Death Waits at Sundown

by L. Ron Hubbard

  But Long Tom had not misgauged. Before he hit the track himself, despite the stunning blows upon his shoulders, he had seized the stirrup which held Vicky’s foot and his own weight ripped it free.

  With a loud thud, Long Tom hit.

  Wild Bill and Thunder struggled up and suddenly began to run.

  From afar came the wranglers to help. The grandstand was so still that hoofbeats were very loud.

  Long Tom turned over in the mud. Vicky pushed herself to a sitting position and wiped a daub from her right eye.

  Long Tom did not even feel his bruises. He went toward her on his hands and knees. “Are you all right?” he said hoarsely.

  “I . . . I was sc-c-c-cared you’d be killed!” wailed Vicky unexpectedly.

  “I’m all right,” said Long Tom. “Gosh, I was scared stiff myself.”

  And then a very strange thing happened. Vicky, sitting in the mud beside him, looked intently into his face. He had lost. They both had lost. And he had thought so much of her that he had risked being brained. . . .

  Suddenly she grabbed his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. “Please,” she wept. “Please forgive me, Long Tom. I . . . I’ve acted like a fool! I won’t fight with you any more!”

  He wrapped his arms about her and implanted a muddy kiss upon her brow.

  Suddenly he began to grin. “The hell you won’t. But what the devil? I’d rather fight with you across the breakfast table than across a chute gate.”

  “Oh, Long Tom.”

  And neither one of them heard the cheers which came from twenty-five thousand throats.

  Vicky and Long Tom

  Boss of the Lazy B

  Chapter One

  SOMETIME before dawn the posse had surrounded the shack and now with the horizon streaking with gray they lay on their stomachs in the tall grass, chilled by the desert wind but hot for battle.

  Big Bill Bailey was hunched down on the sheriff’s right, taking the most advantageous position because he owned the biggest spread in the Rio Carlos country. Big Bill lived up to his name. He rode a veritable mammoth of a roan and his hats were gigantic—they had to be. He stood six feet six and his weight matched his size.

  With a John B. for a crown and a quirt for a scepter, Big Bill ruled the Lazy B, which covered more territory than the Kingdom of Jfradersweganstan.

  But of late his ten thousand beefy subjects had been mysteriously missing their mothers and brothers and had developed a unique habit of giving birth to strangely branded calves. Fighting sheep was bad enough without fighting rustlers as well, but Big Bill never got ruffled about such things. He had little to say and usually what he did say was delivered after prolonged thought. In this case he had mentioned that it might be a good idea to track down a stolen band, so Con Mathews of the Flying M and the rest of the nearby ranchers had collected the sheriff and had taken the trail.

  And now they knew that the probable owner of that trail, one Spick Murphy, was in this mountain shack peacefully dreaming of his plunder.

  Or maybe he was watching with a cocked rifle.

  It was all the same to the posse. Spick Murphy was already as good as hanged for the murdering half-breed he was.

  He was of very unsavory reputation, Spick Murphy. His father was an Irishman and his mother an Apache squaw and between the two they had bequeathed upon him both a countenance angelic and a soul diabolic. He oscillated between the two extremes, given to voluntary acts of kindness one moment and shooting a man in the back the next. Uncertain, unpredictable, hated and liked at one and the same time, he had often styled himself the Robin Hood of Rio Carlos, but it is doubtful if Robin Hood had killed sixteen men at the age of twenty.

  The sun started on its climb to the zenith and the posse still waited patiently. Sooner or later Spick would have to come out and get some water at the spring which bubbled a hundred yards from the door, and when he did, things would begin to happen.

  One of Big Bill’s chief talents was the ability to wait. For three years he had patiently waited for Susan Price to say the word which would make her Mrs. Bailey. He did not push the matter because Susan was not that kind of a girl. She was not interested in his money as her father, Sam Price, the ultra-famous criminal lawyer, could have bought and sold Bailey twice. And so Bailey had waited, always present, always reliable, always dependable, just as he was waiting now for Spick Murphy to come out.

  Some of the posse began to mumble as the sun scorched their backs. Sheriff Doyle mopped his huge red face and squirmed.

  “Hell, I’d rather rush the place than stay here and broil,” complained stringy Con Mathews.

  “What about it, Big Bill?” said Sheriff Doyle.

  Big Bill was silent for two or three minutes before he answered. “He’ll have to come out sooner or later. If not today, tomorrow.”

  “Y’mean y’think we’ll wait that long?” demanded Con Mathews.

  After a while, Big Bill said, “If your cattle aren’t worth that much to you, it’s your decision.”

  “All right. I was just askin’, that’s all,” replied Con. “When he comes out I’ll drill him and then we can go home.”

  “No sir,” said Sheriff Doyle. “I got to go through an election in a couple months. This trial will be fine for me. Don’t you plug him.”

  “All right,” agreed Con irritably. “Let’s all go down and play patty-cake with him.”

  Big Bill was silent for a long time and then he said, “When he comes out, let him go to the spring. When he gets there, open up on the door and yell for him to surrender.”

  “Okay, Big Bill,” said Sheriff Doyle.

  “There must be another with him,” argued Con. “What’ll we do with him?”

  Big Bill thought that over. “We’ll wait and see what happens.”

  The sun climbed higher and higher and Big Bill’s big repeater watch bing-binged ten o’clock in his pocket. As though that were the signal, the cabin door swung open and a dumpy individual known as “Cheyenne” Shorty came out swinging a pail. He went to the spring, stopped and filled his bucket. After throwing some cold water on his face he turned around and started back for the door.

  Sheriff Doyle bellowed, “Stick ’em up!”

  Cheyenne Shorty whirled toward the sound. He dropped the bucket and the water splashed over his boots. Smoke barked from his right hand and Doyle’s hat sailed like a swallow.

  The crash of rifles was ragged but effective. Cheyenne Shorty dropped with a clatter over the water bucket and lay still.

  “You there in the cabin!” roared Doyle. “Come out with your hands grabbin’ sky.”

  Spick Murphy’s jeering voice called, “And get killed?”

  “We won’t shoot if you come peaceable,” shouted Doyle.

  “I wouldn’t trust you with a coyote’s dinner,” yelled Spick. “Send somebody down for protection and I’ll come.”

  Big Bill thought it over and then stood up. “I’ll go down.”

  Doyle grabbed at his boots. “Don’t! That’s just one of his tricks.”

  “He knows you’ll kill him if he tries anything,” said Big Bill. “Hey, you down there. I’m coming.”

  The posse held their collective breaths. Big Bill sauntered down the slope toward the cabin as though out to admire the wildflowers instead of pushing them up.

  He went leisurely enough, a lumbering colossus with an impassive face. He was not carrying his rifle and he had not drawn the gun at his hip.

  “The fool,” said Con.

  “He’s either awful dumb or awful brave,” said a puncher in the rear.

  “If he didn’t go, we’d camp here for a month,” retorted Doyle.

  Big Bill walked slowly up to the cabin door which was still open. “Come on out, Spick.”

  The interior was dim and silent.

  Big Bill stepped inside. He sensed movement above him and ducked. A table leg hit a glancing blow on his shoulders. Big Bill struck the floor, rolling and drawing at the same time.

/>   Spick’s head was silhouetted against the window for an instant and Big Bill fired.

  Spick dropped, and the table leg rolled up to Big Bill’s boot and stopped. For a full minute nothing else happened and then Big Bill got up and looked at Spick.

  The bandit’s head was creased as Big Bill had intended and everything was as it should be.

  Big Bill stepped to the door and called out, “All right.”

  The posse came down the hill on the run.

  “What was the sense of his doin’ that?” said the perspiring Doyle.

  “Nervy gent,” said Con. “He didn’t have a gun to his name and that was his way of gettin’ one. See? Cheyenne had the only six-shooter in the place.”

  “All right,” said Big Bill. “Let’s get him to town.”

  Chapter Two

  sUSAN PRICE was taking her afternoon ride alone, wondering a little why Big Bill Bailey had not appeared on the scene that morning. She was not so very concerned about it as she knew he would have an excellent excuse.

  That was one of the main troubles with Big Bill Bailey. He was as reliable as the huge repeating watch he carried—and at times dependability can be carried a little too far. He never surprised Susan with anything. Guitars and midnight serenades were as much out of his line as were waist-deep bows and flattery. In fact, Big Bill was likely to be somewhat tongue-tied among the ladies, holding them in a reverence which was flattering only for a short time.

  But everybody in the Rio Carlos country knew that Big Bill Bailey and Susan Price would someday be married. It was the natural thing and the only men who growled about it were rejected suitors who claimed it must be Big Bill’s money—it couldn’t be his charm.

  Still, there was a soothing quality about the rancher. He was never in her road, always ready to wait upon her, anxious always for her safety and comfort.

  You could not have everything in a man, of course, but still, when one thought of dark-eyed Spanish dons and honeyed words and extravagant promises, one might occasionally sigh.

  Susan Price was not very tall, but what she lacked in stature she made up in flame. Her hair was shimmering gold and her spirit—call it temper—went with that shade. She was kind and compassionate to a fault but she could also soar to heights of rage which terrified beholders. Her one passion in life was championing underdogs, taking this from her father’s successful career and making a sort of hobby of it.

  She got bored rather easily and just now, riding along the hot road and watching a cloud of dust approach a few miles away, she was very bored. Nothing ever happened in Rio Carlos. It was, of course, rather wild at times, and outlaws had been increasingly frequent of late, but that was not really anything to interest a girl. Her father, Sam Price, had bought a spread here after ailing lungs had retired him from his great practice. It was healthy, but that was all Susan could say for the place when she got this way.

  The dust cloud grew taller and at last she could make out the horsemen before it. She checked the sorrel and waited until they came up.

  In the vanguard rode Big Bill Bailey, very dusty, but reserved as always and most courteous. He raised his hat over his head and pulled up. Behind him the posse stopped. Spick Murphy was riding in the center, arms tied to his sides, a bloody bandage around his head. His dark eyes were very sad and beseeching as he looked at Susan. He made a helpless, forlorn figure in that bristling multitude.

  “I guess,” said Big Bill carefully, “that the country will be safer now. We got Spick Murphy.”

  She looked at Spick and he grew sadder than ever, hanging his head.

  “All of you against that one man?” said the unpredictable Susan.

  “Sure,” said Con Mathews. “You don’t think we want to get ourselves killed any more than necessary, do you?”

  “What’s he done?” said Susan, touching the brim of her little flat sombrero and studying Spick curiously.

  “You know Spick Murphy’s reputation, ma’am,” said Sheriff Doyle.

  “He’s been rustling stock,” said Big Bill.

  “And we’re going to hang him as soon as we can get a trial,” chimed Con.

  “I see you’ve already decided upon a hanging before the trial,” said Susan.

  “He’s guilty, ain’t he?” said Doyle.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Judges and juries usually decide those things. Or do they?”

  They might have been warned by her mild, only slightly sarcastic tone. They knew a few of the things she had done around there but they were too flushed with victory to pay any heed to a mere girl.

  “Shore they do,” said Doyle. “But when you get killers and rustlers like this gent, there ain’t much question about it. He’s changed his last brand and shot his last man, miss, and there’ll be one less outlaw to trouble peaceful citizens. I saw my duty and it’s done.”

  Doyle thought this was a pretty impressive campaign speech and he made a mental note of it for future reference—until he saw its effect upon Susan.

  “All of you against that one man?” said the unpredictable Susan.

  “Without trial, you have already decided to hang him!” blazed Susan. “Fifteen men against one! You ought to be ashamed to call yourselves human beings.”

  The posse blinked as one man.

  “You’ve decided he’s guilty already. Have you any proof? Fifteen men against one! How do you know?” She looked just like her lawyer father.

  “Well, everybody knows—” began Big Bill.

  “Public opinion doesn’t convict a man. And by law, a man is innocent until he is proven guilty. Did you ever see him rustle any stock?”

  “Well . . . no. But—”

  “There! You don’t know whether he’s guilty or not! You saw how sad he looked and how he was wounded and at the mercy of those men. He knows he’s going to his death and yet he isn’t whining about it.”

  “Sure not,” said Big Bill, frowning. “He knows he’s got it coming, doesn’t he?”

  “Bah! Can’t you think?”

  “Why, sure, but—”

  “Why, sure, but—” she mimicked. “You talk and act and eat like one of those beeves of yours! Haven’t you any kindness? No mercy? How do you know he’s guilty? ‘Everybody knows.’ Don’t you have any ideas of your own?”

  She was being unjust and knew it, but all day she had been bored.

  Big Bill froze like a snowcapped peak and just sat there staring at her.

  Finally she said, “Bah!” and quirted her sorrel and rode away with angry speed.

  Big Bill watched her go with a puzzled scowl. He took off his John B. and scratched his head. “She’s been that way before and tomorrow she’ll forget it. But how anybody could see anything in Spick Murphy . . .” To the posse he said, “Come on.”

  She was very aloof when they passed her.

  Chapter Three

  MATTERS might have remained in that state without further trouble if Susan had not needed a few groceries for Sam Price’s supper. But she did and her future was changed by two cans of corn, a steak and a pound of coffee.

  She stopped before the San Carlos General Store and swung down, throwing her reins over the hitch rack. There was considerable talk going on both inside and outside the store. Old Bus Hansey, who had been with Major Reno, was whittling with great agitation and using up plug tobacco at an alarming rate.

  And just as Susan mounted the steps, Old Bus creaked, “I tell ye, Lon, there ain’t no sense wastin’ the taxpayers’ money on no trial. Why, I recollect the day when the sheriff was expected to do his own killin’. We’re gittin’ soft! They hain’t been but one murder for a month and—”

  Lon brought his chair down on all four legs. “Con says there ain’t goin’ to be no mistake this time. And Doyle reckons there won’t be no lynchin’! What’s the difference? They’ll hang him on say-so and that’s enough fer me.”

  Susan had stopped at the top of the steps and they both saw her. Old Bus touched a gnarled finger to his battered
hat, about to speak a greeting to her.

  But Susan was suddenly angry again. She had a streak in her which made her champion any underdog—the same streak which had made her father a great criminal lawyer.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” she said hotly. “How do you know he’s guilty?”

  Everybody on the store porch looked startled. Old Bus shifted his chaw. “Why, miss, you won’t find a Mex or a white man in the Rio Carlos basin but what kin think up somethin’ mean about Spick Murphy. He’s the killin’est, lowest, ornery, most—”

  “Say-so!” said Susan. “Public opinion! Rumor! And you call yourselves thinking men! You’ll see that he hangs just because you believe he’s guilty.”

  Amazement stopped all activity of knives and sticks. These elder and somewhat shiftless citizens had only known Susan for a few years, but in that time she had once taken her quirt to a hard case for beating a horse; she had, single-handed, stopped a sheep-cattle war by the very weight of her fury and scorn; she had done a number of surprising things. But to hear her champion a man she knew nothing about, and that man Spick Murphy . . . ! Well!

  She favored them all with a glare and forgot about her groceries. She turned and went swiftly along the boardwalk to the nearby weather-beaten jail.

  Sheriff Doyle, big and hearty and red of face, was sitting with his feet on his desk, content after his long morning ride. He saw Susan and quickly lowered his feet and took off his hat.

  “Howdy, miss.”

  She wanted no preliminaries. “They’re talking about lynching your prisoner, Spick Murphy.”

  “Shore now, miss, they’ll always talk. Gives them somethin’ to do. I will say, though, that it wouldn’t be much loss if they did.”

  “What? You’d let them have him?”

  Doyle sensed a cyclone. “See here, miss, I never thought a good, sweet girl like you would stand up for a killer like Spick.”

  “I’d stand up for anybody who hasn’t a chance of justice. Trial! You won’t give him a trial. Regardless of evidence, you’ll hang him if he isn’t lynched first.”