There was nobody in sight. The Sandy Kid was not a trusting soul. His past dealings with Comanches had not been calculated to inspire any confidence in the serene and untrammeled appearance of woods or mountains. So after a long look, he left the bay pony tethered to a bush and crawled to the very lip of the cliff. When he glanced over, he could see something that looked like a pile of waste and rock taken from a mine tunnel, but he wasn’t looking for that. All in good time he could have an interest in the gold.
Then, in the rocks further along the rim of the cliff, he detected a slight movement. He looked again, widening and then squinting his eyes. It looked like a boot heel. Not much of a mark at that distance, and not much damage could be done if he hit it.
“We’ll scare the daylights out of yuh, anyway!” he said, and lifting the Winchester, he nestled his cheek affectionately against the stock and squeezed off a shot. Dust obscured the spot for a moment, but no dust could blot out the startled yell he heard.
Somebody lunged into view then, and the Sandy Kid’s jaw dropped. It was Betty Kurland! She was wearing a man’s trousers and a man’s shirt and limping with one boot heel gone, but that hair could belong to nobody else!
He got up, waving his arms, and ran out to meet her. She turned on him, and her own rifle was coming hip high when she got a better look and recognized him. She came on a couple of steps and then stopped, her eyes flashing with indignation. “I thought you were my friend,” she flared at him. “Then you shoot at me!”
“You shot at me!” he declared. “How was I to know?”
“That’s different!” Such feminine logic was so amazing that he gulped and swallowed.
“Yuh shouldn’t have come out here,” he protested. “It isn’t safe!”
“I wanted to find my father,” she said. “Where is he?”
He led her to the lip of the cliff, and they found a way down. The Kid wanted a look at that desert, first. They came around in full sight of the mine tunnel and were just in time to see a man climbing out of a hole.
“I’ll go get what’s left of Kurland,” they heard the man say. “They’ll never find him here!”
The Sandy Kid was cursing softly, for he had been so preoccupied with the girl that he had walked around unthinking and now found himself looking into a gun held by Jasper Wald. The rancher had seen him, even if Jack Swarr, climbing from the freshly dug grave, had not.
“Well, now,” Wald said. “If this ain’t nice! You and that girl walkin’ right up on us!”
“Don’t you try nothin’,” the Kid said. “This girl is known to be here. If she doesn’t show up you’ll have the law around.”
Wald chuckled. “No, we won’t. Not for long, anyway. I’ll just tell them this Kurland girl showed up to meet you, and you two took off to get married, over to Lordsburg or somewheres. They’ll figger yuh eloped and never even think of lookin’ for yuh!”
Swarr grinned. “Hey, that’s a good idea, Boss! An’ we can pile ‘em in the same hole with her pa!”
“If I were you,” the Sandy Kid said, “I’d guess again. I just come from Argo Springs. I know all about that gold ore you’ve been shippin’ to El Paso, and I ain’t the only one.”
Jasper Wald hesitated. His idea for getting rid of the two had been a sudden inspiration and a good one, but the thought that the Kid might have mentioned the gold to someone in Argo Springs disturbed him. It would mean he would have to move slowly, or worse, that he was already suspected. Suddenly there was a clatter of stones, and they looked up. Only Wald, who held the gun on the Kid did not shift his eyes.
The newcomer was Dutch Schweitzer. “Watch that hombre, Boss,” the German said hoarsely. “He’s gun slick!”
“Him?” Swarr was incredulous. “That kid?”
“How old was Bill Bonney?” Dutch asked sarcastically. “He flashed a gun on me today so fast I never even saw his hand move!”
Angered and worried, Jasper Wald stared at the Kid. Quickly, Swarr explained. “Aw, Boss,” Dutch said, “he’s lyin’. I nosed around town after he left. After he left me, I mean. He never talked to nobody.”
“How did I find out about the gold in that box yuh brought in? Addressed to Henry Wald, in El Paso?” The Kid asked him.
“He must have seen the box,” Dutch protested.
The Sandy Kid’s mind was running desperately ahead trying to find a way out. “Also,” he added, “I checked on this claim. You never filed on it, so I did.”
“What?” Wald’s shout was a bellow of fury. His face went dark with blood. “You filed on this claim? Why, you!”
Rage drove all caution from his mind. “I’ll shoot yuh, blast yuh, and let yuh die right out in the sun! You”
“Boss!” Swarr shouted. “Hold it! Mebbe he’s lyin’! Mebbe he didn’t file! Anyway,” he added craftily, “why kill him until he signs the claim over to us?”
Wald’s rage died. He glanced at Swarr. “You’re right,” he said. “We can get possession that way.”
The Sandy Kid chuckled. “You’ll have no cinch gettin’ me to sign anything.”
“It’ll be easy,” Wald said sharply. “We’ll just start by tyin’ up that girl and takin’ her boots off. By the time she gets a little fire on her feet, yuh’ll sign!”
Dutch Schweitzer glanced at his chief. Then he helped Jack Swarr tie the girl. Swarr knelt and pulled off her boots. He drew deeply on his cigarette and thrust it toward her foot. Dutch stared at them, his eyes suddenly hard. “None of that!” he said. “I thought yuh were bluffm’! Cut it out!”
“Bluffin’!” Swarr looked up. “I’ll show yuh if I’m bluffin’!”
He jammed the cigarette forward, and Betty screamed. Dutch Schweitzer’s face went pale, and with an oath, he grabbed for a gun. At the same time. Jasper Wald swung his gun toward the German. That was all the break the Sandy Kid needed. His right hand streaked for his gun butt, and he was shooting with the first roar from Wald’s gun.
The Kid’s first shot took Jack Swarr in the stomach as the big man lunged upward, clawing for his pistol. Dutch had a gun out and was firing. The Kid saw his body jerk with the impact of Wald’s bullet, and he swung his own gun.
Wald faced him at the same instant. For one unbelieving instant, the Sandy Kid looked over the stabbing flame of his own Colt into the flaring muzzle of Wald’s six-shooter. He triggered his gun fast at almost point-blank range. He swayed on his feet, his legs spread wide, and saw Jasper Wald’s cruel face turn white before his eyes. The rancher’s knees sagged, and he went to the ground, glaring bitterly at the Sandy Kid. He tried then to lift his gun but the Kid sprang forward and knocked it from his grasp. Wald slumped over on the sand, his face contorted.
Swarr, the Kid saw at a glance, was dead. Yet it had not been only his bullet, for the German must have got in at least one shot. Swarr’s face and head were bloody.
Schweitzer lay on his back, his face upturned to the sun. The Sandy Kid knelt beside him, but a glance told him there was nothing he or anyone could do. Dutch stared at him. “Never was no hand to abuse women,” he said, “never no hand.”
The Sandy Kid turned to Betty Kurland, who stood staring down at Dutch. “He was a strange man,” she said.
“Let’s get out of here,” the Kid said.
Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the path down which Schweitzer had come. On the cliff top, they stood for a moment together. Betty’s face was white now, and her eyes seemed unusually large and dark. He noticed then that she hadn’t limped.
“Was yore foot burned badly?” he asked. “I didn’t think to help yuh.”
“It wasn’t burned at all,” she told him. “I jerked my foot back as he thrust the cigarette at it.”
“But you screamed!” he protested.
“Yes, I know,” she said, looking at him. “You had to have your chance to draw, and they hadn’t taken away your guns. And I knew about Dutch Schweitzer.”
“Knew about him? What?”
“The Apaches killed h
is wife. They burned her. I thought, maybe, that was why he drank so much, I guess.”
When they were on the trail toward the Forks, he looked at her and then glanced quickly away. “Well, yuh’ve got yore claim,” he said. “All yuh’ve got to do is stake it out and file on it. I never did. Yuh found yore pa, too. Looks like yuh’re all set. I reckon I’ll hug the rawhide and head out of the country. A loose horse is always huntin’ new pastures!”
“I’ll need a good man to ramrod that mine for me,” she protested. “Wouldn’t you do that? I promised you half, too!”
“Ma’am,” the Sandy Kid was growing red around the gills and desperate, for she was sure enough a pretty girl “I reckon I never was made to stay no place. I’m packin’ my duffle and takin’ the trail out of here. If anybody comes around askin’ for the Sandy Kid, you tell ‘em he lit a shuck and went to Texas!”
He turned his horse at the forks of the road and headed for the Bar W. His own horse was there, and since Wald wouldn’t be needing this bay pony, he might need him out West there, Arizona way. He sure did aim to see that Grand Canyon down which flowed the Colorado. A mile deep, they said. Of course, that was a durned lie, but she might be pretty deep, at that.
Once, he glanced back over his shoulder. The girl was only a dim figure on the skyline.
“First thing we know,” he said to the bay pony, “she’d have me a-settin’ in church a-wearin’ a fried shirt. I’d shore be halter broke.”
The bay pony switched his tail and picked up its feet in an Injun trot, and the Sandy Kid broke into song, a gritty baritone that made the bay lay back its ears.
Oh, there was a young cowhand who used to go riding. There was a young cowhand named Johnny Go-day! He rode a black pony an’ never was lonely, For a girl never said to him, “Johnny, go ‘way!
West of Dry Creek
On a late afternoon of a bitterly cold day he returned to the hotel and to his room. There was a narrow bed, a straw mattress, an old bureau, a white bowl and pitcher, and on the floor a small section of rag rug. The only other article of furniture was a drinking glass.
Beaure, short for Beauregard, took off his boots with their rundown heels and stretched out on the bed with a sigh. He was dog-tired and lonely, with nothing to do but wait for the storm to blow itself out. Then he would ride a freight out of town to somewhere and hunt himself a job.
Two days ago he had been laid off by the Seventy-Seven. After a summer of hard work he had but sixty-three dollars coming to him, and nobody was taking on hands in cold weather. It was head south or starve.
Beaure Hatch was twenty-two, an orphan since fourteen, and most of the time during those eight years he had been punching cows. Brute hard work and nothing to show
for it but his saddle, bridle, an old Colt, and a .44-40 Winchester. Riding company stock all the time, he did not even own a horse.
The Spencer House was the town’s second-best hotel. It occupied a place midway between the Metropole, a place of frontier luxury, and the hay mow of the livery barn, where a man could sleep if he stabled his horse there.
When a man had time to kill in Carson Crossing he did it at the Metropole, but to hang out there a man was expected to buy drinks or gamble, and a few such days would leave Beaure broke and facing a tough winter. He crumpled the pillow under his head and pulled the extra blanket over him. It was cold even in the room.
It was late afternoon when he went to sleep with the wind moaning under the eaves, and when he awakened it was dark. Out-of-door sounds told him it was early evening, and his stomach told him it was suppertime, yet he hesitated to leave the warmth of the bed for the chill of the room.
For several minutes he had been conscious of a low mumble of voices from beyond the thin wall, and then the sound broke into understandable words and he found himself listening.
“It ain’t so far to Dry Creek,” a man was saying, “otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it in weather like this. We’ll be in a rig and bundled warm.”
“Couldn’t we wait until the weather changes?” It was a girl’s voice. “I don’t understand why we should hurry.”
Irritation was obvious in the man’s reply. “This hotel ain’t no place for a decent girl, and you’ll be more comfortable out at the Dry Creek place. Big house out there, mighty well furnished.”
Beaure Hatch sat up in bed and began to build a smoke. It was twenty miles to Dry Creek through a howling blizzard … and when that man said there was a comfortable house on Dry Creek he was telling a bald-faced lie.
Beaure had punched cows along Dry Creek and in its vicinity all summer long, and in thirty miles there were two buildings. One was the Seventy-Seven line shack where he had bunked with two other hands, and the other was the old Pollock place.
The Pollock ranch had been deserted for six or seven years, the windows boarded up. A man could see inside, all right, and it was still furnished, left the way it had been when old man Pollock went east to die. Everything was covered with dust, and it would be icy cold inside that big old place.
The well was working—he had stopped to water his horse not three days ago—but there was no fuel around, and no neighbors within fifteen miles.
It was no place to take a girl in midwinter after telling her what he just had … unless, and the thought jolted him, she was not expected to return.
“But why should we go now?” she was protesting, “and why don’t you want to talk to anyone? When I sell the place people will certainly know it.”
“I explained all that!” The man’s voice was rough with anger. “There’s folks want that range, and it’s best to get it settled before they can start a court action to prevent it. ff you get tied up in a lawsuit it may be years before the estate is settled. And you say you need the money.”
“I should think so. It is all I have, and no relatives.”
‘Then get ready. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
The door closed and after a long silence he could hear the girl moving around, probably getting dressed for the drive.
Beaure finished his cigarette and rubbed it out. It was not his business, but anybody driving to the old Pollock place on a night like this was a fool. It was nigh to zero now, with the wind blowing and snow in the air. A man with a good team and a cutter could make it all right … but for what reason?
Beaure got to his feet and combed his hair. He was a lean, broad-shouldered young man with a rider’s narrow body. He pulled on his shabby boots and shrugged into his sheepskin. Picking up his hat, he also made up his mind.
He hesitated at her door, then knocked. There was a sudden silence. “Is that you, Cousin Hugh?”
“No, ma’am, this here is Beauregard Hatch, ma’am, an’ I’d like a word with you.”
The door opened and revealed a slender young girl with large gray eyes in a heart-shaped face. Her dark auburn hair was lovely in the reflected lamplight.
“Ma’am, I’m in the next room to you, and I couldn’t help hearing talk about the old Pollock place. Ma’am, don’t you go out there, especially in weather like this. There ain’t been nobody on the ranch in years, and she’s dusty as all get-out. Nor is there any fuel got up. Why, ma’am, you couldn’t heat that ol’ house up in a week.”
She smiled as she might smile at a child. “You must be mistaken. Cousin Hugh says it is just as it was left, and of course, there is the housekeeper and the hands. Thank you very much, but we will have everything we need.”
“Ma’am,” he persisted, “that surely ain’t true. Why, I stopped by there only a few days ago, and peeked in through the boarded-up windows. There’s dust over everything, and pack rats have been in there. It ain’t none of my business, ma’am, but was I you, I’d sure enough ask around a mite, or wait until the weather breaks. Don’t you go out there.”
Her smile vanished and she seemed to be waiting impatiently for him to finish what he was saying. “I am sure you mean well, Mr. Hatch, but you must be mistaken. If that is all, I have things to do.”
She closed the door in his face and he stood there, feeling like a fool.
Gloomily, he walked down the hall, then down the steps into the lobby. The fire on the hearth did nothing to take the chill from the room. What the Spencer needed was one of those potbellied stoves like at the Metropole, one with fancy nickel all over it. Sure made a place look up— and warmer, too.
It was bitter cold in the street and the snow crunched under his boots. Frost nipped at his cheeks and he ducked his face behind the sheepskin collar. When he glimpsed Abram Tebbets’s sign, he knew what he was going to do.
Abram was tilted back in his swivel chair reading Thu-cydides. He glanced at Beauregard over his steel-rimmed spectacles, and lowered his feet to the floor. “Don’t tell me, young man, that you’ve run afoul of the law?”
“No, sir.” Beaure turned his hat in his hand. “I reck-, oned I might get some information from you. I been savin’ a mite and figured I might buy myself a place, sometime.”
“Laudable.” Abram Tebbets picked a pipe from a dusty tray and began to stoke it carefully with a threatening mixture. “Ambition is a good thing in a young man.”
“Figured you might know something about the old Pollock place.”
Abram Tebbets continued to load his pipe without replying. Twice he glanced at Beaure over his glasses, and when he leaned back in his chair there was a subtle difference in his manner. Beaure, who could read sign like an Apache, noticed it. He had known Tebbets for more than a year, and it had been the lawyer who started him reading.
“Settin’ your sights mighty high, Beaure. That Pollock place could be sold right off, just anytime, for twenty thousand dollars. The Seventy-Seven would like to own it, and so would a lot of others.”
“Who owns it now?”
“Heirs to old Jim Pollock. His granddaughter was named in the will, but she dropped out of sight a few years back, and if s believed she died back east somewhere. If she doesn’t show up in a few weeks it goes to Len Mason, and after that to Hugo Naley.”
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