Haslam caught the slightest of movements in the darkness outside, but his features did not betray the fact. He knew now that he was safe, that he had not posted guards in vain, and with that knowledge came returned courage and a sudden berserk rage that burst forth like water from a ruined dam.
He got to his feet, keeping his hands on the table. “You’re right,” he snarled. “I did have Rutherford put away! I did back Kurt and the boys. I’ve managed holdups, robberies, and killings, and I’ll manage them again! But you were wrong when you said Dick is the only one remaining who knows. You know; but like Dick you will never use that knowledge. Kurt was my brother, and you killed him. I told you the day you brought his dead body to Lariat that I would get you for that if it was the last thing I did. Well, I’m keeping my word. Take him, boys!”
Bob glimpsed the arm which projected itself through the doorway, felt the stab of a gun barrel in his ribs. He pivoted on his right heel, brushing the barrel of the gun toward the wall as he did so. The weapon exploded, but the bullet did not even touch him. Grasping the extended arm, he jerked its owner clear into the room, smashed him on the jaw with a sweeping left that sent him crashing into the far side of the door frame.
Instantly he whirled again to face Haslam, snatched the gun from its holster and flung a hasty shot at Duke; but the owner of the Paris had ducked beneath the table, and the slug did no more than shower him with splinters.
Bob wheeled as another man came running through the doorway, almost colliding with him. Instinctively their arms went about each other, and they staggered across the floor, each attempting to get his gun to bear and at the same time avoid being shot himself.
Boots pounded the veranda floor, confused yells came from the direction of the bunkhouse. They fell over a chair, broke it to fragments, crashed to the floor. Gripping the fellow’s gun wrist, Bob pushed himself to his knees and flung another shot toward the table which protected Haslam.
A heavy body struck him from behind, and a muscular arm went about his neck and tightened. Bob staggered to his feet, bent swiftly, and catapulted the attacker clear over his head. The fellow struck a book case and collapsed in a shower of glass. Another grabbed Bob from behind—a fourth. Haslam was shouting, “Shoot the son!” Somebody replied, pantingly, “Careful! You’ll hit one of us!”
Bob felt his gun arm seized and cruelly twisted. Involuntarily his fingers released their grip and the weapon thudded to the floor. He shook himself desperately, and by sheer physical force staggered across the floor dragging them with him. His eyes were on the contorted face of Duke Haslam peering over the table top. If only he could live until he had his fingers around that soft throat!
Two more men joined the fray, and Bob was dragged away from the table. Fists thudded into his face, his feet were swept from beneath him by a tangle of human legs. He fell to his knees. A man yelled, “Now! Sock him!” A gun barrel struck him a glancing blow on the head and he fell face down on the floor.
The period of unconsciousness was short. When he opened his eyes he was still on the floor and somebody was kicking him in the side.
“Get up, damn you!” came the frenzied voice of Duke Haslam. “Get up and take it like a man!”
Bob rolled over weakly. Instantly rough hands seized him and he was jerked to his feet. He stood there, giddy and swaying, while they held him.
“Stand him against the wall!” cried Haslam, and Bob was half-pushed, half-carried to one side of the big stone fireplace. They spun him about and thrust his shoulders against the wall, then drew off leaving him to find his balance and support himself by palms pressed flat against the rough plaster.
Haslam was walking back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The cigar was gone, and his lips were pressed tightly together. He looked and acted like a crazy man.
“By jacks, Bob Lee, you’ve raised hell for the last time! I swore I’d get you, and I’ve got you now! Your back’s to the wall, right where I want it. I’ll show you who’s judge, jury, and executioner! Pass me that shotgun.”
Bob glanced about him. There didn’t seem to be a chance in the world for him. Haslam was mad; utterly mad. The six men were scattered about the room, each with a gun in his hand. Their faces were hard, merciless, drawn in savage anticipation. One of them handed Duke a shotgun.
On the floor a dozen feet away lay Bob’s Colt. It had fallen under the shattered remains of the chair. It might just as well have been left in Lariat; they could hit him ten times before he could reach it.
Haslam was standing in the middle of the room, the shotgun gripped tightly in his hands. The light from the lamp shone full on his face; his features were distorted with rage and excitement, his eyes glittered, his hands shook so that the muzzle of the gun wobbled jerkily.
Bob found himself thinking of June. It didn’t matter so much about him; without her life would be rather stale at the best. But with Duke Haslam alive she would never be safe. He tensed himself, called upon every bit of reserve strength within him. When Duke started to raise the gun he would dive for the Colt on the floor. They’d get him, of course; all he asked of the Big Judge was that he be allowed to fire one shot into Duke Haslam’s soft stomach before he checked out.
“Judge, jury, and executioner!” Haslam was shrilling. “That’s me! A one-man firing squad. And in the morning your friend, Dick Markley, will kick holes in the atmosphere.”
The hammer of the shotgun clicked as Haslam drew it back to full cock. He started to raise the weapon. Bob gathered himself for the leap.
“Hold it, you double-crossin’ polecat!”
The words brought every one of them up with a jolt. Bob saw Haslam jerk as though a bullet had struck him. Gun hands and bodies froze while heads turned slowly, cautiously, toward the source of the sound.
Bob glanced over Haslam’s shoulder. Standing in the doorway which led to the dining room was Dick Markley.
It was a Dick that Bob had never seen before, unless it was that day in the courtroom. Hewas crouched, cocked gun extended before him, face twisted into a mask of hate. Even while they stared he spoke, his voice low, tense, the words dripping with venom.
“You yellow dog! You’ll hang nobody in the mornin’. I’m sendin’ you where you belong on a one-way ticket, and I’m sendin’ you there tonight!”
The gun flicked upward, steadied; the hammer fell. A futile click!
Instantly Hades broke loose. Duke Haslam wheeled and the shotgun bellowed. Bob dove for the gun on the floor, snatched it up, started shooting. Dick had instantly drawn back the hammer again, and this time the gun did not misfire; but in the meanwhile the six had gotten into action, and Bob saw the boy stagger under the lead which was flung into him. Haslam was down; whether or not he had been hit, Bob did not know.
He himself was kneeling on the floor, shooting under the billowing clouds of smoke. There were but three loaded cartridges in his gun, possibly four in Dick’s. And there were seven men facing them, including Haslam. The whole thing was over in the space it would take a man to count five; a sudden, tremendous holocaust like the explosion of a powder magazine, then silence, dreadful, appalling.
Bob was hit three times, but except for the numbing shock of the bullets he was unaware of it. He threw down and aimed carefully before each shot, and every time one of Haslam’s men fell. A brief glimpse he had of Dick swaying in the doorway, holding to the jamb to keep his feet, eyes slitted, teeth bared, the gun in his hand spewing flame and lead. Suddenly he saw the boy reel, fall heavily. His own gun hammer fell on an empty, and he realized that there were no more targets at which to shoot. He tried to get to his feet, but his head was buzzing and the swirling powder smoke choked him. He had the crazy impression that he could hear hoofbeats. He fell forward, breaking the fall somewhat with arms from which the strength had gone. Felt good to be lying there.... Sleepy ... awfully ... sleepy....
Consciousness returned slowly. As though from a great distance he heard a voice—June’s voice. F
unny. He lay there listening. The voice grew louder; there was a frightened note in its timbre. Then a man spoke. Duke Haslam!
Bob fought upward through the haze. It required the greatest of effort to open his eyes. The room swam about him dizzily, then steadied. In the front doorway stood June Tomlinson, her little thirty-two-twenty extended. Before her was Duke Haslam.
“I tell you to put that gun down and let me out!” snarled Haslam.
“No! If you come a step nearer I’ll shoot! I sweat I will!”
Haslam leaped forward, landed on the balls of his feet, sprang quickly to his right. The little gun barked—missed. Duke leaped again and his clutching left hand caught the barrel of the gun. The girl whimpered with pain as the weapon was wrenched from her hand.
“You damned little wildcat! Now maybe you’ll let me go!”
Like the animal he had called her, she sprang at him. She kicked, she scratched, she drummed a small fist against his heavy face. Duke staggered backwards, hastily threw the gun from him, and seized her. She fought him with the courage of despair, clinging to him, biting the hand which would have throttled her.
Bob pushed himself to his knees, started propelling himself across the floor. His destination was the gun which was clutched in the hand of a dead outlaw. Every forward inch was agony; his arms buckled beneath him, he swayed on all fours like a drunken quadruped.
He reached the gun, took it from the lax fingers which held it. The one arm on which he was supporting himself gave way, and he sprawled on his face. Gathering his strength, he raised the weapon. Curse it! Why couldn’t he hold the thing steady!
He noticed now that another figure was moving on the far side of the room. The fellow was dragging himself over the floor, making for the girl’s gun which Haslam had tossed to one side. Bob removed his gaze, concentrated on the task before him. His voice came in a hoarse croak.
“Haslam! Hands—off—her!”
Even in that tense moment he heard June’s joyous “Bob! Oh, Bob!”
Duke froze, pushed the girl from him as one would rid oneself of a clawing cat. He spun on the balls of his feet, a hand flashing to the hideout holster beneath his left arm. Bob was holding his gun with both hands, two thumbs on the hammer. He saw the flash of Haslam’s short-barreled weapon, drew the hammer back—
A shot rang out on the far side of the room, and Duke Haslam brought up with a start as though something had surprised him. He had not yet leveled his weapon. He never did. For a moment he stood there, his mouth working as if he were trying to speak, then he turned, and as he did, the gun barked again. Duke reeled, stumbled forward a pace or two, then crashed to the floor.
Bob turned his eyes toward the man who had fired the shots. It was Dick Markley. He had struggled to his knees, and Bob saw that he was literally shot to pieces. He was staring toward the doorway, where June leaned weakly against the wall. And as he gazed, the harsh lines on his face slowly vanished, the hot blazing eyes softened, the grim lips curved in a smile that was infinitely tender. His voice came to Bob, panting, hesitant, but with a sort of wistful pride in it.
“June—girl! I—made good—after all—didn’t I?”
Bob saw her run to him, put her arms about him. But Dick’s head had sagged forward, and he was an inert weight in her arms.
And then Bob collapsed too.
CHAPTER XXI
JOSÉ VILLEGAS SINGS
ONCE more Bob awoke to find himself staring at the rafters of a Tumbling T bedroom. It was evening, and a soft breeze swept through the open window. In an adjoining room a guitar was twanging, and a musical voice hummed a Spanish love song. Bob experienced a little thrill when he identified the voice as belonging to Joe Villegas.
“Hey, you black-eyed son of sin, cut that out! You’ll waken Bob.”
Another thrill. That was Deuce speaking.
“Ees tam she wake up,” came the calm answer. “She ees slip all day.”
“Yeah?” came Ace’s drawl. “And who’s got a better right to sleep? You two dudes been doin’ nothin’ but eat and sleep while him and me has been cleanin’ house.”
“Him and who?” inquired Deuce. “Why if they’d ’a’ waited for you to get there the whole outfit would ’a’ died of old age instead of lead poisonin’.”
“Well, I done the best I could. I hadda ride back to see if Miss June had stopped Bob; it wasn’t my fault we got there after the party was over.”
“Huh! You’re just jealous because you didn’t stop no lead so’s Miss June could take care of you.”
“Who’s jealous? Me? Why, you bandy-laiged li’l’ rooster! When you get well, I’ll—”
“No need to wait, you annimated clothes-tree! I’ll climb outa this bed and give you a good workin’ over right now!”
“Señores!” begged Joe. “Wait one moment, plis. I’m jus’ theenk of song Mees June ees sing. Eet ees, ‘Lock’ Een the Stable Weeth the Ship!’ ”
Deuce guffawed. “Oh, my gosh! Locked in the stable with the sheep! That’s ‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,’ you pore lunkhead.”
“Ees no difference; ees same moosic.”
“Oh, no; no difference. I reckon ‘When the Swaller Homeward Flies’ is ‘When We Swaller Homemade Pies’ to you.”
Bob chuckled aloud, heard a little stir beside him.
“Bob!”
A cool little hand found his, clutched it tightly. He turned his head.
“Oh, hello, Miss June. Reckon I’m here to bother you some more.”
“Bob, don’t say that! We’re—all—so glad you are here.”
“It’s nice of you to say that.”
“Bob, listen. A wire came from the Governor this morning. He refuses to accept your resignation!”
He eyed her soberly. “And Dick?”
“Dick is—dead. He died in my arms, smiling. Oh, Bob, wasn’t he noble!”
“Yes.” A great bitterness welled up within him, broke forth in a surge of self-reproach. “June, why did I arrest him! Why didn’t I let him escape from that cabin! I took him from you knowin’ he loved you, knowin’ that you—that you—”
“Loved him?”
Bob’s voice was a whisper. “Yes.”
He realized suddenly that the violet eyes were very close to him and that one slim young arm had slipped beneath the pillow to circle his neck. It startled him; the look on her face sent a sudden joyous surge of blood through his weakened body. He wondered if he had sunk back into unconsciousness, and if this were some delectable dream. Then her face was pressed against his and she was whispering:
“But I didn’t! I didn’t love him! I wanted to help him, to encourage him, for your sake.”
“For my sake! Then—then you—!”
“Oh, Bob, are you blind too? Must I go on confessing to—to every one?”
He knew then that he wasn’t dreaming. One arm was strapped to his side, but with the other he drew her to him. From the room beyond came the twang of the guitar and Joe’s voice raised in song:
“Lock’ een the sta-a-able weeth the shi-i-ip,
I’m knock me dow-w-wn from go to sli-i-ip.”
Bob thought it the sweetest song he had ever heard.
Texas Men Page 19
