by T. T. Flynn
Doc Cloud considered. "So Nelse still wants to buy?"
"Made me another offer yesterday. Told me he knew the values had petered out."
"Funny that he still wants to buy the mine."
"The vein is around there somewhere. He must be willin' to gamble on findin' it. And so am I, Doc. But I ain't got much to gamble on. When I'm cleaned, I'll have to sell."
"Halliday's price'll be mighty slim then," guessed Doc Cloud, He poured another drink and shook his head. "Halliday isn't going to stop until he winds up owning Lodeville ... and God help us then."
Five nights later Nelse Halliday came to the roulette table. His face was flushed. He had, Shorty guessed, been drinking.
Halliday's manner was ugly as he shaped a stack of gold pieces with long, nervous fingers. Men saw him and moved to the table to watch. The smoke haze over the wheel was suddenly charged with expectancy. The stacks of silver dollars, the gold pieces, the bills, and the little spinning ball were not the gamble. Trouble was in the air.
The wheel had no winning numbers for Halliday tonight. His gold pieces and chips ran out. He scrawled a check and bought more. But when he threw down the first two $50 chips, he reached out abruptly and drew them back.
"I want another man at the wheel," he stated loudly.
Men back of Halliday began to crowd away. Ben Greer looked unhappy. You couldn't handle Halliday like one of the miners on Halliday's payroll.
"Get your bets down, men ..." said Shorty.
Halliday pitched a gold piece across the wheel. "Here's twenty dollars to get out where I can't see you. I think you're crooked."
Shorty let the gold piece bounce to the floor. Halliday's gun arm was rigid as he stood, glaring. "Crooked ... you sabe?" Halliday gritted. "An' I think you're a liar, too."
Shorty stared at him silently.
A sneer spread on Halliday's face. "I heard you were going to pull a gun on the first man who called you a liar."
"You're drunk," said Shorty bleakly. "But if you weren't drunk, I still wouldn't call you. I don't want any trouble with you, mister. And you can take it any way you like. Are you satisfied?"
Halliday's eyes narrowed, but he smiled with satisfaction. "I figured it was time somebody showed you up. If you ain't out of town by morning, I'll run you down the street. Drinks are on me, men!"
Ben Greer's face was a study as the crowd surged toward the bar. He spoke from the side of his mouth, not looking at Shorty. "What'n hell's wrong?"
"Nothin'," said Shorty. "Take the game. I've quit."
"Hell's fire ... you're lettin' him run you outta town?"
"It figures up to that, I guess. So long, Ben. And good luck."
Shorty Burgess went outside. Down the street, the lights of the Gunsight Bar seemed to beam forth a welcome....
Pop Marcy spoke scornfully across the Gunsight bar. "So you're lettin' Nelse Halliday run you off? I had you figured different. Your thanks for takin' you in ain't called for. I'd have done the same to a crippled dog." Pop searched Shorty's expressionless face. "Maybe," said Pop hopefully, "you're aimiri to get that arm well an' come back an' tackle Nelse."
"I won't be back this way," said Shorty.
"Nope, I reckon not. If you was man enough to tackle Nelse, you'd have done it tonight."
Pop reached angrily to set out the bar bottle. The news had spread faster than Shorty had been able to collect his pay and get over to the Gunsight.
A man at the bar sneered: "You better get goin', Burgess. Halliday told over in the Thirty-Deep that you're due for a surprise. Maybe he's comiri after you tonight. Better get your sights on the back door."
Shorty filled his glass in silence. His hand was unsteady. He was lifting the glass just when the front door opened.
A man stepped in, and two others followed at his heels. Shorty threw his usual quick look at them.
Pop Marcy and every man at the bar froze in surprise.
Shorty leaped away from the bar, dropping the whiskey glass. His gun flashed out. His crashing shot dropped the first man inside the door. The stranger's gun drove a bullet into the wall as he doubled up and fell. He'd been drawing before Shorty moved-and had been outshot.
Men were diving to safety. Pop Marcy leaned against the back edge of the bar with his eyes bulging.
Shorty Burgess was backing calmly toward the door at the rear of the bar. His splinted arm was still in the black silk sling. A faint smile was on his face. And the big new Colt he had bought with his first pay blasted at the two bearded strangers.
Pop Marcy ducked as a wild bullet from the front smashed the bar bottle into a geyser of flying glass and whiskey.
The first man was still down, shooting from the floor. His two companions had dodged to each side of the door-and now all three were emptying their guns.
Shorty's gun clicked empty. He kicked open the door behind him and vanished.
Someone yelled: "Stop him! He holed that fellow without any cause!"
Pop Marcy came up with a sawed-off shotgun to challenge anyone who followed. But the two strangers still on their feet were reloading hurriedly and making no move to go after their man.
"What the hell's the idea?" yelled Pop.
"We're deputies with a warrant for that man. He's Clee Anderson, wanted for a killing. It'll take a posse now."
"It'll take more'n a posse if the three of you couldn't do it in here," retorted Pop sarcastically.
The big white snowflakes fell silently. Above the snow clouds the moon was full. Twin plumes of white vapor spurted from the nostrils of Shorty's running horse. The soft snow muted its gallop into an almost soundless throb.
Southwest, three days' ride, was the border. Shorty's splinted arm was awkward, but not painful. Gold was in the money belt next to his skin. The fresh snow would quickly cover his tracks.
Shorty grinned to himself as he turned west off the valley road. He had come south out of Lodeville, angling west toward the lower valley. If the posse missed his turn off, he'd have no more trouble. If they stuck to his tracks, there'd be another gunfight. And a one-armed man with a rifle in open country was not much good. This had been due to happen. He'd been a fool, he reckoned, to wait around Lodeville, and because he knew why he had waited, Shorty swore at himself.
Midnight was not far off. The new snow was inch es deep. Ahead, the foothills still rolled down toward the lower valley. Trees were thinning out. Low junipers loomed, dark and symmetrical, under the fretwork of snow. Then the horse stopped abruptly. A wire fence barred the way.
Shorty dismounted, pulled enough staples to let the wires drop, led the horse across, and hammered back the staples with his wire cutters. You didn't leave a man's fence down if there was time to fix it.
A mile farther on, the ground fell away into a brush-rimmed draw, and a horse nickered close by as Shorty rode down the slope. Shorty reined sharply and drew his gun.
The other horse nickered again. A moment later it nosed cautiously through the falling snow, and Shorty grinned with relief. He lifted the reins and, peering hard, rode toward it as it turned away. The stirrups of an empty saddle flopped out as the horse retreated in a limping run.
Shorty caught it after a short dash He whistled soundlessly as he pulled it up by a rein.
Snow whitened the saddle. The reins had been knotted over the saddle horn. A rifle was in the saddle boot. Shorty leaned over, and found a deep ugly furrow in the horse's flank. A bullet had done that.
The horse stood listlessly. Over to the right a small cabin loomed darkly through the drifting snow, and other horses nickered beyond it.
Behind the cabin, Shorty found three more horses in a small pole corral. The cabin was dark. Snow had drifted against the door. This meant trouble to any man's eyes.
Shorty dismounted. His horse, standing with front legs braced, was eyeing a spot some yards to the left. There Shorty found a snow-covered man. The man was sprawled on his face, holster empty. The gun was probably somewhere close by, under the snow.
The rifle in the saddle boot told its story.
This man had been shot out of the saddle without warning. The horse, burned by a bullet, had run to safety, and wandered back.
Shorty turned the body over. One eye was frozen shut; the other was wide and staring. A match limned an angular stubble-covered face that Shorty had seen before. He thought back. This man had come to Pop Marcy's house with a message. He was a ranch hand from Pop Marcy's JP Ranch. Shorty swore. This must be Pop Marcy's ranch.
Shorty rolled a cigarette with one hand. The snow drifted down on the dead man's stiff face while Shorty smoked.
This was not Seguro Creek, where Pop Marcy's foreman and men could be found. This was a line cabin on the edge of Pop Marcy's ranch. The drifting snow was as white as Pop Marcy's hair, as white as Pop Marcy's heart. And a dead line rider meant trouble for an old man who had trouble enough now-if talk in Lodeville of the Gunsight Mine could be believed. Pop was back in Lodeville and a posse was scouring the country between. It would be a fool thing to try to turn back.
Shorty dragged the body into the cabin, away from prowling coyotes. He took the reins of the dead man's horse and led it as he rode west, across the wide sweep of Pop Marcy's range.
Two hours before dawn the snow stopped. As the first pale light tinted the lowering clouds, Shorty skirted a pasture fence to a wire gate. Beyond the gate a little-used road led northwest, where Seguro Creek and the ranch house must be.
He was on that winding road as the gray light brightened. The snow was smooth ahead; far back toward Lodeville his tracks would be covered. The limping horse followed with drooping head. Shorty was half asleep, off guard as he rode around the base of a low hill.
"Pull up, feller! Don't move!"
The speaker was hidden by the brush up the slope. Shorty stopped-and three men broke out of the brush, rifles cocked. Shorty had seen two of them in town.
The first man called: "So you headed this way? Where'd you get that hoss?"
"Found him at one of the line cabins," said Shorty briefly. "There's a dead man at the cabin. I'm headin' to Marcy's ranch house to leave word."
The first man was tall and lanky; at his heels was a stocky, wide-faced man, and the two of them were trailed by a smaller man, about Shorty's size, who called: "That's Sam's black horse! Sam must be dead!"
The wide-faced man glowered as he stopped beside the road. "It ain't hard to tell who killed Sam."
The lanky man moved his rifle. "Keep them hands up! We'll take you back to Lodeville, Anderson!"
"Someone," said Shorty, "must've been out from Lodeville. I don't reckon it'd help to tell you three you're makiri one hell of a mistake."
The lanky man grinned sourly. "It won't," he said. "Let's go back to the house first, boys. Maybe some of the posse'll be back by then. Get a rope around this hombre's neck, Tex, just in case he feels frisky."
They came to Seguro Creek with the rope looped around Shorty's neck and a man flanking him on each side. Gray smoke plumes rose above the Seguro Creek ranch buildings. Two windmills, corrals, and outbuildings were on the wide grassy flat beside the cold current of Seguro Creek.
Pop Marcy stepped out of the ranch house as they rode up. Consternation was on Pop's face.
"What'n hell have you men gone an' done?" Pop called. "I sent you to that line cabin ... not to look for Shorty Burgess!"
Lannigan's reply rasped on the still morning air: "We caught him with Sam's hoss. He kilt Sam last night."
Pop spat in the trampled snow. His white eyebrows drew in a scowl. "If Burgess kilt Sam, I'll bet he had a reason. Git that rope off his neck. Come inside, Burgess, before some of that damn' posse drifts back an' sees you. Lannigan, put them horses away. Tell the boys to forget anyone rode in here this morning."
But as they walked into the house, Shorty saw that Pop looked haggard and old. In the steaming ranch kitchen, Pop ordered an old Chinaman to start bacon, eggs, and flapjacks, and poured hot coffee.
"Set ... an' talk," ordered Pop curtly.
Between gulps of the steaming coffee, Shorty told of his find at the line cabin. Pop stirred sugar into his coffee and stared over the cup.
"An' you headed over here to get word to me? Son, you make me feel ashamed. I ain't askin' why you throwed a gun on them jaspers in Lodeville. I've lived long enough to know a man has a reason when he cuts loose like you did last night. I tagged out with the posse to see if I could tangle your trail. They lost it ... an' come over this way on a chance you might have headed over here to hide out." Pop drank from the cup, put it down, and sighed. "We met one of my men headin' into Lodeville. He told me we've been rustled so clean here on the ranch that the spring tally won't be worth botherin' about. Perry Jack, over at the north line camp, is missin'. I sent the boys out to see about Sam. I been runnin' the ranch short-handed lately to save money. It's busted me, I guess. I lose the mine, the Gunsight Bar, an' the ranch here as soon as the word gets out. I been borrowin' too heavy against the ranch." Pop swore softly as he lifted the cup again. "On top of that, it had to snow," he growled.
"You couldn't track a railroad engine off the place after this snow," Shorty agreed.
Pop rolled a smoke. "Son, how long had Sam been dead?"
"Hard to tell. Maybe a day or two. Maybe more. The ground was clean under him."
Pop muttered: "Cattle started then an' hazed along smart might be two jumps from the border by now. If they get acrost the valley into the breaks, an army couldn't find 'em in time to stop 'em."
Pop looked at the smoke-blackened tree trunks that held up the ceiling. He spoke absently. "I helped a Mexican put them vigas up there. This room was the first house. My wife was livin' in a tent back where the bunkhouse is. Some of her was built into this room. She meant a heap to me. We both worked hard to build something. She'd hate to see it go to the bank now ... which means young Nelse Halliday. Everything we had we worked hard for. It was part of us. We built somethin'. Young Halliday don't know what that means. Everything's been handed to him on a gold platter. Son, someday you'll know the difference."
The Chinaman put down a platter of eggs and bacon. Shorty pushed the food aside. "Where are those rannihans I shot it out with?"
"With the posse, son. Two of them. The other's dead. The warrant they're carryin' says you murdered a deputy sheriff. They claim your name is Clee Anderson."
"Yeah. Burgess was my mother's name. It's good enough. They were tailing me close when I doubled back an' headed over the mountain to Lodeville. I figured sooner or later they'd look Lodeville over. I shouldn't've stayed. Six of them caught up with me over near the head of the Black River. I stood 'em off until my guns were about empty, an' got away after dark. I bought some cartridges an' a fresh horse at a ranch. Spent all my money there. An' I wasn't a mile away from the ranch, up at the edge of the timber, when I saw 'em ridin' in after me. I had an idea then they'd be followin' me until hell froze over. The curly wolf I killed was one of the bunch. He drew on me when he thought I wasn't looking."
"Only three of them showed up at Lodeville, son, an' you fixed one."
"There's three more around somewhere," said Shorty without hesitation. "That bunch always hangs together. That's why I headed for the border last night. One man ain't enough to stand off a bunch of cow-thievin' killers that are on his tracks until they get him. The odds are too much to buck."
"Cow thieves?"
Shorty stared across the table. "The Blake bunch are bad hombres. I guess they were deputized to follow me just to get 'em outta that country. I've been wonderin' myself ever since you said your beef was gone."
"Show me a wolf track, son, an' I'll look for a kill."
Shorty nodded, and muttered: "These tracks are mixed up. I've been waitin' in Lodeville for them to show up. When they walked into the Gunsight, they came with their guns ready. They knew I was in there. They were heeled to gun me on sight. But if they'd just ridden into Lodeville, how'd they know I was there? How'd they know I was in the Gunsight right then? No
ne of them ever knew I might call myself Burgess."
'That's somethin' to think about, son."
"Nelse Halliday spread the word I was due for a surprise last night. He seemed to know something ... like he might've known that bunch was around." Shorty rolled another cigarette and leaned back in his chair, staring at Pop. "Nelse Halliday has been wantin' to buy your mine. Halliday owns most of the bank where you been borrowin' against your ranch. If your beef was to vanish, the bank'd get your ranch ... an' Halliday'd get your mine."
"Son, do you think Halliday knows where my beef went?"
"If I knew why Halliday wanted your pinchedout mine so bad, I'd have a better idea," said Shorty. "Your cattle ain't been gone too long. If some of the Blake bunch made a quick roundup an' started a drive for the border, those three wouldn't have been in Lodeville last night. They'd have gone to the border with the beef, an' come back later. But if the rest of their bunch is around these parts, they must've been busy last night ... or they'd have been in Lodeville helpin' look for me. If the posse doesn't find me, an' Orey Blake an' the skunk with him rides back to Lodeville with the posse, those two oughta be headin' out quick somewhere. If they were followed, there'd be a chance of findin' where the rest of the Blake bunch is."
The tall gaunt Lannigan entered the kitchen. "What are we gonna do about Sam?" he wanted to know.
"Sam's dead an' froze," replied Pop. "He'll keep for a little. Burgess is gonna sleep here today, an' head out tonight. If you see any of the posse an' let it out, you can pack your roll an' ride."
Lannigan shrugged. "That's plain enough."
"It better be," warned Pop. "Get a wagon an' a couple of the boys to carry Sam's body to Lodeville. I'll get some sleep myself, an' come on into town tonight."
Lannigan left.
Pop stood up. "I reckon you won't have any trouble gettin' away to the border tonight, son."
Shorty nodded. His voice went husky. "I'd most forgot there were old-timers like you left, mister."
'tit outside them eggs an' turn in," Pop ordered gruffly. "You got a heap of ridin' to do tonight."
