by Max Brand
CHAPTER 13
"Ol' Bill!" grunted red-headed Jeff. "Well, I'll be hung! There's onegood deed done. He was overdue, anyways."
Andy, waiting breathlessly, watched lest the eye of the narrator shouldswing toward him for the least part of a second. But Scottie seemedutterly oblivious of the fact that he sat in the same room with themurderer. "Well, he got it," said Scottie. "And he didn't get it frombehind. Seems there was a young gent in Martindale--all you boys knowold Jasper Lanning?" There was an answering chorus. "Well, he's got anephew, Andrew Lanning. This kid was sort of a bashful kind, they say.But yesterday he up and bashed a fellow in the jaw, and the man wentdown. Whacked his head on a rock, and young Lanning thought his man wasdead. So he holds off the crowd with a gun, hops a horse, and beats it."
"Pretty, pretty!" murmured Larry. "But what's that got to do with thathyena, Bill Dozier?"
"I don't get it all hitched up straight. Most of the news come fromMartindale to town by telephone. Seems this young Lanning was folleredby Bill Dozier. He was always a hound for a job like that, eh?"
There was a growl of assent.
"He hand-picked five rough ones and went after Lanning. Chased him allnight. Landed at John Merchant's place. The kid had dropped in there tocall on a girl. Can you beat that for cold nerve, him figuring that he'dkilled a man, and Bill Dozier and five more on his trail to bring himback to wait and see whether the buck he dropped lived or died--and thento slide over and call on a lady? No, you can't raise that!"
But the tidings were gradually breaking in upon the mind of AndrewLanning. Buck Heath had not been dead; the pursuit was simply to bringhim back on some charge of assault; and now--Bill Dozier--the head ofAndrew swam.
"Seems he didn't know her, either. Just paid a call round about dawn andthen rode on. Bill comes along a little later on the trail, gets newhorses from Merchant, and runs down Lanning early this morning. Runs himdown, and then Lanning turns in the saddle and drills Bill through thehead at five hundred yards." Henry came to life. "How far?" he said.
"That's what they got over the telephone," said Scottie apologetically.
"Then the news got to Hal Dozier from Merchant's house. Hal hops on thewire and gets in touch with the governor, and in about ten seconds theymake this Lanning kid an outlaw and stick a price on his head--fivethousand, I think, and they say Merchant is behind it. The telephone wasbuzzing with it when I left town, and most of the boys were oiling uptheir gats and getting ready to make a play. Pretty easy money, eh, forputting the rollers under a kid?"
Andrew Lanning muttered aloud: "An outlaw!"
"Not the first time Bill Dozier has done it," said Henry calmly. "That'san old maneuver of his--to hound a man from a little crime to abig one."
The throat of Andrew was dry. "Did you get a description of youngLanning?" he asked.
"Sure," nodded Scottie. "Twenty-three years old, about five feet ten,black hair and black eyes, good looking, big shoulders, quiet spoken."
Andrew made a gesture and looked carelessly out the back window, but,from the corner of his eyes, he was noting the five men. Not a line oftheir expressions escaped him. He was seeing, literally, with eyes inthe back of his head; and if, by the interchange of one knowing glance,or by a significant silence, even, these fellows had indicated that theyremotely guessed his identity, he would have been on his feet like atiger, gun in hand, and backing for the door. Five thousand dollars!What would not one of these men do for that sum?
Andy had been keyed to the breaking point before; but his alertness wasnow trebled, and, like a sensitive barometer, he felt the danger ofLarry, the brute strength of Jeff, the cunning of Henry, the grave poiseof Joe, to say nothing of Scottie--an unknown force. But Scottie wasrunning on in his talk; he was telling of how he met the storekeeper intown; he was naming everything he saw; these fellows seemed to hungerfor the minutest news of men. They broke into admiring laughter whenScottie told of his victorious tilt of jesting with the storekeeper'sdaughter; even Henry came out of his patient gloom long enough to smileat this, and the rest were like children. Larry was laughing so heartilythat his eyes began to twinkle. He even invited Andrew in on the mirth.
At this point Andy stood up and stretched elaborately--but in stretchinghe put his arms behind him, and stretched them down rather than up, sothat his hands were never far from his hips.
"I'll be turning in," said Andy, and stepping back to the door so thathis face would be toward them until the last instant of his exit, hewaved good night.
There was a brief shifting of eyes toward him, and a grunt from Jeff;that was all. Then the eye of every one reverted to Scottie. But thelatter broke off his narrative.
"Ain't you sleepin' in?" he asked. "We could fix you a bunk upstairs, Iguess."
Once more the glance of Andrew flashed from face to face, and then hesaw the first suspicious thing. Scottie was looking straight at Henry,in the corner, as though waiting for a direction, and, from the cornerof his eye, Andrew was aware that Henry had nodded ever so slightly.
"Here's something you might be interested to know," said Scottie. "Thisyoung Lanning was riding a pinto hoss." He added, while Andrew stoodrooted to the spot: "You seemed sort of interested in the description. Iallowed maybe you'd try your hand at findin' him."
Andy understood perfectly that he was known, and, with his left handfrozen against the knob of the door, he flattened his shoulders againstthe wall and stood ready for the draw. In the crisis, at the firsthostile move, he decided that he would dive straight for the table,low. It would tumble the room into darkness as the candles fell--asemidarkness, for there would be a sputtering lantern still.
Then he would fight for his life. And looking at the others, he saw thatthey were changed, indeed. They were all facing him, and their faceswere alive with interest; yet they made no hostile move. No doubt theyawaited the signal of Henry; there was the greatest danger; and nowHenry stood up.
His first word was a throwing down of disguises. "Mr. Lanning," he said,"I think this is a time for introductions."
That cold exultation, that wild impulse to throw himself into the armsof danger, was sweeping over Andrew. He made no gesture toward his gun,though his fingers were curling, but he said: "Friends, I've got you allin my eye. I'm going to open this door and go out. No harm to any ofyou. But if you try to stop me, it means trouble, a lot oftrouble--quick!"
Just a split second of suspense. If a foot stirred, or a hand raised,Andrew's curling hand would jerk up and bring out a revolver, and everyman in the room knew it. Then the voice of Henry, "You'd plan onfighting us all?"
"Take my bridle off the wall," said Andrew, looking straight before himat no face, and thereby enabled to see everything, just as a boxer looksin the eye of his opponent and thereby sees every move of his gloves."Take my bridle off the wall, you, Jeff, and throw it at my feet."
The bridle rattled at his feet.
"This has gone far enough," said Henry. "Lanning, you've got the wrongidea. I'm going ahead with the introductions. The red-headed fellow wecall Jeff is better known to the public as Jeff Rankin. Does that meananything to you?" Jeff Rankin acknowledged the introduction with a broadgrin, the corners of his mouth being lost in the heavy fold of hisjowls. "I see it doesn't," went on Henry. "Very well. Joe's name is JoeClune. Yonder sits Scottie Macdougal. There is Larry la Roche. And I amHenry Allister."
The edge of Andrew's alertness was suddenly dulled. The last name sweptinto his brain a wave of meaning, for of all words on the mountaindesert there was none more familiar than Henry Allister. Scar-facedAllister, they called him. Of those deadly men who figured in the talesof Uncle Jasper, Henry Allister was the last and the most grim. Athousand stories clustered about him: of how he killed Watkins; of howLangley, the famous Federal marshal, trailed him for five years and wasfinally killed in the duel which left Allister with that scar; of how hebroke jail at Garrisonville and again at St. Luke City. In theimagination of Andrew he had loomed like a giant, some seven-footprodigy,
whiskered, savage of eye, terrible of voice. And, turningtoward him, Andrew saw him in profile with the scar obscured--and hisface was of almost feminine refinement.
Five thousand dollars?
A dozen rich men in the mountain desert would each pay more than thatfor the apprehension of Allister, dead or alive. And bitterly it cameover Andrew that this genius of crime, this heartless murderer as storydepicted him, was no danger to him but almost a friend. And the otherfour ruffians of Allister's band were smiling cordially at him, enjoyinghis astonishment. The day before his hair would have turned white insuch a place among such men; tonight they were his friends.
