by Zane Grey
“Oh, will they?” queried Matty, dubiously. “I’ll write the letter. It’ll be short an’ sweet. It’ll say if thet money isn’t heah with Boyd in twenty-four hours we’ll kill Jim Traft an’ hang his body over his drift fence!”
CHAPTER
20
J OCELYN opened a saddlebag, to take out a small packet, which he lay on the ground. Then, as if it was an afterthought, he lifted out a large flask which he shook with satisfaction. Placing it back, he next removed a bottle half full of dark-red liquor. He drank from it. And then he slipped that in his hip pocket.
Jim shared Seth Haverly’s surprise at this act.
“Reckon it ain’t no time for drinkin’, onless your nerve’s pore,” he said caustically.
The other wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re a bright fellar, Seth,” rejoined Jocelyn, rising with the packet. “But you ain’t as bright as I am. My idee is make Traft write this letter to his uncle.”
“Shucks! I thought of thet long ago. An’ fer thet matter, he offered to do it.”
“Who offered?”
“Traft heah. But he made it providin’ I didn’t ask fer too much ransom, an’ thet you wasn’t to hev no share.”
“Oh! The hell you say!” returned Jocelyn, with a dark glance at Jim. Then he opened the packet and laid writing paper, pen, and ink on the woodpile. “Fetch a box.”
One of the party procured a box from inside. “Now, Mister Jim Traft, I reckon you’ll put one of your accomplishments to good use,” declared Jocelyn.
As Jim rose from his seat Seth Haverly made that singular gesture.
“Wait,” he said, in lower tone. “Jocelyn, I’ll agree aboot sendin’ fer the money. But I’m daid set ag’in’ your double-crossin’ old Traft.”
“Talk low, you— — —!” rejoined Jocelyn, swiftly. “She might be awake an’ heah you. … Git it off your chest quick.”
Haverly had paled so that his thin amber beard stood out in contrast. He knelt on one knee and whispered, huskily, “I weaken on two points of your deal.”
“An’ what’s them?”
“Layin’ the blame on Slinger Dunn, fer one—”
“Too late. I’ve already fixed thet in West Fork. Never mind your other point.”
Jim had heard enough to divine Jocelyn’s diabolical plot. Whether that ransom was paid or not, he realized Jocelyn meant to decorate the drift fence with his dead body, like a scarecrow hung up in a cornfield. There was one instant when it seemed Jim’s whole internal machinery would fail. Then he rallied in desperate spirit. Right then and there he would have snatched a gun from one of these men, had he been close enough. He nursed the inspiration. If he could kill Jocelyn, that at least would save Molly. Slowly his muscles set to the terrible determination.
“You already fixed the blame—on Slinger!” ejaculated Haverly.
“Shore did. An’ nobody but you fellars can prove he didn’t shoot the store clerk.”
“Jocelyn, you’re orful smart, but you cain’t work miracles,” said Haverly.
“Let’s don’t argue. I’ve no time to tell you how I put the job up on Dunn. But it’s done. If he has started on our trail, he’ll never be able to clear himself. Thet’s all.”
“Gawd-Almighty!” gasped Haverly.
At this juncture Jim, whose eyes kept continually traveling back to the corner of the cabin, made the startling discovery that Molly was peeping round the corner of the stall. This added to Jim’s uneasy sense of premonition and made him more restless than ever. He tried to move round where he could warn Molly to be careful.
“Somebody tie up this fellar,” ordered Jocelyn, who apparently could see in all directions at once. “He’s snookin’ around. Reckon he’d like to get back there with my lady love.”
But nobody lifted hand or foot to comply with his order. Snatching up a lasso he made at Jim, and swung the loose loops viciously, cracking on Jim’s hip. It was just possible for Jim to resist leaping at Jocelyn, who he knew would shoot him upon the slightest excuse.
“Turn round an’ lean ag’in’ the post,” he commanded. “An’ put your hands behind you.” With that he proceeded to bind Jim’s hands and feet, and tied the last in intricate knots. “It ain’t my rope, an’ it’ll have to be cut.” Then he kicked Jim’s feet from under him, letting him down. It so happened that Jim slid round in falling, and there he sat, back to the post, helpless and so devoured by wrath that he felt he was sweating blood.
Whereupon Jocelyn drew his bottle from his hip pocket and took a drink.
“To celebrate the day, Mister Traft,” he said. “An’ when I drink the rest of this I’ll set the bottle on your head an’ treat you to some real shootin’.”
Repairing to the box, he sat down again before the writing-materials. “Hell! I was goin’ to make him write the letter, an’ now I’ve tied him up. … Wal, I’ll write it myself.”
And he did, laboring over the task like a schoolboy. Then he read it over with evident satisfaction.
Seth Haverly held out a lean hand. “I’m askin’ to see what you writ.”
Imperturbably Jocelyn sealed the letter. “Reckon you couldn’t read it, if I let you,” said Jocelyn.
“You’re demandin’ more’n we agreed on,” shouted Haverly, beside himself with rage.
“I shore am. Ten thousand wouldn’t begin to do me. You’re a fool, Haverly. Old Traft will pay to save his newy’s precious life.”
“Yes, an’ he’ll pay all in vain,” snarled Haverly, white to the lips.
Jocelyn gave little heed to him, and turning to Flick he presented the letter. “Ride like hell, now. An’ get this in Traft’s hands today, or Blodgett’s. An’ if they ain’t handy go to Tobin at the bank. Anyone of them will pile out the greenbacks. An’ you ride back, pronto.”
“I ain’t stuck on the job,” declared Flick, brusquely, rising to his feet.
“It’s safer than waitin’ here, you can gamble. … an’ I reckon I needn’t tell you what I’ll do to you—if you don’t come back.”
Flick threw the letter in Jocelyn’s face. “Go to hell! You cain’t make me do your dirty job an’ insult me to boot.”
But Seth and Matty quickly intervened, one to rescue the letter and the other to lead Flick aside. Between them they persuaded him.
“All right, I’ll go an’ do my damnedest,” said Flick. “But I’m tellin’ you straight, Jocelyn has busted the Cibeque.”
With that he picked up his saddle, blanket, and bridle, and disappeared round the corner of the cabin. Jocelyn stood up, to tilt his bottle and drain the contents. He was about to fling the empty bottle aside when he remembered something. Stalking over to Jim, he pulled him up to an erect sitting posture, rapped his head hard against the post and set the bottle upon it.
“There!” he exclaimed, with elation, and drawing his gun he flipped it in the air, catching it by the handle with great dexterity. “Anybody want to bet me?”
No one answered. Seth Haverly looked a protest he knew it would be useless to voice. Jocelyn had dominated the group. He had alienated them, but had them under his thumb. Jocelyn stepped off ten long paces and turned, his face singularly bright, to level the gun.
Jim saw that the hammer of the Colt was up. Next instant he looked into the small black tube-like barrel of the quivering weapon. All faculties but sight seemed to be in abeyance. And that deadly little hole suddenly belched fire. He felt a slight jar, just before the gun boomed. Particles of shattered glass fell on his head and shoulders.
“Ha! How’s thet, Seth? Shot the neck off first crack!” cried the grinning devil.
“Wal, it’s damn bad, if you ask me,” growled Haverly. “Thet gun of yourn can be heerd fer miles.”
When Jocelyn leveled it again Jim’s consciousness seemed undamped. Jocelyn was aiming a little lower this time. Back of the gun gleamed the eyes of a cat playing with a mouse.
Then came a rush and patter of moccasined feet. Molly flashed out. She struck up the
gun so violently that it went off harmlessly in the air.
“Hey, gurl! You might get hurt,” protested Jocelyn, as if he had been interrupted at a favorite sport.
“Hack Jocelyn, put away that gun,” demanded Molly, furiously.
“Say, little lady, you cut quite a figger in my eyes, but you ain’t givin’ orders yet,” drawled Jocelyn. But a keen person could have observed that here he was on uncertain ground.
“Put it away—or I’ll—”
“What’ll you do?” interposed Jocelyn, darkly. All the same he lowered the gun.
Seth Haverly, his brother, and their three comrades showed undisguised satisfaction at the turn of affairs. Seth, in fact, exhibited more. Molly Dunn, whatever her relation to this man or his villainy, was certainly not afraid of him.
“I’m liable to do anythin’, Hack Jocelyn,” she said, and she looked it.
Seth stepped out unsteadily. “Molly, you better stay back. Honest, gurl, Hack was only foolin’. He ain’t really goin’ to hurt Traft.”
“You’re a liar, Seth,” snapped Molly. “You know better. An’ you’re a lot more than a liar. Flick was right, only the Cibeque is busted. You let Jocelyn drive Slinger out an’ now you’re—”
“Shet up,” ordered Jocelyn, sheathing his gun. “Molly, you’re damn pretty when you’re riled, but you’re goin’ too far. Shet your mouth now, or I’ll slap it good an’ hard.”
“You dare touch me!” she blazed, with such passion that it affected even Jocelyn.
Jim, loving Molly so deeply, and feeling her emotion so tremendously, had an intuition of a change in her that was not wholly explained by her fears for him. She had heard intimations not intended for her. She had realized Jocelyn’s perfidy—that if murder was to be averted she would have to do it. This, of course, could have roused Molly’s wild spirit to any extreme. Still, there seemed to be something else. Was Molly talking to gain time? Her suppressed air of suspense, her furtive glances, were slight indeed, compared with stronger expressions, yet they did not escape Jim.
“Wal, I’ll touch you aplenty an’ pronto,” replied Jocelyn.
And that fetched Jim’s gaze back to the leader in this woodland drama. He was in time to note Jocelyn, as he espied the ring on Molly’s left hand.
“Where’d you get thet ring?” demanded Jocelyn, suddenly hot. “On your third finger! An’ a big sparkler!”
“None of your mix, Hack Jocelyn,” retorted Molly, and she put her hands behind her back. It was then that Jim imagined he saw her look over Jocelyn or behind him.
Jim peered across the grassy open to the wooded slope. On that side the pines were scattered, as by an expert landscape gardener who wanted a beautiful open forest. And on the instant Jim sighted the flash of a dark form vanishing behind a tree trunk. It resembled what he imagined an Indian would look like, and all his being responded in a concerted shock. Had Molly seen it?
“You two-faced hussy!” ejaculated Jocelyn, dark with jealous wrath. “Stick out your hand. … Lemme see.”
Molly coolly brought her hand round and extended it, fingers spread, upper side exposed, and she preened it before the exasperated cowboy. She might have been actuated by many motives, but one of them assuredly was a woman’s desire to inflict pain.
“Reckoned you was hidin’ thet from me,” declared Jocelyn, tragically.
“You just had that idea. Why should I hide it from you—or anybody else? … It’s my engagement ring.”
“Engagement!” echoed Jocelyn.
“Shore. … An’ I may as well announce it.”
“Wimmen shore air hell,” muttered Jocelyn, more to himself, as if the puzzle of Molly Dunn’s dual nature was beyond him. He seemed to be studying her as a species new to him, as fascinating as mysterious. And his doubt grew.
Jim took advantage of the moment to glance across the open to the slope, up and down, and to each side. He was about to believe he had been deceived, when far down to the left, at the edge of the forest, he saw something move—a shadow of a branch or the tail of a horse or—
“Molly, who gave you thet ring?” went on Jocelyn, coming to himself.
“Mister James Traft,” replied Molly, blushing deeply. Even though she was playing a woman’s wit against this jealous lover, she could not conceal her maidenly confusion, her pride and joy.
Jocelyn bellowed like a bull.
“Since when? How long you bin engaged to this—tenderfoot?”
“I reckon—since the night of the rodeo dance in Flag.”
Perhaps nothing else could have shaken Jocelyn as this mortal blow to his vanity. Perhaps Molly was working on that very weakness. If so, she was taking desperate chances and she knew it. A transformation took place in Jocelyn, not a swift one, but a gradual breaking up of illusive force, of the one vital, vulnerable link in his personality, and it left him a cold, hard fiend.
As he whipped up his gun Molly stepped in front of him, to shield Jim.
“You’ll have to kill me first,” she declared, resolutely. Certain it was, however, that she knew he would not shoot her.
Jocelyn was in no hurry now. He had a gun in his hand. He would torture as well as slay.
Seth Haverly, however, took him as seriously menacing Molly. “My Gawd, Jocelyn—put thet down!”
“Nope. I feel too much at home with my gun stickin’ out in front.”
Molly seemed to Jim to be at the end of her rope. Slowly Jocelyn backed her toward where Jim sat, his head against the post, still holding the broken whisky bottle.
“Oh, Seth Haverly, but you’re a rotten coward!” cried Molly. “You leave it for a girl to face this devil.”
“But, Molly, devil or not, I’m in a deal with him,” expostulated Seth, as if stung. “An’ it ain’t no call fer me to risk my hide.”
“Deal, yes—a dirtier deal than you know. He’s—”
“Molly Dunn,” cut in Jocelyn, “shet your jaw—or it’ll be too late?”
“Too late! Why you poison-tongued snake—do you think I’d believe you again? … You can kill me an’ Jim—an’ this yellow bunch for all I care. But by God! I am givin’ you away.”
Jocelyn made a fierce reach for her. But he did not quite lose himself in the passion of the moment. He had to stand clear, to be free, to watch the Haverlys. So he dared not close in with her.
“I’m warnin’ you onct more.”
Molly must have kept her burning eyes on him, at bay, while she denounced him to the Cibeque.
“Seth, he cut the drift fence, even while he was workin’ on the Diamond. An’ after. He aimed to get you an’ Slinger blamed for that. He’s double crossed you as he did Jim. He means to take all the ransom money … to murder Jim an’ lay that on to you. … Oh, I know. I see through him—now. He got me up heah—by swearin’ he’d save Jim’s life—if I’d give in to him. I agreed. An’ then he kept at me—all night long—an’ once I had—to fight him. But I—I wouldn’t give in—”
“You pop-eyed cat,” yelled Jocelyn stridently. Who wants you to give in?—I’ll rope you like I would a mean hawse!”
Suddenly the gun banged. Jim felt the bottle blown off his head. Molly screamed.
“Right under your arm, Molly,” said Jocelyn. “How’s thet fer shootin’?” And he began to step from one side to the other, the gun extended about even with his hip.
Molly did not back away from his formidable advance. She blocked his every move, interposing her body between the gun and Jim. Then like a cat she pounced upon Jocelyn’s hand, shoving it out of line. Bang! The bullet scattered dust and gravel over Jim. Both her hands and then her teeth were locked on Jocelyn’s wrist.
“Leggo!” he yelled, lustily, wrestling to get free. But he could not free simself. With his left hand he lifted Molly by her hair. He swung her clear of the ground, her weight nothing to his powerful arms. But he could not shake her grip. Blood began to drip from his wrist.
“Bite, —!” he cursed. And lifting her he tried to get the gun on Jim
. But as he pulled the trigger she swung desperately, spoiling his aim. The gun roared and a bullet tore splinters out of the post beside Jim’s ear, and whirred away into the forest. The recoil of the heavy Colt loosened Molly’s teeth, but not her hands. She screeched like a wild creature. Before Jocelyn could take advantage of this, she again buried her teeth in his wrist. He swung her aside, but she alighted on her feet. He fought her to and fro, until they entered the cabin. Haverly and his men were caught in a trap. Like rats they ran to dodge behind the stall, yet to peep out at this extraordinary encounter.
Jocelyn took another snap shot at Jim, narrowly missing him. The shock of this explosion, right at her ear, appeared to weaken Molly, for she let go with her teeth, and her weight sagged on Jocelyn’s arm. He shifted his left hand from her hair to her neck, where his long fingers shut like a vise. Yet on the instant he could not get loose. His malignant cry, however, hoarse and exultant, attested to the victory he saw. Molly could no longer move. He was lifting her, and the gun.
Jim’s distended sight caught a shadow of something passing him. He could not move, even his eyes, but out of the tail of his right he saw a buckskin-clad figure that had appeared as if by magic.
“Hey, cowpuncher!” rang out the voice of Slinger Dunn.
Jocelyn jerked up his head and a fleeting consternation showed on his convulsed face. He let go of Molly’s neck. And as his hands slipped loose she slid down.
Like a whipcord Jocelyn’s gun leaped. But as it leaped Dunn’s crashed. Jocelyn appeared to be arrested. Then shot through the heart, he staggered forward, with an awful look that set blankly, and plunged step by halting step, to fall clear outside of the cabin.
CHAPTER
21
A HEAVY breath escaped Slinger Dunn as he removed his gaze from the twitching Jocelyn to Molly and then to the bound Traft. His battered face was scarcely recognizable, but his eyes were wide open.
“’Pears like I didn’t get heah none too soon,” he drawled.
“Slinger! Just—in time!” gasped Jim.
Molly sat up dazedly, her hair disordered, blood on her chin and nerveless hands. “Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” she moaned.
