the bandage with a too-tight knot. Heobviously lingered over the business, deriving pleasure from her stateof terror.

  It has been shown that Hazel was not lacking in courage. Indeed, shehad more than the average woman's share of it. But this man staggeredher mentally. She did not know what he would do next and was in apanic accordingly.

  "Scared stiff," he remarked, as he twirled her about and headed hertoward the stove. "You don't like me a-tall, do you? Nemmine. Lesseehow your grub tastes."

  She had set the table for herself before he came in. He sat down ather place, his eyes bright upon her. Fumblingly she filled a platewith bacon and fried potatoes. She brought him another cup of coffeeand placed the condensed milk and the sugar within his reach.

  "Spoon," he said shortly.

  She took the one from the cup he had just drunk from and handed it tohim. He caught her wrist. The spoon fell with a clatter.

  "You're so scared of me, you can't hardly breathe," he said calmly. "Idon't like li'l girls to be scared of me, so you can just get youanother plate and cup and saucer and sit down there on the other sideof the table and eat your supper with me."

  To eat supper with her uncle's murderer! Here was a grotesque jape offate. It was unthinkable. Absolutely. The man divined something ofwhat was passing in her mind.

  "All in the line of business, li'l girl," he said, with a backward jerkof his head toward the front room where he had killed her uncle. "Ididn't have a thing against him--personally."

  "There were dishes here on the table," she babbled hysterically. "Theyfound them here after--after--showing how he'd fed you first, and----"

  "Sure he fed me," he interrupted. "I was hungry, hungrier than I amnow. Alla same, you gotta eat supper with me. I want you to, and Ialways get what I want."

  He twisted her wrist to emphasize his wish. She uttered a little moan."Don't! Oh, don't hurt me any more! I'll do what you want."

  Beaten, body and soul, she went to the cupboard and got herself plateand cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon. Her six-shooter was inthe next room, hanging in a holster on the wall. A loaded shotgunstood at the head of her bed. But it is doubtful that even if theweapon had been within short reach, she would have dared attempt to useeither. Dan Slike had scared her too much.

  She sat down opposite the man and tried to eat. It required every atomof will power to induce her throat muscles to permit her to swallow.Dan Slike watched her with savage satisfaction. He found the situationintensely amusing. To murder her uncle and later eat a meal with theniece. What a joke!

  "I haven't forgotten about that bottle," he remarked suddenly, pushingback his chair. "You thought it had slipped my mind, I guess, didn'tyou? I always have a drink after meals, or my victuals don't set good."

  Without a word she went to the cupboard and brought back a bottle ofwhisky. He took it from her and held it up against the lamplight.

  "This is only half full," he said severely. "You got another roundsomewhere?"

  It was fright and not the lie that made her stammer. "Nun-no."

  Oddly enough, he saw fit to believe her. Perhaps it was because he hadjust eaten and was at bodily ease with the world. She stood beforehim, arms limp, eyes on the floor. He drew the cork from the bottleand took a long pull.

  "Good whisky," he vouchsafed between the third and fourth drags. "I'lltake what's left with me--if you don't mind."

  He was going then! Her poor terrified heart beat with a trifle morespirit. She looked up. Their eyes met.

  "Don't look so happy!" he snarled. "Maybe I'll take you with me!"

  He eyed her discomfiture with a sinister look. He uttered a short barkof a laugh. "Dontcha fret. I ain't got time to fuss with any female.Not that I would, even if I had time, so don't go flatterin' yourselfany. Women ain't in my line. You're all a squalling bunch of Gawd'smistakes, every last one of you, and you can stick a pin in that.Women? Phutt!"

  So saying, Dan Slike turned his head slightly and spat accuratelythrough the open draft into the stove. An engaging gentleman, Mr.Slike!

  "I saw two mules and a horse in the corral when I came by," he resumed,dandling the whisky bottle on his knee. "Looks like a goodhorse--better than the one I left up in the timber. I'll ride yourhorse and lead the other. Where do you keep your saddle and bridle?In the shed, huh? Aw right, you can show me when we go out. Listen, Iexpect to-morrow some time you'll have a few gents a-callin' on you.Yeah, to-morrow. It'll likely take those Golden Bar citizens tillabout then to pick up my trail. You needn't to look too hopeful.Those jiggers don't know they're alive. I saw 'em scatterin' offhell-bent the wrong way before I ever started this way, you bet. Why,hells bells, I even topped a horse behind a corral with the woman rightin the house gettin' supper, and she never knowed it. Tell you, girl,I'm slick. And if I didn't have more sense in the tip of my fingerthan all those fellers and their li'l tin sheriff and his li'l tindeputies, I'd be a heap ashamed of myself. Say--about that sheriff; Iheard folks talkin' in the street this afternoon and they said thesheriff had skedaddled because he'd murdered a sport named O'Gorman. Afi-ine sheriff he is, to slop around turnin' tricks like that. Afi-ine sheriff, and you can tell him I said so."

  He drove in the cork with the heel of his hand and slipped the bottleinto a side pocket of his coat. Standing up, he tapped her smartly onthe shoulder. "Get me that hat over there on the hook. I left town insuch a hurry I clean forgot to fetch mine along."

  Silently she brought the hat.

  "Why do you women always wear hats too big for you?" he grumbled, aftertrying it on. "I couldn't keep this thing on my head."

  She had brought an Omaha newspaper from town that day. It layoutspread on the table. He tore off a half page, plaited it neatly andstuffed the thickened strip in behind the sweatband of the hat.

  "It will fit me now," he said briskly, pulling on the hat. "Gimmethose cantenas and saddle pockets hanging on the wall."

  She obeyed stumblingly. Into the cantenas, from her store ofprovisions, he packed bacon, coffee, a sack of flour a third full, atin ca
n full of salt, another can filled with matches, a salt pack fullof sugar, several cans of tomatoes and peaches, a frying-pan and asmall can of lard. In the saddle pockets he stowed away the twelveboxes of rifle cartridges, the six boxes of revolver cartridges and aknife, fork and spoon. The long-bladed butcher knife he nonchalantlyslipped down his boot-leg.

  "I'll tie the coffee pot on the saddle," he said, buckling the billetof a cantena flap. "It's too wet to go in here. Can't take a chanceon spoiling my flour. C'mon, le's go find the saddle."