Devil's Manhunt

by L. Ron Hubbard

“I plumb forgot about money,” said Johnny. “This poke is all I brought and this kind of makes it look like I’m playin’ on credit.” He hitched at the poke in his back pocket.

  “Now don’t you fret about money,” said George Bart. “I’m shore you can cover if you lose. Besides, there’s yore trail herd.”

  “So there is,” said Johnny and picked up his hand.

  They played for a round before Johnny discovered abruptly that he was using a new deck. He found he was using it because it didn’t have creases on the aces where he had put them. He lost promptly, stud being a quick game, but one deal later, being Johnny’s, found them playing with another new deck.

  Bart’s abrupt shift from returned confidence to new alarm registered the shift. Johnny did not win very much but the deck stayed in for five deals until the bartender accidentally placed his tray on the momentarily idle cards.

  Johnny was playing with Bart’s deck once more.

  The lose was going to him then, steadily, and his chips dwindled, somebody lighted a kerosene lantern over the table and the shadows of it made the faces around that board appear longer and gaunter.

  The whiskey kept coming and Johnny’s chips kept going down. At last he gave Mike a private wink. Mike instantly drained off the remainder of his whiskey, crammed down the rest of his free lunch and stood a little straighter at the bar, twenty feet away.

  “Reckon,” said Johnny, “I’ll have to cash in for tonight, boys, it’s been a long day.”

  “Well, I hate to break up a good game,” said Bart.

  “Tell you what,” said Johnny, “I’ll cut you double or quits.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Johnny, I couldn’t do that. I reckon the best thing is just cash you in.”

  Johnny shrugged. He reached back for the poke and then managed to look most terribly astonished and mad. It was gone! The bartender!

  “My gold!” said Johnny. “I had it when I sat down here. I guess I’ll—”

  “Well, now, Mr. Johnny, don’t let that worry you. Seein’ that them blue chips was worth exactly one thousand apiece. I can always take a trail herd.”

  “One thousand!” said Johnny.

  “Why, you didn’t ask and I thought—”

  Johnny smiled. He pulled three packs of cards out of his lap and dropped them on the board. “I reckon, then, you’d maybe like to explain somethin’ else you forgot to mention, George. These here cards you use just plain read too easy—”

  “You accusin’ me of card cheatin’?” bellowed George.

  “Why, no,” said Sudden Johnny. “I meant to call you a dirty, lyin’ card cheat!”

  With a crash the kerosene light went out. The fragments and bits of flame splattered, Spanish Mike fired three more shots and put the main barroom in darkness.

  The table came up like a battering ram and slammed George into the wall. Johnny’s gun blazed and Bart’s man Tolliver curled into himself with a groan, three guns racketed at the spot where Johnny had been but Johnny wasn’t there.

  “Yeeeow!” he yelled to Spanish Mike.

  “Yowheee!” screamed Spanish Mike.

  “They’re out the back!” bawled Bart and hurriedly thundered after them.

  Sudden Johnny, like all good grandnephews of Beauregard, had his second line to fall back upon when his first one buckled; he might not have made it with the cards and he might have lost his poke, but there was no indecision now. He and Mike went at the warehouse flaps in a dive and Mike’s big fist wrenched off the lock.

  They plummeted down the steps and whirled to slam the doors back upon them. An instant later a body hit wood outside and somebody bawled for them to come out. Johnny shot cunningly by feel and there was a yowp of anguish immediately after.

  By the flash of the shot, Mike found the inner bar and placed it across. The doors strained up and Johnny fired again. Their assailants shot a dozen times into the door and tried to prize it open at a distance, using rails.

  Mike grunted with busyness; he was loading up the stairs with assorted crates and barrels, and so great was his strength and so rapidly did he work that the next shots fired from outside went into wood and tin.

  This big below-ground warehouse had been built long ago and it had been built well. It had served as defense against Indians and cyclones and its thick sod walls were glued together by grass roots and many rains. Johnny inspected loopholes, found one which commanded the back of the New York Bar and gave them six shots as fast as he could fan. That instantly ended the attack.

  Johnny inspected loopholes, found one which commanded the back of the New York Bar and gave them six shots as fast as he could fan. That instantly ended the attack.

  Mike mopped his brow. “Well, Johnny, here we be. And here it appears we are goin’ to stay for some time to come. If you got no great objections, that keg I seen by yore gun flashes must contain high wine.”

  They found it, they broached it. Big Spanish Mike lay down on his back, held up the keg like it was a bottle and had himself a good, long drink—a half gallon.

  “Thin stuff,” he belched. “Never much cared for wine.” He put it down and went feeling through the interior over a fortune in liquors and food. A loud pop startled him. “What’s that?”

  “That,” said Sudden Johnny, “is champagne.”

  Spanish Mike listened to the gurgle with a grin.

  By midnight, George Bart had snarled and sweated himself into a fine fury. They had pried the door half off before they discovered that the passage was blocked beyond their ability to open it from the outside, and they had lost in wounded three men, all of whom damned George heartily with what breath they could muster.

  “Condemned Texicans!” snarled Tolliver, gray with a chip gone off a rib. “I tole you you ought to think twicet afore ringin’ that gent ’round.”

  “You never said no such thing,” said Dutch stolidly. “All you said was you wanted a hundred bucks instead of fifty.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said Bart to his assembled five, “that you won’t charge that door again?”

  “You know danged well we won’t!” gritted Tolliver. “Wait for mornin’, I says, then blow ’em sky-wide and handsome with blastin’ powder.”

  They looked on this with favor and arranging a watch amongst them, excluding Tolliver, the one wounded man who was still with them, they retired from the field for the night.

  In the morning the meadowlarks were singing brightly, the prairie was blooming but very, very wet, and a freighter came in from Hunter for supplies.

  His storekeeper routed George Bart from a nightmare. “Freighter down there with a big order. I can’t fill half of it from the shelves.”

  “Get it from the warehouse!” growled George from his untidy lair. Then he suddenly remembered. He hastily got on his clothes and went down to see the store.

  “I can’t wait, Mr. Bart,” said the freighter. “We was held up plenty by the rains and we’re nigh outa grub. I need more than Lem here can give me but if that’s all, why it’s the best I can do. I got to git back. Men’s hungry.”

  Bart looked at the stripped shelves and then at the pile of money. The freighter was about to leave. “Wait,” said George. “We’ve had—well, a little accident. But I think maybe I can get something up by two o’clock if you’ll just wait around.”

  The freighter was doubtful and George Bart clinched it by striding over to the depot where he found the agent just coming to work. “Henry,” said Bart, “get me a message through to Sioux. I need some things on—”

  “Hello, Mr. Bart,” said Henry with a dash of malice. “I hear you got a couple prisoners locked up in yore storehouse.”

  Bart glared. “Get me a message through to Sioux, they’ll bring it in on the two o’clock for me.”

  “Mr. Bart,” said Henry, “I sure hate to disappoint you but there’s a bridge out between here and there and she ain’t likely to be fixed for weeks.”

  “A washout! I didn’t know the rain was that bad.”


  “It wasn’t,” said Henry. “It just so happens that that bridge seems to have blown out. Why, I ain’t got the faintest notion; it’ll be back in come first part of next month.”

  “Blown out!” cried Bart. “Look here, Henry—wait a minute. When did that happen?”

  “Seems like night before last. They was a feller in here yesterday to give to me the word and I sent it on through.”

  “A limber gent with brown eyes? A Texican?”

  “Yep, reckon so. He seen it on his ride in. Can’t say whar he come from. But there’s no gettin’ across the river without that bridge. Don’t seem hardly important, though. There ain’t no herds here yet and we’ll be able to ship ’em all when they do come. I sent word through to Sioux and that, not this, is the end of the line. Means a sort of vacation—”

  Bart had already left. He told the freighter angrily that he couldn’t give any more supplies and watched the man drive away. He went to the back of the New York Bar and stood looking at the sod warehouse.

  Dutch was on guard. “Ain’t stirred, Mr. Bart,” he said.

  “Go on over there and tell them to come out or we’ll blow ’em out!” said George.

  A shot made a neat hole just above Bart’s head and he hurriedly skittered back; it upset him. A splinter had nicked his ear and he looked thoughtfully at the blood, swearing the while but subdued. “I’ll find a way,” he muttered. After breakfast, George felt better in that his breakfast always went down along with a mug of brandy and water. He was almost cheerful when he came into the store. “Let’s have a keg of Giant and a lot of fuse,” he said. “It won’t take much to blow in a wall.”

  The storekeeper stood fixed.

  “Well?” shouted Bart. “Where is it?”

  “I sold it!” said Lem. “That freighter wanted two kegs and all the rest is in the back end of the warehouse.”

  Bart whirled and bumped into Dutch. “Saddle up and ride after that freighter!” he ordered. “Bring back a keg of Giant powder, and don’t fail!”

  Dutch ran out and Tolliver limped up, hand to his punctured ribs. “I think they’re drunk in there, boss. I heard the dangedest yowls comin’ out of there. Thought somebody was mortal hurt until I heerd the words to the ‘Streets of Laredo.’ They’re drinkin’ up the entire stock!”

  “That,” said Bart, “would take a powerful lot of drinkin’. They ain’t got long for it noways. Dutch—”

  Dutch was coming back, white-faced and racing. “Boss! The stableman is over there all tied up and there ain’t a single condemned hoss in the hull danged town!”

  They hurried to confirm it and found the Star Barn entirely empty except for the stableman who, gagged all night, wanted to cuss somebody good and proper and didn’t care just who.

  Bart finally cut through the fanfare. “Who did it?”

  “I didn’t see good. A big man in greasy buckskin and a beard. He come in and said he wanted to wash down his own hoss and then by jimminies, the skunk whopped me. I come to in an empty stable and not a one of you rannies come near me the hull danged night! I—”

  Bart stared at the end of the sod warehouse he could see from here. The morning sun was bright, the meadowlarks were singing and the prairie was steaming dry. But there was no loveliness in the view to him. He suddenly threw down his hat and jumped on it.

  . . . cowpuncher lay dyin’

  Cowpuncher lay dyin’

  As cold as the clay . . .

  It came faintly but even at this distance there were hiccoughs in it.

  As the days followed, freighters came and riders came. The food swiftly diminished in Thorpeville and after the fifth day not even a jackrabbit could be shot a decent walk from the place. As long as the river to the south remained swollen, no beef would come in and very soon the two hundred population of the community were notching up their belts tighter and taking speculative looks at one another.

  The effort to send a wire for help met with failure; there was too much water to the east and no wagon could cross here for a while. Repairs were being made on the bridge but this was also slow and difficult due to the floods.

  Then it began to rain again and made matters much worse. Half a dozen at a time began to walk out of Thorpeville, down along the tracks, knowing they could raft or swim the break in the rails and maybe catch a handcar ride to Sioux, a hundred miles down the tracks. A telegram Henry got said that a train was there making repairs and would transport from there. It was only sixty miles. Why wait? The population began to walk.

  The constant guard of the sod house occasionally sought to surprise the alertness of its inmates. Various expedients were tried, such as shooting with rifles through the slots from long range, pushing burning boxes up against the doors, promises of money in return for a parley, two outright charges and three sneak attacks at night.

  All efforts failed. No matter how many songs came out of that warehouse to badger and irritate the guards, a foray was met with shots. George Bart was getting exactly noplace. It had been going on for two and a half weeks when George, one morning, found he had a population of exactly fifteen. Nine of these were too old to walk, four of them were his gunmen, one was his bartender (who was thought to have a secret store, he stayed so fat) and the remaining one was Bart himself. There was a little food left. Somebody had shot a locoed horse out on the prairie and they could live if they didn’t object to horse meat.

  The prairie was drying again. The river to the south was reported down by an oldster who had gone out and shot himself a private deer. George Bart felt that if he could just hold on until a train could come through he would bring up troops.

  Henry, the telegraph operator, had long since taken his own handcar down to the bridge and left it there as thoroughly as he had left his resignation of office on his desk. George Bart could not read the clicks and clacks of the instrument; he could only stand on the platform, listen at the window, and hope that the occasional sputters meant relief had already started.

  It was in this condition that Greg Matson and four Texicans found Thorpeville. They had forded with their cattle and they held them now on the prairie about a mile from the loading pens, the first herd through of the season.

  They were promptly approached, as they started to ride in, leaving two of their number to ride guard, by George Bart. “I want to buy cattle!” said Bart.

  Greg Matson had a beard now and its stiff bristles hid him from recognition. “We got cattle. Thirty dollars a head, two thousand head. Prime beef, all fed up to weigh south of the cro—”

  “I don’t want a herd!” cried Bart. “I want a dozen steers!”

  Greg sat his horse thoughtfully. “Now, ain’t that unfortunate, I only sell in two-thousand-head lots today.”

  Bart kept his temper. He was hungry. He usually ate a lot. “All right. I’ll buy the herd. Come on up to my office and I’ll give you the fair price.”

  This looked like an easy victory. Greg and two men rode forward watchfully, keeping pace with the men on foot and finally came to the New York House. The Texicans followed inside, very alert.

  George opened his safe and got out a stack of bills. He kept a lot of money on hand to buy up cattle buyers who had lost too much and he brought out a thick sheaf of bills.

  Under the bills lay a Derringer; ranged round the Texicans were four men.

  His office window was very grimy and broken in one place but he had eyes only for the Texicans before him. He started to swing, Derringer cocked. “Look out!” yelled Sudden Johnny at the window.

  Bart tried to swing back and shoot. Dutch, diving for cover, upset him and the Derringer whammed into the safe door, both barrels.

  A chair and then Johnny came through the window. A knife flashed and Spanish Mike finished Dutch, square in the doorway, blocking all exit.

  The noise in the room was loud and painful and long, and then from the din of smoke and swearing came Sudden Johnny—dragging George Bart by the collar. They reached the street and George pitched into th
e mud.

  Johnny let him get up and knocked him squarely down again. George rose a second time and went down a second time. He tottered to his feet a third and went suddenly backwards into a water trough where, except for the mercy of his opponent, he most certainly would have drowned.

  Sudden Johnny brought him back to the walk and dumped him down much like a man dumps a sack of spuds. His four Texicans came out, bringing what was left of Bart’s crew.

  It was a very quiet town. A very quiet, deserted town.

  It is rumored that George Bart paid back fifteen thousand that day as well as a poke of brass filings found in his possession. It is also rumored that George Bart sold his town, some say for ten thousand, others for eight.

  The truth of the matter is, as Spanish Mike afterward told while deeply drunk, George presented the whole place to Sudden Johnny when he saw the state of that warehouse; presented it, and took the first train out for points unknown.

  The state of the warehouse, gloated Spanish Mike, was at once a wonderful and dreadful thing to see.

  Stranger in Town

  Stranger in Town

  THE stranger came riding through the hot white dust, and Zeke Tomlin stared.

  It was a broiling afternoon in Dry Creek and few were abroad. Even the dogs failed to move out of the stranger’s path, but lay sluggish in their hollows of sand and suffered their fleas to bite. A drunken Indian was weaving an erratic course between the ’dobe houses of the single street, stopping now and then to shake a bottle at an imaginary foe. The stranger came abreast of the Indian and the redman straightened, looked up and sobered a little.

  Hunger was on the stranger’s face and guns, like a stamp. Man-hunger, with kill in his eyes.

  Zeke Tomlin had been wiping the packing grease from a buffalo rifle. He looked at it and put it down. It was cool in the hardware store but there were no visitors. Zeke, the clerk, was alone behind the counter. A rack of guns backed him, each newly taken from its case. Zeke looked up at the stranger and felt sick and hot.

  It was a long time back to Mesa. Nine months. It was a long time back to the hunted trail he had followed away from there. He had thought it was all done and forgotten. And here was Les Harmon, riding through the hot white dust, come to kill him.