by Alan Lemay
Johnny Royce spoke in a low voice. "Wade prob'ly ain't here, and I doubt if his men know the money is in the safe. He always brought it in by stage on payday so's not to put temptation in the way o' the thieves that work for him. Since we stuck up the stage and grabbed the cash, he's tryin' to sneak it in ahead o' time and thinks nobody knows it. Ernie Ross at the bank told me about it."
They trotted down the long slope, the hoof beats of the horses drumming faintly in the soft grass.
To the right of the little group rode the lone man who had joined them at the forks as they came out of the hills. Manley looked at him as he rode, without speaking, a short distance away. It seemed to him that there was something familiar about that man. He felt a vague uncertainty and uneasiness, as though an evil thing had come out of the darkness. It was a thing that could not bear the light of day, and stirred abroad only in the witching hours when graveyards yawn and give up their dead. Manley grinned at his own superstitious thought, but the feeling remained.
They drew up in the deep shadow of the house, and dismounted silently. According to a prearranged plan, Horton and Stewart remained with the horses, ready for any men who might come out through the windows. Connel would open the door with a key he had carried for years, and he would help Royce with the safe. Manley and Lessert would slip into the hall that ran between the four bedrooms where Jeffries's men would be sleeping. The masked stranger had received no orders. He did as he pleased.
The four men slipped around the house. A key grated in the lock, the sound seeming doubly loud in the silence of the night. Slowly the door swung open. They slipped into a room that was dim and ghostly in the faint light. Connel struck a match and lighted a lamp.
He and Royce went to a small, green safe standing in a comer. Royce knelt beside it and turned the combination knob.
Manley, with Lessert close behind, tiptoed to the door on the left that was standing ajar. He slipped into the hall with Lessert at his side. The discordant sound of a snore came from one of the rooms. Side-by-side the two men stood in the silent hallway.
"Put up yore hands!" A harsh command came from the room behind them. The snoring ceased. A bed creaked.
"Put 'em up high!"
Through the open door, Manley could see Royce and Connel holding up their hands. Royce was kneeling by the safe that stood open, and Connel was standing nearby.
"Wait here," Manley whispered to Lessert. He tiptoed to the doorway.
A hand and arm came into view in the lamplight. The hand was holding a blue .45.
Manley sprang into the room and faced Gar Dixon. The blue gun swerved. Manley's weapon crashed, and the blue .45 plunged to the floor, a splash of lead showing white against the cylinder.
A wild yell echoed from the hall. A gun roared, and roared again.
Manley saw Connel's weapon leap from its holster, and he sprang back into the hallway. Lessert was standing over a dark form that groaned and crawled on the floor.
"I got him, Dale!" Lessert exclaimed. "He ran out of the room and shot at me."
"Don't go out there, yuh Banged fool!" cried a voice from a bedroom. "We're trapped. This way!"
The hoarse voice of Dixon shouted curses in the front room. Manley and Lessert stood waiting silently in the hallway. There came a cry and two shots from outside the house. One of the bedroom doors slammed shut, and they heard the sound of a heavy bar being dropped across it.
"It looks like one o' them hombres is goin' to hold the fort," Lessert threw out grimly.
Voices came from the front room, and Dale returned to it. Dixon stood close against the wall with raised hands. A man entered the room through the front door. A pair of keen eyes showed above a black mask and below a black hat drawn down over the brow. They flashed in the lamplight, and Manley shuddered with the strange feeling that had oppressed him when the man first rode out of the night.
The masked stranger stood a moment in the doorway and looked about the room. Then he withdrew silently without speaking.
cal Stewart entered. "All's silent on the Potomac," he announced. "Three of 'em come out through the windows. Willis Horton plugged one, and the other two is backed up against the house, prayin'. What'll we do with 'em?"
"Let 'em go," answered Royce who was stuffing thick packages of green paper into a canvas bag. "We got the pay roll, but we ain't got no use for Jeffries's gunnies."
Dixon was standing with eyes glued on Manley. He was cursing softly to himself. "This is the second time yuh got the best o' me, Dale Manley," he cried. "Look out for the next time, sscause the third is the charmer."
"Yeah," Manley retorted grimly. "The third time I'll git yuh in the heart 'stead of the head. Yore head must be solid, but I want to see if yuh got a heart."
A few minutes later the angry gunnies of Wade Jeffries were left alone, the seven who had swooped down upon them riding away over the prairie that lay peacefully in the white light of the moon.
III
"DIXON LOSES HIS JOB"
It was noon of the next day. Gar Dixon, supreme among gunmen, his brow black with wrath, strode back and forth across the room, the rowels of his spurs making little clicking sounds on the floor.
Nevada Morrison and Fred Talbot watched him out of narrowing eyes. Dixon was in an ugly mood, and, when Dixon was in an ugly mood, someone was apt to die before nightfall.
"Damn Jeffries," he snarled. "Why couldn't he tell us he'd left us here to guard a safe full o' money? He don't trust us, that's what's the matter. I wisht we'd found out about it. We'd've got the money our own selves and then laid it onto this Dale Manley and his gang. Jeffries is git tin' too danged smart. He thinks he's the whole world as long as he's got us at his back. If we'd leave him, he'd be in hell in two hours. And all he pays us is a few dirty dollars a month. I'll show him. I want in on the big coin we make for him. Look what this gang done last night. Made more money in one haul than we will in a year. I'll show Jeffries he ain't so danged much! I'll fix him!"
"Yuh better not fool with Wade," interposed Talbot softly," 'cause he's one bad hombre, Gar."
"Sher up!" The gunman turned fiercely upon him. "We ain't all yaller."
"But I was jest goin' to say...."
"Sher up, damn yuh!" Dixon stepped toward Talbot with flaming face. "When I tell yuh I'm goin' to fix Wade Jeffries, I mean what I say. Do yuh think I'm afraid o' him? I'm tellin' yuh...."
"What's the trouble, Gar?"
Wade Jeffries's cold, even voice interrupted the bellowing of the angry Dixon. The cattle king stood in the doorway. The round orifice in the barrel of his .45 was held steadily a hand's breadth above the buckle of Dixon's belt. In his other hand, Jeffries held a quirt. Several men stood back of him and crowded up to peer through the doorway.
"Put yore hands up high!" the rancher commanded.
Dixon licked his thick lips. He glanced about him hastily, and then elevated his hands.
"Unload his gun!" The order was to Talbot, who pulled Dixon's weapon from its holster, snapped out the cartridges, and returned it.
Then Jeffries stepped forward, followed closely by his men. There was a cruel smile on his thin lips.
"So yuh're goin' to fix me, are yuh?" He spoke slowly, and his words were like cold steel striking against something hard. "huh come to me as a gunman I could rely on in a pinch. Huh failed me when Dale Manley beat yuh to the draw and wounded yuh in the saloon. I'm sorry he didn't kill yuh. You failed me again last night. I gather from yore remarks that yuh lost the money I put here in the safe. Now yuh want to turn against me and fix me."
The quirt shot out with a vicious smack. A red welt appeared across Dixon's face. He started forward with a bellow of rage but was brought up short by the cold voice.
"Don't move, or I'll blow yore soul to hell!"
Again and again the quirt descended. Dixon winced under the blows, but he stood motionless and kept his hands high. He was staring at the round blue hole in the barrel of Jeffries's gun.
"Now git out!
Git off this range and stay off. If yuh ever come back with more of yore rotten threats, I'll strip yuh and hang yuh and leave yuh swingin' for the buzzards."
Dixon slowly dropped his hands to his sides and staggered to the door. He reached out for the jamb and stood a moment, swaying. Then he seemed to gather strength, and went out into the sunlight. A dozen grinning men watched him. He caught up his horse in the corral, saddled and bridled it with shaking hands, and then rode away without a glance backward at the man who had heaped this humiliation upon him.
For a mile or more he rode with bowed head, heedless of where the horse was taking him, careless of what the future might hold in store. The enormity of the insult sank slowly into his numbed consciousness. He, Gar Dixon, professional gunman, terror of the border for two years, possessor of a Colt .45 with six notches in the handle, had been beaten to the draw by Dale Manley, and had been horsewhipped and fired by Wade Jeffries!
He touched the burning welts across his face with shaking hand. Horsewhipped! He lifted his face to the blazing sky. The feeling of dead numbness gave way to violent, unreasoning, insane rage. He sank his spurs into the sides of his mount. He jerked viciously at the reins. Curses screamed from his drawn lips curses that grew in foulness as they grew in volume and he shouted crazily to the unhearing prairie and the sky.
Presently he remembered a bottle in his saddlebags. Drawing it forth, he drank a long draught of the fiery liquid. The feeling that he must return and kill Jeffries swept over him, yet he rode on and on as a sense of caution prevailed. The cattle king, surrounded by his gunmen, was safe. Dixon must wait for an opportunity. Again and again he placed the bottle to his lips.
His rage against Jeffries was no greater than his rage against Manley. These two men must die. One by one he would find them and kill them. Gar Dixon, terror of the border, had been beaten and wounded by Dale Manley. He had been horsewhipped by Wade Jeffries.
He emptied the bottle and threw it from him. He seemed to grow calmer as the whisky numbed his faculties. Swaying in the saddle, a vague plan of vengeance formed within his seething brain. Again he repeated he must find Manley and kill him; he must catch Jeffries, alone, and kill him.
The world was turning and whirling and zigzagging about him in strange, terrifying contortions. He grasped the saddle horn to keep from falling. The horse dashed straight on over the prairie, its sides torn and bleeding from the torture it had received from the huge spurs.
Dixon knew he must stop, for everything was growing dark about him. Dimly he realized that he had drunk too much. He must sleep.
Presently a white object loomed before him that contrasted with the dark green of the prairie. Beyond it was a stream. Willows and cottonwoods lifted their heads above the plain in a winding formation as they hugged close to the living water. Dixon knew where he was. The white object was an old stone cabin that had been built and abandoned long ago by trappers or prospectors. He reached the trees and half fell from the saddle, letting the reins trail so the horse would not stray far. From habit he drew the carbine from his saddle boot, and staggered to the cabin. He wanted to lie down and sleep and forget the pain from his face, and the pain and rage within his heart.
The door sagged partly open. The gunman pushed his way into a room. There was a high, vacant window at one end. The floor was dirt, packed hard. An old cupboard was nailed against the wall of a partition, and a rough table was in the middle of the room. Dixon staggered against the table, and then went into the adjoining room. He reeled against the heavy door. It slammed shut, and a heavy bar fell across it.
The room had been a bedroom. A rough bunk stood against the wall. Dixon plunged toward it, threw himself upon it, and breathed hard through open mouth. The welts on his face burned with intense pain. He would sleep, and then go out on his trail of vengeance. Dale Manley and Wade Jeffries! Both of them must die.
He would find Jeffries first and kill him with a bullet between the eyes. He would kill Manley with torture. The room was whirling about him. He closed his tired eyes. Presently his lips parted and his mouth opened.
Gar Dixon forgot the pain of his lashes in drunken sleep.
IV
"MANLEY FINDS A REFUGE"
Bart Connel finished counting the loot and stuffed it back into the bag.
"Right close to seven thousand simoleons," he announced. "Wade must be hirin' more'n a hundred men."
Willis Horton grinned and looked at the others. "Won't he howl when he finds out about how we got his payroll the second time?"
"Well, he ought to be satisfied if we are," drawled Connel. "He's got land and cattle enough from us to make up for it."
Manley was moving restlessly about the room. He paused and looked out of the window of the cabin. "I ain't satisfied at all," he told them. "We're jest like a bunch o' little boys with popguns, shootin' at a mountain."
"What's the matter, Dale?" Lessert asked. "Ain't our little war goin' all right?"
"No. Yuh've made a couple o' hold-ups an' got a few thousand dollars. It's chicken feed as far as Jeffries is concerned. Someday he'll surround us with his hundred men, and then he'll wipe us out like so many prairie dogs."
The others were silent for they realized there was truth in Manley's remark.
"Well, what are yuh goin' to do about it?" Lessert asked.
"I don't know, but it's got to be more'n this. I been thinkin'. Today I'm goin' to take a little scout around the Triangle Z.Jeffries stays there most o' the time. If you hombres'11 meet me at that old stone cabin on Cottonwood Creek about an hour after dark, mebbe I'll have somethin' to say that'll be interesting,"
Connel spat at a box of sawdust near the table. "Dale's young and foolish and don't know when things is breakin' his way," he remarked.
"Don't yuh worry about Dale." Royce grinned as he watched the bay gelding disappear over a hill. "He knows what he's doin', and he's the fastest thing on the Trionte with a gun. We'll be at Cottonwood Creek tonight, jest as he says. Dale's got a plan."
As a matter of fact, Manley's plan was vague. First he intended to locate a large herd of Jeffries's cattle. Many of them belonged to the ranchers, but Jeffries, in his lawless way, simply vented the brands and put on his own iron.
Manley thought vaguely of making a great raid upon the cattle, of driving them at night through Sangre Pass, and of turning them over to Shark Higgins on the other side of the divide. Shark had handled the herd of three-year-olds the men already had driven through the pass.
The cowboy had a twelve-mile ride ahead to the Triangle Z.There would be plenty of time to rest the horse an hour, or even more, before going to the rendezvous at the stone cabin.
A cold rage filled his heart as he rode past the charred ruins of his own little spread. A dozen yearlings that he recognized as his were gathered around a spring that bubbled, clear and cold, out of the side of a hill. There was a vent across the Flying Q brand, and on the shoulders flamed the new red scar of the Triangle Z.
Jeffries not only took the cattle of the ranchers as he drove them from their land, but he appropriated them without even attempting to cover up the theft.
The only official in the county he did not own was square-shooting Bill Randall, the sheriff, and Randall was helpless against the power of the monarch of the Trionte. What could a lone sheriff do against a man with a hundred gun rannies at his back? It was not without reason that Jeffries considered himself above the law.
The sudden vicious snarl of a bullet suddenly jerked Manley from his reverie.
A drumming of hoofs sounded on the trail to the right, and a dozen or more men dashed toward him in a close body. With a hasty glance he recognized Jeffries, Walters, and Travis, the deputy sheriff who backed Jeffries in his lawless rule of the range.
A moment later the bay gelding was skimming the prairie. He was headed straight for the hills that were blue and hazy in the distance. Bullets from high-powered rifles snarled past, until a burst of speed on the part of the gelding put them out of ra
nge.
Manley settled down to the long race for the hills, for the men behind showed no signs of abandoning the chase. He did not fear the result. He knew the gelding could outdistance the mounts that were hot on the trail.
Steadily he drew ahead of his pursuers. Slowly the bay gelding widened the gap between them.
A white speck on the landscape grew larger and then metamorphosed into the old stone cabin. Past it wound the green line of trees that grew along the edge of Cottonwood Creek. Beyond it rose the blue hills that bounded on the west the kingdom where the will of Wade Jeffries was law.
The gelding stumbled and went to its knees. Manley was almost pitched over its head. Bravely the splendid animal staggered to its feet and went on. It limped badly, and Manley knew it had stepped into a grass-covered badger hole. Often a horse's leg was broken with such a fall.
A triumphant shout rang out across the prairie. Manley looked backward with wildly beating heart. Jeffries and his men had gained. Manley knew he could not reach the hills. Even now the cruelty of riding an injured horse cut him to the heart. Straight to the stone cabin he raced, the courageous bay holding the pace without flinching. A bullet whined past, and then another. The men were dashing forward desperately in an attempt to cut him off from the shelter of the cabin.
Manley could see the front door sagging on its hinges. If he could reach it, he would have a chance. He could be attacked only from one side of the cabin from Cottonwood Creek with its thick brush and trees.
"Come on, boy!" he shouted, and the bay plunged forward in a last desperate spurt.
Closer and closer they came to the cabin. Bullets whizzed about them like angry hornets as the pursuers fired in the hope of scoring a hit before Manley could reach shelter.
A moment later he rode up before the door, yanked the rifle from the saddle boot, and plunged through the doorway. He fired twice at Jeffries who turned and headed straight for the trees.
