“Home, Scarface Brown took her.”
“Scarface—the rustler?” Bob asked.
“Yes. Don’t worry. She’s as safe with him as with her own pappy.”
Fraser nodded. “That’s right, Bob. Did yore husband tell you where he was going, ma’am?”
Her dreary laugh held no mirth. “To hell, I hope.”
“We know that,” Fraser replied. “I meant, where is he going right away?”
“He’s on the dodge. Seems he shot at Miss Ranger up on the ridge this morning. Scarface told him he would sick the dogs on him and he lit out.”
Bob felt his hackles rise. “Shot at Miss Ranger?” he repeated.
“She slashed his face with a quirt. Too bad I didn’t do it long ago.”
“He’s headed for Mexico probably,” Fraser guessed.
“Not yet.” The woman’s gaze rested on Bob. “Says he has a job to do first. He wants to kill another man. Is your name Webb?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You’re lucky he missed you this time.”
“Miss Ranger is all right?” Bob asked. “He didn’t hurt her?”
“No.” She touched her face. “He took it out on me. It’s nice having a wife when you have to beat somebody and nobody else is handy.”
“I reckon Hans Uhlmann did you two more dirt than he ever did anybody else in the world,” Fraser said. “Unless you think killing a man is worse than ruining his life.”
The woman looked at Webb. “I had a share in what he did to you,” she told him. “Marrying him was the craziest thing I ever did. He had me then. If I had ever told what I knew he would have killed me.”
“What did you know?” Bob asked.
“I was in the outer office when Giles Lemmon was killed. It came so fast I hadn’t time to get away before the shots were fired. I heard Hans cry, ‘Goddlemighty, I’ve killed the wrong man,’ and Jug Packard answered: ‘Quit shooting, Rhino. I’ll fix that nice.’ Then I ran out of the building. Next day my father sent me to California. I didn’t know anything about your trial till two months after you were in the penitentiary, and by that time I was married to Hans.”
“If you’ll tell that to Governor Andrews it ought to save Bob from going back to Yuma,” Fraser said.
“I’ll tell him. I would have told him long ago if I hadn’t been a coward.” She added, as though something inside of her was forcing her to talk at last: “Hans wasn’t so—so awful—in those days. He was a big bully, but he didn’t look so like a hippopotamus. I was kind of pretty then, and he fooled me into thinking he was so fond of me that I could change him. His story was that you had come in to kill Packard and that when you started shooting he had to draw a gun to save the life of his boss. Afterward I knew that wasn’t true, just as I knew I couldn’t change him. He was bad—not bad the way Scarface or Cole Hawkins is. They are wild and reckless, and I reckon both of them have killed men in fights, but they are kindhearted and they are always gentle to me. Hans is evil. There is something about him that makes my flesh creep.” Her voice broke. She was thinking, as she had done many times before, that she had been a vile creature to have lived with him so long, knowing what he was.
“You’re through with him for good and all,” Fraser reminded her cheerfully. “We’ll take you where you will be safe—where he can’t reach you.”
“There’s no place I can go,” she said. “I don’t know anybody now but riff-raff and outlaws.”
“My sister would be glad to have you stay with her at Tucson,” Bob said. “But if Uhlmann found you she couldn’t give protection from him.”
“Miss Ranger asked me to come to their place, but I expect her father would feel differently about it,” the woman said. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t ask him.”
“The very place for you,” Fraser cried. “John Ranger is a man among a thousand. Of course he’ll want you there, just as Miss Sandra does. I happen to know they were trying to get a housekeeper a week or two ago when they were in Tucson. You’d be fine for the job.”
“I think I could look after a house,” Mary admitted doubtfully.
“Of course you can.” Fraser assumed this settled. “Rhino shot Bob’s horse. We’ll have to run up a couple, one for you and one for him.”
“I didn’t say I’d go,” the woman protested.
“We’ll kidnap you,” Fraser laughed. “Bob and I are old hands at it. We’ve just turned loose a sheriff we kidnapped.”
Bob brought his saddle in from the knoll where his dead horse lay. Fraser roped two other mounts in the pasture and led them to the stable. Shortly the two men and Mary Uhlmann were on their way down the valley.
Mary’s life had filled her with a sense of unworthiness. The man she had married had not only abused her physically but had trampled down her spirit by his jeers and the humiliations to which he subjected her. Now she was full of fears about the reception she would meet at the Circle J R. She was the wife of a man good people despised. Her clothes were old and patched. Long ago she had lost the knack of meeting new acquaintances pleasantly, largely because of the defensive barricade she flung up, a manner dry and short even to rudeness. What would the Rangers think of her?
30. Uhlmann Borrows from a Friend
IN THE DARKNESS UHLMANN’S HORSE PICKED ITS WAY through the brush up Double Fork. Until nightfall he had lain hidden in a hill pocket. He did not know whether any posse of cattlemen was out after him, but he had to keep from being seen for fear his presence in that locality would be reported. There was an open season on him now. His overbearing ways had made plenty of enemies, and any one of them could shoot him down with no risk of a penalty.
The narrow valley of the Double Fork widened into a small park. At the foot of a rocky bluff, sheltered by a few scrubby live oaks, were a corral, a stable, and a small cabin. There was a light in the house, and as Uhlmann rode forward a dog began to bark. At once the light winked out.
“You alone, Pete?” the fugitive called warily.
There was a long silence before an answer came. “I can’t do a thing for you, Rhino. The boys are aimin’ to tack yore hide on a fence. You better light out for the border damn now.”
“Open that door,” Uhlmann ordered.
“You hadn’t ought to of come here,” the man in the cabin reproached. “This is the first place they’ll look for you. If you had any sense you would know that. Like as not somebody is lying back there in the brush with a rifle trained on you this very minute. When I light the lamp he would get you as you come in. Smart thing for you to do is to slip back into the live oaks and beat it hell-for-leather in the darkness.”
“Yeah, you’re mighty anxious for me not to get hurt,” sneered Uhlmann. “If I was shot you wouldn’t go down to the store and tell everybody how fine it was I had got my come-uppance at last, seeing I always had been a killer and a bad man. Not you, Pete.” The voice grew suddenly harsh and imperative. “Fling open that door, damn you. And don’t light the lamp. We won’t need it.”
McNulty’s wheedling voice protested. “Now looky here, Rhino. Down at the store a couple hours ago I was warned to keep outa this if I knew what was good for me. I don’t mean to let myself get drug in. Course you got my best wishes. My advice is——”
“I’ll blast my way in and come a-smokin’ if you don’t open,” the hunted man threatened savagely.
“That’s no way to talk to a friend,” Pete grumbled. “I’ll let you in, but there’s nothing I can do to help you. It’s not my fault you got yore tail in a crack. You’ll have to ramrod yore own way out.” He drew back the bolt and opened the door.
“Have they started a posse out after me?” Uhlmann asked.
“I dunno. They were still talking when I left. But the boys are crazy mad. They’ll get you sure, if you don’t pull yore freight. What in tarnation made you shoot at the girl?”
Uhlmann had not come to make explanations or to defend his case. “I’m caught short,” he said bluntly. “I want money.”
&
nbsp; “I was down to the store buying supplies,” McNulty answered quickly. “I ain’t got but three dollars left. I’ll divvy with you fifty-fifty.”
“I’ll take three hundred dollars. Get it outa the hiding place where you keep yore dough.” In the big man’s harsh voice there was an ultimatum.
“Three hundred dollars,” wailed McNulty. “Why, I haven’t got that much in the world. You’re crazy with the heat, Rhino.”
“Dig it up. I’ll give you a bill of sale for enough of my stock to cover it.”
“How could I use that bill of sale? The boys would know I had contacted you and they would string me up for helping you to make a getaway. They would claim I always had been in cahoots with you.”
“I don’t care whether you use it or not,” Uhlmann growled. “It’s the money I want.”
“But I tell you I haven’t got it.” Pete pulled from his pocket a small handful of silver. “You can have all I got. Here it is.”
Uhlmann’s small eyes glittered like those of a cat in the darkness. “The boys are gonna hang me, you claim. Or maybe shoot me as they would a wolf. They can’t do any more to me for rubbing you out too. I want that money.”
“If I had it, Rhino——”
“Don’t talk,” interrupted Uhlmann. “Get busy, or I’ll let you have it in the belly and do the hunting myself.”
In the pit of McNulty’s stomach there was a dreadful sinking sensation. He loved the ill-gotten treasure he had piled up a little at a time. By nature he was a miser, and when he was alone he often got it out and fingered the gold pieces fondly. To give them up was far worse than letting somebody pull out his teeth. The loss of three hundred dollars would be bad enough, but he knew this ruffian well enough to be sure that he would take the whole hoard. Pete felt despairingly that he could not give up his savings, not at least without trying to talk Uhlmann out of the hold-up.
“I dunno where you got the notion that I’ve got money hidden away, Rhino. There’s nothing to it. I hope a bolt of lightning will strike me dead if I’m lying.”
“A bolt of lightning is gonna do that in about five seconds if you don’t get busy,” jeered Uhlmann, the barrel of his forty-five jammed into the stomach of his host. “I’ll count ten. One—two—three——”
“I’ll get it—the three hundred,” McNulty moaned. “If you’ll just step outside a minute while I find it——”
“I’m staying right here. Think I want a slug in my back?”
“Maybe I got a little more than three hundred, Rhino. You’ll let me keep the rest, won’t you?”
“Sure—sure. I wouldn’t rob you, Pete.”
McNulty’s dragging feet took him to the far corner of the room. He knelt down and lifted from the puncheon floor a length of timber the face of which had been squared by a broad-ax. His fumbling fingers found a tin box and lifted it from the hole beneath. This he carried to the kitchen table. He searched for a key in the hip pocket of his jeans and brought it out reluctantly.
“I’ll take that bill of sale, Rhino, though I don’t reckon I can ever use it,” he said.
On Uhlmann’s pachydermous face was a dreadful smile. “Like you say, maybe you can’t ever use it. That’s yore lookout. Open the box.”
The key in the trembling hand found the hole with difficulty, even after Uhlmann struck a match with his left hand. The revolver was in the right, held against Pete’s backbone just below the shoulder-blades. The flame flickered out. A second lighted match showed to the robber’s gleaming eyes a pile of gold coins that half filled the box.
“Good old Pete, you’ve been saving money for me all these years and didn’t know it,” he said.
McNulty slewed his head around, in time to catch that gloating look before the match went out. “You promised me you’d only take the three hundred, Rhino,” he pleaded. “God knows how many years I’ve scraped and slaved to get this little backlog. You wouldn’t take it all from me, after we’ve been friends so long.”
With cruel pleasure Uhlmann tasted this minute of victory after so many hours of bitter impotent anger. There was no feeling of mercy in him toward his helpless victim.
“Money is no good to you, Pete,” he answered, derisive triumph in his heavy voice. “You only put it in a hole. Thinking of what a good time it is giving me will give you a kick.”
McNulty made a fatal mistake. He tried to bargain. “It wouldn’t be so good for you if I was to tell the boys you are holed up in this neck of the woods.”
“Not so good,” the hulking villain agreed.
Pete realized at once his error. He wished to heaven he had left the lamp alight. In the darkness this big devil was appalling. The only detail of the big leathery face that stood out was the dreadful shining eyes. The threat in them filled Pete with terror. A sickness ran through him. Weakness plucked all the manhood out of him.
“I wouldn’t do that, Rhino—not to you,” he murmured, his teeth chattering. “And us such good friends.”
“Sure you wouldn’t,” the gunman taunted. “You’d stay right here and not make a move—till I was out of sight.”
The roar of the forty-five filled the room. Into the prone body the killer flung bullet after bullet. He snatched up the money box and ran out of the cabin. Dragging himself to the saddle, he galloped wildly into the night. He had not meant to kill Pete when he rode up Double Fork. It had been the farthest thing from his thoughts. But he saw now that it was the only way out for him. McNulty would have set the hunters on his track and they would have run him to earth. With every added mile between him and that dark cabin of death he felt easier in mind.
31. Sandra Talks with a Bad Man and Likes Him
As SANDRA RODE DOWN THE VALLEY WITH SCARFACE Brown she felt an odd jubilance of spirit. The sense of danger that had been heavy on her was gone. She was safe, riding in the warm sunshine beside a man who would fight to protect her as quickly as Bobb Webb had done against the raiders of Pablo Lopez. Her companion was the most notorious rustler in Arizona. Probably he had killed oftener than Uhlmann. But she knew she had no need to be afraid of him.
She slanted a smile at the long dark man riding knee to knee with her. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Brown,” she said demurely.
Scarface caught her mood instantly and responded to it. “Nothing but good, I hope,” he replied, and flashed his fine white teeth in a grin that for the moment wiped from the brown face its sinister wariness.
“I think maybe those who told me were a little prejudiced against you,” she answered.
“Some are,” he admitted. “But I dare say they would allow that I have taking ways.”
Sandra laughed. “Yes. They would agree to that. I’m awfully glad I met you. I don’t know any bad man except by sight. Now I have one all to myself for an hour or more.” Her mischievous eyes mocked him. “You are a bad man, aren’t you? I thought I heard you tell Hans Uhlmann so.”
“I don’t teach in a Sunday school.”
“But you stood up for me against that ruffian and made him let me go.”
“That was a pleasure,” he explained. “I never did like the big bully, and it seemed like a good time for a showdown.”
“I was dreadfully afraid of him, but not after you spoke up.” She guided her horse around a chuck hole in the road. “If you are a bad man, there must be something wrong with me. I like you.”
Though he laughed, he was much pleased. His way of life did not bring him into contact with girls like this one, but he understood exactly the quality of her liking and did not intend to presume upon it. It was probable that he would never again be alone with her, since he moved outside the laws that sheltered her. Yet the memory of this meeting would always be one to remember.
“It’s right funny how words are thrown at you and they stick,” the scamp philosophized. “They call me a bad man, and I can’t kick. I’m a pretty tough hombre, and I’ve ridden a lot of wild trails. Uhlmann is a bad man from where they laid the chunk. Not excusing myself or anything, he’
s bad in a different way from me.”
“You don’t need to prove that to me,” Sandra agreed.
“All right. I won’t start whitewashing myself. We’ll take another case, this Bob Webb. He gets hot under the collar account of what Rhino and Jug Packard did to his parents, and it lands him in the pen. He breaks loose, and right away he is a bad man, a rustler, killer, stage robber, and general trouble-maker. A good citizen is beaten up by him, and a sheriff who starts to arrest him is kidnapped. I happen to know half of those things are not true, and the other half can be explained. But there he is, the dog with a bad name.”
“It’s very unfair,” the girl protested. “People are so stupid. He isn’t a bad man at all, if they would only let him alone.”
“In one way he is,” the rustler differed. “Sometimes when you speak of a bad man you mean one who is dangerous, a fellow not to monkey with but to ride around real careful if you want to stay healthy. Now there was old John Slaughter.* He was little, but ‘Gentlemen, hush!’ When those cold eyes of his blazed at you there was a funny feeling in the pit of yore stomach. He chased me all over the White Mountains once. That was what he was paid for, and I hadn’t any complaints. But to my thinking he was a bad man—dangerous back of a gun when he was after you. Don’t get me wrong, Miss Ranger. He was a first-class citizen, and one of these days Arizona will likely put up a statue to him. This young fellow Webb is bad the same way. If he was an enemy of mine I’d hate to crowd him.”
“He won’t be your enemy,” Sandra said.
“Not if I can help it,” the outlaw answered dryly.
“What do you mean when you say that half of these things Bob Webb is accused of he didn’t do? How do you know that? What half is false?”
Scarface took his time to reply. It was in his mind to tell her certain facts, but he did not intend to say too much. A man on the dodge as he was, a leader of the riff-raff who preyed on the property of other men, learned by the underground route the true story back of all the lawless deeds committed in his district. The obligation was on him not to divulge any of these to anybody who might carry information to the authorities. But he had his own code of right and wrong. It did not include the protection of a smug two-facer like Jug Packard or a hired assassin such as Uhlmann, who were trying to shift their crimes to the shoulders of another man.
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