Robbed him—that was it! Sanderson had robbed him!
The more Maison’s thoughts dwelt upon the occurrence the deeper grew his rage. He even condoned Dale’s action in bringing the Nyland girl to his rooms. Dale was his friend, and he would protect him!
Perhaps Maison did not reflect that his greed was attempting to justify him; that back of his growing championship of Dale was his eagerness to get possession of the Nyland property; and that behind his rage over Sanderson’s visit was the bitter thought that Sanderson had compelled him to pay for the destroyed and stolen steers.
Maison did not consider that phase of the question. Or if he did consider it he did not permit that consideration to influence his actions. For within two hours after breakfast he had sent a messenger for Silverthorn and Dale, and fifteen minutes later he was telling them the story of the night’s happenings.
Silverthorn’s face grew purple with rage during the recital. At its conclusion he got up, dark purpose glinting in his eyes.
“We’ve got to put Sanderson out of the way, and do it quickly!” he declared. “And we’ve got to get that money back. Dale, you’re a deputy sheriff. Damn the law! This isn’t a matter for court action—that damned Graney wouldn’t give us a warrant for Sanderson now, no matter what we told him! We’ve got to take the law into our own hands. We’ll see if this man can come in here, rob a bank, and get away without being punished!”
At the end of a fifteen-minute talk, Dale slipped out of the rear door of the bank and sought the street. In the City Hotel he whispered to several men, who sauntered out of the building singly, mounted their horses, and rode toward the neck of the basin. In another saloon Dale whispered to several other men, who followed the first ones.
Dale’s search continued for some little time, and he kept a continuous stream of riders heading toward the neck of the basin. And then, when he had spoken to as many as he thought he needed, he mounted his own horse and, rode away.
Sanderson and Mary Bransford had not yet settled the question regarding the disposal of the money Sanderson had received from Banker Maison. They sat on the edge of the porch, talking about it. From a window of the bunkhouse Barney Owen watched them, a pleased smile on his face.
“It’s yours,” Sanderson told the girl. “An’ we ain’t trustin’ that to any bank. Look what they did with the seven thousand I’ve got in the Lazette bank. They’ve tied it up so nobody will be able to touch it until half the lawyers in the county have had a chance to gas about it. An’ by that time there won’t be a two-bit piece left to argue over. No, siree, you’ve got to keep that coin where you can put your hands on it when you want it!”
“When you want it,” she smiled. “Do you know, Deal,” she added seriously, blushing as she looked at him, “that our romance has been so much different from other romances that I’ve heard about. It has seemed so—er—matter of fact.”
He grinned. “All romances—real romances—are a heap matter of fact. Love is the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. When a guy meets a girl that he takes a shine to—an’ the girl takes a shine to him—there ain’t anything goin’ to keep them from makin’ a go of it.”
He reddened a little.
“That’s what I thought when I saw you. Even when the Drifter was tellin’ me about you, I was sure of you.”
“I think you have shown it in your actions,” she laughed.
“But how about you?” he suggested; “did you have any thoughts on the subject?”
“I—I think that even while I thought you were my brother, I realized that my feeling for you was strange and unusual; though I laid it to the fact that I had never had a brother, and therefore could not be expected to know just how a sister should feel toward one. But it has all been unusual, hasn’t it?”
“If you mean me comin’ here like I did, an’ masqueradin’, an’ lettin’ you kiss me, an’ fuss over me—why, mebbe that would be considered unusual. But love ain’t unusual; an’ a man fightin’ for the woman he loves ain’t unusual.”
While he had been talking a change had come over him. His voice had lost its note of gentle raillery, his lips had straightened into hard lines, his eyes were glowing with the light she had seen in them more than once—the cold glitter of hostility.
Startled, she took him by the shoulders and shook him.
“Why, what on earth has come over you, Deal?”
He grinned mirthlessly, got up, took a hitch in his cartridge belt, and drew a full breath.
“The fightin’ ain’t over yet,” he said. “There’s a bunch of guys comin’ toward the Double A. Dale’s gang, most likely—after the money I took from Maison.”
She was on her feet now, and looking out into the basin. Two or three miles away, enveloped in huge dust cloud, were a number of riders. They were coming fast, and headed directly for the Double A ranchhouse.
The girl clung to Sanderson’s arm in sudden terror until he gently released himself, and taking her by the shoulders forced her through a door and into the sitting-room.
“Hide that money in a safe place—where the devil himself couldn’t find it. Don’t give it up, no matter what happens.”
He walked to a window and looked out. Behind him he could hear Mary running here and there; and at last when the riders were within half a mile of the house, she came and stood behind Sanderson, panting, resting her hands on his shoulders to peer over them at the coming riders.
Sanderson turned and smiled at her. “We’ll go out on the porch, now, an’ wait for them.”
“Deal,” she whispered excitedly; “why don’t you go away? Get on Streak—he’ll outrun any horse in the county! Go! Get Williams and the other boys. Deal!” She shook him frenziedly. “It isn’t the money they are after—it’s you! They’ll kill you, Deal! And there are so many of them! Run—run!”
He grinned, patting her shoulder as he led her out upon the porch and forced her into a chair.
When the men had come near enough for him to distinguish their faces, and he saw that Dale was leading them, he walked to a slender porch column and leaned against it, turning to smile at Mary.
“Maison decided he’d have to talk, looks like,” he said. “Some men just can’t help it.”
Rigid in her chair, the girl watched the riders swoop toward the ranchhouse; Sanderson, lounging against the porch column, smiled saturninely.
The riders headed directly toward the porch. Sanderson counted them as they came to a halt within thirty feet of the edge of the porch. There were twenty of them.
Dale, his face flushed, his eyes alight with triumph, dismounted and stepped forward, halting at the edge of the porch and sweeping his hat from his head with exaggerated courtesy.
“Delighted to see you, ma’am—an’ your friend, Deal Sanderson. Mr. Sanderson paid my friend Maison a visit last night, takin’ away with him ninety thousand dollars of the bank’s money. Me an’ my men has come over to get the money—an’ Mr. Sanderson. The Okar court allows that it needs him. I’ve got a warrant for him.”
Dale’s grin was huge. He felt secure with his men behind him.
But if he expected Sanderson to be impressed he was disappointed. The latter’s face did not change color, nor did he shift his position in the slightest manner. And his cold, amused grin disconcerted Dale. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle and drawling:
“Was you thinkin’ Miss Bransford is interested in warrants, Dale? Oh, don’t! There’s an honest judge in Okar, an’ he ain’t helpin’ Maison’s gang. Get back to Okar an’ tell Maison that Sanderson ain’t visitin’ Okar today.”
“You ain’t, eh!” Dale’s voice snapped with rage. “Well, we ain’t carin’ a damn whether you do or not! We’ve got you, right where we want you. I’ve got a warrant, an’ you’ll come peaceable or we’ll plant you! There ain’t only two horses in the corral—showing that your men has gone. An’ there ain’t anything between you an’ the coyotes!”
“Only you, Dale,” said Sanderson. His voice wa
s still gentle, still drawling. But into it had come a note that made Dale’s face turn pale and caused the bodies of the men in the group to stiffen.
“Only you, Dale,” Sanderson repeated. His right hand was at his hip, resting lightly on the butt of the six-shooter that reposed in its holster.
“I’ve always wanted to test the idea of whether a crook like you thought more of what he was doin’ than he did of his own life. This gun leather of mine is kind of short at the top—if you’ll notice. The stock an’ the hammer of the gun are where they can be touched without interferin’ with the leather. There ain’t any trigger spring, because I’ve been brought up to fan the hammer. There ain’t any bottom to the holster, an’ it’s hung by a little piece of leather so’s it’ll turn easy in any direction.
“It can easy be turned on you. You get goin’. I’ll have a chance to bore one man before your crowd gets me. Likely it will be you. What are you sayin’?”
Dale was saying nothing. His face changed color, he shifted his feet uneasily, and looked back at his men. Some of them were grinning, and it was plain to Dale that not one of them would act unless ordered to do so.
And an order, given by him, would mean suicide, nothing less; for from that country in which Sanderson had gained his reputation had come stories of the man’s remarkable ability with the weapon he had described, and Dale had no longing to risk his life so recklessly.
There was a long, tense silence. Not a man in the group of riders moved a finger. All were gazing, with a sort of dread fascination, at the holster at Sanderson’s right hip, and at the butt of the gun in it, projecting far, the hammer in plain sight.
The situation could not last. Sanderson did not expect it to last. Seemingly calm and unconcerned, he was in reality passionately alert and watchful.
For he had no hope of escaping from this predicament. He had made a mistake in sending his men away with Williams, and he knew the chances against him were too great. He had known that all along—even when talking and comforting Mary Bransford.
He knew that Dale had come to kill him; that Graney had not issued any warrant for him, for Graney knew that Maison had acted of his own volition—or at least had given the judge that impression.
But whether the warrant was a true one or not, Sanderson had decided that he would not let himself be taken. He had determined that at the first movement made by any man in the group he would kill Dale and take his chance with the others.
Dale knew it—he saw the cold resolution in Sanderson’s eyes. Dale drew a deep breath, and the men in the group behind him watched him narrowly.
But just when it seemed that decisive action in one direction or another must he taken, there came an interruption.
Behind Sanderson—from one of the windows of the ranchhouse—came a hoarse curse.
Sanderson saw Dale’s eyes dilate; he saw the faces of the men in the group of riders change color; he saw their hands go slowly upward. Dale, too, raised his hands.
Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, Sanderson saw Barney Owen at one of the windows. He was inside the house, his arms were resting on the window-sill. He was kneeling, and in his hands was a rifle, the muzzle covering Dale and the men who had come with him.
Owen’s face was chalk white and working with demoniac passion. His eyes were wild, and blazing with a wanton malignancy that awed every man who looked at him—Sanderson included. His teeth were bared in a horrible snarl; the man was like some wild animal—worse, the savage, primitive passions of him were unleashed and rampant, directed by a reasoning intelligence. His voice was hoarse and rasping, coming in jerks:
“Get out of the way, Sanderson! Stand aside! I’ll take care of these whelps! Get your hands up, Dale! Higher—higher! You damned, sneaking vulture! Come here to make trouble, eh? You and your bunch of curs! I’ll take care of you! Move—one of you! Move a finger! You won’t! Then go! Go! I’ll count three! The man that isn’t going when I finish counting gets his quick! One—two—”
“Wait!! Already on the move, the men halted at the sound of his voice. The violence of the passion that gripped him gave him a new thought.
“You don’t go!” he jeered at them. “You stay here. Sanderson, you take their guns! Grab them yourself!”
Sanderson drew his own weapon and moved rapidly among the men. He got Dale’s gun first and threw it in the sand at the edge of the porch. Then he disarmed the others, one after another, throwing the weapons near where he had thrown Dale’s.
He heard Owen tell Mary Bransford to get them, and he saw Mary gathering them up and taking them into the house.
Sanderson made his search of the men thorough, for he had caught the spirit of the thing. At last, when the guns were all collected, Owen issued another order:
“Now turn your backs—every last man of you! And stay that way! The man that turns his head will never do it again!
“Sanderson, you go after Williams and the others. They’ve only been gone about an hour, and they won’t travel fast. Get them! Bring them back here. Then we’ll take the whole bunch over to Okar and see what Judge Graney has to say about that warrant!”
Sanderson looked at Mary Bransford, a huge grin on his face. She smiled stiffly at him in return, and nodded her head.
Seemingly, it was the only way out of a bad predicament. Certainly they could not commit wholesale murder, and it was equally certain that if Dale was permitted to go, he and his men would return. Or they might retire to a distance, surround the house and thus achieve their aim.
Sanderson, however, was not satisfied, for he knew that a sudden, concerted rush by the men—even though they were unarmed—would result disastrously to Owen—and to Mary—if she decided to remain.
Telling the little man to keep a watchful eye on the men, he went among them, ordering those that were mounted from their horses. When they were all standing, he began to uncoil the ropes that were hanging from the saddles.
He worked fast, and looking up once he saw Owen’s eyes glowing with approval—while Mary smiled broadly at him. They knew what he meant to do.
Dale and his men knew also, for their faces grew sullen. Sanderson, however, would tolerate no resistance. Rope in hand, he faced Dale. The latter’s face grew white with impotent fury as he looked at the rope in Sanderson’s hands; but the significant Hardness that flashed into Sanderson’s eyes convinced him of the futility of resistance, and he held his hands outward.
Sanderson tied them. Very little of the rope was required in the process, and after Dale was secured, Sanderson threw a loop around the hands of a man who stood beside Dale, linking him with the latter.
Several others followed. Sanderson used half a dozen ropes, and when he had finished, all the Dale men—with their leader on an extreme end, were lashed together.
There were hard words spoken by the men; but they brought only grins to Sanderson’s face, to Owen’s, and to Mary’s.
“They won’t bother you a heap, now,” declared Sanderson as he stepped toward the porch and spoke to Owen. “Keep an eye on them, though, an’ don’t let them go to movin’ around much.”
Sanderson stepped up on the porch and spoke lowly to Mary, asking her to go with him after Williams—for he had had that thought in mind ever since Owen had issued the order for him to ride after the engineer.
But Mary refused, telling Sanderson that by accompanying him she would only hamper him.
Reluctantly, then, though swiftly, Sanderson ran to the corral, threw saddle and bridle on Streak, and returned to the porch. He halted there for a word with Owen and Mary, then raced northeastward, following a faint trail that Williams and the others had taken, which led for a time over the plains, then upward to the mesa which rimmed the basin.
CHAPTER XXVI
A MAN IS HANGED
Sanderson and Streak grew dim in the distance until, to the watchers at the ranchhouse, horse and rider merged into a mere blot that crawled up the long slope leading to the mesa. The watchers saw the blot yet a l
ittle longer, as it traveled with swift, regular leaps along the edge of the mesa; then it grew fainter and fainter, and at last they saw it no more.
Dale’s men, their backs to Owen and Mary, seemed to have accepted their defeat in a spirit of resignation, for they made no attempt to turn their heads.
Mary, white and shaking, though with a calmness that came from the knowledge that in this crisis she must do what she could, went inside and stood behind Owen, ready to respond to any call he might make upon her.
Owen, his rage somewhat abated, though he still watched Dale and his men with sullen, malevolent eyes, had changed his position. Mary had brought a chair, and Owen sat on it, the rifle still resting on the window-sill, menacing the men.
The minutes, it seemed to the girl, passed with exceeding slowness. She watched the hands of a clock on a shelf in the room drag themselves across the face of the dial, and twice she walked in front of the shelf and peered intently at the clock, to be certain it was going.
Williams and the other men had been gone for something more than an hour. But, as Owen had said, they would travel slowly, having no incentive for haste. Sanderson, on the other hand, would make Streak run his best—and she knew Streak could run.
So she began to estimate the time that would elapse before Sanderson and Williams returned. With an hour’s start, she gave Sanderson three-quarters of an hour to catch them. Then, three quarters of an hour additional would be required for the run home—if they came back as swiftly as Sanderson had gone.
But she doubted that. She would give them a full hour for the return trip. That would make an hour and three quarters.
But it seemed to her that an age elapsed before the minute hand on the clock dragged itself one-quarter of the distance around the circle.
She looked out at Dale and his men. The men were all standing, their backs to the house. But it seemed to the girl that they were standing nearer to one another than they had been all along, and a pulse of trepidation ran over her.
Watching them closely, Mary felt they were meditating some action. They were whispering to one another, and Dale was gesturing as emphatically as he could.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 16
