by Max Brand
“Sally Bent! That’s an old-maidish-sounding name.”
Denver Jim grinned broadly. “Tolerable,” he said, “just tolerable old-maidish sounding.”
When they reached the top of the knoll, the horses paused, as if by common assent. Now they stood with their heads bowed, sullen, tired already, steam going up from them into the cool of the morning.
“There it is!”
It was as comfortably placed a house as Riley Sinclair had ever seen. The mountain came down out of the sky in ragged, uneven steps. Here it dipped away into a lap of quite level ground. A stream of spring water flashed across that little tableland, dark in the shadow of the big trees, silver in the sunlight. At the back of the natural clearing was the cabin, built solidly of logs. Wood, water, and commanding position for defense! Riley Sinclair ran his eye appreciatively over these advantages.
“My guns, I’d forgot Sally!” exclaimed the massive Buck Mason.
“Is that her?” asked Riley Sinclair.
A woman had come out of the shadow of a tree and stood over the edge of the stream, a bucket in her hand. At that distance it was quite impossible to make out her features, although Riley Sinclair found himself squinting and peering to make them out. She had on something white over her head and neck, and her dress was the faded blue of old gingham. Then the wind struck her dress, and it seemed to lift the girl in its current.
“I’d forgot Sally Bent!”
“What difference does she make?” asked Riley.
“You don’t know her, stranger.”
“And she won’t know us. Got anything for masks?”
“I’m sure a Roman-nosed fool!” declared Mason. “Of course we got to wear masks.”
The girl’s pail flashed, as she raised it up from the stream and dissolved into the shadow of a big tree.
“She don’t seem noways interested in this here party,” remarked Riley.
“That’s her way,” said Denver Jim, arranging his bandanna to mask the lower part of his face from the bridge of his nose down. “She’ll show plenty of interest when it comes to a pinch.”
Riley adjusted his own mask, and he did it thoroughly. Out of his vest he ripped a section of black lining, and, having cut eyeholes, he fastened the upper edge of the cloth under the brim of his hat and tied the loose ends behind his head. Red, white, blue, black, and polka dot was that quaint array of masks.
Having completed his arrangements, Larsen started on at a lope, and the rest of the party followed in a lurching, loose-formed wedge. At the edge of the little tableland, Larsen drew down his mount to a walk and turned in the saddle.
“Quick work, no talk, and a getaway,” he said as he swung down to the ground.
In the crisis of action the big Swede seemed to be accorded the place of leader by natural right. The others imitated his example silently. Before they reached the door Larsen turned again.
“Watch Jerry Bent,” he said softly. “You watch him, Denver, and you, Sandersen. Me and Buck will take care of Cold Feet. He may fight like a rat. That’s the way with a coward when he gets cornered.” Then he strode toward the door.
“How thick is Sally Bent with this schoolteaching gent?” asked Riley Sinclair of Mason.
“I dunno. Nobody knows. Sally keeps her thinking to herself.”
Larsen kicked open the door and at the same moment drew his six-shooter. That example was also imitated by the rest, with the exception of Riley Sinclair. He hung in the background, watching.
“Gaspar!” called Larsen.
There was a voice of answer, a man’s thin voice, then the sharp cry of a girl from the interior of the house. Sinclair heard a flurry of skirts.
“Hysterics now,” he said into his mask.
She sprang into the doorway, her hands holding the jamb on either side. In her haste the big white handkerchief around her throat had been twisted awry. Sinclair looked over the heads of Mason and Denver Jim into the suntanned face that had now paled into a delicate olive color. Her very lips were pale, and her great black eyes were flashing at them. She seemed more a picture of rage than hysterical fear.
“Why for?” she asked. “What are you-all here for in masks, boys? What you mean calling for Gaspar? What’s he done?”
In a moment of waiting Larsen cleared his throat solemnly. “It’d be best we tell Gaspar direct what we’re here for.”
This seemed to tell her everything. “Oh,” she gasped, “you’re not really after him?”
“Lady, we sure be.”
“But Jig—he wouldn’t hurt a mouse—he couldn’t!”
“Sally, he’s done a murder!”
“No, no, no!”
“Sally, will you stand out of the door?”
“It ain’t—it ain’t a lynching party, boys? Oh, you fools, you’ll hang for it, every one of you!”
Sinclair confided to Buck Mason beside him: “Larsen is letting her talk down to him. She’ll spoil this here party.”
“We’re the voice of justice,” said Judge Lodge pompously. “We ain’t got any other names. They wouldn’t be nothing to hang.”
“Don’t you suppose I know you?” asked the girl, stiffening to her full height. “D’you think those fool masks mean anything? I can tell you by your little eyes, Denver Jim!”
Denver cringed suddenly behind the man before him.
“I know you by that roan hoss of yours, Oscar Larsen. Judge Lodge, they ain’t nobody but you that talks about ‘justice’ and ‘voices.’ Buck Mason, I could tell you by your build, a mile off. Montana, you’d ought to have masked your neck and your Adam’s apple sooner’n your face. And you’re Bill Sandersen. They ain’t any other man in these parts that stands on one heel and points his off toe like a horse with a sore leg. I know you all, and, if you touch a hair on Jig’s head, I’ll have you into court for murder! You hear—murder! I’ll have you hung, every man jack!”
She had lowered her voice for the last part of this speech. Now she made a sweeping gesture, closing her hand as if she had clutched their destinies in the palm of her hand and could throw it into their faces.
“You-all climb right back on your hosses and feed ’em the spur.”
They stood amazed, shifting from foot to foot, exchanging miserable glances. She began to laugh; mysterious lights danced and twinkled in her eyes. The laughter chimed away into words grown suddenly gentle, suddenly friendly. Such a voice Riley Sinclair had never heard. It walked into a man’s heart, breaking the lock.
“Why, Buck Mason, you of all men to be mixed up in a deal like this. And you, Oscar Larsen, after you and me had talked like partners so many a time! Denver Jim, we’ll have a good laugh about this necktie party later on. Why, boys, you-all know that Jig ain’t guilty of no harm!”
“Sally,” said the wretched Denver Jim, “things seemed to be sort of pointing to a—”
There was a growl from the rear of the party, and Riley Sinclair strode to the front and faced the girl. “They’s a gent charged with murder inside,” he said. “Stand off, girl. You’re in the way!”
Before she answered him, her teeth glinted. If she had been a man, she would have struck him in the face. He saw that, and it pleased him.
“Stranger,” she said deliberately, making sure that every one in the party should hear her words, “what you need is a stay around Sour Creek long enough for the boys to teach you how to talk to a lady.”
“Honey,” replied Riley Sinclair with provoking calm, “you sure put up a tidy bluff. Maybe you’d tell a judge that you knowed all these gents behind their masks, but they wouldn’t be no way you could prove it!”
A stir behind him was ample assurance that this simple point had escaped the cowpunchers. All the soul of the girl stood up in her eyes and hated Riley Sinclair, and again he was pleased. It was not that he wished to bring the schoolteacher to trouble, but it had angered him to see one girl balk seven grown men.
“Stand aside,” said Riley Sinclair.
“Not an inch!”
“Lady, I’ll move you.”
“Stranger, if you touch me, you’ll be taught better. The gents in Sour Creek don’t stand for suchlike ways!”
Before the appeal to the chivalry of Sour Creek was out of her lips, smoothly and swiftly the hands of Sinclair settled around her elbows. She was lifted lightly into the air and deposited to one side of the doorway.
Her cry rang in the ears of Riley Sinclair. Then her hand flashed up, and the mask was torn from his face.
“I’ll remember! Oh, if I have to wait twenty years, I’ll remember!”
“Look me over careful, lady. Today’s most likely the last time you’ll see me,” declared Riley, gazing straight into her eyes.
A hand touched his arm. “Stranger, no rough play!”
Riley Sinclair whirled with whiplash suddenness and, chopping the edge of his hand downward, struck away the arm of Larsen, paralyzing the nerves with the same blow.
“Hands off!” said Sinclair.
The girl’s clear voice rang again in his ear: “Thank you, Oscar Larsen. I sure know my friends—and the gentlemen!”
She was pouring oil on the fire. She would have a feud blazing in a moment. With all his heart Riley Sinclair admired her dexterity. He drew the posse back to the work in hand by stepping into the doorway and calling: “Hey, Gaspar!”
CHAPTER 7
“He’s right, Larsen, and you’re wrong,” Buck Mason said.
“She had us buffaloed, and he pulled us clear. Steady, boys. They ain’t no harm done to Sally!”
“Oh, Buck, is that the sort of a friend of mine you are?”
“I’m sorry, Sally.”
Sinclair gave this argument only a small part of his attention. He found himself looking over a large room which was, he thought, one of the most comfortable he had ever seen—outside of pictures. At the farther end a great fireplace filled the width of the room. The inside of the log walls had been carefully and smoothly finished by some master axman. There were plenty of chairs, homemade and very comfortable with cushions. A little organ stood against the wall to one side. No wonder the schoolteacher had chosen this for his boarding place!
Riley made his voice larger. “Gaspar!”
Then a door opened slowly, while Sinclair dropped his hand on the butt of his gun and waited. The door moved again. A head appeared and observed him.
“Pronto!” declared Riley Sinclair, and a little man slipped into full view.
He was a full span shorter, Riley felt, than a man had any right to be. Moreover, he was too delicately made. He had a head of bright blond hair, thick and rather on end. The face was thin and handsome, and the eyes impressed Riley as being at once both bright and weary. He was wearing a dressing gown, the first Riley had ever seen.
“Get your hands out of those pockets!” He emphasized the command with a jerk of his gun hand, and the arms of the schoolteacher flew up over his head. Lean, fragile hands, Riley saw them to be. Altogether it was the most disgustingly inefficient piece of manhood that he had ever seen.
“Slide out here, Gaspar. They’s some gents here that wants to look you over.”
The voice that answered him was pitched so low as to be almost unintelligible. “What do they want?”
“Step lively, friend! They want to see a gent that lets a woman do his fighting for him.”
He had dropped his gun contemptuously back into its holster. Now he waved the schoolteacher to the door with his bare hands.
Gaspar sidled past as if a loaded gun were about to explode in his direction. He reached the door, his arms still held stiffly above his head, but, at the sight of the masked faces, one arm dropped to his side, and the other fell across his face. He slumped against the side of the door with a moan.
It was Judge Lodge who broke the silence. “Guilty, boys. Ain’t one look at the skunk enough to prove it?”
“Make it all fair and legal, gents,” broke in Larsen.
Buck Mason strode straight up to the prisoner.
“Was you over to Quade’s house yesterday evening?”
The other shrank away from the extended, pointing arm.
“Yes,” he stammered. “I—I—what does all this mean?”
Mason whirled on his companions, still pointing to the schoolmaster. “Take a slant at him, boys. Can’t you read it in his face?”
There was a deep and humming murmur of approval. Then, without a word, Mason took one of Gaspar’s arms and Montana took the other. Sally Bent ran forward at them with a cry, but the long arm of Riley Sinclair barred her way.
“Man’s work,” he said coldly. “You go inside and cover your head.”
She turned to them with extended hands.
“Buck, Montana, Larsen—boys, you-all ain’t going to let it happen? Hecouldn’t have done it!”
They lowered their heads and returned no answer. At that she whirled with a sob and ran back into the house. The procession moved on, Buck and Montana in the lead, with the prisoner between them. The others followed, Judge Lodge uncoiling a horribly significant rope. Last of all came Bill Sandersen, never taking his eyes from the face of Riley Sinclair.
The latter was thoughtful, very thoughtful. He seemed to feel the eyes of Sandersen upon him, for presently he turned to the other. “What good’s a coward to the world, Sandersen?”
“None that I could see.”
“Well, look at that. Ever see anything more yaller?”
Gaspar walked between his two guards. Rather he was dragged between them, his feet trailing weakly and aimlessly behind him, his whole body sinking with flabby terror. The stern lip of Riley Sinclair curled.
“He’s going to let it go through,” said Sandersen to himself. “After all nobody can blame him. He couldn’t put his own neck in the noose.”
Over the lowest limb of a great cottonwood Judge Lodge accurately flung the rope, so that the noose dangled a significant distance from the ground. There was a businesslike stir among the others. Denver, Larsen, the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope. Buck Mason tied the hands of the prisoner behind him. Montana spoke calmly through his mask.
“Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing. You hadn’t ought to of killed him, Jig. These here killings has got to stop. We ain’t hanging you for spite, but to make an example.”
Then with a dexterous hand he fitted the noose around the neck of the schoolteacher. As the rough rope grated against Gaspar’s throat, he shrieked and jerked against the rope end that bound his hands. Then, as if he realized that struggling would not help him, and that only speech could give him a chance for life, he checked the cry of horror and looked around him. His glances fell on the grim masks, and it was only natural that he should address himself to the only uncovered face he saw.
“Sir,” he said to Riley in a rapid, trembling voice, “you look to me like an honest man. Give me—give me time to speak.”
“Make it pronto,” said Riley Sinclair coldly.
The four waited, with their hands settled high up on the rope, ready for the tug which would swing Gaspar halfway to his Maker.
“We’re kind of pushed for time, ourselves,” said Riley. “So hurry it on, Gaspar.”
Bill Sandersen was a cold man, but such unbelievable heartlessness chilled him. Into his mind rushed a temptation suddenly to denounce the real slayer before them all. He checked that temptation. In the first place it would be impossible to convince five men who had already made up their minds, who had already acquitted Sinclair of the guilt. In the second place, if he succeeded in convincing them, there would be an instant gunplay, and the first man to come under Sinclair’s fire, he knew well enough, would be himself. He drew a long breath and waited.
“Good friends, gentlemen,” Gaspar was saying, “I don’t even know what you accuse me of. Kill a man? Why should I wish to kill a man? You know I’m not a fighter. Gentlemen—”
“Jig,” cut in Buck Mason, “you was as good as seen to murder. You’re going to hang. If you got anything to
say make a confession.”
Gaspar attempted to throw himself on his knees, but his weight struck against the rope. He staggered back to his feet, struggling for breath.
“For mercy’s sake—” began Gaspar.
“Cut it short, boys!” cried Buck Mason. “Up with him!”
The four men at the rope reached a little higher and settled their grips. In another moment Gaspar would dangle in the air. Now Riley Sinclair made his decision. The agonized eyes of the condemned man, wide with animal terror, were fixed on his face. Sinclair raised his hand.
“Wait!”
The arms, growing tense for the jerk, relaxed.
“How long is this going to be dragged out?” asked the judge in disgust. “The worst lynching I ever see, that’s what I call it! They ain’t no justice in it—it’s just plain torture.” “Partner,” declared Riley Sinclair, “I’m sure glad to see that you got a good appetite for a killing. But it’s just come home to me that in spite of everything, this here gent might be innocent. And if he is, heaven help our souls. We’re done for!”
“Bless you for that!” exclaimed Gaspar.
“Shut up!” said Sinclair. “No matter what you done, you deserve hangin’ for being yaller. But concerning this here matter, gents, it looks to me like it’d be a pretty good idea to have a fair and square trial for Gaspar.”
“Trial?” asked Buck Mason. “Don’t we all know what trials end up with? Law ain’t no good, except to give lawyers a living.”
“Never was a truer thing said,” declared Sinclair. “All I mean is, that you and me and the rest of us run a trial for ourselves. Let’s get in the evidence and hear the witness and make out the case. If we decide they ain’t enough agin’ Gaspar to hang him, then let him go. If we decide to stretch him up, we’ll feel a pile better about it and nearer to the truth.”
He went on steadily in spite of the groans of disapproval on every side. “Why, this is all laid out nacheral for a courtroom. That there stump is for the judge, and the black rock yonder is where the prisoner sits. That there nacheral bench of grass is where the jury sits. Gents, could anything be handier for a trial than this layout?”
