She met Barbara and Nip hurrying along the hall. Perhaps they had heard his voice. Lola smiled brightly and her dark eyes glowed. “Bar-ree ees wake op! He ees ask for you; go to heem.”
For an instant Barbara’s face went white; then with a little cry she sped past the girl to Barry’s room. Lola looked up at Nip, and Nip looked down at Lola. In that instant the cowboy knew infinite torture. He saw the smile fade, saw the bright eyes cloud; then she was sobbing convulsively, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, Neep!” she cried brokenly, and swayed towards him.
The big cowboy caught her, held her gently as one would hold a child. When he spoke his voice was husky.
“Don’t cry, honey. Mustn’t let them hear you. Come and lie down. Poor kid, you’re worn to a frazzle.” He led her to Barbara’s room and helped her to the bed. Then he knelt on the floor beside her, smoothed the dark hair back from her brow, tried awkwardly to stay the tears he yearned to kiss away.
Barbara appeared at the doorway. “Nip! What’s wrong with Lola?”
He looked up gravely. “The poor kid’s broke under the strain, Barbara. You better send for the doc; she needs somethin’ to put her to sleep.”
The doctor arrived and shook his head worriedly. Lola was still sobbing, great dry sobs that wrung Nip’s honest heart. The physician administered a sedative and ordered quiet and rest and care.
“She’ll get ’em,” promised Nip. “Barbara, send a man over to the Flyin’ W and tell Tuck to stay there. I’m goin’ to nurse Lola.”
So it was that Nip put in the balance of the two months. He never left the girl for more than a couple of minutes at a time. He slept on a pallet by her bed, abruptly ordering Barbara to the spare bedroom. Lola was delirious for days, and when her mind finally cleared she was pathetically weak and thin.
When she began to recover, Barbara induced Nip to move his bed outside the room and came herself to sleep with the Mexican girl. Remembering the look she had surprised, she never tired of telling Lola how devoted Nip had been. At first this made little impression on Lola, but with the return of a measure of her strength she was able to notice how untiring was Nip in her service, how unselfish in his attempts to help her, how eager to carry out her slightest wish; and in time the dark eyes began to hold a look of wonder, the faintest of smiles came occasionally to her lips, a bit of color to her cheeks.
Meanwhile, Barbara attended to Barry’s wants, a task which lessened with the passing of each day. Once definitely past the crisis he mended rapidly. In a week he was out of bed; in two, he was walking. At the beginning of the fourth week he ventured to ride, and at the end of the month announced his intention of returning to the Flying W.
He spent much time with Lola, holding her hand and talking to her while she lay on the bed and gazed up at him with those soft dark eyes which appeared abnormally large in her pinched face. For Barbara had told him how the girl had saved him and nursed him back to life. The telling was hard, but Barbara was honest and fair-minded, and the story came from her heart. She had learned to love the little Mexican girl, and to her credit be it said that Lola’s past life could not prejudice her. Love had purged Lola, and Barbara, being a woman, saw and understood.
Barry did not remain long at the Flying W. His mother, despite the setback she had experienced through worry over her son’s injury, steadily improved. Nip and Tuck had taken jealous care of her, letting the range work go for the time being, and the absence of Chet Lewis undoubtedly helped. After reassuring her as to his complete recovery, Barry left for the Cinchbuckle south line cabin. Here it was that Slater had held forth, and somewhere near it he was sure he would find some evidence of that valuable thing of which he was so positive Horace Moley had knowledge.
For a full week he tramped the hills around the cabin, looking for excavations, or cruised the little stream which separated the Cinchbuckle from the Slash B scanning the banks for signs of panning. He found not the slightest man-made hole or the smallest pile of dirt from a gold pan. His search led him to a little marshy depression in the middle of which was a pool of stagnant water. He sat wearily on a log and gazed absently at the green-scummed surface of the pond. Not a sign of Slater’s activities had he found; could it be that his guess was a poor one after all? The place stank, and he finally got up and returned to the cabin.
He was eating his supper when Tuck entered. The cowboy was laboring under some repressed excitement, and waved aside Barry’s invitation to join him in his meal.
“Sam Hodge is back,” he announced tersely.
Barry shrugged and went on with his eating. “I’ll bet he didn’t bring Tug Groody with him.”
“No; but he brung a friend of yours and of mine—Clement Dawn.”
Barry raised his head to stare. “Clement Dawn!”
“Yeah. Got him locked in the calaboose right now. How in time did he find where Clement was when even Barbara didn’t know? Or did she?”
“She did. I told her; but I haven’t told another soul, not even you and Nip.”
“It’s a safe bet she told Clay, and Clay’s been in Mescal with Steve Moley and his crowd on one drunk after another.”
“Clay is weak, but he’d never betray his own brother.”
“Huh. Well, anyhow Clem’s in the jug with a murder charge hangin’ over him.”
Barry’s appetite suddenly vanished. “I’m goin’ to town.”
Tuck wanted to accompany him, but Barry ordered him to the Flying W. It was dark when he reached Mescal, and he went directly to the sheriff’s office.
“No, you can’t see him,” said Sam Hodge. “Nobody can but his lawyer—if he gits one. He’s bein’ held for murder.”
“He’ll have a lawyer, the best money can hire,” Barry told him, and left for the Palace. Here the conversation dealt almost exclusively with Sam and his exploit. Jeff Hope and Harry Webb were at the bar talking for the benefit of any who might care to listen.
“That’s a sample of the protection we git in this Basin,” Webb declared. “Sam Hodge goes traipsin’ off to Wyomin’ after a boy who did the community a favor by rubbin’ out a paid gunman, leavin’ our range open for two months to Tug Groody and his outfit. And us thinkin’ he’s on a still hunt for Tug! I tell you we need a sheriff that ain’t afraid to go after that jigger and run him ragged. It can be done, and Matt Billings is the man to do it.”
Barry heard the muttering and saw the nods of agreement which greeted this statement. Evidently Hodge’s action had not elevated him in the eyes of the citizens of Mescal Basin. Clement had never been a menace; Tug Groody was an ever present one. And election was but three days off.
Horace Moley, seated with Steve in an obscure corner, saw and heard it all. His long face did not change expression, and he sipped at his Scotch and soda thoughtfully. It was time, he decided, for the bold stroke. Tug had defied him by stealing from the Slash B; Tug had failed to remove Barry Weston; Tug knew that Horace was the prime factor behind the cattle thefts. In a word, Tug, once a valuable asset, now stood out on the balance sheet as a hugh liability.
“You hear ’em?” whispered Steve. “They’ll elect Billings yet.”
His father permitted himself a thin smile. “Wait for me here, Stevie,” he said briefly, and left the place.
He went directly to the sheriff’s office. Sam Hodge was inside, and waved his visitor to a chair beside the desk. For a short space the lawyer talked, and as he talked Sam’s face brightened and a look of keen anticipation came over his face. Sam had been worrying about that coming election himself.
Half an hour later the sheriff entered the Palace. His head was erect and he could not avoid strutting a bit. A hush fell over the crowd at his appearance, and Sam took advantage. of it by running his eye over the assemblage and uttering a terse order.
“Steve, git what Slash B men are in town and come to my office. Jeff, you and Harry Webb come too.” He indicated several other men. “All of you git your horses and come ahumpin’. I
jest got a tip on where Tug Groody hides out. We’re gain’ after him and we’re stayin’ until we git him.”
Shortly thereafter they swept out of Mescal, twelve determined men all spoiling for a fight. Tug, by stealing from the Slash B, had alienated his one-time friends on that spread; Jeff Hope and Harry Webb, although skeptical, were anxious to come to grips with the outlaw. And Sam Hodge had a soft and lucrative job at stake.
Barry was one of the crowd which watched their departure. Taking advantage of the sheriff’s absence, he rode to the rear of the jail and stopped beneath a barred cell window. By raising in his stirrups he could peer through the opening. A man, stretched out on the iron cot, raised himself at Barry’s soft greeting. He sprang from the bed, eager face turned towards the window.
“Barry!” They gripped hands through the grating.
“Hodge wouldn’t let me see you. Just wanted to tell you that we aim to beat this case. I’ll get the best lawyer I can find, and we’ll take it clear to the Supreme Court if we have to.”
“Barry, before God it’s a frameup. Cal Garth was waitin’ for me behind the Palace when I went after my horse. He stumbled into me like he was drunk, and when I pushed him away he started cussin’ me. Barry, he called me somethin’ no man can call me and live to brag about. We shot it out. It was an even break, and I killed him. It was your case all over—no witnesses, and him the pet of the Moleys. I had to run for it.”
“You’re not tellin’ me anything I didn’t guess before, Clem. That’s why I say we’re goin’ to beat this case. It’s all a part of a plot to cripple the Cinchbuckle.” He went on to explain what had happened in the Basin since Clement’s departure, until a sound at the far end of the corridor warned Barry of the turnkey’s approach. With a hurried, “So long, old-timer; keep your chin up!” he reined away.
Early the next morning he rode to the Cinchbuckle. Barbara had heard of Clement’s arrest and was, of course, greatly disturbed.
“I don’t know how they found out,” she said. “I haven’t told a soul, and Clay declares he has never even mentioned Clement’s name.”
“It doesn’t matter now how they found out. They’ve got him, and our job is to prove him innocent. How is Lola?”
“Much better. Poor Nip hovers over her like a hen with one chick. Barry, I believe he’s in love with Lola.”
“Who wouldn’t love her?” asked Barry softly. “She’s all wool and a yard and a half wide. I’m gain’ in to see her.”
Barbara did not accompany him, Alonzo J. Frothingham rode up shortly thereafter, and she accepted his invitation to ride. He noticed at once that her gaiety was forced, but attributed it to worry over her brother.
And even as they rode across the rangeland, Sheriff Hodge and his party were riding doggedly among the south hills, following a course which had been mapped out for him by Horace Moley himself. They came at last to a gully into which Sam turned. At the end of another hour he halted them and spoke briefly.
“Accordin’ to my information Tug has his camp at the head of this gulch. You boys wait here while I ride ahead and scout. If you hear me shoot, come on the run.”
He set out alone, riding cautiously; but Sam was no Indian when it came to woodcraft, and his horse was too big and heavy to handle well in the brush. Sam decided to circle the camp in an effort to find a place where he could see without being seen. Putting his horse to the gully bank, he managed to get him to the top. The going was bad, and he twisted and turned so much that he was finally seized with the uncomfortable feeling that he was lost. He pulled to a halt and took his bearings, then forged ahead once more, bearing to his right.
After a while he drew rein to listen, and detected a sound which he decided was the splash and gurgle of water. Horace had told him there was a spring near the camp; was this it? Dismounting, he drew his gun and pushed ahead through the brush. The bushes thinned, and daylight beyond a screen of foliage told of a clearing. He parted the brush and peered out. Before him, within a stone’s throw, was the outlaw camp.
Sam’s heart skipped a beat or two. Instead of circling the camp he had ridden right into it. He had a hasty impression of pasture and huts and corrals, of grazing animals and lounging men, then his eyes were drawn irresistibly to his left and he uttered a soft exclamation of alarm. A man lay at full length on the ground where he had evidently been drinking from the spring. He was staring directly at Sam, moisture dripping from his heavy black beard. The man was Tug Groody.
Had Hodge kept his head, all might have been well; for Tug at first was under the impression that Sam had brought a message from Moley; but Sam had no thought save to get away from there. He turned to run, tripped over some vines and went sprawling, and the gun, which he had cocked, exploded with a roar.
Tug was on his feet in an instant, hand on his Colt, peering about him like a cougar at bay. Following the shot he heard the sound of shouts and the thunder of hoofs as the posse answered what they thought was the signal to charge. Tug’s men were up and running for their horses; but Tug saw that they would never be able to make it. With a snarled oath, he ducked into the brush.
The posse charged straight up the gully and into the outlaw camp. Tug’s men, realizing that they could not escape, turned to shoot it out. The battle was short and sanguinary, and when the smoke cleared five outlaws had paid with their lives for the destruction they had wrought in the Basin.
That night an impatient crowd waited in the Palace for news from the posse. Most of them were skeptical of Hodge’s success, averring that if he captured Tug Groody it would be the first thing he had ever caught besides a cold in the head. Horace Moley waited imperturbably. There was no doubt of the outcome in his mind. Sam knew the exact location of the outlaw camp and had sufficient men with him to wipe out Tug and his whole crew.
He rubbed his hands together and sipped his Scotch complacently. Matt Billings would not realize his ambition to become sheriff this election; with the extinction of Tug Groody to his credit, Sam would be swept into office by popular acclaim.
The listeners heard the swift beat of hoofs outside, and as all turned expectantly towards the swinging doors, they parted to admit the sad-faced Jefferson Hope. Jeff appeared weary from his hard ride, and his long mustaches drooped dismally. They descended on him in a bunch.
“What news, Jeff? Where’s the rest of your outfit?” asked Matt Billings.
“Take it easy, boys,” said Jeff, waving them back. “The news is mostly good, and the rest of the boys are drivin’ in a bunch of rustled stock we found. We ran plumb into Tug’s men and wiped ’em out complete.”
A shout of applause greeted this statement, and Horace Moley’s teeth showed in a grin of triumph.
“Any of our boys hurt?” asked one of the crowd.
Jeff regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, I wouldn’t say he was hurt. I said we tangled with Tug’s men and wiped ’em out complete. That don’t include Tug. He got away on Sam Hodge’s horse. ’Pears like Sam and Tug met in the woods and had a little argyment and Sam stopped one of Tug’s six-gun slugs. Seein’ as it hit him plumb smack between the eyes, I reckon it didn’t have time to hurt.”
“Dead?” gasped Billings.
“Deader’n Christopher Columbus,” said Jeff sadly.
CHAPTER XIII
MATT BUYS A DRINK
THE ELECTION, of course, went to Matt Billings. Three days was too short a time for even a genius like Horace Moley to rally his bewildered followers and put the heavy political machine back in gear.
“We’ll have to get along without a sheriff,” Horace told Steve testily. “Fortunately we’re within sight of our goal, and when we’ve reached it we won’t care who is in office.”
“We’ve been in sight of that goal for months,” replied Steve surlily, “but it don’t seem any nearer to me now than it was at the beginnin’. When Al Frothingham calls them notes he’ll be lynched. Public opinion won’t stand for a deal like that after the promises he’s made to renew them. And the ne
w sheriff is one of the note holders. Looks to me like a lot of grief ahead.”
Moley cackled. “You seem reluctant to leave things to me, don’t you, Stevie? I haven’t failed you yet, have I?”
“You failed to get Barry Weston.”
“We all failed there. But we have just eliminated two men who knew things. Tug Groody won’t come back to talk, and Sam can’t.”
“You sure you got those ranchers hooked for enough?”
“Plenty. Matt and Jeff borrowed ten thousand each, and Harry Webb has since added another five thousand to the original five. Most of it went into improvements and the payment of accumulated debts. Bascomb has been carrying them for over two years, you know. They’ve all sold pretty close, and the drought and rustling has cut them to the bone. No; what stock they have left will never cover the loans. The bank will have to close them out.”
“And the Cinchbuckle?”
“In the bag, my boy. Barbara borrowed seven thousand, and Clay has gambled away another three. In addition, the four thousand they got for their unmortgaged stock was—shall we say lost? in that poker game. The girl put up cattle for collateral, but Clay’s notes will have to be met.”
“What do you aim to do with Clement?”
“Convict him,” snapped Moley harshly. “I owe that girl a little debt which I intend to pay. If, by some miracle, she should be able to raise enough to cover Clay’s notes, I’ll trade his life for the Cinchbuckle.”
His long face had gone hard. Steve looked at him and nodded. This sire of his certainly had everything sewed up—everything but the Flying W.
“There still remains Weston.”
Horace frowned. “Yes. Frankly, I’m afraid of him. He’s the monkey wrench in the machinery. He broke up the rustling game, and I have a hunch he tipped Barbara off to the blackmailing. He wiggled out of your trap, and got away from Tug. He’s too lucky to suit me. But he isn’t bullet proof, and we should have somebody handy enough with a gun to polish him off.”
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 12
