Thunder Mountain

by Zane Grey

“I reckoned you knew me.”

  “I do. But it’s too late to save Dick. And even if you are Kalispel Emerson you might get killed.”

  “Shore. Only that’s not the way to meet this situation. If I showed yellow I’d stand a heap more chance of cashin’. Besides, Borden would get you shore.”

  “Not alive!” she flashed.

  “Ah-huh. There you’re admittin’ the weakness of your argument to let these skunks off. Can’t you see that, girl?”

  “We could leave Thunder City as soon—as—” she faltered. “Kal, can’t you see something, too?”

  “I see a lot, Ruth. An’ the biggest thing is for me to go on the rampage. Borden an’ Leavitt are white-livered, an’ their men are not the real stuff. They shoot in the dark an’ knife in the back. I’m goin’ to wipe out some of them an’ scare the rest of them stiffer’n a crowbar. That, with the proofs I have, will wake up these miners. Masters is on our side. He’s a crafty Texan an’ he shore smells a rat.”

  “Oh, Kal—suppose—” she choked, and after one terrible gaze into his face she sank against him, quivering.

  Kalispel held her, suddenly troubled with the memory of Sydney’s statement about this girl. That was scarcely credible. Yet—Ruth drew away from him. To his surprise and admiration, all trace of weakness had vanished. She was of different caliber from Sydney Blair, not built of the same stuff.

  “You know best, Kal,” she said, with composure. “It is not for me to try to stay your hand... Go—and don’t worry about me.”

  “That’s the way to talk, Ruth,” he rejoined, hiding his own feeling. “Looks like Dick is unconscious. Reckon he won’t come to again. An’ that’s just as well, seein’ he’s done for....Ruth, don’t worry now about me.”

  “I’d hate to be in Borden’s boots,” she replied, lightly, and went to Sloan’s bedside.

  Kalispel strode out slowly, gazing back at Ruth. There was a girl who understood a man. Once out of the door, he was himself again. Masters stood outside, talking to the couple. The crowd, except for a few groups, had dispersed.

  “Folks, go inside an’ stay with Ruth,” begged Kalispel. “Masters, you come with me.”

  They had crossed the bridge and reached the main street when the Texan broke the strained silence.

  “Youngster, you’re aimin’ to play a lone hand?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Wal, I calculate I’d back you up,” returned the other, deliberately.

  “Masters, I’d be most damned glad to have you line up with me on this deal,” said Kalispel, forcefully, as he gratefully squeezed the sheriff’s arm. “But if I got in deep an’ dragged you in, why, you might not be left to look after your friends. An’ believe me, if we got bored, they’d shore need it.”

  “Emerson, you’re hintin’ of a Henry Plummer outfit. An’ I reckon thet’s far-fetched. Neither Leavitt or Borden air Plummer’s caliber. An’ the rest of this gang air four-flushers.”

  “My idea, too. But this gang may be bigger than I’ve figured.”

  “No matter. Without leaders they’d wilt like yellow paper in a blaze. I’ve sized up every man in this camp. An’ you’re the only hombre heah I’d be leary of. It wasn’t because I was afraid of you that I offered to back you.”

  “Fine. That’s like a stiff drink, which I needed. The only thing I’m leary about is bein’ picked from some door or window.”

  “Wal, thet’s not liable to happen if I hang close to you. At the same time it’ll show this outfit thet there’s something damned onsartin’ in the wind.”

  They had halted just short of the corner to conclude this conversation.

  “Look for a stocky man with a stubby red beard an’ a bloody patch over his ear....An’ let me see. It’d be his right ear, thet’s shore.”

  “Must have put thet patch there yoreself,” was the deduction of the shrewd sheriff.

  “They call him Mac,” said Kalispel. “I can’t describe him, more’n that. But I’ll shore know his shape when I spot it.”

  In the town there was no indication that the killing of Sloan had become the latest news. But talking and walking miners, and other inhabitants of Thunder City, were not slow to take cognizance of Bruce Masters and Kalispel stalking up the street.

  “Hey!” called one excited observer. “Looks like Sheriff Masters has arrested thet gunman.”

  “Not to me, it doesn’t,” replied another.

  They entered the Dead Eye Saloon. It was blue with smoke and noisy with voices.

  “Say, crowd,” shouted Kalispel, piercingly, and when the hum ceased and all faces turned, he continued: “I’m lookin’ hard for a man with a stubby red beard an’ a patch over his right ear where he got slugged recently. He answers to the name Mac.”

  Every man present, even the card-players, looked at his neighbors. Then a bartender set down a glass with a nervous clang.

  “Boss, nobody in hyar who answers to thet,” he called.

  Kalispel led the way out, and he heard the buzz that arose behind him.

  “Reminds me of bein’ in Texas,” drawled Masters, with a chuckle.

  “What does?”

  “Why you, boy.”

  Kalispel merely glanced into the stores. But he went into the Gold Dust Saloon, the Elk, the Bonanza, the Thunder Boom, all the resorts on the right side of the street, in each of which he interrupted gayety to spread silence and consternation. But he did not find his man. By this time a crowd followed at a respectful distance and the whole tenor of the main street had changed as if by magic.

  “Wal, Kalispel,” said the Texan, as they crossed the street at the extreme east end of town, “nobody figgerin’ now thet you air under arrest.”

  “Reckon we have them guessin’.”

  “None of these men will meet you for an even break.”

  “Don’t expect it, Masters.”

  “Looks like you’d have to hole them up. An’ when you’re outside of a barricaded cabin, up ag’in’ shotguns an’ rifles, it gets testier’n hell. As a Ranger I had a lot of thet.”

  They faced downstreet on the right side, passing the blacksmith shop, some closed tents, and a merchandise store. As far down as Kalispel could see men were gazing in his direction, and not a few of their number were taking to the middle of the street. In the Red Likker Saloon Kalispel’s ringing challenge elicited a reply from some one in the crowd.

  “What you want Mac fer?”

  “He an’ his pards jumped Dick Sloan’s claim.”

  “Wal, thet ain’t sayin’ what you want,” replied the gruff voice.

  “Sloan’s dyin’!”

  Kalispel advanced upon the group before the bar and ordered them to spread out. His swift scrutiny failed to locate a man with a stubby red beard. He backed out of the saloon, keenly aware of hostile looks. On down the street he went, searching in the places where miners congregated. Opposite the Dead Eye Saloon Kalispel espied a tall bearded man who strode across in a manner to excite a second glance. Kalispel knew him as a friend, a neighbor of Blair’s.

  “Shore you’re lookin’ at this fellar?” inquired Masters.

  The miner came on without slacking his pace or betraying any sign that he recognized Kalispel. But as he passed he shot out low-voiced: “Your man’s been tipped off....Dead Eye Saloon!”

  Kalispel halted.

  “Heah thet?” queried Masters, sharply. “I reckon I’ll stand aside now, Emerson.”

  It was a hundred long steps or more diagonally across the street to the Dead Eye Saloon. When the Texan moved on a little way and then faced about, it appeared to be a signal for every man in sight of Kalispel to halt. Various comments carried to Kalispel’s sensitive ears.

  “There! Masters has shied away,” said one, in hoarse excitement.

  “He ain’t drunk this time, shore.”

  “Who’s he after?”

  “He’s watchin’ the Dead Eye.”

  “Gentlemen, the ball is about to open.”

  “We’ll
be duckin’ lead pronto.”

  For these observers the stage had been set for the familiar street-scene drama of the frontier. But in Thunder City there had been few indeed of these duels.

  Kalispel cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Somebody tell Sneed to drive Mac an’ his pards out—or I’ll burn ’em out.”

  A man shouted into the door of the Dead Eye. If Sneed did not comply, Kalispe! would take his failure as inimical to himself. He counted, however, on the fact that the creed of the West was for men to meet in the open and decide their disputes without risk to spectators.

  Bill Sneed appeared, opening wide the swinging doors of his saloon.

  “Git out!” he bellowed. “I ain’t harborin’ ye, by Gawd!”

  Two white-faced men sneaked out, followed by a third, whose sombrero, pulled low, failed to hide the betraying red beard. The first slipped like an eel into the backing throng. The others dashed into the street, sheering widely to the left.

  “Stop!” yelled Kalispel, and he shot at the foremost runner. The bullet kicked up the dust beyond and whined away. But it had hit the runner, for there was a violent break in his swift action. Kalispel’s second shot, aimed low, brought the last man down in the middle of the street. He screamed with pain and terror. Like a crippled fowl he flopped, attempted to get to his feet again, but fell, screaming all the time. Then as Kalispel leaped forward into the street the man raised himself from the hips and pulled his gun, to fire rapidly. The bullets splintered glass and thudded on wood, and caused a rush of onlookers to get out of range. Kalispel plunged to a halt and shot to kill. His adversary spun around and went down, while his gun slid in the dust. Again Kalispel leaped forward to his prostrate foe, glad to find him alive. The second bullet had taken him high up in the breast, from which the blood was pouring.

  “Howdy, Mac,” called Kalispel, grimly, as he stood over him with smoking gun. The black sombrero lay in the dust and Kalispel had needed no more to recognize his man.

  “Masters, come here an’ bring somebody,” yelled Kalispel to the sheriff. Then he bent his gaze upon the claim-jumper. “Sloan marked you, Mac.”

  “Is he—daid?” queried Mac, hoarsely. His eyes rolled furtively.

  “I reckon, by this time.”

  “Don’t kill me—Emerson....I’ll talk.”

  Masters came hurriedly up, accompanied by two miners.

  “Winged, eh?—Make him squeal, Kal,” he said, stridently.

  “Mac, I reckon you won’t cash if you don’t get bored again,” added Kalispel, deliberately aligning his gun at the fallen man’s heart. “Talk—or I’ll bore you again!”

  “Fer Gawd’s sake, Emerson!...! didn’t knife Sloan—or slug him, either....I was for robbin’ an’ kidnappin’ him—so Borden could get—Nugget!”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  13

  LIKE wildfire the news spread up and down the main street of Thunder City that Macabe, one of Leavitt’s guards, had confessed having been forced by Borden to put young Sloan out of the way. Rumor ran as fast as men could walk and their tongues could wag. The motive for the crime—to waylay and kill an honest young miner for the purpose of dragging his sweetheart to the dance-hall den, and to a life of drink and violence—that inflamed the populace to an increasingly dangerous degree.

  Kalispel patrolled the center of the wide street, the cynosure of all eyes. The tide had turned his way. The creed of the frontier would force Borden to meet him.

  Sunset was still several hours away. Kalispel’s beat covered the lower end of town, just out of rifle-range from Borden’s place. Borden had been located at once and informed of Macabe’s confession, and that there was a man waiting for him out in the street.

  Toward midafternoon business, except that of drinking, ceased for the day. Everybody wanted to see the encounter between Kaiispel and Borden. If there were exceptions, they were Leavitt and his men up at the mine. They had been told. And later the news flashed around, from the very messengers who carried it, that Leavitt had refused to protect Borden from Emerson. “Tell the girl-snatcher to go out and take his medicine!” was Leavitt’s coarse reply to that appeal. Gossip quickly added the fact of Leavitt’s half interest in Borden’s property, and that the mine-owner would not be unhappy to take over Borden’s half. The lower end of the street was deserted except for Kalispe’s solitary form, pacing to and fro, or standing motionless and menacing. The throng, drinking more and more, gradually succumbed to the mob feeling, so easily aroused in crude men at such an hour. Kalispel’s status rose to that of a chivalrous and admirable man, while Borden was labeled a trafficker in women.

  Dick Sloan’s neighbor, the young miner, detached himself from the crowd and hurriedly strode out to Kaiispel.

  “Better give me elbow room,” warned Kaiispel, somberly.

  But the young fellow came on unheeding.

  “Emerson, it’s over,” he said, hoarsely, his face pale and set. “Sloan died without cornin’ to.”

  “No surprise to me. I gave him up....An’ how’d Ruth take it?”

  “Game as they come. She’s with me. We was huntin’ you.”

  “Hang on to her an’ get her home.”

  “I’ll hang, all right, but I’ll never get her off the street,” declared the young man. “She’s goin’ to see it!”

  “Let the crowd know that Sloan’s dead.”

  “I’ve already sprung it....They’re with you, Kal.”

  It did not take a long while for the tragic death of Nugget’s champion and would-be husband to become known to all. It flowed from lip to lip. And it was the last spark that precipitated an unprecedented explosion. Mutterings and curses augmented direct calls to Kalispel.

  “We’re with you, old Montana!” yelled a miner.

  “Bore him low down, Kal!”

  “Go in after the yellow dog!”

  “If you want us to rout him out—say the word!”

  Such outspoken ejaculations served to unleash the passion of the mob. Men would shout to Kalispel and then go into a saloon for another drink. That Borden did not appear wore on the unruly miners. The raw good humor of the many subtly changed. They merged closer and closer to Kalispel, forming a dense circle behind him across the street. And gradually they edged him foot by foot toward Borden’s hall. This largest building in the town was the last upon the street, and presented for once a lonely aspect. Doors and windows appeared like dark, vacant eyes. It stood isolated, apparently deserted.

  The impatient mob, thirsty for blood, switched its vociferous acclaim of Kalispel to a sinister call for Borden.

  “Come out, Borden!”

  “Hyar, you skunk! Mac has squealed an’ Sloan is dead! Come on!”

  “Borden, we all want to see you!”

  “Borden, it’s your only chance!”

  “You’re done in Thunder City!”

  “Walk out like a man, you——————————!”

  “An’ let us see daylight through yore gizzard! Haw! Haw!”

  “Come out, Borden, or get run out!”

  A leather-lunged miner bawled: “Smoke him out!”

  A roar attested to the mood of the watchers.

  “Burn him out!”

  And when they stopped to catch their breath the stentorian-voiced miner rent the pregnant air.

  “Borden come out an’ fight—or we’ll lynch you!”

  The cry, “Lynch him!” was caught up and carried along like a wave, until Masters ran out to confront the crowd. He held his hands high to quiet them.

  “Steady, men,” he yelled, authoritatively. “Give Emerson time!—We don’t want a lynchin’. An’ fire might destroy the town.... I’ll guarantee to fetch Borden out!”

  Above the murmuring roar cut out a sharp high voice:

  “All right, Sheriff. But no arrest goes hyar. We want to see Borden shot or swing!”

  Masters sped swiftly to confront Kalispel.

  “Thet gang’s in an ugly mood,” he s
aid, with a gleam in his gray eyes. “They might set fire to Borden’s place. An’ thet’d be hell. These shacks would bum like tinder.... Emerson, you better let me go in after Borden.”

  “He’s hid in there,” warned Kalispel. “He might shoot you.”

  “I’ll take thet risk. An’ if I get to him, I’ll make him see thet shore as Gawd made little apples this mob will bum him out an’ hang him. An’ I’ll agree to protect him from them if he kills you. Thet’ll fetch him. It’s his only chance.”

  “Suppose he bobs up with a rifle?” queried Kalispel, darkly.

  “Wal, if he’s thet much of a cheat I’ll bore him myself,” replied the Texan.

  “Masters, I don’t like the deal. It’s plumb good of you. But it’ll queer you with Leavitt. An’ Leavitt is strong—we don’t savvy how strong.”

  “To hell with Leavitt. One at a time!... Do I go?”

  “Shore. An’ thanks, old-timer.”

  Masters swung away, pulling out a white handkerchief which he began to wave. The crowd yelled both encouragingly and derisively. They did not wholly trust this action of the sheriff’s.

  It was more than two hundred yards from where Kalispel stood to the dance-hall. Masters slowed his pace. When he got halfway there he shouted, and went on. He had nerve, but undoubtedly he calculated that Borden would see him and grasp at anything to avert a meeting with Kalispel. Masters then increased his gait, as if the suspense was less insupportable than the risk.

  He still waved the white handkerchief. And when he got within a hundred feet of the hall, Borden suddenly appeared in the doorway with a leveled rifle.

  “Halt!” he yelled.

  Masters lowered his flag of truce with suggestive violence. His clear voice rang even to Kalispel.

  “Air you drunk or crazy? Drop yore rifle. The mob back there will burn you alive or hang you, shore.”

  “What you want?” yelled Borden, stridently, and lowered the weapon. Masters went forward then, talking fast, but Kalispel could not distinguish what he said. Masters approached to within thirty steps of Borden, who still held his rifle threateningly. The Texan might wisely halt there and deliver his proposition and leave, thought Kalispel. Masters’ posture did not lose dignity, but his few gestures were singularly expressive of the finality of a cold ultimatum. He whirled on his heel, and swerving out of line to the left, he strode rapidly up the street toward the crowd.