by Zane Grey
“Arrest me! What for? I’m only asking you for an honest deal. I can prove you cheated my father out of cattle. You can’t arrest me for that.”
Hardman guffawed boisterously. “Get out of here with your insolent talk about cattle deals.”
“I won’t get out. You can’t put me out, even if you do own the place.”
“I’ll—I’ll—” choked Hardman, his body leaping with rage, his face growing purple under his beard. Then he turned to Matthews. “Throw this drunken cowboy out.”
That focused attention upon the sheriff. Pan read in Matthews’ eyes the very things he had suspected. And as he relaxed the mental and muscular strain under which he had waited, he laughed in Matthews’ face.
“Bah! Hardman, you’re backed by the wrong man. And at last you’ve run into the wrong man. Haven’t you sense enough to see that?… You cheated my father. Now you’re going to make it good.”
Hardman, furious and imperious, never grasped the significance that had frozen Matthews. He was thick, arrogant. He had long been a power wherever he went. Yielding to rage he yelled at Pan.
“Bill Smith sicked his cowpuncher on me, hey? Like father, like son! You’re a rustler breed. I’ll drive you—”
Pan leaped like a tiger and struck Hardman a terrible blow in the face. Like something thrown from a catapult he went into the crowd next the bar, and despite this barrier and the hands grasping at his flying arms he crashed to the floor. But before he fell Pan had leaped back in the same position he had held in front of Matthews.
“He lied,” cried Pan. “My dad, Bill Smith, was as honest a cattleman as ever lived.… Mr. Sheriff, do you share that slur cast on him?”
“I don’t know Bill Smith,” replied Matthews hastily. “Reckon I’m not talkin’ agin men I don’t know.… An’ as I’m not armed I can’t argue with a gun-packin’ cowboy.”
Thus he saved his face with the majority of those present. But he did have a gun. Pan knew that as well as if he had seen it. Matthews was not the “even break” stripe of sheriff.
“Ah-huh!” ejaculated Pan sardonically. “All right. Then I’ll be looking for you to arrest me next time we meet.”
“I’ll arrest you, Panhandle Smith, you can gamble on thet,” declared Matthews harshly.
“Arrest nothing,” replied Pan with ringing scorn. “You’re a four-flush sheriff. I’ll gamble you elected yourself. I know your kind, Matthews. And I’ll gamble some more that you don’t last long in Marco.”
This was, as Pan deliberately intended, raw talk that any man not a coward could not swallow. But Matthews was a coward. That appeared patent to all onlookers, in their whispers and nodding heads. Whatever prestige he had held there in that rough mining community was gone, until he came out to face this fiery cowboy with a gun. White and shaking he turned to the group of men who had gotten Hardman to his feet. They led him out the open door and Matthews followed.
Pan strode back to the table where Louise sat tense and wide eyed. The hum of voices began again, the clatter of glasses, the clink of coin. The incident had passed.
“Well, little girl, I had them figured, didn’t I?” asked Pan, calling a smile to break his tight cold face.
“I don’t—know what—ails me,” she said, breathlessly. “I see fights every night. And I’ve seen men killed—dragged out. But this got my nerve.”
“It wasn’t much to be excited about. I didn’t expect any fight.”
“Your idea was to show up Hardman and Matthews before the crowd. You sure did. The crowd was with you. And so am I, Panhandle Smith.” She held out a slim hand. “I’ve got to dance. Good night.”
CHAPTER TEN
Pan’s exit from the Yellow Mine was remarkable for the generous space accorded him by its occupants.
Outside he laughed a little, as he stood under the flare of yellow light and rolled a cigarette. Knots of men stood on the corners of the street. But the area in front of the saloon was significantly vacant.
“Now if Dad had only been there,” soliloquized Pan. “That might have put some life in him.”
He sauntered down into the street, and as he went he heard the jangle of spurs behind him. Blinky and Gus covering his rear! Presently, beyond the circle of yellow light, they joined him, one on each side.
“Wal, Pan, I was shore in on thet,” said Blink, gripping Pan’s arm.
“Say, you called ’em flat. Made ’em swaller a hell of a lot,” added Gus, with a hard note in his voice. “When it come down to hard pan they wasn’t there.”
“Pan, you remember me tellin’ you aboot Purcell, who jumped my claim with young Hardman?” queried Blinky. “Wal, Purcell was there, settin’ some tables back of where you made your stand. I seen him when we first went in. Course everybody quit playin’ cards when you called old Hardman. An’ I made it my particular biz to get close to Purcell. He was pullin’ his gun under the table when I kicked him. An’ when he looked up he seen somethin’, you can bet on thet.… Wal, Purcell is one man in Hardman’s outfit we’ll have to kill.… Gus will back me up on thet.”
“I shore will. Purcell’s a Nevada claim jumper, accordin’ to talk. Somebody hinted he belonged to thet Plummer gang thet was cleaned out at Bannock years ago. He’s no spring chicken, thet’s shore.”
“Point Purcell out to me the first chance you get,” replied Pan. “Don’t figure I expect to bluff everybody. It can’t be done. Somebody will try me out—if only to see what I can do. That’s the game, you know.”
“Hell, yes. An’ all you got to do, Pan, is to be there first.”
“Reckon tomorrow will be shore interestin’,” remarked Gus.
“That girl Louise gave me a hunch,” said Pan thoughtfully. “Struck me she was square.—Blink, you’ve talked to her, of course?”
“Me?… Aw!—Couple of times. I reckon. Bought her drinks. She won’t look at me unless she’s drunk,” replied Blink, both confused and gloomy.
“You’ve got Louise figured wrong, cowboy,” returned Pan. “I’ll prove it to you sometime.… Now let’s get down to business, and plan Blake’s release from jail. I want to lead the horse round about, so I won’t be seen by anybody.”
“Shore, thet’ll be easy,” replied Blinky. “I’ll go with you. We can keep to the slope a ways an’ then go down an’ come up on the other side of town. No roads an’ no houses.”
They returned to camp, and replenishing the fire sat around it talking of the wild-horse drive.
About ten o’clock Blinky went to the corral, saddled a horse, and led him back to the tent. There they put on the blanket and saddlebags. Blinky produced a gun he could spare, and then thoughtfully added a small bag of grain for the horse.
“It’s darker’n the milltail of Hades,” announced Blinky, “an’ thet’s good fer this kind of work. I’ll go ahaid, pickin’ out the way, an’ you lead the hoss.”
So they set out into the black night, working along the base of the slope. No stars showed, and the raw wind hinted of rain or snow. The lights of the town shone dimly. Keen on the breeze floated the discordant music and revelry, from the Yellow Mine and other like dives, in full blast.
Descending the slope required careful slow work. The incline was steep, of soft earth and loose shale. But Blinky knew where to feel his way, and eventually they reached the flat, to find easier progress. Blinky made a detour, and finally, as they gradually approached several lamplights, far apart, he whispered: “You wait heah. I ain’t so darn shore which one of them lights comes from the jail.”
Pan waited what seemed a long while. At last he heard steps, then made out an object blacker than the black background.
“Found the jail easy, but got off comin’ back. Pronto now. Must be near eleven.”
Pan kept the dark silent moving form in sight. The dim light grew larger. Then the low flat building loomed up faintly in the dense gloom.
“Go ahead,” whispered Blinky. “I’ll hold the hoss.”
Pan went swiftly up to the wall,
and thence along it to the corner. The light came from an open door. He listened. There was no sound. Luckily Hurd was alone. Pan slipped round the corner and entered. Hurd sat at the table in the flare of a lamp, turned down low.
“Ha! Was waitin’ fer you, an’ beginnin’ to worry,” he said, in hoarse whisper.
“Plenty of time, if Blake’s all ready,” replied Pan.
“I’m givin’ you a hunch. He’s damn queer fer a fellar who expects to break jail.”
“No matter. Let’s get at it, pronto.”
Hurd got up, and laid his gun on the table. Then he turned over the bench, threw papers on the floor. “Thar’s the key, an’ heah’s a rope. Hawg-tie me.”
With that he turned his back. Swiftly Pan bound him securely, and let him down upon the floor. Then he unlocked the door, opened it. Pitch darkness inside and no sound! He called in low voice. Blake did not reply. Muttering in surprise, Pan took the lamp and went into the room. He found Blake asleep, though fully dressed. Pan jerked him roughly out of that indifferent slumber.
“It’s Smith,” he said, bluntly. “You sure must want to get out.… Damn you, Blake, this whole deal looks fishy to me!… Come on.”
Leaving the lamp there, Pan dragged the man out, through the dark entrance room, into the night. In another moment they had reached the horse and Blinky.
“Here’s money and a gun,” whispered Pan, swiftly. “You’ll find grub, blanket, grain on your saddle. Get on!” Pan had to half lift Blake upon the horse. He felt of the stirrups. “They’re all right… The road is that way, about fifty yards. Turn to the left and ride. Remember, Siccane.”
Blake rode away into the darkness without a word. Pan watched and listened. Presently he heard the hard clip-clop of hoofs on the road, making to the left.
“Good! He’ll ride past where Lucy’s sleeping. I wish she could know,” muttered Pan.
“Was he drunk?” queried Blinky, in a hoarse whisper. “Shore funny fer a sober man.”
“He didn’t breathe like he was drunk,” replied Pan. “But he flabbergasted me. Found him asleep! And he never said a darned word… Blink, it sticks in my craw. Reckon he didn’t want to leave that nice warm bed.”
“Ahuh! Wal, let’s rustle back to our warm beds,” said the cowboy gruffly.
Pan awakened during the latter part of the night. Rain was pattering on the tent. The wind moaned. He thought of Blake, not clad for bad weather and in unfit condition for a long ride, facing the storm. Even then a vague doubt penetrated his drowsy mind.
Morning dawned bright and sparkling after the rain. The air was keen and crisp. The cedars glistened as if decked with diamonds. Pan felt the sweet scent of the damp dust, and it gave him a thrill and a longing for the saddle and the open country.
“Wal, reckon this heah’ll be our busy day,” drawled Blinky, after making a hearty breakfast of bacon and flapjacks. “Pan, what’s first on the ticket?”
“Show me a horse, you bow-legged grub destroyer,” replied Pan eagerly.
“Come out to the corral. We got a sorrel as is a real shore enough hoss if you can ride him.”
There were a dozen or more horses in the corral. Pan, glancing over them with appraising eye, decided the cowboys had not spoken of them with the degree of satisfaction that they really merited.
“Fine string, Blinky,” said Pan, with glistening eyes. “Is that sorrel the one I can’t ride?”
“Yep, thet’s him. Ain’t he a real hoss?”
“Best of the bunch, at first sight. Blinky, are you sure you’re not giving me your own horse?”
“Me? I don’t care nothin’ aboot him,” declared Blinky, lying glibly. “Shore he’s the orfullest pitchin’ son-of-a-gun I ever forked. But mebbe you can ride him.”
It developed presently that Pan could ride the sorrel, and that Blinky had done the horse a great injustice. How good to be back in the saddle! Pan wanted to ride down at once to show Lucy his first mount west of the Rockies. Indeed he was possessed of a strong yearning desire to hurry to see Lucy, a feeling that he had to dispel. If all went well he could go to his mother’s for dinner. Meanwhile he must meet the exigencies here in Marco.
“Wal, what’s next on the ticket?” queried Blinky, who appeared to be rather jerky this morning.
“I’m going downtown,” replied Pan.
“Ahuh! I want to trail along with you.”
“No, I’ll go alone. I’ll make my bluff strong, Blinky, or draw Matthews out. Honest, I don’t think he’ll show.”
“Thet yellow dawg? He won’t face you, Pan. But he’s in thet Hardman outfit, an’ one of them—mebbe Purcell—might take a shot at you from a winder. It’s been done heah. Let me go with you.”
“Well, if they’re that low down your being with me wouldn’t help much,” replied Pan, pondering the matter. “I’ll tell you, Blink. Here’s how I figure. Marco is a pretty big place. It’s full of men. And western men are much alike anywhere. Matthews is no fool. He couldn’t risk murdering me in broad daylight, from ambush.”
“I’m not trustin’ him,” said Blinky, somberly. “But I admit the chances are he won’t do thet.”
“You and Gus pack up for the wild-horse drive,” went on Pan briskly. “We ought to get off in the morning. One of you ride out to see if Charley Brown will throw in with us. I’ll see Dad at dinner. He’ll need horse and outfit. It may turn out we can get our jailer friend, Hurd. Wonder if he lost his job.… Ha! Ha! Well, boys, I’ll know more when I see you again.”
Pan strolled down toward the town. A familiar unpleasant mental strain dominated his consciousness. His slow, cool, easy nonchalance was all outward. He had done this thing before, but that seemed long ago. His father, Lucy, his mother, somehow made an immense difference between the cowboy reactions of long ago and this stern duty he had set himself today. He hated what his actions meant, what might well ensue from them, yet he was glad it was in him to meet the issue in this way of the West.
By the time he had reached a point opposite the stage office all reflections had passed out of his mind to give place to something sinister.
His alert faculties of observation belied the leisurely manner of his approach to the main street. He was a keen-strung, watching, listening machine. The lighting and smoking of a cigarette was mechanical pretense—he did not want to smoke.
Two men stood in front of the stage office. One was Smith, the agent. Pan approached them, leaned on the hitching rail. But he favored his right side and he faced the street.
“Mornin’, cowboy,” Smith greeted him, not without nervousness. “See you’re down early to git arrested.”
“Howdy, Smith. Can you give me a drink?” returned Pan.
“Sorry, but I haven’t a drop.”
The other man was an old fellow, though evidently he was still active, for his boots and clothes showed the stain and wear of mining.
“Tell you, cowboy,” he spoke up, dryly, “you might buy a bottle at the Yellow Mine.”
Pan made no reply, and presently the old man shambled away while Smith entered his office. Pan kept his vigil there, watching, waiting. He was seen by dozens of passing men, but none of them crossed toward the stage office. Down the street straggling pedestrians halted to form little groups. In an hour the business of Marco had apparently halted.
Its citizens, the miners who had started to work, the teamsters, Mexicans, cowboys who happened upon the street, suddenly struck attitudes of curious attention, with faces turned toward Pan. They too were waiting, watching.
The porch of the Yellow Mine was in plain sight, standing out on a corner, scarcely more than a hundred yards down the street. Pan saw Hardman and Matthews come out of the hotel. They could not fail to observe the quiet, the absence of movement, the waiting knots of men.
This was the climax of strain for Pan. Leisurely he strolled away from the hitching rail, out into the middle of the street, and down. The closer groups of watchers vanished.
Hardman could be seen gesticulati
ng, stamping as if in rage; and then he went into the hotel, leaving Matthews standing alone. Other men, in the background disappeared. The sheriff stood a moment irresolute, sagging, with his pale hamlike face gleaming. Then he wheeled to enter the hotel.
He had damned himself. He had refused the even break, the man-to-man, the unwritten edict of westerners.
Pan saw this evasion with grim relief. The next move was one easier to perform, though fraught with great peril. Every man in Marco now knew that Pan had come out to meet the men he had denounced. They had been aware of his intention. They had seen him sauntering down the middle of the street. And they had showed what the West called yellow. But they had not showed their claws, if they had any. Pan could well have ended his quest then and there. But to follow it up, to beard the jackals in their den—that was the last word.
As Pan proceeded slowly down the middle of the street the little groups of spectators disintegrated, and slipped out of sight into the stores and saloons. Those farthest from him moved on to halt again. And when any neared the Yellow Mine, they scurried completely out of sight. Pan had the main street to himself. For a few moments not a single man showed himself. Then they began to reappear behind him out of range, slowly following him.
At the entrance to the Yellow Mine, Pan threw away his cigarette, and mounted the steps. He was gambling his life on the code of the westerners. The big hall-like saloon was vacant except for the two bartenders behind the bar, and a Mexican sweeping out the sawdust. Pan had heard subdued voices, the shuffle of feet, the closing of doors. Every muscle in his body was cramped with tension, ready to leap like lightning into action. Advancing to the bar he called for a drink.
“On the house this mawnin’,” replied the nearest bartender, smiling. He showed a little nervousness with his hands, otherwise he was composed, and his offer to treat expressed his sentiment. Pan took the bottle with his left hand, poured out some liquor, set the bottle down, and lifted the glass. He had his drink. His tension relaxed.
“Sort of quiet this morning,” he said.
“Reckon it is, just now,” replied the bartender, significantly.
