by Max Brand
When he saw Bard scramble up the opposite bank he knew that his game was lost and all the tables reversed, for the Easterner was a full two hours closer to the home of Drew than he was, with the necessary detour up to the ford. The Easterner might be delayed by the unknown country for a time, but not very long. He was sure to meet someone who would point the way. It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot down the piebald mustang.
The next instant he was racing straight up the river toward the ford. The roan was not spared this day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew ranch, and now it was all important that the big grey man be warned; for there was a danger in that meeting, as Nash was beginning to feel.
By noon he reached the house and went straight to the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud to the eyes, a three days’ growth of whiskers blackening his face, and that face gaunt with the long, hard riding. He found the imperturbable Drew deep in a book in his office. While he was drawing breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile.
“I thought this would be the end of it,” he announced.
“The devil and all hell plays on the side of Bard,” answered the foreman. “I had him safe—almost tied hand and foot. He got away.”
“Got away?”
“Shot the rope in two.”
The other placed a book-mark, closed the volume, and looked up with the utmost serenity.
“Try again,” he said quietly. “Take half a dozen men with you, surprise him in the night—”
“Surprise a wolf,” growled Nash. “It’s just the same.”
The shaggy eyebrows stirred.
“How far is he away?”
“Two or three miles—maybe half a dozen—I don’t know. He’ll be here before night.”
The big man changed colour and gripped the edge of the desk. Nash had never dreamed that it would be possible to so stir him.
“Coming here?”
“Yes.”
“Nash—you infernal fool! Did you let him know where you were taking him?”
“No. He was already on the way here.”
Once more Drew winced. He rose now and strode across the room and back; from the wall the heavy echo of his footfall came sharply back. And he paused in front of Nash, looming above his foreman like some primitive monster, or as the Grecian heroes loomed above the rank and file at the siege of Troy. He was like a relic of some earlier period when bigger men were needed for a greater physical labour.
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know. Says he wants to ask for the right of hunting on your old place on the other side of the range. Which I’d tell a man it’s jest a lie. He knows he can hunt there if he wants to.”
“Does he know me?”
“Just your name.”
“Did he ask many questions about me?”
“Wanted to know what you looked like.”
“And you told him?”
“A lot of things. Said you were big and grey. And I told him that story about you and John Bard.”
Drew slumped into a chair and ground the knuckles of his right hand across his forehead. The white marks remained as he looked up again.
“What was that?”
“Why, how you happened to marry Joan Piotto and how Bard left the country.”
“That was all?”
“Is there any more, sir?”
The other stared into the distance, overlooking the question.
“Tell me what you’ve found out about him.”
“I been after him these three days. Logan tipped him wrong, and he started the south trail for Eldara. I got on his trail three times and couldn’t catch him till we hit Eldara.”
“I thought your roan was the most durable horse on the range, Steve. You’ve often told me so.”
“He is.”
“But you couldn’t catch—Bard?”
“He was on a faster horse than mine—for a while.”
“Well? Isn’t he now?’
“I killed the horse.”
“You showed your hand, then? He knows you were sent after him?”
“No, he thinks it’s because of a woman.”
“Is he tangling himself up with some girl?” frowned the rancher.
“He’s cutting in on me with Sally Fortune—damn his heart!”
And Nash paled visibly, even through whiskers and mud. The other almost smiled.
“So soon, Nash?”
“With hosses and women, he don’t lose no time.”
“What’s he done?”
“The first trace I caught of him was at a shack of an old ranchhouse where he’d traded his lame hoss in. They gave him the wildest mustang they had—a hoss that was saddle-shy and that hadn’t never been ridden. He busted that hoss in—a little piebald mustang, tougher ’n iron—and that was why I didn’t catch him till we hit Eldara.”
The smile was growing more palpable on the face of Drew, and he nodded for the story to continue.
“Then I come to a house which was all busted up because Bard had come along and flirted with the girl, and she’s got too proud for the feller she was engaged to—begun thinkin’ of millionaires right away, I s’pose.
“Next I tracked him to Flanders’s saloon, where he’d showed up Sandy Ferguson the day before and licked him bad. I seen Ferguson. It was sure some lickin’.”
“Ferguson? The gun-fighter? The two-gun man?”
“Him.”
“Ah-h-h!” drawled the big man.
The colour was back in his face. He seemed to be enjoying the recountal hugely.
“Then I hit Eldara and found all the lights out.”
“Because of Bard?”
“H-m! He’d had a run-in with Butch Conklin, and Butch threatened to come back with all his gang and wipe Eldara off the map. He stuck around and while he was waitin’ for Butch and his gang, he started flirtin’ with Sally—Fortune.”
The name seemed to stick in his throat and he had to bring it out with a grimace. “So now you want his blood, Nash?”
“I’ll have it,” said the cowpuncher quietly, “I’ve got gambler’s luck. In the end I’m sure to win.”
“You’re not going to win here, Nash.”
“No?” queried the younger man, with a dangerous intonation.
“No. I know the blood behind that chap. You won’t win here. Blood will out.”
He smote his great fist on the desk-top and his laugh was a thunder which reverberated through the room.
“Blood will out? The blood of John Bard?” asked Nash.
Drew started.
“Who said John Bard?”
He grew grey again, the flush dying swiftly. He started to his feet and repeated in a great voice, sweeping the room with a wild glance: “Who said John Bard?”
“I thought maybe this was his son,” answered Nash.
“You’re a fool! Does he look like John Bard? No, there’s only one person in the world he looks like.”
He strode again up and down the room, repeating in a deep monotone: “John Bard!”
Coming to a sharp halt he said: “I don’t want the rest of your story. The point is that the boy will be here within—an hour—two hours. We’ve got work to do before that time.”
“Listen to me,” answered the foreman, “don’t let him get inside this house. I’d rather take part of hell into a house of mine. Besides, if he sees me—”
“He’s coming here, but he’s not going to see either of us—my mind is made up—neither of us until I have him helpless.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE COMEDY SETTING
“Dead, you mean,” broke in Nash, “because otherwise he’ll never be helpless.”
“I tell you, Nash,” said the other solemnly, “I can make him helpless with one minute of talk. My problem is to keep that wild devil harmless while he listens to me talk. Another thing—if he ever sees me, nothing _but_ death will stop him from coming at my throat.
”
“Speakin’ personal,” said the other coldly, “I never take no chances on fellers that might come at my throat.”
“I know; you’re for the quick draw and the quick finish. But I’d rather die myself than have a hair of his head hurt. I mean that!”
Nash, his thoughts spinning, stood staring blankly.
“I give up tryin’ to figure it out; but if he’s comin’ here and you want to keep him safe I’d better take a fresh hoss and get twenty miles away before night.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind; you’ll stay here with me.”
“And face him without a gun?” asked the other incredulously.
“Leave gun talk out of this. I think one of the boys looks a little like me. Lawlor—isn’t that his name?”
“Him? Yes; a little bit like you—but he’s got his thickness through the stomach and not through the chest.”
“Never mind. He’s big, and he’s grey. Send for him, and get the rest of the boys in here. They’re around now for noon. Get _every_ one. Understand? And make it fast.”
In ten minutes they came to the office in a troop—rough men, smooth men, little and big, fat and thin, but good cattlemen, every one.
“Boys,” said Drew, “a tenderfoot is coming to the ranch to-day. I’m going to play a few jokes on him. First of all, I want you to know that until the stranger leaves the house, Lawlor is going to take my place. He is going to be Drew. Understand?”
“Lawlor?” broke out several of them, and turned in surprise to a big, cheerful man—grey, plump, with monstrous white whiskers.
“Because he looks a bit like me. First, you’ll have to crop those whiskers, Lawlor.”
He clutched at the threatened whiskers with both hands.
“Crop ’em? Chief, you ain’t maybe runnin’ me a bit?”
“Not a bit,” said Drew, smiling faintly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“It took me thirty years to raise them whiskers,” said the cattleman, stern with rebuke. “D’you think I could be _hired_ to give ’em up? It’s like givin’ up some of myself.”
“Let them go, then. You can play the part, whiskers and all. The rest of you remember that Lawlor is the boss.”
“And brand that deep,” growled Lawlor, looking about with a frown.
He had already stepped into his part; the others laughed loudly.
“Steady there!” called Drew. “Lawlor starts as boss right now. Cut out the laughing. I’ll tell the rest of you what you’re to do later on. In the meantime just step out and I’ll have a talk with Lawlor on his part. We haven’t much time to get ready. But remember—if one of you grins when Lawlor gives an order—I’m done with that man—that’s all.”
They filed out of the room, looking serious, and Drew concentrated on Lawlor. “This sounds like a joke,” he began, “but there’s something serious about it. If you carry it through safely, there’s a hundred in it for you. If you fall down, why, you fall out of an easy place on this ranch.”
The big cattleman wiped a growing perspiration from his forehead and considered his boss with plaintive eyes.
“This tenderfoot who’s coming is green to the range, but he’s a hard man; a fine horseman, a sure shot, and a natural fighter. More than that, he’s coming here looking for trouble; and he’ll expect to get the trouble from you.”
Lawlor brushed his moustache anxiously.
“Let someone else take the job—that’s all. A hundred ain’t to be picked up every week, but I’ll do without it. In my day I’ve done my share of brawlin’ around, but I’m too stiff in the joints to make a fast draw and getaway now. Let Nash take this job. He’s gun-fighter enough to handle this bad-man for you.”
“No,” said Drew, “not even Nash can handle this one.”
“Then”—with a mighty and explosive emphasis—“there ain’t no possible use of me lingering around the job. S’-long.”
“Wait. This young chap isn’t going to murder you. I’ll tell you this much. The man he wants is I; but he knows my face, not my name. He’s been on the trail of that face for some time, and now he’s tracking it to the right house; but when he sees you and hears you called Drew, he’ll be thrown off again.”
The other nodded gloomily.
“I’m by way of a lightning rod. This tenderfoot with the hard hand, he strikes and I sort of conduct the shock away from anything that’ll burn, eh?”
Drew overlooked the comment.
“There are certain things about me you will have to know.” And he explained carefully the story which Nash had told to Bard.
“This Bard,” asked the cautious Lawlor, “is he any relation of old John Bard?”
“Even if he were, it wouldn’t make your position dangerous. The man he wants is I. He knows my face—not my name. Until he sees me he’ll be perfectly reasonable, unless he’s crossed. You must seem frank and above board. If you tell more lies than are necessary he may get suspicious, and if he grows suspicious the game is up and will have to be finished with a gun play. Remember that. He’ll want to know about Nash. Tell him that Nash is a bad one and that you’ve fixed him; he mustn’t expect to find Nash here.”
Lawlor rubbed his hands, like one coming from the cold outdoors to a warm fire.
“I’m beginning to see light. Lemme at this Bard. I’m going to get enough fun out of this to keep me laughin’ the rest of my life.”
“Good; but keep that laugh up your sleeve. If he asks questions you’ll have some solemn things to say.”
“Chief, when the time comes, there’s going to be about a gallon of tears in my eyes.”
So Drew left him to complete the other arrangements. If Bard reached the house he must be requested to stay, and if he stayed he must be fed and entertained. The difficulty in the way of this was that the servants in the big ranchhouse were two Chinese boys. They could never be trusted to help in the deception, so Drew summoned two of his men, “Shorty” Kilrain and “Calamity” Ben.
Calamity had no other name than Ben, as far as any one on the range had ever been able to learn. His nickname was derived from the most dolorous face between Eldara and Twin Rivers. Two pale-blue eyes, set close together, stared out with an endless and wistful pathos; a long nose dropped below them, and his mouth curled down at the sides. He was hopelessly round-shouldered from much and careless riding, and in attempting to straighten he only succeeded in throwing back his head, so that his lean neck generally was in a V-shape with the Adam’s apple as the apex of the wedge.
Shorty Kilrain received his early education at sea and learned there a general handiness which stood him in stead when he came to the mountain-desert. There was nothing which Shorty could not do with his hands, from making a knot to throwing a knife, and he was equally ready to oblige with either accomplishment. Drew proposed that he take charge of the kitchen with Calamity Ben as an assistant. Shorty glowered on the rancher.
“Me!” he said. “Me go into the galley to wait on a blasted tenderfoot?”
“After he leaves you’ll have a month off with full pay and some over, Shorty.”
“Don’t want the month off.”
Drew considered him thoughtfully, following the precept of Walpole that every man has his price.
“What _do_ you want, Shorty?”
The ex-sailor scratched his head and then rolled his eyes up with a dawning smile, as one who sees a vision of ultimate bliss.
“Let one of the other boys catch my hoss out of the corral every morning and saddle him for me for a month.”
“It’s a bargain. What’ll you do with that time?”
“Sit on the fence and roll a cigarette like a blasted gentleman and damn the eyes of the feller that’s catchin’ my hoss.”
“And me,” said Calamity Ben, “what do I get?”
“You get orders,” answered Kilrain, “from me.”
Calamity regarded him, uncertain whether or not to fight out the point, but apparently decided that the effort was not wort
h while.
“There ain’t going to be no luck come out of this,” he said darkly. “Before this tenderfoot gets out of the house, we’re all going to wish he was in hell.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“SAM’L HALL”
But with the stage set and the curtain ready to rise on the farce, the audience did not arrive until the shadow of the evening blotted the windows of the office where big Lawlor waited impatiently, rehearsing his part; but when the lamp had been lighted, as though that were a signal for which the tenderfoot had waited, came a knock at the door of the room, and then it was jerked open and the head of one of the cowpunchers was inserted.
“He’s coming!”
The head disappeared; the door slammed. Lawlor stretched both arms wide, shifted his belt, loosened his gun in the holster for the fiftieth time, and exhaled a long breath. Once more the door jerked open, and this time it was the head and sullen face of Nash, enlivened now by a peculiarly unpleasant smile.
“He’s here!”
As the door closed the grim realization came to Lawlor that he could not face the tenderfoot—his staring eyes and his pallor would betray him even if the jerking of his hands did not. He swung about in the comfortable chair, seized a book and whisking it open bowed his head to read. All that he saw was a dance of irregular black lines: voices sounded through the hall outside.
“Sure, he’ll see you,” Calamity Ben was saying. “And if you want to put up for the night there ain’t nobody more hospital than the Chief. Right in here, son.”
The door yawned. He could not see, for his back was resolutely toward it and he was gripping the cover of the book hard to steady his hands; but he felt a breath of colder air from the outer hall; he felt above all a new presence peering in upon him, like a winter-starved lynx that might flatten its round face against the window and peer in at the lazy warmth and comfort of the humans around the hearth inside. Some such feeling sent a chill through Lawlor’s blood.
“Hello!” called Calamity Ben.
“Humph!” grunted Lawlor.
