There being nothing else for it, he walked--and talked--leading his mount, and pausing on the top of every rise in the hope of seeing or being seen by a Bar O rider. As he did this for about the twentieth time, his anger broke out afresh.
"O' course, they's all workin' elsewhere--they would be," he raged. "If I was here to rustle cattle, I'd 'a' bin spotted right off." He toiled on over the rough ground and the unwonted exertion soon began to tell. The vertical rays of the sun blazed down, sore and swollen feet made every step painful, and since--for such a short journey--he had neglected to bring a canteen, thirst was soon added to the other discomforts.
Doggedly lie stumbled on. His legs became lead, requiring an effort to drag one after the other, but he dared not stop, knowing that he would never start again. Staggering blindly forward he tripped over a rock his weary eyes failed to note, and went sprawling. He was struggling to stand up when a voice said :
"What th' devil ?" Sloppy looked round, his lips moved, but no sound came from them. John Owen--for he it was--slipped from his saddle, unslung his water-bottle, and held it to the sufferer's mouth. An eager swallow or two and Sloppy found his voice, hoarse but intelligible.
"Was a-comin' for you--my bronc went lame. We gotta hurry, it's life or death. Git yore outfit." The Bar O owner was a man of action. Though he did not know what it was all about, he realized that the messenger had not endured the agonies of that long tramp without good reason. Stepping into his saddle, he said:
"Get up behind me--we can talk as we ride. Leave yore hoss, the boys will gather him in later." The little man obeyed, and sighed with relief when his aching extremities were no longer on the ground. They had something less than two miles to travel and they did it at speed, but by the time they reached the ranch, Owen was in possession of the main facts.
"Ned's afeard that when them Dumb-bell outcasts show up there'll be a neck-tie party. It'll be my fault if we're too late," Sloppy finished miserably.
"Skittles! you couldn't help yore hoss playin' out on you," Owen consoled. "Might happen to anybody." As soon as they sighted the ranch, he drew out his rifle and fired three shots at equally-spaced intervals.
"That'll bring in most of 'em," he said. "They ain't far afield to-day."
"Don't I know it," was the feeling reply.
They found the place deserted, save for the Chinese cook --Owen was a bachelor. Sloppy hobbled to the bench by the door, sat down, and emptied the glass his host hastened to bring.
"Gosh ! I needed that one," he said, but refused a second. "I've bin fightin' shy o' liquor lately, but I reckon a fella who can't take one an' leave it at that ain't o' much account."
"Shorely," the rancher agreed, and then, "You think a lot o' the marshal, don't you?"
"He's done a deal for me."
"An' you say he admitted the killin'?"
"yeah, but he claims it was an accident."
"He didn't deny bein' this outlaw--Sudden?"
"No, but I'll bet there's an explanation for that too," the little man said stoutly. "I'd stake my life on Jim bein' straight." The scamper of galloping ponies cut short the conversation, and Reddy, with four others, raced in and pulled up, sending the dust and gravel flying.
"What's doin', Boss?" the carroty one inquired, and noticing the visitor, " 'Lo, Sloppy, how's the marshal?"
"Still alive--I'm hopin'." Reddy's eyebrows lifted. "How come?" he asked.
"No time for chatter," his employer cut in. "You'll need fresh hosses, an' bring yore rifles. We're for town--you can feed there."
"Shore, at the Widow's--that's worth ridin' twenty-five mile for any day," Reddy cried, and swinging his mount round, darted for the corral.
But precious time was lost waiting for more of the men to put in an appearance, and when at length a start was made, Sloppy was in a fever of impatience; he knew that the Sark contingent must have reached Welcome before he arrived at the Bar O. If Nippert could hold them off ... He glanced hopefully at these riders he had come to fetch, familiar, all of them, yet he seemed to be seeing them from a new angle. Instead of a band of reckless young devils, who played as they worked--hard, and were ready for any prank when they came to town, he saw men with set faces which told that their task would be done--at any cost.
Sloppy's fears were only too well-founded; little more than two hours after he had left Welcome, Sark and his outfit rode in, and instead of pulling up, as usual, at the Red Light, went on to Dirty Dick's. Here their leader left them, and repaired to Jake's abode.
"Howdy, Sark, this is Mister Javert, from Pinetown; Dutch will have told you 'bout him," Mullins greeted.
The rancher acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, sat down, and poured himself a drink, his gaze on the swollen, battered features of his host.
"That fella can certainly use his fists," he remarked. "If I'd met you anywhere else I wouldn't 'a' knowed you."
"He had all the breaks, an' at that I damn' near got him," Jake retorted savagely. "This afternoon I'm goin' to--" Dutch burst unceremoniously into the room. "I got news," he cried. "Ned disarmed the marshal when he locked him up, an' took his belt into the Red Light."
"How very thoughtless of him--might just as well have signed his death-warrant," Sark murmured.
"You said it," Jake gritted. "What's yore strength, Sark?"
"Twelve, besides myself."
"Thirteen is an unlucky number," commented Javert, who had all a gambler's superstition.
"It will be--for the marshal," was the sinister answer. "Let's move." Dirty Dick's was a human beehive, and the motley crowd, reinforced by the Dumb-bell riders, fed Sark's vanity with a cheer. From his saddle, the rancher addressed them :
"Well, friends, I'm told you want me to argue with Nippert."
"Argue nawthin'," came a harsh voice. "We aim to take an' string that gunman. Ain't that so, fellas?" Affirmative yells answered the question, and S ark, with a lift of his shoulders as one giving in to the popular desire, led the way down the street. His cowboys closed in behind him, and the mob followed.
Outside the calaboose, the saloon-keeper, with less than a dozen men, stood on guard. He had witnessed the arrival of the Dumb-bell party, heard the riotous clamour at Dirty Dick's, and knew that an attempt would be made to deprive him of the prisoner.
"Pity you took away Jim's guns," Gowdy said. "If it comes to a battle, he'd be useful."
"I've got his belt on under my coat," Nippert replied. "If things git that far, I'll agree to fetch Jim out an' slip it to him. Here they come." Sark and his outfit, rifles across their knees, had pulled up about ten paces away, and the others spread out in a half-circle behind them, glaring with avid eyes at the prison which held their prey. A menacing silence prevailed until Nippert spoke:
"Well, S ark, what's yore errand?"
"We want the criminal yo're plannin' to set free."
"That's not true. I'm handin' the marshal over to Pine-town; it's their job to deal with him."
"We ain't trustin' you. Fetch him out, or take the consequences." The saloon-keeper looked at the row of threatening rifles, one volley from which might well wipe out himself and his friends. It would be hopeless. He glanced up the street, but there was no sign of the Bar O. He must make a last desperate bid for time.
"You win, Sark," he said. "I'll git him."
"No," Jake snapped. "Throw me the key."
"I'll see you in hell first."
"Then you'll be waitin' for me," the other jeered, and drew his gun. "Out with it, or . .." The big man was still hesitating when a voice from inside the calaboose said calmly, "Better let him have it, or-timer; no sense in a ruckus which can on'y end one way." With a curse of disgust, Nippert flung the key on the ground. "An' that's the man you claim is a bloodthirsty murderer," he cried passionately.
"That kind o' talk won't buy you anythin'," Jake retorted.
He unlocked the door and stood back, revolver in hand. A moment of silence and the prisoner stepped out into the sunlight to be w
elcomed by a storm of execration. He heard it with contemptuous indifference; if he had his guns . . .
"Git agoin'," Jake ordered.
The marshal looked at the men who had tried to save him. "I'm thankin' yu," he said, and head up, staring stolidly before him, moved forward.
Some of these men had praised him when he thrashed Mullins; they would condemn him with the same enthusiasm when he dangled lifeless from a tree. Once he turned his head and saw that his few friends were tramping along with the others. He spoke his thought:
"They can't do a thing."
"you bet they can't, 'cept go with you for comp'ny," a cowboy beside him agreed. "We got ropes to spare." Sudden did not reply. The top of a tall cottonwood was now in sight, and the imminence of death was upon him. He knew that to be hauled off the ground and left hanging until the tightening noose checked the breath, must, to a healthy man, mean many minutes of agony. He dismissed the thought with a shrug.
The tree was reached, and the victim thrust under a stout outflung branch over which the man who had jeered at him on the journey proceeded to throw one end of his lariat. He then adjusted the loop and stood back, surveying his work. "All set," he announced.
At these words the spectators closed in, eager to feed their animal appetite with every detail of the drama.
To the condemned man it all seemed unreal. Above his head, birds were chirping, and the sunlight, filtering through the foliage, threw dancing shadows on the ground. The world appeared, in truth, a fair place, and he was about to leave it--shamefully. Then into his consciousness came something very real indeed--Javert's poisonous features, alight with triumph, within a foot of his own.
"So, Mister Sudden, our game is finished, an' I take the pot," he hissed. "I promised myself to get you an' that coyote cub, Masters " He got no further, having--in his eagerness to vent his spleen--overlooked the fact that the man he taunted was unbound. With all the fury of one who has nothing to lose, Sudden's right fist came up and smashed into the leering face like a battering-ram, and Javert went down as though he had encountered a cyclone. Mouthing mad blasphemies, he scrambled to his feet and clawed at his gun, but Jake clutched his wrist.
"Don't be a fool ! " he cried. "Can't you wait a few minutes? That's what he was playin' for--an easy death." The stricken man spat out a tooth and wiped the blood from his gashed lips. "I'll make it easy for him," he snarled. "Listen, you with the rope : when he's half-choked, lower him to the ground again so's he can fill his lungs, an' keep on doin' it; he shall die ten times for that blow." This diabolical suggestion brought an angry protest from the saloon-keeper, and some of the more sober in the crowd supported him.
"We're here to see justice done, Sark," one of them said. "But we ain't Injuns, an' won't stand for torture."
"An' I don't reckon that Pinetown has the say-so in these proceedin's neither," another added, a sentiment whichbrought a still blacker look to Javert's damaged countenance, but was promptly taken up and repeated.
More joined in, and the argument as to whether a man should die slowly or quickly became general.
Chapter VII
SHORTLY after the band of self-appointed executioners had departed on its grisly errand, a solitary horseman loped into Welcome. Young, attired in range-rig, with a good-humoured, not unpleasing face, there was nothing remarkable about him save his pallor, unusual in a land of sunburnt skins. At Gowdy's store he dismounted, entered, and asked for "smokin'."
"This is the most lonesome place I've struck," he remarked. "Yu ain't the on'y inhabitant, are yu?"
"All the men are gone to the lynchin', I s'pose," Lucy told him, with a feminine shudder. "Beasts, I call them." The visitor stared at her. "Yu don't say. Who they string-in' up, an' whyfor?"
"Our new marshal," she said. "They say he shot a man."
"Well, a marshal has to do that--times. I ain't never seen a hangin'. Where's it takin' place?"
"On the road to the west--there's no trees here."
"What had the dead man done?"
"I don't know--it happened a long ways off, before the marshal came here." Her eyes filled. "You see, it was owin' to me he got the job. If I hadn't told him of the vacancy maybe ... Oh, it's too bad. I can see him now, ridin' up to the Red Light on that great black horse."
"A black hoss?" the cowboy cried. "With a white face?"
"Why, yes, do you ?"
"Hell's flames ! " he swore, and darted for the street.
leaving his purchase and the dollar he had put down in payment lying on the counter.
Amazement held her for a moment, then she ran to the door, only to see a diminishing cloud of dust travelling west.
"He must be awful anxious to see a hangin'," she decided.
In this she did the young man an injustice, for that was precisely what he fervently desired not to see. Therefore he plied spurs and quirt--though not cruelly--in the effort to drag a little more speed from his tired mount.
"Which I'm shorely sorry, Splinter, but we just gotta make it," he panted. "O' course, he may've sold his hoss, but no, he'd never part with Nigger." Soon they sighted the tree, and the black knot of people. A decision had been arrived at--Javert's inhuman proposal had found few supporters, and Sudden was to die only once.
"Someone a'comin' an' ain't losin' time neither," Dutch called out.
Jake glanced down the trail; one man only, but he was taking no chances. "Haul on that rope," he ordered.
The burly fellow holding it was bracing himself to obey when a hard round object was jammed into the small of his back and a harsh voice whispered, "If you do, you'll die before he does." A half turn of the head told him that the owner of the Red Light was standing behind him, and being well aware that Nippert was no bluffer, he froze. Before Jake could investigate, the newcomer arrived, leapt from the saddle, and shouldered his way unceremoniously through the onlookers.
"Jim ! " he cried.
Sudden stared at him in utter bewilderment, unable to believe his eyes. The face of one other betrayed a like incredulity, that of Javert, who gazed open-mouthed at this man who had apparently risen from the grave to defeat him.
"Dave," the marshal breathed. "It can't be--yo're dead."
"Not very," the other returned lightly.
"But--I killed yu."
"Skittles! It was a pore shot--on'y creased me." Hepushed his hat back, showing a scarcely-healed wound along the side of his head. "I didn't bat an eyelid for most twenty-four hours--concussion, the doc said. Soon as I was able to climb a hoss, I set out in search o' yu, an' I seem to 'a' got here at the right moment." He stepped to the condemned man and lifted the loop from his neck.
"Who the devil are you to come buttin' into our business?" Mullins rasped.
The young man grinned at him. "I'm Dave Masters, the corpse in this case, an' if anybody wants to argue, he'll find me the livest corpse he ever tackled." The challenge passed unheeded, but Nippert joined the two men beneath the tree. "Here's yore belt, marshal," he said. "Mebbe you'll feel more comfortable wearin' it." The act aroused Sark's malignity. "Hold on there," he growled. "We've on'y got this fella's word that he's Masters." The cowboy's face grew bleak. "I'll remember that, Mister Whatever-yore-name-is," he retorted, and looked around. "Ask the skunk who came to yu with a lyin' tale to hang the man he had failed to murder; there he stands--Javert; he's the one yu oughta swing." A threatening murmur warned the Pinetown citizen that he might be in danger--mobs were mercurial, easily swayed. In his anxiety to save his neck, he fell into the trap.
"It warn't no lie," he blurted out. "I left with the posse an' we all figured you was cashed. I ain't bin in Pinetown since, so how would I know?" Dave's grin was back again. "Well, gents, Mister Javert havin' admitted I'm me--which a'most makes me doubt it myself--I guess that settles the cat-hop," he remarked.
"Not any," Sark snapped. "That fella"--pointing to the marshal--"is a notorious outlaw, an' I'm going to turn him over to the sheriff at Drywash."
"You gotta git h
im first," Nippert said. "Loose yore dawgs as soon as you like, Sark." The defiance brought a deeper frown to the rancher's face.
Many of the Welcome men were stepping aside and would take no part in an affray, but he would have two for one. Nevertheless, lives would be lost, and there was that cursed gunman. Sark had an uneasy feeling that the marshal's first bullet would render the result of the fight a matter of indifference to him. Then Providence intervened. A growing thunder of hammering hooves, and along the trail a compact body of riders raced into view. Nippert drew a deep breath of relief; the Bar O had come. A few more seconds and they were at the scene.
"What's goin' on here?" Owen asked, and when he had heard the story, turned to Sark. "Sore at havin' failed to hang a man for somethin' he didn't do, huh?" he said contemptuously.
"He's an outlaw--wanted in Texas "
"He's wanted a damn' sight more in Welcome, judging by this precious gathering; the on'y thing I'm surprised at is that they had the pluck to try it in daylight," came the scathing answer. "I s'pose you made 'em good an' drunk first. Got any proof of what you say?"
"That fella knows him." The Bar O owner regarded Javert with distinct disapproval. "I wouldn't destroy a dawg on his evidence," he said bluntly. "What's it gotta do with you, Sark, anyways?"
"I was invited by the citizens o' Welcome to come in----"
"Meanin' Mullins an' the lousy loafers from Dirty Dick's?" Owen interrupted. "Well, you are now invited to get out, pronto." The Dumb-bell man writhed under the lash of that bitter tongue. "yo're takin' a high hand," he said. "I ain't here alone."
"I'd noticed it, an' if you want trouble . . ." Sark was not eager--the odds were no longer in his favour; the majority of the townsfolk would side with the Bar O, whose custom was of moment to many of them. Also, the riders from that ranch were known to be willing fighters, ready to storm the gates of Hell itself at the bidding of theirboss. And the marshal ... Sark reckoned up the chances and made his decision.
"That'll come later," he promised. "For now, I'm pullin' out." He swung his horse towards the hills where his own ranch lay, and his men followed him in silence.
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