by Grey, Zane
"I want action. That's why I came," almost yelled Bambridge, red in the face. "Malloy has failed me twice, both times because I didn't pay first. Here I have a chance to sell ten thousand head of cattle--to the government buyer in Kansas City--an' I haven't the cattle."
"Chance to sell quick an' get out of Arizona, huh?"
"You've hit it, Stone. An' that's why I'm here. I want cattle. Old Traft lately drove a big herd down into Yellow Jacket. I'm after it. Malloy agreed to drive it. I've built a corral along the railroad, half-way between Winslow an' Holbrook. Short-cut idea, see? An' I can load there. He also agreed to make away with this damned young smart Alec, Jim Traft. Took the money quick enough, by damn."
"Took what money?" queried Stone, with no apparent interest.
"What I offered for the job," fumed the cattleman. "Then afterward he said it was the kind of job Croak Malloy couldn't do. But he'd put his man Sonora on it. A Mexican."
"Job to do away with young Jim Traft," mused Stone, drumming the bench with his fingers. "Wal, I reckon thet's a fine idee--ler you. I'll tell you somethin', though. Sonora will never do it."
"More double-crossin', eh?"
"No. The greaser is straight. Funny fer a greaser, ain't it? But he simply won't, because Slinger Dunn will kill him. I wouldn't go prowlin' around Yellow Jacket for anythin', an you can gamble Malloy wouldn't, either."
"So that's why he's slow about drivin' the Diamond cattle. Damn his crooked mug!... Stone, did you know Malloy was in with that Tanner outfit an' has been workin' on Blodgett's stock?"
"No. Thet's news to me. Who told you?"
"Darnell. In fact, he made the deal. This was against my orders, I'm bound to admit. I am pretty sore at him an' I'm through with him. But Malloy has got to square himself with me."
"Your man is playin' both ends against the middle," observed the outlaw, thoughtfully. "He's smart enough to try to use Malloy same as you--an' get a big raid off. Then he, too, can jump Arizona. Wal, my advice is to be jumpin' quick. We decent rustlers don't work thet way. We never rob any cattleman of enough stock to ruin him. Thet's why the Hash-Knife has lasted twenty-years."
"My daughter married a cowboy in Flag last winter," said Bambridge. "An' I'm ready to get out quick, without any advice from you. Can you jack up Malloy on this job?"
"Shore I can, if I like," replied the outlaw, easily. "I can handle Croak on any deal, providin' I give him the big share. I'm not keen, though, to egg him along--for nothin'."
Bambridge was no match for Stone in subtlety. He had been led on to tell his business with Malloy; now all the outlaw leader wanted to know was whether or not he had brought the money.
"Malloy wanted twenty thousand dollars," said Bambridge. "That was out of all reason. He can't deliver cattle enough. So we jawed about it. He came down to fifteen--an' I've got ten thousand with me. Suppose you persuade Malloy to make the drive--with as few men as can possibly be needed. An' the day you land the cattle at my corral I'll fork over the other five thousand."
"How many cattle?" asked Stone, tremendously interested, but not in any case in the query he made.
"I don't stipulate any number. Only as many as can be rounded up quick an' driven out quick."
"Ahuh... Suppose you let me see the colour of thet ten thousand," suggested the rustler, as if he needed a little more material persuasion.
Bambridge unbuttoned his bulging vest, and from an inside pocket drew forth a packet of clean new greenbacks, with the bank wrapper still round them. He flipped it upon the bench. Money was only so much paper to him! His large features worked.
"You've as much right to doubt me as I have you," he said, blandly. "There you are!--Nice fresh green colour!"
"Wal, it ain't so much money, after all, considerin'," reflected Stone.
The cattleman's face fell. He had calculated upon this last card.
"I've got about five hundred more in gold. I'll throw that in. Will you pull off the deal?" And he jingled the heavy coins, which evidently were what had made his vest bulge.
Stone's veins leaped as the released blood gushed hot and bursting along them. All his talk had been pretence, except wherein he had wanted to find out if Bambridge really carried the money with him.
"Let me see thet, too... The gold! The good old yellow stuff with the music--an' the hell hid in it."
Bambridge reacted slowly to that suggestion. Something wedged into his eager one-ideaed mind. Instead of complying with Stone's request he ceased jangling the gold and snatched up the packet of bills, which he returned to his pocket. Then he buttoned up his vest.
"Fork it all over!" suddenly called the outlaw, and in a single second such a remarkable transformation occurred in him that Bambridge's eyes popped wide.
"Wha-at?" he stammered.
"Hand me thet money."
"I will not. No pay in advance, Malloy."
"Pay hell! I wouldn't drive a steer for you. But I want the ten thousand. You owe it to me."
"See you in hell first," burst out Bainbridge, furiously. He stood up, and stepped out as if to go off the porch.
Stone gave him a sudden hard shove, which staggered him backward. "You--fool! You will brace me on my own ground? Fork over thet money or--"
"You're a low-down thief! No wonder Malloy's quit standin' for you... An' if you want to know it--there's talk of collectin' the reward on your head."
Bambridge's ignorance of such men as Jed Stone could not have been better expressed. And if he had known how to inflame this outlaw it was doubtful if he could have done so more subtly. For years that price on Stone's head had been a thorn in his flesh. There were still a mother and a father living, not to forget a sacrificed sweetheart; and the thought of them hearing of this reward was torture.
Stone drew his gun and struck Bainbridge over the forehead. Not a violent blow, though it brought blood! The cattleman fell over the bench, against the wall.
"Get that through your thick skull?" demanded Stone, as he menacingly straddled the bench. "Hyar! Don't pull--"
But Bambridge, like a madman, his face ablaze, reached back toward his hip.
"Take it then!" hissed the outlaw. His shot broke Bambridge's draw. The gun slipped out on the floor and spun round. Bambridge uttered a horrible groan, sagged back, his huge face going out like an extinguished light.
Stone stood an instant. Then with swift movement he picked up the gun from the floor, fired it into the wall, and dropped it again. Then, bending over the dead man, he ripped open his vest and extracted the money, which he transferred to his own pocket. That done, he stepped to the porch. The gun in his hand still smoked. Sheathing it, he glanced along the wall of the cliff to see Madden coming on a run. His next move was to light a cigarette, and his fingers were as steady as a rock. He had shot Bambridge as he would have a hydrophobia skunk, than which there was no more despised beast of the wilderness.
Chapter SIXTEEN
Madden thumped up to the cabin, breathless and alarmed. "Boss, I heerd--shootin'," he panted.
"Reckon you did," replied Stone, removing his cigarette to puff a cloud of smoke.
The right-hand man of Croak Malloy took his cue from that--no need for concern!
"What come--off?"
"Wal, you can see fer yourself."
Madden stamped up the high porch steps, his beady eyes working as if on points, until suddenly they fixed on the dead man, the little stream of red blood running out toward the gun lying on the floor. It seemed to be an accusing finger.
"----! Throwed on you?" ejaculated Madden, in amaze.
Stone nodded.
"What's thet cut on his haid?" asked the other, curiously.
"Wal, he fell all over the place," replied Stone, casually. "I reckon he hit the bench... Better search him, Madden."
The outlaw picked up the gun, took a look at the chamber, and laid it on the bench. Then he extracted watch, papers, and a handful of gold coins from the pockets, which he placed beside the gun. His next move was to
look for a money-belt.
"Wasn't well heeled," he remarked, in disgust. "I recollect he an' Croak had a hell of a row at Tanner's. There was a game on. An' Bambridge lost. Swore he'd never fetch any more money where there was a lot of robbers. Haw haw!"
"You're welcome to thet, Madden. I shore don't want it."
"Thanks, Boss. An' what about all these papers?"
"Wal, I reckon you can keep them for Croak," said Stone, with humour. "By the way, Madden, when do you expect him?"
"Today, sure. Thet's why I near rode Bambridge off his laigs gettin' hyar... What'd you an' Bambridge fight aboot?"
"Wait till Croak comes," replied the rustler leader. "I don't want to tell it all over again."
"Shall we drag Bambridge an' bury him, or wait fer thet, too?"
"Reckon we'd better wait. Put thet gun back on the floor where you found it. An' cover him over."
"Haw haw! Pertickler on Croak seein' the evidence, huh?... Don't blame you. Croak will be a-rarin'. But at thet he wasn't so fond of Bambridge, an' don't you overlook it."
Call to supper at last brought the outlaw leader inside the cabin, where bright fire and smoking pans and pots attested to Madden's practical application to duties surely neglected by others of the Hash-Knife.
"No sign of Croak?" he asked.
"Nary. An' mebbe it's jest as well," replied Stone.
"Shore. Tomorrer you'll feel less testy... Wal, Croak's been in a fight, you can lay to thet. Else he'd been hyar. I seen him at Tanner's about a week ago--yep, jest seven days, an' we set the day for me to get hyar with Bambridge... Thet feller Darnell has messed things up again, I reckon."
"Madden, I appreciate your cookin', if not your company," said Stone.
"Shore kind of you, Boss," replied the other, sarcastically. "But when the final row between you an' Croak comes don't take any of it out on me. I was Croak's pard before we come to the Hash-Knife. An' if I do see some queer deals I hardly approve of, I can't do nothin'."
"I'll remember thet, Madden;" rejoined Stone, in a surprise he did not show. "Thet's straight talk. I didn't think it was in you."
They finished the meal, after which Stone smoked in front of the fire, where Madden presently joined him.
"Forgot aboot thet dead hombre out there," he said. "We ought to have planted him."
"Maddy, you've slept before where there was a dead man lyin' around."
"Shore. But I ain't crazy aboot it."
After a while, which was mostly silence, they sought their blankets. Stone's bed happened to be in the corner just inside where Bambridge lay, and he could smell the blood. Sleep did not come readily, so presently he got up, and carrying his blankets to another unoccupied bough-couch in the cabin, he spread them in that. It was a quiet night, with no sound except a low moan of wind in the caverns of the great overhanging cliff. And some hours elapsed before Stone fell into slumber.
Next morning he was up with the sun, and something, as black and uncanny as the vanished night, had left him. Stone walked along the wall, as far as the intersecting canyon which the rustlers used as a corral for the horses. He reminded himself that he did this quite often. There seemed no sense in deceiving himself--would soon be riding away from the rendezvous and the brakes. Which presupposed that he did not mean to give Malloy a chance to kill him!
On his return he heard a halloa, and quickening his steps soon turned a corner of wall to see riders coming up the slope. Three--with pack animals!
Madden hailed him from the door. "Croak comin' with Blacky an' some fellar I cain't make out yet."
Stone, in action of which he was unaware, hitched his heavy belt, as if about to mount a horse or undertake something physical. As he went up the porch steps his quick eye took in the tarpaulin that hid Bambridge. The body looked like some covered packs.
"Maddy, no hurry aboot tellin' Croak," said Stone, indicating the dead man.
"All right, Boss. I'd jest as lief see Croak cheerful as long as possible."
Then they both went into the cabin, Madden to bustle around the fire, and Stone to watch through one of the chinks between the logs. The three rustlers came very slowly up the slope, to halt before the cabin. A lean, dark rider, the stranger, sagged in his saddle. A bloody bandage showed from under his sombrero. He was the last to dismount, but they were all ridden out. Without speaking they threw saddles and packs, and left the weary horses standing.
"Wal, if thar's anybody home they shore ain't powerful glad to see us," said Malloy, gruffly.
Madden ran out, his hands white with flour. "Howdy, men! We seen you comin', but didn't think it no call fer a brass band."
"Haw!--I should smile not... Anybody hyar?" returned Malloy.
"Only the boss."
Whereupon Stone stalked out, and a singular incomprehensible fact was that he was glad to see the gunman. Croak radiated the raw hard force of the range. He was, at best, an ally to depend upon in times that tried men. On the other hand, Stone certainly had a wavering thought--this was the moment! Nevertheless, he did not take advantage of it.
"Mornin', Croak. How's tricks?" he said, cheerfully.
"Hullo there, you old son-of-a-gun!" replied Malloy. "Got news fer you--an' somethin' else."
Malloy limped. Something beside sweat and dust had caked on his worn yellow chaps--something dark and sinister. Stone's sharp eye caught a bullet-hole in the leather. Malloy carried a rifle, saddlebag, and an extra gun-belt, minus shells. His leather jacket looked as if he had slept in wet clay that had hardened. His crooked face somehow appeared wonderful to look at, or else Stone's mind at the moment was steeped in strong feeling. Malloy might have been wearing a death mask, yet his eyes were alight, and it seemed that in them was a smile. His boots dragged across the floor, his spurs jangled, as he went into the cabin, to deposit wearily what he carried.
"Howdy, you cook!" he called. "Then thet four-flush cattle thief didn't come out?"
"Croak, I've shore got bad news," returned Madden. "But s'pose you rest a little--an' eat somethin'--before I spring it on you."
"Good idee. I'm glad as a tarantula wasp anyhow... I reckoned Bambridge wouldn't come... An' mebbe I like it jest as well as if he did. No more deals fer me with thet----! 33
"Sounds good to me, Croak," returned Stone, with satisfaction. "Reckon I can give you a reason why you can't take up any more deals with Bambridge. But it's bad news. An' suppose you have a shot at my bottle first."
Malloy took a long drink of fiery liquor that made him cough huskily and brought colour to his ashen cheeks.
"Uggh!--if I'd hed thet two days ago mebbe I'd never got hyar," he said, enigmatically.
"Where's Lang?"
"Ha!--Feedin' the buzzards."
"You don't say," returned the outlaw leader, coolly, though the statement had struck fire from him. Another of the original Hash-Knife gone! Lang was not loyal, but he belonged to the old school, and once he had been respectable.
Slow footfalls thudded up the steps outside, across the porch. The bar of light from the door darkened. Reeves entered with the lean-jawed stranger.
"Hed to shoot thet bay. She was bad crippled," announced Reeves.
"Should have been done before," replied Malloy. "Boss, shake hands with Sam Tanner... Cousin of Joe's from up Little Colorado way."
"Howdy, Tanner," said Stone, civilly, though he did not move toward Malloy's new man. Perhaps this omission was not noticed, as table and packs and also Malloy stood between. Tanner merely bowed his bandaged head, which, with sombrero removed, showed matted hair, and dark stains extending down over the left temple and ear.
"Must have jagged your haid on a snag or somethin'," went on Stone.
"Nary snag. I got sideways to a lead slug," returned Tanner. He had a low voice, and a straight, level look from his black eyes. Stone gauged men of the range with speed and precision. This fellow, since he was kin to Joe Tanner, and in the company of Croak Malloy, could be only another of their ilk, but he seemed a man to consider t
houghtfully.
"Croak, I reckon you'll be tellin' me you've had a little brush with somebody," said Stone, dryly.
"Brush?--Haw haw!" rejoined the gunman, and his flaring glance, his crisp query, and his deadly little croak of a laugh made Stone's flesh creep. He guessed there were some dead men somewhere who would never tell the tale of what had happened.
"Wal, take your time tellin' me," drawled the leader.
"Come an' get it," yelled Madden.
"A good stiff drink with some hot grub--an' a fellar's able to go on," he said, as he rose. "But I'll shore sleep most like our pard Lang hangin' down there on thet cottonwood."
Stone did not reveal his curiosity; he knew he would soon be enlightened, and if his intuition was not at fault most weighty things had happened. But when Malloy drew a heavy roll of soiled greenbacks from his pocket and tossed it over, Stone could not hide a start.
"Bambridge sent thet money he owed you," said Malloy. "Like the muddlehead he is he trusted it to Darnell... An' I'm tellin' you, pard, if it hadn't been fer me you'd never seen it."
"I reckon. Thanks--Croak," replied the outlaw chief, haltingly. This was one of the surprising attributes of the little gunman. Vicious and crooked as he was, he yet had that quality which forced respect, if not more, from Stone's reluctant mind.
Malloy laboriously took off his chaps and flapped them into his corner of the cabin. Then a bloody wet spot showed on the leg of his jeans. "Some hot water, Maddy, an' a clean rag. I've a crease on my laig."
"What's the fellar got who gave you thet cut, Croak?" queried Stone.
"He got nothin', wuss luck. I was shore damn near my everlastin', Jed, an' don't you overlook it... Sam, you better have Madden wash thet bullet hole of yours. He's pretty handy."
Stone curiously watched the deft Madden dress the wounds of the injured rustlers.
In due time the ministering was ended, after which Malloy asked for another drink. "Reckon I'd better get some of my news off my chest. Then after I hear yours I'll have a nap of about sixteen hours... Boss, would you mind comin' out on the porch where I can set down an' talk?"
