“I got to beat the steamer to Portland!” Steve said. It was a lie in a way, but actually the truth. “If I don’t the fellow will get away with fifteen thousand dollars!”
“Fifteen thou” The young man laid down his hand. “Brother,” he said emphatically, “I’d ride, too!”
Steve gulped the coffee and lurched to his feet. “Got to find a hoss,” he said and lunged outside. It took him less than a half hour to prove to himself that it was an impossibility. Nobody would even consider selling a horse, and his own was in bad shape.
“Not a chance,” they told him. “A man without a hoss in this country is through! No way in or out but on a hoss, and not an extry in town!”
He walked back to the stable. One look at his own horse told him the animal was through. There was no chance to go farther with it. No matter what he might do, the poor creature could stagger no more than a few miles. It would be killing a good horse to no purpose.
Disgusted and discouraged, numbed with weariness, he stood in the cold wind, rubbing his grizzled chin with a fumbling hand. So this was the end. After all his effort, the drive over the mountains and desert, the long struggle to sell out, and then this ride, and all for nothing. Back there in the Pahute the people he had left behind would be trusting him, keeping their faith. For no matter how much they were sure he would fail, their hopes must go with him. And now he had failed.
Wearily he staggered into the bunkhouse and dropped into his chair. He fumbled with the coffeepot and succeeded in pouring out a cupful. His legs and feet felt numb, and he had never realized a man could be so utterly, completely tired. The young man in the checkered shirt looked around from his poker game. “No luck, eh? Yuh’ve come a long way to lose now.”
Steve nodded bitterly. “That money belongs to my friends as well as me,” he said. “That’s the worst of it.”
The blond young fellow laid down his hand and pulled in the chips. Then he picked up his pipe. “My sorrel out there in the barn,” he said, “is the best hoss on the Trinity. You take it and go, but man, yuh’d better get yoreself some rest at Scott Valley. Yuh’ll die.”
Mehan lunged to his feet, hope flooding the weariness from his body. “How much?” he demanded, reaching for his pocket.
“Nothin’,” the fellow said. “Only if yuh catch that thief, bring him back on my hoss, and I’ll help yuh hang him. I promise yuh.”
Steve hesitated. “What about the hoss?”
“Bring him back when yuh come south,” the fellow said, “and take care of him. He’ll never let yuh down.”
Steve Mehan rode out of Trinity Creek ten minutes later, and the sorrel took to the trail as
if he knew all that was at stake, and pressed on eagerly for Scott Valley.
The cold was increasing as Steve Mehan rode further north, and the wind was raw, spitting with rain that seemed to be changing to snow. Head hunched behind the collar of his buffalo coat, Steve pushed on, talking low to the horse, whose ears twitched a response and who kept going, alternating between a fast walk and a swinging, space-eating trot.
Six hours out of Trinity Creek, Steve Mehan rode into Scott Valley. The stage tender took one look at him and waved him to a bunk. “Hit it, stranger,” he said. “I’ll care for yore hoss!”
Stumbling through a fog of exhaustion, Steve made the bunk and dropped into its softness….
Steve Mehan opened his eyes suddenly, with the bright sunlight in his face. He glanced at his watch. It was noon. Lunging to his feet, he pulled on his boots, which somebody had removed without awakening him, and reached for his coat.
The heavyset red-haired stage tender walked in and glanced at him. “See yuh’ve got Joe Chalmers’ hoss,” he remarked, his thumbs in his belt. “How come?”
Steve looked up. “Chasin’ a thief. He let me have it.”
“I know Chalmers. He wouldn’t let Moses have this hoss to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Not him. Yuh’ve got some explainin’ to do, stranger.”
“I said he loaned me the hoss,” Steve said grimly. “I’m leavin’ him with you and I want to buy another to go on with. What have yuh got?”
Red was dubious. “Don’t reckon I should sell yuh one. Looks mighty funny to me, you havin’ Joe’s hoss. Is Joe all right?”
“Well,” Steve said wearily, “he was just collecting a pot levied by three treys when I talked to him, so I reckon he’ll make out.”
BJ Red chuckled. “He’s a poker-playin’ man, that one! Good man, too.” He hesitated and then shrugged. “All right. There’s a blaze-faced black in the stable yuh can have for fifty dollars. Good horse, too. Better eat somethin’.”
He put food on the table, and Steve ate too rapidly. He gulped some coffee, and then Red came out with a pint of whiskey. “Stick this in yore pocket, stranger. Might come in handy.”
“Thanks.” Mehan wiped his mouth and got to his feet. He felt better, and he walked to the door.
“Yuh ain’t got a rifle?” Red was frankly incredulous. “The Modocs will get yuh shore.”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of one yet,” Steve said, smiling. “I’m beginnin’ to think they’ve all gone east for the winter.”
“Don’t you think it,” Red slipped a bridle on the black while Steve cinched up the saddle. “They are out, and things up Oregon way are bad off. They shore raised ructions up around Grave Creek, and all the country around the Kalamath and the Rogue is harassed by ‘em.”
Somewhere out at sea the steamer would be plowing over the gray sea toward Astoria and the mouth of the Columbia. The trip from there up to the Willamette and Portland would not take long.
The black left town at a fast lope and held it. The horse was good, no question about it. Beyond Callahan’s, Steve hit the old Applegate wagon trail and found the going somewhat better and pushed on. Just seventy hours out from Knights Landing he rode into Youreka.
After a quick meal, a drink, and a fresh horse, he mounted and headed out of town for the Oregon line. He rode through Humbug City and Hawkinsville without a stop and followed a winding trail up the gorge of the Shasta. Once, after climbing the long slope north of the Klamath, he glimpsed a party of Indians some distance away.
They sighted him, for they turned their horses his way, but he rode on, holding his pace, and crossed Hungry Creek and left behind him the cairn that marked the boundary line of Oregon. He turned away from the trail then and headed into the back country, trying a cutoff for Bear Creek and the village of Jacksonville.
Somewhere, he lost the Indians. He pushed on, and now the rain that had been falling intermittently turned to snow. It began to fall thick and fast. He was riding out of the trees when on the white-flecked earth before him he saw a moccasin track with earth just tumbling into it from the edge. Instantly he whipped his horse around and touched spurs to its flanks.
The startled animal gave a great bound, and at the same instant a shot whipped by where he had been only a moment before. Then he was charging through brush, and the horse was dodging among the trees. An Indian sprang from behind a rock and lifted a rifle. Steve drew and fired.
The Indian threw his rifle away and rolled over on the ground, moaning. Wild yells chorused behind him, and a shot cut the branches overhead. He fired again and then again. Stowing the Smith and Wesson away, he whipped out the four-barreled Braendlin. Holding it ready, he charged out of the brush and headed across the open country.
Behind him the Modocs were corning fast. His horse was quick and alert, and he swung it around a grove of trees and down into a gully. Racing along the bottom, he hit a small stream and began walking the horse carefully upstream. After making a half mile, he rode out again and took to the timber, reloading his other pistol.
Swapping horses at every chance, he pushed on. One hundred and forty-three hours out of Knights Landing, he rode into Portland. He had covered six hundred and fifty-five miles. He swung down and turned to the stable hand. “That steamer in from Frisco?”
“Heard her whi
stle,” said the man. “She’s comin’ up the river now.”
But Steve had turned and was running fast. The agent for the banking express company looked up and blinked when Steve Mehan lurched through the door. “I’m buying cattle,” Steve told him, “and need some money. Can you honor a certificate of deposit for me?”
“Let’s see her.” Steve handed him the order and shifted restlessly. The man eyed the order for a long time and then turned it over and studied the back. Finally, when Steve was almost beside himself with impatience, the agent looked up over his glasses at the bearded, hollow-eyed young man.
“Reckon I can,” he said. “Of course there’s the deduction of one half of one percent for all amounts over a thousand dollars.”
“Pay me.” Steve said. He leaned over the desk, and suddenly the deep-toned blast of the steamer’s whistle rang through the room. The agent was putting stacks of gold on the table. He looked up. “Well, what do you know? That’s the steamer in from Portland. I reckon I better see about”
Whatever he was going to see about, Steve never discovered, for as the agent turned away, Steve reached out and collared him. “Pay me!” he said sharply. “Pay me now!”
The agent shrugged. “Well, all right! No need to get all fussed about it. Plenty of time.” He put out stacks of gold. Mentally, Steve calculated the amount. When it was all there, he swept it into a sack almost fifty pounds of gold. He slung the sack over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
A gun boomed, announcing the arrival of the steamer, as he stepped out into the street. Four men were racing up the street from the dock, and the man in the lead was Jake Hitson!
Hitson skidded to a halt when he saw Steve Mehan, and his face went dark with angry blood. The blue eyes frosted and he stood wide legged, staring at the man who had beaten him to Portland.
“So,” His voice was a roar that turned the startled townspeople around. “Beat me here, did yuh? Got yore money, have yuh?” He seemed unable to absorb the fact that he was beaten, that Mehan had made it through.
“Just so yuh won’t kick anybody out of his home, Jake,” Steve said quietly, “and I hope that don’t hurt too much!”
The small man in the black suit had gone around them and into the express company office. The other men were Pink Egan and a swarthy-faced man who was obviously a friend of Hitson’s. Hitson lowered his head. The fury seemed to go out of him as he stood there in the street with a soft rain falling over them.
“Yuh won’t get back there,” he said in a dead, flat voice. “Yuh done it, all right, but yuh’ll never play the hero in Pahute, because I’m goin’ to kill yuh!”
“Like yuh killed Dixie and Chuck?” challenged Steve. “Yuh did, yuh know. Yuh started that landslide and the Mohaves.”
Hitson made no reply. He merely stood there, a huge bull of a man, his frosty eyes bright and hard under the corn-silk eyebrows. Suddenly his hand swept down. When Steve had first sighted the man, he had lowered the sack of gold to the street. Now he swept his coat back and grabbed for his own gun. He was no gunfighter, and the glimpse of flashing speed from Hitson made something go sick within him, but his gun came up and he fired.
Hitson’s gun was already flaming, and even as Steve pulled the trigger on his own gun, a bullet from Hitson’s pistol knocked the Smith and Wesson spinning into the dust! Steve sprang back and heard the hard, dry laugh of triumph from Jake Hitson’s throat.
“Now I’ll kill yuh,” Hitson yelled.
The killer’s eyes were cold as he lifted the pistol, but even as it came level, Steve hurled himself to his knees and jerked out the four-barreled Braendlin. Hitson swung the gun down on him, but startled by Steve’s movement, he swung too fast and shot too fast. The bullet ripped through the top of Mehan’s shoulder tugging hard at the heavy coat. Then Steve fired. He fired once, twice, three times, and then heaved himself erect and stepped to one side, holding his last shot ready, his eyes careful.
Hitson stood stock-still, his eyes puzzled. Blood was trickling from his throat, and there was a slowly spreading blot of blood on his white shirt. He tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth, blood frothed there and he started to back up, frowning. He stumbled and fell. Slowly he rolled over on his face in the street. Blood turned the gravel crimson, and rain darkened the coat on his back.
Only then did Steve Mehan look up. Pink Egan, his face cold, had a gun leveled at Hitson’s companion. “You beat it,” Pink said. “You get goin’!”
“Shore,” The man backed away, staring at Hitson’s body. “Shore, I’m gone! I don’t want no trouble! I just come along, I”
The small man in black came out of the express office. “Got here just in time,” he said. “I’m the purser from the steamer. Got nearly a thousand out of that bank, the last anybody will get.” He smiled at Mehan. “Won another thousand on your ride. I bet on you and got two to one.” He chuckled. “Of course, I knew we had soldiers to put ashore at two places coming north, and that helped. I’m a sporting man, myself.”
He clinked the gold in his sack and smiled, twitching his mustache with a white finger. “Up to a point,” he added, smiling again. “Only up to a point!”
Red Butte Showdown
Gunthorp was walking up from the spring with two wooden buckets filled with water when he saw the boy. He was no more than thirteen, and he was running as fast as he could, his breath coming in gasps. “Hold it, son,” Gunthorp called out. “What’s wrong?”
The boy skidded to a halt, his eyes wide and staring, shrinking back in such fear that it chilled Gunthorp. “They’re after me!” he panted. “Kelman’s men.”
“What do they want?”
“They caught me and beat me-“
He twisted his arm to show Gunthorp an ugly black bruise. The boy’s shirt was torn and his back lacerated. Gunthorp’s eyes narrowed and he felt his scalp tighten. “Come on up to the house,” he said. “We’ll fix that back.”
“I can’t.” The boy was almost beside himself with terror. “They’ll catch me! Kelman’s with them.”
“Forget them. You come with me. No use you running off. Where would you go?” Gunthorp waved a hand at the burnt red ridges. “Nothing out there but desert. No water, nothing. You stay with me, let me handle Kelman.”
He led the way to the log house and pushed open the door. A fire was burning brightly on the hearth, and the smell of coffee was in the air. “Basin’s over there, son. You better get that shirt off and wash a little. I’ll wash that back of yours myself, then I’ll fix it up.”
There was the hard pound of hoofs and the boy started as if stung. Tears of sheer terror started to his eyes, and Gunthorp looked at him with a sort of horror. He had never seen anything human so frightened. He picked up a double-barreled shotgun and placed it beside the door. Then he opened the door and stood there, his hand on the shotgun.
THE RIDERS REINED IN abruptly when they saw him. The nearest was a big. powerfully built man with a clean-shaven face, and as he spoke he swung his horse broadside to the house. “Did you see a boy running by? Just a kid?”
“He didn’t run by. He’s here.”
“Good! You’ve saved us some trouble, man. We’ve had a time running down the little thief. Joe, you go in and bring him out.”
“Joe can stay right where he is,” Gunthorp said. “The kid came here, and here he stays.”
Kelman’s eyes were level and cold. It was not yet too dark for Gunthorp to see that expression and read it. This man was cruel. He was also a killer, and he was not used to being stopped in anything he did. “You’d better give me that boy without trouble, my man. You’re new here. When you’ve been around longer, you’ll understand better.”
“I’ve been around long enough. You swing your horses around and get out of here.”
Kelman’s temper flared. “Joe! Get that kid!”
“Joe stays where he is unless he wants a skinful of buckshot.” Gunthorp lifted the shotgun with a smooth, flowing movement. “If he move
s, I’ll kill him with the first shot and you with the second.”
Kelman’s face was like a fiend’s. His nostrils flared, his jaw jutted, and the anger that danced in his eyes was wicked. “You-you-fool! I’ll kill you for this! I’ll burn this shack over your head! I’ll-“
“Get out.” Gunthorp did not raise his voice. His bleak eyes shifted from face to face. “Get out! You come around here again and I’ll do my own killing. Your blood runs as free as this boy’s. Maybe a good whipping is what you need.”
Joe’s face was white.”He means it, boss. We’d better haul our freight.”
“That’s good advice. You ride out, Kelman, or those men of yours can take you back lashed over a saddle. I’m not particular which. Any man who’ll beat a kid like that doesn’t deserve to live!”
Joe was stirred by none of Kelman’s rage, and he was sure that Gunthorp would shoot. He turned his horse toward the gate, and the others moved after him. For an instant longer, Kelman stared at Gunthorp. Then, suddenly, the fury seemed to leave him.
“For you, my friend, I’ll make some special plans!” he promised.
With a wicked jerk, he whipped his horse’s head around and drove in the spurs. The horse literally sprang from a standing start into a dead run and charged by the other three riders at breakneck speed.
Gunthorp watched for a moment longer, then spat. Calmly, he put the shotgun down and closed the door. Then he looked over at the boy. “You’d better take your shirt off, son. We’ll see if we can’t fix that back up.”
He was not a tall man, reaching just a hair over five feet nine inches but Gunthorp was massively muscled and heavy. He walked with a rolling gait that oddly suited his build. His face was a square jawed, mahogany tinted combination of strength and humor atop a thick neck that de scended into his powerful shoulders.
As he bathed the boy’s back he said, “He called you a thief. Did you steal anything, boy?”
“No, sir. Not anything of his. It was somethin’ that belonged to Pop. A pocketbook.”
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